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

Now let the Atheist tremble; Thou alone
Canst bid his conscious Heart the Godhead own.
Whom shalt Thou not reform? O thou hast seen,
How God descends to judge the Souls of Men.
Thou heard'st the Sentence how the Guilty mourn,
Driv'n out from God, and never must return!

Yet more, behold ten thousand Thunders fall,
And sudden Vengeance wrap the flaming Ball:
When Nature sunk, when ev'ry Bolt was hurl'd,
Thou saw'st the boundless Ruins of the World.

When guilty Sodom felt the burning Rain,
And Sulphur fell on the devoted Plain;
The Patriarch thus the fiery Tempest past,
With pious Horror view'd the desert Waste;
The restless Smoke still wav'd its Curls around,
For ever rising from the glowing Ground.

But tell me, Oh! what heav'nly Pleasure tell,
To think so greatly, and describe so well!

How wast thou pleas'd the wond'rous Theme to try,
And find the Thought of Man could rise so high?
Beyond this World the Labour to pursue,
And open all Eternity to View?

But thou art best delighted to rehearse
Heav'n's holy Dictates in exalted Verse:
O thou hast Pow'r the harden'd Heart to warm,
To grieve, to raise, to terrify, to charm;
To fix the Soul on God; to teach the Mind
To know the Dignity of Human-kind;
By stricter Rules well-govern'd Life to scan,
And practise o'er the Angel in the Man.

An EPISTLE to Dr. Guibbons, a celebrated Physician.

To trace all-wondrous Nature's latent Ways,
To meet her Author in each various Maze,
To ease, to chear, to strengthen, to restore,
For this God granted first the Healing Pow'r;
Important Trust! to Thee securely giv'n,
Preserving Man as Delegate of Heav'n.

There are—but all their Actions how unblest!
Who deaf to Truth on Second Causes rest;
And boldly careless of their Maker's Will,
Attempt, impoverish, boast, insure, and kill;
Not so hast Thou deny'd Almighty Power,
But verst in Knowledge own'st a God the more;

Hence is thy Patient fearless of the Grave,
For Learning and Devotion join to save:

O Guibbons! from whose Presence Death retreats,
And on whose Dictates Health obsequious waits,
How art thou pleas'd, thro' every crowded Street,
The living Proofs of pious Care to meet;
Old Age forgetting its Decays to view,
And Youth improv'd in all its Bloom by You.

Thy Skill would make us on this World be fixt,
But that thy Life reminds us of the next:
Happy, yet loose to all Engagements here,
Resign'd to God, religiously severe!
Industrious ev'n the meanest to regard,
Like Guardian Angels kind without Reward.

Garth vainly strove to blast thy rising Fame,
Which greater Dryden consecrates to Fame;
Regardless Thou of either Muse's Lays,
Nor stung with Scorn, nor studious Thou of Praise.

Yet deign to hear the Wishes that I bring,
Unus'd to flatter, and unskill'd to sing,
O live! thou public Blessing to Mankind,
In Thee may Galen's Art and Age be join'd;
Late may thy Bust some hallow'd Dome adorn,
And thine own Oxford late her Patron mourn.

'Tis just that He who bids us stay below,
Should be Himself detain'd amidst Us too.

In his Translation of Persius, and other Parts of his Works.

MAMMON's PLEA:

A TALE.

------Melius furto cunctatur & hærens
Usque alium ex alio spectando prævidet ictum
Sæpe illum ex longo------
Vidæ Hieronymi Scacchia Ludus.

Many seeming weak Acts by Contrivance are done,
Thus at first the Field's left that the Day may be won.
Old Turenne, to disorder the Foe would turn Tail,
Make a Feint, suffer Loss, face about, and prevail.
So Hermes at Chess (says a Prelate of Fame)
Thought the losing a Man would be getting a Game.

But to come to the Point. Old Parables tell
A remarkable Instance that happen'd in Hell:

Grim Satan one Night us'd his Spirits like Slaves,
On Pretence that in England they serv'd him by Halves:
“Where's Mammon? I order you out from the Rest,
“Go, tempt and secure old Sir John of the West:
“You have known better Things than beguiling in vain,
“So without Him ne'er think of returning again.”

Well, away went the Fiend, and nine Days he was gone,
Then came back to his Master;—but not with Sir John:
Satan, mad as he was but to think himself shamm'd,
Roar'd, redden'd, spoke broken, shook, sweated, and damn'd.

Poor Mammon stood up to be heard in his Place,
And thus in plain Terms represented the Case:
“Let it never be said that you'll hear but one Side,
“Crimes suspected are Crimes till the Criminal's try'd;
“I have stay'd, and have let your Knight go; but the Fact is,
“A Parson secur'd both his Faith and his Practice:
“Yet the Int'rest of all our good Friends here below
“Is as well carry'd on, as the Sequel may show.
“When Sir John would not yield, his Attention to draw,
“I appear'd like an honest Attorney at Law;
“Then I multiply'd Visits the more he grew ill,
“Till, In Nomine Domini I made his Will.

“It was now the right Time my whole Scheme to perform,
“So thus I addrest my Testator in Form:

“Forasmuch as your Lands are in Charity giv'n,
“To remain so while you are rewarded in Heav'n,
“Be this your chief Care, that the Poor be ne'er cheated,
“Lord! by how many Ways good Designs are defeated!
“'Tis a Comfort to me in this reprobate Age,
“To see Piety thus your Affection engage!
“Now Sir John I act always you know undisguis'd,
“Only beg you in Matters of Law be advis'd,

“The Conveyance is All—Gifts are lost by Degrees,
“Where the Donors devise their Estates to Fe'ffees;
“Single Men may forget their own Deaths to supply,
“But a legal Town-Corporate never can die;
“Corporations are Guardians, Trustees, and Directors,
“Of Funds, and of Schools, and Alms-houses, and Lectures:
“Now whereas you have specify'd these in your Will,
“Are not large Bodies best, large Designs to fulfil?”
“Should not Men of Authority manage your Lands?
“'Tis a Credit to leave one's Affairs in such Hands;
“Let your Gifts be on Magistrates settled in Trust,
“Those that punish Injustice can ne'er be unjust:
“Their own Shops will be all Magazines for your Poor,
“Trade and Charity Both may be further'd the more.

“Chuse a Town then whose Justices yearly are sworn;
“What d'ye think of the Place where your Honour was born?
“He approv'd, sign'd, and dy'd”—Here the Monarch of Hell
Grinn'd a ghastly, broad Smile, and swore—“'Tis all well—
“For instead of one Knight, to our Share now will fall,
“May'r, Aldermen, Burgesses, Town-clerk, and All.”

Vida.

RETIREMENT:

An ODE.

I

On Beds of Daisies idly laid,
The Willow waving o'er my Head,
Now Morning on the bending Stem,
Hangs the round, and glittering Gem,
Lull'd by the Lapse of yonder Spring,
Of Nature's various Charms I sing:
Ambition, Pride, and Pomp adieu!
For what has Joy to do with You?

II

Joy, rose-lipt Dryad loves to dwell
In sunny Field, or mossy Cell,

Delights on echoing Hills to hear
The Reaper's Song, or lowing Steer;
Or view with tenfold Plenty spread
The crowded Corn-field, blooming Mead;
While Beauty, Health, and Innocence,
Transport the Eye, the Soul, the Sense.

III

Not fresco'd Roofs, not Beds of State,
Not Guards that round a Monarch wait,
Not Crowds of Flatterers can scare
From loftiest Courts intruding Care:
Midst Odours, Splendors, Banquets, Wine,
While Minstrels sound, while Tapers shine,
In Sable stole sad Care will come,
And darken the gay Drawing-room.

IV

Nymphs of the Groves, in green array'd,
Conduct me to your thickest Shade,
Deep in the Bosom of the Vale,
Where haunts the lonesome Nightingale;
Where Contemplation, Maid divine,
Leans against some aged Pine,
Wrapt in solemn Thought profound,
Her Eyes fixt stedfast on the Ground.

V

O Virtue's Nurse! retired Queen,
By Saints alone and Hermits seen,
Beyond vain Mortals' Wishes wise,
Teach me St. James's to despise;
For what are crowded Courts, but Schools
For Fops, or Hospitals for Fools?

Where Slaves and Madmen, Young and Old,
Meet to adore some Calf of Gold.

OF THE Universal Love of Pleasure.

To a Friend.

All human Race, from China to Peru,
Pleasure, howe'er disguis'd by Art, pursue;
In various Habits this fair Idol dress,
Yet still adore her, still her Power confess;
She leads pale Hermits to the mossy Cell,
And to the Box the Fop-encircled Bellè;
The Shape of Business, nay of Virtue takes,
Presides alike o'er Aldermen and Rakes;
Admirers boasts in every various Rank,
Sends some to Bagnios, others to the Bank;

Now dwells in lofty Domes and trophy'd Halls,
Now near dark Woods and pensive Water-falls;
One, as she prompts loves Hounds and foamy Steeds,
And lonely One, by midnight Taper reads:
Who build or plan, or dress with Finery smit,
Or rhyme and starve, self-sacrific'd to Wit;
Who heap or scatter Gold, the Grave, the Gay,
Bend to this Monarch's universal Sway.
'Twas hence rough Charles rush'd forth to ruthless War,
Hence rov'd to foreign Climes the Patriot-Czar;
Nor found more Bliss to civilize Mankind,
Than Cynthia in her new-bought Chintz can find.
What home-felt Joys in Curio's Bosom rise,
Glow in his Cheeks, and sparkle in his Eyes?

Is his Wife dead? Or have his Tenants found
Large Heaps of bury'd Treasure in his Ground?
Alas! you guess in vain; from India brought,
The Sage a curious Cockle-shell has bought.

'Tis said, the peevish Lesbia lately smil'd:
What had her Sullenness of Soul beguil'd?
Some thought Success at Hazard charm'd her Mind,
Or that her favourite Footman had been kind;
Or that her Dog or Parrot had been prais'd—
A new-invented Wash these Raptures rais'd.

To different Objects different Souls incline,
One clips his Hedges; one seeks Whist and Wine;
Rurelia feeds her Hens, and daily churns;
Her Sister such unpolish'd Creatures scorns:

Her Mind is fill'd with Coaches, Cards, and Plate,
Romance, Routes, Operas, Vapours, Chocolate.

When bold Columbus took his vent'rous Way,
On the rough Billows of an unknown Sea,
First found the curling Smoke from Hills arise,
And Rocks return the Sailors joyful Cries;
Felt not the Chief such Raptures thrill his Soul,
As Flavia, when she wins a doubtful Vole.

You, Decius, too, from common Frailties free,
A favourite Pleasure feel midst your Philosophy:
For You, beyond the vulgar Joys of Sense,
Enjoy unlimited Benevolence!

Of Sweden.

To a certain Voluminous Scribler.

Forbear the Public to abuse,
With Treatise after Treatise;
Remember how poor Blackmore's Muse
Dy'd of a Diabetes.

AN INVOCATION TO A Water-Nymph.

Fair pearl-crown'd Nymph, whose gushing Torrent laves
This marble Rock with hollow-tinkling Waves;
Who wont'st in secret Solitude to dwell,
On coral Beds beneath thy Sapphire Cell;
Whose Virgin-Pow'r can break the magic Charm,
Whose Look the black Enchanter's Hand disarm;
Whom Swains in neighb'ring Vales to sing delight,
Kind Guardian of their Flocks from blasting Sprite;
Permit me, Goddess, from thy silver Lake,
With cooling Draught my glowing Thirst to slake!

So, when thou bath'st, may no rude Satyr's Eye,
From some deep Brake thy naked Beauties spy:
May no chill Blast the ivied Oak invade,
That o'er thy Cavern waves his solemn Shade.

AN ELEGY on an Infant.

Come, Shepherds, on this Grave your Flourets spread,
Hantonia's Hope the little Alcon's dead:
I saw stern Death his cruel Mandate bring,
And heard the Raven clap his fatal Wing;
Thrice at dead Midnight shriek'd the Owl aloud,
While dim then wav'd a visionary Shroud.
Hence in deep Grotts, and twilight Shades along
The weeping Wood-nymphs sigh a sorrowing Song:
The sad Napëans tear their golden Locks,
Lone Eccho wand'ring on sequester'd Rocks,
By mournful Pauses speaks the pitying Tale,
“Alcon is dead—lament, each Hill and Dale!”—

So Mysia's melancholy Mountains mourn'd,
And Hylas lost the Meads and Woods return'd:
Slow crept Ascanius with a plaintive Tone,
In Consort murm'ring to Alcides' Moan.

Bring then meek Daisies, and the Primrose pale,
The snow-clad Lilly of the Velvet Vale,
The purple Violet's Bell empearl'd with Dew,
Cropt at cold Ev'ning, fit on Graves to strew:
Be here no gaudy Pink, or Pansy gay,
No Rose, the Pride of Venus, and of May;
No full Carnation, deck'd with thousand Dies,
Like that embroider'd Bow that copes the Skies;
These may fair Myra at her Bosom wear,
Or mix them fragrant in her flowing Hair:

No such approach this sadly-solemn Scene,
Or spotted Gold, or blended Blue with Green.

Here cast your Off'rings down, the Turf to grace,
And nine Times round his Grave full slowly pace!
Yet should these Flow'rs, like Alcon shortliv'd, fade,
Call the kind Red-breast from his secret Shade,
With loaded Bill green Myrtle-sprigs to bring,
And fondly hov'ring plaintive Dirges sing;

Or bid those Doves that o'er young Horace spread
Fresh Bays and Buds to shield his beauteous Head,
Hither with cooing Elegies repair;
This Babe's as sprightly, innocent, and fair:
And—but Fate call'd him to eternal Rest,
A favouring Muse had warm'd his little Breast.

Poor, hapless Babe!—yet art thou early flown,
The World's vain Vice, unpractis'd and unknown:
The Frauds that lurk beneath a dimpled Smile,
The oily Speech of panegyric Guile;
The Atheist's Scoffs, the midnight Revels lewd,
Mean Follies of the Beau, Coquette, and Prude;
The Miser's Care to heap, the Heirs to spend,
The murder'd Brother, and the treach'rous Friend;
The Statesman's Crafts, the good Man's weary Toils,
The Villain's Triumphs, the stern Tyrant's Spoils:
Far from these Cares, where Breasts seraphic glow,
Thou calmly view'st the noisy Scenes below.

