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

Sole, uncreated, Self-Existent Cause!
Being unconfin'd! uncircumscrib'd by Laws!
Nature's Parent! Motion's Spring!
Inhabitant of vast Eternity!
Imagination's Boundary!
Teach me by thy Pow'r to sing,

How to sing, and sing of Thee;
Flame Cœlestial! lead along,
Fix the Barrier of my Song;
Whence must I raise
The lofty Numbers, equal to thy Praise?

II.

In vain with all the Batteries of Wit
Thy Presence we explore,
In vain with Reason's Ballast do we try
The Ocean of Eternity,
Unfathom'd, without Shore;
Lost and bewilder'd in the Maze,
We sail the dark, immeasurable Way,
Our Lamp denies a steddy Blaze,
And only casts a feeble Ray;
So all our Knowledge terminates in This,
Thou art from all Eternity Alone,
Immensity unknown.

III.

All Learning does but strive in vain,
Learning! that mazy Cobweb of the Brain,
That renders all the Avenues
Of Truth, that in itself is plain,
Impervious and abstruse,
Perplex'd and intricate,
By that false Engine of our Mind, Debate.

IV.

Man! fond, mistaken Man!
Tho' his capacious Head, the sacred Ark!
Where a whole World of Science does imbark,
Has steer'd and labour'd all it can,
As Reason fill'd the Sail,
Yet what does all this fruitless search avail?
Learn'd Wretch! he fondly would pretend,
His Port is gain'd, his Race is run,
And all his tiresom Voy'ge is done;

Is done! how far? but just enough to shew,
That all his Knowledge is but empty Show,
A Pageant Dream! a Point! an End!
No wiser thro' the tedious Course he ran
Fond! mistaken Man!
Than when he first began.

V.

Whate'er we see, whate'er we feel,
Does all the God reveal,
Confirms the Grand Mistake
Of Those, whose Eagle-Thoughts would make
His Seat so wondrous high,
Beyond the Limits of the Sky,
Out beyond the World's wide Sphear,
And fix his Habitation there.

VI.

Think not He's God, because his Place
By Man's mistaken Race

Is fix'd on high;
The whole Creation speaks his Presence nigh;
Who on the Universal Frame,
Sole Principle! himself has spread,
On Earth, and in the Ocean's Bed,
Still varying, and still the Same.

VII.

In each new-rising Thought we feel
The Energy Divine;
And hence our Being prove,
From Him, who first stretch'd out the Line
Of Entity on Motion's Wheel,
And by his Power gave it Play,
To run it's destin'd Way,
Unbounded and Eternal Love!

VIII.

Whate'er we in this World pursue
Still points an Omnipresence out to View;

Our Passions and our Will declare
(In that we never act in vain,)
Whose is the grand and Sov'reign Care,
Who 'tis, that holds the Rein.
Our Life and Actions all proclaim,
With all this Universal Frame,
Who guides the Whole, and whence it came.

IX.

Say, Man! mistaken Man!
Now tell me, if you can;
Canst Thou behold this whole Creation,
The Godhead's Emanation!
Canst Thou behold it, and not raise
Thy staggering Reason up to him, whose ways
Are trac'd thro' all
This Universal Ball!
Whose Presence fills Immensity
In Beauteous Variety.

Whether in the River's Flow,
Or where, the Plants and Herbage grow,
Tis He, that guides and actuates the Whole,
Of all the World both Eye and Soul.

X.

Whether we send our Reason's piercing Rays
Beneath the Great, unbounded Deep,
Where Storms and Tempests sleep,
Whether unrein'd Imagination strays
Thro' the black, Howling Desart's pathless Ways,
The Deep and Howling Wilderness declare
The Omnipresent Godhead there:
The Calms and Tempests both proclaim
By wondrous Contrariety
The Presence of the Deity,
Tho' various the Effects, the Godhead still the same.

XI.

Whether amid the Gloom we stray,
And send our Intellectual Ray

Up to the pure, cærulean Plains on high,
There all the Glories of the Sky,
As round the liquid Space
They run their bright, ætherial Race,
Declare the God, who guides their Dance,
And makes 'em to the self-same Place,
Where they begun
Their Course to run,
At certain Periods advance.

XII.

Each vocal Planet, fill'd with Light,
As o'er the Bosom of the Night
It wheels it's Course
Declares the Omnipresent Source,
From whence it's Splendour came,
And glories to proclaim
Thro' all the wide, ætherial Way,
The Fountain of Eternal Day,

Who lives in All, tho' still the same,
The Great, Invisible, Prolifick Flame.

XIII.

Now fond, mistaken Man!
Thy baffled Knowledge bow,
And Know, with Rev'rence Know,
That all you see, and all you feel,
The Presence of the Godhead does reveal:
Nor think to hide
Thy boasted Pride,
But down with all thy Learned Store,
And with thy humbled Heart adore
Him, whose Immediate Presence rules
This Universall Globe, of All
Sole Principle and Life.

TO A Young GENTLEMAN WITH Mr. Addison's Miscellaneous Works.

To form the Age by ev'ry nicer Art,
By Virtue's Standard to improve the Heart;
To teach Mankind the Dictates of his Pen,
To live like Christians, and to think like Men:
To lash the follies of a vicious Age,
To mend our Actions, and reform the Stage;
To rise conspicuous in his God's Defence,
And laugh unthinking Atheists into Sense;

For This Great Addison was known to Fame,
For This true Britons glory in the Name.

'Twas not enough, by Verse to warm the Heart,
He joyn'd the Critick to the Poet's Art:
Impartial Candour all his Works attend,
Backward to blame, but willing to commend.
In Verse or Prose we equally are warm'd,
Nor more by Musick than by Reason charm'd.
In Him we see, how sober Virgil wrote,
How Euclid reason'd, and how Plato thought.

If ever Addison deserv'd that Praise,
Which few can claim in these degenerate Days;
If e'er True Merit could thy Youth controul,
And wake the dawning Greatness in thy Soul;
If ever all that's Generous, Great, Divine
Could touch the Passions of a Mind like Thine;
Accept this humble Off'ring, and excuse
This long Encomium from no venal Muse;

Whose steddy Temper by no Party sway'd,
Has gain'd no Honours, or a Friend betray'd;
Was never servile to the Great-Man's Call,
Equally careless or to rise or fall;
Now boldly rising in the Poet's Praise,
Strives by his Worth to animate her Lays.

That all that's Good you wisely may embrace,
And your bright Annals by no Crime deface;
That all your Actions may be Great, Divine,
And add new Honours to your ancient Line;
That you may rise like Addison in Name,
And trace his footsteps thro' the Paths of Fame;
Read, and attend: imbibe each Heav'nly Part,
And graft his bright Perfections on your Heart.

Hence may you learn by several ways to please,
“To think with Judgment, and to write with Ease,”
To blame with Candour, but to give your Praise,
Where Merit ballances, and Reason sways:

To rise with boldness in your Country's Cause,
Instruct the Senate, and confirm the Laws:
To be at once the Poet, Statesman, Friend,
To teach Mankind, and seek the Christian's End:
To be that Man, who may in Justice claim
His Country's Homage, and his King's Esteem.

TO A PAINTER Upon seeing a Certain APOTHECARY's PICTURE.

Out from the Canvass these faint strokes erase,
The Picture's faulty, you've mistook the Face:
Dost think we know him, as you've drawn him thus?
There's Difference, Man! between these Folks and Us.
Come, Come, Vermilion! try your skill once more,
See! if we can't draw better than before;
Here, take your Pencil; set Don Querpo—There,
Now clap beneath his Breech an Earthen Jar:

Draw him a-working Med'cines for the P*x,
Close to his Elbow set an empty Box.
A Row of Gallypots upon the Shelf,
With Roots as old, and musty as himself:
High o'er the Quack let Poppy-Heads be strung,
And formidable Alligators hung:
Here set green Jars, with Bottles all in Rows,
With Pills, and Powders, nauseous to the Nose,
There Bladders, Drugs, and Teeth the Medley-Scene compose.

Now Sir we've done: and I'll engage, 'twill do;
But as you draw'd—it was a Man, 'tis true;
But if this i'n't more like Him than before,
Then good Sir Paint! take my Advice no more.

AN Evening Slumber.

Fast by those Meads, where gentle Isis glides,
Fatt'ning the Flocks, that graze her herbag'd sides;
Where the pale Ivy round old Godstow creeps,
Whose mould'ring Tow'r hangs nodding o'er the Deeps:
As in the Covert of a neighbouring Shade,
My weary Limbs to pleasing Rest I lay'd;
Calm, and serene the Stream in Murmurs flows,
Soft thro' the Trees the Evening Zephyr blows;
Streams, Zephyrs all conspire to soften my Repose.

As in a Dream my roving Fancy stray'd,
And airy Phantoms in my Bosom play'd;
Slow from the Tomb fair Rosamonda came,
Her Shape, her Looks, as when alive, the same:
Down from her Head her Night-veil flow'd behind,
Decent, and graceful, sporting with the Wind.
Pensive and slow she wander'd o'er the Grove,
And (if I rightly heard) she talk'd of Love.

But now the midnight Clocks began to toll,
The Breeze diffus'd the Sound from Pole to Pole:
The Hour was come, when Ghosts are said to walk,
And to the Groves in horrid Accents talk:
Sudden was heard to charm the lovely Maid,
A warlike Musick thro' the lonely Shade;
Now Regal Trumpets blow a Shriller Strain,
Now softer Flutes in melting Notes complain;
When lo! I saw great Henry's Form appear,
Still clad in Arms, and in his Hand a Spear:

Thrice bowing he address'd the blooming Fair,
And thrice the Musick floated on the Air.
Then hand in hand along the Grove they walk'd,
And of their past Enjoyments fondly talk'd;
Oft, I perceiv'd, they cast their longing Eyes,
To'ard the dear Bow'r, where Woodstock's Scenes arise;
As o'er the gloomy Wood, and lonely shade
They gaz'd, thus spake the visionary Maid.

Oh! tell me, lovely, dearest Henry, tell,
(For sure it is no Crime to love too well)
Canst Thou forget that ever-happy Day,
When in Love's Arms we first together lay?
When ev'ry Hour was spent in soft Delight,
Each Day return'd as welcome as the night;
Whene'er my Henry, sheath'd in azure Arms,
O'er Heaps of slain, pursu'd the War's Alarms.
Oft thro' the Gloom I'd steal a tender Sigh,
But then methought I heard thy Soul reply:

Whene'er the Trumpets fill'd the passing Gale,
And call'd my Henry from the bow'ry Vale,
Did not my Bosom with an equal Flame
Leap at the Trumpet's Voice, and burn for Fame?
Say, when my Henry drop'd a silent Tear,
Could Sympathetick Rosamond forbear?
Ah! no, she could not; all thy Thoughts were Mine,
And all my eager Soul flew out with Thine.
Oft in yon Bow'r, oft in yon lonely Shade,
Oft by the Murmurs of yon soft Cascade,
Have we together liv'd the happy Day,
Melted in Joys, in Transports died away.

Sweet are the whispers of the midnight Breeze,
That gently pants upon the trembling Trees;
Sweet are the Notes of tender Nightingales,
That sing their Sorrows to the listning Vales;
Sweet, all along the melancholy Shore,
The moaning Halcyons their Fate deplore;

Pleasing's the Falling of the drowsy Floods,
Pleasing's the Verdure of the dusky Woods:
But now no more these once-lov'd Scenes arise,
Melt on my Ear, or brighten in my Eyes.
Vain are the whispers of the midnight Breeze,
In vain it pants upon the trembling Trees;
Vain are the Notes of tender Nightingales,
In vain they sing their Sorrows to the Vales;
In vain, along the melancholy Shore,
The moaning Halcyons their Fate deplore;
No more delights the Falling of the Floods,
No more the Verdure of rhe dusky Woods:
Deep in low Vaults I keep Eternal Night,
Shut up from Day, and ev'ry dear Delight;
Where pale-ey'd Virgins sit beneath the Ground,
And pensive watch the dying Lamps around:
Whence hollow Sounds are heard, and Shapes are seen
Gliding athwart the melancholy Green.

Me oft by Night the wand'ring Peasant sees,
In pensive Mood between the Moonlight Trees;
Backward he starts, struck dead with pale Affright,
And flies me, as a Phantom of the Night.
Oft when the Night slow mounts her Ebon-Throne,
Thro' these lone Shades I wander all alone:
Oft o'er the Meads I roam to Woodstock's Bow'r,
Once the dear Scene of ev'ry softer Hour!
Pleas'd to behold our once-lov'd, happy Seats,
Our silver Streams, and bow'ry, cool Retreats;
These I've resign'd to One more fair than Me,
And proud I am to own, that Spencer's she.

