Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

On Thamis' Banks, where many a flow'ry Gem
Blooms wanton-wild, advanc'd a jovial Crew,
Thick as the Daisies which his Meadows hem;
And with sweet Herbs the liquid Crystal strew;
For on the liquid Crystal gayly flew
A painted Gondelay, bedecked fair
With Gold and Purple, gorgeous to the View!
While loud approving Shouts divide the Air,
“Hail, happy future Bride of Albion's worthy Heir.”

II

Eftsoons the Father of the silver Flood,
The noble Thames, his azure Head uprais'd,
And shook his dewy Locks, worthy a God!
A lambent Glory round his Temples blaz'd,
On which the Naïds all with wonder gaz'd.
So sparkle Thetis purple-trembling Streams,
When Phœbus, for his golden Car yprais'd,
Strikes the calm Surface with his Morning Beams,
And sprinkles Spangles round and the wide Blue inflames.

III

The wanton Naïds, Doris' Daughters all,
Range in a Ring: Pherusa, blooming-fair,
Cymodoce Dove-ey'd, with Florimal,
Sweet-smelling Flowrets deck'd their long green Hair,
And Erato, to Love, to Venus dear,
Galene drest in smiles and Lilly-white,
And Phao, with her snowy Bosom bare,
All these, and more than these, a dainty Sight!
In Daunce and Merriment and sweet Belgards Delight.

IV

Around the Bark They daunce, wherein there sat
A Lady fresh and fair, ah! such a One,
So fresh and fair, so amiably great,
So goodly-gracious seem'd as never none,
And like thy sweet-beam'd Planet, Venus, shone.
They much admire, O very much her Face,
Her Shape, her Breast, for Love a downy Throne!
Her Beauty's glorious Shine, her every Grace;
An Angel She appear'd, at least of Angel-Race.

V

Her Thamis (on his golden Urn he lean'd)
Saluted with this Hymeneal Song,
And hail'd her safe. Full silent was the Wind,
The River glided gently-soft along,
Ne whispered the Breeze the Leaves emong,
Ne love-learn'd Philomel out-trill'd her Lay;
A Stillness on the Waves attentive hung,
A brighter Gladness blest the Face of Day,
All Nature gan to smile, her Smiles diffus'd the May.

VI

“Ah sacred Ship, to Albion wafting Good,
Our Wish, our Hope, our Joy! who safe convey'd
Through perilous Sea, from Ila's little Flood,
This Beauty's Paragon, this Royal Maid,
Isprung, Iwist, of high empyreal Seed;
The Child of Heaven, the Daughter of Delight,
Nurst by a Grace, with Milk and Honey fed!
Oh Frederick! oh, certes, blessed Wight,
To Whom the Gods consign the Nymph Augusta hight.

VII

Ah sacred Ship! may favourable Gales,
The kindest Breath of Heav'n attend thy Way,
And swell the winged Canvass of thy Sails:
May Calmness be thy Path, and Pleasaunce lay
On the soft Bosom of the yielding Sea,
Where-e're thou Wind; or to the spicy Shore
Of Araby the blest, or Indias Bay,
Where Diamonds kindle, and the golden Ore
Flames into Purity, to deck Augusta more!

VIII

Augusta, fairest Princess under Sky,
Welcome to Albion's renowned Land,
Albion well known to thy great Ancestry,
Made dearer far to Thee by Hymen's Band,
The Band of Love, of Honour and Command!
Deign to receive the Nations publick Voice,
Of Heartiness unfeign'd, who gleeful stand
In meet Array, and thus express their Joys
In Peals of loud Acclaim, and Mirths confused Noise.

IX

With warmer Raptures, and more passionate,
Tho' hard to be! the Royal Youth, I trow,
Shall Thee embrace: Him tenfold Fires elate,
And sacred Passions in his Bosom glow,
Which from thy Picture erst began to flow.
For Thee He burns, for Thee He sighs and prays,
Pours out his Soul to Thee, nor Rest can know;
But dreams of Thee long, livelong Nights and Days,
By Beauty led thro' all Love's Rosy-Thorny-Ways.

X

To heal his Pains soft Musick does divide
Most heavenly Melody in soothing Strains;
Nor heavenly Melody, nor aught beside,
Save Thee, ah Dearest Dread! can heal his Pains.
Thy Form too deeply in his Breast Remains.
So ever and anon He chides the Gales,
That slowly seem to brush the liquid Plains;
Oh! fly on all the Wings of Heav'n, ye Sails,
Oh fly! He crys; and lo! a Lover's Pray'r prevails.

XI

Now cease thy Sighs. She comes, (oh blessed Day!)
She comes, by all the Loves and Graces drest,
In proud Humility. See, Hymen play,
With Saffron Robe and Flame-embroider'd Vest,
(Such Colours, sikerly, suit Hymen best.)
And Cupid Catches rosy wafts of Air
To stretch the Sails and fan the Royal Guest.
Nor Chastity, meek-ey'd, is wanting there,
For She, and Modesty, sweet-blushing, guide the Steer.

XII

Not Venus, Queen of Beauty and of Bliss
So goodly shone, when erst the Goddess sprung
From Ocean's sparkling Foam; sweet Nakedness!
A thousand Smiles and Loves upon her hung,
And all the Gods for Joy and wonder sung.
The Waves so proud the beamy Burthen bore
Exulting; She, around her, Odours flung,
And bade the Billows laugh and cease to roar;
They gladly Her obey, and gently kiss the Shore.

XIII

So fair She looks, nay fairer, cou'd it be;
Did never mortal Man such Charms behold
In Bow'r or Hall. Spring waits upon her Eye;
Lo! Flora has her richest Stores out-roll'd
Of variable Flow'rs and blooming Gold.
The Meadows smile, the Birds renew their Love
And throw Themselves in Pairs the Young and Old;
All Nature glows where're her Glances move,
And Beauty paints each Field, and Musick fills each Grove.

XIV

But Who is yon, each other Youth excelling
As much as orient Gold surmounteth Brass?
Sure Honour in his Visage chose her Dwelling,
And sacred Truth, Perdie, adorns his Face;
Such Goodlihead and Humbless never was.
Blest be the Sight! full well those looks I kenn,
Where Joyaunce sits and ever-smiling Grace;
Frederick! 'tis He! the first and best of Men,
Our dearling Prince to meet Augusta well-beseen.

XV

And lo! what medled Passions in Him move,
He gazes—wonders—(great is Beauty's Pow'r!)
And, sweetly lost in Ecstasy and Love,
His Eyes her Whole, his Lips her Lips devour,
Which Venus had besprent with Nectar-Show'r.
Her slippery Charms allow his Eyes no Rest,
But thousand Arrows, nay ten thousand pour
Into his wounded and transported Breast;
Sure none like her is fair, sure none like him is blest!

XVI

O blessed Youth! receive thy Bonnibel,
Eternal Fount of Virtue, Love and Grace!
O kneel to all the Gods and pray to all,
Who sparkle so divinely in her Face,
And with celestial Fires her Bosom bless.
So shines Aurora in her rich Attire,
When She Hyperion wou'd fain caress:
Gaze all the Host of Stars, and all admire,
Then twinkle in their Urns, and into Night retire.

XVII

O blessed Maid! receive thy Belamour,
With glee receive Him and o'erflowing Heart:
Ne in high Monarch's Court, ne Lady's Bow'r,
A Youth so form'd by Nature and by Art,
Conspiring Both, e're cherish'd Cupid's Dart.
So Phœbus, lusty Bridegroom of the Sky,
With native Splendours shines on every Part;
From East to West his pointed Glories fly,
He warmeth every Heart, He dazleth every Eye.”

XVIII

Here Thamis ended. Now the goodly Train
Of all the Naïds, in most comely wise,
A Present make of Myrtle-Girland green,
Entrail'd with Flowrets and with rare device.
The Graces eke, with Laughter-swelling Eyes,
A Rosy-Chaplet, steep'd in Nectar bring,
(The Roses gather'd in the Morning Skies)
Then, joining with the Naïds, form a Ring,
And round Them deftly daunce, and round Them blithly sing.

XIX

“As Roses and as Myrtles kindly weave
Their Sweets in One, much sweeter as they blend;
Emblem of Marriage-Love! So You, receive
Sweets interchang'd, and to each other lend;
Then, in a blest Perfume, to Heav'n ascend,
And mingle with the Gods! While Here below,
New Myrtles, Roses new, withouten end,
From your luxurious Stock, full plenteous, grow,
And with their Parent-Sweets, and Parent-Beauty glow.”

XX

Next Albion's Genius came, bedite in Gold,
An Oaken Chaplet nodded on his Head;
The Crown He held was glorious to behold,
And royally He taught his Feet to tread.
Soon as he spy'd the Prince's Goodlyhead,
He pointed to the Crown, and rais'd his Voice
To hail the Royal Pair and bless their Bed:
The jolly Chorus catch the grateful Noise,
Echo the Woods and Vales, and Heav'n and Earth rejoice.

XXI

Next Liberty, the fairest Nymph on Ground;
The flowing Plenty of her golden Hair
Diffusing lavishly Ambrosia round;
Her Hands a flow'ry Cornucopia bear,
Which scatter's Joy and Pleasaunce through the Air.
Earth smil'd, and Gladness danc'd along the Sky;
Before Her vanish'd Grief and pale-ey'd Care,
And eft, in courteous Guise, she cast her Eye
On that same gentle Twain, her Glory and her Joy.

XXII

And These beside, a Sacred Per'snage came,
Immaculate and sweet as Sharon-Rose:
Upon her Breast a Bloody Cross did flame,
Aumail'd with Gold and Gems in goodly Rows:
A Pall of Lawn adown her Shoulders flows:
Yclep'd Eusebia. She pray'd aloud,
Then, blessing Both, for her Defenders chose,
And spheard her Glories in a purple Cloud:
Softly Augusta smil'd, full lowly Frederick bow'd.

XXIII

Fair Fame behind a silver Trumpet blew,
Sweet to the Earth, and fragrant to the Sky!
Her Mantle of a many-colour'd Hue,
Her Rain-bow-Wings pouder'd with many an Eye,
And near her Honour, Pow'r, and Courtesy:
Honour of open Front, and steady Grace;
Pow'r, clad in Steel, a Faulchion brandish'd high;
Courtesy drest in Smiles her bounteous Face:
When These attend a Prince, thrice happy Subject's Case!

XXIV

The Muses clos'd this intellectual Scene
From Helicon; who knows not Helicon?
Gold were their Lyres, their Laurels ever-green.
Soon Clio to the Prince a starry Crown
Presents, another to his Bellibone.
Then all in lofty Chorus swell the Song,
Big with their happy Loves and great Renown.
Prophetick Numbers float the Woods emong,
For Shepherd-Lad too high, for Memory too long.

XXV

Nathless thy tuneful Sons, O Oxford dear!
By Muses visited, may catch the Lays,
Sweet-pouring Streams of Nectar on the Ear,
And from Their Lips, in Vision, learn to raise
Their Loves and Fame, to brighten future Days.
Thee fits not, Thomalin, a simple Swain,
High Deeds to sing, but gentle Roundelays:
Go feed thy Flock, renew the rural Strain
On oaten Pipe, content to please the humble Plain.

A Boat.

Presently.

Beautiful Looks.

Nor.

Certainly.

Named.

Surely.

Formerly.

An Affirmation.

Handsom.

Beautiful Virgin.

Charming Lover.

Often

Called.

Fair Damsel.

Nevertheless.

BEAUTY and MUSICK.

An Ode.

Air I.

O softly Sigh into the Flute,
While dear Ianthe breaths the lovesick Lay:
Now teach the melancholy Lute
In tender trills to melt the Notes away,
Melodious in Decay!—
But hark, She louder, louder sings,
Sink, boldly sink into the Strings:
Shake, O shake the numerous Wire,
Fire the Blood, the Spirits fire
With musical Thunder and burning Desire!

Air II.

Our Souls divided with a fond Surprise
Dissolve in Woe;
With Rapture glow;
Fall with her Notes; or with her Bosom rise;
Rais'd with Hopes; with Fears deprest;

Sweetly tortur'd, sweetly blest;
Sav'd by Her Voice, and Vanquish'd by her Eyes.

Recitative.

The God of Love, to hear her Strains
Leaves his Acidalian Plains,
And, as th' harmonious Charmer sings,
In triumph points his Darts and waves his Wings.
Th' harmonious Charmer paus'd to see
A list'ning, wond'ring Deity;
While Silence softly chain'd her Tongue,
The God responsive rais'd the Song,
In Strains like these, if Strains can be
Rais'd to the Raptures of a Deity,
The Raptures of a wond'ring Deity!

Air III.

Beauty, sacred Beauty sing,
Flowing from the wond'rous Spring
Of uncreated and primeval Light!
Beauty the first-best Work of God,
Spoke into Being in his high Abode,
And next his own Eternal Essence bright!

Air IV.

With Beauty Musick join,
The Breath of Heav'n
To Mortals given
To swell their Bliss to Bliss divine!
With Beauty Musick join.

Chorus.

Beauty, silent Harmony!
Softly stealing through the Eye
Smiles into the the Breast a Dart.
Musick, fine-proportion'd sounds!
Pours Balm upon the Lover's Wounds
Through the Ear into the Heart.

Recitative.

Thus once Cecilia, (tuneful Dryden sings.)
To fire with sacred Rage her Soul,
Touch'd into Voice the sprightly Strings,
And bade the silver Tides of Musick roll.
An Angel, list'ning to her Lyre,
To lift the Modulations higher,

Apply'd the aiding Graces of his Tongue;
And while the Virgin play'd, the Seraph sung.

Air V.

Sweetest Mortal, to befriend Thee,
Angels from their Quires attend Thee,
Angels leave their Thrones to hear
Musick with Devotion glowing,
Musick heavenly Joys bestowing,
Worthy a Seraphick Ear!

Recitative.

Again she trembles o'er the silver Strings,
The silver Strings, exulting to her Hand,
Obey the sweet Command,
And thus again the Angel sings.
(While Silence wav'd her downy Wings around,
And Gladness smil'd along the purple Skies;
All Nature soft'ned at their Flows of Sound,
And bright'ned at the Radiance of their Eyes.)

Air VI.

Harmony, the Soul refining!
Beauty, Sense, and Virtue joining

In a Form and Mind like Thine,
Nobly raise a mortal Creature
To a more exalted Nature;
We alone are more Divine!

Recitative.

Rapt'rous thus the Angel sung,
Manna melting from his Tongue,
Attemper'd to Cecilia's golden Lyre:
The blended Powr's of Harmony
Trembled up the willing Sky,
And mingled with the Seraph's flaming Quire.

Chorus.

How sweet the Musick, how divine,
When Heaven and Earth in Consort join!
O sweet the Musick! O divine!

Air. VII.

Skill'd the softest Notes to sing,
Skill'd to wake the sweetest String,
Dear Ianthe Both supplies:
Thee, Cecilia, Thee we find

In Her Form and in her Mind,
The Angel in her Voice and Eyes!

Chorus.

Happy, O beyond expressing!
He who tastes th' immortal Blessing
Dear Ianthe may bestow!
Beauty, in its pride, possessing,
Ever loving and caressing,
Musick moving,
Bliss improving!—
He'll enjoy a Heav'n-Below!
Happy He, beyond expressing!

THE DESPAIRING MAIDEN.

I

Within an unfrequented Grove
As late I laid alone,
A tender Maid in deep Distress,
At Distance, made her Moan.

II

She cropt the blue-ey'd Violet,
Bedew'd with many a Tear;
And ever and anon her Sighs
Stole sadly on my Ear.

III

“Ah faithless Man! how cou'd he leave
So fond and true a Maid?
Can so much Innocence and Truth
Deserve to be betray'd?

IV

Alass, my Mother (if the Dead
Can hear their Children groan.)
What ills your helpless Orphan feels,
To Sorrow left alone!

V

To Sorrow left by Him I lov'd;
Ah perjur'd and ingrate!—
Ye Virgins, learn the Wiles of Men,
And learn to shun my Fate.

VI

For whom do I these Flourets crop,
For whom this Chaplet twine?
Say, shall they glow on Damon's Brow,
Or fade away on mine?

VII

But He the blooming Wreath will scorn,
Who scorn'd my Virgin-bloom:
And me—alass! they suit not me,
Unless to deck my Tomb.

VIII

How oft the dear perfidious Youth
Invok'd each Pow'r above!
How oft He languish'd at my Feet,
And vow'd eternal Love!

