Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid Together with The Jordan, a poem in imitation of Spenser, by --- ---, Esq [i.e. Christopher Pitt] |
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 | Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid |  |
1
------ POSTQUAM TE FATA TULERUNT,
SEMPER HONOS, NOMENQ; TUUM, LAUDESQ; MANEBUNT.
SEMPER HONOS, NOMENQ; TUUM, LAUDESQ; MANEBUNT.
Virg.
3
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET and his SERVANT.
In Imitation of the Seventh Satire of the Second Book of HORACE.
S.
Sir—I've long waited in my Turn to have
One Word with you—but I'm your humble Slave.
One Word with you—but I'm your humble Slave.
P.
What Knave is that?—my Rascal?—
S.
Sir, 'tis I;
No Knave, nor Rascal; but your trusty Guy.
No Knave, nor Rascal; but your trusty Guy.
P.
Well—as your Wages still are due, I'll bear
Your damn'd Impertinence, at least this Year.
Your damn'd Impertinence, at least this Year.
4
Some Folks are drunk one Day, and some for ever,
And some like Wilmot, but twelve Years together.
Old Evremont, renown'd for Wit and Dirt,
Would change his Living oft'ner than his Shirt;
Roar with the Rakes of State a Month, and come
To starve, another, in his Hole at home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham, the public Jest,
Now some Innholder's, now a Monarch's Guest.
His Life and Politics of every shape;
This Hour a Roman, and the next an Ape.
The Gout in every Limb from every Vice,
Poor N---v---l hir'd a Boy to throw the Dice.
Some wench for ever, and their Sins on those
By Custom sit as easy as their Cloaths;
Some fly like Pendulums, from Good to Evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil.
For they—
And some like Wilmot, but twelve Years together.
Old Evremont, renown'd for Wit and Dirt,
Would change his Living oft'ner than his Shirt;
Roar with the Rakes of State a Month, and come
To starve, another, in his Hole at home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham, the public Jest,
Now some Innholder's, now a Monarch's Guest.
His Life and Politics of every shape;
This Hour a Roman, and the next an Ape.
The Gout in every Limb from every Vice,
Poor N---v---l hir'd a Boy to throw the Dice.
Some wench for ever, and their Sins on those
By Custom sit as easy as their Cloaths;
Some fly like Pendulums, from Good to Evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil.
For they—
P.
To what will these wise Maxims tend?
And where, sweet Sir, will your Reflections end?
And where, sweet Sir, will your Reflections end?
5
In you;—
P.
In me, you Knave?—make out your Charge;
S.
You praise low Living—but you live at large.
Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practise what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down,
But without Business you're again in Town.
If none invite you, Sir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord!—what Pleasure 'tis to read at home!
And sip your two Half-pints with strange Delight,
Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night.
From Encomb John comes thund'ring at the Door,
With—Sir—my Master begs you to ride o'er,
To pass the tedious Hours these Winter Nights—
Not that he dreads Invasions, Rogues, or Sprights!
Strait for your two best Wigs you loudly bawl,
This stiff in Buckle—that not curl'd at all.
And where the Devil are the Spurs? you cry;
And—Pox—what Blockhead laid the Buskins by?
On your old batter'd Mare you'll needs be gone,
(No Matter whether on four Legs or none)
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the Heath;
All swear at Morden, 'tis on Life and Death.
As fierce through Wareham Streets you scamper on,
Raise all the Dogs and Voters in the Town,
Then fly for six long Miles through Roads as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston Gentry think you mad;
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Respect, it seems, and eager Love;
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Sh---s---ry, D---d---n, may send in vain.
Before you go we curse the Noise you make,
But bless the Moment when you turn your Back.
Mean-time your Flock, depriv'd of heav'nly Food,
(As we of carnal) starve, and stray abroad;
Left to your Care by Providence in vain—
You leave them all to Providence again.
As for myself—I own it to your Face,
I love good Eating—and I take my Glass.
But sure, 'tis strange, Sir, that one thing should be,
In you Amusement, but a Crime in me.
All this is bare refining on a Name,
To make a Difference, where the Fault's the same.
My Father sold me to your Service here,
For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year,
A Livery you should wear as well as I;
And this I'll prove—but lay your Cudgel by;
You serve your Passions—Thus, without a Jest,
Both are but Fellow-servants at the best.
Your-self, good Sir, are play'd by your Desires,
A meer tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.
Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practise what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down,
But without Business you're again in Town.
If none invite you, Sir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord!—what Pleasure 'tis to read at home!
And sip your two Half-pints with strange Delight,
Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night.
From Encomb John comes thund'ring at the Door,
With—Sir—my Master begs you to ride o'er,
To pass the tedious Hours these Winter Nights—
Not that he dreads Invasions, Rogues, or Sprights!
Strait for your two best Wigs you loudly bawl,
This stiff in Buckle—that not curl'd at all.
And where the Devil are the Spurs? you cry;
And—Pox—what Blockhead laid the Buskins by?
6
(No Matter whether on four Legs or none)
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the Heath;
All swear at Morden, 'tis on Life and Death.
As fierce through Wareham Streets you scamper on,
Raise all the Dogs and Voters in the Town,
Then fly for six long Miles through Roads as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston Gentry think you mad;
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Respect, it seems, and eager Love;
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Sh---s---ry, D---d---n, may send in vain.
Before you go we curse the Noise you make,
But bless the Moment when you turn your Back.
Mean-time your Flock, depriv'd of heav'nly Food,
(As we of carnal) starve, and stray abroad;
Left to your Care by Providence in vain—
You leave them all to Providence again.
7
I love good Eating—and I take my Glass.
But sure, 'tis strange, Sir, that one thing should be,
In you Amusement, but a Crime in me.
All this is bare refining on a Name,
To make a Difference, where the Fault's the same.
My Father sold me to your Service here,
For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year,
A Livery you should wear as well as I;
And this I'll prove—but lay your Cudgel by;
You serve your Passions—Thus, without a Jest,
Both are but Fellow-servants at the best.
Your-self, good Sir, are play'd by your Desires,
A meer tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.
P.
Who at this Rate of talking can be free?
S.
The brave, wise, honest Man; and only he.
All else are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, or Beggars on the Ground;
He, Sir, is Proof to Grandeur, Pride, or Pelf,
And greater still, the Master of himself.
Not to and fro by Fears and Factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the Interests of the World;
And while that World runs round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred Tenor of his Soul:
In every Turn of Fortune still the same,
Like Gold, unchang'd, or brighter than the Flame:
Collected in himself, with god-like Pride,
He sees the Darts of Envy glance aside,
And fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storm that roars below.
One such you know—a Layman—to your Shame;—
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can such a Character sustain,
You too are free, and I your Slave again.
But when in Brun's feign'd Battles you delight,
More than myself to see two Drunkards fight,
Fool, Rogue, Sot, Blockhead—and such Names are mine;
Your's are a Connoisseur, or deep Divine.
I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,
The sacred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit!
And yet some sell their Lands, these Bits to buy,
Then pray—who suffers most from Luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true, but then I pawn no Plate;
I sell no Bonds, I mortgage no Estate.
Besides, high-living, Sir, must wear you out,
With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout.
By some new Pleasures are you still engross'd,
And when you save an Hour, you think it lost.
To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run,
And like all Company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, and (idler still) you rhyme;
Why—but to banish Thought, and murder Time?
And yet that Thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul loaded Piece recoils again.
All else are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, or Beggars on the Ground;
8
And greater still, the Master of himself.
Not to and fro by Fears and Factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the Interests of the World;
And while that World runs round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred Tenor of his Soul:
In every Turn of Fortune still the same,
Like Gold, unchang'd, or brighter than the Flame:
Collected in himself, with god-like Pride,
He sees the Darts of Envy glance aside,
And fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storm that roars below.
One such you know—a Layman—to your Shame;—
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can such a Character sustain,
You too are free, and I your Slave again.
But when in Brun's feign'd Battles you delight,
More than myself to see two Drunkards fight,
9
Your's are a Connoisseur, or deep Divine.
I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,
The sacred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit!
And yet some sell their Lands, these Bits to buy,
Then pray—who suffers most from Luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true, but then I pawn no Plate;
I sell no Bonds, I mortgage no Estate.
Besides, high-living, Sir, must wear you out,
With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout.
By some new Pleasures are you still engross'd,
And when you save an Hour, you think it lost.
To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run,
And like all Company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, and (idler still) you rhyme;
Why—but to banish Thought, and murder Time?
And yet that Thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul loaded Piece recoils again.
10
Tom, fetch a Cane, a Whip, a Club, a Stone,—
S.
For what?—
P.