O! could my Henry take me to his Arms,
As once he did, and revel in my Charms!
But what can we? stern Destiny denies,
Thwarts all our Hopes, is deaf to all our Sighs;
No more this Breast must feel the am'rous Fire,
No more must Henry glow with soft Desire:

Time was when we were happy in our Love,
When each bright Charm could ev'ry Sense improve.
Tho' vanish'd Joys by Fancy we restore,
Melt in false Love, and act past Pleasures o'er,
Yet how do we our real Passion prove?
Where's the Embrace, the real Soul of Love?
I can no more—for Lo! the Morning Ray
Peeps o'er yon Eastern Hill; I must away.

She said; and, like some Phantom of the Night,
Or Air impassive, vanish'd from the Sight.

A Place near Oxford, where Rosamond's Tomb is to be seen.

THE English PINDARICK.

Dear Thomas! hast thou never stood
Within th' Enclosure of a Wood?
There, Thomas, didst thou never mind
Th' Employment of some lab'ring Hind?
With how much Care, and Art Profound,
He piles his Sticks upon the Ground:
First lays beneath some of the longest,
Perhaps, because he thinks 'em strongest;
Then heaps some short Ones these upon,
So long and short, 'till All is done,
Which, when a With has bound up all,
The Country-Folk a Faggot call.

So fares it with those Publick-Biters,
Which we miscall Pindarick-Writers;
With Pen and Ink, and wondrous Pains,
They bind together various Strains,
First Lines as long, as any Arm,
With Rumbling Stuff the Vulgar charm:
Earth, Heav'n, and Hell must all conspire
To sett the noisy Bard on Fire.
Next comes a Line not half a span,
Like Dwarf behind a Giant-Man,
Trembling and slow, it scarce can speak,
But must in softer Accents squeak;
Then comes the Long-Tail'd Thing again,
Thund'ring on in frantick strain,
Wide it swells, and foames with Rage,
And leaps beyond the scanty Page.
Thus on they run in long-breath'd Chace,
Each other striving for the Race,

'Till having many Pages spent
In proud Bombast, and noisy Rant,
The long Verse drags his Length along
To full Extent; so ends the Song.
This Monstrous Thing, unknown to Fame,
Our modern Bards Pindarick name.

TO A Young LADY Sitting at her GLASS.

To touch the Canvass with the nicest Art,
To make it glow with Life in ev'ry Part;
To bid the blended Colours fall, and rise,
To melt the Soul with ev'ry soft Surprise;
For This great Kneller rose up into Fame,
Such was his Talent, such may be his Claim:
'Tis Yours, bright Nymph, in ev'ry Art to please,
With Grace untaught, and a becoming Ease:
To move the ready Passions, as you will,
To melt with Softness, or with Frowns to kill.

Kneller's nice Art could fill the Soul with Love,
But you can make the lovely Image move;
See! how it waits your high Commands the while,
Frowns, when you frown, and gives you Smile for Smile;
Whene'er you bid it share an equal Part,
Act o'er each Thought, and talk the flowing Heart,
The Lips in Sympathetick Language move,
Sigh all your Sighs, and speak the tender'st Love.
Unnumber'd Victims at your Toilet Die,
Struck by the keen Reflection of your Eye.

THE English SLAVE.

Why boast we our Freedom, and good antient Cause,
Our Rights, and our Titles, and true English Laws;
When we're taken amidst all our Triumphs and Arms,
By Albion's fair Daughters all-conquering Charms?
Sure the Gods are resolv'd, (since we can't be outbrav'd,
Nor by any foreign Invasion enslav'd)
They'll try what our wily young Women can do,
If they by their Arts can't our Courage subdue;
They have try'd, and 'tis over; the Victory's won,
Silks rustle, Fans flutter, and lo! we're undone.

A SIMILE.

Hast not thou seen, say honest Natt:
The Frolicks of the simple Cat?
How in a Chamber, young and gay,
Her Tail she courses round in Play;
How round and round she'll still pursue,
Still has the Play-Thing in her View;
Oft catches at it with a Spring,
Then misses it, and runs the ring;
Wishes to snap the Bauble in,
But whisks it back, and fools agen.

So fares the half-complying Lass,
When warmly courted on the Grass;
With eager Looks she eyes her Love,
And longs the soft Delight to prove:
Doubts labour in her anxious Breast,
She half-consenting to be bless'd;
When her Will makes a close Attack,
Fear and Suspicion pull it back;
What one likes, th' others disapprove,
So run th' Eternal Round of Love.

AN English PROVERB.

When I was but a Child, I remember, one Day
My Brothers and Sisters, and I were at Play,
And (if I'm not mistaken) 'twas Husband and Wife,
So at it we went with great Fury and Strife:
Upon this, my old Nurse (who stood by all the while)
God rest her dry bones! thus began with a Smile,
A smoky House, Sir, (says she) and a quarrelsome Wife,
Are two the worst Plagues, that attend a Man's Life;
I laugh'd at her Queerness, tho' then but a Youth,
Ne'er dreaming old Women could ever tell Truth:

But I Faith! I have try'd 'em, and found to my Cost,
That my Rest both by Day and by Night is all lost.
Good Heaven! her dry, wither'd Carcase restore;
For I ne'er could believe your old Nurses before.

THE RAPTURE.

Bear me, ye Gods! to Oxford's learned Seats,
Or cover me in Cornwell's dear Retreats;
Cornwell! whose Shades my serious Thoughts engage,
Cornwell! the Tibur of the Roman Age!
Where the soft Muses string the warbling Lyre,
And Heav'nly Scenes Poetick Thoughts inspire:
Where tuneful Birds on ev'ry bloomy Spray,
Sing to the rising, and the falling Day:
Where Fountains gurgle, and the Grotts reply,
Where Poets sing, and musing Lovers sigh.

And now, methinks, I've gain'd the happy Shade,
All careless on some mossy Bank I'm laid,
And hear soft Musick die along the Glade:
Hark! how the Brook in weeping murmurs flows,
Hark! thro' the Trees the musky Zephyr blows,
Ye Brooks! ye Zephyrs all continue my Repose.

But now ye Gods! once more exert your Pow'r,
To bless my Days, and crown the smiling Hour;
Let sweetly-smiling Phæbe too be there,
Phæbe! the darling Object of my Care!

My Pray'rs are heard; and now, methinks, we rove,
Arm link'd in Arm, thro' all the bow'ry Grove,
Whilst Sighs and speaking Looks declare how much we love.
As thro' the interwoven Shades we stray,
The interwoven Shades our Loves display;

Like these we stand, clasp'd in one mutual Tie,
Together flourish, and together die.

Now, all ye Pow'rs! who fill the Thrones above,
Heav'n's all your own; nor do I wish to prove
The Joys, that you can give, since Phæbe crowns my Love.

a Seat of the Reverend Mr. Perryston's in Oxfordshire.

Horace's Seat in Italy.

SONG TO PHÆBE.

Pretty Phæbe! if you love me,
Do not let your Talking move me,
Mention not a Rival's Name;
Pretty Phæbe! don't perplex me,
Let not these Reflections vex me,
That you feel another's Flame.

If you knew how you undo me,
Sure you would not talk thus to me,
Sure you kindly would forbear
Thus to rob my Soul of Rest,
And torture my poor, drooping Breast:
A Rival's Name I cannot hear.

Cease, fair Nymph! this coy Behaviour,
And take the Pensive Thing in Favour;
Charming, pretty Phæbe! do;
But if you will not value me,
Pray, why should I thus doat on Thee?
So, pretty Maid! Adieu! Adieu!

ON Seeing the P---R's PICTURE, IN A N---ry HOUSE.

Was the Truth of this known,
Now I'd venture a Crown,
That this Picture's hung here out of spite;
But be that as it will,
He fares better still,
Than if he was put more in Sight.

Was he hung amongst All
In the Parlour or Hall,
He could but be seen, at the best;
Yet I'll venture to say,
(Tho' He's out of the Way)
He's gaz'd on, as oft as the rest:

And I may farther declare,
He's seen oftner, than they are,
(Tho' but One at a time he'll permit)
For it's Chance whether All
See the Parlour or Hall,
But undoubtedly all People s---t.

THE CASE stated.

Sure there never was known
Such a Tribe about Town,
Of Poets and Beggars and Priests;
They flock so about,
One can hardly stir out,
Without meeting a dozen at least.

Should a Stranger come near Us,
To be sure he would sneer Us,
To see such a Tribe up and down,
As worthy men All,
As Those of their Call,
Either Men of the Quill or the Gown.

But we need not long doubt,
Why they strole so about,
The Reason, I take to be This,
The Cash of our Nation's
So little in Fashion,
That it can't but be so as it is.

Then, Good Sr. Directors!
For God's sake protect Us;
Let the Money but come into Fashion,
Then the Poets and Priests,
And those Beggarly Beasts,
Shall never more trouble the Nation.

TO PHÆBE,

On Her wishing to learn upon the SPINNET.

Say, Phæbe! say how could you wish to prove
The sad Effects of soft-inchanting Love?
How could you wish to see your Slave expire,
Struck by the Sweetness of your magick Lyre?
Are You too weak the Lover's War to wage,
That doubly arm'd you must our Sex engage?
Alas! we know too well your Beauty's Charms,
Too well we know the Conquests of those Arms:

But these suffice not your aspiring Soul,
New Schemes of Conquest in your Bosom roul;
With lawless Pride you spread your subtle Snares,
And boast, that Beauty's nothing, if she spares:
Then, charming Creature! have your wish, and prove
How sweetly you can kill the Thing, you cannot love.

TO PHÆBE,

Presenting HER WITH A RING.

Accept, fair Maid! this Earnest of my Love,
Be This the Type, let This my Passion prove:
Thus may our Joys in endless Circles run,
Fresh as the Light, and restless as the Sun:
Thus may our Lives be one perpetual Round,
Where Care nor Sorrow ever shall be found.

Thus may we live; but when you see me die,
Drop one sad Tear, and breath one gentle Sigh,
Then pitying say—may Heav'n on him bestow
It's choicest Gifts, that he Above may know
Joys still as Endless, as he prov'd Below.

French Policy.

England! awake! the Pow'rs of France increase;
Too long we've slept in soft, luxurious Ease:
Thou, who rejoycest in the Clank of Arms,
To whom the Cries of charging Hosts are Charms:
Thou, who art foremost in the Chace of Fame,
Whom the Earth dreads, and trembles at thy Name;
Shalt Thou thus stoop to little, modish Sports,
And learn to spend your time, by Forreign Courts?
Shall the rough Briton ogle at a Play,
Or at Quadrille pass the dear Hours away?
Shall He, whom Drums and Warlike Sounds rejoyce,
Sit sweetly-silent to Cuzzoni's Voice,
Sunk in soft Raptures shew the Charmer's Skill,
And Die or Live at pretty Madam's Will?

Shall He with Kickshaws A-la-mode be fed,
Train'd up in Sloth, and to the Toilet bred?
Shall he be taught to act the Coxcomb's Part,
To walk in Minuet, and run by Art?
Shall he be taught to lisp a Forreign Tone,
Talk in bad Language, and forget his Own?

Awake! awake! O England! rise! advance!
Check the proud Foe; 'tis Hell conspires, 'tis France:
Dare to have Sense yourselves, assert your Right,
'Tis theirs to trifle, but 'tis Ours to Fight.
Cressi has felt Our Arm, she knows us well,
Unhappy Agincourt the same can tell:
Since they can't conquer us by Dint of Arms,
They strive to undermine us by their Charms;
Perhaps too soon may teach us how to yield
Without the Terrours of a Fighting Field:
For this, we see the Trumpets laid aside,
And these by forreign Musick are supply'd.

No more the Helmet shrow'ds the manly Face,
But the big, powder'd Wig has fill'd it's Place.
Thin, airy Dress supplies the Coat of Mail,
And dangling Stick-Frogs o'er Broad-Swords prevail:
Arms and the Man are now quite out of use,
The One grows rusty, and the Other loose.
Now French Commodities are all the Fash:
Poor England's Products are but counted Trash;
French Dishes, Dresses, French Employs, French Courts,
French Fops, Diseases, Follies, and French Sports.
In short—we're Frenchmen all, and prize that most,
Which comes the farthest, at the dearest Cost.
O! where is all our antient Virtue gone,
That thus by false Temptations we're undone!
Too late in vain shall we resist their Pow'r,
Too soon they'll trap us in some vacant Hour;
Then may we, thus made Captive and forlorn,
The Fate, we courted, at our Leasure mourn.

Rise, England! rise; and let the Frenchman know,
That the free Briton scorns to stoop so low,
To empty Dancers, and a powder'd Beau.

TO SACHARISSA.

Dear, unrelenting, cruel Fair!
How could you first my Heart insnare,
Then leave that Heart to break?
How could you first obtain a Prize
By those dear, sweet-deluding Eyes,
And then that Prize forsake?

Like the close, Everlasting Flame,
My Heart is doom'd to burn the same,
Whilst you the Heat inspire:
You, like the Vestal, void of Sleep,
Within, Eternal Vigils keep,
And feed the fainting Fire.

