Poems and Translations :: :: University of Virginia Library

Forgive th'ambitious Fondness of a Friend,
For such thy Worth, 'tis Glory to commend;
To Thee, from Judgment, such Applause is due,
I praise my self while I am praising you;
As he who bears the lighted Torch, receives
Himself assistance from the Light he gives.

So much you please, so vast is my Delight,
Thy, ev'n thy Fancy cannot reach its height.

In vain I strive to make the Transport known,
No Language can describe it but thy Own.
Could'st thou thy Genius pour into my Heart,
Thy copious Fancy, thy engaging Art,
Thy vigorous Thoughts, thy manly Flow of Sense,
Thy strong and glowing Paint of Eloquence;
Then should'st thou well conceive that Happiness,
Which I alone can feel, and you express.

In Scenes which thy Invention sets to view,
Forgive me, Friend, if I lose sight of You;
I see with how much Spirit Homer thought,
With how much Judgment cooler Virgil wrote;
In every Line, in every Word you speak,
I read the Roman, and confess the Greek;
Forgetting Thee, my Soul with Rapture swell'd,
Cries out, how much the ancient Bards excell'd!
But when thy just Translations introduce
To nearer Converse any Latian Muse,
The several Beauties you so well express,
I lose the Roman in the British Dress!

Sweetly deceiv'd, the Ancients I contemn,
And with mistaken Zeal to Thee exclaim,
(By so much Nature, so much Art betray'd)
What vast Improvements have our Moderns made!

How vain and unsuccessful seems the Toil,
To raise such precious Fruits in foreign Soil:
They mourn, transplanted to another Coast,
Their Beauties languid, and their Flavor lost!
But such thy Art, the ripening Colours glow
As pure as those their native Suns bestow;
Not an insipid Beauty only yield,
But breathe the Odours of Ausonia's Field.
Such is the genuine Flavor, it belyes
Their stranger Soil, and unacquainted Skies.

Vida no more the long Oblivion fears,
Which hid his Virtues thro' a length of Years;
Ally'd to Thee, he lives again; thy Rhimes
Shall friendly hand him down to latest Times;

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Shall do his injur'd Reputation right,
While in thy Work with such Success unite
His Strength of Judgment, and his Charms of Speech,
That Precepts please, and Musick seems to teach.

Lest unimprov'd I seem to read thee o'er,
Th'unhallow'd Rapture I indulge no more;
By Thee instructed, I the Task forsake,
Nor for chaste Love, the Lust of Verse mistake;
Thy Works that rais'd this Frenzy in my Soul,
Shall teach the giddy Tumult to controul:
Warm'd as I am with every Muse's Charms,
Since the coy Virgins fly my eager Arms,
I'll quit the Work, throw by my strong Desire,
And from thy Praise, reluctantly retire.

G.Ridley.

See Pitt's Translation of Vida's Art of Poetry.

An Epistle to Dr. Edward Young, at Eastbury in Dorsetshire, on the Review at Sarum, 1722.

While with your Doddington retir'd you sit,
Charm'd with his flowing Burgundy and Wit;
By turns relieving with the circling Draught,
Each Pause of Chat, and Interval of Thought:

Or thro' the well-glaz'd Tube, from Bus'ness free'd,
Draw the rich Spirit of the Indian Weed;
Or bid your Eyes o'er Vanbrugh's Models roam,
And trace in Miniature the future Dome;
(While busy Fancy with imagin'd Pow'r
Builds up the Work of Ages in an Hour)
Or lost in Thought, contemplative you rove,
Thro' op'ning Vista's, and the shady Grove;
Where a new Eden in the Wilds is found,
And all the Seasons in a Spot of Ground:
There, if you exercise your Tragick Rage,
To bring some Hero on the British Stage;
Whose Cause the Audience with Applause will crown,
And make his Triumphs or his Tears their own:
Throw by the bold Design; and paint no more
Imagin'd Chiefs, and Monarchs of an Hour;

From fabled Worthies, call thy Muse to sing
Of real Wonders, and Britannia's King.

Oh! hadst thou seen him, when the gath'ring Train
Fill'd up proud Sarum's wide-extended Plain!
Then, when he stoop'd from awful Majesty,
Put on the Man, and laid the Sov'reign by;
When the glad Nations saw their King appear,
Begirt with Armies, and the Pride of War;
More pleas'd his People's longing Eyes to bless,
He look'd, and breath'd Benevolence and Peace:
When in his Hand Britannia's awful Lord,
Held forth the Olive, while he grasp'd the Sword.
So Jove, tho' arm'd to blast the Titans Pride,
With all his burning Thunders at his side,
Fram'd, while he terrify'd the distant Foe,
His Scheme of Blessings for the World below.

This hadst thou seen, thy willing Muse would raise
Her strongest Wing, to reach her Sov'reign's Praise.
To what bold heights our daring Hopes may climb?
The Theme so great! the Poet so sublime!
I saw him, Young, and to these ravish'd Eyes,
Ev'n now his godlike Figure seems to rise:
Mild, yet Majestick, was the Monarch's Mien,
Lovely tho' Great, and Awful tho' Serene.
(More than a Coin or Picture can unfold;
Too faint the Colours, and too base the Gold!)
At the blest Sight, transported and amaz'd,
One universal Shout the Thousands rais'd,
And Crowds on Crowds grew Loyal as they gaz'd.
His Foes (if any) own'd the Monarch's Cause,
And chang'd their groundless Clamours to Applause;
Ev'n giddy Faction hail'd the glorious Day,
And wond'ring Envy look'd her Rage away.

As Ceres o'er the Globe her Chariot drew,
And Harvests ripen'd where the Goddess flew;
So, where his gracious Footsteps He inclin'd,
Peace flew before, and Plenty march'd behind.
Where wild Affliction rages, He appears
To wipe the Widow's and the Orphan's Tears:
The Sons of Misery before him bow,
And for their Merit only plead their Woe.
So well he loves the Publick Liberty,
His Mercy sets the private Captive free.
Soon as our Royal Angel came in view,
The Prisons burst, the starting Hinges flew;
The Dungeons open'd, and resign'd their Prey,
To Joy, to Life, to Freedom, and the Day:
The Chains drop off; the grateful Captives rear
Their Hands unmanacled in Praise and Pray'r.
Had thus Victorious Cæsar sought to please,
And rul'd the vanquish'd World with Arts like These;

The gen'rous Brutus had not scorn'd to bend,
But sunk the Rigid Patriot in the Friend;
Nor to that bold Excess of Virtue ran,
To stab the Monarch, where he lov'd the Man.
And Cato reconcil'd, had ne'er disdain'd
To live a Subject, where a Brunswick reign'd.
But I detain your nobler Muse too long,
From the great Theme, that mocks my humble Song,
A Theme that asks a Virgil, or a Young.

On the approaching Delivery of Her Royal Highness, in the Year 1721.

An ODE.

Ye Angels come without Delay,
Britannia's Genius come away.

Descend ye Spirits of the Sky,
Stand all ye winged Guardians by;
Your golden Pinions kindly spread,
And watch round Carolina's Bed:
Here fix your Residence on Earth,
To hasten on the glorious Birth;
Her fainting Spirits to supply,
Catch all the Zephyrs as they fly.

Oh! succour Nature in the Strife,
And gently hold her up in Life;
Nor let her hence too soon remove,
To join your sacred Choirs above:
But live, Britannia to adorn
With Kings and Princes yet unborn.

Ye Angels come without Delay,
Britannia's Genius come away.

Assuage her Pains, and Albion's Fears,
For Albion's Life depends on Her's.
Oh then! to save Her from Despair,
Lean down, and listen to Her Pray'r.
Crown all Her Tortures with Delight,
And call th'auspicious Babe to Light.
We hope from your propitious Care,
All that is Brave, or all that's Fair.

A Youth to match his Sire in Arms;
Or Nymph to match her Mother's Charms:
A Youth, who over Kings shall reign,
Or Nymph, whom Kings shall court in vain.
From far the Royal Slaves shall come,
And wait from him or her their Doom;
To each their different Suits shall move,
And pay their Homage, or their Love.

Ye Angels come without Delay,
Britannia's Genius come away.

When the soft Pow'rs of Sleep subdue
Those Eyes, that shine as bright as You;
With Scenes of Bliss, transporting Themes!
Prompt and inspire her golden Dreams:
Let Visionary Blessings rise,
And swim before her closing Eyes.

The Sense of Torture to subdue,
Set Britain's Happiness to View;
That Sight her Spirits will sustain,
And give her Pleasure from her Pain.

Ye Angels come without Delay,
Britannia's Genius come away.

Come and Rejoice; th'important Hour
Is past, and all our Fears are o'er:
See! every Trace of Anguish flies,
While in her Lap the Infant lies.
Her Pain by sudden Joy beguil'd,
She hangs in Rapture o'er the Child.
Her Eyes o'er every Feature run,
The Father's Beauties and her Own.
There, pleas'd her Image to survey,
She melts in Tenderness away;

Smiles o'er the Babe, nor smiles in vain,
The Babe returns th'auspicious Smile again.

Ye Angels come without Delay.
Britannia's Genius come away.

Turn Heav'ns eternal Volume o'er,
And look for this distinguish'd Hour;
Consult the Page of Britain's State,
Before you close the Books of Fate:
Then tell us what you there have seen,
What Æra's from this Birth begin.
What Years from this blest Hour must run,
As bright and lasting as the Sun.
Far from the Ken of mortal Sight,
These Secrets are involv'd in Night:
The Blessings which this Birth pursue,
Are only known to Heaven and You.

The First Hymn of Callimachus to Jupiter.

While trembling we approach Jove's awful Shrine,
With pure Libations, and with Rites Divine;
What Theme more proper can we chuse to sing,
Than Jove Himself, the Great, Eternal King!
Whose Word gives Law to those of Heav'nly Birth;
Whose Hand subdues the Rebel Sons of Earth.
Since Doubts and dark Disputes thy Titles move,
Hear'st Thou Dictæan or Lycæan Jove?
For here thy Birth the Tops of Ida claim,
And there Arcadia triumphs in thy Name.

But Crete in vain would boast a Grace so high,
Whose faithless Sons thro' meer Complexion lye:
Immortal as thou art in endless Bloom,
To prove their Claim, they build the Thund'rer's Tomb.
Be then Arcadian, for the tow'ring Height
Of steep Parrhasia welcom'd Thee to Light;
When pregnant Rhæa wand'ring thro' the Wood,
Sought out her darkest Shades, and bore the God;
The Place thus hallow'd by the Birth of Jove,
More than Religious Horror guards the Grove:
The Gloom all teeming Females still decline,
From the vile Worm, to Woman, Form Divine.
Soon as the Mother had discharg'd her Load,
She sought a Spring to bathe the recent God;
But sought in vain, no living Stream she found,
Tho' since, the Waters drench the Realms around.

Clear Erymanthus had not learn'd to glide,
Nor mightier Ladon drove his swelling Tide.
At thy great Birth, where now Iäon flows,
Tall tow'ring Oaks, and pathless Forests rose;
The thirsty Savages were heard to roar,
Where Cario softly murmurs to the Shore;
Where spreading Melas widely floats the Coast,
The flying Chariot rais'd a Cloud of Dust.
With drowth o'er Cratis and Menope curst,
The fainting Swain, to aggravate his Thirst,
Heard from within the bubbling Waters flow,
In close Restraint, and Murmur from below.

Thou too, O Earth, (enjoin'd the Pow'r Divine)
Bring forth; thy Pangs are less severe than mine,
And sooner past; she spoke, and as she spoke
Rear'd high her scepter'd Arm, and pierc'd the Rock.

Wide to the Blow the parting Mountain rent,
The Waters gush'd tumultuous at the Vent,
Impatient to be freed; amid the Flood
She plung'd the recent Babe, and bath'd the God.
She wrapp'd Thee, mighty King, in Purple Bands,
Then gave the sacred Charge to Neda's Hands,
The Babe to nourish in the close Retreat,
And in the safe Recess, of distant Crete.
In Years and Wisdom, of the Nymphs who nurst
The Infant Thund'rer, Neda was the first;
Next Styx and Phylirè; the Virgin shar'd
For her great Trust discharg'd a great Reward:
For by her honour'd Name the Flood she calls,
Which rolls into the Sea by Leprion's Walls;
To drink her Streams the Sons of Arcas crowd,
And draw for ever from the ancient Flood.

Thee, Jove, the careful Nymph to Cnossus bore,
(To Cnossus seated on the Cretan Shore)

With joyful Arms the Corybantes heav'd,
And the proud Nymphs the glorious Charge receiv'd.
Above the rest in Grace Adraste stood,
She rock'd the golden Cradle of the God;
On his Ambrosial Lips the Goat distill'd
Her milky Store, and fed th'immortal Child:
With her the duteous Bee presents her Spoils,
And for the God repeats her flow'ry Toils.

The fierce Curetes too in Arms advance,
And tread tumultuously their mystick Dance:
And lest thy Cries should reach old Saturn's Ear,
Beat on their brazen Shields the Din of War.

Full soon, Almighty King, thy early Prime
Advanc'd beyond the Bounds of Vulgar Time.
E'er the soft Down had cloath'd thy youthful Face,
Swift was thy Growth in Wit and every Grace.

Fraught was thy Mind in Life's beginning Stage,
With all the Wisdom of experienc'd Age:
Thy elder Brothers hence their Claims resign,
And leave th'unbounded Heav'ns by Merit Thine;
For sure those Poets Fable, who advance
The bold Assertion, that capricious Chance
By equal Lots to Saturn's Sons had giv'n
The triple Reign of Ocean, Hell and Heav'n.
Above blind Chance the vast Division lies,
And Hell holds no proportion to the Skies.
Things of a less, and equal Value, turn
On the blind Lot of an inverted Urn.
Not Chance, O Jove, attain'd Heav'ns high Abodes,
But thy own Pow'r advanc'd Thee o'er the Gods,
Thy Pow'r that whirls thy rapid Chariot on,
Thy Pow'r, the great Assessor of thy Throne.
Dismist by Thee, th'Imperial Eagle flies
Charg'd with thy Signs and Thunders thro' the Skies:

To Me and Mine glad Omens may she bring,
And to the Left extend her golden Wing.