IX

How sweet the Minutes danc'd away,
All melted in Delight!
With Him each Summer-Day was short,
And short each Winter-Night.

X

'Twas more than Bliss I felt:—and now
Alass! 'tis more than pain.—
Ye soft, ye rosy Hours of Love,
Return—return again.

XI

Ah no.—Let Blackness shade the Night,
When first He breath'd his Vows:
The Scene of Pleasure then—but, ah!
The Source of all my Woes.

XII

How cou'd I think so sweet a Tongue
Cou'd e'er consent to lye?—
'Twas easy to deceive a Maid
So soft and young as I.

XIII

And yet He lays the Fault on me,
(Where none cou'd e're be laid,
Unless my loving Him too well.)
And calls me perjur'd Maid.

XIV

The Nymphs, who envious saw my Charms,
Rejoice to see my Woe,
And taunting cry, “why did you leave
The Youth that lov'd you so?”

XV

But oh believe me, lovely Youth,
Far dearer than my Eye,
I love you still, and still will love,
Till oh, for you, I dye!

XVI

Ev'n tho' you hate, I doat to Death;
My Death my Truth shall prove.
My latest Pray'rs are Pray'rs for You,
And Sighs are Sighs of Love.”

XVII

She ceas'd:—(while Pity from the Clouds
Dissolv'd in silent Show'rs:—)
Then faintly “Damon!” cry'd:—and breath'd
Her Soul amid the Flow'rs.

THE DESPAIRING LOVER.

I

When gloomy November, to Nature unkind,
Both saddens the Skies, and oppresses the Mind,
By Beauty undone, a disconsolate Swain
Thus sigh'd his Despair to the Winds and the Rain.

II

“In vain the Wind blows, and in vain the Rains beat,
They fan but my Flame, without quenching the Heat;
For so fierce is the Passion which Stella inspires,
Not the Ocean itself cou'd extinguish its fires.

III

Why gaz'd ye, My Eyes, with such aking Delight,
Till Paradise open'd and swam in my Sight:
Yes, Paradise open'd, and oh! to my Cost,
The Serpent I found, but the Paradise lost.

IV

Heav'n knows with what Fondness her Heart I Addrest,
What passionate Tenderness bled in my Breast:
Yet so far was my Truth from engaging Belief,
That She frown'd at my Vows, tho' She smil'd at my Grief.

V

Sure never was Love so ill-fated as mine;
If a Friend shall demand Her, what, must I resign?—
Yes, yes, O resign Her, be bravely distrest;
And tho' I die unhappy, yet—may He be blest!

VI

And how blest must He be?—O to live on her Charms!
At her Wit while He wonders to sink in her Arms!—
But yet, O my Soul, to his Friendship be just:
Let Him live on her Charms;—I'll go down to the Dust.

VII

To the Chambers of Darkness I gladly will go,
For the Light without Her is the Colour of Woe:
Come, Death, then relieve me, my Life I resign,
Since the Arrows of Love are less friendly than Thine.

VIII

Ye Virgins of Isis, the Fair and the Young,
Whose Praises so often have sweet'ned my Tongue,
In Pity, when of my sad Fate you shall hear,
Oh, honour my Grave with a Rose and a Tear!

IX

Perhaps the dear, beautiful Cause of my Doom
May steal, by the Star-light, and visit my Tomb:
My Ghost, if one Sigh shall but heave in her Breast,
Tho' restless without it, contented will rest.

TO THE AUTHOR of LEONIDAS: A Poem.

An Epistle.

Warm'd with thy Verse, which Liberty inspires,
Which Nature forms and sacred Reason fires,
I pour a tributary Lay. Receive
The honest Praise a Friend may dare to give.

Most of our Poets chuse their early Theme
A flow'ry Meadow, or a purling Stream.
Thy Genius took a flight above the Groves,
The Pipe neglected and the Rural Loves;
To God-like Newton's Praises swell'd thy Lyre,
Play'd with the Light and grasp'd æthereal Fire.
So the Young Lyrick-Lark, on trembling Wings
O'er Meadows warbles, and to Shepherds sings,
The youthful Eagle, born to nobler Sway,
Enjoys the Sun, and boldly faces Day.

Next brave Leonidas, with Virtue warm'd,
The Child of Heav'n and Thee! our Wonder charm'd:

Our Wonder and our Silence best can tell
How much He lov'd his Greece, how great He fell.
His Arm how dreadful, how compos'd his Mien!
Fierce as a God, and as a God serene.
Horrid with Gold, and formidably bright
He lightens and He thunders through the Fight;
With bleeding Hills He heaps the groaning Plain,
And crimson Torrents mingle with the Main.
At last, collecting all his Patriot-Fires,
In the full Blaze of Liberty expires.

If blest Immortals bend their Thoughts below,
(And Verse like thine may list'ning Angels draw.)
What new-felt Raptures through the Hero roul,
To find his Deeds immortal as his Soul!
To shine above each Patriot's honour'd Name,
Thron'd in Thy Verse, the Temple of his Fame!
Rich as the Pillars which support the Skies,
And bright with Wit as Heav'n with Starry Dies:
As Virtue, firm; as Liberty, sublime;
A Monument to mock the Rage of Time.

Did Homer, say, thy glowing Breast inspire
To sing the Spartan with Athenian Fire?
Or Homer's Self revives again in Thee:
For Grecian Chiefs and Grecian Wit I see.—
His mighty Spirit all thy Genius guides,
And o'er thy Bosom roll his golden Tides.

Blest is thy Fancy which durst first despise
Gods in Machines and Bullies from the Skies.
Nor Ariosto's Fables fill thy Page
Nor Tasso's Points, but Virgil's sober Rage.
Pure-temper'd Fires an equal Light maintain,
To warm the Reason, not to scorch the Brain.
How soft, how strong thy varied Numbers move,
Or swell'd to Glory, or dissolv'd to Love.
Correct with Ease, where all the Graces meet,
Nervously plain, majestically sweet.
The Muses well thy Sacrifice repay
Attendant warbling in each heavenly Lay!

When Ariana grasps th' abhorred Dart,
Each Lover bleeds and feels it in his Heart.

Ah faithful Pair! by Misery improv'd:
Who wou'd not die to love as you have lov'd?
Like Teribazus gladly I cou'd die
To draw one tear from dear Ianthe's Eye.
One Sigh of Hers wou'd recompence my Breath,
Wou'd sweeten Pain, and sanctify my Death.
O might I, while her Eyes inflict the Wound,
Or her soft Lute dissolves a plaintive Sound,
Might I, while She inhales my latest Breath,
Sink from her Arms into the Arms of Death!
Then rise, (so pure a Wish may be forgiven.)
O sweet Transition, from her Breast to Heav'n!

Forgive this fond Excursion of my Woe;
Forgive these Tears, that will, rebellious, flow;
Forgive these Sighs, that will, unbidden, rise,
Till Death for ever close her from my Eyes.
But thou, blest Youth, may thou for ever know
The chaste Endearment, and parental Glow:
The still, the sacred, the melodious Hour,
The Morning-Closet, and the Ev'ning-Bow'r.

There, when thy Muse shall let her Eagle fly,
And nobly lift a Mortal to the Sky,
When all th' inspiring God dilates thy Soul,
And quick Ideas kindle as they roll,
Let British Valour thy brave Care engage,
With British Valour fire the glorious Page.
Bid Henry's Honours in thy Poem glow,
On Edward Immortality bestow.
Let Agin-Court, let Cressy's well-fought Plain
Run purple in thy Lines and bleed again;
Britannia then, no more Her Sons shall mourn,
Extinct, forgotten in the silent Urn:
Born on the Wings of Verse their Names shall rise,
Dear to the Earth and grateful to the Skies.
Hail, Poetry! whose Life-infusing Lays
Bid Time roll back aud sleeping Atoms raise;
Dust into Being wake, expand the Tomb,
Dead Glory quicken, and restore lost Bloom:
As God, from Mortals heighten to Divine,
And give Us through Eternity to shine!

Glover! thy Mind, in various Virtue wise,
Each Science claims, and makes each Art thy Prize.
With Newton soars, familiar to the Sky,
Looks Nature through, so keen thy mental Eye,
Or down descending on the Globe below,
Through humbler Realms of Knowledge loves to flow.
Promiscuous Beauties dignify thy Breast,
By Nature happy, as by Study blest,
Thou, Wit's Columbus! from the Epick-Throne
New Worlds descry'd, and made Them all our own:
Thou first through real Nature dar'd explore,
And waft her sacred Treasures to our Shore.

The Merchant thus, by Heav'nly Wisdom led,
(Each Kingdom noted, and Each Law survey'd.)
On Britain pours whate're can serve Mankind,
Adorn the Body, or delight the Mind.
Spices which blow'd in Araby the blest,
And breath'd a Paradise around the East.
Unclouded Sapphires show their azure Sky,
Em'ralds with smiling Green refresh the Eye:

Here bleeds the Ruby, Diamonds sparkle there,
To tremble on the Bosoms of our Fair.
Yet shou'd the Sun with ten-fold Lustre shine,
Exalt with deeper Dies the flaming Mine,
Shou'd softer Breezes and more genial Skies
Bid sweeter Spice, in blooming Order, rise,
Nor Gems, nor Spice cou'd Nature know to name,
Bright as thy Wit, or fragrant as thy Fame.

WINTER;

A Translation of ODE BRUMALIS.

By the Reverend Mr. Tattersal, late Fellow of Trinity Coll. Cambridge.

Alas! no longer now appear
The softer Seasons of the Year.
Of Sports and Loves what Muse now sings?
Away, my Lyre;—Boy, break the Strings.

Old joyless Winter, who disdains
Your sprightly, flow'ry, Attic Strains,
Wrapt into Sable calls for Airs
Rough, gloomy, as the Rug he wears,

Pleasure, for ever on the Wing,
Wild, wanton, restless, fluttering Thing,

Airy springs by with sudden Speed,
Swifter than Maro's flying Steed.

Ah! where is hid the sylvan Scene,
The leafy Shade, the vernal Green?
In Flora's Meads the Sweets that grew,
Colours which Nature's Pencil drew,
Chaplets, the Bust of Pope might wear,
Worthy to bloom around Ianthe's Hair?

Gay-mantled Spring away is flown,
The silver-tressed Summer's gone,
And golden Autumn; nought remains
But Winter with his iron Chains,

The feather-footed Hours that fly
Say, “Human Life thus passes by.”
What shall the Wise, the Prudent? they
Will seize the Bounty of To-day,
And prostrate to the Gods their grateful Homage pay.

The Man, whom Isis' Stream inspires,
Whom Pallas owns, and Phœbus fires,
Whom Suada, smiling Goddess, deigns
To guide in sweet Hyblæan Plains,
He Winter's Storms, undaunted still, sustains.

Black lowring Skies ne'er hurt the Breast
By white-rob'd Innocence possest.
Roar as ye List, ye Winds,—begin,—
Virtue proclaims fair Peace within:
Ethereal Pow'r! 'tis you that bring
The balmy Zephyrs, and restore the Spring.

Should Dangers e'er my Friend assail,
Virtue flings round her Coat of Mail;
Kindly protects Thee from all Harms,
Drest in her native spotless Charms.
Thy Mind at ease no Tumult knows,
With all his Rage tho' black November blows.

Dark stormy Months I too defy,
November blows, and what care I:
Tun'd to new Joys my Hours are on the Wing,
I blend the Dance or with the Muses sing:
While Bacchus' Blessings varied Pleasures bring.

With Horace now dispos'd to laugh,
Worthy the Lips of Jove I quaff
Rich Venusine: now lose my Soul
In Ovid's sweet nectareal Bowl.

If you, Calliope, should deign
Aloud to sound a martial Strain,
Your Vot'ry streight in Rapture hears
The noble Music of the Spheres:
Mounted on Wings, see! see! I fly
With Mantua's Swan, and range the boundless Sky.

With eager Joy I oft repair
To the gay crouded Theatre,

Where shines the Man who treads our Stage,
Garrick! the Roscius of the Age!
His Voice, Mien, Manner, Look, a Life imparts;
'Tis He who captivates our Eyes,—our Hearts.

Vanbrugh,—your leave,—what's lewdly writ
I hate,—I hate th' Immoral Wit.
Immortal Shakespear I admire,
And kindle at his sacred Fire:
O! what a Glory breathes his Page,
He lives?—He lives thro' ev'ry Age
Father of Tragedy, He reigns
Sole Monarch o'er Theatric Plains.

Hence with the Sock:—the Queen commands:—
Grac'd with the golden Buskin stands:
The Stage in Majesty improves,
Trembling beneath her, awful as she moves.

What Thunder bursts!—it shakes the Heart—
Thunder beyond the Reach of Art!

The claps!—I heard 'em,—how they roll!
The lovely Terror fills my Soul:
Who talks of Fiends!—of gaping Graves!—
Othello!—'tis Othello raves!

What Tenderness!—what fierce Disdain
Whirls, boils, and foams thro' ev'ry Vein!
He swears!—invokes Hell, Earth, Air, Skies!
See where the glorious Madman flies!
He groans,—he trembles,—falls,—the Hero dies!

Shakespear, excessive Joys like these
(I almost said) are Cruelties:
Whirlwinds of Pleasure tear the panting Breast,
And the Mind akes, too exquisitely blest.

Chang'd is the Scene:—methinks I rove
In some enchanted Cypress-Grove,
Soft Otway calls!—who can refuse
The plaintive Voice of Otway's Muse?

We'll go, my fair Ianthe, we will go,
Tho' your fond love-inspiring Eyes o'erflow
Like bubbling Springs, more beautiful in Woe.

Sweet is the Sympathy of Woe;
Have I not seen (nay felt 'em too)
Down-stealing Tears, big, silent, slow,
Speak a soft Language as they flow,
Daughters of tender Grief, express
Charming Monimia's deep Distress!

What murmurs of the anxious Fair!
What Sighs around perfume the Air!
Otway, you paint what Nature is,
Beyond, the Bard of Salamis;
Your Muse can with our Passions play,
And steal us from ourselves away.

Let others prize, what Men bestow,
The lofty Name, the laurel'd Brow:

More charming, sure, thy Triumphs are
(Who would not wish to win the Fair!)
To raise at Pleasure Hopes, or Fears,
To soften Virgins into Tears.
Poet, I envy thee, who thus
Canst conquer Them, who conquer Us.

SPRING;

A Translation of ODE VERNALIS.

By the Reverend Mr. Tattersal, late Fellow of Trinity Coll. Cambridge.

Care flies the Raptures of the Bowl,
'Tis jolly Bacchus fills my Soul;
I feel within the genial Fire,
And from yon Myrtle snatch my golden Lyre.

To Thee the jocund Muse I send,
With sprightly Lay to greet my Friend:
For all Things now around look gay,
Why mayn't I laugh, as well as They?
The Fair, the Young, my Hours beguile,
And Cytherea ever wears a Smile,

Creative Goddess of the Spring!
No more of Winter's Storms I sing,
See May in wanton Joy appear
Spread his gay Wings, and fan the buxom Year.

My Friend (indulge the tender Name)
My Friend, near Isis' sacred Stream
With whom so oft I us'd to rove
Careless, in Garden, Mead, or Grove;
A Glass, a Song:—thus You and I
Have bid the golden Minutes fly,
Seen many a Sun, with sloaping Ray,
Ling'ring retire, and blest the falling Day.

O tell me what soft Triumphs now
Wreath blooming Garlands round thy Brow;
What Nymph, for winning Beauty known,
Giving you Joy, compleats her own;
Whether the Graces, or the Nine
Divide thy Hours, for both are thine?
'Tis merry May, Swains, greet the Graces Shrine.

To frolic on the tufted Grass,
To view clear Waters as they pass,
To mark the shining, shivering Gleam
That darts, and dances on the Stream,
To court the Muse, toy with the Fair,
(Pleasures like these O! may I ever share)

The Season bids: A Friend or two,
Ingenious, affable, like you;
Happy at sudden Reparties,
Whose Answers bite, yet biting please,
To kindle Mirth: and let me join
Bacchus, the purple Sovereign of the Vine.

May god-like Handel now inspire
The tuneful Pow'rs, and fill the Choir:
Ianthe, charming as she sings,
Wake with a nimble Touch th' harmonious Strings.

Listen, ye Heavens, to Strains, above
Whate're the starry Court of Jove,

Lost in melodious Raptures, hears
Amid the silver-sounding Spheres;
Where Orbs on Orbs in Concert rowl,
And Musick trembles round from Pole to Pole.