Dear, Cruel Nymph! your Flames suppress,
O Love me more, or Plague me less;
Too much, you know, I've bore:
Either throw off that haughty Air,
And shew the soft-complying Fair,
Or let me Love no more.

A PASTORAL.

The Sun was sunk beneath the Western Hill,
Clear was the Skie, and all the Groves were still:
No Noise was heard within the silent Wood,
Save the low Murmurs of a rowling Flood,
Or what the passing Beetle breaths around,
A drowsy, humming, melancholy Sound:
'Twas at this time, a Shepherd's Boy was laid
Beside the Fallings of a soft Cascade;
The soft Cascade but slowly rowl'd along,
Hung in it's Fall, and listen'd to his Song:

The flying Gales and ev'ry passing Breeze,
With gentle Sighs fill'd all the trembling Trees;
The trembling Trees a dumb Compassion shew,
Droop'd their tall Heads, and press'd the Greens below:
The weeping Brooks ran mournful down the Plains,
And tun'd their Murmurs to his rising Strains:
But Gales, nor Trees, nor Brooks enough deplore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin joys no more.

Unhappy Swain! (the mournful Shepherd cry'd,
The flatt'ring Vales and lofty Hills reply'd
Unhappy Swain!) Ah! luckless Day to me!
Would I had never liv'd that Day to see!
When 'long the Margin of this silver Flood,
Beneath this pendant Shade, and bow'ring Wood,
The beauteous Corse in fun'ral Pomp was led,
Whilst the sad Stream remurmur'd, Phæbe's dead:
The silver Swans, that on her Waters glide,
And oft were seen to graze her herbag'd Side,

Now, seeming conscious of the lovely Maid,
Lament their Loss beneath the Poplar Shade;
(For oft at Morn, or in the Evening fair,
Phæbe would feed 'em, as her darling Care.)
With doleful Notes they fill the sounding Shore,
And cry with me, poor Phæbe is no more.

When Phæbe's Presence gladden'd all the Plains,
Fresh were the Greens and sweet the Sylvan Strains:
The feather'd Syrens warbled thro' the Shade,
And, as we pass'd, their tuneful Homage pay'd:
The Flocks and Herds in seeming Pleasure stood,
And Bleats and Lowings fill'd the lofty Wood:
But now she's gone, no more delight the Plains,
Nor fresh the Greens, nor sweet the sylvan Strains,
No more the Birds sit warbling on the Spray,
Nor, as I pass, their tuneful Homage pay;
The Flocks and Herds, unmindful of their Food,
And wild with Grief, run frantick thro' the Wood:

My Pipe, that wont before to play so sweet,
Now lies neglected at it's Master's feet;
And Tray, poor Cur! unknowing where to go,
Whines at my Side, as sensible of Woe:
The Birds and Cattle all with me deplore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin joys no more.

For Her the Shades their silken Slumbers yield,
For Her the Flow'rs perfum'd the painted Field.
For Her the musky Zephyrs tun'd the Shade,
And whisp'ring Boughs in soft'ning Musick play'd;
For Her soft-purling Rills from Summits flow,
Whose tinkling Drops resound in Grotts below;
For Her the Lawns and opening Glades were seen
Cloth'd in their Pride, and all their summer-Green:
But now she's gone, tho' still these Scenes appear,
Tho' still these Shades and Lawns and Rills are here,
Methinks, nor these my Sight, nor those delight my Ear.

No more the Shades their silken Slumbers yield,
Nor can I think, the Flow'rs perfume the field;
No more the musky Zephyrs tune their Lay,
Nor whisp'ring Boughs in soft'ning Musick play;
No more soft-purling Rills from Summits flow,
Nor tinkling Drops resound in Grotts below;
No more the Lawns and opening Glades are seen
Cloth'd in their Pride, and all their Summer-Green:
The Shades, the Rills, the Lawns with me deplore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin joys no more.

Come, all ye Nymphs! and all ye rural Swains!
Once the dear Partners of my oaten Strains!
(For oft' ye've heard me sing, and heard me play,
Whilst Phæbe tript it to the sprightly Lay.)
Come, and behold how low in Earth she's laid,
Come, and with me lament the lovely Maid;
Phæbe! the dear, sad Object of my Care!
Phæbe is dead! the fairest of the Fair!

Then what is Life? what Joys can Being give,
Since she is gone, for whom alone, I live?
But here my Sighs shall stop, my Life shall End,
Then welcome, Death! thou only art my Friend;
Thro' this clear Stream to Phæbe's Ghost I'll go,
There tell my Tale of Sorrow down below.

Then, with a Spring, he leap'd from off the Steep,
And plung'd his Soul beneath the azure Deep:
Poor, faithfull Tray, who never left his side,
Leap'd from the Bank, and with his Master dy'd.
The Nymphs and Swains beheld the Shepherd's Fate,
To the sad Stream they came, but came too late;
Struck at the Sight, they raise a doleful Cry,
The Hills, the Dales, and lonely Woods reply:
The Nymphs and Swains their fatal Loss deplore;
The vocal Stream resounds and hollow Shore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin is no more.

SOLILOQUY On Seeing PHÆBE a-sleep.

Ye Powers above! who guard the sleeping Fair,
Be darling Phæbe your peculiar Care!
Let heav'nly Visions to her Bosom flee,
Sweet be her Dreams, and all her Dreams of Me.
While thus I breath the Language of my Heart,
Within her Breast, perhaps, I share a Part:
Perhaps, ev'n now, she softens at my Woes,
Love takes her Heart, and in her Slumbers glows.
Perhaps, her Fancy now reflects with Pain,
On noble Tenders and a cold Disdain,

Describes my Gesture, hears my soft-breath'd Sighs,
And paints the speaking Languish of my Eyes:

But ah!—too much these fond Reflections seem,
Alas! I soon shall find it all a Dream;
Too soon alas! she'll rouse my former Pain,
Spurn at my noble Passion with Disdain,
And act the pretty Tyrant o'er again.
Yet—let me here stand silent, and admire
The lovely Object of my soft Desire;
'Till at last waken'd by my heaving Sighs,
(Which, as I gaze, within my Bosom rise)
She warns me hence by her Destructive Eyes.

A LETTER From a LADY To Her HUSBAND IN SPAIN, In her last Sickness.

[_]

See Spectat. No. 204.

Dear, lovely Man! these mournful Lines receive,
From where you left your other self to grieve;

E'er this, the last from thy endearing Wife,
This, the last Efforts of an ebbing Life!
E're This to Thee, can reach the destin'd Shore,
Thy Wife, thy tender Wife will be—no more,
And all compriz'd in that dear Name must end,
The Kindest Husband, and the truest Friend.

When Honour call'd, and by your King's Command,
For foreign Realms you left your native Land,
Too well you knew, what Pains my Soul oppress'd,
Too well you knew the Tortures of my Breast;
You knew, when Coughs my heaving Vessels tore,
How all my Lungs distill'd a putrid Gore:
And soon these Pains, that in my Bosom rave,
Will bring me down untimely to my Grave,
For so Physicians tell me by their Skill.
And sure, Physicians would not wish me Ill.)
Now even now, my vital Spirit fails,
Life now is going out, and Death prevails;

Scarce can my fainting Heart these Lines indite,
Scarce can my trembling Hand sustain to write,
But that fond Passion, which for You I bear,
Just lends me Strength, just gives me to declare,
That of the Pains, which Death sets out to view,
The greatest is, that I must part with You.

But let not This thy manly Thoughts controul,
And brood in Anguish o'er thy stedfast Soul;
Rather rejoyce, that my untainted Mind
Has known no Guile, in Innocence refin'd,
That no Repentance forms a late Delay,
Or stops my Journey to eternal Day;
But that I spend my latest Hours, intent
On those dear Pleasures of a Life well-spent,
On those dear Pleasures, which with Thee I've found
Pleasures, which few can taste in Wedlock bound;
And ever and anon Reflect with Pain,
That All so soon must end, and ne'er return again.

Far from believing these Reflections weak,
That they the Frailty of our Sex bespeak,
I rather think, a due Respect they shew
To what has been ordain'd for Man below,
In shewing such Unwillingness to leave
A State, which some the Curse of Heav'n believe,
A State, which, rightly held, the greatest Joys can give.

Since we can tell no more of what's to come,
Than that we all shall once receive our Doom,
That Pious Souls in endless Bliss shall reign,
And find, they have not strove with Vice in vain;
That all the Bad shall view Hell's dark Abode,
And own too late the Vengeance of a God:
Since we can tell no more; why mayn't we please
The poor, departing Soul with Thoughts, like these;
That, tho' we're dead, and lock'd within the Tomb,
Yet the fond Spirit hovers round it's Home,

Still has a Sense of all that's done below,
Still conversant in all our Scenes of Woe;
And may, perhaps, have this for it's Employ—
To guide the Actions, and the Wants supply
Of those, it walk'd with in the Paths of Life,
A loving Husband, or a tender Wife.
I may, perhaps, my usual Task pursue,
And, tho' unknown, be present still with You,
Sooth the loud Tumults of your troubled Breast,
And in soft Whispers lull your Soul to Rest.
Believe me then, thou dearest, best of Friends!
On whom my Thoughts, my Will, my All depends;
Nothing can so much Happiness create,
As this Employment in a Future State;
Thro' the rough Tempests of a boist'rous Life,
Still to attend Thee, still thy constant Wife;
When fierce Distempers rack thy groaning Soul,
And ghastly Visions all thy Thoughts controul,
To close thy Eye-lids in the Bands of Sleep,
And, tho' unseen, sit down perhaps, and weep!

To ride before thee, thy presiding Star,
And shield thy Bosom from the Storms of War;
To bear Thee safe thro' all th' embattl'd Plain,
My self unhurt, incapable of Pain:
For oft' I've long'd in Battle to appear,
Fight by thy Side, and shake the glitt'ring Spear,
Unmindful of our Sex, it's Weakness, and it's Fear.

With these fond Thoughts my languid Heart I warm,
These for a-while the fierce Distemper charm:
But Oh! too strong my Agonies prevail,
My Soul dies in me, and my Spirits fail,
When I reflect on all that weight of Woe,
Which thy poor, trembling Soul must undergo
When this sad News shall strike thy tortur'd Ear,
And drown'd in Grief tumultuous You shall hear

These killing Words pronounc'd—thy Wife is Dead,
And all the Pleasures of thy Life are fled:
But here I'll stop—
Too well I know the Anguish of your Heart,
Too well I know, I touch the tender'st Part;
The more I strive to offer you Relief
By fond Reflections, and asswage your Grief;
The more the heaving Tides of Sorrow rise,
Unman your Soul, and melt your yielding Eyes.

But know, thou fondest, know, thou dearest Friend!
Know, that e're this poor Life shall feel it's End,
To Thee dear Man! my latest Breath shall flee,
And the last struggling Sigh be breath'd for Thee,
For never, never must I see you more,
Soon at one Gasp this Being will be o'er:

Then take this last Adieu! Farewell for Life,
But still believe me
Your obedient Wife.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Sweet Songster of the Woods and Grove!
Cease your melancholy Strain;
Alas too well I know, I Love,
Too sure I feel the pleasing Pain.
Sweet Songster of the Woods and Grove!
Cease your Strains, I know, I Love.

Go, tell the Nymph, for whom I burn,
Tell my Phæbe what I feel,
Tell her, 'tis for her I mourn,
All the love-sick Tale reveal.
Sweet Songster of the Woods and Grove!
Go, tell my Phæbe, how I Love.

Thou, that art the Bird of Love,
The Secret of my Soul impart;
For sure you cannot fail to move,
With thy warbled Airs, her Heart.
Sweet Songster of the Woods and Grove!
Tell this, and Oh!—She can't but Love.

TO A LADY ON HER PARROT.

See! lovely Cælia, with what cunning Art
The little Wanton plays the Lover's Part;
Fain by his Prating would he shew his Love,
And all his Passion by his gesture prove:
Cælia take Care; be not too bold, fair Maid,
Who knows, but Jove lies hid in Masquerade?
Gods have their Tricks, as well as mortal Man,
And Poll's as great a Beau, as Leda's Swan.

ON PHÆBE.

At Phæbe's Birth, with ev'ry graceful Air
Confederate Heav'n adorn'd the lovely Fair;
Indulgent Pallas silver'd o'er her Tongue,
To speak with Eloquence, and die in Song,
Majestick Juno gave the awfull Mien,
Softness came melting from the Cyprian Queen:
Is there no God, who can exert his Art,
To make her Kind, and mollifie her Heart?

Ye Heav'nly Pow'rs! once more employ your Care,
Make her but kind, and render her less fair.
But hold—the Gods denie this last Request,
Lest Venus should be vanquish'd in the Test.

Upon seeing the OBELISK IN BLENHEIM Park.