Thou to Inferior Gods hast well assign'd
Th'various Ranks and Orders of Mankind:
Of these the wand'ring Merchants claim the Care;
Of those the Poets, and the Sons of War:
Kings claim from Thee their Titles and their Reign
O'er all Degrees, the Soldier and the Swain.
Vulcan presides o'er all who beat the Mass,
Bend the tough Steel, and shape the tortur'd Brass.
Diana those adore who spread the Toils;
To Mars the Warrior dedicates his Spoils.
The Bard to Phœbus strikes the living Strings,
Jove's Royal Province is the Care of Kings;
For Kings submissive hear thy high Decree,
And hold their delegated Pow'rs from Thee.

Thy Name the Judge and Legislator awes,
When this enacts, and that directs the Laws:
Cities and Realms thy great Protection prove;
These bend to Monarchs, as They bend to Jove.

Tho' to thy scepter'd Sons thy Will extends,
The proper Means proportion'd to their Ends;
All are not favour'd in the same Degree,
For Pow'r Supreme belongs to Ptolemy;
What no inferior Limitary King,
Could in a length of Years to Ripeness bring,
Sudden his Word performs; his boundless Pow'r
Compleats the Work of Ages in an Hour:
While others labour thro' a wretched Reign,
Their Schemes are blasted, and their Counsels vain.

Hail Saturn's mighty Son, to whom we owe
Life, Health, and every Blessing here below!

Who shall in worthy Strains thy Name adorn?
What living Bard? What Poet yet unborn?
Hail and all hail again; in equal Shares
Give Wealth and Virtue, and indulge our Pray'rs.
Hear us, great King; unless they meet combin'd,
Each is but half a Blessing to Mankind.
Then grant us both, that blended they may prove
A double Happiness, and worthy Jove.

The Second Hymn of Callimachus to Apollo.

Hah! how Apollo's hallow'd Laurels wave?
How shakes the Temple from its inmost Cave?
Fly ye profane; for lo! in Heav'nly State
The Pow'r descends, and thunders at the Gate.
See, how the Delian Palms with Reverence nod!
Hark! how the tuneful Swans confess the God!
Leap from your Hinges, burst your brazen Bars,
Ye sacred Doors; the God, the God appears.

Ye Youths begin the Song; in Choirs advance;
Wake all your Lyres, and form the measur'd Dance.

No impious Wretch his holy Eyes have view'd,
None but the Just, the Innocent, and Good.
To see the Pow'r confest your Minds prepare,
Refin'd from Guilt, and purify'd by Pray'r.
So may you mount in Youth the Nuptial Bed,
So grace with silver Hairs your aged Head;
So the proud Walls with lofty Turrets crown,
And lay Foundations for the rising Town.

Apollo's Song with awful Silence hear;
Ev'n the wild Seas the sacred Song revere:
Nor wretched Thetis dares to make her Moan,
For great Apollo slew her darling Son.
When the loud Iö-Pœans ring around,
She checks her Sighs, and trembles at the Sound.
Fixt in her Grief must Niobe appear,
Nor thro' the Phrygian Marble drop a Tear;

Still, tho' a Rock, she dreads Apollo's Bow,
And stands her own sad Monument of Woe.

Sound the loud Iö's, and the Temple rend,
With the blest Gods 'tis impious to contend.
He, who the Pow'r of Ptolemy defies,
In his audacious Rage would brave the Skies,
(From whence the mighty Blessing was bestow'd)
Or challenge Phœbus, and resist the God.

Beyond the Night your hallow'd Strains prolong,
Till the Day rises on th'unfinish'd Song.
Nor less his various Attributes require,
So shall He honour, and reward the Choir;
For Honour is his Gift, and high above
He shines, and graces the Right-hand of Jove:
With beamy Gold his Robes divinely glow,
His Harp, his Quiver, and his Lictian Bow;

His Feet how fair and glorious to behold!
Shod in rich Sandals of refulgent Gold!
Wealth still attends Him, and vast Gifts bestow'd,
Adorn the Delphick Temple of the God.
Eternal Charms his youthful Cheeks diffuse;
His Tresses dropping with Ambrosial Dews,
Pale Death before him flies, with dire Disease,
And Health and Life are wafted in the Breeze.

To Thee, great Phœbus, various Arts belong,
To wing the Dart, and guide the Poet's Song:
Th'enlighten'd Prophet feels thy Flames Divine,
And all the dark Events of Lots are Thine.
By Phœbus taught, the Sage prolongs our Breath,
And in its flight suspends the Dart of Death.

To thy great Name, O Nomian Pow'r, we cry,
E'er since the Time, when stooping from the Sky,

To tend Admetus' Herds thy Godhead chose,
On the fair Banks where clear Amphrysus flows:
Blest are the Herds, and blest the Flocks, that lie
Beneath the Influence of Apollo's Eye.
The Meads re-eccho'd to the bleating Lambs,
And the Kids leap'd, and frisk'd around their Dams;
Her weight of Milk each Ewe dragg'd on with Pain,
And drop'd a double Offspring on the Plain.

On great Apollo for his Aid We call,
To build the Town and raise th'embattled Wall:
He, while an Infant, fram'd the wond'rous Plan,
In fair Ortygia for the Use of Man.
When young Diana urg'd her Sylvan Toils,
From Cynthus' Tops she brought her savage Spoils;
The Heads of Mountain-Goats, and Antlers lay
Spread wide around, the Trophies of the Day:

Of these a Structure He compos'd with Art,
In Order rang'd, and just in every Part;
And by that Model taught us to dispose
The rising City, and with Walls inclose;
Where the Foundations of the Pile should lie,
Or Tow'rs and Battlements should reach the Sky.

Apollo sent th'auspicious Crow before,
When our great Founder touch'd the Lybian Shore:
Full on the Right he flew to call him on,
And guide the People to their destin'd Town;
Which to a Race of Kings Apollo vow'd,
And fix'd for ever stands the Promise of the God.

Or hear'st Thou, while thy Honours we proclaim,
Thy Boëdromian, or thy Clarian Name?
(For to the Pow'r are various Names assign'd
From Cities rais'd, and Blessings to Mankind.)

In thy Carnean Title I rejoice,
And join my grateful Country's Publick Voice.
E'er to Cyrene's Realms our Course we bore,
Thrice were we led by thee from Shore to Shore;
Till our Progenitor the Region gain'd,
And annual Rites, and annual Feasts ordain'd.
When at thy Prophet Carnus' Will, we rais'd
A Glorious Temple; and the Altars blaz'd
With Hecatombs of Bulls, whose reeking Blood,
Great King, they shed to Thee their Guardian God.

Iö! Carnean Phœbus! awful Pow'r!
Whom fair Cyrene's suppliant Sons adore!
To deck thy hallow'd Temple, see! we bring
The choicest Flow'rs, and rifle all the Spring:
The most distinguish'd Odours Nature yields,
When balmy Zephyr breathes along the Fields;
Soon as the sad inverted Year retreats,
To Thee the Crocus dedicates his Sweets.

From thy bright Altars hallow'd Flames aspire;
They shine incessant from the sacred Fire.
What Joy, what Transport swells Apollo's Breast,
When at his great Carnean annual Feast,
Clad in their Arms our Lybian Tribes advance,
Mixt with our swarthy Dames, and lead the Dance.
Nor yet the Greeks had reach'd Cyrene's Floods;
But rov'd thro' wild Azilis' gloomy Woods;
Whom to his Nymph Apollo deign'd to show,
High as he stood on tall Myrtusa's Brow;
Where the fierce Lion by her Hands was slain,
Who in his fatal Rage laid waste the Plain.
Still to Cyrene are his Gifts convey'd,
In dear Remembrance of the ravish'd Maid;
Nor were her Sons ungrateful, who bestow'd
Their choicest Honours on their Guardian God.

Iö! with holy Raptures sing around;
We owe to Delphos the Triumphant Sound.
When thy Victorious Hands vouchsaf'd to show
The Wonders of thy Shafts and Golden Bow;
When Python from his Den was seen to rise,
Dire, fierce, tremendous, of enormous Size;
By Thee with many a fatal Arrow slain,
The Monster sunk extended on the Plain;
Shaft after Shaft in swift Succession flew;
As swift the People's Shouts and Pray'rs pursue.
Iö, Apollo, launch thy flying Dart;
Send it, oh! send it to the Monster's Heart.
When thy fair Mother bore thee, she design'd
Her mighty Son, a Blessing to Mankind.

Envy, that other Plague and Fiend, drew near;
And gently whisper'd in Apollo's Ear:

No Poet I regard but Him whose Lays
Are swelling, loud, and boundless as the Seas;
Apollo spurn'd the Fury, and reply'd,
The vast Euphrates rolls a mighty Tide;
With rumbling Torrents the rough River roars;
But black with Mud, discolour'd from his Shores,
Prone down Assyria's Lands his Course he keeps,
And with polluted Waters stains the Deeps.
But the Melissan Nymphs to Ceres bring
The purest Product of the limpid Spring;
Small is the sacred Stream, but never stain'd
With Mud, or foul Ablutions from the Land.

Hail Glorious King! beneath thy matchless Pow'r
May Malice sink, and Envy be no more.

To Sir James Thornhill, on his excellent Painting the Rape of Helen, at the Seat of General Erle in Dorsetshire.

Written in the Year 1718.

Could I with thee, O Thornhill, bear a part,
And join the Poet's with the Painter's Art,
(Tho' both share mutually each common Name,
Their Thoughts, their Genius and Design the same!)
The Muse, with Features neither weak nor faint,
Should draw her Sister-Art in speaking Paint.
But while admiring Thine and Nature's Strife,
I see each Touch just starting into Life,

From side to side with various Raptures tost,
Amid the visionary Scenes I'm lost.

Methinks as thrown upon some Fairy Land,
Amaz'd we know not how, nor where we stand;
While tripping Phantoms to the Sight advance,
And gay Ideas lead the mazy Dance:
While wondring we behold in every part
The beauteous Scenes of thy creating Art.

By such degrees thy Colours rise and fall,
And breathing flush the animated Wall;
That the bright Objects which our Eyes survey,
Ravish the Mind, and steal the Soul away;
Our Footsteps by some secret Pow'r are crost,
And in the Painter all the Bard is lost.

Thus in a Magick Ring we stand confin'd,
While subtle Spells the fatal Circle bind;
In vain we strive and labour to depart,
Fix'd by the Charms of that mysterious Art;
In vain the Paths and Avenues we trace,
While Spirits guard and fortify the Place.

How could my stretch'd Imagination swell?
And on each regular Proportion dwell?
While thy swift Art unravels Nature's Maze,
And imitates her Works, and treads her Ways,
Nature with wonder sees herself out-done,
And claims thy fair Creation for her own;
Thy Figures in such lively Strokes excel,
They give those Passions which They seem to feel.
Each various Feature some strong Impulse bears,
Wraps us in Joy, or melts us all to Tears.

Each Piece with such transcendent Art is wrought,
That we could almost say thy Pictures thought;
When we behold thee conquer in the Strife,
And strike the kindling Figures into Life,
Which does from thy creating Pencil pass,
Warm the dull Matter, and inspire the Mass;
As fam'd Prometheus' Wand convey'd the Ray
Of Heav'nly Fire to animate his Clay.

How the just Strokes in Harmony unite?
How Shades and Darkness recommend the Light?
No Lineaments unequally surprize;
The Beauties regularly fall and rise.
Lost in each other we in vain pursue
The fleeting Lines that cheat our wearied View.
Nor know we how their subtle Courses run,
Nor where this ended, nor where that begun.

Nor where the Shades their utmost Bounds display,
Or the Light fades insensibly away;
But all harmoniously confus'd we see,
While all the sweet Varieties agree.

Thus when the Organ's solemn Airs aspire,
The blended Music wings our Thoughts with fire;
Here warbling Notes in whisp'ring Breezes sigh,
But in their birth the tender Accents die.
While thence the bolder Notes exulting come,
Swell as they fly, and bound along the Dome.
With transport fir'd, each lost in each we hear,
And all the Soul is center'd in the Ear.

See first the Senate of the Gods above,
Frequent and Full amid the Courts of Jove:
Behold the radiant Consistory shine,
With Features, Airs, and Lineaments divine.

Hermes dispatch'd from the bright Council flies,
And cleaves with all his wings the liquid Skies.
In many a Whirl, and rapid Circle driv'n
So swift, he seems at once in Earth and Heav'n.
Oh! with what Energy! what noble Force
Of strongest Colours you describe his Course?
Till the swift God the Phrygian Shepherd found
Compos'd for sleep, and stretch'd along the ground.
He brings the blooming Gold, the fatal Prize,
The bright Reward of Cytherea's Eyes.
The conscious Earth the awful Signal takes,
Without a Wind the quiv'ring Forest shakes;
Tall Ida bows; th'unwieldy Mountains nod;
And all confess the Presence of the God.

Like shooting Meteors, gliding from above,
See the proud Consort of the Thund'ring Jove,
War's glorious Goddess, and the Queen of Love;

Arm'd in their naked Charms, the Phrygian Boy
Regards those Charms with mingled Fear and Joy.
Here Juno stands with an Imperial Mien,
At once confest a Goddess a Queen.
Her Cheeks a scornful Indignation warms,
Blots out her Smiles, and checks her softer Charms.
But Venus shines in milder Beauties there,
And every Grace adorns the blooming Fair.
As conscious of her Charms, she seems to rise,
Claims, and already grasps in hope the Prize;
Beauteous, as when immortal Phidias strove
From Parian Rocks to carve the Queen of Love:
Each Grace obey'd the Summons of his Art,
And a new Beauty sprung from every Part.
In all the Terrors of her Beauty bright,
Fair Pallas awes and charms the Trojan's sight,
And gives successive Rev'rence and Delight.

Nor Thrones, nor Victories his Soul can move;
Crowns, Arms, and Triumphs, what are you to Love?
Too soon resign'd to Venus, they behold
The glitt'ring Ball of vegetable Gold.
While Jove's proud Consort thrown from her Desires,
Inflam'd with Rage maliciously retires;
Already kindles her immortal Hate,
Already labours with the Trojan Fate.
While a new Transport flush'd the blooming Boy,
Helen he seems already to enjoy,
And feeds the Flame that must consume his Troy.

Another Scene our wond'ring Sight recalls;
The fair Adult'ress leaves her native Walls:
Her Cheeks are stain'd with mingled Shame and Joy;
Lull'd on the Bosom of the Phrygian Boy.

To the loud Deeps he bears his charming Spouse,
Freed from her Lord, and from her former Vows.
On their soft Wings the whisp'ring Zephyrs play,
The Breezes skim along the dimpled Sea:
The wanton Loves direct the gentle Gales,
Sport in the Shrowds, and flutter in the Sails.
While her Twin-Brothers with a gracious Ray
Point out her Course along the watry Way.