A Sword, a Pistol, or a Gun;—
I'll shoot the Dog.—
I'll shoot the Dog.—
S.
Lord! who would be a Wit?
He's in a mad, or else a rhyming Fit.
He's in a mad, or else a rhyming Fit.
P.
Fly fly, you Rascal, for your Spade, or Fork,
For once I'll set your lazy Bones to work;
Fly—or I'll send you back without a Groat,
To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught.
For once I'll set your lazy Bones to work;
Fly—or I'll send you back without a Groat,
To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught.
11
THE TENTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE, IMITATED.
To Mr. Spence, from Encomb.
Health from the Bard, who loves the rural Sport,
To the more noble Bard who haunts the Court;
In every other Point of Life we chime
Like two soft Lines when coupled into Rhyme.
I praise a spacious Villa to the Sky;
You a close Garret full five Stories high:
I revel here in Nature's various Sweets;
You in the nobler Scents of London Streets:
I left the Court, and here at Ease reclin'd,
Am happier than the King who stay'd behind.
Twelve stifling Dishes I could scarce live o'er;
At home I dine with Luxury on four.
Where would a Man of Judgment chuse a Seat,
But in a wholesome rural soft Retreat?
Where Hills adorn the Mansions they defend?
Where could he better answer Nature's End?
Here from the Sea the melting Breezes rise,
Unbind the Snow, and warm the wintry Skies.
Here gentle Gales the Dog-star's Heat allay,
And softly breathing cool the sultry Day.
Here free from Care, from Danger, and Affright,
In pleasing Dreams I pass the silent Night.
Does not the variegated Marble yield
To the gay Colours of the flow'ry Field?
Can the New River's artificial Streams,
Or the thick Waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding rusty Pipe convey'd,
Or dash'd and broken down a deep Cascade,
With our much clearer Streams in Sweetness vye
That in eternal Rills run bubbling by?
In Dimples o'er the polish'd Pebbles pass,
Glide o'er the Sands, or glitter thro' the Grass!
And yet in Town the rural Prospects please,
Where stately Colonades are flank'd with Trees;
On a whole Country looks the Master down
With Pride, where scarce five Acres are his own.
Yet Nature, tho' repell'd, maintains her Part,
And in her Turn she triumphs over Art;
The Handmaid now may prejudice our Taste,
But the fair Mistress will prevail at last.
That Man must smart in Time, whose puzzled Sight
Mistakes in Life false Colours for the right;
As the poor Dupe is sure his Loss to rue,
Who takes a Pinchbeck Guinea for a true.
The Wretch whose frantic Pride kind Fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the Goddess frowns;
As he who rises till his Head turns round,
Must tumble twice as heavy to the Ground.
Then love not Grandeur; 'tis a splendid Curse;
The more the Love, the harder the Divorce.
We live far happier by these gurgling Springs
Than Statesmen, Courtiers, Counsellors or Kings.
The Stag expell'd the Courser from the Plain;
What can he do?—He begs the Aid of Man.—
He takes the Bit; he proudly bears away
His new Ally;—He fights and wins the Day.
But, ruin'd by Success, he strives in vain
To quit his Master and the Curb again:
So from the Fear of Want most Wretches fly,
But lose their noblest Wealth, their Liberty.
To their imperious Passions they submit,
Who mount, ride, spur; but never draw the Bit.
'Tis with your Fortune, Spence, as with your Shoe;
A large may wrench; a small one pinch the Toe.
Then bear your Fortune in the golden Mean,
Not every Man is born to be a Dean.
I'll bear your Jeers, if ever I am known
To seek two Cures, when scarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, some Service may afford,
But oft'ner plays the Tyrant o'er their Lord.
Money I scorn, but keep a little still,
To pay my Doctor, or my Lawyer's Bill.
From Encomb's soft romantic Scenes I write,
Deep sunk in Ease, in Plenty, and Delight;
Yet, tho' her generous Lord himself is here,
'Twould be one Pleasure more, could you appear.
To the more noble Bard who haunts the Court;
In every other Point of Life we chime
Like two soft Lines when coupled into Rhyme.
I praise a spacious Villa to the Sky;
You a close Garret full five Stories high:
12
You in the nobler Scents of London Streets:
I left the Court, and here at Ease reclin'd,
Am happier than the King who stay'd behind.
Twelve stifling Dishes I could scarce live o'er;
At home I dine with Luxury on four.