O melting Sound! when Sleep unseen
Just steals upon the Cyprian Queen,
Indulging in th' Idalian Shade,
Stretcht on a Couch, of Roses made,
The Lute soft-warbling, such the Air
That undulating Plays, and lulls th' immortal Fair.

The Flames that feed within my Breast!
I faint, I dye, with Charms opprest;
Her Voice, her Face, her sweet Spinnet,
The Neck of Iv'ry, and the Hair of Jet.

So languishes, and fades away
The Flow'r beneath the Blaze of Day;
Quick, my Companions, quick apply
Some cooling, sovereign Remedy:

Metcalf, to sooth a burning Pain,
By Pæan taught, may try, but try in vain.

Not Metcalf's Skill, tho' known to Fame,
Can slake the Fury of my Flame,
Not all his Juices quench; nor yet
Dear Friend, the Flow of your engaging Wit.

THE NATIVITY.

A College-Exercise. 1736.

I

'Twas Morn! the Fields were sprinkled o'er with Light,
The Folds unpent sent out their Flocks to feed:
A Shepherd-Boy, (young Thomalin he hight,)
With flying Fingers deftly tun'd his Reed;
Where auncient Isis laves the Muses' Mead,
(Forever Smile the Mead and flow the Stream!)
He sung the Birth of David's holy Seed:
Tho' low his Voice, full lofty was his Theme;
Wightly his Senses all were rapt into a Dream.

II

Eftsoons he spy'd a Grove, the Season's Pride,
All in the Centre of a pleasant Glade,
Where Nature flowrish'd like a Virgin-Bride;
Mantled with Green, with Hyacinths inlay'd,
And Crystal-Rills o'er Beds of Lillies stray'd;

The blue-ey'd Violet and King-Cup gay,
And newblown-Roses, smiling sweetly-red,
Outglow'd the blushing Infancy of Day,
While amorous West-Winds kist their fragrant Souls away.

III

A rich Pavilion rear'd within its Height,
The Capitals and Freezes Gold entire,
Glist'ning with Carbuncles; a various Light
Wav'd tremulous, and set the Eye on Fire.
A silken Curtain, drawn on silver Wire,
And ting'd with Colours of the summer Sky,
Flow'd round, and bade the ruder Gales retire.
Four Forms attendant at the Portals lie,
The same Ezekiel saw with keen-prophetic Eye.

IV

Unlike, O much unlike, the strawy Shed,
Where Mary, Queen of Heaven, in humbless Lay,
Where erst the Infant-God repos'd his Head,
And deign'd to dwell in Tenement of Clay;
The clouded Tabernacle of the Day!

The Shepperd's Dream was mystical, I ween,
Isaiah on his Bosom pour'd a Ray,
And painted to his Eyes the gentle Scene,
Where Lions dandled Lambs; O Peace, thy golden Reign!

V

High-smiling in Delight a Lady sate.
Young as the dawning Morn, on Iv'ry Throne;
Upon her Looks the Virgin-Virtues wait,
The Virgin-Virtues wait on Her alone!
Her Sapphire-Eyes with gentle Spirit shone:
Fair Bountyhead was open'd in her Face,
Of Honour and of Love the Paragon!
A sweet Regard and most auspicious Grace
Bespoke her Lineage high: She was of David's Race.

VI

Upon her Lap a lovely Infant lay,
And ken'd the Mother by her smiling Grace.
His Looks were radiant as the Bloom of Day,
And Angel-Sweetness purpled in his Face.
Oh! how the Mother did the Babe embrace

With tender Blandishment and fondling Care!
She gaz'd, and gaz'd, ne cou'd enough caress
His Cheeks, as Roses red, as Lillies fair,
The holy Day-Spring hight, Heav'ns everlasting Heir!

VII

Near Him a goodly Pers'nage mildly shone,
With Looks of Love, and shedding Peace and Joy:
Her Looks were Love, soft-streaming from the Throne
Of Grace, and sweetly melted on the Boy:
Her Tongue drop'd Honey, which wou'd never cloy.
Mercy yclep'd. All Nature on her hung,
To drink her Manna and her Smiles enjoy;
Young laughing Angels “Mercy, Mercy,” sung;
Heav'n echo'd “Mercy” back, the Spheres with “Mercy”rung.

VIII

Thus if the Clouds, enroll'd with deadly Food,
Forget to thunder in the æthereal Tow'rs,
But silently dissolve in kindly Mood,
In fostering Dews, and Balm, and Honey-Show'rs,
Laugh all the Fields for Joy, and all the Bow'rs.

The Shrubs and Herbs fresh Odours round them fling,
Pop up their smiling Heads the little Flow'rs,
Warble the Birds, exulting on the Wing,
And all the wild-wood Notes the genial Blessings sing.

IX

High o'er his Head was held a starry Crown,
Emblem of Royalty and princely Might:
His Priesthood was by golden Mitre shewn;
An Eagle Young, with E'yn most piercing-bright,
To prove the Prophet drank the distant Light.
But strangest was to see a bloody Hand
Uprear a Cross, the Cross with Blood bedight:
Ten thousand Angels, flutt'ring in a Band,
Admir'd the mystic Sign but cou'd not understand.

X

Now dulcet Symphonies, and Voices meet,
Mellifluous stole upon the Shepherd's Ear,
Which swell'd so high and dy'd away so sweet,
As might have charm'd a Seraph from his Sphere.
Happy the Swain that mote such Music hear!

Eftsoons a joyous Fellowship was seen
Of Ladies gent, and Beauties without peer,
As they a Train of Goddesses had been,
In manner of a Mask, radiant along the Green.

XI

Faith led the Van, her Mantle dipt in Blue,
Steady her Ken, and gaining on the Skies;
Obedient Miracles around her flew:
She pray'd, and Heav'n burst open on her Eyes,
And golden Valves roll'd back in wond'rous Wise:
And now some Hill, with all its shaggy Load
Of Trees and Flocks, unto the Ocean hies:
Now Wings of Cherubs, flaming all abroad,
Careering on the Winds in Sight upbear their God.

XII

Next Hope, the gayest Daughter of the Sky!
Her nectar-dewed Locks with Roses bound;
An Eden flourish'd where she cast her Eye,
And Flocks of Sports and Joys, their Temples crown'd,
Plum'd their bright Wings, and thump'd the hollow Ground.

Grief gladden'd, and forgot to drop a Tear
At her Approach; ne Sorrow mote be found,
Ne rueful-looking Drad, ne pale-ey'd Care;
And 'neath her Chariot Wheels she crush'd hell-black Despair.

XIII

Then Charity full-zon'd, as her beseems,
Her Breasts were softer Ivory, her Hair
Play'd with the sunny Rays in amber Streams,
And floated wanton on the buxom Air;
As Mercy kind, as Hope divinely fair.
Her Soul was Flame, and with prolific Rays
The Nations warm'd, all-bright withouten Glare.
Both Men and Angels, as she passes, gaze,
But chief the Poor, the Lame, the Blind, the Naked, praise.

XIV

The Train of Virtues next, a dainty Train!
Advance their Steps, sweet Daughters of Delight,
Awfully sweet, majestically plain!
Celestial Love, as E'yn of Seraphs bright,
And spotless as their Robes of new-spun Light.

Truth, simple as the love-sick Village-Maid;
Health-blooming Temperance, a comely Wight:
Humility, in homely Weeds array'd,
And by her, in a Line, an Asses-Colt she led.

XV

But heark, the jolly Pipe, and rural Lay!
And see, the Shepherd clad in Mantle blue,
And Shepherdess in russet Kirtle gay,
Come dauncing on the Shepherd-Lord to view,
And pay, in decent Wise, Obeysance due.
Sweet-smelling Flow'rs the gentle Votaries bring,
Primroses, Violets, wet with Morning-Dew,
The sweetest Incense of the early Spring;
A humble, yet, I weet, a grateful Offering.

XVI

Jocund to lead the Way, with sparkling Rays,
Danc'd a Star-errant up the orient Sky;
The new-born Splendor streaming o'er the Place,
Where Jesus lay in bright Humility,
Seem'd a fixt Star unto the wond'ring Eye:

Three Seers unwist the Captain-Glory led,
Of awful Semblance, but of sable Die.
Full royally along the Lawn They tread,
And each with circling Gold embraved had his Head.

XVII

Low, very low on bended Knee they greet
The Virgin-Mother, and the Son adore,
The Son of Love! and kiss his blessed Feet;
Then ope the Vases and present their Store,
Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh; what cou'd they more!
For Gold and Myrrh a dying King divine;
The Frankincense, from Arab's spicy Shoar,
Confess'd the God; for God did in him Shine:
Myrrh, Frankincense and Gold, God-Man, were meetly Thine.

XVIII

And last, triumphant on a purple Cloud,
Fleecy with Gold, a Band of Angels ride:
They boldly sweep their Lyres, and, hymning loud,
The richest Notes of Harmony divide;
Scarce Thomalin the Rapture cou'd abide:

And ever and anon the Babe they eye,
And through the fleshly Veil the God descry'd,
Shrill Hallelujahs tremble up the Sky:
“Good-Will and Peace to Man,” the Choirs in Heav'n reply.

XIX

They ended: and all Nature soon was chang'd!
O'er Diamond-Pebbles ran the liquid Gold:
And side by side the Lamb and Lion rang'd
The flow'ry Lawn. The Serpent gently roll'd
His glistering Spires, and playfull Tongue outloll'd
To lick the Infant-Hand. Together fed
The Wolf and Kid, together sought a Fold.
The Roses blush'd with more celestial Red;
Hell groan'd through all her Dens; and grim Death drop'd down dead.

XX

Whilom these Scenes the tuneful Twick'nham Swain,
With Esay's heav'nly Pencil taught to glow:
Then cease, O cease, the antiquated Strain;
Nor marr His Song: but reverently go,
And in the Temple of his Muses bow.—

Delight and Wonder broke the Shepherd's Dream;
Faded the Scenes: and, in a goodly Row,
Rush'd on his Eyes the Muses well-lov'd Theme,
Fair Rhedicyna's Tow'rs, and Isis' sacred Stream!

Named or called.

Quickly.

Immediately.

Huimility.

Formerly, someiime since.

I think.

The Pattern or Model.

Nor.

Called or named.

Stained or adorned.

Might or must.

Gentle or handsome.

Without Equal.

Hastens.

Might.

Fear or Terror.

Person.

Unknown, unlook'd for.

Appearance.

Commonly painted Black; but a Vulgar Error.

Adorned or made brave.

Foretell.

Formerly, sometime ago.

Spoil.

THE BOWER.

I

Blow, blow, thou Summer-Breeze,
O gently fan the Trees,
That form yon fragrant Bow'r;
Where Sylvia, loveliest Maid!
On Nature's Carpet laid,
Enjoys the Ev'ning Hour.

II

Hence, hence, ye Objects foul,
The Beetle, Bat, and Owl,
The Hagworm, Neute, and Toad;
But Fairy-Elves, unseen,
May gambol o'er the Green,
And circle her Abode.

III

Breathe, breathe thy Incence, May;
Ye Flow'rs, your homage pay,
To One more fair and sweet:
Ye op'ning Rose-Buds, shade,
With fragrant Twine, her Head,
Ye Lillies, kiss her Feet.

IV

Shed, shed thy sweetest Beams,
In particolour'd Streams,
Thou Fount of Heat and Light!
No, no, withdraw thy Ray,
Her Eyes effuse a Day,
As mild, as warm, as bright.

V

Flow, flow, thou Crystal-Rill,
With tinkling gurgles fill
The Mazes of the Grove:
And if thy murmuring Stream
Invite my Love to dream,
O may She dream of Love!

VI

Sing, sing ye feather'd Quires,
And melt to soft Desires
Her too obdurate Breast:
Then, in that tender Hour,
I'll steal into her Bow'r,
And teach Her—to be blest.

THE LOVER.

I

Since Stella's Charms, divinely fair,
First pour'd their Lustre on my Heart,
Ten thousand Pangs my Bosom tear,
And ev'ry Fibre feels the Smart.
If such the mournful Moments prove,
O who wou'd give his Heart to Love!

II

I meet my Bosom-Friends with pain,
Tho' Friendship us'd to warm my Soul;
Wine's generous Spirit flames in vain,
I find no Cordial in the Bowl.
If such the mournful Moments prove,
O who wou'd give his Heart to Love!

III

Tho' Nature's Volume open lies,
Which once with Wonder I have read,
No Glories tremble from the Skies,
No Beauties o'er the Earth are spread.
If such the mournful Moments prove,
O who wou'd give his Heart to Love!

IV

Ev'n Poetry's ambrosial Dews
With Joy no longer feed my Mind,
To Beauty, Musick and the Muse,
My Soul is dumb and deaf and blind.
Tho' such the mournful Moments prove,
Alass! I give my Heart to Love.

V

But shou'd the yielding Virgin smile,
Drest in the spotless Marriage-Robe,
I'd look upon this World as vile,
The Master of a richer Globe.
If such the rap'trous Moments prove,
O let me give my Heart to Love!

VI

The Business of my future Days,
My every Thought, my every Pray'r,
Shall be employ'd to sing her Praise,
Or sent to bounteous Heav'n for Her.
If such the rapt'rous Moments prove,
O let me give my Heart to Love!

VII

Poets shall wonder at my Love,
Painters shall crowd her Face to see,
And when they wou'd the Passions move,
Shall copy Her, and think of me.
If such the rapt'rous Moments prove,
O let me give my Heart to Love.

VIII

Old Age shall burn as bright as Youth,
No respite to our Bliss be given:
Then mingled in one Flame of Truth,
We'll spurn at Earth and soar to Heav'n.
Since such the rapt'rous Moments prove,
We Both will give our Hearts to Love.

THE LOVER'S NIGHT.

I

Lull'd in the Arms of Him She lov'd
Ianthe sigh'd the kindest Things:
Her fond Surrender He approv'd
With Smiles; and thus, enamour'd, sings.

II

“How sweet are Lover's Vows by Night,
Lap'd in a Honey-suckle Grove!
When Venus sheds her gentle Light,
And sooths the yielding Soul to Love.

III

Soft as the silent-footed Dews
That steal upon the Starlight-Hours;
Warm as a love-sick Poet's Muse;
And fragrant as the Breath of Flow'rs.

IV

To hear our Vows the Moon grows pale,
And pants Endymion's Warmth to prove:
While, emulous, the Nightingale,
Thick-warbling trills her Lay of Love.

V

The silver-sounding-shining Spheres,
That animate the glowing Skies,
Nor charm so much, as Thou, my Ears,
Nor bless so much, as Thou, my Eyes.

VI

Thus let me clasp Thee to my Heart,
Thus sink in Softness on thy Breast!
No Cares, shall haunt Us; Danger, part,
For ever loving, ever blest.

VII

Censorious Envy dares not blame
The Passion which thy Truth inspires:
Ye Stars, bear witness that my Flame
Is chaste as your eternal Fires.”

VIII

Love saw Them (hid among the Boughs)
And heard Him sing their mutual Bliss:
“Enjoy, cry'd He, Ianthe's Vows;
But, oh!—I envy Thee her Kiss.”

TO A Friend on his MARRIAGE.

An Ode.

I

Auspicious sprung the Morning into Light
By Love selected from the golden Tide
Of Time, illustrious with peculiar White,
And mended from the Blushes of the Bride.

II

The Muse observ'd the fond-approaching Hour,
And thus her Philo's gentle Ear addrest.
“Behold, descending from yon Maiden Tow'r
The beauteous Object of thy Eyes and Breast.

III

Fair issuing, down the Hill I see her move,
Like the sweet Morn, in Dews and Blushes gay:
You, like the Bridegroom Sun, her Charms approve;
And warm her dawning Glories into Day.

IV

I own the radiant Magic of her Eyes,
But more the Graces of her Soul admire;
Those may lay Traps for Lovers, Fops and Flies,
But These the Husband and the Muse inspire.

V

A Husband is a venerable Name!
O happy State, when Heart is link'd to Heart!
Nor less the Honour of the Wedded-Dame:
Sweet Interchange! which only Death can part.

VI

O blest with gentle Manners, graceful Ease;
Gay, yet not trifling; serious, yet not grave;
Skillful, to charm the Wits; the Wise, to please;
Tho' beauteous, humble; and tho' tender, brave.

VII

Riches and Honours wait on either Name:
But They in Life are but the last Desert:
Your richer Happiness and fairer Fame,
Shall be the good Behaviour of the Heart.

VIII

When such the Wonders both of Form and Mind,
What Rapture fancy'd, Reason will approve;
By Time your Inclinations be refin'd;
And Youth, be spent in Passion; Age in Love?”