So from some lofty Rock beholds the Swain
The stormy Tumults of the swelling Main;

Here, o'er the foamy Floods the wild Winds sweep,
There, sinks the found'ring Vessel in the Deep:
He, while the billowy Surge beneath him breaks,
In Safety listens to the distant Shrieks.

A CHORUS,

Translated from the Hecuba of Euripides.

I

Soft, southern Gale, whose whisp'ring Breath
Skims lightly o'er the curling Wave,
O whither, in this hapless Bark,
Wilt thou convey a weeping Slave?

II

To Doria's wood-invested Land,
Or Phthia's Pastures shall I go,
Where Father of Field-fat'ning Floods
Apidanus shall hear my Woe?

III

Or sent to Athens, shall I weave
In Tissue Robes the Queen of War;
Her polish'd Helm, and Gorgon-shield,
Her foaming Steeds, and glitt'ring Car?

IV

Or haply in the Piece shall stand
The Titan's Heav'n-defying Crew,
Whom Jove, his Prowess to display,
With angry livid Lightnings slew.

V

O my lost Children, Parents, Friends!
O Ilion smoking on the Plains!
O my poor Self, whom foreign Hands
Shall bind in curst, disgraceful Chains!

Hereafter in English Metre ensueth A Paraphrase on the Holie Book entituled Leviticus Chap. XI. Vers. 13, &c. Fashioned after the Maniere of Maister Geoffery Chaucer in his Assemblie of Foules:

Containing the Reasons of the several Prohibitions.

Of feathred Foules, that fanne the bucksom Aire,
Not All alike weare made for Foode to Men;
For, These Thou shalt not eat, doth God declare,
Twice tenne Their Nombre, and their Fleshe unclene:
Fyrst the Great Eagle, Byrde of feigned Jove,
Which Thebanes worshippe, and Diviners love:

Next Ossifrage, and Ospray, (Both One kinde)
Of Luxurie, and Rapine, Emblems mete,
That haunte the Shores, the choicest Preye to finde,
And brast the Bones, and scoope the Marrowe swete:
The Vulture, void of Delicace, and Feare,
Who spareth not the pale dede Man to tear:

The tall-built Swann, faire Type of Pride confesft;
The Pelicane, whose Sons are nurst with Bloode,
Forbidd to Man!—She stabbeth deep hir Breast,
Self Murtheresse through Fondness to hir Broode:
They too that raunge the thirstie Wildes emong,
The Ostryches, unthoughtful of thir Yonge:

The Raven ominous, (As Gentiles holde)
What Time She croaketh hoarsely A la Morte;
The Hawke, Aerial Hunter, swift, and bolde,
In Feates of Mischief trayned for Disporte;
The vocale Cuckowe, of the Faulcon Race,
Obscene Intruder in hir Neighbor's Place:

The Owle demure, who loveth not the Lighte,
(Ill Semblance She of Wisdome to the Greeke)
The smallest Fouls dradd Foe, the Coward Kite,
And the still Herne, arresting Fishes meeke;
The glutton Cormorante, of sullen Moode:
Regardyng no Distinction in hir Foode.

The Storke, whiche dwelleth on the Fir tree-topp,
And trusteth that no Pow'er shall Hir dismaye,
As Kinges on thir high Stations place thir Hope,
Nor wist that there be higher farr than Theye:
The gay Gier-Eagle, beautifull to viewe,
Bearyng within a Savage Herte untrewe:

The Ibis whome in Egypte Israel found,
Fell Byrd! That livyng Serpents con digest;
The crested Lapwynge, wailing shrille Arounde,
Sollicitous, with noe Contentment blest:
Last the foul Batt, of Byrde, and Beast fyrst bredde,
Flittyng, with littel leathren Sailes dispredde.

Vid. Natal. Com. de Mytholog. Lib. 2. Cap. de Jove.

Vid. Diodor. Sicul. Lib. 1.

Vid. Patr. in loc.

Vid. passim in Pentat. & in Ep. ad Heb.

The Night-Hawk is the Male Ostrich, according to Bochart, and the Owl the Female: Here the Author chuses to put both Sexes together. It is remarkable, that in the Hebrew Language there are no particular Words to distinguish the Sexes of this Bird as there are for the Male and Female Eagle and Raven, &c. The unnatural Quality here assign'd to the Ostrich, is very elegantly mention'd in Job, cap. 39. ver. 16.

Psal. 104. 17.

Eccles. 5. 8.

Gypaetos is said to partake of the Colours as well as the Qualities of the Eagle and Vulture. Vid. Gesner.

So called according to the Vulg. Lat. But in our Eng. Bib. The Great Owl.

Arist. de Animal. Lib. 4. cap. 13.

To Her MAJESTY Queen CAROLINE, ON HER Accession to the THRONE:

Being the concluding Copy in the Oxford Collection upon that Occasion.

An English Muse shall close the solemn Scene,
Duteous to celebrate An English Queen;
For such is She, who by Affection reigns,
And holds our willing Hearts in easy Chains;
Whom partial Wales Their Patroness would call,
Tho' to All equal, tho' rever'd by All.
Who makes the Mitred Prelacy her Care,
To learned Wake (as late to Smalridge) dear:

Yet shines, on ev'ry meanest Subject, bright,
Chearfully bounteous—Like (God's Gift) The Light.

Thee Holy Truth, Thee decent Zeal supports,
Humble in Greatness, and devout in Courts;
Whose faithful Heart not Roman Arts could gain,
And Cæsar offer'd Half the Globe in vain.

No such Refusal could Elisa boast
When gay Alanzon on her wond'ring Coast
His Lillies spread:—Irresolute she turn'd,
(Not as when Mulciber Minerva scorn'd)
Then said (or seem'd to say) with faint Disguise,
I view all Princes with untempted Eyes.
Far more Sincere, more Pious to refuse,
More Prudent You, more Elegant to chuse!

O doubly bless'd! who, with Great George's Heir,
Heav'n's richest Gifts, Earth's choicest Joys may prove,
Whilst (amiable in Majesty) You share
One Hope, one Faith, one Happiness, one Love.

Janus well-pleas'd will turn his younger Face
To view the future Glories of your Race;
Britannia happy, in each God-like Son,
And Daughters ruling Nations, not our Own;
Extensive Good! which You, with gen'rous Care,
For This, for other Lands, and distant Days prepare:
Hence, glorious on Thy Self reflected shine
The dawning Virtues of Thy Num'rous Line,
By Thy Example form'd, taught by Thy Skill divine.
All Factions hence—(for All thy Worth confess)
The Queen, the Mother, and the Christian bless.

O Caroline! for ev'ry Grace renown'd;
With Wit, with Judgment, and with Beauty crown'd,
Deign to accept This Tribute of my Praise,
Tho' rude of Stile, and artless be the Lays:
Our youthful Bards, on Isis' Banks retir'd,
Unseen in Courts, by Swains alone admir'd,
(Such once was Addison—whom You inspir'd.
As yet but hear how Foreign Muses please,
With Spanish Grandeur, or with Tuscan Ease;
But, when the Living Languages they know,
(A Gift, which we to Royal Bounty owe)
Each rising Genius shall more boldly soar,
Sweetly disclosing Charms unknown before;
Our Athens then, more various in Her Songs,
Like Fame, will praise Thee with a Hundred Tongues.

So the rough Agates, in their native Mine,
Or lay conceal'd, or only faintly shine,
'Till some kind Hand, distinguishing their Worth,
Calls all their Multitude of Beauties forth;
Then Nature's mimic Gems (improv'd by Art) surprize,
And Rocks, and Clouds, and Trees, in little Landskips rise.

ODE ON THE PASSION.

I.

In Sable clad, Urania come,
Dictate a Pity-moving Lay,
Such as may paint a dying God,
And all his Wounds and Pangs display:
What Time the blissful Saints above,
Struck with his Suff'rings and his Love,
Began to heave unusual Sighs;
Each Seraph tore his Palmy-crown,
Each threw his Harp or Trumpet down,
And Grief a while usurp'd the Skies.

II.

But hark! I hear triumphant Shouts,
Of Jews that dare insult their Lord;
At whose Approach pale Sickness fled,
Madness and Storms obey'd his Word:
This gracious Benefactor see,
Stretch'd out in Anguish on the Tree!
How deep the Traces of the Scourge!
His bending Head how pale!
The Spear has gor'd his snowy Side,
His tender Feet the Nail!

III.

Sudden the Graves their dreary Depths disclose,
Low, doleful Sounds run murm'ring thro' the Air;
The shrouded Bodies from the Charnels rose,
And gliding by, their trembling Kindred scare;

The bursting Rocks their sulph'rous Beds display'd,
Earth's deep Foundations to the Center shook;
The Sun was cover'd with a ten-fold Shade,
Unable on Messiah's Pains to look:
Remotest Lands the dreadful Portents felt,
And, for a Time, in Wonder, Fear, and Darkness dwelt.

IV.

Beneath, lo! Mary weeping stands,
In Tears most pitifully fair,
And beats the Breast, where Christ had hung,
And tears her long dishevell'd Hair—
“Where can I lay my mournful Head?
“My Son, my King, my God is dead!
“To gloomy Deserts let me go,
“Among the horrid Rocks and Woods,
“The Caves, and pensive-falling Floods,
“Indulging Solitude and Woe!”—

V.

And shall not vile, ungrateful Man,
Bear in these Griefs a wretched Part,
Roll in the Dust, and beat his Face,
Bleed in his Bowels, and his Heart?
While stern Repentance near him stands,
Pointing to Heav'n with meagre Hands!
O let us weep, and humbly pray,
That Faith no longer mourn,
That Peace may raise her oliv'd Head,
And Righteousness return.

VI.

Then Pride no more shall swell her purple Crest,
Or mad Ambition kindle lawless Strife;
Pale Envy then shall leave the tortur'd Breast,
And frowning Murder break his reeking Knife;

Old Avarice his Heaps of Gold forego,
Sly Theft no more the Traveller beguile,
Lust shall grow whiter than the new-fall'n Snow,
And Rage be calm'd, and Malice learn to smile:
Ev'n Satan's Self shall feel a heavier Chain,
And gnash his Teeth, and shake his burning Spear in vain.

VII.

Alas! far other Scenes appear,
Man still enslav'd to tenfold Guilt,
Tost on from Vanity to Vice,
Forgets his Saviour's Blood was spilt:
Forgets he left the Realms of Day,
Changing his glorious Robes for Clay:
With inexpressive Mercy fill'd,
His Angels left, and Em'rald Throne,
Deigning as Mortal to come down,
To be despis'd, forsaken, kill'd.

VIII.

Yet there remains a dreadful Day,
When, after Years in Follies spent,
This vain, fantastic World shall fall,
With ev'ry melting Element.
Methinks I hear the Angel—“Come—
“This Trumpet calls ye to your Doom.”—
The simple Indian starts amaz'd,
The Jew now dreads the Rod,
Curs'd is the Koran by the Turk,
The Atheist owns a God.

IX.

Down rides Messiah on the Wings of Wind,
His fiery Sword of Justice blazing round;
To Vengeance comes He, yet with Mercy kind,
Satan and Death behind his Chariot bound.

O turn we from the burning Sinner's Pains,
His agonizing Struggles, piercing Plaints;
And let us listen to the rapt'rous Strains,
Sung by the Just, the Seraphs, and the Saints:
How for Mankind the filial. Godhead bled,
And proud Captivity an humbled Captive led!

The Eighth ODE of the Second Book of Horace.
47

Imitated.

To Sir Robert Walpole.

1.

If ever Justice with her iron Hand,
Had dar'd to thrust thee from this groaning Land,
Or on thy Front, t' avenge a People's Cry,
Burnt the red Marks of shameless Villany;
Or, as from righteous Japhet, cropt an Ear,
Which; daily, fine-spun Flatt'ry wont to hear;
Poor Britain might appease her Griefs, and smile,
And hope her Genius had not left her Isle.

2.

But You—the less your Country you befriend,
The more the Courtier-mob before you bend:

Each vile Corruption lures 'em to your Purse,
As hungry Insects a corrupted Corse;
While bowing Bards with panegyric Lays,
Wipe off, or turn your Vices to your Praise;
As if the Muse, with all her Pindus' Stream,
Cou'd wash a Negro white, or clean your Name.

3.

What tho' you swear your Country to redress,
To shield in War, to cherish her in Peace;
None dare thy false, Ligurian Words believe,
Who deem'st it Depth of Wisdom to deceive.

4.

At this Corruption smiles with ghastly Grin,
Foretelling Triumphs to her Sister Sin;
Who, as with baneful Wings aloft she flies,
“This ruin'd Land be mine”——exulting cries;

Grim Tyranny attends her on her Way,
And whets his flaming Sword that thirsts to stay.

5.

How widely spreads thy Pow'r! almighty Knight!
Conquest is surer when you bribe, than fight:
No more let Persia hail her laurell'd Lord,
Before a Sesterce what avails a Sword?
Yet sure 'tis strange your Slaves will Slaves remain,
Tho' ten Times kick'd they come, they cringe again;
As foolish Phædria still sigh'd for his Whore,
Tho' the dear Jilt had thrust him from her Door.

6.

Striking her Breast, what Tears has Virtue shed,
To see plain Justice, Truth, and Valour fled?

Who can relate her home-felt, Patriot-Pains,
How much she sighs, how deeply she complains,
That Britain bends to thy corruptive Pow'r,
Debauch'd, like Danäe, with a golden Show'r?

ASTROPHIL to his SON, aged Seven Months.

O thou! with whom I fondly share
My faithful Stella's Love, and Care,
To thee 'tis giv'n to tumble o'er
Thy absent Sire's poëtic Store,
(With eager Hands these Lines to seize
And tear, or lose 'em, as you please,)
Thou too from Pedantry art free,
And I can safely sing to thee.

What tho' thy Age no Skill can boast,
In one small Round of Follies lost;
Yet ev'n thy Toys, and Tears, and Strife,
Act all the World in little Life.

