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The Shamrock

or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte]

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—If they found a Plot of Water-Cresses, or Shamrocks, there they flocked as to a Feast for the Time. Spencer on Ireland.

Sunt bona, sunt quædam mediocria, sunt mala plura,
Quæ legis: hic aliter non fit, Avite, liber.
Mart. Epigram. lib. 1.


1

THE THREE TRAVELLERS. A TALE.

INSCRIBED TO THE Right Hon. Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Mary Birmingham.
A good Repute, a virtuous Name,
Philosophers set forth,
As the unerring Path to Fame,
If Fame consist in Worth.
This Jewel, rarely to be found,
Sets Merit full in View;
A moral Glory shines around
Whate'er the Virtuous do.

2

The precious Ointment, gently shed,
O'er mental Ills prevails;
And, where the fragrant Med'cine's spread,
It animates and heals.
Yet hard it is to use it right,
Tho' beautiful to view;
It shines distinguishingly bright,
How transitory too!
Like Glass it glitters, soon 'tis crack'd,
Irreparably frail!
All Moralists allow the Fact,
So I apply my Tale.—
When Things inanimate could speak,
Fire once agreed with Water,
A friendly Jaunt one Day to take,
But where, 'tis no great Matter.
It happen'd, that, the Day before
Each left his different Station,
They chose a third, worth twenty more,
And this was—Reputation.
The three Companions now reflect,
If Chance should once divide 'em,
How each his Letters might direct,
Or who would surest guide 'em.
Says Water, Friends, you'll hear my Name,
Tho' lost upon a Mountain,
Enquire at any murmuring Stream,
Or seek me in a Fountain.

3

Where Marshes stagnate, Bogs extend,
Green Reeds, and turfy Sods
Direct a Path to meet your Friend;
A Path the Bullrush nods.
From deep Cascades I sometimes pour;
Through Meadows gently glide;
I drop a Dew; descend a Shower;
Or thunder in a Tide.
Your restless Make, quoth Fire, I knew,
Just like your Parent Ocean:
I like to rove as well as you,
My Life consists in Motion.
But should I stray, you'll find me soon
In Matches, Flints, and Tapers;
And tho' my Temper's brisk and boon,
I am often in the Vapours.
From Smoke sure Tidings you may get,
It can't subsist without me:
Or find me, like some fond Coquette,
With fifty Sparks about me.
In Poets all my Marks you see,
Since Flash and Smoke reveal me;
Suspect me always near Nat Lee,
Even Blackmore can't conceal me.
In Milton's Page I glow by Art,
One Flame, intense and even;
In Shakespeare's, blaze a sudden Start,
Like Lightening shot from Heaven.

4

In many more, a living Ray,
Thro' various Forms I shift;
I am gently lambent while I am Gay,
But brightest when I am Swift.
In different Shapes too am I seen
Among the Young and Fair;
And as the Virtues shine within,
You'll ever find me there.
I with pure, brilliant, piercing Gleams,
Arm bright Eliza's Eye;
With modest, soft, ethereal Beams,
Sweet Mary's I supply.
The best of Slaves I am call'd by Men,
When held in proper Durance;
But, if I once do Mischief, then
I am heard of at the Insurance.
Thro' Nature's Works I take my Flight,
And kindle as I run;
Up from the Tinder Box I light
The Chariot of the Sun.
Alas! poor Reputation cry'd,
How happy in each other,
Such numerous Marks must surely guide
Each Straggler to his Brother.
'Tis I alone must be undone,
Such Ills has Fate design'd me;
If I be lost, 'tis ten to one,
You never more will find me.
 

A spurious and very imperfect Copy of this, and the following little Poem, with a few others inserted in the Course of this Work, may have been seen in Print before.


5

MULLY of MOUNTOWN.

INSCRIBED TO THE Right Honourable, Sarah, Viscountess Ranelagh.
Mountown! thou sweet Retreat from Dublin Cares,
Be famous long for Apples and for Pears;
For Turnips, Carrots, Lettuce, Beans and Peas,
For Peggy's Butter, and for Peggy's Cheese.
May Clouds of Pigeons round about thee fly,
But sometimes condescend to make a Pye.
May fat Geese gaggle round thy cramm'd Barn Door,
Nor e'er want Apple Sauce, and Mustard Store;
Ducks in thy Ponds, and Chickens in thy Penns;
And be thy Turkies numerous as thy Hens.
May thy black Pigs lie warm in decent Stye,
And have no Thought to grieve them till they die.
Mountown! the Muses' most delicious Theme,
O! may thy Codlings ever swim in Cream!
Thy Rasp--- and Strawberries in Bourdeaux drown,
With richer Flavour their smooth Sweets to crown;
Thy White-Wine, Sugar, Milk together club,
To make that dainty Beverage, Sillabub;
Let Jellies, Custards, Tarts and Cheesecakes join
To spoil the Relish of thy flowing Wine;
But to the fading Palate bring Relief,
By thy Westphalian Ham, or Belgic Beef;
And, to complete thy Blessings, in a Word,
May still thy Soil be generous as its Lord;
Thy Seasons temperate; wholesome be thy Air,
Mild as thy Ranelagh, kind, good, and fair.

6

But let me, Mountown, grateful in my Tale,
Amidst thy Blessings, not forget thy Ale.
O Peggy, Peggy, when you go to brew,
Consider well what you're about to do;
Be very wise, and most sedately think,
That what you are about to make—is Drink.
Consider who must drink that Drink, and then
What 'tis to have the Praise of honest Men:
For surely, Peggy, while that Drink shall last,
'Tis Peggy will be toasted or disgrac'd.
Then, if thy Ale in Glass thou would'st confine,
To make its sparkling Rays in Beauty shine,
Let thy clean Bottles be entirely dry,
Lest a white Substance to the Surface fly,
And, floating there, disturb the curious Eye.
But this great Maxim must be understood,
‘Be sure, nay very sure, thy Cork be good.’
Then future Ages shall of Peggy tell,
That Nymph who brew'd and bottled Ale so well.
How fleet is Air! How many Things have Breath!
Which in a Moment they resign to Death!
Depriv'd of Light, and all their happiest State,
Not by their Fault, but some o'er-ruling Fate!
Altho' fair Flowers, that justly might invite,
Are cropt, and torn away for Man's Delight;
Yet still those Flowers, alas! can make no Moan,
Nor has Narcissus, now, a Power to groan.
But all Things breathing, tho' in different Frame,
By Tie of common Breath Man's Pity claim.
The bleating Lamb has Rhetoric to plead,
And when she sees the Butcher's Knife decreed,
Her Voice entreats him, rightly understood,
Her Voice entreats him not to shed her Blood.

7

But cruel Gain, and Luxury of Taste,
With Pride, still lay Man's fellow Mortals waste:
What Earth and Waters breed, or Air inspires,
Man for his Palate fits by torturing Fires.
Mully, a Cow sprung from a beauteous Race,
With spreading Front did Mountown's Pastures grace.
Gentle she was, and, with a copious Stream,
Each Morn, and Eve, gave Milk that equall'd Cream.
Offending none, of none she stood in Dread,
Much less of Persons whom she daily fed.
But how shall Innocence itself defend
'Gainst treacherous Arts veil'd with the Name of Friend?
Robin of Derbyshire, whose Temper shocks
The Constitution of his native Rocks,
Born in a Place, which if it once were nam'd,
Would make sweet blushing Modesty asham'd,
He, all Indulgence, kindly did appear
To make poor Mully his peculiar Care;
But inwardly this artful, churlish Thief
Had fix'd his sullen Thoughts on Mully's Beef:
His Fancy fed on her, and thus he'd cry,
Mully, as sure as I'm alive you die:
'Tis a brave Cow; O Sirs! when Christmas comes,
These Shins shall make the Porridge grac'd with Plumbs;
Then 'midst our Cups, while we profusely dine,
This Blade shall enter deep in Mully's Chine:
What Ribs! what Rumps! what bak'd, boil'd, stew'd and roast!
There shan't one single Tripe of her be lost.
When Peggy, Nymph of Mountown, heard these Sounds,
She griev'd to think of Mully's future Wounds;

8

What Crime, says she, has gentle Mully done?
Witness the rising, and the setting Sun!
Which knows what Milk she constantly would give;
Let that quench Robin's Rage, and Mully live.
Daniel, a sprightly Swain, who us'd to lash
The vigorous Steeds that drew his Lord's Calash,
To Peggy's Side inclin'd; for 'twas well known
How well he lov'd those Cattle of his own.
Then Terence spoke, oraculous and sly,
He'd neither grant the Question, nor deny,
Pleading for Milk, his Heart was on Mince Pye.
But all his Arguments so dubious were,
That Mully thence had neither Hopes nor Fear.
You've spoke, says Robin; but now let me tell ye,
'Tis not fair-spoken Words that fill the Belly;
Pudding and Beef I love, and cannot stoop
To recommend your Bonny-Clabber Soop;
You say she's innocent, but what of that?
'Tis more than Crime sufficient that she's fat;
And that which is prevailing in this Case,
Is, there's another Cow to fill her Place.
And granting Mully to have Milk in Store,
Yet still this other Cow will give us more;
She dies—Stop here, O Muse! forbear the Rest,
And veil that Grief which cannot be express'd.
 

The D---l's A---e of Peak.

A Provincial Phrase for four Butter-Milk.


9

POWERSCOURT.

Addressed to RICHARD WINGFIELD, Esq;
Dii tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.
Hor.
The Muse forgetting, by the Muse forgot,
The Thing I relish least become my Lot;
Doom'd to a Country Church, remote and poor,
And what is still more dreadful, serve the Cure!
No Sprig of Laurel left, but in my Pews,
How can I write? yet how shall I refuse?
My Life, a loitering, sedentary Calm,
My Taste for Song, a penitential Psalm!
Much tir'd I am with hearing News from Spain,
And ill inform'd State Matters to explain.
What Method then to please shall I pursue?
For once I'll venture—and indite to you.
To me! you cry, pray, Sir, on what Pretence?
A just Esteem for Candour, and Good-Sense;
For the plain Heart, benevolent Design;
The Warmth humane, or, if you will, divine!
What Name becomes you best? One late in Print—
The Man of Ross, seems no improper Hint,
Whose gracious Gates, like your's, receiv'd the Poor;
Nay more your Merit—for your Fortune's more!
Like his, your Worth sincere, and not a Sound;
Like him, a Blessing to your Country round;
To him, Age, Want, and Sickness paid their Vow;
That Man thus thought and liv'd—as you do now.

10

Charm'd with this Theme, tho' indolent so long;
With Prose bemus'd; quite reprobate in Song;
In Awe I reassume the votive Pen;
And (Peace be to Apollo) write again.
Me Cynthius check'd in early Life's Career;
Desist, he cry'd, and gently twitch'd my Ear;
Desist from Verse, an Art beyond your Reach;
But (tho' a Heathen God) he bade me preach:
I bow'd, assented, and submissive chose
To abdicate the Lyre, and drudge in Prose.
But should Fate lead me to a Work like thine,
My Bosom kindles, and my Thoughts refine;
With softest Verse I press the Muse once more,
And (not to break old Customs) thus implore.
Attend in sky-dipt Robes, ye smiling Hours!
Unlock your chrystal Springs, and mossy Bowers,
Crowd each luxuriant Image Wit can feign,
And paint, O Muse! the Eye-enchanting Scene;
Give Wings to Thought; to rapid Fancy Fire—
(The meanest Judge can gaze, and just admire)
Romantic Clime! where e'er I turn my Eyes,
Elysian Walks, and Classic Landscapes rise!
Enthusiastic Fancy seems to see
A Tempe bloom; for such shall Powerscourt be!
O! let my rapt Imagination trace
The Site, and Sylvan Genius of the Place,
Where Nature varies, yet unites each Part,
And Chance reflects Advantages to Art.
Or let my Eyes in bold Excursions gain
The swelling Vista, and the sinking Plain,

11

Where a free Heaven the Sight's wide Empire fills,
And melts in distant Clouds, and blueish Hills;
Or, caught where Views more regular appear,
Take in the verdant Slope, and rais'd Parterre.
Hence, from this Taste, are Numbers pleas'd and fed;
The Wise have Pleasure; the Distress'd have Bread.
This Taste brings Profit, and improves with Sense,
And thro' a thousand Channels turns Expence;
Benevolence in numerous Streams imparts,
And ends in Virtue what began in Arts;
Removes sharp Famine, Sickness and Despair;
Relieves the asking Eye, the rising Tear;
Such Woe as late o'er pale Hibernia past,
And such, ye Guardian Powers, we wish the last!
If Public Spirit shines, 'tis just at least,
To give some Glory too to Public Taste,
Which bids proud Art the pillar'd Fabric raise;
Scoops the rough Rock, and levels vast High-ways!
Plans future Woods for Prospect and Defence;
And forms a Bower a hundred Summers hence;
Ideal Groves, and Beauties just in View—
But such, my Friend, as Time shall bring to you.
Fresh blow your Gardens! intermingl'd Scene!
Grass-Carpet Walks, and Green encircling Green;
A chequer'd Space, alternate Sun and Shade;
The Country round, one wide delicious Glade!
Enamell'd Vales, with fair Horizons bound,
Here towering Woods, and pendant Rocks surround;
With graceful Sweeps here mazy Windings run,
Or gently meet in Lines where they begun;
Here gushes down steep Steps a ductile Rill,
There spreads in fluid Azure, broad and still;
So mix'd the Views, so exquisitely shewn,
Each flowery Field, and Valley seems your own;

12

While Nature smiles, obsequious to your Call,
Directs, assists, and recommends it all;
At last she gives, O! Art, how vain thy Aid!
To crown the beauteous Work—a vast Cascade!
Say, Muse! who dwell'st where mighty Shannon roars,
That once divided Empires with his Shores,
Say, in his Western Course immense and fair,
Can all his Falls and Cataracts compare?
Let grand Versailles her liquid Landscapes boast;
Pure Scenes of Nature here delight us most;
Her rudest Prospects bid the Fancy start,
And snatch the Soul beyond the Works of Art.—
O! would some Master Hand adorn your Walls,
And catch the living Fountain as it falls!
The gay Original would crown your Dome,
And you then boast your noblest Scene at Home!
Lo! down the Rock which Clouds and Darkness hide,
In wild Meanders spouts a silver Tide;
Or sprung from dropping Mists, or Wintry Rills,
Rolls the large Tribute of the Cloud-topp'd Hills;
But should the damp-wing'd Tempest keenly blow,
With whistling Torrents, and descending Snow,
In one huge Heap the showery Whirlpools swell,
And deluge wide the Tract where first they fell;
'Till, from the headlong Verge of yon black Steep,
A tumbling River bursts intense and deep;
From Rock to Rock its boiling Flood is broke,
And all below the Waters surge in Smoke.—
So vast the Height, no Distance seems between
The Mountain's Summit, and the blue Serene.
So wondrous fierce the sloping Torrents roll!
Such still Amazement fixes all the Soul!
So hoarse the Thunder of the rushing Tide,
The Sense can scarce receive a Sound beside!

13

Tho' the green Glades with one wild Concert ring,
And thro' the Woodland warbles all the Spring.—
Just where the Beam of Sight distended fails,
Up the clear Infinite the Eagle sails!
Or half-way down the Precipice's Head,
White lingering Fogs, and dew-bright Clouds are spread.
The Soul from Indolence to Rapture wakes,
'Till on th'unfolding Ear the Water breaks.
This Sound, when Night has sadden'd all the Skies,
Far off the Traveller hears with wild Surprize.
High o'er the waving Landscape, dark with Trees,
A distant Murmur swells upon the Breeze,
Now near, now dying, varies with each Blast,
Then settles in a sullen Roar at last.
Thus where the Nile's first Parent Urn is found,
Her Cataracts rush down (a dizzy Sound!)
Wide and more wide the dreadful Echoes run,
Pierce thro' the burning Zone, and meet the Sun.
Description flags—let Thought the Rest express;
A Theme untouch'd, delicious to Excess!
Profuse of all the Soul can wish, or love;
A Landscape in the golden Dreams of Jove!
O that my Breast with Pæan's Flame were smit!
Or ardent as my Wish, sublime my Wit!
(If for a Verse like mine I could engage)
This deathless Stream should flow, from Age to Age.
But stop, fond Muse,—or soar to bolder Lays;
The finish'd Seat demands the Founder's Praise;
Where Taste sets off, and dignifies Expence,
Rich without Glare; magnificent with Sense.
As in some Piece a Titian's Hand has wrought
The fair Result, and Eloquence of Thought,
Where Light and Shadow blend in social Strife,
And every glorious Colour streams with Life;

14

Thus in Improvement shines the Attic Taste;
Thus Eden springs where late you found a Waste.
Sketch'd in your House, the candid Heart we view,
Its Grace, Strength, Order, all reflecting you;
Yet, pleas'd to see, and fonder still to tell,
Your candid Heart becomes that House so well;
The mirthful Look; kind Air without Controul;
The easy Converse, and the Flow of Soul.
How flush'd my Thought! how charm'd my Eye survey'd
The gilt Profile, and stately Colonade!
There arch'd Hesperian Windows drink the Noon;
Here fluted Dorics raise the rich Saloon;
The Pile all o'er for gazing Homage calls,
In Fretwork Cielings, and Historic Walls;
Ætherial Dyes the glowing Canvas stain,
And here fair Italy's best Triumphs reign.
Thus while my Sight the pictur'd Views amaze,
In keen Excursions vigorous Fancy strays;
Now beats my Heart, or emulous I burn,
At Tully's Tusculum, or Virgil's Urn:
Still green with Bays the hallow'd Ruins stand;
Still crown'd with Fame the hallow'd Names command;
Full on my conscious Soul their Glories strike;
And, for your Sake, I sigh to write unlike.—
But for these Lines, (yet menacing some more)
Mean as they are, their Passage I implore.
I know your Judgement polish'd, yet humane;
Your Temper, apt to give your Judgement Pain;
Dispos'd to think, to feel for human Race,
And even in this bad Age to shew some Grace;
To act as Reason and good Sense require;
Ah! how unlike the modern Country 'Squire!
By your Applause, Verse low as mine can live;
Nor can I make more Faults, than you forgive.
 
------ Cynthius aurem
Vellit et admonuit: ------
Virg. Ecl. 6.

15

NEXT MORNING.

To Richard Chamberlaine, Esq; Beaufort Buildings, London.
What means this Fury in my Veins?
This Fire that hisses thro' my Brains?
Ah me! my Head! my Head!
My Pulses beat; parch'd up my Tongue;
Dry are my Palms; my Nerves unstrung;
And every Sense is fled.
Now nauseous Qualms my Bosom heave,
And, Oh! such sad Sensations give,
Too exquisite to name!
In dizzy Mists my Eye-Balls swim;
A Languor creeps o'er every Limb,
And all unmans my Frame.
What Crime, or what Offence of mine,
Could so provoke the Powers divine,
This Punishment to send?
Poison to Man I never gave;
Ne'er wish'd my Father in his Grave;
Nor ever stabb'd my Friend.
But Patience! I deserve it all.
What Name shall I my Folly call?
My Folly! Oh! 'twas Madness.
With blooming Health my Bosom glow'd;
Calm and serene my Spirits flow'd,
And fill'd my Heart with Gladness.

16

Freedom, with sweet Contentment join'd,
And Fortune too with Smiles was kind,
To crown my happy Days;
No Fears my humble State annoy'd;
Life's every Blessing I enjoy'd;
And Peace smooth'd all my Ways.
When lo! a cruel Spoiler came;
Disguis'd with Friendship's sacred Name,
A treacherous Design:
He talk'd of Mirth, and Joy, and Jest;
His Arts prevail'd; he gave a Feast;
And, oh! he gave me Wine.
Frequent and full the Glass I quaff;
Louder and more no Man could laugh;
I thought not of To-morrow;
But dire Misfortunes did succeed;
To-morrow brought an aking Head,
And fill'd my Heart with Sorrow.
Oh! fatal, and accursed Hour,
And Claret's more pernicious Power:
How could a Friend do this?
To cheat me with a seeming Joy,
And in a Moment to destroy
Whole Years of treasur'd Bliss.
Restore, restore the genial Day;
Restore my Spirits free and gay,
And give me back my Senses;
Happy, if e'er again I find
Dear Health of Body, Peace of Mind;
I'll smile, and pity Princes.

17

But farewell Feast, and farewell Riot;
For sober Ease and decent Quiet,
The Bottle I resign;
Firm to pursue this better Plan,
To drink Small-Beer, and make the Man,
Fair Temperance, ever thine.

THE DEFIANCE.

To a YOUNG LADY.

To call you Devil tho' I dare,
'Tis all a vain Pretence;
And you as much in vain prepare
To punish my Offence.
Tho' you in Justice ought to frown,
Yet Justice I'll beguile,
And, by offending, bolder grown,
I challenge you to smile.
For Mercy must that Bosom move,
Howe'er against your Will,
And thus, by pardoning me, you prove,
That you're an Angel still.

18

On seeing Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in the Character of Phædra.

Inscribed to Mrs. ROCHFORT.
Oft has the Poet sweetly sung in vain,
When tasteless Actors chaunt the heav'nly Strain;
In vain to sounding Lays has tun'd his Lyre,
When languid Elocution damps his Fire:
The Words indeed, the Sentiments we hear,
As Wine distill'd thro' filtering Stones is clear;
But then the Flavour, Spirit, Taste, are fled,
And leave a Caput Mortuum in their Stead.
Such was the Fate of Smith, whose sacred Page
Is rich with Beauties of the Attic Age:
His Phædra glowing with celestial Flame,
Dazzled and overwhelm'd each Tragic Dame:
In vain they toil'd and labour'd in their Art,
When no Promethean Fire had warm'd the Heart;
In vain with Lips unhallow'd try'd to sing
(Those Lips ne'er dew'd with the Pierian Spring)
Such Strains, as falling from Apollo's Lyre,
Had fill'd with Rapture the celestial Choir.
Confess'd their Weakness, and abash'd their Pride,
At length, in meer Despair, 'twas thrown aside.
Like the Dulychian Bow, this glorious Play,
Useless thro' Size and Strength, neglected lay:
That Bow, whose thick tough Texture try'd in vain,
Baffled each Effort of the Courtier Train;

19

That Bow its Master's Hand obey'd alone,
As Phædra was reserv'd for Woffington.
Heavens! with what Ease, what Majesty! what Fire!
Her Words, Looks, Gesture, to the Poet's Lyre,
Strike perfect Unison! Now sunk with Woe,
Her sad Tongue falters, and her Words move slow;
Now sudden with extatic Frenzy fir'd,
She seems with more than mortal Strength inspir'd!
Headlong she leads you in the dangerous Chace,
Or instant whirls you thro' the rapid Race:
You see the Champions mount, the Chariots bound,
And the swift Coursers swallow up the Ground!
You hear the Horn, the jolly Huntsman's Cries,
And tremble at the Monster as he dies!
With more than magic Quickness, to your View,
She shifts the Scenes which Fancy's Pencil drew.
But when contending Passions tear her Breast,
By Guilt, Love, Rage, and Jealousy oppress'd;
When, from the Fetters freed of Female Shame,
Revenge, and Fury shake her labouring Frame;
She looks the wrathful Messenger of Jove,
Scattering his fatal Terrors from above.
Yet in the very Tempest of her Soul,
Unseen, a temper'd Judgment guides the whole.
No strange Distortions shock the loathing Sight,
No Rants, no screaming Tones, the Ear affright;
But like the angry Angel in her Form,
She guides the Whirlwind, and directs the Storm:
The Audience now with Reverence on the Stage,
Admire the awful Dignity of Rage.
Sudden the Scene is chan'gd, the Sky's serene,
Reflection comes, with Virtue in her Train;

20

Virtue returns, but ah! a chearless Guest,
Yok'd with Despair, in a Love-laden Breast.
Pity my Pains, ah! lovely Youth! she cries,
Pity her Pains! each feeling Bosom sighs!
Hopeless she pleads, nor wishes to succeed,
When conscious Virtue bars the guilty Deed.
Her last Resource is Death—She rears on high
The fatal Ponyard—Hark! a sudden Cry!
Theseus is come! stiff rooted, and aghast,
She heard the fatal Sound! as at the Blast
Of the last general Trumpet, fix'd she stood,
Her Limbs to Marble turn'd, congeal'd her Blood!
Whilst all her Soul had flown into her Face,
Where every Eye might every Passion trace.
Hither ye Artists, Painters, Sculptors come!
Leave your Antiques of Greece, and boasted Rome;
Take warm from Life the Semblance of your Kind,
Learn to paint Passion, and embody'd Mind;
Shew in the Figure of a modern Fair,
At once, Guilt, Shame, Distraction, and Despair!
But oh! what Muse can paint her racking Pains,
When the slow Poison working in her Veins,
She hears the Fate of the consummate Youth,
Who fell by her, a Victim to his Truth?
To Heaven her self-accusing Eyes she rais'd,
When, to crown all, she heard her Virtue prais'd!
One conscious Spark, which almost smother'd lay,
From her torn Breast indignant forc'd its Way,
Swift as the nitrous Powder touch'd with Flame,
Burst thro the Mounds of Guilt, and weightier Shame,
Bore all before it with resistless Sway,
And on the guilty Scene flash'd sudden Day.
Perjury, Murder, Incest start to Sight!
Ghastly they look'd, and anger'd at the Light;

21

Then on their Parent's Bosom vent their Rage;
She calls on Hell her Torments to assuage!
Hell heard her Voice, cleft is the labouring Ground,
She sees the vengeful Furies stalk around!
Nor singly sees, the trembling Audience too,
Behold Hell's Powers collected to their View:
Thro' the whole House th'electric Frenzy flies,
And each Spectator sees with Phædra's Eyes
So when the God inspir'd the Pythian Dame,
And fill'd her 'raptur'd Breast with heavenly Flame;
Each Hearer of the Deity partook,
Swell'd as she swell'd, and as she trembled shook;
With the celestial Fire each Bosom glow'd,
And all acknowledg'd, for they felt the God.

TO THERANIA.

Dear Object of my tenderest Care,
When Flattery assails thine Ear,
Shun, shun the poisonous Bait;
But when an honest, artless Muse,
In Praise conceals no sordid Views,
Attend and emulate.

22

Secure then read this votive Lay,
In Welcome to that happy Day,
Which claims Therania's Birth;
Thrice happy Day which first foretold,
What now, admiring, all behold,
Thy Beauty, and thy Worth.
O! that my Verse could flow along,
Still like the Subject of my Song,
Form'd every Taste to please;
Where lively Wit, with Judgment shines,
And sweet Simplicity combines,
With Dignity, and Ease.
Her Presence smiling Nature charm'd,
And with each winning Grace she arm'd
Her Person, and her Mind;
And friendly Art, with Reason's Aid,
Unites in fashioning the Maid,
The loveliest of her Kind.
Reflection, Modesty, and Truth,
Adorn her Manners, guard her Youth,
And speak in all her Ways;
Within her Breast, exempt from Pride,
The tender Passions all reside,
And bright Good-humour plays.
Fortune to her, tho' rarely found
True Merit with her Favours crown'd,
Has lavish Bounty shewn;
And yet, a Circumstance more rare,
Fortune can boast no Influence there—
Goodness, she's all thy own.

23

Thus form'd to yield, and to receive,
All Pleasures Earth and Heaven can give,
Therania, all be thine:
Happy, such Virtues when I see,
Happier, contemplating in thee;
That Blessing still be mine.
And may the destin'd youthful Swain,
Whose plighted Heart shall thine obtain,
Just to thy Wishes prove!
May all your Days with Peace be crown'd,
And Years on Years dance gaily round,
In Harmony and Love.

A PERSIAN TALE

Inscribed to Master JAMES NUGENT, of Clonlost.
An humble Dervise liv'd of yore;
No Treasures he possess'd;
Yet was his Mind, with Wisdom's Store,
And Heaven's Protection bless'd.
Full fourscore well-spent, holy Years,
A Pilgrim's Life he led:
Serenely gay the Saint appears;
For Angels gave him Bread.

24

His copious Locks, like feather'd Snow,
The Peace of God bespeak;
His Eyes with Warmth celestial glow;
With rosy Health, his Cheek.
At Mecca, he had often been,
And every holy Place;
The bless'd Elias oft had seen
Corporeal Face to Face.
It happen'd once, at Bairam's Feast,
To fair Spahoun he came:
A Raja claim'd him for his Guest,
In Honour of his Fame.
The pious Pilgrim bless'd the Board,
With costly Viands crown'd,
Regardless of the splendid Hoard,
That glittered all around.
A Pot of Sweetmeats near him stood;
On this he cast an Eye;
Seem'd quite forgetful of his Food,
And drown'd in Revery.
But gushing Tears, at length, betray'd
The Anguish of his Breast;
And heavy Sighs their Passage made,
That shew'd an Heart oppress'd.

25

‘O! Sons of Pomp, and Vanity!’
The prudent Sage began,
‘In this small Vessel you may see
‘The History of Man.
‘This Pot an Emblem true conveys
‘Of Earth, and all its Joys;
‘And shews the thousand various Ways,
‘How Man himself destroys—
‘Behold the busy, anxious Flies,
‘That hover round these Sweets,
‘See! how, like us, each Insect vies,
‘'Till each his Ruin meets.
‘Some on the Borders gently tread,
‘And sip with cautious Touch,
‘While others eagerly are led
‘To plunge, and take too much.
‘The first, from Danger soon are freed,
‘By no strong Tye detain'd;
‘The second, justly are decreed
‘The Death their Rashness gain'd.
‘Hence, Mortals, wisely learn to shun
‘False Pleasure's fatal Cup:
‘Drink lightly; or you 'll be undone,
‘Engulph'd and swallow'd up.
‘You, like the one, who gently taste,
‘When Aziel calls aloud,
‘To bless'd Abodes, with Joy shall haste,
‘And quit the giddy Croud:
‘But, if, by Passions blindly led,
‘That no true Medium know,
‘With quick Destruction on your Head,
‘You'll sink to endless Woe.
 

The Mahometans believe that Elias never died; but, was translated alive into Heaven.

A yearly Festival of the Mahometans, beginning on the Day of the New-Moon, in April.

Ispahan; so called by the Persians.

A Title of Honour in Persia, something similar to our Dukes.

Aziel, the Angel of Death.


26

ODE: To the MUSE.

I

Queen of the Song! thou, to whose Power,
On every Hill, in every Shade,
At Morn's grey Dawn, or Evening Hour,
Unnumber'd Vows are daily paid;
Warm'd by whose Fires, the Bard is taught
To hail thy Power divine;
Whose Aid gives Strength to every Thought,
And brightens every Line;
Whether it joys thee most to rove
Amid the Stillness of the Grove,
Or Morn's ambrosial Breeze inhale
In Twickenham's flower-enamell'd Vale;
Whether thy careless Limbs are laid
Where Hagley spreads her verdant Shade;
Or, pensive, bending o'er the Flood,
That brawls through Windsor's royal Wood,
O hither wing thy Form benign!
To me impart thy heavenly Fire!
Propitious hear; and let one Ray divine
The last, the meanest of your Train inspire!

27

II

Come, then, O come, and bring along
With thee, thy whole celestial Train;
Fair Truth, to grace the moral Song;
And Elegance, that loves the Plain:
Let frolic Nature too be there,
While Art her Flight restrains;
Let Fancy mount the rapid Car,
And Judgement hold the Reins:
Let Eloquence her Beauties join;
And Wit her softer Charm combine:
Let Sense with Sweetness, too, conspire;
And female Ease with manly Fire:
Let bright Invention's magic Sway
Wake airy Nothings into Day;
And Memory, Goddess heavenly-born,
Bid Times long past again return:
Haste, then, O haste thee from the Skies;
And teach me all thy Art to move,
By secret Springs to bid the Passions rise,
Swell'd into Rage, or soften'd into Love.

III

All Being owns thy wonderous Sway,
And Nature bows before thy Shrine;
Earth, Sea, and Air, thy Voice obey,
And Grace, and Harmony are thine:
Through Realms unknown, thy Power sublime
Can wing it's boundless Race;
Thy Passage nor restrain'd by Time;
Nor circumscrib'd by Place:

28

Thine Eye can pierce the deep, dark Shade,
Which old Antiquity has made;
The present Hours to thee are known;
And Time to come is all thy own:
Whene'er thou weav'st thy magic Wand,
New Worlds leap forth at thy Command;
And all along the fairy Ground
Ideal Beings start around;
New Beauties gild the azure Skies;
A fresher Verdure cloathes the Meads;
And, while new Suns in brighter Glory rise,
New Groves extend their visionary Shades.

IV

Sweet Mistress of the pleasing Tear,
Let not thy Votary plead in vain!
Queen of the Song, propitious hear
A Bard, who wooes thee to the Plain!
By yon green Lawn that eyes the Flood,
Do thou my Footsteps lead,
Where Bewley's venerable Wood
Extends it's ample Shade:
Wrapp'd in the Stillness of the Bower,
While Birds around their Sonnets pour,
On every Thorn while Beauty blooms,
While every Breeze exhales Perfumes,
In such a Seat, how sweet to shun
The Fervour of the mid-day Sun!
To read soft Love in Myra's Eye,
And bless the Minutes, as they fly!
Power, Fame, and Fortune, I resign—
Let this alone to me be given;
Be thou, fair Queen, be thou, and Myra, mine!
Myra, and thou, are all I'ask of Heaven!

31

ON Miss KENNAN's going, in the Character of a Shepherdess, to the Fancied Ball,

Held at the Castle, on Friday, the 16th of March, 1769.

Ah! farewell Sunshine, farewell Spring,
Farewell each rural Sport;
No more we dance, no more we sing;
Our Jenny's gone to Court.
And can our Shepherdess forsake
Her Lambkin and her Dove?
Ere 'tis too late, sweet Maid, come back
To Innocence and Love.
To Soldiers bold, and Courtiers gay,
Can Jenny lend an Ear,
Who once could hear what Shepherds say,
Who sigh, but cannot swear?
Tho' Beaux may vow, tho' Lords may kneel,
They're full of courtly Wiles:
They're artless Swains alone who feel,
When Jenny sings, or smiles.

32

They'll call her Goddess, Beauty's Queen,
They'll call her Angel too:
Will Jenny ask them what they mean?
Or whether they say true?
Or will she hear true Lovers mourn,
While simply thus they pray;
Return, dear Shepherdess, return,
And be our Queen of May?

AN APOLOGY FOR SILENCE.

Believe not, silent tho' I be,
And, lost in Transports, gaze,
That I devote to aught but thee,
My Rapture, Love, and Praise.
But Praise since you so far excel,
And yours alone my Heart,
What need my Tongue, my Actions tell,
How deeply fix'd the Dart?
What else, when absent from your Arms,
My anxious Sadness brings?
And when I thus behold your Charms,
What gives the Minutes Wings?

33

Why oft do Tears spontaneous start?
Ah! tell me, fairest, why?
And whence the Sighs that rend my Heart?
Could Fiction these supply?
What, leaving thee and Life behind,
Such Anguish can excite?
And whence, if dear Amira's kind,
This exquisite Delight?
Why does my fond, unconscious Tongue
Make thee her only Theme?
And why, incessantly, in Song,
Do I record thy Name?
Why do I, all Confusion, glow,
At thy dear Name dismay'd?
And why all social Joys forego,
To seek the lonely Shade?
O why all this? O tell me why?
Or still must Words declare?
For thee I pine, I weep, and sigh;
I languish, and despair.

35

THE NOSEGAY.

INSCRIBED TO The Right Honourable Lady MARY LESLIE, On her Ladyship's presenting a very elegant one to the Author.
Newland, August 25th, 1760.
Justly, descriptive Fancy's tuneful Tongue,
Stiles you the Emblem of the Fair and Young;
But, if with Stella you presume to vie,
Your Odours sicken, and your Colours die.
The Lilly, tinted by the fresh-blown Rose,
In vain with her would rival Charms disclose;
Her blooming Cheeks a lovelier Vermil shew;
Her heaving Breast a more unsully'd Snow:
The fragrant Jasmine languishes beneath
The modest Effluence of her balmy Breath;
And, every sweet, attractive Grace you wear,
Collected and improv'd, reigns native there.
But, bounteous Nature, not to Form confin'd,
As richly triumphs in her ample Mind:
The early dawning Radiance, which appears
In that, so bright, so far beyond her Years,

36

Shall (if prophetic Verse can aught presage)
Shine out, mature, the Glory of her Age.
Thus, when young Philomela tries her Throat,
So strong, so clear, so musical her Note,
So nobly bold, so genuine, and so much
Of lineal Elegance in every Touch,
With sweet Surprise, all Hearts the Song approve,
And own the future Mistress of the Grove.
Here, sketch'd in Stella, dear Maria, see
What you are now, and what you hence may be:
But let the native Blessings you possess,
Not make your Thought, or Application less;
Birth, Wealth, nor Beauty, can with those dispense;
For they're, at best, poor Substitutes for Sense;
Promiscuously by giddy Fortune given;
But that's the choice, peculiar Boon of Heaven.
Seek Wisdom, then; and, with unceasing Care,
Adorn your Mind, and fix Perfection there:
Sickness, or Age, will spoil external Grace,
And dim the Lustre of a beauteous Face;
That, with encreasing Splendor, will outlast
The cruel Power of envious Time to waste.
Nor distant far, whate'er your Triflers say,
The most protracted Period of Decay.
But, as, scarce yet, your unexperienc'd Eye
Could mark how swift the transient Minutes sly,
Observe that Wreath, of late so highly priz'd,
Now thrown aside, neglected, and despis'd.
Hence learn to cultivate the present Hour;
Nor fall, unnotic'd, like the fading Flower.
And, when the Muse, your Happiness her End,
Would moral Truths, and useful, recommend,
And let you candidly, since none are free,
Your little Errors and Omissions see;

37

Or would the laurel'd Walks of Science shew,
Which none, without minute Attention, know;
Let not your Cheek uneasy Blushes paint;
Nor downcast Eye condemn the kind Restraint;
But, emulous, suppress the trembling Tear;
And meet Instruction with a willing Ear.
The goodly Harvest yours; the Care is mine,
That you, superior to your Sex, may shine,
The brightest Gem of your illustrious Line.
Studious of that, my Duty and Regard
May dictate Things apparently too hard;
But, from the first, persist in what is right,
And Custom soon will make the Practice light.
Let others seek Excuses to protect
Their tottering Fame, and palliate Neglect;
Your Faults, 'twere but a vain Attempt to screen;
For in the Brilliant all Defects are seen;
Tho' in th'inferior Tribes they'd scarce appear;
Perhaps seem Beauties, if not view'd too near.
Such, for a Day, exotic Charms may boast;
And each, her sole Ambition, reign a Toast;
But you, with more exalted Views aspire;
And teach Mankind with Reason to admire.
What though a thousand Fools your Praise rehearse,
(As Fools, and Coxcombs often scribble Verse)
And Flattery a thousand Altars raise,
If undeserv'd, 'tis Satyr, and not Praise?
The Approbation of one Man of Sense
Outweighs them all in Worth and Consequence.
Then, you, by striving to be good and wise,
Begin the Race, and win the glorious Prize:
In all that's generous, affable, humane,
Be still the foremost, but in nothing vain.

38

The Paths of Honour steadily pursue;
And with yourself th'admiring World subdue.
Tracing your noble Parents, who had stood
Honour's Elect, exclusive of their Blood;
And her, the elder Partner of your Birth,
Who from herself, not that, derives her Worth.
From such bright Precedents you soon may learn,
To gain Esteem should be your first Concern;
For that, of all the social Ties, is best,
The Corner Stone, and Earnest of the Rest.
Thus, when, of old, Pygmalion's Hand display'd
The polish'd Beauty of his Ivory Maid,
So true to Nature, exquisitely wrought,
It smil'd, and look'd, as if the Body thought;
And, every smiling Look so much affords,
Amazement silent stands, expecting Words.
Th'enraptur'd Master view'd it, and admir'd;
Pleas'd with his Art, but not with Love inspir'd:
The Gods, too, pleas'd, so sings an antient Bard,
To crown his Labour, and his Skill reward,

39

Their Aid impart; and, by their Mandate warm'd,
It breath'd; it liv'd; she reason'd, and she charm'd;
And, from her Reason, as her Charms improv'd,
She grew a Leslie, honour'd, and belov'd.
 

Now Lady Millsington.

The Flowers.

The late Earl and Countess of Rothes, to whose justly-respected Memory the Author drops a Tear of Gratitude.—Let it be recorded, to the Honour of this honest-hearted Nobleman, that, soon after his Arrival in Ireland, a very national Bill passed the Lords and Commons, and was in Course laid before the Privy-Council. The Abettors of Prerogative thought it their Interest to throw it out, and warmly sollicited his Concurrence. But he (though invested with the chief Command of the Forces, and possessed of several other lucrative Appointments under Government) sensibly and greatly answered, “I am but a Stranger in this Country, and cannot take upon me to judge correctly of its true Interests; but as this Bill has been approved of in both Houses of Parliament, by a great Majority, I must take it for granted, 'tis the Sense of the Nation, and that must determine me.” He voted accordingly.

The Right Honourable Lady Jane Elizabeth Leslie, now Evelyn.

To the Memory of the Right Hon. Charlotte, Lady Viscountess Townshend,

Who died at Leixlip, September 5th, 1770.

With down-cast Look, and pitying Eye,
Unarm'd, the King of Terrors stood;
He laid his Sting, and Horrors by,
Averse to strike the Fair and Good:
When, thus, an Angel urg'd the Blow—
No more thy lifted Hand suspend!
To conscious Guilt a dreaded Foe;
To Innocence a welcome Friend.
Bright Hosts of Cherubs round her stand;
To her, and me, confess'd alone;
Each waving his celestial Hand,
And pointing to th'eternal Throne.
The Angel spoke—Nor Husband dear,
Nor Children lov'd, a mournful Train,
Could from her Eye attract one Tear,
Nor bend one Thought to Earth again.

40

The Soul, impatient of Delay,
No more could mortal Fetters bind,
But, springing to the Realms of Day,
Leaves every human Care behind.
Yet shall an Infant-Daughter's Claim
Demand from Heaven thy guardian Care:
Protect that lovely, helpless Frame;
And guard that Breast you form'd so fair!
A Parent's Loss, unknown, unwept,
Thoughtless, the fatal Hour she pass'd;
Or, only thought her Mother slept;
Nor knew how long that Sleep must last.
When Time th'unfolding Mind displays,
May she, by thy Example led,
Fly from that motley, giddy Maze,
Which Youth, and Guilt, and Folly tread!
These never knew the guiding Hand,
Which leads to Virtue's arduous Way:
Mothers, now, join the vagrant Band;
And teach their Children how to stray.
Her shall the pious Task engage,
Such once was thine, with lenient Aid,
A Father's Sorrows to assuage,
His Love with equal Love repaid.
So shall she read, with ardent Eye,
This Lesson thy last Moments give,
“They, who, like thee, would fearless die,
“Spotless, like thee, must learn to live.”

41

THE CHOICE OF HERCULES. AN ODE, FOR MUSIC.

INSCRIBED TO The Right Hon. GARRET, Earl of MORNINGTON.

I.

Far in a desart Wild, where, loud, and strong,
A full-swoln Torrent roll'd it's Tide along,
With anxious Doubts his labouring Bosom fraught,
Step following Step, and Thought succeeding Thought,
The young Alcides stray'd:—Before him lay
Virtue's steep Height, and Pleasure's flowery Way:
Ardent he gaz'd, when, issuing from a Glade,
Two Angel Forms his ravish'd Eyes survey'd:
The one, serenely bright, with modest Pace,
And Looks, where mingled Dignity and Grace,

42

Decent advanc'd; the other younger Fair,
With roving Eye, flush'd Cheek, and Bosom bare,
Danc'd lightly on; around his Neck she clung;
And thus, with practis'd Blandishment, she sung.
 
Thought following Thought, and Step by Step led on.
Milt. Par. Reg.

II.

Dearest Youth, what Doubts distress thee?
Lo! I come, to guide, to bless thee!
Happiness unfolds her Treasures,
Slight not thou the offer'd Pleasures.
Seek not yonder Height to gain;
The Steps are Peril, Care, and Pain:—
Haste with me, for Bliss prepare,
Fly from Peril, Pain, and Care!
Smooth is my Way:—In yonder Bowers
Pleasure leads the dancing Hours:
Haste, then, haste, thy Prime employ;
Each Moment lost, you lose a Joy.
Dissolv'd in Rapture, blest, and blessing,
Fancy's utmost Wish possessing,
Tell the Sons of Care and Strife,
Pleasure is the Life of Life.

III.

Transported gaz'd the Youth, while thus she sung,
Rapt in the soft Enchantment of her Tongue:
When, lo! in Robe of purest White array'd,
Now near advanc'd the bright majestic Maid;

43

Each Charm improving as she drew more nigh;
Heaven's mild Effulgence streaming from her Eye,
Grace in her Step; gently his Hand she press'd,
And thus, in Strain sublime, the awe-struck Youth address'd.

IV.

Offspring of Jove, my Voice attend,
Nor heed yon Syren's artful Wiles:—
The Joys she brings in Anguish end;
And Ruin lurks beneath her Smiles.
Would'st thou assert thy Birth divine?—
To yonder Summit turn thine Eyes!
There, Virtue's Hands the Wreath entwine,
That lifts the Hero to the Skies.
Rough though and steep the Mountain's Brow,
Beset with Perils, Toil, and Care,
There Fame's eternal Laurels grow;
And Joy's sweet Blossoms flourish there.
Hark! Virtue calls thee—Truth proclaims,
That Pleasure, rightly understood,
Whate'er Vice feigns, or Folly dreams,
Dwells only with the Wise, and Good.

V.

She ended, smiling, and her heavenly Eyes
Shot forth a brighter Radiance; to the View
Now, easier seem'd the Ascent; and from the Top
Flowers of unfading Bloom their Fragrance threw;

44

Meantime, the Youth beheld, with deep Surprize,
In that smooth Way, erewhile so gaily dress'd,
The deadly Night-shade creep; the Thorn start up;
And the dark Adder rear his spotted Crest:
Th'Illusion vanish'd; and, to Sight confess'd,
Sloth stood, in native Horror:—From her Grasp
(As one who in his Path had spy'd an Asp)
Alcides sprung, and thus his high Resolve express'd.

VI.

The Victory is thine!—
Though Toils, though Cares my Steps oppose,
On Peril, still, though Peril grows,
Celestial Visitant, be Glory mine!
Do thou, sweet Maid, my young Feet guide
To yonder bright Abode,
Yon star-crown'd Hill, where Virtue's Sons reside;
Where the Renown'd of antient Days,
Heirs of universal Praise,
Heroes, and Patriots trod!
Hear, Parent Jove, the Wish sublime
That fires my expanding Soul,
Crown of my Toils be this,! be this my Goal!
To live, through undecaying Time,
In Fame's eternal Roll!

VII.

Thus while the Hero sings, each cavern'd Rock
Echoes the Strain, delighted: All around

45

The unseen Deities of Wood, and Stream,
Dryads, and Naiads, the sweet Nymphs who love
The Hill's blue Summit, and the Powers who rule
The trackless Realms of Air, in Concert full,
The Pæan swell; and Nature's general Voice
Bursts forth in choral Song.—

VIII.

Mortals, who, benighted, stray,
Wandering through Passion's Mists, by Reason's feeble Ray,
Hear, and obey!
Hear unerring Truth proclaim,
That Virtue is the Guide to Fame!
See, she moves, in radiant State!
Mark what Blessings round her wait!
Soft Content, that Bosom-Treasure,
Rose-lipp'd Health, and smiling Pleasure!
Join her Triumph—Mortals, rise,
Mount from Earth, and claim the Skies!
 

The Writer of this Trifle has borrowed a few Lines, and Half Lines, from an elegant little Poem of Dr. Lowth, Bishop of Oxford, upon the same Subject: It is scarcely necessary to add, that they are both indebted to Xenophon for the Fable.

EPIGRAM.

On seeing Miss AMBROSE, with an Orange Ribband in her Breast, King William's Birth Day.

Thou little Tory, where's the Jest,
Of wearing Orange in thy Breast;
When that same Breast, insulting, shews
The Whiteness of the Rebel Rose?
 

Now, Mrs. Palmer.


46

AN ELEGY, On the much-lamented Death of The Reverend JOHN LAWSON, D. D. S. F. T. C. D.

What shall the fell Destroyers of Mankind
Still live, with Glory, down from Age to Age?
Shall they a Place in Fame's fair Annals find;
And bloom, immortal, in the story'd Page?
Shall they, whose Pride no other Worth can boast,
Than Realms laid waste, and Monarchies o'erturn'd,
Shall they survive, 'till Time itself be lost,
Prais'd by each Tongue, by every Art adorn'd?
Shall these Things be?—yet peaceful Virtue die,
Without the Tribute of one pious Groan?
And, modest Worth, without a Tear, a Sigh,
Sink to the Grave, unheard of, and unknown?
At dire Ambition's Call, when Millions bleed,
Shall Honour's Wreath the Victor's Temples bind?
Yet no Reward await the honest Deed?
No Glory crown the pure, and spotless Mind?

47

And, shall the Muse, too, prostitute her Tongue
To Wealth's vain Glare, or Power's unsteady Blaze?
Whilst good Men fall, neglected, and unsung;
No Heart to mourn them, and no Hand to praise.
It shall not be—Even now, athwart the Gloom,
She comes, the Goddess comes, to praise, to mourn,
To tear the Wreath from dire Ambition's Tomb,
And place it high on Virtue's honour'd Urn.
Though abler Hands the glorious Task decline;
Though Dunkin, modest, hides the heavenly Fire;
Though Shepherd's dumb—yet shall one Ray divine
The last, the meanest of the Train inspire.
Fate gave the Word—and Lawson is no more—
Still green in Earth the noble Ruin lies:—
How shall the weeping Muse the Loss deplore?
Harsh flow the Strains that real Grief supplies.
Yet, though the Strains be harsh, though weak the Tongue,
That pays (ill Chance!) this tributary Verse,
The Heart shall aid the melancholy Song,
And pour its Sorrows on thy honour'd Hearse.
Had it pleas'd Heaven—What has my Phrenzy said?
Where would my Wishes point? Frail Child of Dust!
Hark! From the Grave, cries out the reverend Dead,
That Heaven is wise; and all its Ways are just.
O Worth, belov'd, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd!
Patient to hear; indulgent to redress!
With every Virtue, every Grace adorn'd,
A Heart to pity, and a Hand to bless!

48

Who, now, Affliction's Sorrows shall assuage?
Who, now, the Tears of suffering Virtue dry?
Who guard the Orphan's unprotected Age?
Or, kindle Gladness in the Widow's Eye?
Who, now, our varying Passions shall command?
Teach the stern Breast to feel another's Woe?
Ope the hard Miser's unrelenting Hand?
And bid the Streams of Charity o'erflow?
These were thy Arts—and, glowing with the Theme,
Whilst Truths divine came, mended, from thy Tongue,
Vice heard, abash'd—Youth caught th'inspiring Flame,
And pleas'd Attention on thy Accents hung.
Respected Shade! Now, from the Realms of Joy,
Indulgent, listen to our fervent Prayer!
Still, let thy Alma's Sons thy Thoughts employ!
O, still, protect them with a Parent's Care!
Teach them to love Mankind, and worship God!
Curb the wild Sallies of impetuous Youth!
Teach them to tread the Paths that thou hast trod,
And share those Blessings that now crown thy Truth!
And, lo! around the pensive Mourners stand;
Warm from the Heart, th'unbidden Sorrows flow;
In dumb Distress, each lifts his trembling Hand,
With Looks that speak unutterable Woe.
What, though no Poet's Pen, no Sculptor's Art,
Adorns the Grave where thy lov'd Relics lie,
A Sigh shall burst from every feeling Heart;
A Tear shall fall from every honest Eye:

49

And, though no Statues weep upon thy Tomb,
No storied Pillars labour with thy Fame,
Green, even in Age, thy Memory shall bloom,
When Pillars rise the Monuments of Shame.

THE POET'S APOLOGY TO A YOUNG LADY,

For not answering her Verses.

A fortnight past, and somewhat more,
Since ---'s Verses came—
Each Day, she murmurs o'er and o'er,
And stands prepar'd to blame.
For Rebus, and Acrostic, both,
I owe, 'tis true;—and, yet,
By Clio's Harp (and there's my Oath)
I cannot pay the Debt.
That thus the Bard the Song delays,
Impute not to Design;
For, by the God that wears the Bays,
The Fault is none of mine.
Had He once heard my frequent Prayer,
Then might my Verse have shewn
Those Cheeks, whose Freshness may compare
With Roses newly blown:

50

That Je ne scai quoi, from Foot to Head;
That Neck, of lilly Hue;
Those Lips as moist, and eke as red,
As Cherries wet with Dew;
That Form, that might on Ida's Brow
Have gain'd the golden Prize;
That Wit, whose Lustre yields, I trow,
To nothing but your Eyes.
Thus, had I sung; and, thus, each Hour
Would I the Theme renew;
'Till Matt had mourn'd his rivall'd Power,
And Cloe bow'd to you—
But, ah! what boots it to rehearse!—
How vain the Poet's Dream!
The World, and you have lost the Verse;
And I have lost the Fame.
And, yet, Heaven knows, from Day to Day,
How oft I urg'd the Prayer;
But, spight of all that I could say,
Apollo would not hear:
I call'd the Muses to my Aid;
But they deny'd the Strain:
I bit my Nails, and scratch'd my Head;
But bit, and scratch'd, in vain:
To pump for Similies, and Rhyme,
No longer then I try;
'Tis Loss of Labour, and of Time;
The Spring, alas! is dry.
 

Matthew Prior.


51

HOCUS POCUS.

To the Right Honourable Lady MARY BIRMINGHAM.
The Juggler call'd, and all attentive round
The Guests were plac'd; 'tis meet the Muse record;
Eliza there; and here a Sage profound;
The noble Margaretta next her Lord:
Good Sense in Mary's gracious Form stood by;
And Innocence sat smiling in her Eye.
I mark'd the Changes of her beauteous Face;
Accustom'd long its Changes to explore;
There sweet Surprize, and mix'd Applause I trace,
As Magus plays his Conjurations o'er:
The more susceptive, as no Art she knew;
Yet Praise was just, just was her Wonder too.
Prompt, and alert, confounding every Sense,
His 'witching Spells all Objects round obey'd;
They came; were gone; none whither knew, nor whence;
Or, if they knew, the Secret none betray'd.
Even so the World is practis'd in Deceit;
But, tho' a pleasing, 'tis a dangerous Cheat.
From the trim Courtier, to the Herdsman's Boy,
'Tis Sleight, 'tis Trick, 'tis mere Illusion all;
And Candour errs, or Masks the Fair employ,
From Doll the Drudge, to Sylvia at the Ball:
All have their Schemes, and on securely steer;
Tho' often founder'd in the loose Career.

52

Pride of my Hope, the mad Contagion shun;
And be to all, as thou to me art, dear;
The Race of Honour uniformly run;
And rise, the Prime of thy exalted Sphere.
Tis Virtue's Call, inherent in thy Blood;
For all thy Ancestors were wise and good.
Though on thy Cheek the pure Carnations glow,
Tints lovelier far than Titian's Pencil knew;
Though Grace, and Symmetry thy Figure shew,
Such as Apelles for his Venus drew;
In Reason's Judgement, all would faintly shine,
If not the Lustre of the Soul were thine.
That melting Sympathy, that silent Tear,
Thy Pity gives, and Modesty would hide,
Far more, Maria, shall thy Name endear,
Than all the Wonders of thy Charms beside.
Nor greater Favour could kind Heaven impart,
Than, with the Power to bless, to give the Heart.
But, say, I view thee with a partial Eye;
Love, justly founded, who can partial name?
Had'st thou a Fault, I never pass'd it by;
And thou, and Duty, ever wert the same.
Mine every fond paternal Care confess'd;
And Time thy genuine Glories shall attest.
Waterstown, Dec. 29th, 1770.
 

Countess of Louth.


53

AN Occasional PROLOGUE to the Tragedy of Zara,

Performed at WATERSTOWN, January 7th, 1769.

INSCRIBED TO The Right Hon. MARGARETTA, Countess of LOUTH .
Quite out of Fashion in the sickening Town,
Neither tragic Scenes, nor comic, will go down:
To empty Benches Juliet makes her Moan;
And rack'd Othello's Occupation's gone.
Lee, Congreve, Steel, and Otway, all retire,
Run down by Foot, the Devil, and the Lyar;
And Foot, in Turn, finds it in vain to cope,
Preposterous Taste! with Dancers on the Rope;
Now, even those, they're leaving in the Lurch;
And yawn at Crow-street—as they yawn at Church.
Ye Bards, and Players, cease your fruitless Toil;
Spadill's the Touch—your only Author—Hoyle:
With him, the Grave and Gay, the Old and Young,
Nobles and Sharpers, one promiscuous Throng,
Night after Night their anxious Vigils keep;
And Basto, not Macbeth, now murders Sleep:

54

While guzzling Statesmen o'er their Bottle drone,
And greatly quit all Interest, but—their own.
Not so the wise Athenians could abuse,
With cold Neglect, the chaste, instructive Muse;
In Sentiment, not Sense, their Joys they plac'd;
And Honour's Portraits from its Sources trac'd;
They felt her Powers, protected, and refin'd;
And thus to Virtue charm'd the stubborn Mind.
Sage Legislators, oft, in Days of Yore,
For that great End, the Sock and Buskin wore;
Nor would the foremost Matrons of the Age
Then blush to tread the unpolluted Stage:
Reason in all directed their Regards;
Nor Claret sought they, Riots, Drums, or Cards:
Yet Athens—truce to Sneering—all agree,
Knew what was Life, and had her Beaux Esprits.
Here, in fair Freedom's ever honour'd Seat,
To Night we furnish an Athenian Treat:
And, fain to please, to give it ampler Chance,
Tho' dress'd in English, 'tis the Growth of France;
And sure its Merits must be Sterling true,
Which a “twice twentieth weeping Audience drew.”
Yet more—if that's of Weight—we grace our Scenes
With the first Blood this warlike Realm contains,
From Henry's Times, in pure Succession fam'd,
When Worth alone, not Wealth, Distinction claim'd.

55

For the dear Objects of my pleasing Care—
I own, I feel paternal Fondness there;
Their modest Tremors, sympathising, read;
And for their weak Attempts Indulgence plead—
Though noble Osman in Expression fail,
Within the generous Sentiments prevail:
Regard with kind Allowance Zara's Woe;
For in her Bosom Truth and Honour glow:
And, warmly pleading in the Cause of Heaven,
Be gentle Selima's slight Faults forgiven.
Though short in those, yet, in their real Parts,
(For well I know the Language of their Hearts)
One arduous Task they aim at, as they should,
To be, like you, all amiable and good.
 

    The PARTS were cast as follow, viz.

  • Osman, The Right Hon. Lady Elizabeth Birmingham.
  • Lusignan, The Earl of Louth, Premier Baron of Ireland.
  • Nerestan, and the Prologue, Mr. Whyte.
  • Orasmin, Mr. ô Reilly.
  • Zara, Miss ô Reilly.
  • Selima, The Right Hon. Lady Mary Birmingham.

Diable Boiteux, and the Lyar, two Farcical Comedies, by Foot.

Zara was written by Voltaire, in Imitation of Othello, and translated by Aaron Hill.

The remaining Part of the Prologue, as it more particularly refers to the Performers on this Occasion, will be best understood from the Dramatis Personæ on the opposite Page.

The three young Ladies who appeared in the principal Characters, and for whose Improvement in Elocution the Entertainment was intended, were Mr. Whyte's Pupils.


56

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE

To J. H. Esq; near Killarney.
Written from DUBLIN, August, 1758.
Dear to my Heart, my Joy, my Pride,
My Youth's Example, and my Guide,
To whom the Muse, with artless Tongue,
Her earliest Gratulations sung;
Wak'd by whose friendly Voice, again,
She takes the long neglected Pen;
And, borne on trembling Pinions, tries
A short Excursion to the Skies:
Whether, around the festive Bowl,
To Mirth you give th'unbended Soul;
Or, from the social Scene withdraw,
Bewilder'd in the Maze of Law:
Whether, in Rockwood's Bowers reclin'd,
Fair Nature's Charms engage your Mind;
The untaught Music of the Wood,
The Murmurs of the distant Flood;
Or, begging Crowds,—with supple Knee,
Instead of qualifying Fee,
With Tale, in piteous Accent spoken,
Of Heads, or Ribs, or Fences broken—

57

The Morning's early Walk invade,
And haunt you to the secret Shade:
Whatever Scenes your Hours engage,
The Sports of Youth, the Saws of Age,
Th'Election-Feast, the public Strife,
Or, the mild Joys of private Life,
Quick from the busy Crowd get free;
The present Hour belongs to me:
Drive from your Mind each anxious Care,
And give the Muse Protection there;
Defend her inexperienc'd Youth
From the fell Critic's venom'd Tooth;
And, should some few indulgent Eyes
Admire her Plumage, as she flies,
Let this, her favourite Boast, be known,
That every Feather is her own.
From this dull Town's unvarying Scene,
Where Smoke, and Noise, and Folly reign;
Where Virtue's hallow'd Flames expire;
And Health, and Joy, with Sighs, retire;
Where Cards infernal Vigils keep;
And Politics have “murder'd Sleep;”
Where Fogs and Mists, in black Array,
With horrid Gloom obscure the Day;
And Clouds of Dust, or Floods of Rain,
Gay Fancy's magic Power restrain;
From such a Place, O say, my Friend,
What Present can the Poet send?
No Fragrance here the Morn supplies;
No Lustre gilds the Evening Skies;
Nor verdant Field, nor Summer Flower,
Nor Music, floating through the Bower,
One pleasing Image can suggest,
Or waken Rapture in the Breast:

58

Instead of these, from Sleep I start,
Rouz'd by the Rattling of a Cart;
The Hoarseness of the Dirt-man's Throat,
The Chimney-Sweeper's grating Note,
With “Shoes to mend,” and “Cloaths to sell,”
In Union harsh the Concert swell;
Sounds, void of Harmony and Grace,
That fright the Muses from the Place.
Where such Impediments unite,
You'll sure allow, 'tis hard to write;
Yet, faith, when in the rhyming Vein,
To me 'twere harder to refrain;
Write then I must, come what come may—
The powerful Impulse I obey.
The Pens in ready Order stand;
A second Sheet is near at hand;
Your Doom is past; and something cries,
“The Lord have Mercy on your Eyes!”
Here, Jack, take Notice, I proclaim,
(Few Bards, I doubt, would do the same)
However elegant the Lays,
I don't insist upon your Praise:
I wish to please, you may believe;
But, though I fail, I shall not grieve;
For, when, at great Expence and Care,
I offer you my choicest Fare,
Though you may disapprove the Feast,
I gratify myself, at least.
Sick of the Joys, and tasteless grown
To all the Follies of the Town;
Vex'd with the Scene of endless Strife,
You'll ask me—How I spend my Life?

59

Know then, my Friend—In Garret high,
Three Stories mounted to the Sky;
A Prior here; a Plowden there;
And Cloaths and Books on every Chair;
As Fancy leads, in various Way,
I pass the Morning of the Day.
Sometimes, I view, with filial Awe,
The reverend Fathers of the Law;
(Names which the Muse can ne'er rehearse,
Nor Art can soften into Verse)
Anxious, explore the secret Cells,
Where venerable Science dwells;
Submissive, bend before her Shrine;
And dig Instruction from the Mine.
Sometimes, with Sage, or Chief renown'd,
Again I tread the classic Ground;
With Tully walk; delighted rove
In Plato's Academic Grove;
Point out each Time-distinguish'd Spot,
In Freedom's Cause, where Heroes fought;
And trace each various Clime anew,
Where Rome's immortal Eagles flew;
Or, great in Arts, as well as Arms,
Old Athens scatter'd her Alarms.
Sometimes, in Homer's sacred Page,
The Muse's Charms my Thoughts engage:
Now Troy's proud Citadel appears—
The Battle thunders in my Ears—
The Victors shout; and Ilion falls—
I hear—I see the nodding Walls:
Now, milder Views her Power supplies;
Elysian Scenes in Prospect rise;
Along the fair poetic Ground,
Ideal Beings start around;

60

And, borne aloft on Fancy's Wings,
I talk with Gods, and dine with Kings.
When Sol his broader Face displays,
And Westward slopes his Evening Rays,
I sometimes ramble, 'till 'tis dark,
In the New-Garden, or the Park;
Chat with the Girls of Dress or Place;
Direct a Patch; admire a Lace;
And, with a well-feign'd Rapture, view
A Flounce, a Ribbon, or a Shoe;
As Whim directs, I blame, or praise;
And say—whate'er the Circle says—
‘The prettiest Hat—The finest Fan’
And—‘Barry is a charming Man!’—
And, while their Humours thus I hit,
Lord! How they wonder at my Wit!
Or, sometimes to the Globe I stray,
To hear the Trifle of the Day;
There learned Politicians spy,
With thread-bare Cloaks, and Wigs awry,
Assembled round, in deep Debate
On Prussia's Arms, and Britain's Fate;
Whilst one, whose Penetration goes,
At best, no farther than his Nose,
In pompous, military Strain,
Fights every Battle o'er again:
Important as a new-made Lord,
He spills his Coffee on the Board;
Thence marks Intrenchments, Posts, and Lines
Here mounts the Breachthere springs the Mines
And bustling, arrogant, and loud,
Thus dictates to the gaping Crowd—

61

“The Austrian Foot was posted there
“The King attack'd them in the Rear
That Disposition I commend;
“Although it did not serve his End—
“But, all the World must own, in this,
“The Monarch acted quite amiss—
“Say what you will, I can't but blame—
“And Luxemburgh would do the same.”
Such Folks there are, my Friend; and you
Have seen the like in London too;
Who—as, no Doubt, all Patriots should—
Neglect their own, for Britain's Good;
And nobly quit domestic Things,
To model States, and counsel Kings.
Tir'd of the Noise, the Smoke, the Men,
I leave the Coffee-House at Ten;
Retire to Rest about Eleven;
And seldom wake 'till Six, or Seven.
Some News I now would try to tell;
But Faulkner, sure, will do as well:
And, to say Truth, the Town supplies
Scarce aught that's worthy of your Eyes.