IX

Thus far the Muse. When Hymen, from the Sky,
The Lovers in the Band of Concord ty'd;
The Virtues and the Graces too were by,
And Venus left her Cestus with the Bride.

On the DEATH of Mr. Wearing, the Famous Musician at Oxford.

I

Poor Wearing to the Shades is gone,
Like Orpheus, by mishap:
Not gone to seek his Wife, but gone,
To leave her in—a Scrape.

II

We find the Sisters three are deaf,
Since Wearing now is dead;
For had the Fates but heard his Strings,
They wou'd have spar'd his Thread.

III

Death heard his Notes, and heard well-pleas'd,
So drew his fatal Lance;
Death will keep Holyday; and He
Must play to Holben's Dance.

To Dr. Linden, ON HIS TREATISE on CHALYBEAT WATERS.

With healing Wings, intent on doing Good,
An Angel visited Bethesda's Flood;
Quick as the Morning Ray, or Ev'ning Beam,
Himself diffusing through the Vital Stream:
The Sick who drink, the Impotent who lave,
Dive from Diseases, and deceive the Grave.

Tho' Miracles are ceas'd, yet all confess,
Your Work, and You, are—only something less.
So much is to your Worth and Learning due,
Bath is Bethesda; the Good Angel, You.

PARADISE REGAIN'D: To a Friend.

I

Lord of Himself, and Sole of Humankind,
In Rectitude of Reason Adam shone:
Till the Still-Voice infus'd into his Mind,
“It is not good for Man to be alone.”

II

By God's own Hand his Virgin-Eve was led.
Now Paradise with fresher Beauties glows:
The conscious Roses form a blushing bed:
Consenting Nature sooths Them to repose.

III

A Single is an inconsistent-Life:
Compleatly-blest, O Friend! to Thee is given,
A sweet, a fair, a wise, a modest Wife,
The Bloom of Innocence, and Blush of Heav'n!

IV

May Eden-Life in bright Succession flow,
When All was Happiness, for Love was All:
Her Beauties will a Paradise bestow,
And both your Virtues guard you from a Fall.

CORESUS and CALLIRHOE.

A TALE.

Veteres Renovamus Amores.
Catullus.

High in Achaia, splendid from afar,
A City flourish'd; Calydon its Name,
Wash'd by Evenus' chalky Flood; the Seat
Of Meleager, from the slaughter'd Boar
Glorious. A Virgin here, amazing, shone,
Callirhoe the fair: her Father's Boast!
For, ah! she never knew a Mother's Smile;
Nor learn'd what Happiness from Marriage springs.
In Flow'r of Youth, and purer than the Snow,
Which, with a silver Circle, crown'd the Head
Of the steep neighbour Mountain; but averse
To Hymen's Rites, the lovely Foe of Man.
O why will Beauty, cruel to itself,
No less than others, violate the Laws
Which Nature dictates, and Itself inspires!

A thousand Lovers from th' Olenian Hill,
From rough Pylene, and from Pleuron's Towr's,
Their Passion pleaded. But Coresus, chief,
The Calydonian Priest of Bacchus, form'd
By Venus' self for Love; in Beauty's Pride;
Young, bounteous, affable. What tender Arts,
What winning Carriage, and respectful Suit,
Almost to zealous Adoration swell'd,
Did he not practise? But in vain, And now
Drew near the Orgial Festival, and Rites
Lyæan. Poor Coresus, to approve
The Wonders of his Love and dear Regard,
By Scorn unquench'd, and growing by Neglect,
(In Hopes to soften her, at least adorn)
Presented to this Murdress of his Peace
The ritual Ornaments, by Virgins worn
Upon the solemn Feast. The Ivy-Spear,
With winding Green, and viny Foliage gay,
Curl'd by his Hand: a Mitre for his Head,
Curious aumail'd with imitated Grapes,
Of blushing Rubies form'd: the Pall of Lawn,

Flow'r'd with the Conquests of the purple God:
The Cista, Silver; and the Cymbals, Gold:
And Piny Torch (O were it Hymen's!) ting'd
With spicy Gums, to feed the ready Flame.

Open'd the Festival—Loose to the Winds,
Dishevel'd, bare, the Virgins give their Necks
And wanton Hair. Evœ! they mad'ning cry,
And shake their Torches. Evœ! Io! rends
The Air, and beats the echoing Vault of Heav'n.
The Hills, the Vales with Io! Evœ! ring.

The Temple opens to the sacred Throng;
When foremost enters, as in Dress and Charms,
Callirhoe, so in Speed. Their Lovers wait,
With burning Expectation, to enfold
His beauteous Mistress each. High on a Throne
Coresus blaz'd in Jewels and in Gold,
More charming in Himself. Quick with his Eye
He catch'd Callirhoe, and, descending, clasp'd
With eager Transport her reluctant Waist.

A thousand Vows he breath'd, and melting Things
He spoke and look'd; but to the Rocks and Wind.
What cou'd he more? Yes more he did: for what,
What can't a Lover, like Coresus, do?
Neglectful of his Dignity he sunk
(Still Love disdains what Dignity demands,
O'er Jupiter himself supreme) he sunk,
And trembled at her Feet, with prostrate Zeal,
As to his God. He dy'd upon her Hand
With sighing Languishment: He gaz'd his Soul
At every ardent Glance into her Eyes;
Most eloquently silent! O'er his Cheek
The gushing Tears, in big, round drops, diffus'd
The Dews of Passion, and the Brain's soft Show'r,
Potent to warm the most obdurate Breast,
Tho' cold as Marble. Idle were his Tears,
His Glances, Languishment and prostrate Zeal.

Disdainful—frowning: “Hence, (she cry'd) nor dare
To interrupt my Progress in the Rites
With thy capricious Rudeness. Shall the Priest

The Mysteries of Bacchus thus profane,
In his own Temple too? And rather pay
To Venus his Devotion, than his God?”
Then, haughty as away she turn'd, he grasp'd
Her Knees; upon her Garments flowing train
Shivering he hung: and with beseeching Eyes,
Thus, from th' Abundance of his Heart, complain'd.

“If Pity be no Stranger to thy Breast,
(As sure it should not to a Breast like thine,
Soft as the Swanny Down!) relenting, hear;
In Feelingness of Spirit, mildly lend
Attention to the Language of my Heart,
Sick with o'er-flowing Tenderness and Love.
I love thee with that Innocence of Truth,
That Purity of Passion, and Desire
Unutterable, of bequeathing up
My Heart, my Life, my All into thy Hands,
Into thy gentle Custody;—that All,
My Heart, my Life, are Bitterness and Weight
Of Agony without thee. Since I first,

(By Bacchus' self I swear,) beheld that Face,
And nameless Magick of those radiant Eyes,
All the Foundation of my Peace gave way:
While Hopes and Fears rose up in bosom-War
To desolate the Quiet of my Days.
Thy dear Idea was my fancy's Dream;
It mingled with my Blood; and in my Veins
Throb'd, undulating, as my Life were stung.
I live but on the Thought of Thee; my Breast
Bleeds in me, with Distress to see Thee frown.
O smile! by thy dead Mother's reverend Dust,
By all thy Bowels are most fond of, smile,
And chase these heavy Clouds of Grief away.
I beg by Bacchus; for His Sake be kind.”

Here, interrupted by the swelling Storm
Of Passion labouring in his Breast, his Words
Gave way for Sighs and Tears to speak the Rest.
She, in contempt'ous Derision, smil'd,
To which her Frowns were innocent: and thus:
“Thy staggering Pow'r, and Thee I scorn alike;

Him I despise, for chusing Thee his Priest;
Thee, for thy Arrogance, and Courtship vile.”

Indignant he, in wrathful Mood (alarm'd
More at his God revil'd, than scorn for him)
First casting on the Ground his Mitred-Crown,
With Hands and Eyes uplifted, ardent, pray'd.

“Offspring of Jove, Evœ Lyæus, hear!
If e'er these Hands with Ivy Wreaths thy Brow
Circled, and twining Tendrils of the Vine:
If e're my grateful Tongue, big with thy Praise,
Evœ Lyæus! Io Bacchus! sung:
If e'er thy Servant on thy Altars pour'd,
Copious, the purple Wave of offer'd Wine,
And, busy, fed the consecrated Fire
With Fat of Ass, or Hog, or mountain-Goat;
Devoutly lavish in the Sacrifice:
Avenge thy Priest; this cursed Race destroy:
Thy Honours violated thus, avow;
Till they confess this staggering Pow'r a God.”

He pray'd.—Loud Peals of Thunder shook the Fane:
The Image, nodding, his Petition seal'd;
And Bacchus gave the Calydonian Race
To Madness, and unutterable Woes.

The frantick Crowd, as if with Wine possest,
And the strong Spirit of the flaming Grape,
To and fro' reel, and stagger to and fro',
In Dithyrambic Measures, wild, convolv'd.
They toss their Cymbals, and their Torches shake,
Shrieking, and tear their Hair, and gash their Flesh,
And howl, and foam, and wheel the rapid Dance
In giddy Maze: with Fury then o'erborn,
Euthusiastick, whirling in Despair,
Flat, drop down dead; and Heaps on Heaps expire.

Amaz'd, confounded at the raging Pest,
The venerable Fathers, in debate,
To speed enquiring Deputies, resolv'd,
To high Dodona's Grove; with vocal Oaks

Umbrageous, aged, vast, the struggling Day
Excluding: the prime Oracle of Greece!

Obsequious, they haste: enquire: return:
And thus the Counsels of the God disclose.

“The Rage of Bacchus for his injur'd Priest,
Coresus, by Callirhoe's Scorn repuls'd,
Your City wastes: and with funereal Fires
Your Streets shall redden, formidably bright,
Till by Coresus' Hand the cruel Maid
A Sacrifice be offer'd up: or One,
Free, uncompell'd, embrace the destin'd Steel,
Devoted in her Stead; and bleed for Her.
So you'll appease the God; the Plague be stay'd.”

They said. Staring Affright, and dumb Amaze
The Fathers seize: but chief, Æneùs, thee,
Callirhoe's old miserable Sire!
Tenfold Affliction to the Grave weighs down
Thy silver'd Hairs. But Fate and Heav'n require.

Soon through the City spred the News, and soon
Wounded Callirhoe's Ear. Her Spindle drops
Neglected from her Hand. Prone on the Floor,
She falls, she faints; her Breath, her Colour fled:
Pale, cold and pale. Till, by assisting Care,
The fragrant Spirit hovers o'er her Lips,
And Life returning streams in rosy Gales;
Rekindled only to Despair. She knew
The Virgins envy'd; and the injur'd Youth
Stung with her Scorn, wou'd wanton in her Wounds,
Nor one, one offer up the willing Breast
A Victim for her Life. And now the Crowd,
Impatient of their Miseries, besiege
The marble Portal; burst the bolted Gates;
Demand Callirhoe; furious to obey
The Oracle, and pacify the God.

What Pangs, unhappy Maid, thy bosom tear,
Sleepless, and sad? relenting now too late,
Thy stubborn Cruelty. Coresus' charms
Blaze on thy Mind; his unexampled Love,

His every Virtue rising to thy Thought.
Just in his Fury, see the pointed Steel
Waves, circling, o'er thy throbbing Breast: He strikes;
He riots in thy Blood with dire Delight;
Insatiate! He gluts his Heart of Rage
With thy warm gushing Life; and Death enjoys,
Redoubling Wound on Wound, and Blow on Blow.

Thus pass'd her Hours. And now the dewy Morn
The Mountains tip'd with Gold, and threatned Day.
Without the City Gates, a Fountain wells
Its living Waters, clear as shining Glass:
Haunt of the Nymphs! A Cypress' aged Arms
Threw round a venerable Gloom, and seem'd
Itself a Grove. An Altar on the Brink
Convenient rose: for holy Custom wills
Each Victim to be sprinkled with its Streams,
New from Pollution, worthier of the God.
Fierce for the Sacrifice, Coresus here
Waited; and, stimulated with Revenge,

100

He curs'd and chid the lazy-circling Hours
Too slow, as if injurious to his Hate.

But soon the gath'ring Crowd and Shouts proclaim
Callirhoe near. Her weeping Damsels lead
The destin'd Offering, lovely in Distress,
And sparkling through her Tears. A Myrtle Crown
With Roses glowing, and selected Green,
Th' ambrosial Plenty of her golden Hair
Entwine: in looks, a Venus; and a Grace
In Motion. Scarce the Flow'rs of sixteen Springs
The Fields had painted, since Æneùs first
Fondled his Babe, and blest her on his Knee.
Ev'n Mountain-Clowns, who never Pity knew,
Relented, and the hardest Heart wept blood,
Subdu'd by Beauty, tho' the fatal Source
Of all their Misery. What Tumults then
Roll in thy Breast, Coresus! while thy Hands
The purifying Waters on her Head
Pour'd trembling; and the sacred Knife unsheath'd!

101

Wiping the silver-streaming Tears away,
She with a Look nor chearful, nor dismay'd,
But languishingly sweet, her ruby Lips
Soft-op'ning, thus began: “Father and Friends,
Wound me not doubly with your tender Grief:
I was not born alone for you. My Life
I gladly offer for my Country's Weal:
'Tis Glory thus to die. Receive my Blood,
Dear native Soil! O may it Health restore
And Peace; and Bacchus' Wrath be now appeas'd.
And thou, Coresus, whom I most have wrong'd,
Look no so fiercely on me, while the Steel
My once-lov'd Bosom launces; drop a Tear;
One Sigh in Mercy heave, and drop one Tear,
And I will thank Thee for thy Blow. For, oh
I never hated Thee: but Female-Pride,
Our Sex's Curse! forbade me to comply,
Too easy won!—Then pity me, Coresus;
O pity; and, if possible, forgive.”

102

He answer'd not: but, ardent, snatch'd the Knife,
And, running o'er her Beauties, strangely wild,
With Eyes which witness'd huge Dismay and Love,
“Thus, thus I satisfy the Gods!” He cry'd,
And bury'd in his Heart, in his own Heart,
The guilty Blade. Then, reeling to her Arms,
He sunk, and groaning, “O Callirhoe!”—dy'd.

Heav'n rings with Shouts, “Was ever Love like this?”
Callirhoe shriek'd; and from the gaping Wound,
Quick as the Light'nings Wing, the reeking Knife
Wrench'd: in an Agony of Grief and Love,
Her Bosom piercing, on his Bosom fell,
And sigh'd upon his Lips her Life away.
Their Blood uniting in a friendly Stream,
With bubbling Purple stain'd the Silver-Flood,
Which to the Fountain gave Callirhoe's Name.

103

To Miss Addison.

On seeing Mr. Rowe's MONUMENT in Westminster Abbey. Erected at the Expence of his Widow.

Late an Applauding People rear'd the Stone
To Shakespear's Honour, and, alike, their Own.
A perfect Whole, where Part consents to part;
The Wonder He of Nature, This of Art.
And now a Wife (ye Wits, no more despise
The Name of Wife) bids Rowe in Marble rise.
Smiling He views her conjugal Regard;
A Nation's Cost had been a less Reward:
A Nation's Praise may vulgar Spirits move,
Rowe more deserv'd and gain'd,—a Sponsal Love.

O Italy! thy injur'd Marble keep
Deep in thy Bowels, providently deep,
When Fools wou'd force it over Knaves to weep.
But when true Wit and Merit claim a Shrine,
Pour forth thy Stores and beggar every Mine.

104

They claim Them now: for Virtue, Sense and Wit
Have long been fled, and want thy Succours—Yet:
They claim Them now for One,—yes, One I see:—
Marble wou'd weep—if Addison be He.

O crown'd with all the Glories of thy Race,
The Father's Candour, and the Mother's Grace!
With Rowe, Charlotta! vie, in generous Strife,
And let the Daughter emulate the Wife.
Be justly pious; raise the Honour'd Stone,
And so—deserve a Rowe, or—Addison!

105

THE MILKMAID.

I

'Twas at the cool and fragrant Hour,
When Ev'ning steals upon the Sky,
That Lucy sought a Wood-bine-Grove,
And Colin taught the Grove to sigh;
The sweetest Damsel She, on all the Plains;
The softest Lover He, of all the Swains.

II

He took her by the Lilly-Hand,
Which oft had made the Milk look pale;
Her Cheeks with modest Roses glow'd,
As thus He breath'd his tender Tale:
The list'ning Streams awhile forgot to flow,
The Doves to murmur, and the Breeze to blow.

