A Collection of Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Accept the Numbers of a friendly Muse,
Nor what your real Merit claims, refuse.
Not as a Rival, I attempt to raise
This Monument, but found it on your Praise:
And were my Lines as easy as your Teint,
Or could I write as well as you can Paint;

From you, my Verse a lasting Life should claim,
And you from me should purchase endless Fame.

For many Years, the Structure had been cast
In Heaps of Rubbish, and a ruin'd Waste;
And scarce the lonely, mould'ring Wall maintains
One broken Sketch of old Magnificence:
'Till you by happy Skill redeem'd the Tow'rs,
And made the Views of former Ages, ours;
Each Turret from it's Ruins rear'd a-new,
And all the Building rose again, by you:
And we now see (instructed by your Hand)
How ancient Times beheld the Castle stand.

As o'er the Piece I travel with my Eyes,
I find a thousand recent Beauties rise;
Now o'er the Hill, I trace the blooming Scenes,
And Nature dawns thro' Art, in all her Greens:
Now to the Structure I methinks am led,
And rising Arches swell above my Head:
See, lofty Tow'rs and spacious Columns rise!
Shade half the Hill, and proudly keep the Skies:
While azure Heav'ns with Light adorn the whole,
Or Clouds delude the Sight, and seem to roll.

How bold each Stroke, how free the Touches fall,
And what a strong Relievo bodies all!
Nature her self, may view thy Work and boast,
She has receiv'd from thee, and nothing lost.
Not Kent (where her delightful Waters flow
In limpid Waves, in silent rolls, and slow.)
Paints the steep Hill, and in her Bosom bears,
Each verdant Plant the rising Summit wears,
Nor do those fleecy Images which lie
In that ideal Vault, that neither Skie,
More lively Figure out these Packs which move,
O'er the wide Concave of the Heav'n above,
Nor more the Fancy or the Eye incite.
Than thy well teinted Shade, and beauteous Light.
Thus, while it most delights thee to excel,
In painting Images of Nature well,
She ready waits to jump at thy Command,
And Worlds start out, obedient to thy Hand;
But would that Skill which shines so blooming here,
Begin Designs more noble to prefer!
To teach on Canvas, Majesty to shine,
And reconcile our Factions with a Line;

To win our Passions over, as we look;
And mend our various Errours with a Stroke.
Or draw old Contests in a figur'd Strife,
Renew past Times, and call the Dead to Life;
Thence learn us, present, happy Days to prize,
And look on civil Broils with fearful Eyes.

Nor shall the Muse be backward then, to raise
Thy Name encreasing, and thy growing Praise;
To future Times shall she thy Fame prolong,
In deathless Verse, if Deathless be my Song.
And tho' each Stroke shall fade, thy Skill could give;
Still fresh thy Paint, in lasting Strains shall live.

EPIGRAM ON AGROPHILOS,

An ingenious Husbandman.

Fortunate Senex! ------
Virg.

If there's a Man more happy than the rest,
Of Heav'n more favour'd, and more fully blest;
More worthy Praise, yet from the Lust more free,
More great unknown, Agriphilos is he:
Blest in his Fields, which plenteous Crops afford,
And blest his Fields, in having such a Lord:
Aglaus thus did Gyges wealth excel,
And thus did Adam live, before he fell.

CELIA Retired.

An Ev'ning soft, and balmy Air,
And all that's sweet, and fine, and fair,
Conspir'd to crown that happy hour,
When Celia sought a private Bow'r;
Where seated in a Shade alone,
She gave the Winds this tender Moan.

Ah Damon, why this long Delay,
O why art thou so far away!
Come near, my Love! if Celia's Charms
Have Pow'r to call thee to her Arms.
The Season calls us to improve
Each happy Hour, in Bliss and Love;

For ev'ry Scene that charms the Sight,
Is but a Scene of Love's Delight.
Each Flow'r displays a Lover's Eye,
And ev'ry Zephyr is a Sigh.
Each Tree, and Grot, and Bank, and Grove,
Cries, Nature has no Law but Love.

The little Warblers, that rejoyce,
Their Mirth is Love, and Love their Voice.
They flit and hop from Bough to Bough,
And here they Court, and there they Vow;
And now high perch'd on Stems above,
They sing, and all the Song is Love.

Thrice blest, ye Wood-Inhabitants!
As free from Cares, so free from Wants.
No rigid Fate your Bliss destroys,
Or interrupts your happy Joys.
No harsh commanding Parents Tongues,
To check your tender Sports or Songs.
No tiresome Absence to restrain
The Kindlings of your noble Flame.
No busy Spies your Hours to grieve,
Or kind Appointments to deceive;

But all is free, as Wish and Choice,
To Love's Commands, and Nature's Voice.

O how unlike to you am I!
Depriv'd of all my Bliss and Joy,
Beset by Danger, check'd by Fear,
I sigh for one, I have not here.
How long must I in Absence mourn,
And wish in vain for his return!
Ah Damon, why this long Delay,
O why art thou so far away!
Come near, my Love! if Celia's Charms
Have Power to call thee to her Arms!
Let's imitate the Choirs above,
In Bliss, and Freedom, Joy, and Love.

To the PAINTER of a young Lady's Picture.

While you, Sir Artist, are allow'd to thrive,
(Whom no right pious Man would wish alive)
Divines on Idol-worship may declaim,
And urge the Force of sacred Texts, in vain;
For while your Pencil so profanely paints,
'Twill make more Sinners, than the Pulpit Saints.

To Florinda.

Written on her LOOKING-GLASS.

Here CUPID learns to Point his Darts,
To pierce our Breasts, and wound our Hearts;
While you, Florinda, practise here,
Or crisp the Coif, or plait the Hair,
Or teach th' enchanting Eyes to roll,
And shoot yourself into the Soul,

Or give the Hood, or Pinners Airs,
You furnish CUPID with his Snares:
Your flutt'ring Pendents are his Wings,
The Plaits his Nests, your Hair his Strings,
His Bows your Eye-Brows, and your Eyes
Are, each the killing-Dart that flies.

THE ROSE.

As Silvia was walking one Ev'ning along,
The Closes, and Meadows, and Hedges among:
A Rose in her Blosom, and under her Feet,
Spread all that was pleasant and lovely and sweet.
While Damon walk'd by her, her Charms he confest,
And Pit-a-pat, Pit-a-pat, beat in his Breast;
A Pain full of Pleasure, and rapterous Smart,
Took hold of his Bosom, and thrill'd thro' his Heart.

Fair FLORA cry'd out (as she smil'd in the Green)
“A more charming Creature there never was seen;

“So lovely a Blossom's not found in my Store,
“With such white and red I ne'er painted a Flow'r,
“Ye Pride of the Vallies, ye Beauty of Meads,
“Confess her more charming, and bend down your Heads.
“Thou Rose in her Bosom, thou Vagrant of mine,
“How dar'st thou so bold in that Paradise shine?
“Look up to her Cheeks, and confessing, declare
“Thy self a faint Sketch of the Life that is there.
The Goddess said thus, and the Rose, as was meet,
From Silvia's Bosom, dropt down to her Feet.
There lay it submissive, nor dar'd to complain;
'Till Damon, in haste, snatch'd the Flower up again;
Thrice fondly he kiss'd it, as fondly thrice blest,
And welcome to mine (said he) from her dear Breast!
Dear Emblem of me, that fell humbly down,
The Charms and the Pow'r of her Beauties to own;
See, snatch'd from her Breast, how thy Blossoms decay!
Just so in her Absence, I languish away.
But stay my dear Rose, why so swift wilt thou fly?
Together let's live, and together let's die.

Damon to Celia.

Kind lovely Celia, soft enchanting Fair,
More lov'd than Health, than Life itself more dear.
Thy tender Lines more Blessings brought to me,
Than Spring to Birds, or Lillies to the Bee:
The well known Seal awaken'd all my Joys,
And e're I broke it loose I kist it thrice;
But hasty Love forbidding more delay,
Impatient, cry'd, what does my Charmer say?
She says a thousand dear enchanting Things,
And each a Thousand dear Enchantments brings.

My Heart in ev'ry Line, new Raptures move,
And ev'ry Syllable's a Soul of Love;
No more of tedious Absence I complain,
This amply recompenses all my Pain.
O dear blest Messenger of tender Joy,
Prolong this Bliss, and cheat each Moment by,
'Till that more heav'nly Hour which shall display
The Charmer's self, more heav'nly Joys convey;
When sunk, beneath a Million Transports prest,
Lost in her Charms, I tremble on her Breast,
And rapt, when each to each has more to tell,
Than Tongue can speak, or Language can reveal.
Our bounding Souls t'exchange their Places try,
Break thro' each breathe, and issue at each Eye;
Each Sigh, each languid Look, discloses more
Than Poets feign, or Nat'ralists explore.

O matchless Nymph, forever lov'd by me,
How much I long that blissful Day to see,
When plac'd beneath the Influence of thy Eye,
No Foes shall seek to interupt our Joy;
Nor Fortune strive by Absence to remove,
Our Peace from one continu'd calm of Love.

O shining Hour, O lightsome Day of Gold!
Spring forth thou Morn, thou Paradise unfold!
Alas, the lagging Moments stay behind,
Nor Pray'rs can make the sturdy Hours more kind!
With Time no soft Entreaties find a Place,
Nor laggs he more, nor speeds he more his Pace,
Alike regardless, both of Hate and Love,
The only Pow'r, nor Gifts, nor Pray'rs can move.
But while my Celia, soft, indulgent, shines,
And speeds an Intercourse of tender Lines;
The melting Joys her dear Impressions bring,
Cheat Time's dull Course, and gild his dusky Wing;
The tardy Hours more nimbly seem to run;
And slides more smooth, each bright succeeding Sun.