Alike Man aims at all he can,
And Imitation teaches Man:
—But then has Man his Play-things too?—
—Yes sure.—Amusements all allow,
And are more serious Fools—than thou.
We differ, only in th' Intent
As idle—but less innocent.

PHILANDER,

AN Imitation of SPENCER:

Occasioned by the Death of Mr. William Levinz, of M. C. Oxon, Nov. 1706.

“To You alone I sing this mournful Verse—
“Made not to please the living, but the Dead—
“To You, whose soft'n'd hearts it may empierse
“With Dolours—(if you covet It to read—
“And if in You found pittie ever place,
“May You be mov'd to pittie such a case.
Spencer.

ON THE DEATH OF Mr. WILLIAM LEVINZ.

Purpureos spargam flores, animamque Philandri
His saltèm accumulem donis, & fungar inani
Munere------
Virg. Æn. VI.

Give me, ye weeping Nine, the softest Airs,
Whilst I with you Philander's Fate condole;
Let Pity grace each sadly-pleasing Verse,
And tender Words that thrill the melting Soul:
Echo shall kindly answer as I mourn,
And gently-wafted Sounds my doleful Plaints return.

When rural Spencer sung, the list'ning Swains
Wou'd oft' forget to feed the fleecy Throng;
The fleecy Throng, charm'd with the melting Strains,
Fed not—but on the Musick of his Song;
His Mulla would in ling'ring Bubbles play,
'Till his pleas'd Waters stole unwillingly away.

And cou'd my Verse but with its Theme compare,
Moving as Spencer I my Grief wou'd tell;
The ravish'd Bard shou'd to Elysium hear
A second Colin mourn a second Astrophel.
My Lays shou'd more than equal Glory boast,
And the fam'd Mulla be in smoother Cherwell lost.

Cherwell! bless'd Stream while thy Philander liv'd!
Where-e'er thy Waves in mazy Windings turn,
Tell ev'ry Stream of whom they are depriv'd,
And bid 'em all in sobbing Murmurs mourn:
Oft' on thy Banks he'd tell thy Praises o'er,
'Twas there I saw him last—but oh! shall see no more.

Look, said the Youth, (as then he wond'ring stood)
How Cherwell's Waves in dinted Dimples smile!
I joy to see his amicable Flood
With circling Arms embrace the happy Soil:
How loth he seems these charming Shades to leave,
That from his silver Urn a nobler Grace receive!—

—But mute is now the Musick of that Voice,
That to th' attentive Flood such Praises gave!—
'Mong Bones and Skulls the dear Philander lies,
Cold, cold, and silent as the dismal Grave!—
Mourn then, ye Youths, for ever mourn his Fate;
Ye cannot grieve too long—but oh ye grieve too late!

—Look all around the Woods, and Plains, and Floods;
Do not ev'n they the mighty Loss deplore?
Lo Pleasure leaves the Floods, and Plains, and Woods!
And pensive Birds now warble there no more;
But pining Doves, and moaning Turtles coo,
And Choirs of Swans make up the Harmony of Woe.

Their tuneful Sorrow ravishes my Ear,
While mourning Vegetables please the Eye;
The sick'ning Flow'rs their Heads but faintly rear,
And droop beneath the dewy Tears, and die!
Like them the Youth a thousand Charms cou'd boast,
—But oh the Youth like them those short-liv'd Charms has lost!

Say, You his Friends, Companions of my Woe,
Say what kind Gentleness adorn'd his Mind?
Tell me, can You such native Candour show?
And may we still a true Philander find?
Vain Hope!—let all with gen'rous Shame confess,
None e'er excell'd you more—and yet cou'd know it less.

Oft wou'd the Youth into himself descend,
And act at once the Confessor and Saint;
How pleas'd he'd see th' examin'd Breast unstain'd,
And say with modest Joy I'm Innocent!
Confed'rate Graces spoke him Whole Divine,
All beautiful without, and spotless all within.

And must such fair Perfection yield to Fate?
Why was thy early Goodness ripe so soon?
Ye Pow'rs! let Virtue have a longer Date,
Or some prevailing Muse to make it known:
Oh! cou'd these Lays proportion'd Praises give,
The lovely Youth shou'd still in deathless Numbers live!

Thou constant Object of my lab'ring Thought!
Tho' thy dear Presence cruel Death denies,
Oft is thy Shade by kinder Morpheus brought,
And oft by Fancy to my longing Eyes:
Sometimes my Thoughts thy dying Gasps renew,
Ev'n now methinks I see all Death expos'd to View.

I see Philander on his Death-bed lain!
What griping Pangs his tortur'd Heart corrode!
Look how resign'd he bears each smarting Pain!
And inly groaning invocates his God!
How chang'd he looks! how ashy pale his Hue!
I ne'er unwilling saw the lovely Youth 'till now!

Are those the Arms with which we oft embrac'd?
Those Hands, benumn'd, and cold, are those like his?
And his dear Lips, by constant Learning grac'd,
Say, did they tremble, and look wan as these?—
—Love might with Fear a doubtful Strife maintain,
But that my Griefs present a yet more dismal Scene.

Behold! his Friends all croud around his Bed!
Hark with what bitter Cries they o'er him moan!
Look on their streaming Eyes! what Tears they shed!
Their Grief makes all his Miseries their own!
And while this Pomp of Death Philander sees,
The dying Youth by their's perceives his Miseries.

Now his chill Face with eager Lips they kiss,
Grasp his cold Hand, and take their last Farewel!—
How languishing they fix their Eyes on his!
Their aking Sight cou'd there for ever dwell!
Too well they know those parting Looks are vain,
And turn themselves aside—yet needs must look again.

—But doubtful Mists swim hov'ring o'er his Eyes,
That feebly round their hollow Orbits rowl;
Whilst in imperfect Groans and less'ning Sighs,
With pious Carelessness he yields his Soul;
His Soul unfetter'd seeks the Realms of Light,
And to her native Heav'n she takes her tow'ring Flight.

But who can tell his weeping Mother's Care?
His Death in vain by silent Friends is hid,
For conscious Tears the fatal Truth declare,
And their expressive Silence says, He's Dead!
Her still-born Sorrow speaks an inward Woe,
Beyond what Sighs, or Tears, or Words unequal show.

‘O cease, thou good Sophronia, left forlorn,
For thy much-lov'd Philander weep no more;
Those, who thy Son's sad Fate cou'd never mourn,
Will ev'n his living Mother now deplore;
For when such Piety in Tears they view,
Their soften'd Hearts must grieve to sympathize with You.

Look on thy Daughter, beauteous in Distress,
Nor think while Stella lives Philander lost;
Oh! may kind Heav'n in Her your Griefs redress,
And You in one a num'rous Blessing boast!
May His redoubl'd Life to her return!
And you in Stella see Philanders yet unborn!

TO BAPTISTA TURRIANO,

FROM THE Latin of Fracastorius: On the Death of his Sons.

Since with sweet Balm the Muse alone can heal
Sad Sorrow's Wound, and sooth the troubled Mind,
Listen a While my Battus, nor refuse
Her grateful Gift of grief-beguiling Verse;
Which to thy much-lov'd Sons, whom dreary Death
Has wrap'd in Stygian Shade, she weeping pays.
At least her Song, if e'er her Song avail'd,
From their fair Names may snatch the Veil of Night.
E'er yet oppress'd by Fate's untimely Stroke
My tender Care inform'd their helpless Age;

This, yet with lisping Accent scarce could frame
Th' imperfect Word, while This in early Dawn
Cropt the first Flow'rs of Knowledge, and began
To give glad Promise of a fertile Spring.

If Fortune e'er had blest my blooming Hopes
When to firm Manhood grew their ripen'd Age,
My Hand had led them to the mossy Grotts,
Of Cirrha's Vale, their Father's much-lov'd Haunts,
And on their Shoulder hung Euterpe's Lute.
Thence, when their soaring Minds had trac'd the Stars,
The golden Sun, broad Deep, and dædal Globe,
While thy sage Mind disclos'd the dubious Way;
To the fair Gardens of Philosophy
Had bore them wond'ring, which eternal Spring
And mild Favonius feed with balmy Dews

Of Nectar; there to crop purpureal Flowers,
Sweet Solace of their hoary Parent's Age;
Oft too to chear thy pensive Eve of Life
Their skilful Hands had strung the Thracian Lyre
To Notes like Thine, that on the daisied Marge
Of Athesis, beneath the Poplar Shade,
They heard thee sing, of Nature's infant Dawn,
The wild Wave hushing with thy magic Strain.

O how thine Age, my much lov'd Friend, had smil'd
If e'er thou could'st have heard thy Sons declare,
How Matter first from shapeless Chaös born
With Beauty long'd to joyn; how Discord rose
At length to Texture and to Shape confin'd;
How to th' ethereal Vault the purer Fire
Aspir'd, and to the starry Reign upflew,

While Air diffusive fill'd the spacious Void.
How o'er the Globe a Desert waste and wild
Of Sea was roll'd, 'till from the watry Scene
At length emerg'd broad Plains and oozy Fields,
And high to Heav'n the Mountains heav'd their Backs
Horrid with many a Cliff; while cloath'd in Green
Tall Forests from the wondering Waters rose;
And from the rocky Caves and Caverns dank
Sprung forth the Nymphs in naked Beauty bright,
And dry'd their Tresses on the verdant Shore.

O thrice had Fortune blest my blissful Life,
If ne'er the Gods had cropt these blooming Hopes
And kept them still inviolate; but Death
Just when they promis'd in the rising Dawn
Of Infancy so fair a Spring of Flowers,

With baleful Breath forbad the Bud to bloom,
And buried all beneath the dismal Shade
Of Tartarus; nor could my anxious Care
Lead them to glowing Youth, and Manhood firm,
And see them run the weary Length of Life.
Nor could their Parent's earnest Prayers or Art
Save them, tho' loud they call'd with moving Voice
His medicinal Aid!—O cruel Death,
O say what God, my Paulus, stopt thy Breath,
And tore thee ruthless from my cold Embrace?
You first dear Youth your weeping Father left
No more to view the Beam of chearful Heav'n.
Thy Fate alone had plung'd my lab'ring Soul
In Woe too deep, then wherefore, heav'nly Pow'rs,
Add ye fresh Cause of Grief, and bid new Tears,
New kindred Tears for sweet Iülus flow?

How thy mad Mother every God accus'd,
As o'er thy Coarse reclin'd, her Hair she rent,
And beat with pityless Hand her bleeding Breast.
O cease, fond Mother, to sollicit thus
The Gods with fruitless Cries! as the fair Flower
Whom yet in infant Bloom the shining Share
Cuts from the Parent Glebe, Iülus lies
Deaf to thy loud Complaints; no more embrace
His clay-cold Limbs with unavailing Arms!
Ev'n now, sad Follower of his sable Herse
She faints—ye Matrons lift the drooping Dame,
Rouse struggling Life, and bear to soft Repose!

Ye pure, unspotted Shades! receive this Hail!
This last Adieu, Remembrance of my Love,
And Friendship's Pledge sincere! where'er ye dwell,
Whether ye wander in Elysian Vales,

Or triumph in the Star-bespangled Skies,
Still grateful will I pay the duteous Tear
And Rite of sacred Song, nor yearly fail
To crown with freshest Wreaths your honour'd Urns.

Mean time, my Battus, let the Muse relieve
Our Sorrow-lab'ring Breasts and sooth our Cares;
Since All is frail and built on Mortal Base.
The Days will come, when at the tardy Plow
The Steer shall pant, and thro' the stubborn Mold
The Share shall pass, where now the winged Bark
Cleaves the blue Deep, and skims the glassy Plain.
Nor shall the Fountains fam'd in ancient Song
Still stream exhaustless; tho' the mighty Po
Devolves so full a Tide, and Ister laves

Unnumber'd Channels, with enormous Flood.
The cloud-capt Mountains, proud Taygetus,
Tall Sypilus, and crown'd with woody Cliffs
Cymbotus, thro' the Course of endless Years
Have from their deep Foundations felt the Force
Of gradual Dissolution and Decay:
Since Matter first embrac'd the smiling Form
Of Order, and the warring Elements
Together rush'd to form th' emerging World.

To the Right Honourable George Dodington, Esq

As late I rov'd by Lodon's whispering Stream,
Studious to sound in Verse thy much-lov'd Name,
Apollo came, and touch'd my trembling Ear—
“To praise a Dodington, rash Bard! forbear!
“What can thy weak, and ill-tun'd Voice avail,
“When on that Theme my Young and Thomson fail?”

ON MAY MORNING.

To a Lady.

Winter no more the weeping Fields deforms,
Pours the deep Snow-drift, or descends in Storms,
But rural Music wakes the blithsome Spring,
And every Wood invites to love and sing;
See in yon' Bow'r the Goddess' Self appears,
A Rose-bud Garland on her Locks she wears,
And on her Wrist two cooing Turtles bears:
Join'd Hand in Hand attends her Sister May,
Simple, yet fair; and tho' not wanton, gay;
Behind a Train of Nymphs and Youths advance,
Touch the soft Lute, and join in sprightly Dance.

Hither ye City-Nymphs and Belles repair,
To sport in Freedom, and a purer Air!
Safe may ye wander thro' the cooling Wood,
Or listen to the Birds and falling Flood:
No Beau-Deceivers lurk among the Flocks,
No ruffling Winds shall dislocate your Locks;
But Peace and Innocence true Pleasures yield,
While new Vauxhalls arise in every Field.

But the light Herd of well-bred Dames disdain
The calmer Pleasures of the painted Plain;
Gay Flavia hates a Mead and purling Rill
More than a Church, Small-pox, or Mercer's Bill;
“For who, she cries, a London-Life would change,
“Pensive in solitary Woods to range;

“To walk without a Beau in some lone Vale,
“Nor Handel hear, but the sad Nightingale;
“Or sit at solemn Whist by gloomy Fires,
“With aukward Parsons, Justices, and Squires?”—

But blest with strong, unfashionable Sense,
You relish rural Ease and Innocence:
Can leave Ridotto's for an useful Book,
Or sit at Plain-work by a murm'ring Brook:
In useful Labours pass each virtuous Day,
Nor sigh for Opera, Masquerade or Play.

What Joy to view from far the sweating Steer,
The Blackbirds or the Milk-maids Song to hear;
Count budding Cowslips, or with Lambkins play,
Sing with a Nymph, or with a Shepherd stray!

Then cast thee weary on the painted Ground,
Where Hazels cast a checquer'd Shade around;
While issuing from a Bud a Bee shall come,
To bless thy Slumbers with a drowsy Hum.

But who can sleep! ten thousand Joys combin'd,
Employ the Smell, the Ear, the Eye, the Mind!
Have youthful Poets dreamt of golden Days,
When Fruits ambrosial ripen'd in their Lays,
Did Honey-streams in liquid Numbers flow,
In the rich Verse spontaneous Harvests glow?
Soon imag'd Charms, and faint Description cloys,
Fancy may paint, but Nature gives the Joys:
Who taught the Nightingale her Nest to form,
In useful Beauty, wonderful and warm?

(May no rough Rustic violate the Boughs,
Where hangs her little, mossy-circled House)
Who sent the Dam to cull the choicest Food,
Now in the Forest seeking now the Flood,
And to the hungry Young with Haste convey
The Worm untasted, or the Insect-Prey:
Who swell'd the Lilly with a pearly Dew,
Who bad gay Earth her radiant Robe renew,
The Stream in Concert with the Linnet run,
And the World smile beneath a warmer Sun?
'Tis Nature's Pow'r!—Thy all-benignant Hand
Spreads every Joy, and blesses every Land!
Grant, gentle Goddess, no corroding Care
In rankling Chains our restless Hearts ensnare;

O while around us all is Joy and Peace
Let Sorrow die, let jarring Passions cease;
So shall Mankind Thy general Praises sing,
And in their Bosoms feel another Spring.

On a Gentleman whose Mistress had an ill Breath.

Lovers 'tis said are blind—but Thirsis shews,
These Sighers lose not Eyes alone, but Nose;
Go, doting Fool—a fragrant Favourite seek,
Nor Egypt-like, adore a nauseous Leek.

100

VERSES

ON Henry the Eighth's seizing the Abbey-Lands, and on Queen Anne's Augmentation of Livings.

There liv'd a Race to good Charissa dear,
Who rais'd a thousand Domes devote to Pray'r;
A thousand mattin Choirs with White array'd,
In tuneful Tributes all their Vows convey'd;
Then Charity was wont her Isle to love,
And oft for this to change the Realms above:
But when she hapless found fierce Rage begin,
Where Force reform'd but by a pious Sin,

101

When arm'd Devotion would the Priest expel,
And Royal Sacrilege was christen'd Zeal,
She view'd, she mourn'd, she fled her rifled Isle,
While ravenous Henry gave a Loose to Spoil.

And now where Towers stretch'd far their taper Shade,
Where hallow'd Walls religious Pomp display'd,
The solitary Traveller stares around,
Oft halts—oft deems he hears some screaming Sound,
And treads with trembling Knees the consecrated Ground.
For oft o'er Graves the Shepherd tends his Herd,
And points where Saints and Martyrs lay interr'd;

102

Here in still Deep of Night are Peasants scar'd,
When the tall Ghosts stalk slow with Steps unheard,
When moaning Cries the lonesome Ruins fill,
So pitiful they howl! and shriek so hollow shrill!
These dismal Yells the Shepherds shiv'ring hear,
And feign bold Talk to chace the freezing Fear;
But when the Nod of some much-injur'd Shade
Sadly invites 'em with his beck'ning Head,
They fly. They wonder at their Speed unknown,
Glad that they shun the Sprite—yet, hast'ning on,
Oft look behind to view the Sprite they shun.
Where holy Pilgrims wont to kneel and pray,
Now browzing Goats, and lowing Oxen stray,
O'er mould'ring Pillars creeps the blushing Vine,
And leafy Fig invests each solemn Shrine,

103

O'er venerable Virgins sculptur'd Heads,
Nods horrid Thorn, and darksome Elder spreads,
And with close Foliage o'er the pictur'd Walls,
Time's favourite Plant the mournful Ivy crawls;
Warning the Cock, no more the midnight Bell,
Call'd the pale Sisters from the silent Cell,
Whose Lamps to bless benighted Wand'rers Sight,
Cast thro' thick Windows a dim doubtful Light.

Religion wept.—to fill fair Albion's Throne,
Till gracious Heav'n sent bounteous Anna down;
Alike for Mercy and for War renown'd,
She rais'd the drooping Priesthood from the Ground;
Stoop'd from her Throne to hear each mournful Sigh,
With Thunder in her Hand, but Pity in her Eye;

104

Queen of th' Afflicted! form'd by Heav'n to melt,
At every Woe distrestful Virtue felt:
Thy Name shall last with freshest Laurels crown'd,
Long as thy Churchill's Sword shall be renown'd;
'Till Danube cease to tremble at thy Name,
Forgetful of the Blood that stain'd his fearful Stream.

105

VERSES

Written after seeing Windsor Castle.

From beauteous Windsor's high and story'd Halls,
Where Edward's Chiefs start from the glowing Walls,
To my low Cott, from ivory Beds of State,
Pleas'd I return unenvious of the Great.
So the Bee ranges o'er the vary'd Scenes
Of Corn, of Heaths, of Fallows, and of Greens,
Pervades the Thicket, soars above the Hill,
Or murmurs to the Meadows murm'ring Rill;
Now haunts old hollow'd Oaks, deserted Cells,
Now seeks the low Vale-Lilly's silver Bells;

106

Sips the warm Fragrance of the Greenhouse Bow'rs,
And tastes the Myrtle and the Citron-flow'rs;
At length returning to the wonted Comb,
Prefers to All his little Straw-built Home.

107

AGAINST DRESS.

To a Lady.

I

Why will Neæra fondly deck
With pearly Rows her polish'd Neck;
Why with the feathery Tippet hide,
Her swelling Bosom's spotless Pride?
With genuine Beauties, all your own,
You need not borrow Venus' Zone.

II

Whence all this fashionable Care,
To curl that lovely Length of Hair,
Which Nature meant shou'd flow profuse,
In Ringlets beautifully loose:

108

The studied Fopperies of Art
No real Elegance impart.

III

Mark, fair One, in its native Bed,
How blooms the Cowslip's velvet Head;
What luscious Clusters load the Vines,
Whose Growth no skilful Hand confines;
How sweet the Lark and Nightingale
Untaught and artless charm the Vale.

109

ON LUXURY.

Why, ye Profuse, has Nature work'd in vain,
To cloath with useful Woods Britannia's Plain?
Why the stout Oak, great King of Forests, made,
The knotted Ewe, and Beech of solemn Shade?
Why bends the Ash high-rustling o'er the Hills,
Why Poplars tall o'erhang the creeping Rills?
My Lord contemptuous of his Country's Groves,
As foreign Fashions foreign Trees too loves:
“Odious! upon a Walnut-plank to dine!
“No—the red-vein'd Mohoggony be mine!
“Each Chest and Chair around my Room that stands,
“Was ship'd thro' dangerous Seas from distant Lands:

110

“Death! shou'd your British Cloths my Limbs infold!
“How clumsily they sett when lac'd with Gold!
“For me rich Persia's Products cross the Deep,
“I owe my Dress to Silkworms, not to Sheep!
“And sent to China the poor Sailor burns,
“To fetch me Cups, Bowls, Urinals and Urns.”—

While thus the Great to modish Trifles stoop,
Each Science sorrows, all the Muses droop;
For those who most should patronize the Muse,
Neglect, or dread, or fetter, or abuse.
Pictura hangs the Head, and sighing stands,
And drops the useless Pallet from her Hands;
Sculpture that hop'd our lofty Halls to grace,
With Raleigh's, Bacon's, Milton's, Newton's Face,

111

(Names that from Britons claim a loud Applause)
Weeps, breaks her rusty Chissel and withdraws.

The thoughtless Rich on rosy Beds repose,
With downy-finger'd Sloth their Eyes to close;
The Hand quite unemploy'd, and mute the Tongue,
Like idle Lutes in musty Cases hung:
Man grows fatigu'd with even Paths and plain,
Life sweetest tastes diversify'd with Pain;
The Table-Diamond shines not half so bright,
As brilliant Angles rich with varied Light.
Should Fortune frown, her Favourite's Visions cease,
His Soul starts conscious from the Bands of Ease;
Adversity to Action wakes his Worth,
And gives each hidden Talent, Life and Birth.

112

So when bleak Winter strips the mournful Trees,
The Traveller, Towns, Temples, Villa's sees,
That in warm Spring invisible had stood,
Too deeply bosom'd in the branching Wood.

113

ON WOMEN.

I

Three Talents to the Fair belong,
Beauty, Cunning, and a Tongue;
By which Men lose these other Three,
Reason, Time, and Liberty:
Great is th' Advantage when their Pow'r they try,
In killing those that still desire to die.

II

What triple Panoply, my Friend,
From Beauty's Darts can Souls defend?
Tho' sullen Satan never lov'd,
Yet this unlucky Truth he prov'd,

114

That Man by Woman might be manag'd best,
He ruin'd Eve, so left to her the rest.

III

Yet, partial Muse, forbear to blame
The Fair for this increasing Flame;
Each Lover is their easy Prey,
And those who will be Captives may:
The Loss is sure that with Desire is sought,
We know the Snare, yet labour to be caught.

IV

No Wonder then old Mico's Breast,
At Sixty-five is still possest;
Cupid in Time grows past Controul,
Enthron'd within our inmost Soul;
For Love's a Charm that ne'er can be undone,
While thus th' Inchanted rashly help it on.

115

AN ODE,

Written in a Grotto near Farnham in Surry, call'd Ludlow's Cave.

I.

Close in this deep Retreat
O coolly let me sit,
Shelter'd from the sultry Day!
Sirius and Sol with burning Beams
So strike the gasping Fields below,
That not an Ox is heard to low,
Or little Warbler from his Throat
To pour the sweetly-winding Note.

116

II.

The Nymphs that keep this circling Wood,
And beauteous Naïads of the neighb'ring Flood,
With their Dew-dropping Hair,
Oft to this unadorned Cave repair,
To dance and trip it in a Round
On the smooth and hallow'd Ground;
And say—“That Dian's Grott, and Thetis' Bow'rs,
“Must yield in Coolness and in Shade to our's.”—

III.

'Twas Here, as old Traditions tell,
A wither'd Witch was wont to dwell;
The magic Mutterings of whose Voice could call
A thousand Dæmons from their darksome Hall,
Bid haste the wild Winds from their Northern Caves,
Obscure the Moon, and rouse the roaring Waves:

117

Here Lud, retiring from fierce Battle came,
And from his Helmet quaff'd the cooling Stream;
Leant on his Spear, unrein'd his foamy Steed,
To pasture on the green, refreshful Mead.

IV.

Here what a solemn Silence reigns,
Save the Tinklings of a Rill,
That gushing from the hollow Hill,
Pensive, as it runs, complains.
But hark! methinks a Spirit speaks,
A Voice from the remotest Caverns breaks;—
“From the vain World learn, Mortal, to retire,
“With true Ambition to high Heav'n aspire;
“Grandeur and Glory trifling Hearts trepan,
“These Toys disdain, for Virtue makes the Man.”—

118

V.

Let me therefore ever dwell,
In this twilight, solemn Cell,
For musing Melancholy made,
Whose Entrance venerable Oaks o'ershade,
And whose Roof that lowly bends,
With awful Gloom my serious Thoughts befriends:
Here let me dwell,
'Till Death shall say—“Thy Cavern leave,
“Change it for a darker Grave.”

119

TO A FRIEND,

On his Marriage.

When Peleus wedded on Thessalia's Plain,
The silver-footed Regent of the Main,
The Gods came flocking to the Nuptial Feast,
Each left his Nectar to be Peleus' Guest;
Jove laid his Scepter and his Thunders by,
In Amber Clouds descending from the Sky;
While Juno sat all-blooming by his Side,
With Charms like those which for the Apple vy'd;
Next, gayly-dancing, Hand in Hand there came,
The Vine-crown'd Youth, and Laughter-loving Dame;

120

Nor absent was the Trident-bearing God,
In Coral Chariot o'er the Waves he rode,
Bad the fierce Whirlwinds in their Caverns sleep,
And Calmness smile upon the glassy Deep;
Last came, prepar'd the Bridal Joys to tell,
Each green-rob'd Nereïd with her chorded Shell:
A Band of heav'nly Virtues, far more bright
Than fabled Gods, to grace this Pair delight;
Faith, pure-ey'd Nymph in snow-white Robes array'd,
Meek Modesty of every Eye afraid;
Honour with manly Front erect, appears,
Hymen, an ever-blazing Torch who bears,
And Love great God of Raptures—not the Boy
Who blindly wont to favour guilty Joy,

121

But who presiding o'er chaste Marriage-Hours,
All the soft Luxury of Fondness pours,
While no harsh Jars the mutual Bliss controul,
But Wish meets Wish, and Soul cements to Soul.
Hail, happy Pair! may ne'er your Pleasures cease,
May heart-felt Passion with your Years increase!

Go, trifling Wits, insipidly deride
The constant Husband, and the tender Bride;
Rail at the real Bliss ye never knew,
Grow impotent and rotten in a Stew.

122

THE SONG of JUDITH,

Paraphras'd from the Apocrypha.

Begin the Song! to God the Timbrels strike,
Tune a new Psalm, and let Jehovah's Name
Dreadfully glorious, from the Chorus burst
In full harmonious Majesty of Praise!

The Warrior's Prowess, and the Battle's Rage
God breaks and withers; his almighty Arm,
Shield, of the Righteous, in black Midnight's Shade,
In Safety led me thro' surrounding Hosts.

Assyria from the North her People pour'd
Lords of the rugged Mountains; Armies fraught

123

With Thousands and ten Thousands, as they pass'd,
Hid the high Hills, and stopt the Torrent-Floods.

Where are the Boasts of Vengeance, Spoils, and Deaths!
What-time they long'd to see my blooming Fields,
Smoak under Volumes of the fiercest Flames
In sad Illumination; and to tear
The wondering Infant from the Mother's Breast
Hush'd into soft Repose, and on the Stones
Dash pityless: in vain they wish'd to tread
On mangled Youths, from the fond Husband's Side
Snatch the young Bride, and mad with lawless Lust
To make the violated Virgin shriek:
For lo! th' almighty Lord in Glory thron'd,
Girded with Strength, hath shewn his matchless Pow'r,

124

And deign'd to send a weak Vicegerent forth,
To crush their Insolence. No youthful Host,
Or towering Titan's Sons, with brawny Arms,
And Strength unquell'd, no Giant-Warrior strode
To the rough Combat, but a tender Maid
The soft-ey'd Judith, with her beauteous Form
O'ercame the rugged Hero, nor could Rage
Unmelted stand the Lightning of her Eye!

'Twas then unmindful of her private Grief,
When Israel mourn'd, the Widow's sable Garb
She cast away, and with the choicest Oils
Her Limbs anointed, call'd forth every Smile,
And every latent Grace, in Order bound
The braided Ringlets of her golden Hair,
Deckt in the brightest Robe her Form, and shone

125

In all the Charms of Nature and of Art.
How did the captivated Hero gaze
At every matchless Feature, gaz'd and sigh'd
By Turns, and own'd that all his Soul was Love!
That Instant in her Hands the Faulchion grasp'd
The female Warriour, and vigorous Stroke
Sever'd the haughty Satrap's Head. The Mede
At this astonied stood, the Persian Bands
In fearful Wonder ask; What God unseen
Such Pow'r bestow'd, and steel'd a Woman's Heart.
Not so revenging Israel—ev'ry Child
Of Sorrow starts into unusual Shouts
Of Joy and Gratulation. Assur bears
The fearful Tidings thro' his weeping Camp,
And trembles: But victorious Israel cries,
“Pursue, Pursue!”—The Lord in Battle strong

126

Nerv'd every Arm, and urg'd the vigorous Host,
Till sudden Death o'ertook the Painim Bands
Discomfited and fal'n, and all the Plains
Float with Effusions of Assyrian Blood.

Hence will I praise my God! high-thron'd in Heav'n,
Invincible in Strength and Pow'r; who said,
Let all Things be,—and all Things were.—Whose Touch
The Mountains and the Waters fly; whose Breath
Melts the hard Rock like Wax! yet ev'n this God
So great and glorious, deigns to bend his Ear,
To listen to the meek Man's Pray'r, and joins
Mercy with Terror, Tenderness with Pow'r.

127

What Off'rings can we pay to such a God,
What Incense can ascend to Heav'n, or Lamb
Be worthily accepted! yet an Heart
Pure and unspotted will the Lord receive
Well-pleas'd, and wrap it in eternal Peace.

But Wo! to those who meditating Wrongs
And Violence to Israel, slay her Sons
Or spoil her Lands: Jehovah's Self shall come
At the last vengeful Judgment, and shall say
Before his dread Tribunal—Hence to Hell
Ye Grinders of my People, there to feel
Th' undying Worm, to mourn, to toss, to yell,
Roll'd in a Deluge of sulphureous Flame!

128

A PARAPHRASE On the 65th Psalm.

To Thee, Jehovah, grateful Sion sings,
And with thy Praise thy holy City rings;
To Thee, from Heav'n O pitifully bow,
Mankind prefers an universal Vow!
The Snares of Sin against my Soul prevail,
A contrite Spirit let thy Mercy heal!
Blest is the spotless Man who dwells with Thee,
The Treasures of thy Temple shall he see,
Be wrapt in Bliss, and in thy own Abode,
Enjoy the fullest Glories of his God.
What Wonders shall the Lord of Sabaoth shew,
The great Salvation of the World below!

129

Who with his Strength the Lands in Safety keeps,
And all that see his Wonders in the Deeps,
Fast the Foundations of the Mountains joins,
And girds about with Pow'r his mighty Loins!
He speaks—the Tumults of the People cease—
He nods—the raging Ocean sinks to Peace—
Thy Tokens dart Amazement to the Soul,
And all the Nations fear from Pole to Pole!
Thee with a fiercer or a fainter Ray,
The Morn and Evening praise, the Night and Day!—

God from his copious Rivers Plenty pours,
Cloaths the luxuriant Earth with balmy Flow'rs,
Bathes in soft genial Dews the tender Root,
And loads the gladsome Year with golden Fruit;

130

From vernal Skies abundant Bounty sends,
And luscious Fatness from his Clouds descends;
Hence fragrant Greens the pathless Wild o'erspread,
For Joy the little Hills exalt their Head,
The crowded Folds with num'rous Bleats resound,
And the full Valleys laugh and sing and shout around.

131

STANZAS,

Imitated from Psalm CXIX.

I

Say, how shall thoughtless, easy-natur'd Youth,
Be pure from all the Stains their Follies give?
O let them learn the sober Law of Truth,
Know thy Rewards, and answerably live.

II

Full of this Hope I seek thee, dearest Lord,
And lest the Foe once more my Soul should win,
Deep in my Heart I treasure up thy Word,
A constant Guard against the Charms of Sin.

132

III

How am I pleas'd when Joy, and Faith, and Awe,
Strive which shall most employ my various Tongue,
That loves to dwell on All thy wond'rous Law,
Guide of my Life, and Subject of my Song!

IV

Now Fame or Pleasure, or the wealthy East,
May tempt indeed—but never shall remove,
The lively Zeal that burns within my Breast,
Thy Name to honour, and thy Law to love.

133

ODE.

I

To tinkling Brooks, to twilight Shades,
To desert Prospects, rough and rude,
With youthful Rapture first I ran,
Enamour'd of sweet Solitude.

II

On Beauty next I wond'ring gaz'd,
Too soon my supple Heart was caught;
An Eye, a Breast, a Lip, a Shape,
Was all I talk'd of, all I thought.

134

III

Next, by the smiling Muses led,
On Pindus laurell'd Top I dream,
Talk with old Bards, and listening hear
The Warbles of th' inchanting Stream.

IV

Then, Harmony and Picture came
Twin-nymphs my Sense to entertain,
By Turns my Eye, my Ear was caught,
With Raphael's Stroke and Handel's Strain.

V

At last, such various Pleasures prov'd,
All cloying, vain, unmanly found,
Sweet for a Time as Morning-Dew,
Yet Parents of some painful Wound;

135

VI

Humbly I ask'd great Wisdom's Aid
To true Delight to lead my Feet;
When thus the Goddess whispering said,
“Virtue alone is Bliss compleat.”

136

Written in a Lady's Watch-Case.

I

Beauteous Machine! let Love thy Movements guide,
Whilst envy'd thou shalt grace Aurelia's Side!
'Tis thine to please each Hour—a Task how great!
Which Cupid thus instructs thee to compleat.

II

When the Nymph kindly mourns her Shepherd gone,
Whirl all thy little Wheels, and urge them swiftly on:
The Nymph deceiv'd with thy officious Haste,
Shall smile to see that Time can fly so fast.

III

But at the Swain's Return O slack thy Pace,
And slowly linger round thy figur'd Race:

137

She ne'er can deem too short the Shepherd's Stay,
When, like great Juno, thou shalt lengthen out the Day.

IV

So mayst Thou sooth her Woes, her Joys improve,
Thy self directed by the God of Love;
And Beaux and Belles with Wonder shall declare,
That Cupid nicks with nicer Art than Quare.

138

ON A BEAUTY with ill Qualities.

I

Mistaken Nature here has join'd
A beauteous Face and ugly Mind;
In vain the faultless Features strike,
When Soul and Body are unlike;
Pity, those snowy Breasts should hide,
Deceit, and Avarice, and Pride.

II

So in rich Jars from China brought,
With glowing Colours gayly wrought,
Oft-times the subtle Spider dwells,
With secret Venom bloated swells,
Weaves all his fatal Nets within,
As unsuspected, as unseen.

139

AN American LOVE-ODE.

[_]

Taken from the Second Volume of Montagne's Essays.

I

Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful Snake,
Nor hide thee in yon darksome Brake:
But let me oft thy Charms review,
Thy glittering Scales, and golden Hue;
From these a Chaplet shall be wove,
To grace the Youth I dearest love.

II

Then Ages hence, when thou no more,
Shalt creep along the sunny Shore,

140

Thy copy'd Beauties shall be seen;
Thy Red and Azure mix'd with Green,
In mimic Folds thou shalt display:—
Stay, lovely, fearful Adder stay.

141

THE Second EPODE of HORACE imitated.

Happy the Man who free from Cares and Strife,
(Such was the calm primæval State of Life)
Securely ploughs his Fields and ancient Seat,
Fix'd in th' Indulgence of propitious Fate:
Him nor loud Trumpet's Clangors rouse to Arms,
Nor the fierce Deep's tempestuous Rage alarms;
He shuns the Bar, the Pride and empty State
That gilds the glittering Palace of the Great.
Now, pleasing Toil, the wanton-wreathing Vines
In soft Embraces to the Poplar joins;
To prune his barren Boughs his Hand employs;
Or distant-bleating Herds with silent Joys

142

His ravisht Eye contemplates, wand'ring wide
On a green Valley's wood-incircled Side.
From his prest Combs fat Streams ambrosial flow,
While fleecy Flocks their useful Pride bestow.
When ripe Autumnus blushes in the Fields,
Crown'd with the Fruits his own Luxuriance yields,
What Joys he feels to pluck the pendant Pear,
Nurst with his own kind Hand's assiduous Care!
Or purple, livid Grapes, the sweet Reward
Of old Sylvanus, his gay Garden's Guard:
Beneath yon' Oak's impenetrable Shade,
On Mantle green of the Mosaïc Mead,
His languid Limbs he shelters from the Heat,
While Nightingales their luscious Lays repeat:
And the shrill Brook in Nature's Concert flows,
That courts and lulls the Soul to soft Repose:

143

But when the Rage of Tyrant-Winter low'rs
Big with tumultuous Winds, and frozen Show'rs,
He rushes to the Chace with sprightly Hounds,
While the fierce Boar his Spear impetuous Wounds;
Or careful spreads his Net, delusive Lure,
The greedy Thrush unheedful to secure:
Or captivates the Crane, or timorous Hares,
Or Engines for the Felon-Fox prepares.
These mild Amusements calm the troubled Breast,
Parents of Mirth and Health, Content and Rest.
Mean while her destin'd Part the Wife employs,
Wreath'd in th' Embraces of her blooming Boys;
Chaste as a Sabine, or Appulian Dame;
She wraps aspiring Piles in chearful Flame;
With fondling Smiles receives her weary Spouse,
For whom she spread her Feasts, and deck'd her House:

144

Then milky Streams from swelling Dugs are roll'd
That Herds afford within th' incircling Fold;
From fragrant Casks rich Wines profusely flow,
And with domestic Cheer an easy Feast bestow.
Nor me the Turbott or the Scarr-delight;
Nor Oysters, fair Lucrina's Pride, invite,
Whom Winter's Fury to Italia's Main
Drives loudly thund'ring on the stormy Plain;
Nor the plump Partridge, soft voluptuous Bait,
Or Quails that swell the Banquets of the Great,
Than turgid Olives more allure my Taste,
Whose Boughs with fat Profusion bend opprest;
Or loosening Mallows' salutary Juice,
Or Sorrel sweet, that lowly Meads produce,
Or rescued from the Wolf a play-full Lamb;
(Tho' much I grieve to hear the plaintive Dam.)

145

Amidst this Luxury, what sweet Delight
To watch the joyful Flocks Return at Night!
To see the weary Oxen's lowing Train,
Whose languid Necks th' inverted Plow sustain,
And Swains that swarm around the glossy Hearth,
In Innocence of Joy and rural Mirth.

146

A PARAPHRASE ON THE 13th ODE of the 3d Book of HORACE:

Address'd to Miss Oglethorpes. 1705.

I

While Sol with thee, dear Fountain, plays,
O stay and listen to thy Praise!
Then stealing soft with silver Flight,
Outshine the polish'd Crystal's beamy Light.

II

Yon' sunny Mountain's richest Wine,
Shall mix his noble Juice with thine,

147

Each Bowl shall with those Flow'rs be crown'd
Whose Blossoms blow thy beauteous Banks around.

III

The young Kid too that Flavia loves,
That harmless o'er her Grotto roves,
That Kid which her fair Fingers feed,
A spotless Victim to thy Stream shall bleed.

IV

His budding Horns in Shoots appear,
The Promises of Love and War,
In vain! the Wanton's glowing Blood
With purple Streaks shall marble all the Flood.

V

Thy Coolness chears the wither'd Plain,
And Sirius burns the Field in vain;

148

When Beasts in Moans, expressive, grieve,
Thy frigid Waves the pining Herds relieve.

VI

Lambs dance around thy bubbling Urn,
And whiter from thy Flood return,
There Birds their feathery Beauties see,
And sing and dress their painted Plumes by Thee.

VII

Look, how this Oak, itself a Grove,
Lifts high his hundred Arms above;
How thick the tufted Moss below,
Thro' which thy prattling Waters fall and flow!

VIII

O Nymphs, tho' I unequal sing,
Yet thus adorn'd this humble Spring,
With noblest Fountains ranks its Name,
While You reign each a Naïad of the Stream.

149

A FRAGMENT of a Satire.

Shall essenc'd Coxcombs who from Toilettes come,
Strut, and squeak Nonsense in the Drawing-room,
Sagacious Critics of a Knot or Fan,
Soft Sporus's, faint Images of Man,
All form'd of Nature's tend'rest, Porcelain Stuff,
Their snowy Fingers shelter'd by the Muff,
Heroes for Sonnets, but unfit for Fights,
Herds of emasculated Sybarites,
Shall painted Insects, busy buzzing Things,
In Armies rise and Favour gain from Kings?
While wounded Veterans obscurely mourn,
And S---r sees Lawrels from his Temples torn?

150

O courtly Atticus, my Warmth you blame,
Unconscious of the glowing Patriot's Flame:
I feel, I feel, its kindling Raptures rowl,
From Pleasures and from Business steal my Soul,
And while it strongly in my Bosom beats,
No more I rove collecting classic Sweets,
Nor warlike Homer's well-fought Battles warm,
Nor Fairy Forests of wild Spenser charm;
No more I weep while awful Tragedy
Like Sophocles array'd comes stalking by,
(Leading ill-fated Oedipus the Blind,
Or the lame Wretch in desert drear confin'd)
Nor in mild Maro's Groves and Grotts rejoice,
Nor Doric Shepherd's sweetly-simple Voice,

151

No more convey'd by Pindar's rapid Song,
I see great Theron's Car victorious whirl along,
Nor crown'd with Grapes with gay Anacreon laid
Beneath a Plantane praise some beauteous Maid,
But oft resounding in my trembling Ear,
Methinks my Country's dying Groans I hear.

Rise, Satire, rise; 'tis sinful to be mute:
The Muse should whirl a Dart, not tune a Lute;
Gigantic Vice, beyond huge Tityus' Size,
Enormous Growth! o'er half Britannia lies;
O let my Satire on its Vitals feast,
Like the fierce Eagle on that Tityus' Breast!

Yet Oh! what Hero Folly can confound?
The dull, lethargic Villain feels no Wound:

152

Culprits, like poisonous Adders deaf, we find:
In Biscay's Bay who chides the raging Wind?
Such callous Hearts to no Impression yield,
All-guarded with Corruption's seven-fold Shield;
Unstung by Shame, and resolute in Ill;
Vice is a Python Phœbus ne'er can kill:
Heedless of Satire, Sin persists to reign,
As Curfews bid us leave our Fires in vain;
Poets, and Setting-Dogs, one Task employs,
Each points at Knaves or Birds, but ne'er destroys;
What tho' you sweat, complain, and rail, and write,
The mad, luxurious Town sins on for Spite.
Could Boileau to reform a Nation hope?
A Sodom can't be mended by a Pope.

153

To cleanse th' Augëan Stable tho' you toil,
Still Virtue yields to Heidegger and Hoyle;
Still Britons (Justice, Freedom, Conscience sold)
Own the supreme Omnipotence of Gold.

Philoctetes.

Theocritus.

The first of these Gentlemen was the Introducer and Manager of Masquerades in this Kingdom, to the great and irreparable Depravation of English Morals.

And the latter by writing upon the Game of Whist, in a Mathematical and Scientifical Method, (than which nothing could be more pompously absurd) extremely promoted the destructive Practise of Gaming.

157

A RUNICODE:

Taken from the Second Volume of Sir William Temple's Miscellanies.

ARGUMENT.

Regner Ladbrog, a King of one of the Northern Nations, being mortally stung by a Viper, before the Venom had reach'd his Vitals, broke out into the following Verses.

I

Yes—'tis decreed my Sword no more
Shall smoke and blush with hostile Gore;
To my great Father's Feasts I go,
Where luscious Wines for ever flow,

158

Which from the hollow Sculls we drain,
Of Kings in furious Combat slain.

II

Death, to the Brave a blest Resort,
Brings us to awful Odin's Court;
Where with old Warriors mix'd we dwell,
Recount our Wounds, our Triumphs tell;
Me, will they own as bold a Guest,
As e'er in Battle bar'd my Breast.

159

Another, on the same Subject.

At length appears the wish'd-for Night,
When my glad Soul shall take her Flight;
Tremble my Limbs, my Eye-balls start,
The Venom's busy at my Heart.
Hark! how the solemn Sisters call,
And point aloft to Odin's Hall!
I come, I come, prepare full Bowls,
Fit Banquet for heroic Souls:
What's Life?—I scorn this idle Breath,
I smile in the Embrace of Death!

Call'd by the Goths, Dysæ.

162

ODE TO SLEEP.

I

O gentle, feather-footed Sleep,
In drowsy Dews my Temples steep;
Softly waving o'er my Head,
Thy Care-beguiling Rod of Lead:
O leave thy Bed of balmy Flow'rs,
And waken all thy dewy Pow'rs,
And wafted on the silent Wing,
The Dreams, thy little People bring!

163

II

Let sobbing Grief, and midnight Feast,
Comus, and loudly-laughing Jest,
Never near my Couch appear,
Nor whistling Whirlwinds wound my Ear,
In Heav'n's avenging Anger sent,
To shake the shatter'd Battlement,
From whence the melancholy Owl,
To wake the Wolf is wont to howl:

III

But whispering Show'rs from off the Eaves,
Softly dripping on the Leaves,
Mix'd with the mildly-stirring Wind,
Shall woo to rest my weary Mind;

164

Now Silence o'er the midnight Ground,
Slowly walks his solemn Round,
In Mead or Forest, Dale or Hill,
Commanding Nature to be still.

IV

Kind Somnus, from the lofty Dome
To my low Cottage deign to come,
Leave murd'rous Tyrants' silken Beds,
No Poppies pour on guilty Heads,
While wailing Ghosts their Slumbers break,
That round their trembling Curtains shriek,
While Thoughts of many a Wretch opprest,
With Terror tear the troubled Breast.

V

Cramm'd with distressful Bread, the Hind
With weary Limbs and vacant Mind,

165

By buzzing Night-Flies husht, requires
No lulling Sounds from Lydian Lyres;
Rock'd on the high and giddy Mast,
Regardless of the wint'ry Blast,
How happy the wet Sea-boy lies,
While sweetest Slumbers seal his Eyes.

VI

Such Joys the virtuous Bosom crown,
While Kings and Statesmen toss on Down:
Somnus, to me such Joys impart,
Balm of hurt Minds, O sooth my Heart:
Lapt in the Folds of soft Repose,
We lose our Labours, Pangs, and Woes;
Thy opiate Influence we bless,
Parent of Forgetfulness!

166

VII

Place me, kind God, in lively Dream,
Near smooth Ilissus' winding Stream,
In Olive-shade, with ravisht Ear,
While Plato's Voice I seem to hear:
Or from the green, Athenian Mead
To the high Roman Forum lead,
Where Tully's Tongue with Force divine
Confounds pale, trembling Catiline.

167

TO Mr. ADDISON,

Occasioned by his Return from Hanover with the Lord Halifax.

Written 1706.

O for a Muse of Fire and lofty Style,
To hail Thee welcome to thy native Soil!
Just Art is to my infant Muse unknown,
Let then the Subject for the Verse attone.

Int'rest, that fickle Weathercock of State,
As Party prompts extorts or Praise or Hate;
True, Sterling Merit Prejudice outweighs,
Unblemisht Worth claims universal Praise;

168

Your Favourite's just Encomium you may boast,
Since Factions strive who shall applaud you most.

Amaz'd we see your finisht Lines impart,
At once the Hero's and the Poet's Art:
How nervous ev'ry Line, and yet how sweet!
Th' harmonious Whole how ev'ry where compleat!
Tho' bold, correct and polisht is thy Song,
Sublime, yet easy; elegant, yet strong:
The beauteous Graces searcht all Nature round,
At length accomplisht Addison they found;
There happy in a proper Mansion rest,
And make a Temple of his tuneful Breast.
Methinks I see great Philip's greater Son,
And hear him wish Achilles' Fate his own;

169

With Envy he admires th' immortal Man,
And Emulation boils in ev'ry Vein;
Happy (says He) who such high Praise receiv'd,
And eterniz'd in sacred Homer liv'd.

But happier Marlbrô, when fierce Winters come,
And Anna calls her conquering Hero home;
Finds here your Muse his matchless Acts rehearse,
While Danube choakt with Dead o'erflows the mighty Verse;
He more than sees what you so warmly write,
And gladly thinks himself again in Fight;
Again his Sword, imperial Gift, unsheaths,
And dauntless all around distributes Deaths,
With secret Pleasure vanquishes again,
A second Blenheim boasts, a more compleat Campaign.

170

Nor is great Addison confin'd to War,
His copious Muse makes softer Themes his Care;
By Him describ'd our Bards distinguisht shine,
In Him alone their mingled Talents join.

When Ovid's moving Muse his Verse inspires,
Himself has what in Dryden he admires;
In all so just, so easy too in all,
That Art and Nature mutually prevail:
Your Style, Souls, Thoughts, and Numbers so agree,
You're his Interpreter no more, but He.

How can we Maro's labouring Bees forget,
Each happy Word is as their Honey sweet!

171

Your Course unwearied you our Phœbus run,
And Oh like Him retire, and leave us oft alone!
We mourn your Absence, when We read in You,
What All admire, what's follow'd but by Few,
And by None equal'd—but thy Montague!
With him Germania's wondering States you see,
The blest Achates of his Embassy.
Hesperian Fields have once enjoy'd you too,
That much to Virgil owe, but more to You:
Thus Homer travel'd, thus where-e'er he came,
Contending Cities ow'd to Him their Fame;
As you his Art, you may their Strife revive,
And for your Birth more than seven Cities strive.

O leave no more, great Man, thy native Land,
Thy Rhedycina's Tears her Son demand;

172

Oft I frequent the Cherwell's winding Stream,
Make That my Helicon, and You my Theme.
How pleas'd I seek the solemn Shades alone,
And say, Here sung harmonious Addison:
Beneath this Oak in Summer-noons has stood,
Lay on this Bank attentive to the Flood.
As the fond Nymph soon finds by conscious Flame,
The wounded Tree that bears her Lover's Name,
So Bards by Instinct led, frequent this Scene,
Nor barely know, but feel where you have been.

Monarch of Poets! while such Bliss I boast,
My Muse is in tumultuous Rapture lost:
Transported with a Patriot-Poet's Worth,
But Language fails to give th' Ideas Birth.

173

From the Thirteenth ODE of the Second Book of Horace.

Proserpine 's Empire glimmer'd o'er my Sight,
And dim Elyzium shed a faint Delight;
Where Sappho's blest! who warbling plaintive Strains,
Melodious of her Country-Maids complains;
Alcæus too, who sings of Flight and War,
Whose swelling Lyre to deeper Rage would dare;
In sacred Silence chain'd, the Ghosts around,
Astonisht stare, and hang upon the Sound;
Of Kings depos'd the Throngs rejoice to hear,
And list'ning drink the Warblings in their Ear;
What Wonder? since the triple-headed Beast,
Starting—lops down his Ears; and lull'd to Rest,
Erinnys' Serpents sleep upon her Breast.

174

Nor now the wonted Chase Orion heeds,
Nor now beneath his Hand the Lion bleeds,
The Sorrow-soothing Sounds Prometheus please,
And Tantalus delude, and soften into Ease.

175

VERSES

LEFT ON A Lady's Toilette.

Why will young Flavia, all-accomplisht Fair,
Curl, powder, stick with Gems her jetty Hair?
Swell with a Hoop her painted Peacock-Tail,
Big as a vaulted Dome, or bellying Sail?
Why twinkle Diamonds on that snowy Breast,
Why are those faultless Limbs in Velvets drest?
Let Bestia patch and trick her out with Art,
In Crape or Cotton Beauty strikes the Heart:
What if too Gold adorn the artless Frame,
A Titian's glowing Tints are still the same;

176

Rich Spice ne'er loses its Perfumes or Sweets,
Tho' wrapt in dull Lauraster's Birthday Sheets:
Arts that embellish Life none discommend,
If duly check'd to no Excess they tend:
The Peer should differ from gross, unbred Swain,
Gay, but not glittering; polite, but plain.
Thus Raphael joins Simplicity with Grace,
Beauteous, not glaring is each Limb and Face,
While artless Dawbers think they gain the Prize,
Who tire with Gems and Silks the dazled Eyes.

177

THE GLUTTON.

Fat, pamper'd Porus, eating for Renown,
In Soups and Sauces melts his Manors down;
Regardless of his Heirs, with mortgag'd Lands,
Buys Hecatombs of Fish and Ortolans;
True Judge of Merit, most disdainful looks
On Chiefs and Patriots when compar'd to Cooks;
With what Delight Pigs whipt to Death he crams,
Or fatten'd Frogs, or Essences of Hams;
For fifty thousand Tongues of Peacocks sighs,
Mix'd with the Brains of Birds of Paradise;
Loud ring the Glasses, powder'd Footmen run,
He eats, drinks, surfeits, still eats, is undone!

178

Sees the swoln Glutton in terrific State,
Behind his Chair what dire Diseases wait?
There tottering Gout, and white-tongu'd Fever stand,
Big Dropsy, with full Goblets in his Hand,
Asthma thick-panting for short Gasps of Breath,
And Apoplexy, fiercest Friend of Death.
Sweeter the lonely Hermit's simple Food,
Who in lone Caves, or near the rushy Flood,
With eager Appetite, at early Hours,
From maple Dish salubrious Herbs devours:
Soft drowsy Dews at Eve his Temples steep,
And happy Dreams attend his easy Sleep:
Wak'd by the Thrush to neighbouring Vales he goes,
To mark how sucks the Bee, how blooms the Rose;
What latent Juice the trodden Herbage yields,
Wild Nature's Physic in the flowery Fields.

179

With Temperance sooth'd each solitary Day,
Free, innocent, and easy, steals away,
Till Age down-bends him to the friendly Grave,
No Fashion's Dupe, no powerful Passion's Slave.

180

ODE TO TASTE.

Leave not Britannia's Isle; since Pope is fled
To meet his Homer in Elysian Bowers,
What Bard shall dare resume
His various-sounding Harp?
Let not resistless Dulness o'er us spread
Deep Gothic Night; for lo! the Fiend appears,
To blast each blooming Bay
That decks our barren Shores.

181

Say beauteous Queen of Life-refining Arts,
Who wont to visit oft at midnight Hour
Sweet Virgil's laurell'd Tomb
On Naples' fertile Shore:
Say where thy Dwelling is? or on the Banks
Of smooth Ilissus, sage-inspiring Stream,
Where Plato thought of old,
And hoar Musæus walk'd!
Still dost thou tread the sacred Ground where once
Thy Votaries, or strung the golden Lyre,
Or taught the moral Song
Of sweet Philosophy?
Or in some ruin'd Temple dost thou dwell
Of ancient Rome, deserted of the World,
Where prostrate lies in Dust
The shapely Column's Height;

182

Where thou may'st still behold with raptur'd Eye
The beauteous Arts of fair Antiquity
That still can charm the Mind,
Tho' smote by Time's rough Hand.
When Man a Savage wander'd in the Woods
(As hoar Tradition tells) in ancient Days,
Wont from the laden Oak
To shake his barb'rous Food;
Thy Pow'r reduc'd him from his native Wilds
And to the soft Civilities of Life
Subdu'd his stubborn Heart;
And taught to raise the Dome
Well-archt, to string the Lyre, the breathing Bust
To form, and guide the Pencil, Heav'n-born Arts
That harmonize the Mind,
And fit for social Joys.