Th'exalted Strokes so delicately shine,
All so conspire to push the bold Design;
That in each sprightly Feature we may find
The great Ideas of the Master's Mind,
As the strong Colours faithfully unite,
Mellow to Shade, and ripen into Light.
Let others form with care the ruddy Mass,
And torture into Life the running Brass,

With potent Art the breathing Statue mould,
Shape and inspire the animated Gold.
Let others Sense to Parian Marbles give,
Bid the Rocks leap to Form, and learn to live.
Still be it thine, O Thornhill, to unite
The pleasing Discord of the Shade and Light;
To vanquish Nature in the gen'rous Strife,
And touch the glowing Features into Life.

But, Thornhill, would thy noble Soul impart
One lasting Instance of thy Godlike Art
To future Times; and in thy Fame engage
The Praise of This and every distant Age;
To stretch that Art as far as it can go,
Draw the Triumphant Chief, and vanquish'd Foe:
In his own Dome, amid the spacious Walls,
Draw the deep Squadrons of the routed Gauls;

Their ravish'd Banners, and their Arms resign'd,
While the brave Hero thunders from behind;
Pours on their Front, or hangs upon their Rear;
Fights, leads, commands, and animates the War.
Let his strong Courser champ his golden Chain,
And proudly paw th'Imaginary Plain.
To Aghrim's bloody Wreaths let Cressi yield,
With the fair Laurels of Ramillia's Field.

Next, on the Sea the daring Hero show,
To chear his Friends, and terrify the Foe.
Lo! the great Chief to famish'd Thousands bears,
The Food of Armies, and Support of Wars.
The Britons rush'd with native Virtue fir'd,
And quell'd the Foe, or gloriously expir'd;
Plunging thro' Flames and Floods, their Valour broke
O'er the rang'd Cannon, and a Night of Smoke,

Thro' the wedg'd Legions urg'd their Noble Toil,
To spend their Thunder on the Tow'rs of Lisle;
While by his Deeds their Courage he inspires,
And wakes in every Breast the sleeping Fires.
Thus the whole Series of his Labours join,
Stretch'd from the Belgick Ocean to the Boyn.

Then glorious in retreat the Chief may read
Th'Immortal Actions of the Noble Dead;
And in recording Colours, with delight,
Review his Conquests, and enjoy the Fight;
See his own Deeds on each ennobled Plain;
While Fancy acts his Triumphs o'er again.

Thus on the Tyrian Walls Æneas read,
How stern Achilles rag'd, and Hector bled;

But half unsheath'd his Sword, and grip'd his Shield,
When He amidst the Scene himself beheld,
Thundring on Simois' Banks, or batt'ling in the Field.

Castor and Pollux.

Part of the second Book of Statius.

Now Jove's Command fulfill'd, the Son of May
Quits the black Shades, and slowly mounts to Day.
For lazy Clouds in gloomy Barriers rise,
Obstruct the God, and intercept the Skies;
No Zephyrs here their airy Pinions move,
To speed his Progress to the Realms above.
Scarce can He steer his dark laborious Flight,
Lost and encumber'd in the Damps of Night:
There roaring Tides of Fire his Course withstood,
Here Styx in nine wide Circles roll'd his Flood.

Behind old Laius trod th'infernal Ground,
Trembling with Age, and tardy from his Wound:
(For all his Force his furious Son apply'd,
And plung'd the guilty Faulchion in his Side.)
Propt and supported by the healing Rod,
The Shade pursued the Footsteps of the God.
The Groves that never bloom; the Stygian Coasts,
The House of Woe; the Mansions of the Ghosts,
Earth too admires to see the Ground give way,
And gild Hell's Horrors with the Gleams of Day.

But not with Life repining Envy fled,
She still reigns there, and lives among the Dead.
One from this Crowd exclaim'd, (whose lawless Will
Inur'd to Crimes, and exercis'd in Ill,
Taught his prepost'rous Joys from Pains to flow,
And never triumph'd, but in Scenes of Woe)

Go to thy Province in the Realms above,
Call'd by the Furies or the Will of Jove:
Or drawn by Magick Force or Mystick Spell,
Rise, and purge off the sooty Gloom of Hell.
Go, see the Sun, and whiten in his Beams,
Or haunt the flow'ry Fields and limpid Streams,
With Woes redoubled to return again,
When thy past Pleasures shall enhance thy Pain.

Now by the Stygian Dog they bent their Way;
Stretch'd in his Den the dreadful Monster lay;
But lay not long, for startling at the Sound,
Head above Head he rises from the Ground.
From their close Folds his starting Serpents break,
And curl in horrid Circles round his Neck.
This saw the God, and stretching forth his Hand,
Lull'd the grim Monster with his potent Wand;

Thro' his vast bulk the gliding Slumbers creep,
And seal down all his glaring Eyes in Sleep.

There lies a Place in Greece well known to Fame,
Thro' all her Realms, and Tænarus the Name,
Where from the Sea the Tops of Malea rise,
Beyond the ken of Mortals, to the Skies:
Proud in his height he calmly hears below
The distant Winds in hollow Murmurs blow.
Here sleep the Storms when weary'd and opprest,
And on his Head the drowsy Planets rest:
There in blue Mists his rocky sides he shrouds,
And here the tow'ring Mountain props the Clouds.
Above his awful Brow no Bird can fly,
And far beneath the mutt'ring Thunders die.
When down the Steep of Heav'n the Day descends,
The Sun so wide his floating Bound extends,

That o'er the Deeps the Mountain hangs display'd,
And covers half the Ocean with his Shade:
Where the Tænarian Shores oppose the Sea,
The Land retreats, and winds into a Bay.
Here for Repose Imperial Neptune leads,
Tir'd from th'Ægean Floods, his smoaking Steeds;
With their broad Hoofs they scoop the Beach away,
Their finny Train rolls back, and floats along the Sea.
Here Fame reports th'unbody'd Shades to go
Thro' this wide Passage to the Realms below.
From hence the Peasants, (as th'Arcadians tell,)
Hear all the Cries, and Groans, and Din of Hell.
Oft, as her Scourge of Snakes the Fury plies,
The piercing Ecchoes mount the distant Skies;
Scar'd at the Porter's triple Roar, the Swains
Have fled astonish'd, and forsook the Plains.

From hence emergent in a mantling Cloud
Sprung to his native Skies the winged God.
Swift from his Face before th'Ethereal Ray,
Flew all the black Tartarean Stains away,
And the dark Stygian Gloom refin'd to Day.
Oe'r Towns and Realms he held his Progress on,
Now wing'd the Skies where bright Arcturus shone,
And now the silent Empire of the Moon.
The Pow'r of Sleep, who met his radiant Flight,
And drove the solemn Chariot of the Night,
Rose with Respect, and from th'empyreal Road
Turn'd his pale Steeds, in reverence to the God.
The Shade beneath pursues his Course, and spies
The well-known Planets, and congenial Skies.
His Eyes from far, tall Cyrrha's Heights explore,
And Phocian Fields polluted with his Gore.

At length to Thebes he came, and with a Groan
Survey'd the guilty Palace once his own;
With awful Silence stalk'd before the Gate,
But when he saw the Trophies of his Fate,
High on a Column rais'd against the Door,
And his rich Chariot still deform'd with Gore,
He starts with horror back; ev'n Jove's Command
Could scarce controul him, nor the Vital Wand.

'Twas now the solemn Day; when Jove array'd
In all his Thunders, grasp'd the Theban Maid:
Then took from blasted Semele her Load,
And in himself conceiv'd the future God.
For this the Thebans revel'd in Delight,
And gave to Play and Luxury the Night;
A National Debauch! confus'd they lie
Stretch'd o'er the Fields, their Canopy the Sky.

The sprightly Trumpets sound, the Timbrels play,
And wake with sacred Harmony the Day.
The Matron's Breast the gracious Pow'r inspires
With milder Raptures, and with softer Fires.

So the Bistonian Race, a madding Train,
Exult and revel on the Thracian Plain;
With Milk their bloody Banquets they allay,
Or from the Lion rend his panting Prey:
On some abandon'd Savage fiercely fly,
Seize, tear, devour, and think it Luxury.
But if the rising Fumes of Wine conspire
To warm their Rage, and fan the brutal Fire,
Then Scenes of Horror are their dear Delight,
They whirl the Goblets, and provoke the Fight:
Then on the Slain the Revel is renew'd,
And all the horrid Banquet floats in Blood.

And now the winged Hermes from on high,
Shot in deep Silence from the dusky Sky;
Then hover'd o'er the Theban Tyrant's Head,
As stretch'd at ease he prest his gorgeous Bed:
Where labour'd Tapestry from side to side,
Glow'd with rich Figures, and Assyrian Pride.
Oh! the precarious Terms of Human State!
How blind is Man? how thoughtless of his Fate?
See! thro' his Limbs the Dews of Slumber creep,
Sunk as he lies, in Luxury and Sleep.
The Reverend Shade commission'd from above,
Hastes to fulfill the high Behests of Jove:
Like blind Tiresias to the Bed he came,
In Form, in Habit, and in Voice the same.
Pale, as before, the Phantom still appear'd,
Down his wan Bosom flow'd a length of Beard;

His Head an imitated Fillet wore,
His Hand a Wreath of peaceful Olive bore:
With this he touch'd the sleeping Monarch's Breast,
And in his own, the Voice of Fate, exprest.

Then can'st thou sleep, to thoughtless Rest resign'd?
And drive thy Brother's Image from thy Mind?
Yon' gath'ring Storm demands thy timely Care,
See! how it rolls this way the Tide of War.
When o'er the Seas the sweeping Whirlwinds fly,
And roar from ev'ry Quarter of the Sky;
The Pilot in despair the Ship to save,
Gives up the Helm, a Sport to ev'ry Wave:
Such is thy Error, and thy Fate the same;
(For know, I speak the common Voice of Fame.)
Proud in his new Alliances, from far
Against thy Realm he meditates the War;

Big with ambitious Hopes to reign alone,
And swell unrivall'd on the Theban Throne.
New Signs and fatal Prodigies inspire
His mad Ambition, with his boasted Sire;
And Argos' ample Realms in Dow'r bestow'd,
And Tydeus reeking from his Brother's Blood,
League and conspire to raise him to the Throne,
And make his tedious Banishment thy own.
For this, with pity touch'd, Almighty Jove,
The Sire of Gods, dispatch'd me from above.
Be still a Monarch; let him swell in vain
With the gay Prospect of a fancy'd Reign:
Still let him hope by Fraud, or by the Sword,
To humble Thebes beneath a foreign Lord.

Thus the majestick Ghost; but e'er he fled,
He pluck'd the Wreaths, and Fillets from his Head.

For now the sick'ning Stars were chac'd away,
And Heav'ns immortal Coursers breath'd the Day.
Awful to Sight confest the Grandsire stood,
Bare'd his wide Wound, and all his Bosom show'd,
Then dash'd the sleeping Monarch with his Blood.

With a distracted Air, and sudden Spring,
Starts from his broken Sleep the trembling King,
Shakes off amaz'd th'imaginary Gore,
While Fancy paints the Scene he saw before:
Deep in his Soul his Grandsire's Image wrought,
And all his Brother rose in ev'ry Thought.

So while the Toils are spread, and from behind
The Hunter's Shouts come thick'ning in the Wind;
The Tyger starts from Sleep the War to wage,
Collects his Pow'rs, and rouses all his Rage:

Sternly he grinds his Fangs, he weighs his Might,
And whets his dreadful Talons for the Fight;
Then to his Young he bears his Foe away,
His Foe, at once the Chacer and the Prey.
Thus on his Brother He in every Thought,
Wage'd future Wars, and Battles yet unfought.

On the Death of a Young Gentleman.

With Joy, blest Youth, we saw thee reach thy Goal;
Fair was thy Frame, and beautiful thy Soul;
The Graces and the Muses came combin'd,
These to adorn the Body, those the Mind;
'Twas there we saw the softest Manners meet,
Truth, Sweetness, Judgment, Innocence, and Wit.
So form'd, he flew his Race; 'twas quickly won;
'Twas but a Step, and finish'd when begun.
Nature herself surpriz'd would add no more,
His Life compleat in all its Parts before;

But his few Years with pleasing Wonder told,
By Vertues, not by Days; and thought him old.
So far beyond his Age those Virtues ran,
That in a Boy she found him more than Man.
For Years let Wretches importune the Skies,
Till at the long expence of Anguish wise,
They live, to count their Days by Miseries.
Those win the Prize, who soonest run the Race,
And Life burns brightest in the shortest Space.
So to the Convex-Glass embody'd run,
Drawn to a Point the Glories of the Sun;
At once the gath'ring Beams intensely glow,
And thro' the streighten'd Circle fiercely flow:
In one strong Flame conspire the blended Rays,
Run to a Fire, and croud into a Blaze.

Christ's PASSION, From a Greek Ode of Mr. Masters, formerly of New College.

An ODE.

I.

No more of earthly Subjects sing,
To Heav'n, my Muse, aspire;
To raise the Song, change every String,
And strike the Living Lyre.
Begin; in lofty Numbers show,
Th'Eternal King's unfathom'd Love,
Who reigns the Sov'reign God above,
And suffers on the Cross below.

Prodigious Pile of Wonders! rais'd too high
For the dim ken of frail Mortality.
What Numbers shall I bring along?
From whence shall I begin the Song?
The mighty Mystery I'll sing inspir'd
Beyond the reach of human Wisdom wrought,
Beyond the Compass of an Angel's Thought,
How by the Rage of Man his God expir'd.

II.

I'll make the trackless Depths of Mercy known,
How to Redeem his Foe God render'd up his Son;
I'll raise my Voice to tell Mankind
The Victor's Conquest o'er his Doom,
How in the Grave he lay confin'd,
To seal more sure the rav'nous Tomb.

Three Days th'infernal Empire to subdue,
He past Triumphant thro' the Coasts of Woe;
With his own Dart the Tyrant Death He slew,
And led Hell captive thro' her Realms below.

III.

A mingled Sound from Calvary I hear,
And the loud Tumult thickens on my Ear,
The Shouts of Murd'rers that insult the Slain,
The Voice of Torment and the Shrieks of Pain.
I cast my Eyes with horror up
To the curst Mountain's guilty Top;
See there! whom hanging in the midst I view!
Ah! how unlike the other two!
I see him high above his Foes,
And gently bending from the Wood
His Head in Pity down to Those,
Whose Guilt conspires to shed his Blood.