O charming Celia, ever let me find
Your Presence Rapture, and your Absence kind!
Support a Life forever fixt your own,
That knows no Wishes but for you alone:
That likes no Change, nor seeks, but to be true,
Nor ever shall acknowledge Love but you.
Not all the flow'ry Sex besides, shall bend
My steady Purpose from it's destin'd End;

No other End, my Thoughts resolv'd, explore,
But live with you, or live on Earth no more.

On CELIA.

Celia the fairest of the female Kind,
A Form all faultless, and a spotless Mind;
Who views her Eyes, and does not own their Sway?
Who hears her speak, and does not melt away?
Bright Miracle! from ev'ry Failure free;
She is all Charms, all Admiration we.

On the same.

While Celia sits on Damon's Knee,
And gently leans against his Breast,
More joy'd, more rapt, more blest is he,
Then if he held the wealthy East.
Upon her heavenly Frame engrost,
Within the compass of an Eye,
There's all that's fine the World can boast,
Without its Mixtures of Alloy.
A charming Form, a gentle Mind,
As soft and melting as a Dove;
An Heart sincere, a Soul all kind,
Both Eyes and Bosom full of Love.
Her Speech is all a rapt'rous Song,
And all her Looks are Paradise:

An Angel flutters on her Tongue,
And rides in Triumph from her Eyes.
Let haughty Monarchs prize their Thrones,
And Victors proud, with Glory burn;
I envy not their dazling Suns,
Nor for their Pow'r and Greatness mourn.
But claspt in Celia's happier Arms,
O ever, ever, let me stay!
While all my Soul amidst her Charms,
Melts softly out, and steals away.

THE LAP-DOG.

While Minny sports on Silvia's Knee,
I wishing view, with Pain I see,
The little fav'rite Dog enjoys
A Bliss it knows not how to prize.
See, smiling Silvia, with what Care,
She strokes the Skin, and combs the Hair;
She lisps, and fawns, and laughs, and plays,
And sports with Minny twenty ways.
O how with Envy I'm possest,
To see that spotted Brute so blest!

Sure Jove might now descend again,
But not in Floods of golden Rain:
A Minny's Form if he prevail,
Must all the Love-sick God conceal.
For Minny's the best Creature grown,
And has the kindest Favours shown.
Securely on her Lap it lies,
Or freely gazes on her Eyes;
To touch her Breast, may share the Bliss,
And unreprov'd, may snatch a Kiss:
O Heav'ns, the Joy! who would not be
That envy'd Thing, blest Minny, thee?
Jove, grant me but what here I crave,
No more I'll ask, no more I'll have;
Give me a Spell, a potent Charm,
To turn my self to Minny's Form.
In sportful Dance, and wanton Play
On Silvia's Lap I'll spend the Day.
But when the Dusk of ev'ning Shade
Has call'd her to the downy Bed;
Then let me on her Bosom burn,
And back again to Damon turn.

To DORINDA,

Making a Nosegay.

While you, Dorinda, cull each fragrant Flow'r,
And rob the Garden of it's balmy Store;
Or teach the Bloom, obedient to your Hand,
In tempting Rows, and posied Ranks to stand;
Each shining Range to beauteous Order brought,
Expressive Emblem of your lively Thought!
Ah lovely Nymph, forget not your own Frame,
How much it is, or much appears the same;
Tho' you in Charms all flow'ry, bloom to Day,
Not Roses brighter, nor the Pink more gay;
The Rose in Blossom will not always last,
As soon, the Pink will find it's Fragrance waste;

Each Flower ungather'd, useless must decay,
And all it's fading Glories end in Clay,
Not seen, nor smell'd, nor prais'd, nor talk'd of, more;
And Flesh is Grass, and Beauty but a Flower.
What then remains, but that you well improve
The present Time, so form'd for Bliss and Love?
While Youth and Pleasure ev'ry Sense invite
To melting Joys, and exquisite Delight.
O why should you the sweets of Life deny,
And those soft Hours of Rapture not enjoy!
Embrace the kind Occasion while 'tis here,
A happy Spring foretels a happy Year.

THE Faded FLOWER.

'Tis hard to say if Beauty's Charms,
Bring more of Blessings, or of Harms;
So short their Date, so frail their Force,
That oft the Blessing turns a Curse.
Thyrsis was smit, as once he 'spy'd,
A Bed of Lillies in their Pride,
He look'd, admir'd, and prais'd, a-while,
Then snatch'd the Glories from the Soil,
As fondly on his Bosom plac'd,
And taught their Charms to grace his Breast

But soon the Charms began to fade,
And all the flow'ry Glories shed;
The Change, no sooner Thyrsis 'spy'd,
But with the short Possession cloy'd,
The Lillies from his Breast are torn,
A Morning pride, an Evening scorn.
Thus some flush'd Youth, who feels the Flood
Of Fortune, and the Fire of Blood.
Upon some Fair-one casts his Eyes,
And sees ten Thousand Beauties rise;
He pants all o'er, and ev'ry Vein,
Glows fiercely, with redoubled Flame;
Eternal Truth, he swears, and cries
He's slain, and damn'd, if she denies:
Mov'd with his Passion, and Complaint,
Kind Nature draws her to consent,
With soft Reluctance, she complies,
Clings to the Bliss, and heaves, and dies;
But soon, Enjoyment viels her Charms,
No more the Youth, her Beauty warms,
But pall'd, he throws her from his Arms
Dispis'd and loath'd, her Favours grow,
An Angel once, a Strumpet now.

The WISH.

Might I desire, and Heav'n regard my Voice,
And seal my Wish, then hear me make my Choice;
Nor would I wish to share an Emp'ror's Name,
Nor deal the Bays with eldest Sons of Fame;
But O if there's a Blessing stor'd for me,
Kind Heav'ns! this mighty Gift then let it be.
Celia, the charming Nymph, whom I adore,
O give me her, and I will ask no more!

100

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

Ye charming Pair, permit your Friend to tell
Those Joys, the Muse forbids him to conceal!
She sees the Crowd approach on ev'ry Side.
To hail the Bridegroom, and acclaim the Bride.
Fir'd at the View, she tours above the Throng,
And modulates her Raptures into Song:
For thee, my Silvius! shall her Numbers rise,
To wish thee Health, and long-continued Joys.
I saw the Day, and rapt I was to see,
When charming Delia gave her Hand to thee;

101

How bright did Phebus o'er the Ocean rise,
And fill'd with Light, the Concave of the Skies;
The Skies, as mark of Pleasure, deign'd to show
Their azure Bosom on the World below;
The World below its Gratulations shed,
And the light Hours on easy Pinions fled.
Be this an Omen of a long Delight,
Be all your Days so cloudless and so bright;
Without a Ruffle, ev'ry Moment flow,
More gentle than the softest Breezes blow:
And thou, the gentlest Deity, O Love!
Still either Breast with tender Passion move;
Still Silvius, with his matchless Delia, charm;
And ever Delia, with her Silvius, warm.
It shall be so, if right the Muse foresee,
And thus propitious Fates for you decree,
“Still in the Front of Merit, full confest,
“Shall Silvius stand, applauded, hail'd and blest;
“Still Delia bloom in all the Sexes Charms,
“Wit, Truth, good Humour, Beauty's beaming Arms;
“Round both, shall Bliss intense, forever glow,
“With all that Earth can give and Heav'n bestow.

102

And be you Parents of a num'rous Race,
Enrich'd with ev'ry Good and ev'ry Grace;
Whose Wit, and Charms, and Innocence, and Truth,
May be true Copies of their Parents Youth;
And may your Happiness augment from theirs,
Joy of your Age, and Comfort of your Years:
'Till peaceful Slumbers close at last your Eyes,
And call you from the Earth, to mount the Skies.

103

Colin in Despair.

I

Wild with his Grief, young Colin fled
His Flocks and Plains, and sought a Grove,
Where cover'd with a gloomy shade,
He thus bemoan'd his hapless Love:
While Rocks stood round and catch'd his cries,
And Winds flew by, and sigh'd his Sighs.

II

A Tyrant rules within thy Mind,
Thy Heart's as hard as flinty Stone,

104

More cruel than mad Storms of Wind,
And Rage it self is sooner won:
The swelling Billows on the Sea,
Are gentle Things, compar'd with thee.

III

In the bleak Regions of the Pole,
Dread Hills of Snow perpetual rise,
And Frost forbids the Streams to roll,
And Seas congeal in Alps of Ice:
Not all that frigid Zone can prove,
A scene so cold as Silvia's Love.

IV

The Bees pursue the yellow Thyme,
And warbling Birds rejoyce in May;
Round Oaks, the clasping Ivies twine,
And youthful Lambs enjoy their play;
Each Creature has its Sport and Joy,
And nothing's always curs'd but I.

V

Clouds will not always hide the Skie,
Nor Show'rs forever swell the Streams;

105

For Vapours vanish as they fly,
Serene succeeds, and genial Gleams,
All human Ills a respite find,
And nought but Silvia's still unkind.

VI

Time stops not in its Course to flow,
But runs a-round as roll the Spheres;
Brings Winters and our Summers too,
And Days and Nights compleat the Years:
But Time can ne'er by all his Art,
Dissolve my Silvia's marble Heart.

VII

Nor Wit, nor Verse, avail me more,
They but augment and swell my Fire;
I robb'd the Muse and spent her Store,
I struck the Strings, and smote the Lyre:
But ah! in Vain I found all these,
As Pray'rs to Winds, or Sighs to Seas.

VIII

Then farewel Wit and Verse, no more
Shall you delude my fond Desire;

106

And farewel Muse with all thy store,
Be broke the Strings, be dumb the Lyre:
To ev'ry Art of Love adieu,
And to the Charms of Silvia too.

107

To BELINDA,

On her Singing.