Then could not all Those Monuments of Fame
Procure the Heroe an Immortal Name?
What? could not Blenheim's ever-famous Plain,
And Conquer'd Tallard with his Thousands slain
Make Him Immortal? must his Fame be ow'd
To what the forming Chisel has bestow'd?
Better had Malbro' met the fatal Dart,
Than been beholden to the Carver's Art.

Upon seeing a very Beautiful LADY MASK'D.

And what fond Man could ever hope to find
Such matchless Goodness in the Women-kind.
All made to torture, and afflict with Pain,
All made relentless in Tyrannick Reign.
But Sacharissa knows she's killing Fair,
Knows, that there's Glory got, sometimes to spare,
She hates to drag a Heart about in Chains,
And make her Slave endure a Thousand Pains,
Modestly fair she veils th' unequal Blaze,
And shines serenely bright with half her Rays.

As the Sun hides his Face from mortal Sight,
And pours thro' Clouds but half his radiant Light,
Lest the dry'd Flow'rs, unable to withstand
His Beams, should fade, and Earth be turn'd to Sand:
So Sacharissa, ever-charming Fair!
Makes this her dayly, her peculiar Care,
To veil her Face, and spare the heedless Boy,
Who by a fatal Look might all his Life destroy.

ON A Young LADY, Who accidentally fell into the RIVER.

As Chloe floated down the Water,
The little Loves came paddling a'ter;
They peep'd, and they laugh'd; for they thought it had been
Their own Mother Venus, the beautiful Queen:
But when they found the sad mistake,
They help'd her out for Venus' sake;
They wip'd her, and dry'd her; by her Dimples they swore,
That they ne'er were deceiv'd in their Mother before.

SONG.

[Behold those radiant Worlds of Light]

Behold those radiant Worlds of Light,
That rowl their Orbs on high;
The Beauties of a Starry Night,
That strike the dazzl'd Eye!

So many Charms young Phæbe has,
So many to Us rise;
Ten thousand deck her lovely Face,
As many more her Eyes.

Where-e'er she is, her Air, her Mien
Invites the little Loves,
She walks a Goddess, looks a Queen.
The Pride of all the Groves!

Then who can blame the am'rous Boy,
That gazes and admires?
Her very Looks create new Joy,
And fan the rising Fires.

Young Cupid moaps from Grove to Grove,
Disarm'd of all his Darts;
Whilst Phæbe reigns the Queen of Love,
And triumphs o'er our Hearts.

TWO or THREE

OR A RECEIPT To make a French BEAUTY.

Two or three Languishes, two or three Smiles,
With two or three Scraps of forc'd Wit between whiles:
Two or three Patches, to hide a few Spots,
Got by tipling Cold-Tea off by two or three Pots:
Two or three Stones to adorn a bare Breast;
With two or three Teeth, not so brown as the rest.

These toss'd up in One, that's about—fifty three,
Will make you a Belle A-la-mode a Paris:
'Tis true by my Soul—more than that—I can shew it,
Or never believe more the Words of a Poet.

THE English BEAUTY.

The True-English Virgin (no slave to the Fashion)
Looks as charming, as Eve at her Day of creation:
As soft is her Accent, her Sense as refin'd,
And her Dress is as simple, and plain, as her Mind.
As Gracious, as Heav'n, as her Climate serene,
Like F---ng, her Air, and like B---d, her Mien.

THE Slighted SWAIN SONG.

Fast by a soft prattling Stream,
Where Willows and Osiers do grow,
Pastora's false Vows were the Theme,
Whilst Colinet pour'd out his Woe:
The Breeze, that blew whisp'ring along,
To the Shepherd's Complaining reply'd,
When thus the deplorable Song
Ran murmuring down with the Tide.

Was ever fond Shepherd so bless'd?
Was ever a Swain so forlorn?
As first to be fondly caress'd,
And then to be treated with Scorn:
The Turtle, that bills in the Grove,
And then is forsook by his Mate,
Was never so happy in Love,
Was never so wretched in Fate.

Look down then, false Nymph! on your Swain,
And pity a Comfortless Heart;
Look down then, but without Disdain,
And heal up a true Lover's Smart:
'Tis for You, that I rove up and down;
'Tis for You, that I mourn all the Day;
'Tis for You, that I leave the gay Town;
And in Woods rather choose for to stray.

Sweet Nightingale! witness my Love,
Sweet Nightingale! hear me complain;
For you are forsook in the Grove,
And treated, like me, with Disdain:
I'll tell out my Grief to the Trees,
I'll tell it to e'ery clear Stream;
That the Rocks may sound forth, and the Breeze
To Pastora may waft off the Theme.

She forgets, how I've spent the long Night
Dissolving to Rest in her Arms;
She forgets all the Lover's Delight;
She forgets, that she ever had Charms:
Ye Winds! let her know, how I love,
Let her know, what for her I can bear;
Let her know, how I live in the Grove,
And at Night how I sigh in the Air.

And can You, false Nymph! be so hard,
As not to be mov'd at my Grief?
And can Woman have no Regard
To a Swain, who implores for Relief?
Since You won't of my Anguish approve,
But slight me with Frowns, I'll give o'er;
Thro' the Woods and wild Desarts I'll rove,
And think of my Charmer no more.

LA PENSIF.

Come Thou, fair Nymph, that dost dwell
In the humble, rural Cell,
Come, and with thee bring along
The Goddess of Poetick Song:
Lay me down in pleasing Dreams,
By the gently-rowling Streams;
Bring me to the rosy Bowers
Where the silken, op'ning Flowers
Waft their Odours thro' the Grove,
The soft Elysian Joys to prove:
Now what Pleasures have I found!
See! what Prospects rise around!

Tow'rs and Battlements appear,
Glitt'ring Spires, and Domes from far;
Now my Eye the Structure sees
Deep within the tufted Trees;
Now it views the wand'ring Rills
Shining bright betwixt the Hills:
O! the charming, pleasing Sight,
Ev'ry thing brings sweet Delight.

Oft' I lay my weary Head
On a Hillock's mossy Bed,
All the while the forrest rings,
Whilst the mellow Black-Bird sings,
Or the speckle-breasted Thrush
Warbling from the neighbouring Bush,
Whilst the plaintive Turtle coos,
From the lofty Elm, his Woes.
Or the Nightingales complain
In a sadly-pleasing Strain.

Fast by, the gentle-purling Springs.
With their sliding murmurings,
As along the Meads they creep,
Bring the downy-feather'd Sleep.
Then the whisp'ring Woods are still,
And Meditation takes her fill.

Sweet's the Evening's pure Delight,
Sweet's the Mountain's tow'ring Height;
Ruins glitter from the steep
Nodding o'er the wavy Deep:
Delightful seems the ancient Tower,
Airy Steeple, distant Bower;
Tufted Trees high-rais'd in Air
Please the trav'ling Eye from far.
Hark! the musky Zephyrs sing,
Throwing odours from their Wing:
Hark! the pretty Turtles cooing,
As far within they sit a-wooing;

Soft Complaints, and murm'ring Love
Resound thro' all the vocal Grove.
See! the Vallies smooth, and low,
Rivers winding to and fro;
Less'ning Rocks, and Country-Farms
Embrac'd within the Wood's green Arms:
Prospects ever-new arise,
And bring fresh Pleasure to the Eyes.
Ev'ry Breeze my Senses greets.
With wafted Odours, balmy Sweets.
See! the fragrant, damask'd Rose,
How on yonder Bush it glows!
What a pure, delicious Scent
Breaths from ev'ry Sylvan Plant!
All things please, of various Hue,
The yellow Dill, and Vi'let blew,
See! yon Bower, how it wanders
Round and round in green Mæanders;
Shades on Shades for ever bending,
Pleasant Mazes never ending.

When the Queen of Night appears
Lacquey'd by a thousand Stars;
Let me to the mossy Cells,
Where heav'nly Contemplation dwells,
With Eyes up-lifted to the Sky,
Aiming to'ards Divinity.
There I'll drink with open Ears
The Musick of the rowling Spheres;
Observe pale Cynthia's silver Light,
And ev'ry Star, that gilds the Night,
Heaven looks with all her Eyes,
As the Deluge floats the Skies.
Now the Light's at distance seen
Thro' the verdant, checquer'd Scene;
Here a Ray darts thro' the Wood,
There it trembles on the Flood.
Lo! the radiant, glimm'ring Throng
Majestically swim along.

But when the Sun drives on his Road,
Flaming from his bright Abode,
How they wink with fainting Fire!
How unwilling to retire!
Emblem of the dying Man!
Glad to stretch his narrow Span,
Struggling with his latest Breath,
'Till down at once he sinks to Death.

Oft' may I at early Dawn
Walk the russet-mantled Lawn,
Or the painted Mead, bedight
With Daisies, pleasing to the Sight;
Where the Flocks and Herds do stray,
Bleating, nibbling all the Day.
When the Lark has just begun
With Carols to salute the Sun,
Whilst the Sylvan Syrens sing,
Making all the Valleys ring,

From the Hawthorn's bloomy Sprays,
Warbling out their Maker's Praise,
Whilst the nimble, active Fawn
Skips and jumps adown the Lawn.
How delightful all Things look!
The dripping Rock, and shallow Brook,
Daisies pide, and Vi'lets blew,
The King-Cup, brim'd with pearly Dew.
Hard by the Plough-man's simple Song
Chears the tinkling Team along;
Whilst Cicely with her cleanly Pale
Trips it o'er the flow'ry Dale,
To milk her Kine, who ready stand,
And wait her gently-stroking Hand.
Lo! the happy Shepherd laid
All beneath the Hedge's Shade,
Or sideling on the Mountain's steep,
Pipeing to his harmless Sheep,
Whilst his jolly, Country-Strains
Chear the Woods, and fill the Plains.

Horses neighing to their Brothers;
Lambs a-bleating for their Mothers,
Lowing Herds, devoid of Sorrow,
Calling each to each good-morrow,
Streams, that o'er the pebbles rowl,
All conspire to tune the Soul,
With a vernal, rural Blessing,
With a Joy, beyond expressing.

When the Sun is mounted high
In middle Tower of the Skie,
And begins to dart his Beams
On the burning Plains, and Streams;
May some Wood-Nymph me convey
From the sultry Heat of Day,
Thro' the Lawns, and tho' the Meads,
Wheresoe'er her Fancy leads.
To the high-embow'ring Shades,
Twilight Groves, and cooling Glades,

Where Human Step was never seen
Tracing o'er the smooth-fac'd Green.
Or on some Romantick Mountain,
By the side of some clear Fountain,
Whose gelid Grotts, and prattling Streams
May bless me with extatick Dreams,
As they softly-trickling flow
From the Hoary Mountain's Brow.
Rapt in Thought I'd lay along,
And listen to the sylvan Song,
Whilst busy Man rowls up and down
In the Beams of scorching Noon;
So fares it with those Virtuous Few,
Who calm and pure, their Minds subdue,
And live their Days in Paradise,
Whilst all the World's inflam'd with Vice.

Oh! would but Heaven let me have
The only, little Boon, I crame—

A still Retirement by the Woods
Where fast by run the murm'ring Floods,
A Friend, an hour or so to pass
In merry Chat, and sober Glass;
Nor may I want my sole Delight,
To spend the solemn Noon of Night,
A Study furnish'd well, to pore
The Books of ancient Sages o'er,
Unruly Passions to controul,
And form from Them a Virtuous Soul.
Here Quiet, heav'nly Goddess! dwells,
Deep within these humble Cells;
Far from busy Mortal's Sight,
The Meadows are her sole Delight,
O'er the Grass she gently treads,
O'er the Fields, and painted Meads:
Here retir'd from Noise and Strife,
I'd strive to live the heav'nly Life;
Here I'd think on all the Great,
Plac'd on the Pinnacles of State,

Inhabiting the House of Care,
And think to find true Quiet there;
In vain they search, they'll never find,
She never loves the hurry'd Mind,
But far retir'd from vulgar Eyes,
Holds high Converse with the Skies.

Come, Ye Wise! and dwell with Me,
We'll enjoy true Liberty:
Thro' these Woods we'll careless stray,
Whilst the Blackbird tunes his Lay;
Or the lonely Nightingale
Warbles down in yonder Vale.
Here we'll live, and range at Will,
'Till Contemplation has her Fill:
And when my Thread of Life is spun,
Be This inscrib'd upon my Stone.

He liv'd, as knowing he must die,
Had no mean Thoughts, nor yet too high;

A faithful Friend; of no great reading,
But just enough to know good Breeding;
Not servile to the Great Man's Nod,
Obey'd his King, and Fear'd his God.

SONG.

[What makes my tender Phæbe weep?]

What makes my tender Phæbe weep?
O! tell me, Phæbe, why:
Why those bright Orbs in Sorrow steep?
O! wipe the flowing Eye.

Quench not that Star, that is my Guide,
O! spare the precious Tear:
Let not those Drops increase the Tide,
And drown your Beauty there.