183

Thee once thou fairest Daughter of the Muse
The Goth stern-looking bound in cruel Chains,
And gor'd with many a Wound
Thy bleeding Bosom fair,
When pouring o'er Italia's tempting Plains
With Hand profane thy Temples he deform'd,
And all thy beauteous Domes
Hurl'd wildly to the Ground!

184

STANZAS ON THE PSALMS.

I

Not the Songs that nobly tell,
How Troy was sackt, and Rome began,
Not the Numbers that reveal
The Wars of Heav'n to falling Man;

II

Can boast that true celestial Fire,
That equal Strength and Ease,
Or with such various Charms conspire,
To move, to teach, to please.

185

III

Those Complaints how sadly sweet,
Which weeping Seraphim repeat;
Those Prayers how happily preferr'd,
Which God himself inspir'd and heard.

IV

Ye partial Wits no longer boast
Of Pindar's Fire in David's lost!
Who to the Hebrew Harp must yield,
As Jove by great Jehovah is excell'd.

186

AVARO,

A TALE.

Fast by the Trent (whose Gods this Fable tell)
A Knight in cooly Shades chose once to dwell;
Secure, in what his prosp'rous Vices gain'd,
Each Morn he vaunting view'd his Length of Land,
His Hills of silver Chalk, his Vales of golden Sand.
As on a Time, he lost his early Hounds
Far from the Musick of the choral Sounds;
Sudden he views some Shepherd's straw-built Cell,
Rich in a Barn, a Hen-roost, and a Well;
Then eye's the Swain, as to his Flock he calls,
And whistling lures 'em from their hurdl'd Walls;

187

Obedient to the Tune they trot along
And careful single out their plaintive Young;
With shorter Trips these bound upon the Plain,
Start at the Knight—but play around their Swain.
Their Swain observ'd how free they liv'd from Want.
And wish'd himself from them could learn Content:
In vain: a thousand Cares promote his Grief,
So, (hailing first the Knight) he ask'd Relief:
In vain; the Knight (tho' hail'd) refus'd to grant,
And thought no Swain would condescend to want;
Then told how well the rural Life was known,
The rural Life preferring to his own;
How oft himself would range a-down the Hill,
And snuff the new-built Hay-cocks strawb'ry Smell,
Well pleas'd to hear their Jests the drolling Rusticks tell.

188

Nor less would 'tend the Weanlings, when they play,
And how himself was once the King of May;
Then when the Swain but beg'd his present Aid,
Lest Ills unseen his wint'ry Age invade,
Courage! (said he) like Stars like Fate assign,
Thy Life shall still from Want be free as mine.

Unweeting Knight! he mourns his flying Bliss:
All as Polycrates his Fate was his!
For Heav'n averse rebuk'd such boastful Pride,
And where he once the lowly Swain deny'd,
Himself (alas the while!) begs now to be supply'd!
So hard another's Want will win Belief!
So Pride foretels we ne'er can need Relief!

189

CUPID acquitted,

A TALE.

Whenever Jove renews Mankind,
He makes A Will for ev'ry Mind.
This Gift is different in Most,
But seldom is by Any lost.
Some Folks—(now let who can deny it)
Give all they have to gratify it:
Some, to subdue, divide their Wills,
Like Rivers cut in little Rills,
That lessen to a shallow Maze,
And feebly run a Hundred Ways:
The Wizard thus, (in Days of Yore)
That thought to lay th' Infernal Pow'r,

190

In Pieces broke his Magic Switch,
But found A Devil rose from Each.
Yet Some a Better Course pursue.—
—But to my Tale;—Muse! What say You?
Why, That is plain, and short, and new.

Some Years ago One Astrophil
Was born and fitted with A Will;
No Matter Who he was, or What,
A Will He had;—I'm sure of That:
About that Time fair Stella too
(Gods!—Who does not fair Stella know?)
Was form'd The Wonder of Her Kind,
And had Her proper Will assign'd.
Their Wills were stamp't so like (says Fame)
That Both were only Not the Same:

191

These help'd the Poets in their Trade,
Pope's Similies by These were made;
Hence too his Rhimes for ever hit,
Made (by These Wills) exactly fit.
In short, for Virtues, or for Follies,
These Wills were Pairs, or Twins, or Tallies.

Well! Hymen—(as you guess, no doubt,
And you guess right)—soon found 'em out,
And bound 'em fast, like two chain'd Books,
And, ever and anon was peeping,
To see if Time impair'd their Looks,
Or, if They alter'd, in His keeping,
They alter'd Not. But Love, one Day,
Convey'd (it seems) One Will away;
And Which was That?—Nay!—Who can say?

192

For Love Himself, with All his Art,
Could not tell Whose was Whose a-part.
Now Hymen, you must think, complain'd,
That, “Tho' Himself Both Wills had chain'd,
“Yet One—Ah! Only One remain'd!—
“That Stella now, or Astro-phil,
“Might come upon him for their Will:
“That, therefore Jove the Cause should hear,
“And pray'd,” That Cupid might appear.

He Did: And roundly took his Oath
That Jove made—but One Will for Both.
His strange Surprize He then declar'd,
“'Twas Hard, He needs must say, 'twas hard,
“That He should be involv'd in Strife,
“He seldom troubl'd Man and Wife.

193

“And—What in this Case He might do—
“They ne'er would blame him for't he knew;
“And—Why then, Hymen? Why should You?
“Still; you shall never have your Ends,
“For This Dear Couple were my Friends!”
With That—He turns to Swain and Spouse,
And smiles, and leers, and sooths, and vows,
“For His Part He would serve 'em still,”
Then asks 'em (with A Courtier's Skill)
“If ever Either miss'd their Will?”
So, 'Tis Their Business Now to speak,
And pray—What Answer shall They make?

194

THREE EPIGRAMS Translated from the Greek.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following Pieces are a Pattern of the Simplicity so much admir'd in the Grecian Writings, so foreign to the present prevailing Taste, to the Love of Modern Witticism, and Italian Conceit.

On a CAVE.

[_]

From the Greek of Anyta, a Lesbian Poetess.

Come, Traveller, this hollow Rock beneath,
While in the Leaves refreshing Breezes breath;
Retire, to calm the Rage of burning Thirst,
In these cool Streams that from the Cavern burst.

195

An Offering to PAN.

[_]

From Theocritus.

Daphnis the Fair, that with the Doric Strains
Of his sweet Pipe could charm the listening Swains,
These Emblems of his Office and his Art,
To Pan presents, a Crook and barbed Dart,
A Stag's rough Hide, and with this Pastoral Pipe,
That bore his rustic Food, a Leathern Scrip.

196

To DAPHNIS sleeping.

[_]

From Theocritus.

While you, my Daphnis, on the leafy Bed,
To Slumber sweet recline your weary Head,
While on each Hill is plac'd the frequent Net,
Thee wanton Pan pursues with eager Feet:
With him Sylvanus, crown'd with Ivy pale,
Thy cooling Cavern seeks o'er Hill and Dale.
O fly; prevent their rude resistless Hands,
And burst ambrosial Slumber's magic Bands.

197

A PASTORAL

On the Death of BION.

[_]

From the Greek of Moschus.

Ye Vales, and Doric Floods, or Fount, or Rill,
Lament with me the much lov'd Bion dead;
Ye Forests pour your Plaints, ye Flourets mourn;
Utter, ye Hyacinths, the baleful Words
That on your velvet Bells inscrib'd are seen;
Be clad, ye Roses, in sad Purple's Robe;
Dead is the Pride of Swains, and rural Song.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, the plaintive Lay.

Ye Poplar-shrouded Nightingales that oft
In midnight Hour complain, the dreary Tale

198

To listening Arethusa's Waves prolong,
And that with him each Doric Muse is fled.
Begin, &c.

Ye Swans that warble sweet on Strymon's Bank
Come, steep in bitter Tears your sorrowing Song,
And tell in Notes like his th' Æagrian Maids,
And Bacchus' Nymphs that haunt Bistonian Hills,
That Doria's Vales their Orpheus dear have lost!
Begin, &c.

No more the lovely Shepherd sooths his Herd
With soft-voic'd Flute, beneath some ample Oak
At Ease reclin'd: But in black Pluto's Bow'r
Pours forth to grisly Ghosts Lethëan Lays,
While here above each Mountain silent stands,

199

And his deserted Herds in Mutt'rings hoarse,
And sullen Lowings moan, nor deign to feed.
Begin, &c.

Thy cruel Fate, dear Swain, Apollo wept,
Thee too Priapus Sable-mantled mourn'd;
And Pan surrounded with his Satyr-train
Sigh'd sore, nor joy'd to lead the merry Dance;
Wept the mild Naiads in their coral Caves;
Nor Echo more from her far-winding Grot
Is heard to sing, since now no more thy Verse,
And wonted tuneful Notes she can prolong.
Begin, &c.

At thy sad Death the sympathizing Trees,
Dropt their half-ripen'd Fruits, and fading Flowers,

200

Hung down their blasted Blooms; the pining Flocks
Refus'd the milky Stream, nor more the Bee
With Thyme enrich'd his Nectar-streaming Cell.
Begin, &c.

The Dolphin ne'er upon the sunny Shore
Made such deep Plaints, or in the rocky Wilds
Did Philomel e'er tune so sad a Dirge,
Nor Mountain-loving Swallow such sad Notes
Was heard to pour, or with such heart-felt Woe
Cëyx deplor'd her dead Halcyone,
Nor Cerylas in the Cærulean Deep
Sorrow'd so deep, or in th' Eöan Vale
The Bird of Memnon, fair Aurora's Son,

201

As when they wept their best-lov'd Bion's Fate.
Begin, &c.

Ye Nightingales, and Swallows swift, that oft
Have heard delighted his heart-thrilling Lays,
Whom seated in your leafy Groves he wont
To teach sweet Notes, responsive now repeat
The Voice of Woe, re-echoing thro' the Vale,
Join too ye Doves your sadly-pleasing Lays.
Begin, &c.

Who now, for ever dear, will tune thy Pipe?
Who to their Lip apply thy sacred Reed
Advent'rous? But to Pan the precious Gift
I'll bear, nor haply will he dare inspire
Thy Reed, lest thee superior he should prove.
Begin, &c.

202

Thy Loss the green-hair'd Galathëa mourns,
Who lov'd with thee upon the sea-beat Shore,
To sit enraptur'd with thy magic Verse.
For sweeter far than Polypheme's thy Lay
Flow'd thro' her Ear; she fled the Cyclop-swain;
But ever to thy Song she hasten'd swift,
With dimply Cheek, and Looks of fond Desire.
No more she now regards old Nereus' Bow'r,
But on the bare Sand sits, and tends thy Flock.
Begin, &c.

With thee the Muse's choicest Joys are fled,
No more the Virgin's luscious Kiss delights;
Quench'd is the Lamp of Love, and at thy Tomb
The weeping Cupids sprinkle freshest Flow'rs;
To Venus wert thou sweeter, gentlest Swain,

203

Than the last Kiss which on the clay-cold Lip
Of her Adonis dead the Goddess prest.
Come, Meles, hither turn thy sedge-crown'd Head,
Renew thy wonted Voice of baleful Woe;
That erst around thy sadden'd Banks was heard,
And echoing fill'd blue Neptune's distant Shores;
When cruel Fate thy first-born Homer snatch'd,
Whose Mouth Calliope with Nectar dew'd.
But now thy second Son demands thy Grief;
Each lov'd two fav'rite Founts. To Homer dear
Was Pindus' springing Well, while Bion drank
The Waves of Arethuse. This sung the Charms
Of beauteous Helen, strife-exciting Fair,
And the dire Wrath of Thetis' sea-born Son;
While This neglected War's resounding Trump;
Well cou'd he sing the woodland Wanderer Pan;

204

Skill'd was his Hand to form the rustic Flute;
Nor seldom would he milk the shaggy Goat,
Or Heifer breathing Sweets. Meantime he sung
How soft the Kiss of tender-blooming Boys;
While in his Bosom Cupid wont to sleep,
And Venus joy'd to hear his Lays divine.
Begin, &c.

Each towred City, Bion, thee deplores,
More heart-felt Plaints o'er Ascra's Hills resound
Than when Her Hesiod died. Bæotia's Shades
Forget their Pindar, and the Lesbian Streets
Alcæus dead, and all thy Death lament
In sympathizing Grief; while Paros deigns
With louder Woe to greet thy cypress'd Hearse,
Than when Archilochus' sweet Tongue was stopt

205

By cruel Fate; and Mytilene forgets
Her beauteous Sappho's wonted Lays for thine.
[OMITTED]

[_]

Quædam desunt.

In Teios' soft Anacreon bears the Palm,
Theocritus in Syracuse is fam'd,
My mournful Muse delights Ausonian Swains,
Nor to the Sylvan Lay disdains to stoop;
Which eager from thy tuneful Mouth she caught,
Oft raptur'd with the Sound. The shining Stores
Let others, narrow-soul'd possess, while I
Thy Lays inherit, and thy Doric Art.
Begin, &c.

Tho' nipt by Winter's Blast the Mallow fades,
And twining Parsley, Pride of Gardens, feels
Th' untimely Frost; yet each with Verdure fresh

206

Renew their Bloom, and with the Spring return.
But Man, tho' Strength and Wisdom stamp him Great,
When once the beaming Lamp of Life is spent,
To Caves of Darkness, subterranean Glooms,
Immers'd, in Sleep's eternal Shackles lies
Fast bound, no more to tread the Walks of Men.
Thou too to Realms of silent Night art gone,
While here above mean Bards usurp thy Reign,
Whose Brows the Muse's Laurel never bound.
Begin, &c.

O ruthless Hand that to thy Lips apply'd
The poisonous Cup, and baleful Draught of Death!
How cou'd the baleful Drugs approach thy Lips,

207

Nor still preserve its native noxious Gall
Unblended with the Nectar of thy Mouth?
How could the Felon drear that mix'd the Bowl
Escape the Magic of thy tuneful Strains?
Begin, &c.