Where would a Man of Judgment chuse a Seat,
But in a wholesome rural soft Retreat?
Where Hills adorn the Mansions they defend?
Where could he better answer Nature's End?
Here from the Sea the melting Breezes rise,
Unbind the Snow, and warm the wintry Skies.
Here gentle Gales the Dog-star's Heat allay,
And softly breathing cool the sultry Day.
Here free from Care, from Danger, and Affright,
In pleasing Dreams I pass the silent Night.
Does not the variegated Marble yield
To the gay Colours of the flow'ry Field?
13
Or the thick Waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding rusty Pipe convey'd,
Or dash'd and broken down a deep Cascade,
With our much clearer Streams in Sweetness vye
That in eternal Rills run bubbling by?
In Dimples o'er the polish'd Pebbles pass,
Glide o'er the Sands, or glitter thro' the Grass!
And yet in Town the rural Prospects please,
Where stately Colonades are flank'd with Trees;
On a whole Country looks the Master down
With Pride, where scarce five Acres are his own.
Yet Nature, tho' repell'd, maintains her Part,
And in her Turn she triumphs over Art;
The Handmaid now may prejudice our Taste,
But the fair Mistress will prevail at last.
That Man must smart in Time, whose puzzled Sight
Mistakes in Life false Colours for the right;
14
Who takes a Pinchbeck Guinea for a true.
The Wretch whose frantic Pride kind Fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the Goddess frowns;
As he who rises till his Head turns round,
Must tumble twice as heavy to the Ground.
Then love not Grandeur; 'tis a splendid Curse;
The more the Love, the harder the Divorce.
We live far happier by these gurgling Springs
Than Statesmen, Courtiers, Counsellors or Kings.
The Stag expell'd the Courser from the Plain;
What can he do?—He begs the Aid of Man.—
He takes the Bit; he proudly bears away
His new Ally;—He fights and wins the Day.
But, ruin'd by Success, he strives in vain
To quit his Master and the Curb again:
So from the Fear of Want most Wretches fly,
But lose their noblest Wealth, their Liberty.
15
Who mount, ride, spur; but never draw the Bit.
'Tis with your Fortune, Spence, as with your Shoe;
A large may wrench; a small one pinch the Toe.
Then bear your Fortune in the golden Mean,
Not every Man is born to be a Dean.
I'll bear your Jeers, if ever I am known
To seek two Cures, when scarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, some Service may afford,
But oft'ner plays the Tyrant o'er their Lord.
Money I scorn, but keep a little still,
To pay my Doctor, or my Lawyer's Bill.
From Encomb's soft romantic Scenes I write,
Deep sunk in Ease, in Plenty, and Delight;
Yet, tho' her generous Lord himself is here,
'Twould be one Pleasure more, could you appear.
16
THE NINETEENTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE, IMITATED.
To Mr. Robert Lowth.
'Tis said, dear Sir, no Poets please the Town,
Who drink meer Water—tho' from Helicon:
For in cold Blood they seldom boldly think;
Their Rhymes are more insipid than their Drink.
Not great Apollo could the Train inspire,
Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the Fire.
Warm'd by two Gods at once they drink and write,
Rhyme all the Day, and fuddle all the Night.
Homer, says Horace, nods in many a Place,
But hints, he nodded oft'ner o'er the Glass.
Inspir'd by Wine old Ennius sung, and thought
With the same Spirit that his Heroes fought.
And we, from Johnson's Tavern-laws, divine
That Bard was no great Enemy to Wine.
'Twas from the Bottle King deriv'd his Wit,
Drank till he could not talk—and then he writ.
Let no coif'd Serjeant touch the sacred Juice,
But leave it to the Bards, its better Use:
Let the grave Judges too the Glass forbear;
Who never sing—and dance but once a Year.
This Truth once known—our Poets take the Hint,
Get drunk or mad,—and then get into Print;
To raise their Flame, indulge the mellow Fit,
And lose their Senses in the Search of Wit;
And, when with Claret fir'd, they take the Pen,
Swear they can write, because they drink like Ben.
Who drink meer Water—tho' from Helicon:
For in cold Blood they seldom boldly think;
Their Rhymes are more insipid than their Drink.
Not great Apollo could the Train inspire,
Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the Fire.
17
Rhyme all the Day, and fuddle all the Night.
Homer, says Horace, nods in many a Place,
But hints, he nodded oft'ner o'er the Glass.