Soon as Belinda moves th' obsequious Air,
The laughing Loves around her all repair,
And while she sings, successful try their Art,
For ev'ry Accent wings a fatal Dart:
Hence, all dissolv'd, we sicken in the Sound,
And bleed with Joy, nor know how great's the Wound;
The charming Poison thrills in ev'ry Vein,
Nor feel we more the Pleasure or the Pain;
Thus dying Martyrs burn in barb'rous Fires,
And smile with great Delight, while Life expires.

O where shall vanquish'd Man for Refuge fly,
Slain by your Song, and conquer'd by your Eye?
No more Amphion's Lyre shall now be fam'd,
Nor Orpheus (celebrated long) be nam'd:

108

Old worn-out Tales, which Fiction first begun,
And long like Truth the smooth Romance has run;
But now no longer shall th' Enchantment hold,
Hence Truth shall reign, nor Fables more be told:
For hearing you, Belinda, we confess
You merit more, since you perform no less;
One with his Song th' infernal Regions warm'd,
And Hell of all it's Furies stood disarm'd;
While he in moving Numbers sought his Wife,
And beg'd the Powers to give her back to Life;
Stern Proserpine, relenting, heard his Pray'r,
And from the stygian Shades return'd the Fair.
Strange Charms of Sound, that Fate's strong Laws subdue,
In Orpheus fabled, in Belinda true.
Obedient to her Voice, the Furies cease
Their mad uproar, and Rage is hush'd to Peace:
Wild, savage Hearts, to Tameness sink, surpris'd;
And rugged Breasts grow soft and humaniz'd.
Her Glance can strike the stubborn Gazer slain,
Her Voice can call him back to Life again.

The fiction'd Lyre could draw the Stones along,
And Temples rose, and Walls were built by Song;

109

With Speed, unloosen'd Rocks came rolling down,
And as he play'd, jump'd hasty to a Town;
But you, Belinda, Life with Motion give,
Teach Stones to sigh, and make the Rocks to live;
As from your Tongue, the pow'rful Musick parts,
Earth turns to Soul, and Flints dissolve to Hearts:
Let Thebes it's Wonders from Amphion take,
He made a Town, but you a People make.

110

The 22d ODE of the First Book of Horace Translated.

The Man whose Reason is unstain'd,
Whose Heart is upright and unblam'd;
May travel over burning Sands,
Or uninhabitable Lands.

If over Caucasus he goes,
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes flows,
He need not guard his Innocence,
With Bows and Darts, the Moor's Defence;
Nor loaden Quiver by his Side,
With poison'd Arrows be supply'd.

For as my Lalagen I sung,
I heedless chanc'd to wander on,
Beyond my Bounds, and while I stray'd
The Sabine Woods, of nought afraid,

111

A Wolf my careless Steps alarm'd,
But fled me, tho' I was unarm'd.

Whatever horrid Monster roves,
Within Apulia's Oaken Groves,
Or o'er Numidia's parched Plains,
Where brinded Lyons shake their Manes;
The Just may travel dauntless there,
For Innocence has nought to fear.

Lay me beneath the polar Skies,
In frosty Fields, and Scenes of Ice,
Where bleaky Arbors stand in Snow,
Nor feel the Summer Zephyr blow.

Or lay me, where the burning Sun
Flames fiercely thro' the torrid Zone,
Whose scorching Beams deny a Place
For Habitant, beneath his Rays.
Still pleas'd, I'll smile, and talk, and sing,
And love my charming Lalagen.

112

FRIENDSHIP.

The Friendship which no Time can e'er deface
It's Source is Virtue; Honour is it's Base.
No Fortune governs, and no Int'rest binds,
The social Bands of Love in noble Minds.
Low grov'ling Souls may wear the brutal Ties,
Of craving Sense, and avaricious Vice;
These soon are broke, with ev'ry turn of Fate
Then all the fierce Affection ends in Hate.
But nobler Views the lasting Laws maintain,
In gen'rous Breasts, where Truth and Honour reign;

113

There, purest Flames in native Lustre glow,
Purg'd from the grosser Elements below.
No close Reserves the social Heart controul,
But Freedom kindly opens out the Soul;
Nor sordid Int'rest checks the warm Desire
Nor taints the Thought, nor clouds the lambent Fire;
But in his Friend each gen'rous Man is blest,
And finds himself within Another's Breast;
For private Ends, true Friendship still denies,
When Self turns home, that Moment Friendship dies.

In ancient Times, when Life and Love were long,
(If we may Credit give to ancient Song,)
Then Words were faithful Copies of the Mind,
The Heart unveil'd, and Looks were undesign'd:
Each Friend, his Thoughts without Restraint exprest,
Nor kept one hid Reserve within his Breast:
Thus Friendship did it's utmost Vertex climb,
'Twas then (if e'er it was) a golden Time.
Alas! how far have these degenerate Days
Struck from that Path and trod in diff'rent Ways?
We look on other Times with other Eyes,
And each has learn'd his Heart a darling Vice.

114

No more our Bosoms feed the glorious Flame,
For all of Friendship's lost, except the Name,
And Friendship now, and Int'rest are the same.

Yet some remain, (alas the Number's few!)
Whose steady Feet, that ancient Path pursue;
Smit with the noble Love of Virtue, those
Dare yet be Friends, tho' half the World are Foes.
Such Souls are they which strict Alliance claim,
Meet Heart with Heart, and mingle Flame with Flame.
Together, these a boundless Flight can take,
Yet such a Flight as Truth itself may make.
For no romantick Strain here swells the Mind,
But all is real, artless, undesign'd:
The Tongue unskil'd in Compliments to flow,
Where Substance is possess'd, no need of show.

Thrice happy Breasts are those, which thus maintain
True Friendship's Laws, and wear the lib'ral Chain!
The sordid Soul may grovel on below,
And feel no Joys, but those the Senses know:
The Great, in Pomp, may vainly swell with Pride,
True Friends are happier than the World beside:
When each his Breast with mutual Freedom tells,
Nor Fault nor Virtue from his Friend conceals;

115

Each Joy, or anxious Care, in ev'ry State,
Delights them both, or both divide the Weight,
For both together stand oppos'd to Fate.

Ev'n LOVE itself upon this Union stands,
Or other Terms, are vainly joyn'd the Hands:
A Moment's Bliss, the Fop may once procure,
But Sense and Virtue, only must endure:
In Friendship, who have best themselves approv'd,
May plead the largest Merit to be lov'd;
'Tis true, that gawdy Tinsel wins the Vain,
But the slight Pleasure soon concludes in Pain;
And yet too late the fatal Cheat appears,
We laugh one Day perhaps, then mourn for Years.

Two gen'rous Souls, alone each other draw,
'Tis Friendship makes for LOVE, a lasting Law.
Happy the faithful Pair, who thus combine,
The sweets of LOVE to Friendship's strength to join,
How melt their Souls, how soft their Moments fly!
How long their Prospects of continued Joy!

Let all the Beaus, the Witlings of the Town,
The savage 'Squire, the Booby and the Clown,
In one gross Heap, with Scorn, aside be thrown,
For Worth is happy in it's Bride, alone.

116

A Night-Contemplation,

In Imitation of Milton's Stile.

------ Deum namque ire per omnes
Terrasque, trastusque maris, cœlumque profundum.
Virgil.

Upon the gentle rising of a Hill,
Beset with lofty Trees, whose darksome Boughs
Wav'd slow, and to the Fan of rustling Airs
Gave tender Voice, such as might lull to rest
The wearied Mind, or lift the studious Soul
To Thoughts sublime, and Contemplations high,
A Sage, for Wisdom fam'd, his private walk
Selected, while the Works of Nature call'd

117

Thro' the still Eve, for Meditations deep.

First on the setting Sun he darts his Eye,
Whose Rays refracted thro' the dusky Wreaths
Of humid Clouds, with richest Colours paint,
And spread o'er all the West a various Dye.
'Till Night began to wrap the Face of Things
In gentle Gloom, and with her shadowy Cone
Mount on the eastern Quarter of the Skies.
Then first the Stars, of Magnitude the Prime,
And rolling Planets, lighted up their Fires;
More numerous still, 'till all the Firmament
Shone forth with Myriads, a stupendious Glow!
While the bright Galaxy, with shining white
Girt the wide Concave, as the Belt of Heaven.
But now the Moon, in clouded Majesty
Past o'er th' Horizon, and with Silver Ray
Disclos'd again, the Face of this Terrene,
And mixing with the pervious Shades of Night,
Call'd Nature forth, in softest Lights to shine.

This, when the ravish'd Sage attentive view'd,
In the stretch'd Ken of deep Philosophy,

118

Thus he began t'exclaim in sacred Phrase.

O great Creator! when I meditate
These Heav'ns, the Work of thy Almighty Hands,
The Moon resplendent, and her Train of Stars,
By thee enlighten'd, and by thee ordain'd;
Ah what is Man, that thou should'st mindful be
Of him? Can Mankind merit thy regard?
Maker of this extended Universe!
Compar'd with which, how small an Atom seems
Ev'n our whole System, tho' a Sun and Worlds,
In it, have spacious Liberty to roll!
While thou by secret Laws their Motion guid'st,
Thro' unresisting Æther, rarely purg'd;
And by Projection and Attraction, bind'st
To destin'd Orbits, each revolving Sphere;
Harmonious and delectable, the Whole.
The Whole, how vast! how spacious! yet how small,
When to yon fixed Firmament of Light,
I lift my soaring Thought, and ev'ry Star
Swells to a Sun immense, around whose Orb,
New Planets dance, and other Systems turn?
Stupendious Range of rolling Worlds and Suns!

119

More num'rous than are Sands or Atoms here.