His wide-extended Arms I see,
Transfix'd with Nails, and fasten'd to the Tree.

IV.

Man! senseless Man! canst thou look on?
Nor make thy Saviour's Pains thy Own:
The Rage of all thy Grief exert,
Rend thy Garments and thy Heart:
Beat thy Breast, and grovel low,
Beneath the Burden of thy Woe;
Bleed thro' thy Bowels, tear thy Hairs,
Breath Gales of Sighs, and weep a Flood of Tears.
Behold thy King with Purple cover'd round,
Not in the Tyrian Tinctures dy'd,
Nor dipt in Poison of Sidonian Pride,
But in his own rich Blood that streams from every Wound.

Dost thou not see the Thorny Circle red?
The guilty Wreath that blushes round his Head?
And with what Rage the bloody Scourge apply'd,
Curls round his Limbs, and ploughs into his Side?

V.

At such a sight let all thy Anguish rise,
Break up, break up the Fountains of thy Eyes.
Here bid thy Tears in gushing Torrents flow,
Indulge thy Grief, and give a loose to Woe.
Weep from thy Soul, till Earth be drown'd,
Weep, till thy Sorrows drench the Ground.
Canst Thou, Ungrateful Man! his Torments see,
Nor drop a Tear for Him, who pours his Blood for Thee?

On the King's Return, In the YEAR, 1720.

I

Return, auspicious Prince, again,
Nor let Britannia mourn in vain;
Too long, too long, has she deplor'd
Her absent Father and her Lord.

II

To bend her gracious Monarch's Mind,
She sends her Sighs in every Wind:
Can Britain's Pray'r be thrown aside?
And that the first He e'er deny'd!

III

Yet, mighty Prince, vouchsafe to smile,
Return, and bless our longing Isle;
Tho' fond Germania begs thy stay,
And courts Thee from our Eyes away.

IV

Tho' Belgia would our King detain,
We know she begs and pleads in vain;
We know our gracious King prefers
Britannia's Happiness to Her's.

V

And lo! to save us from Despair,
At length he listens to our Pray'r.
Dejected Albion's Vows He hears,
And hastes to dry her falling Tears.

VI

He hears his anxious People pray,
And loudly call their King away,
Once more their longing Eyes to bless,
And guard their Freedom and their Peace.

VII

They know while Brunswick fills the Throne,
The Seasons glide with Pleasure on;
The British Suns improve their Rays,
Adorn, and beautify the Days.

VIII

But see the Royal Vessel flies,
Less'ning to Belgia's weeping Eyes:
She proudly sails for Albion's Shores,
Guard her, ye Gods, with all your Pow'rs.

IX

O Sea, bid every Wave subside,
And teach Allegiance to thy Tide;
Thy Billows in Subjection keep,
And own the Monarch of the Deep.

X

Old Thames can scarce his Joy sustain,
But runs down headlong to the Main,
His mighty Master to descry,
And leaves his spacious Channel dry.

XI

Augusta's Sons from either Hand
Pour forth, and darken all the Strand;
Their Eyes pursue the Royal Barge,
Which now resigns her sacred Charge.

XII

Th'unruly Transport shakes the shore,
And drowns the feeble Cannon's Roar;
The Nations in the sight rejoice,
And send their Souls in every Voice.

XIII

But now amidst the loud Applause,
With shame the conscious Muse withdraws;
Nor can her Voice be heard amidst the Throng,
The Theme so lofty, and so low the Song.

ON THE MASQUERADES.

Si Natura negat, facit Indignatio Versum.

Well—we have reach'd the Precipice at last;
The present Age of Vice obscures the past.
Our dull Forefathers were content to stay,
Nor sin'd, till Nature pointed out the Way:
No Arts they practis'd to forestall Delight,
But stop'd, to wait the Calls of Appetite.
Their Top-Debauches were at best precise,
An unimprov'd Simplicity of Vice.

But this blest Age has found a fairer Road,
And left the Paths their Ancestors had trod.

Nay, We could wear (our Taste so very nice is)
Their old Cast-fashions sooner than their Vices.
Whoring till now a common Trade has been,
But Masquerades refine upon the Sin:
An higher Taste to Wickedness impart,
And second Nature with the helps of Art.
New Ways and Means to Pleasure we devise,
Since Pleasure looks the lovelier in Disguise.
The Stealth and Frolick give a smarter Gust,
Add Wit to Vice, and Elegance to Lust.

In vain, the modish Evil to redress,
At once conspire the Pulpit and the Press:
Our Priests and Poets preach and write in vain;
All Satyr's lost both sacred and profane.
So many various Changes to impart,
Would tire an Ovid's or a Proteus' Art;

Where lost in one promiscuous Whim we see,
Sex, Age, Condition, Quality, Degree.
Where the facetious Crowd Themselves lay down,
And take up every Person but their Own.
Fools, Dukes, Rakes, Cardinals, Fops, Indian Queens,
Belles in Tye-wigs, and Lords in Harlequins;
Troops of Right-Honourable Porters come,
And garter'd Small-coal-Merchants crowd the Room:
Valets adorn'd with Coronets appear,
Lacqueys of State, and Footmen with a Star:
Sailors of Quality with Judges mix,
And Chimney-sweepers drive their Coach and Six.
Statesmen so us'd at Court the Mask to wear,
With less disguise assume the Vizor here.
Officious Hey---r deceives our Eyes,
For his own Person is His best Disguise:
And half the reigning Toasts of equal Grace,
Trust to the natural Vizor of the Face.

Ideots turn Conjurers; and Courtiers Clowns;
And Sultans drop their Handkerchiefs to Nuns.
Starch'd Quakers glare in Furbelows and Silk;
Beaux deal in Sprats, and Dutchesses cry Milk.

But guard thy Fancy, Muse, nor stain thy Pen
With the lewd Joys of this fantastick Scene;
Where Sexes blend in one confus'd Intrigue,
Where the Girls ravish, and the Men grow big:
Nor credit what the idle World has said,
Of Lawyers forc'd, and Judges brought to bed:
Or that to Belles their Brothers breathe their Vows,
Or Husbands thro' mistake gallant a Spouse.
Such dire Disasters, and a numerous Throng
Of like Enormities require the Song.
But the chaste Muse, with Blushes cover'd o'er,
Retires confus'd, and will reveal no more.

On a Shadow.

An ODE.

I

How are deluded Human Kind
By empty Shows betray'd?
In all their Hopes and Schemes they find
A Nothing or a Shade.

II

The Prospects of a Truncheon cast
The Soldier on the Wars;
Dismist with shatter'd Limbs at last,
Brats, Poverty, and Scars.

III

The fond Philosophers for Gain,
Will leave unturn'd no Stone,
But tho' they toil with endless Pain,
They never find their Own.

IV

By the same Rock the Chymists drown,
And find no friendly hold,
But melt their ready Specie down,
In hopes of fancy'd Gold.

V

What is the mad Projector's Care?
In hopes elate and swelling,
He builds his Castles in the Air,
Yet wants an House to dwell in.

VI

At Court the poor Dependants fail,
And damn their fruitless Toil,
When complimented thence to Jayl,
And ruin'd with a Smile.

VII

How to Philosophers will sound
So strange a Truth display'd?
“There's not a Substance to be found,
“But every where a Shade.

To Cælia playing on a Lute.

An ODE.

I

While Cælia's Hands fly swiftly o'er,
And strike this soft Machine,
Her Touch awakes the Springs, and Life
Of Harmony within.

II

Sweetly they sink into the Strings,
The quiv'ring Strings rebound,
Each Stroke obsequiously obey,
And tremble into Sound.

III

Oh! had You blest the Years of old;
His Lute had Ovid strung,
And dwelt on yours, the charming Theme
Of his immortal Song.

IV

Your's, with Arion's wondrous Harp,
The Bard had hung on high;
And on the new-born Star bestow'd
The Honours of the Sky.

V

The radiant Spheres had ceas'd their Tunes,
And danc'd in silence on,
Pleas'd the new Harmony to hear,
More Heav'nly than their own.

VI

Of old to raise One Shade from Hell,
To Orpheus was it giv'n:
But every Tune of Yours calls down
An Angel from his Heav'n.

To the Unknown Author of The Battle of the Sexes.

The Theme in other Works for every Part,
Supplies Materials to the Builder's Art:
To build from Matter is sublimely great,
But Gods and Poets only can create;
And such are you; Their Privilege you claim
To show your Wonders, but conceal your Name.

Like some establish'd King, without controul,
You take a general Progress thro' the Soul;
Survey each Part, examine every Side,
Where she's secure, and where unfortify'd.

In faithful Lines her History declare,
And trace the Causes of her Civil War;
Your Pen no partial Prejudices sway,
But Truth decides, and Virtue wins the Day.

Thro' what gay Fields and flow'ry Scenes we pass,
Where Fancy sports, and Fiction leads the Chace?
Where Life, as thro' her various Acts she tends,
Like other Comedies in Marriage ends.

What Muse but yours so justly could display
Th'embattled Passions marshal'd in array?
Bid the rang'd Appetites in Order move,
Give Lust a Figure, and a Shape to Love?
To airy Notions solid Forms dispense,
And make our Thoughts the Images of Sense?
Discover all the Rational Machine,
And show the Movements, Springs, and Wheels within?

But Hymen waves his Torch, all Discords cease;
All parly, drop their Arms, and sue for Peace.
Soon as the Signal flames, they quit the Fight,
For All at first but differ'd to unite.
From every Part the Lines in Order move,
And sweetly center in the Point of Love.

Let Blockheads to the musty Schools repair,
And poach for Morals and the Passions there,
Where Virtue, like a Dwarf in Giant's Arms,
Cumber'd with Words, and manacled in Terms,
Serves to amuse the Philosophick Fool,
By Method dry, and Regularly Dull.
Who sees thy Lines so visibly express
The Soul herself in such a pleasing Dress;
May from thy Labours be convinc'd and taught,
How Spenser would have Sung, and Plato Thought.

The Twelfth Ode of the first Book of Horace, translated.

I

What Man, what Hero will you raise,
By the shrill Pipe, or deeper Lyre?
What God, O Clio, will you praise,
And teach the Ecchoes to admire?

II

Amidst the Shades of Helicon
Cold Hæmus' tops, or Pindus' Head,
Whence the glad Forests hasten'd down,
And danc'd as tuneful Orpheus play'd.

III

Taught by the Muse, He stop'd the Fall
Of rapid Floods, and charm'd the Wind;
The list'ning Oaks obey'd the Call,
And left their wond'ring Hills behind.

IV

Whom should I first record, but Jove,
Whose Sway extends o'er Sea and Land,
The King of Men and Gods above,
Who holds the Seasons in Command?

V

To rival Jove shall none aspire,
None shall to equal Glory rise;
But Pallas claims beneath her Sire,
The second Honours of the Skies.

VI

To Thee, O Bacchus, great in War,
To Dian will I strike the String,
Of Phœbus wounding from afar,
In Numbers like his own I'll sing.

VII

The Muse Alcides shall resound;
The Twins of Leda shall succeed;
This for the standing Fight renown'd,
And that for managing the Steed.

VIII

Whose Star shines innocently still;
The Clouds disperse, the Tempests cease,
The Waves obedient to their Will,
Sink down, and hush their Rage to Peace.

IX

Next shall I Numa's pious Reign,
Or thine, O Romulus, relate;
Or Rome by Brutus free'd again,
Or haughty Cato's Glorious Fate?

X

Or dwell on noble Paulus' Fame?
Too lavish of the Patriots Blood?
Or Regulus' Immortal Name,
Too obstinately Just and Good?

XI

These with Camillus brave and bold,
And other Chiefs of matchless Might,
Rome's Virtuous Poverty of old,
Severely season'd to the Fight.

XII

Like Trees, Marcellus' Glory grows,
With an insensible Advance;
The Julian Star, like Cynthia, glows,
Who leads the Planetary Dance.

XIII

The Fates, O Sire of Human Race,
Entrust Great Cæsar to thy Care,
Give Him to hold thy second Place,
And reign thy sole Vicegerent here.

XIV

And whether India he shall tame,
Or to his Chains the Seres doom;
Or mighty Parthia dreads his Name,
And bows her haughty Neck to Rome.

XV

While on our Groves thy Bolts are hurl'd,
And thy loud Car shakes Heav'n above,
He shall with Justice awe the World,
To none Inferior but to Jove.

The 22d Ode of the first Book of Horace.

I

The Man unsully'd with a Crime,
Disdains the Pangs of Fear,
He scorns to dip the poison'd Shaft,
Or poise the glittering Spear.

II

Nor with the loaded Quiver goes
To take the dreadful Field;
His solid Virtue is his Helm,
And Innocence his Shield.

III

In vain the fam'd Hydaspes' Tides,
Obstruct and bar the Road,
He smiles on Danger, and enjoys
The Roarings of the Flood.

IV

All Climes are Native, and forgets
Th'Extreams of Heats and Frosts,
The Scythian Caucasus grows warm,
And cool the Lybian Coasts.

V

For while I wander'd thro' the Woods,
And rang'd the lonely Grove,
Lost and bewilder'd in the Songs
And pleasing Cares of Love;

VI

A Wolf beheld me from afar,
Of monstrous Bulk and Might,
But naked as I was, he fled
And trembled at the Sight.

VII

A Beast so huge, nor Daunia's Groves,
Nor Africk ever view'd;
Tho' nurst by Her, the Lion reigns
The Monarch of the Wood.

VIII

Expose Me in those horrid Climes,
Where not a gentle Breeze
Revives the Vegetable Race,
Or chears the drooping Trees.

IX

Where on the World's remotest Verge
Th'unactive Seasons lie,
And not one genial Ray unbinds
The Rigor of the Sky.

X

On that unhabitable Shore,
Expose me all alone,
Where I may view without a Shade,
The culminating Sun.

XI

Beneath th'Æquator, or the Pole,
In safety could I rove;
And in a thousand different Climes
Could live for Her I love.

A PROLOGUE For the STROLLERS.

Genteels, of old pert Prologues led the way,
To guide, defend, and usher in the Play
As powder'd Footmen run before the Coach,
And thunder at the Door my Lord's Approach.
But tho' they speak your Entertainment near,
Most Prologues speed like other Bills of Fare;
Seldom the languid Stomach they excite,
And oftner pall, than raise the Appetite.