To dry those Eyes in Pity choose,
And banish gloomy Night;
Your Lustre by this Grief you loose,
But all the World—it's Light.

ADVICE TO A FRIEND IN LOVE.

Prithee! my Boy! for once take my Advice,
I'll set your Matters easy in a Trice:
You seem to me unpractis'd in the Arts
Of making Love, and gaining Ladies Hearts;
As you set out, you e'en may suffer for't,
Your Ship must sink, nor can you make the Port.

100

Women are Something rarely understood,
A Jen' scai quoi of Human Flesh and Blood!
Their Hearts and Words, inconstant as the Weather,
Like two Well-Buckets, never go together.
Their inward Thoughts by Dress of Words they skreen,
For what they say, you're sure they never mean:
Therefore to know the meaning of their Heart,
You must be deeply skill'd in Love's whole Art.
I don't know much, and so ha'n't much to lend,
But what I have, you're welcome to, my Friend!

Then to proceed—would you obtain this Lass?
Don't whine and pine, and look so like an Ass:
Blood! do you think that Women are such Tools,
As to be gain'd by such damn'd, sniv'ling Fools!
No, no, my Friend! believe me, you're mistaken,
Their Sex know better how to save their Bacon:

101

You must have Courage, when weak Doubts invade You,
Faint Heart, my Lad! you know, ne'er won fair Lady.
'Tis true, would you proceed by Dint of Might,
To force the Damsel to the warm Delight,
She'd make some faint Resistance, Squeeze and Threat,
And foreign to her Heart a thousand Vows repeat;
But This, I'd have you understand, my Boy!
Shews her Consent to th' ensuing Joy;
But if, affraid, you leave her at this Hour,
Trust me, you could not disoblige her more:
For I have heard Experienc'd Authors say—
“They Hate us, when we're easily said nay.”

Then prithee! mark an am'rous Poet's Lays,
For Poets best know Women now a-days:
Whate'er we do, dear Woman is the End,
We sing to Beauty, and to Beauty bend.

102

If then you find the pretty Thing alone,
Throw off your pining Looks, and whining Tone,
Make a bold Push, and, trust me! All's your Own.

103

THE QUESTION TO PHÆBE.

Say, Phæbe! say, did e'er thy Bosom prove
The soft Delights, and pleasing Pangs of Love?
Say, did thy tender Breast e'er feel a Pain,
Beyond whate'er thy cunning Sex can feign?
Does any Youth, of blooming Charms possess'd,
Thy yielding Thoughts engage, and break thy Rest?

104

Then tell me, Phæbe! prithee! tell me true,
And point the pretty Charmer out to View.

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you don't Confess, you do not Love.

When absent from your Sight one long long Day,
Does not your heaving Bosom chide his Stay?
Do not you wish to go where-e'er he goes,
And fondly share a Part in all he does?
Is not your Soul with Jealous Doubts oppress'd,
Lest some more happy Fair should gain his Breast?
Do not you long to clasp the lovely Boy,
Would Modesty dispense with such a Joy?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you are not Fond, you do not Love.

105

When your fond Eyes his sev'ral Beauties scan,
Do not you think him (more than Others can)
The most enchanting, dear bewitching Man—
The gracefulst Youth, you ever yet have seen,
Like Jove his Grandeur and like Mars his Mien?
Do not you think some secret Charm attends
Whate'er he does, and all his Actions mends?
When in the Dance the comely Youth appears,
Does Musick then so sweetly sooth your Ears?
Does not his Presence set your Soul on Fire?
Do not your Eyes his ev'ry Grace admire?
The Step, the nimble Trip, genteel Advance,
And all the Measures of the well-tim'd Dance?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you don't Admire, you do not Love.

When unawares the Charmer steals a Kiss,
Do not you chide him for the ravish'd Bliss,
Call him Rude Thing, yet—think it not amiss?

106

Whene'er he toying calls you Pretty Lass,
And throws you wantonly upon the Grass,
Do not you vow you'll see his Face no more,
Yet softly say—“he knows my Meaning sure?
For Threats, when in the Female Sex display'd,
Are certain Tokens of a Willing Maid.

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you ben't in Jest, you do not Love.

Do not you make it your Peculiar Care,
To mend your Charms, and make you still more fair?
To raise your Beauty to a sweet Surprise,
Still to appear more Charming in his Eyes?
Do not you oft' correct each alter'd Grace,
And think, this Patch becomes just such a Place,
Then vow—it can't be better stuck in all the Face?
Do not you try your Gestures at your Glass,
Trip nimbly back, come forward, pass, repass,
Then solemnly protest—you are a handsome Lass?

107

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you are not Proud, you do not Love.

When Night's dark Shades the drowsy World invest,
Don't pleasing Visions fill your yielding Breast?
Don't the Dear Youth present himself in Dreams,
Whilst All, like Life, a real Action seems?
Don't you then give a Loose to all those Joys,
Which, when awake, your Modesty destroys?
Do not you think you clasp his heav'nly Charms,
Whilst glowing Beauty all your Bosom warms,
Then, waking, find alas! the Pillow in your Arms?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
If you don't dream of Him, you do not Love.

Whene'er to other Nymphs he deals a Kiss,
But passes you, don't you take that amiss?

108

(For oft' our Sex, unwilling to declare
Their Love in publick, baulk their Bosom-Fair.)
Whene'er he plays another Ladies Fan,
Tips an arch Wink, or trifles with her Hand,
Does not strong Jealousy exert it's Force,
And don't you wish, he mayn't do Somewhat Worse?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you're Jealous, 'tis a Sign you Love.

When drooping Griefs his pensive Soul oppress,
Do drooping Griefs torment your Bosom less?
When, wrapt in Thought, he seems cast down with Care,
Don't your sad Thoughts an equal Burden share?
But when gay Pleasure fills his sprightly Mind,
Does not your Heart the self-same-Pleasure find?
Does not your Breast observe a Kindred-Part,
And act in Concert with the Charmer's Heart?

109

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you Sympathize, you truely Love.

When on the Bed of Sickness he is laid,
Do not you wish to lend a friendly Aid?
Do not you Pity, when his Soul complains,
And sigh, and long to bear his raging Pains?
Do not you wish to lull the Boy to rest,
On the soft Pillow of your downy Breast?
But—hard you think it is, that you must bend
To Custom and your Sex, nor be his Friend,
But must denie that Aid, which Nature bids you lend.

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For Pity ever was the Child of Love.

Say, Phæbe! say, are these fond Queries true?
Are all these Symptoms to be found in You?

110

Sincere now tell me, has thy tender Breast
These glowing Signs of artless Love confess'd?
If then 'tis so, e'en name the happy Boy,
Nor let vain Doubts the genial Hour destroy:
For if your Thoughts a real Passion prove,
Believe me, Phæbe! 'tis no Crime to Love.

These 2 Lines are taken from Mr. Amhurst's Test of Love.

111

A Hunting-SONG.

Hark! hark! the shrill Horn
Rouses up the dull Morn,
And merrily calls us away,
No more let us steep
Our Senses in Sleep.
But to Hunting devote the new Day.
Tan-Twivee.

112

Whilst the Greenwood resounds
With the Cries of the Hounds,
And the Hallooing of Sportsmen so clear,
A Fig for your Court!
There's Nothing of Sport
With Hunting the Fox can compare.
Tan-Twivee.

Let Dotards and Fools.
And such heavy Tools,
Keep the Pillow close under their Head,
Whilst the Morn from her Height
Looks with Shame on the Sight,
And blushes to see 'em a-bed.
Tan-Twivee.

113

'Tis Hunting inspires,
Fresh Health and fresh Fires,
For sweet is the Breath of the Morn:
Then a Fig for dull Cares,
And all State-Affairs,
We'll follow the Hounds and the Horn.
Tan-Twivee.

114

EPIGRAM ON MARRIAGE.

If 'tis to Marry, when the Knot is ty'd,
Why then they marry, who at Tyburn ride;
And if that Knot, 'till Death, is loos'd by None,
Why then to Marry and be Hang'd's all One.

ANOTHER.

Had I been Adam I'd have had no Wife,
Believe me, 'tis the wretchedst State in Life:
I'd sooner twenty broken Ribs abide,
Than e'er have One transform'd into a Bride.

115

THE DECISION.

It has long been a Thing of Dispute about Town,
Whether O---d or C---ge was first in Renown;
The latter thus argue the Case, and thus prove it—
(Nor can we O---ns pretend to remove it)
That Thing must be Oldest, 'tis granted by all,
Which is nearest Decay, and most likely to fall;
Now it plainly appears, that was C---ge the Youngest,
Like O---d 'twould flourish, and still be the Strongest,

116

But alas! 'tis not so—and the old Proverbs say—
Each Thing has it's Turn. E'ery Dog has his Day.
Therefore O---d, averse to Disputes of this Nature,
Submit to Right Reason, and give up the Matter.

117

SONG.

[Tho' Phæbe, 'tis true, is a good pretty Lass]

Tho' Phæbe, 'tis true, is a good pretty Lass,
Yet I'll never stand whining, and look like an Ass;
Tho' She does not love me, I'll never run mad,
There are more pretty Girls in the World to be had:
For why should I thus be a slave to her Mind,
When by all my Subjection She'll never be kind?
In short—I'm resolv'd, if she's peevish and cross,
I'll e'en be so too, whatsoe'er be the Loss;
But if She's Good-natur'd, and Civil withal,
Why I should be cross, there's no Reason at all:
So I'll e'en be as Civil, and give her a Kiss,
Then pray, tell me, Ladies! can this be amiss?

118

EPIGRAM ON WOMAN.

Long have Philosophers strove all in vain,
Perpetual Motion by their Art t'obtain,
Why sure Philosophers have all been blind,
'Tis always to be found in Woman-kind.

119

TO THE GRASSHOPPER.

Imitated From REN. RAPIN.

Happy Insect! that dost lay
Couch'd beneath the verdant Blade,
Idly singing all the Day,
Thro' the cooling, silent Shade.

Whether, perch'd on Flow'rs, you sip
Pearly Drops of dewy Rain,
Or delight'st to hop and skip
O'er the waving, grassy Plain.

120

Whether singing you rejoyce
The gentle-whistling Reeds among,
Or excell the Shepherd's Voice,
Whom you challenge by your Song.

Whether by the Brooks, you chear,
With your pretty, chirping Lay,
The tired Swain, or lab'ring Steer,
In the sultry Heat of Day.

Whether Heaven min'string Sheds
Dewy Food in nectar Showers,
Or adorns your verdant Bed
With pearly Gems and fragrant Flowers.

Little Tenant of the Field!
Be propitious to my Theme,
Who, in Love to you, will build
A Temple of Immortal Fame.

121

A lasting Monument I'll make,
Not of Stone, that soon decays,
The soft-complaining Lyre I'll take,
And warble out in Verse your Praise;
Of you I first learnt how to sing,
And make the Woodland Ecchoes ring.

122

A FRAGMENT OF PETRONIUS ARBITER.

Address'd to PHÆBE.

Gods! what a Lustre sparkles from thy Eyes,
Bright, as their Kindred Orbs, that gild the Skies!
Thy Neck breaths Roses; nor does Gold appear
Half so refulgent as thy burnish'd Hair:

123

Thy honied Mouth, like pure Vermilion glows,
Sweet as the Hive, and purple as the Rose?
With a faint Blush thy swelling Breasts are spread,
Nicely dispos'd between a White and Red:
Thy Sexes Charms are all compriz'd in One,
Venus may blush to see herself out-done:
Thy slender Fingers and well-polish'd Arms,
Fix'd at the Work, display their graceful Charms;
As thro' the Loom they draw the running Clue,
And quick, with Art the silken Task pursue.
Soft are thy Feet, too delicately made,
On rugged Paths and stony Ways to tread;
Gently ah! gently walk the treach'rous Ground,
Least the harsh Stone thy tender Feet should wound.

As o'er your Kindred-Lillies, soft you tread,
Your Kindred-Lillies lift their Virgin-Head;
Nor do your Footsteps, as you lightly pass,
Beat down th' unbending Herb, or flatt the rising Grass.

124

Let other Nymphs, to slavish Fashion born,
With pendant Gems their sparkling Necks adorn;
With precious Stones let Others grace their Hair,
And deck with Pride, what Nature made less fair:
Tho' strip'd and spoil'd of all your gaudy Dress,
You please the Same, nor can you please us less:
Beauty in Trappings lessens at the Test;
A naked Beauty is esteem'd the Best.

Sure none was ever form'd to warm the Heart,
With nice exactness in each lovely Part,
But Thee, in Thee alone with vast Surprise
All Charms united meet the dazzled Eyes;
(Might we behold what we are forc'd to Shun,
For oh! by one dear Look we are undone.