Inspir'd by Wine old Ennius sung, and thought
With the same Spirit that his Heroes fought.
And we, from Johnson's Tavern-laws, divine
That Bard was no great Enemy to Wine.
'Twas from the Bottle King deriv'd his Wit,
Drank till he could not talk—and then he writ.
Let no coif'd Serjeant touch the sacred Juice,
But leave it to the Bards, its better Use:
Let the grave Judges too the Glass forbear;
Who never sing—and dance but once a Year.
This Truth once known—our Poets take the Hint,
Get drunk or mad,—and then get into Print;
To raise their Flame, indulge the mellow Fit,
And lose their Senses in the Search of Wit;
18
Swear they can write, because they drink like Ben.
Some mimic Swift or Prior to their Cost;
For in the rash Attempt the Fops are lost.
When once a Genius breaks through common Rules,
He leads a Herd of imitating Fools.
If Pope, the Prince of Wits, tho' sick a-bed,
O'er steaming Coffee bends his aching Head,
The Fools in public o'er the fragrant Draught,
Incline those Heads, that never ach'd, nor thought:
This must provoke his Mirth, or his Disdain;
Cure his Complaint—or make him sick again.
I too like them that Poet's Path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus' easy Strains in view;
But in a distant View,—yet what I write
In these loose Starts, must never see the Light;
Epistles, Odes, and twenty Trifles more,—
Things that are born and die in half an Hour.—
For in the rash Attempt the Fops are lost.
When once a Genius breaks through common Rules,
He leads a Herd of imitating Fools.
If Pope, the Prince of Wits, tho' sick a-bed,
O'er steaming Coffee bends his aching Head,
The Fools in public o'er the fragrant Draught,
Incline those Heads, that never ach'd, nor thought:
This must provoke his Mirth, or his Disdain;
Cure his Complaint—or make him sick again.
I too like them that Poet's Path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus' easy Strains in view;
But in a distant View,—yet what I write
In these loose Starts, must never see the Light;
Epistles, Odes, and twenty Trifles more,—
Things that are born and die in half an Hour.—
19
What—you must dedicate, says sneering Spence,
This Year, some new Performance to the Prince,
Tho' Money is your Scorn, no doubt in time
You hope to gain some vacant Stall by Rhyme.
Like other Poets, were the Truth but known,
You too admire whatever is your own.
These wise Remarks my Modesty confound,
While the Laugh rises, and the Sneer goes round;
Vext at the Jest, yet glad to shun a Fray,
I whisk into my Coach, and drive away.
This Year, some new Performance to the Prince,
Tho' Money is your Scorn, no doubt in time
You hope to gain some vacant Stall by Rhyme.
Like other Poets, were the Truth but known,
You too admire whatever is your own.
These wise Remarks my Modesty confound,
While the Laugh rises, and the Sneer goes round;
Vext at the Jest, yet glad to shun a Fray,
I whisk into my Coach, and drive away.
20
PENDENT OPERA INTERRUPTA.
FRAGMENTS OF A Rhapsody on the Art of Preaching.
In Imitation of some Parts of Horace's Art of Poetry.
Should some fam'd Hand in this fantastic Age,
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the Stage,
With all his Postures in one motley Plan,
The God, the Hound, the Monkey, and the Man,
Here o'er his Head high-brandishing a Leg;
And there just hatch'd and breaking from his Egg;
While Monster crowds on Monster thro' the Piece,
Who could help laughing at a Sight like this?
Or as a Drunkard's Dream together brings
A Court of Coblers, or a Mob of Kings,
Such is a Sermon, where confus'dly dark
Join Sharp, South, Sherlock, Barrow, Wake and Clarke:
So Eggs of diff'rent Parishes will run
To Batter, when you beat six Yolks to one:
So six bright Chymic Liquors when you mix,
In one dark Shadow vanish all the six.
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the Stage,
With all his Postures in one motley Plan,
The God, the Hound, the Monkey, and the Man,
Here o'er his Head high-brandishing a Leg;
And there just hatch'd and breaking from his Egg;
While Monster crowds on Monster thro' the Piece,
Who could help laughing at a Sight like this?
21
A Court of Coblers, or a Mob of Kings,
Such is a Sermon, where confus'dly dark
Join Sharp, South, Sherlock, Barrow, Wake and Clarke:
So Eggs of diff'rent Parishes will run
To Batter, when you beat six Yolks to one:
So six bright Chymic Liquors when you mix,
In one dark Shadow vanish all the six.