As for the Play—'tis hardly worth our Care,
The Prologue craves your Mercy for the Play'r;
That is, your Money—for by Jove I swear,
White-Gloves and Lodging are confounded dear.
Since here are none but Friends the Truth to own,
Hasp'd in a Coach our Company came down,
But I most shrewdly fear we shall depart,
Ev'n in our old Original, a Cart.

With Pride inverted, and Fantastick Pow'r,
We strut the fancy'd Monarchs of an Hour;
While Duns our Emperors and Heroes fear,
And Cleomenes starves in earnest here:
The mightiest Kings and Queens we keep in Pay,
Support their Pomp on Eighteen-pence a Day.

Great Cyrus for a Dram has pawn'd his Coat,
And all our Cæsars can't command a Groat;
Our Scipio's, Hannibals, and Pompeys break,
And Cleopatra shifts but once a Week.

To aggravate the Case, we have not One,
Of all the new Refinements of the Town:
No moving Statues, no lewd Harlequins,
No Pastboard-Play'rs, no Heroes in Machines;
No Rosin to flash Lightning—'twould exhaust us,
To buy a Devil and a Doctor Faustus.
No Windmills, Dragons, Millers, Conjurers,
To exercise your Eyes, and spare your Ears;
No Paper-Seas, no Thunder from the Skies,
No Witches to descend, no Stage to rise;
Scarce One for us the Actors—We can set
Nothing before you but meer Sense and Wit.

A bare downright old-fashion'd English Feast,
Such as true Britons only can digest;
Such as your homely Fathers us'd to love,
Who only came to hear and to improve:
Humbly content and pleas'd with what was drest,
When Otway, Lee, and Shakespear rang'd the Feast.

The Spartan Hero, a Tragedy, by Mr. Dryden.

The 8th Psalm Translated.

I

O King Eternal and Divine!
The World is thine alone:
Above the Stars thy Glories shine,
Above the Heav'ns thy Throne.

II

How far extends thy mighty Name?
Where'er the Sun can roll,
That Sun thy Wonders shall proclaim,
Thy Deeds from Pole to Pole.

III

The Infant's Tongue shall speak thy Pow'r,
And vindicate thy Laws;
The Tongue that never spoke before,
Shall labour in thy Cause.

IV

For when I lift my Thoughts and Eyes,
And view the Heav'ns around,
Yon' stretching Waste of azure Skies,
With Stars, and Planets crown'd;

V

Who in their Dance attend the Moon,
The Empress of the Night,
And pour around her Silver Throne,
Their tributary Light:

VI

Lord! what is mortal Man? that He
Thy kind Regard should share?
What is his Son, who claims from Thee
And challenges thy Care?

VII

Next to the blest Angelick Kind,
Thy Hands created Man,
And this inferior World assign'd,
To dignify his Span.

VIII

Him all revere, and all obey
His delegated Reign,
The Flocks that thro' the Valley stray,
The Herds that graze the Plain.

IX

The furious Tyger speeds his flight,
And trembles at his Pow'r,
In fear of his superior Might,
The Lions cease to roar.

X

Whatever horrid Monsters tread
The Paths beneath the Sea,
Their King at awful Distance dread,
And sullenly obey.

XI

O Lord, how far extends thy Name?
Where-e'er the Sun can roll:
That Sun thy Wonders shall proclaim,
Thy Deeds from Pole to Pole.

100

Psalm the 24th Paraphras'd.

I

Far as the World can stretch its Bounds,
The Lord is King of All,
His wond'rous Pow'r extends around
The Circuit of the Ball.

II

For he within the gloomy Deeps
Its dark Foundations cast,
And rear'd the Pillars of the Earth
Amid the wat'ry Waste.

101

III

Who shall ascend his Sion's Hill,
And see Jehovah there?
Who from his sacred Shrine shall breathe
The Sacrifice of Pray'r?

IV

He only whose unsully'd Soul,
Fair Virtue's Paths has trod,
Who with clean Hands and Heart regards
His Neighbour and his God.

V

On him shall his Indulgent Lord
Diffusive Bounties shed,
From God his Saviour shall descend
All Blessings on his Head.

102

VI

Of those who seek his Righteous Ways,
Is this the chosen Race,
Who bask in all his bounteous Smiles,
And flourish in his Grace.

VII

Lift up your stately Heads, ye Doors,
With hasty Reverence rise;
Ye everlasting Doors, who guard
The Passes of the Skies.

VIII

Swift from your golden Hinges leap,
Your Barriers roll away,
Now throw your blazing Portals wide,
And burst the Gates of Day.

103

IX

For see! the King of Glory comes
Along th'ethereal Road,
The Cherubs thro' your Folds shall bear
The Triumph of your God.

X

Who is this great and glorious King?
Oh! 'tis the Lord whose Might
Decides the Conquest, and suspends
The Ballance of the Fight.

XI

Lift up your stately Heads, ye Doors,
With hasty Rev'rence rise;
Ye everlasting Doors, who guard
The Passes of the Skies.

104

XII

Swift from your golden Hinges leap,
Your Barriers roll away,
Now throw your blazing Portals wide
And burst the Gates of Day.

XIII

For see! the King of Glory comes
Along th'ethereal Road,
The Cherubs thro' your Folds shall bear
The Triumphs of their God.

XIV

Who is this great and glorious King?
Oh! 'tis the God, whose Care
Leads on his Israel to the Field,
Whose Pow'r controuls the War.

105

Psalm the 29th.

Ye mighty Princes your Oblations bring,
And pay due Honours to your awful King;
His boundless Pow'r to all the World proclaim,
Bend at his Shrine, and tremble at his Name.
For hark! his Voice with unresisted Sway,
Rules and controuls the Raging of the Sea;
Within due bounds the mighty Ocean keeps,
And in their watry Cavern awes the Deeps:
Shook by that Voice, the nodding Groves around
Start from their Roots, and fly the dreadful Sound.
The blasted Cedars low in Dust are laid,
And Lebanon is left without a Shade.

106

See! when he speaks, the lofty Mountains croud,
And fly for shelter from the thund'ring God:
Sirion and Lebanon like Hinds advance,
And in wild Measures lead th'unwieldy Dance.
His Voice, his mighty Voice divides the Fire,
Back from the Blast the shrinking Flames retire.
Ev'n Cades trembles when Jehovah speaks,
With all his Savages the Desart shakes.
At the dread Sound the Hinds with fear are stung,
And in the lonely Forest drop their Young.
While in his hallow'd Temple All proclaim
His glorious Honours, and adore his Name.
High o'er the foaming Surges of the Sea,
He sits, and bids the list'ning Deeps obey:
He reigns o'er all; for ever lasts his Pow'r
Till Nature sinks, and Time shall be no more.
With Strength the Sons of Israel shall he bless,
And crown our Tribes, with Happiness and Peace.

107

Psalm the 46th Paraphras'd.

I

On God we build our sure Defence,
In God our Hope repose;
His Hand protects us in the Fight,
And guards us from our Woes.

II

Then, be the Earth's unwieldy Frame
From its Foundations hurl'd,
We may, unmov'd with Fear, enjoy
The Ruins of the World.

108

III

What tho' the solid Rocks be rent,
In Tempests whirl'd away?
What tho' the Hills should burst their Roots,
And roll into the Sea?

IV

Thou Sea, with dreadful Tumults swell,
And bid thy Waters rise
In furious Surges, till they dash
The Flood-gates of the Skies.

V

Our Minds shall be serene and calm,
Like Siloah's peaceful Flood;
Whose soft and silver Streams refresh
The City of our God.

109

VI

Within the proud delighted Waves,
The wanton Turrets play;
The Streams lead down their humid Train,
Reluctant to the Sea.

VII

Amid the Scene the Temple floats,
With its reflected Tow'rs,
Gilds all the Surface of the Flood,
And dances to the Shores.

VIII

With wonder see what mighty Pow'r
Our sacred Sion chears,
Lo! there amidst her stately Walls,
Her God, her God appears.

110

IX

Fixt on her Basis she shall stand,
And innocently proud,
Smile on the Tumults of the World,
Beneath the Wings of God.

X

See! how their Weakness to proclaim,
The Heathen Tribes engage?
See! how with fruitless Wrath they burn,
And Impotence of Rage!

XI

But God has spoke; and lo! the World,
His Terrors to display,
With all the melting Globe of Earth
Drops silently away.

111

XII

Still to the mighty Lord of Hosts
Securely we resort;
For Refuge fly to Jacob's God,
Our Succour and Support.

XIII

Hither ye numerous Nations croud,
In silent Rapture stand,
And see o'er all the Earth display'd
The Wonders of his Hand.

XIV

He bids the Din of War be still,
And all its Tumults cease;
He bids the guiltless Trumpet sound
The Harmony of Peace.

112

XV

He breaks the tough reluctant Bow,
He bursts the brazen Spear,
And in the crackling Fire his Hand
Consumes the blazing Car.

XVI

Hear then his formidable Voice,
“Be still, and know the Lord;
“By all the Heathen I'll be fear'd;
“By all the Earth ador'd.

XVII

Still to the mighty Lord of Hosts,
Securely we resort;
For Refuge fly to Jacob's God;
Our Succour and Support.

113

Psalm the 90th Paraphras'd.

I

Thy Hand, O Lord, thro' rolling Years
Has sav'd us from Despair,
From Period down to Period stretch'd
The Prospects of thy Care.

II

Before the World was first conceiv'd,
Before the pregnant Earth,
Call'd forth the Mountains from her Womb,
Who struggled to their Birth;

114

III

Eternal God! thy early Days
Beyond Duration run,
E'er the first Race of starting Time
Was measur'd by the Sun.

IV

We die; but future Nations hear
Thy potent Voice again,
Rise at the Summons, and restore
The perish'd Race of Man;

V

Before thy Comprehensive Sight,
Duration fleets away;
And rapid Ages on the Wing,
Fly swifter than a Day.

115

VI

As great Jehovah's piercing Eyes
Eternity explore,
The longest Æra is a Night,
A Period is an Hour.

VII

We at thy mighty Call, O Lord,
Our fancy'd Beings leave,
Rous'd from the flatt'ring Dream of Life,
To sleep within the Grave.

VIII

Swift from their Barrier to their Goal
The rapid Moments pass,
And leave poor Man, for whom they run,
The Emblem of the Grass.

116

IX

In the first Morn of Life it grows,
And lifts its verdant Head,
At Noon decays, at Ev'ning dies,
And withers in the Mead.

X

We in the Glories of thy Face
Our secret Sins survey,
And see how gloomy those appear,
How pure and radiant they.

XI

To Death as our appointed Goal
Thy Anger drives us on,
To that full Period fix'd at length
This Tale of Life is done.

117

XII

With winged speed, to stated Bounds
And Limits, must we fly,
While seventy rolling Suns compleat
Their Circles in the Sky.

XIII

Or if ten more around us roll,
'Tis Labour, Woe, and Strife,
Till we at length are quite drawn down
To the last Dregs of Life.

XIV

But who, O Lord, regards thy Wrath,
Tho' dreadful and severe?
That Wrath, whatever fear he feels,
Is equal to his Fear.

118

XV

So teach Us, Lord, to count our Days,
And eye their constant Race,
To measure what we want in Time,
By Wisdom, and by Grace.

XVI

With Us repent, and on our Hearts
Thy choicest Graces shed,
And show'r from thy celestial Throne
Thy Blessings on our Head.

XVII

Oh! may thy Mercy crown us here,
And come without delay;
Then our whole Course of Life will seem
One glad Triumphant Day.

119

XVIII

Now the blest Years of Joy restore,
For those of Grief and Strife,
And with one pleasant Drop allay
This bitter Draught of Life.

XIX

Thy Wonders to the World display,
Thy Servants to adorn,
That may delight their future Sons,
And Children yet unborn;

XX

Thy Beams of Majesty diffuse,
With them thy great Commands,
And bid Prosperity attend
The Labours of our Hands.

120

The 139th Psalm paraphras'd in Miltonick Verse.

O dread Jehovah! thy all-piercing Eyes
Explore the Motions of this mortal Frame,
This Tenement of Dust: Thy stretching Sight
Surveys th'harmonious Principles, that move
In beauteous Rank and Order, to inform
This Cask, and animated Mass of Clay.
Nor are the Prospects of thy wond'rous Sight
To this terrestrial part of Man confin'd;
But shoot into his Soul, and there discern
The first Materials of unfashion'd Thought,

121

Yet dim and undigested, till the Mind,
Big with the tender Images, expands,
And swelling, labours with th'Ideal Birth.

Where-e'er I move, thy Cares pursue my Feet
Attendant. When I drink the Dews of Sleep,
Stretch'd on my downy Bed, and there enjoy
A sweet Forgetfulness of all my Toils,
Unseen, thy Sovereign Presence guards my Sleep,
Wafts all the Terrors of my Dreams away,
Sooths all my Soul, and softens my Repose.

Before Conception can employ the Tongue,
And mould the ductile Images to Sound;
Before Imagination stands display'd,
Thine Eye the future Eloquence can read,
Yet unarray'd with Speech. Thou, mighty Lord!
Hast moulded Man from his congenial Dust,

122

And spoke him into Being; while the Clay,
Beneath thy forming Hand, leap'd forth, inspir'd,
And started into Life: thro' every Part,
At thy Command, the Wheels of Motion play'd.

But such exalted Knowledge leaves below
And drops poor Man from its superior Sphere.
In vain, with Reason's Ballast, would He try
To stem th'unfathomable Depth; his Bark
O'er-sets, and founders in the vast Abyss.

Then whither shall the rapid Fancy run,
Tho' in its full Career, to speed my Flight
From thy unbounded Presence? which, alone,
Fills all the Regions and extended Space
Beyond the Bounds of Nature! Whither, Lord!
Shall my unrein'd Imagination rove,
To leave behind thy Spirit, and out-fly

123

Its Influence, which, with brooding Wings, out-spread
Hatch'd unfledg'd Nature from the dark Profound.

If mounted on my tow'ring Thoughts I climb
Into the Heav'n of Heav'ns; I there behold
The Blaze of thy unclouded Majesty!
In the pure Empyrean Thee I view,
High thron'd above all height, thy radiant Shrine,
Throng'd with the prostrate Seraphs, who receive
Beatitude past utt'rance! If I plunge
Down to the Gloom of Tartarus profound,
There too I find Thee, in the lowest Bounds
Of Erebus, and read Thee, in the Scenes
Of complicated Wrath: I see thee clad
In all the Majesty of Darkness there.