62

But hark!—What Shouts now pierce mine Ears?
In every Face what Joy appears?
What means that Peal? That solemn Sound?
What sudden Glory blazes round?
See, Lightening flashing from his Eyes,
Great Warren's mighty Spirit rise!
See Henry's warlike Shade advance!
See Edward raise his threatening Lance!
Frowning they come—and hark! once more
Our Thunders shake the Gallic Shore!
Starting, indignant, from his Den,
The British Lion roars again;
Destruction whelms yon falling Towers;
And Louisbourgh once more is ours!
Fir'd by the Theme, too high the Muse,
With eager Wing, her Flight pursues—
Here, then, as Modesty demands,
I leave the Task to abler Hands.
You'll own, I hope—for sure 'tis true—
'Tis now my Turn to question you:
When next you write, then, prithee, say,
How roll the busy Hours away?
Which most does your Attention draw,
Hounds, Fiddles, Partridge,—or the Law?
Does Party-Zeal your Time employ,
That Foe to Peace and social Joy?
Or friendly Love, and chearful Wine,
To sprightlier Thoughts your Heart incline?

63

When Books fatigue, and Cares alarm,
And Sports, long known, no longer charm,
Say, do you haunt the rustic Cells,
Where Echo, sportive Dryad, dwells?
There, listening with astonish'd Ear,
Half pleas'd, and half affrighted, hear
The mimic Thunders burst around,
While the Hills tremble at the Sound?
Or, from some Cliff, whose Summit bleak
Hangs o'er the Bosom of the Lake,
Survey the Beauties of the Scene;
The russet Hill; the verdant Plain;
The Wonders of the various Ground;
And Seats, and Islands, scatter'd round?
Or, led by melancholy Gray,
To the lone Church-yard bend your Way;
And there, your listless Body thrown
Along some rude, unsculptur'd Stone,
Grieve to reflect, one common Grave
Awaits the Coward, and the Brave;
And—ne'er, alas! to rise again—
That Pitt must die, like other Men?
O, how I long with thee to share
The rural Sports, and rural Air!
With early Hound to beat the Fields,
And try the Joys the Thicket yields!
With Books to cheat the lingering Night,
And mingle Profit with Delight!—
You ask me, when I think to go—
To tell the Truth, I do not know;
Nor is it easy to divine;
Since others' Wills must govern mine;
But this I'll venture to declare,
You'll surely see me—when I'm there.

64

Here, Jack, before my Letter ends,
I should enquire for other Friends:
But that would take a Side at least;
And now—the Postman is in Haste:
If, then, I should proceed to write,
My Letter could not go To-night:
Do thou apologize; and tell,
All such as love me, I am well.—
Adieu!—If you approve the Song,
Pray let your Answer be as long.
 

Mr. H. to whom this Epistle is addressed, after having spent about two Years at the Temple, had at this Time returned to Ireland, partly upon a Visit to his Friends in that Kingdom, and partly to attend the Election of a Representative for the County of Kerry.

The Globe Coffee-House, in Essex-street, Dublin.

One of these Coffee-House Politicians is admirably painted by our late lively and spirited Satyrist, Dr. Young.

Chremes, for airy Pensions of Renown,
Devotes his Service to the State and Crown;
All Schemes he knows; and, knowing, all improves;
Though Britain's thankless, still this Patriot loves.
But Patriots differ:—Some may shed their Blood;—
He—drinks his Coffee—for the Publick Good.

Faulkner's Dublin Journal, which was inclosed in this Letter.

The Account of the Surrender of Louisbourgh arrived in Dublin, just at the Time this Letter was written.

The MALECONTENTS.

Inscribed to Miss ST. LEGER.
Displeas'd with Courts, and human Crimes,
Wit, Truth, and Modesty agreed,
Forsaking Earth's infected Climes,
Back to their native Skies to speed:
They 'd reach'd a Mountain's verdant Side,
Now ready bent to wing their Flight;
When, by a River's murmuring Tide,
Young Cælia struck their ravish'd Sight.
‘See! see a nearer Heaven in View!’
(Says Wit) ‘Quick let us seize on this:’
Transported, then, to her they flew;
And took Possession of the Bliss.

65

ODE, to PEACE, On the NEW YEAR, 1771.

Written in the Country, by a very young Lady of Quality.

Inscribed to the Rev. Dr. HENRY CLARKE.
[_]

Set to Music by Mr. JOHN BIRD.

Descend, sweet Peace, and gild the Year;
Preside o'er every Scene;
All Hearts with grateful Influence chear;
And charm the sportive Green.
To thee we all our Blessings owe;
On thee our Thoughts are bent;
Thy soothing Voice calms every Woe;
Thy Smiles ensure Content.
In vain, thy Presence if deny'd,
Abundance opes the Door;
No longer Health our Steps will guide,
And Joy we feel no more.

66

O haste, sweet Peace, and crown the Morn;
Auspicious Power, appear;
From every Breast pluck every Thorn,
And dry up every Tear.
From hostile Swords, and War's Alarms,
Our distant Coast protect;
And, tho' the Trumpet sound to Arms,
Thy favourite Isle respect.
O come, sweet Peace, with gentle Sway
Thy hallow'd Rites maintain;
Come, ever chearful, ever gay,
With Virtue in thy Train.
For thee the Muses tune their Lyres;
By thee are taught to sing;
Fair Commerce lives, and Art aspires,
Beneath thy fostering Wing.
Then haste, and here for ever reign;
And to our Prayers be kind;
For Happiness can ne'er remain
Where Peace forsakes the Mind.
 

This Ode is here printed exactly according to the Original. In disposing it for Music, the first, and second Stanza, only, were taken into the Recitative; the third omitted, as 'twas thought it would make it too long; the fourth and fifth Stanza were given to the Air; the two following composed a Duet; the last, the Chorus.


67

THE NEW YEAR's GIFT.

To three YOUNG LADIES, who honoured the Author with a Visit, and presented him with an elegant Seal, January 1st, 1771.
Who have not heard, or mayn't have read,
What Greeks, and Latins, too, have said,
Howe'er the Story odd is,
That, erst, a Swain of low Degree
Was visited by Beauties three;
And each, still more, a Goddess?
Tho' this in Circumstances fail,
'Tis just the Substance of the Tale;
And, surely, 'twill be granted,
We simple Truths, tho' Diction err,
Should to all Fopperies prefer,
That e'er Enthusiast chanted.
Thus, Hints are from the Ancients caught;
And Similies, and Fables brought:
So Prior did, and Waller.
Like Bees, industrious Moderns roam,
In Quest of Sweets, too scarce at Home,
Or, to parade the Scholar.

68

Be that as 'twill, should we refuse,
With greater Wits, such Aids to use,
And when so pat the Case is?—
Tho' Paris, all must own, was bless'd,
The Prize of Honour I contest,
Saluted by the Graces.
Saturnia's Air, without her Pride,
To female Softness, Sense ally'd,
In each conspicuous seen is;
Possess'd of Beauty's modest Zone,
In Style peculiar Each her own,
A Match for Paphia's Queen is.
But, well appriz'd the Poet's Pen,
With literal, dull, insipid Men,
Small Credence gains, or Glory,
Tho' all Observers daily find
Ten thousand nameless Charms behind,
The Muse resumes her Story.
One Day, the first of all the Year,
Bright and unusual Beams appear,
My Chamber round adorning;
Such in the joyous Welkin play,
When fair Aurora greets the May,
And ushers in the Morning.

69

Anon, before me, Hand in Hand,
Three Sister Genii, smiling, stand,
Youth, Sentiment, and Reason;
And, graciously, by Honour sent,
A curious Signet they present,
Respective of the Season:
There Cupid, emblematic, stands,
And eager strives, with out-stretch'd Hands,
A Heart from Thorns to sever:
Rien sans Peine.” The Motto's true,
Love, Power, or Wealth, or Fame pursue,
If nobly we endeavour.
Love, Power, and Wealth, and Fame be yours,
And dove-ey'd Peace, which Bliss ensures,
And every Thorn disperses:
And, Ladies, all I have t 'impart,
Take, for your New Year's Gift, my Heart,
Enfolded in these Verses.
 

Lady Elizabeth, Lady Mary, and Lady Louisa Birmingham.

Nothing without Trouble.

To a YOUNG LADY,

Who drew QUEEN, Twelfth-Night.

When Beauty bears with Virtue equal Sway,
Happy to love, and chearful to obey,
To you we yield the Honours of this Day;
To you, who merit, who become them best,
A Crown which makes you great, and makes us blest.
 

An Extempore Address.


70

A CHANCERY SUIT.

(In Imitation of the Foregoing. )

Three Inches of a Party Wall,
'Twixt Bourke, and Lisle, had kindled Hate;
Angry and long the Strife—The Hall
At last must settle the Debate.

71

Pleadings on Pleadings rise, a Mountain!
(In Course of Law the usual Way 'tis)
And Words—beyond the Power of counting—
Yet not one Word, or Tittle, gratis.
Month follows Month; Term, Term; and each,
(O Law, ingenious in Delay,
Thy Mysteries deep, what Thought can reach?)
Each Party, still, has Costs to pay.
Complainant Bourke; Defendant Lisle;
Such are they, while the Suit depends:—
“Aye;” (cries old Bramble, with a Smile)
“But both Complainants, when it ends.”
Thus, of a Turtle, once, rare Dish!
A Case adjudg'd, Reporters tell—
Court, Agents, Lawyers, ate the Fish:
The Parties—supp'd upon the Shell.
 

This Imitation is founded upon a well-known, and recent Fact: The Litigation was tedious, and expensive; and, to heighten the Ridicule, the Parties were—Brothers-in-law.

The Reader will perceive, that the last Stanza of the above Trifle is not imitated from the Latin: The Writer is indebted for the Hint to a well-known, and admired French Apologue: He has taken the Liberty, however, to change the Frenchman's Oyster into a Turtle; that the Lawyers, the Agents, and the Officers, (as well as the Judge) might have each something to pick; which, to do them Justice, however bare the Bone, they seldom fail to contrive.


72

From POPE's Essay on Man.

Reason's chief Blessings, all the Joys of Sense,
Lie in three Words—Health, Peace, and Competence.

VERS sur un Passage de POPE. Par Mr. De VOLTAIRE.

[_]

Imitated.

Pope, in his Essay, where the Nine
Have lavish'd all their Grace,
All Blessings does to three confine—
Health, Competence, and Peace.

73

There need, I think, not many Words
His Error to reprove:
Among the Blessings Life affords,
He has not counted Love.

EPIGRAMMA.

On two beautiful Sisters, unhappily drowned in the Sea.

What to the faithless Ocean now is due?
She gave one Venus, and has taken two.
 

The Miss Riches, Nieces to the Earl of Warwick.

Imitated, by a School-Boy.

Ah! tell me now, ungenerous Wave,
What Thanks to thee are due?
One Venus, it is true, you gave;
But you have taken two.

74

An EPIGRAM.

O'er Tea, last Night,—let Truth proclaim—
The Virtues of an absent Dame,
Were loudly blazon'd forth;
When one, grown lavish in her Praise,
Stil'd her, in most emphatic Phrase,
The Essence of all Worth.
“Since strongest Essence” (Doris cries)
“Quickly evaporates, and dies,
“What Praise shall crown the Work?
“To keep alive a Thing so rare
“Sure, then, some Friend, with prudent Care,
“Will recommend a Cork.”

POETA ad SUPEROS.

Ye Gods! who sit, and live at Rest,
Attend to hear my Wishes;
I'm in a Hurry to be bless'd;
So, pray, be expeditious.
Grant me—let's see—now, if you please,
This very Moment, grant—
Plague take it: How vexatious this!
I can't think what I want.

75

THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. A PASTORAL BALLAD.

By a YOUNG GENTLEMAN of Fifteen.
The Sky was clear; the Air was still;
The Sun had gilt the Eastern Hill;
The Silver Dews impearl'd the Ground;
And Nature breath'd her Fragrance round;
The wild Musicians of the Grove
Attun'd their little Souls to Love;
And every Throat, from every Spray,
With Rapture hail'd the rising Day:
When Will, with sadly-pensive Tread,
As up the Hill his Flock he led,
Saw Sue, advancing, with her Pail;
And flew to meet her on the Vale:
Long had the Youth in Secret mourn'd;
Nor told the Flame with which he burn'd:
Occasion call 'd; he bless'd the Day;
And thus began the rural Lay.
Observe, my Fair-one, all around,
What Beauties deck the painted Ground;

76

How sweet a Smell the Blossoms yield;
How rich a Verdure cloathes the Field;
The Skies how clear; how soft the Breeze,
That, panting, dies upon the Trees;
How mild the Morn's ambrosial Ray;
How lovely all the Bloom of May.
Up yon green Hill, whose wood-crown'd Brow
Hangs o'er the Stream that brawls below,
Behold, how gamesome, on the Grass,
The Flocks their jocund Minutes pass;
And, hark! how sweet, from yonder Bower,
The Birds their artless Sonnets pour:
Love guides the Sports; Love tunes the Lay;
And all Creation owns his Sway.
Pass but a little While; and see,
How sad a Change the Fates decree!
No more, the tender Flocks are seen,
In sportive Gambols on the Green;
No more, exulting on the Wing,
The Birds their early Carrols bring:
They hang their Heads—and all the gay,
The bright Appearance melts away.
Stern Winter stalks abroad—and, lo!
All Nature shudders at the Blow:
His icy Hand deforms the Scene;
And mars the Glories of the Plain;
Lays bare the Hill's enamell'd Side;
And strips the Meadow of its Pride;
Thick Clouds obscure the genial Ray;
And all Things sicken to Decay.

77

Thus, too, from Life—or Wisdom lies—
Each Hour steals something as it flies:
What Pain to think! That Form of thine,
That lovely Form shall soon decline:
The Roses from thy Cheek shall fly;
The Lightenings shall desert thine Eye;
And all thy Charms' Assemblage gay
Devouring Time shall make his Prey.
Learn, then, my Fair, nor think it wrong
To learn, the Moral of the Song:—
The present Hour do thou improve;
And give, O give it all to Love!
Time's on the Wing—Let us be wise;
And catch the Blessing ere it flies!
Life's but a Span; and Sages say,
That Youth's the Morning of the Day!

SONG.

[With Eyes full of Tears, and an Heart full of Love]

[_]

TUNE, The Highlander's March.

With Eyes full of Tears, and an Heart full of Love,
From the fair Walls of Derry reluctant I move;
From those Walls, where my Bosom's chief Treasure remains;
Sweet Source of my Joys, and lov'd Cause of my Pains:
Yet, thus though divided, wherever I go,
Though Hills rise between us, though Torrents o'erflow,
My Thoughts still are with her; my Heart's still behind;
And, though absent, her Image still lives in my Mind.

78

Sweet Hope of my Youth! soon may Fortune, once more,
His Heart's only Wish to thy Damon restore!
Each Doubt then shall vanish, each Joy shall improve,
While his Eyes from thy Eyes catch the Raptures of Love:
No Cares shall intrude to embitter his Peace;
Each Hour, as it flies, shall his Blessings increase:
And what Fondness now speaks, he will prove to the End;
And preserve, in the Husband, the Lover, and Friend.

LOVE ELEGY.

ΜΟΝΟΝ ΑΡΓΥΡΟΝ ΒΛΕΠΟΥΣΙΝ Anacreon.

JAMQUE VALE ------
Virgil.

Whither, ye bright-ey'd Train, immortal Maids,
With whom, in tuneful Ease, I wont to rove,
Through smiling Fancy's ever blooming Shades,
O whither are ye fled?—To what fam'd Grove?
No more my Breast your happy Influence chears;
Nor warm, poetic Raptures now inspire:
Quench'd is the generous Flame by chilling Fears;
By all the enfeebling Band of fond Desire.
Ah! luckless, sure, when first fair Daphne's Charms,
Attractive, caught my vain, admiring Eye:
Better, by far, I had met the Foe in Arms;
For Freedom, and my Country, pleas'd to die.

79

How wild the Hope, that me, all-humble Swain,
Whom only Love, and Constancy commend,
A Nymph, in Beauty's Pride, should ever deign,
Kind, to admit her Partner, or her Friend.
An artless Love, in this ill-fashion'd Age,
Meets, from each sordid Maid, Repulse and Scorn:
'Tis not the Man, his Gifts alone engage;
Though every Muse, and every Grace adorn.
Away, then, from the proud, contemptuous Fair.
To Books, and sweet Retirement let me fly;
There, with the mighty Dead, forget my Care,
Or learn (instructive Lore) like them to die.

SONG.

[When first thy soft Lips I but civilly press'd]

When first thy soft Lips I but civilly press'd,
Eliza, how great was my Bliss!
The fatal Contagion ran quick to my Breast;
I lost my poor Heart with a Kiss.
And now, when supremely thus blest with your Sight,
I scarce can my Transports restrain;
I wish, and I pant, to repeat the Delight;
And kiss you again, and again.
In Raptures I wish to enjoy all those Charms;
Still stealing from Favour to Favour—
Now, now, O ye Gods! let me fly to your Arms,
And kiss you for ever and ever.

80

The PICTURE.

Friend of my Youth, these Lines receive:
And, ere my Passion you reprove,
Let my true Hand attempt to give
A Picture of the Maid I love.
But, think not in my Verse to view
Such Praise as Verse too oft bestows;
A Neck, that mocks the Lily's Hue;
Or Cheeks, that shame the Summer Rose:
Though her's be every Charm of Youth,
On which delighted Love can dwell;
Fair though she be—in honest Truth,
Much fairer than my Tongue can tell—
Yet this I pass in Silence by;
For many are her Rivals there;
And Kitty boasts as bright an Eye;
And Fanny's Face is full as fair.
Then think not mere exterior Form
My Heart's fond Wish could ever win;
To me Expression is the Charm,
Sure Herald of a Mind within.
Each Movement of Amira's Frame
Calls into Life some new-born Grace;
While her Eye's bright, yet temperate, Beam
Proclaims her Heart's internal Peace.

81

To paint her unexampl'd Worth,
What Colours can the Poet find!
What heavenly Tints, to shadow forth
The bright Perfection of her Mind?
The Soul, in Innocence secure,
Meet Inmate of so fair a Frame?
The Manners, artless all, and pure,
As the rock'd Infant's golden Dream?
The Brow, where Sense with Sweetness shines?
The Look, which wakes, yet checks, Desire;
Where Dignity with Freedom joins;
Where Grace, and Loveliness conspire?—
Weak tho' the Tints, unskill'd the Hand,
That rudely sketch'd th'imperfect Plan;
Mark you the Features, as they stand—
And, then, condemn me, if you can.

To a YOUNG LADY,

With the Foregoing.

Ask not, sweet Innocence, what Grace
Sate for the Picture which I drew:—
Each skilful Eye around can trace
The bright Original in You.

82

“The Brow, where Sense, and Sweetness shine;
“The Look, which wakes, yet checks, Desire;”
The Form; the Features; all are thine;
'Tis your own Image you admire.
Unconscious of her Charms, thus Eve
Lean'd o'er the Margin of the Flood;
Beheld a Wonder in the Wave;
And prais'd the Beauty she bestow'd.

TO MYRA, On her BIRTH-DAY.

When Flavius did his Love impart,
And pour th'O'erflowings of his Heart;
When you accounted it no Shame,
To own you felt a mutual Flame;
Say, Myra, knew you at the Time,
That this same Flavius dealt in Rhyme?
Had you selected from the Croud
Of Lovers, at your Feet that bow'd,
Some Beau, content—like vulgar Beaux—
To speak his Mind in humble Prose,
Year after Year, unmark'd, might fly;
Your Birth-Day pass, unheeded, by;
And Wrinkles gather on your Front;
Yet Half the Town know Nothing on't:

83

But, let an ill-starr'd Female chuse
Some curs'd Retainer of the Muse,
Though her smooth Brow and youthful Mien,
At thirty, pass her for eighteen,
Still, by his busy, meddling Tongue,
Her Age must every Year be sung;
And, soon as comes her Birth-Day Morning,
A Song is sure to give her Warning;
Because, forsooth, that rude old Fellow,
The Dean, had done the same by Stella.
Like other Brethren of the Trade,
By me this Service must be paid.
This Day, the Nymph, in her Career,
Has reach'd her five-and-twentieth Year:
But, did the happy Poet please,
By her fair Deeds to count her Days;
By Duties, which the pious Maid,
To ease a dying Father, paid;
By Services, which recommend
Her Worth to Husband, Sister, Friend;
Compar'd with all the Pert, and Gay,
Who while the idle Year away,
And one unvarying Round pursue
Of Opera, Play, Assembly, Loo,
With forty thousand Trifles more—
This Day, the Nymph would be fourscore.

84

AN HYMN TO HARMONY.

ΦΩΝΑΝΤΑ ΣΥΝΕΤΟΙΣΙ ------
Pindar, Olymp. II.

Daughter of Heaven, whose magic Call,
From Nothing, bade this wonderous All
In beauteous Order rise;
Thou, who, at Nature's earliest Birth,
Saw'st vernal Fragrance cloathe the Earth,
And brighten all the Skies!
Thee I invoke, whose sacred Sway
Hath bound the Earth, the Air, and Sea,
In one eternal Chain:
Come then, O come, celestial Maid;
Be present to thy Votary's Aid;
And harmonize the Strain!

85

Even as the Sun incessant pours
On Herbs, and Trees, and Fruits, and Flowers,
His vivifying Ray;
So may thy hallow'd Fire impart
Fresh Joy, and Gladness to the Heart,
Along the Realms of Day.
When Folly, with her Hydra-hand,
Extends her Empire o'er the Land,
And stalks, with Giant-Stride;
O prop fair Virtue's sinking Cause;
Defend our Rights; protect our Laws;
And stem Corruption's Tide!
The starry Host shall fade away;
Eternal Nature shall decay;
Whilst thy prolific Beam
Rolls on, and shall for ever roll,
From Day to Day, from Pole to Pole,
An unexhausted Stream.
Ere Space was Space, or Time was Time,
Thy Power, thy Energy sublime,
With dazzling Lustre shone;
And shall, when Time, and Space are past,
In undiminish'd Glory last,
Immortal, and alone.
For, when, at Fate's resistless Name,
The Spark, that warms thy vital Frame,
Ascends its Kindred Skies;
Then, like the Phœnix from the Fire,
An Offspring, beauteous as its Sire,
Shall from thy Ashes rise.

86

Come, then, and let thy Daughter fair,
Divine Benevolence, be near;
And Fortitude, thy Friend;
Let firm Integrity be nigh;
And Freedom, with terrific Eye,
Thy solemn Steps attend:
That Freedom, which, in Days of Yore,
Display'd the Impotence of Power,
And Vanity of Pride;
Warm'd by whose Flame, great Tully taught;
And Cato bled; and Cæsar fought;
And Alexander dy'd:
That Cause, whose animating Fire
Our great Fore-fathers did inspire
To vindicate their Right—
O let us now transmit it down,
From Age to Age, from Sire to Son,
With everlasting Light!
And, lo! through all the peopl'd Air,
Unbodied Multitudes prepare
To join the festive Throng:
All Nature celebrates thy Praise;
And Dryads, Fauns, and Satyrs raise
The Hymenæal Song.
So, when thy Orpheus strikes the Strings,
Then Music waves her purple Wings;
And undulates around;
The Groves, with all their Echoes mourn;
And sympathetic Rocks return
The inexpressive Sound.
 

The Writer does not presume to offer this as an original Composition of his own; it is a Translation of an antient Greek Ode, which, though never hitherto published, the critical Eye will discover to have been well known to, and carefully studied by most of the modern Lyric Writers; who have, without Scruple or Acknowlegement, copied from it the most brilliant Passages of many of their Odes: The Original, which (it must be acknowleged) in many Places, particularly in the Simile with which it concludes, soars a Flight beyond modern Daring, will shortly be presented to the Public, accompanied with a copious Commentary and Illustrations, tending chiefly to shew in what Instances some late Writers of the first Reputation have borrowed from this valuable Remnant of antient Literature.


87

EPISTLE. FROM A STUDENT AT LAW, TO HIS FRIEND.

Some Verse, dear Tom, for Pity's Sake!—
A Line, or two,
If writ by you,
Will more Impression make
Upon her Heart,
Than all that I can do:
Then summon to my Aid your Art;
And tell,
Though others love her well;
Yet none, like me, adore;
Her Presence might graft Happiness in Hell;
Without her, Heaven is poor.—
This, for myself, would I indite:
But, well you know,
I was not born a Muse's Heir;
I have no Title to Parnassus' Hill;
Or by Descent, or Will;
Nor do I claim a Right
To any Acre there;
No, not to one,
In all the Rounds of Helicon:

88

What shall I do then? How contrive to be
At least a Tenant unto Poesy?
The Boon I ask is not so great—
Grant me a Farm on your Estate;
And, as the Custom was of old,
The Tenure shall be Copy-hold.

VERSES, Sent, with a little Book of Manuscript Poems, To Miss ELIZA G---N.

By Promise bound, by Pleasure, too,
To fill this little Book for you,
What Present shall the Poet send,
(Indulge him with the Name of Friend)
Whose utmost Wish is to supply
A Present worthy of your Eye?
Poets, you oft have heard it said,
Are mostly Flatterers by their Trade;
The Mistress of each Son of Rhyme,
From Waller's, to the present Time,
Has, most invariably, possess'd
Each Virtue of the human Breast;
And every Charm, the Tongue can name,
Is sure to revel in her Frame:

89

Forth, then, he sends the wondrous Girl,
With Lips of Coral, Teeth of Pearl;
The honey'd Accents of her Tongue,
Sweeter than Songs, by Syrens sung;
Her Mouth, hedg'd round with Smiles and Graces,
Which all preserve their settled Places:
Lilies, her Neck; her Cheek discloses
A richer Bloom than Summer Roses:
And, if a Dimple should appear,
A Swarm of Loves must ambush there:
Her Eyes are Fire; his Heart, quite Tinder,
Burning before it, like a Cinder:
Yet, strange to tell! those Lightnings fierce,
That flash so briskly in his Verse,
Have ne'er sufficient Strength possess'd,
To thaw the Snows upon her Breast:
Obedient to the Verse-man's Will,
Paris descends from Ida's Hill,
And gives to her the golden Apple,
While Goddesses around him grapple:
The Deities of Rome and Greece,
(To make the Business of a Piece)
Lest aught her Beauties should surprize,
Forsake their Stations in the Skies;
In her sweet Looks (as sure as Day)
Young Innocence comes down to play;
Discretion at her Lip stands Sentry;
Bright Honour guards her Bosom's Entry;
Lest Wiles should 'snare, or Force alarm her,
Sage Prudence brings a Suit of Armour;
Firm Wisdom spreads a Shield before her;
And, all Creation must adore her:—
Such are th'enamour'd Poet's Lays;
And such the Tenour of his Praise.

90

Should he, who now attempts to sing,
Such Praise as this to Bessy bring,
When C---n, and an hundred more,
Have said the very same before,
'Twould want—alas! how vain to send it!—
Even Novelty, to recommend it:
But, waving this, he boasts, beside,
(Be this one Poet's honest Pride)
Such hackney'd Praise he disapproves;
And will not flatter what he loves.
“Hold”—(cries young Witling, with a Sneer)
“You're wrong; quite wrong, indeed, my Dear:
“Absurd!—Why, sure, you cannot mean,
“'Tis possible to flatter G---n.”—
Not contradicting what you say,
Kind Monitor, I'll have my Way;
Nor bring, with vain, and idle Views,
An Incense Reason must refuse.
'Tis true, indeed, her Mind displays
An ample Field of fairest Praise:
His Skill, if there the Bard should try,
Language could never soar too high.—
Yet, even from this, the Muse retires;
Nor madly to the Task aspires;
More wise she deems it, to conceal
What would her Lack of Skill reveal;
And, like the Painter, thinks it best,
To hide—what cannot be express'd.
 

Timanthi, vel plurimum assuit Ingenii: Ejus enim est Iphigenia, Oratorum Laudibus celebrata; qua stante ad Aras peritura, cum mœstos pinxisset omnes, præcipue Patruum, cum Tristitiæ omnem Imaginem consumpsisset, Patris ipsius Vultum velavit, quem digne non poterat ostendere. Plin. Lib. xxxv. c. 10.


91

THE LAWYER'S PRAYER.

A FRAGMENT.

Ordain'd to tread the thorny Ground,
Where few, I fear, are faithful found;
Mine, be the Conscience void of Blame;
The upright Heart; the spotless Name;
The Tribute of the Widow's Prayer;
The righted Orphan's grateful Tear!
To Virtue, and her Friends, a Friend;
Still may my Voice the Weak defend!
Ne'er may my prostituted Tongue
Protect th'Oppressor in his Wrong;
Nor wrest the Spirit of the Laws,
To sanctify the Villain's Cause!
Let others, with unsparing Hand,
Scatter their Poison through the Land;
Enflame Dissention, kindle Strife;
And strew with Ills the Path of Life;
On such, her Gifts let Fortune shower;
Add Wealth to Wealth, and Power to Power;
On me, may favouring Heaven bestow
That Peace which good Men only know.
The Joy of Joys, by few possess'd;
Th'eternal Sunshine of the Breast!

92

Power, Fame, and Riches, I resign—
The Praise of Honesty be mine;
That Friends may weep; the Worthy sigh;
And poor Men bless me, when I die!

VERSES, On the Rev. Dr. CORBET's Promotion to the Deanery of St. Patrick, Dublin.

Whatever has been done of old,
By solemn Bards, or Sages, told;
Whatever of recorded Praise
Adorns the Rolls of younger Days;
As far as William's Fame hath run;
Or Britain's Flag attends the Sun;
All Tongues, all Climes, from Pole to Pole,
Are known to Corbet's curious Soul.
He, too, can trace each mystic Birth
Of Nature to its embryon Earth;
And read the Volumes of the Sky,
With Newton's incorporeal Eye!
On Truth's bright Form new Radiance breaks;
And Doubt gets Pinions, as he speaks.
But, ask the Question, where to find,
The learned Head and humble Mind;
The modest Sense, which, sure to please,
Yet shrinks from every Touch of Praise;

93

The blameless Lips, which speak no Guile,
And, smiling, never learn'd to smile;
The graceful Manners, which compel
Our Love, by more than magic Spell,
And join, with unaffected Art,
The Courtier's Ease, and Hermit's Heart;
Worth, which can wear, and not profane,
The Title of St. Patrick's Dean:—
Ask where such happy Virtue grows;
And all the World, but Corbet knows.

To a LADY, With a PRAYER-BOOK.

This little Book, these humble Lines,
Myra, to thee, the Poet sends;
And, thus, to Time the Boast consigns,
That thou, and Flavius, were his Friends.
These Lines, whene'er, compell'd by Power,
He leaves the Hearts he loves behind,
Shall oft recall the social Hour;
And—shall rush upon thy Mind.
Dear to thy Thoughts, he still shall prove;
Thy friendly Wish he still shall share;
His Worth, recorded in thy Love;
His Sins, remember'd in thy Prayer.

94

EPIGRAM.

[In Jane, the Charms of Wit I prov'd]

In Jane, the Charms of Wit I prov'd;
For I no other Charm could find;
And, 'faith, believe I should have lov'd,
But that—I am not blind.
The Heart Wit only cannot melt;
For, in my Mind, a Mistress should
Endure as well being seen, and felt,
As heard, and understood.

The FLY, and the CANDLE.

Retire, thou vain, thou giddy Thing,
Retire; and yet be wise—
The Flame has caught his silken Wing;
He flutters, falls, and dies.
I, also, like this hapless Fly,
Grown giddy as I gaze,
Even now, alas! approach too nigh,
And perish in the Blaze.

95

EPIGRAM.

[Ask you, Nannette, why they report of Heaven]

Ask you, Nannette, why they report of Heaven,
None marry there, or are in Marriage given?
To coy Nannette shall I the Truth declare?—
Nor Maid, nor Bachelor is admitted there.

EPIGRAM. Ocasioned by the Foregoing.

That married Souls in Heaven are bless'd,
And none beside, these Lines declare.—
Cries Will, “'Tis scarcely to be guess'd,
“What mighty Merit sends them there.”
Instant the wedded Crowd replied—
“We purchase Heaven, and buy it dear;
‘For, sure, it cannot be denied,
“We live in Purgatory, here.”

SONG.

[While in Pun, in Song, or Rebus]

While in Pun, in Song, or Rebus,
Half the Town their Passion own;
Why does Damon, Friend of Phœbus,
Speak his Love by Looks alone?

96

Sadly sighing, cry'd the Poet,
(For a Sigh would force its Way)
“Looks alone, too well I know it,
“Looks alone can speak for me:
“While they write from Whim, or Fashion,
“Tell the Triflers of an Hour,
“Words may speak a little Passion;
Great ones are beyond their Power.”

VERSES, WRITTEN Upon a Pedestal, beneath a Row of Elms, in a Meadow, near Richmond-Ferry, Belonging to RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, Esq

September, 1760.
Ye green-hair'd Nymphs, whom Pan allows
To guard from Harm these favour'd Boughs;
Ye blue-ey'd Naiads of the Stream,
That sooth the warm, poetic Dream;
Ye Elves, and Spirits, that, thronging round,
When Midnight darkens all the Ground,
In antic Measures, uncontroul'd,
Your Fairy Sports, and Revels hold,

97

And up and down, where'er ye pass,
With many a Ringlet print the Grass;
If e'er the Bard hath hail'd your Power,
At Morn's grey Dawn, or Evening Hour;
If e'er, by Moonlight, on the Plain,
Your Ears have caught th'enraptur'd Strain;
From every Floweret's velvet Head;
From reverend Thames's oozy Bed;
From those moss'd Elms, where, prison'd deep,
Conceal'd from human Eyes, ye sleep;
If these your Haunts be worth your Care,
Awake, arise, and hear my Prayer!
O banish from this peaceful Plain
The perjur'd Nymph; the faithless Swain;
The stubborn Heart, that scorns to bow,
And, harsh, rejects the honest Vow;
The Fop, who wounds the Virgin's Ear
With aught that Sense would blush to hear,
Or, false to Honour, mean, and vain,
Defames the Worth he cannot stain;
The light Coquet, with various Art,
Who casts her Net for every Heart,
And, smiling, flatters to the Chace,
Alike, the Worthy, and the Base;
The Dame, who, proud of Virtue's Praise,
Is happy, if a Sister strays,
And, conscious of unclouded Fame,
Delighted, spreads the Tale of Shame:
But far, O! banish'd far, be they,
Who hear, unmov'd, the Orphan's Cry;
Who see, nor wish to wipe away,
The Tear that swells the Widow's Eye;

98

Th'unloving Man, whose narrow Mind
Disdains to feel for human Kind;
At others' Bliss whose Cheek ne'er glows;
Whose Breast ne'er throbs with others' Woes;
Whose hoarded Sum of private Joys
His private Care alone destroys;
Ye Fairies, cast your Spells around,
And guard from such this hallow'd Ground!
But welcome all, who sigh with Truth;
Each constant Maid, and faithful Youth,
Whom mutual Love alone hath join'd,
Sweet Union of the willing Mind!
Hearts pair'd in Heaven, not meanly sold,
Law-licens'd Prostitutes, for Gold:
And welcome thrice, and thrice again,
The chosen few, the worthy Train,
Whose steady Feet, untaught to stray,
Still tread where Virtue marks the Way;
Whose Souls no Thought, whose Hands have known
No Deed which Honour might not own;
Who, torn with Pain, or stung with Care,
In others' Bliss can claim a Part;
And, in Life's brightest Hour, can share
Each Pang that wrings another's Heart:
Ye guardian Spirits, when such ye see,
Sweet Peace be their's, and Welcome free!
Clear be the Sky from Clouds, or Showers!
Green be the Turf, and fresh the Flowers!

99

And, that the Youth, whose pious Care
Lays on your Shrine this honest Prayer,
May, with the Rest, Admittance gain,
And visit oft this pleasant Scene,
Let all who love the Muse attend!
Who loves the Muse is Virtue's Friend.
Such, then, alone may venture here,
Who, free from Guilt, are free from Fear;
Whose wide Affections can embrace
The whole Extent of human Race;
Whom Virtue, and her Friends, approve;
Whom Cambridge, and the Muses love.
 
The most abandon'd Prostitutes, are they,
Who not to Love, but Avarice, fall a Prey:
Nor aught avails the specious Name of Wife;
A Maid, so wedded, is an Wh---e for Life.
Lord Littleton's Advice to a Lady.

AN INVITATION TO THE AUTHOR'S WEDDING.

Ye chosen Mortals, favour'd few,
Who pay our Mysteries Reverence due,
Our Rites who honour, nor profane,
With Thought impure, our Fairy Reign,
Attend—approach—assemble all,
On Thursday next, at Hymen's Hall.
Know ye what heavenly Guests prepare
To bid our Favourites welcome there?—

100

Love, his Brows with Myrtle bound;
Th'attendant Graces smiling round;
Chearfulness, with Youth that reigns;
Mirth, that Decency restrains;
Laughter, innocent, and wild;
Fair Contentment, Virtue's Child;
Health, and Hope, and Joy, attend;
And sweet Good-humour, Beauty's Friend:
Such the Train, of heavenly Birth—
With Caution come, then, Sons of Earth!
Let none, with Glance unmanner'd, try
To cloud, or pain the modest Eye;
Nor any Accent wound the Ear,
Which Innocence would blush to hear—
Failing in this, rash Mortal, know,
That Instant, Oberon is your Foe:
If aught, your Tongue may lightly speak,
Shall paint with red the Maiden Cheek;
Shall force from Betty's Breast a Sigh;
Or call a Tear from Jenny's Eye;
O tremble, then—with Vengeance due
Our Elves shall pinch you black and blue.
And you, ye fair, and virgin Throng,
Attend, nor slight the Fairy Song—
O then, when yours the Turn to bow,
And plight, for Life, the solemn Vow,
Let Wealth ne'er bribe you into Care,
Nor Splendor lure you to Despair;
Profane not Hymen's hallow'd Bands,
But, give your Hearts, or keep your Hands!
If Reason, first, your Choice approve,
Esteem shall ripen into Love;

101

Be that alone the Tie that binds,
Sweet Union of consenting Minds!
So Life's fair Morn shall glide serene,
Nor dimm'd by Grief, nor vex'd by Pain;
So Love, with pure, and steady Ray,
Shall gild the Evening of your Day;
And Hymen's Torch, even to the Urn,
With undiminish'd Lustre burn!
Oberon.

THE NYMPH OF THE WELL, TO THE LADIES AT MALLOW.

Inscribed to Miss SENTLEGER.
The blue-ey'd Guardian of the Well,
That here, unseen, delights to dwell,
To tend these spreading Elms, to rove,
At Morn, or Eve, the rising Grove,
To bless the Walk from Feet profane,
And clear the hallow'd Spring from Stain,
Warm with the tenderest Wishes, sends
This Greeting to her Summer Friends.

102

And, first, to you, my softer Care,
Who to Health's Altar here repair,
O pardon, that, in moral Lay,
This Admonition I convey:
Would ye, the rosy Nymph should bless,
And crown your Wishes with Success?
Be mindful that such Hearts ye bring,
As best may profit by the Spring.
If little Pride your Bosoms swell;
In that soft Seat, if Envy dwell;
Conceal'd if there, and shunning Day,
Foul Scandal mark her destin'd Prey;
If there, with dark, malignant Aim,
Th'invenom'd Falshood Slander frame,
Whose Viper-Breath still blasts, unseen,
Those Virtues which provoke her Spleen;
As the Worm nips, with Tooth severe,
The gayest Infants of the Year;
If there, rank Tares have fix'd their Root,
And choak'd kind Nature's goodly Fruit,
And each sweet Flower which Heaven design'd
To blossom in the female Mind;
Be gone—nor dare this Place profane—
Your Vows to Health are breath'd in vain;
With pitying, yet indignant, Eyes,
Away the rose-lipp'd Cherub flies.
This Secret once disclos'd to View,
To Profit thence belongs to you—
Is Health the Object of your Prayer?
Is Loveliness your Wish, or Care?
O, from your Minds, without Delay,
Root every noxious Weed away;

103

And Virtue's honour'd Seeds replace
In that fair Soil they love to grace:
Where Truth her radiant Vestment spreads;
Th'impassion'd Tear where Pity sheds:
Where Candour's cloudless, open Mien
Declares the Peace that dwells within;
Where Charity, the general Friend,
Her Heaven-illumin'd Smile doth lend;
Where those sweet Plants delight to grow,
There shall Health's freshest Roses blow;
This hallow'd Spring shall there supply
The living Lustre of the Eye;
Love, Hope, and Joy, shall all repair;
And Grace, and Beauty flourish there.
Quick, then, my gentle Friends, be wise;
Nor rudely slight the offer'd Prize;
Pursue the Path my Care hath shewn;
And Health, and Pleasure, are your own:
Would ye be fair?—The Work is done—
Virtue, and Loveliness, are one:—
Thus shall ye prove, in Form, in Mind,
What, first, creating Heaven design'd,
Of all its various Works, confess'd,
The last, the fairest, and the best.

104

SONG, On Miss LOVETT.

Would Letty but smile,
My Fears to beguile,
No Riches on Earth would I covet;
One agreeable Glance
My Soul would intrance,
From the dear speaking Eyes of Miss Lovett.
With a Nose quite genteel,
In Front, or Profile;
With an Eye, O! how archly she'll move it;
With a Trick in her Lips,
At which my Heart skips,
To snatch a soft Kiss from sweet Lovett.
Let the Poet's Heart glow
With the charming Moll Roe;
Yet Letty's as pretty, I'll prove it;
Not so taper, and small,
E'er a Moll of them all,
As the delicate Waist of Miss Lovett.
Should Cypria's Queen
In my Soul intervene,
Her Image far off would I shove it:
With one brisk Capriole,
I would lay my Heart whole,
At the Feet of my dear Letty Lovett.

105

O never engage
With the Chancellor's Page;
Your Spirit, I'm sure, is above it:
As I hope to be sav'd,
I thought that you rav'd,
When you mention'd that Sweetheart of Lovett.
What in him can you see?
He can't write like me;
And his Post, Faith, I think little of it:
Not a Beau, or a Swain,
But would bear up your Train;
And be proud of the Honour, dear Lovett.
O! beautiful Name!
More beautiful Theme!
Through seven long Stanza's I've drove it:
And, now, my dear Pet,
I must own, with Regret,
I can jingle no longer to Lovett.

108

THE Nineteenth ODE of the Third Book of HORACE, IMITATED.

Inscribed to AMBROSE SMITH, Esq;
With too much Toil, methinks, you trace
Our British Kings, from Race to Race,
Who 're dead and rotten long since;
With civil Wars, to crack your Pate,
And virtuous Hampden's glorious Fate,
Is all a Pack of Nonsense.

109

A better Study, this, by Half,—
Learn where to live, and how to laugh,
And catch the Claret going;
Tell me who caters, where we meet,
Who calls the Toast, who gives the Treat;
For this is worth the knowing.
Boy—shew the Daphne!—Lights here—Light!
Allen's the Wine we drink To-night;
For Drinking is the Scheme, Sirs:
A Bumper—come—with all my Heart;
Three Rounds we'll have, before we part,
And three Times three to them, Sirs.
Nine Rounds for him who serves the Muses,
Drinks, till he stares, but ne'er refuses,
Nor Reckoning heeds, nor Riot;
Three Rounds for them who court the Graces,
Who grudge the Cash, and fear their Faces,
And love to live in Quiet.
Come—let the joyous Sport begin—
More Wine!—bring Girls—Hark, there!—call in
Those Violins, and Tabors:
I hate a Flincher from my Soul;
Fill up—fill up the sparkling Bowl;—
We'll rouse the sleeping Neighbours.
We'll storm the drowsy Sons of Care;
Fret them with Envy, and Despair,
To see such jolly Fellows:
Quick, quick—clear off—the Bottle ply;
Toast all their Daughters Bumper high;
And make the old Folks jealous.

110

But, you may thank th'indulgent Fates;
For you the blooming ------ waits,
To bless your happy Bed:
My cruel Fair I cannot move;
But hope, in Time, to win to Love,
The slow consenting Maid.

ON Dr. THWAITES's quitting the Practice of PHYSIC, AND Opening a GLASS WAREHOUSE, in Fleet-Street.

Experience, Thwaites, has made thee see
That Glass itself's less frail than we;
Ne'er bruis'd, and maim'd, to patch, and mend,
It can but break, and there's an End:
But Man, more fading than the Grass,
More brittle than the finest Glass,
Not only breaks, and falls to Dust,
By every Rub, by every Gust,
But suffers in ten thousand Ways;
In Health, in Wealth, in Love, in Praise;
In Things too nice for Tongue to speak—
Better to fall at once, and break.
Wisely, you, therefore, chose to deal
In Wares less liable to fail.

111

EPIGRAM. On Miss B---R.

Had she been first of Womankind,
We'd been from Ills exempt;
Heaven could not doubt so pure a Mind,
Nor Hell presume to tempt:
But, had she first of Women been,
With all that Beauty's Store,
Heaven, after such Perfection seen,
Had ne'er created more.

ADVICE to Miss B---R.

WRITTEN By Mr. QUIN, on his first becoming acquainted with her.

Fair Nymph, shun that voracious Creature,
Who preys on Rarities of Nature;
He would devour a tempting Bait,
Like you, so sweet, and delicate;
He'd such a Dainty quickly eat,
And riot in the luscious Treat;
He'd think himself in Heaven a Guest,
And that Ambrosia was his Feast;

112

Or, if his Thoughts rose not so high,
He'd think you Manna from the Sky;
For he, in you, like that, would find
The Taste of every Dainty join'd.

On a LADY Sleeping.

When, for the World's Repose, my Cælia sleeps,
See, Cupid hovers o'er the Maid, and weeps.
Well may'st thou weep, fond Boy; thy Power dies;
Thou hast no Darts, when Cælia has no Eyes.

THE VISION.

Inscribed to Mrs. S---.
Some few to please, though ardent my Desire,
With trembling Hand, I touch the sounding Lyre.
O Muse! what honour'd Name canst thou rehearse,
Thy Fame to shield, and patronize thy Verse?
Fearful, and yet ambitious, in her Choice,
To you, Maria, she directs her Voice:
Praise is the Song; and aptly, sure, address'd,
To one, who gives, and who deserves it best.
May this your kind, indulgent Smiles obtain;
'Twill bless my Numbers, and reward my Pain;

113

And, though, in Strictness, Justice can't commend,
Yet, in the Poet, punish not the Friend.
The Herald Lark had just prepar'd to sing
Glad Salutation to the welcome Spring;
And Somnus, drowsy God, o'er Half the World,
The downy Fumes of sweet Repose had hurl'd;
Attendant Morpheus guards the lonely Bower,
Where, wrapp'd in Silence, dwells the sleepy Power;
And, hovering round, his faithful Envoys wait,
Prompt to disclose the mystic Will of Fate:
When, casting off all anxious Cares, my Mind
To needful Ease her Faculties resign'd;
Peace lock'd me in her Arms; and mimic Thought
This visionary Scene distinctly wrought.
To distant Realms, where, copious, every Field,
And every Tree their Fruits, spontaneous, yield,
And Flocks, and Herds, safe from the murderous Knife,
Crop the green Herb 'till Nature sickles Life,
Pleas'd Fancy lead; while, through the enliven'd Spray,
The Birds in Concert made all Nature gay:
Here, journeying on, encircled with Delight,
Far East, a Mountain rose, obscure to Sight;
But, near approach'd, rob'd in celestial Sheen,
Parnassus' classic Marks are plainly seen;
Fame, on the Top, her dubious Form display'd,
And to her Sons loud Proclamation made,
Strictly commanding that, without Delay,
To streaming Helicon all speed their Way;
For there they'd, in harmonious Congress, find
The Nine propitious, and Apollo kind.
Selected from the Throng appear'd a Youth,
By Merit influenc'd in Support of Truth;

114

For though sometimes applausive Strains he sung,
Deceit, or Flattery ne'er defil'd his Tongue;
A blushing Diffidence, at first, suppress'd
His faultering Speech, and labour'd in his Breast;
But Phœbus soon, attentive to his Care,
Dispell'd his Fears; and thus he form'd his Prayer.
Father of Verse! and you, ye tuneful Choir!
Assist my Numbers, and my Song inspire!
Yet not, presuming, do I ask my Name
To shine conspicuous in the Rolls of Fame:
Let but your Aid my humble Verses bring
To meet Proportion with the Dame I sing,
And, if Perfection can the Lay secure,
'Till Time's last Sand be run this must endure.
Train'd in the Sunshine of parental Love,
By Pallas honour'd, and approv'd by Jove,
She, not on Toys like Half the Sex employ'd,
Lays all their flirting idle Airs aside;
And, not the Dupe of Fashion, strives to steer
Between the Extremes of trifling and severe,
Yet, due Respect she not to Rank denies;
While Moderation all her Wants supplies.
Social by Nature, yet not fond to roam,
Her Soul prefers the better Part at Home;
And studies with calm Influence to preside,
Sweet Peace her Aim—Her just, and only Pride,
To form her Offspring, as a Parent should,
Gentle, discreet, benevolent, and good,
To solid Glory; and their Minds to improve,
To rise, illustrious in their Country's Love;
Not, Slaves to Chance, on foreign Whims to rate,
Tools, and Train-bearers to another's State,
But be themselves the Masters of their Fate.

115

Here, yield the Palm, proud Rome! all must allow,
Thy fam'd Cornelia we have rival'd now.
If e'er, by powerful Precedent betray'd,
In Folly's flowery Paths her Fancy stray'd—
In human Bosoms, human Passions reign,
And they 're the wisest who can best restrain;—
Not less her Merit, then; for soon the Maid
Heard Wisdom's Voice, and chearfully obey'd.
Now, by Reflection, and Experience taught
The Force of Habit, and right Use of Thought,
From settled Principle, despising Art,
She guides the Motions of her tutor'd Heart,
And, as the Turns of Place, and Seasons fall,
Adapts her Manners, and she charms in all:
With Age, respectful; prudent, with the Wise;
Yet, still, consistent, and without Disguise;
Mild, with the gentle; with the Sprightly, gay;
And, with the Cautious, as reserv'd as they;
Even Rage, and Tumult, Trial too severe,
Skill'd to appease, or with good Sense to bear.
With brilliant Fancy grac'd, her Reason shines;
This Penetration gives, and that refines;
While native Eloquence informs her Tongue,
Smooth as her Beauty, as her Virtue strong;
With Sentiment and Truth it sweetly flows,
And the fit Emblem of her Conduct shews;
Though free, correct; though lively, never vain,
Piercing, though candid; elegant, though plain.
In her we prove the generous, open Friend,
Fearless to blame, yet studious to commend;
Whose firm Attachments, not the Frowns of Fate,
Nor Fortune's Smiles, can e'er obliterate;

116

Whose Eye no Pomp or Splendor can divert;
And whose Esteem still waits upon Desert.
Conscious of Merit, not of Merit proud,
Judiciously she shuns the worthless Crowd;
Yet, with Compassion, not to Scandal prone,
Sees others' Errors, and corrects her own:
Envy herself allows her, for she must,
Humane, in Censure; in Resentment, just.
Endu'd with Spirit, and possess'd of Taste,
Too great to spare, too sensible to waste,
Whate'er of Lustre, Wealth, to others gives,
Bestow'd on her, it adds not, but receives:
Riches, in her Enjoyments, bear no Part,
Which, active, flows not from a feeling Heart,
Where reigns Benevolence without Parade,
In all she does so amiably display'd,
That Goodness seems enamour'd of her Aid:
Seeking the Griev'd, and mingling with their Tears,
Her tender Sympathy their Anguish chears;
With liberal Hand she succours the Distress'd;
And is most happy making others bless'd.
Nor, fondly partial to yourselves, refuse,
Ye Fair, due Reverence to the faithful Muse,
Who, though to one she consecrate the Lay,
A pleasing Moral would to all convey;
And wishes all, even as her Theme, to shine,
In Charms resistless, shall I say divine?
From this bright Model your Perfections raise;
For know, to imitate, is sometimes Praise:
By her Example study and improve;
And, with Desert, assure yourselves of Love.
The Maid, who, with incessant Ardor, reads
Wild legendary Tales of brainsick Deeds,

117

Atchiev'd in airy Regions of Romance;
And such, as flimsy, modern Dreams entrance;
Or, she, who would her Sex's Fame restore,
By tumbling musty Tomes of Science o'er,
With her, may, justly, Ignorance despise,
And be, at once, both amiable, and wise.
If beauteous, learn, from her, not to be vain;
Nor, yet, invidious, if you are but plain;
And that, essential Bliss would you receive,
The Soul must, rather than the Body, give:
External Charms a transient Homage claim;
To love sincerely, we must first esteem.
O! learn, sweet Sex; for Men are prone to change;
Fond of new Objects, and at large to range;
From Fair to Fair, insidiously, they run,
To all devoted, but attach'd to none;
And, as their queasy Appetites direct,
The Lore of Honour reverence, or reject;
'Till one, like her, more lovely than the Rest,
In the dear Luxury of Merit dress'd,
Fixes the Choice, with that unerring Dart,
Which, in the Judgement, captivates the Heart.
The vagrant Bee so skims it o'er the Plain,
Sips every Flower, then quits with cold Disdain;
But, in his Rambles, if the Rose he meets,
He dwells upon the Magazine of Sweets.
This, no licentious Rhapsody of Words,
Nor Fancy's Coinage, which my Verse affords;
From Observation's nice, impartial Laws,
Fair Nature dictates what my Pencil draws—
O Gratitude! thou loveliest, and the best,
Of all the Virtues which adorn the Breast;
For where thou dwell'st, there center all the Rest;

118

Thou favourite Child of Heaven! who canst dispense
Delights above the vulgar Joys of Sense,
Home-felt Delights, which Knavery, and Art,
Can ne'er enjoy, nor ever can impart,
Thy sacred Laurels plant around her Head;
Strike Envy dumb; and crush foul Slander dead.
Lo! crowding Wretches, Wretches, now, no more,
Age, Sickness, Poverty, reliev'd by her,
Men, Women, Children, launch her Praises forth,
Pour down glad Blessings, and attest her Worth:
To this, the glowing Muse her Voice confines;
To this, she dedicates these heart-felt Lines.
And, yet, her Person, well, she might admire;
For, there, the Graces, emulous, conspire,
And all the Loves are visibly combin'd,
To render that accomplish'd as her Mind:
In each bright Feature, Innocence is seen;
Fase guides her Steps, and dignifies her Mien;
Troops of young Decencies around her move,
And every Charm distinguish, and improve:
Through her fine Form diffus'd, a thousand Ways,
The Soul of Beauty, sweet Expression, plays;
Varying in every Movement, ambush'd lies;
Smiles on her Lips, and triumphs in her Eyes:
The opening Rose breathes on her Cheek—But, here,
Modest Decorum checks my fond Career;
Free to Reproof the Muse unfolds her Breast,
And, in submissive Silence, veils the Rest.
He bow'd—Loud Fame her silver Trumpet blew,
And own'd the Likeness, though far short, of You.
Rous'd with the Sound, I woke; and, pleas'd, beheld
The Morn, rejoicing, o'er the World reveal'd.

119

THE CHARMS OF MISS COX.

Apollo, come leave off your chanting,
'Mongst Vallies, and Rivers, and Rocks:
Your Influence, here, is more wanting,
To celebrate charming Miss Cox.
Arcadia's sweet Plains were she rear'd on,
A Shepherdess, tending her Flocks,
Philoclea had never been heard on;
But Sidney had sung of Miss Cox.
The Ills (if old Stories we credit)
Pandora let fly from her Box,
Are not to be half so much dreaded,
As looking on lovely Miss Cox.
The Huntsman will venture a Fall, Sir,
In chasing a Hare, or a Fox;
But who would not risque Neck, and all, Sir,
In View of the beauteous Miss Cox?
The Hero, to grasp at a Laurel,
Will tell you, at Danger he mocks;
But, who for vain Honour would quarrel,
Enjoying the Smiles of Miss Cox?

120

The Sailor, in Search after Treasure,
Meets Billows, and Buffets, and Knocks,
But, who 'd not bear more, for the Pleasure
Of gazing at blooming Miss Cox?
The Dotard, depending on Crutches,
The Infant, in Bibs, and in Frocks,
Would wish to be both in her Clutches;
So tender, and gentle, Miss Cox.
The Wretch, for a petty Transgression,
Will brave both the Jail, and the Stocks;
Were Death to attend the Possession,
I'd die, to possess the fair Cox.
That Love, which we know is ideal,
Of Heroes, in Buskins, and Socks,
Would soon, to their Cost, become real,
Saw they, with my Eyes, the bright Cox.
The Stoic, with Heart like a Stone, Sir,
No Storm of this Life ever shocks;
Yet, knew he my Sufferings, he 'd own, Sir,
There's Pain in the Frowns of Miss Cox.
With her, I could dwell in a Cottage,
Or Dairy, 'mongst Piggins, and Crocks,
And give up my Manhood to Dotage;
So strong are the Charms of Miss Cox.
Time passes so quick, when she's present,
I heed neither Watches, nor Clocks;
Time, surely, was never so pleasant,
As spent in the Sunshine of Cox.

121

What Eyes are like those of my Charmer,
Excelling Sphynx, Eagle, or Ox!
None should, without magical Armour,
Encounter the Eyes of Miss Cox.
The Wines of most exquisite Savour,
Capes, Burgundies, Clarets, and Hocks,
Fall short of the delicate Flavour
That flows from the Lips of Miss Cox.
She's pretty beyond all Description;
For this I've the Populi Vox!
And with her I 'd live in Proscription;
'Tis Freedom to live with Miss Cox.
Æneas, of Dido grown weary,
Slipp'd Cable, and bore from her Docks;
But, ever stout, buxom, and airy,
Like me, he'd have moor'd with Miss Cox.
Court Lady, nor Countess, nor Duchess,
Full-dress'd, or reduc'd to their Smocks,
Could never attract me so much as
The lively, the gamesome Miss Cox.
As, once, in the Month of September,
I cross'd o'er the Line Equinox,
Though well I was duck'd, I remember,
I warm'd at the Thoughts of Miss Cox.
The Commons, and Lords of the Nation,
Were startled by sly Guido Faux,
But quick would have been the 'Flagration,
The Powder if eye'd by Miss Cox.

122

Who sees her, and does not admire her,
Is duller than Buzzards, or Blocks;
Love sharpens his Darts at the Fire, Sir,
He lights in the Eyes of Miss Cox.
Prometheus stole Fire out of Heaven;
For which he was torn by the Rocs;
But Fire more effectual he 'd given,
In stealing the Blaze from Miss Cox.
What burning, and toasting, and frying,
We read of in Martyrdom Fox;
But, now, Half the World are a dying,
Inflam'd by the Charms of Miss Cox.
She warms, and she cools, as she pleases;
Which seems a most strange Paradox;
Her Beauty most ardently blazes;
Yet froze is the Heart of Miss Cox.
When coldly my Love I find treated,
I call upon Age, and Small-pox,
Those Foes, by all Beauties so hated,
T'avenge me on cruel Miss Cox.
I deal not in Lottery Tickets,
Nor yet the dull Funds of the Stocks;
My Heart is always blithe as a Cricket's;
My Omnium's the dainty Miss Cox.

123

How long one poor Word has been hunted,
Much closer than Beavers, or Brocks!
Nor wish I my Rhyme to be stunted,
No more than my Love to Miss Cox.
 

The largest, and most ravenous of all the feathered Race; mentioned in the Arabian Tales, &c. being, as many crafty modern Criticks sagaciously maintain, that identical Species of Vulture, which, the Antients tell us, fed on Prometheus's Liver, destined by Jupiter to a perpetual Growth, in Punishment of his sacrilegious Offence.

THE PETITION OF MARGARET WOFFINGTON, TO HIS GRACE, THE DUKE OF DORSET.

May 't please your Grace, with all Submission,
I humbly offer my Petition:
Let others, with as small Pretensions,
Teaze you for Places, and for Pensions;
I scorn a Pension, or a Place;
My sole Design's upon your Grace.
The Sum of my Petition's this,
I claim, my Lord, an annual Kiss;
A Kiss, by sacred Custom, due
To me, and to be paid by you:

124

But, lest you entertain a Doubt,
I'll make my Title clearly out.
It was, as near as I can fix,
The fourth of April, Forty-six.
(With Joy I recollect the Day)
As I was dressing for the Play,
In stepp'd your Grace; and, at your Back,
Appear'd my trusty Guardian Mac.
A sudden Tremor shook my Frame;
Lord! how my Colour went, and came!
At length, to make my Story short,
You kiss'd me, Sir,—Heaven bless you for't:
The magic Touch my Spirits drew
Up to my Lips, and out they flew;
Such Pain, and Pleasure, mix'd, I vow,
I felt all o'er—I can't tell how.
The Secret, when your Grace withdrew,
Like Lightening, to the Green-Room flew,
And plung'd the Women in the Spleen;
The Men receiv'd me as their Queen,
And, from that Moment, swore Allegiance;
Nay, Rich himself was all Obedience.
Since that, your Grace has never, yet,
Refus'd to pay the annual Debt.
To prove the Fact, if you would have it,
Old Mac will make an Affidavit:
If Mac's suspected as a Fibber,
I must appeal to Laureat Cibber.
By good Advice, I hither came,
To keep up my continual Claim:

125

The Duty's not confin'd to Place;
But, every where, affects your Grace;
Which, being personal on You,
No Deputy, my Lord, can do.
‘But, hold:’ say some, ‘His Situation
‘Is chang'd; consider his high Station.’
Can Station, or can Titles add
To Dorset more than Dorset had?
Let others, void of native Grace,
Derive faint Honour from a Place;
His Greatness to himself he owes;
Nor borrows Lustre, but bestows.
‘That's true: But, still, you answer wide—
‘How can he lay his State aside?
‘Then think betimes; Can your weak Sight
‘Support that wondrous Burst of Light?
‘Will you not sicken, as you gaze?
‘Nay, haply, perish in the Blaze?
‘Remember Semele, who dy'd,
‘A fatal Victim to her Pride.’
Glorious Example!—How it fires me!—
I burn!—and all the God inspires me!
My Bosom is to Fear a Stranger;
The Prize is more enhanc'd by Danger;
I bless the Wound, when given by you;
And hug the Bolt, though Death ensue.
 

Owen M'Swiney, Esq; concerned in the Management of the Opera. He left the greatest Part of his Fortune, at his Death, to Mrs. Woffington.

The Manager of Covent-Garden Theatre.

Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.


126

RIDDLE.

[Ye Learn'd, who the Secrets of Nature explore]

Ye Learn'd, who the Secrets of Nature explore,
Who hunt after Knowlege, and thirst still for more,
Attend to what follows, and duly regard it:
Hereafter you'll own all your Pains well rewarded.
To you I apply: I'm a whimsical Creature;
And beg you will tell me my Name, and my Nature:
My Story's not long; yet, so strange is my Lot,
I doubt if I 've even a Being, or not.
In the very first Day of the very first Year,
When, first, new-created, this World did appear,
My Parent, then form'd, was coæval with Time,
Like other Productions, and shone in her Prime;
Being pregnant with me: But, what's hard to unravel,
Tho' in a few Hours she look'd for her Travail,
From that, to this Moment, I 've never been seen,
By King, Lords, or Commons, nor, eke, by the Queen:
She still remains pregnant; I still am expected;
Nor has Time, which tells all Things, th'Imposture detected.
To account for this Fact, will surprize you much more,
Than any Thing else I have told you before;
For, though, from all Ages, she ought to take Warning,
Each Night, she's deliver'd; with Child, every Morning;
And, still more surprizing, the Moment I come
To Life, I, that Moment, return to the Womb;
Or, rather, to tell you the Truth more exact,
(However romantic, yet, faith, 'tis the Fact)
Each Night we expire, when the World is at Rest,
Next Morning, revive, like the Bird of the East,

127

In the self same Condition, as both of us die;
She, pregnant, as usual; in Embrio, I;
And, thus, shall continue, in one constant Round,
'Till that awful Day, when the Trumpet shall sound;
Then, we, like all Creatures that dwell on this Earth,
Shall both lose our Beings, though I ne'er had Birth.
WORROMTO.

LISETTA.

To H. H. Esq; Author of the Countess of Salisbury.
To thee, my Friend, who ne'er, with cold Disdain,
Did'st damp my Transports, or my Griefs reprove,
To thee I write: Indulge this plaintive Strain;
This plaintive Strain thy Breast, at least, may move.
My Heart, elate with Spirits, once, was light;
With careless Ease, from Fair to Fair I flew;
The Day, in Joy, in Peace I spent the Night;
Nor dream'd of Love, which scarce by Name I knew.
The little Birds, that charm the vocal Wood,
Could boast no greater Liberty than I;
No Tears of mine encreas'd the chrystal Flood,
Nor did I to the Zephyrs lend a Sigh.

128

When Lads, and Lasses, danc'd in sprightly Round,
I tripp'd it with the fairest I could find;
My Flute ne'er utter'd, then, a plaintive Sound,
But airy Sonnets sported on the Wind.
Where, where is, now, my vaunted Freedom gone?
Why heaves my Breast? Why falls this Drop of Woe?
Too sure, Lisetta has my Peace undone;
Too sure, her Eyes the fatal Wounds bestow:
Those Eyes, where Innocence, and youthful Fire,
Parents of Chearfulness, their Throne have plac'd,
With Tenderness, exciting soft Desire,
And Sensibility, the Ground of Taste.
No dew-bent Rose-bud with her Lip can vie;
No Whiteness, match the Ivory of her Teeth;
The May-Morn Gales, in passing slily by,
Steal added Sweetness from her balmy Breath.
Behold her, blooming, lead the festive Ball;
How happy he, who holds her taper Hand!
The Graces, smiling, follow round the Hall;
And all the Loves, in mute Devotion stand.
Do lively Tunes the Movement quick denote?
Blithsome, and light, she bounds along the Floor;
Do graver Strains in trembling Æther float?
Her Ease, and Dignity, all Eyes allure.
Nor think, my Friend, all beauteous as she is,
Her Form, alone, inspires the amorous Flame;
Beauty, 'tis true, enhances every Bliss;
But mental Grace confirms the tender Claim.

129

And, sure, the mental Graces, which I prize,
Are in my fair Lisetta all combin'd;
Truth, Sense, and Sweetness, sparkling in her Eyes,
Shine, a faint Emblem of her active Mind.
Her Brow no Trace of Envy e'er betray'd;
To her the Breath of Calumny's unknown;
Her Breast, from Principle, by Virtue sway'd;
And no Desert escapes her, save, her own.
Young, dimpling Gaiety illumes her Face;
No Blush, but Virgin Modesty, her Cheek:
Oh! may no hapless Passion blast her Peace;
No Sighs, like mine, a tortur'd Bosom speak!
Tortur'd for her alone; but, cruel Fate!
To others, kind, and affable, and free,
I, only, pine, obnoxious to her Hate;
Each Frown, each chilling Glance, is bent at me.
She disapproves of all I say, or do;
If grave, I'm sullen; trifling, if I'm gay;
No kind Farewell attends me, when I go;
No little Favour chears me, if I stay;
At Eve, if, watchful, I her Steps attend,
She scorns upon my proffer'd Arm to lean;
Yet none, more faithful, would Assistance lend,
More firmly prop, or pick her Steps more clean.
But, let me not accuse the lovely Maid;
I never told her of my ardent Flame;
Though oft, I think, my speaking Eyes have said,
What my Respect forbids my Tongue to name.