When Phæbe sings, methinks, the Siren Throng
Hush their own Notes, and bless th' inchanting Song
Charm'd into Sense, the list'ning Nine admire,
And own her Voice excells the breathing Lyre:

125

In Rapture lost, I hearken'd to the Sound,
But little thought, those tender Notes could wound,
But ah! too soon I feel the dear Deceit,
Too soon alas! I taste the Bitter Sweet:
Each melting Air my yielding Soul disarms,
And Lo! I fall a Conquest to her Charms.

126

Hor. Ode 26. Book 3.

IMITATED.

TO VENUS.

I, who was once the Ladies darling Care,
Could freely toy and trifle with the Fair;
Who fondly lov'd, and liv'd the am'rous Day,
In wanton Pleasures driving Care away;
Low sunk in Years, and grown infirm with Age,
Must now retire, and quit the youthful Stage:
No more to Love I tune my warbling Lyre,
No more my Bosom feels it's wonted Fire.

127

High on the Walls of Venus sacred Shrine,
I'll hang my Lyre, and all my Arms resign;
My useless Scaling-Ropes I'll use no more,
Nor sturdy Clubs to burst the fasten'd Door.

But oh! may You, Auspicious Queen of Love!
Guardian of Memphis! and the Cyprian Grove!
May You but once exert your Sov'reign Sway,
Make Chloe once your Ruling-Rod obey,
Chloe! that slights the Courteous Lover's Pain,
And haughtily looks down with cold Disdain;
Oh! pierce her tender Soul with fond Desire,
And make her Bosom glow with equal Fire.

128

Hor. Ode 15. Book 3.

TO CHLORIS.

Prithee! Chloris! leave these Toys,
This Hank'ring after Youthful Joys;
Why sure you can't much longer hold,
For Sev'nty Two is pretty old.
And here you joyn the Young and Gay,
At ev'ry Op'ra, Ball and Play,
Your grey Hairs trim'd with Brussells Lace,
And purchas'd Beauty for your Face.
Believe me, it does not look well
In You, tho' 'twould become Miss Bell,

129

Miss Bell has Charms, but you have None,
Not one, that you can call your Own;
She has a License to be dress'd,
To be Gallanted and Caress'd:
Her nat'ral Beauty gains more Hearts,
Than all your Cheats and purchas'd Arts.
Come, take your Distaff and retire,
And leave to Miss the warbling Lyre:
You must not think the Night to pass
With am'rous Talk, and flowing Glass;
And then a Spark to lead you Home,
No, Chloris! go and mind your Loom.

130

ON THE DEATH OF A MONKEY

Poor Pug is dead! the briskest Thing on Earth,
Harmless and kind, but wanton from his Birth:
Grave was his Look, and Politick his Mien,
Easy and Gay, a Stranger to the Spleen!
No State-Affairs disturb'd his downy Rest,
Nor Party-Zeal rais'd Tumults in his Breast:
Perhaps, he griev'd Himself to Death to see
So many Brother-Apes preferr'd, and He
Left here behind, in such a low Degree.

131

On Seeing the PICTURE OF DUNS SCOTUS In the PRINTING-HOUSE at OXFORD, Very Fresh and Good.

Worn out with Study, and deform'd by Years,
Scotus the Same, as when alive, appears:
His serious Brow still holds it's antient Grace,
Nor is one Maggot added to his Face.

132

Egregious Artist! well didst thou contrive
To make inanimated Canvass live;
The very Moths fly back with pale Affright,
And Grubs, sworn Foes to Pictures! shun the Sight:
No more th' intruding Swarm disturb his Dream,
Molest his Studies, or perplex his Schemes,
Shock'd at the poring Sage, they quit the Frame,
And leave the Great Duns Scotus still the Same.

It's reported, he studied so hard that the Maggots wore holes in his Face.

133

THE Lover's WISH.

Ye righteous Pow'rs! who fill the Thrones above,
Since cruel Phæbe scorns my proffer'd Love;
Be this my Fate, be this my happy End,
(That Phæbe once may know, she lost a Loving Friend.)

Soft on her panting Beauties let me lay,
And sweetly look and languish Life away;
Then fix'd for Death, I'll act the Roman's Part,
And plunge the friendly Dagger to my Heart:
And as the Crimson Life flows trickling down,
May tuneful Artists my last Moments crown;

134

May all their Harps in softest Musick joyn,
To wake my Soul, and lift it all Divine.
And now methinks, I lie
On Phæbe's panting Breast,
My Soul begins to die,
And soon will be at Rest:
Hark! the speaking Strings complain
In a dying, dying Strain.
Lo! I strike the truest Heart;
Now, Phæbe! You and I must Part,
Never to meet,
Never to meet,
(Those Words my tender Bosom tore)
Phæbe! we must meet no more;
Then hugg me closer to your Breast,
For now and only now I'm bless'd.

Now let the softest Musick play,
For Oh! I feel my Life decay:

135

Hark! the sweetly-warbled Airs
Sooth my Pains and lull my Cares;
Then, Phæbe! take this last Adieu!
For now I must—will Part with You.
Oh! come some Angel down,
And guide me to my Home;
For now the Streams of Life decay,
Death admits of no Delay:
All trembling on the Brink I stand,
My Soul beholds her Native Land,
Phæbe! adieu! it will not stay,
It flitts, it starts, 'tis gone away.

136

OCCASION'D By Hearing the NIGHTINGALE AT MIDNIGHT.

'Tis Midnight all; now sacred Silence reigns,
And breaths an awful Horrour o'er the Plains;
No Noise is heard, save the low-murm'ring Breeze,
Whilst Zephyr faintly sighs amongst the Trees;
The Charmers of the Grove, with Sleep oppress'd,
Their little Loves forgot, are all remov'd to Rest:
And now the prudent Nightingale essays
In trilling Notes to chaunt her Maker's Praise,

137

All unmolested by the feather'd Throng,
She sits and sings alone, whilst Heav'n approves the Song:
Her soft-breath'd Musick, and inchanting Strains
Call out the list'ning Stars, and fill the lonely Plains.

Now, O my Soul! break forth in Songs of Praise,
And lift thy Anthems equal to her Lays:
Whilst Others, lost to Life, their Senses steep,
Dull and unthinking, in the Dews of Sleep,
Do thou, like her, thy grateful Tribute bring,
In midnight Carols chaunt the heav'nly King,
And sing th' Eternal's Praise, who gave thee first to sing.

138

CONTENT

Content's a Crown, that seldom Kings enjoy.
Shak. Hen. 6.

Happy the Man! who all Himself enjoys,
Whom his own Mind regales, but never cloys
Who lives his Life, accountable to none,
To none indebted, but to God alone;
Whose easy Soul no Worldly Lust enslaves,
And Nothing wants, because he Nothing craves.
But whence must this full Stream of Pleasure flow?
Does it's Spring rise from Equipage and Show?
Mistaken All! who climb the Tow'rs of State,
And to be wretched, covet to be Great:

139

The Halcyon, Peace, in Courts ne'er builds her Nest,
State's but a Golden Sorrow at the Best;
Where stern Ambition and Gigantick Pride,
Make Church-men quarrel and sworn Friends divide.

Where then can this Seraphick Goddess dwell?
Methinks, I see her in the midnight Cell;
Methinks, I hear her whisper from the Woods,
And Lo! she beckons from the silver Floods:
Fir'd at the gentle Signal, I'll retreat
Far from the Follies of the Wretched Great,
Where no rude Passions shall my Bosom move,
Save those dear, best of Passions, Poetry and Love.

Hail! happy Grove! hail! venerable Wood!
Thou, that canst teach us to be Wise and Good!
Ye Sceptred Slaves! and gilded Cares! Farewel!
Here, ye Good Gods! for ever let me dwell.
Where I may view, as from some Mountain's Brow,
The Golden Mis'ries of the World below:

140

Where from on high I may behold secure
The loud Sea-Wave, that strikes the rocky Shore,
And hear, unmov'd, the far-off Tempest roar.

141

THE DREAM.

The Sun was set; and now th' expected Breeze
Sigh'd in low murmurs thro' the waving Trees:
Deep in the silent Grove I chanc'd to stray,
And in delightful Mazes lost my Way;
Sweet through the Copse the Sylvan Syrens sung,
And all the list'ning Vales with Ecchoes rung;
The Turtle sat, embosom'd in the Grove,
And sorrowfully coo'd his absent Love.
Fatigu'd with rambling down my self I laid,
And stretch'd my weary Limbs beneath the Shade;
Fast by, the Murmurs of a rowling Stream
My Eyelids clos'd, and gave this pleasing Dream:

142

When Lo! great Milton's Shade stood at my Head,
To whom I rising bow'd, methought, and said:

Say, mighty Poet! say, what grand Affair?
What Cause has brought Thee to this upper Air?
Say, didst thou come to string my humble Lyre,
And fill my Soul with all thy sacred Fire?
To make her boldly rise, and soar away
Far to the Realms of everlasting Day,
To paint new Wars, to sing of new Alarms,
And set once more th' Omnipotent in Arms?
Or didst thou come, before it was too late,
To warn my Soul of some impending Fate?
I ended here; when from the Heav'nly Man
These Accents fell, and thus the Shade began:

Adventrous Youth! and will you still persist
To scrible on in the Poetick List?
And what can no Misfortunes cool your Fire?
Not empty Pockets still your restless Lyre?

143

Can no Example make you e're give o'er?
You don't consider that you're always poor:
Do but reflect upon the Græcian Bard?
See! how he liv'd and di'd without Regard;
He darkling sung, and trudg'd about in vain,
No Silver Bounty to reward his Pain.
Be then advis'd by me, leave off in Time
This paltry Way of Life, this scribling Rhime;
Or else, go sing the Product of your Head,
And e'en be forc'd to beg your Daily Bread.
Poets are always lavish of their Store,
To day they spend, to morrow write for more;
Nor can you bring one single Line to shew it,
Where Rich is made an Epithet for Poet.
Plutus did ever Phæbus Thoughts employ,
But Plutus, like his Daphne, still was coy.
We read, “the Muses all are Virgins yet,
And may be so, 'till they can Portions get.”

144

Poets by Verse must raise up House and Wall,
Or now a-days must have no House at all.
Was I to breath the upper Air agen,
I'd never handle the Poetick Pen;
I'd sooner follow Dust-Carts in the Street,
Or live, unknown, in some obscure Retreat,
Than thus be forc'd to prostitute my Head
To Great-Men's Humours and a Piece of Bread;
For still the Poet lives, altho' the Man is Dead.

But tho' your Heart is fix'd upon the Trade,
Charm'd with a Grott, or soft-inspiring Shade;
Yet don't rely upon your toiling Brains,
And think to live by your Poetick Gains:
It can't be done; you better would adjoyn
Some Benefice, to ease the lab'ring Nine;
Or have some Birchen Scepter at command,
Greater, if possible, than G---ge or F---d.
'Tis hard, when Want must all your Muse controul
And press the daily Labours from your Soul,

145

When for Subsistance you are forc'd to write,
Rise with the Morning Sun, and drudge 'till Night.
Come then, fond Youth! lay all your Arms aside,
Throw off Ambition, and this early Pride:
'Tis not for you, to soar up into Fame,
And get your Works an everlasting Name.

With that, methought, he lifted me on high,
And bore me upwards thro' the azure Skie;
Wafted by Winds I heard, or seem'd to hear,
Aerial Musick die upon my Ear:
Nearer and nearer yet the Heav'nly Sound
Gain'd on my Sense, and fill'd the Region round.
I look'd, and saw rais'd high amid the Air,
A mighty Structure, beautiful and fair;
High on the Hill, with ev'ry Virtue bless'd,
Congreve was plac'd, who seem'd to call the Rest:
A Scepter, graceful, in his Hand he sway'd,
And radiant Sun-beams round his Temples play'd.

146

Beneath the Hill, a spacious Plain was seen,
With Groves and shady Bowers ever-green:
High on the Battlements I took my stand,
My friendly Guide still held me by my Hand.
Look down, says he, upon yon crowded Plain,
Observe those Bards, a poor, unhappy Train!

Now all at once strove up the steep Ascent,
Then down again with fruitless Labour spent:
But some there were in native Vigour strong,
Who gain'd the Hill, and boldly press'd along;
I look'd, and streight I saw, supreme of these,
Pope roving pensive, deep among the Trees;
'Till Homer, in full Majesty array'd,
Beckon'd the Bard, and bid him leave the Shade:
Then from the Dome a Trumpet sounded loud,
The Poet heard, and left the struggling Croud,
Swift up the Steep with nimble Speed he flew;
Thrice he address'd the Shade, and thrice the Trumpets blew.

147

But who is He? what blooming Youth is there?
'Tis Pattison, the Muses darling Care!
I saw him rush adventrous from the Throng,
Rise on the Hill, and bravely push along;
When ah!—unhappy Youth! in mid Career
He drop'd down breathless, drop'd without a Peer.
As he lay strugling in the Pangs of Death,
Fame bid the Trumpets raise their strongest Breath.
Wide o'er the World the length'ning Blasts resound,
The Heaven's vaulted Roofs re-ecchoe all around;
Slow and more slow the distant Notes decay,
'Till all at once they trembling die away.