If, on the ruddy Morning's purple Wings
Up-born, with indefatigable Course,

124

I seek the glowing Borders of the East,
Where the bright Sun, emergent from the Deeps,
With his first Glories gilds the sparkling Seas,
And trembles o'er the Waves; ev'n there, thy Hand
Shall thro' the watry Desart, guide my Course,
And o'er the broken Surges pave my Way,
While on the dreadful Whirles I hang secure,
And mock the warring Oceans. If, with Hopes,
As fond as false, the Darkness I expect
To hide, and wrap me in its mantling Shade,
Vain were the Thought; for thy unbounded Ken
Darts thro' the thickning Gloom, and pries thro' All
The palpable Obscure. Before thy Eyes,
The vanquish'd Night throws off her dusky Shrowd'
And kindles into Day: the Shade, and Light,
To Man still various, but the same to Thee.

125

On Thee, is all the Structure of my Frame
Dependant. Lock'd within the silent Womb,
Sleeping I lay, and rip'ning to my Birth;
Yet, Lord! thy out-stretch'd Arm preserv'd me there;
Before I mov'd to Entity and trod
The Verge of Being. To thy hallow'd Name
I'll pay due Honours: for thy mighty Hand
Built this Corporeal Fabrick, when it laid
The Ground-work of Existence. Hence, I read
The Wonders of thy Art. This Frame I view
With Terror and Delight; and wrapt in both,
I startle at myself. My Bones, unform'd
As yet, nor hard'ning from the viscous parts,
But blended with th'unanimated Mass,
Thy Eye distinctly view'd; and, while I lay
Within the Earth, imperfect, nor perceiv'd

126

The first faint Dawn of Life, with ease survey'd
The vital Glimm'rings of the active Seeds,
Just kindling to Existence; and beheld
My Substance scarce Material. In thy Book,
Was the fair Model of this Structure drawn,
Where every Part, in just Connection join'd,
Compos'd and perfected th'harmonious Piece,
E'er the dim Speck of Being learn'd to stretch
Its ductile Form, or Entity had known
To range and wanton in an ampler Space.

How dear, how rooted in my inmost Soul,
Are all thy Counsels, and the various Ways
Of Thy Eternal Providence! The Sum
So boundless and immense, it leaves behind
The low Account of Numbers; and out-flies
All that Imagination e'er conceiv'd,

127

Less numerous are the Sands that crowd the Shores,
The Barriers of the Ocean. When I rise
From my soft Bed, and softer Joys of Sleep,
I rise to Thee. Yet lo! the Impious slight
Thy mighty Wonders. Shall the Sons of Vice
Elude the Vengeance of thy wrathful Hand,
And mock thy ling'ring Thunder, which with-holds
Its forky Terrors from their guilty Heads?
Thou great tremendous God!—Avaunt and fly
All ye who thirst for Blood.—For, swoln with Pride,
Each haughty Wretch blasphemes thy sacred Name,
And bellows his Reproaches to affront
Thy glorious Majesty. Thy Foes I hate
Worse than my own, O Lord: explore my Soul,
See if a Flaw or Stain of Sin infects
My guilty Thoughts. Then, lead me in the Way
That guides my Feet to thy own Heav'n and Thee.

128

Psalm the 144th Paraphras'd.

My Soul in Raptures rise to bless the Lord,
Who taught my Hands to draw the fatal Sword;
Led by his Arm, undaunted I appear
In the first Ranks of Death, and Front of War.
He taught me first the pointed Spear to wield,
And mow the glorious Harvest of the Field.
By Him inspir'd from strength to strength I past,
Plung'd thro' the Troops, and laid the Battle waste.

In Him my Hopes I center and repose,
He guards my Life, and shields me from my Foes.

129

He held his ample Buckler o'er my Head,
And screen'd me trembling in the mighty Shade:
Against all hostile Violence and Pow'r,
He was my Sword, my Bulwark, and my Tow'r.
He o'er my People will maintain my Sway,
And teach my willing Subjects to obey.

Lord! what is Man, of vile and humble Birth?
Sprung with his kindred Reptiles from the Earth?
That He should thus thy secret Counsels share?
Or what his Son, who challenges thy Care?
Why does thine Eye regard this Nothing, Man?
His Life a Point, his Measure but a Span?
The fancy'd Pageant of a Moment made,
Swift as a Dream, and fleeting as a Shade.

Come in thy Pow'r, and leave th'ethereal Plain,
And to thy harness'd Tempest give the Rein;

130

Yon' starry Arch shall bend beneath the Load,
So loud the Chariot, and so great the God!
Soon as his rapid Wheels Jehovah rolls,
The folding Skies shall tremble to the Poles:
Heav'n's gaudy Axle with the World shall fall,
Leap from the Center, and unhinge the Ball.

Touch'd by thy Hands, the lab'ring Hills expire
Thick Clouds of Smoke, and Deluges of Fire;
On the tall Groves the red Destroyer preys,
And wraps th'eternal Mountains in the Blaze:
Full on my Foes may all thy Light'nings fly,
On purple Pinions thro' the gloomy Sky.

Extend thy Hand, thou kind all-gracious God,
Down from the Heav'n of Heav'ns thy bright Abode,
And shield me from my Foes, whose tow'ring Pride
Low'rs like a Storm, and gathers like a Tide:

131

Against strange Children vindicate my Cause,
Who curse thy Name, and trample on thy Laws;
Who fear not Vengeance which they never felt,
Train'd to blaspheme, and eloquent in Guilt:
Their Hands are impious, and their Deeds profane,
They plead their boasted Innocence in vain.

Thy Name shall dwell for ever on my Tongue,
And guide the sacred Numbers of my Song;
To thee my Muse shall consecrate her Lays,
And every Note shall labour in thy Praise;
The hallow'd Theme shall teach me how to sing,
Swell on the Lyre, and tremble on the String.

Oft has thy Hand from Fight the Monarch led,
When Death flew raging, and the Battle bled;
And snatch'd thy Servant in the last Despair
From all the rising Tumult of the War.

132

Against strange Children vindicate my Cause,
Who curse thy Name, and trample on thy Laws;
That our fair Sons may smile in early Bloom,
Our Sons, the Hopes of all our Years to come:
Like Plants that nurs'd by fost'ring Show'rs arise,
And lift their spreading Honours to the Skies.
That our chaste Daughters may their Charms display,
Like the bright Pillars of our Temple, gay,
Polish'd, and tall, and smooth, and fair as they.

Pile'd up with Plenty let our Barns appear,
And burst with all the Seasons of the Year;
Let pregnant Flocks in every Quarter bleat,
And drop their tender Young in every Street.
Safe from their Labours may our Oxen come,
Safe may they bring the gather'd Summer home.
Oh! may no Sighs, no Streams of Sorrow flow,
To stain our Triumphs with the Tears of Woe.

133

Bless'd is the Nation, how sincerely bless'd?
Of such unbounded Happiness possess'd,
To whom Jehovah's sacred Name is known,
Who claim the God of Israel for their own.

134

The 3d Chapter of Job.

Job curs'd his Birth, and bade his Curses flow
In Words of Grief, and Eloquence of Woe:
Lost be that Day which dragg'd me to my Doom,
Recent to Life, and struggling from the Womb;
Whose Beams with such malignant Lustre shone,
Whence all my Years in anxious Circles run.
Lost be that Night in undetermin'd Space,
And veil with deeper Shades her gloomy Face,
Which crowded up with Woes this slender Span,
While the dull Mass rose quick'ning into Man.

135

O'er that curs'd Day let sable Darkness rise,
Shrowd the blue Vault, and blacken all the Skies;
May God o'er-look it from his heav'nly Throne,
Nor rouze from sleep the sedentary Sun,
O'er its dark Face to shed his genial Ray,
And warm to Joy the melancholy Day.
May the Clouds frown, and livid Poisons breathe,
And stain Heav'n's Azure with the Shade of Death.

May ten-fold Darkness form that dreadful Night,
Seize and arrest the straggling Gleams of Light,
To pay due Vengeance for its fatal Crime,
Still be it banish'd from the Train of Time;
Nor in the radiant List of Months appear,
To stain the shining Circle of the Year:

136

There thro' her dusky Range may Silence roam,
There may no Ray, no Glimpse of Gladness come,
No Voice to cheer the solitary Gloom.
May every Star his gaudy Light with-hold,
Nor thro' the Vapour shoot his beamy Gold:
Nor let the Dawn with radiant Skirts come on,
Tipp'd with the Glories of the Rising-Sun;
Because that dreadful Period fix'd my Doom,
Nor seal'd the dark Recesses of the Womb.
To that Original my Ills I owe,
Heir of Affliction, and the Son of Woe.
Oh! had I dy'd unexercis'd in Pain,
And wake'd to Life, to sleep in Death again!
Why did not Fate attend me at my Birth,
And give me back to my congenial Earth?
Why was I, when an Infant, sooth'd to rest,
Lull'd on the Knee, or hung upon the Breast?

137

For now the Grave would all my Cares compose,
Conceal my Sorrows, and interr my Woes:
There wrapp'd and lock'd within his cold Embrace,
Safe had I slumber'd in the Arms of Peace;
There with the mighty Kings, who lie inroll'd
In Clouds of Incense, and in Beds of Gold:
There with the Princes, who in Grandeur shone,
And aw'd the trembling Nations from the Throne;
Afflicted Job an equal Rest might have,
And share the dark Retirement of the Grave;
Or as a shapeless Embryo seek the Tomb,
Rude and imperfect from th'abortive Womb:
E'er Motion's early Principle began,
Or the dim Substance kindled into Man.

There from their monstrous Crimes the Wicked cease,
Their lab'ring Guilt is weary'd into Peace:

138

There blended sleep the Coward and the Brave,
Stretch'd with his Lord, the undistinguish'd Slave
Enjoys the common Refuge of the Grave.
An equal Lot the mighty Victor shares,
And lies amidst the Captives of his Wars;
With His, those Captives mingle their Remains,
The same in Death, nor lessen'd by their Chains.
Why are we doom'd to view the genial Ray?
Why curst to bear the painful Light of Day?
Oh! with what Joy the Wretches yield their Breath?
And pant in Bitterness of Soul for Death?
As a rich Prize, the distant Bliss they crave,
And find the glorious Treasure in the Grave.
Why is the Wretch condemn'd without Relief,
To combat Woe, and tread the Round of Grief,
Whom in the Toils of Fate his God has bound,
And drawn the Line of Miseries around?

139

When Nature calls for aid, my Sighs intrude,
My Tears prevent my necessary Food:
Like a full Stream o'ercharg'd, my Sorrows flow,
In Bursts of Anguish, and a Tide of Woe;
For now the dire Affliction which I fled,
Pours like a roaring Torrent on my Head.
My Terrors still the Phantom view'd, and wrought
The dreadful Image into every Thought:
At length pluck'd down, the fatal stroke I feel,
And lose the fancy'd in the real Ill.

140

The 25th Chapter of Job Paraphras'd.

Then will vain Man complain and murmur still?
And stand on Terms with his Creator's Will?
Shall this high Privilege to Clay be giv'n?
Shall Dust arraign the Providence of Heav'n?
With Reason's Line the boundless Distance scan;
Oppose Heav'n's awful Majesty to Man.
To what a length his vast Dominions run?
How far beyond the Journeys of the Sun?
He hung yon' golden Balls of Light on high,
And launch'd the Planets thro' the liquid Sky:
To rolling Worlds he mark'd the certain Space,
Fixt and sustain'd the Elemental Peace.

141

Unnumber'd as those Worlds his Armies move,
And the gay Legions guard his Realms above;
High o'er th'ethereal Plains, the Myriads rise,
And pour their flaming Ranks along the Skies:
From their bright Arms incessant Splendors stream,
And the wide Azure kindles with the Gleam.

To this low World he bids the Light repair,
Down thro' the Gulphs of undulating Air:
For Man he taught the glorious Sun to roll,
From his bright Barrier to his Western Goal.

How then shall Man, thus insolently proud,
Plead with his Judge, and combat with his God?
How from his mortal Mother can he come,
Unstain'd from Sin, untinctur'd from the Womb?

142

The Lord from his sublime Empyreal Throne,
As a dark Globe, regards the silver Moon.
Those Stars that grace the wide Celestial Plain,
Are but the humblest Sweepings of his Train;
Dim are the brightest Splendors of the Sky;
And the Sun darkens in Jehovah's Eye.
But does not Sin diffuse a fouler Stain,
And thicker Darkness cloud the Soul of Man?
Shall he the Depths of endless Wisdom know?
This short-liv'd Sov'reign of the World below?
His frail Original confounds his Boast,
Sprung from the Ground, and quicken'd from the Dust.

143

The Song of Moses, in the 15th Chapter of Exodus, paraphras'd.

Then to the Lord, the vast triumphant Throng
Of Israel's Sons, with Moses, rais'd the Song.

To God our grateful Accents will we raise,
And every Tongue shall celebrate his Praise:
Behold display'd the Wonders of his Might;
Behold the Lord triumphant in the Fight!
With what immortal Fame and Glory grac'd?
What Trophies rais'd amid the watry Waste?
How did his Pow'r the Steeds and Riders sweep
Ingulph'd in Heaps, and whelm'd beneath the Deep?

144

Whom should we fear, while He, Heav'n's awful Lord
Unsheaths for Israel his avenging Sword?
His outstretch'd Arm, and tutelary Care,
Guarded and sav'd Us in the last Despair:
His Mercy eas'd Us from our circling Pains,
Unbound our Shackles, and unlock'd our Chains.
To Him our God, our Fathers God, I'll rear
A sacred Temple, and adore Him there,
With Vows, and Incense, Sacrifice and Pray'r.

The Lord commands in War; his matchless Might,
Hangs out and guides the Balance of the Fight:
By Him the War the mighty Leaders form,
And teach the hov'ring Tumult where to storm.

145

His Name, O Israel, Heav'n's Eternal Lord,
For-ever honour'd, reverenc'd, and ador'd.

When to the Fight from Ægypt's fruitful Soil,
Pour'd forth in Myriads all the Sons of Nile;
The Lord o'erthrew the Courser and the Car,
Sunk Pharaoh's Pride, and overwhelm'd his War.
Beneath th'encumber'd Deeps his Legions lay,
For many a League impurpling all the Sea:
The Chiefs, and Steeds, and Warriors whirl'd around,
Lay mid'st the Roarings of the Surges drown'd.