106

III

“O smile my Love! thy dimply Smiles
Shall lengthen on the setting Ray:
Thus let us melt the Hours in Bliss,
Thus sweetly languish Life away:
Thus sigh our Souls into each other's Breast,
As true as Turtles, and as Turtles blest!

IV

So may thy Cows for ever Crown
With Floods of Milk thy brimming Pail;
So may thy Cheese all Cheese surpass,
So may thy Butter never fail:
So may each Village round this Truth declare,
That Lucy is the fairest of the Fair.

V

Thy Lips with Streams of Honey flow,
And pouting swell with healing Dews;
More Sweets are blended in thy Breath,
Than all thy Father's Fields diffuse:
Tho' thousand Flow'rs adorn each blowing Field,
Thy lovely Cheeks more blooming Beauties yield.

107

VI

Too long my erring Eyes had rov'd
On City-Dames in Scarlet drest;
And scorn'd the charmfull Village-Maid,
With Innocence and Grogram blest:
Since Lucy's native Graces fill'd my Sight,
The painted City-Dames no more delight.

VII

The speaking Purple, when you blush,
Out-glows the Scarlet's deepest Die;
No Diamonds tremble on thy Hair,
But brighter sparkle in thy Eye.
Trust me, the smiling Apples of thy Eyes,
Are tempting as were Those in Paradise.

VIII

The tunefull Linnet's warbling Notes,
Are gratefull to the Shepherd-Swain;
To drooping Plants, and thirsty Fields
The silver Drops of kindly Rain;
To Blossoms, Dews, as Blossoms to the Bee;
And thou, my Lucy! only art to Me.

108

IX

But mark, my Love! yon Western-Clouds:
With liquid Gold they seem to burn:
The Ev'ning Star will soon appear,
And overflow his Silver Urn.
Soft Stillness now, and falling Dews invite
To taste the balmy Blessings of the Night.

X

Yet e're we part, one Boon I crave,
One tender Boon! nor this denye:
O promise that You still will love,
O promise this! or else I dye:
Death else my only Remedy must prove;
I'll cease to live, whene're you cease to love.”

XI

She sigh'd and blush'd a sweet Consent;
Joyous He thank'd Her on his Knee,
And warmly press'd her Virgin-Lip.—
Was ever Youth so blest as He!—
The Moon, to light the Lovers homeward, rose,
And Philomela lull'd Them to Repose.

109

THE CONQUEST.

I

When Phebus heard Ianthe sing
And sweetly bid the Groves rejoice,
Jealous He smote the trembling String,
Despairing, quite, to match her Voice.

II

Smiling, her Harpsicord She strung:
As soon as She began to play,
Away his Harp poor Phebus flung;
It was no Time for Him to stay.

III

Yet hold; before your Godship go
The Fair shall gain another Prize:
Your Voice and Lyre's outdone, you know;
Nor less thy Sunshine by her Eyes.

110

THE BEE.

I

Leave, wanton Bee, those Blossoms leave,
Thou buzzing Harbinger of Spring,
To Stella fly, and sweeter Spoils
Shall load thy Thigh, and gild thy Wing.

II

Her Cheeks, her Lips with Roses swell,
Not Paphian Roses deeper glow;
And Lillies o'er her Bosom spread
Their spotless Sweets, and balmy Snow.

III

Then, grateful for the Sacred Dews,
Invite her, humming round, to Rest;
Soft Dreams may tune her Soul to Love,
Tho' Coldness arm her waking Breast.

111

IV

But if She still obdurate prove,
O shoot thy Sting.—The little Smart
May teach her then to pity me
Transfix'd with Love's and Beauty's Dart.

V

Ah no, forbear, to sting forbear;
Go, fly unto thy Hive again.
Much rather let me dye for Her,
Than She endure the least of Pain.

VI

Go, fly unto thy Hive again,
With more than Hybla-Honey blest:
For Pope's sweet Lips prepare the Dew,
Or else for Love a Nectar-Feast.

112

THE MORNING LARK.

[_]

Anacreontick.

I

Feather'd Lyrick! warbling high,
Sweetly gaining on the Sky,
Op'ning with thy Matin-Lay
(Nature's Hymn!) the Eye of Day,
Teach my Soul, on early Wing,
Thus to soar, and thus to sing.

II

While the Bloom of orient Light
Gilds Thee in thy tuneful Flight,
May the Day-Spring-from-on-High,
Seen by Faith's religious Eye,
Cheer Me with his Vital Ray,
Promise of Eternal Day!

113

ANNA MARIA WDFRD!

“Go, Anna! (Nature said) to Oxford go:
(Anna! the fairest Form and Mind below,
Blest with each Gift of Nature and of Art
To charm the Reason, or to fix the Heart.)
Go with a sprightly Wit and easy Mien,
To prove the Graces four, the Muses Ten.
I see the Wits adore, the Wise approve,
Ev'n Fops themselves have almost Sense to love.
When Poets wou'd describe a Lip or Eye,
They'll look on Thee and lay their Ovids by.
I see a love-sick Youth, with Passion fir'd,
Hang on thy charms, and gaze to be inspir'd.
With asking Eyes explain his silent Woes,
Glow as he looks, yet tremble as he glows:
Then drunk with Beauty, with a warmer Rage,
Pour thy soft Graces through the Tragic-Page.

114

He sighs;—He bleeds;—to twilight Shades He flies:
Shakespear He drops, and with his Otway dies.
This Pomp of Charms you owe to Me alone,
The Charms which scarce six thousand Years have known.
That Face, illumin'd softly by the Mind;
That Body, almost to a Soul refind;
That Sweetness, only to an Angel giv'n;
That Blush of Innocence, and Smile of Heav'n!
I bade thy Cheeks with Morning-Purple glow;
I bade thy Lips with Nectar-Spirit flow;
I bade the Diamond point thy azure Eyes,
Turn'd the fine Waist, and taught the Breast to rise.
Whether thy Silver Tides of Musick roul,
Or Pencil on the Canvass strikes a Soul,
Or curious Needle pricks a Band or Heart,
At once a Needle, and at once a Dart!
All own that Nature is alone thy Art.
Why thus I form'd thy Body and thy Mind
With sumless Graces, prodigally kind,
The Reason was,—but you in Time will know it;—
One is, but that's the least—to make a Poet.

Written in a Window at the Three-Tuns Tavern, Oxford; May 29th.

115

MINERVA MISTAKEN.

Minerva last Week (pray let no Body doubt it)
Went an Airing from Oxford, six Miles, or about it:
When She spy'd a young Virgin so blooming and fair,
That, “O Venus, (She cry'd) is your Ladyship there?
Pray is not that Oxford? and lately you swore
Neither You, nor one like you, shou'd trouble Us more.
Do you thus keep your promise? and am I defy'd?”
The Virgin came nearer and smiling reply'd,
“My Goddess! what, have you your Pupil forgot?”—
—“Your pardon, my Dear, is it you, Molly S---?

116

THE MAGI.

A Sacred Eclogue.

No more in Beauty's Praise my Numbers move,
Nor melt away in dying falls of Love:
A Child on Earth, yet Heaven's eternal King,
The manger'd God, the Virgin's Son I sing.
Thou Fountain-Good, with Light my Soul o'erflow,
With hallow'd Ardour bid my Bosom glow!
Fir'd at the promise of thy dawning Ray,
The Eastern Sages found Celestial Day.

Drawn by a leading Flame, with sweet surprize,
The Infant Deity salutes their Eyes.
The Heir-elect of Love his Mother prest,
Smil'd in her Arms, and wanton'd on her Breast.
No Jewels sparkle here, nor India's Stores
The Portals brighten or emblaze the Doors.
But young-ey'd Seraphims around Him glow,
And Mercy spreads her many-colour'd Bow!

117

Her Bow, compos'd of new-created Light,
How sweetly lambent and how softly bright!
The sacred Circle of embodied Rays
The Cradle crowns, and round his Temples plays.
So shines the Rainbow round th' eternal Throne
To shade the Holy, Holy, Holy One.
By turns the Ruby bleeds a Beam, by turns,
Smiles the green Em'rald, and the Topaz burns:
The various Opal mingles every Ray,
Fades into Faintness, deepens into Day:
Promiscuous Lustre kindles half the Skies,
Too slippery-bright for keen-Seraphick Eyes.
The venerable Three, low-bending down,
Extend their Offerings and the Godhead own.

Mag. I.

From Eastern Realms, where first the infant Sight
Springs into Day and streaks the fading Night,
To Thee we bend, before the Morning Rise;
A purer Morning trembles from thy Eyes.

118

Mag. II.

In vain the Sun with Light his Orb arrays,
Our Sense to dazzle, and as God to blaze;
Through his transparent Fallacy we See,
And own the Sun is but a Star to Thee.

Mag. III.

Thou spotless Essence of primeval Light,
Thy Vassals own, and wash thy Ethiops White.
Thy Cloud of sable Witnesses adorn
With the first Roses of thy smiling Morn.

Mag. I.

By Bards foretold the ripen'd Years are come,
Gods fall to Dust and Oracles are dumb.
Old Ocean murmurs from his Ouzy Bed,
“A Maid has born a Son, and Pan is dead.

Mag. II.

The Nymphs, their Flow'r-inwoven Tresses torn,
O'er Fountains weep, in twilight Thickets mourn.
Long, hollow Groans, deep Sobs, thick Schreeches fill
Each dreary Vally and each shaded Hill.

119

Mag. III.

No more shall Memphian Timbrels wake the Morn,
No more shall Hammon lift his gilded Horn.
From hence in vain shall Belzebub rebell,
Anubis howls, and Moloch sinks to Hell.

Mag. I.

Here lows a Bull; a golden Gleam adorns
The circling Honours of his beamy Horns.
He safely lows, nor fears the Holy Knife,
No Sacrifice from hence shall drink his Life.

Mag. II.

Ye Gardens, blush with never-fading Flowr's,
For ever smile, ye Meads, and blow, ye Bowr's:
Bleat, all ye Hills, be whiten'd, all ye Plains;
O Earth, rejoice! th' Eternal Shepherd reigns.

Mag. III.

Ye Lillies, dip your Leaves in falling Snow,
Ye Roses, with the Eastern-Scarlet glow,
To crown the God: ye Angels, haste to pour
Your Rain of Nectar, and your Starry Show'r.

120

Mag. I.
Offers Gold.

The Ore of India ripens into Gold,
To gild thy Courts, thy Temple to infold.
Accept the Emblematick Gift; again
Saturnian Years revolve a Golden Reign!

Mag. II.
Offers Frankincense.

For Thee Arabia's happy Forests rise,
And Clouds of Odours sweetly stain the Skies.
While fragrant Wreaths of smoaking Incense roll,
Receive our Pray'rs, the Incense of the Soul!

Mag. III.
Offers Myrrh.

The weeping Myrrh with balmy Sorrow flows,
Thy Cup to sweeten and to sooth thy Woes:
So Prophets sing; for (Human and Divine)
The Man was born to grieve, the God to shine.

Mag. I.

Smile, sacred Infant, smile: thy rosy Breast
Excels the Odours of the spicy East;
The burnish'd Gold is Dross before thy Eye,
Thou God of Sweetness, God of Purity!

121

Mag. II.

Ye Planets, unregarded walk the Skies,
Your Glories lessen as his Glories rise:
His radiant Word with Gold the Sun attires,
The Moon illumes, and lights the Starry Fires.

Mag. III.

Hail, Lord of Nature, hail! To Thee belong
My Song, my Life,—I give my Life, my Song:
Walk in thy Light, adore thy Day alone,
Confess thy Love, and pour out all my own.

122

On Mr. Pope's WORKS.

Written soon after his Death.

Man not alone hath End: In measur'd Time,
(So Heav'n has will'd) together with their Snows
The everlasting Hills shall melt away:
This solid Globe dissolve, as ductile Wax
Before the Breath of Vulcan; like a Scroll
Shrivel th' unfolded Curtains of the Sky;
Thy Planets, Newton, tumble from their Spheres,
That lead harmonious on their mystic Rounds:
The Moon be perisht from her bloody Orb;
The Sun himself, in liquid Ruin, rush
And deluge with destroying Flames the Globe—
Peace then, my Soul, nor grieve that Pope is dead.

If 'ere the tuneful Spirit, sweetly strong,
Spontaneous Numbers, teeming in my Breast,
Enkindle; O, at that exalting Name,
Be favourable, be propitious now,

123

While, in the gratitude of Praise, I sing
The Works and Wonders of this Man divine.

I tremble while I write.—His lisping Muse
Surmounts the loftiest Efforts of my Age.
What wonder? when an Infant, He apply'd
The loud Papinian Trumpet to his Lips,
Fir'd by a sacred Fury, and inspir'd
With all the God, in sounding Numbers sung
“Fraternal Rage, and guilty Thebes' Alarms.”

Sure at his Birth (Things not unknown of old)
The Graces round his Cradle wove the Dance,
And led the Maze of Harmony: the Nine,
Prophetick of his future Honours, pour'd
Plenteous, upon his Lips Castalian Dews;
And Attic Bees their golden store distill'd.
The Soul of Homer, sliding from its Star,
Where, radiant, over the poetic World
It rules and sheds its Influence, for Joy

124

Shouted, and bless'd the Birth: the sacred Choir
Of Poets, born in elder, better Times,
Enraptur'd, catch'd the elevating Sound,
And roll'd the glad'ning News from Sphere to Sphere.

O listen to Alexis' tender Plaint!
How gently rural! without Coarseness, plain;
How simple in his elegance of Grief!
A Shepherd, but no Clown. His every Lay
Sweet as the early Pipe along the Dale,
When Hawthorns bud, or on the thymy Brow
When all the Mountains bleat, and Vallies sing.
Soft as the Nightingale's harmonious Woe,
In dewy Even-Tide, when Cowslips drop
Their sleepy Heads, and languish in the Breeze.

Imperial Windsor! on thy Brow august,
Superbly gay, exalt thy tow'ry Head;
(Much prouder of his Verse than of thy Stars)
And bid thy Forests dance, and nodding, wave

125

A verdant Testimony of thy Joy:
A native Orpheus warbling in thy Shades.

Next, in the Critic-Chair survey him thron'd,
Imperial in his Art, prescribing Laws
Clear from the knitted Brow, and squinted Sneer;
Learn'd, without Pedantry; correctly bold,
And regularly Easy. Gentle, now,
As rising Incense, or descending Dews,
The variegated Echo of his Theme:
Now, animated Flame commands the Soul
To glow with sacred Wonder. Pointed Wit
And keen Discernment form the certain Page.
Just, as the Stagyrite; as Horace, free;
As Fabian, clear; and as Petronius gay.

But whence those peals of Laughter shake the Sides
Of decent Mirth? Am I in Fairy-Land?
Young, evanescent Forms, before my Eyes,
Or skim, or seem to skim; thin Essences

126

Of fluid Light; Zilphs, Zilphids, Elves and Gnomes;
Genij of Rosicruce, and Ladies' Gods!—
And, lo, in shining trails, Belinda's Hair,
Bespangling with dishevel'd Beams the Skies,
Flames o'er the Night. Behind, a Satyr grins
And, jocund, holds a Glass, reflecting, fair,
Hoops, Crosses, Mattadores; Beaux, Shocks, and Belles,
Promiscuously whimsical and gay.
Tassoni, hiding his diminish'd Head,
Droops o'er the laughing Page: while Boileau skulks,
With Blushes cover'd, low beneath the Desk.

More mournful Scenes invite. The milky Vein
Of amorous Grief devolves its placid Wave
Soft-streaming o'er the Soul, in weeping Woe
And Tenderness of Anguish. While we read
Th' infectious Page, we sicken into Love,
And languish with involuntary Fires.
The Zephyr, panting on the silken Buds
Of breathing Violets; the Virgin's Sigh,

127

Rosy with Youth, are turbulent and rude,
To Sappho's Plaint, and Eloïsa's Moan.

Heav'ns! what a Flood of empyréal Day
My aking Eyes involves! A Temple soars,
Rising like Exhalations, on a Mount,
And, wide, its Adamantine Valves expands.
Three monumental Columns, bright in Air,
Of figur'd Gold, the Center of the Quire
With Lustre fill. Pope on the Midmost shines
Betwixt his Homer and his Horace plac'd,
Superior by the Hand of Justice. Fame,
With all her Mouths th' eternal Trumpet swells,
Exulting at his Name; and, grateful, pours
The lofty Notes of never-dying Praise,
Triumphant, floating on the Wings of Wind,
Sweet o'er the World: th' Ambrosial Spirit flies
Diffusive, in its Progress wid'ning still,
“Dear to the Earth, and grateful to the Sky.”
Fame owes Him more than e'er she can repay:

128

She owes her very Temple to his Hands;
Like Ilium built; by Hands no less divine!