Thus, whilst Imagination swift, pervades
Creation's Womb, and flies from Globe to Globe,
Prodigious length, unutterable Space!
Beyond what Time or Number can express;
My drooping Fancy, flags her weary Wing,
While still (perhaps) th' immeasurable way,
She yet has pass'd, or all that Thought could pass
In twice ten thousand Ages, would but seem
A Point, compar'd with the whole Universe:
And still the Universe it self, thus large,
Is but a Point, O Deity! to thee.
Without Circumference, or Bound art thou,
Existing far beyond the Heaven of Heavens;
Full and compleat, eternal, infinite.

Ah, how shall Man, vain Particle of Being!
Begirt thy Throne, Inhabitant immense!
Within whose Sight, (as Pendent from thy Hand,)
The Sum of Things, (beyond all human Thought,
In long progressive Æras to pervade,)
Hangs trembling, but a Spec of Entity.
What Figure then must human Species form

120

Amongst th' Assemblage of created Worlds,
Low grov'ling on this dusky Spot of Earth?
But nothing can below thee lie conceal'd;
Minutest Essences escape not thee;
And great and little thou behold'st alike.
By thee the Frame indefinite, is mov'd;
By thee, these Suns are all replete with Light,
And emanate on all their circling Worlds;
Thou guid'st these Worlds, the whole is full of Thee.
Here, obvious on the Earth, thy Presence dwells:
The vegitable Kingdoms, and the Realms
Of Species that exist progressive, down
Thro' Matter still divided without End;
Beyond the nicest search of convex Glass,
Or Fancy's self to follow, there art thou
Existing intimately; while the Voice
Of Nature, from her darkest Cells, acclaims
Thy Power far echoing thro' the vast of Heaven.
Let Man then joyn this universal Choir,
To lift thy Glory, Men and Angels joyn!
To praise and to proclaim thee All in All.

The Hint of this Discription is taken from the Spectator. No. 565.

121

Peace and Retirement.

INSCRIB'D To Mr. Robert Walker, August, 1729.

In these censorious Days, when Those delight
To censure largely, who could never write,
What Author dares to hope he shall succeed,
When more are Criticks, than have learn'd to read?
Yet be thou kind, my Friend! at whose Desire,
I call upon the MUSE, and court her Fire:
If thou approv'st, I care not who condemn,
The Rage of Coxcombs is the Road to Fame.

122

O bear me far from Scenes of anxious Strife,
The Noise of Fools, and vexing Cares of Life!
While Peace and calm Retirement grace my Song;
To smoothest Themes, the smoothest Hours belong.
May sleepless Nights be W******'s, to restrain
Th' ambitious Spirit of perfidious Spain;
With Fleets to guard Gibraltar and Mahon;
Or calm his jealous Enemies at Home:
And let the murm'ring Nation, Fears commence
From publick Conduct, and the Realm's Expence;
A sweet Retirement from their Broils, be mine;
Not subject, or to glory, or repine.
Tho' ev'ry haughty Pow'r on Earth contend,
And each to be the Friend of Man pretend;
I leave the Friend of Mankind and the Foe,
To Providence above, and George below.

Come, heav'nly Peace! dear Sister of Content,
Calm thou the World, and hostile Woes prevent;
Reduce the Nations to thy blest Command,
And rule the Kingdoms with thy Olive Wand.
If thou withdraw'st thy Presence from Mankind,
All Bliss adieu, we give it to the Wind.

123

In ev'ry Bosom, thirst of Vi'lence burns,
And Grief and Hatred rack the Mind by turns;
No social Graces teach the Mein to shine,
But gloomy lours the human Face divine;
The Poles are vex'd with more than Ice or Snow,
And fiercer Flames about th' Equator glow:
The Sword destructive gleams, and Cannons roar,
Where the white Harvest rustling way'd before;
Th' astonish'd Husbandman beholds, agast,
His Labour ruin'd, and his Vintage Waste;
His Hands have idly thrown the fruitless Grain,
The Grape grows full, the Citron blows, in vain.
Sad seat of War! nor more of Joy appears,
Where tender Orphans Cries, and Widow's Tears,
Teach lonely Shades, and silent Walls to mourn,
For Heroes who must never more return;
Scenes of black Grief, and solitary Woe,
Wring ev'ry Heart, and darken ev'ry Brow;
Each Morning lowrs, and heavy mounts to Noon,
And Ev'ning falls in melancholy Gloom:
By Night, no Joy the Bed can give the Bride,
But sobbing o'er the dear forsaken Side,

124

The visionary Sword before her gleams,
She shrieks in Sleep, and frighted, starts in Dreams.

But when, celestial Virtue! thou descends,
The Furies cease, and madding Discord Ends;
Each Bosom feels a Spring of Pleasure flow,
And Grief and Sadness seek the Shades below;
Each Face renews the Charms of blooming Joy,
And gay Delight sits sparkling in each Eye:
No Fields of Bloody Glory fire the Mind,
But softer Scenes appear, and Days more kind.
The joyful Peasant takes his Pipe again,
And thus renews his Numbers on the Plain.
Now blow ye Breezes, gentle Show'rs come down;
Dawn bright ye Morns, and kindly roll thou Sun;
Unlock your crystal Streamlets, ev'ry Spring,
Shine out-ye Groves, ye feather'd Warblers sing!
For now no more the anxious Hind shall rue,
What Flocks he bred, or gainless Closes sew;
The Sower and the Reaper shall be one,
And all the Fullness of the Year our own;
PEACE comes, and smiling Plenty tends her Way,
And the glad Shepherd hails the blissful Day.

125

Thus sings the Swain, and with a raptur'd Eye,
Surveys the Fields, or meditates the Skie:
While all the Great, and Wise, and Learn'd, retire,
And feel soft Solitudes, their Souls to fire.
Now lib'ral Arts begin afresh to shine,
And Science opens out her Charms divine:
Some thro' the mystick Ways of Nature run,
And search the Source from whence her Laws begun:
The Mind's Recesses, are by others sought,
How Thought begins, and Actions follow Thought,
Others aloft expatiate o'er the Spheres,
Discry new Suns, and find out Worlds in Stars.
While Souls less studious, seek a gentler Bliss,
And melt in humbler Scenes of Happiness:
The forward Youth who swell'd at Glory's Charms,
And dauntless, sought his Foe in horrid Arms,
Or drench'd in Blood, reluctant left the Field,
Sheath'd the broad Sword, and ceas'd to poize the Shield;
Pursuits more humane, now become his Care,
His Prize is Beauty, and his Chace the Fair.
While the dear Nymph he leads from Grove to Grove,
His Heart beats thick with Tenderness and Love;

126

His Soul, which oft unmov'd has wag'd the Fight,
Lies all subdu'd to Beauty's stronger Might;
From Dream to Dream his ravish'd Fancy's tost,
And all the Warriour in the Lover's lost.

How e'er Mankind may fill the Trump of Fame,
With Praise and Glory, all is but a Name;
For Happiness, abroad we vainly roam,
Our solid Blessings are procur'd at Home,
In calm Retreats and silent Solitudes,
Where Pomp not dazles, nor the Crowd intrudes.
Happy the Man, who such a State enjoys,
If such a happy State he right employs;
The Mind there plac'd, Intent it self surveys,
Looks back on Life, and scans our various Ways;
Examins all the Passions to their Source,
And teaches Reason to correct their Force.
Here Virtue first displays her Virgin-Charms,
Smites the rapt Soul, and all the Bosom warms:
Hail! holiest, dearest, loveliest, best of Things,
From thee, the Purity of Conscience springs;
Thou o'er the Mind a grand Composure casts,
Which neither Fools disturb, nor slander blasts;

127

Nor rising Gusts of popular Applause,
Nor the dire Venom thrown from Envy's Jaws,
Exalts the Thought on Clouds of vain Deceit,
Or damps the Soul, establish'd to be great:
Fixt on strong Truth her lasting Pleasures grow
While Jarrs and Jangle pass unheard below.
O peaceful Virtue! all the Graces wait,
Thy sweet Retirements and adorn thy State;
The Land is more than blest, that thee contains,
Its Hills are Eden, Paradise its Plains:
Thou mixest Æthiopia's Heats with Joys,
And warm'st the Scythian Snows, and Zembla's Ice;
Thou smooth'st the Main and mak'st the Desart smile,
And call'st forth Olives on the barren Soil.

O give me, gracious Pow'rs! a Silvan Seat,
A peaceful Mansion in some close Retreat;
Where led by Love of Solitude, thro' Shades,
And Fields, and spreading Groves, and opening Glades;
There clear my Sight, and teach my Eyes to see,
Thy Ways, O Truth! and Virtue find with thee.
Sequester'd from the Grief and tort'ring Cares,
Of human Life, and all its dire Affairs,

128

Teach me to find the Thing so little known,
Divine Content, and purchase it my own.
And O if there be yet a Blessing more,
It is to have a Friend or two in store,
With a kind Partner from the softer Fair,
To melt my Heart, and sooth my Soul from Care;
To sweeten the stern Mein of deep Discourse,
Or gently to unbend my studious Hours;
With kind Endearments, tender Passions move,
And all the blissful Joys of virtuous Love.