Full Licence Priests and Painters ever had
To run bold Lengths; but never to run mad;
For these can't reconcile God's Grace to Sin,
Nor these paint Tygers in an Ass's Skin.
No common Dauber in one Piece would join
The Fox and Goose,—unless upon a Sign.
To run bold Lengths; but never to run mad;
For these can't reconcile God's Grace to Sin,
Nor these paint Tygers in an Ass's Skin.
No common Dauber in one Piece would join
The Fox and Goose,—unless upon a Sign.
Some steal a Page of Sense from Tillotson,
And then conclude divinely with their own:
Like Oil on Water mounts the Prelate up;
His Grace is always sure to be a-top;
That Vein of Mercury its Beams will spread
And shine more strongly thro' a Mine of Lead:
With such low Arts your Audience never bilk;
For who can bear a Fustian lin'd with Silk?
And then conclude divinely with their own:
Like Oil on Water mounts the Prelate up;
His Grace is always sure to be a-top;
22
And shine more strongly thro' a Mine of Lead:
With such low Arts your Audience never bilk;
For who can bear a Fustian lin'd with Silk?
Your Priests who vary Matters o'er and o'er,
Hang Bells in Isles, and Organs in the Tow'r.
I've known a Priest to mighty Things pretend,
His three Divisions with Success he penn'd;
Then aim'd at no Conclusion—but the End.
Sooner than preach such Stuff, I'd walk the Town,
Without my Scarf in Whiston's daggled Gown,
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's to read
For Pence, or bury for a Groat a Head.
Nay, I would go to Tyburn with Content;
Or worse—I'd hear old Guthrey ere I went.
Hang Bells in Isles, and Organs in the Tow'r.
I've known a Priest to mighty Things pretend,
His three Divisions with Success he penn'd;
Then aim'd at no Conclusion—but the End.
Sooner than preach such Stuff, I'd walk the Town,
Without my Scarf in Whiston's daggled Gown,
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's to read
For Pence, or bury for a Groat a Head.
Nay, I would go to Tyburn with Content;
Or worse—I'd hear old Guthrey ere I went.
Some easy Subject chuse, within your Power,
Or you can never hold out half an Hour.
Or you can never hold out half an Hour.
One Rule observe, this Sunday split your Text,
Preach one part now, and t'other half the next.
Preach not too long; let your Divisions be
Not more than Sev'n, and seldom less than Three.
Preach one part now, and t'other half the next.
23
Not more than Sev'n, and seldom less than Three.
Speak, look, and move, with Dignity, and Ease,
Like mitred Secker; you'll be sure to please.
But if you whine like Boys in Country Schools,
Can you be said to study Cambray's Rules?
Begin with Care, nor like that Curate vile
Set out in this high-prancing, stumbling Stile;
“Whoever with a piercing Eye can see
“Thro' the past Records of Futurity.”
All gape—no Meaning—the puft Orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an Hour.
Truth and the Text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away:
So frugal Dames insipid Water pour,
Till Green, Bohea, and Coffee, are no more.
His Arguments in giddy Circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begun:
So the poor Turnspit, as the Wheel runs round,
The more he gains the more he loses Ground.
Surpriz'd with solitary Self-Applause,
He sees the motley mingled Scene he draws:
Dutch Painters thus at their own Figures start,
Drawn with their utmost uncreating Art:
Thus when old Bruin teems, her Children fail
Of Limbs, Form, Figure, Features, Head, or Tail;
Nay tho' she licks her Cubs, her tender Cares
At best can bring the Bruins but to Bears.
Like mitred Secker; you'll be sure to please.
But if you whine like Boys in Country Schools,
Can you be said to study Cambray's Rules?
Begin with Care, nor like that Curate vile
Set out in this high-prancing, stumbling Stile;
“Whoever with a piercing Eye can see
“Thro' the past Records of Futurity.”
All gape—no Meaning—the puft Orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an Hour.
Truth and the Text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away:
So frugal Dames insipid Water pour,
Till Green, Bohea, and Coffee, are no more.
His Arguments in giddy Circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begun:
24
The more he gains the more he loses Ground.
Surpriz'd with solitary Self-Applause,
He sees the motley mingled Scene he draws:
Dutch Painters thus at their own Figures start,
Drawn with their utmost uncreating Art:
Thus when old Bruin teems, her Children fail
Of Limbs, Form, Figure, Features, Head, or Tail;
Nay tho' she licks her Cubs, her tender Cares
At best can bring the Bruins but to Bears.