130

Do you, then, best of Friends, my Suit prefer;
And think that you your own Thalia woo;
Friendship, and Love, combin'd, will gain her Ear;
And Words, like these, express a Passion true:—
Oh thou, my only, ever, best belov'd!
For whom I live, for whom I'd freely die,
With soft Compassion let thy Breast be mov'd!
Let tender Pity fill thy melting Eye.
That I adore with Ardour, Zeal, and Truth,
Each Word and Action, fairly judg'd, will tell;
I've known thee, Fairest, from thy earliest Youth;
And, faithful even to Death, with thee would dwell.
Such Symptoms as Sincerity attend,
Of such, I feel my anxious Bosom full;
In vain, by Converse with a chearful Friend,
In vain, by reading, I my Griefs would lull.
When round my Room I take my Midnight Walk,
On every Pannel thy lov'd Form I see;
I gaze! and to thy fancy'd Shadow talk!
Heave a sad Sigh, and melt in Tears, for thee.
My Humour, or I'm flatter'd, once, could please,
And shake the social Board with roaring Mirth;
Dejected, now, I pass my tedious Days,
And almost curse the Hour that gave me Birth.
For Lovers, far more wealthy, far more fair,
Perfections, such as thine, may justly hope;
But, where's the Man whose Love is so sincere,
Whose Warmth, and Tenderness, with mine can cope?

131

Were Wealth, and Honours, both at my Command,
To share with thee would be my greatest Pride;
Heavens! with what Eagerness I'd seize thy Hand!
Good Heavens! how glory in my charming Bride!
The Sweets of Friendship should our Days employ;
And mutual Transports crown th'enraptur'd Night
Oh! my Lisetta! Oh! my Bosom's Joy!
My busy Fancy sickens with Delight!
Justice, at least, you owe to Love like mine:
Then, tell me, may I e'er expect to please?
Let not my Youth, in fruitless Wishes pine;
To know the worst, is some Degree of Ease.
These Thoughts, thus rudely flowing from a Heart
Which feels much more than Language can express,
These, to my Love, with friendly Zeal, impart;
So may Thalia all your Wishes bless.
 

This Stanza, a Parody from Parnell.

EPIGRAM.

[The Peacock is the proudest Bird]

The Peacock is the proudest Bird;
The Mag excells in Noise:
Vanilla, wantonly absurd,
The Place of both supplies.

132

Occasional PROLOGUE to the Beggar's Opera,

Performed at CARTON.

Inscribed to her Grace the DUCHESS of LEINSTER.
Our Play, To-night, wants Novelty, 'tis true:
That to atone, our Actors all are new.
And, sure, our Stage than any Stage is droller;
Lords act the Rogue, and Ladies play the Stroller;
And yet, so artfully they feign, you 'll say,
They are the very Characters they play:
But know they're honest, though their Looks belye it—
Great ones ne'er cheat, when they get nothing by it.
Our Ladies, too, when they this Stage depart,
Will pilfer nothing from you, but your Heart.
The melting Music of our Polly's Tongue
Will charm beyond the Syren's magic Song;
Vincent, with Grief, shall hear fair Martin's Fame;
And tuneful Brent shall tremble at her Name.
If Lucy seem too meek, yet, never fear,
For all those gentle Smiles, she 'll scold her Dear;
But, her keen Rage so amiable is found,
Macheath you 'll envy, though in Fetters bound.
If Peachum's Wife too fair, too graceful prove,
And seem to emulate the Queen of Love;
If no Disguise her Lustre can conceal,
And every Look a matchless Charm reveal;

133

We own the Fault—for, spite of Art, and Care,
The Loves, and Graces, will attend Kildare.
Diver, and blooming Coaxer, if you knew them,
You 'd think you ne'er could be too loving to them.
When you behold our Peachum, Filch, and Locket,
You 'll shudder for your Purse, and guard your Pocket.
Our Trapes from Douglas' self the Prize could win,
More Virgins could decoy, and drink more Gin.
When Slammekin you view, politely drunk,
You 'll own the genuine Covent-Garden Punk.
Thus, Virtue's Friends their native Truth disguise,
And counterfeit the Follies they despise;
By wholesome Ridicule, proud Vice to brand,
And into Virtue laugh a guilty Land:
But, when this busy, mimic Scene is o'er,
All shall resume the Worth they had before;
Locket himself his Knavery shall resign,
And lose the Goaler in the dull Divine.
 

    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  • Polly, Miss M---rt---n.
  • Lucy, Lady L---a C---n---ly.
  • Macheath, Captain M---rr---s.
  • Mrs. Peachum, Countess of K---ld---e.
  • Jenny Diver, Miss V---s---y.
  • Coaxer, Miss Ad---rl---y.
  • Peachum, Lord Ch---rl---m---nt.
  • Filch, Mr. C---n---ly.
  • Locket, and Prologue, Rev. Mr. M---rl---y.
  • Diana Trapes, Mr. R. G---e.
  • Miss Slammekin, Lord P---rsc---t.

A famous Singer, in London.

Another, famous for playing Polly in the Beggar's Opera.

A Woman of infamous Reputation, who kept a notorious Bagnio in London.


134

TWO LOVE ELEGIES.

Ossa tibi juro per Matris, et Ossa Parentis,
(Si fallo, Cinis, heu! sit mihi uterque gravis)
Me tibi ad extremas mansurum, Vita, Tenebras—
Ultima talis erit, quæ mea prima Fides.
Hoc mihi perpetuo Jus est, quod solus Amator
Nec cito desisto, nec temere incipio.
Propert. Lib. 2. El. 20.

ELEGY I. To Damon.

No longer hope, fond Youth, to hide thy Pain,
No longer blush the Secret to impart;
Too well I know what broken Murmurs mean,
And Sighs that burst, half stifled, from the Heart.
Nor did I learn this Skill by Ovid's Rule;
The magic Arts are to thy Friend unknown:
I never study'd but in Myra's School;
And only judge thy Passion by my own.

135

Believe me, Love is jealous of his Power;
Confess betimes the Influence of the God:
The Stubborn feel new Torments every Hour;
To merit Mercy, we must kiss the Rod.
In vain, alas! you seek the lonely Grove,
And in sad Numbers to the Thames complain:
The Shade, with kindred Softness, sooths thy Love,
Sad Numbers sooth, but cannot cure, thy Pain.
When Phœbus felt (as Story sings) the Smart,
By the coy Beauties of his Daphne fir'd,
Not Phœbus self could profit by his Art,
Though all the Nine the sacred Lay inspir'd.
Even should the Maid vouchsafe to hear thy Song,
No tender Feelings will its Sorrows raise;
For, Verse hath mourn'd imagin'd Woes so long,
She'll hear unmov'd, and, without pitying, praise.
Nor yet, proud Maid, should'st thou refuse thine Ear;
Nor are the Manners of the Poet rude;
Nor pours he not the sympathetic Tear,
His Heart by Anguish, not his own, subdu'd.
When fairest Names in long Oblivion rot,
(For fairest Names must yield to wasting Time)
The Poet's Mistress 'scapes the common Lot,
And blooms un-injur'd in his living Rhyme.
 
Non ego celari possim, quid Nutus Amantis,
Quidve ferant miti lenia Verba Sono.
Nec mihi sunt Sortes.—
Tibull.
Desine dissimulare; Deus crudelius urit
Quos videt invitos succubuisse sibi.
Tibull.
Nec prosunt Domino, quæ prosunt omnibus Artes.

Ovid.


136

ELEGY II. In ANSWER to the FOREGOING.

Warm from the Soul, and faithful to its Fires.
Pope's Eloisa to Abelard.

Thou, whom long since I number'd for my own,
To whose kind View, in Life's first happy Days,
Each young Ambition of my Heart was known,
For Fame my Ardour, and my Love of Ease,
Say, wilt thou pardon, that a while I thought
(The Thought how vain!) my Feelings to disguise?
Too well thou knew'st, by Myra's Lessons taught,
The Soul's soft Language, and the Voice of Eyes:
Thou knew'st—perhaps, ere to myself 'twas known—
Th'impatient Struggling of the Sigh supprest;
And early saw'st, instructed by thy own,
The infant Passion kindling in my Breast.
“No longer, then, I'll seek to hide my Pain,
“No longer blush the Secret to impart;”
The Mask, which wrong'd thy Friendship, I disdain;
“And boast the graceful Weakness of my Heart.”

137

Nor shall the jealous God with Hand severe
Afflict his Vassal, though a Rebel long;
Already hath he breath'd the humble Prayer,
And pour'd already the repentant Song.
But, ah! in vain his Art the Poet tries,
The Power of Numbers he exerts in vain;
The Maid regards them with unconscious Eyes,
And hears, but will not understand, the Strain.
Yet hath she seen—for Nothing could conceal—
The wild Emotions of his labouring Breast;
The fond Attention that devour'd her Tale;
The Hand that trembled, when her Hand it prest:
While his pleas'd Ear upon her Accents hung,
Oft hath she mark'd th'involuntary Sigh,
Love's “broken Murmurs” forming on his Tongue,
And Love's warm Rapture starting to his Eye.
And she hath seen him whelm'd in bitterest Woe,
When her Frown spoke some Error unforgiven;
And she hath seen each kindling Feature glow,
When her Smile chear'd him with a Gleam of Heaven.
But, when in Verse he breathes his amorous Care,
(As if she knew not what to all is known)
His Art she praises, but neglects his Prayer,
Nor deems the Poet, or the Verse, her own.
Say, then, O say (for, sure, thou know'st full well
Each tender Thought with happiest Skill to dress)
His Heart's strong Feelings how his Tongue shall tell!
How speak—what Language never can express!

138

Teach him those Arts that did thy Suit commend,
When Love first prompted Myra to be kind;
And, that those Arts may prosper, let thy Friend
His Love's soft Advocate in Myra find.
Then, while the happy Means thy Lesson shews
To win the Maid his Passion to approve,
Then Myra shall recount—for Myra knows—
What Blessings are in Store for those that love:
Myra shall tell her, that from Love alone
Flows the pure Spring of Happiness sincere;
And Love, with Power to Lovers only known,
Doubles each Joy, and lessens every Care:
And each warm Transport of her conscious Heart,
And each fair Hope, that doth her State attend,
With generous Ardour Myra shall impart,
And point her own Example to her Friend:
And if her Sense shall Damon's Claim approve,
And if her Candour deem his Vows sincere,
Her Tongue shall speak the Interest of his Love,
Her gentle Eloquence enforce his Prayer:
And all that tenderest Pity can suggest,
And each soft Argument her Thought can find,
Myra shall urge—O! be her Pleading blest!—
To win her fair Companion to be kind:
And when—for Friendship must not pass them o'er—
She gives the Frailties of his Youth to Sight,
O! may her Pencil place—he asks no more—
Each little Merit in the fairest Light!

139

Clara, perchance, may learn to love an Heart,
(Proud though the Boast, it is an honest Pride)
Where nothing selfish ever claim'd a Part,
Which owns no Purpose it should wish to hide:
Warm with the Love of Virtue and Mankind,
At others' Bliss where social Feelings glow;
And where, when Sorrow wrings the worthy Mind,
The Tear is ready for another's Woe:
This Praise the Youth is fond to call his own;
No higher Worth he seeks, his Claim to grace;
His Hope he builds upon his Love alone,
And his Love stands on Reason's solid Base:
No sudden Blaze, the Meteor of a Day,
It's transient Splendour o'er his Heart doth pour;
Kindled at Virtue's Fire, the steady Ray
Shall shine through Life, and gild it's latest Hour.
If such an Heart can please, if such a Flame
With kindred Ardour can inspire her Breast,
His first Ambition hath obtain'd its Aim—
To Heaven and Fortune he commits the Rest.
But, if, regardless of the honest Prayer,
The Maid, unpitying, on his Love should frown;
If Fate's worst Shock the Youth is doom'd to bear,
Each Prospect darken'd, and each Hope o'erthrown;
Too humbly fearful of the all-ruling Power
To strike the Blow that sets the Spirit free,
Prison'd in Life, he'll wait the appointed Hour,
And, patient, bend him to the hard Decree:

140

Yet ne'er (however shifts the varying Scene)
Shall her dear Image from his Mind depart;
Still fresh the lov'd Idea shall remain,
Warm in each Pulse, and woven with his Heart:
Unchang'd through Life, still anxious for her Peace,
For her to Heaven his daily Prayer shall rise;
And, when kind Fate shall grant the wish'd Release,
His last weak Breath shall bless her as it flies:
Then, when in Earth's cold Womb his Limbs are laid,
(For, sure, her Servant's Fall shall reach her Ear)
Clara, perchance, will sigh, and grant his Shade
The kind Compassion of a pious Tear:
Yes—she will weep—for gentle is her Breast—
Though his Love pleas'd not, she will mourn his Doom;
And, haply, when with Flowers his Grave is dress'd,
Her Hand may plant a Myrtle o'er his Tomb.
This Meed, at least, his Service may demand;
This—and 'tis all he asks—his Truth may claim:
No breathing Marble o'er his Dust shall stand;
No storied Urn shall celebrate his Name:
Enough for him, that, where his Ashes lie,
When kindred Spirits shall at Times repair,
The prosperous Youth shall cast a pitying Eye;
The slighted Virgin pour her Sorrows there:
Enough for him, that, pointing to his Stone,
The sad old Man his Story shall relate,
Then smite his Breast, and wish, with many a Groan,
No Child of his may meet so hard a Fate.
 

Hammond, Elegy the Ninth.


141

THE RECANTATION.

AN ODE.

By Love too long depriv'd of Rest,
(Fell Tyrant of the human Breast!)
His Vassal long, and worn with Pain,
Indignant, late, I spurn'd the Chain;
In Verse, in Prose, I sung and swore
No Charms should e'er enslave me more,
Nor Neck, nor Hair, nor Lip, nor Eye,
Again should force one tender Sigh.
As, taught by Heaven's informing Power,
From every Fruit, and every Flower,
That Nature opens to the View,
The Bee extracts the Nectar-Dew;
A Vagrant thus, and free to change,
From Fair to Fair I vow'd to range,
And part from each, without Regret,
As pleas'd, and happy, as I met.

142

Then Freedom's Praise inspir'd my Tongue,
With Freedom's Praise the Vallies rung,
And every Night, and every Day,
My Heart thus pour'd the enraptur'd Lay:
“My Cares are gone; my Sorrows cease;
“My Breast regains it's wonted Peace;
“And Joy, and Hope, returning, prove
“That Reason is too strong for Love.”
Such was my Boast—but, ah! how vain!
How short was Reason's vaunted Reign!
The firm Resolve I form'd ere-while
How weak, oppos'd to Clara's Smile!
Chang'd is the Strain—the Vallies round
With Freedom's Praise no more resound;
But, every Night, and every Day,
My full Heart pours the alter'd Lay.
Offended Deity! whose Power
My Rebel Tongue but now forswore,
Accept my Penitence sincere,
My Crime forgive, and grant my Prayer!
Let not thy Slave, condemn'd to mourn,
With unrequited Passion burn;
With Love's soft Thoughts her Breast inspire,
And kindle there an equal Fire!
It is not Beauty's gaudy Flower,
(The empty Triumph of an Hour)
Nor practis'd Wiles of female Art,
That now subdue my destin'd Heart;
O no!—'Tis Heaven, whose wondrous Hand
A Transcript of itself hath plann'd,

143

And to each outward Grace hath join'd
Each lovelier Feature of the Mind.
These Charms shall last, when others fly,
When Roses fade, and Lillies die;
When that dear Eye's declining Beam
It's living Fire no more shall stream:
Blest then, and happy in my Chain,
The Song of Freedom flows in vain;
Nor Reason's harsh Reproof I fear,
For Reason's self is Passion, here.
O dearer far than Wealth, or Fame!
My daily Thought, my nightly Dream,
If yet no Youth's successful Art,
(Sweet Hope) hath touch'd thy gentle Heart,
If yet no Swain hath bless'd thy Choice,
Indulgent hear thy Damon's Voice;
From Doubts, from Fears, his Bosom free;
And bid him live—for Love, and thee.

An EPITAPH.

God works Wonders now and then;
Here lies a Lawyer, and an honest Man.

ANSWERED.

This is a mere Law-Quibble, not a Wonder:
Here lies a Lawyer, and—his Client under.

144

LINES, PRESENTED WITH A ROSE-BUD, TO A VERY YOUNG LADY,

Who appeared at the FANCY-BALL, at the Castle, in the Character of Flora.

Sweet Bud, whose forward Bloom displays
The Promise of a beauteous Flower,
May no rude Blight thy Freshness seize!
No Worm thy tender Leaf devour!
Light fall the Rains upon thy Head,
Safe be thy Beauty from the Storm,
'Till Spring's soft Breath thy Blossom spread,
And May unfold thy perfect Form!
So, sweet to smell, and fair to view,
Thy ripen'd Glow shall long be seen;
And every Flower that drinks the Dew
Shall bow in Homage to it's Queen.

145

ON THREE BEAUTIFUL SISTERS, AT THE FANCY-BALL, FRIDAY, March 16th, 1769.

Three Forms like these had Paris seen,
Of old, on Ida's fabled Brow,
The lovely Preference, I ween,
Had scarcely been decided now:
For, sure, 'twere difficult to say,
On whom the envy'd Lot should fall,
When each could boast (as each here may)
The blended Excellence of all.
Yet, Truth to speak, had I the Fruit,
Lest Rage in Sister-Hearts should glow,
I'd end at once the whole Dispute,
And give the Apple to Munro.
 

Miss Munro, another of Perfection's Favourites, not one of the Sisters.


146

RESPONSES OF THE PRIESTESS OF APOLLO, AT THE FANCY-BALL.

I.

Idly curious, would you know
What To-morrow shall bestow?
Hark! the Delphic Shrine replies,
'Tis now the Minute to be wise:
To Heaven's disposing Care resign'd,
'Grave this Lesson on thy Mind:
Employ aright the present Hour;
To-morrow is beyond thy Power.

II.

While Pleasure's gay delusive Train
Attends thy Life's unfolding Spring,
While Flattery pours the welcome Strain,
And Love displays his gilded Wing;

147

‘What Youth’ (you ask the Pythia's Art)
‘Shall next the soothing Tale supply?
‘What slighted Maid, with grief-swoln Heart,
‘Shall curse the Triumphs of your Eye?’
Enquire no more—To other Cares
Attend—From Earth thy Thoughts sublime:
Winter steals on; nor Beauty's Prayers
Avail to stay the Spoiler Time.
Forsaken, then, by Pleasure's Train,
The yellow Leaf shall cloud thy Spring:
Truth then shall pour th'unwelcome Strain,
And Love for Flight expand his Wing.
If, led by Vanity, or Pride,
In Folly's Maze you wildly stray,
What Hand thy parting Steps shall guide?
What Joy shall gild thy closing Day?
Then think betimes—Obey the God—
To Virtue turn thy adoring Eyes;
She points through Life the unerring Road,
And marks thy Passage to the Skies.

148

III.

The general Question of the Day,
Shall the Commons meet in May?
Broghill, who peeps behind the Curtain,
Smiles, and tells ye, “Yes, for certain.”
Syndercombe, at least as wise,
Frowns, and swears, “The Rascal lies.”—
The Delphic God (but not on Oath)
Agrees with neither, yet with both;
And, like King Phyz in Sheffield's Play,
At once pronounces, Ay, and Nay.—
Mortals, revere the mystic Rhyme,
Nor think Apollo deals in Fiction:—
Events yet in the Womb of Time
Must solve the present Contradiction.
Further seek not to explore;
Townshend's self can tell no more.
 
------ My May of Life
Is fallen into the Sear, the yellow Leaf.
Shakespeare.

Two Writers, under these Signatures, who published Letters in The Freeman's Journal; the former, in Defence of, and the latter, in Opposition to, Administration.

A Phrase made use of, by a certain great Person, on an Application relating to the Meeting of P---ment, to which the above alludes.


149

STANZAS, WRITTEN On a blank Leaf of WEBB's Beauties of Poetry, Painting, &c.

PRESENTED TO The Right Hon. Lady ELIZABETH BIRMINGHAM.
To cultivate the Arts inclin'd,
Their Beauties skill'd to trace,
Bespeaks a liberal polish'd Mind;
Exists not in the base.
Perusing Shakespear's lofty Thought,
Or what a Raphael drew,
By something Heavenly are we caught,
And learn to be so too.
Alike, when Handel's magic Strains
The listening Soul invite,
Delight in every Bosom reigns,
And Virtue with Delight.
This, Webb in every Page displays,
Himself the living Test;
And, rendering others ample Praise,
His own stands forth confess'd.

150

By thee, Eliza, all are lov'd;
By thee in Practice grac'd;
Thy noble Mind by all improv'd,
In Virtue, Judgement, Taste.
To Greatness born, and form'd to shine,
Be still the Arts thy Care;
Nor let meek Industry repine,
Nor modest Worth despair.
Desert shall raise her grateful Head,
To hail thy wish'd Approach;
And Orphans' Blessings, round thee spread,
Drive Envy from thy Coach.
Nor let the Widow's asking Tear,
In vain, assail thine Eye;
For Heaven respects the Widow's Prayer,
Repays the kind Supply.
Secure I plead, nor doubt Success;
Thy Fame my great Concern;
For, where the Lesson is, to bless,
I know thee apt to learn.
Swift, on the Wings of radiant Truth,
Abroad thy Merit flies;
Thy Praise, sweet Maid, fills every Mouth;
Thy Charms engage all Eyes.
And honest Pride dilates my Heart,
While Plaudits crown thy Name;
My Boast, all Goodness as thou art,
I blew the glorious Flame.
Waterstown, Tuesday, Dec. 25th, 1770.

151

THE LAST BOTTLE. WITH A RECEIPT for making PUNCH.

To a FRIEND.
One Bottle of Arrack, the last of my Store,
(For your Sake, and mine, I could wish it were more)
From the Cave, where quite bury'd in Saw-dust it lay,
Restor'd once again to the Light of the Day,
To the Friends of the Muse, whose benevolent Care
Our Labours rewards with a Plumb, or a Pear,
The Poet presents—and, lest you mistake it,
He sends you, moreover, Instructions to make it—
As the Bottle is large, and the Liquor is rough,
Four Lemons, I doubt, will be little enough:
For Sugar, you know it depends upon Taste;
But 'twill take, in my Mind, Half a Pound at the least:
Let your Water be boil'd; and, when it is cool,
Pour in just two Quarts—an infallible Rule—
Then stir it three Times; the Business is done.
(If you have not a Ladle, make use of a Spoon)
Fill your Glasses all round; and—you know what should follow—
Long Life, and good Health to the Sons of Apollo!

152

To a Lady.

While brisk Champagne, and those bright Eyes,
By Turns my Joys improve;
Love, changing Sides, the Bumper plies,
And Bacchus glows with Love.

Another.

[While thro' my Veins brisk Claret flows]

While thro' my Veins brisk Claret flows,
And I behold those Eyes,
Cupid an arrant Drunkard grows,
And Bacchus love-sick lies.

153

THE CHOICE OF A WIFE.

To G. H. Esq;
Whene'er, my Friend, you chance to find
A Female who attracts your Mind,
Your Choice awhile suspend;
Examine nicely first her Heart,
If incorrupt, if free from Art;
To that, be sure, attend:
For Beauty soon familiar grows,
Or fades, as hourly fades the Rose,
Frail Tenant of Decay!
But Virtue, Life's extremest Length,
Improving, shines, and grows in Strength,
With each succeeding Day.
This is the Beauty worth your Care,
And not the Cheek, the Lip, the Hair,
The Eye, the Teeth, the Mien;
If no Deformity disgrace,
You 'll soon think that a lovely Face,
Where Truth, and Honour reign.

154

Be then the Purpose of her Heart,
Whom of yourself you'd make a Part,
Confirm'd and well inform'd
In all Things moral, and divine;
The Virtues more attractive shine,
By true Devotion warm'd.
Those Virtues still have least Allay,
And best will bear the strict Assay,
That on Religion grow:
Others to Fear, or Interest, yield,
Or shrink, or meanly quit the Field,
When Storms of Passion blow.
Let no vain superstitious Fears
Create imaginary Cares;
For those, who mean the best,
Who 've only honest Ends in View,
Will carefully those Ends pursue,
And leave to Heaven the Rest.
If Gratitude her Bosom swell;
If there, kind generous Pity dwell,
Meekness, and manly Sense;
If no Desire for Dress, or Play,
Can lead her steady Heart away,
Fear not her Innocence.
Fair Virtue, Honour, Candour, Truth,
Alone maintain the Charms of Youth
Through every Stage of Life:
These with new Lustre ever glow,
And, every Day, new Charms bestow
Upon the Friend—the Wife.

155

Those light the Lamp of pure Desire,
These fan the clear celestial Fire,
Bright Flame of lasting Love;
While practis'd Looks, and Airs and Smiles,
And Art, that thoughtless Men beguiles,
But Flashes—Meteors prove.

THE BIRD OF PARADISE.

A BALLAD.

While hungry Bards, from Garret high,
To Myra's Cheek, or Stella's Eye,
Their amorous Sonnets pen;
Unpractis'd in the Arts of Verse,
In simple Strain let me rehearse
The Praise of Molly Henn.
It was, alas! the first of May
(I never shall forget the Day)
I saw her first; and, then,
Such modest Worth, such winning Ease—
I could do nothing else but gaze
On lovely Molly Henn.

156

Whiter her Skin than Mountain Snow;
Her Eyes are black as any Sloe;
Her Lips are red—but when,
O when she opes those Lips to speak,
The Smile of Hebe's dimpled Cheek
Is seen in Molly Henn!
An hundred Times I vow'd, I swore
An hundred Oaths, I'm sure, and more,
And I would swear again,
That, should I live to Nestor's Age,
No Charms should e'er my Heart engage,
But those of Molly Henn.
To prove the Truth of what I say,
If any one should doubt, I'll lay
An hundred Pounds to ten,
In none of all the Sex he'll find
A fairer Face, or better Mind,
Than those of Molly Henn
Nay more, though some may think I lie,
I'll swear (and let who will deny,
Poor, unbelieving Men!)
An Eden blooms where e'er she treads,
And Paradise its Fragrance sheds
Round lovely Molly Henn.
 

The Place of Miss Henn's Residence was called Paradise.


157

SYLVIA: A CHARACTER.

Inscribed to Miss MONTGOMERY.
For every Station of a Woman fit,
Sylvia has Spirit, sparkling Eyes, and Wit:
Nor let her Want of Stature raise a Strife;
In less of Matter there is more of Life.
Thus, Diamonds, lessen'd into Brilliants, rise,
And gain in Lustre, what they lose in Size.
Once, we must own, deluded by the Throng,
She lean'd to Folly; but she lean'd not long:
Prancing, and pert, she bounc'd into the World;
She talk'd, she titter'd, toss'd the Head, and curl'd;
By Nature lively, she grew wild by Art;
(‘For, sure, it was so pretty to be smart:’)
But, soon recovering, flush'd with Mirth, and Youth,
Contented she came Home to Sense, and Truth;
Of every foreign, idle Grace disarm'd,
She grew herself; she reason'd, and she charm'd:
Yet, though she reasons, she can trifle still,
With equal Spirit, and superior Skill;
Though with some Change of Manners, and of Stiles;
(For Folly laughs, but Wisdom only smiles)
The Pertness fled, the Sprightliness remains;
She, then, diverted; now, she entertains;

158

Not at her Neighbours', but her own Expence,
With lively Humour, and with easy Sense;
With nice Reflections on her present cast,
Or graceful Censures on her Follies past.
Shy to decide, though ready to discern,
Fond to improve, and not asham'd to learn,
For Reason, with the Charms of Fancy grac'd,
She feels a Relish, and she shews a Taste:
Her Life, by Principles, and Truth, she steers;
Not turn'd by every Whistle that she hears,
Like Half the Sex, from Matrons down to Girls,
With Eyes that twinkle, and an Head that twirls,
With Soul and Body every in a Dance,
The Slave of Fashion, or the Sport of Chance;
Now, light, and giddy; now, demure, and prim;
All Pride, and Passion, Prejudice, and Whim:
Her Heart, still regularly taught to beat,
Is warm with Nature's, not with Passion's Heat;
With her own Sorrows apt to swell, or flow
With generous Softness for another's Woe,
Which Friendship, Piety, Compassion move,
And every tender Sentiment, but Love:
Yet Love may get Admittance, too, but slow;
As yet a Stranger, only, not a Foe:
Her Heart is to be won; but, at her Price,
And is not so insensible, as nice.
Thus, every Virtue shining in its Place,
And, every Virtue follow'd by a Grace,
She claims our Praises. Are our Praises due?
The Picture charms us—Is the Picture true?
All Poets rant; their Fancy is their Law;
They colour brightly what they falsely draw:
Or, grant that one in twenty speaks his Mind,
He may not flatter; but, he may be blind:

159

Some praise with Art, that cannot judge with Skill;
And many flourish well, who reason ill.
Sylvia, your Worth the Writer's Fame ensures:
He drew the Picture; make that Picture your's:
Shew to the Women, how their Glories sink;
Shew to the Men, that Women dare to think;
'Till all confess, discovering whom I paint,
The Image faithful, though the Copy faint.

ELEGIAC STANZAS, To the Memory of A YOUNG GENTLEMAN,

Who died in the nineteenth Year of his Age.

Thine Eyes, dear Youth, are clos'd in Night;
Thy Thread, alas! is spun;
Cut off, at once, from Life, and Light,
Ere Half thy Sands were run!
How short the Date of human Things!
How transient are the Joys!
The Flower, that in the Morning springs,
The Evening Blast destroys!
See where, absorb'd in silent Grief,
The childless Mother stands!
Some pitying Angel bring Relief,
And hold her frantic Hands!—

160

O lost too soon, lamented Shade!
Just opening into Man,
While Custom rul'd, and Passion sway'd,
Ere Reason's Power began—
Yet,—let me here the Word recall,
These rash Repinings shun—
'Twas Heaven's high Will decreed his Fall;
And let Heaven's Will be done!
Let all, who lov'd his Worth, his Truth,
Remember them with Groans!
And all the Frailties of his Youth
Be buried with his Bones!

LINES, PRESENTED To a YOUNG LADY, with a SILVER THIMBLE.

A dame the Abbey's Tombs contain,
By Puncture of a Needle slain.
Lest thee so dire a Fate betide,
This Armour, Nancy, I provide:
Nor wonder, that so small a Cause
Should open Death's devouring Jaws;
The Wound, my Heart receiv'd from you,
Is full as small, and fatal, too.

161

THE CHOICE OF A HUSBAND. WRITTEN BY A YOUNG LADY.

Inscribed to Miss COOPER.
You ask, if the Thing to my Choice were submitted,
You ask how I'd wish in a Man to be fitted?
I'll answer you freely, but beg you to mind him,
Your Friendship, perhaps, may assist me to find him.
His Age, and Condition shall first be consider'd—
The Rose on his Cheek should be blown, but not wither'd;
He should be, then—but, hark ye! a Word in your Ear,
Don't you think Five-and-twenty would fit to a Hair?
His Fortune, from Debts and Incumbrances clear,
Unsaddled with Jointures, a Thousand a Year:
Though, to shew you, at once, my good Sense, and good Nature,
I'd not quarrel much, should it chance to be greater.

162

The Qualities, next, of his Heart, and his Head—
Good-natur'd, and friendly, sincere, and well-bred;
With Wit, when he pleas'd, on all Subjects to shine,
And Sense, not too great to set Value on mine:
His Learning, and Judgement, shou'd seldom appear;
And his Courage be shewn, but when Danger is near;
With an Eye, that can melt at another Man's Woe;
A Heart, to forgive; and a Hand, to bestow.
No Coxcomb who boasts of his Knowledge, or Arts;
Nor stiff with his Learning, nor proud of his Parts;
No dull, solemn Blockhead, who 'd fain be thought wise;
For, a Fool I detest, and a Fop I despise.
Thus I've try'd to mark out, in these whimsreal Lays,
The Partner I wish for the Rest of my Days:
Go find out the Lad that is form'd to my Plan;
And, him I will marry—I mean if I can.
But, if it should chance—there's a Proverb, you know,
That Marriage, and Hanging, by Destiny go—
Should it happen that Fate has some other in Store,
The Reverse of the Picture I gave you before,
Should I chance to be curst with a Fop, or a Fool,
Too perverse to be rul'd, yet too silly to rule,
What, then, could be done?—Without fighting, or arguing,
I think I would e'en make the best of my Bargain:
I'd sit down content with the Lot that was mine,
And, though I might smart, yet I would not repine.—
You may laugh, if you please: But I 'll swear that I would
Do all I have told you—I mean if I could.

163

THE HUE AND CRY.

To Miss R. at Channel-Row.
Know all—I speak it to my Cost—
Last Wednesday Night a Heart was lost;
And—but I hope it is not so—
I hear the Thief's in Channel-Row:
As many more may chance to stray,
And take the same clandestine Way,
To prove my own, beyond a Doubt,
I'll give you Marks to find it out.
A Heart it is of such a Kind,
Another such 'twere hard to find!
A faithful, foolish Thing, I vow,
That never stray'd away 'till now;
There, Honour holds her spotless Throne,
And Truth hath mark'd it for her own:
If such a Heart amongst you be,
The Toy, indeed, belongs to me.
O yes! Whichever of the Tribe
Hath got the Trifle I describe,

164

And sends it back, before 'tis dark,
To-morrow Evening, to the Park,
Secure, and whole, and free from Chains,
Shall be rewarded for her Pains:—
But, should she chuse to keep it still,
(As, who can guess a Woman's Will?)
The Owner hopes she 'll have the Grace
To send another in its Place.
 

The College Park.

A SECOND PROCLAMATION.

To Miss M. M. at Channel-Row.
Whereas—poor, giddy, thoughtless Elf,
Too innocent, alas! myself,
To guard against another's Art—
Last Wednesday Night I lost my Heart;
And thinking (though, I fear, in vain)
To get the Trifle back again,
I got a Letter fairly penn'd,
And sent to one I thought a Friend;
Offering, of my own free Accord,
Not only Pardon, but Reward:—
But she, without or Rhyme, or Reason,
(Which speaks her Party in the Treason)

165

Has, lest the Theft should come to Light,
Suppress'd my Proclamation quite.
Now—certain of my Friends insist,
And they were present when 'twas miss'd,
(I speak with equal Shame and Grief)
That M--- M--- is the Thief.
Last Thursday Morn, 'twixt two and three,
(A heavy Hour, God knows, to me)
One Friend assures me, he can swear
He saw it with her in her Chair:
Another, who, at first, was loth,
Has offer'd to depose on Oath,
That, ere she left the Room above,
He saw her hide it in her Glove:
A third is ready to protest,
(Though not so strongly as the Rest)
That, Friday Evening, in the Way
Between Ringsend, and Aston's Quay,
He saw it fluttering 'neath her Coat,
As he sat by her in the Boat.
Now, notwithstanding I can shew,
As clear as Day, that Things are so;
Although, by Men of Truth and Honour,
The Fact is fairly prov'd upon her,
In every Circumstance so plain,
That, to deny it, would be vain;
If she submits herself in Time,
And prays Forgiveness of her Crime,
On this Condition, I once more
Repeat the Offer made before:

166

But, if before To-morrow Morning,
Neglecting this my second Warning,
She neither will the Toy resign,
Nor send her own instead of mine;
If with her Theft she will not part,
But still persists to keep the Heart;
In such a Case—the Law is clear,
As by the Records may appear,
Consult them all, you 'll find it true—
She e'en must take the Body too.

In ANSWER to the FOREGOING.

Whereas—about the Hour of Three,
This Afternoon, was brought to me
A Proclamation, setting forth,
That a small Bauble, little worth,
A Heart, I think, was stolen, or stray'd,
Lost, or some other how mislaid;
With some Insinuation, too,
That me the Thief some People knew:
Now, by these Presents, I declare—
And, if it be requir'd, I'll swear—
That such a Heart I never stole,
As is described in that Scroll;
Thousands I have in my Possession,
'Tis true; but few are of that Fashion,

167

Of which, in's Proclamation he
Declares the Heart he lost to be.
Last Week, indeed, I can't tell how,
There follow'd me to Channel-Row
A Heart, I know not whence it came,
Nor will it tell its Owner's Name;
It is a rattling, foolish Thing,
Does Nothing else, but rhyme, and sing:
If 'tis for this the Hubbub's rais'd,
To give it up, I 'll be well pleas'd;
Nor shall I sorry be at parting
With such a Heart, while my Name's Martin.
 

The same Evening, the supposed Author of the two former Pieces received the above, written in a fair Italian Hand.

THE HAPPY UNION.

Inscribed to Miss BOYD.
Pallas, and Venus, long at Strife,
For once, in Friendship join'd;
One undertook to draw a Face;
And one, to form a Mind:
Around, with Pencils in their Hands,
The Loves, and Graces wait,
Pencils in heavenly Colours dipp'd,
To render all compleat.

168

Pallas, with an attentive View,
All Nature's Stores survey'd;
Selecting, only, such as Bards
Give to the blue-ey'd Maid.
Soon shone the Soul, an Essence pure,
That might with Angels vie;
Which Venus temper'd into Form,
And painted in the Eye:
The Eye, that Orb of Light, which shews
The Features of the Mind,
Distinct, as faithful Mirrours yield
The Forms of human Kind.
The finish'd Piece before them lay;
Each view'd the curious Frame:
Then said, ‘Go forth, thou Work divine;
Alethea be thy Name:
‘Go forth, thou Pattern of the Fair,
‘Thou Love of Gods, and Men;
‘Be thine, to charm the World below;
‘And visit us again.’
This said, uprose the living Form,
In all its Parts refin'd;
Venus gave Beauty to the Face;
And Pallas, to the Mind.
 

Poeticè: We have it on the Authority of Homer, and all the great Ancients, that superior Natures were known in Heaven, and amongst Mortals, by different Names.


169

TWO LOVE ELEGIES.

Argelitanas mavis habitare Tabernas,
Cum tibi, parve Liber, Scrinia nostra vacent.
Nescis, heu! nescis Dominæ Fastidia Romæ:
Crede mihi, nimium martia Turba sapit.
Ætherias, lascive, cupis volitare per Auras:
I, fuge; sed poteras tutior esse Domi.
Martial.

ELEGY I.

['Tis Night, dead Night; and o'er the Plain]

'Tis Night, dead Night; and o'er the Plain
Darkness extends her ebon Ray,
While wide along the gloomy Scene
Deep Silence holds her solemn Sway:
Throughout the Earth no chearful Beam
The melancholic Eye surveys,
Save where the Worm's fantastic Gleam
The 'nighted Traveller betrays;

170

The savage Race (so Heaven decrees)
No longer through the Forest rove;
All Nature rests, and not a Breeze
Disturbs the Stillness of the Grove:
All Nature rests; in Sleep's soft Arms
The Village Swain forgets his Care:
Sleep, that the Sting of Sorrow charms,
And heals all Sadness, but Despair:
Despair, alone, her Power denies;
And, when the Sun withdraws his Rays,
To the wild Beach, distracted, flies,
Or, chearless, through the Desart strays.
Or, to the Church-yard's Horrors led,
While fearful Echoes burst around,
On some cold Stone he leans his Head,
Or throws his Body on the Ground.
To some such drear and solemn Scene,
Some friendly Power direct my Way,
Where pale Misfortune's haggard Train,
Sad Luxury! delight to stray:
Wrapp'd in the solitary Gloom,
Retir'd from Life's fantastic Crew,
Resign'd I 'll wait my final Doom,
And bid the busy World adieu.
The World has, now, no Joy for me;
Nor can Life now one Pleasure boast;
Since all my Eyes desir'd to see,
My Wish, my Hope, my All, is lost;

171

Since she, so form'd to please, and bless,
So wise, so innocent, so fair,
Whose Converse sweet made Sorrow less,
And brighten'd all the Gloom of Care,
Since she is lost:—Ye Powers divine!
What have I done, or thought, or said?
O say! what horrid Act of mine,
Has drawn this Vengeance on my Head?
Why should Heaven favour Lycon's Claim?
Why are my Heart's best Wishes crost?
What fairer Deeds adorn his Name?
What nobler Merit can he boast?
What higher Worth in him was found,
My true Heart's Service to outweigh?
A senseless Fop!—a dull Compound
Of scarcely animated Clay!
He dress'd, indeed, he danc'd with Ease,
And charm'd her, by repeating o'er
Unmeaning Raptures in her Praise,
That twenty Fools had said before:
But I, alas! who thought all Art
My Passion's Force would meanly prove,
Could only boast an honest Heart,
And claim'd no Merit but my Love.
Have I not sate—Ye conscious Hours
Be Witness—while my Stella sung,
From Morn to Eve, with all my Powers
Rapt in the Enchantment of her Tongue!

172

Ye conscious Hours, that saw me stand,
Entranc'd in Wonder, and Surprize,
In silent Rapture press her Hand,
With Passion bursting from my Eyes,
Have I not lov'd?—O Earth, and Heaven!
Where, now, is all my youthful Boast?
The dear Exchange I hop'd was given
For slighted Fame, and Fortune lost!
Where, now, the Joys that once were mine?
Where all my Hopes of future Bliss?
Must I those Joys, these Hopes resign?
Is all her Friendship come to this?
Must, then, each Woman faithless prove;
And each fond Lover be undone?
Are Vows no more!—Almighty Love!
The sad Remembrance let me shun!
It will not be—my honest Heart
The dear, sad Image still retains;
And, spight of Reason, spight of Art,
The dreadful Memory remains.
Ye Powers divine, whose wonderous Skill
Deep in the Womb of Time can see,
Behold, I bend me to your Will,
Nor dare arraign your high Decree!
Let her be bless'd with Health, with Ease,
With all your Bounty has in Store;
Let Sorrow cloud my future Days,
Be Stella bless'd!—I ask no more.

173

But lo! where, high in yonder East,
The Star of Morning mounts apace!
Hence—let me fly the unwelcome Guest,
And bid the Muse's Labour cease.

ELEGY II.

[When, young, Life's Journey I began]

When, young, Life's Journey I began,
The glittering Prospect charm'd my Eyes,
I saw along the extended Plan
Joy after Joy successive rise:
And Fame her golden Trumpet blew;
And Power display'd her gorgeous Charms;
And Wealth engag'd my wandering View;
And Pleasure woo'd me to her Arms:
To each, by Turns, my Vows I paid,
As Folly led me to admire;
While Fancy magnify'd each Shade;
And Hope increas'd each fond Desire.
But, soon, I found 'twas all a Dream;
And learn'd the fond Pursuit to shun,
Where few can reach their purpos'd Aim,
And thousands, daily, are undone:

174

And Fame, I found, was empty Air;
And Wealth had Terror for her Guest;
And Pleasure's Path was strewn with Care;
And Power was Vanity at best.
Tir'd of the Chace, I gave it o'er;
And, in a far sequester'd Shade,
To Contemplation's sober Power
My Youth's next Services I paid.
There Health and Peace adorn'd the Scene;
And oft, indulgent to my Prayer,
With mirthful Eye, and frolic Mien,
The Muse would deign to visit there:
There would she oft, delighted, rove
The flower-enamell'd Vale along;
Or wander with me through the Grove,
And listen to the Wood-lark's Song;
Or, 'mid the Forest's awful Gloom,
Whilst wild Amazement fill'd my Eyes,
Recal past Ages from the Tomb,
And bid ideal Worlds arise.
Thus, in the Muse's Favour blest,
One Wish alone my Soul could frame,
And Heaven bestow'd, to crown the Rest,
A Friend, and Thyrsis was his Name.
For manly Constancy, and Truth,
And Worth, unconscious of a Stain,
He bloom'd, the Flower of Britain's Youth,
The Boast and Wonder of the Plain.

175

Still, with our Years, our Friendship grew;
No Cares did then my Peace destroy;
Time brought new Blessings, as he flew;
And every Hour was wing'd with Joy:
But soon the blissful Scene was lost;
Soon did the sad Reverse appear;
Love came, like an untimely Frost,
To blast the Promise of my Year.
I saw young Daphne's Angel Form,
(Fool that I was, I bless'd the Smart)
And, while I gaz'd, nor thought of Harm,
The dear Infection seiz'd my Heart:
She was—at least in Damon's Eyes—
Made up of Loveliness, and Grace;
Her Heart a Stranger to Disguise;
Her Mind as perfect as her Face:
To hear her speak, to see her move,
(Unhappy I, alas! the While)
Her Voice was Joy, her Look was Love,
And Heaven was open'd in her Smile!
She heard me breathe my amorous Prayers,
She listen'd to the tender Strain,
She heard my Sighs, she saw my Tears,
And seem'd, at length, to share my Pain:
She said she lov'd—and I, poor Youth!
(How soon, alas! can Hope persuade!)
Thought all she said no more than Truth,
And all my Love was well repaid.

176

In Joys unknown to Courts, or Kings,
With her I sate the live-long Day,
And said, and look'd such tender Things,
As none beside could look, or say!
How soon can Fortune shift the Scene,
And all our earthly Bliss destroy?—
Care hovers round, and Grief's fell Train
Still treads upon the Heels of Joy.
My Age's Hope, my Youth's best Boast,
My Soul's chief Blessing, and my Pride,
In one sad Moment, all were lost;
And Daphne chang'd; and Thyrsis dy'd.
O, who, that heard her Vows ere-while,
Could dream these Vows were insincere?
Or, who could think, that saw her smile,
That Fraud could find Admittance there?
Yet, she was false!—my Heart will break!
Her Frauds, her Perjuries were such—
Some other Tongue than mine must speak—
I have not Power to say how much!
Ye Swains, hence warn'd, avoid the Bait;
O shun her Paths, the Traitress shun!
Her Voice is Death, her Smile is Fate,
Who hears, or sees her, is undone.
And, when Death's Hand shall close my Eye,
(For soon, I know, the Day will come)
O chear my Spirit with a Sigh;
And grave these Lines upon my Tomb.

177

THE EPITAPH.

[Consign'd to Dust, beneath this Stone]

Consign'd to Dust, beneath this Stone,
In Manhood's Prime, is Damon laid;
Joyless he liv'd, and dy'd unknown
In bleak Misfortune's barren Shade.
Lov'd by the Muse, but lov'd in vain—
'Twas Beauty drew his Ruin on;
He saw young Daphne on the Plain;
He lov'd, believ'd, and was undone:
His Heart then sunk beneath the Storm,
(Sad Meed of unexampled Truth)
And Sorrow, like an envious Worm,
Devour'd the Blossom of his Youth.
Beneath this Stone the Youth is laid—
O greet his Ashes with a Tear!
May Heaven with Blessings crown his Shade,
And grant that Peace he wanted here!

178

STANZAS, To ------, with the FOREGOING ELEGIES.

Since you permit the lowly Muse
This Offering at your Feet to lay,
Her Flight with Ardour she renews,
Nor heeds the Perils of the Way:
If, in the Poet's artless Lays,
Late warbled in his native Grove,
You find, perchance, one Line to praise,
Or should one Sentiment approve;
Let Critics babble, o'er and o'er,
Of Figures false, and Accent wrong,
Blest in thy Smile, he asks no more—
There must be Merit in the Song.
But, when of Epitaph, and Worm,
Of Death, and Tombs, the Bard doth rave,
You 'll ask, How 'scap'd he from the Storm?
What Power hath snatch'd him from the Grave?
The Muse the Secret will impart;
(For what avails it to disguise?)
A Speck he saw in Daphne's Heart,
That dimm'd the Lustre of her Eyes.

179

But, had the Maid thy Power possess'd,
To bind and strengthen Beauty's Charm;
The Virtues glowing in thy Breast;
The Graces breathing in thy Form:
Of Manners gentle, and sincere,
Had Daphne been what—is,
And had Misfortune's Stroke severe
Then robb'd him of the promis'd Bliss,
Too big for Words, the deep Distress
Had quickly stopp'd the Poet's Tongue:
O'er-borne by Passion's wild Excess,
His Heart had sunk, unwept, unsung.
The Youth, too sure, had dy'd unknown;
No Lover's Sigh his Shade had bless'd;
No rude Memorial on his Stone
Had mark'd his Ashes from the Rest;
Unless, perchance, with one kind Tear,
The pitying Maid his Fate should mourn,
And bid some happier Servant's Care
To throw a Laurel on his Urn.

180

AN INSCRIPTION, Written upon one of the TUBS in HAM WALKS.

Dark was the Sky with many a Cloud,
The fearful Lightnings flash'd around,
Low to the Blast the Forest bow'd,
And bellowing Thunders rock'd the Ground;
Fast fell the Rains upon my Head,
And weak, and weary were my Feet,
When lo! this hospitable Shed,
At length supply'd a kind Retreat.
That, in fair Memory's faithful Page,
The Bard's Escape may flourish long,
Yet shuddering from the Tempest's Rage,
He dedicates the votive Song.
For ever sacred be the Earth
From whence the Tree its Vigour drew!
The Hour that gave the Seedling Birth!
The Forest where the Scyon grew!
Long honour'd may his Ashes rest,
Who first the tender Shoot did rear!
Blest be his Name!—but doubly blest
The friendly Hand that plac'd it here!

181

O ne'er may War, or Wind, or Wave,
This pleasurable Scene deform;
But Time still spare the Seat, which gave
The Poet Shelter from the Storm!
 

Two Seats in Ham Walks, near Richmond, in Surry, called Tues, from their Form, which resembles an Hegshead split in two.

INSCRIPTIONS, INTENDED FOR THE MONUMENT OF THOMAS PRIOR, ESQ

I.

Form'd by the Hand of Heaven, with vast Design,
To shew Mortality almost divine,
An Eye to see the sad, the deep Distress,
An Heart to pity, and a Hand to bless,
A Soul sincere, a Bounty unconfin'd,
The Friend to Virtue, Friend to Human-kind;
Such Prior was!—Ye, whom or Fate profound,
Or Chance, directs to tread this hallow'd Ground,
If Virtue claims Respect, stop, stop, and mourn,
And strew fresh Garlands o'er his honour'd Urn;
Still let his Name your grateful Bosoms charm,
His Deeds with glorious Emulation warm;
So kindred Worth once more may grace the Page,
And other Priors bless another Age!

182

II.

Whoever thou art,
Whom Chance hath conducted to this Place of Sorrow,
Stop for a Moment,
And pay a Tear to the Memory of
THOMAS PRIOR:
A Man,
Who, without having been ever distinguished
By public Trust, or Employment,
Merited more of his Country,
Than any of his Time:
To his great Capacity,
To his unwearied Application,
The Public is indebted
Not only for the Improvement of all,
But, also, for the Invention of many,
Useful Arts:
He was a Man,
If ever there was such,
Strictly just;
Attached to no Party, but
A Friend to all;
Of Greatness no Way solicitous,
But as it gave him a larger Power of doing Good;
Nor any further desirous of Riches,
Than as they served him to relieve the Honest and Necessitous.
But,
To what Purpose
Does this Marble attempt
To enumerate his Virtues?
His unparalleled Integrity,
His Sanctity of Manners,
And
His unconfined Benevolence,
Have raised him a more lasting Monument
In the Hearts of his Countrymen.

183

VERSES, ADDRESSED TO THE LORD LIEUTENANT, At the ELABORATORY, T. C. D.

In the Year 1755.
While every Art, which Virtue can commend,
Aspires to make a Hartington its Friend,
Each Science sues his Patronage to claim,
And borrows Lustre from so bright a Name;
Permit, great Sir, our youthful Toils to share
The kind Indulgence of thy princely Care:
Through every Kind, through each Degree, and Race,
While Nature's latent Energy we trace,
And find, in every Insect, Plant, and Flower,
Unbounded Wisdom, and Almighty Power,
'Tis thine, my Lord, on every Art to smile,
But, most benignly on thy favourite Isle.
Lo! Alma's Sons rely on thee alone,
And almost dare to claim thee as their own:
No Wrongs they dread; no Injuries they fear;
But, all is Joy while Hartington is here.
 

William, Marquis of Hartington.


184

VERSES, ADDRESSED TO THE LORD LIEUTENANT, At the PRINTING-HOUSE, T. C. D.

While every Heart its grateful Tribute pays,
While every Tongue is wanton in thy Praise,
Accept, illustrious Guardian of our State,
The Muses' Welcome to the Muses' Seat;
Where Learning, Wit, and every mental Grace,
And Merit, more than Station, give thee Place.
As vernal Suns awake unfolding Flowers,
As Nature smiles with Heaven-descended Showers;
Wak'd into Joy, so smile Hibernia's Swains;
So smiles our Alma, while her Ca'ndish reigns;
Whose Presence bids e'en baleful Discord fly,
Sooths Discontent, and robs her of her Sigh:
Science shall no more her drooping Head recline,
To seek, and raise desponding Worth is thine;
And Fame, by thy Example taught, shall boast,
He best confers Rewards, who merits most:
Thrice happy we! while George adorns the Throne,
Whose Choice proclaims our Blessings are his own;
Thrice happy Nation! who with Rapture view
In him, the best of Kings; of Viceroys, you.

185

ON THE MARRIAGE OF Lord KINGSBOROUGH, and Miss FITZGERALD.

Ter felices, et amplius,
Quos irrupta tenet Copula.
Hor.

As a soft Spring unveils an early Rose,
And tints its Fairness with a modest Red,
Such Innocence doth Hymen's Torch disclose,
When virgin Blushes grace the nuptial Bed:
Or, as Pomona, in the Spring of Year,
With sickly Beauties meets the half-pleas'd Eye,
'Till her lov'd God, with Ardor, draweth near,
And gives to every Charm a gladder Dye:
So Hymen ripens into perfect Grace
Charms, which but want so great a Master's Hand;
His Touch compleats the Glories of the Face,
And gives to Beauty uncontroul'd Command.

186

To Thee, O Caroline, an humble Muse
Directs this Strain; the gentle Strain approve;
To tune his Lay what Poet can refuse
To Caroline, bright Excellence of Love!
Rich are thy Stores, but richer far thy Mind,
To bless thy Lord, the happy, happy Youth:
O may each faithful Lord for ever find
A Maid so rich in Constancy, and Truth.
Oft does Pandora blight the blooming Toast,
Too oft deforms the envy'd, lovely Wife;
But Sutton's saving Art, permit the Boast,
Thy winning Sweetness hath secur'd for Life.
My daring Muse, O Kingsborough, in vain,
Attempts the Rapture of thy Soul t'express;
Poetic Fancy cannot reach the Strain,
Nor fainting Language paint the fond Excess.
Sense, Beauty, Fortune, choicest Gifts of Heaven,
So choice, that seldom they together shine;
To others, singly, they are Blessings given,
But all unite to grace thy Caroline.
Thrice happy Pair! ‘whose anxious Hopes, and Fears,
‘In Infancy, were to each other known;’
Now Love, increasing with Increase of Years,
‘Hath twin'd your ever constant Hearts in one.’

187

O may you, then, the highest Pleasures taste!
Unsated Pleasures may you ever prove!
May every Morn dawn brighter than the past,
And shew you Patterns of connubial Love!
Dublin, Dec. 7th, 1769.
 

This amiable young Lady had been, then, lately inoculated by Mr. Sparrow, one of the Suttonian Practitioners; to which the Author of this little Piece, R. Houlton, M. A. who was one likewise, here alludes.

A Parody on a Verse of one of the Songs in the Opera of Artaxerxes.

CUPID, and his DARTS.

To Miss E. GREEN.
Cupid, perceiving every Day
The Bluntness of his Darts,
That Plutus, with resistless Sway,
Rul'd male, and female Hearts,
Enrag'd, his Quiver up he took;
Away the Arrows flung,
With Eye unaiming, and fierce Look,
Amidst the giddy Throng.
By Chance, one, only, still remain'd,
Of Make and Matter rare;
Quite new, unus'd, as yet unstain'd,
Untouch'd by any Fair:
Of plain good Sense the Shaft was made;
Beauty the Quill did arm;
The Point with Gold was overlaid;
Good Humour lent a Charm.

188

He, thus, his Mother then addrest,—
‘Here's one can never miss—
‘Madam, I flung away the Rest,
‘What shall I do with this?’
‘Why do you muse, or doubt so long?’
(Reply'd the Cyprian Queen)
‘The Dart must, sure, to her belong;
‘Then give it, Child, to Green.’

ODE to HEALTH.

INSCRIBED TO The Right Hon. EARL OF CHARLEMOUNT.
Health, who fann'st with breezy Wing
The genial Bosom of the Earth;
Who summon'st forth the green-rob'd Spring,
And giv'st the silken Flow'ret Birth!
With laughing Eye, and rosy Hue,
And Hairs that shed ambrosial Dew,
Thy flowing Garments unconfin'd,
In frolick Dance, and sprightly Measures,
Thou lead'st the buxom Loves, and Pleasures,
Giving Sorrow to the Wind.

189

With active Step, before thee hies,
For ever brisk, for ever gay,
The Village Swain, rude Exercise,
Whose Cheeks contemn the sunny Ray:
In his Hand he bears the Spoil,
Earn'd with wholesome Sweat and Toil;
And from his Waist depends the Horn;
The Horn, with whose enlivening Sound
He rouses the loud-mouthed Hound,
And chearly greets the slumbering Morn.
Chaste Temperance, too, adorns thy Train,
That loves to diet with the Poor;
And Chearfulness, with Brow serene,
That opes the early Shepherd's Door:
To Heaven's own Favourites only sent,
With dove-like Air, comes sweet Content;
Before her fly Disease, and Strife;
Around unnumber'd Blessings spring;
Serene, she waves her Halcyon Wing,
And stills the troubled Sea of Life.
On the May-morn at the Green
Where they foot the festal Dance,
When Echo hails the Summer Queen,
And Envy leers with backward Glance,
To Health the Nymph directs her Prayer,
Lest Sickness her fair Form impair,
Or Spells of not less hurtful Kind;
Lest on her Cheek the Damask fade,
False Thyrsis kiss some ruddier Maid,
And give his Promise to the Wind.

190

The chearful Hind, who seldom fails
With early Song to greet the Dawn,
Thy Fragrance with the Breeze inhales;
And tracks thee o'er the dewy Lawn;
When late at Eve-tide he returns
For him the chearful Fuel burns,
And a pure Meal his Toil repays;
Around his lusty Offspring sports,
His Kiss the buxom Phillis courts,
And, blessing thee, he sleeps at Ease.
At Ease thy Favourite lays him down,
Sees Conquest spread her Wings in vain,
The Victor faint beneath his Crown,
And tears the pageant Shew profane:
From smoaky Towns, and gilded Courts,
To where the Sunday Hamlet sports,
Health Hand in Hand with Temperance flies:
In vain, alas! the Fee's bestow'd,
Pale Luxury sinks beneath the Load,
And Pain the Force of Herbs defies.
In the trying Hour of Pain,
The Head, with Weight of Woe reclin'd,
Happy they, who still retain
The Front compos'd, the unruffled Mind!
They only know such heart-felt Ease,
Who count by virtuous Acts their Days;
Whose open Hands unsparing give;
Who view Distress with pitying Eye;
Who dare, like Charlemount, to die,
And know, like Charlemount, to live.

191

Ah! Source of Life, fair Health, arise;
Let Virtue hang the Head no more;
And, to a Nation's longing Eyes,
A grateful Nation's Boast restore:
Come, rosy Health, and with thee bring
Large Draughts of Hebe's living Spring,
The Spring that bathing Angels use;
Here, here, alas! pale Virtue lies—
Here, what thy richest Store supplies,
As generous as himself, diffuse.
So shall fair Alma's grateful Choir
Salute thee with an annual Lay;
So shall the Bard attune his Lyre,
When Hand in Hand you dance with May.
Where Mirth, and Chearfulness, abide,
That ne'er leave Innocence's Side;
Where Temperance sups on chastest Fare;
Where eye-compos'd Contentment smiles,
And Wit, that Pain itself beguiles;
Even there should rosy Health repair.
 

Milton.

An EPITAPH.

[Poor Ralpho lies beneath this Rood]

Poor Ralpho lies beneath this Rood;
And, sure, he must be bless'd;
For, though he could do nothing good,
He meant to do the best.
Think of your Souls, ye guilty Throng,
Who, knowing what is right, do wrong.

192

LINES, Written in a blank Leaf of JOHNSON's WORKS

PRESENTED TO THE Right Hon. MARGARETTA, Countess of LOUTH.
When vulgar Lips, without Distinction, praise
The Artist's Labours, or the Poet's Lays;
Or, what's more common still, at Random blame;
Their Praise, or Censures, we regard the same:
No Raptures that, no Tremors these impart;
But die in Air, and never reach the Heart.
Not so, where Candour with Good-sense presides,
And Taste with Elegance the Judgement guides:
True Genius triumphs there in just Applause,
Nor shuns Reproof, but thence Instruction draws;
The Breast with generous Emulation glows;
And every Touch the grateful Influence shews.
This warm'd both Johnsons with congenial Fire;
And makes even me to please a Louth aspire.
Thus, when, of old, on Memnon's Statue shone
The bless'd Effulgence of th'all-chearing Sun,
The sounding Brass confess'd the potent Ray,
In heart-felt Pæans to the King of Day.
 

Dr. Samuel Johnson, Author of the Rambler, Idler, &c. and Johnson the Bookbinder, said to be the best in the World, who exerted his peculiar Taste and Skill on this Occasion.


193

REBUS I.

To what Man is oft call'd, to distinguish the Sex,
If the Letters which signify Saint you annex;
What all Men must do, though one whimsical Elf
Will modestly plead for excepting himself;
What Heroes contend for, and all Men desire,
From the King on his Throne to the bare-footed Friar;
With the Soldier's last Refuge, in Time of Distress,
When Courage, retreating, despairs of Success:
These, added together, will give you the Name
Of a Girl, in whom Envy finds nothing to blame;
Whom I'd praise, but for Fear, and 'tis certainly true,
That she 'd laugh at my Praise, and my Poetry too;
And all I could say would be saying no more,
Than all Men, who know her, acknowlege before.

The SOLUTION.

What Man is oft call'd, as I take it, is He;
And Saint is express'd by an s and a t;
That all Men must ert, little Proof does require;
(The Pope's vain Pretences but prove him a Lyar )
And Power is the Thing which all Mortals desire;

194

When a Soldier retreats, that his Trench is the Place,
Is as plain, in my Mind, as the Nose on your Face:
I have one Reason more, which convinces me quite,
That this same Solution I offer is right—
Having search'd through the Town, both the High, and the Low,
The Description suits Nobody else that I know.
 

The Rebus is on all Hands agreed to be the lowest Species of poetical Composition; the four, here offered to the Public, are, perhaps, as pardonable as most of the Kind: The two, which have no Solution annexed, may serve to exercise the Ingenuity of those amongst our younger Readers, who may delight in such Trifles.

The Pope pretends to Infallibility.

REBUS II.

The fine vermil Glow of the innocent Cheek,
The Garden's gay Pride let your Diligence seek;
The Scene of Wolfe's Glory, of Sackville's Disgrace,
Of rural Delights, and the Sports of the Chace;
Then spell, put together, and tell me the Name;
And Apollo himself shall you rival in Fame:
'Tis Venus, in Fact, who, forsaking the Skies,
Has put on, for a Frolic, a human Disguise,
No Vapour, no Cloud, but a palpable Form
Of pure Flesh and Blood, substantial, and warm;
What removes every Doubt, is—her Train to compose,
Two Graces attend her, wherever she goes;
(Each so like to their Queen, though, your Homage, and Wonder
You 'll be apt to misplace, if you meet them asunder)
The third, from mere Prudence, continues above;
Lest the Gods should shake off the Dominion of Love.
 
------ Eris mihi magnus Apollo.
Virg.

Alluding to the well-known Fable of Juno and Ixion.


195

The SOLUTION.

The vermil Glow of Beauty's Cheek,
The Garden's Pride you bid me seek;
The Scene, where late with lasting Shame,
Dishonour stain'd the Sackville Name,
Where, clasp'd in Victory's Embrace,
Young Wolfe compleated Glory's Race,
And where, with early Hound and Horn,
The Hunter-train awake the Morn—
With Lover's Haste the Task I claim;
And tell, that Bloomfield is the Name.
One Doubt's yet unsatisfied—Which of the three?
A Question too hard to be answer'd by me:
So equally lovely their Features, and Eyes,
Not Paris himself could determine the Prize.

REBUS III.

Take the Name of a River, in Story well known,
Where the Eagles of Rome oft in Triumph have flown;
The Half and the Whole of a Thing that Men say,
When they speak with Intent to deceive, or betray;
A Spot, whence the Eye may at Pleasure command
The Country beneath, and the neighbouring Land;
A Letter, or Word, for 'tis both, or 'tis either,
That's fairly worth most of the Rest put together;

196

With three Fourths of three Feet, or, if that should seem hard,
In Language more common, three Fourths of a Yard:
These, added, will give you the Name I require;
A Girl, whom even Malice is forc'd to admire;
Whose Worth should I praise, I must praise it so high,
That all, who don't know her, would think 'twere a Lye;
And whose Eyes—But, stop there, you poetical Tribe;
Their Power you may feel, but you cannot describe.

REBUS IV.

What Thomas feels, or senseless he,
When Mary, sitting on his Knee,
With Looks of Love his Passion hears;
One Fourth of Virtue's surest Guard,
Through Life's rough Sea the unerring Card
By which her Vessel Wisdom steers:
Take, next, one Half of that sweet Look
Which Marian wears, when o'er the Brook,
She decks her for the rustic Ball,
With what, if right my Grannum sung,
Will leave a Blister on your Tongue:
Then try your Skill, and join them all.
By Nature's happiest Hand array'd
In sweet Simplicity, the Maid
Rejects each meretricious Art—
O Nesbit, what a Prospect thine!
To whom thy favouring Stars assign
The envy'd Treasure of her Heart.

197

REASON's TRIUMPH: A CANTATA.

RECITATIVO.

Beneath an aged Oak, whose verdant Head
Stretch'd o'er the Vale its venerable Shade;
Beside a Brook, whose Bosom, all serene,
Reflected back the Beauties of the Scene,
That various Flowers that on the Border grew,
The Grove's gay Verdure, and the Sky's clear blue,
Young Strephon lay: Strephon the blythest Swain
That ever pip'd or danc'd upon the Plain;
Of all Love's Votaries, since old Adam's Fall,
None deeper drank the Honey, or the Gall;
But, freed at length, the Chain no more can bind,
Returning Reason opens on his Mind,
New Prospects dawn, new Hopes his Thoughts employ;
And thus he hails the Birth-Day of his Joy.

AIR.

Sweet Liberty! celestial Guest!
Welcome—O welcome to my Breast!
Too long from thence by Passion driven,
Thou best, thou noblest Gift of Heaven!