Nor shall I then forget the tuneful Throng,
Nor cease th' enchanting Ways of sacred Song;
The Muse forever covets Silvan Shades,
Green Banks, and purling Streams, and flow'ry Beds;
She bids the Man, whose Bosom she designs
Shall be productive of immortal Lines:
The jangling Crowds of busy Towns to shun,
And into Groves and rural Cots to run;
There opening out her Charms, without controul,
Raptures the Heart, and ravishes the Soul.
Pope thus, while Windsor's Breezes fann'd his Flame,
Shot up to Praise, and ripen'd into Fame:

129

And thus magistick Denham's Breast was stung,
On Cooper's Hill, with vi'lent Love of Song.
When from the verdant Steep, the Thames he ey'd,
In limpid Lapse, and Silver Waves to glide;
“Tho' deep, yet clear, tho' gentle yet not dull,
“Strong without Rage, without o'er-flowing full.
Nor can the Muse her Cowley's Name forget,
Ah, still with sighs she-recollects his Fate,
With Love of Meads and Fields, too warmly fir'd,
He shot beyond the Life so much desir'd;
Perhaps some heav'nly Muse attends him now,
On Plains, where never-fading Verdures grow.
Oh Addison! thee next the Muse deplores,
For all her Charms were thine, and all her Stores,
Ere thy great Genius from the World withdrew,
How Poesie flourish'd, how young Poets grew,
Bays, round an hundred Heads began to speed,
And ev'ry blithesome Shepherd tun'd his Reed;
Sweet past'ral Lays on ev'ry Plain were known,
And ev'ry Lay begun from Addison.
But now no more the ravish'd Breast is fir'd,
In Addison the Muses all expir'd,

130

His Elegy, the last that Tickel sung,
And Pope no more provokes the tuneful Throng,
But careless seems of further Praise, while Gay
Sooths the dull Town with Sing-sang Opera;
Of wretched Taste, the woeful Evidence,
Of dearth of Wit, and mighty loss of Sense.
O might some Portion of that heav'nly Flame
Descend, to rouze the slumbring World again,
To set the Mind upon her ancient Heights,
And bid the Muse to tour sublime her Flights,
To fill the Soul with Sentiments refin'd,
And banish tuneful Nonsense from Mankind.

131

To Mr. G---m;

On his Design of furnishing the Town of S---d with the Publick News Papers.

Had I the Fire of ancient Sibils,
And ev'ry Muse 'twixt Pope's and Tibbald's,
Then launch'd into prophetic Phrase,
In gliding Verse and flowing Lays,
I should be qualified to Show,
What wond'rous change this Town shall know,
By your Design, dear Colonel!
What Ignorance it shall expel:
How Wit shall kindle up it's Taper,
In ev'ry Head from ev'ry Paper,

132

And Politicks be canvas'd o'er,
Where Politicks were ne'er before.
And, Pow'rs immortal! can it be,
That this great Theme should fall to me?
To celebrate in tuneful Rhyme,
Thy Acts, and wake thy Fame, O G---m!
Thy Fame once up, it ne'er shall sink,
While thou hast Wine, or I have Ink.
Tho' Thanks abundance, thou wilt give,
Sure thou more justly may'st receive;
For as my Numbers I pursue,
Methinks I kindle at the View;
Rapt into future Times, I see
The Gain of us (thy Guests) and thee;
But great is ours, compar'd with thine,
The little Profit of thy Wine,
Our Gain is of a nobler kind,
More rational, and more refin'd;
We come to view, and learn to know,
How the World goes, and how 'twill go;
Nor did that mighty Chief, whose Glory,
So brightly blazes in old Story,

133

So many Realms and Manners see,
In all his famous Tour, as we;
We, who need rarely stir abroad,
Beyond the Hills to view the Road,
Assisted by thy News, can stretch
Our Sight beyond the Glasses reach,
And without trav'ling, can extend,
Our Views to Earth's remotest End.
O'er diff'rent Climes each Reader ranges,
The Poles, the Indies, and the Ganges;
And sees the Courts of all the Nations,
Their Strength, their Genius, and their Fashions;
The Riches, Policy, and Trafick,
Of Europe, Asia, and of Afric.
Great Sphere of Learning, boundless Knowledge,
Beyond the Reach of School or College;
By which we're taught to raise, at once,
Our Thoughts from Coal-Pits, up to Thrones,
And lift our Minds from Talk with Masters,
Or vulgar Keelmen and their Caster's
To high Disputes of Peace and Wars,
'Mongst Powers, and Kings, and Emperors;

134

Th' Additions, Explanations, Flaws,
Amends of Bills, and Acts, and Laws.

See from what Pens, our News approaches,
And diff'rent Hands give diff'rent Touches;
With various Stile and Elegance,
Each Author propagates his Sense;
One shows his Wit in Admirations,
Or quotes, and then makes Applications,
Or shoots against prime Ministers,
In small Italick Characters;
Another, to it roundly falls,
In certain Words, all Capitals;
Thus Fowlers o'er their Prey prevail,
And kill with Bullets, or with Hail.
But of all Monsters that stare at us,
That Chasm, which Scholars name Hiatus,
Does most our lab'ring Wits confound;
All Penetration, there is drown'd;
So puzled Hobbs, did once enquire
Into the Peak of Derbyshire,
But could not for his Blood and Soul,
Find out the Depth of Elden-Hole.

135

But this I leave, as more have done,
A Hint to be commented on.

See, where upon the Table laid,
Each Paper by itself is spread;
There Ev'ning Posts or Votes appear,
A Pamphlet or a Gazette here;
The British Journal, Written Letter,
Or old Stone-castle's new Spectator,
Next strike the View, while some are lost,
Which to read first, or praise the most;
But others warm'd with Party-Zeal,
For this, or that, a longing feel.
And ev'ry Reader is divided,
In Judgment, as his Notion's guided;
Thus as ideally we stray,
Each is a Critick in his way,
Or wisely int'rogates, or answers,
About the mystick Sense of D'Anvers;
Some think he writes with force of Reason,
And others judge his Paper, Treason:
One cries his poignancy encreases,
And W--- is cut all to Pieces;

136

Another laughs, and says 'tis faint,
For W--- is an Adamant.

Next Judgment's pass'd on Mist's Successor,
Of all his Wit a just Possessor;
Whose mighty Intellects inherit,
A double Portion of his Spirit:
With mystic Sneer and Hesitation,
Against the Rulers of the Nation,
He vents his comick Spleen, no Treason,
To any Reader void of Reason.
O could I speak his Excellences,
His solid Head, and weighty Senses,
How much they aid him in his sinking,
Into a vast profound of Thinking!
Like that unfathom'd Inclination,
Philosophers call Gravitation,
Which brings down Mists and Fogs below,
And makes their Distillations flow,
Which downwards draws all Parts of Matter,
And adds all Force and Weight to Nature.
And as that Property, in vain,
The Learn'd are puzled to explain,

137

So what's his Drift, or what's his meaning,
Is much too deep for my obtaining;
And since my Thoughts cannot surround him
I leave him in the Place I found him.

And next, if all my skill could draw,
(My skill should all be shown, to show)
The great Advantage, which in spight
Of all that all ill Writers write,
Shall soon accrue to us, but Striplings,
In Politicks, in Wit, but Witlings;
As we the diff'rent Sense peruse,
Of ev'ry Writer that writes News;
How we shall ripen and refine,
And see the World about us shine;
Each Part display'd, as each Part varies,
As plain as Words in Dictionaries.
Blest with the Prospect of such Science,
We hold all others at defiance;
We envy not the Mathematick
Art unpolite, pedantick Topick!
Nor wish our selves Astronomers,
To ramble up and down the Stars;

138

Nor with Philosophy to cheat
The human Mind with vain Deceit.
What is't to us if Men or Satyrs,
People the Moon, or other Creatures?
Or if the Sun be fluid Gold,
Or Hell enrag'd, as others hold?
It is enough for us to know
What solid Gold he breeds below;
And how about that Mettal, Princes
Scare one another from their Senses,
While each is try'd, or strong, or feeble,
And Hell's stirr'd up amongst the People.
Sure Men are mad as Alexander,
To Stars for other Worlds to wander,
When they're in one, none can deny it,
A greater than they can keep quiet.
O Pride of Mortals, who shall tame thee,
When all the Earth cannot contain thee?
Wild Beasts, thro' Forests only stray,
Or make the Wilderness their way;
For still will Hills or Vales surround them,
Or Lakes, or Seas, or Oceans, bound them:

139

Ev'n Birds, the Denizens of Air,
Are stinted by the Atmosphere;
But Man, that most prodigious Creature,
Ungovernable in his Nature,
Breaks o'er all Fences unconfin'd,
And Scales the Heav'ns with lofty Mind,
Each Place in Space infinite changes,
And without ne plus ultra ranges.

Yet, tho' our Tempers be so various,
Thy Papers, G---m! so multifarious,
Shall entertain that roving Spirit,
And keep it on the Earth, or near it;
Such diff'rent Themes, and diff'rent Tidings,
From ev'ry Spot of Man's Residings,
Shall fix our Thoughts and charm our Eyes,
While we all grow polite and wise,
More Sage than deep Metaphisicians,
All Councellors, all Politicians.
How can it miss, when ev'ry Land,
Shall give its Knowledge to our Hand?
Each Town, each Court in ev'ry Quarter,
From Peru to the savage Tartar,

140

With all their Secrets shall accost us,
And pay their Tribute to thy Post-House.
Ev'n great Designs and mighty Things,
Shall from the Closets break, of Kings,
And Schemes laid deep in dark Disguise,
Shall be unravel'd to our Eyes;
Nay scarce a Minister may breathe,
Or Infant Prince shall get his Teeth,
But o'er the Seas, the Winds shall blow it,
And we immediately shall know it.

If Storms and Tempests beat the Coast
And swell the Main, and Ships be lost:
Or Prodigies awaken Wonder,
Or Ætna from her Entrails Thunder;
What People live to good old Age,
Or who untimely leaves the Stage;
With other deep Intelligences,
Of Duels fought and ravish'd Wenches,
Of Windows broke and Watchmen kickt,
Of Mobs enrag'd, and Pockets pickt;
What ever Time or Fate unfold,
All, quickly to us will be told.