Who shall thy Pow'r, thou mighty God, withstand,
And check the Force of thy victorious Hand?
Thy Hand, which red with Wrath in Terror rose,
To crush that Day thy proud Ægyptian Foes.
Struck by that Hand their drooping Squadrons fall,
Crowding in Death; one Fate o'erwhelms them All.

146

Soon as thy Anger, charg'd with Vengeance came,
They sunk like Stubble crackling in the Flame.
At thy dread Voice the summon'd Billows crowd,
And a still Silence lulls the wond'ring Flood:
Roll'd up, the Crystal Ridges strike the Skies,
Waves peep o'er Waves, and Seas o'er Seas arise.
Around in heaps the list'ning Surges stand,
Mute and observant of the high Command.
Congeal'd with Fear attends the watry Train,
Rous'd from the secret Chambers of the Main.

With savage Joy the Sons of Ægypt cry'd,
(Vast were their Hopes, and boundless was their Pride)
Let us pursue those Fugitives of Nile,
This servile Nation, and divide the Spoil:
And spread so wide the Slaughter, till their Blood
Dyes with a stronger Red, the blushing Flood.

147

Oh! what a copious Prey their Hosts afford,
To glut and satten the devouring Sword!

As thus the yawning Gulf the Boasters past,
At thy Command rush'd sorth the rapid Blast.
Then at the Signal giv'n, with dreadful sway,
In one huge heap roll'd down the roaring Sea;
And now the disintangled Waves divide,
Unlock their Folds, and thaw the frozen Tide.
The Deeps alarm'd call terribly from far
The loud, embattled Surges to the War;
Till her proud Sons astonish'd Ægypt found,
Cover'd with Billows, and in Tempests drown'd.

What God can emulate thy Pow'r Divine,
Or who oppose his Miracles to thine?
When joyful we adore thy glorious Name,
Thy trembling Foes confess their Fear and Shame.

148

The World attends thy absolute Command,
And Nature waits the Wonders of thine Hand.
That Hand extended o'er the swelling Sea,
The conscious Billows rev'rence and obey.
O'er the devoted Race the Surges sweep,
And whelm the guilty Nation in the Deep.
That Hand redeem'd Us from our servile Toil,
And each insulting Tyrant of the Nile:
Our Nation came beneath that mighty Hand,
From Ægypt's Realms, to Canaan's sacred Land.
Thou wert their Guide, their Saviour, and their God,
To smooth the Way, and clear the dreadful Road.
The distant Kingdoms shall thy Wonders hear,
The fierce Philistines shall confess their Fear;
Thy Fame shall over Edom's Princes spread,
And Moab's Kings, the universal Dread;
While the vast Scenes of Miracles impart
A thrilling Horror to the bravest Heart.

149

As thro' the World the gath'ring Terror runs,
Canaan shall shrink and tremble for his Sons.
Till thou hast Jacob from his Bondage brought,
At such a vast Expence of Wonders bought,
To Canaan's promis'd Realms and blest Abodes,
Led thro' the dark Recesses of the Floods.
Crown'd with their Tribes shall proud Moriah rise,
And rear his Summit nearer to the Skies.

Thro' Ages, Lord, shall stretch thy boundless Pow'r,
Thy Throne shall stand when Time shall be no more:
For Pharaoh's Steeds, and Cars, and warlike Train,
Leap'd in and boldly rang'd the sandy Plain.
While in the dreadful Road, and Desart Way
The shining Crowds of gasping Fishes lay:
Till all around with liquid Toils beset,
The Lord swept o'er their Heads the watry Net.

150

He freed the Ocean from his secret Chain,
And on each hand discharg'd the thund'ring Main.
The loosen'd Billows burst from every Side,
And whelm the War, and Warriors in the Tide;
But on each hand the solid Billows stood,
Like lofty Mounds to check the raging Flood;
Till the blest Race to promis'd Canaan past
O'er the dry Path, and trod the watry Waste.

151

The Third Ode of the 2d Book of Horace paraphras'd.

I

Let the brave Youth be train'd, the Stings
Of Poverty to bear,
And in the School of Want be taught
The Exercise of War.

II

Let Him be practis'd in his Bloom,
To listen to Alarms,
And learn proud Parthia to subdue
With unresisted Arms.

152

III

The hostile Tyrant's beauteous Bride
Distracted with Despair,
Beholds him pouring to the Fight,
And thund'ring thro' the War.

IV

As from the Battlements she views
The Slaughter of his Sword,
Thus shall the Fair express her Grief,
And Terrors for her Lord:

V

Look down ye gracious Pow'rs from Heav'n,
Nor let my Consort go,
Rude in the Arts of War, to fight
This formidable Foe.

153

VI

Oh! not with half that dreadful Rage
The Royal Savage flies,
When at the slightest Touch, he springs
And darts upon his Prize.

VII

How fair, how comely are our Wounds,
In our dear Country's Cause?
What Fame attends the glorious Fate,
That props our dying Laws?

VIII

For Death's cold Hand arrests the Fears
That haunt the Coward's Mind;
Swift she pursues the flying Wretch,
And wounds him from behind.

154

IX

Bravely regardless of Disgrace,
Bold Virtue stands alone,
With pure unsully'd Glory shines,
And Honours still her own.

X

From the dark Grave, and silent Dust,
She bids her Sons arise,
And to the Radiant Train unfolds
The Portals of the Skies.

XI

Now with triumphant Wings, she soars,
Above the Realms of Day,
Spurns the dull Earth, and groveling Crowd,
And tow'rs th'ethereal Way.

155

XII

With Her has Silence a Reward,
Within the bless'd Abodes,
That holy Silence which conceals
The Secrets of the Gods.

XIII

But with a Wretch, I would not live,
By Sacrilege prophan'd,
Nor lodge beneath one Roof, nor launch
One Vessel from the Land.

XIV

For blended with the Bad, the Good
The common Stroke have felt,
And Heav'n's dire Vengeance struck alike
At Innocence and Guilt.

156

XV

The Wrath Divine pursues the Wretch,
At present lame, and slow,
But yet tho' tardy to advance,
She gives the surer Blow.

157

The Third Ode of the 4th Book of Horace Paraphrased.

I

Whom first Melpomene, thy Eye
With friendly Aspect views,
Shall from his Cradle rise renown'd,
And sacred to the Muse.

II

Nor to the Isthmian Games, his Fame
And deathless Triumphs owe;
Nor shall he wear the verdant Wreath,
That shades the Champion's Brow.

158

III

Nor in the wide Elæan Plains
Fatigue the Courser's Speed;
Nor thro' the glorious Cloud of Dust,
Provoke the bounding Steed.

IV

Nor, as an haughty Victor, mount
The Capitolian Heights,
And proudly dedicate to Jove
The Trophies of his Fights.

V

Because his thund'ring Hand in War
Has check'd the swelling Tide
Of the stern Tyrant's Pow'r, and broke
The Measures of his Pride.

159

VI

But by sweet Tybur's Groves and Streams,
His glorious Theme pursues,
And scorns the Laurels of the War,
For those that crown the Muse.

VII

There in the most retir'd Retreats,
He sets his charming Song,
To the sweet Harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus strung.

VIII

Rank'd by thy Sons, Imperial Rome,
Among the Poet's Quire,
Above the reach of Envy's Hand
I safely may aspire.

160

IX

Thou sacred Muse, whose artful Hand
Can teach the Bard to sing;
Can animate the golden Lyre,
And wake the living String.

X

Thou, by whose mighty Pow'r, may sing
In unaccustom'd Strains,
The silent Fishes in the Floods,
As on their Banks the Swans.

XI

To thee I owe my spreading Fame,
That thousands as they gaze,
Make me their Wonder's common Theme,
And Object of their Praise.

161

XII

If first I struck the Lesbian Lyre,
No Fame belongs to me;
I owe my Honours, when I please,
(If e'er I please) to thee.

162

On the approaching Congress of Cambray.

Written in the Year 1721.

Ye Patriots of the World, whose Cares combin'd,
Consult the publick Welfare of Mankind,
One Moment let the crowding Kingdoms wait,
And Europe in suspence attend her Fate,
Which turns on Your great Councils; nor refuse
To hear the Strains of the Prophetick Muse;
Who sees those Councils with a gen'rous Care
Heal the wide Wounds, and calm the Rage of War;

163

She sees new Verdure all the Plain o'erspread,
Where the Fight burn'd, and where the Battle bled.
The Fields of Death a softer Scene disclose,
And Ceres smiles, where Iron Harvests rose.
The bleating Flocks along the Bastion pass,
And from the awful Ruins crop the Grass.
Freed from his Fears, each unmolested Swain,
In peaceful Furrows cuts the fatal Plain;
Turns the high Bulwark, and aspiring Mound,
And sees the Camp with all the Seasons crown'd.
Beneath each Clod bright burnish'd Arms appear;
Each Furrow glitters with the Pride of War;
The Fields resound and tinkle as they break,
And the keen Faulchion rings against the Rake;
At rest beneath the hanging Ramparts laid,
He sings securely in the dreadful Shade.

164

Hark!—o'er the Seas, the British Lions roar
Their Monarch's Fame to every distant Shore:
Swift on their Canvass Wings his Navies go,
Where-ever Tides can roll, or Winds can blow;
Their Sails within the Arctick Circle rise,
Led by the Stars that gild the Northern Skies;
Tempt frozen Seas, nor fear the driving Blast,
But swell exulting o'er the hoary Waste;
O'er the wide Ocean hold supreme Command,
And active Commerce spread thro' every Land;
Or with full Pride to Southern Regions run,
To distant Worlds, on t'other side the Sun;
And plow the Tides, where odorif'rous Gales
Perfume the smiling Waves, and stretch the bellying Sails.

165

See! the proud Merchant seek the precious Shore,
And trace the winding Veins of glitt'ring Ore;
Low in the Earth his wondring Eyes behold
Th'imperfect Metal rip'ning into Gold.
The Mountains tremble with alternate Rays,
And cast at once a Shadow and a Blaze:
Streak'd o'er with Gold, the Pebbles flame around,
Gleam o'er the Soil, and gild the tinkling Ground;
Charg'd with the glorious Prize, his Vessels come,
And in proud Triumph bring an India home.

Fair Concord hail; thy Wings o'er Brunswick spread,
And with thy Olives crown his laurel'd Head.
Come; in thy most distinguish'd Charms appear;
Oh! come, and bolt the Iron-Gates of War.

166

The Fight stands still when Brunswick bids it cease,
The Monarch speaks, and gives the World a Peace;
Like awful Justice, sits superior Lord,
To poise the Ballance, or to draw the Sword;
In due suspence the jarring Realms to keep,
And hush the Tumults of the World to sleep.

Now with a brighter Face, and nobler Ray
Shine forth, thou Source of Light, and God of Day;
Say, didst Thou ever in thy bright Career
Light up before a more distinguish'd Year?
Thro' all thy Journeys past thou canst not see
A perfect Image of what This shall be:
Scarce the Platonick Year shall this renew,
Or keep the bright Original in view.

167

THE FABLE OF The Young Man and his Cat.

A hapless Youth, whom Fates averse had drove
To a strange Passion, and prepost'rous Love,
Long'd to possess his Puss's spotted Charms,
And hug the Tabby Beauty in his Arms.
To what odd Whimsies Love inveigles Men?
Sure if the Boy was ever blind, 'twas Then.
Rack'd with his Passion, and in deep despair,
The Youth to Venus thus addrest his Pray'r.

168

O Queen of Beauty, since thy Cupid's Dart
Has fir'd my Soul and rankles in my Heart;
Since doom'd to burn in this unhappy Flame,
From Thee at least a Remedy I claim;
If once to bless Pigmalion's longing Arms,
The Marble soften'd into living Charms;
And warm with Life the purple Current ran
In circling Streams thro' every flinty Vein,
If with his own creating Hands display'd,
He hugg'd the Statue, and embrac'd a Maid;
And with the breathing Image fir'd his Heart,
The Pride of Nature, and the Boast of Art:
Hear my Request, and crown my wondrous Flame,
The same its Nature, be thy Gift the same;
Give Me the like unusual Joys to prove,
And, tho' irregular, indulge my Love.

169

Delighted Venus heard the moving Pray'r,
And soon resolv'd to ease the Lover's Care,
To set Miss Tabby off with every Grace,
To dress, and fit her for the Youth's Embrace.

Now she by gradual Change her Form forsook,
First her round Face an Oval Figure took;
The roguish Dimples next his Heart beguile,
And each grave Whisker soften'd to a Smile;
Unusual Ogles wanton'd in her Eye,
Her solemn Purring dwindled to a Sigh:
Sudden, a huge Hoop-Petticoat display'd,
A wide Circumference! intrench'd the Maid,
And for the Tail in waving Circles play'd.
Her Fur, as destin'd still her Charms to deck,
Made for her Hands a Muff, a Tippet for her Neck.

170

In the fine Lady now her Shape was lost,
And by such strange Degrees she grew a Toast;
Was all for Ombre now; and who but She,
To talk of Modes and Scandal o'er her Tea;
To settle every Fashion of the Sex,
And run thro' all the Female Politicks;
To spend her time at Toilet and Basset,
To play, to flaunt, to flutter and coquet:
From a grave thinking Mouser, she was grown
The gayest Flirt that coach'd it round the Town.

But see how often some intruding Woe,
Nips all our blooming Prospects at a blow?
For as the Youth his lovely Consort led
To the dear Pleasures of the Nuptial Bed,
Just on that instant from an inner House,
Into the Chamber popt a heedless Mouse.

171

Miss Tabby saw, and brooking no delay,
Sprung from the Sheets, and seiz'd the trembling Prey:
Nor did the Bride, in that ill-fated Hour,
Reflect that all her Mousing-Days were o'er.
The Youth astonish'd, felt a new Despair,
Ixion-like he grasp'd, and grasp'd but Air;
He saw his Vows and Pray'rs in vain bestow'd,
And lost the Jilting Goddess in a Cloud.

172

To Mr. Pope, on his Translation of Homer's Iliad.

'Tis true, what fam'd Pythagoras maintain'd,
That Souls departed in new Bodies reign'd:
We must approve the Doctrine, since we see
The Soul of Godlike Homer breathe in Thee.
Old Ennius first, then Virgil felt her Fires;
But now a British Poet she inspires.

To you, O Pope, the Lineal Right extends,
To you th'Hereditary Muse descends.
At a vast distance we of Homer heard,
Till you brought in, and nat'raliz'd the Bard;

173

Bade him our English Rights and Freedom claim,
His Voice, his Habit, and his Air the same.
Now in the mighty Stranger we rejoice,
And Britain thanks thee with a publick Voice.