Attention, rouze thyself! the Master's Hand,
(The Master of our Souls!) has chang'd the Key,
And bids the Thunder of the Battle roar
Tumultuous . Homer, Homer is our own!
And Grecian Heroes flame in British Lines.
What Pomp of Words! what nameless Energy
Kindles the Verse; invigours every Line;
Astonishes, and overwhelms the Soul
In Transport tost! When fierce Achilles raves,
And flashes, like a Comet, o'er the Field,
To wither Armies with his Martial Frown;
I see the Battle rage; I hear the Wheels
Careering with their brazen Orbs! The Shout
Of Nations rolls (the Labour of the Winds)—
Full on my Ear, and shakes my inmost Soul.
Description never cou'd so well deceive:
'Tis real! Troy is here, or I at Troy

129

Enjoy the War. My Spirits, all on Fire,
With unextinguish'd Violence are born
Above the World, and mingle with the Gods.
Olympus rings with Arms! the Firmament,
Beneath the Light'ning of Minerva's Shield,
Burns to the Center: rock the Tow'rs of Heav'n.
All Nature trembles! save the Throne of Jove!—
Have Mercy, Pope, and kill me not with Joy:
'Tis tenfold Rage, an Agony of Bliss!
Be less a God, nor force me to adore.

To root Excesses from the human-Breast,
Behold a beauteous Pile of Ethicks rise;
Sense, the Foundation; Harmony, the Walls;
(The Dorique grave, and gay Corinthian join'd)
Where Socrates and Horace jointly reign.
Best of Philosophers! of Poets too
The best! He teaches thee thyself to know:
That Virtue is the noblest gift of Heav'n:
“And vindicates the Ways of God to Man.”

130

O hearken to the Moralist polite!
Enter his School of Truth; where Plato's self
Might preach; and Tully deign to lend an Ear.

Last see him waging with the Fools of Rhyme
A wanton, harmless War. Dunce after Dunce
Beaux, Doctors, Templars, Courtiers, Sophs and Cits,
Condemn'd to suffer Life. The motley Crew,
Emerging from Oblivion's muddy Pool,
Give the round Face to view, and shameless Front
Proudly expose; till Laughter have her Fill.

Born to improve the Age, and cheat Mankind
Into the Road of Honour!—Vice again
The gilded Chariot drives:—for He is dead!

I saw the sable Barge, along his Thames,
In slow Solemnity beating the Tide,
Convey his sacred Dust!—Its Swans expir'd,
Wither'd in Twit'nam Bow'rs the Laurel-Bough;

131

Silent the Muses broke their idle Lyres:
Th' attendant Graces check'd the sprightly Dance,
Their Arms unlock'd, and catch'd the starting Tear,
And Virtue for her lost Defender mourn'd!

Translation of the First Book of Statius's Thebais.

Pastorals.

Windsor-Forest. Mr. Pope born there.

Essay on Criticism.

Rape of the Lock.

Ovid's Sappho to Phaon. And Eloise to Abelard.

Temple of Fame.

Translation of Homer.

Ethic Epistles.

Dunciad.

132

EPITAPH on my FATHER.

In the Parish Church of Brough, Westmoreland.

Dear to the Wise and Good by All approv'd,
The Joy of Virtue, and Heaven's well-belov'd!
His Life inspir'd with every better Art,
A learned Head, clear Soul, and honest Heart.
Each Science chose his Breast her favourite Seat,
Each Language, but the Language of Deceit.
Severe his Virtues, yet his Manners kind,
A manly Form, and a Seraphic Mind.
So long he walk'd in Virtues even road,
In him at length, 'twas natural to do good.
Like Eden, his old Age (a Sabbath Rest!)
Flow'd without Noise, yet all around him blest!
His Patron, Jesus! with no Titles grac'd,
But that best Title, a good Parish Priest.

133

Peace with his Ashes dwell. And, Mortals, know,
The Saint's above; the Dust alone below.
The Wise and Good shall pay their Tribute here,
The modest Tribute of one Thought and Tear,
Then pensive Sigh, and say, “To me be given
By living thus on Earth, to reign in Heaven.”

Francis Thompson B. D. Senr. Fellow of Queen's Coll. Oxford, and Vicar of Brough 32 Years. He departed this Life Aug. 31. 1735. Aged 70.

The River Eden runs near Brough.

134

EPITAPH on my MOTHER.

In the Parish Church of Brough, Westmoreland.

Here rests a Pattern of the Female Life,
The Woman, Friend, the Mother, and the Wife.
A Woman form'd by Nature, more than Art,
With smiling Ease to gain upon the Heart.
A Friend as true as Guardian-Angels are,
Kindness her Law, Humanity her Care.
A Mother sweetly tender, justly dear,
Oh! never to be nam'd without a Tear.
A Wife of every social Charm possest,
Blessing her Husbands—In her Husbands blest.
Love in her Heart, Compassion in her Eyes,
Her Thoughts as humble, as her Virtues high.

135

Her Knowledge useful, nor too high, nor low,
To serve her Maker, and Her-self to know.
Born to relieve the Poor, the Rich to please,
To live with Honour, and to die in Peace.
So full her Hope, her Wishes so resign'd,
Her Life so blameless, so unstain'd her Mind,
Heav'n smil'd to see, and gave the gracious Nod,
Nor longer wou'd detain her from her God.

She departed this Life October 25. 1737. Aged 65.

Her former Husband was Jos. Fisher M. A. Fellow of Queen's Coll. Oxford, Vicar of Brough and Arch-Deacon of Carlisle; by whom She had no Children.

136

Written in the HOLY BIBLE.

Ye Sacred Tomes, be my unerring Guide,
Dove-hearted Saints, and Prophets Eagle-ey'd!
I scorn the Moral-Fop, and Ethic-Sage,
But drink in Truth from your illumin'd Page:
Like Moses-Bush each Leaf divinely bright,
Where God invests Himself in milder Light!
Taught by your Doctrines We devoutly rise,
Faith points the Way, and Hope unbars the Skies.
You tune our Passions, teach Them how to roll,
And sink the Body but to raise the Soul;
To raise It, bear It to Mysterious Day,
Nor Want an Angel to direct the Way!

137

On a PRESENT of THREE ROSES, from Ianthe.

Three Roses to her humble Slave
The Mistress of the Graces gave:
Three Roses of an Eastern Hue,
Sweet-swelling with ambrosial Dew.
How each, with glowing Pride, displays
The Riches of its circling Rays!
How all, in sweet Abundance, shed
Perfumes, that might revive the Dead!
Now tell me, Fair One, if you know,
Whence these balmy Spirits flow?
Whence Springs this modest Blush of Light
Which charms at once and pains the Sight?

The Fair-One knew, but wou'd not say,
So blush'd and smiling went her Way.
Impatient, next the Muse I call;
She comes, and thus wou'd answer all.

“Fool, (and I sure deserv'd the Name)
Mark well the Beauties of the Dame,

138

And can you wonder why so fair,
And why so sweet the Roses are?
Her Cheek with living purple glows
Which blush'd its Rays on every Rose;
Her Breath exhal'd a sweeter Smell
Than fragrant Fields of Asphodel;
The sparkling Spirit in her Eyes
A kindlier influence supplies
Than genial Suns and Summer Skies.
Now can you wonder why so fair,
And why so sweet the Roses are?”
“Hold, tuneful Trifler, I reply'd,
The beauteous Cause I now descri'd,
Hold, talk no more of Summer Skies,
Of genial Suns and—splendid Lyes;
Of fragrant Fields of Asphodel,
And brightest Rays and sweetest Smell;
Whatever Poetry can paint,
Or Muse can utter—all is faint:
Two Words had better all exprest;—
“She took the Roses from—her Breast.

139

CUPID MISTAKEN.

I

Venus whipt Cupid 'tother Day,
For having lost his Bow and Quiver:
For he had giv'n Them both away
To Stella, Queen of Isis-River.

II

“Mamma! You wrong Me while You strike,
(Cry's weeping Cupid) for I vow,
Stella and You are so alike,
I thought that I had lent Them You.

140

Cupid in LOVE.

Or Stella and the WASP.

[_]

Anacreontick.

Cupid by a Bee was stung,
Lately; since Anacreon sung:
Venus, with a smiling Eye,
Laugh'd to hear him sob and sigh.

Angry Cupid in Revenge,
(Gods their Shapes at pleasure Change)
In the Form of Wasp or Bee,
Stella! fix'd his Sting in Thee:
Stella! fairest of the Fair:
Stella, Venus' dearest Care!
In Revenge He dealt the Blow
On her Favourite Below;
In Revenge of smiling Eyes,
Sweetest Emblems of the Skies!
O my Finger! Stella cry'd:
Wou'd for Stella I had dy'd!

141

O my Finger! thrice She cry'd,
Thrice for Stella I'd have dy'd!
Stella! fairest of the Fair,
Stella, Venus' dearest Care!
Venus, red'ning, drop'd a Tear:
—“Here, You Sirrah, Cupid, here!
Dare You torture, like a Foe,
Stella, my Belov'd below?
Curst Revenge on smiling Eyes,
Sweetest Emblems of the Skies!”

Cupid, smit with Stella's Eye,
Answer'd Venus with a Sigh,
“Rather, Mamma, pity Me;
—I am wounded more than She.

142

ON Writing Laura's Name in the Snow.

Thirsis and Damon.
Thirsis.
Why, Damon, write you Laura's Name
In snowy Letters? prithee, say:
Was it her Coldness to express,
Or shew thy Love wou'd melt away?
Or, rather, was it This? Because
When She is nam'd you burn and glow,
Therefore in Hopes to cool your Breast
You writ the Charmer's Name in Snow?

Damon,
Thirsis, since Ink wou'd blot her Charms,
In Snow I chose her Name to write;
Since only Snow like her is pure,
Is soft alone, alone is white.
Perhaps the Air her Name may freeze,
And every Letter grow a Gem;

143

Fit Characters to blaze her Charms,
And owe their Rays to Stella's Name.
A Monarch for the precious Name
Might then with half his Kingdom part,
Despise the Jewels on his Crown,
To wear my Laura near his Heart.

Thirsis.
In vain. Behold the Noontide Sun
Dissolves it with his amorous Flame:—
The liquid Syllables are lost:
Now, Damon, where is Laura's Name?

Damon.
Too true: yet tho' her Name dissolves;
The shining Drops shall not be lost:
I'll drink Them as They weep away,
And still her Name shall be my Toast.

144

EPILOGUE to CATO.

Spoken by a young Gentleman in the Character of Marcia. Before a private Audience.

Critics affirm, a bookish, clownish Race,
(I wish they durst affirm it to my Face)
That Love in Tragedies has nought to do:
Ladies, if so, what wou'd They make of You?
Why, make You useless, nameless, harmless Things:
How false their Doctrine, I appeal to—Kings;
Appeal to Afric, Asia, Greece and Rome:
And, faith, we need not go—so far from Home.
For Us the Lover burns and bleeds and dies,
I fancy We have Comets in our Eyes;
And They, you know, are—Signs of Tragedies.
Thanks to my Stars, or, rather, to my Face,
Sempronius perish'd for that very Case.
The boist'rous Wretch bawl'd out for Peals of Thunder,
Because He cou'd not force Me—to come under.

145

Lard! how I tremble at the narrow Scape;
Which of you wou'd not—tremble—at a Rape?
Howe're that be, this Play will plainly prove,
That Liberty is not so sweet as Love.
Think, Ladies, think what Fancies fill'd my Head,
To find the living Juba for the dead!
Tho' much He suffer'd on my Father's side,
I'll make him cry, e're long, “I'm satisfied!”
For I shall prove a mighty—loving Bride.
But now, to make an End of Female Speeches,
I'll quit my Petticoats to—wear the Breeches.

Runs out and comes in his Night Gown.

We' have chang'd the Scene: For Gravity becomes
A Tragedy, as Hearses sable Plumes.
His Country's Father you have seen, to Night,
Unfortunately great, and sternly right.
Fair Liberty, by impious Power opprest,
Found no Asylum but Her Cato's Breast:
Thither, as to a Temple, She retir'd,
And when He plung'd the Dagger She expir'd.

146

If Liberty revive at Cato's Name,
And British Bosoms catch the Roman Flame:
If hoary Villains rouze your honest Ire,
And Patriot-Youths with Love of Freedom fire,
If Lucia's Grief your graceful Pity move,
And Marcia teach the Virgins virtuous Love,
You'll own, ev'n in this methodizing Age,
The mildest School—of Morals is the Stage.

To you, the polish'd Judges of our Cause,
Whose Smiles are Honour, and whose Nods applause,
Humble we bend: encourage Arts like these;
For tho' the Actors fail'd—they strove to please.
Perhaps, in Time, your Favours of this Night
May warm Us like young Marcus self to fight,
Like Cato to defend, like Addison to write.

Act 4th. Scene 2d.

147

THE HAPPY LIFE.

I

A Book, a Friend, a Song, a Glass,
A chaste, yet laughter-loving Lass,
To Mortals various Joys impart,
Inform the Sense, and warm the Heart.

II

Thrice happy they, who, careless, laid
Beneath a kind-embow'ring Shade,
With Rosy Wreaths their Temples crown,
In Rosy Wine their Sorrows drown.

III

Mean while the Muses wake the Lyre,
The Graces modest Mirth inspire,
Good-natur'd Humour, harmless Wit;
Well-temper'd Joys, nor grave, nor light.

148

IV

Let Sacred Venus with her Heir,
And dear Ianthe too be there.
Musick and Wine in Concert move
With Beauty, and refining Love.

V

There Peace shall spread her Dove-like Wing,
And bid her Olives round us spring.
There Truth shall reign, a Sacred Guest!
And Innocence, to crown the Rest.

VI

Begone, Ambition, Riches, Toys,
And splendid Cares, and guilty Joys.—
Give me a Book, a Friend, a Glass,
And a chaste, laughter-loving Lass.

149

THE WEDDING MORN.

A Dream.

'Twas Morn: But Theron still his Pillow prest:
(His Annabella's Charms improv'd his Rest.)
An Angel Form, the Daughter of the Skies,
Descending blest; or seem'd to bless his Eyes;
White from her Breast a dazzling Vestment roll'd,
With Stars bespangled and celestial Gold.
She mov'd, and Odours, wide, the Circuit fill'd;
She spake, and Honey from her Lips distill'd.
“Behold, illustrious comes, to bless thy Arms,
Thy Annabella, breathing Love and Charms!
O melting Mildness, undissembled Truth!
Fair Flow'r of Age, yet blushing Bloom of Youth!
Fair without Art, without design admir'd,
Prais'd by the Good, and by the Wise desir'd.
By Art and Nature taught and form'd to please,
With all the sweet Simplicity of Ease.

150

In publick courteous—for no private End;
At Home—a Servant; and Abroad—a Friend.
Her gentle Manners, unaffected Grace,
And animated Sweetness of her Face,
Her faultless Form, by Decency refind,
And bright, unsullied Sanctity of Mind,
The Christian Graces breathing in her Breast,
Her—Whole shall teach Thee to be more than Blest.

'Tis Virtues Rays that point her sparkling Eyes,
Her Face is beauteous for her Soul is wise.
As from the Sun refulgent Glories roll,
Which feed the Starry Host and fire the Pole,
So stream upon her Face the Beauties of her Soul.
Tho' the Dove's languish melts upon her Eye,
And her Cheeks mantle with the Eastern Sky,
When Seventy on her Temples sheds its Snow,
Dim grow her Eyes and Cheeks forget to glow,
Good-Nature shall the purple Loss supply,
Good-Sense shine brighter than the sparkling Eye:
In beauteous Order round and round shall move,
Love cool'd by Reason, Reason warm'd by Love.

151

Receive Heav'ns kindest Blessing! And regard
This Blessing as thy Virtue's best reward.
When Beauty wakes her fairest Forms to charm,
When Musick all her Powr's of Sound to warm,
Her golden Floods when wanton Freedom rolls,
And Plenty pours Herself into our Bowls;
When with tumultuous Throbs our Pulses beat,
And dubious Reason totters on her Seat,
The Youth how steady, how resolv'd the Guide
Which stems the full luxuriant, pleasing Tide!
For These, and Virtues such as These is given
Thy Annabella! O belov'd of Heav'n!—
Hail Marriage! everlasting be thy Reign!
The Chain of Being is thy golden Chain.
From hence Mankind, a growing Race depend,
Began with Nature, shall with Nature end.
The Mists, which stain'd thy Lustre, break away,
In Glory lessen, and refine to Day:
No more the Jest of Wits, of Fools the Scorn,
Which God made Sacred, and which Priests adorn.