198

No more I drag the servile Chain;
No more I sigh; no more I mourn;
Fair Reason now resumes her Reign;
And Peace and Joy again return.

RECITATIVO.

Thus while the Shepherd sung, the feather'd Throng
Catch the soft Sounds, and imitate his Song;
Fir'd by the Theme, on trembling Wings they rise,
And pour a Flood of Music through the Skies;
All Nature smiles; sweet Echo swells the Voice;
The Hills, the Fountains, and the Groves rejoice:
When thus the Youth his Song begins again;
And pleas'd Attention waits upon the Strain.

AIR.

Thou Tyrant God, with all thy Train
Of anxious Fears, and wasting Pain,
The restless Wish, the Tear, the Sigh,
And Jealousy with jaundic'd Eye,
Hence farewell!—My Heart is free,
Restor'd to Peace and Liberty.
Now, no more I dread thy Power—
At thy Shrine no more I bow—
Hence begone!—thy Reign is o'er—
Tyrant!—I defy thee now.

199

My Cares are gone; my Sorrows cease;
My Breast regains its wonted Peace;
And Joy, and Hope, returning, prove
Reason is too strong for Love.
 

This Cantata (as it was the first written) should have preceded the Recantation, Page 141: And, our Readers may observe, these four last Lines are there introduced in a Quotation.

SONG.

[Belinda's sparkling Eyes, and Wit]

Belinda's sparkling Eyes, and Wit,
Do various Passions raise;
And, like the Lightening, yield a bright,
But momentary Blaze:
Eliza's milder, gentler Sway,
Her Conquests fairly won,
Shall last 'till Life and Time decay,
Eternal as the Sun.
Thus the wild Flood, with deafening Roar,
Bursts dreadful from on high;
But soon its empty Rage is o'er,
And leaves the Channel dry;
While the pure Stream, which still, and slow,
Its gentler Current brings,
Through every Change of Time shall flow,
With unexhausted Springs.

200

ODE On FREDERICK III. King of PRUSSIA.

1759.

I.

1.

Goddess of the silver Lyre,
Loftiest of the tuneful Quire,
Thou, whose high exalted Lay
Beams on great Acts a more eternal Day!
Thou, whose sweetly-sounding Song
Pour'd the rapid Stream along,
When, in Numbers truly great,
Pindar, in imperial State,
Rais'd the bold Notes of all thy trembling Strings,
To blazon high the Deeds of Heroes, and of Kings.

201

2.

Valour, pure and active Fire,
Offspring of an heavenly Flame,
Claims thy Aid, O raptur'd Lyre,
Claims thy Passport unto Fame;
Wisdom, Guardian of the Soul,
Whose dread Command the Passions hush'd obey;
Whose Nod can even their boldest Rage controul,
Wisdom demands thy most majestic Lay;
To inborn Virtue lo!
The Strains spontaneous flow,
Warbling in their Favourite's Praise,
Mix the well-according Lays:
For her, the Soft, the Strong, their Numbers join;
For her, both Ease and Majesty combine,
And blend, like Shade and Light, in Harmony divine.

202

3.

In distant Ages, and in various Climes,
All-ruling Providence with powerful Hand,
Has rais'd some Souls to blaze to future Times,
In Peace to govern, or in War command:
But, prudent, has to each consign'd
But one Perfection of the Mind:
Some shine with Splendor in the bloody Field,
Grasp the strong Lance, or wave the gleamy Shield:
Others, whom milder Arts adorn,
Deal righteous Laws to Ages yet unborn;
Or, pleas'd the Paths of Science to explore,
To them has Nature op'd her ample Store:
Others, inspir'd by Truth's un-erring Ray,
In their own Breasts behold unclouded Day;
Theirs is the peaceful Bliss, the Joy refin'd,
Calm Innocence is theirs, the Sunshine of the Mind.

II.

1.

See! where Heaven profusely pours
All these Gifts in mingled Showers,
All their sweetest Odours breathe,
And form for Frederick's Brow a blooming Wreath;
Valour, as the springing Rose,
With a crimson Tincture glows;
Wisdom, as the Jonquil fair,
Scents the Zephyrs ambient Air;
While Virtue, as the snow-clad Lilly bright,
Streams on the wondering Eye a more unsully'd Light.

203

2.

Science, Daughter of the Skies,
Bade his Genius early soar,
Bade the kindling Spirit rise,
And the Paths of Fame explore;
As from Intuition's Eye,
Refulgent, beams the keen all-piercing Ray,
With infelt Vigour hails its native Sky,
Bright with the Splendors of meridian Day:
Through Heavenly Glories led,
Then views the mighty Dead;
Thence of every Gift possest,
Which enlighten'd every Breast;
The Lustre which illum'd the Julian Name,
The steady Blaze expanding Peter's Fame,
And Alexander's Glow, the Energy of Flame.

3.

Wrapp'd in the Glooms, embrowning Forests spread,
The fair Astræa pours her melting Woe;
In dim Obscurity she veils her Head,
While Indignation bids her Sorrows slow:
No longer, hark! the Fair complains,
Her lov'd, her darling Frederick reigns;
Rais'd and assisted by his powerful Hand,
Now she resumes her long-usurp'd Command:
Surmise, and Doubt, and dark Delay,
Affrighted fly, and yield the sovereign Sway;
No longer, Arts, nor double Frauds avail,
To Truth, alone, inclines the unerring Scale;

204

Pure flows the Stream of Justice from the Source,
With equal Current, and a gentle Force;
While Frederick, clad with terror-darting Awe,
Drives from the hallow'd Fount the Harpies of the Law.

III.

1.

Now, the angry Lord of War
Wings the Thunder of his Car;
Darting quick, at his Command,
Stern Devastation shakes each guilty Land;
All his red-hot Fury hurl'd
Flames throughout the Western World;
Then, amid' the Storms of Fate,
Frederick rose supremely great;
Then, pour'd he all the Virtues of his Mind,
And all the Hero with the patriot Monarch join'd.

2.

Witness, all ye Streams that flow
Through Germania's every Vale,
Oft you 've heard the Shrieks of Woe
Swell each horror-wafting Gale:
Billow'd oft with Austrian Blood,
Hast thou, O Albis, urg'd thy purple Way,
When Dresden's Towers, incumbent o'er thy Flood,
Though strength-encircled, own'd the Victor's Sway:
In vain, unnumber'd Foes
His rapid Speed oppose,
Vain, differing Interests combin'd,
Vain, with Nations Nations join'd;

205

As, over Egypt's wide-extended Plain,
The Locusts spread their dark-embody'd Train,
Before the heaven-sent Wind then plunge into the Main.

3.

From ice-built Hills, and frozen Plains, afar,
Wide Russia spreads her congregated Host;
And Suevia sends her hardy Sons to War,
Erst lov'd of Mars, and stern Bellona's Boast:
From Vales, where tepid Breezes play,
Enliven'd by the solar Ray,
Fir'd by the Thirst of Sway, and wide Command,
Gallia by Myriads pours each warlike Band:
Where the fierce Danube whirls his Course,
And rolls through various Realms his headlong Force,
Impetuous as his Waves, th'embattled Throng
Urge the rough Tide of raging War along:
Behold ill-omen'd Grief, and pale Despair,
Perch'd on their Standards, fan the darken'd Air,
While Victory new-plumes her glistening Wing,
And, as at Rosbach's Plain, salutes her favourite King.

IV.

1.

Scenes of 'raptur'd Vision rise,
Mystic, wave before mine Eyes,
Painting, as they skim along,
Deeds which demand the boldest Flights of Song;
Glancing, as the Rays of Light,
Quick they glitter on my Sight;

206

Heard you now these Sounds of Fear
Rend the terror-stricken Ear?
Thence they proceed, where to thy dazzled Eye,
The Prussians pour along, the nerveless Austrians fly.

2.

Softly streaming into Woe,
Change we now the various Strain;
Let the melting Sorrows flow,
Let the tender Muse complain:
Thee, of every Praise possest,
With heart-felt Sighs, lamenting Heroes mourn;
Bless'd in thy Life, but in thy Fall more bless'd,
The Tears of Royal Friendship grac'd thy Urn;
Responsive Groans around
Return'd the plaintive Sound;
Through all the joyless Host was spread,
“Our Friend, our Chief, our Keith is dead!”
Oh, lov'd of Virtue, if her purest Flame
Can 'raptur'd Joys, and heavenly Pleasures claim,
Thy Soul has sprung to Bliss on Wings of well-earn'd Fame.

3.

Through Time's dark Bosom can the Muse's Ray
On future Ages beam her piercing Light;
In mental Vision pour a Gleam of Day
On Deeds which scorn the Ken of vulgar Sight:
Behold the Rage of War is fled;
No more the Plains are strew'd with Dead;

207

Fair Peace extends her olive-bearing Hand;
The kindred Arts attend, and bless the Land:
In Northern Groves the Nine inspire,
Breathe the soft Lay, or string the sounding Lyre;
Succeeding Newtons range amid the Skies,
And other Raphaels, other Miltons rise;
O Days auspicious! Golden Age restor'd!
When Frederick sheaths the Terrors of the Sword:
Then late Posterity, through every Page,
Shall with his Name embalm this young Augustan Age.
 

The above Ode, with some little Variation, and the one following, are attempted, in the Manner of Pindar, as described in the Scholia on Hephæstion: It is the very last Paragraph of those Scholia; a Translation of which is here inserted for the Information of our fair Readers, who may have entertained mistaken Ideas of the ancient Ode, from the incorrect Copies given us by Mr. Cowley, and his Imitators.

“You must know, (says the Scholiast) that the Ancients, in their Odes, framed two larger Stanzas, and one less. The first of the large Stanzas they called Strophe; singing it on their Festivals, at the Altars of their Gods, and dancing at the same Time: The second they called Antistrophe; in which they inverted the Dance: The less Stanza was named the Epode; which they sung, standing still. The Strophe, as they say, denoted the Motion of the higher Sphere; the Antistrophe, that of the Planets; the Epode, the fixed Station and Repose of the Earth.”

Hence it appears, the two larger Stanzas were accompanied with Dancing; and that they danced one Way, while the Strophe was singing; and then danced back again, while the Antistrophe was singing; which shews why those two Parts consisted of the same Length and Measure. If we consider how much Breath is required for a full Song, perhaps we may conclude that the Strophe, and Antistrophe, partook something of the Nature of Recitative; and that the Epode, which was sung standing still, was the more compleat Air.

If the Ode ran into any Length, it was always divided into Triplets of Stanzas; the two first being constantly of the same Length, and Measure; and all the Epodes, in like Manner, corresponding with each other.

In the present Ode, the Similitude between the Strophe and Antistrophe is designedly omitted; as the Custom, which seemed to make it necessary amongst the Greeks, has no Place amongst us; and, as the Deviation does not, it is apprehended, trespass too much upon the Regularity of, and, at the same Time, gives Variety to the Piece.

The Triplets of Stanzas, as they are repeated, are here marked by the Roman Numerals I. II. III. &c. The Strophe, Antistrophe, Epode, are distinguished by the Figures 1, 2, 3.

ODE on BRITISH FREEDOM.

INSCRIBED TO THE Most Noble, WILLIAM, Marquis of KILDARE.

I.

1.

'Twas in the silent Hour of Eve,
When gently pensive Visions roll,
When Joys, which Thought alone can give,
Spread their Dominion o'er the Soul,
A Youth, who oft was wont to rove,
And woo the Dryads of the Grove,

208

Aloft, from Richmond's wood-crown'd Height,
Beheld the Day's descending Light,
Beheld the Verdure of the Vale,
The tufted Bank where Thamis glides,
The green-rob'd Grove, the opening Dale,
Where every gentler Grace presides;
Where, o'er the Face of all the varied Ground,
The Power of Beauty reigns, and pours her Blessings round.

2.

‘And O!’ (he cry'd) ‘thou lovely Maid,
‘Fair Fancy, grant thy genial Fire,
‘If e'er by native Hill, or Shade,
‘I wak'd in Youth the rural Lyre!
‘If e'er, along the lonely Shore,
‘Where loud the Atlantic Surges roar,
‘Or where Leana's Waters spread,
‘And Turk erects his fir-clad Head,
‘Thus oft invok'd at early Day,
‘Thou hast listen'd to thy Suppliant's Prayer,
‘Thou hast deign'd to raise his lowly Lay,
‘Or deign'd his vacant Hours to share,
‘Now on this Summit take thy silent Stand,
‘And throw thine Eyes around Britannia's happy Land!

209

3.

‘In yonder Wood, whose darkening Gloom
‘Bids Horror every Form assume,
‘Bids awe-struck Contemplation soar,
‘Lo! Altars rise distain'd with Gore!
‘The Victim bleeds!—Thence o'er his Soul
The Druid feels the sacred Phrenzy roll:—
“Hence—to your Arms!—your Gods maintain!—
“Lo! riding o'er the billowy Main,
“A mighty Hero, from afar,
“Provokes you to the Rage of War!—
Andate, hear!—May Julius feel
Cassibelan's avengeful Steel!
“And may thy suppliant Cumri still maintain
“Their Fathers' hallow'd Faith, their ancient freeborn Reign!”
 

Richmond, a Village in Surry, twelve Miles from London, which has been termed the Frescati of England. It was, anciently, the Seat of our Monarchs; and the Palace, from its Splendor, was called Shene, which, in the Saxon Language, signifies bright, or shining.

Turk is one of those stupendous Mountains, which hang over the lower Lough lene [Leana] near Killarney, in the County of Kerry. The Public has been enabled, in some Degree, to form a Judgement of the amazing Beauties of this Scenery, by the elegant Engravings lately published by Mr. Fisher, from his own Drawings: And, a very ingenious Gentleman (whose Modesty the Editor will not offend by the Mention of his Name) means, in the Course of the next Winter, to oblige the World with a Work upon the same Subject, which will probably last as long as the Scene it describes, or the Language in which it is written.

Cumri, or Cymri, the antient Name of the Britons.

II.

[1.]

‘In vain the Prayer—Behold the Gleam
‘Of Arms shines terrible from far!
‘Behold, thick plunging in the Stream,
‘The Romans sound the Din of War!

210

‘They yield—the painted Squadrons yield—
‘The Eagle fans the conquer'd Field;
‘And Rome, exulting from her Throne,
‘Beholds another World her own:
‘Vain is each Hero's bold Essay,
‘And vain the female Warrior's Arms;
‘Still Time confirms the Victor's Sway,
‘Though Freedom rouse to loud Alarms;
‘And vain, Caractacus, thy patriot Flame,
‘Theme of a future Bard, who well shall raise thy Fame.

2.

‘Say, who is he, aloft in Air,
‘Sublime upon his iron Car,
‘Who bids the trembling World prepare
‘For Hardihood, and Deeds of War?—
‘Stern Odin: —At his bold Command,
‘O'er Albion's wave-encircled Land,

211

‘From snow-clad Scarsfield issuing forth,
‘Flies the dread Spirit of the North.—
‘Again, a Pause—Behold, along
‘Where o'er yon widely-spreading Plain
‘The Raven leads her hardy Throng,
‘Fierce Plunderers of the freighted Main!
‘They meet; the Battle bleeds; and all around
‘Echo the Shrieks of Woe, the Victors' Shouts resound.

3.

‘Thou seest beneath these Clouds above,
‘Avenging, fly the Bird of Jove,
‘Thence, swift-descending on his Foe,
‘He strikes the lordly Falcon low;
‘So Rollo's Son—What Woes succeed!
‘Again shall Tyrants rule, and Britons bleed!

212

‘O! if, in Arthur's earliest Times,
‘From lilly'd Vales, and gentler Climes,
‘Fair Liberty to Albion's Shore
‘Her unsubmitting Standard bore,
‘Arouze again!—They hear! they hear!
‘Again, behold the uplifted Spear!
‘In yonder Mead the Sons of Glory rise;
‘And Freedom's Banner waves amid Britannia's Skies!
 

The Romans first invaded Britain, under Julius Cæsar, about fifty-five Years before the Birth of Christ; and established an Authority, which they maintained until about the Year of our Lord 448, when (the sudden Irruption of the Northern Nations, who began about this Time to spread themselves over all Europe, making it necessary for them to apply all their Force to the Defence of the Empire) they finally abandoned the Island. Even while their Authority did subsist, it was by no Means absolute, or quietly submitted to: The native Valour, and undisciplined Impetuosity of the Britons, gave them many severe Checks; particularly, about the Year 50, under Caractacus; and, nine Years after, under Boadicia, or Bonduca, Queen of the Iceni.

The Saxons were called in by the Britons, to assist them against the Picts, and Scots; and landed in the Isle of Thanet, about the Year 450: Hengist, and Horsa, their Leaders, are said to have been Great-Grandsons of Woden or Odin, who was worshipped as a God among those Nations.

The Northern Provinces of Germany, and Scandinavia, were the Hive, whence issued those Swarms of Barbarians, which, about the Beginning of the fifth Century, poured like an Inundation over the Southern Parts of Europe; and, in their Progress, well nigh obliterated every Monument of Art, and every Vestige of civil Government. Scarsfield is one of the many Names of that immense Chain of Mountains which crosses Scandinavia from North to South, and divides the Dominions of Sweden and Norway by an almost insurmountable Barrier.

The Danes made their first Attack upon Britain, about the Year 832, in the Reign of Egbert: In 1017 their Power was advanced to such an Height, that, upon the Murder of Edmund Ironside, Canute possessed himself of the Throne. The Danes bear a Raven upon their Standards.

Rollo, a petty Prince of Denmark, having, about the Beginning of the tenth Century, with a Multitude of Followers, attacked, and settled himself in the maritime Parts of France, obtained of Charles the simple a Grant of the Province formerly called Neustria, which he erected into a Dutchy, under the Name of Normandy, from its Northern Conquerors. From this Rollo descended William, who, having, on the 11th of October, 1066, overthrown and slain Harold in the bloody and decisive Battle of Hastings, ascended the English Throne, and thence obtained the Sir-name of The Conqueror.

Runny-Mede, or Runne-Mede, a large Plain between Windsor and Staines, where, on the 19th of June, 1215, the Barons of England compelled John, their King, to sign and seal the Great Charter of their Liberties: Strange! that, in an Age so jealous, and tenacious of their Liberty, as the present, no Building has yet been erected upon the Spot, to perpetuate the Memory of so great an Event; especially, as a late English Classic, some Years since, offered to the Public the following elegant and manly Lines, as an Inscription for such Building.

Thou, who the verdant Plain dost traverse here,
While Thames, among his Willows, from thy View
Retires, O Stranger, stay thee, and the Scene
Around contemplate well. This is the Place,
Where England's antient Barons, clad in Arms,
And stern with Conquest, from their tyrant King
(Then render'd tame) did challenge, and secure,
The Charter of thy Freedom. Pass not on,
'Till thou have bless'd their Memory, and paid
Those Thanks, which God appointed the Reward
Of public Virtue: And, if, chance, thy Home
Salute thee with a Father's honour'd Name,
Go, call thy Sons; instruct them what a Debt
They owe their Ancestors; and make them swear
To pay it, by transmitting down, intire,
Those sacred Rights to which themselves were born.

213

III.

1.

‘From Hour to Hour, from Age to Age,
‘Again shall Desolation spread?
‘Shall deadly Feuds, and civil Rage,
‘Pile Thames's Shores with Heaps of Dead?
‘Shall tame Submission still remain?
‘Shall Britons hug the servile Chain?
‘And o'er a free-born Native's Head
‘Shall foreign mitred Tyrants tread?
‘Forbid it, Heaven!—A brighter Ray
‘Now strikes athwart the dusky Gloom,
‘And, glancing o'er the Verge of Day,
‘Dispells the illusive Charms of Rome:
‘Far nobler Prospects gild the opening Skies,
Religion, Arts, and Laws, Commerce, and Glory rise.

2.

‘Now, Freedom, bid thy vestal Flame
‘To Spires of purer Radiance blaze;
‘Bid patriot Souls aspire to Fame,
‘To happier Deeds, and happier Days;
‘Bid o'er the white Rocks of thine Isle
‘Each open Grace, each Virtue smile;
‘And bid on Milton's honour'd Brow
‘Fair Wreaths of every Laurel blow:

214

‘O bid each Hero, in thy Cause,
‘Exert each active Power of Soul,
‘To guard thy Rights, assert thy Laws,
‘To raise thy Friends, thy Foes controul!
‘And, when Oppression lifts her iron Hand,
‘O bid thy Hambden rise, and rouze the sinking Land.

3.

‘One Effort more:—In other Skies
‘What Sons of virtuous Glory rise,
‘Who to fair Albion's frighted Shore
‘Her Laws, her sacred Laws restore!—
‘Fled is the Tyrant!—Turn thine Eyes
‘To where Augusta's lessening Turrets rise:
‘Succeeding Years now give Command
‘To Kings, the Fathers of the Land;
‘To Kings, whose delegated Throne
‘Establish'd Freedom calls her own;
‘Whose Thoughts, whose throbbing Wishes feel
‘That Godlike End, the general Weal;
‘Whose patriot Souls adopt the liberal Plan
‘Of Nature's hallow'd Gift, the freeborn State of Man.
 

The Reformation, the Doctrines of which were first preached in England, by Wickliff, and his Followers, in 1399: It had obtained, and was openly professed by, many Proselytes, under Henry VIII. in 1529; and was finally established, nearly upon the same Ground as at present, in the Reign of Edward VI. about the Middle of the sixteenth Century.

The noble Stand made by John Hambden, in 1637, against the illegal and arbitrary Imposition of Ship-Money, has rendered his Name deservedly dear to all the Lovers of Constitutional Liberty.

In the ever-memorable Year 1688, the united Wishes of a free People having forced the bigotted, and tyrannical James to abdicate a Crown of which he was unworthy, placed it upon the Head of William, Prince of Orange, who has justly merited the Title of Our great Deliverer from the Tyranny of Romish Superstition .


215

IV.

1.

‘Yet may, at length, the lowly Muse
‘Indulge one Wish, nor wish in vain!—
‘Far hence, O far be partial Views,
‘Mistaken Wisdom's selfish Train!
‘Wide as extends Britannia's Sway,
‘Where yonder Sun now slopes his Way,
‘O'er every Land, o'er every Isle,
‘May rising Arts and Commerce smile!
‘May Laws in equal Tenor flow!
‘May Freedom gild each sea-beat Shore!
‘No longer heard the Voice of Woe!
‘And dread Oppression seen no more!
‘And may Ierne praise a George's Name,
‘For Commerce, Arts, and Laws, and Freedom's sacred Flame!

216

2.

‘Then, Albion, o'er the subject Main
‘Thy Fleets with bolder Wing shall fly;
‘Nor Gallia's Threats thy Course restrain;
‘Nor Gallia's Arms thy Sons defy:
‘Around, o'er many a distant Shore,
Where, yet, no Raleighs dare explore,
‘Where, yet, no human Footsteps tread,
‘Thy strengthen'd Industry shall spread;
‘Thy Arts of cultur'd Peace shall rise;
‘Thy Trade extend her boundless Sway;
‘In Western Wilds, and Southern Skies,
‘Each British Muse shall tune her Lay;
‘And, o'er each Tenant of thy wide Domain,
‘When Freedom waves her Wand, fair Happiness shall reign.’

3.

Thus, on thy Brow, delightful Shene,
At Eve the stripling Swain was seen,
To breathe his patriot Sighs along,
His Heart according to the Song;—
Now o'er the darkly glimmering View
The gradual Night her fleecy Mantle threw;
The Stream, the Lawn, the lofty Spire,
The Groves, the Palaces, retire;
In every Shade is heard around
The nightly Warbler's solemn Sound,
Which, mild as Zephyr's whispering Gale,
Soft steals through Ham's Arcadian Vale;
Well pleas'd, he listens to the plaintive Lay;
Then homeward, calm and slow, he hies his lonely Way.
 

It is Matter of serious Concern to every thinking Inhabitant of this Country, that the Irish, although descended, for the most Part, from the same Ancestors, governed by the same Laws, and united under the same King, are (through some unaccountable Prejudice) scarcely considered, at the other Side of St. George's Channel, as Fellow-Subjects, or intitled to the same Privileges as the People of Great Britain: Yet, perhaps, it would not be very difficult to prove that, by such Conduct, they are not more unjust to us, than blind to their own Interests: It would, perhaps, be easy to point out many Branches of our Trade, and Manufactures, which, if barely freed from the Restraints that a narrow, illiberal, and misjudging Policy has laid upon them, would tend equally to our Honour, and the Emolument of our Sister-Kingdom. Britain is naturally the great Mart of our Industry and Commerce; the Channel into which all our Wealth must ultimately flow; the Labour of our Hands is exerted in her Service; and the Experience of Ages proves, beyond a Doubt, that our Hearts are warm in the same Cause: Why, then—let Reason answer—why these partial, these ungenerous Restrictions, demonstrably prejudicial to both? Why are Advantages thrown into the Hands of her Enemies, which her Brethren, her Children, are forbidden to participate?—But, this is not a Place for political Disquisitions.


217

THE TEMPLE OF GLORY.

INSCRIBED TO THE MERITORIOUS.

I

'Twas when Hyperion, rushing o'er the Sky,
With loosen'd Reins, had pass'd the Ram and Steer,
And, clad in Fire, approach'd, where, blazing high
In Heaven, the Twins' blue Palaces appear;
Pranking in flowery Robes the Meadows clear:
While bland Aurora, gorgeously bedight,
In th'azure Mantle of the vernal Year,
Dropping with Pearls, and fring'd with Silver bright,
Led forth, in radiant Lines, the splendid Hosts of Light:

II

It chanced me, beside the verdant Shore,
Of chrystal streaming Thamesis to stand,
Where ancient Windsor rear'd his Turrets hoar,
Majestic Dome! the Boast of Britain's Land,
Seat of her Kings, and Station of Command.
Nor haughty Rome, nor greater Babylon,
Nor that proud City on Phœnician Strand,
In Majesty, or Grandeur this outshone;
Nor Cusco, erst where flam'd the great Incayan Throne.

218

III

Sacred to Jove the lordly Oaks were seen
Wide o'er the Plains to fling their awful Shade,
Crowning the Hills with Dodonean Green;
The Castle's Walls were gloriously array'd
With ancient Trophies, from on high display'd,
And hostile Banners gain'd in former Times
By Edward's Arms, or Henry's, when they made
The Gaul weep Blood for haughty Valois' Crimes;
Heroic Theme, I deem, of many a Poet's Rhimes.

IV

Beside the River's Bank, a stately Frame
For some imperial Triumph seem'd prepar'd,
With hundred Pillars fronting fair the same;
The magic Roof of Chrystal strange was rear'd,
High blazing in the Clouds the Dome appear'd;
The Gate by laboring Winds was open thrown,
Loud issuing thence a Trumpet's Voice was heard,
That call'd the Kings of Earth before a Throne,
Where Glory, martial Form, in Robes magnific shone.

V

Stretch'd at her Feet, the Crowns of Monarchs lay,
And silken Standards bright in figur'd Gold,
The Spoils of conquer'd Realms, in proud Array
And Instruments of War, in Heaps uproll'd,
Proclaim'd the Deeds of many a Baron bold;
Justice before the Throne her Balance held;
Recording Truth appear'd, and Chronos old;
There Wisdom, resting on her Gorgon Shield;
Fame with her brazen Voice the lofty Palace fill'd.

219

VI

Ye Kings (she cry'd) ye Chiefs of Earth appear,
Who nobly sought Renown, and toil'd for Praise;
Who punish'd Tyrants by the Sword of War,
Or pass'd in peaceful Arts your happier Days,
Cherish'd fair Science, or the Muses' Lays;
Approach—the Crown from Glory's Hand receive,
Shadowing your Temples with immortal Bays;
The Crown that Virtue offers to the Brave,
The Wise, the Good, the Just, that blooms beyond the Grave.

VII

The Goddess spoke: Two mighty Kings advance;
The one, tremendous like the Warrior God,
With bruised Helm, and gore-discolour'd Launce;
Tremendous, to the lofty Dome he strode,
And, blazing, 'midst the sculptur'd Portal stood;
Fierce was his Gait, and sullen was his Frown;
Their Hero's Steps an hardy Band pursu'd,
All Sons of Mavors, ne'er in Arms o'erthrown,
Unshaken, who preserv'd their furious Monarch's Throne.

VIII

Him knew the Goddess for Borusia's Lord,
To Walpurg's haughty Race a fatal Foe;
Oft had her Armies sunk beneath his Sword,
Which laid Germania's proud Electors low;
Heaven's Instrument of Vengeance here below:
Still unimpair'd his dread Puissance stood,
Though thousand Thunders pointed at his Brow;
Still, through his Camps relentless Millions flow'd,
Boasting his stern Command, and thirsting after Blood.

220

IX

Beside his King the hoary Schwerin press'd,
The bloody Standard in his Hand he wav'd;
As when, at Prague, in martial Terrors dress'd,
The Austrian Thunder this stern Chieftain brav'd,
And, crown'd with Fame, a Warrior's Death receiv'd;
Next, Winterfield, to every Muse a Friend;
Zethen, and Sedlitz, yet from Slaughter sav'd;
Anhalt, and Keith, heroic Pair! attend,
Alike in Life renown'd, and glorious in their End.

X

But, far the noblest of the martial Band,
Of gentle Manners, dauntless, and sedate,
Obedient to his Brother's fierce Command,
The Prussian Henry stood; in Battle great,
Oft had his Wisdom sav'd their falling State;
When Frederick, at his wasted Realms enrag'd,
Rush'd on to War, and gave th'Event to Fate,
His shatter'd Host the Hero disengag'd,
And, dreadful in Delay, the dubious Battle wag'd.

XI

Now had the warlike Monarch reach'd the Throne;
Before him, Conquest, horrid Conquest, went;
Like fierce Bellona, Queen of Arms, she shone;
Beneath her ponderous Steps the Temple bent;
An Iron Mace, with gorey Hands she hent,
Roll'd back, like broken Waves, the noisy Crowd;
Through the vast Court her thundering Voice she sent,
And told, in lofty Terms, with Gesture proud,
Of Cities wrapt in Flames, and Countries drown'd in Blood.

221

XII

With her, tremendous, in the sacred Dome
The Prussian Hero sat, near Philip's Son,
Near Annibal, relentless Foe of Rome!
Dark Attila, who all the West o'er-run,
And him who first the Rock Tarpæan won,
Proud Alarick: But, chief distinguish'd there,
Zingis, and Timur, savage Tartars, shone;
Their horrid Conquests o'er the Walls appear,
When groaning Asia pass'd beneath the Edge of War.

XIII

Them Frederick join'd, nor yet his Battles ceas'd,
Curst with the dreadful Fame for which he fought;
When lo, a Youth, with nobler Triumphs grac'd,
In equal Pomp, the Throne of Glory fought,
Him Peace, and Commerce, to the Goddess brought;
Britannia's victor Chiefs uphold his Train,
Whom Liberty, heroic Virtue, taught,
Whose Arms controll'd aspiring Bourbon's Reign,
The Arbiters of Earth, the Sovereigns of the Main.

XIV

There, Clive, from India's conquer'd Thrones return'd,
Whose sceptred Vassals own'd his stern Commands;
There, Amberst, with an hundred Wreaths adorn'd
Of savage Chiefs, who rul'd those swarthy Bands,
That haunt, like midnight Fiends, Canada's Lands;
Boscawen, there, with naval Honours crown'd,
And Trophies gain'd near Lagos' burning Sands;
Victorious Hawke, from Conflans' Fall renown'd;
In Triumph Pocock stood; and martial Saunders frown'd.

222

XV

Urg'd on to Battle, by his Country's Love,
And the fair Fame by martial Deeds acquir'd,
A youthful Briton shone the Rest above;
'Twas Wolfe; by Freedom's holy Ardour fir'd,
Like Rome's Marcellus mourn'd, the Chief expir'd;
Pleas'd in the Arms of Victory to bleed,
Nor higher Guerdon his great Soul desir'd
Than that which Albion grants heroic Deed,
Her Senate's just Applause, his Virtue's noblest Meed.

XVI

Nor Heroes, only, on their Monarch wait,
To swell his Glories with a Conqueror's Name;
But hoary Patriots, old in Cares of State,
Superior Rank to martial Leaders claim,
A nobler Triumph, and a juster Fame:
There many a Bard of Pitt, and Freedom, sings
While grateful Nations their Applause proclaim;
To Brunswick's Throne his Subjects' Hearts he brings,
An Offering seldom paid to Heroes, or to Kings.

XVII

Thus, when in Glory's Temple, radiant, stood
Britannia's King, and gave the Nations Peace,
Her favourite Son, with Smiles, the Goddess view'd,
And next the Roman Scipio gave him Place,
With Titus, the Delight of human Race;
Far from those Tyrants of the Earth remov'd,
Whose Victories their martial Fame disgrace;
For Kings alone, who sacred Justice lov'd,
Benevolent to Man, the Power Divine approv'd.

223

XVIII

'Twas then, a fair majestic Form drew nigh,
Amidst a Circle of Britannia's Peers;
The sacred Genius of bright Liberty,
Clad like a Nymph, that Wings of Silver bears,
And plum'd, as Hermes shooting from the Stars;
Diamonds, and Gold, amidst her Tresses glow'd,
The British Cross upon her Breast appears;
Like Una fair, amidst the Dome she stood;
A Lion, dreadful fierce, behind the Maid I view'd.

XIX

In Form like Ocean's awful Deities
The British Sailors spread the noisy Shore;
Inur'd to Storms, stern Natives of the Seas,
To Realms remote their victor Flags they bore,
And bade, in every Clime, their Thunders roar;
Marshall'd they stood, a generous, fearless Train,
From Ormus South, and Strands of rich Aurore,
From every Stream that fills the Atlantic Main,
Along whose desert Coasts the savage Indians reign.

XX

Those dusky Tyrants of their native Climes
That bow'd, reluctant, to the British Name,
Alone of untam'd Nature boast the Crimes;
No polish'd Enmity their Souls enflame,
Nor Murder, sanctify'd by Glory's Name;
Desire's fierce Frenzy, in their Souls, is Love,
Ambition, but a wild and barbarous Claim;
While fierce in Arms the ardent Rivals strove,
Sullen the Female stood amidst the neighbouring Grove.

224

XXI

Such was the State of old heroic Greece,
Ere Helena the Phrygian Shepherd charm'd;
Such Times gave Birth to many an Hercules;
Against the Chiefs of wandering Tribes they arm'd,
Whose Inroads oft their fenceless Towns alarm'd;
For captive Flocks they fought, and lovely Dames,
Beauty, and Hate, the lawless Spoiler warm'd;
Of ancient Songs the memorable Themes;
Now, in Oblivion lost their long forgotten Names.

XXII

When thus the Goddess, from her lofty Throne,
The sacred Form of Liberty address'd—
‘O thou, that reign'st in British Hearts alone,
‘Queen of this glorious Isle! by Neptune grac'd
‘With Ocean Empire, on whose Shores are plac'd
‘The World's great Mart; hence let the Nations know,
‘And distant Crowns by Albion's Friendship blest,
‘That Britain's King hath spar'd the prostrate Foe;
‘That Heaven is pleas'd above, and Earth is safe below.

XXIII

‘Proclaim aloud the conquering Britons' Might,
‘To whom, in Arms, and Arts, the World must yield,
‘To rival States just Arbiters of Right,
‘Oft found superior in the bloody Field,
‘When their strong War the Thrones of Kings upheld;
‘The meaner Thirst of Conquest far above,
‘In Justice, Virtue, who the World excell'd,
‘While Albion's Nymphs each Hero's Truth approve;
‘And they, who march to War for Empire, sigh for Love.

225

XXIV

‘Proclaim his Worth who Albion's Sceptre sways,
‘Strong in his Armies, stronger in his Fleet;
‘Whose wise Behests the British World obeys,
‘Great in her Treasures, in her Freedom great;
‘How sure his Bliss! how permanent his State!
‘His spreading Map each Year shall larger grow,
‘New Crowns, new Empires his Acceptance wait;
‘While Oceans in his circling Kingdoms flow,
‘And undiscover'd Lands to him Obedience owe.

XXV

‘Proclaim his Power, the Injur'd to redress;
‘Bytyrant Foes his Justice uncontroll'd,
‘His Love of Mercy, and Delight in Peace,
‘How his brave Chiefs chastis'd the Vain, and Bold.—
‘Where, King of Gaul! thine haughty Vaunts of old,
‘Thy regal Fortune, oft in Danger try'd,
‘Thy Conquests, Triumphs, by thy Poets told?
‘How hast thou bow'd in Dust thy stubborn Pride!
‘And laid the Warrior's Wreath, inglorious Prince, aside!

XXVI

‘What grateful Thanks to him should Europe pay,
‘For Half her States from Desolation freed?
‘Who, for her Welfare, gave new Worlds away,
‘And bade the distant Combat cease to bleed.
‘Behold! Germania rears her drooping Head,
‘And smiles; her Sons triumphant Arches raise,
‘Rich with his Wars, by rescued States decreed,
‘To teach their wondering Sons a Monarch's Praise,
‘And furnish all their Bards with Themes for lofty Lays.’

226

XXVII

The Goddess thus great Brunswick's Fame display'd,
New Shouts of Triumph through the Temple rise;
The glittering Throngs with Wonder I survey'd,
Whose vast Applauses shook the vaulted Skies;
The Powers of Air, and Ocean's Deities:
At length the radiant Vision fades away,
Like a thin Cloud that from the Horizon flies,
On whose white skirts, the Sun with golden Ray,
Flings the resplendent Blaze of swift departing Day.

XXVIII

Hail, Windsor! Hail, ye venerable Shades!
New Triumphs for your mighty King prepare,
Spread, ye vast Woods, and smile, ye opening Glades,
Hither, shall Britain's Monarch oft repair,
Amidst the Circle of the Brave, and Fair,
Far from the Toils of State, the Pride of Power;
As the fierce Eagle, Ruler of the Air,
Resigns the Thunder, when Heaven's Wars are o'er,
Dwells in the vernal Grove, or haunts the peaceful Shore.

EPITAPH On a MAN who had a very wide Mouth.

Here lies a Man, (so Heaven me save)
Whose Mouth was wide as is his Grave:
Reader, tread lightly on this Sod;
For, if he gapes, you 're gone, by ------.

227

SAPPHIC ODES.

INSCRIBED TO Miss BARBARA MONTGOMERY.

I. To the MUSE.

Mistress of the breathing Lyre,
Fair Queen of Harmony divine,
Fill with thy celestial Fire
Every Line!
Teach my Numbers to reveal
The Flame that in my Bosom glows,
All the fancied Joys I feel,
All the Woes.
Thou inspire the tender Lay!
Fair Chloe will the Verse approve!
All is innocent and gay;
All is Love.

228

II. On the SPRING.

Nature leads the festive Dance!
The genial Sun appears!
And see the rosy Spring advance,
Smiling in Tears!
Earth in all her Charms we see:
How lovely is the Scene!
The Primrose buds; and every Tree
Is cloath'd in Green!
See the wild, the feather'd Throng
Assembled in the Grove!
Hark how they sing! And all the Song
Is Joy, and Love!

III. The INVITATION.

Fairest of Nature's Works, and best,
Why this unkind Delay?
Pity the Torment in my Breast!
O come away!

229

The Breath of Morn exhales Perfume!
All Nature smiles! And see!
The Flowers with fairer Lustre bloom!
They bloom for thee!
Come, then, and taste the flowery Breeze!
With Rapture fill my Breast!
Ah gently smile my Heart to Ease!
Charm me to Rest!

IV. On SUMMER.

The Spring's enchanting Beauty flies
Before the Breath of May;
And all Earth's flowery Treasures rise
Blushing to Day.
How beauteous shines the empurpled Mead!
How lovely bloom the Flowers!
And see! the rosy Graces lead
The dancing Hours!
The Sun inspires a Joy divine
Through all the beauteous Scene!
And light-wing'd Peace, and Pleasure join
The smiling Train!

230

V. The ALLUSION.

Beauty blooms on every Thorn!
Lovely shew the Fields to View!
Fair the Blush of rising Morn!
Fairer you!
Sweet the Flowers, in rich Array,
Pearled o'er with Morning Dew!
Sweet the Breath of infant May!
Sweeter you!
Mild the Breeze that fans the Grove!
Mild the feather'd Nation too!
Mild the Voice of happy Love!
Milder you!

VI. On AUTUMN.

Behold the rosy Summer flies:
Autumn succeeds, all blushing fair!
How gay the Fields! How clear the Skies!
How still the Air!

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See how the Earth in Smiles is clad!
How hot the Sun's meridian Rays!
O shelter me in yonder Shade
From the full Blaze!
Soft wafted on her purple Wings,
Fair Health bids every Sorrow cease;
And, lo! the yellow Harvest brings
Plenty, and Peace!

VII. To CHLOE.

Time's on the Wing, and will away—
Behold the Rose that scents the Skies!
Its blushing Beauties swift decay;
It fades, it dies.
The Lilly bows its silver Head;
The Violet sinks upon the Plain;
The Trees their leafy Honours shed:
How dull the Scene!
Since Time has Wings, and will away,
Do thou the present Hour improve!
O, while you can, devote the Day
To Mirth, and Love!

232

VIII. On WINTER.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, all are fled;
And Winter, with a Face of Tears,
Wrapt up in Clouds her aged Head,
Sullen appears!
Her icy Mantle, see, she throws
O'er yon tall Mountain's misty Head!
Th'imprison'd Stream no longer flows!
Nature is dead!
How dull the Prospect Nature yields!
How bleak, and loud, the North-winds blow!
How cold the Air! How sad the Fields,
Cover'd with Snow!

IX. To CHLOE.

Content, and Joy, no more, retir'd
To this dull melancholy Seat,
Banish'd from all my Soul admir'd,
How hard my Fate!

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See! Sorrow hangs on every Flower;
Soft sigh the Rivers as they flow;
And pitying Nature in a Shower
Laments my Woe!
But, would my Chloe bless the Scene,
How soon would every Grief decay!
Nature again would smile serene;
Winter look gay!

X. To CONTENT.

Queen of every gay Delight
Fair Child of Innocence, and Love!
Hither wing thy airy Flight,
Hither move
With thee bring thy smiling Train,
Gay Happiness, and Length of Days,
Pleasures pure, and Joys serene,
Laughing Ease!
Banish Sorrow! Banish Strife!
O banish heart-corroding Care!
Soften every Grief of Life!
Gild Despair!

234

AN ELEGY, Written in the Year 1751.

'Tis Night, dead Night,—and now no busy Sound
Is heard along the melancholy Plains,
No Foot beats hollow o'er the vaulted Ground,
But through the World a pensive Stillness reigns:
Lost all the Noise and Hurry of the Day,
A death-like Silence in the Stead remains;
Save that the Nightingale, from yonder Spray,
Pours o'er the Vale her sadly-pleasing Strains:
Save that, from out the ivy-wreathed Tower,
The hoarse Owl wings her solitary Flight,
And, shelter'd in the Gloom of yonder Bower,
Tolls the slow Knell of melancholy Night:
Save that the Beasts, which graze on yon blue Hill,
Answer each other, solemn, sad, and slow;
Save the hoarse Chiding of the neighbour Mill,
And the rough Cadence of the Stream below.

235

The Moon, fair Regent of the silver Night,
With all the starry Glories in her Train,
Wide o'er the Earth extends her peerless Light,
And spreads her lucid Mantle to the Main.
Lost in the Effulgence of reflected Day,
Through Heaven's pure azure not a Cloud is seen;
The Trees all glitter in the dancing Ray;
And dapper Elves trip lightly o'er the Green.
Sleep o'er the World her drowzy Poppies strews,
And universal Nature owns her Sway;
The Village-Hind, dissolv'd in soft Repose,
Forgets the Labours, and the Cares of Day.
All Nature rests—But I no Rest can know;
For Sleep abhors the Mansions of Despair;
“Swift on her downy Pinions flies from Woe,
“And lights on Lids unsullied with a Tear.”
To-morrow's Dawn tears all my Joys away;
To-morrow's Dawn Eliza must depart:—
Yet, Reason, yet a little, hold thy Sway,
Swell not my Eye, O burst not yet my Heart!
Think not to cheat me now, as oft before,
With the vain Hope that I may yet be blest:—
O no—I never can be cheated more,
Nor ever more can my torn Soul have Rest!
Through Time's dark Womb no distant Joy I see—
No Ray of Hope breaks through the Cloud of Care—
No Hours of Bliss are there reserv'd for me—
“'Tis fix'd—'tis past—'tis absolute Despair!”

236

O Pain to think!—so generous, and so kind,
Joy of each Eye, and every Heart's Desire,
The gentlest Manners, and the noblest Mind,
All female Softness, and all manly Fire—
Yet she is lost!—What now can grateful prove?
All-gracious Heaven, what Equal can be found?—
No other Fair can match my widow'd Love—
Eden is lost—The Rest is common Ground.
Rise, rise, ye Winds! Blow, blow, thou surly East!
To the loud Blast let the wide Forest roar!
Let the Sea swell, and frown a horrid Waste!
And the big Waves burst dreadful on the Shore!
What have I said?—Alas! had I my Will,
Each ruder Motion of the Waves should cease;
The Storm should rest, each surly Wind be still;
And every Heart—if possible—be Peace.
Ye guardian Powers (if any Powers there are
Whose watchful Eye o'ersees the Good and Fair)
Protect her still! O guard her from afar!
O make Eliza your peculiar Care!
If soft-ey'd Innocence, devoid of Art,
If Modesty can please, if Beauty charms,
If loveliest Manners can engage the Heart,
If Worth demands your Care, if Virtue warms,
O guard from all the Dangers of the Seas
The richest Freight that ever Vessel bore!
Let each loud Wind soft sink into a Breeze,
And bid the Thunder of the Storm be o'er!

237

Lost to all Joy, though Nought to me remains,
But Melancholy, Frenzy, and Despair;
Though, like a tender Flower o'er-charg'd with Rains,
My Heart bends low beneath a Weight of Care;
Still be thou bless'd with all that Heaven can send,
'Till wearied Nature shall her Charge resign!
Lov'd in thy Life, lamented in thy End,
Truth's fair Reward, and Virtue's Prize be thine!
My Prayer is heard:—But, soft!—what Gleam of Light
Gilds yon dun Tower, and dapples all the East?—
To the gray Dawn all hail!—Farewell to Night!
Here, not my Sorrow, but my Muse must rest.

An EXTEMPORE.

To a Young Lady whose Eyes were muffled on Account of a Cold.

The Gods, in Pity to Mankind,
Sweet Fair! that Judgement sent;
Yet, Cupid like, tho' now you are blind,
'Twill not our Fate prevent.
While we have Eyes, alas! 'twere vain
To boast our Hearts our own;
Resistless, still you'll there maintain
A sure, unrivall'd Throne.

238

A NEW AND ACCURATE TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HOMER'S ILIAD.

The ARGUMENT.

During the Siege of Troy, one Chryses, Chaplain to a neutral Lord of that Country, cometh to the Camp of the Greeks, to ransom his Daughter, who had been taken by one of their Parties, and was in the Possession of Agamemnon, their General: But he, being unwilling to part with his Captive, sendeth her Father away, with ill Language, and Threats. Chryses carrieth his Complaints to the young Lord Apollo, his Patron; who being an ingenious Chymist, had found out the Art of making White-Powder. This Lord


239

resenting the Insult offered to his Chaplain, shooteth a great Number of the Greeks. At last Achilles (the Son of a Lady of great Quality, by a private Gentleman, and the most gallant Officer in the whole Army) maketh this whole Affair be examined in the Presence of the General, and of all the Troops: And, an old Fellow, who had been in the Service of the Peer, and knew his Temper, discovereth the Mystery. This enrageth Agamemnon against him, and against Achilles, whom he suspected (perhaps not without Reason) of having set the old Man on declaring a Thing so prejudicial to his Amour. However, he sendeth back his fair Lady, for the Welfare of his Army; but, out of Pique, taketh Achilles's Mistress from him. Achilles telleth this to his Nurse, who was settled in that Part of the World; and, knowing that she had some Interest with one Jove, who kept a noted Public-House near the Camp; he sendeth her to him with a Request, which, he knew, would give the Trojans a great Advantage over the Greeks. His Nurse succeedeth in her Commission. But Juno, Jove's Wife, is very angry with her Husband for complying with Nurse's Request. The grey Mare not being the better Horse, in that Family, Juno is in great Danger of rough Usage from Jove: By good Luck for her, her natural Son endeavoureth to pacify them; and, by his awkward Figure, and silly Speech on that Occasion, turneth their Quarrel into Merriment, and setteth all those, who were by, in a continued Laughter. Among the Rest, Jove groweth so good-humoured and generous, that he treateth the whole Company with Wine and Music; and, at last, he and his Wife go most lovingly and comfortably to Bed, leaving the young People below-stairs, to divert themselves as long as they should think proper.


240

Come, Clio, sing (if such your Will is)
The lasting Frolicks of Achilles;
That haughty Knight, whose surly Tricks
Brought heavy Bastings on the Greeks;
Hurling their Souls down Pluto's Stairs,
Before they 'd Time to say their Prayers;
While Hounds devour'd their Flesh above:
Thanks to the blessed Whim of Jove.
What made the Knight and General quarrel?
Had they been broaching some new Barrel?
No: one Latona's Bastard-son
Caus'd all the Mischief that was done:
His Father's Name—another Time,
I 'll bring it better into Rhyme—
White-Powder was this Spark's Invention:
(No Doubt, with villainous Intention)
And, being angry with our Chief,
He shot his Soldiers, like a Thief;
Because his Chaplain, proud, and chuff,
Had not been us'd with Form enough:
For, hearing that his Child and Heir
Was gone, by Fortune de la Guerre,
He brought an Hamper of Champaign,
To get poor stolen Miss again;

241

Shewing (to make his Suit the better)
His Tippet, and his Chaplain's Letter:
And, with an awkward, cringing Scrape,
(Us'd, to this Day, by Men in Crape)
Harangu'd one Red-Coat, then another;
But most, the General, and his Brother—
‘Heaven send you may cut Priam's Weezon;
‘And get Home safe, in proper Season:
‘But, first, give me my Peg again—
‘'Tis worth your While—here's right Champaign—
‘But, if you don't—see what will follow—
‘For I belong to Lord Apollo.’
Now all their Chaps began to water:
They cried, ‘Pray give the Man his Daughter—
‘Let us all take one hearty Swallow,
‘And drink an Health to that Apollo.’
But Agamemnon (who, 'tis plain,
Lov'd Pullet better than Champaign)
Roar'd out, in hasty, furious Dudgeon—
‘Begone, you musty, old Curmudgeon—
‘Should you, at any Time, appear,
‘Now, or hereafter, sneaking here—
‘Not all those Badges of a Chaplain
‘Shall save you from an oaken Saplin.
‘As for your Peg, I 'll make her stray
‘Over the Hills and far away:
‘And when, at Home, I 'm in Repose,
‘She 'll rub my Shins, and dearn my Hose:
‘So, vex me not—but, if you 've Sense—
‘Carry away your Bones from hence.’
Old Chryses (for that was his Name)
Prov'd he was neither deaf, nor lame:

242

Away the frightned Parson flew,
And never stopp'd to bid Adieu;
But went, and laid before his Lord
The whole Transaction, Word for Word;
Adding these Grains of Adulation,
To give full Weight to his Narration—
‘Most noble Lord, by whose Protection
‘I often have escap'd an Action;
‘Who, with a wife, and powerful Hand,
‘Defend the Tenants on your Land;
‘Inventor of the sly Device
‘To drive away marauding Mice;
‘If ever I have torn my Breeches,
‘In hunting with you over Ditches;
‘Or entertain'd you at Backgammon,
‘When I should read Prideaux, or Hammond;
‘Use your Still-Powder in my Favour,
‘And bring the Greeks to good Behaviour.’
The heinous Breach of Privilege
Put the young Peer in such a Rage,
That Home he went, and, in a Crack,
Brought down his Musket from the Rack,
With Powder-horn, and Store of Ball,
To play the Puck amongst them all:
The Neighbours star'd, who heard him rattle
With all his Implements of Battle.
This happening on a foggy Day,
Perdu, behind an Hedge he lay;
And, by the Advantage of his Shelter,
Let fly his Comfits, helter skelter.
First, straying Hens, and Dogs, he hit;
But that was only Sport, as yet:

243

For, after he had charg'd again,
He tipp'd, at once, whole Files of Men:
And this he did nine Days together,
Being befriended by the Weather;
So that the drunken Sexton swore,
He never far'd so well before.
At last, Achilles made a Clatter,
Insisting they should sift the Matter.
One Mother Juno sent the Hint
Of what those murdering Doings meant:
For she had spied them from her Garret,
And lov'd to prattle like a Parrot.
Besides, where could she get a Groat,
If all her Red-coats went to Pot?
Achilles, thus inform'd, begun—
‘General, it's Time for us to run.
‘The Trojans, and Apollo haunt us:
‘Enough, in Conscience, for to daunt us.
‘If we stay here, we surely fall;
‘For, two to one are Odds at Ball.
‘However, first, consult some Wizard,
‘To know what frets Apollo's Gizzard:
‘Or, ask some Witch of noted Skill;
‘Or even some Gipsy, if you will:
‘For even Gipsies often tell us
‘Some Things which in our Youth befel us.
‘Perhaps the haughty Peer resents
‘That on his Land we pitch our Tents;
‘Or else he takes it ill of you,
‘That you have sent no how d' ye do.’
This said, up comes a cunning Shaver,
And much in Lord Apollo's Favour,

244

Who having taught him many Tricks,
Let him earn Pence among the Greeks.
He knew how long next June would last,
And whether it was come, or past;
Or, could pronounce a Shower at Hand,
When he felt Rain upon his Band:
And, therefore, was in constant Pay,
To tell them when to make their Hay.
For this he lov'd the Greeks like Pye:
(And so, perhaps, would you, or I)
So, having made some little Pause,
Larded with prudent Hums, and Haws,
He thus began—‘My worthy Knight,
‘I'm sure that I can set you right.
‘But, first, pray let me make you swear
‘To be my Bail in this Affair:
‘For, there's a certain Person here,
‘Whose damping Frowns I hugely fear:
‘And when great Folks once take a Spite—
‘Poor Devils always suffer by 't:
‘A Day, or two, their Spleen they'll hide well;
‘Then, in a Whiff—away to Bridewell.
‘But, if your Honour takes my Part,
‘I'll do the Job with all my Heart.’
To this the valiant Knight replied—
Old Thrifty, I'll secure your Hide.’
(For, courteous Reader, you must know,
The merry Soldiers call'd him so)
‘Speak, then: For, by yon' Luminary,
‘Guide of all Matters sublunary,
‘While I can stand upon my Toes,
‘No Man shall pluck you by the Nose:
‘No, not our blustering Truncheoneer,
‘Who rules the Roast, at present, here.’

245

This having cur'd his Palpitation,
He thus resum'd his wise Oration—
‘You quite mistake, my worthy Masters,
‘The Cause of all these late Disasters.
Apollo doth not care a Farthing
‘For Trespass on his Land, or Garden;
‘And, as to any how d' ye do,
‘He values that but little, too.
‘No: 'tis our General's rude Behaviour,
‘(For I must say so—under Favour)
‘And keeping of his Chaplain's Daughter,
‘Occasions all this dreadful Slaughter.
‘So, be advis'd: Send back again
‘The Parson's Peggy, and Champaign;
‘And make the Peer some handsome Presents
‘Of Woodcocks, Ortolans, and Pheasants:
‘Perhaps he will become your Friend;
‘And so each Side will gain their End.’
This put the Chief in such a Flutter,
That he began to froth and sputter:
‘Tell me’ (he cried) ‘old Succubus,
‘What makes you always use me thus?
‘You're ever forming some Design,
‘Slily to injure me, or mine,
‘By whispering your malicious Chat.
‘[My poor Child Jenny's Case for that.]
‘And, now, you trump up this Affair,
‘Merely to make me odious here.
‘I own my Spouse be'nt half so pretty
‘As this young Captive; nor so witty.
‘Besides, my Lady's somewhat old;
‘And, now and then is apt to scold.

246

‘Yet, I will shew 'tis all Aspersion,
‘That I lose Men for my Diversion:
‘For, rather than to bear the Blame,
‘I'll send the Girl from whence she came.
‘But you must make me some Amends;
‘Or else—expect we shan't be Friends.’
‘How make Amends? (replied Achilles)
‘That Matter much above your Skill is.
‘When Convents happen in our Way,
‘Each takes his Nun that very Day;
‘We make an honest Dividend;
‘And when that's done—why there's an End.
‘Could you, with Conscience, ask your Men
‘To raffle for their Girls again,
‘After they have so bravely fought,
‘To get a Wench, and earn—a Groat!
‘Pray now, for once, behave yourself:
‘Send off this young, unlucky Elf:
‘And, the next Covey we lay hand on,
‘A Brace, or two, you may depend on.’
‘Thank you for Nothing, Sir;’ (says th'other)
‘That won't do, though you were my Brother.
‘Think you that I will lie alone,
‘While you have Doxies of your own?
‘Sir Sophister, I'll let you know,
‘No Man alive shall fool me so.
‘Get me a Lass, fair, clean, and tight:
‘Find such an one—and all is right.
‘But, if you don't—then mark the End on 't—
‘I'll help myself—you may depend on 't—
‘And he whose Miss I take away,
‘Will curse his Stars, as sure as Day.

247

‘But—more of this when I'm at Leisure—
‘Meantime, it is my Will and Pleasure
‘To have the Damsel sent away,
‘On a clean Cart, well stuff'd with Hay;
‘That the poor Girl may sit with Ease on 't;
‘And, in her Lap the aforesaid Present.
‘A Score of Men, and some old Serjeant,
‘Must see this done, and have the Charge on 't:
‘Or, rather you, whose gallows Face
‘May scare Apollo into Peace.’
‘The D---l take your Face and Eyes!’
(Enrag'd Achilles straight replies)
‘Is this the Way you honour Merit!
‘Can you expect that Men of Spirit
‘Will risque their Bones against the Foe,
‘If they must be rewarded so?
‘The Trojans never stole my Geese;
‘My Cocks and Hens all roost in Peace:
‘For I'm secur'd from any Harm,
‘By double Fences round my Farm.
‘But I came here, and so did others,
‘Merely to serve two thankless Brothers,
‘For, though we bravely take your Part,
‘You think our Help not worth a F---.
‘Nay, what is worse, you even hinted,
‘That my Diversion should be stinted:
‘Though when I do some grand Affair,
‘I never get a Neighbour's Share.
‘You chuse a Dame in rich Brocade:
‘I take up with some homely Maid.

248

‘But, since I find you use me so,
‘Back to my Village will I go;
‘Where I shall meet with no such Usage,
‘And venture neither Wound, nor Bruisage:
‘Then, if I am not much mistaken,
‘You'll find it hard to save your Bacon.’
‘Vamp off’ (says th'other) ‘when you will:
‘I'll have enough to help me still;
‘And chiefly he, whose grumbling Thunder
‘Can keep rebellious Rascals under.
‘Of all who fight by my Commission,
‘You're ever foremost in Sedition:
‘For you're a Buffer always rear'd in
‘The brutal Pleasures of Bear-garden.
‘If you are active, tall, and brawny,
‘And hardy, like an Highland Sawny;
‘Those Qualities, no Doubt, were given,
‘For nobler Ends, by bounteous Heaven.
‘Command at Home, your vermin Crew;
‘I value neither them, nor you.
‘But, mind my Words—I vow and swear,
‘As sure as I give up my Fair;
‘So surely shall you see me come,
‘With Pikes advanc'd, and Beat of Drum;
‘And (without saying—by your Leave)
‘I'll carry off your Favourite Slave;
‘That sturdy Mutineers may see
‘What 'tis to cock their Hats at me.’
‘Now’ (thought Achilles) ‘shall I do 't?
‘Shall I dispatch this monstrous Brute?
‘Or shall I swallow down my Spittle,
‘And try to cool my Spleen a little?’

249

But, while he stood thus, shall I—shall I,
(His Sword half out) in comes one Polly,
An artful Wench, by Juno sent,
The impending Mischief to prevent:
She tipp'd his Back—with much Surprise,
He turn'd, and saw her roguish Eyes.
‘My old Acquaintance!’ (said the Knight)
‘Are you come here, to see us fight?
‘In Half a Minute, I'll be bound,
‘You'll see him sprawling on the Ground.’
‘I'm come’, (said she) ‘in Juno's Name,
‘To tell you, you are both to blame.
‘She loves you both, and dreads to see
‘Two Customers at Sneeger-snee:
‘Scold, if you will, and rant, and vapour;
‘But sheath that ugly, frightful Rapier:
‘As far as I can understand,
‘He'll soon ask Pardon, Cap in Hand.’
‘Well:’ (quoth the Knight) ‘then, be it so:
‘I will not make your Dame my Foe:
‘For, those, who humour Mother Juno,
‘Get the first Choice of—Goods that you know.’
Poll, having tam'd her stubborn Mule,
She straight return'd to Juno's School.
But, still, the Knight, in feverish State,
Was parch'd within by wrathful Heat;
And therefore us'd the following Vomit,
In Hopes to get some Cooling from it.

250

‘You drunken Cur! you dastard Heart?
‘You finely act a General's Part!
‘Fighting was never yet your Trade,
‘In open Field, or Ambuscade.
‘So far you're wise: 'Tis safer here,
‘To prate, and puff, and domineer;
‘Feathering your Nest, by plundering those
‘Who dare your lordly Will oppose.
‘You Canibal! had Soldiers Sense,
‘This should have been your last Offence.
‘But, now, I swear an Oath, by far
‘The strongest us'd in Forms of War—
‘By this round, taper Partizan,
‘Plann'd by a skilful Artizan,
‘Who rent it from its parent Tree;
‘(As I, henceforth, am rent from thee)
‘And such as careful Captains keep;
‘To stab a Foe, or stick a Sheep;
‘This honest, valiant, nervous Fist
‘By Greece, and you, will soon be miss'd.
‘When Hector slays your Men by Dozens,
‘You'll wish, we still were Cater-Cousins:
‘For, when you cringe, and whine, and bawl,
‘I'll only say—P**x take you all.’
Having thus ended his Harangue,
He threw his Pike with scornful Bang,
Down on the Ground, as who should say—
There's my Commission dash'd away.
And now, the Chief, in furious Heat,
Would have return'd his Billing's-gate;
When mild and prudent Nestor rose,
Fearing the two might come to Blows.

251

His Looks, and Tongue were soft as Satin;
And every Word he spoke came pat in;
Thrice thirty Years he'd scratch'd his B---m;
Yet was as sound as any Drum.
‘Odsbuds’ (said he) ‘these madcap Tricks
‘Will prove the Ruin of the Greeks.
‘Doubtless, it will be dainty Sport
‘To Priam, and to all his Court,
‘To hear that the two Cocks of Greece
‘Can't find the Way to live in Peace.
‘Be rul'd: I've Wrinkles in my nether-
‘-Parts, more than your's, both put together.
‘When I was young, your Betters paid
‘A great Regard to what I said:
‘For I shall never see again
‘Such jolly kick-and-cuffing Men:
‘One of them could have maul'd, with Ease,
‘Ten Fribbles of the modern Days.
‘Yet, when their Schemes were out of Joint,
‘They ask'd my Thoughts upon the Point.
‘Do you the same; you both will find
‘That Leading greatly helps the Blind.
‘Imprimis, General, don't bereave him
‘Of the Bed-fellow th'Army gave him.
‘Next, Sir Achilles, you're but young;
‘So learn to keep a civil Tongue:
‘For, though you are a valiant Don,
‘And an high Dutchess calls you Son;

252

‘Comparisons will never do,
‘Between so great a Man, and you:
‘For you but act as Brigadeer;
‘But he is Grand Veldt-Marshal here.
‘General, your Prudence will suffice you;
‘You don't want others to advise you:
‘Therefore, consult your own Discretion;
‘And leave this Youth to my Correction;
‘For, after all, you cannot say,
‘But that he fully earns his Pay.’
Quoth Agamemnon ‘Not to flatter,
‘Your Speech was fraught with useful Matter;
‘But he must always bounce, and hector,
‘And set up here for chief Director.
‘That Man, indeed, must be a true Sage,
‘Who can submit to such vile Usage.
‘What though his Fist be hard and brawny,
‘Must I, forsooth, be made his Zany?’
Says th'other, ‘Call me Ragamuffin,
‘When I am daunted by your Huffing.
‘Frighten your Slaves with Noise and Squabbling:
‘I value not your senseless Babbling.
‘But, hear what I shall tell your Honours—
‘A Gift demanded by the Donors
‘I scorn to keep; and spurn away
‘What you bestow'd me th'other Day.
‘No more the Son of Peleus draws
‘His Sword in any Strumpet's Cause.
‘But, as for you, illustrious Chief,
‘If you attempt to play the Thief,
‘And venture other Things to rifle,
‘Although it were the smallest Trifle;

253

‘My Sword shall bore a Hole to reach
‘Down from your Navel to your Br---.’
This Squabble ended, up they got,
Each, to put down his Spit, or Pot.
But Agamemnon straightway sent
For smart Ulysses th'Adjutant,
And gave him Orders to convoy
The Presents, and the female Toy.
This Business done, he gave Direction
To guard the camp against Infection,
By sweeping all the Filth away,
Blood, Lints, and Plaisters, in the Sea:
Which being finish'd, down they sat,
To eat, and drink, and laugh, and chat.
The Chief, as angry as at first,
Determin'd, now, to do his worst.
He had two Drummers, useful Imps,
Yclept, in th'old, mean Idiom—Pimps;
But, now, by Men in higher Spheres,
Call'd—Confidents; sometimes—Premiers:
These Girl-hounds he dispatch'd away,
Knowing them keen at female Prey.
‘Go, bid’ (said he) ‘young Colonel Bluff
‘Send me his Girl—and that's enough:
‘For, if he dares demur, or grumble,
‘Superior Force shall make him humble.’
Away they went in doleful Plight,
Dreading the Choler of the Knight.
At last, they found him by his Tent;
But durst not tell him what they meant:
Yet, as a Drum's a martial Warrant,
He guess'd, with Ease, their odious Errand.
Says he, ‘I much respect your Office;
‘For, who can drum, and pimp, no Oaf is.