On each the Fates adjust the Share of Pain,
And each receives his portion'd Lot of Grief.
O that like Orpheus I cou'd tread the Shades,
Or great Ulysses, or brave Hercules,
Then wou'd these Eyes behold th' infernal Pow'rs
Melt at thy Song, and Pluto, grisly King,
To Softness sooth'd, and murm'ring hoarse Applause.
But chief to Hecate thy sweet Song address,
And let her hear thy wonted Doric Songs,
For she of Yore the Vales of Ætna lov'd.

208

Haply deceiv'd by the mellifluous Sound,
She may return thee to thy desert Seats:
I too, my Friend, if this rude Lip was skill'd
In Music's Charms, or knew to sing like thee,
Would to the Ways of darksome Dis descend,
And from dun Night redeem thy sacred Shade.

He was poison'd.

209

A PARAPHRASE

On the XIIIth Chap. of Isaiah.

High on the loftiest Mountain-tops, unfurl
The Standard of Omnipotence, emblaz'd
With Pictures of Destruction: Loudly call
To Arms the starting Nations: Rouze, O Earth,
To fight my Battles, to destroy the Pride,
To crush the Head of barbarous Babylon.
Ye chosen Armies come! ye Instruments
Of Vengeance from remotest Regions hast!
Hark! how the Mountains eccho with the Sounds
Of trampling Hosts, of loudly-neighing Steeds,
Of bounding Chariot-wheels, that pour amain

210

Down the steep Valley, like the deaf'ning Roar
Of rushing Torrents, or the threat'ning Voice
Of mighty Thund'rings, heard from Heav'n remote.
Howl, thou devoted City, for the Lord
Sends his destroying Angels forth—a God
Becomes thy Foe, thy deep Distress shall be
Unequal'd and supreme! thy Warriors' Hearts
Shall melt within their Breasts, their feeble Hands
Shall quivering drop the useless Spear and Shield.
Astonishment, and Anguish, Sorrow, Fear,
Shall chain their Faculties and Souls, as Pains
Soul-piercing Pains the pregnant Mother seize.
The dread Jehovah comes—before him march
Anger and Vengeance: The polluted Land
Shall desolated mourn, and far away
His red Right Hand shall shrieking Sinners sweep.

211

Then shall the Stars of Heav'n, the glittering Gems
Of awful Night's dark Robe, the pale-ey'd Moon,
The weary Pilgrim's Friend, and the great Sun,
Who from the crystal Portals of the East
Walks forth with tenfold Brightness cloth'd, and pours
Intolerable Day, all darken'd droop.
Earth from her Orbit shall astonisht leap,
Heav'n rock and tremble to the Throne of God.
As the chas'd Doe to pathless Thickets runs,
Trembling at every Breeze, and thinks she hears
The shouting Hunter, so shall Babel fly,
As a stray Lamb on desert Mountains lost.
Th' avenging Medes unmov'd shall hear the Cries
Of ravisht Wives and Virgins, from the Breasts
Of shrieking Mothers snatch the sucking Babe,

212

Smiling in its Destroyer's Face, and dash
Against the pointed Flints its mangled Bones.
The Queen of Kingdoms, the Chaldeans Pride,
The Glory of the Earth, great Babel falls,
Like burning Sodom in Destruction wrapt.
From Age to Age shall Desolation reign,
And Solitude thro' thy deserted Streets.
Then shall no wand'ring Arab pitch his Tent
Fresh Pasture searching, nor the Shepherd drive
His Flock at Eve beneath thy Ruins hoar
To shelter; in thy widow'd Palaces
Magnific mould'ring Domes, the Desert's Sons
Wild Beasts shall lodge; the spotted Panther breed
In thy King's Chambers, here the Ostrich cry,
And the young Leopard sport, with Song and Dance
And Harp, where eccho'd once thy feastful Halls.

213

THE REGAL DREAM.

1715.

The ARGUMENT.

That which gave Occasion to the Regal Dream is a famous Tradition mention'd in the History of Henry VII. by which we are told, that He sent to enquire after his Successors from a celebrated Prophet or Necromancer, who for his Answer return'd him this remarkable Latin Verse:

Mars, Puer, Alecto, Virgo, Vulpes, Leo, Nullus.

These Emblems the Author of the following Vision thought fit to alter in some measure, and to add another Line; the Whole standing thus:

Fur, Puer, Alecto, Virgo, Vulpes, Pelicanus,
Et Caper, & Cervus, brevis & Flos, dia Columba.

214

'Twas on the Day that Bosworth Field was won,
And Glo'ster fell, and Richmond wore the Crown,
When as I sat revolving in my Mind,
The Chiefs descended from two Houses join'd,
A balmy Slumber with a sweet Surprize,
Stole soft and silent o'er my yielding Eyes;
Fancy, officious every Part to act,
Or Nature's Landscapes, or historic Fact,
A Bower had built profusely gay and bright,
With all the Beauty that can take the Sight,
Not more enchanting that Elysian Place
Where good Æneas saw the Julian Race,
An Area soon with mystic Signs was spread,
Diversified with Roses White and Red;

215

Thither a Sybil call'd me from the Throng
To mark the various Figures move along:
My awe-struck Memory never shall forget
Their Forms, their Names, their Numbers, and their State.

A Robber first, with holy Plunder fraught,
Whose less'ning Bags were Gold, were Dust, were Nought.

A Youth came next, who charm'd with ev'ry Grace,
As Angels good, and O as swift his Pace.

A Fury then, with more disorder'd Haste,
Past by, and dealt Destruction as she past.
Her ruffled Garments dropt with Martyr's Gore,
And in her Hand a flaming Torch she bore.

216

Not so the heavenly Maid who next arose,
Admir'd by all, tho' terrible to Foes;
Whose Aim was nobler, and whose Speed was less,
Who rose to triumph, and who stay'd to bless;
A Phœnix she, that peerless liv'd and dy'd,
Nor left a Race that her great Loss supply'd.

Yet came there to fulfil her last Command,
The wisest Animal of Nature's Hand,
A tame, a peaceful, tho' a wily Fox,
Who never slew, but only fleec'd the Flocks.

Soon as he earth'd a Pelican arose,
By Friends deserted, and pursu'd by Foes;
In Both his brave Contempt of Life was shewn,
Who for the Good of Others gave his Own.

217

Here all methought was Dark! at length appear
A Goat lascivious, and a hunted Deer.

The Sybil paus'd—and her sage Art to prove,
Declar'd that These would different Passions move,
Our useless Pity One, and One our lasting Love.

Now rose a sweet Carnation's silken Flow'r,
Fruitless, yet fair, the Beauty of an Hour,
For poisonous Eurus came—its bloomy Pride,
That unexpected rose, as quickly dy'd.

Next seem'd to dart from Heaven, a spotless Dove,
Who dropt an Olive-Branch, the Type of Love;
Then all too sudden flew amid the Spheres,
And shone a Star upon the World in Tears.

218

The Visionary Crowd that gaz'd below
All wept in Dream, and gave a Loose to Woe;
Britannia's self abandon'd to Despair,
Her azure Mantle tore, and sea-green Hair:
Deep Sorrow wak'd me from th' unfinisht Scene,
Eternally to mourn a matchless Queen.

219

A FAREWELL to POETRY.

Nunc itaque & Versus & cætera Ludicra pono,
Quod Verum atque Decens curo & rogo & omnis in hôc sum.
Hor.

Arcadian Scenes adieu! in Cyrrha's Vale
No more I wander, where with loose-rob'd Nymphs
Pan and Sylvanus play'd, while on their Heads
The laughing Hours rain'd Roses; while to guide
Their nimble Feet great Phœbus came and touch'd,
His soul-bewitching Lyre: No more I sit
On murmuring Aganippe's mossy Brink
And wait inspiring Dreams; nor Garlands weave
Of sweet Parnassian Flowers for Clio's Head;

220

Nor seek the solemn Grott where Homer first
Conceiv'd his mighty Scheme; from whence to catch
One Beam swift-darted from his boundless Mind.
My serious Soul these Woods and Walks disdains
Where my Youth rov'd: A loftier Task demands
My sober Hours, (that on swift Pinions hast
To meet Eternity) to purge my Breast
From Error's Poisons; equally to poise
The jarring Passions; to subdue the Thirst
Of Fame and fond Ambition; to destroy
The bitter Seeds of Envy:—Not to smooth
The tuneful Cadence of a polisht Line,
But harmonize my Soul; whence I may hear,
With Raptures hear, the Moral Melody,
A peaceful Conscience yields, beyond the Strains
Of Attic Harp, sweet as the Midnight Song

221

Of warbling Seraphs, winged Warriors bright,
To happy, watchful Shepherds, on the Birth
Of great Messiah!—These be now my Cares,
To leave the Muse for Virtue; to improve
The Heart, not deck the Head with fading Crown
Of useless Bays; but chief my Soul to steel
With adamantine Honour, to withstand
Corruption's Tides, while courtly Millions run
To the black Pagod of all-worship'd Vice
To offer Freedom, Conscience, Body, Soul:
To be tho' single, constant; and to feel
The Bliss of Independence;—these are Toils
Worthy a Man and Briton.—Who can search
For tinkling Rhymes, when frowning Virtue points
To swift-wing'd Time?—At Close of Evening cool
What hasty Pilgrim, who long, pathless Wilds

222

Must traverse e'er black Night descend, would stop
And sit beneath the branching Beech to hear
The sweet Songs of thick-warbling Philomel,
Tho' ev'ry moving Trill be steep'd in Tears.

223

ODE ON THE DEATH of the Author.

By a Lady.

I

Accept, O sacred Shade, this artless Verse,
And kindly, O ye mourning Friends, forbear,
To dear disdaining from his decent Herse,
All I can give except the tender Tear:
He must not lie in his cold Grave, among
Poor shrieking Ghosts, unprais'd, unwept, unsung.

224

II

Ah! where was I when fiercely-frowning Death,
With brandisht Dart stood at still Midnight nigh,
Why came I not to catch thy dying Breath,
And close with trembling Hand thy languid Eye?
And on my sad Breast lay thy drooping Head,
And bath with Tears thy Hand so cold and dead?

III

Thee do I view in yonder flying Cloud,
Or do I hear thee in the hollow Wind,
Or dost thou still sleep in thy sable Shroud,
Where the dread Judgment-Trumpet Thee shall find:
O till that Day, ye pitying Angels come,
Shield with your Wings, and sing around his Tomb.

225

IV

But if advanc'd to Heav'n's empyreal Height,
Above with glorious martyr'd Saints to live,
'Midst heav'nly Hymns, and Harps, and Visions bright,
And all the Joys a smiling God can give;
O be my watchful Guardian Angel still,
Save me from slavish Vice, from Folly, and from Ill.

J. W.

226

ODE ON THE DEATH of the AUTHOR.

No more of Mirth and rural Joys,
The gay Description quickly cloys,
In melting Numbers, sadly slow,
I tune my alter'd Strings to Woe;
Attend, Melpomene, and with thee bring
Thy tragic Lute, Euphranor's Death to sing.

Fond wilt thou be his Name to praise,
For oft' thou heard'st his skilful Lays;
Isis for him soft Tears has shed,
She plac'd her Ivy on his Head;

227

Chose him, strict Judge, to rule with steady Reins,
The vigorous Fancies of her listening Swains.

With Genius, Wit, and Science blest,
Unshaken Honour arm'd his Breast,
Bade him, with virtuous Courage wise,
Malignant Fortune's Darts despise;
Him, ev'n black Envy's venom'd Tongues commend,
As Scholar, Pastor, Husband, Father, Friend.

For ever sacred, ever dear,
O much-lov'd Shade accept this Tear;
Each Night indulging pious Woe,
Fresh Roses on thy Tomb I strew,
And wish for tender Spenser's moving Verse,
Warbled in broken Sobs o'er Sydney's Herse;

228

Let me to that deep Cave resort,
Where Sorrow keeps her silent Court,
For ever wringing her pale Hands,
While dumb Misfortune near her stands,
With downcast Eyes the Cares around her wait,
And Pity sobbing sits before the Gate.

Thus stretch'd upon his Grave I sung,
When strait my Ears with Murmur rung,
A distant, deaf, and hollow Sound
Was heard in solemn Whispers round—
“Enough, dear Youth!—tho' wrapt in Bliss above,
“Well-pleas'd I listen to thy Lays of Love.”

Jos. Warton.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

An EPISTLE to Dr. Young,

upon his Poem on the Last Day.

An EPISTLE to Dr. Guibbons, a celebrated Physician.

MAMMON's PLEA:

A TALE.

RETIREMENT:

An ODE.

I

II

III

IV

V

OF THE Universal Love of Pleasure.

To a certain Voluminous Scribler.

AN INVOCATION TO A Water-Nymph.

AN ELEGY on an Infant.

A CHORUS,

Translated from the Hecuba of Euripides.

I

II

III

IV

V

Hereafter in English Metre ensueth A Paraphrase on the Holie Book entituled Leviticus Chap. XI. Vers. 13, &c. Fashioned after the Maniere of Maister Geoffery Chaucer in his Assemblie of Foules:

Containing the Reasons of the several Prohibitions.

To Her MAJESTY Queen CAROLINE, ON HER Accession to the THRONE:

Being the concluding Copy in the Oxford Collection upon that Occasion.

ODE ON THE PASSION.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

The Eighth ODE of the Second Book of Horace. 47

Imitated.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

ASTROPHIL to his SON, aged Seven Months.

PHILANDER,

AN Imitation of SPENCER:

Occasioned by the Death of Mr. William Levinz, of M. C. Oxon, Nov. 1706.

ON THE DEATH OF Mr. WILLIAM LEVINZ.

TO BAPTISTA TURRIANO,

FROM THE Latin of Fracastorius: On the Death of his Sons.

To the Right Honourable George Dodington, Esq

ON MAY MORNING.

On a Gentleman whose Mistress had an ill Breath.

VERSES

ON Henry the Eighth's seizing the Abbey-Lands, and on Queen Anne's Augmentation of Livings.

VERSES

Written after seeing Windsor Castle.

AGAINST DRESS.

I

II

III

ON LUXURY.

ON WOMEN.

I

II

III

IV

AN ODE,

Written in a Grotto near Farnham in Surry, call'd Ludlow's Cave.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

TO A FRIEND,

On his Marriage.

THE SONG of JUDITH,

The Eighth ODE of the Second Book of Horace.
47