152

Ascend the Bed, while genial Nature pours
Her balmy Blessings round and nectar-Show'rs.
And lo! the Future opens on my Eyes,
I see soft Budds, and smiling Flowr's arise:
The Human Blossoms every charm display,
Unfold their Sweets, and beautify the Day.
The Father's Virtues in the Sons combine;
The Mother's Graces in the Daughters shine.
So where an Angel spreads his Dovelike Wing
Young Lawrels sprout, and tender Myrtles spring;
Sweet Dews descending consecrate the Ground,
And opens a new Paradise around!
I see!”—But here the Scenes which blaz'd behind
Her Fancy dazzled, and dissolv'd His Mind.
He woke: yet still He thinks He sees and Hears;
Till real Sounds salute his ravish'd Ears:
“—Arise! the Bride invites Thee to be blest?”
He rose.—But Silence only speaks the Rest.

153

AN HYMN TO MAY.

—Nunc formosissimus Annus.
Virgil.

158

ARGUMENT.

Subject propos'd. Invocation of May. Description of Her: Her Operations on Nature. Bounty recommended; in particular at this Season. Vernal Apostrophe. Love the ruling Passion in May. The Celebration of Venus her Birth-Day in this Month. Rural Retirement in Spring. Conclusion.

159

I

Ethereal Daughter of the lusty Spring,
And sweet Favonius, ever-gentle May!
Shall I, unblam'd, presume of Thee to sing,
And with thy living Colours gild my Lay?
Thy genial Spirit mantles in my Brain;
My Numbers languish in a softer Vein:
I pant, too emulous, to flow in Spenser's Strain.

II

Say, mild Aurora of the blooming Year,
With Storms when Winter blackens Nature's Face;
When whirling Winds the howling Forest tear,
And shake the solid Mountains from their Base:
Say, what refulgent Chambers of the Sky
Veil thy beloved Glories from the Eye,
For which the Nations pine, and Earth's fair Children die?

160

III

Where Leda's Twins, forth from their Diamond-Tow'r,
Alternate, o'er the Night their Beams divide;
In Light embosom'd, happy, and secure
From Winter-Rage, thou chusest to abide.
Blest Residence! For, there, as Poets tell,
The Power's of Poetry and Wisdom dwell;
Apollo wakes the Arts; the Muses strike the Shell.

IV

Certes o'er Rhedicyna's laurel'd Mead,
(For ever spread, ye Laurels, green and new!)
The Brother-Stars their gracious Nurture shed,
And secret Blessings of Poetic-Dew.
They bathe their Horses in the learned Flood,
With Flame recruited for th' æthereal Road;
And deem fair Isis' Swans fair as their Father-God.

161

V

No sooner April, trim'd with Girlands gay,
Rains Fragrance o'er the World, and kindly Showrs;
But, in the Eastern-Pride of Beauty, May,
To gladden Earth, forsakes her heav'nly Bow'rs,
Restoring Nature from her palsy'd State.
April, retire; ne longer, Nature, wait:
Soon may she issue from the Morning's golden Gate.

VI

Come, bounteous May! in Fulness of thy Might,
Lead, briskly, on the mirth-infusing Hours,
All-recent from the Bosom of Delight,
With Nectar, nurtur'd; and involv'd in Flow'rs:
By Spring's sweet Blush, by Nature's teeming Womb;
By Hebe's dimply Smile, by Flora's Bloom;
By Venus'-self (for Venus'-self demands thee) come!

VII

By the warm Sighs, in dewy Even-Tide,
Of melting Maidens, in the Wood-bind-groves,
To Pity loosen'd, soften'd down from Pride;
By billing Turtles, and by cooing Doves;

162

By the Youth's Plainings stealing on the Air,
(For Youths will plain, tho' yielding be the Fair)
Hither, to bless the Maidens and the Youths, repair.

VIII

With Dew bespangled, by the Hawthorn-buds,
With Freshness breathing, by the daisy'd Plains,
By the mix'd Music of the warbling Woods,
And jovial Roundelays of Nymphs and Swains;
In thy full Energy, and rich Array,
Delight of Earth and Heav'n! O blessed May!
From Heav'n descend to Earth: on Earth vouchsafe to stay.

IX

She comes!—A silken Camus, emral'd-green,
Gracefully loose, adown her Shoulder's flows,
(Fit to enfold the Limbs of Paphos' Queen)
And with the Labours of the Needle glows,
Purfled by Nature's Hand! The amorous Air
And musky-western Breezes, fast, repair,
Her Mantle proud to swell, and wanton with her Hair.

163

X

Her Hair (but rather Threads of Light it seems)
With the gay Honours of the Spring intwin'd,
Copious, unbound, in nectar'd Ringlets streams,
Floats glitt'ring on the Sun, and scents the Wind,
Love-sick with Odours!—Now to order roll'd,
It melts upon her Bosom's dainty Mould,
Or, curling round her Waste, disparts its wavy Gold.

XI

Young-circling Roses, blushing, round them throw
The sweet Abundance of their purple Rays,
And Lillies, dip'd in Fragrance, freshly blow,
With blended Beauties, in her Angel-Face.
The humid Radiance beaming from her Eyes
The Air and Seas illumes, the Earth and Skies;
And open, where she smiles, the Sweets of Paradise.

XII

On Zephyr's Wing the laughing Goddess view,
Distilling Balm. She cleaves the buxom Air,
Attended by the silver-footed Dew,
The Ravages of Winter to repair.

164

She gives her naked Bosom to the Gales,
Her naked Bosom down the Æther Sails;
Her Bosom breaths Delight; her Breath the Spring exhales.

XIII

All as the Phenix, in Arabian Skies,
New-burnish'd from his spicy Funeral Pyres,
At large, in roseal Undulation, flies;
His Plumage dazzles and the Gazer tires:
Around their King the plumy Nations wait,
Attend his Triumph, and augment his State:
He tow'ring, claps his Wings, and wins th' Æthereal Height.

XIV

So round this Phenix of the gawdy Year
A thousand, nay ten thousand Sports and Smiles,
Fluttering in Gold, along the Hemisphere,
Her Praises chaunt; her Praises Glad the Isles.

165

Conscious of her approach (to deck her Bow'rs)
Earth from her fruitful Lap and Bosom pours
A waste of springing Sweets, and voluntary Flow'rs.

XV

Narcissus fair, in snowy Velvet gown'd;
Ah foolish! still to love the Fountain-brim:
Sweet Hyacinth, by Phebus erst bemoan'd;
And Tulip, flaring in her powder'd Trim.
Whate're, Armida, in thy Gardens blew;
Whate're the Sun inhales, or sips the Dew;
Whate're compose the Chaplet on Ianthes' Brow.

166

XVI

He who undaz'd can wander o'er her Face,
May gain upon the Solar-blaze at Noon!—
What more than female Sweetness, and a Grace
Peculiar! save, Ianthe, thine alone,
Ineffable Effusion of the Day!
So very much the same, that Lovers say,
May is Ianthe; or the dear Ianthe, May.

XVII

So far as doth the Harbinger of Day
The lesser Lamps of Night in Sheen excell;
So far in Sweetness and in Beauty May
Above all other Months doth bear the Bell.
So far as May doth other Months exceed,
So far in Virtue and in Goodlihead,
Above all other Nymphs Ianthe bears the Meed.

XVIII

Welcome! as to a youthful Poet, Wine,
To fire his Fancy, and enlarge his Soul:
He weaves the Laurel-Chaplet with the Vine,
And grows Immortal as he drains the Bowl.

167

Welcome! as Beauty to the lovesick Swain,
For which he long had sigh'd, but sigh'd in Vain;
He darts into her Arms; quick-vanishes his Pain.

XIX

The drowzy Elements, arouz'd by thee,
Roll to harmonious Measures, active all!
Earth, Water, Air, and Fire, with feeling Glee,
Exult to celebrate thy Festival.
Fire Glows intenser; softer, blows the Air;
More smooth the Waters flow; Earth smiles more fair:
Earth, Water, Air and Fire, thy gladning impulse Share.

XX

What boundless Tides of Splendor o'er the Skies,
O'erflowing Brightness! stream their golden Rays!
Heav'ns Azure kindles with the varying Dies,
Reflects the Glory, and returns the Blaze.
Air whitens; wide the Tracts of Æther been
With Colours damask'd rich, and goodly Sheen,
And all above, is blue; and all below is green.

168

XXI

At thy approach, the wild Waves' loud uproar,
And foamy Surges of the mad'ning Main,
Forget to heave their Mountains to the Shore;
Diffus'd into the level of the Plain.
For thee, the Halcyon builds her Summer's-nest;
For thee, the Ocean smooths her troubled Breast,
Gay from thy placid Smiles, in thy own purple Drest.

XXII

Have ye not seen, in gentle Even-tide,
When Jupiter the Earth hath richly showr'd,
Striding the Clouds, a Bow dispredden-wide
As if with Light inwove, and gayly flowr'd
With bright Variety of blending Dies?
White, purple, yellow melt along the Skies,
Alternate Colours sink, alternate Colours rise.

XXIII

The Earths embroidery then have ye ey'd,
And smile of Blossoms, yellow, purple, white;
Their vernal-tinctur'd Leaves, luxurious, died
In Flora's Liv'ry, painted by the Light.

169

Lights' painted Children in the Breezes play,
Lay out their dewy Bosoms to the Ray,
Their soft Enamel spread, and beautify the Day.

XXIV

From the wide Altar of the foodful Earth
The Flow'rs, the Herbs, the Plants, their Incense roll;
The Orchards swell the Ruby-tinctur'd Birth;
The Vermil-gardens breath the spicy Soul.
Grateful to May, the Nectar-spirit flies,
The wafted Clouds of lavish'd Odours rise,
The Zephyr's balmy Burthen, worthy of the Skies.

XXV

The Bee, the golden Daughter of the Spring,
From Mead to Mead, in wanton Labour, roves,
And loads its little Thigh, or gilds its Wing
With all the Essence of the flushing Groves:
Extracts the aromatick Soul of Flow'rs,
And, humming in Delight, its waxen Bow'rs
Fills with the luscious Spoils, and lives Ambrosial-Hours.

170

XXVI

Touch'd by Thee, May, the Flocks and lusty Droves
That low in Pastures, or on Mountains bleat,
Revive their Frolicks and renew their Loves,
Stung to the Marrow with a generous Heat.
The stately Courser, bounding o'er the Plain,
Shakes to the Winds the Honours of his Mane,
(High-arch'd his Neck) and, snuffing, hopes the dappled Train.

XXVII

The aëreal Songsters sooth the list'ning Groves:
The mellow Thrush, the Ouzle sweetly shrill,
And little Linnet celebrate their Loves
In Hawthorn Valley, or on tufted Hill;
The soaring Lark, the lowly Nightingale,
A Thorn her Pillow, trills her doleful Tale,
And melancholy Musick dies along the Dale.

XXVIII

This gay Exuberance of gorgeous Spring,
The gilded Mountain, and the herbag'd Vale,
The Woods that blossom, and the Birds that sing,
The murmuring Fountain and the breathing Dale:

171

The Dale, the Fountains, Birds and Woods delight,
The Vales, the Mountains and the Spring invite,
Yet unadorn'd by May, no longer charm the Sight.

XXIX

When Nature laughs around, shall Man alone,
Thy Image, hang (ah me!) the sickly Head?
When Nature sings, shall Nature's Glory groan,
And languish for the Pittance poor of Bread!
O may the Man that shall his Image scorn,
Alive, be ground with Hunger, most forlorn,
Die unanell'd, and dead, by Dogs and Kites be torn.

XXX

Curs'd may He be (as if he were not so.)
Nay doubly curs'd be such a Breast of Steel,
Which never melted at Another's Woe,
Nor Tenderness of Bowels knew to feel.
His Heart is black as Hell, in flowing Store
Who hears the Needy crying at his Door,
Who hears Them cry, ne recks; but suffers them be Poor.

172

XXXI

But blest, O more than doubly blest be He!
Let Honour crown him and eternal Rest,
Whose Bosom, the sweet Fount of Charity,
Flows out to noursle Innocence distrest.
His Ear is open to the Widows cries,
His Hand the Orphan's Cheek of Sorrow drys;
Like Mercy's self he looks on Want with Pity's Eyes.

XXXII

In this blest Season, pregnant with Delight,
Ne may the boading Owl with Screeches wound
The solemn Silence of the quiet Night,
Ne croaking Raven, with unhallow'd Sound,
Ne damned Ghost affray with deadly Yell
The waking Lover, rais'd by mighty Spell,
To pale the Stars, till Hesper shine it back to Hell.

XXXIII

Ne Witches rifle Gibbets, by the Moon,
(With Horror winking, trembling all with with Fear)
Of many a clinking Chain, and canker'd Bone:
Nor Imp in visionary Shape appear,

173

To blast the thriving Verdure of the Plain;
Ne let Hobgoblin, ne the Ponk, profane
With shadowy Glare the Light, and mad the bursting Brain.

XXXIV

Yet Fairy-Elves (so ancient Custom's will)
The green-gown'd Fairy Elves, by starry Sheen,
May gambol or in Valley or on Hill,
And leave their Footsteps on the circled Green.
Full lightly trip it, dapper Mab, around;
Full featly, Ob'ron, Thou, o'er Grass-turf bound:
Mab brushes off no Dew-drops, Ob'ron prints no ground.

XXXV

Ne bloody Rumours violate the Ear,
Of City's sack'd, and Kingdoms desolate,
With Plague or Sword, with pestilence or War;
Ne rueful Murder stain thy æra-date;

174

Ne shameless Calumny, for fell Despight,
The foulest Fiend that e'er blasphem'd the Light,
At lovely Lady rail, nor grin at courteous Knight.

XXXVI

Ne Wailing in our Streets nor Fields be heard,
Ne Voice of Misery assault the Heart;
Ne Fatherless from Table be debar'd;
Ne piteous Tear from Eye of Sorrow start;
But Plenty, pour thy self into the Bowl
Of Bounty-head; may never Want controul
That Good, Good-Honest Man, who feeds the famish'd Soul.

XXXVIII

Now let the Trumpet's martial Thunders sleep;
The Viol wake alone, and tender Flute:
The Phrygian Lyre with sprightly Fingers sweep,
And, Erato, dissolve the Lydian-lute.
Yet Clio frets, and burns, with honest Pain,
To rouze and animate the martial Strain,
While British Banners flame o'er many a purpled Plain.

175

XXXVIII

The Trumpet sleeps, but soon for Thee shall wake,
Illustrious Chief! to sound thy mighty Name,
(Snatch'd from the Malice of Lethean-lake)
Triumphant-swelling from the Mouth of Fame.
Mean while, disdain not (so the Virgins pray)
This Rosy-Crown, with Myrtle wove and Bay;
(Too humble Crown I ween:) the Offering of May.

XXXIX

And while the Virgins hail Thee with their Voice,
Heaping thy crowded Way with Greens and Flow'rs,
And in the Fondness of their Heart rejoice
To sooth, with Dance and Song, thy gentler Hours;
Indulge the Season, and with sweet Repair
Embay thy Limbs, the vernal Beauties share:
Then blaze in Arms again, renew'd for future War.

XL

Britannia's happy Isle derives from May
The choicest Blessings Liberty bestows:
When Royal Charles (for ever hail the Day!)
In Mercy triumph'd o'er ignoble Foes.

176

Restor'd with him, the Arts the drooping Head
Gayly again uprear'd; the Muses Shade
With fresher Honours bloom'd, in greener Trim array'd.

XLI

And Thou, the goodliest Blossom of our Isles!
Great Frederick's and His Augusta's Joy,
Thy native Month approv'd with Infant-smiles,
Sweet as the smiling May, Imperial Boy!
Britannia hopes Thee for her future Lord,
Lov'd as thy Parents, only not ador'd!
Whene're a George is born, Charles is again Restor'd.

XLII

O may his Father's Pant for finer Fame,
And boundless Bountyhead to Humankind;
His Grandsires Glory, and his Uncles Name,
Renown'd in War! inflame his ardent Mind:
So Arts shall flourish 'neath His equal Sway,
So Arms the Hostile Nations wide affray;
The Laurel, Victory; Apollo, wear the Bay.