254

‘I blame you not, my Lads; draw near:
‘Too well I know your Business here—
‘This Friend of mine shall bring the Lass—
‘But tell your Master he's an Ass.
‘He might reflect (th'ungrateful Beast!)
‘That he will want me all in Haste:
‘And then, by—but I will forbear;
‘For none but Bullies love to swear.’
Scarce had he said this, when his Friend
Led out the Damsel by the Hand.
Away she went in silent Dumps,
Oblig'd to trudge it on her Stumps:
While the Knight's Eyes, in plenteous Tide,
Pour'd forth the Venom of his Pride.
He had a Nurse, who, as they say,
Was famous for her Curds and Whey;
And, being cleanly, would not fail,
Twice in a Day, to scour her Pail.
The Spot he knew, and thither went,
To tell her all his Discontent;
And, as he stood above the Stairs,
He blended thus his 'Plaints, and Prayers—
‘Heaven send that Death may end my Trouble,
‘Rather than I should live a Bubble:
‘Instead of getting double Pay,
‘The Chief has forc'd my Girl away.’
The Nurse, who heard her Son lament,
Left there her Pail, and up she went;
Half hid in ambient Steams of Sweat,
She hugg'd and kiss'd her blubbering Pet—
‘Who vex'd my Child? Come, tell me true,
‘That I may cry, as well as you.’

255

‘You know’ (said he) ‘the greater Part
‘Of what torments my aking Heart:
‘But, since you want to hear it twice,
‘I will dispatch it in a Trice.’
So, he recounted every Battle;
What Towns he took, and how much Cattle;
And, lastly, how it came to pass,
That he had gain'd—and lost his Lass.
‘And now’ (said he) ‘I well remember,
‘(Some Holyday, in last December,
‘As we sat by the Fire to heat us,
‘Roasting our Shins, and some Potatoes:
‘Your Goodman, too, I'm sure, was by;
‘And he can tell as well as I)
‘I heard you boast how, on a Day,
‘When you went out to cry your Whey,
‘Just passing by the House of Jove,
‘You heard a dreadful Noise above;
‘And, going up, you saw, at once,
‘Three Rogues (who would have built a Sconse )
‘Falling upon their helpless Host,
‘Whom they were tying to a Post.
‘You ran with all the Legs you had,
‘And call'd a lusty Irish Lad,
‘Who was a Chairman by Profession,
‘Like many others of his Nation;
‘(Bryan, at Home, a Rogue of Fame;
‘But Egan was his travelling Name)
‘He came, and with his Pole drove out
‘The Villains who had made the Rout.

256

Jove, thankful, pray'd him to sit down;
‘And gave him Drink, and Half a Crown.
‘Tell him of this; and beg that he
‘May do so much, for you and me,
‘As to deny, for several Weeks,
‘To sell his Brandy to the Greeks;
‘That, while they're faint, and out of Heart,
Troy may have Room to play her Part:
‘And, then, our Army soon will see
‘What 'tis t'affront a Man like me.’
‘My Chick,’ (said she, brimful of Tears)
‘You must excuse poor Nurse's Fears;
‘For, much I dread, some Sword, or Bullet
‘Will make an End of Mammy's Pullet:
‘And, after all, they pay your Bravery
‘With nothing else but Tricks, and Knavery.
‘In an ill Hour I gave you Suck,
‘If you're to have no better Luck.
‘I'll go to Jove, and speak him fair;
‘For one must coax the surly Bear:
‘But, have no Battling with the Foe,
‘'Till you're inform'd how Matters go.

257

Jove's gone, at present, to decoy
‘Fresh Country-Girls some Miles from Troy;
‘With Shoals of Sweetners whom he pays,
‘To swear to every Thing he says.
‘He'll only stay 'till Friday Se'nnight;
‘And, then, I'll have him in a Minute:
‘I fancy I shall do some Good,
‘Unless he's in a devilish Mood.’
After some dripping Tears were blended,
This savoury Conversation ended.
[Reader, by this, you partly do know,
That Jove kept House with Mother Juno:
But 'tis not yet determin'd fully,
Whether as Husband, or as Bully:
Proceed we now, and (as they say)
Leave the Dispute sub Judice. ]
During this Time, the General's Envoy
Was safe arriv'd, with Cart, and Convoy;
And, like a wise, experienc'd Captain,
Pockets the Cloth, the Fowl was wrapp'd in:
Next, from the Cart he plucks some Hay,
To serve the Horses, for the Day:
The Hamper, too, well corded round,
He gently lays upon the Ground:
Then he brings down impatient Miss;
For she had wanted, long, to—kiss
Her own Papa, and get his Blessing;
And then, to go and fall to dressing.

258

Ulysses having met the Priest,
(His Wild-fowl dangling from his Fist)
‘Thus low,’ (said he) ‘I humbly truckle
‘To kiss one Corner of your Buckle.
‘Here is your Daughter, and Champaign:
‘You've every Flask o'nt safe again.
‘My General, as in Duty bound,
‘First, is your Servant to the Ground:
‘Next, hopes you'll give your Lord this Present:
‘'Tis small—but, then—'tis all he has on't:
‘Lastly, he begs your Intercession,
‘T'appease your angry Patron's Passion’.
Miss leap'd about her Father's Neck,
With such a Spring as made it crack;
And he so strongly hugg'd her Waist,
That she had like to—sigh at least.
Just in the Nick, up comes the Peer:
All made their Honours, and drew near.
‘My Lord,’ (says Chryses) ‘see who's there!
‘Thanks to your Friendship in the Affair.
‘The Chief asks Pardon; and has sent you
‘Some Wild-fowl, which I here present you.
‘Since he has made Amends, at last,
‘I beg, forget all Quarrels past.
‘But, as it's almost Time to think
‘Of laying in some Meat, and Drink,
‘Honour my Cottage with your Presence;
‘And club your Woodcocks, or your Pheasants:
‘I'll find good Ale—and brisk Champaign,
‘To put us in a merry Vein.’

259

The Peer, who, now, was quite content,
Agreed to all—and in they went.
[Those Ages scorn'd all useless Aids:
They kept no Cooks, nor Waiting-maids;
But, like the industrious French, could dress,
Either their Mistress, or their Mess.]
Our Folks, to shew they were no Sluts,
Pick'd clean the Fowl, and drew the Guts:
Then, made the self-felonious Bill
Transfix the Sides, with cruel Skill:
Next, rak'd the Fire, and made it blaze,
To do their Work with greater Ease.
Fresh-butter-basting shew'd their Taste;
For, Drippings speak a stingy Beast.
When all was done, they serv'd their Roast
Upon a crisp, well butter'd Toast.

260

And now, they all began to eat;
None could complain for Want of Meat:
They had no grudging, snarling Words;
For each Man got a Leash of Birds.
But, when the Rage of Hunger ceas'd,
Champaign, in Plenty, crown'd the Feast;
And the brisk Peer, all th'Evening long,
Regal'd them with some merry Song.
To Bed they went, and slept as sound,
As if their Wives were under Ground.
Then, up they got, by Peep of Day:
(Miss had not Time to get their Tea)
Ulysses, and his Score of Men,
Made Haste towards the Camp again:
They march'd as nimbly as the Wind;
The creeking Cart lagg'd far behind.
When they had reach'd the wish'd Parade,
Our Adjutant, who knew his Trade,
Made them, first, poise their Arms; then, rest 'em;
Then—I forget—and so, dismiss'd 'em.
Away they skipp'd, with nimble Courage,
To meet their Trulls, and dress their Porrage.
Meantime, the Knight, on Vengeance bent,
Continu'd raving in his Tent;
And neither would unsheath his Sword,
Nor go to any Council-board.
But, Nurse (who ask'd when Jove should come,
As often as a City-Drum)
Found him, at last, cock'd on a Jar,
Smoaking, alone, within the Bar.

261

‘Gossip’ (said she, and clapp'd his Back)
‘I know who would have gone to Wreck,
‘Had not I call'd in Irish Paddy,
‘To take the Part of honest Daddy.
‘You know 'tis true: So, let me see;
‘Will you do one Thing, now, for me?
‘I only beg you'll sell no Brandy
‘To any Grecian Jack-a-dandy;
‘That, when the Trojans make them run,
‘The Greeks may feel they want my Son:
‘For, they have robb'd him of his Right;
‘And he's resolv'd he will not fight.’
At this, old, stingy Jove look'd gruff,
And only answer'd with a—Puff.
But, Nurse (resolv'd to serve her Son)
Began, anew, to play the Dun—
‘Will you? or, will you not? (said she)
‘You may speak out—your Will is free.
‘Tell me, at once, I'm old and crazy—
‘If that's the Case—I will not tease you.’
‘That's not the Point;’ (old Jove replied)
‘You're still as blooming as a Bride:
‘But here will be most plaguy Work,
‘When Juno scolds me like a Turk;
‘For, many Times, she fumes and frets,
‘And swears the Trojans are my Pets:
‘But, slink away; for, if she sees you,
‘I'd lay a Pot of Ale, she'll feaze you.
‘I'll do your Work—you need not fear—
‘The Greeks shall get no Brandy here.’

262

With that, he let a monstrous Crack,
Which shook the Shelves behind his Back.
Nurse started: But the humourous Wag
Laugh'd like to split, and told the Hag—
‘It is my Way, when I've a Mind
‘To shew my Friends I will be kind;
‘I, thus, proclaim their Business done,
‘By firing off a roaring Gun.’
Best Friends must part; and so did they:
Nurse scuttled off, to sell her Whey;
Jove to his Kitchen, and his Chair,
To take his Nap, as usual there.
When he came in, his female Cattle,
At once, left off their Tittle-tattle;
Dropping him Curt'sies a la mode,
Although they loath'd him like a Toad:
For, Tyrants, of whatever Sort,
Though curs'd, are worshipp'd by their Court.
But, Juno, who had smell'd a Rat,
Began her matrimonial Chat—
‘You cunning Man! though you're so sly,
‘I guess who has been here—and why:
‘You're hiding every Thing from me;
‘And think I have not Eyes to see.’
To this, Jove answer'd, in an Heat—
‘Madam, forbear your idle Prate.

263

‘'Tis not the Province of a Wife,
‘To know all Incidents in Life.
‘You always shall be first, to hear
‘Such Things as come within your Sphere:
‘But, when I've Secrets of my own—
‘'Fore George—you must let those alone.’
This made the Dame grow somewhat furious.
‘You know’ (said she) ‘I am not curious:
‘But, now, I have just Cause to fear
‘That dirty Trollop's coming here.
‘I fancy something's to be done
‘In Favour of her saucy Son.’
If Jove was out of Sort before,
This Answer vex'd him ten Times more.
‘You Wretch!’ (said he) ‘your artful Cant
‘Shan't make me tell you what you want;
‘The more your Noise disturbs my Peace,
‘I'll loath the more that pimpled Face:
‘Whatever was the last Result—
‘Learn what this means— Le Roy le vult.
‘If you perplex me with your Stuff—
‘All that are here shan't save your Buff.’
These Words had such Effect on Madam,
She never trembled so, since Adam:
And every Wench about the House
Became as silent as a Mouse.

264

[Juno, when young, had made a By-blow,
To whom Jove often gave a dry Blow.
He was a shapeless, limping Creature;
A meer Burlesque on human Nature:
Besides, as he was squat, and bulky,
The Filles de Joye nicknam'd him Hulky.
But, then, his Head-piece was so good,
You might employ him as you wou'd:
For, though he never learn'd his Grammar,
No Smith outdid him at the Hammer;
Or clinch'd, with more commanding Art,
A stubborn Nail that chanc'd to start.]
This Lad of Wax was standing by,
When Jove's big Words made Juno cry:
And so, he rais'd his heavy Br---ch,
To utter this consoling Speech—
‘I can't abide these thundering Quarrels:
‘They'll taint our Beef, and sour our Barrels.
‘Hard! that we cannot live in Peace,
‘For Jacks of Troy, and Jills of Greece.
‘Mother, there's no one can disown,
‘You've a rare Noddle of your own:
‘Yet, Hulky, though an arrant Dunce,
‘May give you good Advice, for once.
‘You must resolve to sooth and coax—
‘'Tis th'only Way with angry Folks—
‘For, if you raise my Father's Fury—
‘He'll thresh us round—I can assure you:
‘But, if you'll promise to be good,
‘He'll straight throw off this surly Mood.’

265

Then, springing, with a limping Grace,
He thrust a Tankard to her Face—
‘Here; drink,’ (said he) ‘and cool your Liver—
‘I vow these Wranglings make me shiver.
‘To see you tann'd would break my Heart;
‘Nor durst poor Hulky take your Part:
‘For, I remember, on a Time,
‘When I had done some petty Crime,
Jove pitch'd me forward from the Stair-head;
‘And, down I sows'd upon my bare Head:
‘The Waiter chanc'd to stand below,
‘And broke the Violence of the Blow;
‘Or else, I'm sure, the dreadful Fall
‘Must have crack'd Neck, and Skull, and all.’
Juno, though vex'd, could not forbear
To smile at her sweet Son and Heir:
And, as she found the Tankard full,
She ventur'd at an hearty Pull.
This done, he gave it to the Rest,
Who all were bursting at the Jest:
For, once an Age, you'd hardly see
So choice a Ganymede as he.
This lucky Hit made Jove so merry,
He needs must treat them all with Sherry.
An Harper coming in, by Chance,
The greater Part began to dance:
While others, who sat still by Choice,
Gave Jove a Sample of their Voice:

266

'Till he, and Juno, being bowzy,
Yawn'd, Time about, and grew quite drowsy.
They had a Truckle-Bed above,
Which Hulky oft repair'd for Jove:
Thither the Couple went to snore,
Where, many Times, they snor'd before:
But, first, like old and skilful Sleepers,
They clos'd the Curtains of their Peepers.
 

By some called Still-Powder. According to the Account of the gold-making Alchymists of former Days, it had all the Properties of Gun-Powder, excepting that of causing a loud Explosion. As the Chymists of this Age acknowledge that they have not the Recipe for preparing it, it is much to be lamented that Pancirollus maketh no Mention of it, in his most useful and most comfortable Treatise. —De Artibus perditis.

An Expression, more used by the Rabble of London, than it was in the Days of Achilles.

Fighting with Knives; which Custom is still in great Request among the Dutch.

I have designedly omitted the rumbling Catalogue of ancient Heroes, mentioned by Nestor, in this Place; lest a long String of such Hurlothrumbo-Names should wound the delicate Ears of gentle Beaux.

A Phrase which signifieth—to go away, without paying the Reckoning.

A certain Half-Critic has been pleased to start the following Objection against this Passage. How could Jove's refusing Brandy to the Greeks be attended with any ill Consequences? Might not they supply themselves elsewhere? Although I am no great Advocate for my Homer, I think myself obliged in Honour to vindicate him, where he is in the right. The Reader must know from me, that there was not Brandy, or any other Kind of Spirits, in all the Country of Phrygia, during the Space of more than seven Years, before and after the Siege of Troy, excepting what Jove had in his Cellar. I could prove this by numerous Quotations from ancient Authors: But, as I am not fond of making a Shew of Learning of that Sort, I shall only mention two Antiquaries, whose Authorities have never been called in Question. The first is, Pancratius Vollenhove: Histor. Memorab. Gest. ad Trojam. The other is, Cornelius Van Kinschot: Dissert. in Antiq. Asiatic. Cap. xii, de Cibo, et Potu. The Reader may consult either of them, at his Leisure.

Undetermined.

This sheweth that, either, my Homer was unacquainted with the genteel Method of dressing Woodcocks, with their Train; or else, that he looked upon that Fashion, as a very sluttish, and nauseous Kind of Delicacy.

A single Toast might easily stand under nine Birds at most (for it doth not appear that Miss got Share of them) because they made Use of Griddle-Cakes, in those Days: And, it is to be supposed, that, when they wanted to make a large Toast, they split the Cake in two, as Cambro-Britons do a Cheese, for toasting, when they have a Mind to regale their Company on Saint Taffy's Day. Nothing is more evident, than that Virgil alludeth to Griddle-Bread, in these Words—

------ ebeu! Mensas consumimus ------

Therefore, I am of Opinion that they should be rendered thus—

Heyday! my Boys: Our Stomachs, strong and able,
Conquer a Cake as large as any Table.

A Cant-Word, to signify a despicable Person.

This is the famous Passage, which so remarkably inspired the Imagination, and Hand of Phidias. Perhaps Mr. Hogarth may, some Time or other, do as much Justice to it, as that Ancient.

Such is your Sovereign's Will and Pleasure.

So pronounced by the Gentlemen of the Law.

Ladies of Pleasure.

The beautiful Cup-Bearer of the Gods.

SONG. To THERANIA.

The silver Rain, the pearly Dew,
The Gale that sweeps along the Mead,
The soften'd Rocks, once, Sorrow knew;
And Marbles have found Tears to shed:
The sighing Trees, in every Grove,
Have Pity, if they have not Love.
Shall Things inanimate be Kind,
And every soft Sensation know?
The weeping Rain, and sighing Wind,
All, all, but you, some Mercy shew:
Let Pity, then, your Bosom move!
Have Pity, though you have not Love!

267

AN EXTEMPORE THOUGHT, At Mr. WALKER's Optic Lecture,

On seeing several beautiful young Ladies there, March 7th, 1771.

Most justly, Walker, you declare
“No Art with Nature can compare:”
And yet, if the Reverse were true,
Perfection would be found with you:
Then, lay your Apparatus by;
Look round! and here yourself supply:
No longer in the Prism seek
For Tints, more pure on Myra's Cheek;
And, own the Eyes of pretty Lasses
Transcend your finest Burning-Glasses.
 

Mr. Adam Walker, of Manchester, Professor of Natural Philosophy, &c. who then gave Lectures in Dublin; remarkable for a most extensive and complete Apparatus, particularly, in the Optical Way.


268

VALESUS: AN ECLOGUE.

Illum etiam Lauri, illum etiam flevere Myricæ.
Virg. Ecl. x.

Moeris, and Thyrsus, who, at early Dawn,
Were wont to join their Flocks upon the Lawn,
And, chearful, o'er the dewy Herbage stray,
And sing, or chat, and view their Lambkins play;
Now, late at Eve, beneath an ancient Oak,
Whose writhen Boughs had felt the stormy Stroke,
Met, silent long with heart-oppressing Pain,
'Till Thyrsus first bespoke his Fellow-Swain.
Why thus o'erclouded? We, that wont to meet
With joyful Looks of Salutation sweet?
O vain Demand! I read the sad Reply,
Too plain, alas! too certain in thine Eye;
One Fate, one mutual Loss, we both deplore;
O Fears fulfill'd! Valesus is no more!

269

Valesus is no more! the Swain reply'd:
With him the Spring hath lost its wonted Pride;
The Primrose withers, ere its Bloom is spread;
Narcissus, humbler, hangs his drooping Head;
The sickening Sun neglects his famish'd Flowers,
With sable Brow the sorrowing Welkin lowers:
Weep on, ye Fields; nor let your Tears be dry'd.
By chearing Suns, nor wear your vernal Pride;
Be clad, ye Skies, 'till wintry Age returns,
In mournful Sable; for, Valesa mourns.
Ah, Thyrsus, had you seen the widow'd Fair,
When, as her Bosom caught the silent Tear,
She sooth'd her tender. Young with stifled Groan,
And chid their Sorrows, and betray'd her own;
Then sudden to sequester'd Shades withdrew,
Where mixing Cypress-meets the mournful Yew—
Each Blast was hush'd, the vocal Forest slept,
And Philomel sat silent, while she wept.
‘Here, then, at least, shall Sorrow sow its Cares:
‘Ye dearest Pledges! guiltless of your Tears;
‘Far utter'd, far from you, the Sounds shall die,
‘Nor Grief infect you with a Mother's Sigh:
‘Ye Bowers alone be Partners of my Woe;
‘Now, all uncultur'd shall your Branches grow;
‘The Bramble, now, and pointed Thorn combin'd,
‘And Thistle rude, will fret your tender Rind;
‘And Thistles, too, my budding Vines may wound,
‘Now, from their fond Support by Storms unbound,
‘Like you, of Culture, and of Care bereft,
‘No Gardener with the little Nurslings left,
‘No loving, cautious Hand to guide their Growth,
‘And prune, and prop the tender Branch of Youth

270

‘Ye Birds, that lonely wander through the Grove,
‘Haply, like me, ye mourn your ravish'd Love:
‘No more shall he return with Evening Food,
‘Hang o'er the Nest, and kiss his callow Brood;
‘No longer sooth your Sleep, at setting Day,
‘With Notes love-labour'd from the neighbouring Spray:
‘In vain ye watch, and think his Absence long;
‘Alas! the Spoiler's Hand hath quench'd his Song.
‘O Love, from my Embrace thus rudely wrench'd,
‘How is my Bliss in one sad Moment quench'd!
‘With thee, rejoic'd the sprightly Morn arose;
‘And sweet, with thee, was Evening's gentle Close:
‘Thy Song was softer than the Linnet's Lay,
‘Thy Voice like Zephyr when he breathes on May;
‘Thy Converse milder than the cool Retreat
‘That wont to shade us in the Noon-tide Heat:
‘Now, Morn, and Eve, and Noon, unnotic'd fleet,
‘A Heap of Time, depriv'd of every Sweet.
‘Now, shall I see the Pledges of our Love,
‘A Flock unfenc'd through pathless Desarts rove;
‘Their Shepherd gone, like frighted Lambs they shake,
‘And dread the Wolf in every rustling Brake:
‘Haste, my Valesus, hasten to thy Charge,
‘Night comes apace, and Foxes roam at large;
‘Come, house thy shivering Young from Midnight bleak,
‘The Spring is tardy, and thy Lambkins weak;

271

‘Frightful, of late, the Northern Blasts have howl'd;
‘Their infant Fleeces ill defend the Cold—
‘Ah me! thyself art colder still than they;
‘Dark is thy Lodging, and thy Bed of Clay.’
While, all desponding, thus she sigh'd her Cares,
And mix'd her Grief with Evening's dewy Tears,
The sickly Moon, from yonder Mountain's Head,
O'er her pale Cheek a paler Sadness spread;
The hollow-breathing Groves return'd her Sighs;
The watery Pleiads clos'd their weeping Eyes;
Lull'd by her Plaints, the feather'd Warblers slept,
And, mournful in their Dreams, responsive wept.
THYRSUS.
Enough, my Moeris, cease thy moving Strain;
Valesa's Grief is shar'd by every Swain:
Oft, in these Vales, each Shepherd shall record
The Looks benign, the Bounties of their Lord;
Could Sorrow sow Compassion in the Tomb
And make the blasted Grass of Life to bloom,
Each Bosom should with Prayers unweary'd sigh,
And Tears incessant flow from every Eye:
But, Dews sink fruitless in the burning Sand;
Clouds moisten all in vain the briny Strand;
The river-water'd Rock no Pasture bears;
Nor yields the Grave a Harvest to our Tears.
Raise, then, to better Hopes your languid Eyes;
A Ray bursts on me through the sable Skies!
Behold Valesus' Sire in Arms renown'd,
Vigorous in Age, with recent Trophies crown'd,
Stretching to Fame beyond the narrow Span
That erst was deem'd to bound the Reach of Man;

272

Beneath the Conduct of his Arm, shall rise
The chief-born Pledge of fair Valesa's Ties;
With equal Ardour tread the Paths of Fame;
And share alike his Glory, and his Name.
Behold the Hero catch each kindred Blaze,
His Grandsire's Splendor, and his Uncle's Rays;
From mild Valesa shine with softer Fire,
And kindle every Star that grac'd his Sire.
To gild his rising Fame with early Light,
The changing Year revolves with swifter Flight,
The rapid Months in other Order run,
And Time, impatient, gains upon the Sun.
I see the Youth begin his glorious Race;
Triumphal Shews each rising Annal grace:
Lo! Victory before his Chariot flies;
Breathless beneath its Wheels Rebellion lies;
Astræa guides it with her virgin-Hand;
Peace wreaths his Laurels round her olive Wand;
The Horn of Plenty flows; the Muses smile;
And wafted Sweets reach every British Isle;
Her Floods, her Shores, her echoing Hills rejoice:
Awake, Valesa, hear Britannia's Voice;
Awake; or, if thy Sorrows call for Rest,
Smile, as thou sleep'st, and be in Visions blest.

MOERIS.
Prophetick be thy Lips, prophetick, sure,
So light my Bosom drinks their lenient Cure;
The Streams of Life with wonted Vigour glide;
And the glad Heart receives a warmer Tide.
But, come, while gentle Dreams their Pinions spread
With soft Refreshment o'er Valesa's Head,

273

Fond, let us walk her sacred Mansions round,
And distant banish each unhallow'd Sound:
Renew'd with her, the smiling Hours shall rise,
And catch the brightest Omens from her Eyes.

 

His Royal Highness, Frederick, Prince of Wales.

Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd Song.

Milton.

------ then with Voice
Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes.
Milton.

The LYCEUM .

To Mr. WALKER.
While, with convincing Eloquence,
You philosophic Truths dispense,
And, in ten thousand pleasing Ways,
Divert the Sun's all-chearing Rays,
What living Wonders here abound,
Beaming superior Influence round!
Lo! Goodness, gentle, and serene,
In charming Emily is seen;

274

Concentering to the dazzled Sight
A Glow of pure, intrinsic Light,
Unting'd with one affected Air,
Which Rank, too oft, and Beauty wear.
Look there! ye Meteors of a Day,
Who throw your Time, and Selves away;
Look there! ye supercilious Great,
Ye Slaves to Fashion, Pomp, and State,
Look there! and learn, 'tis true Desert
Alone, that captivates the Heart;
And, such is bless'd Amelia's Store,
The Heart she gains returns no more.
 

The Right Hon. Lady Amelia Fitz-Gerald, eldest Daughter of his Grace, the Duke of Leinster.

Belov'd Eliza, here, shines forth,
The beauteous Quintessence of Worth;
Yet, rob'd in Splendors, like the Sun,
She shines not for herself alone;
But, easy, affable, and gay,
She sheds on all a brighter Day,
And, with a Candour known to few,
Sets others' Merit full in View.
This Praise is hers—and, proud to tell,
I have known her long, and know her well.
 

Miss Montgomery.

In Anna's speaking Eyes we find
Each calm Perfection of the Mind,
And, sparkling with celestial Rays,
Each goodly Disposition plays,
Lodg'd in a Frame, where, often sought,
Envy could never find a Fault.
Such might, to Mortals, Angels prove,
Sent erst on Embassies of Love.

275

Consult the Impression in your Breast,
And own, what all Mankind attest.
 

Miss Ann Montgomery.

When Worth, and Loveliness, supreme,
The raptur'd Poet makes his Theme,
Recreant to Beauty, Taste, and Wit,
Who could a Sister's Claim omit;
Tho' now her Glories matchless rise,
The Cynosure of distant Skies—
By modern Pens, and Bards of old,
In copious Strain we are loudly told,
Of Pallas, and the Wife of Jove,
Of Hebe, and the Queen of Love,
Of Proserpine, who Pluto charm'd,
And her, whose Quarrel Nations arm'd;
Of Paintings too, one finish'd Piece
Comprising all the Toasts of Greece!
Fond Tales of Wonders well devis'd;
But, tho' we mourn our absent Fair,
In Fanny all are realiz'd,
And bloom in just Assemblage there.
Say, can the spangling Dews supply
Refractive brightness, like her Eye?
Or can the Morning's Radiance speak
The modest Sweetness of her Cheek?
And, could consummate Genius find
Tints to express embodied Mind,

276

Her Features, Person, Mein, are such!
O! what Promethean Art could touch!
 

Miss Barbara Montgomery, the second Sister, then on a Visit with her Uncle, the Lord Advocate for Scotland.

Cynosure, properly the Northern Star, by which Sailors direct their Course; metaphorically here, the Star of Beauty, to which, all who would view the human Face divine, in Perfection, must necessarily turn their Attention.

Miss Nugent, of Clonlost, County Westmeath.

This more particularly alludes to the Work of a celebrated Artist, who twice attempted, but not with his usual Success, to take a Likeness of this young Lady, in Wax, for the Author. Alike indebted to the other amiable Daughters of his Care, who also honoured him with their Pictures about the same Time, he gladly seizes this Opportunity of doing Justice to their Merit; and fondly persuades himself, the present Publication may remain a Monument of it to Posterity, exciting their fair Countrywomen to a laudable Emulation of their Excellencies. 'Twas his Happiness to superintend the Education of several of them from their earliest Infancy; and, he has now the additional Felicity of testifying, in plain and simple Prose, that even Poetry cannot exceed their Deserts.

If Excellence conciliates Fame,
Fair Crosbie, too, bears lawful Claim:
Regard her well: But, O beware!
A Swarm of Cupids ambush there!
 

Miss Elizabeth Crosbie.

Sweet Biddy's cherub-smiling Form
The most insensible would warm:
Such Loveliness, we well conceive,
In Eden's Bowers attended Eve;
Such Innocence, such winning Grace,
Ere Art dar'd Nature's Works deface;
With every Virtue in her Breast,
In Heaven's essential Colours dress'd.
 

Miss Bowerman, of the County of Cork.

Here too,—but Painting falls beneath
The Soul conspicuous in Westmeath.
 

The Right Hon. Catherine, Countess of Westmeath.

The Muse might Numbers more rehearse,
Fit Subjects for immortal Verse:
But, lost in Wonder, Love, and Praise,
She finds they far exceed her Lays—

277

Where Beauty, thus, and Sense unite,
What richer Gifts can Heaven bestow?
This charms the Soul, that glads the Sight,
Whence all our dearest Blessings flow:
Each aiding each, their Lustres shine,
Resistless, permanent, divine—
Thus, female Minds, with Knowlege fraught,
Are just and liberal Notions taught;
Through Wisdom's Glass their Foibles view'd,
Stand self-convicted, and subdued:
No more Caprice their Conduct rules;
No more the Prey of Rakes, and Fools;
Their Souls, with Truth and Honour charm'd,
Are, thus, 'gainst all Seduction arm'd;
Nor need they dread the Pedant's Sneer,
Who by the Card of Reason steer.
Through Ignorance, alone, and Pride,
The Fair are Learning's Aid deny'd;
And bred, merely, to taste or know,
The Glare of Dress, and Farce of Shew.

278

What Wonder, then, in Folly train'd,
Through Life the Impression is retain'd?
And if, as sure, they want not Powers,
Whate'er their Faults, the Crime is ours.
But here, for here, at least, you must
Admit their Claim; my Thesis just;
And, hence, this fair Conclusion draw,
Minerva owns no Salic Law.
 

This is self-evident: Nor can any thing else be reasonably required, if we but reflect what Sort of Beings, and how utterly destitute of every necessary Qualification, they generally are, who assume the Province of educating Children. Is it a Business to be attained by Intuition? And by what previous Course of Institution have they been prepared for it? In Building, it is usual to apply to the skilful Architect for a Design or Plan of the intended Habitation; every Part of which is diligently and accurately scrutinized; Dispositions altered, new ones contrived, and all Things modelled, and calculated with the most elaborate Exactness, before a Stone is laid: But, what rational, consistent, and well-digested Plan is ever formed, or pursued, in building up the Mind of the future Inhabitant? This, the most extensive and complicated of all Objects, is most commonly left to Casualty, and the varying, unconcocted Whim of each succeeding Moment. Does not the Character of complete Instructors imply, that, in the first Instance, they themselves have been well and liberally educated; that, they are themselves thoroughly versed in the Theory, and perfect in the Practice, of what they undertake to teach; and, withal, possessed of a happy Facility of communicating their Ideas to others; that, with an active, generous Mind, they have a deep and penetrating Insight into the human Heart, its Operations and Propensities, aided by an extensive Knowlege of the Manners and Customs of the World, not gleaned from Books merely, but from Observation in real Life; that, they have a corrected Imagination, unbiassed by Prejudice, untinctured with Caprice; and, that, though their Disposition be quick in discerning, yet affable and polite, slow to Anger, and patient in Reproof; that, they be particularly assiduous in the Cultivation of their own Minds, and ever free and open to Conviction; and, yet, at the same Time, with all due Deference to the Opinion of others, that they be so circumstanced and self-possessed, as not to sacrifice their own Judgement to the Petulance of officious Inexperience, or the Bickerings of paternal Partiality: To sum up all, that, with a clear and cool Head, they possess the warmest, and most benevolent Heart? 'Tis true, it might be difficult to find many, every Way answerable to this Description;—the Reasons are obvious—It would be well, however, to keep such a Character always in View; and, to chuse, only, where these Requisites considerably prevail. And, it will be allowed that, if those who undertake the important Charge, would endeavour to form themselves on some such Principles, it would be extremely happy for the Community: For, if they, who ought to have the first Authority and Confidence with our Children, and whom they should be taught to love, respect, and esteem, be groveling and despicable in their Notions and Sentiments, and have imbibed their Principles from impure and corrupted Sources, what else can we expect from the Objects of their Influence?

“Children, like tender Oziers, take the Bow,
“And, as they first are fashion'd always grow;
“For, what we learn in Youth, to that alone,
“In Age, we are by second Nature prone.”

It cannot be supposed, the Writer is actuated by any selfish Motives in what he here advances; it is the Result of Reason and Experience: He has had many Opportunities of observing the injudicious Treatment of Children, particularly, those of Quality, and of the Fair-sex; and flatters himself the Importance of this Note will plead its Excuse.

 

This was the Name of Aristotle's School, near Athens; and from thence, likewise, Cicero's School, in the Tusculum, was called Lyceum. In Imitation of those, the Place, in which our Philosopher exhibited, was distinguished by the same Appellation.—To obviate the Charge of Affectation of Learning, or hard Words, the critical Reader is requested to remember, that, the above Trifle was written at a Philosophic Lecture; and, that such Terms, and Allusions, as seemed naturally to arise from the Subject in Agitation, were purposely chosen; they had been well explained, and were perfectly familiar to the beautiful and intelligent Auditors.

Written at his Optic Lecture, May 14, 1771.


279

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE TO THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERD.

Such were the Scenes, Italian Fancy wrought,
Ere Musick from the Stage had banish'd Thought;
Led on, where Heroes trod, a beardless Throng,
Warblers, who ravish—only with a Song.
Ladies, what think ye of Myrtillo's Vows?
What modern Youth would die, to save his Spouse?
Our wiser Lovers, in these reasoning Days,
To gain their Mistresses, chuse milder Ways:
With Parents calmly traffick for the Daughter;
And wait 'till Lawyers sign her—Imprimatur;
When, after tedious Moons of Wishing, Lo!
The eager Bride finds in her Arms—a Beau:
Who can the Coxcomb's happy Lot express?
His Knowlege, Fashions, and his Business, Dress?
Lord of the Snuff-Box, and the sparkling Ring;
A smiling, bowing, necessary Thing;
Too vain, to love; too low, to be abus'd;
And just despis'd enough, to be well-us'd.
But, of our Sex, ye Men of Sense, beware;
Your Slavery is the Triumph of the Fair,
'Twixt Reason doom'd, and Passion, long to vary,
To doubt, examine, ponder, judge,—yet marry.

280

Long, polish'd Nations have admir'd these Strains;
Rome's brightest Beauties crowded to these Scenes;
Yet, never the applauded Author drew
A fairer Circle, than we boast in you:
Kindly, then, praise Myrtillo's generous Mind;
So may each Nymph a faithful Shepherd find.
 

Spoken by Amaryllis.

SONNET. To Mr. THOMAS HICKEY.

Hickey, whose faithful Pencil Nature guides,
Attend the immortal Strains, sweet Spenser sings,
Whilst on his fiery Pegasus he rides,
And steers his easy flight with rapid Wings.
Short is the Date of sublunary Things!
Not so, the genuine Joy, the Transport bright,
That from the Muses' sacred Fountain springs:
Perpetual Source of ever-new Delight.
In mad Ambition's Toils, let Fools unite;
Be thine, the pleasing Task, the fond Desire,
To trace fair Nature's Forms, to blend aright
The Painter's magick Skill, and Poet's Fire.
Congenial Studies mutual Aids impart,
“And Images reflect from Art to Art.
 

With Spenser's Fairy Queen.


281

AN ELEGY.

Far from the busy Cares of Life,
In yonder Vale O let me stray;
And there, retir'd from Crowds, and Strife,
To sweet Oblivion give the Day!
Or, let me hie to where the Vine
In wanton Wreaths compleats the Bower;
There see the pearly Dew-drops shine,
And hang in Tears on every Flower.
As o'er the green Corn-Field he flies,
I'll hear the Lark's enraptur'd Lay;
See Morn's first Blushes gild the Skies;
And hail the Sun's ambrosial Ray.
Ye Winds, be silent, while the Rail
With pleasing Sounds the Hour prolongs;
The Thrush, too, chaunts his amorous Tale,
And pours his little Soul in Songs.

282

Now, let my curious Eye survey
Yon Monument of deathless Fame,
That shall to every Age convey
Immortal William's glorious Name.
The Boyne's clear Stream, that flows fast by,
The Fields, the Groves array'd in Green,
The distant Hills, that prop the Sky,
Compleat the Beauties of the Scene.
Sweet Prospect to a Mind at Ease,
That never felt the Sting of Care;
The happy Sunshine of whose Days
Was never clouded by Despair.
Not even sweet Morn's ambrosial Ray
Brings aught of Joy to make me blest;
To drive one anxious Thought away;
Or chase her Image from my Breast:
Vain are the Lark's, the Thrush's Strains;
(Sweet Balm of Pain, of Care, and Strife)
Fix'd in my Soul her Form remains,
And pulls the very Strings of Life.
Can that be she, that strikes my Eye,
Slow walking o'er yon flowery Mead?
Swift o'er the unbending Corn, I'll fly,
Nor crush the Cowslip's velvet Head—
'Tis nothing all, but empty Air—
When wilt thou cease, thou tyrant Boy?—
To plunge us deeper in Despair,
You cheat us with the Hope of Joy.

283

I'll hope no more—Deceiver, go—
Thee, and thy treacherous Smiles I curse;
For, he, whose Lot is cast so low,
Is sure it never can be worse.
 

The Scene of this little Poem is supposed to lie on the Banks of the Boyne, in View of the Obelisk, erected in the Year 1736, in Memory of the Victory, gained by King William III. over James II. near that Place, July the 1st, 1690.

TO A LADY, Who demanded an EXTEMPORE. In IMITATION of the Foregoing.

An extempore Proof of my Passion, and Wit!
Ah! how shall your Poet begin it?—
To see you, to love, and to kneel at your Feet,
Is no more than the Work of a Minute.

284

SONG.

[When I behold fair Chloe's Face]

When I behold fair Chloe's Face,
Adorn'd by Nature, and by Art,
I safely praise each matchless Grace;
For, none of them can reach my Heart.
Louisa's Wit I can admire,
And hear, unhurt, each sprightly Turn;
Rejoice in her poetic Fire,
But find even that too weak to burn.
Sophia's Sense I highly prize;
Her Modesty and Candour move
Calm Friendship's gentle Warmth to rise;
But ne'er can kindle into Love.
Nor Sophy's Sense, nor Lucy's Wit,
Nor Chloe's Face could give me Pain:
But, now, my boasted Ease I quit;
And look for Liberty in vain.
Ask you, whose silken Charms I wear,
What lovely Nymph is then my Queen?
Your Wonder's o'er, when I declare
'Tis charming Betsey of the Green.

285

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE, FROM A LAW-STUDENT, in the Country, To his FRIEND, at the Temple.

Tutsham-Hall, August, 1761.
When, rouz'd by Stings of sore Repentance,
Sage Prudence had pronounc'd the Sentence,
That I from London far should fly
To stiller Scenes, and purer Sky;
And there, in Solitude and Quiet,
By Study hard, and meagre Diet,
Should make Amends for every Minute
Which flew as if the Devil was in it;
And should atone for former Pleasures,
By other Rules, and other Measures:

286

Then (for the Bards of high Parnassus
Can little call to Mind what passes)
We, at that solemn Hour of Parting,
Did join in Deed and Contract certain;
And one Division of the Writing
Was thus—in legal Form—reciting:
“The Parties whom we now did mention,
“With honest Hearts, and sound Intention,
Agree (though Chance, or envious Fortune,
“Their Hours of Face to Face should shorten,
“Howe'er disjoin'd by Fate, or Time,
“Or Change of Humour, or of Clime)
“Unless they can devise a better,
“To send a Messenger, call'd Letter,
“Who should, in ample Manner, tell
“What Change, or Accident befell
“Their Health, their Study, or their Weather,
“Their Laugh, their Spleen, or all together.
“And, as this Courier did petition,
“For greater Ease and Expedition,
“That these the Parties, or their Muse
“Would help him with a Pair of Shoes;
“Each, through Humanity and Conscience,
“Agreed to give a Pair, which long since
“Were call'd poetic Socks or Sandals,
“The Work of certain Runes, and Vandals,
“And now, in this our modern Time,
“Are call'd the dancing Pumps of Rhyme;
“With which (as did of old the God
“For Juggling fam'd, and magic Rod)
“He may, o'er Mountains, Rocks, and Torrents,
“Skip hence to Paris, thence to Florence,

287

“Now here, now there, as Whim inclin'd him,
“While pursy Prudence lagg'd behind him;
“And flutter o'er the mightiest Fence,
“The Bounds of Order, and of Sense.”—
Now, Friend, in Spight of all thy Wit,
I think (in modish Phrase) you are bit;
And I, by wicked Scheme, and charging,
Have got the better of this Bargain;
As I by Precedent unfold,
Deduc'd from Sires and Sages old:
For, good Examples—Coke has said it,—
In Law are deem'd of wonderous Credit;
And we, lest thought in Law's Defiance,
Pursue the Method of our Science.
In old Reports, though little known
To many a Coif-head of the Gown,
(Where publish'd, now, we cannot charge us,
At Athens, Colophon, or Argos,
So fam'd for Disputation-Prizes,
And their Olympical Assizes)
The Lawyer's Name, I think, was Homer,
Excuse me, if I make Misnomer
In these Reports, the Case is told
In sterling Law, and Words of Gold:

288

As we forget the Method shewn,
We must relate it in our own.
‘Now rushes Diomede to War,
‘In Radiance like the Autumnal Star,
‘Through Rank and File in Hurry flies,
‘Pricks the fair Strumpet of the Skies;
‘And kicks poor Mars, like any Fury,
‘That Bully of Ethereal Drury;
‘Alone of all the Trojan Band,
‘Intrepid Glaucus dar'd to stand,
‘And his bold Hardihood engage
‘Against the Grecian Bravo's Rage.
‘But, ere they yet proceed to Blows,
‘Some Parley's proper amongst Foes:
‘And now a wordy Contest try'd is
‘Twixt Gaffar, Glaucus, and Tydides;
‘Much Talk—of mighty Folks above—
‘Of Families deduc'd from Jove
‘Of Acts of Peace—and Deeds of Terror—
‘Of Amazons—and Fields of Error—

289

‘Of Step-Mothers—and Dragon-Warriors—
‘And Josephs turn'd to Letter-Carriers
‘'Till, after all these Windings past,
‘They find they Gossips were, at last.
‘Then Tydeus' Son (as shrewd a Youth,
‘As Interest ever led from Truth)
“O Friend, be all our Bloodshed o'er;
“Let's crack a Pint, and fight no more!
“Old Oeneus, in his straw-built Cottage,
“Warm'd brave Bellerophon with Pottage;
“And twenty Days with Beef and Carrot,
“And foreign Ale, and home-brew'd Claret,
“This Guest of Climes remote (they tell ye)
“Did fill the Vacuums of his Belly:
“At parting, they bestow'd each other
“Such Gifts as Brother makes to Brother;
“In reverend State the King produces
“A Bandage, fit for several Uses,
“Well strengthened with repeated Stitches,
“To tighten up his royal Breeches;
“Of this his Grandsire did avail him,
“When shrinking Hips began to fail him,

290

“From whom descends this knightly Banner,
“As Heir-loom of the Etolian Manor;
“This gave the King, by Way of Barter,
“By Gods call'd Belt, by Men call'd Garter.
Bellerophon then made his Tender,
“Disdaining to be last in Splendor;
“A Cup of wonderous Form and Metal,
“Large as degenerate modern Kettle,
“A Lid—Ionicè, a Stopper—
“The Cup of Tin, the Lid of Copper,
“Fit for the King, when drunk, or sober,
“To warm his Porter, or October:
“And, now, let us, by Influence led
“Of these, the Worthies of the Dead,
“Exchange our Armour, as in Token
“Of Friendship, and of Faith unbroken,
“That all around us may be certain
“We smil'd good-humour'd at our Parting.”
‘Poor, honest Glaucus, little viewing
‘The Trap thus baited for his Ruin,

291

‘(Jove chang'd him to a Kentish Farmer)
‘Exchang'd for Brass his golden Armour,
‘With which he oft was wont to spark it
‘At every Lycian Fair and Market,
‘When Justs and Tournaments were held,
Militia-Triumphs of the Field:
‘And now Tydides bears away
‘The wheedled Trophies of the Day;
‘And is esteem'd, in War, or Peace,
‘The greatest red-coat Beau in Greece.’
Thus ends the Tale:—And, if a Dame,
Whom Modesty the Modest name,
Will not permit thee to unfold
Who takes in Brass, and pays in Gold;
That fair ingenuous Shame to wound,
From me be never borne the Sound;
But, may the pleasing Secret rest
Safe shrouded in this conscious Breast.
And, now, in proper Form, 'tis fit,
Without one doggrel Catch at Wit,

292

To let thee know how flow my Days,
In Toil, in Study, or in Ease;
And how the Summer's liberal Hand
With Pride adorns the smiling Land;
That some of these, or one, or all
May tempt thee down to Tutsham-Hall.
Ere early five has struck, I rise,
When fair Aurora streaks the Skies,
And, high on fluttering Pinions borne,
The lively Lark salutes the Morn,
And every Zephyr bears along
The Warblings of the matin Song;
I rise, but not abroad repair
To breathe the Fragrance of the Air;
Nor o'er the upland Meadow stray
To hail the rising God of Day;
But, wisely pondering future Time,
Disclaiming all the Sins of Rhyme,
And, provident for serious Age,
I seek the Work of reverend Sage,
(Who wrote, in Days of Yore, a Book
Of mickle Fame) y-cleped Coke:
With him Director of my Way,
Through Mazes intricate I stray;
And, smit with Dread and sacred Awe,
Behold the Labyrinths of Law;
Mazes, which he could well explore,
As could old Dædalus of yore;
And, like that Dædalus, he tries
To guide me through unusual Skies;

293

While I, on waxen Wings, essay
To gain a nearer Glimpse of Day,
Down plumb, in Head-ache, and in Terror,
I plunge into the Sea of Error.
When, thus, 'midst solemn Dons, at last,
Six lingering loitering Hours are past,
O! who the Pleasure would refuse
Of listening to the chearful Muse?
Or she, of old who wak'd the Lyre
With Horace's immortal Fire?
Or she, who, in inspiring Dream,
Late prompted the delightful Theme,
When to the Poet's raptur'd Eyes
Imagination bade arise
Each Spirit of the Fairy-Race
That crowds her Empire's ample Space,
And to late Ages bade the Strain
Convey the Wonders of her Reign?
Consulting, then, my Body's Weal,
I hie me to my moderate Meal;
Or Capon grown, or youthful Cockrell,
(Excuse this cursed Itch of Doggrell)
Or Lamb, or Veal, with Peas, or Sallad,
All Favourites of my vulgar Palate;
But still, with Constancy of Romans,
I most adhere to College-Commons.
But you, Apostate to the Throng,
The temperate Sons of moral Song—

294

You heed no more than Breath of Bellows
The Dictates of the sage Ofellus,
(Whom Horace mentions in his Satires,
To hate all Boar and Venison-Eaters,
And well to bear or Fast, or Famine,
As Cordelier, or Indian Bramin)
But riotously dare expatiate,
With keenest Appetite insatiate,
Loose every Rein, nor strive to curb it;
But batten on luxurious Turbot,
Or Marrow-Pye, or Venison-Pasty,
Or Pudding-Plum, or Pudding-hasty;
Nay, more to aggravate thy Crimes,
And brand thee to remotest Times,
Thou, late, devoid of common Pity,
With Felon-Scheme didst seek the City;
And, then and there, at House of Merchant,
Or Alderman, or Common-Serjeant,
Didst pour of Burgundy a Cadus
On living Turtle from Barbadoes;
And didst with Negro-Wench combine
To stew it whole in Floods of Wine;
And then, with Carver (Value Three-pence)
Didst score it, as a Child does Pippins;
And then, like Monk with reverend Tonsure,
Didst eat a Quarter as thine own Share:—
I stop—arising now my Gorge is,
At Thought of such infernal Orgies—
“O ne'er may future Bard digest
“The Horrors of so rich a Feast!”

295

When milder slopes the solar Ray,
Well-pleas'd, I take my lonely Way,
Or through the linnet-haunted Grove,
Where oft the listening Dryads rove,
Fearful lest any vulgar Eye
Should their chaste Mysteries descry;
Or to the Field, where all around
The Reapers' merry Tales resound;
Or where the Sheep are pour'd along,
Attentive to the Shepherd's Song,
And, starting from their Couch of Grass,
Oft gaze, and wonder, as I pass:
Or where, on yon extended Plain,
Each Hamlet spreads her youthful Train,
At Bars, or Cricket's nobler Game
Contending for the Wreath of Fame;
Each blushing Maid, with longing Eyes,
Incites her Lover to the Prize:
While all the reverend Sires around
At Ease recline along the Ground,
And fondly mention o'er and o'er
How fleet they ran in Days of yore;
And each, with Eyes of glistening Joy,
Beholds the Wonders of his Boy.
Thence bear me to the Meadow's Side,
Where flows the River's easy Tide!—
Here oft in pensive Mood I stray,
Recalling many a tuneful Lay,
Which pour'd, this gliding Stream along,
The Master of the Fairy-Song;

296

And many a Note, and many a Tale,
Which hither stole from Penshurst's Vale,
When Sidney to the listening Swains
Breath'd all around his Doric Strains,
And fix'd the Medway's every Grove
The Seat of Poetry and Love.
As late I rov'd along the Stream,
Amus'd with many a floating Dream,
Before me quickly skimm'd along
My Childhood Hours of idle Song;
What Time, in rural Ease reclin'd,
I warbled to the passing Wind;
Or, when, along the secret Dale,
Amanda listened to my Tale,
And whisper'd in the conscious Grove
The faultering Sounds of mutual Love;
These Days, these Hours, in glittering Dyes,
My fond Remembrance bade arise:—
I sigh'd—Ah! fled is Colin's Strain,
And other Days and Hours remain:
O, why not in these peaceful Shades
Appear the fair Pierian Maids?
Or, why, when Time but now began
To stamp me with the Seal of Man,

297

Should every Grace and every Muse
Their oft intreated Aid refuse?
Again return, ye smiling Hours!
Return, ye fair poetic Powers!
And hither, laurell'd Sisters, bring
The breathing Lute, the sounding String!
Bid Joy here fix his happy Seat,
And Care, intruding Care, retreat!
Bid Venus bring her smiling Train,
And Love, and Ease, and Pleasure reign!
Thus I, presumptuous—As, of old,
Romances have the Wonders told,
How Knight (some Florimel to gain,
Whom Giant bound in ruthless Chain)
Arm'd cap-a-pie, in hostile State
Approach'd his Adversary's Gate,
And bade the Paynim Carle prepare
By Blast of Horn, for Deeds of War;
Straight, bickering Lightenings glance around,
And muttering Earthquakes rock the Ground;
On Griffon, or on Hydra flies
Some black Magician through the Skies,
And, with a Wand of mighty Force,
Stops the bold Warrior in his Course:
So happ'd it now:— A Form appears,
Low sunk beneath the Weight of Years;

298

A Band his sable Bosom grac'd;
A Girdle bound his ermin'd Waist;
His Nose, of Promontory Size,
Was arm'd with artificial Eyes;
A Wig, in mystic Curls y-spread,
Hung many a Fathom from his Head;
With Pain he bore, in tottering State,
A necromantic Folio's Weight,
Inscrib'd with Talismans most dire,
To check the sprightliest Muse's Fire:
I shook, turn'd pale, my Blood scarce ran:
He hem'd—ha'd—cough'd, and thus began.
‘O Son! what direful Ills await
‘The Progress of thy future Fate,
‘If thus, by recreant Fancy led,
‘You woo these Harlots to your Bed,
‘And right, and legal Reason quit
‘For Lozels base, and Pagan Wit?

299

Albeit in this thy youthful Prime,
‘In Pleasaunce flow thy reckless Time,
‘Yet, when white Eld shall o'er thy Head
‘It's venerable Honours spread,
Eftsoons these tinsel Glitterings fade,
‘Their Pride is gone, their Sheen decay'd;
‘O, where, then, in that Evening Hour,
‘Thy Wealth, thy Splendor, or thy Power?
‘Or, where those Trappings of the Sage,
‘That should adorn thy studious Age?
‘Pale Want her Harpy-Wings shall spread;
‘And Care shall haunt thy lonely Bed;
‘No Bar shall echo with thy Fame;
‘Inglorious shall descend thy Name,
‘Or live, on blasting Murmurs borne,
‘Of serious Sense the Jest, and Scorn:
‘O rouse thee, then—this mystic Lore
‘With Eyes of studious Zeal explore;
‘By Toil, by Hardiment, and Pain,
‘O strive the steep Ascent to gain;
‘Then, all thy Hours of Labour past,
‘Each Day shall smile upon the last.’
Thus he:—Light-stepping o'er the Green,
The youngest of the Nine is seen;
(Who not on Pindus' sacred Height
Wing'd the bold Ardour of her Flight;
But at the Foot, in humble Cell,
With lonely Shepherd deign'd to dwell,

300

And oft, in many a lowly Lay,
Stole easy through the Summer Day)
With fluttering Joy her Voice I hear,
Her Voice so 'custom'd to mine Ear—
‘O! if for Happiness you strive,
‘For which alone the Wise would live,
‘For which, through Nature's various Plan
‘Attentive strains the Mind of Man,
‘Seek not her Smile in idle State,
‘Amidst the Tumults of the Great;
‘Nor yet with Wealth abides the Fair,
Wealth, the sure Host of pining Care;
‘Nor Power, nor Public-Fame, bestows
‘The moral Bliss of calm Repose:
‘But, in the Muse's lonely Seat
‘She deigns to fix her calm Retreat;
‘There oft, with fond, maternal Love,
‘She visits whom the Nine approve;
‘Beam'd from the Mind's interior Powers,
‘She gilds the virtuous Poet's Hours;
‘And, soaring to sublimer Things,
‘Leaves Pomp and Misery to Kings:
‘O let not, then, this Wizard's Tongue
‘Allure thee from the Sons of Song,
‘To busy Noise, and wordy Strife,
‘The wrangling Dissonance of Life;
‘Nor, by his Promise led astray,
‘Think Fortune shall attend thy Way;
‘If aught the Muse aright divine,
‘For thee no Hoards of Gold shall shine;
‘No Honours shall around thee wait;
‘No Clients shall besiege thy Gate;
‘Nor Fame in blooming Wreaths shall spread
‘The civic Crown around thy Head:

301

‘Then vain thy most assiduous Toil,
‘Thy early Watch, thy Midnight Oil,
‘Thy Hours of Labour never past,
‘Each Day shall frown upon the last.’
She ceas'd—Quick raptur'd from the Heart,
‘Never, O never let us part!’—
When straight, without a Breeze, the Grove
In solemn Reverence seem'd to move;
And every Thing around was aw'd,
As conscious of some present God:—
Submiss I gaz'd, as through the Shade
Appear'd the Jove-descended Maid,
Who sometimes, though of heavenly Birth,
Deigns guide the erring Sons of Earth;
And then, with Olive-Branch is seen,
The Symbol of the Athenian Queen;
Deep through my Breast her Accents stole,
And mute Attention rapt my Soul;
‘Think not the mighty Lord of Heaven
‘To Man has Life and Reason given,
‘That center'd in his narrow Breast
‘Their active Energy should rest;
‘Nor think to any Sphere confin'd
‘The Blessing of the virtuous Mind:
‘The great Disposer here below,
‘Hath mingled Happiness with Woe,
‘And bade eternal Order move
‘In social Life, and social Love:
‘Who seeks, in Indolence and Ease
‘To waste the Blossom of his Days,
‘Too late discovers, to his Cost,
‘His promis'd Happiness is lost.

302

He best can hope the Bliss to prove
‘Of Ease, of Pleasure, and of Love,
‘Who sometimes from the Crowd retires
‘To Thoughts which Solitude inspires,
‘And blends, with Business, and with Noise,
‘The pensive Muse's silent Joys.
‘For thee—whate'er thy future Sphere
‘Commit to Heaven's disposing Care—
‘Think, if one Orphan's grateful Sighs,
‘One Widow's Prayer shall reach the Skies,
‘Think, if one Friend confess thine Aid,
‘How well thy Labour is repaid!
‘Thy Heart with honest Joy shall glow;
‘Thy Days in honour'd Peace shall flow;
‘By every Friend of Worth approv'd;
‘By candid Innocence belov'd;
‘And Time shall grave upon thy Stone—
‘He liv'd not for himself alone!’
Something she added, which, in vain,
I strove quite perfect to retain,
About a Swain, whose spotless Youth
She guided in the Paths of Truth;
To whom she oft had deign'd impart
Each Attic Elegance of Art:—
To him’ (she cried) ‘these Dictates bear’—
The Name was lost in empty Air.—
If e'er of such an one you hear,
Friend Thomas, twitch him by the Ear:
And tell him, that the tuneful Maid,
Who haunts the fair Parnassian Shade,
Was ne'er intended as his Wife,
Or Man's fix'd Concubine for Life:

303

But, that her soft assuasive Strain
Should soothe him in the Hour of Pain;
Should every finer Sense impart;
Should warm, should elevate his Heart;
Should grace, should dignify his Aim;
Should wake him to the Voice of Fame;
Yet, never from his Breast remove
The kindling Power of social Love;
Ne'er from the World's most toilsome Way
To turn his weary Steps astray;
But, up the Precipice of Ill,
And distant Virtue's stubborn Hill,
To rouse, to animate his Course,
To string his unelastic Force,
And guide through Nature's mazy Plan
The Sage, the Patriot, and the Man.
 

Tutsham-Hall (whence this Epistle was written) is situated on the Banks of the River Medway, in the County of Kent, about five Miles from Maidstone.

Mercury.

These were three of the seven Towns which contended for the Honour of having been the Birth-place of that Father of Poetry, Homer: Let not this posthumous Honour, however, too much inflame the Ambition of the young Candidate for literary Reputation: Let him remember, that

Seven wealthy Towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begg'd his Bread.

The seventy Lines, that follow, are a Travestie, or burlesque Imitation of some Passages in the 5th and 6th Books of Homer's Iliad.

High on his Helm celestial Lightenings play,
His beamy Shield emits a living Ray;
The unwearied Blaze incessant Streams supplies,
Like the red Star that fires the Autumnal Skies.
Pope's Homer's Iliad, B. 5.

Venus, whom Homer introduces as engaging in the Battle, and wounded by Diomede.

Hardihood, Boldness, Daring.

—“Welcome, my brave hereditary Guest!—
“Thus ever let us meet with kind Embrace;
“Nor stain the sacred Friendship of our Race.
“Know, Chief, our Grandsires have been Guests of old;
Oeneus the strong, Bellerophon the bold:
“Our ancient Seat his honour'd Presence grac'd,
“Where twenty Days in genial Rites he pass'd.
“The parting Heroes mutual Presents left;
“A golden Goblet was thy Grandsire's Gift;
Oeneus a Belt of matchless Work bestow'd,
“That rich with Tyrian Dye refulgent glow'd.
“(This from his Pledge I learn'd, which, safely stor'd
“Among my Treasures, still adorns my Board)
“Mindful of this, in Friendship let us join;
“If Heaven our Steps to foreign Lands incline,
“My Guest in Argos thou, and I in Lycia thine.
“Now change we Arms, and prove to either Host,
“We guard the Friendship of the Line we boast.”
Thus having said, the gallant Chiefs alight,
Their Hands they join, their mutual Faith they plight;
Brave Glaucus then each narrow Thought resign'd,
(Jove warm'd his Bosom, and enlarg'd his Mind)
For Diomede's brass Arms, of mean Device,
For which nine Oxen paid, (a vulgar Price)
He gave his own, of Gold divinely wrought,
An hundred Beeves the shining Purchase bought.
Pope's Homer's Iliad, B. 6.

The Words, in the Original, are εξελιτο φρενας, which may, indifferently, be interpreted, he took away his Understanding; or, be elevated his Mind. Pope, by the Turn he has given to it in his Translation, seems to consider the Exchange, on the Part of Glaucus, as an Exertion of extraordinary Disinterestedness and Generosity.

Mickle, much, great.

Y-cleped, called, named.

Akenside.

Vide Horat. Satyr. Lib. 2, Sat. 2.

O! ne'er may they again digest
The Horrors of so sad a Feast!
Prior's Alma, B. 1.

Spenser.

Penshurst, the ancient Seat of the noble Family of the Sidneys, is situated near the Source of the River Medway, in Kent: It is memorable for having been the Birth-place of the gallant Sir Philip Sidney, who seemed (according to Camden) to have been sent by Providence into the World, to give the present Age a Specimen of the Ancients—Camden stiles him, also, “The great Glory of his Family, the great Hopes of Mankind, the most lively Pattern of Virtue, and the Darling of the learned World.” The old Writer's whole Eulogy of his Favourite (which is too long to insert here) breathes a Warmth and Enthusiasm of Affection, which makes us love the Panegyrist, almost as much as we admire his Hero.

Paynim Carle, Pagan Clown.

The Choice of Hercules (that beautiful Fable of Prodicus, related by Xenophon in his Memoirs of Socrates) is one of the noblest moral Lessons of Antiquity: That it was a favourite Subject for Pictures, of old, we have the Authority of Philostratus, in his Life of Apollonius, B. 6, C. 10; and the antient Poets have frequent Allusions to it: Silius Italicus has in his Poem, B. 15, a Choice of Scipio, entirely borrowed from it: The sweet Bard of the Leasowes was the first who gave to it an English Dress; and it has received the highest possible Embellishment in the elegant, yet close, Imitation of the present learned Bishop of Oxford: The Reader will find a short Poem upon this Subject (intended for musical Composition) in the Beginning of this Volume, P. 41.—The Writer of this Epistle, doubtless, had this admired Allegory in his Eye, in the Construction of the Fable he introduces; and, it is hoped, the severer Critic will not condemn the Liberty he has taken of adding a fourth Personage to the Drama, until it shall first be determined, whether this be not a dignus Vindice Nodus; whether any Thing, less than the Interposition of a Deity, could induce a Man to forego the sweet Solicitation and Society of the Muse, for the severe Discipline, and harsh Admonition of the Genius of the Year-Books.—Scriblerus Minimus.

Lozels, i. e. Lyars, Cheats.

i. e. Although.

Pleasure.

Careless.

Old-Age.

Speedily.

Splendor, Brightness.

Daring, Perseverance.

SONG.

[Sweet Nelly's soft attractive Eyes]

Sweet Nelly's soft attractive Eyes
Allure my Heart to Ruin;
Fair Bella takes me by Surprize;
Her Smartness is undoing.
The Mildness of the gentle Sue
O'ercomes my Soul with Pleasure:
And lively, rapid, boisterous Prue
I love beyond all Measure.
The bright Eliza I adore;
For she is tall and slender:
But, Harriot, still, I value more;
Because she's fat and tender.

304

For Anna, too, with Love I burn;
Although no Maid is shorter:
The pretty Silvia's Scorn I mourn:
Dull Jenny gives me Torture.
And, Half an hundred lovely Dames,
Besides these potent Charmers,
Engross my Thoughts, possess my Dreams,
And are my Heart's Alarmers:
A thousand Ways that Heart they seize;
Their Charms I cannot parry;
A thousand Ways my Humour please,
Just as their Tempers vary:
For, fat, or lean, or tall, or short,
Mild, sensible, or stupid,
Whate'er she is, I am her Sport,
And, still, the Slave of Cupid.

EPIGRAM.

[Two Butchers thin]

Two Butchers thin,
Call'd Bone, and Skin,
Would starve the Town, or near it;
But, be it known
To Skin, and Bone,
That Flesh and Blood won't bear it.
 

On two Butchers, (their real Names Bone and Skin) who attempted to raise the Markets.


305

A LETTER TO CHARLES LUCAS, Esq; M. D.

One of the REPRESENTATIVES in PARLIAMENT, for the City of DUBLIN.

Waterstown, August 7th, 1770.
From Noise and Business for a While retir'd,
With sacred Liberty by thee inspir'd;
While Shades and Groves I wander here along,
Thy Pen informs, thy Merit claims my Song.
Smit with the Charms of Virtue, more than Fame,
Thee I espous'd, my first, and favourite Theme,
Thy injur'd patriot Honours to defend;
And thought it Glory to be call'd thy Friend.
Nor did base Adulation's servile Voice
Prompt the free Tribute of my artless Choice;
For, all unknown, except in Name and Worth,
Thy Deeds supply'd the Truths my Muse set forth:

306

Nor, now, had Gratitude, or Friendship mov'd,
If, fully known, I not the more approv'd.
Conduct, as thine, so spirited, so new,
Soon, Phœnix-like, the World's Attention drew.
Envy, alarm'd, in Opposition rose;
And, but the honest Few, all were thy Foes.
Dark Calumny a thousand Engines try'd,
To blast thy Laurels, and thy Worth to hide;
And, centering in himself, the venal Breast
Of thy Proceeding made his Schemes the Test.
So Moles unable to perceive the Sun,
Affirming his Defects, expose their own.
Yet, still, thy Virtues genuine I believ'd;
Nor in the Ordeal were my Hopes deceiv'd.
Cross'd in thy Views, in all thy Labours cross'd,
I saw thee in a Storm of Faction toss'd;
Like the great Roman, bravely, though in vain,
Struggling thy harrass'd Country to sustain.
Ye Slaves of Power, Scribblers of Prose, or Rhymes,
Blush, blush for Shame, to recollect those Times!
Those Times, when, prostituted, every Pen
Extoll'd, ador'd an impious Race of Men,
Who, lost to Honour, in Oppression bold,
Down trampled Laws; your Rights and Freedom sold.
Lucas alone then, obstinately just,
Stood forth your Champion, and maintain'd his Trust,
'Till the gall'd Hand of delegated Power
Forc'd him an Exile from his native Shore:

307

Yet, true to Principle, still undeterr'd,
His Country's Weal he to his own preferr'd;
Waited his Time; the happy Moment found:
Return'd; attempted; with Success was crown'd;
And, still, in Envy's and Detraction's Spite,
He toils, unweary'd, and persists in Right.
Might I, without a Boast, that Honour claim,
I would avow our Principles the same;
And that the Genius, which inspir'd thee,
Gave a small Portion of thy Flame to me.
Be it my Glory, as 'tis thine, to hate
Each Tool of Faction, and each Pimp of State;
To drooping Worth a fostering Hand to lend;
And, in whatever State, be Virtue's Friend;
And, though thy Heights I not presume to reach,
To live the Example of the Truths I teach.
What! though the fawning, temporizing Crowd,
In Rancour bitter, and in Scandal loud,
Decry thy Measures; thwart thy generous Toils;
And, gorging, wallow in a Nation's Spoils;
Still first, and dauntless in the glorious Cause,
Assert our Rights, our Liberties, and Laws:
Conscious of Rectitude, that shall supply
Comforts, which ill-got Wealth, and Pomp deny;
Nor, while from thence thy fair Ambition springs,
Need'st thou, a second Solon, stoop to Kings;
And, though Ingratitude dispute thy Claim,
The Octennial Bill shall eternize thy Fame.