Still to your Hearers all your Sermons sort,
Who'd preach against Corruption at the Court?
Against Church-Pow'r at Visitations bawl?
Or talk about Damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horse-Guards on a Cure of Souls?
Condemn the Quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at Hoods and Organs in Saint Paul's?
Or be like David Jones so indiscreet,
To rave at Usurers in Lombard Street?
Who'd preach against Corruption at the Court?
Against Church-Pow'r at Visitations bawl?
Or talk about Damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horse-Guards on a Cure of Souls?
Condemn the Quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at Hoods and Organs in Saint Paul's?
Or be like David Jones so indiscreet,
To rave at Usurers in Lombard Street?
25
Ye Country Vicars, when you preach in Town
A turn at Paul's to pay your Journey down,
If you would shun the Sneer of every Prig,
Lay by the little Band, and rusty Wig;
But yet besure your proper Language know,
Nor talk as born within the Sound of Bow;
Speak not the Phrase that Drury-Lane affords,
Nor from Change-Alley steal a Cant of Words;
Coachmen will criticise your Stile, nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful Murder;
The Dregs of the Canaille will look askew,
To hear the Language of the Town from you.
Nay—my Lord Mayor, with Merriment possest,
Shall break his Nap, and laugh among the rest,
And jog the Aldermen to hear the Jest.
A turn at Paul's to pay your Journey down,
If you would shun the Sneer of every Prig,
Lay by the little Band, and rusty Wig;
But yet besure your proper Language know,
Nor talk as born within the Sound of Bow;
Speak not the Phrase that Drury-Lane affords,
Nor from Change-Alley steal a Cant of Words;
Coachmen will criticise your Stile, nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful Murder;
The Dregs of the Canaille will look askew,
To hear the Language of the Town from you.
Nay—my Lord Mayor, with Merriment possest,
Shall break his Nap, and laugh among the rest,
And jog the Aldermen to hear the Jest.
26
VERSES On a Flowered Carpet worked by some young Ladies at Kingston.
When Pallas saw the Piece her Pupils wrought,
She stood long wond'ring at the lovely Draught;
And, Flora, now (she cry'd) no more display
Thy Flow'rs, the trifling Beauties of a Day;
For see! how these with Life immortal bloom,
And spread and flourish for an Age to come!
In what unguarded Hour did I impart
To these four Virgins all my darling Art?
In all my Wit I saw these Rivals shine,
But this one Art I thought was wholly mine:
Yet lo! I yield, their Mistress now no more,
But proud to learn from those I taught before.
For look! what vegetable Sense is here!
How warm with Life these blushing Leaves appear!
What temper'd Splendors o'er the Piece are laid!
Shade steals on Light, and Light dies into Shade.
Through Heav'n's gay Bow less various Beauties run,
And far less bright, though painted by the Sun.
See! in each blooming Flow'r what Spirit glows?
What vivid Colours flush that opening Rose?
In some few Hours thy Lilly disappears;
But this shall flourish through a Length of Years;
See unfelt Winters pass successive by,
And scorn a mean Dependance on the Sky.
And oh! may Britain by my Counsels sway'd,
But live and flourish till these Flow'rs shall fade!
Go then, fond Flora, go; the Palm resign
To Works more fair and durable than Thine;
For I, ev'n I, in Justice yield the Crown
To Works so far superior to my own.
She stood long wond'ring at the lovely Draught;
And, Flora, now (she cry'd) no more display
Thy Flow'rs, the trifling Beauties of a Day;
For see! how these with Life immortal bloom,
And spread and flourish for an Age to come!
In what unguarded Hour did I impart
To these four Virgins all my darling Art?
In all my Wit I saw these Rivals shine,
But this one Art I thought was wholly mine:
Yet lo! I yield, their Mistress now no more,
But proud to learn from those I taught before.
27
How warm with Life these blushing Leaves appear!
What temper'd Splendors o'er the Piece are laid!
Shade steals on Light, and Light dies into Shade.
Through Heav'n's gay Bow less various Beauties run,
And far less bright, though painted by the Sun.
See! in each blooming Flow'r what Spirit glows?
What vivid Colours flush that opening Rose?