177

XLIII

Through kind Infusion of celestial Pow'r,
The dullard-Earth May quick'neth with Delight:
Full suddenly the Seeds of Joy recure
Elastick Spring, and Force within empight.
If senseless Elements invigorate prove
By genial May, and heavy Matter move,
Shall Shepherdesses cease, shall Shepherds fail to love?

XLIV

Ye Shepherdesses, in a goodly Round,
Purpled with Health, as in the Greenwood-Shade,
Incontinent ye thump the echoing Ground
And defftly lead the Dance along the Glade;
(O may no Show'rs your Merry-makes affray!)
Hail at the op'ning, at the closing Day,
All hail, ye Bonnibels, to your own Season, May.

178

XLIV

Nor ye absent yourselves, ye Shepherd-Swains,
But lend to Dance and Song the liberal May,
And while in jocund Ranks you beat the Plains,
Your Flocks shall nibble and your Lambkins play,
Frisking in Glee. To May your Girlands bring,
And ever and anon her Praises sing:
The Woods shall echo May, with May the Vallies ring.

XLV

Your May-pole deck with flow'ry Coronal;
Sprinkle the flow'ry Coronal with Wine;
And in the nimble-footed Galliard, all,
Shepherds and Shepherdesses, lively, join.
Hither from Village sweet and Hamlet fair,
From bordering Cot and distant Glenne repair:
Let Youth indulge its Sport, to Eld bequeath its Care.

XLVI

Ye wanton Dryads and light-tripping Fawns,
Ye jolly Satyrs, full of Lustyhead,
And ye that haunt the Hills, the Brooks, the Lawns;
O come with rural Chaplets gay dispread:

179

With Heel so nimble wear the springing Grass,
To shrilling Bagpipe, or to tinkling Brass;
Or foot it to the Reed: Pan pipes himself apace.

XLVII

In this soft Season, when Creation smil'd,
A quivering Splendor on the Ocean hung,
And from the fruitful Froth, his fairest Child,
The Queen of Bliss and Beauty, Venus sprung.
The Dolphins gambol o'er the wat'ry Way,
Carrol the Naids, while the Triton's play,
And all the sea-green Sisters bless the Holy-day.

XLVIII

In Honour of her natal-Month the Queen
Of Bliss and Beauty, consecrates her Hours,
Fresh as her Cheek, and as her Brow serene,
To buxom Ladies, and their Paramours.
Love tips with golden Alchimy his Dart;
With rapt'rous Anguish, with an honey'd Smart
Eye languishes on Eye, and Heart dissolves on Heart.

180

XLIX

A softly-swelling Hill, with Myrtles crown'd,
(Myrtles to Venus Algates sacred been)
Hight Acidale, the fairest Spot on Ground,
For ever fragrant and for ever green,
O'erlooks the Windings of a shady Vale,
By Beauty form'd for amorous Regale.
Was ever Hill so sweet, as sweetest Acidale?

L

All down the Sides, the Sides profuse of Flow'rs,
An hundred Rills, in shining Mazes, flow
Through mossy Grotto's Amaranthine Bow'rs,
And form a laughing Flood in Vale below:
Where oft their Limbs the Loves and Graces bay
(When Summer sheds insufferable Day)
And sport, and dive, and flounce in Wantonness of Play.

LI

No Noise o'ercomes the Silence of the Shades,
Save short-breath'd Vows, the dear Excess of Joy;
Or harmless Giggle of the Youths and Maids,
Who yield Obeysance to the Cyprian Boy:

181

Or Lute, soft-sighing in the passing Gale;
Or Fountain, gurgling down the sacred Vale,
Or Hymn to Beauty's Queen, or Lover's tender Tale.

LII

Here Venus revels, here maintains her Court
In light Festivity and gladsome Game:
The Young and Gay, in frolick Troops resort,
Withouten Censure and withouten Blame.
In Pleasure steep'd, and dancing in Delight,
Night steals upon the Day, the Day, on Night:
Each Knight, his Lady loves; each Lady loves her Knight.

LIII

Where lives the Man (if such a Man there be)
In idle Wilderness or Desart drear,
To Beauty's sacred Pow'r an Enemy?
Let foul Fiends harrow him; I'll drop no Tear.
I deem that Carl, by Beauty's Pow'r unmov'd,
Hated of Heav'n, of none but Hell approv'd.
O may he never love, O never be belov'd!

182

LIV

Hard is his Heart, unmelted by Thee, May!
Unconscious of Love's nectar-tickling Sting,
And, unrelenting, cold to Beauty's Ray;
Beauty the Mother and the Child of Spring!
Beauty and Wit declare the Sexes even;
Beauty, to Woman, Wit to Man is given;
Neither the Slime of Earth, but each the Fire of Heav'n.

LV

Alliance sweet! let Beauty, Wit approve,
As Flow'rs to Sunshine ope the ready Breast:
Wit Beauty Loves, and nothing else can love:
The best alone is grateful to the best.
Perfection has no other Parallel!
Can Light, with Darkness; Doves with Ravens dwell?
As soon, perdie, shall Heav'n Communion hold with Hell.

LVI

I sing to you, who love alone for Love:
For Gold the beauteous Fools (O Fools besure!)
Can win; tho' brighter Wit shall never move:
But Folly is to Wit the certain Cure.

183

Curs'd be the Men, (or be they young or old)
Curs'd be the Women, who themselves have sold
To the detested Bed for Lucre base of Gold.

LVII

Not Julia such: she higher Honour deem'd
To languish in the Sulmo-Poet's Arms,
Than, by the Potentates of Earth esteem'd,
To give to Scepters and to Crowns her Charms.
Not Laura such: in sweet Vauclusa's Vale
She list'ned to her Petrarch's amorous Tale.
But did poor Colin Clout o'er Rosalind prevail?

LVIII

Howe'er that be; in Acidalian Shade,
Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the Day:
No Dreams of Banishment his Loves invade;
Encircled in Eternity of May.

184

Here Petrarch with his Laura, soft reclin'd
On Violets, gives Sorrow to the Wind:
And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Rosalind.

LIX

Pipe on, thou sweetest of the th' Arcadian-Train,
That e'er with tuneful Breath inform'd the Quill:
Pipe on, of Lovers the most loving Swain!
Of Bliss and Melody O take thy Fill.
Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe smile,
Tho' low my Numbers, and tho' rude my Stile;
Ne quit for Acidale, fair Albion's happy Isle.

LX

Come then, Ianthe! milder than the Spring,
And grateful as the rosy Mouth of May,
O come; the Birds the Hymn of Nature sing,
Inchanting-wild, from every Bush and Spray:

185

Swell the green Gemms and teem along the Vine,
A fragrant Promise of the future Wine,
The Spirits to exalt, the Genius to refine!

LXI

Let us our Steps direct where Father-Thames.
In silver Windings draws his humid Train,
And pours, where'er he rolls his Naval-stream,
Pomp on the City, Plenty o'er the Plain.
Or by the Banks of Isis shall we stray,
(Ah why so long from Isis Banks away!)
Where thousand Damsels dance, and thousand Shepherds play.

LXII

Or chuse you rather Theron's calm Retreat,
Embosom'd, Surry, in thy verdant Vale,
At once the Muses and the Graces Seat!
There gently listen to my faithful Tale.
Along the dew-bright Parterres let us rove,
Or taste the Odours of the Mazy-Grove:
Hark how the Turtles coo: I languish too with Love.

186

LXIII

Amid the Pleasaunce of Arcadian Scenes,
Love steals his silent Arrows on my Breast;
Nor Falls of Water, nor enamel'd Greens,
Can sooth my Anguish, or invite to Rest.
You, dear Ianthe, you alone impart
Balm to my Wounds, and Cordial to my Smart:
The Apple of my Eye, the Life-blood of my Heart.

LXIV

With Line of Silk, with Hook of barbed Steel,
Beneath this Oaken Umbrage let us lay,
And from the Water's Crystal-bosom steal
Upon the grassy Bank the finny Prey:
The Perch, with Purple speckled manifold;
The Eel, in silver Labyrinth self-roll'd,
And Carp, all-burnish'd o'er with Drops of scaly Gold.

LXV

Or shall the Meads invite, with Iris-hues
And Nature's Pencil gay-diversify'd,
(For now the Sun has lick'd away the Dews)
Fair-flushing and bedeck'd like Virgin-bride?

187

Thither, (for they invite us) we'll repair,
Collect and weave (whate'er is sweet and fair)
A Posy for thy Breast, a Garland for thy Hair.

XLVI

Fair is the Lilly, clad in balmy Snow;
Sweet is the Rose, of Spring the smiling Eye;
Nipt by the Winds, their Heads the Lillies bow;
Cropt by the Hand, the Roses fade and dye.
Tho' now in Pride of Youth and Beauty drest,
O think, Ianthe, cruel Time lays waste
The Roses of the Cheek, the Lillies of the Breast.

LXVII

Weep not; but, rather taught by this, improve
The present Freshness of thy springing Prime:
Bestow thy Graces on the God of Love,
Too precious for the wither'd Arms of Time.
In chaste Endearments, innocently gay,
Ianthe! now, now love thy Spring away;
Ere cold October-blasts despoil the Bloom of May.

188

LXVIII

Now up the Chalky Mazes of yon Hill,
With grateful Diligence, we wind our Way;
What op'ning Scenes our ravish'd Senses fill,
And, wide, their rural Luxury display!
Woods, Dales, and Flocks, and Herds, and Cots and Spires,
Villa's of learned Clerks, and gentle Squires;
The Villa of a Friend the Eye-sight never tires.

LXIX

If er'e to Thee and Venus, May, I strung
The gladsome Lyre, when Livelood swell'd my Veins,
And Eden's Nymphs and Isis Damsels sung
In tender Elegy, and Pastoral-strains;
Collect and shed thyself on Theron's Bowr's,
O green his Gardens, O perfume his Flow'rs,
O bless his Morning-walks and sooth his Ev'ning-hours.

189

LXX

Long, Theron, with thy Annabell enjoy
The Walks of Nature, still to Virtue kind,
For sacred solitude can never cloy;
The Wisdom of an uncorrupted Mind!
O very long may Hymen's golden Chain
To Earth confine you and the Rural-reign;
Then soar, at length, to Heaven! nor pray, O Muse, in vain.

LXXI

Wherer'e the Muses haunt, or Poets muse,
In solitary Silence sweetly tir'd,
Unloose thy Bosom, May! thy Stores effuse,
Thy vernal Stores, by Poets most desir'd,
Of living Fountain, of the Wood-bind-shade,
Of Philomela, warbling from the Glade.
Thy Bounty, in his Verse, shall certes be repay'd.

LXXII

On Twit'nam-Bow'rs (Aonian-Twit'nam-Bow'rs!)
Thy softest Plenitude of Beauties shed,
Thick as the Winter-Stars, or Summer-Flow'rs;
Albè the tuneful Master (ah!) be dead.

190

To Colin next He taught my Youth to sing,
My Reed to warble, to resound my String:
The King of Shepherd's He, of Poet's He the King.

LXXIII

Hail, happy Scenes, where Joy wou'd chuse to dwell;
Hail, golden Days, which Saturn deems his own;
Hail Musick, which the Muses scant excell;
Hail Flowrets, not unworthy Venus'-crown.
Ye Linnets, Larks, ye Thrushes, Nightingales;
Ye Hills, ye Plains, ye Groves, ye Streams, ye Gales,
Ye ever-happy Scenes! all you, your Poet hails.

LXXIV

All-hail to thee, O May! the Crown of all!
The Recompence and Glory of my Song:
Ne small the Recompence, ne Glory small,
If gentle Ladies, and the Tuneful-Throng,
With Lovers-Myrtle, and with Poet's-Bay
Fairly bedight, approve the simple Lay,
And think on Thomalin whene'er they hail Thee, May!

Castor and Pollux.

The Gemini are supposed to preside over learned men. See Pontanus in his beautiful Poem call'd Urania. Lib. 2. De Geminis.

Surely, certainly. Ibid. ------ Rhedicyna, &c. Oxford.

Jupiter deceiv'd Leda in the Shape of a Swan as She was bathing herself in the River Euretas.

Garlands.

Nor.

Songs.

A light Gown.

Flowrish'd with a Needle.

Pliny tells us. Lib. 11. That the Phenix is about the Bigness of an Eagle: The Feathers round the Neck shining like Gold, the Body of a purple Colour, the Tail blue with Feathers resembling Roses. See Claudian's fine Poem on that Subject and Marcellus Donatus, who has a short Dissertation on the Phenix in his Observations on Tacitus. Annal. Lib. 6. Westley on Job, and Sr. Tho. Brown's Vulgar Errors.

A beautiful Youth who, beholding his Face in a Fountain, fell in Love with himself, and pining away was chang'd into a Flow'r which bears his Name. See Ovid. Metamorph. Lib. 3.

Belov'd and turned into a Flow'r by Apollo. See the Story in Ovid. Met. Lib. 10. There is likewise a curious Dialogue in Lucian betwixt Mercury and Apollo on this Subject. Servius in his Notes on Virgil's second Bucolick takes the Hyacinth to be the Vaccinium of the Latines, bearing some Similitude with the Name.

Formerly: long ago.

See Tasso's Il Goffredo. Canto 16.

Undazzled.

Brightness. Shining.

Beauty.

Prize.

Spread.

Blackbird.

Without a funeral Knell.

Nor is concern'd.

To nurse.

Nor.

Affright.

The Lemuria, or Rites sacred to the Lemures, were celebrated by the Romans in May. See Ovid. Fast. 1. 5. &c. They imagined the Lemures (in English, Fairies) to be like Ghosts of deceased Persons: but our traditional Accounts are very different in Respect to the Nature of Fairies. Shake-spear's Midsummers Night's Dream, Drayton's Fairy Tale, and a celebrated Old Ballad, are Master-pieces in their Kind.

Brightness.

Nimbly.

Nor.

Recover.

Placed, fixed.

Finely.

Pretty Women.

A Country Hamlet.

Old Age.

Vigour.

Ever.

Bathe.

Destroy.

A Clown.

An old Word for asserting any Thing.

Spenser.

These three celebrated Poets and Lovers were all of them unhappy in their Amours. Ovid was banish'd on Account of his Passion for Julia. Death deprived Petrarch of his beloved Laura very early; as he himself tells us in his Account of his own Life: These are his Words. Amore acerrimo, sed unico & honesto, in Adolescentia laboravi, & diutius laborassem, nisi jam tepescentem ignem mors acerba, sed utilis, extinxisset. See his Works, Basil, Fol. Tom. 1. Yet others say, she married another Person; which is scarce probable; since Petrarch lamented her Death for ten Years afterwards, as appears from Sonetto 313, with a most uncommon Ardour of Passion. Thomasinus in his curious Book, called Petrarcha Redivivus, has given us two Prints of Laura, with an Account of her Family, their Loves, and his sweet Retirement in Vavcluse. As for Spenser, we may conclude that his Love for Rosalinda proved unsuccessful from his pathetical Complaints, in several of his Poems, of her Cruelty. The Author, therefore, thought it only a poetical Kind of Justice to reward them in this imaginary Retreat of Lovers, for the Misfortunes they really suffer'd here, on Account of their Passion.

Liveliness.

Stella; five Amores: Elegiarum Tres Libri. Written in the Year 1736.

Six Pastorals: written in the Year 1734.

Altho'.

Scarcely.

Adorn'd.

191

THE NEW LYRE. To a Friend.

I

I strung my Lyre, when Love appear'd,
Demanding a light-wanton Lay:
Christ! I began—the Trifler heard,
And shook his Wings, and pass'd away.

II

The Strings rebellious to my Hand
Refuse to charm: in vain I sue,
The Strings are mute to my Demand—
I broke the old, and form'd a new.

III

Christ! I began: the sacred Lyre
Responsive swell'd with Notes divine,
And warm'd Me with Seraphic-fire:
Sweet Jesus, I am only Thine!

192

IV

O wake to Life this springing Grace,
And water with thy heavenly Dew:
Display the Glories of thy Face,
My Spirit and my Heart renew!

V

Direct my Soul, direct my Hand:—
O blessed Change! Thy Pow'r I feel:
My Numbers flow at thy Command,
My Strings with holy Raptures swell.

VI

And, You, whose pious Pains unfold
Those Truths, receive this Tribute due;
You once endur'd my Muse of Old,
Nor scorn the Firstfruits of the New.

He lent me a MS. Discourse on these Words “Old Things are passed away and lo! all Things are become New.

End of Tome the First.