308

Quite out of Nature's, and of Reason's Course,
Prescription had of Law usurp'd the Force;
While pension'd Gamblers, Knaves, and Minions sate,
From Justice screen'd, Prime Rulers of the State.
Stripp'd of our Birth-right, vainly we complain'd;
For Tyrants once, perpetual Tyrants reign'd;
Sunk in luxurious Sloth, their Bills unpaid,
Meanness, and Penury debas'd our Trade;
And Arts, and Learning all their Vigour lost,
Like budding Flowers, nipp'd by untimely Frost.
Those Iron-times we now no more endure;
And that Palladium shall our Rights secure.
Guard, guard it, Friends, and with Discretion use;
Nor let Misconduct tempt you to abuse;
Firm, incorrupt, great Heirs of Freedom born,
The slavish Baits of vile Seduction scorn;
Scorn, and for ever brand, if such there lives,
The Wretch whose Tongue a venal Suffrage gives:
But, bold and prudent in your Choice, respect
Men of try'd Worth; the specious Knave reject:
And let this Maxim fix'd Impression make,
Whoe'er attempts to bribe, a Bribe will take.
Do you yourselves the Path for them pursue;
And shew them 'tis their Interest to be true:
For, lost again, its Loss you may deplore;
Another Lucas shall arise no more.
But yet the Muse, though vast thy Merits be,
Ascribes, in partial Strains, not all to thee:
Oh! could her Flight support the grand Design,
Each Patriot Worthy in my Verse should shine.
But future Bards, in happier Numbers bless'd,
Rapt with the glorious Theme, shall sing the Rest;

309

Shall sing the Man in Wisdom's School approv'd,
For Taste admir'd, for generous Worth belov'd;
While every Youth, aspiring after Fame,
Shall pant for Freedom at thy Caulfield's Name:
Then, when each Breast the Voice of Genius fires,
And Attic Elegance the Soul inspires,
Assembled Senates, wondering, shall avow,
What Tully was, a Bellamont is now:
Nor shall their Actions fail of just Applause,
Who, like Mountmorres, fought their Country's Cause.
How with extatic Warmth my Bosom glows,
To see the Blessings Liberty bestows!
For, here, O Lucas! in these fertile Plains,
In native Grace the charming Goddess reigns:
Through Meads and Pastures, verdant Hills and Dales.
Her grateful Influence uncontroul'd prevails.
The chearful Hind, his Day of Labour o'er,
Safe from Deduction counts his little Store;
While round his Knees his decent Fondlings cling,
And make the Peasant in his Heart a King.
Where dreary Bogs extended long and wide,
Now golden Harvest spreads her weavy Pride;
And fattening Herds, and ruminating Sheep,
In goodly Prospect range the upland Steep;
The feather'd Tenants of the Woods appear
With bolder Wing, nor dread Oppression here;
Industrious Truth unites the neighbouring Swains,
And, once again, on Earth Astræa reigns.
Thus sweet Contentment every Care beguiles;
And every Cot with Peace and Plenty smiles:

310

Nor needs the Muse, each Heart, expanding, tells,
Here Louth with Liberty auspicious dwells—
Sprung from a Race, in earliest Annals found,
For Wisdom, Justice, and for Arms renown'd;
In every arduous Task of Duty try'd,
Who stood unblemish'd, or, for Freedom dy'd;
With added Beams, intrinsically bright,
He shines distinguish'd in unborrow'd Light:
Blest as a Master; as a Landlord blest;
The first of Husbands; and of Friends the best.
His own in him a tender Parent find,
And in his Sphere the Rest of human Kind:
O'er all his Thoughts Benevolence presides;
And inborn Honour all his Actions guides.
Learn'd, without Pride; though highly fashion'd, plain;
In Station free; and, though a Lord, not vain;
He meets Respect, just as Distinction should,
From gentle Manners, more than Rank, or Blood:
Rare Proof that Virtue Title best supports,
And stamps true Greatness, not deriv'd from Courts.

311

When Lælius rul'd, Times well remember'd yet,
Often recall'd, and always with Regret,
A County, wise and generous in their Choice,
Unanimous on him bestow'd their Voice.
To Fortune born, though then to Wealth unknown,
Free were his Thoughts; his Actions all his own;
Not skill'd, nor form'd, in servile Train to draw,
His Guide was Reason; and his Sanction Law.
Even Lælius courted; yet his stedfast Soul
No Hopes could lure; no Eloquence controul:
Friendship itself, unbiass'd, he withstood;
Nor felt, nor thought, but for his Country's Good.
And if, my Friend, e'er in detested Hour,
This Isle should groan beneath perverted Power;
When you, and he, and Leinster's self shall fail
To awe Corruption, which must then prevail,
Smiling amidst the Storm, he firm shall stand,
The Boast, and Patron of this hapless Land;
And though of all State Honours dispossest,
Shall find superior, lodg'd within his Breast.—
Yet, hold—too long against an harden'd Age,
Has Satyr bent her ineffectual Rage:
Abuse, and Scandal boil on every Tongue;
And random Censure has been shot too long.
Each petty Newsmonger, who scarcely spells,
Big with himself, three Kingdoms' Interest tells;
And, plum'd in Ignorance, with decisive Tone,
Explodes State Failures, and—neglects his own;
And, like immortal Pope, must wield the Pen,
To “dash the Front of shameless, guilty Men.”
But shameless Guilt, who can expect to dash?
The Curb it feels not; nor regards the Lash—

312

They may be right; though differently I steer,
Yet, Self-dependent, ne'er knew Hope nor Fear.
Thou know'st, my Lucas, and canst well attest
The secret Workings of my inmost Breast,
Born for Mankind, not for myself I live;
Nor wish Advantage, where I none can give.
My Soul, confess'd, enlarg'd Affection sways;
And warm Affection ever tunes my Praise;
Averse alike to flatter, or offend;
Justice my Aim, and general Good my End;
With equal Eye, Wealth, Pomp, and Power I scan;
And scorn the Peer, whose Conduct shames the Man.
Yet, scourging Vice, we may be candid too;
And render Praise to whom just Praise is due.
Thus Man, by bright Examples, may be taught
To think aright, and act the Part he ought.
Virtue, in her own Loveliness array'd,
Will charm the Froward, and the Bold dissuade;
But, Error, we too rigorously oppose,
Callous, and Proof to all Correction grows.—
But, in the Account of duly stated Time,
Too long, perhaps, I spin this idle Chime.—
A Nation's Weal may mark thy pensive Brow;
Or Sickness languish for thy Presence now.
Go, with thy grateful, wonderous Skill restrain
The Throbs of Grief, and check the Sting of Pain.
Go, like thy sacred Master, Comfort give;
And bid slow, lingering Deaths arise and live:
Preserve the Husband to the weeping Wife;
Or, in the Mistress, save the Lover's Life;
Restore the Hopes of some illustrious Line,
And let them thank thee with a Heart like mine.
 

On Account of some particular Allusions in the Course of this Letter, it may not be improper to observe, that it was first written August 10th, 1768; and afterwards revised, and sent, with the Addition of a few Lines, agreeably to the above Date.

A little sooty blind Animal, which roots out its wretched Livelihood under Ground; and is represented by Æsop denying the Existence of the Sun, because it had not Eyes to see it.

'Tis well known, he was in the clear Receipt of three thousand Pounds a Year, in London, as a Physician, when, on the Decease of his late Majesty, he left that Metropolis, and returned to Dublin, at the Call of his Fellow-Citizens, to represent them in Parliament.

Dr. Lucas was the Father and first Mover of the Bill for Limitation of Parliaments in Ireland.

The Right Honourable James Caulfield, Earl of Charlemount.

The Right Honourable Sir Charles Coote, Kt. of the Bath, Earl of Bellamont.

The Right Honourable Harvey Morres, Lord Viscount Mountmorres.

The Right Honourable Thomas Birmingham, Earl of Louth.—Whoever has seen (as the Writer very happily often has) the Poor, through all the neighbouring High-Roads and Villages, falling on their Knees, and lifting up their ardent Eyes and Hands to Heaven, in Blessings on this worthy Nobleman's equally worthy, and amiable Children, as they passed along; whoever saw the Grief and unfeigned Tears of the Country, far and wide, through all Ranks and Conditions, on his Lordship's taking of his final Leave, Friday, May the 10th, 1771, will readily subscribe to the Truth of the above Description. Nor was this the fawning Artifice of an interested Tenantry: Waterstown is not his Lordship's paternal Seat; he had been only a casual Sojourner there, for about fifteen Years, during the Minority of Mr. H. O, ye Great! ye ostentatious Inheritors of Rank, and Opulence! how easily might you conciliate Affection, where, now, ye but too often provoke Contempt! Fortuitous, and mean, are the Consequences of your external Advantages! Do you aspire at Importance?—establish it in the Heart: Do you look for Respect?—'tis founded in Desert. You can never lose by Condescension; and, only by Humility can you be exalted.

His Grace, James Fitz-Gerald, Duke of Leinster.


313

AN IMITATION OF THE FIRST ODE of the FIRST BOOK of HORACE.

INSCRIBED TO THE Right Hon. PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, Earl of Chesterfield.
O thou! whose Virtues Albion's Sons can trace
Through an ennobled long descending Race,
Whose honour'd Friendship, and whose guardian Name
Open a Prospect to the Realms of Fame,
Observe the various Passions of the Mind,
That teize, delight, distract, and rule Mankind.
There are—'tis strange to say it, but there are—
Who place their Glories in the rolling Car,

314

Who drive the flying Steeds with nicest Art,
And act the Charioteer's tyrannic Part.
Hark! Stranger, hark! the circling Scourges sound;
The Bridles jingle, and the Horses bound:
In Clouds of Dust the envelop'd Heroes fly,
Like Gods invisible to mortal Eye.
Now, now, they lash, and now, with Pride elate,
Double the Corner, pass the streighten'd Gate;
Now, short, or wide, with rapid Quickness turn;
And for the Coachman's Laurels drive and burn.
Oh! give them all the Honours they require!
Let other Heroes other Virtues fire;
Be these for matchless Skill in driving known;
And bind their Temples with a Whipcord Crown.
Tempt with Ambition, if you can, the Soul
Whom neither Vanity, nor Wants controul;
Shew him the azure Garter dangling high,
Or shake the taper Staff before his Eye,
Say, the Gold-Key his Pocket-Holes shall grace,
Promise the Gift of Gifts! Sir R---t's Place;
Calm, and unmov'd, the Baits he shall behold,
Despise the Ensigns, and disdain the Gold;
Safe in a Corner, humble Port he'll quaff,
And, whilst he pities Kings, at Statesmen laugh.

315

Or, try another, try a Man whose Rent,
In Spight of Taxes, yields him ten per Cent,
Bid him all Lands, all Purchases forego,
And deal in South-Sea Bonds.—He'll answer, No!
Suppose a third, who plows his native Soil,
And shares the Landlord's Pride, and Tenant's Toil,
Is neither idly vain, nor humbly low,—
Perhaps a Justice, or who might be so;—
Shall such a Man be lur'd from Plenty's Ease,
Quit his own Hearth, and launch into the Seas!
No, not at Vernon's Call;—let others roam;
He'll fight the Spaniards, if he must, at Home.
But see the Merchant trembling for his Store;
The Winds grow mighty, and the Tempests roar;
The freighted Vessel, where his Treasure lies,
Now sinks to Hell, now rises to the Skies;
Pale and aghast! his Thoughts, averse to Gain,
Seek but this once the Mercy of the Main;
Should bounteous Neptune waft the Bark to Land,
Safe from each threatening Storm, each latent Sand,

316

To Trade, to Avarice, he'll bid adieu,
Let him but pay his Creditors their Due;
That done, he'll seek some rural, calm Retreat,—
No painful Doubts molest a Country-Seat.
So vows the Trader, whilst immers'd in Fear;
The Bark once landed, other Scenes appear:
All rural Prospects vanish from his Mind;
Again he tempts the Seas, and trusts the Wind.
Why should he change his Schemes? his Vows recant?
No Storm so dreadful, as the Thoughts of Want.
Such Cares molest not Bacchanalian Hours,
When **** revels in his Midnight Bowers;
Or, stretch'd at Ease, within the rich Alcove,
The polish'd Temple, or the gloomy Grove,
Near some cool Spring, where Hermits us'd to pray,
Whose Borders kneeling Saints have worn away,
He lolls supine, 'till Fumes invade his Head,
And sneering Servants heave their Load to Bed.
Camps, and the Clarion sounding from afar,
Rouze, and delight the mighty Chiefs of War;
Where Honour calls, the undaunted Heroes run,
(Each Mother trembling for her darling Son)

317

Arms their Profession, Victory their Aim,
They live with Danger; or, they die with Fame.
The Sportsman, fearless of the Winter's Morn,
Obeys the Summons of his Hound and Horn;
From Love, and sweet domestic Dalliance flies,
To brave the inclement Fury of the Skies,
Through dreary Storms, with more than eager Pace,
To drive o'er Hills and Plains the savage Race.
While I, if haply the consenting Muse
Melodious Sense, and charming Sounds infuse,
If sweet Euterpe deign her Aid to bring,
And Polyhymnia strike the Lesbian String,
Far from the feeble Glance of vulgar Eye,
To pleasing Shades, and cooling Grottoes fly,
Where lovely Nymphs alternately advance,
And nimble Satyrs join the mystic Dance;
Be rural Pastimes, harmless Sports my Theme,
The smiling Shepherdess, the limpid Stream:

318

If you, my Stanhope, who triumphant sit
The shining Pattern, and the Judge of Wit,
(Long has the verdant Ivy bloom'd around
Thy sacred Temples, and thy Judgment crown'd,
Fix'd thee supreme in Wisdom's holy Shrine,
And bid the Honours of the Gods be thine)
If you should place me with the immortal Choir
Of Bards, that whilom struck the harmonious Lyre,
With heavenly Rapture fir'd, sublime I'll rise,
And snatch the radiant Glories of the Skies.
 
Mæcenas, atavis edite Regibus!
O, et Præsidium, et dulce Decus meum!
Terrarum Dominos evehere ad Deos.
Certat tergeminis tollere Honoribus,
Quicquid de Libycis verritur Areis.
Myrtoum pavidus Nauta secet Mare.
Quassas, indocilis Pauperiem pati.
Stratus, nunc ad Aquæ lene Caput sacræ.
Multos Castra juvant, et Lituo Tubæ
Permistus Sonitus, Bellaque Matribus
Detestata. ------
------ Manet sub Jove frigido
Venator, teneræ Conjugis immemor,
Seu visa est Catulis Cerva fidelibus,
Seu rupit teretes Marsus Aper Plagas.
Te doctarum Ederæ Præmia Frontium
Diis miscent Superis: Me gelidum Nemus
Nympharumque leves cum Satyris Chori
Secernunt Populo: si neque Tibias
Euterpe cohibet, nec Polyhymnia
Lesboum refugit tendere Barbiton.
Quod si me Lyricis Vatibus inseres,
Sublimi feriam Sidera Vertice.

This is according to Dr. Hare's Emendation.

TRUTH in a MASK.

Nature to Chloe's Prayer hath given
A Mind where every Grace is seen;
Narcissa boasts a Form from Heaven,
Charming as Beauty's rosy Queen:
Youth, Mirth, and Wit's enlivening Blaze,
Conspire to make Aspasia shine;
A manly Sense, with female Ease,
Rever'd Orinda, these are thine:
Long unsubdu'd, I now submit
To her, whose happier Fate hath join'd
Orinda's Sense, Aspasia's Wit,
Narcissa's Form, and Chloe's Mind.
INITIALIS.

319

GAIETY and INNOCENCE: Or, THERANIA's KISS.

Give me, my charming Girl, cry'd I,
While Pleasure sparkled in my Eye,
Give me, thou lovely Source of Bliss,
A melting, moist, and balmy Kiss!
Quick, with a Smile, the Fair advanc'd;
As quick, my Blood with Rapture danc'd;
While, slightly skimming o'er my Lips,
Away with lively Air she trips,
And, laughing, o'er her Shoulder threw
A Look of Archness, as she flew.
Her amorous Flight I soon surpass'd;
Her Pulse more nimble than her Haste:
And, as I held her in my Arms,
And as I gaz'd upon her Charms,
As one who would not be deny'd,
In tender Accent, thus I cry'd—

320

Ah! whither dost thou idly fly?
Thou wanton Source of all my Joy!
This is not to afford me Bliss;
'Twas but the Shadow of a Kiss.
 

The Hint was taken from the following Lines of Johannes Secundus.

Da mihi Suaviolum, dicebam, blanda Puella!
Libasti Labris mox mea Labra tuis;
Inde, velut presso qui territus Angue resultat,
Ora repente meo vellis ab Ore procul.
Non hoc Suaviolum dare, Lux mea, sed dare tantum
Est Desiderium flebile Suavioli.

SONG

[If Form can please, with Sense combin'd]

INSCRIBED TO MISS COSTELLO.
If Form can please, with Sense combin'd,
Belanna yields to none:
But, two rich Gifts in her are join'd,
Peculiarly her own.
They now adorn the lovely Maid;
Will grace the Bride much more;
And, when all other Beauties fade,
They'll charm us at three-score.
The one commands our Love with Ease;
At once our Hearts obey:
The other wins us by Degrees,
And steals our Souls away.
How bless'd, who gains her for a Wife!
Use well the matchless Prize:
And these her Charms which please for Life,
Good Nature, and bright Eyes.

321

IRENE: A CANTO, ON THE PEACE.

INSCRIBED TO THE PROVOST and FELLOWS of TRINITY COLLEGE.

The ARGUMENT.

Augusta bids rich Commerce haste,
Irene to restore;
Whom, Earth's wide Regions having past,
She finds on Slany's Shore.

I

Queen, of the deathless Song, and golden Lyre,
Immortal Muse! begin some lofty Theme;
So may thy Britons catch the hallow'd Fire,
So may thy Bards, in wondrous Lays, proclaim
The Warrior's Dangers, and the Patriot's Name;
Striking with daring Hand the sounding Strings,
And fill'd with Rapture at great Albion's Fame,
From Slany's echoing Banks, a Shepherd sings
The Fall of mighty Hosts, the Wars of Europe's Kings.

322

II

Oft through the solemn Loneliness of Night,
Musing, he wandered near the toiling Flood,
While mimic Fancy drew before his Sight,
The dreadful glorious Scene, of Kings subdued,
Towns wrapp'd in Flames, and Armies bath'd in Blood;
But now the horrid Visions rise no more,
Nor threatening Camps, or hostile Fleets he view'd;
The Storm of War, which shook the World, is o'er,
And peaceful Halcyons soon revisit Albion's Shore.

III

O, Peace! thou favourite Daughter of the Skies,
What happy Region boasts thy blissful Reign?
In what calm Shades the lovely Vestal lies,
Or treads the mountain Hill, or shadowy Plain?
Joy of the Village-Nymph, and constant Swain!
Around thee, Goddess! endless Blessings wait,
Each social Virtue mingles in thy Train;
While Wealth and Commerce join to form thy State,
Beyond the Pomp of Kings, the Pride of Conquest, great.

IV

Desire of Earth! the Soul of every Joy!
Unfading Laurels deck thy placid Brow;
In vain the Furies labour to destroy,
While thou repair'st the Waste of War below;
Thy guardian Care the cherish'd Muses know,
Each graceful Elegance, and finer Art;
Each life-endearing Charm thou canst bestow,
Can'st on the Worthless thy Rewards impart,
Pour'd e'en on Faction's Head, and Treason's felon Heart.

323

V

Yet oft hath Man, possess'd by impious Pride,
To fatal War by blind Ambition led,
Forgot thy just Requests, thy Suit deny'd,
And o'er thy fruitful Vales Destruction spread;
Oft from fair Europe's Kingdoms hast thou fled,
To distant Climes, and Winter's endless Reign;
Far from the Haunt of Men conceal'd thine Head,
While hostile Millions fill'd the embattled Plain,
And Monarchs were dethron'd, and martial Nations slain.

VI

Thus, when the Pencil bade the Canvas shine,
And Adon' bled beneath the tusky Boar,
(Thy Work, O Titian, or Apelles thine)
Her golden Locks the Queen of Beauty tore,
And stain'd her snowy Limbs with crimson Gore,
She wept her murder'd Love, her lost Delight,
Then fled with Horror from the fatal Shore,
Back to her Sky the Goddess bent her Flight,
And, parting, view'd the Earth, and sicken'd at the Sight.

VII

Long had Germania's Kings, with Fury fir'd,
Their martial Hosts to mutual Slaughter sent;
Irene, from the gathering Storm retir'd,
And, weeping, left the troubled Continent;
Nor yet to Albion's Shore her Flight she bent,
For o'er the Fields she mark'd in bright Array
Her sturdy Swains, on Arms alone intent,
While her vast Navies spread the encumber'd Sea,
And with their Cannon's Smoke o'ercast the Face of Day.

324

VIII

Now six revolving Years their Course had run,
Each dreadful Moment mark'd by hostile Rage,
Since first the Horrors of the War begun;
While Europe's States their fatal Battles wage;
And Half the Kings of Earth in Arms engage;
One dire Aceldama Germania lies;
Nor spares the ruthless Sword or Sex, or Age;
To Heaven, amidst the Shouts of Battle, rise
The bleeding Matron's Groans, the ravish'd Virgin's Cries.

IX

At length, Augusta, from the silver Thames,
Majestic rose, with lofty Torrets crown'd;
The Form immortal glitter'd on his Streams;
Such was the Mother of the Gods, renown'd
In Crete's fam'd Isle, and Ida's hallow'd Ground;
A Train of Nymphs, in various Dress, were seen,
Beauteous, and strange, who stood the Power around:
To one of smiling Looks, and placid Mein,
With winged Words, began the city-crowned Queen.

X

‘Haste, gracious Nymph, on Nysa's hallow'd Shore,
‘Where Lybian Triton rolls his silver Wave,
‘Whom, to the Ocean's God, Phœnice bore,
‘By Dian tended in the secret Cave;
‘To thee, in happy Hour, great Neptune gave
‘O'er all his Oceans, and his Storms to reign;
Commerce, the awful Name thou didst receive,
‘From all the Gods: Oh haste, to Albion's plain
Irene fair restore, with all her Joys again.’

325

XI

Augusta spoke: Her Will the Nymph obey'd,
Light as the feather'd Shaft from Earth she sprung;
'Till Albion's sea-beat Rocks no more survey'd,
O'er wealthy Belgia's level Coast she hung;
Where Rhine, and Maese, and Scheld did roll among
Her populous Realms, ere-while the Muses' Themes,
When of the great Nassovian Race they sung,
And Commerce had not left those peaceful Streams
To dwell in Albion's Isle, and grace the Banks of Thames.

XII

From thence, Germania's various Realms she view'd,
And mark'd the Horrors of destroying War;
The God of Battles, red with human Blood,
O'er slaughter'd Armies drove his Iron Car,
Guiding the mangled Steeds with gory Spear;
In dreadful Waste, before their Swiftness, fall
Kingdoms, and Thrones o'erturn'd on Earth appear,
The brazen Ranks, the City's lofty Wall,
'Tis one dire Scene of Rage, and Desolation all.

XIII

Yon Ruins, that the sable Flame hath spar'd,
Were once, some haughty Warrior's boasted Seat;
So sure his Strength, so safe his Throne appear'd,
He seem'd superior to the Stroke of Fate,
Beyond the Power of Change, or Fortune, great;
Forth from the Thicket bursts the Matron's Scream;
Ah! where shall Beauty find a safe Retreat!
While slaughter'd Thousands choak the sullen Stream,
And o'er the distant Hills the burning Cities flame.

326

XIV

From these fierce States, Irene, long expell'd,
To distant Realms in Sorrow had retir'd;
When Commerce, on the Weser's Banks, beheld
Where Glory near the British Camp appear'd,
Bright on a Mountain Heaps of Arms uprear'd,
Like Pallas, dreadful in Tytanian Arms,
Her Gorgon Ægis through the Darkness glar'd;
Her Voice the shining Ranks to War alarms,
And with heroic Flames each Hero's Bosom warms.

XV

Rous'd by her Call, the British Hosts advance,
Eager to bleed in Battles not their own;
For her the silken Bands of faithless France,
Glittering, in filed Brass, and Iron shone,
With boastful Ensigns gay, so oft o'erthrown,
And scattered by Britannia's Victor Spear;
For her, the Austrian, from her distant Throne,
Against the bold Borusian pour'd the War,
And all her savage Hosts rush'd raging from afar.

XVI

There, strong in Arms, the Prussian King she view'd,
That Man of mighty Deeds, that Lord of War;
And, parting swift, her rapid Course pursu'd,
'Till on the Shores of Thrace she heard the Jar
Of Paynim Hosts, and stubborn Janizarre;
Now griev'd the Vales of Persia to survey,
O'er whom fell Discord drove her Iron Car,
Still to the distant East she wing'd her Way,
And pass'd the rapid Ind', and gain'd upon the Day.

327

XVII

From Ormus South, and China's wealthy Shore,
To Albion's Chiefs the silken Monarchs bend;
Whose fragrant Groves their spicy Riches bore,
Whose blazing Mines their hoarded Diamonds send,
That Britons might their helpless Thrones defend;
Thence, o'er the Isles, amidst the Indian Main
That numerous lie, the British Arms extend;
Whose victor Fleets uphold their wide Domain,
While India's sable Kings by their Permission reign.

XVIII

As when the fabled Jove, Tytanian Lord,
In ancient Tale who fill'd the Eternal's Room,
Through Greece and all her hundred Realms ador'd,
Whose Temple blaz'd amidst imperial Rome,
Grac'd with the Trophies of a World o'ercome;
From the Tarpeian Rock, whose Height defy'd
The Stroke of Time, sunk by almighty Doom:
So fell, on India's Coast, the Gallic Pride,
And all the Paynim Slaves her ruin'd Pomp deride.

XIX

Though leagu'd with Kings, in vain, she proudly stood,
And stretch'd her Banners o'er the blazing East;
In vain from lofty Pondicherry view'd,
India's rich Realms, and all their Thrones oppress'd;
Kings are by Britain and by Clive redress'd:
Her Strength, the Toil of Ages, is no more,
In Asian Lands her Tyranny is ceas'd;
Heaven hath to British Chiefs transferr'd her Power,
Theirs are her Diamond Mines, and theirs her golden Ore.

328

XX

Awhile in Air the shining Vision staid,
And on the Wealth of eastern Conquest gaz'd;
All the rich Spoils of Asia wide display'd;
The Pile on castled Elephants was rais'd,
Superb, with silken Robes, and Gems, it blaz'd,
And trophied Arms, and mingled Heaps of Gold,
Spices, and painted Jars; thereat amaz'd,
Exalted Transports in her Bosom roll'd;
Such were the high Rewards that grac'd her Britons bold.

XXI

Then swift resum'd her Flight o'er Corea's Sands;
Amidst those savage Climes her Search was vain;
Irene dwell'd not in the Asian Lands,
And Realms unbless'd, where Tartar Tyrants reign;
Thence she o'erpass'd the waste and desert Main,
Where Storms unheard by one another roar,
Where various Seas contest their wide Domain,
And hollow Oceans roll without a Shore;
O! terrible Display of God's Almighty Power!

XXII

At length, as towering high she cleft the Air,
Rose like a Cloud the distant Continent;
Its verdant Shores, its shadowy Rocks, appear;
Thither, well pleas'd, her wearied Flight she bent,
And pass'd the stormy Clouds in swift Descent:
Ten thousand furious Tribes those Kingdoms range,
Renown'd for Strength, and valorous Hardiment,
In Dress and Manner to each other strange,
Who oft, as Chance directs, their wandering Dwellings change.

329

XXIII

In vain, their hardy Youth were train'd to Arms,
To hurl the War-axe, and the poison'd Dart;
Danger, in vain, display'd its savage Charms,
And Love of Slaughter fir'd the Huron's Heart;
Remov'd by Nature to the utmost Part
Of barren Earth, beyond the sky-mix'd Wave,
Strangers to Treason's Smile, or Courtier's Art;
Ah, what avail'd it, to be fierce and brave!
Nought could their Rights protect, their savage Freedom save.

XXIV

Oh, fatal Thirst of universal Power!
The Curse of Millions, and the Tyrant's Boast!
For this, whole Nations left Europa's Shore,
Whole Nations in those snowy Wilds were lost;
Here, Montcalm, Chief of many a vanquish'd Host,
There, youthful Wolfe, in Glory's Arms were slain:
How many Deaths did Albion's Conquests cost,
Her injur'd Rights in Battle to maintain,
And o'er Canada's Hills, and stormy Floods, to reign!

XXV

Chac'd from these Lands, at length the ambitious Gauls,
Groaning with Fury, and in Chains, retire;
By Britain's Spear her western Empire falls,
And all her Hopes of sovereign Rule expire;
Thus, when rough Winter, having spent his Ire,
Flies with his Tempests, and his Clouds, away,
Sullen and sad; the joyful Swains admire
How calm, how lovely, Spring adorns the Day,
Smiles on the verdant Earth, and sparkles on the Sea.

330

XXVI

Long While the Nymph beheld those boundless Lands,
Those mighty Lakes, and every furious Stream;
From Ohio's Banks, and Missisippi's Sands.
To Horgehela, and Labrador Breme,
All Nations bend before the British Name;
To such an Height of Empire, and Renown
Had Wolfe, and Amherst, rais'd their Monarch's Fame;
For, not the Chief, who built the Persian Throne,
Or he, who conquer'd it, such ample Realms o'er-run.

XXVII

There, Victory, from Europe's happier Clime,
Came flying on, in all her Splendors dress'd;
The Goddess hovers in the Air sublime,
And darts her Glory o'er the reddening West:
A triple Diadem her Temple grac'd;
In her Right-Hand the British Cross she wav'd;
The British Star adorn'd her radiant Breast;
Illustrious Scenes were on her Shield engrav'd,
Of haughty Kings subdued, and suppliant Empires sav'd.

XXVIII

Such seem'd the Power, when, blazing o'er the Plains,
Her Stature reach'd the Sky, her awful Shade
Cover'd Canada's Realms; as when the Swains
With sudden Fires the mountain Heath invade;
The savage Tyger sees the Flash dismay'd,
Forc'd from his native Caves enrag'd to fly;
The Rock's wild Caverns are to Sight display'd;
Loud roaring mounts the dreadful Flame on high,
Shines o'er the reddening Hills, and towers amidst the Sky.

331

XXIX

Her in the midmost Region Commerce past,
And hail'd her Progress o'er those Realms unknown;
Sent forth to civilize those Regions vast,
And spread the Influence of great Brunswick's Throne,
Through all the Journey of the burning Sun,
With mighty Triumphs grac'd, and Spoils adorn'd;
At length, her wonderous Circuit almost run,
Back to fair Albion's Isle the Power return'd,
And all her fruitless Toil to find Irene mourn'd.

XXX

Now o'er Ierne's verdant Shores she flew,
Ierne fam'd for Piety and Song!
'Till Slany's rapid Waters met her View,
Swift as he gush'd Menapia's Vales along,
Pour'd from an hundred Mountains deep and strong;
'Twas there, regardless of War's dreadful Threat,
Of Nymphs and Swains appear'd a joyous Throng;
Who sung, inspir'd by Youth's delightful Heat,
Lays of sweet Love, and danc'd with nimble shifting Feet.

XXXI

There rose an Hill above the level Plain,
Like the rich Orb that crowns an Hero's Shield;
There from her grassy Throne did Nature reign
O'er every Herb, and Flower, that grac'd the Field;
The Rocks beneath a chrystal Stream did yield,
Whose silver sparkling Waves did gently flow;
With snow-resembling Sheep the Sides were fill'd;
The Winds in every Breeze did sweeter blow,
Shaking the empurpled Rose, that shed its Leaves below.

332

XXXII

The fluid Glass return'd the gaudy Skies,
And golden Clouds the silver Waves adorn;
Where, intermixt with liquid Roses, lies
The downward Prospect of the orient Morn;
Nay was there Nymph, nay Herd, or Shepherd, born
Amidst those Vales, but grac'd the Jubilee;
And brought their rustic Pipe, or chearful Horn,
That the glad Sound of their rude Minstrelsie
Shook the wide River's Banks, and echo'd to the Sky.

XXXIII

The Hill's green Feet were border'd by a Wood,
Whose matchless Height above the Clouds did tower;
The awful Trees in shady Grandeur stood,
Shelter to many a Beast, to Birds a Bower;
The sweet Lark there o'erpass'd her mournful Hour,
Wood Music's Queen! the Linnet there renew'd
Her sprightly Strain; while, in his kingly Power,
From some huge Oak the beaked Eagle view'd
His feather'd Hosts; the Hawk his frighted Prey pursu'd.

XXXIV

Here, also, playing on the shadowy Green,
Were Satyrs, Fawns, and swift-foot Dryades;
The Queen of Fairies oft was dauncing seen,
And all the Troop of woodland Deities;
Harping amidst the Brakes immortal Lays,
That kept all bad and hurtful Things away;
As when thy Music, Orpheus, did repress
The stormy Hebrus, foaming down the Lea,
And made the noisy Waves in all their Haste to stay.

333

XXXV

And, first, the ambitious Palm with Branches fair
Rear'd his proud Head, aspiring to the Sky;
The Sun's sad Daughters next, whose wild Despair
Witness'd the Po, that heard their piercing Cry,
When Phaeton fell flaming from on high,
And Jove's enraged Brand his Members rent;
There was the gnarled Oak, with proud Defy
Meeting the Lightning's Wrath; the Chesnut, bent
By Notus' Arms, but still the Forest's Ornament.

XXXVI

There grew immense, the rougher-rinded Pine,
Of which the great Argoan Ship was fram'd;
Whose lofty Top the Forests did incline
When shook by Winds, there was the Laurel, nam'd
Apollo's Tree, by Bards and Heroes claim'd;
The gloomy Holm that haunts the watry Vale;
The wicked Lote, of dark Oblivion fam'd;
The mournful Cypress, Sign of deadly Bale;
The Ash, the weeping Fir, the forlorn Willow pale.

XXXVII

The stubborn Yew, long borne by Britons bold,
Their Hosts when Edward, and fierce Henry led;
The Ivy, that with wanton Arms doth hold,
And round the Poplar her lythe Branches spread;
The pointed Holly rear'd his verdant Head;
The Myrtle, mindful of her ancient Crime;
And that strange Tree where faithful Thisbe bled;
The brittle Ash, that lifts its Top sublime;
The Elm, around whose Boughs the enamour'd Vine doth climb.

334

XXXVIII

In this so pleasant Forest, oft did sport;
Of old, so Fiction tells, the Queen of Love;
Nor more to proud Cythæron did resort,
Or Ida, where immortal Beauties strove;
Hither, swift stooping from the Realms above,
Commerce approach'd; and heard the pleasing Sound
Of Flutes, and Harps, that gentle Thoughts did move;
And saw a Troop of Ladies dancing round,
Who with their tuneful Feet did shake the hollow Ground.

XXXIX

These were the Nymphs that in the Plains delight;
Content, and smiling Truth, and Constancy;
And Innocence, array'd in virgin White;
And spotless Faith, with heaven-erected Eye;
And blissful Youth, and pleasing Chastity;
With these, the Daughters of sky-ruling Jove,
And Ocean's ravish'd Nymph, Eurinome,
Y-clept the Graces three, who wait on Love,
And haunt the Cyprian Isle, or Caria's hallow'd Grove.

XL

Amidst the Rest, like Dian' Forest Queen,
Irene sported in the pleasant Shade,
With modest Grace, and comely Carriage seen,
In Dress a village Nymph; for she had laid
Her Crowns and Sceptres by, with which she play'd
When in the Courts of Kings; each graceful Limb
In humble sylvan Weed was fair array'd,
And Wreaths of Flowers her flowing Robes did trim;
Her all the virgin Train their Goddess did esteem.

335

XLI

To whom, descending from the midmost Air,
The joyful Errand Commerce 'gan relate—
‘Sent by Augusta, Goddess, I repair
‘To win thy dear Return to Albion's State;
‘Wild Discord, which disturb'd the Earth so late,
‘Dreadfully riding on the vengeful Blast,
‘To pour the Wrath abroad of angry Fate,
‘From her red Hand the writhen Bolt hath cast;
‘And Ruin stalks no more along the fearful Waste.

XLII

‘Tir'd with the Horrors of the martial Storm,
‘The Kings of Earth forsake the raging Deep;
‘Though still, abroad, fell Slaughter's gory Form
‘Of Half Germania's States Domain doth keep,
‘Acting dire Crimes, at which Revenge might weep;
‘But, lo, young Brunswick bids the Tumult cease;
‘And Glory, hovering o'er the chalky Steep,
‘Sounds with her lofty Trump to human Race,
‘That victor Albion grants imploring Nations Peace.’

XLIII

She spoke; with Smiles Irene swift reply'd;
Such Smiles as in angelic Looks appear,
The Souls of Martyrs when to Heaven they guide—
‘Oh blissful Period of destructive War!
‘'Tis mine, the Waste of Conquest to repair,
‘And smiling Plenty o'er the Land restore;
‘For Albion's King demands my chiefest Care,
‘My Blessings shall uphold his righteous Power,
‘And, in his Reign, Ambition curse the World no more.

336

XLIV

‘Nor, fair Ierne, mindless of thy State,
‘From thee to greater Albion I remove;
‘Who in mine Exile gav'st a safe Retreat;
‘My choicest Favours thou shalt ever prove,
‘Oh Land, so highly favour'd from above!
‘Where Freedom roves amidst the chearful Swains,
‘The blissful Haunt of Innocence, and Love;
‘Where rosy Health walks smiling o'er the Plains,
‘And Nature in luxuriant Blessings reigns.

XLV

‘Oft have I wander'd o'er thy shadowy Fields,
‘And in sweet Musing spent the silent Night;
‘While every Vale its native Fragrance yields,
‘How still the Forest! and the Stream how bright,
‘Its Bosom silver'd with the Moon's pale Light!
‘Here, undisturb'd with War's destructive Rage,
‘Secure from Rapine, and the Waste of Fight,
‘Thy vigorous Sons in peaceful Arts engage,
‘Or see a duteous Race support their feeble Age.

XLVI

‘Here, too, returning from the glorious War,
‘Shall each stern Soldier reach his native Shore;
‘Loaded with Spoils, and grac'd with many a Scar,
‘Which nobly in his Country's Cause he bore;
‘When vanquish'd Gallia shrunk beneath her Power,
‘With all her captive Fleets, and slaughter'd Hosts;
‘While their lost Fame the Iberian Chiefs deplore;
‘For Nought remains to guard their fenceless Coasts,
‘Of all those Navies huge, whose Conquest Pocock boasts.

337

XLVII

‘Then shall the monumental Marble tell
‘Of all the illustrious Dead the hapless Doom,
‘The Chiefs, who bravely fought, and greatly fell,
‘While future Heroes to their Graves shall come,
‘Like youthful Ammon to Pelides' Tomb;
‘Their lofty Deeds while many a Poet sings;
‘Meantime, all glorious from a World o'ercome,
‘Shall Albion's Monarch calm contending Kings,
And mark each Nation's Bounds, adjusting doubtful Things.

XLVIII

Britain, which hurt by no intestine Jar,
‘Able to ruin, studious how to save;
‘Safe in her Seas, defies the World in War!
‘All fair her Daughters, and her Sons all brave!
‘Umpire of Earth, and Mistress of the Wave!
‘Lo, at her Voice the distant Slaughters cease,
‘For Laws to haughtiest Potentates she gave:
‘Long may her Councils guide Europa's Peace,
‘And endless Empire crown the mighty Guelphian Race.’

XLIX

Thus spoke the Goddess, then with Joy obey'd
Augusta's Call, and sought the silver Thame,
Attendant on the fair Nisæan Maid;
Their Flight I mark'd from Slany's noisy Stream,
And, fond of Fancy, and a Poet's Name,
Deep struck the conscious Lyre with daring Hand;
Bless'd, if, while others gain a loftier Fame,
Amidst the Bards of my lov'd native Land,
Of Glory not devoid, nor Loyalty, I stand.

338

The SCOLD:

A SONG.

Some Women take Delight in Dress;
And some in Cards take Pleasure;
Whilst others place their Happiness
In heaping Hoards of Treasure;
In private some delight to kiss,
Their hidden Charms unfolding:
But, all mistake the sovereign Bliss;
There's no such Joy as Scolding.
The Instant that I ope my Eyes,
Adieu all Day to Silence;
Before my Neighbours they can rise,
They hear my Tongue a Mile hence:
When at the Board I take my Seat,
'Tis one continued Riot;
I eat, and scold, and scold, and eat,
My Clack is ne'er at Quiet.
Too fat, too lean, too hot, too cold,
I ever am complaining,
Too raw, too roast, too young, too old,
Each Guest at Table paining:
Let it be Fowl, or Flesh, or Fish,
Though of my own providing,
I still find Fault with every Dish,
Still every Servant chiding.

339

But, when to Bed I go at Night,
I surely fall a weeping;
For then I lose my great Delight,
How can I scold when sleeping?
But this my Pain doth mitigate,
And soon disperses Sorrow,
Although To-night it be too late,
I'll pay it off To-morrow.

ÆNIGMA.

[Who says the Fair are soft and kind]

Who says the Fair are soft and kind,
And all to please by Heaven design'd?
I say 'tis false; they cruel are,
Yes, much more cruel than they're fair—
That Woman form'd me is most true,
And made me fine, I own it too;
But, 'twas to glut her Cruelty,
Delighting in my Misery:
Though I am guiltless, I assure ye,
She hangs me, without Judge, or Jury;
And then she stabs me to the Heart,
And runs me through in every Part.

340

THE HONE: A Piece of IRISH MYTHOLOGY.

INSCRIBED TO The Rev. THOMAS LELAND, D. D. S. S. T. C. D.
Fungor vice Cotis.
Hor.
Grifolia, fairest of O Connor's Race,
Of spotless Virtue, and angelic Face,
Was by O Neil, a Youth of princely Blood,
With wanton Fire, and loveless Courtship woo'd;
He watch'd her Steps, by lawless Passion sway'd,
And once, alone, surpriz'd the pious Maid.
On the green Banks of Neagh's peaceful Sea,
The chaste Grifolia had retir'd to pray.
Here, the base Prince, with more than savage Power,
Attack'd the Vestal in her sacred Hour:
He talk'd—he pleaded of Love's Darts, and Fires;
Of his warm Wishes, and his strong Desires;

341

Of Time, and Place—of his long Suit refus'd;
Of Wealth; of Title; Patience;—all abus'd!
At length, he seiz'd the fair, resistless Prize,
Whilst Fires indignant darted from her Eyes;
He grasped—he press'd the Virgin to his Breast,
And urg'd her Yielding to his high Behest.
‘Tyrant!’ she cry'd, ‘thy vain Attempt forbear:
‘My Strength may fail; but Heaven will hear my Prayer—
‘O! may the sacred Guardian of this Land
‘Protect a Maid from thy polluting Hand!
‘May he, whose Power expell'd the prowling Wolf,
‘Save Virtue from Perdition's fatal Gulph!
‘May he, who purg'd this Isle from poisonous Air,
‘Blast thee! or snatch me to his saintly Care!’
She pray'd—He still invades her blushing Charms—
When, lo! a prickly Holly fills his Arms!
Wounded, and stung with disappointed Pride,
He drew a Dagger from his trembling Side,
And smote the new-rais'd Holly as it grew,
When to the Lake the sever'd Fragment flew;
It sunk, and, as it disappear'd, the Flood
Was crimson'd o'er with Drops of virgin Blood;
Groanings were heard; and, what is still more strange,
A plaintive Voice succeeds the wonderous Change!
From the deep Lake, in Words articulate,
Thus mourn'd Grifolia her disasterous Fate.
‘O cruel Prince! transform'd, and turn'd to Stone,
‘My Honour's safe!’ she cry'd, then sigh'd—‘O Hone!
‘O Honour!’ Half dissolv'd in liquid Air
Was the last Breathing of this hapless Fair.
Thus, Myrrha, Victim of a former Time,
Shar'd thy sad Fate; but how unlike thy Crime!

342

Amaz'd, the Prince gaz'd o'er the silent Flood,
And grew a burning Nettle as he stood;
Rank as his Thoughts, and fiery as his Lust,
Chang'd to that Weed, his Punishment how just!
Whilst chaste Grifolia constantly is seen
Rob'd in a Vesture of eternal Green,
Each Leaf in military Form appears
Arm'd with a Range of vegetable Spears.
Thus Nature shews in emblematic Sense
Her persevering Virtue, and Defence.
The rude, unletter'd Natives of this Land,
When struck by Power, or Pain's oppressive Hand,
In Accents slow, and sad, express their Moan,
And, to this Hour, sob out, and cry, ‘Oh Hone!
But those, whom Arts and Education fire,
Who into Nature's curious Laws enquire,
Place Portions of this ever verdant Tree
In Neagh's peaceful petrifying Sea,
Where, steep'd a Time, it hardens into Stone,
And thus becomes the edge-bestowing Hone.
 

Urti ca urens.

The customary, plaintive Ejaculation of the native Irish.

EPITAPH. MULTUM IN PARVO.

Here lies Tom Rogers; and, 'tis something rarish,
He was born, and bred, and hang'd, all in this Parish.

343

VERSES To Miss ELEANOR WOOD.

Yes, charming Sylvia, I will sing
Of Cupid, and his purple Wing;
At your Command, the Verse shall run
Sacred to Venus and her Son.
I'll sing the sly, engaging Arts,
With which he robs us of our Hearts;
And how the laughing Sylvia joins
Receiving what the Rogue purloins,
And adding to his Hoard of Arms
The Artillery of all her Charms;
And how you both in Triumph go,
The Pride of Mankind, and their Foe.
I'll sing your blue, attractive Eye;
Your Cheek where rival Roses vie;
I'll sing that Bosom snowy white,
The blissful Seat of young Delight;
The balmy Fragrance of your Breath;
Your coral Lips, and pearly Teeth;
Your polish'd Neck, your auburn Hair;
Your Dignity and matchless Air.
The Note yet higher still I'll raise;
For what I have sung is scarcely Praise;

344

'Tis but what every idle Swain
Sings to his Mistress on the Plain;
'Tis but the daily Food of Time,
And hardly worth a Lover's Rhyme,
A Lover, who adores, like me,
A Maid so elegant as thee.
Then smile upon my Verse, while I
Record those Charms that cannot die;
Paint the fair Virtues which adorn
The sweetest Nymph that e'er was born—
Soft-ey'd Compassion, Candour, Truth,
Early Companions of thy Youth,
With independent Judgement join'd,
Dilate your Heart, and sway your Mind;
Where, Hand in Hand, Benevolence,
And Rectitude attend on Sense:
I'll bid the unthinking, Idly-gay,
From Dissipation turn away,
And mark the Fervour of your Eye,
When fix'd upon your native Sky,
You, void of Superstition, feel
The bless'd Effect of happy Zeal.
And, last of all, I will pursue
A Rule of Life I have learn'd from you.
For Gloominess, and Melancholy,
On this Side shunn'd, on that Side Folly,
Religion is for ever seen
With Sylvia dancing on the Green.

345

A NEW SONG.

[_]

TUNE. When Delia on the Plain appears.

When Chloe's near, my eager Eyes
Behold her with a glad Surprize,
New Pains through all my Bosom move:
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
Whene'er we meet, a sudden Flame
Glides swift through all my vital Frame;
All breathless, senseless, pale I prove:
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
My Breast is swell'd with pleasing Woes;
My sickly Colour comes and goes;
Reason my Fears can ne'er remove:
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
Without a Cause, I joy, and mourn,
I swear, forswear, depart, return;
This Hour I hate, the next approve:
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?

346

When she departs, I often sigh;
Yet can't assign a Reason why;
With her my Life appears to move:
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
When, proud, she disregards my Pain,
I strive to fly; but strive in vain;
My rebel Feet refuse to move:
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?

SONG.

[O thou, whose Beauty fires the Lay]

O thou, whose Beauty fires the Lay,
Whose Virtues I revere,
If Love's a Crime, Eliza say,
Why, why art thou so fair?
If Love's a Crime, I prithee tell,
And I'll no more require
Why was that Bosom taught to swell?
Those Eyes to scatter Fire?
Why can an angel Face persuade,
And all our Firmness bend?
For what Intent was Woman made?
And Beauty to what End?

347

This Mass of Earth, the Sea, the Skies,
My favourite Maxim prove;
See all their jarring Atoms rise,
United into Love!
Even while you speak, against your Will,
His Prowess you display;
Your Tongue denies his Power to kill;
Your Eyes confirm his Sway.
Eliza, then, since sure to fail,
The fruitless Labour cease;
Your Arguments can ne'er prevail,
Unless you hide your Face.

AN ODE TO THE CREATOR.

All hail to him, who sits on high!
To him your chearful Voices raise!
To him, the Ruler of the Sky,
Be Glory! Honour! Love! and Praise!

348

Ye Wise! ye Good! in Age, in Youth,
The Song of Joy, O, never cease!
His Words are all the Words of Truth;
And all his Paths the Paths of Peace:
This Globe of Earth, the Sea, the Air,
Were form'd by his all wise Command;
The Heavens and all their Hosts declare
The Work of an Almighty Hand:
The rough wild Sea his Voice obeys,
When the loud Winds the Waves deform;
He walks (how wonderous all his Ways!)
On the broad Pinions of the Storm:
When all this fair Creation lay
Involv'd in universal Night,
He spake the Word, and all was Day;
He spake the Word, and all was Light:
He sees the Secrets of the Heart;
He searches all the human Soul;
His Skill directs in every Part;
His Power informs the wonderous Whole.
'Twas he! Jehovah! King! and God!
Gave us to breathe this vital Air;
We are the Children of his Nod,
His last best Work, his dearest Care.
The Earth shall moulder into Dust,
And Life's gay Dream shall pass away;
Rejoice, ye Good! Rejoice, ye Just!
His Glory never shall decay!

349

All hail! Jehovah! King! and God!
Ye Nations all, adore his Name!
Approach, approach his high Abode,
With Thanks, with Joy, and loud Acclaim!
All hail to him, who sits on high!
To him your chearful Voices raise!
To him, the Ruler of the Sky,
Be Glory! Honour! Love! and Praise!

ODE: TO IERNE.

Hail! fair Ierne, Parent of the Lyre!
Hail! Nurse of hallow'd Bards, and gentle Song!
Ere guilty War yet spread her Banners dire,
And frighted from thy Shore the tuneful Throng;

350

Fair were the Streams that lav'd thy peaceful Glades;
Fair were the Shades that trembled o'er the Stream;
Sweet were the Lays that echoed through the Shades;
And Land of Saints was then Ierne's Name:
But, War unsheath'd the Sword, and purple Gore
Stain'd the fair Silver of the limpid Wave;
Rude Hands the venerable Oaks uptore,
And doom'd the Bard to an untimely Grave.
Lo! then, Ierne droop'd, a desart Land,
Nor sow'd despairing Hinds the doubtful Grain,
Lest others reap the Labours of their Hand,
And painful Sweat bedew their Brows in vain.
Nor, since that ruthless Time, hath Druid sage
To woodland Echo taught the mystic Song,
Or where old Liffey rolls his rapid Rage,
Or Shannon pours his lordly Tide along.
But, now, beneath our young Augustus' Reign,
Reviving Arts once more adorn our Isle,
Fair Husbandry redeems the ravag'd Plain;
And golden Ceres learns again to smile:
Now, too, the Muses' long neglected Bay,
A tender Plant! once more essays to rise,
Whose Seed, not lost entire, long latent lay,
And fear'd the Rigour of tempestuous Skies.
Nor thou, Oh, gracious King! disdainful frown
On these first Efforts, and this humble Strain;
Reviving Arts thy fostering Favour own;
Let not the Muse be mark'd for thy Disdain.

351

Oh! deign to smile! else, whither shall the Muse
Her trembling Hands in Supplication bend?
Where hope for Succour, if her George refuse?
Scorn'd by the Hero, who remains her Friend?
Perhaps, some Youth, whose yet untutor'd Rhymes
Here dawn the Promise of immortal Song,
May blazon George's Deeds to future Times,
If but his Smiles entice the Muse along;
May paint the Tyrant trembling at his Name,
Where'er his Banners wave, or Oceans roll;
Or sing his fairer Praise, his nobler Fame,
And hail the Monarch of his People's Soul.
But, thou, whose infant Muse, on callow Wing,
O'er-rashly dares these dazzling Heights to soar,
Thou, leave such Themes for loftier Bards to sing;
This Danger past, attempt such Flights no more:
Content to wander through the peaceful Shade,
When Twilight cloaths the drowsy World in Grey,
(All, but where faintly o'er the western Glade,
Departing, glows the golden Rear of Day)
Content, at that sweet, solitary Hour,
Along the Margin of the winding Stream,
To woo the rural Muses' gentle Power,
And sing thine humble Loves, unknown to Fame:
Or, if, perhaps, thy loyal Ardor scorn
To sleep, nor dares the Hero's Praise display;
Charlotte thy softest Numbers shall adorn,
And royal Beauties grace the ambitious Lay.
 

One of the Names of Ireland.—This Ode was formerly given to the Public, as an Introduction to the University Poems on the Royal Nuptials, printed in Dublin, 1761: Of which Collection, also, the following Ode was one.


352

ODE: on The KING's NUPTIALS.

A youth, the meanest of the tuneful Train,
Whom, fair Applause, and Emulation fir'd,
Amidst the Grove essay'd some 'raptur'd Strain;
The Muse her artless Votary inspir'd;
To hymeneal Themes the Lyre he strung,
And thus, in mystic Verse, the adventurous Poet sung.
'Twas on Phœnicia's hoarse resounding Coast,
Where fam'd Orontes rolls his silver Waves,
'Till in the angry Deep his Streams are lost,
And o'er the Sands the exulting Billow raves,
In the first Age, while yet the World was young,
That Venus, Queen of Love, from fruitful Ocean sprung.
Fair-rob'd Aurora, from the brightening East,
Began her roseate Beauties to display,
Scattering Refulgence from her radiant Breast,
And wide unbarr'd the golden Gates of Day;
The Tempests vanish on the Wings of Night,
And to the Stygian Gloom precipitate their Flight.

353

For, raging Winds long toss'd the troubled Main,
Rent the rude Rocks, and the vast Forests tore;
The World, 'till then, obey'd stern Winter's Reign,
Nor knew, fair Spring, thy renovating Power;
Wild Beasts with frightful Howlings fill'd the Groves;
Nor yet the Birds had learn'd to chant their airy Loves.
Nor yet had Mortals felt the sacred Fire,
Which Beauty lights in the Beholder's Breast;
Strangers to gentle Thoughts, and soft Desire,
They wander'd o'er a chearless World unblest;
Rapine, and Violence, their Thoughts employ,
And Wars, destructive Wars! infuse a savage Joy.
This saw the awful Ruler of the Gods,
Who Man, of all his Creatures, favour'd most;
He bade green Neptune, from his deep Abodes,
Conduct the Goddess to Phœnicia's Coast,
Where far-fam'd Sydon's royal Spires arise,
Shine o'er the distant Main, and glitter in the Skies.
There, o'er the potent State Adonis reign'd,
(Who hath not heard of young Adonis' Name?)
The sovereign Rule, with equal Hand, maintain'd;
Mighty in Power, and great in virtuous Fame:
For, Sydon, then, for Arts, and Arms, renown'd,
As Britain, now, the Sea's undoubted Queen was crown'd
In Ocean's dreadful Caves the Palace stands
Of Neptune, bright on Rocks of Diamond rear'd,
Where the fierce Floods receive their King's Commands,
There sits the God, by furious Tempests fear'd;
A silver Light the glittering Dome displays,
And through the mighty Gates stream forth a hundred Seas.

354

Thence, o'er the unbounded Deep his Word he sends;
The azure Naiads to his Court repair;
Each watry Deity his Will attends,
To grace the bright Procession all prepare;
At length, advanc'd the Daughter of the Main,
The Cyprian Power, amidst her fair attending Train.
Mean-time, exalted in the purest Sky,
The Thunderer ascends his sapphire Throne;
He gives the Sign, the Clouds in sunder fly;
Confest to mortal Sight, the Immortal shone;
The Eagle at his Feet, and in his Hand
His dreadful Arms he grasp'd, the Thunder's forked Brand.
Sent from his Presence, swift as streaming Light,
The feather'd Son of lovely Maia springs;
Shoots from the Heaven's unmeasurable Height,
And wide through Air a Blaze of Glory flings:
‘Attend, ye Gods;’ (he cries) ‘thou Earth, receive
Venus, Love's gracious Power, ascending from the Wave.’
Bright, on a silver Car, appear'd the Queen;
In silken Harness flew her Swans, and Doves;
The naked Graces by her Side were seen;
Behind her stood the Sports, and blushing Loves:
Heaven, as she came, a purer Blue assum'd,
The flowery Spring was born, and Nature fairer bloom'd.
Even the stern God of Fury, and of War,
Mars, from the snowy Hills of savage Thrace,
Dropp'd, for a While, his formidable Spear,
And wish'd that Strife and mortal Hate might cease;
'Till then, his dreadful Arm Confusion hurl'd
Wide o'er the Nations round, and laid all waste the World.

355

While, thus, the radiant Pomp illumes the Sea,
Aloft in Air, the God of Verse and Light
Appear'd; he lash'd the fiery Steeds of Day;
They foam'd, and spread their sparkling Wings for Flight.
Through breaking Clouds they fly with heavenly Force,
Swift rolls the golden Car, and kindles in the Course.
High, in the Air, that brighten'd as he flew,
He held the Lyre, and struck the vocal Strings;
From Heaven, and Earth, the God Attention drew;
And, thus, the Nuptial Ode prophetic sings;
All Nature heard the Sound; the roaring Main,
With all its Waves, were still'd by that celestial Strain.
‘Thrice happy Sydon! let thy Sons rejoice;
‘Oh, mighty King, the immortal Fair receive;
‘Lo! Heaven, and all its Gods, approve the Choice;
‘Behold, what Glories gild the distant Wave:
‘Let all the Earth her duteous Tribute pay;
‘Let all the hoary Deep his sovereign Queen obey.
‘Never shall Mortal thy Renown exceed,
‘'Till in a western Isle, as yet unknown,
‘A George shall to a George's Crown succeed,
‘And place a Charlotte on his envy'd Throne;
‘With them no future Lovers shall compare;
‘He like Adonis blest, she more than Venus fair.’
Now, on the crouded Shore the Goddess lands;
Adonis there receiv'd the beauteous Bride;
Old Ocean joins the ardent Lovers' Hands,
And their fond Hearts in Chains eternal ty'd;
Back to his Sydon's Walls he led the Fair;
Night rushes from the Deep, and shades the Earth and Air.

356

To bless this Union all the Gods combin'd,
And each the hymeneal Presents made:
Bacchus, the fabled Conqueror of Ind',
Low at their Feet the Spoils of Asia laid;
Imperial Power the Queen of Heaven bestow'd;
And righteous Rule conferr'd the cloud-compelling God.
Wisdom the blue-ey'd Power of Athens gave;
Hermes rich Eloquence and Commerce brought;
Neptune, the Empire of the boundless Wave;
Music, and sacred Song, Apollo taught:
Thus great, thus happy, young Adonis reign'd,
When Beauty's charming Queen, the Queen of Love he gain'd.
 

His Majesty, George the Third.

EPIGRAM. On a CUP OF TEA, spilt in a LADY's Lap.

Mourn not, Amira, that to Love's Abode
The warm, adventurous Stream presum'd to press.
Not Chance, but some unseen, admiring God
In rapturous Ardor sought the sweet Recess:
Nor doubt what Deity, so greatly bold,
In Form unusual thus should visit thee;
The God, who ravish'd in a Shower of Gold,
Can charm the Fair-one in Imperial Tea.

357

ON Miss M. and Miss H. HERRING.

------ Facies non una, duobus;
Nec diversa tamen; qualis decet esse Sororum.
Ovid.

If one, who to another owes
His Friendship, Love, and Care,
Durst leave the common Path of Prose,
And sing a foreign Fair,
The lovely Sisters soon would claim
The Muses' willing Lay;
For, who could boast a sweeter Theme!
What Theme more Charms display!
Then, Hymen, let me not infringe
Thy ever-sacred Laws,
If, with the Muse, I harmless range
Awhile in Beauty's Cause.
My Heart is but to one consign'd;
And constant will I prove:
But Friendship, sure, is unconfin'd;
And all is free but Love!

358

For Molly, first, I swell the Reed,
With each bright Charm array'd;
While Half as many Hearts still bleed,
As Eyes survey the Maid:
Yet, as not conscious of her Charms,
Though by Ten-thousand told,
Whilst, like the Sun, her Beauty warms,
She, like the Snow, is cold.
The healthy Bloom of rosy Morn
Upon her Cheek is seen;
And, more, their Favourite to adorn,
Each Grace bedecks her Mien:
Ah! let their fond Endeavours cease,
They act too vain a Part;
Perfection, of itself, must please,
And must contemn all Art.
Let Libertines, and Coxcombs pay
Their Adoration round;
From Fair to Fair still let them stray,
And only deal in Sound;
But, Men of Sense shall ever join
Their Homage, as thy Due;
And, Molly,—at Love's awful Shrine
Admire its Power in you.
Yet, think not, dear, engaging Fair,
That you unrivall'd reign;
Another boasts of Charms as rare,
And shares with you the Plain:

359

For, long as Molly's Beauties bloom,
And Bards extol her Fame;
Shall lovely Harriot still assume
An ever-equal Claim.
Grand as the Swan that swims the Thames,
We see sweet Harriot move;
White like the Swan,—cold as those Streams,
Her Breast recoils from Love:
So have I heard the Swains repine,
With many hopeless Sighs,
Alike the beauteous Sisters shine;
Alike they Love despise.
Amidst the pleasant Hills and Dales,
Of Surrey's fruitful Coast,
Where Croydon's Spire o'erlooks the Vales,
The Muses value most.
These peerless Buds of Nature bloom,
Her loveliest Work and Pride;
Ah! what could grace the Drawing-Room,
Why must the Country hide!
Yet, what are all the Charms I sing!
How helpless is their Aid!
We know, the Flowers, that deck the Spring,
Must in the Winter fade!
But, as the Wood is seen more clear,
When all the Leaves are gone,
Their solid Charms shall most appear,
When those of Youth are flown.

360

When Molly's Beauties we survey,
And Harriot's graceful Mien,
What was the Mother in her Day,
Is by the Daughters seen:
And, in the Mother we may view,
When Youth can please no more,
That Time will feed on Charms—'tis true,
Yet still will add a Store.

AN INVITATION. TO DR. JUSTAMOND.

Come, Justamond, partake with me,
In humble Solitude,
Joys, which, though homely, you'll agree,
Are rational, and good.
A Cup of nut-brown Ale I have got,
A Piece of marbled Beef;
And Happiness, which loves my Cot,
Shall give your Cares Relief;

361

If Cares can dwell within a Breast,
Where Peace should ever reign,
If it be true, as some attest,
That Vice alone gives Pain:
Then, Vice, I'm sure, can never find
A Place within your Heart,
Where all is generous, all is kind,
All social, all sans Art.
Yet, think not that the jolly Bowl,
Is from my Table fled;
I'll, likewise, sometimes add a Fowl,
And Pork, the best, home-fed.
Then, I will laugh, as heretofore;
And you, my Friend, shall sing;
My Wife, and Boys shall cry encore;
The Room with Mirth shall ring;
Not such as shakes pale Slander's Side,
While meagre Envy smiles;
Nor what distorts the Face of Pride,
Or gives to Art fresh Wiles:
For, these delight not you, and me;
Because full well we know,
It is impossible to see
A perfect Man below:
And, why should we so lose the Time
We might much better spend;
As I do now in harmless Rhyme,
Address'd to you, my Friend—

362

Why should we lose that Time, I say,
In Scandal, Noise, and Strife,
And not pursue the noblest Way
Along the Vale of Life?—
To scorn the Worthless; praise the Good;
Assist the wretched Poor;—
Pitying the Frail—for Fear we should
E'er want that Pity more!

SONG: ON Miss MOLLY HERRING's Marriage with Mr. STONE

Movit Amphion Lapides canendo.

Sweet Molly, the Pride of the Plain,
Whom lately, with Rapture, I sung,
With Rapture I'll sing of again;
She inspires my Pen, and my Tongue:
O, ye Critics, your Censure forbear;
If your Eyes once beheld the bright Maid,
So lovely,—so gentle—so fair—
You'd be Friends, and soon lend me your Aid.

363

Of Apollo I oft' have been told,
Of Orpheus, Amphion,—and more—
How the Stones in a Transport have roll'd,
And danc'd, while they sung on the Shore:
'Twas the Power of Music, alone,
That wrought such a Wonder we know:
But, when Molly enlivens a Stone,
From whence does the Miracle flow?
It flows from the Charms of her Mind,
So virtuous, so soft, so discreet;
With those of her Person conjoin'd,
So graceful, so beauteous, so sweet:
Thus adorn'd, can it ever seem odd,
While each Charm, and each Grace is her own,
That the loveliest Work of her God
Should have Power to animate Stone.

EPIGRAM. Upon a BARBER.

My Barber, like a sluggish Knave,
Though sure, is wonderous slow;
For, while one Beard he stands to shave,
He lets another grow.

364

HARRIOT. AN ELEGY.

As o'er the vast Atlantic Sea
Our well-built Vessel sails,
We Passengers, by Turns, agree
To sing, or else tell Tales.
To pass the tedious Hours away,
While, thus, we chearful strove,
Brisk Strephon first began the Lay,
And tun'd his Lyre to Love:
Of Harriot, then, he joyful sung,
The Nymph of Croydon's Vale,
The Theme of every Shepherd's Tongue,
The Beauty of that Dale;
And not of that one Dale alone;
For, in Britannia's Isle,
Where Venus high exalts her Throne,
No lovelier Maid can smile.