In some few Hours thy Lilly disappears;
But this shall flourish through a Length of Years;
See unfelt Winters pass successive by,
And scorn a mean Dependance on the Sky.
And oh! may Britain by my Counsels sway'd,
But live and flourish till these Flow'rs shall fade!
Go then, fond Flora, go; the Palm resign
To Works more fair and durable than Thine;
For I, ev'n I, in Justice yield the Crown
To Works so far superior to my own.
28
On seeing the Model of Mr. Pitt's House at Encomb.
An EPIGRAM.
As o'er this Sketch I rove with curious Eyes,
And see in Thought the future Structure rise,
If I must speak thee just in every Part,
Exceed, fair Dome, (I cry'd) Palladio's Art;
Exceed the noblest Plan by Jones design'd,
And rise an Image of thy Master's Mind.
With a just Front first recommend the Whole,
Strong, like his Sense, and open, like his Soul;
Like him, all trifling Ornaments disdain;
Like him, ascend majestically plain;
Like him, to every judging Eye appear;
Easy, yet striking; bold, yet regular:
Thus may we hope a finish'd Pile to see,
And Vanbrug's proudest Dome shall yield to thee.
And see in Thought the future Structure rise,
If I must speak thee just in every Part,
Exceed, fair Dome, (I cry'd) Palladio's Art;
Exceed the noblest Plan by Jones design'd,
And rise an Image of thy Master's Mind.
With a just Front first recommend the Whole,
Strong, like his Sense, and open, like his Soul;
Like him, all trifling Ornaments disdain;
Like him, ascend majestically plain;
Like him, to every judging Eye appear;
Easy, yet striking; bold, yet regular:
Thus may we hope a finish'd Pile to see,
And Vanbrug's proudest Dome shall yield to thee.
29
The JORDAN.
A POEM: In Imitation of SPENSER, by --- Esq;
I
An auntique Vase of Sovereign Use I sing,Well-known to young and old, and Jordan hight.
The lovely Queen, and eke the haughty King
Snatch up this Vessel in the murksome Night.
Ne lives there poor, ne lives there wealthy Wight,
But uses it in Mantle brown or green;
Sometimes it stands array'd in glossy white,
And oft in mighty Dortours may be seen,
Of China's fragile Earth with Sprigs of Flow'rs atween.
30
II
The Virgin comely as the dewy RoseThere gently drops the softly-whisp'ring Rill;
The Frannion, who ne Shame, ne Blushing knows,
At once the Potter's glossy Vase doth fill;
It whizzes like the Waters of a Mill.
Here frouzy Housewives clear their loaded Reins;
The lumpish Justice, with a ready Will,
Grasps the round-handled Jar, and tries, and strains,
While slowly-dripping down the scanty Water drains.
III
The Dame of Fraunce shall without Shame conveyThis ready Needment to it's proper Place;
Yet shall the Daughters of the Lond of Fay
Learn better Amenaunce and decent Grace:
Warm Blushes lend a Beauty to their Face,
31
Thus o'er the distant Hillocks you may trace
The lucid Beamings of the Infant Morn;
Sweet are our blooming Maids, the sweetest Creatures born.
IV
None but the Husband, or the Lover true,They trust with Management of their Affairs,
Nor even these their closer Moments view;
When the soft Beavies seek the Bow'r by Pairs,
Then from our Sight accoy'd like tim'rous Hares,
From their dear Bellamours the Virgins fly;
Think not, bright Youth, that these are scornful Airs,
Think not for Hate, they shun thine am'rous Eye,
Soon shall the Fair return, nor doom the Youth to die.
V
While Belgic Frows across a Charcoal StoveReplenish'd like the Vestals' lasting Fire,
32
No longer Parts that can Delight inspire,
Erst Caves of Bliss, now monumental Pyre.
O British Maids, for ever clean and neat,
For whom I aye will wake my simple Lyre,
With double Care preserve that dun Retreat,
Fair Venus' mystic Bow'r, Dan Cupid's feather'd Seat.
VI
So may your Hours soft-gliding steal away,Unknown to gnarring Slander or to Bale,
O'er Seas of Bliss, Peace guide her Gondelay,
Ne bitter Dole empest the fragrant Gale,
O sweeter than the Lilies of the Dale,
In your soft Breasts the Seeds of Joyance grow,
Ne fell Despair be here with Visage pale,
Brave be the Youth for whom your Bosoms glow,
Ne other Joys but you the blooming Springal know.
FINIS.
| Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid | |