A Miscellany of Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Miscellany of Poems

consisting of Original Poems, Translations, Pastorals in the Cumberland Dialect, Familiar Epistles, Fables, Songs, and Epigrams, by the late Reverend Josiah Relph ... With a Preface and a Glossary

Relph, Josiah (1712-1743)

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HARVEST; OR THE BASHFUL SHEPHERD.

THE WALK.

In Imitation of PSALM CXXXI.

TEA.

HAY TIME; OR THE CONSTANT LOVERS.

In Imitation of Horace. B. 4. Ode 10.

A Burlesque Epistle to Mr.---

LUBRICILLA.

To D---n, S---t,

A Burlesque Epistle to Mr J---n C---r

Wrote with a Pebble on a rock at Corby-castle;

The BATTLE of the GIANTS.

EPIGRAM.

An Epistle to Mr.---on his return from G---w C---e;

To the Reverend------on his visiting a sick Person, 1729.

To the Printer of the Kendal Courant.

THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

To a Lady after losing at Whisk.

SONG.

On a Wrangling Couple.

From CATULLUS.

ADVICE to STREPHON.

SONG.

EPISTLE to Mr. C---r at P---th.

EPIGRAM.

SONG.

To the LADIES. On the Recantation in the Kendal Courant.

EPIGRAM.

Horace imitated. Ode 27. Book I.

ORINDA.

DAMON.

The 19th Idyllium of Theocritus

EPIGRAM.

From the Delec Epigram.

The 8th Ode of Book I. of Horace

Over a Glass of Birch-Wine.

To Captain C---y at Carlisle.

SONG.

Horace, Ode ii Book I. imitated.

To--- D---n Esq;.

To Mr. Green, under a Decay, and debar'd by his Doctors from drinking.

A Brand New BALLAT.

On the fine Gardens at Corby.

The Favourite Fountain:

Occasion'd by a little Miss's bursting out into tears upon reading the Ballad of the Babes in the Wood.

The Story of PYRAMUS and THISBE

EPIGRAM.

The POET's PETITION.

The GRASHOPPER

St. AGNES FAST; or the AMOROUS MAIDEN.

To a young Lady learning Arithmetick.

From ANACREON.

EPITAPH on PARIS.

SONG.

De PAULO CANENTE Balthasaris Castilionis Mantuani POEMA.

EPIGRAM.

From Martial.

EPIGRAM.

On the Death of Amyntas.

An EPISTLE to Mr.---at Oxford.

Another EPISTLE to the same.

To ZOILUS.

Horace Book III. Ode 21. translated.

To the Rev.Mr.C---r, on his voyage to Dublin.

ELIZA at CHURCH.

To the Rev. Mr.---

Occasion'd by the Death of a young Girl.

CELIA SINGING.

HORACE Book II. Ode 7.

The Boy and the Birds.

The Sparrows and the Robin.

The Snails and the Fruit.

The Goose and the Hen.

The Sluggard and the Sun.

The Petted Nag.

The Boy and the Sparrows.

The Husbandman and the Horse.

Translated from Seneca.

The too free Nag.

Wrote after reading PAMELA,

PYTHAGORAS'S GOLDEN VERSES.

On the Storms at Sea, and the KING's safe Arrival in Britain.

To Mr. C---r in Love.

SENECA, an Exile in Corsica.

SONG.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

---Non ego te meis
Chartis inornatum silebo:
Totve tuos patiar labores
---carpere lividas
Obliviones---
HOR.

HARVEST; OR THE BASHFUL SHEPHERD.

A PASTORAL. In the Cumberland Dialect.

When welcome rain the weary reapers drove
Beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grove;
Robin a love-sick swain lagg'd far behind,
Nor seem'd the weight of falling showers to mind;
A distant solitary shade he sought,
And thus disclos'd the troubles of his thought.

Ay, ay, thur drops may cuil my out-side heat;
Thur callar blasts may wear the boilen sweat:

But my het bluid, my heart aw'in a bruil,
Nor callar blasts can wear, nor drops can cuil.

Here, here it was (a wae light on the pleace)
At first I gat a gliff o' Betty's feace:
Blyth on this trod the smurker trip'd and theer
At the deail-head unluckily we shear:
Heedless I glim'd, nor cou'd my een command,
Till gash the sickie went into my hand:
Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw brast out
In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about;
Reed grew my fingers, reeder far my feace:
What cou'd I de in seck a dispert kease?

Away I sleeng'd, to Grandy meade my mean
My Grandy (God be wud her, now she's geane)
Skilfu' the gushen bluid wi' cockwebs staid;
Then on the sair an healen plaister laid;
The healen plaister eas'd the painfull sair,
The arr indeed remains, but naething mair.

Not sae that other wound, that in ward smart,
My Grandy cou'd not cure a bleedin heart;
I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year,
And aw my life-time mun be fworc'd to bear,
'Less Betty will a kind physician pruive;
For nin but she has skill to medcin luive.

But how shou'd honest Betty give relief?
Betty's a perfet stranger to my grief:
Oft I've resolved my ailment to explain;
Oft I've resolved indeed—but all in vain:
A springin blush spred fast owr aither cheek,
Down Robin luiked and deuce a word cou'd speak.

Can I forget that night! (I never can)
When on the clean sweeped hearth the spinnels ran.
The lasses drew their line wi' busy speed;
The lads as busy minded every thread.
When, sad! the line sae slender Betty drew,
Snap went the thread and down the spinnel flew:

To me it meade—the lads began to glop—
What cou'd I de? I mud, mud take it up;
I tuik it up and (what gangs pleaguy hard)
Een reached it back without the sweet reward.

O lastin stain! even yet it's eith to treace
A guilty conscience in my blushen feace:
I fain wou'd wesh it out but never can;
Still fair it bides like bluid of sackless man.

Nought sae was Wully bashfu'-Wully spyd
A pair of scissars at the lass's side;
Thar lowsed, he sleely droped the spinnel down—
And what said Betty?—Betty struive to frown;
Up flew her hand to souse the cowren lad,
Butah, I thought it fell not down owr sad:
What follow'd I think mickle to repeat,
My teeth aw' watterd then, and watter yet.

Een weel is he 'at ever he was bworn!
He's free frae aw this bitterment and scworn:

What mun I still be fashed wi' straglen-sheep,
Wi' far-fetched sighs, and things I said a-sleep;
Still shamefully left snafflen by my sell
And still still dog'd wi' the damn'd neame o'mell?

Whare's now the pith (this luive! the deuce ga' wi't!)
The pith I showd when eer we struive, to beat;
When a lang lwonin through the cworn I meade,
And bustlin far behind the leave survey'd.

Dear heart! that pith is geane and comes nae mair
'Till Bitty's kindness sall the loss repair;
And she's not like (how sud she?) to be kind,
Till I have freely spoken out my mind,
Till I have learnd to feace the maiden clean,
Oiled my slow tongue, and edged my sheepish een.

A buik theer is—a buik—the neame—shem faw't:
Some thing o'compliments I think they caw't:
'At meakes a clownish lad a clever spark,
O hed I this! this buik wa'd de my wark;

And I's resolved to hav'et what ever't cost:
My flute—for what's my flute if Betty's lost?
And if sae bony a lass but be my bride,
I need not any comfort lait beside.

Farewell my flute then yet or Carlile fair;
When to the stationers I'll stright repair,
And bauldly for thur compliments enquear;
Care I a fardin, let the prentice jeer.

That duine—a handsome letter I'll indite,
Handsome as ever country lad did write;
A letter 'at sall tell her aw' I feel,
And aw my wants without a blush reveal.

But now the cloudsbrek off and sine ways run;
Out frae his shelter lively luiks the sun,
Brave hearty blasts the droopin barley dry,
The lads are gawn to shear—and sae mun I.

THE WALK.

I

As through the grove's delicious gloom
With Zephyrissa blessed I roam,
No more the pensive turtles pine;
The turtles lose their love in mine.

II

The warbler heedless of his lays
My Goddess eyes with ardent gaze;
To songs his bosom bids adieu;
His bosom heaves with raptures new.

III

Officiously the breezes wait
The fair one's fervors to abate:
But soon themselves the breezes glow,
And ask the cooling aid they owe.

IV

Why darts the fair-faced God of day
Amid the boughs so fierce a ray?
The God invidious wou'd impair,
The beauties of a face more fair.

V

In robes of richest rarest dye
The flowers enamoured court her eye;
Then sigh their souls in zephyrs sweet:
How proud to languish at her feet!

VI

The crowded boughs her bosom kiss,
All trembling with extatic bliss,
Then seize as oft her swain has done,
Her garment, grieved to part so soon.

VII

O still my charmer, stay and rove
Thus still a Goddess of the grove!

How tastless is thy tea, my dear!
And O how sweet our nectar here.

VIII

Nor dread the beauteous scenes decay;
If Zephyrissa deigns to stay,
Still beauteous shall the scene appear,
And spring smile joyous all the year.

In Imitation of PSALM CXXXI.

I

Contented with the part assigned,
No envious thoughts disturb my mind;
The province given I tend with care,
And aim at nought beyond my sphere.

II

Disdainful glance I never throw
On any God has placed below;

Nor add affliction to the poor,
Afflicted too, too much before.

III

My soul an even surface keeps,
In silence every passion sleeps;
Each fond desire I calm to rest,
Like a young Babe forbid the breast.

IV

Henceforth let all in every case,
Their trust in great Jehovah place;
Whatever portion he decrees,
Our God can make that portion please.

TEA.

I

Let Poets praise in rapt'rous dreams
Their pretty Naiads, purling streams;

No stream purls half so sweet as ours,
No Naiad half so pretty pours.

II

Her powerfull cups let Circe bless,
And men transform to savages;
Of happier force our Charmer's can
Polish the savage into man.

III

Medea's potions may bestow
On aged blood a youthfull flow;
Chloe's of power yet more uncouth
Quicken the very flow of youth.

IV

And, Jove, tho' Hebe crown thy treat
With Nectar and Ambrosia sweet;
We envy not while we can boast
Our as delicious Tea and Toast.

HAY TIME; OR THE CONSTANT LOVERS.

A PASTORAL.

Cursty and Peggy.
Warm shone the Sun, the wind as warmly blew,
No longer cool'd by draughts of morning-dew;
When in the field a faithfull pair appeared,
A faithfull pair full happily endeared:
Hasty in rows they raked the meadow's pride,
Then sank amid the softness side by side,
To wait the withering force of wind and sun;
And thus their artless tale of love begun.

Cursty.

A finer hay-day seer was never seen;
The greenish sops already luik less green;
As weel the greenish sops will suin be dry'd
As Sawney's bacco spred by th'ingle side.

Peggy.

And see how finely stripd the fields appear,
Stripd like the gown 'at I on sundays wear;
White shows the rye, the big of blaker hue,
The bluimen pezz green ment wi' reed and blue.

Cursty.

Let other lads to spworts and pastimes run,
And spoil their sunday clease and clash their shoon;
If Peggy in the field my partner be,
To work at hay is better spwort to me.

Peggy.

Let other lasses ride to Rosely-fair;
And mazle up and down the market there,

I envy not their happy treats and them,
Happier my sell, if Roger bides at heame.

Cursty.

It's hard aw day the heavy scy' to swing;
But if my lass a holesome breakfast bring,
Even mowing-time is better far I swear,
Then Cursenmas and aw it's dainty chear.

Peggy.

Far is the Gursin off, top full the kits,
But if my Cursty bears the milk by fits,
For gallopin to wakes I ne'er gang wood,
For ev'ry night's a wake, or full as good.

Cursty.

Can thou remember, I remember't weel,
Sin call wee things we claver'd owr yon steel;
Lang willy-wands for hoops I yust to bay,
To meake my canny lass a leady gay.

Peggy.

Then dadged we to the bog owr meadows dree,
To plet a sword and seevy cap for thee;
Set off with seevy cap and seevy sword
My Cursty luikd as great as anny lword.

Cursty.

Beneath a dyke full menny a langsome day,
We sat and beelded houses fine o'clay;
For dishes acorn cups stuid dessed in rows,
And broken pots for dublers mens'd the waws.

Peggy.

O may we better houses get than thar,
Far larger dishes, dublers brighter far;
And ever mair delighted may we be,
I to meake Cursty fine, and Cursty me.

Cursty.

Right oft at schuil I've spelder'd owr thy rows,
Full manny a time I've foughten in thy cause;

And when in winter miry ways let in,
I bear thee on my back thro' thick and thin.

Peggy.

As suin as ee'r I learned to kest a loup,
Warm mittens wap'd thy fingers warmly up;
And when at heels I spyed thy stockings out,
I darned them suin, or suin set on a clout.

Cursty.

O how I lik'd to see thee on the fleer;
At spworts, if I was trier to be seer,
I reached the fancy ruddily to thee
For nin danced hawf sae weel in Cursty's eye.

Peggy.

O how I swet, when for the costly prize,
Thou grup'd some lusty lad of greater size;
But when I saw him scrawlen on the plain,
My heart aw flacker'd for't I was sae fain.

Cursty.

See! owr the field the whurlin sunshine whiews,
The shadow fast the sunshine fair pursues;
From Cursty thus oft Peggy seemed to hast,
As fair she fled, he after her as fast.

Peggy.

Ay, laddy, seemed indeed for truth to tell,
Oft wittingly I stummerd, oft I fell,
Pretendin some unlucky wramp or strean
For Cursty's kind guid-natured heart to mean.

Cursty.

Sweet is this kiss as smell of dwallowed hay,
Or the fresh prumrose on the furst of may;
Sweet to the teaste as pears or apples moam,
Nay, sweeter than the sweetest honey comb.

Peggy.

But let us rise—the sun's owr Carrack fell,
And luik—whae's yon 'ats walking to the well?

Up, Cursty, up; for God's sake let me gang,
For fear the maister put us in a sang.

In Imitation of Horace. B. 4. Ode 10.

O Think my too, too cruel fair,
Old age those beauties will impair;
A few, short-pleasing triumphs past,
Themselves shall fall a prey at last.
That cheek, where fairest red and white,
The lilly and the rose unite;
That cheek it's every charm shall lose,
Like a brown leaf at autumn's close.
Then shall the glass thy change betray,
Then shalt thou fetch a sigh and say,
Why came not these kind thoughts before,
Or why return my charms no more.

A Burlesque Epistle to Mr.---

Dear G---

In studious sort I'm set here,
To pen a grave poëtick letter;
There lies my paper ready folded,
My pen is full and here I hold it:
—“You wonder then what makes me stay?
Why Sir I know not what to say
—Oh!—first your pardon I must seek
I own I shou'd have writ last week;
And wou'd, but for a private reason
Which shall be told at proper season
So Sir, impute not this neglect
To any want of due respect;
Nor think I ever cou'd transgress
Thrô business or forgetfullness:

Forget thee G---!—by Jove I'll not;
Sooner shall Laura be forgot:
Sooner shall you affect to wear
A sawcy sour ill-natured air:
Sooner shall Celia slip occasions
Of reck'ning up her rich relations:
Sooner (to sum up all the matter
In two th' unlikeliest things in nature)
Sooner shall K---n despair
While I am the favorite of the Fair.

Thus far I've got with much ado
(Your self can best determine how)
What else to say I know no more
Then does of Babylon the Wh---
Deed G---, I'm done confounded quite,
Dear Phœbus help me to indite,
Or I shall cut the table thrô,
An spoil my new sharped pen-knife too.

He comes! he comes! (you think I jest
Why Sir I feel him in my breast)
Ten thousand thoughts possess my brain;
All thoughts of true poëtick strain;
So fast they struggle to get out
They'll choak the passage, faith I doubt:
Yes! what I fear'd is come to pass,
All my fine thoughts are stopt alass!
Not one word more I can say to you,
So fare you well and G*d be wi' you.

LUBRICILLA.

As Phœbus fair, as Phœbus unconfined;
Like Venus comely, and like Venus kind.

To D---n, S---t,

on a Report that he designed to leave his Fortune to build an Hospital for Ideots.

Rather thy Wit, Good D---n, than Wealth devise
'Twill make at least a thousand Ideots wise.

A Burlesque Epistle to Mr J---n C---r

Dear C---r

What can a body get to do
These winter-evenings? what get you?
I can no longer bear to stoop,
And take the tumbling spindles up;
Nor listen to each frightfull story;
Ev'n yet pale spectres stalk before me.
Some new diversions I've been trying;
Before my feet our dog was lying;
“Isp coley, coley,” coley rose,
I slily spat upon his nose;
And when he drew the spittle in,
Chuck went my hand beneath his chin;
And the poor fellow bit his tongue:
But this diversion held not long;

'Twas barbarous to use coley thus,
I therefore fell to play with puss:
My handkerchief hang dangling down;
The sportive monkey spy'd it soon,
And strove to take it with her paw;
But I contrived the motion so,
That still in vain she strove to take it,
Till my tired arm no more cou'd shake it;
When I alass! was forced to fail,
And puss to play with her own tail.
Then from my knee I pulled my garter,
And with the most amazing art Sir,
I tyed strange knots which seemed to stay,
But fell insensibly away;
Till, O unhappy chance! at last
I tyed a gordian knot so fast;
It must continue till some bully
Like Alexander draw his gully.

Wrote with a Pebble on a rock at Corby-castle;

upon seeing the fine Works in the Gardens there.

Let Protestants no more dispute
That miracles appear
A single instance might confute,
But see a thousand here.

The BATTLE of the GIANTS.

A Fragment from Claudian.

Tellus of old, urged by a double cause,
Jove's happy empire, and the Titans' woes,
Brought forth in Tartarus an horrid brood;
Then Phlægra opened, of her offspring proud,
To bring the Monster-armies up to light,
And daring meet the heavenly Powers in fight.

A noise ensues—boistrous the rebel rout
Intent on execrable crimes rush out.

With giant strides majestically stalk
Clinch their big fists and Heaven to arms provoke.

Pale wax the stars, deprived of wonted fire
Apollo's horses terrifyed retire,
And the Bear starteled at so strange a sight,
To seas forbid before precipitates her flight.

Then thus her issue chears the mother vain,
My sons of Tyrant-Gods the future bane,
Far as your view can stretch, this fight secures;
Yours be the victory, and the world is yours.
Tellus's force give Jove at length to feel;
Must she thus humble to each upstart kneel?
Why did Cybele a superiour bear,
And why of honour mine so small a share?
What heavy pressures do I not sustain?
What means are wanting to procure my pain?
Here on the mount must poor Prometheus stay,
His vitals doomed an everlasting prey:

There Atlas groans beneath the pond'rous spheres,
While iceicles depend around his ears.
Why shou'd I Tityus name whose growing heart
Matter administers for endless smart?

But you at length avenge my wrongs in fight,
Rescue the Titans and a parent's right:
You want not fatal instruments of war;
Mountains and rocks, your mother's members tear;
Herself an instrument will gladly be,
To prove the downfall of this tyranny.
Undaunted then my dear avengers rise
And humble yon proud turrets of the skies.
How rich the spoils!—Typhaeus must prepare,
To launch the thunder and the scepter bear;
Encelladus must o'er the sea præside;
Aurora's chariot let some other guide;
While thou Porphyrion, shalt thy temples grace
With Delphic wreaths and take Apollo's place.

Thus soothed the dame her sons with idle dreams
To them all heaven above at mercy seems,
And Neptune draged indignant from his streams
This thinks he makes the potent Mars his prey,
That robs poor captive Phœbus of his ray.
With Cytherea one his fancy warms,
Another clasps Diana in his arms,
Or vows to violate the chast Minerva's charms.

Mean while th' immortal Powers convene above,
From streams and lakes sollicitous they move;
The very distant Manes bring their aid;
Queen Proserpine forsakes the stygian shade,
And Pluto monarch of the silent night
Directs his horses to the realms of light:
His horses wildly wonder at the day,
And while they panting strain up the steep way,
Thick clouds of darkness round their nostrils play.

As when a town dreads some vast engine's power,
All flock promiscuous to defend the tower:
Just so the Gods of every station ran,
To guard the throne of Jove, who thus began;

Immortal Powers, above the reach of fate
(And well ye merit that immortal state)
See Terra's new born sons a numerous train,
Advance to terminate the heavenly reign;
But give her pride those sons extinct to mourn,
And into trouble all her transport turn.

Now was the signal given on either side,
A ratling shower the trumpet's sound supplyed;
Nature quaked for her Lord; the powerfull crew
All things into a second chaos threw:
Islands are forced up from the foaming main,
Beneath the waters skulk the rocks in vain:
Where seas late rolled is now a naked shore,
And streams now run where streams ne'er ran before.

Whirled with vast force here Octe clouds the sky,
There swings Pangaum just prepared to fly:
This Ossa from its firm foundation tears,
That Rhodope with Hebers fountain rears,
A third Olimpus to his shoulder heaves,
Enipeus down his back impetuous hurls its waves,
The earth becomes a level boundless plain,
In airy regions wild disorders reign,
And harsh ungratefull crashes shock the brain.

First driven with active rage the God of war
Against the horrid foe impells his car;
His shield glares dreadfull in each hostile face,
The waving plumes his glittering helmet grace:
Down comes his sword a-cross Pelorus' groin,
Just where two snakes his ugly bowels join:
With such a dexterous force he gave the wound,
Three worthless lives a worthy period found:

Triumphant o'er the yielding corpse he rode,
And spotted all his car with spouting blood.

Then Mimas furious at his brothers fate,
Raised up all Lemnus's unwieldy weight:
All Lemnus charged with Vulcan's forge had flown,
But Mars's spear fell heavy on his crown;
The batter'd brains his widening jaws discharge,
And every lifeless limb drops down and lies at large:
Not so the snakes, they still remain secure;
Still hiss his snakes, still scorn the Victor's power.

Now with a warlike grace the Warriour-maid
Steped forth; her shield the Gorgon's face display'd:
Her shield alone (sufficient arms!) she bore:
Who sees it once is doomed to see no more;
And Pallas first the fatal object saw;
His curdling blood thrô each cold vein crept slow.
What means this lazy lethargy, he cryed,
Why stand I like some marble statue tyed?

But said no more—the gift of speech was gone,
His every faculty lay lost in stone;
And as Damastor sought some rock to throw,
By sad mistake he whirled him at the foe.

Echion, wondring, at his brothers change,
And ignorant of it's author vows revenge
But vows in vain—the Gorgon meets his eyes
He owns Minerva's matchless force and dies.

Palleneus then advances in a rage,
With eyes averse the Goddess to ingage,
The Goddess grasps her sword and gives a blow,
The Monster falling loads the plain below;
His gazing snakes mean while congeal to stone;
Thus part by weapon falls and part by looking on.

But see! Porphyrion midst the deep essays
The trembling Delos from its root to raise:
Ægeus quakes; from watery caves retire
Affrighted Thetis and her hoary Sire;

Neptune's late crouded palace is become,
An empty silent, solitary dome:
The nymphs on Cynthus' summits fill the skies
With sad complaints and pity-moving cries:
(The nymphs that careful did a couch compose,
When fair Latona felt a parents throes,
That taught young Phœbus how to throw the dart,
With all the secrets of the sylvan art,)
Distressfull Delos begs her Pean's aid,
“If in my lap thy infant limbs were laid,
“O help—again I move.—[OMITTED]

The rest wanting in the original

EPIGRAM.

Lollius with head bent back and close shut eyes,
All service-time devoutly snoring lies:
It's great dislike in fies! the parish speaks,
And wonder Lollius thus the sabbath breaks:

But I think Lollius keeps the sabbath best;
For why, he makes it still a day of rest.

An Epistle to Mr.---on his return from G---w C---e;

in imitation of Horace, Ode 7. Book II.

O far my best and dearest friend
Brought with me oft to thy wits end
Beneath our late commander Y---s,
And art thou safe? how kind the Fates!
With thee the tedious summer day
I've shortned many a time with play;
And many a time the winter night
Have quicken'd in its tardy flight.
Together in pursuit of knowledge,
We trudged as far as G---w C---e;
Together, tired with logick frays,
We threw down arms and marched our ways.

Me with officious hand conveyed
The Muse to S---ms peacefull shade;
Thee, hapless friend, thy cruel star
Hurry'd again to scenes of war:
But safe at last; thy weary brain
Enliven with a merry strain;
Smooth thy sad brows into a smile,
And with a glass thy cares beguile,
See, how it laughs—the liquor—see!
O'erjoyed at thy return like me:
Spare not what was designed thee—come—
A thousand times thou'rt welcome home.
Sobriety must bid adieu;
There's no avoiding madness now:
Ye Gods indulge me in a grain;
I've got my friend safe home again.

NELLY D---VE

I

My Nelly's charming as—but stay!
As what, ye Bards, shall Strephon say?
For similes where must he rove
To speak the charms of Nelly D---ve.

II

When Nelly's cheeks a blush disclose,
Away with triffling pink and rose;
The pink and rose will faded prove,
Near the fair cheeks of Nelly D---ve.

III

Name not a rolling Orb to vye
With Nelly's pretty sparkling eye;
There's not an Orb that rolls above
Can match the eye of Nelly D---ve.

IV

Talk not, when Nelly charms our ears,
Of the feigned musick of the Spheres;
The Spheres, alas! can never move
Like the dear voice of Nelly D---ve.

V

Think not her breath can be expressed
By the rich fragrance of the East:
The richest, sweetest eastern grove
Breathes no such sweets as Nelly D---ve.

VI

In vain for similes we seek;
For oh! what simile can speak;
(Unless her Strephon's matchless love)
The matchless charms of Nelly D---ve.

From MARTIAL.

These earthly happiness compleat:
A snug hereditary seat:
Fields free to give what ease requires:
Hearths ever warmed with heartsome fires;
Calm quietness from clamour loud;
No business with the peevish proud;
A vigour active, yet refined;
Simplicity with prudence joined;
Sweet converse seasoning wholesome fare;
Evenings without excess or care;
Short nights by unsought slumbers blest;
And what gives relish to the rest,
An easy acquiescent mind,
To the wise will of Heaven resigned.

LESBIA.

While my dear Lesbia was alive,
The Muses made up two times five;
But Lesbia's now no longer mine
The number is reduced to nine.

PSALM CXXIII.

I

To thee who sit'st enthron'd on high,
In mercy, as in might, supreme;
To thee I raise my wishfull eye,
And wait thy warm indulgent beam.

II

Thus looks a servant that's sincere,
Thus fix'd attends his master's face;

Blest, if approving smiles appear
And wretched, if he reads disgrace.

III

O God! 'tis hard, 'tis wondrous hard;
To bear the great one's less'ning look;
But, Gracious! give me thy regard,
And human scorn with ease I brook.

To the Reverend------on his visiting a sick Person, 1729.

This life oppress'd with grief and care,
The joys of Heaven so well you paint;
You seem no mortal trav'ling there,
But rather some returning saint.
Now Death that King of Terrors wears
A look so mild, I cou'd resign
The pleasing joys of youthfull years,
To make the poor man's sickness mine.

Each countenance now cheerfull grows;
If yet some marks of grief we find
'Tis not that their relation goes,
But that they're forced to stay behind.

To the Printer of the Kendal Courant.

If, my dear friend, you ever aim,
That Kendal match Newcastle's fame,
And Cotton White's in printing News;
Then take advices from the Muse;
Advices more material, better
Than ought in Evening-Post or Letter:
Those only serve a single day;
But these for ever and for aye.

Well then—in your Courant, my friend,
Propose a Poët's honest end;

Which, as your self in Horace may see,
Is delectare et prodesse:
And when you've got the goal in view,
Mindless of road march boldly thrô,
O'er hedge and ditch directly to't;
The road of truth is round about:
What! Counsel folks from truth to swerve?
Yes, honest Cotton, lye—or starve.

In this too pattern take from Poëts,
Be your theme vary'd, as you know it's
In Pope, Steel, Prior; and beside in
The miscellaneous works of Dryden.

Let a fine preface lead the way;
There suit the grave, or please the gay,
With Addison's instructive strain,
Or Swift's satyric hum'rous vein,
Or wou'd you every heart engage,
Let S---ds lines adorn the page.

Next place a song;—a gentle air
To speak the lover's pleasing care;
Or catch, in brisker measures to tell
The sprightly joys of friend and bottle.

Then to Heroics raise the stile;
Put bustling Europe in a broil;
Make French, Dutch, Spaniards, Germans, battle,
Guns flash, swords clash and cannons rattle;
Till Britain's King bid discord cease,
And frown the tumult into peace.

A Pastoral shou'd follow these;
Shew us the price of Beans and Pease,
Of Oats, of Wheat, of Rye, of Barly
And if the season's back or early.

(But by the by, be sure ne'er smatter
In politicks and party-satyr;
No, ne'er turn factious snarling dog,
Warned by the fate of Mist and Fog.)

Now some sad Elegy present;
A death or dismal accident
In sweetly-sorrowing lines relate;
Oh hapless, hapless human state!

Lastly, dear Cotton (to conclude,
And send us off in merry mood)
Some entertaining tale devise;
Examples plenty meet your eyes
In authors mentioned hard before,
As Ladle, Miller; forty more:
Or tell us such (for faith they look well)
As onee you told of Mouse and Cockle.

Then while (if Poëts can divine,
And if a Poët's name be mine)
While Politicians shall peruse
With dram or penny-pot the News;
So long shall all of Cotton tell,
The man who writ Courants so well.

Yours---

THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

I

Since my dear Damascena's lost,
The only blessing life cou'd boast,
These streams that roll far, far below,
Shall free me from this state of woe.

II

Oft in those sweetly-cooling streams,
Oft have I bathed my burning limbs;
Your favours, gentle streams, repeat,
And cool once more my raging heat.

III

Then to the banks where dwells my dear,
This breathless carcass kindly bear,

Ah no! in silence waft it by,
For fear the sight offend her eye.

IV

Her charms at leisure to survey,
My ghost shall hover night and day,
Still watching with officious care
Occasions to oblige the Fair.

CELIA.

For Phœbus' aid my voice I raise
To make the charms of Celia' known
But Phœbus cannot bear to praise
A face that's brighter than his own.

DAMON and CHLOE.

A SONG. In Imitation of Horace.

Damon.
Whilst round that ready neck of thine
My welcome arms were wont to twine;
Of every nobler joy possessed,
I pity'd Cæsar poorly blest.

Chloe.
Whilst Chloe was her Damon's care
His fondest wish, his fav'rite Fair;
Not Helen vyed with Chloe's name
Tho' deathless Homer sung the dame.

Damon.
Now Bella's charms my bosom fire,
Bella's harmonious voice and lyre:

This life with ease I cou'd resign;
If this dear maid might ransome thine.

Chloe.
And Strephon has all Chloe now,
Strephon dear object of her vow;
A death, a double death I'd dare,
If pitying Fates wou'd Strephon spare.

Damon.
But what if gentle love shou'd deign
To re-unite the broken chain;
Shou'd Bella from my bosom tear,
And re-establish Chloe there?

Chloe.
Than Phosphorus tho'fairer he,
Thou false and furious as the sea:
Yet trust me, Damon, trust me I,
With thee cou'd live, with thee cou'd dye.

THE WISH.

If some good-natured Pow'r divine
Shall deign to see this shade of mine,
And if that God (as Gods have been
Delighted with a rural scene)
Well-pleased shall promise to impart
The bliss that heaves my longing heart.
This wish I'ill readily present;
“Make me in every state content.”

From the GREEK.

Begin your work: a deed's half done,
When once you've happily begun
There does but 'tother half remain
You'ill do't, if you'ill begin again.

To a Lady after losing at Whisk.

In vain we dare your skill at Whisk;
(No prudent man wou'd run the risque)
How cou'd we hope to conquer now?
We minded not the cards—but you,
So rogues oft act, and such their art is:
They prepare something to divert us,
Which while with eagerness we look at,
The villains slily pick our pockett.

SONG.

I

When Damon first to Cælia spoke,
And made his passion known;
So free her air! so kind her look!
He thought the Nymph his own.

II

Poor Damon! all thy hopes are vain,
Success no longer boast:
Such Cælia is to every swain,
But catch—and Cælia's lost.

III

Thus oft we see at close of eve,
When all is calm and fair,
An idle wandring feather wave,
And saunter here and there.

IV

Tempting the grasp of every clown,
Around the trifle plays
He catches! full of hopes—'tis gone,
And Simy's left to gaze.

On a Wrangling Couple.

From MARTIAL.

Alike in temper and in life
The crossest husband, crossest wife;
It looks exceeding odd to me,
This well-matched pair can disagree.

From CATULLUS.

My Chloe swears by all that's Good,
She'ill never marry man but me,
But female protestations shou'd
Be written on the wind or sea.

ADVICE to STREPHON.

Pensive Strephon, cease repining,
Give thy injured stars their due;
There's no room for all this whining,
Be Dorinda false or true.
If she feeds a faithfull passion,
Canst thou call thy fortune cross?
And if sway'd by whim and fashion,
Let her leave thee—where's the loss?

SONG.

In Imitation of Horace, Ode 26. B. 2.

I

Tell me, my Fair-one, why so fast
From a fond lover's arms you run?

Why with that tim'rous cruel haste
His tenderest endearments shun?

II

So flys the Fawn, perplexed with fear,
When from it's anxious parent stray'd;
It starts at every breath of air,
And trembles with the trembling shade.

III

So flys the Fawn; my Fair-one so;
But think what different causes move;
It wisely dreads a mortal foe;
You fondly are afraid of love.

IV

Cease then, dear Trifler, cease to toy;
Those silly childish airs resign;
Now fit to taste substantial joy
Quit Mamma's cold embrace for mine.

EPISTLE to Mr. C---r at P---th.

Well, honest gossip, are you gaily?
What uncouths from festum lustrale?
Was Commother a canny lass?
I hope you let no duties pass.
The dinner too—what doings there?
Come, give us in a bill of fare:
I'ill warrant as sumptuous it has been as
Famed supper of Nasidienus,
'Bout which friend Horace and another
(What is't they call him?) make such pother.

In equal lays then be it dressed;
Say, how was seated every guest,
What dainty dishes graced the board,
What hearty welcomes look'd its Lord,

How fresh and brisk and good the beer,
And what strong ale brought up the rear.

Your poëm thus drawn to a stop,
Clap on a kind address at top:
At bottom protestation fervent;
Then close and send it to your servant.—

EPIGRAM.

Thus poor autumnal Delia said,
(As Delia in her glass survey'd
A withering neck, a wrinkling face)
“O ever hide the foul disgrace!”
Thus Delia said, and fetched a sigh,
The glass still ready to comply,
A sympathizing dullness wore,
And shewed her fading charms no more.

SONG.

I

All female charms, I own my Fair,
In that accomplished form combine?
Yet, why this proud, assuming air?
The praise is Nature's, none of thine.

II

Woudst thou, with just pretensions, claim,
Of our applause an equal share;
Be thy desert, my Dear, the same;
And prove as kind as thou art fair.

To the LADIES. On the Recantation in the Kendal Courant.

Printed in a subsequent Paper.

Restore, dear Nymphs, the banish'd Swain
To your society again;
Restore, restore him, I intreat:
His crime indeed—but to attone,
The youth has publick pennance done,
Done publick pennance in a sheet.

EPIGRAM.

On the Author of a late Sermon against Episcopacy.

B---n; a priest unknown to fame,
And hurry'd by a strong desire
T'excell Erostratus's name,
Has set a fairer Church on fire.

Horace imitated. Ode 27. Book I.

I

Sit down—'tis a scandal for Christians to fight;
See, how the wine blushes asham'd at the sight!
Come, lay by your Logick, let each take his glass;
In vino (the proverb affirms) veritas.

II

Is mine the first bumper—then Damon your toast,
Say, what pretty Charmer your soul has engross'd?
What a-deuce do you scruple? unless you'ill comply,
I'ill not touch a drop on't, no marry, not I.

III

Make haste then—good Gods! is it she? O the quean!
A pert little tyrant as ever was seen!
What magick can loose thee? Alass thou must hope,
No freedom from chains—till releas'd by a rope.

ORINDA.

Orinda's judgment's just and true;
It never made a slip but two;
When she approv'd my lines, was one;
The other, when she blam'd her own.

DAMON.

Here, Ladies, all your favours show'r;
Your favours none can merit more.
Other ungrateful souls (p-x on them)
Forget a favour really done them;
But grateful Damon, 'tis believ'd,
Remembers those he ne'er receiv'd.

The 19th Idyllium of Theocritus

attempted in the Cumberland Dialect.

Ae time as Cupy sweet tuith'd Fairy
A hive, owr ventersome wad herry;
A Bee was nettled at the wrang,
And gave his hand a dispert stang;
It stoundit sare, and sare it swell'd,
He puft and stampt and flang and yell'd;
Then way full drive to Mammy scowr't,
And held her't up, to blow't and cur't,
Wondren sae feckless-like a varment
Cud have sae fearfu' mikle harmin't.
She smurk'd—and pra'tha' says his mudder,
Is not lile Cupy seck anudder?
Just seck anudder varment's he;
A feckless-like—but fearfu' Bee—.

EPIGRAM.

The Learned say laughter is deny'd,
To creatures void of reason;
Yet—with laughter strains each side,
And 'tis well known that he's one.

From the Delec Epigram.

Thus spoke old hum'rous Bowzy from his bed;
When a late visit some rude villians made;
What seek ye here, my friends, at midnight, pray?
The D---la thing can I see at mid-day.

SONG

I.

One sunday morn in chearful May,
When all was clad in best array,
Young Cælia trip'd the garden gay
With robes of various dye:
The choicest flow'rs the virgin chose,
The lilly pale, the blushing rose
With all that most delights the nose
Or tempts the wand'ring eye.

II.

In artful rank when each was plac'd,
She fix'd the favourites on her breast,
O happy, happy flow'rs possess'd
Of such an heavenly seat!

But they with envy view the Fair,
And (vain attempts!) presumptuous dare
With Cælia's beauties to compare,
And rival charms so great.

III.

The rose displays it's purple dyes,
Ten thousand sweets at once surprize;
Ungrateful sight to Cælia's eyes!
Her cheeks a blush disclose!
So much the glowing blush became,
Superiour sweets so grac'd the dame,
The rose sunk down it's head for shame,
And durst no more oppose.

IV.

The lilly next resists the maid
In robes of purest white array'd
It's beauties gracefully display'd
Her finest charms defy'd;

The blood forsook the Fair-one's face,
A sudden paleness took its place,
But paleness mix'd with such a grace
As check'd the lilly's pride.

V.

The flow'rs thus foil'd in single fight
Their force with utmost speed unite,
With lavish'd odours all invite
And scent the neighbouring air.

VI.

She sighs—such balmy breezes fly,
Such fragrant sweets perfume the sky,
The flow'rs drop down their heads and die
Oppress'd with deep dispair.

ARRIA and PÆTUS.

From MARTIAL.

When from her bosom Arria pull'd the blade,
Thus to her Lord the tender Heroine said;
The wound I gave myself, with ease I bear,
I die by that alas! which kills my Dear.

The WISH.

As in a vale thro' silent groves,
A little pleasing riv'let roves;
Now here now there delights to stray,
And cheats with murm'ring songs the way;
'Till weary with the wandring race,
It sinks into it's Sire's embrace,
In some lone place thus pass my life,
Unvex'd with anxious cares and strife:

And when my clear, unclouded light,
Gives way to gloomy shades of night;
Weary with sport, with sleep oppress'd,
I'd gently sink to endless rest.

To Narcissa,

who took it ill to have me call'd her Lover.

I

Lord! Miss, how folks can frame a lie!
Love you say they?—by Jove not I.
Both Jove and you may witness bring
I never dreamt of such a thing.

II

Henceforth bid jealousie be gone;
Thy dear, dear self is thine alone:
From fear of rivals thou art free:
—O! were I half so blest as thee.

On VARUS.

No, Varus hates a thing that's base,
I own indeed he's got a knack
Of flatt'ring people to their face,
But scorns to do't behind their back.

The 8th Ode of Book I. of Horace

imitated in the Cumberland Manner and Dialect.

I

It's wrang indeed now, Jenny, white,
To spoil a lad sae rare;
The gams 'at yence were his delyte,
Peer Jacky minds nae mair.

II

Nae mair he cracks the leave o'th' green,
The cliverest far abuin;

But lakes at wait-not-whats wuthin,
Aw sunday efter-nuin.

III

Nae mair i'th' nights thro' woods he leads,
To treace the wand'rin brock;
But sits i'th' nuik and nought else heeds,
But Jenny and her rock.

IV

Thus Harculus, 'at (ballats say)
Made parlish monsters stoop,
Flang his great mikle club away,
And tuik a spinnel up.

Over a Glass of Birch-Wine.

EXTEMPORE.

O birch! thou cruel bloody Tree!
I'll be at last reveng'd on thee:
Oft has thou drunk this blood of mine,
Now, for an equal draught of thine.

To Captain C---y at Carlisle.

An Epistle.

Dear Sir,

These homely lines are sent
To say how much we all lament,
Since our once happy shades you left,
Of all their comforts now bereft.
Great want our Sires and Dames express,
Great want, and how should it be less?

No more their little lambs must play,
To bloody foxes doom'd a prey:
Their geese, 'ere Christmas comes, must fall:
Ah, now no Christmas comes at all!

And much the lads thy loss deplore;
Call'd by the gratefull change no more
They quit the dusty, joyless mows,
Forgetful of their cares—and shoes
Thro' thick and thin to scour away:
—What, now thrash every, every day?

Heartless the lasses too are seen,
And dull—and almost in the spleen.
No more at Church they steal a look
So slily from behind the book,
To view thy gay, thy lively airs;
They've nought to mind now—but their prayers.

But the poor Muse—she suffers most:
Good sense and wit and humour lost,

From human converse far she flies
(All now impertinence and noise)
Still in the lonely vale or grove;
—Out of her senses or in love.

SONG.

I

While other Nymphs make hapless Swains
Their victuals pensive hate;
Peggy those little tricks disdains,
And happier Strephon's fate;
Such relish to the rural meals
Her touch and look impart;
A keenness every stomach feels;
A transport every heart.

II

Peggy the sweetly sugar'd cream
Can sugar sweet a-new;
The snowy curds from Peggy seem
To get a snowier hue:
Help'd by her hand th' enlivening cakes
A double life convey;
And from her breath the butter takes
A---what no tongue can say.

III

From charms, ye Gods, when Peggy churns,
The gathering sweets secure;
Still be the print her board adorns
From all errata pure:
Then Peggy's praise and Strephon's bliss
Shall my soft voice employ
In notes that like her print or kiss
Shall please, yet never cloy.

Horace, Ode ii Book I. imitated.

I

Prr'ythee Damon don't molest
With futurity thy breast;
Has not present Life enow
Cares and toils to struggle thro'?

II

Fortune-tellers never mind;
Fortune-tellers all are blind:
Or suppose they cou'd foresee,
Pray what better wou'd one be.

III

If great blessings must ensue,
Life is dull and tedious now:
And if troubles must befall,
Present joys are worthless all.

IV

Lay those anxious thoughts aside,
Take now what the Gods provide
Now, for trust me, tho' not dumb,
There's no trusting what's to come.

To--- D---n Esq;.

Wou'd you improve in uncouthness of dress
And set the World a-gape with new success;
Each sex and every age at once strike mute?
Disguise a poët in a good new suit.

To Mr. Green, under a Decay, and debar'd by his Doctors from drinking.

Pr'ythee, dear Green, the reason tell,
When other greens all look so well,

Why you alone are pale and wan,
Or if you cannot then I can;
The reason is, believe the Muse,
Because they drink, and you refuse!

A Brand New BALLAT.

I

O what a deal of beauties rare,
Leeve down in C—d's valley?
Yet theer not yen 'at can compare
Wi' bonny smurkin Sally.

II

O' fortunes great my Ded oft tells,
But I cry shally-wally:
I mind nae fortunes nor ought else,
My heart's sae set o' Sally.

III

Let others round the teable sit
At fairs, and drink and rally;
While to a corner snug I git,
And kiss and hark wi' Sally.

IV

Some lads court fearful hard, yet still
Put off and drive and dally;
The Priest neest sunday, if she will;
May publish me and Sally.

V

O how my heart wad lowp for joy,
To lead her up the ally;
And with what courage cou'd I cry
I------tak thee Sally.

VI

And sud not we a bargain strike?
I's seer our tempers tally;

For duce a thing can---like
But just what likes his Sally.

VII

I's seek, and wait not what to de;
The Doctor and his galley-
Pots will not signify a flea:
—O sned off hand for Sally.

On the fine Gardens at Corby.

For Paradise's seat no more
Let travellers search on Persia's shoar:
It's groves still flourishing appear
Upon the East of Eden here.

The Favourite Fountain:

Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium.

Hail sweet solace of my care,
As the Sabine fountain fair:
And were mine the Sabine's lays
Thou shou'dst rival it in praise
Boast old springs a sacred train
Of their Nymphs and Satyrs vain;
Frequent to thy streams repair
Swains as merry, Maids as fair.
Boast old Poëts in their bowers
To converse with heavenly Powers.
Often here at evening walk,
With the power supreme I talk.
Softly hurls the stream along;
O how gentle yet how strong!

Sweetly murmuring in it's flow,
Nor too loud nor yet too low:
Touch'd with cold nor heat extreme,
Pierce the frost or beat the beam:
Knowing nor to grow, nor fail,
Rage of storms nor droughts prevail.
Rise the mud, or fall the shower,
Spotless ever, ever pure:
May my life be like my theme,
Such a little chearful stream;
Nor in hurry wildly spent,
Nor quite flat and indolent:
Thus resistless let me lay
Every ear attentive stay,
And each care-distracted breast
Sooth enchantingly to rest.
Let not Fortune's smile or frown
Raise me up or cast me down,

Still the same, unalter'd still,
Change she fickle, as she will:
May I always be inclin'd
To advantage Human-kind,
But most ready to dispense
Benefits on indigence.
Thro' this world, and it's vain toys,
Sullying pleasures, soiling joys,
Let me wander without blame,
Pure returning as I came.

Occasion'd by a little Miss's bursting out into tears upon reading the Ballad of the Babes in the Wood.

As the sad tale with accents sweet,
The little ruby lips repeat,
Soft pity feels the tender breast
For infant innocence distress'd.

The bosom heaves with rising woe,
Short and confus'd the pauses grow,
Brimful the pretty eye appears,
And—bursts at last a flood of tears.
Sweet softness! still ô still retain
This social heart, this sense humane:
Still kindly for the wretched bleed,
And no returns of pity need.

In plenty flow thy days and ease,
Soft pleasures all conspire to please;
Long may a Sire's affection bless,
And long a Mother's tenderness.

And thou, O Bard whose artless tongue,
The sadly pleasing story sung,
With pride a power of moving own,
No tragick Muse has ever known.

Compleat is thy success at last;
The throng admir'd in ages past;

Prais'd lately Addison thy lays,
And Nature's self now deigns to praise.

The Story of PYRAMUS and THISBE

from the 4th Book of the Metamorphoses.

Young Pyramus and Thisbe, loveliest he
Of Eastern Youths, of Maidens fairest she,
Had houses joining in that stately town
Whose walls Semiramis their Foundress own,
Neighbourhood acquaintance bred, acquaintance fast
Grew up to friendship, and to love at last;
Love had been happy in the nuptial band;
But friends withstood; what friends cou'd not withstand.
An equal warmth each gave, and each return'd
Burnt fiercely both, but both in secret burn'd.
The use of words their parents stern deny:
But what the tongue's forbidden, speaks the eye.

Ah! what avails it passion to disguise:
Love's fires the more conceal'd, the fiercer rise.
In the partition-wall a crack had been
Some way occasion'd, when the work was green,
So small, for ages it was never ey'd,
Which yet, what spys not love? the lovers spy'd
And in the cranny found a secret way
Their minds in dying murmurs to convey.
Oft at their stations as they stood and try'd
Fondly to catch the breath, each other sigh'd,
Ill-natur'd wall, complain'd they, thus to part
In body lovers that are one in heart:
What were it, shou'dst thou suffer an embrace;
At least a kiss or two is no such grace:
And yet ungrateful we are not, but know
To whom this easing intercourse we owe.
In unavailing plaints the day thus past,
Farewell, with much ado they said at last,

And kisses to the parting wall apply'd,
Kisses that on the marble useless dy'd.

Aurora now had chas'd the stars away,
And the cool dews exhal'd the rising ray;
To the known place return the faithful two,
And all their former fond complaints renew.
Their parents then they purpose to deceive,
To leave their homes by night, the town to leave,
And lest they wander blindly in the gloom,
Their interview appoint at Ninus' tomb:
Where near a spring a spreading Mulberry rose,
Clad with fair fruit that match'd the falling snows;
The assignation likes, impatient they
Long for the night and chide the lingring day.

'Tis silence all at length: with wary pace
This be the door soft opens, vails her face,
Hies through the dark and seats her in the shade,
What dares not, urg'd by love, the tim'rous maid?

When lo! a lioness approaches near,
Fresh from the slaughter of the lowing steer,
And to the brook directly points her way,
Her thirst by blood excited to allay.
Which by the Moon as Thisbe chanc'd to view,
Wing'd with her fear, the trembling Virgin flew,
And in a cave th' impending fate declin'd,
But left unhappily her veil behind.
The savage having slak'd her burning pain,
And to the forrest speeding cross the plain,
The garment found, and vext to find no more,
With bloody jaws the lifeless prey she tore,
And left it all besmear'd with dust and gore.

When Pyramus detain'd by stricter spies,
Now late the tomb approach'd and cast his eyes,
On the fair prints of savage feet, all pale
His visage grew, but when he saw the veil,

Yes, two, he cry'd, one night shall give to Fate;
But oh! her life deserv'd a longer date:
Mine is the guilt, poor Thisbe I betray'd,
Who bid her helpless, tempt the nightly shade,
And did not tempt it first to guard my Fair.
Hither, O all ye bloody race, repair;
Mangle these limbs and rend this cruel heart:
But Death to wish for, is a coward's part.
Then to th' appointed tree the veil he bore,
Bath'd it in tears and kiss'd it o'er and o'er:
And deeper yet, he cryes, thy stain be made;
And instant in his bosom sheath'd the blade.
Scarce strength to draw it out his hands supply,
Backward he falls and spouts the blood on high.
So when a conduit-pipe receives a flaw,
Out burst the hissing waters in a bow;
Spreading and spreading through the skies they pour
And fall at last a widely trickling shower.

The berries sprinkled with the purple dew
Forget their white and take a reddish hue,
And the roots moistned with the gore supply
To every future charge the different dye.

The Damsel, lest he might suspect her truth,
Returns all fearful yet, to seek the Youth,
Longing his Thisbe's fright to let him hear,
And paint the beast how ghastly and how near.
The tree she reach'd; but doubted when she saw
The tinctur'd fruit, if'twas the tree or no;
Till soon her eye, as in suspence she stood,
Dropt on a body flackring in it's blood:
She shrunk, grew pale, and trembling like the main,
When a light breeze disturbs the liquid plain.
But now her nearer looks her love declare;
She beats her lovely breast, she tears her hair;
She kneels, and round the body throws her arms,
Bathes it in tears and with embraces warms:

But freezing all in death the limbs she found,
My Pyramus, she cry'd, ah whence this wound?
My Pyramus—O hear! 'tis I request,
Thy own dear Thisbe—speak or look at least.
At Thisbe's name he lifts his loaden eyes,
Dwells on her charms a moment, closes them and dyes.

The story now alas appears too well,
The veil and sword the mournful story tell;
Yes, thy own hand has given the blow, she cry'd,
And to that hand the motive love supply'd:
I too poor trembling I dare such a feat;
My valour's little, but my passion's great:
Yes, the dear Youth his Thisbe will attend,
The cause at once and partner of his end.
Death only cou'd divide thee from my heart;
But 'tis resolv'd not Death itself shall part.

Now both our Fathers (ah no Fathers soon!)
Hear us and envy not so small a boon;

Vouchsafe one grave, nor part those after death
Whom love has join'd and whom their latest breath;
And thou, O Tree, whose kindly spreading bough
Covers one corpse and soon must cover two;
Still fresh the marks of slaughter thus retain,
Still mourn thy fruit an hapless couple slain.
She said, and to her breast the sword apply'd,
Press'd the deep piercing point, sunk by her lord and dy'd.

No more their wishes unavailing sue;
The Gods attend, attend their Parents too;
To a dark red the ripening berries turn,
And sleep their ashes in a common urn.

EPIGRAM.

Those Epigrams you most commend,
That with a turn least thought of end:
Then sure a tip-top one you'll call
This, which concludes with—none at all.

The POET's PETITION.

I.

If Phœbus his Poët's petition wou'd crown,
I'd ask a retreat in a snug country town,
Near which a clear stream in a valley shou'd glide,
With fountains and meadows and groves by it's side:
And then my ambition no farther shou'd stray,
But to better my life, and to better my lay,
To Virtue's improvement and Vice's decay.

II.

A competent fortune shou'd be my next call,
Too great for contempt, and for envy too small:
I wou'd work not for need, but my fancy to please
With various enjoyment of labour and ease.
And then my &c.

III.

A friend of like temper and honesty try'd,
Shou'd double my joys, and my sorrows divide:
But far from my cottage let beauty remove,
Nor poyson my innocent pleasures with love.
And then my &c.

IV.

At town I or seldom or never wou'd come,
Unless when no subject of satyr's at home,
Or (since sweetest pleasures the soonest will cloy)
To give a new relish to surfeiting joy.
And then &c.

V.

And when those dear blessings no more shall be mine,
Not weary with life, nor yet loth to resign,
In death I wou'd gently dissolve as in rest,
And this Epitaph shou'd be wrote on each breast.
The Poët's ambition no farther did stray,
But to better his life and to better his lay
To Virtue's improvement and Vice's decay.

The GRASHOPPER

From Anacreon.

Happy little creature thou
Satisfy'd with sipping dew,
From the summit of a spray
Warblest out a pleasant lay.
Allas far as thou can'st see,
Mighty Queen, belongs to thee,

What the groves and meads produce,
All is open to thy use.
Much in thee delights the Swain,
Harmless to his grass and grain:
Much he loves thy voice to hear,
Sweet presage of Summer near.
Favour thee the lovely Nine,
Phœbus's regard is thine:
Phœbus to thy little throat
Deigns a sweetly piercing note;
Free from age and slow decay,
Always wise and always gay;
Cumber'd with no flesh and blood,
Blest! what art thou but a God?

St. AGNES FAST; or the AMOROUS MAIDEN.

A PASTORAL.

How lang I've fasted and 'tis hardly four;
This day I doubt 'ill neer be gitten owr:
And theer as lang a night aleis beside;
I lall thought Fasts seck fearful things to bide.

Fie, Roger, fie—a fairy lass to wrang,
And let her aw this trouble undergang:
What gars thee stay?—indeed it's badly duine:
Come, come thy ways—thou mud as weel come suin;
For come thou mun, aw Mothers wise agree;
And Mothers wise can never seer aw lee.

As I was powen Pezz to scawd ae night;
O' ane wi' neen it was my luck to light:
This fain I underneath my bouster lied,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed:
I dreamt—the pleasent dreem I's neer forgit:
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pippin frae an apple fair I cut,
And clwose at ween my thoom and finger put:
Then cry'd, whore wons my Luive, come tell me true:
And even forret stright away it flew;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev hit,
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.

I laited last aw Hallow-Even lang
For growen nuts the busses neak'd amang:
Wi' twea at last I met: to aither nut
I gave a neame, and beith i'th' ingle put;
Right bonnily he burnt nor flinch'd a-bit:
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.

Turnips ae saturday I pair'd and yell
A pairing seav'd my Sweet-heart's neame to tell:
Slap fell it on the fleer; aw ran to view,
And cawt it like a C---but cawt not true;
For nought, I's seer, but R the scrawl wad fit.
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.

A Fortune-teller leately com about,
And my twea guid King-Gweorges I powt out.
Baith, baith (and was not that a pity) went,
And yet I cannot caw them badly spent.
She sign'd a bonny Lad and a large kit;
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.

When t'other night the Bride was put to bed,
And we wad try whea's turn was neest to wed:
Oft owr the shouder flung the stockin fell,
But not yen hat the mark except my sell.
I on her feace directly meade it bit;
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.

But what need I fash me any mare,
He'll be obleeg'd avoid it neer sae sare,
To come at last; it's own'd, it seems to be,
And weel I waite what's own'd yen cannot flee.
Or sud he never come, and thur fulfill;
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not like a fuil gang fast aw day,
And kest my sell just wittenly away.

She said, and softly slipping cross the floor
With easy fingers op'd the silent door;
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown
Thrice lick'd her lips and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove:
'Twas easier sure to dye of ought than love.

To a young Lady learning Arithmetick.

Count each beauteous orb of light,
Twinkling in a cloudless night:
Count each painted son of May,
Smiling in a meadow gay:
But ne'er hope to count each grace,
Opening in thy lovely face.

From ANACREON.

You the fate of Phrygia's town
Sing, my friend; and I my own:
Me no ships that cross'd the main,
Me nor horse nor foot have slain;
But an army strange that lies
Sculking in Aurelia's eyes.

EPITAPH on PARIS.

From MARTIAL.

A Moment trav'ler fix thine eye,
Nor pass so fam'd a marble by,
The mirth of Rome, of Nile the wit,
The pride, the pleasure of the pit,
The joy and grief of human eyes
Lye bury'd here, where Paris lyes.

100

SONG.

[_]

To the Tune of Gently touch &c.

I

On a downy bank I lye,
Free from Phœbus' scorching fire,
Gentle waters murmur by,
Sweetly sing the feather'd Choir;
Nature joins her charms in vain
To divert a Lover's pain.

II

Blow, ye breezes, briskly blow,
Cool the flames that scorch my breast,
Streams with deeper cadence flow,
Lull an anxious soul to rest:
Then ye Gods that favour love
Make my fancy sweetly rove;

101

III

Give to these expecting arms
Chloe, object of my vow;
Let no frown disturb her charms,
Nor a vapour cloud her brow:
Slumbers oft the blest annoy,
But give hapless lovers joy.

De PAULO CANENTE Balthasaris Castilionis Mantuani POEMA.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

While lovely Paulus chaunts his charming lays,
And sporting echo with the musick plays,
Around the Dryads and the Fauns appear,
The savage wild-beasts soften as they hear;
Old Tiber rears him from the Ooze below,
And in attention lost the streams forget to flow:
Apollo hearing wonder'd at the strain,
And thought his Orpheus was return'd again:
But when his heavenly face and mien, he spy'd,
Ah, cruel! no 'tis Venus' son he cry'd;

103

Was't not enough the archer to outdo;
What will he challenge the Musician too?

EPIGRAM.

From Martial.

Your father twenty pounds a month supplies,
And gives by portions duly as you rise;
To day 'tis luxury, to morrow want,
And daily vice demands a daily grant:
The same bequeaths you all on his last bed:
Poor Philomuse! you're disinherited.

From Martial.

Does freedom please you? sure it does not please,
But if it does, the means of it are these:
At home with coarser meals contented stay,
Let small Vejentan wine your thirst allay;

104

Laugh at the cups on Cinna's board that shine,
And please yourself with such a gown as mine.
Thus low your mind if you have power to bring,
More freedom you may boast, than Parthia's King.

EPIGRAM.

From Martial.

Thou whom the fickle Youth their Master own,
Quintilian, Glory of the Roman gown;
To live that I tho' poor make haste, forgive,
Trust me there's none can haste too much to live.
This let him slight, who thinks his means too small,
And crouds with pictures infin ite his hall.
Be mine an humble cot, a fire to chear,
A verdant meadow, and a fountain clear,
A servant clean, a not too learned wife,
Nights bless'd with sleep, and days that know no strife.

105

On the Death of Amyntas.

I

Amyntas is no more!
Ye Virtues, wail the Youth;
For Modesty and Truth
Must never hope to meet
With such an heavenly seat:
Then ever thus deplore
Amyntas now no more.

II

Amyntas is no more!
The Swain, ye Virgins, mourn
Ah never to return!
The pleasures of the Fair
Were still Amyntas' care:

106

Then ever thus deplore
Amyntas now no more.

III

Amyntas is no more!
Lament your loss, ye Youths;
No more Amyntas smooths
With converse sweet the road
Of life, now hardly trod:
Then ever thus deplore
Amyntas now no more.

IV

Amyntas is no more!
My friend, my best good friend!
Still let me mourn his end,
The Youths thus ever call,
The Virgins, Virtues all,
Thus ever to deplore
Amyntas now no more.

107

ACERRA.

From Martial.

Of yesterday's debauch he smells, you say;
'Tis false, Acerra ply'd it 'till to-day.

SONG.

I

Come, Pandora, come away,
Who can brook such dull delay;
Come and glad my longing eye;
Could I now Pandora spy!
Envious hill, ô why wilt thou
Intercept a Lover's view!
Haste Pandora haste away
Every minute seems a day.

108

II

Once lov'd plains no longer please,
There's no pleasure, but where she's,
I'd with her to town resort,
I'd with her endure a court;
Wilds are gardens with my Dear,
All's a wild, if she's not there.
Haste Pandora haste away
Ev'ry minute seems a day.

III

See she comes—ye Swains prepare
To entertain the lovely Fair;
Let blyth jokes and rustic rhyme,
Songs and dances cheat the time,
All your gambols, all be play'd
To divert the charming maid;
May her hours unheeded flow,
And the clock ne'er seem too slow.

109

IV

See she comes—ye maidens haste,
Sweep the hearth, nay do it fast;
Mind that nought offend the sight,
Be the table wondrous bright;
Rub the cup-board, rub it clean
'Till your shadow's to be seen;
Let clean pinners grace each head,
Each her lilly apron spread.

V

Now she's near—I burn, I glow,
Short my breath, my voice grows low!
Thus the lark with chearful lay
Hails th' approaching God of day,
But when nearer he displays
Brighter beams and warmer rays;
Then her little bosom heaves,
And it's gentle warbling leaves.

110

To GAURUS.

From Martial.

That you to joys of wine the night devote,
Gaurus, we pardon you; 'twas Cato's fault:
That verses without genius you compose,
Our praises you deserve; 'twas Cicero's.

Sir THOMAS MORE.

[_]

Englished thus.

Wretch! man would cry
If sure to dye
Before a month is past;
Yet laughs away
This poor short day
Which is perhaps his last.

111

An EPISTLE to Mr.---at Oxford.

When country Beaus at some great Fair
Strut up the street with clumsy air,
What peals of laughter fill the shops,
Rais'd by more fashionable Fops:
So fares it with my rustic strain,
(Tho' prais'd by criticks of the plain)
When I rough Bard! to Oxford write,
The seat of Muses more polite;
But if my friend I pleasure you,
'Tis not a farthing matter how.

Say, shall I draw some rural scene,
A shady grove, a verdant green,
Or show how sweet the Thrushes sing,
Or speak the bubling of a spring?

112

Or I shall tell (if you think meet)
How snug I live in this retreat:
How close I conjure ev'ry care,
Without a wish—I wish I were—
Ah me! 'tis all an empty boast,
There's one—I find it to my cost,
There's one rebellious wish in arms
In spite of verse and all it's charms.

Thrice happy, who by Isis stream
Enjoys the Muses—in a dream;
In classic grottoes melts away
In visions of poëtic day.
Oh wast me gentle gale of air!
Oh! quickly, quickly waft me there;
And place me underneath a shade
Where Addison and Tickel laid!
Nay tho' I'm pen'd in garret vile,
Tho' Duns be rapping all the while;

113

Ev'n tho' without (which still is worse)
One splendid shilling in my purse:
All this I willingly could bear,
'Tis nothing all—since thou art there.
Vade sed incultus---
Hei mihi quòd Domino non licet ire tuo.

Another EPISTLE to the same.

Dear Sir you waste your sacred breath,
You cannot, cannot for your teeth,
Make out that much mistaken Thesis,
The nine have left the banks of Isis.
Your arguments, I own have vigour
Of true poëtic mood and figure;
But who such arguments can use
Without the presence of the Muse?

114

In troth, my friend the more you say
It more convinces---t'other way.

“What not left Isis! (you object)
After Smiglecius and his sect
Had been so impudent and rough,
How durst they tarry?” well enough.
For Sol descending to assist
From foresaid river rais'd a mist;
This thick as night his Godship threw
Around the lustful logic crew,
Who marching grope and grope their way,
As blind as owls in blaze of day.

Mean while the Muses unmolested
(With airy substances invested
To keep from common view secure)
Still sport and frolick as before:
In short, if longer you resist,
You're blinded by a logic mist.

115

To ZOILUS.

From Buchanan.

With Industry I spread your praise,
With equal you my censure blaze;
But, Zoilus, all in vain we do,
The world nor credits me nor you.

Horace Book III. Ode 21. translated.

Thou cask, that life with me didst share,
When Manlius fill'd the Consul's chair,
Whether thy lovely circle keep
Laughter or strife, or love or sleep,
Whatever be thy freight, descend,
Corvinus bids the worthiest friend,
Proud to be mov'd in such an hour
Descend and mildest Massick pour.

116

He tho' with arts Socratic blest,
Will not severe thy fruits detest,
Old Cato's self would oft resign
His roughness, warm'd with generous wine.
'Tis thine to use a gentle power
To smooth the wrinkles of the sour;
To thee their cares the wise impart,
And open all the hidden heart;
Hope to the anxious thou canst give,
And bid the poor in plenty live.
They heed not, when thy liquor warms,
The Prince's frown, or Soldiers arms.
Venus, if here she deign to be,
The God of wine, the Graces three,
And lamps shall lengthen out thy stream,
Till fly the stars the rising beam.

117

To the Rev.Mr.C---r, on his voyage to Dublin.

Sic fratres Helenae lucida sidera.

Propitious may the fair Twin-Brothers smile,
And quick return thee back to Britain's Isle:
And sure my wish the Brothers will approve;
They know what absence is to them that love.

ELIZA at CHURCH.

If e'er a lovely Nymph may claim
With just pretence an Angel's name;
'Tis when her God she waits before
To hear his pleasure and adore.

118

To the Rev. Mr.---

Dear George,

Cou'd I but write epistle
With as much ease, as some folks whistle;
Or if my similes wou'd flow
As fast as those of—you know who;
I'd scribble, scribble scribble verse,
'Till paper, pen and ink grew scarce:
Nay, if a serious musing thought
With head reclin'd wou'd help me ought,
Or swift reiterated walk,
Or frequent solitary talk,
Or scratching head or biting nail,
If these wou'd any thing avail;
Believe me, Sir, I wou'd not spare,
My feet, nails, tongue, my brain or hair:

119

But tho' I muse, walk, talk, scratch, bite,
I cannot, cannot, cannot, write:
All once successful, methods fail,
I wonder what the deuce duce I ail.

Occasion'd by the Death of a young Girl.

Censure no more the hand of Death,
That stop'd so early Stella's breath;
Nor let an easy error be
Charg'd with the name of cruelty:
He heard her sense, her virtues told,
And took her (well he might) for old.

120

CELIA SINGING.

When Celia sings, the notes inspire
A still attention round the fire:
Their threads no more the Maidens ply,
Before the Swains the spindles lye,
The Mistress' tongue forgets to move,
And happy I no longer love.
Just so, the truth if Poëts tell,
When Orpheus struck his lyre in Hell,
Ixion's wheel was seen to stop,
Ocnus omits to twist his rope,
At large rolls Sisyphus' care,
Their hissing plagues the Furies spare,
And Tityus' heart, charm'd with the lay
The Vultures cease to make their prey.

121

HORACE Book II. Ode 7.

translated in the Cumberland Dialect.

The snow has left the fells and fled
Their tops i' green the trees hev' cled,
The grund wi' sindry flowers is sown;
And to their stint the becks are fawn:
Nor fear the Nymphs and Graces mair
To dance it in the meadows, bare.
The year, 'at slips sae fast away,
Whispers we mun not think to stay:
The spring suin thows the winter frost,
To meet the spring does simmer post
Frae simmer autumn cleeks the hauld,
And back at yence is winter cauld.
Yit muins off-hand meake up their loss:
But suin as we the watter cross,

122

To Tullus great, Æneas guid,
We're dust and shadows wuthout bluid.
And whae, Torquatus, can be sworn
'At thame abuin 'ill grant To-mworn?
Leeve than; wha't's war't i' murry chear
Frae thankless heirs is gitten clear.
When Death, my freind, yence ligs you fast,
And Minus just your duim has past,
Your reace, and wit and worth 'ill mak
But a peer shift to bring you back.
Diana (she's a Goddess tee)
Gets not Hippolytus set free;
And, Theseus aw' that strength o'thine
Can never brek Pirithous' chyne.

123

The Boy and the Birds.

One Christmas holiday a lad,
Now quit of school, and free to gad,
From out the chimney took his gun,
And thro' the hoary meadows run.

The thrush resigns it's tuneful breath
The whistling Blackbird gasping death;
New stains the friendly Robin mark,
Nor saves it's early note the Lark.
When thus exclaims the feather'd train,
Why this delight in giving pain?
The Hawk each grove with slaughter fills,
Yet never for diversion kills!

124

The Sparrows and the Robin.

A Farmer had new thatch'd his cot;
Intelligence the sparrows got,
And voted one and all to go
A pillaging the glossy strow.

A Robin, as they flew along,
They met, and ask'd to join the throng;
Who nought suspecting gave consent:
No harm he fear'd, for none he meant.

They scarce their mischief had begun,
When spy'd the Farmer's watchful son,
Let fly a fatal shower of lead,
And all the roof with slaughter spread.

Poor Robin just had breath to say,
As bleeding in the crowd he lay,
My doom unjust ye Red-breasts weep,
And mind what company you keep.

125

The Snails and the Fruit.

A Snail some tempting apples spy'd,
And to her fellows near her cry'd,
See what a load yon boughs display,
Come let us climb and seize the prey.

Ah! no the thought is rash and vain,
Replies the slimy crew again,
That fruit for reptiles hangs too high
Reserv'd for happy birds that fly.

The other was not satisfy'd,
But pluck'd her courage up and try'd,
Slowly she crawl'd but kept her pace,
And perfected at last the race.

And now of all her wish possest,
She dropt this maxim to the rest,
That still lay groveling on the plain,
What cannot diligence attain?

126

The Goose and the Hen.

As in a barn a hen made free,
A goose was near and chanc'd to see:
So then, she cries—but I'll not fail
To let our Master hear the tale:
Within a day or two no doubt,
We'll see a bloody head thrown out.

And why this warmth, the hen replys,
If I mistook not with my eyes,
Some-body's noddle t'other morn,
Was popping up in yonder corn.

127

The Sluggard and the Sun.

Snoring in bed a sluggard lies,
When beams the Sun upon his eyes:
Stretching and in a pett he wakes,
And this expostulation makes.

What pleasure gives it to molest,
And hinder quiet people's rest;
Thy bed perhaps thou canst not keep
But must thou then disturb our sleep?

No harm, the Sun replies, was meant;
A friendly office you resent;
This fleeting life is quickly o'er,
Then let me shine in vain no more:
Arise and husband well thy span,
All creatures are awake but Man.

128

The Petted Nag.

A Petted Nag along the road,
Drew, but unwillingly, its load,
Wou'd stop, if but a hillock rose,
Nor pass'd a grip till forc'd by blows.
Now up, now down, now mov'd, now fast,
It hardly reach'd it's home at last.

When to an empty manger ty'd,
With shoulder gall'd and smarting side,
It thus reflects in settled blood,
This stubbornness does little good:
Had I my free endeavours lent,
In far less time, nor half so spent,
I might have got my business o'er
And been repay'd with victuals store.

129

The Boy and the Sparrows.

A Boy along the frozen plain
Was scatt'ring heaps of chaffy grain;
The work a sparrow quickly views,
And joyful thus imparts the news.

See, brothers, see, how rare a boon:
That hand may plenty ever crown:
Make ready for the rich repast,
Who now needs care for winter's blast.

An antient Dam makes this reply,
You know him not so well as I:
This giver's Jack: then who wou'd chuse,
But the suspicious gift refuse?
It's ten to one the rogue prepares
Some falling sieve or tangling hairs,
Or in some hole designs to wait
With his sad instrument of sate.

130

The Husbandman and the Horse.

A Husbandman betimes wou'd breed
To exercise his youthful steed;
Wou'd teach to bear the smarting goad
And drag the cart's unwieldy load.
The youngster pleads, O spare my age
Unfit with labours to engage;
My tender limbs no firmness know;
O suffer yet a year or so.
His Master gives consent, and he
Another season wanders free,
But mark the end; to sloth inur'd
Nor cart nor trace he now endur'd;
All force the stubborn fool defy'd,
And kick'd and broke his leg and died.

131

Translated from Seneca.

Take his dizzy stand that will
On the tip of Fortune's hill;
Mine a safer pleasure know
In the humble vale below.
There beneath the shady Trees
Let me steal a grateful ease,
Free from all the storms that beat
On the grandeur of the Great.
And when calm my days have flown,
To the Vulgar little known,
Let me chearful quit the stage,
Crown'd with virtue and with age.
Hapless he, when death appears,
In a crowd that wastes his years,
That grows free with all the rest
But estrang'd to his own breast.

132

The too free Nag.

A Youthful Nag in pasture gay,
Had tasted thrice the sweets of May;
And thrice from kindly rack supply'd,
December's chilness had defy'd.
His leisure now he must forego,
The labours of the field to know,
Must with the load unwieldy toil,
Or rend the toughness of the soil.
Docil he plies to each command,
Prevents his Master's forming hand,
His every sinew strains to please,
And puts forth all his faculties.
No task's too hard, too long no days!
So great his generous love of praise!
But mark the sad, too sad event;
With labour unremitted spent,

133

Tastless and loathsome grows his food,
With lazy motion creeps his blood;
His feeble limbs he hardly rears,
And pines and dies in prime of years.

Wrote after reading PAMELA,

or Virtue rewarded.

What is it, happy Author, say,
That steals thus unperceiv'd away;
That, where but negligence appears,
Dissolves the reader into tears.

Thy pages like thy wondrous theme
Artless and undesigning seem,
Yet warmth to each beholder lend,
And fix him their and Virtue's friend.
Henceforth, ye trifles all, adieu,
Each guilty, and each idle view;

134

And, virtue, sole-deserving guest,
To thee, still sacred be my breast.

Yet if a lovely Fair I spy,
Like her whose shade here charms my eye,
The hasty vow, I'll break in part;
For Pamela must share my heart.

The WORM-DOCTOR.

Vagus advanc'd on high proclaims his skill
By cakes of wond'rous force the worms to kill.
A scornful ear the wiser sort impart,
And laugh at Vagus's pretended art.
But well can Vagus what he boasts perform,
For man (as Job has told us) is a worm.

135

The HOUR-GLASS.

From Amaltheus.

These little atoms that in silence pour,
And measure out with even pace the hour,
Were once Alcippus; struck by Galla's eyes,
Wretched he burn'd, and here in ashes lies;
Which ever streaming this sad truth attest,
That lovers count the time, and know no rest.

EPIGRAM.

From Martial.

O Alcimus, whom too severe a doom
Has hurry'd to the grave in early bloom;
Be thine of Parian stone no threat'ning pile,
A labour frail that hardly lasts a while;

136

But o'er thy grave let Vines and Boxes grow,
And grass still verdant with my trickling woe:
These monuments, dear youth, my sorrows give,
Fair monuments that shall for ever live:
And when his latest thread the Fates shall ply,
Thus would thy Martial have his ashes lye.

From BOETIUS.