365

‘Let Avon, proud of Shenstone's Song,
‘Triumphantly display,
‘On Esham's Vale, a splendid Throng
‘Of Naiads trim and gay:
‘Yet, none shall place his muddy Streams,
‘Or those who haunt their Side,
‘In Competition with the Thames,
‘And Harriot in her Pride,
‘Did Paris in these Times but live,
‘While in full Bloom her Charms,
‘What Glory might he not atchieve;
‘An Act well worth his Arms!
‘Secure in Peace, the Spartan King
‘His Helen might enjoy;
‘And Pope, without translating, sing
‘How Britain conquer'd Troy.
‘To what shall I this Nymph compare,
‘On whom each bounteous Grace
‘Has lavish'd all that's grand, or rare,
‘In Mind, as well as Face?
‘The Lilly may express, 'tis true,
‘Her Neck, and Bosom, fair;
‘Her Cheek, the blushing Rose-bud's Hue;
‘But—what, her Shape, and Air!
‘Or, who her Majesty can paint,
‘That sees the Charmer move?
‘Your Colours, Reynolds, would be faint;
‘And, first, you'd die with Love!
‘For, more than Fancy can express,
‘Great Nature here has shewn;
‘To prove, that Beauty in Excess
‘Is hers, to paint, alone.

366

‘What Man the high meridian Sun,
‘With stedfast Eye, surveys,
‘Let him, sweet Maid! and him alone,
‘Presume at thee to gaze:
‘That Sun, for some few Years, or so,
‘Is only doom'd to shine;
‘While through Eternity shall glow
‘Those brighter Charms of thine.
‘I laugh at other Females' Art,
How anxious all to please;
‘Whilst, undesign'd, you win each Heart,
‘And captivate with Ease:
‘Soon as you tread the flowery Plain,
‘All glorious to be seen,
‘Each envious Maid laments her Swain,
‘And, sighing, quits the Green.
‘If in this World a Youth can be,
‘Who merits God-like Bliss,
‘O, let him pay his Vows to thee;
‘And may'st thou soon be his;
‘And round your Bed may Concord strew
‘Her best, her choicest Flowers;
‘And all your Days like Minutes flow;
‘And all your Years like Hours!’
While, thus, his Note the Shepherd rais'd,
By sacred Friendship fir'd,
His fair Euphemia heard, and prais'd
What real Worth inspir'd:
Yet, well she knew, her Strephon's Heart
To Constancy was prone;
And, while he play'd the Poet's Part,
His Soul was all her own.
 

Miss Harriot Herring.

This was written on Board the Earl of Hallifax Pacquet-Boat, bound from Falmouth to New-York.


367

THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

TO THERANIA.
On Paper, strangely and uncouthly shap'd,
For Reasons stranger, Valentines y-clep'd,
Scriblers, To-day, of every Size, and Sort,
In annual Chime to Venus pay their Court;
Teeth, Lips, Cheeks, Eyes, Hair, Forehead, all made out,
Ruby, Rose, Lilly, wonderous like, no Doubt:
Thus, piecemeal they the Goddess-Nymph compare;
And, by commending, satyrize the Fair.—
Avaunt, ye Elves, who thus, in Spite of Sense,
Blaspheme Apollo, and would Wits commence;
The Fair, whom Honour, Truth, and Candour guide,
Attach'd by Worth alone, your Arts deride.
Nor think, sweet Maid, as you peruse my Song,
I swell the Chorus of the motley Throng.
Let lying Bards ideal Forms create,
And vainly of aerial Beauty prate;
Juno, Minerva, Venus, and so forth,
Are beaten Topics, and but little Worth;
I leave the Pearl too, and the Stars at Rest;
Nor shall the Snow vie with Therania's Breast:

368

In that dear Mansion we, more valu'd, find
The matchless Beauties of an Angel's Mind:
External Charms, frail Blessings! fade away;
Those grow with Years, not subject to decay.
Sitting by thee, no Frowns of Fate I fear;
Thy gentle Smiles can dissipate all Care,
The Sting of Sorrow from my Breast remove,
And tune my Soul to Extacy and Love:
The generous Sentiments, thy Words impart,
Thrill through my Veins, and play around my Heart;
No Part is from the powerful Influence free;
But every Sense, enraptur'd, sighs for thee.
Thus, while I, gazing, feast my eager Sight,
Lost in a Trance of exquisite Delight,
Sees not my Love, when her bright Eyes meet mine,
She, only she can be my Valentine.

GAY's EPITAPH, PARAPHRASED.

Life is a Jest, and all Things shew it:
“I thought so once; but now I know it.”
Thus, like a dying Swan, he sung,
As Death untimely stopp'd his Tongue;
Then, sinking like a Babe to Rest,
Smil'd at the Dart that spoil'd the Jest.

369

THE FOUNDLING.

INSCRIBED TO MISS ELIZA GORDON.
As t'other Day fair Chloe stray'd,
Where Nith, slow-murmuring, glides along,
Chloe, by far the brightest Maid,
That e'er adorn'd a Shepherd's Song,
She chanc'd to meet the God of Love,
A naked Urchin, poor, and blind:
So sad a Sight would surely move
The hardest Heart,—the most unkind!
But, Chloe's Heart the Graces form'd;
And form'd it generous, and mild:
Its deep Recesses Pity warm'd,
And Innocence, which ne'er beguil'd:
Religion here had fix'd her Throne;
And each fair Virtue, too, their Seat;
And here,—an Offspring of their own,—
Was Honour's favourite Retreat.

370

‘Alas! poor Child!’—the Virgin cried—
‘Where wanderest thou, so cold a Day,
‘Stark blind, and none thy Steps to guide?
‘Say, whither dost thou madly stray?’
“Your Pity, Ma'am, is well apply'd—
“I'm a poor Orphan, quite forlorn,”
(In blubbering Accents he reply'd)
“And blind, as now you view me, born:
“Let not that Pity, then, which sways
“Thy Mind, in Words alone be shewn;
“But, by relieving me, amaze
“Those Hearts, which ne'er have Pity known.”
The lovely Nymph comply'd with Joy,
And o'er his Back her Mantle threw;
And, as she homeward led the Boy,
‘Now bid,’ she cried, ‘thy Woes adieu!’
Soon was he to a Nurse consign'd,
And soon in warmest Cradle laid;
And soon, as the poor Child was blind,
A skilful Surgeon lent his Aid:
At length, of human Hearts the Lord,
And (well I ween) of Angels too,
If you will take a Poet's Word,
Was cur'd, and saw as well as you.
And now he waves his roseate Wings,
Which cunningly he hid before—
But how, it matters not—and sings,
When nimbly he had reach'd the Door,
“Henceforth I'll aim my Shafts aright:”
(So saying, one he launch'd at me)
“Let him proclaim I've gain'd my Sight,
“By, charming Chloe, loving thee.”

371

ON THE BERNARD FAMILY, IN CARLOW.

Apollo's fabled Aid I scorn,
Nor court the vocal Throng:
For, Carlow's Nymphs shall now adorn,
And animate my Song;
The Nymphs, who haunt the Barrow's Side,
Where Pleasure smiling reigns;
The Grace, the Dignity, the Pride,
Of Carlow's happy Swains.
Oh! had you seen them, in the Dance,
With sprightly Gesture move,
And now retreat—and now advance,
In all the Pomp of Love,
Your Heart would at one View have felt
That tender, generous Fire,
Which can the hardest Bosom melt
In Flames of soft Desire.
Whom shall I first in Order bring,
To grace my flowing Line,
Where Charms so various, while I sing,
Still puzzle as they shine?

372

The engaging Stella shall appear,
With Elegance her own;
The first, in Grandeur, Ease, and Air;
Vice-Queen, on Beauty's Throne:
Tis here, that Cupid spreads his Toils,
All o'er her snowy Breast,—
Her coral Lips,—her dimpled Smiles;
And robs us of our Rest.
In vain the accomplish'd Fair we shun;—
Such Magic's in her Eye,
That, if we gaze, we are undone;
And perish, if we fly.
The gentle Susan, mild as May,
In virgin Charms array'd,
Shall bloom the second in my Lay,
An ever-matchless Maid:
The second of the Bernard Name—
A Name, where all are fair—
She should the foremost Honours claim,
If Stella were not there.
The third, bright Kitty, is thy Due:
Nor let me be disgrac'd,
If after Stella, and fair Sue,
Perhaps thou art misplac'd:
In Beauty, Men may disagree;—
That they agree, is rare;—
And, what's the fairest Form to me,
To others mayn't be fair.
Two lovely Fannies next shall shine,
In native Lustre bright;
And Molly, too, a Maid divine;
All form'd to give Delight;

373

All form'd to give extatic Bliss,
And Happiness refin'd;
All form'd to please—but most in this
The Charms that please the Mind.
If aught the Beauty of the Face,
Which marks the Bernard Name,
And far and near extolls this Race
Throughout the Path of Fame;
If aught that Beauty can outvie,
Which makes each Heart their Slave,—
It is the Charm, which ne'er can die;—
The Charm, that scorns the Grave.
Thus far, this Family I've sung,
The pleasant Barrow's Boast;
But have not Time, nor Pen, nor Tongue,
For each deserving Toast.—
Then, let some other Bard rehearse
The long, illustrious Line:
I'll pay that Candour to his Verse,
I now implore for mine.

374

THE ALLIANCE.

INSCRIBED TO MISS ELIZA GORDON.
As t'other Day fair Chloe stray'd
Among some Trees of fragrant Roses,
The laughing Boy perceiv'd the Maid;
The Boy, who of our Fate disposes:
For 'midst the Bushes then he lay,
Arm'd with a Quiver full of Arrows;
Which, in wanton childish Play,
He idly shot at perching Sparrows.
Soon as he saw the blooming Fair,
He chose the sharpest Arrow in it;
Resolv'd to ease his Mother's Care,
And kill her Rival in a Minute.
Awhile he bent his Bow, awhile
He aim'd his Arrow, not to miss her:
But Chloe, turning with a Smile,
Beckon'd the Child to come and kiss her.

375

Around her Neck the Urchin flew,
Dissolv'd in Pleasure, lost in Blisses;
Fondly reaping, as they grew,
Melting, poignant, luscious Kisses:
'Till, mad with Extacy, he swore,
He'd harmless prove to her for ever;
Nor, from that Time, molest her more
With Arrow, Bow, or Dart, or Quiver.
Then, cease to wonder, hopeless Swains,
Why charming Chloe's Heart discovers
No tender Wish to ease the Pains
Of her desponding dying Lovers;
Or, why such Fragrance from her Lips
Distills, in all her balmy Kisses:
'Tis Cupid's Breath the Virgin sips;
And he's averse to all our Wishes.

On Miss ********.

When the dear Cause of all my Pain,
Is absent from my Sight,
Music, and Books, and Friends, in vain,
Attempt to give Dleight.
So, though a thousand Stars by Night
Heaven's Canopy bespark,
If the fair Moon's superior Light,
Be wanting, still 'tis dark.
September, 1746.

376

THE RECONCILIATION.

INSCRIBED TO MISS ELIZA GORDON.
Cease, lovely Chloe, to disclose
That Bosom, whiter than the Snow;
Nor wantonly those Charms expose,
Which with extatic Beauty glow.
Those pouting, coral Lips are vain;
And vain your flowing, auburn Hair:
Nor can your dimpled Smiles regain
My Heart;—no, nor your matchless Air.
And, do you, weeping, turn away?
Those pouting Lips, I long to kiss;
Those Cheeks, where rosey Cupids play;
That Bosom, too, the Seat of Bliss.
Return,—my sweetest Nymph! return;
Your Strephon did but fondly joke you.
With Pleasure, Love, and Joy, I burn;
And never will again provoke you.

377

PERUVIAN LETTERS.

LETTER I.

INSCRIBED TO The Honourable MRS. BERESFORD.
Where art thou, Aza? where? how far remov'd?
Where can his Zilia seek her best belov'd?
Direct me, Heaven! direct a wretched Maid,
Who suppliant kneels for thy much-wanted Aid:
Tell me, O tell me! where the royal Youth,
Inform'd with Virtue, Constancy, and Truth,
My Love, my Ynca, where does he reside?
Where mourn the Effects of Spain's rapacious Pride?
What new Invention can his Zilia find,
To paint her tender Heart to Aza's Mind?
To thee, thus absent, Nought my Cries avail,
Like Morning-Vapours, rising, they exhale;

378

In vain, thine Aid, thy Succour I implore;
Thy dubious Fate distresses me the more.
E'en now, ye Powers! e'en now, propitious prove;
Nor in my Fall involve the Man I love.
When, for the plunder'd Temple of the Sun,
By barbarous, sacrilegious Hands o'erthrown,
My Eyes should pour the never-ceasing Tear,
For thee, alone, I grieve, for thee I fear:
Since that dread Moment, when the savage Race,
Dragg'd me from God, and from thy lov'd Embrace,
Retain'd in sad Captivity I lie,
Plung'd in the Abyss of dark Obscurity.
Is it my Guilt that Heaven's Resentment draws?
I feel the Effects, unconscious of the Cause:
Ah! what am I? that I alone am curst,—
Time still runs on, as smoothly as at first;
Due and alternate, Night and Day returns;
Nature's the same; and only Zilia mourns,
Fallen from my Height, nor suffer'd to prepare
My destin'd Soul for all this Load of Care.
Here, moss-grown Walls confine my narrow Sight;
A wretched Mat receives my Limbs at Night.
Say, where these Ministers of Hell were bred;
What savage Breast their infant Cravings fed;
For, Nothing human could, relentless, see,
Or act such Crimes, as shock Humanity:

379

Oh! the Barbarians! in whose cruel Hand
The fatal Thunder rumbles at Command.
Aza, where art thou? how didst thou evade
The flaming Shafts, that such Destruction made?
Did some bless'd Chance secure my venturous Lord
From the keen Edge of the descending Sword?
Did Heaven those hellish Instruments avert,
And turn their harmless Points from Aza's Heart?
I know thy Soul, thy Disregard of Life,
Where Thirst of Fame conducts the hostile Strife;
I know thy Courage; but, I doubt thy Power,
Too far unequal to the Thunder's Roar.
'Twas on the fatal Day, which should have shone,
To grace the Losing of my virgin Zone,
While in the Temple's sacred Arch I sate,
In Meditation on the nuptial State,
My nimble Fingers through my Quipos mov'd,
To tell how Zilia, and her Aza, lov'd;
Here did my Thoughts recall the happy Hour,
When thy dread Father shar'd with thee his Power;
That Power to visit the Divine Abode,
Where vulgar Feet irreverend never trod:
Then, when thou stood'st amidst our virgin Train,
My Heart embrac'd the voluntary Chain.
How sweet to us appear'd thy youthful Mien,
Whom but the Ynca's Self alone had seen:
My ravish'd Eyes pursued you as you mov'd,
While frequent Sighs betray'd how much I lov'd;

380

'Twas Love, my Aza; for my tortur'd Breast
Alternate Joy, and bitter Care, confess'd:
Even, while thy new-acquainted Beauty charm'd,
Attendant Jealousy my Soul alarm'd;
With new-born Hate, the gazing Throng I see,
And blam'd their Frailty, to be mov'd like me.
But, when I learn'd my happy Self decreed,
As next in Blood, to share thy princely Bed,
What Joys I felt, when your assenting Voice
Confirm'd and ratified the public Choice:
Oh! since that Hour, what Moments have we pass'd,
In Bliss, too soft, too exquisite, to last!
Now, by Degrees, the parti-colour'd Blue
Of both our Loves the faithful Painting drew,
When, on a sudden, a tumultuous Sound
Awak'd my Thoughts; the Temple shook around:
Then was my warm Imagination fir'd
With what my Tenderness for you inspir'd;
Trembling with Hope, impatient I await
The Ynca's Office, to unite our Fate;
Thy manly Beauties all my Thoughts employ;
Fearless, I spring to meet my coming Joy.
But, ah! what different horrid Scenes appear!
The sad Remembrance fills my Soul with Fear;
The Temple Pavement stain'd with human Gore;
And the Sun's Image prostrate on the Floor;
Our frighted Virgins from the Murderers fly;
And helpless Mamas, struck with Thunder, die.

381

Trembling, I sought the Temple's deep Recess;
But there no Shelter found for my Distress.
Can'st thou believe it?—these unhallow'd Bands
On the Sun's Daughter urg'd their impious Hands;
Their frantic Rage the Sun himself disdain'd,
Nor fear'd due Vengeance from his Rites prophan'd;
Their ruling Passion Want of Gold supplies,
To that alone they offer Sacrifice;
The Thirst of Gold was first the guilty Source
Of our Misfortunes, and their bloody Force.
Torn from the solemn, sanctified Recess,
Yet premature, and in my virgin Dress,
My Feet, unwilling, trod the sacred Floor,
And pass'd, unworthy, through the nuptial Door;
From thence to Prison, where the glimmering Light
Just beam'd sufficient to encrease my Fright:
But, while this horrid Desolation reigns,
By happy Chance, my Quipos still remains:
This is a Treasure, as the mystic Twine
Must act the Chaqui 'twixt my Soul and thine:
Fallacious Hope! unless some pitying God
Would speed my Work to thy unknown Abode.
But, Oh! even now, perhaps my Aza stands,
Prone o'er his Fate, amidst those treacherous Bands;
Even while my Soul describes its suffering Fears,
Perhaps these Threads receive a Widow's Tears:

382

Forbid it, Heaven! relieve our present Woes;
And urge thy Vengeance only on our Foes.
Could I myself perform the Chaqui's Part,
And bring these Tidings of thy Zilia's Smart,
For that short Bliss I'd all my Days forego
That the Sun dooms my Pilgrimage below.
My Heart is rack'd; ah! whither am I driven?
Aza!—my dear-lov'd Aza—Mercy, Heaven!
 

The Guardian Deity of Peru.

i. e. The Presence of the Sun in the Temple.

Fire-Arms, mistook for Thunder.

A Set of knotted Threads used instead of Letters.

A Custom among the Princes of Peru.

Matrons of the Sun.

As she ought not to have left the Temple, without the Ensigns of Royalty, and in a Wedding Garment.

A Messenger.

Being betrothed to Aza.

LETTER II.

Inscribed to Miss O REILLY.
May Pacha Camac, ever-bounteous Lord,
The pious Chaqui's happy Zeal reward,
By whom my Quipos reach'd thy willing Hands,
And I was bless'd with thy ador'd Commands;
Oh! may the Tree of Virtue ever shed
Its happy Influence on his loyal Head!
Long did my Heart its painful Fears express,
For thy unknown, perhaps, thy vast Distress;
But, when I saw the dear returning Twine,
My Soul expanded in the Search of thine:
My Aza lives, he lives unhurt, and free;
Thanks to the Sun for this one kind Decree:

383

I am all Rapture, Extacy of Bliss,
No common Frame can taste a Joy like this:
Waking, my Lover all my Thoughts employs;
In Dreams, my Fancy paints succeeding Joys.
Thou liv'st, my Aza, and the solemn Chains,
The Tye, that should unite us, still remains:
Your kind Expressions have, in Part, assuag'd
The sobbing Grief that in my Bosom rag'd:
My Soul, enlighten'd, its Existence owes
To my kind Genius; as the full-blown Rose
Its brilliant Colours from the Sun derives,
So in thy Worth my whole Perfection lives.
But why, alas! when royal Aza's free,
Am I thus kept in dismal Slavery?
My grated Prison still renews my Fears;
Ah! how uncouth, how dreary it appears!
With what Distraction do I view the Scene!
Is this a Dwelling for Peruvia's Queen?
Are these the Robes thy destin'd Wife should wear?
Is this the nuptial Bed I thought to share?
Alas! these Walls afford no costly Pride,
No Bed expectant of a royal Bride:
All's dark and dismal, where the mournful Gloom
Suits but too well the joy-forbidding Room.
But why, dear Man, do I complain of thee?
Can'st thou relieve, or set the Prisoner free?
Ah no! my Lord, those outward Marks of State,
Too well convince me of thy servile Fate:
Can'st thou not feel thy Liberty debarr'd,
In all the Attendance of the watchful Guard?
Through all their fulsome Honours you may trace,
Yours is but Bondage with a milder Face:
Fly from thy Error, and preserve thy Life;
And seek the Arms of thy expecting Wife.

384

Since Viracocha has our Loss foretold,
By Dint of Thunder through a Thirst for Gold;
Let us our Pomp with Chearfulness resign,—
If Heaven so wills, shall Mortals dare repine?—
Some lonely Cottage shall secure our Peace,
And all our Days find Liberty and Ease;
No foreign Tyrants shall disturb our Cell;
Nor home-bred Treasons enter where we dwell:
O'er my fond Heart you'll hold imperial Sway,
While I shall boast the Title to obey:
We'll feel the Effects of Avarice no more;
Nor dread the fickle Million's frantic Hour:
We'll beg Protection from the Powers above,
Rich in Possession of each others Love:
Secure in thee, I'll fear no future Harms;
But bless the Fate that gave thee to my Arms.
Alas! my Love, how little did I know
The sharp Misfortunes I was destin'd to!
What horrid Space, what Oceans must divide
Thy widow'd Arms from thy still virgin Bride?
Perhaps my Griefs shall ne'er approach your Ear,
Nor this work'd Tissue in your Sight appear;
But I am fix'd the brave Attempt to make;
It sooths my Care, it is for Aza's Sake.
How shall my Fingers o'er the Clue prevail,
To tell my Ynca the surprizing Tale?
How shall I paint the Ideas I receiv'd,
And what, when told, can scarcely be believ'd?
'Twas now the Time, when peaceful Slumbers close
The Eyes of Mortals to relieve their Woes;

385

In Tears I lay extended on the Ground;
The Dungeon echoed with a fearful Sound;
Two savage Spaniards, thunder-bearing Men,
Perforce compel me from my gloomy Den:
In this Distress, my female Fears prevail;
My Knees bend trembling; and my Senses fail;
Lost in a Swoon, I can no further tell
What, for a Time, thy poor Betroth'd befel.
But when, compell'd by Youth, and Nature's Force,
The sanguine Stream resum'd its wonted Course;
When once Reflection was return'd again,
And quick Sensation realiz'd my Pain;
My rolling Eyes with wild Attention gaze,
Struck with alternate Terror, and Amaze:
What meant the Change, my Soul was yet to learn;
Anxious, I wait the wish'd-for Light's Return;
When I beheld a Room of small Extent,
From whence exhal'd a loath'd, offensive Scent:
The Chamber moves; alas! my Brain turns round;
I'm all convuls'd upon this rolling Ground;
With tottering Haste, I seek my wretched Bed,
Desponding, while my Steps precarious tread:
Perplexing Wonder, certainly design'd,
By some destructive Power, to hurt Mankind.
Now round my Head the dizzy Mists arise,
And dusky Vapours fleet before my Eyes;
Convulsive Throws my tortur'd Breast invade,
And my cold Limbs refuse their wonted Aid;
Large Drops of Sweat bedew my pallid Cheek,
While deep-fetch'd Groans my inward Torments speak.
At last, with Sickness, Grief, and Care opprest,
My Pain subsided, and I sunk to Rest:
Some friendly Power, in Pity to my Smart,
In stiptic Slumber sooth'd my bleeding Heart;

386

“For, Nature, tir'd, and harrass'd out with Care,
“Sinks down to Rest, sometimes, amidst Despair.”
Scarce was I lost in unaccustom'd Ease,
(Ah! fleeting Bliss! short Interval of Peace!)
When a tremendous, and more horrid Sound,
Than that of Yalpa, shook the Mansion round:
Such Shock shall happen, when the Moon is hurl'd,
By angry Fate, to crush the nether World:
Dread Thunders roar, and fire-wing'd Lightnings play;
While Clouds of sulphurous Smoak obscure the Day:
At first, the Tumult threaten'd from afar,
The cool Commencement of the distant War;
But, when more near the deafening Horror drew,
Then to its Height the fierce Contention grew:
After a While it gradually decreas'd;
'Till, at the last, the loud Explosion ceas'd:
When, now, methought, I heard the piteous Cries
Of blasted Spaniards rend the avenging Skies—
For, can these Wretches e'er presume that Heaven
O'erlooks their Crimes; or, hope those Crimes forgiven?
Almighty Justice always strikes, though slow,
Like the high-lifted Arm, the mightier Blow.—
Alas! alas! what recent Cause for Fear!
Strange bloody Men before my Eyes appear;
With brutal Rage they through the Chamber broke,
And in their Hands their sanguine Sabres smoke.
Now what Anxiety my Bosom feels!
Around my Heart the lazy Stream congeals:
Ah me!—I faint!—Oblivion, once again,
Relieves my Soul from its accustom'd Pain.
 

The Creator God, more powerful than the Sun.

A Prophet.

They imagine the Fall of the Moon is to be the End of the World.


387

LETTER III.

INSCRIBED TO MISS O NEIL.
When from my Swoon, where my unhappy Lot,
My Woes, my Hopes, even Aza was forgot,
In Tears I wak'd; for still my Grief supplies
The briny Torrent that o'erflows my Eyes:
At first, around a spacious Room they range,
In Contemplation of a second Change;
Next, but well pleas'd, and wondering, they survey'd
The sumptuous Couch on which my Limbs were laid:
But still this House the plunging Motion feels,
And my sick Stomach, as before, rebels.
No more the cruel, whisker'd Spaniards, now,
Affront my Sorrows with a gloomy Brow;
A Crew of gentle Savages approach,
And, smiling, stand respectful round my Couch:
In these, no cursed Ravishers are seen,
Unlike in Countenance, in Dress, in Mien;
But, oh! how different from my much-lov'd Lord,
By bounteous Nature fram'd to be ador'd!
Where, in what mortal Visage can I find
Such Beauty, and such Majesty combin'd?
Thou perfect Pattern of excelling Worth,
Form'd or to bless, or to command the Earth,

388

When shall my Eyes behold thy manly Charms?
When wilt thou fold me in a Husband's Arms?
The sullen Aspects of my former Foes,
Phlegm, Pride, Disdain, and Cruelty disclose;
Whene'er they speak, expressive Accents seem
First deeply weigh'd, to indicate the Theme;
Their haughty Gloom, and supercilious Pride,
Affect Contempt for all the World beside;
Their Look betrays the Temper of their Mind,
By Malice sway'd, to Cruelty inclin'd.
Think it not strange, that Heaven's all-wise Commands
Should be deputed to such worthless Hands;
Nor that the avenging Deity can please
To scourge our Sins by Delegates like these;
Thou knowest when Criminals are doom'd to bleed,
The vilest Hand performs the fatal Deed.
In these, a sprightly, more engaging Air
Flatters my Hope, and mitigates Despair:
My Pallet Side officious they attend,
And their kind Aid most willing seem to lend;
For still I'm sick: But he, among the Rest,
Who look'd the Cazique, most Concern express'd.
But, if thou canst, conceive my blushing Rage,
When one, whose Hairs confess'd an hoary Age,
Abruptly seiz'd on my reluctant Hand;
Nor could my Strength his sudden Force withstand:
I tore it back; but he, with cool Disdain,
Smil'd at my Fears, and seiz'd my Hand again;
Since when, regardless of a Virgin's Shame,
Each Day, indecent, he repeats the same:

389

What would he have? can he presume to know,
By outward Contact, whence proceeds my Woe?
Go, foolish Man, explore my aking Heart;
'Tis there you'll find the Cause of Zilia's Smart.
Sometimes, I am apt to fancy they're inclin'd
To think me form'd superior to their Kind;
When they approach, they bow respectful down,
As we are wont, while worshipping the Sun.
But, how shall I my fond Attempt pursue,
While fresh Misfortunes rise within my View!
My Limbs were just recovering by Degrees
Their former Strength, reliev'd from the Disease;
Tottering I rose, and crept from where I lay
To where my moving Room receiv'd the Day:
How shall I find Expressions to impart
My trembling Horrors to thy anxious Heart!
Nought have I left, but patiently to die,
Sinking beneath a hapless Destiny:
What did I see! oh! guess at my Surprize,
Where Nought appear'd but rolling Waves, and Skies?
Too well, alas! my prying Reason guess'd,
What, but too well, the reeling House confess'd:
At length, I ventur'd from my Door to take
Some Observations of the Fabrick's Make:
Such floating Castles, erst, the Spaniards bore,
Full-fraught with Thunder to our destin'd Shore;
Rang'd on the Sides, black Iron Teeth appear,
Commission'd ready for the Trade of War;
Large lofty Trees from out the Surface grow,
Whose taper Heads the gaudy Streamers shew;
Quick through the Air their Wings expanded sweep,
While their broad Bellies cut the indented Deep;
With headlong Force they dive into the Main,
Thence rising, climb the mountain Wave again:

390

Strange! whence these Savages derive their Skill,
That Winds and Seas yield passive to their Will:
Most sure, the Horrors, I describ'd before,
Were not the Effects of supernatural Power;
'Twas from those Instruments of Hell, design'd,
By Man's Invention, to destroy their Kind.
In vain, my wretched Fortune I deplore,
Torn from thy Arms, ne'er to behold thee more;
Each transient Moment, while my Threads disclose
My painful Lot, the widening Distance grows.
Since thou art lost, permit me to destroy
A hapless Life, I can no more enjoy:
The Seas, now kind, shall minister Relief;
A Moment's Space annihilates my Grief:
Courage, my Limbs, and aid my fatal Will:—
Alas! I feel the coward Woman still.
From whence proceeds this peace-obstructing Fear?
Why shrinks my Soul at Dissolution near?
'Tis Nature's Voice that intimates the Wrong;
Immortal Souls to Heaven itself belong:
'Tis an Hereafter, which aloud commands
To wait our Doom from our Creator's Hands:
If, by our Death, we from Distress would fly,
'Tis then, most sure, but Cowardice to die.
Perhaps I'm destin'd this Distress to prove,
To rise more worthy of my Aza's Love:
No—let me live—'till Pacha Camac deigns
To end, relieve, or mitigate my Pains.
Scarce did our radiant mighty Sire display
The rising Glories that announce the Day,
When, on a sudden, the distracted Rout
Assail'd my Ears with a tumultuous Shout;

391

In nimble Dance they tread the floating Ground,
While the red Maijs flows in Plenty round;
As when our Priests prepare the sacred Rite,
To solemnize our glorious Feast of Light.
But, now, the Chief, who kindly seems to bear
In my Misfortunes more than common Share,
Led me to where I just before had view'd,
In vast Distress, the madly raging Flood:
Here, to a Tube or necromantic Wand
My Eye, affix'd, beheld a distant Land;
Thence, by the Cazique's frequent Signs, I find
Our floating Mansion for that Land design'd;
That no Solemnities their Thoughts employ,
But this sole Reason of their present Joy:
'Tis sure thy Empire; for the chearful Day
Here feels the Impulse of the solar Ray.
Will pitying Fate my Aza then restore,
And part poor Zilia from her Love no more?
My blissful Soul excessive Joys shall prove,
When once united to the Man I love,
I shall again return thy warm Embrace:
Can any Woes such Extacy efface?
The past are vanish'd; Thoughts of future Joy
Fill all my Soul, and every Sense employ.
 

A Chief, or Captain.

A certain red Liquor used among them.


392

LETTER IV.

INSCRIBED TO MISS NUGENT.
At length the Mansion gains the welcome Shore,
While from its Sides repeated Thunders roar;
Unmov'd, unhurt, the gathering Croud appear,
With Shouts of Gladness, unrestrain'd by Fear:
Surprizing! how the Thunderers employ
The self same Art, to please, and to destroy.
No Object, yet, confirms the promis'd Bliss;
Thy dear-lov'd Empire differs wide from this:
We disembark; and now once more I stand,
(Freed from my Fear) on firm and solid Land;
My Sickness left me; and my Pains decreas'd,
All but the cruel Inmate of my Breast.
As yet, none else but Savages appear,
Their Dress the same with that my Keepers wear;
Houses on Houses still aspiring rise,
And lofty Turrets threat the neighbouring Skies;
No costly Trappings deck the outward Wall,
Like the Sun's Temple in thy Capital:
Though unadorn'd with that external Shew;
Within, what Wonders stand expos'd to View!
Just as my Feet had gain'd a sumptuous Room,
(My Thoughts engross'd by my precarious Doom)

393

Facing the Door, behold compleatly dress'd,
A virgin Daughter of the Sun confess'd:
A secret Joy my throbbing Bosom warms,
To clasp my Sister-Sufferer to my Arms;
The Maid, transported, with an equal Haste,
Moves as I move, and flies to be embrac'd:
Delusion all; my Arms are stretch'd in vain;
Fruitless I rush against the glossy Plain;
A shining Surface to my Sight supplies
The extended Form, but all Access denies;
And, when my Tears in briny Currents flow,
She seems to feel a Sympathy of Woe:
While on the Maid attentively I gaz'd,
My Grief was banish'd by my Wonder rais'd:
The friendly Cazique's Form I seem'd to view,
Close by the first that my Attention drew;
Here, while I touch him with a dubious Hand,
There, I behold the just Resemblance stand:
Strange! that the self-same Person should appear,
At the same Time, so distant, and so near.
No more I seek that Daughter of the Sun,
Taught to believe the Virgin Form my own;
But, why, or, wherefore? Ignorance combin'd
With blinded Error still obscures my Mind.
The utmost Knowlege our Amutas boast
Would Nought avail on this surprizing Coast:
Where'er I go, the wildly-staring Throng,
Gaping, surround me as I move along;
They gaze astonish'd, as they ne'er had seen
A Virgin Garb, or e'er at Cusco been.

394

My Soul no Bliss can taste, 'till Aza's Arms,
Encircling, guard me from all future Harms:
While thus I wander, widow'd, and alone,
The World's a Desart wild, when thou art gone;
No Path to guide my Footsteps to the Goal;
No Place to rest my weak and wearied Soul.
Still more and more Uncertainties appear;
My Hopes are foil'd with Doubts, and with Despair;
'Tis dark and dubious all: But yet, I find
This Nation form'd beneficent and kind;
Of Temper open, unreserved, and free;
But oft inclin'd to trifling Levity:
With such Velocity their Accents flow,
My Ears can scarce pursue them as they go;
Fluent in Words, accustom'd in Grimace,
A talking, active, thoughtless, pleasing Race;
Always in Action, ever brisk and gay,
In gladsome Mirth they pass the live-long Day;
As we are 'custom'd, when, with willing Hands,
We cultivate our richly-grateful Lands.
Was I to judge, from different Manners shewn,
Among this savage Nation, and my own,
My Hopes would vanish; but that I have been told,
Ere that the Spaniards sought our sordid Gold;
What glorious Paths thy conquering Sire pursu'd
To distant Realms, and Provinces subdu'd;
This may be one of those; the Sun here seems,
Pleas'd to adorn it with his purest Beams;
How long must I remain unsatisfy'd,
Of this my Fate, all Use of Speech deny'd;
That high Distinction, which all-gracious Heaven
To Man, its Image, o'er the Brute has given,
Avails not me; condemn'd to inward Moan,
My sad Complaints are understood by none:

395

How long, ye Powers, am I ordain'd to wait,
Ere I can know my still precarious Fate?
Oh! could I once the Knowlege but attain
Of this new Language, 'twould allay my Pain;
But all in vain, is every Art essay'd;
Nor aught avails my willing China's Aid:
Language deny'd, I oft indeed divine
The Cazique's Meaning, by the mystic Sign:
These Signs to all the Savages are known,
Not, as I guess'd, confin'd to me alone;
Sudden, and quick in Thought, Words scarce suffice,
Their Bodies' Motion must assist the Voice;
The imperfect Sentence lingers half-express'd,
From the shrugg'd Shoulder we must guess the Rest.
Wouldst thou believe it? in this barbarous Place,
That Men and Men most frequently embrace?
The Women's Cheeks here meet the public Kiss;
No Blush succeeds, nor is it held amiss.
To their Vivacity, our serious Air,
And slow Expression, aukward must appear:
But yet, might I relenting Fate implore
To guide thy Steps to this fantastic Shore,
My Aza's Presence such Content would give,
Even here, delighted with my Lord, I'd live.
Whate'er they do, an unaffected Ease
Reigns through the Whole; and, haply, by Degrees,
What now astonishes, may learn to please.
But wherefore here?—for, what avails the Place?
My wish'd-for Blessing is thy kind Embrace;
With thee, my Love, I'd through the Desart roam,
Through parch'd Savannas, or the Forest's Gloom;

396

Thy manly Virtue should my Soul sustain,
To smile at Labour, and habituate Pain.
Of late, a Cusipata tries to teach
My aukward Tongue this strange invented Speech:
Some Words I have learn'd, though scarcely can express;
Yet, still, I'll try to sooth my sad Distress,
At least in Part: Oh! much I long to know
The Story, Cause, and Progress of our Woe.
 

Philosophers.

The Capital of Peru.

A Maid-Servant.

A learned Religious.

LETTER V.

INSCRIBED TO MISS DALY.
Silence no more my lonely Spirit grieves;
The Cusipata's Art my Tongue relieves;
The Bar's remov'd that heighten'd my Distress,
And Perseverance meets the wish'd Success;
I'm so proficient in this Language grown,
'Twill soon become familiar as my own:
Even now, attentive, I can comprehend
The Conversation of my pious Friend.

397

From him I learn, that, in the dreadful Hour,
When my Soul trembled at the Thunder's Roar,
Even then, my Fate was kind, when least I thought,
And the first Means of my Redemption wrought;
That France (the Kingdom where I now reside)
Had sent its Force to curb the Spanish Pride;
Who met, and fought, and that the Power of Spain
Was taken, sunk, or scatter'd o'er the Main;
That in the Engagement, which had caus'd my Fear,
I chang'd my Fortune by the Chance of War;
That I am free; but, that the Vanquish'd bore
Thee, still a Prisoner to the Spanish Shore;
Since when, our Chief, in Charity to me,
Dispatch'd a Chaqui in the Search of thee.
How does my Soul with Expectation burn
For this slow-footed Messenger's Return!
The very Means, my savage Friends employ,
To heal my Woes, embitter all my Joy:
By different Sports they strive to entertain;
Alas! my Heart! they but encrease my Pain.
Alone, most happy; there, when unconfin'd,
My Thoughts can rove, and Aza fill my Mind:
But, yet, how strange! how whimsical must seem
A wish'd Remembrance of the dreadful Theme;
For, while my Aza rises to my View,
Our past Misfortunes find Remembrance too.
No more of this; for this you know too well:
Prepare your Wonder for the Things I tell.
A costly Robe, as in this Country worn,
And form'd to cover, less, than to adorn,
With Gold and Silver, exquisitely wrought,
The Cazique order'd, and my China brought;

398

A stiffen'd Substance round my Waist she join'd,
Which aukward felt, uneasy, and confin'd;
Next, on my Hips a strange Machine she ty'd,
Which low descended in Circumference wide;
The shining Vest she pins with willing Care;
And forms in sporting Curls my flowing Hair;
A flimsy Covering on my Head she plac'd,
With colour'd Strings and various Flowers grac'd:
When, by her Help, I stood in Pomp array'd,
Pleas'd with her Task and me, the smiling Maid
Brought that mysterious doubling Plain to shew
A Metamorphosis I scarce could know.
The Cazique entering, as in Thought profound,
With reverential Awe survey'd me round;
He gaz'd in Silence; blush'd; then stept aside;
Dismiss'd my China; gaz'd again, and sigh'd;
Then press'd my Hand, and blush'd and sigh'd again,
With all the Tokens of afflictive Pain:
Alarm'd at this, I gently ask'd to know
If I occasion'd all that Depth of Woe;
But he, regardless of my kind Demand,
In Tears repuls'd me with a trembling Hand:
What could this mean? I had again requir'd
The fatal Cause; but sudden he retir'd:
Most sure, he feels Concern for my Distress;
And deeply pities what he can't redress:
Perhaps Resemblance may his Sorrows move;
And he, like me, laments his absent Love:
Perhaps, my Image, in this Dress, revives
The dear Remembrance, for whose Sake he grieves.
It may be so: But I with Pleasure see
His Kindness not the least estrang'd to me.
One Morn, before our ever-glorious Sire
Rejoic'd the World with his celestial Fire,

399

When scarce the glimmering Twilight was return'd,
And the grey Arch of Heaven had re-adorn'd,
My early China beckon'd me to rise;
I straight obey'd, though Sleep still seal'd my Eyes:
The Cazique led me through the outward Door,
Where stood a Form I ne'er had seen before:
By two high Steps a Chamber's Height we gain;
Low was the Roof, and could but few contain;
On either Side, directly opposite,
A large square Void receiv'd the Air and Light;
Through these I look'd with cautionary Care,
And saw the Chamber balanc'd in the Air,
Uplifted high: What Terrors did I prove,
When this strange Prodigy began to move:
By Trees, Fields, Houses, rapidly we pass'd,
Which seem'd to meet us with an equal Haste:
This present Motion to my Memory brought
The floating Mansion, full with Thunder fraught,
Whence first I view'd with Fear the foaming Wave,
And lost all Title, but a Royal Slave.
These sad Reflections, and my new Surprize,
Urg'd the round Tear into my floating Eyes:
The attentive Cazique saw, and, doubtless, guess'd,
In Part, the Pangs of my disorder'd Breast.
At length, he made me, from the Window's Height,
View and observe the Causes of my Fright:
On rolling Orbs the tottering Chamber hung;
Nor mov'd spontaneous, but compell'd along
By Hamas, patient of the painful Thong.
Arts, more than human Genius, unconfin'd,
Declare this Nation bless'd above Mankind:

400

But, sure, some great Defect intestine reigns,
Or soon the vanquish'd World would own their Chains.
Four Times, the Sun had rested in the Main,
As oft, return'd to chear the World again;
By his Example, we pursued our Way,
And end our Journey, as he clos'd the Day.
Through all the vast Inquietudes and Pains,
I feel for thee, even now, perhaps, in Chains,
Still, my dear Lord, I blush not to confess,
Some Beams of Pleasure temper my Distress;
Such as, before, to Zilia were unknown,
Immur'd within the Temple of the Sun,
Given to the Mama's venerable Guard,
From every Notion of a World debarr'd.
How do my Eyes with Wonder, now, survey
The glorious Beauties of the rising Day!
How view the Sun emblazoning the Earth,
To give the generative Herbage Birth!
Before his Face the dusky Vapour yields,
And quits, repugnant, the gay teeming Fields:
Next, o'er the Mountain's lofty Summit driven,
The Prospect rises of an azure Heaven;
Now, unconfin'd, the Eye with Wonder roves,
O'er Hills, and Vallies, Rivers, Lawns, and Groves;
We see the regular Confusion lye
In stately, wild, disorder'd Majesty:
Or, in the Evening, when the Sun declines,
How gay the Westward with his Radiance shines!
How can we view that heaven-illumin'd Blaze,
Without Astonishment, Delight, and Praise!
The tinctur'd Clouds, in various Colours shewn,
Adorn'd in Gold, and gathering round the Sun;
Huge Mountains seem to our bewilder'd Sight
Alternate vary'd into Shade, and Light.

401

Here let me hold: 'Tis wonderous all! and stands,
Confess'd, the Work of Pacha Camac's Hands.
Oh Heaven!—What's this?—Impossible!—My Eyes
Must, sure, deceive me; or, new Wonders rise:
A thousand, lofty Spires at once appear;
And a thick Smoak o'ercasts the tainted Air;
A noisome Smell invades my loathing Sense,
And my Breast feels the baneful Influence.
But, now, I find the Spires, within my View,
Rise from the City we are destin'd to:
'Tis, sure, most large; perhaps, the dread Abode,
And favourite Temple of the reigning God.
Could I but hope to meet my Aza there,
To bless my Eyes with what they hold most dear;
Would Heaven, indulgent to my just Request,
Accept the Prayers of Innocence distress'd;
Or, would it, there, in thy Embraces grant
The kind Asylum that my Sufferings want;
'Tis that I seek, 'tis there I wish to lie;
If that's refus'd me, I would ask—to die.
 

Any Kind of four-footed Beasts.


402

LETTER VI.

INSCRIBED TO MISS BOYLE.
Welcome, thrice welcome, thou returning Light,
To calm the Terrors of the restless Night!
From whence those passing Fires, and wakeful Noise
Of rolling Huts, those fear-inspiring Cries?
Do they in Paris Midnight Revels keep,
Whose Rites deprive the Stranger's Soul of Sleep?
Arriving late, desponding, and dismay'd,
I sought some Place to rest my raging Head:
In vain my Pallet promises Repose;
The nightly Tumult all that Hope o'erthrows:
Even all the live-long Night, I trembling lay,
In Expectation of the coming Day;
Anxious I wait for what the Fates intend,
Or when my Life, or when my Woes, shall end;
No Beam of Hope breaks in, but, through the Whole,
Darkness and Doubt o'erwhelm my troubled Soul:
No News of thee, no Aza comes to bless
His Zilia's Eyes, still swimming in Distress.
But, now, alas! I feel myself undone;
For, now I weep, my Quipos almost gone;
That lov'd Amusement, where my Soul employ'd
A Correspondence which my Love enjoy'd;

403

My Hopes were flatter'd by the dear Deceit;
My Heart in plaintive Cadence ceas'd to beat:
Delusive Fancy! the Illusion flies;
And horrid Truth appalls my opening Eyes.
My first Intention was, that, if once more
Fate should hereafter my dear Lord restore,
To bless his Zilia on her native Shore,
These Knots might aid my Memory, to trace
The various Customs of this savage Race:
If I, at present, such Obstructions find,
To regulate the Ideas of my Mind;
How shall I, then, without Assistance left,
And of my Quipos' wonted Knots bereft?
'Tis true, these Savages employ an Art,
To tell the Eyes the Meaning of the Heart:
On a thin Substance, beautifully white,
The tracing Feather pictures to the Sight
The Sense reveal'd: But, can my simple Brain
This wonderous Art, this Knowlege e'er obtain?
'Tis Love must aid me, the Attempt to make;
'Tis Love must guide me, for my Aza's Sake.
But, while the Remnant of these Threads afford
A Correspondence with my absent Lord,
These Threads shall tell the Wonders that I see,
And paint the Affection of my Soul for thee.
The gentle Cazique, studious to devise
New various Means to dry my streaming Eyes,
Led me, reluctant, to a spacious Room,
Whose numerous Lights forbad the nightly Gloom;
Here Wealth, Magnificence, and Splendor vye
With Art, and Order, to attract the Eye:
High on the Wall, in various Colours wove,
The enliven'd Figures seem almost to move;
Those glossy Plains, that human Art has taught
To double Objects, wonderfully wrought,

404

In golden Frames, deceive the dazzled Sight,
By the Reflection of the opposing Light;
Large gilded Stands their marble Coverings bore;
And vary'd Carpets form'd the enamell'd Floor.
But, now, a Croud of Savages appear,
Whose urgent Jargon strikes my tortur'd Ear:
Here black Curacas, sprucely dress'd, behold,
And sumptuous Anquis, plated o'er with Gold:
With vast Magnificence the Women shone,
In borrow'd Charms, and Beauty not their own;
For, would'st thou think it? here, the Power of Art,
Not Nature's Gift, must reach the Lover's Heart;
The Brush, and Paint, and Washes have supply'd
The Want of Charms that Nature has deny'd;
To the best Artists Men their Homage pay;
And sigh for Charms, that bloom but for a Day.
Scarce was I enter'd, when the motley Throng
Respectful view'd me, as I pass'd along;
Each lowly bow'd, or dropp'd the bended Knee,
And paid me Homage, only due to thee:
With strange, ill-manner'd Scrutiny they gaze;
And seem to wonder, but yet seem to praise.
While, thus expos'd, and 'compass'd round, I stood,
My Cheeks confess'd the shame-attracted Blood;
Most hateful this! But, now, as if inspir'd
With the same Thought, they all at once retir'd:
To Cards! to Cards! a female Savage cries;
To Cards! the assenting Croud with Joy replies.

405

Now, round the Table's green Expanse they croud;
Now, burst in Clamours, sudden, wild, and loud.
The Cazique pointed to my wondering View
Small, square, thin Leaves, array'd in milk-white Hue,
On one Side this; on the Reverse appears
Large deep-stain'd Spots, and mystic Characters:
These are the Ministers that Fortune gives;
With these, her misled Votaries deceives;
'Tis from their Aspect each his Fate attends;
On these, their short-liv'd Happiness depends,
Or lasting Misery; and the shining Ore
That decks the Board, must yield to Fortune's Power:
Precarious Chance! Now, each his Soul betrays;
And various Fortunes various Passions raise:
Here, Indignation eyes his parting Hoard,
While calm Contentment sweeps the shining Board;
Here, the pale Wretch, to Desperation driven,
Gnashes his Teeth, and seems to rail at Heaven:
The Females, too, perform their different Parts,
While their Eyes tell the Emotion of their Hearts;
Now, for a Moment, bright, serene, and clear;
Then, on a sudden, clouded with Despair;
The unsuccessful, and successful Card,
Alternate kiss'd, and torn, as a Reward
Of Fortune's Caprice. Whence this Thirst of Gain?
'Twas hell-ordain'd for human Nature's Bane:
How vast a Difference 'twixt thy Zilia's Soul,
And these, whom Wealth, and Want, alone controul,
For thee, dear Aza, spring my Care and Grief;
From thee, I hope for Comfort and Relief;
From Pride, from Avarice, from Ambition free,
I only ask for Liberty, and thee.
 

Petty Sovereigns of Counties.

Princes of the Blood-royal of Peru.


406

LETTER VII.

INSCRIBED TO MISS SCOTT.
Aza, my Love! how long a Time is past,
Since my fantastic Soul address'd thee last:
Light of my Days! e'er since my Quipos fail'd,
Two hundred bright returning Suns I have hail'd:
Now, a new pleasing Art some Comfort brings,
And serves in Lieu of the descriptive Strings;
Taught by these Savages, my tutor'd Hand
Marks o'er the Paper, as my Thoughts command;
The feather'd Pen, deep-dy'd, performs its Part,
And strikes my Wonder, while it paints my Heart:
But, oh! alas! what Terrors have assail'd,
What different Passions o'er my Soul prevail'd!
Now, green-ey'd Jealousy, and pallid Fear;
Now, short-liv'd Hope, still haunted by Despair:
But hold, my Grief, and let my Lines unfold
Still stranger Things than e'er my Quipos told.
High o'er the Town, a solemn Fabric rears
Its venerable Head, the Work of Years;
Like the Sun's Temple; but whose towering Height,
Stupendous, baffles and fatigues the Sight;

407

Of vast Extent, which summon'd me awhile
To admire the Beauties of the outward Pile:
But, when I enter'd that superb Abode,
The Anti-chamber of the reigning God,
What noble Objects did I there behold!
The lofty Roof adorn'd with pendant Gold;
Supporting Pillars in due Order stand,
Which boast the Exactness of the Sculptor's Hand;
Here, on each Side six Marble Figures plac'd,
The hollow'd Wall with awful Grandeur grac'd,
'Bove human Size; in every Space between,
Adorn'd in Gold, the Painter's Skill is seen;
Where real Life and Spirit seem to warm,
In different Ways, each artificial Form.
My trembling Soul, with Expectation fir'd,
Painted the God most gloriously attir'd,
With Scenes of Bliss, and exquisite Delight,
All Heaven disclos'd insufferably bright:
But how deceiv'd! when through the brazen Door
I trod the inward consecrated Floor:
In Front, a naked human Form I view'd,
Fix'd to a Cross, which o'er an Altar stood;
A Wreath of Thorns his heavenly Crown supply'd,
While the Blood trickled down his wounded Side;
No glorious Rays bedeck'd his drooping Head;
No Signs, but what excessive Pain betray'd;
Though pale in Death, the writhing Limbs confess
The late felt Pangs of infinite Distress:
Strange! that these Savages should hope Relief
From one in Death, unconscious of their Grief:
Perhaps some Mystery to this belongs;
And my dark Soul their brighter Knowlege wrongs;
Perhaps his Life was for his Children given,
To atone their Crimes, and ascertain their Heaven:

408

What could it mean? even I myself, in Thought,
Fear'd, lov'd, and wonder'd, at I knew not what.
But, now, a Figure, matron-like, appears,
Whose tender Arm a smiling Infant bears;
Weeping, she stands within a glittering Shrine,
Where precious Stones, and Gold, alternate shine:
To her, these Savages most frequent pray;
To her, their Vows, their Adoration pay;
But, how absurd! how carelessly express'd!
The Deity alone appears distress'd.
Here, a young Virgin, kneeling 'midst her Prayers,
Her Aza's Oaths with Approbation hears:
Meanwhile, the Youth with double Ardour burns,
And plays the Lover, and the Saint by Turns.
See! where, install'd, the bloated Ynca sleeps,
Oh! impious Mortal! while the Godhead weeps.
The Thought of Worship, doubtless, first was given,
To bless Mankind, the Boon of gracious Heaven:
But, sure, these Wretches have this Gift misus'd;
Or, by degenerate Priests have been abus'd;
Or, some dark Angel, studious to betray,
Has led their Souls, maliciously, astray.
Not so, thy Yncas watch the sacred Fire;
Not so, thy Virgins hail their rising Sire;
Not so, thy Youths pollute the Temple Floor,
Or dare to trifle with Almighty Power:
Alas! my Aza, may some pitying God
Reclaim their Steps from this mistaken Road!
Another Circumstance demands my Pen,
The chief Amusement of these wayward Men:
As, heretofore, I have seen on Cusco's Stage,
They paint the Portraits of a former Age;
They to our Memory were alone reviv'd,
Who fell with Glory, or in Virtue liv'd;

409

Worthy Examples to instruct Mankind,
To mend the Heart, and humanize the Mind:
Not so instructive do these Scenes appear;
Villains, and Fools, are represented here;
The impetuous Actor whirls his Arms around,
And tears his Hair, or, falling, bites the Ground,
'Till his devoted Side receives the Knife,
And mad Self-Murder ends an impious Life.
Such Crimes as these, that shock the Sight of Heaven,
From our Remembrance rather should be driven:
For, from the Stage, Examples may prevail
O'er tender Minds, where wisest Precepts fail.
What Entertainment for a human Mind!
To view the Woes attending human Kind;
To see the Madman, in his abject State,
Pleas'd with his Frenzy, ridicule his Fate;
To hear the Wretched make their fruitless Moan;
And, unappall'd, withstand the dying Groan:
'Tis strange, yet certain, horrid Sights like these,
Among this Nation find the Means to please.
Can female Appetites such Food digest?
Can Pity find no Harbour in their Breast?
From tyrant Custom, they affect to hear
These tragic Scenes, unconscious of a Tear:
Fierce sanguine Passions manly Souls disgrace,
And substitute the brutal in their Place.
Can Zilia hope for Pity, in an Age,
Where her Misfortunes may adorn the Stage,
Where Cusco's Fate, in Time, may entertain,
With Virgins, Yncas, reverend Mamas slain,
And the Sun's Temple be prophan'd again:
Oh! could they add, how providential Fate
Reliev'd the Sufferers from their slavish State;

410

How grateful Subjects hail'd their bounteous Lord,
For Peace, Religion, Liberty restor'd;
How royal Aza, from his Bondage free,
Releas'd his Zilia from Captivity;
How, by their Virtues, the Peruvian Throne,
In them restor'd, with double Lustre shone:
Oh! flattering Hopes! how soon do ye subside!
How fade the Prospects of such airy Pride!
Perhaps, my Fate has no such Joys in Store;
Perhaps my Aza doats on me no more;
But, why should I anticipate my Care!
I'll kneel to Heaven in most pathetic Prayer;
'Till listening Angels shall observe my Grief,
And bring thee, anxious, to my quick Relief.
Last Night, I dream'd,—oh! horrid, horrid Night!
My waking Soul still trembles with the Fright—
While in the Temple's Floor methought I stood,
(Still flow'd the Streams of visionary Blood)
All on a sudden, Peals of Thunder broke,
And the vast Dome from its Foundations shook,
When, thus, the God, in doleful Accents spoke:
‘'Tis past, 'tis done; forbear, fond Maid, in vain,
‘To hope for Blessings thou can'st ne'er obtain:
‘The Lot is cast; nor can my Power divide
‘The sacred Knot, that Heaven itself has ty'd,
‘Can senseless Idols, form'd by mortal Hand,
‘In Competition with the Godhead stand?’
This said, he fell spontaneous on the Floor;
The golden Lamps display'd their Fire no more;
When, lo, methought, upon the Altar's Height,
A bloody Cross beam'd forth celestial Light:
Alas! I fear, this Prodigy may prove
Obnoxious to our Faith, or to my Love;
Perhaps the Crisis of my Fate is nigh;
Ah! love me, Aza! love me, or I die!

411

LETTER VIII.

Ah! wretched Maid! those heart-felt Sighs forbear!
Why trickles thus the unavailing Tear?
Too well, I know, these Sighs must rise in vain;
Too true, these Tears unpity'd must complain:
Oh! could my Soul, endu'd with proper Pride,
Its Love, its Grief, its Indignation hide!
But burst it will; my Patience can no more:
But, to what Friend? whose Aid can I implore?
My Brain's disturb'd; alas! alas! I rave;
What can I do? a poor forsaken Slave!
Like Birds, that spend their little idle Rage,
And, fruitless, mourn, indignant of their Cage,
From Thought to Thought, my fluttering Spirits rove,
Betray'd to Bondage, and, ah! lost to Love.
Why did the hasty Messenger return
With such Dispatch, for hapless me to mourn?
Curs'd be the Wretch that brought the Tidings here,
Whose blasting Tale, like Thunder, sought my Ear;
Curs'd be the Day, when I was doom'd to see
My Husband's Heart, estrang'd from widow'd me;
Curs'd be that Face, whose more persuasive Charms
Have lur'd the faithless Aza to her Arms.
Can'st thou presume, unpunish'd, to begin
Thy new Belief with such a flagrant Sin?
Can'st thou, with all thy Crimes upon thy Head,
Approach the new-sought Shrine without a Dread?

412

Can Christian Gods of perjur'd Vows approve?
Can Vows, once perjur'd, charm a Maid to love?
The specious Sophistry of Priests has drawn
Thy wavering Heart from me, and from the Sun:
Their barren Promises such Hopes have given
Of present Freedom, and a future Heaven;
If to their Notions, willing, you subscribe,
Thy Soul is dazzled with the mighty Bribe.
First, by these Methods, you abjure your Throne;
Can'st thou be free, when Royalty is gone?
Peruvia's Realms, where thou wert once ador'd,
Must yield Obedience to a foreign Lord:
Go, boast your Freedom, foolish Man! but, still,
You breathe dependant on your Tyrant's Will.
Can'st thou, unconscious of a Blush, behold
The Spaniard shine in thy once-subject Gold?
Or, from his Hands, contentedly, receive
The scanty Portion, which he deigns to give?
Then, for those Scenes that crafty Priests devise,
The least Reflection shames the thin Disguise:
Not thy Hereafter, but their own Applause
For thy Conversion, is the real Cause;
In thee, reform'd, their Excellence is shewn;
They grant thee Merit, to enhance their own.
Has gracious Providence its Power consign'd
To these pale Wretches, over Human-kind?
Who can believe, that Men, of mortal Mould,
Can grant, refuse, or barter Heaven for Gold?
These will absolve you from your sacred Vow,
That once you swore, but, oh! abjur'd it now;
They'll call it Virtue, Piety, to break
A Pagan Vow for their Religion's Sake:
Nor will suffice this Circumstance alone;
A Christian Wife confirms you all their own.

413

The warring Passions in my Breast confound
My weaken'd Reason, and my Brain turns round.
Hold, let me think, is 't not exceeding strange,
To see how prone we Mortals are to change?
A Christian, too; but let me not upbraid
The brighter Beauties of that happier Maid;
She from Perdition can relieve your Soul:
Yet, who'll deny but Perjury is foul?
Forgive me, Sir, the mighty Conflict's past;
And Rage subsides within my plaintive Breast.
Art thou inconstant? Are we doom'd to part?
Am I an outcast Alien from your Heart?
Am I, for ever, oh! heart-breaking Word!
For ever torn from my remorseless Lord?
Does not one Spark of Charity remain?
Shall I ne'er see that much-lov'd Face again?
Oh! could'st thou guess what agonizing Smart
Even now torments my love-afflicted Heart,
Thy generous Soul would sympathize with mine,
And all my Horrors be adopted thine.
How we have lov'd, the almighty Powers can prove,
Who once beheld us bless'd with mutual Love.
Dost thou remember on the sacred Floor,
When on your Knees eternal Love you swore?
My tender Heart an equal Ardour knew,
Receiv'd your Vows, and, ah! believ'd them true:
Did I not burn, with a sincerer Flame,
Than e'er can warm your favourite Spanish Dame?
Even now, my Mind, contemplating your Charms,
Doats on the Man, who fills another's Arms.
Of this no more: And, as my fatal Lot
Is cast to mourn, neglected and forgot,

414

I only ask the Tribute of a Tear,
When Death shall free me from my sad Despair:
When a desponding Wretch you chance to see,
Rous'd by that Scene, bestow a Thought on me.
May'st thou, most happy, with my Rival live
In all the Bliss propitious Heaven can give;
May both with Pleasure tread this mortal Stage,
And drop together in a calm old Age;
May blessed Angels waft your Souls to Bliss,
In some new World, on your Release from this;
Be all your Errors in the Grave forgiven;
And all your Virtues rise with you to Heaven.
Now hold, my Heart—Adieu! thou dear-lov'd Lord!
How my Hand trembles at that fatal Word!
Conceive the poignant Horror that I feel;
I faint!—I die!—Eternally farewell!
 

From Zilia, a Virgin educated in the Temple of the Sun, to Aza, Prince and High-Priest of Peru, at the Time of the Spanish Invasion.—The Substance of the first five Letters, and about Half of the sixth, was, for the most Part, taken from a French Novel. The Rest is entirely the Poet's own.

THE ABSENT LOVER's REQUEST.

Though with my Rival you in Person be,
Yet, let thy Thoughts be all employ'd on me:
Let me, alone, be all thy Soul's Delight;
Thy Wish, by Day; and all thy Dreams by Night:
Let all thy Thoughts, thy Hopes, thy Longings, move
With constant Tendence to the Youth you love;
And, let thy very Soul be only mine,
As all my Heart and Mind is only thine.

415

ON THE ORIGIN AND IMPROVEMENT OF KISSES.

A genuine RECIPE.

Venus, one Day, in sportive Mood,
A Compound made for Kisses;
And thus the charming Work pursu'd,
To crown all human Blisses.
Soft nectarous Showers, well prepar'd,
Her Graces first produce;
These, deeply ting'd, she more endear'd
With rich ambrosial Juice.
Sly Cupid, next, the Poets sing,
Bean-blossom Honey brought,
Which, at the Price of many a Sting,
The Urchin dearly bought.
The Violet, and the Summer Rose,
Their grateful Odours lend;
The Zephyrs, too, their Aids disclose,
And all their Fragrance blend.
A countless Treasure, then, she takes
Of Dimples, Smiles, and Loves;
Which, adding, her fam'd Girdle makes,
Or, where it finds, improves.

416

With this, her Recipe complete,
How bless'd who haply sips!
Venus, enhancing every Sweet,
Imbu'd Amira's Lips.
Both Cytherea, and her Son,
Now pleased, resign their Parts;
Amira sits on Beauty's Throne,
And Kisses are her Darts.
Shun, shun, fond Youth, the fatal Snare,
Nor tempt the latent Smart;
For buxome, blithe, and debonair,
She'll pierce you to the Heart.

SONNET. To Miss PLUMMER.

Plummer, whose growing Beauties every Hour,
Transcend the Promise of thy earlier Days,
Mark, with attentive Eye, yon opening Flower,
Nor slight the simple Lesson it conveys:
Bright to the Sun it spreads its vivid Hues,
And wide around its living Fragrance throws:
Scarce thy own Lips a sweeter Breath effuse,
Scarce thy own Cheek with purer Crimson glows.
Anon, sad Emblem! mark this Child of May,
The rude East nips it; or the Worms devour;
Borne by the Blast, or scatter'd by the Shower,
Its Odours languish, and its Tints decay:
Hence learn, dear Maid! that Beauty's but a Flower;
The gay, brief Triumph of the passing Hour.

417

COLESHILL: An ELEGY.

INSCRIBED TO T***** S******, Esq;
When, lonely, on far distant Climates cast,
The weary Pilgrim, resting from his Toil,
Chearless and pale, a World of Peril past,
Sees some known Relick from his native Soil;
Fix'd, bless'd Event! in pensive Joy he stands,
His Cares, awhile to soft Oblivion given;
He drops the Crosier from his trembling Hands;
He steals one Sigh from his lov'd Saint, and Heaven:
But, should, perchance, the sweet Memorial bear
Some Stamp of Worth peculiarly impress'd,
Should Friendship mark some kindred Traces there,
Then, then, what Ardors heave his panting Breast!

418

So, even now, my pensive Bosom glows,
As o'er thy sterling Lines I cast my Eye;
My Pains, suspended, sink into Repose,
And lo! once more, my slender Reed I try.
Though small my Skill to touch the various Lyre,
The Nine to me though Niggards of their Aid,
My humble Ivy dare to Fame aspire,
Beneath thy sacred Laurel's friendly Shade —
Well know'st thou Coleshill, Seat of calm Delight,
A swelling Mount, with bowery Dwellings crown'd,
How fair in Prospect breaks it on the Sight!
How rich the Eden of the Country round!
The Muse, still grateful, loves the sylvan Scene;
Nor is the Genius of the People rude;
Humanity, and Courage grace the Men;
The Nymphs all beauteous, sensible, and good.
Bleak was the Night, and sore my Mind oppress'd,
When hither, first, I sadly bent my Way,
My frozen Blood scarce crept in my torn Breast;
And all one trackless Waste drear Nature lay.

419

Fierce beats the Tempest on my houseless Head;
Dire pealing Thunders round my Temples roll;
Wide o'er the Vale the foaming Torrents spread;
And instant Fate horrific chills my Soul.
Bless'd be the Hand, which then, with timely Power,
Humanely strong, and generously brave,
Approach'd the Traveller in his needy Hour,
And snatch'd the Poet from a watery Grave!
Bless'd too the ancient hospitable Pair!
Thrice bless'd their Mansion, humble though it be!
Whose honest Tongues bade cordial Welcome there;
She Baucis kind, and good Philemon he.
In vain was press'd some Earnest of Regard,
The Meed of Virtue ne'er let Man forget;
They conscious Duty held supreme Reward.—
Blush, blush, ye Vultures of the sinking State!
Can Strangers thus be to a Stranger kind,
And every melting soft Sensation know?
And can the loveliest of her Sex be blind,
And not one Touch of generous Pity shew?
But such is oft the lovelorn Wanderer's Lot;
Such oft, sweet Bard, the Muse declares was thine;
Oft small Offences Years of Service blot;
And such, O Pain to think it! such was mine.
I saw a Maid of every Charm possess'd;
I thought her Soul, presuming Youth! my own:
Therania smil'd, then I indeed was bless'd;
Therania chang'd, and then I was undone.

420

Could Poets paint the hapless Lover's Smart,
But Half his Anguish could the Reader see,
The vital Drops that visit my sad Heart,
Would shew less dear than her sweet Smiles to me.
Her Soul was mine—she knew not to deceive—
And if she chang'd, mine was the Crime alone—
Must I my fatal Error ever grieve?
And must my Life, can Nothing less atone?
Ignoble Breasts, with vulgar Notions fraught,
To fell Resentment may their Souls resign;
Great Minds should know, by purer Maxims taught,
“To err, is human; to forgive, divine.”
I had a Friend too, next Therania, dear;
So much belov'd, who could ungrateful be?
But, Bliss, we are told, comes always insincere,
In Love, in Friendship, so it proves to me.
Of Love, of Friend, of Health, of all bereft!
Bereft of all! O, 'tis too much to bear!
No Gleam of Hope! no Ray of Comfort left!
Death, Death alone can med'cine my Despair.
The Conflict's past!—no longer I complain,
No longer I my wayward Fate deplore;
Let but a few short Moments intervene—
The dull, insipid Dream of Life is o'er.
 

Written at the Swan in Coleshill, on the Way to London, on seeing some Passages in a News-Paper, extracted from a Poetical Epistle, lately published by the Gentleman to whom it is addressed, whose Assistance and Friendship the Author shall ever consider amongst the happiest Incidents of his Life.

The Writer was, at this Time, in a very ill State of Health.

Alluding to several beautiful Pieces of that Gentleman's, which enrich this Publication.

The Author owes this Tribute of Acknowlegement, for the benevolent Assistance he received from some of the Inhabitants of Coleshill, when, in the Month of December, a few Years ago, he was in imminent Danger of being drowned near that Place; a humane Waggener providentially came to his Relief, and saved him; as above described.


421

THE FAREWELL: A PASTORAL BALLAD.

In Imitation of SHENSTONE.

O Mallow, dear Mallow, adieu!
How oft have I walk'd by thy Spring,
While the Trees were yet dropping with Dew,
Ere the Lark his shrill Matin did sing!
How often at Noon have I stray'd,
By the Streamlet that winds through thy Vale!
How oft, at still Eve, on thy Mead,
The soft Breeze have I joy'd to inhale!
O'er thy green Hills high-bosom'd in Wood,
O'er thy sweetly diversified Ground,
How oft, as my Walk I pursued,
Have I gaz'd in wild Transport around!
Invoking the Powers that preside
O'er the Stream, o'er the Grove, or the Hill,
With their Presence my Fancy to guide,
With their Fire my rapt Bosom to fill.

422

On a Rock hanging over the Flood
Through the wild Glen meandering slow,
Half-frighted, how oft have I stood
To pore on the Mirror below!
To see in the Breast of the Wave
The Glen, and the Rock, and the Sky,
How bright the Reflection it gave!
How pleas'd,—how delighted was I!
At the Foot of an Elm, or a Lime,
How oft have I stretch'd me along,
Enchanted with Collins's Rhyme,
Or Akenside's Rapture of Song!
How oft too, as Accident led
Through the Church-yard Path's fear-stirring Ground,
Busy Fancy has call'd up the Dead
To glide in dread Vision around!
These sweet Walks, this soft Quiet, and all
Those blameless, those rational Joys,
Must I quit for the Buzz of the Hall,
For Dissonance, Wrangling, and Noise;
For the City's dull uniform Scene,
Where Jobbing, and Party, and Strife,
Dissipation, and Languor, and Pain,
Fill up the whole Circle of Life.
“The Language, which flows from the Heart,”
In Susan, in Mary, and Bess,
How exchang'd for the Polish of Art,
Smooth Nonsense, and empty Address!
The Painting, which Nature bestows
On the Village-maid's innocent Cheek,
'Mid the Birth-night's fantastical Rows
How lost were the Labour to seek!

423

Yet oft shall fond Memory anew
Present each lov'd Scene to my Eye,
And with painful Enjoyment review
The Delights—that too hastily fly:
Through all the sweet Landscape around,
Not a Stream, not a Rock, or a Tree,
Not a Field-flower, nor Shrub, shall be found
Unmark'd, or unhonour'd by me.
And ye, my Companions so dear,—
What Words my deep Anguish can tell?—
Receive for a Witness this Tear
How it pains me to bid you farewell!
Ye, too—for I read in your Eyes—
The Emotions, that swell at your Heart
Ye have not yet learned to disguise—
“Ye are sorry to see me depart.”
Sweet Seat of Contentment and Ease,
Where Rest her still Sabbath may keep;
Where all may live just as they please,
Eat, drink, read, laugh, saunter, or sleep:
The next Spring may new-brighten thy Scene,
And thy Leaves, and thy Blossoms restore—
But—bring the lov'd Circle again,
Or the Landscape will charm me no more.
Sweet Commerce of unison Minds!—
A Treasure how rarely possest!
How seldom through Life the Heart finds.
This Joy, that gives Worth to the Rest!—
But—hark!—'tis the Chaise at the Door—
My Mare is already in View—
Alas!—I have Time for no more—
O Mallow, dear Mallow, adieu!

424

TO MR. ***********: On reading some of his POEMS.

By a YOUNG LADY.

A flow of Stile, by native Genius taught,
Unstudy'd Ease, improving every Thought,
Sweetness, and Grace, and Energy divine,
And brilliant Fancy, tune each charming Line!
Apollo's Favourite! destin'd from thy Birth
His rightful Heir, his Substitute on Earth;
Belov'd of all the bright Parnassian Choir,
Thine all their Skill, thine their celestial Fire;
Thine each engaging, each effectual Art,
To inform the Judgement, and correct the Heart—
Whether you paint the cool embowering Shade,
The black-brow'd Mountain, or the steep Cascade,
The murmuring Stream, that in Meanders glides,
The whirling Tempest, or rough surging Tides;
Whether, with Taste peculiar and refin'd,
You give the Portrait of the heaven-born Mind;
Or, bless'd with Nature's choicest Pencil, trace
Your kind Ideas of exterior Grace,
The Cause of Virtue still is your Concern:
We hear with Profit, and with Pleasure learn;
Learn what to shun, and wisely what pursue;
Even Blame, enforc'd, comes reconcil'd from you;
Fond to imbibe what friendly you inspire,
We praise, we love we honour, we admire.

425

VERSES On seeing a married Lady in a Window.

Inscribed to the Honourable MRS. KNOX.
Whilst on forbidden Fruit I gaze,
And look my Heart away;
Behold my Star of Venus blaze,
And rise upon the Day!
Fair as the purple blushing Hours,
That paint the Morning's Eye;
Her Cheek like Evening after showers,
That flush the western Sky.
I send a sigh at every Glance,
And drop a softer Tear:
Hard Fate, no farther to advance,
And yet to be so near.
So Moses, from fair Pisgah's Height,
The Land of Canaan ey'd,
Survey'd the Region of Delight,
He saw, bow'd down, and dy'd.

426

LOMNANA.

I. VENUS on EARTH.

What is Beauty!—'Tis a Flower,
Blown and blasted in an Hour:
'Tis a Meteor passing bright,
Soon, alas! to set in Night:
Mixing with surrounding Shades,
Lovely Vision, how it fades!—
When, bursting from a golden Cloud,
Thus a Voice as Thunder loud—
False to what Earth and Heaven adore,
Beauty, rash Youth, is something more;
Fairest Daughter of the Skies,
She rules the Great, the Brave, the Wise:
Lo! where, once stain'd with native Blood!
Old Shannon rolls his monarch Flood,
In Nature's richest colouring drest,
She shines, a Deity confest,
Bright as she sprung from Ocean's Breast!
Mark, where her careless Steps she bends,
The light-wing'd Train of Joy attends,

427

The Loves their ready Homage pay,
The Smiles and Graces round her play!
Go—behold the radiant Form,
Lovely, animated, warm!
Yet, lest the pure ethereal Light,
Should prove too strong for human Sight,
Pleas'd she conceals her heavenly Birth,
And Bloomfield is her Name on Earth.

II. A DIALOGUE.

A

My eager Eyes have sought in vain,
Around to find the lovely Pair—
Good Night, my Friend, I'll Home again—
The Sister-Graces are not there.

B

Yet, hold—to Grady turn your Eyes,
The Cause no longer you'll enquire:—
When the bright Sun illumes the Skies,
The Stars withdraw their waning Fire,
 

The Miss Bloomfields.

At the Assembly Room, Limerick.

Miss Grady.

III. The VINDICATION.

While Poetry, ill-natur'd Maid,
Two lovely Sisters would degrade:
Philosophy, from Fields of Air
Descends, to vindicate the Fair;

428

She can distinguish from afar,
And sees a Sun in every Star,
Suns more resplendent and more gay,
Than that, which gladdens Earth with Day;
Diffusing o'er the Heavens a Light,
Which Distance lessens to the Sight;
But some, Opinion leads astray,
Their weaker Opticks they betray;
Who know not justly how to prize,
Beauty beyond their View that lies;
They wake, soon as the Sun is near,
And Sleep, when brighter Suns appear.
 

The Miss Bloomfields.

IV. The ENQUIRY.

Fair Sun!—bright Stars!—and rival Queens of Love!
Angels on Earth, and Goddesses above!
Who deign at Times to quit your native Skies,
And visit Mortals in this sweet Disguise!
How lovely each! but who'll remove the Doubt;
Or dare the Fairest singly to point out?
Beware rash Poet! how thou giv'st the Prize,
And let the Fate of Paris make thee wise:
A ten Years Siege, a thousand Heroes slain,
Troy razed, and Venus shedding Tears in vain.
But, Gods! where is she?—

429

V. The ANSWER.

Nunc Deus intersit! Nunc dignus vindice nodus!

When Pallas, and the Queen of Love,
With Jove's imperial Consort strove,
Each proudly claiming as her Due,
The golden Fruit which Discord threw;
They sought, descending from the Skies,
A Mortal to adjudge the Prize.
Three, fairer far, in modern Days,
Demand our Wonder, and our Praise;
But which of the angelick Forms,
With keenest Fire the Bosom warms;
Which first to place, where all excell,
Would ask a Deity to tell.
 

Miss Grady, and the two Bloomfields.

VI. The WISH.

Tho' the Assertion be odd,
'Tis a Task which a God
Could only discharge on Condition,
That each Fair should submit
(As of old they thought fit)
To a perfect and full Exhibition.

430

But, jesting apart,
Let each from his Heart
Thank the Powers which such Beauty have shew'd us:
And, whom either shall bless,
Shall, enraptur'd, confess,
Dignus, en! Deo vindice nodus.
These Knots, O that I
Were the God to untie!—
Yet, in Life, what Disasters await us!
Perhaps, entre nous,
In a Fortnight, or two,
Each Nodus might prove an Hiatus.

VII. A fourth CANDIDATE.

Thanks to our Stars, our Poets, grown more wise,
Seem not so forward to adjudge the Prize;—
And, Grady now, and Bloomfield in our Days,
Shine out with equal, tho' with rival Praise.
But still the Muse seems faithful to her Task:
The Shannon murmurs, and his Naiads ask,
Are then our native Bards so partial grown,
To abandon us, for Beauties “not their own?”
Where parent Shannon rolls his kingly Tide.
Bathing fam'd Lomna's Walls on either Side,
The Graces fled, Love's Empire fall'n, no more,
“A native Beauty treads this barren Shore?”

431

Eliza spoke: Grief still enhanc'd her Charms,
When the fond Shannon press'd her to his Arms;
And, wiping from her Cheek the sparkling Tear,
My Child, he says, my darling Nymph, forbear;
High as the Shannon lifts his sovereign Head,
Far as his Name, and sounding Billows spread,
Wide as the Ocean bathes the Hibernian Coast,
Eliza fair is Shannon's reigning Toast.
 

Limerick.

VIII. The CHARM.

To Mrs. ******
Dear Object of my tenderest Care,
Where all my Hopes and Wishes meet,
For whom my Heart shall burn sincere,
'Till its true Pulse forget to beat;
By Nature bless'd with every Grace
Of Power, the enamour'd Soul to chain;
You task your Servant's Skill to trace
The Means your Empire to retain:
O'er all Reserve your Wish prevails—
Then, what Truth speaks, attentive hear,
Tho' far unlike the soothing Tales,
Which Flattery pours in Beauty's Ear.
It is not Beauty's brightest Blaze
Can long support the tender Flame;
Too soon the meteor Fire decays,
And Folly mourns her vanish'd Dream.

432

Nor lively Satire's pointed Dart,
Can e'er attain the wish'd-for End;
Too deep her Poison wounds the Heart,
To hold the Lover, or the Friend.
Nor light Coquetry's practis'd Airs,
That, flying, seeks to be pursued;
Nor starch Reserve's affected Fears,
That mask the Wishes of the Prude,
Nor Learning's ostentatious Pride;
Nor solemn Wisdom's clouded Brow;
Nor Birth, nor Wealth's unfailing Tide,
Can bind secure the Lover's Vow.
“Where lies the Magic, then, (you cry)
“Dear Celadon, instruct me where?”
Your own unconscious Bosom try—
The secret Charm is written there.
The Chearfulness, whose steady Ray
On every Object throws a Grace;
The Temper like a Summer Sea,
When not a Zephyr curls its Face;
The modest, unassuming Sense;
The gentle Manners; native Ease;
The Wit, that never gives Offence;
The unaffected Wish to please.
These, these shall keep alive Desire,
Even in the Winter of Fourscore,
When Grady's Eyes shall lose their Fire,
And Tuthill's Beauty charm no more.

433

Hence learn the Charm, ye Fair and Gay,
That most imports or Maid or Wife:—
The rest may triumph for a Day,
The Wish to please, will please for Life.
 

Mrs. Tuthill.

The LINNET and GOLDFINCH.

Address'd to JAMES DIGGES LATOUCHE, Esq.
That Man is made by Nature free,
The Tyrant grants, and Slaves agree;
Yet few assert the mighty Claim,
Man, born in Glory, lives in Shame;
For most, like Isaac's hasty Boy,
Exchange their Blessing for a Toy,
To fancy'd Wants their Birth-right give,
And living, lose the Cause to live.
The Light of Reason scarce we claim,
When Custom clouds the infant Beam:
Man's Tutor is the general Voice,
And leaves no Room to Reason's Choice;
For each Opinion we embrace,
Is Accident of Time and Place.
Next Passion rules with scepter'd Sway,
And each, by turns, commands its Day;
Like Phaeton, they drive the Team,
And waste the World of Man in Flame:

434

Hope's gay Elysium here displays
Visions of Joy, and Shades of Ease;
There Grief casts down her tear-worn Eyes,
Strikes her sad Breast, and swells with Sighs;
Here Fame with generous Ardour fills,
There Pleasure, as she kisses, kills:
Here burns Revenge, there Anger glows,
Here Pity weeps for others Woes,
And Love, that wins o'er every Breast,
Appears in Liveries of the Rest.
Thus his own Tyrant Man first reigns,
And fits himself for foreign Chains.
Is there a Clime, where social Life
Feels not the Wounds of public Strife?
The first Attack by Sap's begun,
A Breach once made, our Rights are won;
The Men awake, they ope their Eyes,
And know the Angel, as she flies;
For Freedom, as for Friends, we moan;
'Till lost, their Worth is rarely known.
Order and Peace, harmonious Train,
Attends Subordination's Chain,
Quiet and Strength we trace from this,
And form the Scale of Common Bliss;
Yet Links, which Place and Honours crown,
Crush their inferior Brethren down;
For Power, like some unfriendly Shade,
Kills the weak Plant, that courts its Aid.
Amidst these Ills, weak groveling Man
Boasts himself Lord of Nature's Plan,
He boasts of Reason's heavenly Light,
He boasts—and gives up Reason's Right.

435

The Spendthrift vaunts in idle Prate
The Rent-roll of his lost Estate,
With abject Pride in Bondage swells,
And plays his Chains, as Beasts their Bells.
But these are Morals long since stale,
And serve—to introduce a Tale.
A Goldfinch, taken in the Snare,
Relenting Fate made Chloe's Care;
His streaky Plumes, his native Lays,
Engag'd her Love, and Love her Praise.
Around him Blooms of various Hues
Lavish'd the Fragrance of their Dues;
The chrystal Stream's transparent Face
Received new Brightness from his Vase;
What Pomp could give, his Chloe gave;
Thus oft a Palace holds a Slave.
But now the sickly Summer burns,
The River-Gods forsake their Urns;
The languid Flowerets lose their Paint;
And Parent Nature seems to faint.
Then Chloe sought the panting Breeze,
Where mix the Boughs of crowding Trees,
Where the fork'd Beam in vain assails,
And Freshness breathes in lively Gales;
Hither the Nymph her Charge convey'd,
To taste the cool refreshing Shade;
Extatic Pleasure swells his Veins,
He pours to Heaven his loudest Strains,
While sportive Echoes wake around,
And undulate a kindred Sound.

436

On some near Branch a Linnet stood,
A Warbler of the neighbouring Wood,
Who ne'er debas'd his woodland Song
To mix with Flattery's venal Throng;
No lawless Whim could bound his Flight,
He own'd no Rule, but that of Right.
Now reach'd his Ear the tuneful Sound,
That joy'd the woody Scenes around;
Ravish'd he hears, then speeds his Wing
To find this favourite Son of Spring:
Not long he soar'd in curious Flight,
Before the Goldfinch met his Sight;
First moves his Pity, then his Rage,
He sees a Brother, sees a Cage;
Silent some Time he trod the Spray,
At length thus burst his generous Lay.
Say Thou, whose melting Notes proclaim
At once thy Praises, and thy Shame,
While round thee broods the Captive's Woe,
Should the loud Hymns of Rapture flow?
Say, can'st thou drag the servile Chain,
And feel no Sting of mental Pain?
From thee the generous Ardour's fled,
Each inborn Virtue hangs her Head;
Know this, that Freedom is Life's Breath,
Who lives a Slave, he lives a Death.
See! how unbounded I can rove,
From Hill to Plain, from Field to Grove;
For me the Floweret shoots in Bloom,
Varies its Hues, and breathes Perfume;

437

For me thro' Vales the Rivulets stray,
And curl their Streams in wanton Play;
The Tree for me its Boughs displays,
A welcome Screen from mid-day blaze;
And Freedom tunes my grateful Song,
She grants me all—but Power of Wrong.
Honour and Love, my Hours employ,
That spurs to Danger, this to Joy,
As Justice leads, and Reason guides,
The different Call my Life divides:
But Tyrant's Lusts thy Joys controul,
Fetter thy Reason, damp thy Soul;
Unknown to thee Earth's Beauties pass,
The golden Corn, the Carpet Grass;
Thy Song ne'er banish'd gloomy Night,
Nor thank'd the Sun for warming Light;
On thee thy Country calls in vain,
A Slave declines the embattled Plain,
His Cloud of Woe is on him burst,
Fates, do your Spight: he knows the worst.
Oh! rouze to Virtue, hear my Call,
Live free, or with thy Freedom fall;
Awake thy Soul, thy Shackles spurn,
To Liberty, or Dust, return.
Too weak thy Plea, the Goldfinch cries,
False, as thy Joys in freer Skies;
No outward Forms of Life can grace
Its varied Scenes with real Peace,
The softest Tints of Bliss, we find,
Are pencil'd by the easy Mind;
Then cease to call me Child of Woe,
For Self-persuasion answers, No.

438

In Trains I see around thy Head,
What daily Horror Dangers spread;
For thee the patient Fowlers set
The viscous Branch, the meshy Net;
Thy Young each wandering Boy invades,
And mocks the Fence of thorny Shades,
Thy tender Joys he makes his Prize,
Nor heeds thy hovering Wings and Cries.
When Winter sends her Storms around,
And Rains and Frosts deform the Ground,
How chill'd each Vein! how drips each Plume!
While Famine threats her lingering Doom:
But I defy the driving Snows;
Around me Spring eternal blows;
In vain the Storm attempts my Rest,
Secure I sleep in Chloe's Breast,
Nestling in Sweets I there can lie,
Where thousands, thousands wish to die.
Me should the Voice of Freedom move,
Freedom, that boasted Power to rove?
Inconstant Minds inclined to range,
On this Pretence indulge in Change,
Vary their Course, as Fancy strays,
And whirl, like Chaff, in eddy Maze.
What shall I quit my easy Chain,
And forfeit Chloe's Smiles for Pain?
Deluder, hence, I see your Snare,
And hate you Libertines of Air.
Too deep, alas! has Pleasure's Bowl,
Reply'd the Linnet, drench'd thy Soul;

439

Thy Thoughts in languid Motions creep,
And give each Sense to lazy Sleep,
While, Virtue, Country, and Renown
Lie buried in luxurious Down.
Say, hast thou e'er revolv'd in Mind
The Ends, peculiar to thy Kind?
Why these thy Wings? Are these to lie
Unfurl'd, and Strangers to the Sky?
Should these endure the Pain of Wounds,
And feel the Dungeon's Iron Bounds?
Better hadst thou have crawl'd thy way,
A blind Inhabitant of Clay.
Why this thy Voice? To wake the Wood,
And spur thy Kind to Public Good;
Not tun'd to chaunt a Tyrant's Praise,
And sooth his pamper'd Hours to Ease.
For Shame! Does Pain alarm thy Breast?
Pain gives to Life a pleasing Zest;
For endless Scenes of constant Joy,
Fill the lull'd Soul, and filling, cloy.
And when fair Liberty's the Prize,
The Hero Pain or Death defies.
No fickle Passion Freedom gives,
Where Freedom reigns, there Reason lives,
She scorns wild Fancy's clamorous Din,
And owns the living Law within;
Freedom and Conscience are the same,
And are distinguish'd but by Name:
Why then—but now the Captive's Fair
In Haste resum'd her little Care,
The Slave respectful Homage paid,
And with his Chirrup hail'd the Maid;

440

The Linnet breath'd a pitying Sigh,
Chid with a Look, then wing'd the Sky.
Thus, studious of the Public Weal,
The Patriot burns with honest Zeal,
His honey'd Truths awake the Throng,
And sweet Persuasion gilds his Tongue:
Who but approves the manly Cause?
Glory invites—but Danger awes.
O Thou, to whom the Muse would pay
The Offering of a friendly Lay,
Receive that Praise thy Country owes,
That Praise, which from thy Virtue flows;
For, while employ'd in Freedom's Cause,
Success may fail thee, not Applause.
When sculptur'd Brass shall mix with Dust,
And mouldering falls the laurell'd Bust,
When grateful Poets' Toils shall fail,
Shrouded in dark Oblivion's Veil,
Borne on the Wings of Time, thy Name
Unhurt shall soar, and gather Fame:
Thy Patriot worth above all Art,
Shall live, engraven on the Heart.
 

In the Year 1749, during the Administration of William, Earl of Harrington, Mr. Latouche, to whom this little Piece is address'd, offered himself, in Conjunction with Dr. Lucas, Candidate for the City of Dublin, and was accordingly duly elected, by a considerable Majority of the Citizens, to represent them in Parliament. But a Party soon after prevailing against him in the House, he was deprived of his Seat. The Doctor could not stand the Election; he had made himself obnoxious to Government by his Writings, which was the ostensible Cause of his Banishment some Time before.


441

The REMONSTRANCE.

To three young Ladies, who declared themselves dying, and insisted upon some Verses to their Memory.
For God's Sake, dear Ladies, how can you impose
A Task of this Nature on me?
'Tis clear, past a Doubt, and what every one knows,
I hold not the Muses in Fee.
I have courted them sometimes, 'tis true, but in vain,
They ne'er would indulge my Request;
They mock'd my Addresses; derided my Pain;
And turn'd all my Prayers to a Jest.
The Subject too, truly! Supposing you dead,
An Elegy I must indite!
The Town would all swear, I was turn'd in my Head;
The Town, at least, once would be right.
But grant me dispos'd with your Wish to agree,
I deal not in Fiction nor Art;
How then should I furnish Description for three,
Where each is supreme in Desert?
Of Goddesses, Graces, and many such more
Trite Fancies, 'twere easy to speak;
And Roses, and Lillies, and Dimples, good Store,
And Cupids bedecking each Cheek.

442

The Sex, tho' I stripp'd, as most Sonneteers do,
And all in your Persons combin'd;
Tho' I, and some others, might feel it full true,
Yet you would continue still blind.
Admit now, sweet Nancy's Perfections I sung,
What more could for Fanny be writ?
And Jenny, thy Praises must die on my Tongue,
Unless I could borrow thy Wit.
'Mongst Brothers, and Beauties, Affection is rare,
All Ages and Nations attest;
But Concord and Friendship, this let me declare,
Here mutually glow in each Breast.
Long, blessing and bless'd then, O! may you survive
Still greater Enjoyments to prove;
New Pleasures from yours, my fond Heart shall derive,
Then take me a Fourth in your Love.
 

Miss Ann Power Trench.

Miss Nugent.

Miss Power Trench.

EPIGRAM. To a young Lady blowing a Turf Fire with her Petticoat.

Cease, cease, Amira, peerless Maid!
Though we delighted gaze,
While artless you excite the Flame,
We perish in the Blaze.

443

Haply you too provoke your Harm,
Forgive the bold Remark,
Your Petticoat may fan the Fire,
But, O! beware a Spark.

OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE To the Tragedy of Cato, perform'd by young Gentlemen.

The World's a Stage,” as you'll in Shakespeare read,
But few, I have heard, on this or that succeed;
And, as in Manhood, so it holds at School,
Some play the Sage, and Numbers play the Fool—
But which is this the Child's or Parent's Fault?
Why neither, Truth to speak, act as they ought—
At Random sent—but at the least Expence!
We babble Lilly, spight of common Sense;
Wild Gantlopes, then, from School to School we run,
Smattering from Branch to Branch—digesting none—
And Pedants quit what Ignorance begun.
But grant, in Science, one in ten advances,
'Tis not from Conduct—all the Effect of Chance is.
By Instinct led, or crude Advices blinded,
Neither Time, nor Place, nor Circumstance, is minded;
Experience, Reason, Justice, urge in vain,
Custom prevails, and Prejudices reign.

444

Hence, many a Swift, neglected, scours a Trench,
While Plowmen preach, and Dunces load the Bench.
Thus, here, observe, a Case in Point comes pat in,
Great Newton's Self was a mere Dolt at Latin;
And Pit, with all his Powers, was scarcely able
To learn, we are told, his Numeration Table.
By philologic Doctrine, strange and new,
Now all must shine, Newtons and Chathams too,
And Popes and Virgils—should we fail to shew,
—Hush!—'tis the Master's Fault; not Ours, you know.
We cannot err—dear Mothers, a'n't it true?
We are all Perfection, or all Blindness you:
Yet, were you in his Place, 'twould little please ye,
We'd try your Patience, faith! we'd set you crazy—
Young Sulky by his Tutor once reprov'd,
Swell'd with Revenge, and vow'd he'd be remov'd;
And lo! a Miracle! to make it good,
A Bottle of red Ink was turn'd to Blood!
He smear'd his Shirt, and Abigail, his Friend,
Alarm'd Mamma! and so he gain'd his End;
And every Tea Table throughout the Nation
Branded the Tyrant's Name, and tore his Reputation!
But why all this? methinks I hear you say,
And how connected with a private Play?
Nay, look not grave! indeed I mean no Satire,
I only “hold the Mirror up to Nature.”
'Tis said, from Babes and Sucklings you may learn;
Then pray attend—'tis Matter of Concern—
We plead our Years too—I am, Sirs, only seven,
Our Marcia's nine, her Father scarce eleven:
But with great Cato's Sentiments impress'd,
Honour and filial Reverence fill each Breast.

445

Lead you the Way, throw Prejudice aside,
Let Candour judge, and cool Discretion guide;
Shew, by Example, more than Precept can,
What forms the great, the virtuous happy Man;
Fir'd with the View, and panting after Fame,
Heirs to your Love, we'll well approve our Claim,
“And emulate the Greek and Roman Name.”
 

    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  • Cato, Master Whyte.
  • Lucius, Master George Carleton.
  • Sempronius, Master John Bird.
  • Juba, Master Anthony Gore.
  • Syphax, Master Marnell.
  • Marcus, Master William Holmes.
  • Portius, Master Lynam.
  • Decius, Master William Irvine.
  • Marcia, Master Nugent.
  • Lucia, Master Gibson.
  • The Prologue, Master Richard Holmes.

Dancing between the Acts, by Master M'Neil; and Singing by Master Bird.

This Play was twice performed by the young Gentlemen of the English Grammar-School, as above, first at the little Theatre in Capel-street, December 24, 1771, with the Addition of an Ode to Peace, written by a very young Lady of Quality, Pupil to Mr. Whyte, spoken by Master Lynam; and afterwards at the particular Desire of the Audience, their Parents, and Friends, at the Theatre-Royal, Crow-street, January 2, 1772, for the Relief of the Debtors confined in the several Marshalseas, with the Addition of Dryden's Alexander's Feast, by Master Whyte. The Marquis of Kildare, the Earl of Bellamont, and Lord Dunluce, were nominated, and condescended to be Trustees to the Charity. The Receipts, 162l. 5s. 8d. were duly accounted for, and paid into their Hands, which was properly disposed of, and distributed accordingly.

See Page 65, of this Work.


446

AN ELEGY On the Death of two Goldfinches, given to the Writer by the Right Honourable Lady Mary Leslie, on her leaving Ireland.

Adieu! O ye Favourites, so dear!
Ye pretty sweet Warblers, adieu!
No more your glad Notes shall I hear,
No more meet your Welcomes so true;
No more on my Shoulder and Head,
Free perching, my Tea shall ye sip;
No more shall ye eye me for Bread,
And snatch, with your Bills, from my Lip.
Dull Censors, ye hold it in Scorn,
From such Motives Distress should appear:
Yet, I lov'd them, and cannot but mourn;
They are dead, and I must drop a Tear.
Whoe'er shall such Feelings despise,
May act the more stoical Part,
May vaunt himself happy and wise,
But let him not boast of his Heart.
Affection with Virtue is join'd,
It dwells with the Brave and the Free,
It warms, and ennobles the Mind,
Then, is it a Weakness in me?

447

If Gratitude Weakness implies,
That Weakness for ever be mine—
And the Gift for the Giver I prize;
They, lovely Maria, were thine.
At Newland, where often I stray'd,
And often you tripp'd by my Side,
One Evening, slow winding the Glade,
In a Hawthorn the Nestlings were spy'd;
Soft Transport quick glanc'd from your Eye,
Sweet Innocence lisp'd on your Tongue;
They chirrup'd—you wish'd, with a Sigh,
To protect both the Nest and the Young.
Full feather'd, they Home were convey'd—
For Honour and Freedom well known,
With a Leslie nought had they to dread,
And their Fears were soon over and gone.
At large, in your Chamber, they flew—
O! there, that 'till now they might rove!—
And fed, and attended by you,
Forgot both the Fields and the Grove.
But the Season of Sorrow drew nigh—
Far hence must their Mistress depart:
Remembrance, even now, fills my Eye,
For Maria was dear to my Heart.
And she kiss'd her poor Favourites, and cry'd,
And she begg'd, to her Birds I'd be kind;
And she much in my Care did confide,
And her Words ever liv'd in my Mind.

448

One Morn, of my Charley bereft,
What else could from Hirelings ensue?
The Window wide open was left,
And away the dear Libertine flew.
All the Day, though 'tis strange to relate,
All the Day did he wantonly roam;
But at Eve the soft Notes of his Mate,
Recall'd the bold Fugitive Home.
For Years, the sole Joy of her Heart,
Thence faithful he sung by her Side;
And at her, when cold Death flung his Dart,
He languish'd; he sicken'd; he died.
Adieu! ye Companions, so dear!
Ye pretty sweet Warblers, adieu!
No more your glad Notes shall I hear!
How rare meet Affection so true!
 

Now Lady Millsington.

The Earl of Rothes's Summer Residence, near Dublin.

The Writer was Preceptor to her Ladyship.

One of the Goldfinches so called, a Family Name.

SONG. By a young LADY.

Sure when my gentle Swain was born,
Nature his Person to adorn,
Each manly Grace assign'd;
And, willing to complete the Whole,
Into his Bosom breathed a Soul,
The best of human Kind.

449

His Heart delights in doing Good,
Nor would he injure, if he cou'd,
The basest of his Foes;
But fly with Pleasure to the Wretch,
And Fortune's Aid, unsparing fetch,
To mitigate his Woes.
No Tongue can tell, no Pen express,
The thrilling Joys, the fond Excess,
That in my Bosom reigns,
When sighing at my Feet, he cries,
‘Without thy Love, thy Damon dies,
‘In Pity, ease his Pains.’
Dear Youth, may Heaven preserve thy Life,
And grant thee, to thy Wish, a Wife,
Such as thy Merits claim!
May she with grateful Care attend
Her Husband, Lover, and her Friend,
And feel a mutual Flame!

A HYMN. By the same; a little before her Death, October 5, 1763.

Tho' little else thy Servant knows,
But Sorrow, Care, and Pain;
On thee, my Saviour, I repose,
Nor of my Lot complain.

450

Thy Mercies, in my Woes, I prove;
Thy Justice I confess;
Thy Kindness, and paternal Love,
In thy Corrections bless.
Now almost spent, an early Prey,
All human Aid I see
Is vain; yet cast me not away,
Lord! still I have Hope in thee.
O may I, once more, Comfort find,
(Nor shall my Soul despair)
In Death; submitting all resign'd,
I ask no Favour here.
Grant me, O Lord! a safe Retreat,
In that important Hour,
World without End to celebrate,
Thy Glory and thy Power.

EPITAPH On Miss ****, Pancras Church-Yard.

Go, spotless Honour, and unsullied Truth;
Go, smiling Innocence, and blooming Youth;
Go, winning Wit, that never gave Offence;
Go, female Sweetness, join'd to manly Sense;

451

Go, soft Humanity, that bless'd the Poor;
Go, saint-ey'd Patience, from Affliction's Door;
Go, Modesty, that never wore a Frown;
Go, Virtue, and receive thy heavenly Crown.
Not from a Stranger came this heart-felt Verse,
The Friend inscribes thy Tomb, whose Tears bedew'd thy Hearse.

HYMN.

[Parent of Good! O God supreme!]

Parent of Good! O God supreme!
The helpless Orphan's Friend!
Thy gracious Aid the Wretched claim,
To thee their Cries ascend:
With tender Pity warm each Heart,
With Charity divine;
And boundless Bliss to those impart,
Whose Works resemble Thine.
When, cloath'd with Terrors, God shall rise,
To scourge a Nation's Pride;
When, wing'd with Death, his Lightning flies,
And spreads Destruction wide;
When Earthquakes burst the trembling Sphere,
And Nature's Face deform;
Your pious Alms shall guard you there,
And shield you from the Storm.

452

Since God, with unexampled Care,
Bestows what you possess,
'Tis Yours, the Gifts of Heaven to share,
And whilst He blesses, bless.
Think, while you bid the fruitful Stream
Of Christian Bounty flow,
That Angels shall, in Heaven, proclaim
Each Mercy shewn below.
 

This Hymn was sung by the Children of St. Peter's Parish, Dublin, before a Charity Sermon preached by the Rev. John Lawson, D. D. S. F. T. C. D. shortly after the Earthquake at Lisbon.


453

A SONG.

[The Smiles of Favour, o'er thy Cheeks, that stray]

Inscribed to Miss KNOX.
The Smiles of Favour, o'er thy Cheeks, that stray;
Thy winning Tones that thrill thro' all my Breast;
The Glances, from thine Eyes, that play;
Thy Hand soft yielding to be press'd,
Have flatter'd oft' my Fire:
Have told me thou wert all mine own;
And well form'd Hopes, that I alone
Could to thy Heart aspire.
But, ah! those melting Harbingers of Love,
Those soft Seducers of the impassion'd Heart,
No more my Pride and Pleasure prove,
But Grief, and deep Distress impart;
No more delight, but wound:
Since what I thought to me confin'd,
I see, by Turns free as the Wind,
Diffus'd on all around.

454

Kind, cruel Maid! whose Mercies bid despair;
Whose Softness, Kindness, Goodness, are our Bane;
Whose open Smiles breed clouded Care;
Whose general Favour, general Pain;
Oh! favour one alone.
So one at least shall happy be;
And since I sigh for only thee,
Make me that happy one.

PREPOSSESSION: A SONG.

Inscribed to Miss CLEMENTS.
Before I saw that pleasing Frame,
Or heard that joy-diffusing Tongue,
Won by the lavish Voice of Fame,
Enraptur'd on thy Name I hung.
While Fancy wander'd, unrestrain'd,
And all my fond Imagination
The lov'd Idea entertain'd,
I thought it was but Prepossession.
But when thy Presence bless'd my View,
And every Charm, before ideal;
The sprightly Eye; the florid Hue;
The manly Sense, alas! prov'd real:

455

While, struck by Virtue's awful Ray,
I gaz'd with placid Admiration;
I felt that Reason bore the Sway;
Nor longer thought it Prepossession.
Lo! now thine Image melts my Soul,
And o'er my Breast unrivall'd reigns;
I look—my Thoughts in Tumult roll;
I touch—and Transport fires my Veins.
Now, fluttering like the entangled Dove,
My Heart invites the fierce Sensation;
O wretched Fate! 'tis surely Love;
Not Reason this, nor Prepossession.

MARIA.

Inscribed to Miss RUTTLEDGE.
Since each admiring Swain is seen,
Struck with Flavilla's Air and Mein;
And the discerning Few are smit
With Stella's Virtue, Judgement, Wit:
With what Delight, with what surprize,
Must they behold Maria's Eyes;
And see with Ravishment, combin'd.
So fair a Face, so pure a Mind.

456

O what a Train of springing Joys!
From such Perfection must arise,
Where Youth, and sprightly Innocence
Beam o'er the Sterling of good Sense!
Tho' Time, invidious, should presume
To rob her Beauties of their Bloom,
Her mental Charms shall still improve,
And thus secure eternal Love.

PASCHASIUS.

Quæ capit illa fecit.

Not even a Day, nor Hour, alas!
No, nor a Moment's Time can pass,
Wherein my Wife, curs'd Fate! will fail,
At all her Servants round to rail;
And, when I would the Storm asswage,
Upon myself she vents her Rage.
With all the Changes of her Face,
My Life still varies.—Fond of Peace,
I am forced to wage eternal War;
And her to please, with them must jar.
Thus I, for Quiet, live in Noise,
And love of Ease, my Ease destroys.
How wretched is the luckless Wight,
Who, even at Home, must ever fight!

457

Or, with his Servants, still at Strife;
Or, ever battling with his Wife—
With me, alas, thus Matters are,
My marriage State's a State of War.

SONG.

[Sweet is the Lark at early Dawn]

Inscribed to Miss BOSWELL.
Sweet is the Lark at early Dawn,
And sweet sad Philomel by Night;
The Thrush, at Evening, glads the Lawn;
Maria ever gives Delight.
Not Thrush, nor Lark, nor Philomel,
Nor all the feather'd vocal Choir,
With such a Note can Sorrows quell,
With such a Note can Joy inspire.
Pleas'd, we attend the Finch's Song,
The Peacock's Plumes engage our Eyes;
More potent Charms to her belong,
For she can Sense and Soul surprize.
Her Judgement, Taste, and winning Air,
With each attractive Grace of Youth;
Her Looks, her Actions, all declare,
A Mind to Virtue form'd, and Truth.

458

It is not Wealth can Peace procure,
And Beauty but a Moment warms;
But such a Mind so form'd, so pure,
The fond Admirer ever charms.

A FRAGMENT.

Address'd to Mrs. BOYD.
If, in these Lines, there aught of Merit shine—
Which much I fear—Amanda, all be thine:
In Years, in Skill, in Observation young,
I, as thy Virtues prompted, fondly sung:
But if Confession can for Faults atone,
Numerous, I know they are, and all my own.
A thousand, thousand Times, perhaps, and more,
The same trite Notions have been urg'd before,
And better urg'd; convinc'd of this, your Claim
Alone repriev'd them, destin'd to the Flame;
Nor a less Compliment was justly due
To one so long, so much esteem'd, as you—
With swelling Hopes of proud Repute inspir'd,
I never yet the Poet's Meed desir'd;
But wheresoe'er thy Name its Influence gives,
Fame sets her Seal, and the Production lives.

459

Lavish of Praise, to prove—their own Desert,
What Talents, here, might flowery Wits exert!
But I, who know your modest, candid Heart,
Well know, I need not wear the Mask of Art—
They only are, and only should be bless'd,
Who think like you, and strive to act the best.
I often blush, and am amaz'd to hear,
The froward Tribe their Grievances declare,
And yet, as indolent and careless live,
As if Dame Fortune were oblig'd to give;
And, with vague Wishes, Errors past deplore,
Yet, still plod on, and multiply the Score.
But let them all the Force of wishing try,
Will that alone one single Meal supply?
Will that alone one single Suit procure,
When meagre Famine shivers at the Door?
No; meagre Famine long may shivering stand,
Wishing, alas! will small Relief command;
And station'd here, or there, or how we please,
Mankind was made for Action, not for Ease.
Want of Occasion, is a poor Pretence,
And lazy Wishes shew a Want of Sense.
Nor will our Disappointments turn the Scale,
For still, not Wishes, Action must prevail.
Suppose, which Heaven forefend! it were decreed
In all Pursuits, that Mortals should succeed;
We, giddy, restless, changeful as the Moon,
To fatal Purpose should employ the Boon;
From wild Extremes, we should to wilder run,
And, by their Wishes, all would be undone.

460

The Woes we feel, we for ourselves create,
Murmuring, unconscious, at our bless'd Estate;
And in the Means, the purpos'd Ends we miss,
Grasping at Shadows, for substantial Bliss.
Witness the Dolt, who, erst, the Clouds controul'd,
And he, whose Touch converted all to Gold.
All Men possess some great peculiar Good.
And may be all as happy as they shou'd.
Neglected this, blind to the Abundance given,
With daring Impudence insult we Heaven.
Hence vain our Labours, and prudential Cares;
Vain all our Wishes; fruitless all our Pray'rs;
Vain all Amusement; vain our Wealth we find;
For Happiness exists but in the Mind:
Still the Companion of Contentment found,
And Poor and Rich may equally abound.
Yet is there one in all this peopled Sphere
Admits that he feels Happiness sincere?
What State? What Region ever yet confess'd
The Residence of that most welcome Guest,
By all so courted, by so few possess'd?
In fierce Extremes the Poles and Indies lie,
Envying the 'Vantage of our temperate Sky;
The imperious Archon, there, but nods his Head,
Treasures are seiz'd, and vassal Kings lie dead.
A thousand Nymphs, all beauteous as the Day,
Grace his Seraglio, and his Calls obey;
And yet, Circasia, tho' her Sultan smiles,
Pines for her Freedom, and her Fate reviles.
The pamper'd Eunuchs vainly view the Fair,
And curse the fatal Stroke which brought them there;
Whilst the dark Slaves of his despotic Will,
Watch but their Time, when to depose, or kill.

461

And every proud Bashaw, and petty Knave,
Is in his Turn, and Sphere, Tyrant, and Slave.
These Things unknown, tho' granted, in our Climes,
We cannot thence infer we have no Crimes;
A baneful Something still disturbs Content,
And plain the Cause is, we are not innocent:
But to demonstrate, search Conditions round,
And try, if solid Bliss can e'er be found.
Then turn we first Reason's impartial Eyes,
Where that deep Phalanx of bright Treasure lies;
Transiently view'd, how glorious it appears!
How fraught with Blessings! how remote from Cares
But let it put its native Semblance on,
Our Hopes are frustrate, all its Powers gone!
O Wealth! thou Darling of the human Soul!
Who do'st each Action, every Thought controul
To thy Possession all our Labours tend;
In thee they center, but, alas! not end.
The most exalted Bliss thou can'st confer,
Is dash'd with Sorrow and corroding Care.
Even when our Chests teem with exhaustless Sums,
And both the Indies decorate our Rooms;
Tho' Earth, and Air, and Sea, yield us to dine,
And every Climate furnishes our Wine;
Unsatisfied, our Wants we still lament,
And find, that Riches cannot buy Content;
But with them bring accumulating Woe,
Which none but Sons of Opulence can know.
At Dead of Night, Shylock patrols his House,
Rous'd by the stilly Clamours of a Mouse
In quest of Food; Robbers, he thinks, he hears;
But for his Gold, not for himself, he fears.

462

When having finish'd his nocturnal Round,
Try'd Locks, and Bolts, and all in Safety found,
He, with elated Heart, tho' ill at Ease,
His wonted Visit to his Mammon pays;
And bending o'er it with lack-lustre Eyes,
Devours the Piles, and still for more he sighs;
Sighs, and steals off, dreading his very Self,
Might with felonious Hands secrete the Pelf.
On his worn Pallet, now, view him reclin'd;
Terrifick Visions haunt his tortur'd Mind;
A thousand Ills his croaking Fears suggest—
The gleaming Poniard pointed at his Breast!
His Servant, Brother, or, perhaps, his Wife,
Prepares the noxious Bowl against his Life;
And, sometimes, struggling in the Jaws of Death,
His rake-hell Heir, relentless, stops his Breath,
Plunders his Coffers, to the Dice Box flies,
Stakes the last Guinea, and in Prison dies.
Now Morpheus, with a Sledge, or ponderous Stone,
Forces the Door: He with a doleful Groan,
Expressive of his Pain and dire Dismay,
Starts up, and chides the slow Return of Day.
Thus is his Rest disturb'd, broken, destroy'd,
And not a Moment is with Peace enjoy'd.
Not so blithe Corin, in his humble Cell,
Within his Bosom kinder Tenants dwell;
And though no Locks, or massy Bolts, secure
The slight Obstruction of his simple Door;
He sleeps at Ease, secure in Heaven's good Care,
Reckless of Villains, and exempt from Fear.
Exempt and reckless! is he then at Rest?
And do no secret Throws at Times molest?

463

Let us, for Proof, at yonder Farm enquire,
Whom they think happy? They reply, the 'Squire.
The 'Squire, the while, soliciting a Place,
Opines himself less happy than his Grace:
His Grace, encumber'd with the State Affairs,
The Peasant, happier than himself declares.
His Corn to Market brought, the gaping Clown
Admires the Riches of the thriving Town;
And, vex'd at Tythes and Landlords, longs to pop
His little Stock and Team, into a Shop.
The suburb Chandler here observes with Pain
The Citizen's Returns, and countless Gain;
The griping Citizen burns to command
The Coach of State, and magisterial Wand;
The Alderman, and his aspiring Wife,
Without a Title, see no Joy in Life;
Now Courtiers grown, aukward, disgusted, cloy'd—
A thousand Wants are still to be supply'd:
And all find Reason, high and low, to fret,
Something to wish, or something to regret.
Even the enamour'd Pair, unweeting, moan,
And long till sacred Hymen makes them one.
That scarce atchiev'd, in crowd domestic Cares,
Then how delicious single Life appears!
But, O! let Prudence warn them to beware
How they admit so dangerous a Snare;
And with her uttermost let Reason try
To palliate Faults, or pass, unheeding, by;
For, if Disgust gets Entrance in the Soul,
It soon encreases, and absorbs the whole:
Ting'd with that Jaundice Motes we Monsters think,
And even Virtues into Vices sink;
And none need hope, connubial Bliss to find,
But with Esteem and Delicacy join'd.

464

Bans of Compulsion, and gross sensual Love,
Are self-dissolv'd, and never seal'd above.
One must the Will, one the Affections be,
And all in all, in every Point agree;
Reciprocal the Deed, the Heart, the Hand,
Free, and unaw'd, all else is contraband.
All venal Ties are void; all Compacts where
Illicit Means are us'd, and Cheats appear:
For there, altho' prohibited, we find
The Body's Shame, we prostitute the Mind;
And as our Souls the mortal Part exceed,
Religion stronger interdicts the Deed;
And Conscience, sacred and unerring Test
Of Right and Wrong within the human Breast,
Stronger anticipating, feels the Force
Of Horrors consequent, and fell Remorse.
Nor can the stern Behest of Law controul
The outward Man to sin against his Soul.
The civil Jurisdiction was ordain'd,
That moral Justice might not be prophan'd;
But general Systems all, it is confess'd,
However full and accurate express'd,
Leave Individuals often unredress'd—
But He, who rules the World, and fills the Skies,
To whom all Hearts, all Nature open lies,
Impartial Blessings equally assign'd
To all his Works according to their Kind;
And ere the tuneful Orbs their Course began,
Creative Wisdom form'd the extensive Plan
Of future Weal, on present good to Man.
And all his Scriptures every where presume
Bliss here a Prototype of Bliss to come.

465

Hence, failing human Institutes, 'tis given
To fly for Succour, and appeal to Heaven;
Reason's Vicegerency Relief provides,
Asserts her Right, sits Umpire and decides;
And Nature's primal Duty, Self-Defence,
May safely with some formal Points dispense;
Provided always, for no carnal Lust,
The Ends be virtuous, and the Means be just.
'Tis false Philosophy, and ne'er was meant
Mankind should suffer Ills they can prevent;
And Holy Writ, explicit on the Case,
Declares expressly, we are call'd to Peace.
Yet on Surmises let us not decide,
But to such Nuptials be the Test apply'd;
Let Observation and Experience tell,
If Peace with them, and heavenly Concord dwell.
Behold a Couple, fond without Esteem,
Spurr'd on by Instinct, Avarice, or Whim;
There no good Planets kindly Influence shed,
Nor joyous Omens tend the genial Bed.
A few short Days, irregularly spent,
The Palate nauseates, and breeds Discontent;
The Bridegroom lours; the Bride in secret mourns,
And Liking sated, to Aversion turns;
Incessant Feuds confirm, and make it worse,
And every Hour entails some penal Curse.
Both have their Faults, yet neither will atone,
For both are blind, or partial to their own.
But mutual Wrongs, mutual Concessions claim,
And both incurring, both should suffer Blame.
What Wonder then, for all on that depends,
If in Extremes the venal Bondage ends?

466

The towery Strength perennial Marble forms,
Expos'd to sapping Rain, and Winter Storms,
To every Blast is more or less a Prey,
And from slight Causes subject to decay;
Time eats insensibly the nodding Walls,
And prone, at length, the mouldering Ruin falls.
Thus they, their Souls with rough Contentions torn,
Ensure Destruction, and their Fate suborn;
And like the Angels, who from Heaven fell,
They feed on Death, and are themselves a Hell.
But let not this the more discreet deter,
Some hit the White, though many Thousands err.
Nor let my Verse the virgin Fair perplex,
'Twas for their Use intended, not to vex;
Nor that they should oppose indulgent Heaven,
By whom their Charms, and Love itself was given:
Those to inspire the tender Flame design'd,
And that to bless and propagate Mankind.
When Hearts, with Hands unite, and only there,
Peace sits enthron'd between the married Pair;
All their Intentions smiling Concord guards,
Guides all their Actions, brightens and rewards:
Connubial Bliss, inspir'd by mutual Love,
Gives them a Fore-taste of the Joys above;
But take that Harmony and Love away,
The very damn'd endure not more than they.
The Groom should lay all surly Airs aside,
And meek Submission best befits the Bride;
And all Contention, and their mutual Boast,
Should be to please, and who should please the most.
Love's the pure Essence of a generous Race,
Nice Honour, Freedom, Nobleness, and Peace;

467

Gentle Benevolence his Forehead crowns,
And sweet good Humour, undeform'd with Frowns.
Fix'd on one Object all his Wishes rest,
And all his Hopes in blessing to be bless'd.
The sordid Glance of squint Suspicion tears
His tender Form, and from the Bosom scares;
And with Resentment, inwardly he burns,
Where Rudeness lords it, or ill Nature scorns;
And, long provok'd, spurning, he stands confess'd,
Nor Hymen's Bonds restrain the injur'd Guest.
Unstudied this, they obstinately run
In froward Error, 'till they are quite undone.
But tho' oppos'd in all beside, we see,
They in one Point, and but in one agree;—
A widow'd Bed;—and ardently invoke
Death to relieve them from the galling Yoke.
Thus each dissatisfied, his Neighbour eyes,
And none are happy but the Good and Wise.
The Good and Wise, in Scripture Phrase, the Elect,
With grateful Hearts on Providence reflect;
And favour'd Suppliants at his gracious Throne,
The Wisdom of his Dispensations own;
To him disclose their Wants, on him depend;
Their bounteous Parent, and unfailing Friend.
Supported thus, superior to Despair,
They wish for nothing, and for nothing care;
No present Grief, nor aught foreboding Ill
Disturbs their Quiet, or affects their Will;
They know, on all sufficient he bestows,
And bless their Maker in the Midst of Woes.
For he that cloaths the Lilies of the Field,
Will, sure to them, a Competency yield;

468

He gives the hungry Wolf, and Raven, Meat,
Nor can the Image of himself forget;
And since, unheeded, not a Sparrow falls,
Man, tho' degenerate, more Attention calls.
Thus prov'd, in Faith the great Arcanum lies,
The truly happy, are the truly wise.
The Goal in View, no shining Bait they chase,
But run with chearful Steps the appointed Race;
Alike to them the best and worst Extreme,
Virtue in both, in both Vice is the same;
Unenvying, they survey the Rich and Great,
And scan the Miseries of inferior State;
And thence resulting, this sage Axiom give,
That Good is sure, Ill but comparative.
Bless'd in themselves, thus, out of Fortune's Power,
They pass thro' Life, enjoying every Hour.
Why should we then at high Preferments aim?
And why should Wealth such vast Attention claim?
The meek Arabian, stripp'd of all his Store,
Enjoy'd Content; Can Bedford's Self do more?
Some gentle Stripes, for our Probation here,
Omnipotence inflicts, and we should bear;
For, shall he his eternal Blessings give,
And, unreprov'd, we him offending live?
In Fancy's Mirror, we but darkling see,
What must, hereafter, our Advantage be;
And falsely of Prosperity we deem,
Since Heaven's Correction shews us Heaven's Esteem.
No longer, then, injuriously, in vain,
Let thoughtless Man of Providence complain;
But with mute, humble Resignation trust,
For God is merciful, as well as just.

469

The keenest corporal Anguish will decrease,
If we, with Patience, learn to acquiesce,
'Twill blunt the Tooth of life-corroding Woe,
And teach Affliction less intense to glow;
Religion will her healing Balm impart,
And pour glad Comfort on the bleeding Heart;
Whilst bright-ey'd Hope her kind Assistance gives,
And every Pang disperses, or relieves.
Say not from Plenitude these Reasonings flow;
Nor empty Theory untry'd in Woe.
For since the vital Principle I drew,
(When of my Life I take a strict Review)
Scarcely a Day, a single Day appears,
Exempt from Pain, Adversity, or Tears;
Me, Fate before these Eyes beheld the Light,
Seem'd to have mark'd obnoxious to her Spite.
Nor less their Force, which ever is maintain'd,
Our Deeds are of Free-will, or pre-ordain'd;
For who, if Destiny controuls our State,
Can trace the devious Labyrinth of Fate?
Can the Perception of a human Clod
Pervade the Workings of a boundless God;
And into dark Futurity extend,
And view each Cause, productive of its End?
Time may so far, nay will enlarge our Sight,
That we shall see, “Whatever is, is right;”
Shall see this well-imagin'd Truth made plain,
That not one Atom of Creation's vain.
In firm Expectance, then, of better Days,
Bear we our Lot, and give Jehovah Praise.
Did Reason always operate in the Mind;
Were we to free Conviction still inclin'd;

470

Would proud Opinion Prejudice forego,
And Mortals strive, God and themselves to know;
To know of God, as far as Mortals can,
His Justice, Mercy, and Regard to Man;
Our Passions all restrain'd in Wisdom's Lore,
For Vice's Flesh-pots we should sigh no more;
White-rob'd Content would be the Prophet's Wand,
And every simple Cot the Promis'd Land;
Insatiate Cravings there, would never breed,
But happy Man from Pestilence be freed:
Ambitious Fools, on impious Conquest bent,
Would all their idle Victories repent;
The horrid Work of wasteful War give o'er,
And to the World Tranquillity restore;
The Sword and Javelin would descend again,
To prune the Vine, and to subdue the Plain:
The Sons of Faction would not nurse Debates,
But to their private Interest join the State's;
Religion would her pristine Force exert,
And stiff Divines want Points to controvert;
Lawyers, the Nation's Pest, at their own Suit,
Might puzzle Judgement, and prolong Dispute,
No hardy Client would submit his Cause,
To the Decision of perverted Laws;
Nor, by Appearances, would Friends be mov'd,
To cruel Strife with the dear Friends they lov'd:
Discord in private Families would cease,
And even contentious Brothers live in Peace;
Hate, Envy, or Distrust, we ne'er should see,
But all Mankind in social Love agree.
 

Eldest Daughter of the late Col Stewart, Londonderry.

Juvenal Satire, 10.

1 Corinthians, Chap. vii. ver. 15.

Alluding to the Murmurings of the Israelitis, Exodus, Chap. xvi. ver. 3.


471

The GROTTO.

Near a smooth River's lonely Side,
Where tuneful Naiads gently glide,
A secret Grotto stands;
Within a Rock's hard Bosom made,
Hid in the Gloom of awful Shade;
The Work of Nature's Hands.
This sweet Retreat, that once had been,
Of Joy and Love, the chosen Scene,
Poor injur'd Flavia sought:
But,—to complain of Damon's Vow
There made, and broke;—she chose it now,
With Rage and Sorrow fraught.
The hollow Rock, where she reclin'd,
She thought, was like false Damon's Mind;
His dark Design,—the Shade:
The deep smooth Stream,—his tempting Face;
Its Sound,—his Tongue's deluding Grace,
That won, and that betray'd.
Damon, one Evening, as he stray'd,
To meet some other tender Maid,
O'er-heard her mournful Plaint:
Her Sighs, and Tears, and soft Despair,
Infected all the neighbouring Air,
And forc'd him to relent.

472

And now, she thinks, since Damon's kind,
The steady Rock still like his Mind;
His Love, the friendly Shade:
The clear smooth Stream,—his lovely Face;
Its soothing Sound,—the Tongue's soft Grace,
That all her Woes repaid.
‘No more be fear'd, then, Fortune's Powers!
‘'Tis Fancy all our Bliss devours,
‘Or gives Content, we find.
‘Men may be happy, if they please;
‘We are ourselves, our own Disease;
‘The Fault is in the Mind.’

A HYMN: On recovering from a Fit of Illness.

O thou, my Soul, in sacred Hymns,
Thy gracious God adore:
And whilst his Mercy spares thee Breath,
That Mercy still implore!
When all my Follies number'd were,
And Justice spake me Dead;
The Thunder roar'd, the Lightening flew,
And shiver'd o'er my Head.

473

Oh! could my Blood Atonement make
For all my Days mis-spent;
For slighted Grace; for secret Crimes;
For Thoughts I dared not vent!
Then let the chilling Hand of Death,
In Darkness seal my Eyes;
And let the Earth my Limbs receive,
To Worms a Sacrifice.
But see the widow'd Parent's Prayers
The holy Hills ascend—
‘Oh, spare my Child! my Age's Stay!
‘The Staff on which I bend.’
The righteous Lord, who willing hears
Whene'er the Just implores,
Back to my breathless, lifeless Corse,
The fleeting Soul restores.
O thou, my Soul, in sacred Hymns,
Thy gracious God adore:
And whilst his Mercy spares thee Breath,
That Mercy still implore!
 

The Writer's Mother.

ÆNIGMA I.

Inscribed to Miss LATOUCHE.
You'll scarce believe it, yet, by Nature,
I am a quiet, sober Creature;
Content to live and die at Home,
And never form'd a Wish to roam,

474

Like Birds in Cage to spend my Breath,
And beat, and beat myself to Death:
But Woman, Woman is my Ruin,
She takes Delight in my Undoing.
O! it would melt a very Stone,
To hear what I have undergone!
Though blind myself, I fall a Prize,
Struck thro' and thro' by her bright Eyes.
When once she has caught me in her Net,
I am thrown neglected at her Feet;
There, without Mercy, roll in Pain,
And yet am pleas'd to bear my Chain.
On Hopes I live, on Looks I feed,
And jump, and burn, and burst, and bleed.
But if I once again get free,
I learn to prize my Liberty.
Like Bees, from Fair to Fair I range;
Like her, I learn each Hour to change;
With her own Arts I learn to vex,
And boldly fly at all the Sex.

ÆNIGMA II.

So small my Size, that Men despise me,
But I am content, while Ladies prize me;
For still 'tis my peculiar Care,
To guard, and to adorn the Fair.
Aye! and, good Sirs, 'tis very true!
I have a Head as well as you.

475

O how 'twould make you fret and grieve
To hear what Favours I receive;
How much in secret I am caress'd;
How oft 'twixt Cloe's Fingers press'd!
How oft her balmy Lips I have tasted,
And there, for Hours together feasted!
To me her Beauties she revails,
Nor from me any Charm conceals:
Even the most secret have I seen;
And been—ye Gods, where I have been!—
Perch'd at my Ease! while Lovers toil,
To watch her Looks, and catch her Smile.
Then if some Youth, with amorous Haste,
Presumes to clasp her slender Waist;
Ready to fly to her Assistance,
I make him keep his proper Distance.
When I am there, who dares be rude,
He surely pays for't with his Blood.
And, O ye Fair! forgive the Tale,
For tho' you are fair, you are sometimes frail,
How many I have preserv'd from Ruin,
And, that vile Creature, Man's Undoing:
When in Appearance all was over,
And he almost a happy Lover,
Have I stept in, with timely Care,
And boldly push'd my Point so far,
I have made him curse and swear with Passion,
And fly with mad Precipitation.
But now, good Folks, the Sequel note,
How soon past Service is forgot!
See how compos'd she tells the Story,
And to herself takes all the Glory;

476

Talks of her mighty Self-denial,
How she withstood the fiery Trial;
Cracks of her spotless Chastity,
And boasts of Virtue—sav'd by me!

ÆNIGMA III.

Tho' I am younger than six others,
Yet I take Place of all my Brothers;
I was the last of the Creation,
And always held in Veneration:
For God, well-pleas'd when I was come,
Bless'd me, and went in Triumph Home.
As for my Brothers, to their Shame
I blush, whene'er I hear their Name;
For they mind nothing but their Pleasure,
And heaping up of worldly Treasure.
They all love Tricks, and Over-reaching;
All my Delight's in Prayers and Preaching!
With their good Will no one should rest;
But I am Friend to Man and Beast;
I cheer his Heart, and glad each Feature,
And make him quite another Creature.
I give the plodding Lawyer Leisure;
The honest Tradesman Ease and Pleasure—
With Wife in Chaise, and eldest Son,
Smiling, he sallies out of Town;
Then, if I prove but clear and fine,
Woe to the Cheesecakes and the Wine.
Even Debtors long for my Return,
And bless the Hour that I am born!

477

CUPID and the PAINTER.

Inscribed to the Honourable Miss St. GEORGE.
I lately saw wing'd Cupid stand,
His Crest elate with Pride,
His Bow bent ready in his Hand,
His Quiver by his Side.
An Arrow keen, of fearful Length,
He to the Bow apply'd;
Then drew the String with all his Strength,
And, Vive l'Amour, he cry'd.
At me a certain Aim he took,
And would have pierc'd my Heart;
But, luckily, I snatch'd a Book,
This warded off the Dart.
Another, soon, he levell'd true,
Resolv'd that I should yield;
But this, like t'other, hurtless flew,
My Pallet was my Shield.
Thus, every Arrow shot in vain,
His Quiver emptied quite;
I laugh'd to see the Urchin's Pain,
He cry'd for very Spite.
But me the Rogue at length beguil'd,
In Ambush for my Heart;
He shot—just when Emilia smil'd,—
Unerring was the Dart.
 

An Implement of a Shield-like Form, on which Painters hold and blend their Colours.


478

ODE.

[The Sun, in Glory, wins his Way]

Written August 1751.
The Sun, in Glory, wins his Way,
And pours around refulgent Day;
The wide Horizon glows with Fire,
No balmy Breeze to asswage the Flame;
To yonder Arbour I'll retire,
And shade me from the noontide Beam.
The fainting Herds forsake the Mead,
And, panting, seek the grateful Shade.
The wanton Steed, whose ample Veins
Impetuous boil with generous Blood,
Eager deserts the thirsty Plains,
And laves him in the limpid Flood.
Yonder the wearied Reaper stands,
The Scythe forsakes his nerveless Hands—
All rest, except the strenuous Bee;
She, vigorous at this sultry Hour,
From Leaf to Leaf expatiates free,
And flies, and toils from Flower to Flower.
Lo! where yon Beach, with Ivy bound,
Its verdant Foliage stretches round;
A faithful Youth, and tender Maid,
By Nature's simple Beauties grac'd,
Recline beneath the friendly Shade;
And Joys, unknown to Greatness, taste.

479

Ah! would my lov'd Therania deign,
With one kind Smile to bless her Swain!
Thus, rapturous, on her Face I'd gaze;
That Face which beams seraphic Charms—
Thus, to my Lips, her Hand I'd raise;
Thus, ever clasp her in my Arms.
Far from the Whirl of busy Life,
From Hurry, Folly, Fraud, and Strife,
Smoothly along the peaceful Tide
Of blissful Time, we'd float away;
Steer down Life's Bosom, Side by Side,
And launch into the eternal Sea.
What means this Tumult? Why, my Heart,
Throb'st thou, transfix'd, as with a Dart?
Ah, whence this Trembling? why thus shrink.
My inmost Thoughts, and damp my Soul?
Why do my Limbs enfeebl'd sink?
And Life's chill'd Fluid backward roll?
Begone, thou false Intruder, Love!
Nor longer tempt my Thoughts to rove.
What! wilt thou ever thus torment?
Can no Recess thy Wiles elude?
Incessant shall my Heart be rent?
And pierc'd the deepest Solitude?
Even when pale Cynthia's silver Robe,
Has mantled o'er the drowsy Globe;
When Night, still Goddess! shrouds the Sky;
And Nature sinks in soft Repose;
When ravening Wolves to Covert fly;
And dungeon'd Slaves forget their Woes.

480

Even then, estrang'd to needful Rest,
Unruly Passions tear my Breast,
Still, still she moves before mine Eyes—
That Form august! that Face divine!
But oh! my Heart within me dies,
She never, never can be mine.
Why do I thus embrace my Bane?
Why cherish what but gives me Pain?
Fortune and Rank, Therania raise,
Far, far above my humble Sphere;
No more I'll roam in Fancy's Maze,
Alas! it leads but to Despair—
Thus, in her Absence, I complain;
She's present—and I grasp my Chain;
Gaze on her Charms with ravish'd Eyes;
Drink deep of Love at every Breath;
Still gaze, though that Way Madness lies;
Still drink, though every Draught is Death.

[Were Parents but more cautious whom they trust]

Were Parents but more cautious whom they trust,
And to good Masters more exact and just,
Great Revolutions soon in Schools they'd find,
Pleasing to both, and useful to Mankind:
‘ And each his several Charge might well command,
‘ Would all but stoop to what they understand ’
FINIS
 

Poems from Limerick; successively marked with the Roman Numerals I. II. &c.