141

What foreign Soils produce in Spice,
To us, shall travel in a Trice;
What Trees weep Balm, what Amber flows,
What Coral reddens, Ruby glows;
What Stones, what Pearls of Price are found,
And what Tobacco flocks the Ground
Of Indian Planters, and what Canes,
Are like to crown the Lab'rer's Pains;
What Oranges in China grow,
Or near Seville incline the Bough;
Thee Seville! growing Child of Fame,
Whom some admire and others blame;
These blast thy Praise, O Town! what Pity,
All love thy Fruit, but not thy Treaty,
Fruit! that which Poets sung of old,
Hesperian, vegitable Gold!
Smit with the Flavour of thy Juice,
But we, than they, know more thy Use,
In Punch, for making Noddles merry
Beyond the Blood of Grape or Berry.

But I degress, and fear my Song,
Has for a Letter been too long,

142

So begging Pardon for what's o'er,
I promise to offend no more.
Here ends the Tenour of my Verse,
There is much better and much worse.

143

On Sr. Richard Steele's Christian HERO.

'Twas nobly dar'd in these degen'rate Days
By such a Work as this to merit Praise:
To free the Soul from prejudic'd Mistake,
And teach the Mind it's Errours to forsake.
To set up Christian Strength before our Eyes,
And learn us, Roman Greatness to despise.

Methinks I now the modern Deist see,
Arm'd with his Reason and Philosophy,

144

Unfold thy Page, and with malignant Leer,
Survey the Name, and read it with a Sneer.
And bent on Mirth, or to divert his Spleen,
Resolves to view the stupid Stuff within;
But charm'd with Eloquence, and manly Prose,
Soon graver turns and more attentive grows.
He shortly finds his hasty Censure vain,
And feels less Joy in Sentiments profane.
Surpriz'd, he sees new Arguments prevail,
And Reason prove itself, as Nature, frail.
His dictates of Morality less lov'd
He finds, and bright Religion stands approv'd;
When he beholds firm Cato's Constancy,
His Strength, his Precepts, and Philosophy,
The steady Hate of Cassius, Brutus' Zeal,
And ev'ry boasted Roman Virtue fail,
When destitute of all his self supplies,
The Heathen Hero basely sinks and dies.
Abash'd, he feels a Sting of gen'rous Pain,
That bids him own his Principles are vain,
Than Artifice, his Fortitude no more.
That flies the Crisis of a trying Hour;

145

But vacant of himself, he now pursues
A glorious Path, and more extended Views:
New Scenes of awful Goodness strike his Eyes,
For here he sees the Christian Hero rise;
What e'er the Roman in his Theory taught,
Is here improv'd and into Practice brought.
Here Grace perfects, what Reason first began,
And GOD supplies the weak Defects of Man.
The Hero bravely dares with just Disdain
The Perils of the Land, and of the Main.
And what the baffled Heathen sought to flie
The Gallant Christian meets with Smiles of Joy:
No Bolts, or Chains, are grievous to his Limbs,
But where the Roman groan'd, the Christian Hymns.
With strength of Faith he beats his Sorrows down,
And firmly Eyes his bright immortal Crown.

146

AN ESSAY Upon the ART of POETRY.

Written An' Dom' 1728.

Munus & officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo;
Unde parantur opes, quid alat formetq; poetam:
Quid deceat, quid non, quò virtus, quò ferat error.
Hor.

149

Of all ill Writers, by the Critics curst,
Bad Poets are undoubtedly the worst;
Who, in the Spite of Genius, strive to chime
In Strains as poor and lean as Pharaoh's Kine.

150

But those, whose Fortune, better Stars proclaim,
Who feel the Touches of celestial Flame,
By whom the Soul is lifted and refin'd,
They merit loud applause from all Mankind.

But while with vain Desire vast Numbers stray,
Few find the happy Genius of the Way;
Such as of old was known the sacred Road,
Where Homer travel'd, and where Virgil trod:
And such as since, in later Times was known,
To lead a Milton and an Addison.
Whose strains Divine, far future Sons shall fire,
And thousand Ages yet to come, admire.
You, who would learn to imitate their Lays,
Hear kindly, what my friendly Muse essays,
Tho' she on slender Wings, attempts to rise,
And diffident, revolves her enterprize.

Hard is the Task when Counsel is design'd:
Such is the Pride of the most empty Mind,

151

It hates Advice, and would be thought to know
As well as you, perhaps and better too:
Thus ev'ry Fool esteems your Precepts stuff,
And each poor vacant Head is wise enough;
And let it so remain, the gen'rous Heart
Shall kindly take what Friendship can impart.
Our Thoughts on Things in various Manners fall,
And nothing tastes exact alike to all:
The Man of Sense is pleas'd with nat'ral Thoughts,
And Fools are always proud of finding Faults.
Mankind attains Delight by diff'rent Ways;
One likes to sneer, another likes to praise;
A third in raving Madness loves to grieve;
Thus all Men's nat'ral Tempers feed and live.

Not damp'd at this, the Muse begins her flight,
And braves the Risque of ev'ry Critic's spite.

152

To trace those Paths, which have been travel'd o'er
By Horace, Buckingham, and Pope, before;
Blest Poets, whom the sacred Nine inspir'd,
Their Genius lifted, and their Raptures fir'd.
Rash my Design! nor am I yet so vain,
To match with these, or think to rival them:
But while Mankind allows they all excel
In Nature's Master-piece of Writing well;
The Muse permits, and prompts me to pursue
In humbler flights, and warms me at the view;
And tho' th' attempt be bold, the Labour hard,
The glorious Toil shall be its own reward;
To sing, and imitate superior Lays,
Shall purchase Pleasure, if it win no Praise.

Then know, tho' Verse, in vain that Mortal tries,
Whose Genius leads not, and whose Star denies;
Yet still a Mind, from Heav'n with Genius fir'd,
Stands need of human Means, and Arts acquir'd,
No Art without it, ever could excel,
Nor Genius void of Art can thrive so well:

153

Let both conspire, but let the foremost reign,
And long as Homer's, shall your Verse remain;
The latest Times, you happy Strains shall please,
And ev'ry Age your gath'ring Fame encrease.

Consider Nature well, before you start,
And take your skill from her to judge of Art;
She is the Source, whence all true Beauties flow,
And what is merit, she first made it so:
Hence, you will learn with Justice to despise
Those mean Conceits which vulgar Readers prize.

If Nature has design'd you for the Muse,
She will not fail to charm you with her views;
Still as you follow, she'll invite you more,
And make that Pleasure, which was toil before;
Be this the Test whereon to prove your force,
Your love of Nature, is your Vein for Verse.

In the first Ages, while Mankind were blest
With easy Labour and successive Rest;

154

Ere haughty Monarchs learn'd to swell in State,
Or wretch'd amidst dissembling Flatt'rers sat;
When happy Courts were held on smiling Plains,
And Kings were Shepherds, and their Princes Swains.
When trains of Nobles haunted Groves and Springs,
And Hearts were plain, and Crowns were easy Things.
Then Nature charm'd in all her various Dress,
And Time fled on in golden Years of Peace:
Then first the Muse essay'd her tender Voice,
And Rocks reply'd, and Hills return'd the Noise:
On Pipes of Reeds, the Royal Shepherds play'd,
Or sung sweet Numbers in the flow'ry Shade:
Of Nature's Laws, and Nature's Charms they sung,
And ev'ry Grove with its own Praises rung.
Each Swain made his own Happiness his Theme,
Inspir'd by ev'ry Wood and ev'ry Stream.

155

In ev'ry Shade he found his Bosom warm,
For Shades could rapture, Woods and Streams could charm;
Then did the Muse all beautiful appear,
Won ev'ry Heart, and ravish'd ev'ry Ear;
No Points of Wit she sought, but nat'ral ease,
And unaffected, lively Images.
'Twas strength of Genius on the Passions stole,
Smit the rapt Mind, and glow'd upon the Soul.
Ev'n yet, in spite of this degen'rate Age,
True Genius still maintains its sacred rage:
Down from far distant Times, to present Days,
The Muse has born her never-dying Lays;
Her Fire still pure, eternal lives her Flame,
And what she was, forever is the same.
Her Genius soars, despising to submit
To little gothick Ornaments of Wit:
Who feels the Touch of her inspiring Ray,
Sees the mean Track, and scorns to tread the Way.
And as of old, she yet delights on Plains,
In rural Solitudes, and bow'ry Scenes:

156

There leads her Sons, and makes her Numbers heard,
And shows how once the beauteous World appear'd,
Back, thro' devouring Time their Thoughts are cast,
And live in Years an hundred Ages past.

Hence the best Poets first the Muse assail,
In rural Shades, and easy Pastoral;
But gath'ring Strength, by just Degrees arise,
And with the Lark, exchange the Plains for Skies.
Immortal Maro thus begins with Swains,
In Tityrus' and Melibæus' strains;
First his young Muse appears a Silvan Maid,
And sings two Shepherds in a beechen Shade;
But leaving these, she rides thro' Storms and Floods,
With Heroes fights, and thunders with the Gods.
And thus, a Bard, in later Times inspir'd,
(To Windsor's blissful Plains and Shades retir'd;)
On Thames' delightful Banks, his Numbers try'd,
Now Daphnis spoke, and Strephon then reply'd:

157

But soon in higher Flights his Muse was known,
And all the mighty Iliad made his own:
For him, had Fate th' Odyssey kept so long,
For him Ulysses rang'd, and Homer sung.
Let this be then your unambitious Aim,
First to make Woods, and Hills, and Springs, your Theme:
From wild Conceits these Subjects are most free,
And teach you best, the old Simplicity;
There, learn to flow in Verse, from ev'ry Stream,
And Plains, draw sweet variety from them,
Vales will teach lowliness, and Mountains, height;
Those to depress, and these to raise your Flight;
What's soft and mild, kind Breezes will inform;
And what is fierce and rough, the raging Storm.
Hence true Distinction you'll attain to know,
What hurries on too fast, or laggs too slow;
What to deny the Muse, and what to grant,
And how to curb her Rage by just restraint;
She, of her self, will keep no Bounds entire,
Your Art must be to regulate her Fire.
Now to indulge her Flights, and now to tame,
To soften gently, but not quench her Flame:

158

On either Hand a fatal Errour lies,
This gives too much, and that too much denies.
Here Nature's dwarft, and in a Pigmy ends,
And swelling there, a Giant's Bulk ascends.