Who ne'er dejected, ne'er elate,
Even alike in ev'ry state,
Can with a brave and stedfast soul
The fierce assaults of Fate controul.
Him move no terrors of the main,
Tormented and o'erturn'd in vain;
No fires that from Vesevus roll
In dreadful volumes to the Pole;

137

No flaming thunderbolts that hide
In dust the lofty turret's pride.
Why does the Tyrant's fuming rage
The wretch's wonder thus engage?
Wild passions from thy soul be rent
And all that rage is idly spent;
But who admits or hope or fear
Not firm nor resolute to bear,
Has thrown away his shield, gives ground,
And is an easy captive found.

SONG.

I

A Thousand charms can Lesbia boast,
As many torments I sustain;
Sure Nature's purpose here is crost,
If Nature e'er did ought in vain.

138

II

Of passion why so large my share,
Without an equal art to move?
Why was she made so tempting fair,
And yet so great a foe to love?

III

In those dear arms, O let me rest,
A while that lovely bosom join!
Then shall I warm that snowy breast,
Or cool this glowing heart of mine.

TRUE HAPPINESS.

From Apollodorus.

And is this it? (sure, nothing less)
Is this, my friend, true happiness?
The Diamond's sparkle to behold,
To drink in glowing cups of gold,

139

To sink to rest in beds of down,
Thy board with dainty meats to crown,
In barns capacious to contain
The plenteous crops of Lybia's plain?
True happiness is this, To fear
No threat'ning look of danger near,
To heed the Mob's nor love nor hate,
And not to start at coming Fate.
This will a genuine bliss secure
In spite of Fortune, and her power.

From NICOLAUS FABER.

How great thy Might let none by mischief-know,
But what thou can'st by acts of kindness shew;
A power to hurt is no such noble thing;
The toad can venom, and the serpent sting.—

140

PYTHAGORAS'S GOLDEN VERSES.

The Gods first worship, as enjoin'd by law,
An oath regarding with religious awe:
The Heroes then, and Stygian Powers allow
Their proper homage and the honours due:
And pay just def'rence to a parent's name,
Nor want thy relatives the right they claim:
Civility belongs to all the rest:
Be intimate with none except the best.
To gentle words and acts obliging bend:
Nor for a little failing hate thy friend,
As far as possible, for Power, we see,
Is a near neighbour to Necessity.
These be thy care. And still beneath thee keep
Anger and appetite and lust and sleep.

141

No base thing dare, nor when another's near,
Nor when alone: but most thyself revere.
Then justice exercise in word and deed:
And act in all affairs with utmost heed.
But know that every one is doom'd to dye;
And riches favour some, from others fly.
Whatever share of human ills be thine,
Bear it with resignation, nor repine:
Yet ease them, if thou canst; but keep in mind,
That Fate to good men has but few assign'd.
Reports of various kinds are apt to stray;
But let not these divert thee from thy way:
The slanders, that malicious tongues may feign,
Hear unconcern'd, nor let them give thee pain.
And be these following precepts all thy care:
Let none by courteous deeds or speeches fair,
Ever prevail with thee to do or say
What thine own interest offers to betray.

142

Consider ere thou actest, and be cool:
An inconsiderate action speaks a fool.
And every thing with apprehension leave,
That may hereafter give thee cause to grieve.
Do nought in ign'rance; but what's needful know;
So shall thy life in happiest tenour flow.
Let health be valu'd as a real good,
And use a mean in exercise and food.
(What gives no future grief I call a mean)
Nor chuse a costly diet, but a clean.
Of acts, that envy may create, beware.
Nor spend too freely, nor too frugal spare.
Keep always to a mean: extremes offend,
Act circumspectly; and regard the end.
Nor close thine eyes, 'till thrice with strict survey
Thou look'st o'er all the actions of the day.
Into what follies have I heedless run?
What duties have I not, what have I done?

143

Beginning at the first in order move;
The bad: impartial blame, the good approve.
Let these thy meditations all employ;
Be these thy labour, and be these thy joy.
For these to Virtue's paths thy steps will bring,
By him who gives our life freshnature's fourfold spring.
But first to Heaven apply for aid divine,
Then execute with courage thy design.
These precepts well observe, and thou shalt know
The state of things above, and things below.
Shalt know, as far as suits with human art,
Nature is uniform thro' ev'ry part:
That no false hopes may pass with thee for true,
Nor any secret thing escape thy view
Shalt know, that men misfortunes oft demand;
Hapless, who see not good, when close at hand!
And few know evils or to ease or fly;
So thick the cloud that hangs o'er Reason's eye.

144

Like Cylinders we roll, and never stay,
Meeting with many a hindrance in our way:
For strife unseen attacks us, ever nigh,
Born with us, which we should not dare, but fly.
Thou shouldst, O Jove, or lessen human woe,
Or every one his fate before-hand shew.
But thou have hopes, since man's of heav'nly line,
Whom Nature shews whatever is divine.
Of which if ought be thine, thou wilt retain
These precepts, and thy soul secure from pain.
The delicacies we forbad, refuse,
And great exactness at lustrations use.
Delib'rate cautiously in each affair,
The reins committing still to Reason's care.
And if to Heaven releas'd thy soul shall soar,
A God thou shalt become, a mortal man no more.

145

QUIET LIFE.

From Martial.

Might I permitted be to spend
My days securely with my friend;
Our lives at pleasure might we lead
And be allow'd to live indeed.
Far would we keep from hurry, far
From the harsh wranglings of the Bar,
Far from the treach'rous Palace-gate,
And all the shewy toils of state.
To entertaining books and talk,
The pleasant ride, the peaceful walk,
The Bath, the Portico, the Shade,
Our time, as due, should all be paid.
Now to himself ah! neither lives,
But Suns asliding down perceives,

146

Suns which no more he must survey:
Know we to live, and do we stay?

SONG.

I

Lucinda summons ev'ry charm
With pure design to kill;
But Delia would her face disarm,
And wounds against her will.

II

In vain to save my trembling heart
Lucinda's sight I fly;
Lucinda with bewitching art
At distance can destroy.

III

Where shall my frighted wand'rer rest
From such a force secure?

147

Where but in Delia's sacred breast,
Where witchcraft has no power.

IV

Thus the poor Lark, when birds of prey
Denounce a bloody fate;
To some near cottage hastes away,
And courts a captive state.

EPIGRAM.

From Martial.

Cæsar, my verse you graciously approv'd;
The honour Momus heard of, and was mov'd:
Yet more than praises, presents you bestow;
Still grows his envy as your favours grow:
See now the tortur'd fool his fingers bite!
Give, Cæsar, give, and make him burst with spight.

148

From MARTIAL.

Large gifts to wealthy batchelors you send,
And call you this munificence, my friend?
Nothing so sordid and so mean: for shame
To give gross avarice such a specious name!
Thus treacherous hooks indulge the greedy prey,
And thus false baits unthinking beasts betray.
Would you munificent in earnest be?
Your gifts, Gargilianus, send to me.

SONG.

I

Why sighs my dear friend from the depth of his soul,
While Nectar looks over the brim of the bowl?
That grief out of season, now prythee, forbear,
And sigh when the bottom begins to appear.

149

II

Alas! poor companion, and is the case so?
I now find the real sad source of thy woe,
Like smoak those dull sighs from a burning heart came,
Haste, pour down a bumper, and put out the flame.

SONG.

I

Hark! that solemn sound is one!
All things rest but I alone;
Come thou care-composing God,
Touch my temples with thy rod.

II

Weary Zephyrs are at ease,
Nought disturbs the slumb'ring trees;
And the noisy prattling stream
Murmurs faint as in a dream.

150

III

Say thou peaceful Pow'r divine,
Say what monstrous crime is mine?
I thy call ne'er disobey,
Ne'er oppose thy sov'reign sway.

IV

Leave the Miser brooding o'er
Midnight heaps of mouldy store;
Leave the happy lover blest
On his Cælia's panting breast.

V

Here's the God.—I feel him lye
Heavy fetters on each eye:
Thro' each vein soft slumbers creep:
Babes thus sing themselves asleep.

151

On the Storms at Sea, and the KING's safe Arrival in Britain.

1736-7.

Banish'd the land by George's late decree,
Discord took sanctuary in the Sea:
Expecting there at least to reign secure
His plans to frustrate, and defy his power:
But vain her schemes, her expectations vain!
'Tis George's own dominion all, the Main.

152

To Mr. C---r in Love.

—Ah miser!
Quantâ laboras in Charybdi.

Yes to be sure, that pretty she
Is fair—as what? as fair can be:
Her eyes (from which good Angels keep us)
Are like to put out those of Phœbus;
Her brows above exactly show
The force of Cupid's bended bow,
Her nose is cruel as his dart
The bane of many a peaceful heart!
Her cheeks—in vain! no tongue can speak
The beauties of her blooming cheek;
Who never saw th' orig'nal, those
May view the copy in a rose:
On teeth and lips, on neck and breast,
There is not time for me to rest;

153

The reader I refer to any
Poëtical good miscellany.

And dost thou then (once happy C---r)
But hapless now, set by thy supper?
And oft for day thro' curtains peep,
Or tell thy passion when asleep?
Dost thou look sullen out of measure
As ghosts depriv'd of dear lov'd treasure?
Talk seldom and with little sense,
Esteeming all impertinence?
Say, does there oft a tempest rise,
(Made up of many deep-fetch'd sighs)
Whereby each weathercock and sign
Like hogs when Boreas blusters, whine?
And do the streams that wash S---dg---
Sometimes o'erflow their banks of late,
Swell'd by thy falling sorrows more,
Than winter storm, or thunder show'r?

154

For burning shame! forbear to cry
Like little master for a toy.
Shake of that passion—prythee do,
Yes, shake it off—I'll tell thee how.
Thy meal be short—thy grace long lasting;
(Dev'ls are driv'n out by pray'r and fasting.)
Touch not a glass, for fear you spy
The pretty sparkles of her eye;
Frequent no silent grove nor brook,
Unless well-arm'd with pious book;
In flowry garden never stray,
Read not a poëm or a play;
And shun (if e'er you would be well)
The melting strains of------
If Morpheus flies thy call, make use
Of Poppy's sleep-provoking juice;
Or if that fail, e'en get by heart
Some piece of mine, or any part;

155

Tho' all the cares of love encumber,
I'm positive 'twill make you slumber.

SENECA, an Exile in Corsica.

The barb'rous Cors'ca rocks prærupt surround,
An horrid, wild, uncomfortable ground,
No fruits in Autumn; flow'rs in Summer bloom,
No gifts of Pallas glad in Winter's gloom;
In Spring no sweet vicissitude is seen;
No tree nor turf adorn'd with lovely green;
Nor grain nor drop nor spark, these scenes present,
Nor ought but banish'd men, and banishment.

156

SONG.

I

What charms has Chloe!
Her bosom how snowy!
Each feature
Is sweeter
Poor Venus, than thine!
Her mind like her face is
Adorn'd with all graces,
Not Pallas possesses
A wit so divine.

II

What crowds are bleeding
While Chloe's ne'er heeding
All lying
A dying

157

Thro' cruel disdain:
Ye Gods deign to warm her
Or quickly disarm her,
While Chloe's a charmer
Your temples are vain.

THE END.