Low, wondrous low, I saw a num'rous Train.
Part on the Hill, part musing o'er the Plain;
Some, pleas'd with Shades, and ever-murm'ring Streams,
Were gently-warbling out their softest Themes;
Thinking, perhaps, of rising into Fame,
And sometime gaining an Immortal Name.

148

High-seated in the Temple, I beheld
All, who in Arts and Sciences excell'd.
First Socrates, the wise, Athenian Sage!
And Plato, Glory of the wondring Age!
Timoleon Brave, and Aristides Just,
With Godlike Cato, steddy to his Trust!
Newton sat pensive with uplifted Eye,
Still fix'd on Heav'n, still measuring the Skie.
Tully and Lock shon forth with equal Rays,
Immortal Worthies! born in better Days!
I look'd agen, and saw the Laurel'd Train
Of Bards Triumphant, of a brighter Vein:
High in the Dome the Roman Bard I spy'd,
With awful Dryden seated by his Side.
Spencer and Cowley next advanc'd to Sight,
With Chaucer, breaking thro' the Shades of Night.
Next I beheld great Addison and Prior,
And Waller, leaning on his sacred Lyre:

149

Phillips came on, but made a sudden Stand,
(Long Scrolls of Paper waving in his Hand)
When first he spy'd his Milton thro' the Croud,
He stop'd with Reverence, and lowly bow'd.

My Guide was leading me, to see the Name
Of ev'ry future Purchaser of Fame;
But now the Birds proclaim'd the Morning Ray,
And rising Phæbus chas'd the Shades away:
Starting from Sleep, I look'd with vast Surprize,
And hardly could believe my waking Eyes;
I gaz'd around, and view'd the running Stream,
And Curs'd the fleeting Pleasures of a Dream.

Might I but have these Visions e'ery Night,
I'd never wish to see returning Light.

He was God of Riches.

150

UPON AN Ugly FELLOW, Who thought Himself HANDSOME, Because the GIRLS gaz'd UPON HIM So much.

Poor Jack's of late grown
The Talk of the Town,
The merest Self-Dotard in Fashion;
From a Sloven turns Smart,
And thinks from his Heart,
He's the Handsomest Man in the Nation.

151

If a Girl does but place
Her Eyes on his Face,
In order her Laughter to move;
The Fool seems in Anguish,
Looks aside with a Languish,
And concludes the poor Girl is in Love.

Come, Jack! then attend,
I speak as a Friend,
Prithee! never look out with that View:
Don't think to prevail,
Where a Thousand may fail,
Perhaps, ten Times as Pretty as You.

Should You think e'ery Miss
In Love with that Phyz,
Who looks at You, as I may do now;
E'en think you're a Bait,
And enjoy your Conceit,
By my Soul! you'll have Lovers enough.

152

SONG. TO PHÆBE

How can you, Phæbe! hear me Sigh,
And thus denie me Rest?
Oh! kindly think you see me die,
And hugg me to your Breast.
Believe me, you mistake the End,
Love was not made for This;
Oh! then some friendly Pity send,
And bid my Anguish cease:

153

Those dimply Cheeks were made to smile,
Those melting Eyes to move,
Those balmy Lips to talk the while,
To talk of what—but Love?
Those lovely Brows for Clemency,
Where Beauty sits confess'd;
That slender Waste was made to be—
Oh! let me guess the Rest.
Thus ev'ry Thing was exquisite,
And for good Use design'd;
The Sun and Moon to give their Light,
And Woman to be Kind.

154

A SERIOUS MEDITATION Upon a Pair of broken BELLOWS.

Heu! deficit Alter. Virg. Æneid. 6.

————It must be so;
And all things in their turn must go:
We daily see great Structures fall,
For Time, that Monster! ruins all.
What tho' my Bellows are decay'd?
It is but having Others made;
This World it self must melt away,
And go to Pot as well as they;

155

But then we are to have Another,
Then why this dev'lish Rout and Pother?

But yet—I grieve when I'm alone,
To think what Service they have done;
How often with their lab'ring Breath,
When all my Limbs were cold as Death,
Have they inspir'd the vital Heat,
And taught my lagging Pulse to beat!
How often rais'd the drooping Wing,
And bid the Muses, when to sing!
But when they come to grow in Years,
(As by their Wheezing oft' appears)
When all their Breath was almost spent,
By Art I stop'd the narrow Vent:
How oft' the bursten Wind-pipe round,
Has honest Hankerchief been bound!
(For when a Thing is almost ended,
I set my Wits to work to mend it)

156

But still my Art and daily Pain,
I found at last, was all in vain:
I blow'd and cobbled, well, what then?
Why then I blow'd and cobbled agen:
Old Time work'd on as fast as me,
Both striving for Priority;
But fast as I could bind and mend 'em,
His sharp, devouring Teeth would rend 'em:
At last th' important Day was come,
Big with my poor Bellows Doom.

'Twas on one bleak and windy Day,
When Sol gave not one single Ray,
As in my Garret high I sat,
Musing upon I know not what:
My Cat began to raise her Voice,
And make a damn'd, confounded Noise;
With that, I threw my Bellows at her,
But little thought what was the Matter,

157

It was in time of Need she squawl'd,
A Time! her Master oft' has call'd,
But call'd in vain—and so did She,
Why mayn't She want as well as Me?
However, now the Time was come,
Design'd by Fate's unalter'd Doom;
It was in this unlucky Fall,
They breath'd their Last, my Cat and all:
And now my Cat and Bellows gone,
Ye Gods! I'm utterly undone.

Alas! alas! what must I do?
My Bellows broke! and no Pecu.
And if I had—
'Twould be so small, I could not spare
Enough, to buy another Pair.
Had I my Bellows but again,
Or could I my lost Cash regain!
'Tis hard, that both should go together,
And I am destitute of Either:

158

But why do I my Loss deplore?
Who knows? in Time I may have more;
Who knows, what Providence may send?
The Righteous Man's unshaken Friend!
Then hey! for jolly, rousing Fires,
And bottled Ale, that Wit inspires,
With strong Perfumes from Indian Weed:
But faith! 'tis now a Time of Need.

159

EPIGRAM ON A MISER.

Old Gripus, who knows not his Wealth to employ,
Locks it up very safe in his Chest:
So Eunuchs, not able the Fair to Enjoy,
Are known to protect 'em the Best.

160

EPIGRAM ON A POSITIVE DISPUTANT,

Who was always in the Wrong.

Tom Hold-fast and Sampson are equal in Fame,
Alike are their Conquests, their Weapons the same:
For Both (we may say) can their Thousands surpass,
By those powerful Arms—the Jaw-bone of an Ass

161

A TALE.

The wanton Loves one Holyday,
Contriv'd to get a little Play;
Mamma was visiting in Heaven,
And now it wa'n't much more than Seven:
To Cælia's Lodgings down they come,
And found the tender Nymph at Home:
In flew the Urchins, quick as Light,
And took their Fill of gay Delight;
The Nymph they minded all the while,
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

162

They laugh'd and flutter'd up and down,
And leap'd and danc'd about her Gown;
Now bolder grown One upwards skips,
And perches on her balmy Lips;
Then all, enamour'd with her Face,
Crouded hard to get a Place.
Another with the Debonair
Flew up, and swung upon her Hair:
All perch'd about the matchless Dame,
And titt'ring play'd their wanton Game;
But One, endeav'ring with the Rest,
To gain the Chin, into her Breast
Fell down; the other little Croud,
That sat above, laugh'd out aloud;
The Fallen Cupid minded none,
But now recover'd, bolder grown,
Cry'd—sure you're on the merry Pin,
But, pray, let Others laugh, that win;
I fancy, there's None of you All,
But would be glad of such a Fall.

163

SONNET Imitated From SPENCER.

Chloe 's as cold as Ice, all Day,
And I still burn like Fire;
Why don't her Coldness melt away
Before my warm Desire?

Or why is not my fervent Blaze
Check'd by her chilling Ice;
But I grow hotter, as I gaze,
The Flames much stronger rise.

164

Strange! that by Fire, which softens all,
More Hardness Ice should take,
And Ice, where-e'er it chance to fall,
A sudden Flame should make.

But such is Love's prevailing Force,
In ev'ry gentle Mind;
It alters all whole Nature's Course,
And rules in ev'ry Kind.

165

EPIGRAM ON A BLIND MAN In Love with a FINE LADY.

Sr. Foplin's blind, yet feels the Lover's Smart,
'Tis hard indeed to loose both Eyes and Heart:
But does he think to keep so rich a Prize,
When Argus fail'd, who had a hundred Eyes?
Come, come, Sr. Foplin! either loose your Chain,
Or else go, get a Brace of Eyes again.

166

THE Simple MAID.

Blouzelinda one Day, as she lay on the Plain,
Was surpris'd in her Breast with a tickling Pain,
She had often heard talk of a Season
Of Pressing,
Caressing,
Of Hugging and Sighing,
Of Melting and Dying,
But never knew what was the Reason.

As Bumkinet chanc'd to be stroling that Way,
He tumbl'd and towzl'd the Lass as she lay,

167

And told her that this was the Season
Of Pressing,
Caressing,
Of Hugging and Sighing,
Of Melting and Dying;
She lik'd it, as something of Reason.

When the Towzling was over, up Bumkinet rose,
The Damsel began for to smooth down her Cloaths,
Extremely well pleas'd with his Reason,
For Pressing,
Caressing,
For Hugging and Sighing,
For Melting and Dying,
And wish'd it was always in Season.

168

A WISH.

Would but the Gods this Wish allow,
How smooth the Stream of Life would flow
I'd have a Wife, that's of some Use,
Indifferent handsome, not Profuse;
Sweet-temper'd, modest, good and Wise,
No other Brilliants, but her Eyes.

169

ODE TO THE SPRING.

Lo! the surly Winter's past,
With ev'ry Ruffian Blast,
That howl'd upon the Mountain's Brow,
And shook the sounding Woods below.
Thee! lovely Spring! with Joy we view,
To Thee our choicest Songs are due:
For Thee the sprouting Births appear,
Thou genial Morning of the year!
By Thee the kindling Blushes rise,
And brighter Charms in Phæbe's Eyes;
Thy softning Gales her Bosom move,
Whilst all her yielding Soul is Love.

170

Hail! lovely, charming, blushing Spring!
For Thee the Birds begin to sing,
And chaunt to all the list'ning Grove,
Their gentle Roundelays of Love:
For Thee the fost'ring Breezes blow,
And Streams in fuller Currents flow:
Inspir'd by Thee gross Atoms Life receive,
And animated Earth begins to live.
Since now you fill young Phæbe's Mind
With Love, Oh! teach her to be kind:
Tell her in Whispers, 'tis no Crime
To pluck the Roses in their Prime,
That Beauty's Blossom quickly flies,
And, if not timely gather'd, dies.
Lovely Season of Desire!
Set her tender Breast on Fire;
Happiest Season of the Year!
Make her kind, as she is Fair:
To Thee my choicest Stores I'll bring,
Lovely, charming, blushing Spring!

171

To Thee an Altar I will raise,
Soft, Virgin-Choirs shall sing thy Praise,
Whilst Musick breaths the sprightly Lays;
For bounteous are thy Gifts, and pleasant all thy Days.

172

TO PHÆBE When She was ANGRY.

Pardon, fair Maid! if ought the Muse betrays
Too supercilious in her humble Lays;
Nor proudly think, she arrogates Command;
Advice is good, tho' from the meanest Hand:
Then hear for once what your Florelio says,
Tho' you forget the Lover, mark the Poet's Lays,

In vain you think sure Arguments to find
In high-blown Passions, and a stormy Mind;

173

In vain by all the Tempest of your Soul,
You strive to frighten, what you can't controul:
Believe me then, fair Maid! believe a Friend,
Your Youth, your Beauty soon will have an End;
Then what will all this Violence avail?
Phæbe alas! then Phæbe sure must fail:

Be then advis'd, be not to Reason blind,
But let Good-Humour sway your gentle Mind;
By This Old-Age looks smiling thro' it's Flaws,
This, the strong Basis to the weakest Cause!
When Youth is fled, and Beauty drops her Darts,
This finds the surest Passage to our Hearts:
Let This your headstrong Passions once controul,
Let but This Charmer once possess your Soul;
Then, when your Youth, your Beauty suffers Ill,
Yet charming Phæbe shall be Phæbe still.

174

DESCRIPTION Of an Old WOMAN.

A wither'd Crone I spi'd within a Wood,
Full fourscore Years had chill'd her frozen Blood:
Her Eyes (if Eyes she had) could scarce appear,
The flowing Rheum just mark'd out where they were
Her Nose projecting from her wrinkled Face,
Stoop'd to the rising Chin with fond Embrace;
Like a broad Save-All to the dropping Snout,
Her Under-Lip in Bass Reliefe stuck out.
Like Joseph she appear'd to outward View,
A patch'd and pie-ball'd Wretch, of various Hue!