The Muses, like the Horses of the Sun,
Demand a Phœbus, not a Phaeton;
A steady Judgment guides the sacred Glow,
Nor lets it blaze too high, nor burn too low:
Shun all Extreams, the middle Path-way chuse,
'Tis safe, and there Success attends the Muse.
Not that in one dull Line you still must run,
And in the same poor Strain still grovel on;
Observe what Images you are to draw,
For these must steer your Course and be your Law:
Your Images must be precisely known,
Before a true Description can be drawn:
When once the Mind has just Ideas gain'd,
They're then, and not 'till then, with ease explain'd.

159

When these are humble, sink in lowly Rhyme,
When these are high, ascend the great Sublime:
But in the last, with Care avoid that Vice,
Of swelling, unintelligible Noise.
'Tis not vain Pomp of Words, or blust'ring sound,
Where great and true Sublimity is found:
It is a Majesty of Genius charms,
Shines without glaring, without burning warms:
A secret Spirit breathing thro' the whole,
That dawns in ev'ry Part, a vig'rous Soul.

Some Authors fill'd with greater Heat than Sense,
Mistake gross Fustian for true Eloquence;
On ev'ry Subject, they begin to write,
They still are wrapt in Clouds and out of Sight:
On ev'ry Trifle they their Pomp discharge,
As if all Beauty were in being large;
Or no Distinction could be made between
A Pigmy's squeak, and bell'wing Polypheme.
But tho' with this no Reader can dispense,
To find your Words too mighty for your Sense:

160

Yet some Descriptions to be drawn aright,
Require the loftiest Strains, and boldest Flight;
The Muse may then her strongest Pinions try,
Nor can she be too great, nor soar too high.
Yet still 'tis fit, whatever Heights she climb,
To mount with ease, or false is her sublime;
She must not seem with mighty Ragings strain'd,
Or that her Greatness is with Labour gain'd;
But in her high Career, she sits supream,
Match for her Height, and equal to her Theme.
Thus Homer's Muse, when angry Jove descends,
And on Mount Ida's Top his Terrour bends;
She rises in the Vengeance of his Ire,
And cloaths her self with Thunder and with Fire;
The Verse, in Flames and dreadful Lightnings shines,
And ev'ry Grecian trembles in his Lines.
Such Flights, our Dread and Admiration move,
But ev'ry Subject is not angry Jove;
A diff'rent Theme, will diff'rent Lights require,
A milder Fury, and a gentler Fire.

161

Observe how Phœbus rules the various Year,
And turns the Seasons, as he turns his Sphere:
How regular he keeps the heav'nly Way,
The God of Poetry as well as Day.
Make him your Rule, who over Verse presides,
And guide your Muse as he his Chariot guides.

When he designs to give the World the Spring,
The Flow'rs to blossom, and the Birds to sing;
Thro' the warm Equinox he sweetly gleams,
And mellows the hard Glebe with gentle Beams:
By soft Degrees he gives the Buds to blow,
And Streams refine, more limpid as they flow;
Dense blasts of Wind wax unperceiv'd more rare,
And Zephyrs melt to milder Breathes of Air.

But when the Summer Season he bestows,
He mounts, and more magestically glows;
No more, mild Rays, his fierce Effusion pours,
Nor melts the rolling Cloud in vernal Show'rs:
His fiery Beams surprize the thirsty Plain,
And gentle Morning Dews descend in vain.

But when the Winter's bleak approach draws near,
He then retires, and leaves the hoary Year;

162

His Beams oblique, with fainting languor shine,
In distant Skies, far Southward of the Line.
On Rocks of Ice his feeble light'ning plays,
Nor melt they down, but gather in his Rays.

Such is the various Course your Muse must steer,
And always just, and natural appear.
Soft be the Verse, when gentle Spring's the Theme,
But hoary Winter asks a hoarser Strain;
Impetuous Floods and headlong Rivers, call
The hasty Verse to hurry down their fall;
But the calm Stream that scarce appears to Flow,
Glides on in Words, smooth, easy, still, and slow.
Not thus describe the stretching Courser's Flight,
That scours the Plain, and slips beyond the Sight.

Nor only Things, in proper Words express,
But ev'ry Passion has its nat'ral Dress.
If smiling Love's the Subject, let the Muse,
The softest Words, and melting Accents chuse;
Mix a kind Languor in each easy Line,
And teach her Fires with gentle glow to shine:

163

In tender Thoughts let ev'ry Verse appear,
Warm in the Strain as in the Heart they were.
The fair Delight not in a Stile that's fierce,
And melting Love retires from pompous Verse.
No boist'rous Storms invade the Cyprian Isle,
But blissful Calms and balmy Seasons smile;
Indulgent Gales in sighing Zephirs blow,
Flow'rs never fade, and Blooms eternal glow.

And next to this, dejected Grief appears,
Mourns in deep Wailings, and dissolves in Tears;
Soft as the Strains of Love, but glides more slow,
In solemn Gloom, and sad consuming woe;
The Numbers in low Lamentations moan,
With Thoughts to move, and Words to melt a Stone.
But when mad Rage its dire Resentments speaks,
In sudden Fire, the Muse her Numbers breaks;
In haste she looses out the flying Rein,
Destruction rouls, and Ruin swells the Strain:

164

A thousand Ways of Death are view'd by turns,
And all the Fury maddens as it burns:
In ev'ry Verse the Vengeance mounts up higher,
'Till all the Line's one blaze of raging Fire.

Thus ev'ry Subject like it self is drest,
As each Man's Cloaths suit his own Person best;
Each Action, and each Passion, just appears;
Things Attitudes, Mankind have Characters.
Some Men not knowing what to what belong,
Run into Faults, they cannot see are wrong;
Or ventring out on Themes above their Strength,
Fall into gross Absurdities at length.
And others are in so much haste to write,
They hardly know one Thing they ought, aright;
But rambling on confus'd, now here, now there,
They say they know not what, they know not where:
These, that their Errours may be undescry'd,
In Clouds of Words their fluent Nonsence hide;

165

As weak Philosophers recourse to chance,
Which both explains and covers Ignorance.
Be warn'd from hence, and often scan your Theme,
Things are not still exactly what they seem:
Your Thought must be most studiously confin'd,
Ere you begin the Structure that's design'd;
When once set out, the Labour all must cease,
And the Verse flow with a delightful ease:
The Temple thus of old began to rise,
Not, 'till each Stone was hewn to proper size.

If some new Thought your ravish'd Fancy fire,
And Truth and Judgment warrant your Desire;
Pursue while fancy's warm, but then beware,
You do not spin the tender Thread too far;
Least both your Thought and Labour prove in Vain,
And lose in Spirit what in Words they gain.
Beyond just Bounds be never known to stretch,
But rather say too little than too much;

166

The Fault of this is less than that extream,
The Reader pall'd, the Rest provokes his phlegm;
'Tis better he depart unsatisfy'd,
Desiring more, than overcharg'd and cloy'd.

Tho' to begin will Skill and Judgment crave,
As much is ask'd in knowing where to leave;
'Tis not sufficient that the Thing be said,
But in what range the Images are laid;
How well they suit the compass where they lie,
How those with these, and with the whole comply.

Tho' these are needful Rules, yet still their use,
Without Discretion is a mere abuse.
Beware no Precept bind you up too close,
Least while you gain the Rule, the Fire you lose.
Too strict pursuit of any human Rule,
Grows flat and dry, pedantical and dull.
T' avoid this Fault, besure to bear in Mind,
That Nature's free, and hates to be confin'd;
Where e'er she Works beneath too great constraint;
A Monster breeds, too bulky or too scant.

167

In vain you Labour on the heavy Verse,
When she lags Backwards and moves up by Force.
How odd it looks to see the Mistress led,
And drag'd up ungenteely by the Maid!
Let Nature still the foremost Glory gain,
And Art behind, adjust her Lady's train;
Unseen, dispose each Ornament she wears,
Art wins most Praises, when it least appears.

Rules thus conducted will not fail to please,
We like good Method, when 'tis kept with ease;
For when the Poet writes without design,
Long wilds of Verse, and rhapsodies of Rhyme:
The Reader vext at his perplexing maze,
Returns him Curses, while he pants for praise.
Propose some End, and still that end pursue,
Be That your Means and That your Conduct too:
Dispose each Word and order ev'ry Line,
So, that Each point and move to the Design:

168

If thus you steer, your end you will attain,
And find at last, your Labour not in vain.
And tho' some Places, to a scanty Thought,
May seem imperfect, or contain a Fault;
Such seeming Slips, if they promote the End,
Are Slips of Moment which you must not mend;
They add more Beauty than they take away,
As Clouds reflect new Glories on the Day;
Some Foils are needful to advance a Grace,
As artful Patches on a beauteous Face.
If only there, the Critic's spite assails,
He damns in vain, and impotently rails;
Like modern Athiests wanting Strength of Mind,
The mystick Ways of Providence to find,
Would mend all Nature that they can't discern,
And find out Faults in Laws they want to learn;
But this is all they teach Mankind from thence,
Their own Impiety and want of Sense.

Ne'er shun that Malice which can do no wrong,
Nor dread the Clamours of an envious Tongue:
Sometimes when these design the greatest ill,
They raving find th'effect reverse their Will.

169

Perhaps some beauteous Lights might 'scape Mankind,
If no sour Critic cast his Shade behind;
As Iris could not make her Colours known,
If no dark Vapour should oppose the Sun.
Be ne'er affraid of what the Critics dare,
Let them rail freely, nor expect they'll spare;
Truth will survive, when all their Rage is by,
And all beside (tho' they were mute) shall die.
'Tis in your Pow'r to make them to your Sense,
If not the kindest, yet it's useful Friends.
'Tis possible some Blemish miss'd your Eye,
And too, so small, that Friendship passes by;
But the malicious Sight observes the Stain,
And lets you know your Oversight with Pain;
That Wisdom is the best, that comes by Cost,
Shall last you longest and shall serve you most.
Would you desire to please an Ear that's fine,
Be never constant to one Pause or Rhyme:
New change of Rhyme with Pleasure entertains,
And varied Pauses will adorn your Strains;

170

Verse, Juglar-like, when once the Secret's known,
The Charm expires and all the Show is done;
'Tis necessary you should steer with Skill,
To keep your Reader your dependent still;
And sometimes this, as often that, prefer;
Prompt him to guess, but leave him room to err;
For if you still the same dull Method keep,
He lies you down, and Yawns, or falls asleep.

Be this your Care, Attention first to gain,
This got, your Art must be to entertain.
First win the Passions by a smooth Address,
Gain Reason next, then keep what you possess.
This Art once understood, and practis'd well,
You'll miss the Fate a thousand Authors feel.
The human Mind's a slip'ry Thing to seize,
'Tis soon disgusted, and 'tis hard to please;
This Moment, Reason seems to hold the Sway,
The next, the Passions bear it all away;
And oft, whilst naked Justice it denies,
A Fraud well cover'd, takes it by Surprize.

171

Wise Stratagems will often please no less,
Than Truth itself, tho' in the neatest Dress;
To be deceiv'd, no Man e'er murmur'd yet,
When his own Int'rest prosper'd by the Cheat.
Sometimes to rise aloft you must a-light,
Be dull on Purpose, that you may be bright;
Lights joyn'd with Shades, in painting thus deceive,
And each to each a just Relievo give;
Light by it self, or shade, without this Rule,
Would seem all Flatness, one and one all dull.
What e'er you mount to, or where e'er you fall,
There's Symmetry to be observ'd in all;
Propriety to suit with ev'ry Grace,
And Ornaments proportion'd to each Place.

Beware (of all Things) how your Muse obeys
The Charms of Wit, the vice of Modern Lays:
As Brutes advert by Moments, so it lives,
And no true Excellence or Pleasure gives;
'Tis hard to rule, and easily goes wrong,
The Praise is short, but O the Scandal's long!
Correct it's turns, and oft restrain it's Pride,
Let Caution use it, and let Judgment guide;

172

To just Decorum, all it's Wildness bring,
For Wit ill tim'd's an execrable Thing:
'Tis of it self but like a falling Star,
That shines a Moment e're it disappear,
Let such admire it's Points whose Genius lies
In narrow Bounds, and wants the Strength to rise.
But nobler Minds Pursue at nobler Flights,
And warm at Beauties in sublimer Heights;
Such as the great majestick Iliad wears,
Still fresh and young, and undecay'd by Years;
Where Boldness, Ease, and Strength, and Sweetness join,
And bright, and never fading Glories Shine.
Charm'd with those Beauties of exalted Size,
Your Taste will nauseate, meaner Relishes;
Dispise those base polluted Springs below,
And drink where pure Castalian Streamlets flow:
There learn to imitate immortal Strains,
Rapt and shut up in bright celestial Scenes.

You, who are born to feel the heav'nly Fire,
Whose bosoms glow, as sacred Heats inspire;
Begin the Flight, for what deters your Voice,
When Liberty invites the Muse's Choice?

173

Rise into Verse; and sing th' auspicious LORD,
By whom the Blessing's given, and secur'd.
See mighty George! by gracious Heav'n design'd
The Minister of Blessings to Mankind;
Born with a Soul proportion'd to his Pow'r,
To awe the World, and bid it's Broils be o'er:
To calm the Tumults of the troubled Seas,
And teach contending Nations social Peace.
And see the shining Partner of his Crown,
Bestows augmented Glories on the Throne!
And as the first of all her Sex in Place,
The first in Virtue, and the first in Face.
O might I see the Glories of their Reign!
Sung by some Muse, and in an equal Strain!
That might to late Posterity prolong
Blest Britain's Joys in celebrated Song:
That when far distant Kings in Pow'r shall shine,
Descended long from GEORGE and CAROLINE,
And Nations yet unborn shall lift their Head,
To them their Fathers Glories may be read.

But cease my Muse, the Theme not Suits with thee,
Content thee, thus to sing fair Liberty.

174

Hail sacred Liberty, divinest Pow'r!
O never leave thy fav'rite Albion's Shore!
Still guard this Isle, while ev'ry Art by thee
Exults, from arbitrary Sway set free;
But most the Muse, that owes to thee her Lays,
Shall sing thy Glories, and shall hymn thy Praise;
In foreign Lands opprest, her Genius groans,
Cramp'd under Tyrants, and despotic Thrones;
Cold Damps of Fear invade her as she warms,
And she no more appears in ancient Charms;
But blest in Britain's more indulgent Isle,
She opens out, and all her Graces smile:
Her native Vigour, native Charms assumes,
And ev'ry heav'nly Feature dawns and blooms;
She soars again, and Britain is become,
A new Augustan Reign, a brighter ROME.

------ Mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non dii, non concessere columnæ.
Si paulùm à summo discessit, vergit ad imum.

Hor.

------ Fuit hæc sapientia quondam,
Publica privatis secernere, sacra prosanis;
Concubitu prohibere vago, dare jura maritis;
Oppida moliri, leges incedere ligno.
Sic honor & nomen divinis vatibus atque
Carmmibus venit. ------

Hor.

Adhuc neminem cognovi poetam, qui sibi non optimus videretur.

Cic. Tusc. 5.

Si defendere delictum, quàm vertere, malles;
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,
Quin sine rivali teque & tua solus amares.

Hor.

Mille hominum Species & rerum discolor usus.
Velle suum cuique est, nec voto vivitur uno.

Pers. Sat. 5.

Quot homines, tot sententiæ: suns cuiq; mos.

Ter. Phor.

Nature's chief Master-Piece, is Writing well. D. BUCK. Ess. Po.

------ Ego nec studium sine divite venâ,
Nec rude quid prosti video ingenium.

Hor.

------ Alterius sic
Altera poscit opem res, & conjurat amicé.

Hor.

Aurea prima sata est ætas. Sine militis usu
Mollia securæ peragebant otia gentes.

Ovid.

Hanc olim veteres vitam coluere sabini,
Hanc Remus & frater. ------

Virg.

“The original of Poetry is ascribed to that Age which succeeded the Creation of the World; and as the Keeping of Flocks seems to have been the first Employment of Mankind, the most ancient sort of Poetry was probably Pastoral. 'Tis natural to imagin, that the leisure of those ancient Shepherds requiring some Diversion, none was so proper to that solitary Life as Singing; and that in their Songs they took Occasion to celebrate their own Felicity, from hence a Poem was invented. Pope's Disc. on Past. Poetry.

Scriptorum chorus omnis amat nemus, & fugit urbes,
Rite cliens Bacchi somno gaudentes & umbrâ.

Hor. Ep. 2. Lib. 2.

Vide Virg. 1 Ecl.

Mr. Pope.

Serpit humi tutus nimiùm timidusq; procellæ.

Hor.

------ professus grandia turget.

Idem.

------ Medio tutissimus ibis.

Ovid. Met. B. 2.

Rem tibi socraticæ poterunt ostendere chartæ.
Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur.

Hor.

Aut dum vitat humum, nubes & inania captet.

Hor.

Grande aliquid quod pulmo animæ prælargus anhelet.

Pers. Sat. 1.

Omnia quæ mogna sunt atque admirabilia, tempus aliquod quo primum efficerentur, habuerint, Quintil. lib. 12. c. 11.

Vide Hom. 1L. lib. 8.

Singula quæque locum tenant sortita decenter.

Hor.

------ Consuetaque verba:
Blanda tamen, presens ut videare loqui.

Ov. de Ar. Aman. lib. 1.

Vide Claudian's Court of Venus.

------ Tristitia mœstum
Vultum verba decent. ------

Hor.

------ Iratum plena minarum.

Idem.

Descriptas servare vices, operûmque colores,
Cur ego, si nequeo, ignoroq; poeta salutor?

Hor.

In vitium ducit culpæ fuga, si caret arte.

Idem.

Citò scribendo non fit ut bene scribatur: bene scribendo, fit ut citò.

Quintil. lib. 10. c. 3.

Sumite materiam vestris, qui scribitis aquam
Viribus; & versata diu, quid ferre recusent
Quid valeant humeri: cui lecta potenter erit res,
Nec facundia deseret hunc, nec lucidus ordo.

Hor.

Multo labore, assiduo studio, varia exercitatione, pluribus experimentis, ahissi ma prudentia, præsentissimo consilio constat ars dicendi.

Quintil. lib. 2. c. 13.

Quid factum sit, quo sit modo factum.

Quintil. lib. 4. c. 2.

Natura etiam sine doctrina multum valebit, doctrina nulla esse sine natura poterit. Quintil. lib. 2. c. 19.

Denique natura materiæ, ars doctrinæ est. Hæc fingit, illa fingitur. Nihil ars sinâ materia: materiæ etiam sinâ arte pretium est. Ars summa, materia optima melior. Idem.

------ Servitur ad imum
Qualis ab incœpto processerit, & sibi constet.

Hor.

O magna vis veritatis, quæ contra hominum ingenia, calliditatem, Sobertiam contraque fictas omnium insidias facile se per seipsum defendat! Cic. Or. M. Cœl.

Tria sunt item quæ præstare debet Orator, ut moveat delectet deceat. Quintil. l. 3. c. 5.

FINIS.