See! too the Poet, a majestick Shade,
Lifts up in awful Pomp his Laurel'd Head,
To thank his Successor, who sets him free
From the vile Hands of Hobbs and Ogilby;
Who vext his venerable Ashes more,
Than his ungrateful Greece, the living Bard before.

While Homer's Thoughts in thy bold Lines are shown,
Tho' Worlds contend, we claim him for our own;
Our blooming Boys proud Ilion's Fate bewail;
Our lisping Babes repeat the dreadful Tale,
Ev'n in their Slumbers they pursue the Theme,
Start, and enjoy a Fight in every Dream.

174

By turns the Chief and Bard their Souls inflame,
And every little Bosom beats for Fame.
Thus shall they learn (as future Times will see)
From Him to conquer, or to write from Thee.

In every hand we see the glorious Song,
And Homer is the Theme of every Tongue.
Parties in State Poetick Schemes employ,
And Whig and Tory side with Greece and Troy;
Neglect their Feuds; and seem more zealous grown
To push those Countries Interests than their Own.
Our busiest Politicians have forgot
How Sommers counsel'd, and how Marlbro fought;
But o'er their settling Coffee gravely tell,
What Nestor spoke, and how brave Hector fell.
Our softest Beaux and Coxcombs you inspire,
With Glaucus' Courage, and Achilles' Fire.

175

Now they resent Affronts which once they bore,
And draw those Swords that ne'er were drawn before:
Nay, ev'n our Belles inform'd how Homer writ,
Learn thence to criticize on modern Wit.

Let the mad Criticks to their Side engage
The Envy, Pride, and Dulness of the Age:
In vain they curse, in vain they pine and mourn,
Back on themselves their Arrows will return;
Whoe'er would thy establish'd Fame deface,
Are but immortaliz'd to their Disgrace.
Live, and enjoy their Spight, and share that Fate,
Which would, if Homer liv'd, on Homer wait.

And lo! his second Labour claims thy Care,
Ulysses' Toils, succeed Achilles' War.
Haste to the Work; the Ladies long to see
The pious Frauds of chaste Penelope.

176

Helen they long have seen, whose guilty Charms
For ten whole Years engag'd the World in Arms.
Then, as thy Fame shall see a length of Days,
Some future Bard shall thus record thy Praise:
“In those blest Times when smiling Heav'n and Fate,
“Had rais'd Britannia to her happiest State,
“When wide around, she saw the World submit,
“And own her Sons supreme in Arts and Wit;
“Then Pope and Dryden brought in Triumph home,
“The Pride of Greece, and Ornament of Rome;
“To the great Task each bold Translator came,
“With Virgil's Judgment, and with Homer's Flame;
“Here the pleas'd Mantuan Swan was taught to soar,
“Where scarce the Roman Eagles towr'd before:
“And Greece no more was Homer's native Earth,
“Tho' her sev'n Rival Cities claim'd his Birth;
“On her sev'n Cities He look'd down with scorn,
“And own'd with Pride He was in Britain born.

177

Part of the First Æneid of Virgil translated.

Arms and the Man I sing, the first who driv'n
By Fate from Troy, the Fugitive of Heav'n,
On Land and Sea by Toils and Tempests tost,
Came to the Latian and Lavinian Coast;
Forc'd by the Gods incessant Wars to wage,
And urg'd by Juno's unrelenting Rage;
E'er he could raise his Town, and fix the Gods
He brought from Troy in Italy's Abodes;
Hence our fam'd Latian Line, and Senates come,
Hence rose the lofty Walls and Tow'rs of Rome.

Say, Muse, what Causes could so far incense
Celestial Pow'rs, and what the dire Offence
That mov'd Heav'n's awful Empress to impose
On such a pious Prince, such endless Woes?

178

By such a Round of Toils so long distrest:
Can Rage so fierce inflame an Heav'nly Breast?

Against th'Italian Coast, of ancient Fame
A City stood, and Carthage was the Name:
A Tyrian Colony; from Tyber far,
Rich, brave, and practis'd in the Arts of War:
Which Juno far above all Realms, above
Her own dear Samos honour'd with her Love:
Here stood her Chariot, here her Armour lay,
Here she design'd, would Destiny give way,
Ev'n then the Seat of Universal Sway.
But of a Race she heard, that should destroy
The Tyrian Tow'rs, a Race deriv'd from Troy;
Who proud in Arms; triumphant by their Swords,
Should rise in Time, the World's victorious Lords;
Ordain'd by Fate her Lybia to subdue,
And on her ruin'd Empire raise a new.

179

This fear'd the Goddess; and in Mind she bore
The late long War her Fury rais'd before
For Greece at Troy; nor was her Wrath resign'd,
But every Cause hung heavy on her Mind.
Her injur'd Form, and Paris' Judgment roll
Deep in her Breast, and kindle all her Soul:
Th'Immortal Honours of the ravish'd Boy;
And last, the whole detested Race of Troy.
With all these Motives fir'd, from Latium far
She drove the Relicks of the Grecian War;
Fate urg'd their Course; and long they wander'd o'er
The boundless Ocean, tost from Shore to Shore:
So vast the Work to build so vast a Frame,
And raise the Glories of the Roman Name.

Scarce from Sicilia's Shores the shouting Train,
Spread their broad Sails, and plow'd the foamy Main;

180

When haughty Juno thus her Rage exprest;
Th'eternal Wound still rankling in her Breast.

Then must I stop? are all my Labours vain?
And must this Trojan Prince in Latium reign?
The Fates, I find, may baffle Juno's Aims;
And why could Pallas with avenging Flames
Burn a whole Navy of the Grecian Ships,
And plunge the scatter'd Argives in the Deeps?
She for the Crime of Ajax, from above
Launch'd thro' the Clouds the fiery Bolts of Jove;
Disperst his Fleet, and as her Tempest flew,
Expos'd the Ocean's inmost Deeps to view.
Then, while transfix'd, the blasted Wretch expires,
Flames from his Breast, and Fires succeeding Fires,
Snatch'd in a Whirlwind, with a sudden shock
She hurl'd him headlong on a pointed Rock.

181

But I, who move supreme in Heav'n's Abodes,
Jove's Sister-Wife, and Empress of the Gods,
With this one Nation must a War maintain
So many Years; and wage that War in vain.
And now what Suppliants will invoke my Name,
Adore my Pow'r, or bid my Altars flame?

Thus fir'd with Rage the furious Goddess flies
To dark Æolia from the distant Skies;
The Native Region of the Storms she finds,
Where in huge gloomy Caves their Tyrant binds
The blustring Tempests, and reluctant Winds;
Whose Rage Imperial Æolus restrains,
With rocky Dungeons, and with heaps of Chains:
While they within the spacious Hollow pent,
Roar round the Cave, and struggle for a vent.
From his high Throne, their Fury to asswage
He waves his Scepter and controuls their Rage:

182

Or, down the Void their rapid Whirls had driv'n
Earth, Air, and Ocean, and the Heights of Heav'n.
But Jove, the mighty Ruin to prevent,
In gloomy Caves the airy Captives pent,
O'er their wild Rage the pond'rous Rocks he spread,
And hurl'd huge heaps of Mountains on their head;
And gave a King commission'd to restrain,
And curb the Tempest, or to loose the Rein.

Whom thus the Queen address'd; Since mighty Jove,
The King of Men, and Sire of Gods above,
Has given Thee, Æolus, the pow'r to raise
Storms at thy Sov'reign Will, or smooth the Seas;
A Race, I long have labour'd to destroy,
Waft to Hesperia the Remains of Troy.
Ev'n now their Navy cuts the Thuscan Floods,
Charg'd with their Exiles, and their vanquish'd Gods.

183

Add Rage to all thy Winds; o'erwhelm their Ships,
Disperse or drown the Wretches in the Deeps.
Twice sev'n bright Nymphs of beauteous Shape are mine,
For thy Reward the fairest I'll resign,
And make the charming Deiopeia thine;
She, on thy Bed, long Blessings shall confer,
And make Thee Parent of a Race like Her.

'Tis yours, great Queen, reply'd the Pow'r, to lay
The Task, and mine to listen and obey;
By you I sit a Guest with Gods above,
And share the Graces and the Smiles of Jove.
These Realms by You, this Scepter I maintain,
And wear these Honours of the stormy Reign.

So spoke th'obsequious God, and while he spoke,
Whirl'd his vast Spear, and pierc'd the hollow Rock.

184

Th'embattled Tempests, as the Mountain rent,
Flew all at once impetuous thro' the Vent.
Earth in their Course with giddy Whirls they sweep,
Then plow the Seas, and bare the inmost Deep.
South, East, and West, to swell the Tumult, roar,
And roll vast Billows to the distant Shore.
The Cordage cracks; with unavailing Cries
The Trojans mourn, while sudden Clouds arise,
And ravish from their Sight the Splendors of the Skies.
Night hovers o'er the Deeps; the Day retires;
The Heav'ns shine thick with Momentary Fires;
Loud Thunders shake the Poles; from every Place
Grim Death appear'd, and glar'd in every Face.

Congeal'd with Fear the Trojan Hero stands,
He groans and spreads to Heav'n his lifted Hands:
Thrice happy those, whose Fate it was to fall,
(Exclaims the Chief) beneath the Trojan Wall.

185

Oh! 'twas a noble Fate to die in Fight,
To die so bravely in their Parents sight.
Why sunk I not beneath Tydides' Hands,
The bravest Hero of the Grecian Bands?
Where Hector sunk beneath Achilles' Spear,
And great Sarpedon the renown'd in War;
Where Simois' Streams encumber'd with the Slain,
Roll'd Shields, and Helms, and Heroes to the Main.

Thus while he mourns, the Norhern Blast prevails,
Breaks all his Oars, and rends his flying Sails:
The Prow turns round; the Galley leaves her side
Bare to the Fury of the working Tide;
While in huge Heaps the gath'ring Surges rise,
And lift a liquid Mountain to the Skies.
Some hang on Waves; and some behold the Ground
Low in the boiling Deeps, and dark Profound.
Three shatter'd Galleys the strong Southern Blast
On hidden Rocks, with dreadful Fury cast;

186

Th'Italians call them Altars; for they stood
Sublime, and heav'd their Backs above the Flood.
Three more fierce Eurus on the Syrtes threw
From the main Sea (and terrible to view)
He dash'd, and left the Vessels on the Land,
Intrench'd with Mountains of surrounding Sand.
Struck by a Billow, in the Hero's View,
From Prow to Stern the broken Galley flew,
Which bore Orontes, and the Lycian Crew.
Swept off the Deck, the Pilot from the Ship,
Stun'd by the Stroke, shot headlong down the Deep.
The Vessel by the Surge turn'd round and round,
Sunk by the whirling Gulf devour'd and drown'd.
Some from the dark Abyss emerge again;
Arms, Planks, and Treasures floating on the Main.
And now thy Ship, Ilioneus, gives way,
And brave Achates' Vessel drinks the Sea.

187

Nor old Alethes his strong Galley saves,
And Abas yields to the victorious Waves.
The Storm dissolves their well-compacted Sides,
Which drink at many a Leak the rushing Tides.

Mean time great Neptune from beneath the Main
Heard the loud Tumults in his watry Reign,
And saw the furious Tempest wide around
Work up the Waters from the vast Profound.
Then for his liquid Realms alarm'd, the God
Lifts his high Head serenely o'er the Flood;
Where wide disperst the Trojan Fleet he spies,
Prest by the Storms and Terrors of the Skies:
Full well he knew his Sister's endless Hate,
Her Wiles and Arts to sink the Trojan State.
To Eurus and the Western Blast he cry'd,
Does your high Birth inspire this lawless Pride?

188

Audacious Winds! without a Pow'r from Me,
To raise at will such Mountains on the Sea:
Thus to confound Heav'n, Earth, the Air and Main
Whom I—but first I'll calm the Waves again.
But if you tempt my Rage a second time,
Know, that some heavier Vengeance waits the Crime.
Hence fly with speed; from Me your Tyrant tell,
That to my Lot this watry Empire fell.
Bid him his Rocks, your gloomy Dungeons, keep,
But leave to Me the Trident of the Deep:
There let Him reign with undisputed Pow'r,
And hear within his blust'ring Subjects roar.

He spoke; and speaking chac'd the Clouds away,
Hush'd every Billow, and restor'd the Day.
Cymothoe guards the Vessels in the Shock,
And Triton heaves them from the pointed Rock.

189

He with his Trident disengag'd the Ships,
And clear'd the Syrtes, and compos'd the Deeps.
Then mounted on the Radiant Car He rides
Swift o'er the Seas, and smoothly skims the Tides:
As when Sedition fires th'ignoble Crowd,
And the wild Rabble storms and thirsts for Blood,
Of Stones and Brands a mingled Tempest flies,
And all the sudden Arms that Rage supplies:
If some grave Sire appears amidst the Strife,
In Morals strict, and Innocence of Life,
All fix'd in Silence stand; their Fury cools;
While his resistless Eloquence controuls
Their frantick Rage, and gently calms their Souls.
So did the roaring Deeps their Rage compose,
When the great Father of the Floods arose.
Rapt by his Steeds, he flies in open Day,
Throws up the Reins, and skims the watry Way.

190

ON HIS MAJESTY'S Playing with a Tyger in Kensington Gardens.

Primâ Dicte mihi, summâ Dicende Camœnâ.

Amidst the Den, the Lions Prey,
Seal'd up for Death the Prophet lay;
But couch'd the hungry Monsters sit,
And fawning lick his sacred Feet;

191

Swift shot an Angel from above,
And chang'd their Fury into Love.

As swift did Britain's Genius fly,
And for her Charge stand trembling by;
When Brunswick, Pious, Brave, and Wise,
Like Him the Fav'rite of the Skies,
Play'd with the Monster's dreadful Teeth,
And sported with the Fangs of Death.

Genius of Britain spare thy Fears,
For know within our Sov'reign wears
The surest Guard; the best Defence;
A firm untainted Innocence.
So sweet an Innocence disarms
The fiercest Rage with pow'rful Charms,
So far Rebellion it beguiles,
That Faction bends; that Envy smiles;

192

That furious Savages submit,
And pay due Homage at his Feet.

Britain! by this Example prove,
Thy Duty, Loyalty, and Love.
See! the fierce Brutes thy King caress,
And court Him with a mute Address;
Well may'st Thou own his gentle Sway,
If Tygers bend, and Savages obey.

FINIS.