175

Her tatter'd Garment, flutt'ring in the Wind,
Flew off in Scraps, and scented all behind:
Trembling with Age, she mumbled as she went,
Hoarse rattling Coughs still lab'ring for a Vent,
All on dry Sticks, and shrivel'd Leaves intent.

176

LA Belle Romanesque.

Whilst Others doat on Ornaments of State,
And strive to live impertinently Great;
Romantick Sylvia from the Town retreats
To pleasant Walks, and distant Country-Seats;
Where aged Elms, with arching Tops entwin'd,
Wave their full Boughs, and murmur to the Wind:
The cawing Rooks, that on their Branches rest,
A pleasing, studious Pensiveness suggest.
Here tender Sylvia from the World retires,
To shun lew'd Vanities, and high Desires.

All her Ambition is confin'd to Books,
To shady Woods and Groves, and purling Brooks;

177

Gilt Coaches, Equipages, Publick Shows,
Plays, Op'ras, Balls, Toupees and powder'd Beaux,
No more these Scenes within her Bosom rise,
Melt on her Ear, or brighten in her Eyes:
No Scene's more pleasant than the Vernal Woods,
No Musick sweeter than the falling Floods.
Soon as the Whisper of the Evening Breeze
Curls on the Lake, or pants upon the Trees,
Far in the Copse she wanders all alone,
And softly listens to the Turtle's Moan:
At ev'ry Note, that murmurs down the Grove,
She fondly Sighs, and all her Soul is is Love.

But when the deep'ning Shades proclaim the Night,
And rising Cynthia sheds her silver Light;
Home from the Woods the musing Nymph repairs,
There sits and chats 'till Sev'n, then up to Pray'rs:
Sometimes with Stories she diverts the Squire,
Or reads Romances by the Parlour-Fire.

178

Thus Sylvia lives, more Innocent than Great,
And looks with Scorn upon the Farce of State.

179

LA Belle Coquet.

Far other Passions rule gay Fulvia's Mind;
To Masks and Op'ras all her Soul's inclin'd:
Balls and Assemblys dance before her Sight.
And all that's Modish gives a new Delight.
That dear Thing! Fashion sways her gentle Soul,
And all that's airy all her Thoughts controul:
If Churches were design'd for nought but Pray'r,
She'd as soon drop the Fashion, as go there.
But—lucky Hitt! O England! happy spot!
What kind Indulgence happens to thy Lot!
Where Churches are erected, and are meant,
As well for Folks to Sin in as Repent:

180

'Tis here she exercises all her Wiles,
With Head aside, and soft, affected Smiles,
Throws into Practise all her Female Art,
And draws the Tinseld Coxcomb to her Heart.

181

THE Faithless MAID.

Phæbe , a fair, dissembling Maid!
On fond Florelio's Bosom laid,
Had vow'd how much she lov'd:
But He, who knew her Sexes Arts,
That oft' their Lips bely'd their Hearts,
Her seeming Love thus prov'd.

One Evening fair, to all unknown,
Disguis'd he left his Native Home,
In Princely Habit dress'd;
When meeting Phæbe in a Grove,
He thus (to try her artful Love)
The charming Nymph address'd:

182

Fair Maid! (says he) my tender Breast
For twelve long Months has been oppress'd
With that soft Passion, Love;
'Tis You alone must ease the Smart,
'Tis You must stop my bleeding Heart,
Dear, pretty Turtle-Dove!

Of gay Gallants (I know) you've One,
Yet Wealth nor Titles he has none,
Then set the Fool aside;
Both Wealth and Titles I can give,
In Pomp and Splendour I can live,
And You shall be my Bride.

With Cordial Love and soft Delight,
Young Phæbe view'd the charming Knight,
She blush'd and thus began;
Since thus you promise, Sr. (she said)
Since thus you court a harmless Maid,
I love no other Man.

183

To Those, who can't their Passion prove
But by bestowing Hearts in Love,
Our Eyes are ever blind;
But to the Rich and Wealthy Beau,
To Equipage and Pompous Show,
We Women must be kind.

Florelio heard the faithless Maid,
With Pain he heard her, what she said,
Then sighing, thus return'd;
If thus it is, we Men must love,
Florelio can't his Passion prove,
Thus Phæbe! I am scorn'd.

Soon as she heard Florelio's Name,
She call'd to Mind his faultless Flame,
She call'd to Mind his Love:
With Guilt and Shame at once oppress'd,
She blushing smote her milk-white Breast,
And sought the thickest Grove.

184

ON THE DEATH of Mr. JOHN WHITESIDE

Experimental Philosopher IN OXFORD.

Quis desiderio sit Pudor aut Modus
Tam Chari Capitis?
Hor.

Ye Sons of Science! who with prying Eye
The mazy Deeps of Nature can descry;
Ye, who have seen the wondrous Man display
His noble Art, where Reason led the Way;

185

Ye, who have seen him with a nicer View
By Demonstration prove his Doctrine true.
Forgive the Muse, if weak the Numbers flow,
Alas! they labour with a Weight of Woe.

Who now shall give Mysterious Nature Laws,
And from Effects deduce the hidden Cause;
Who now shall by Experiment declare
To wondring Youth, the Nature of the Air?
Who now shall teach why lighter Parts ascend,
And grosser Bodies to the Centre tend?
Why round the Sun still other Suns advance,
Fix'd and unerring in their Mystick Dance?
Since He is gone, who shew'd these settled Rules,
The Lamp of Science, and the Pride of Schools!

Thee, Whiteside! Thee the Sons of Oxford mourn,
And Isis Shores the sad Complaints return:
The lonely Dome with Sorrow now they view,
But now no more the noble Task pursue,
Since now that noble Task is all extinct in You.

186

Thou, who couldst Nature's lowest Depths descry,
And count the well-known Wonders of the Skie;
Say, Learned Whiteside! dear, lamented Shade!
Since now thy last Experiment is made,
Say, what is Death? is Death a real Pain?
Or only what the Stings of Conscience feign?
Is it a Rest from all our Human Woes,
Where Peace and Silence keep their soft Repose?
Or is it by our Fancy Monstrous made,
And painted Black, to make us more affraid?
Say, is not Death a harmless, lambent Flame,
What the Bad fly from, and the Righteous claim?
'Tis Something sure, but what we cannot know,
'Tis Something, which we all must undergo.

Then here let all our nice Enquiries End,
For Death and only Death can be our Friend:
'Tis the sure Haven of a Soul distress'd,
Where all the warring Passions are at Rest:

187

'Tis here the Captive lays his Burthen down,
And dreads no more the awful Monarch's Frown:
'Tis here the Monarch bends the Subject Knee,
'Tis here he learns the Weakness of his Plea,
And stands convinc'd there's One, that's Greater still than He.

188

THE OXFORD BEAUTIES.

Ye gentle Nymphs! that haunt fair Isis Streams,
Aid me in Visions and repeated Dreams;
By Beauty warm'd I touch the trembling String,
What Muse for Beauty will refuse to sing?
Ye Oxford Belles! my ravish'd Soul inspire
With all the Poet's and the Lover's Fire:
Beam on my Mind, excite the soft Alarm,
And make me conscious of each heav'nly Charm.

189

Lo! to my View a thousand Beauties rise,
In silent Rapture stand my wondring Eyes:
A modest Ardour dawns upon my Soul,
And vast Ideas in my Bosom roul.
Fain with their Merits would I grace my Lays,
And make my Verse immortal, as their Praise:
Oh! had I Dorset's sweet, prevailing Art,
To speak the gentle Transports of my Heart!
Could I, like Him, awake the warbling Lyre,
And at each Motion kindle warm Desire.
Could I, like Him, the ev'ry Sense improve,
And make my Numbers equal to my Love!
Each am'rous Line should melt in soft Alarms,
And whisp'ring tell, from whom it stole it's Charms.

Sweet is Sibilla, fresh as Infant Day,
Bright without Pride, and Innocently gay:
Whene'er she wanders thro' the vernal Woods,
Or seeks the Murmurs of the falling Floods;

190

The vernal Woods seem ravish'd at the Sight,
And softer Murmurs speak the Floods Delight:
The Sylvan Syrens tune their choicest Strains,
And native Musick fills the list'ning Plains.
A Thousand Cupids wait upon the Fair,
Sport on her Breast, or revel in her Hair.

Shervina's Shape, her bright, unsully'd Charms,
Might set two warring Nations up in Arms:
See! with what Grace the soft Enchantress walks!
With what perswasive Eloquence She talks!
Such, or less fair, in antient Times was seen
On Ida's shady Mount, the Cyprian Queen.
Sure! bounteous Heav'n, mistaking theirs for Thine,
Cast Thee, Shervina! in a Mould Divine.

Bright is Dorella, as the Morning Dawn,
Sweet as the Dews, that deck the open Lawn:
Soft as the Damask of the silken Rose,
Mild as when Zephirus on Flora blows.

191

Whene'er she speaks, Gods! how her heav'nly Tongue
Melts down the Passions of the list'ning Throng!
Like Sampson's Riddle, she unfolds her Mind,
Where Strength and Sweetness both in One are joyn'd.

Fair Anna's Charms allure the am'rous Youth
To taste the Joys of Innocence and Truth:
She's harmless as the Turtle of the Woods,
Sweet as the Vi'lets by the silver Floods.
No practis'd Smiles, or soft, affected Air
Sets off with cheating Grace the lovely Fair;
In native Beauty modestly she walks,
And charms alike, whene'er she looks or talks.

Eliza's Charms the heedless Boy surprize,
Whilst Youth and Beauty sparkle in her Eyes:
Endow'd with all, that can adorn the Fair,
A winning Accent, and a graceful Air.

192

Whene'er her Lyre begins some warbled Air,
Sweet are the Notes, as Nature made her Fair:
With sudden Arts she traps the roving Heart,
And shoots her pleasing Pains thro' every Part.

Andira's Beauties, like keen Light'ning, wound,
Her Words and Looks both equally confound:
How gently-soft her lovely Ringlets flow,
Sport with the Gales, and fan the Neck below!
Her panting Breasts, like dying Turtles move,
Heave up and down, and wanton court to Love.
But when the sweet-deluding Syren sings,
Loves on her Lips rejoyce, and clap their silken Wings.

Soft Margaretta warms the panting Heart,
And shoots her Venom quick thro' ev'ry Part:
But when she smoothly swims the mazy Dance,
Now a Retreat, and then a bold Advance;

193

Heav'ns! how the Soul in Transport melts away,
Unable to withstand so bright a Day.

But oh! Marinda! how shall I rehearse
Thy matchless Charms in my too humble Verse?
Had not your Beauty Darts enough to wound,
But must we fall too by Poetick Sound?
Smooth flow your Numbers, as the gentle Stream,
Whilst Woods and Turtles are your softest Theme:
Your modest Air and Manners strong prevail,
In which your Sappho's only said to fail;
Tho' free, yet chaste; tho' handsome, yet not vain;
Wise, without Pride; without Decieving, Plain.

Oh! let those Breasts be my Poetick Hill,
Those balmy Lips my Heliconian Rill:
Here let the Poet live the Heav'nly Day,
For ever on that Bosom let me lay,
And sing a whole Eternity away.

194

TO PHÆBE

Who bitt me by the Lip, as I was Kissing Her.

Thanks to the Gods! the cruel Storm is past,
I plainly see, that Phæbe's fix'd at last;
She, who but t'other Day despis'd my Pain,
Gave Frowns for Smiles; for Love, a cold Disdain;
Resolv'd to make me love but her alone,
Has set her Stamp, and mark'd me for her Own.
O Cruel! better hadst Thou spar'd this Kiss,
Mark'd some less useful Place, or any Place but This.

195

Sure! 'twas the best of Ways, you e'er could find,
To make me always have you in my Mind:
But take Compassion, give me one Kiss more,
A Civil Kiss, Good Nymph! and heal my Sore.
Kiss off the Mark, and yet believe me True,
For since you make me Love, I'll love, and none but You.

196

PHÆBE TO FLORELIO

AN EPISTLE.

Scribere jussit Amor.
Ovid.

Deep in the Centre of this Noon-tide Shade
I spend the Hours in Sighs, a hapless Maid!
Far from these verdant Meads and rosy Bow'rs,
Far from the Fragrancy of op'ning Flow'rs
Florelio roves, and leaves me here alone,
To senseless Rocks, and Woods to make my Moan.

197

Ah! cruel Youth! and can't these pleasant Groves,
Once the dear Scene of all our former Loves!
Can't These then charm your ravish'd Senses more?
Oh! may they charm you, as they charm'd before!
Then have you quite forgot those soft Alarms,
When you lay press'd in tender Phæbe's Arms;
When tender Phæbe was your sole Delight,
Your only Thoughts by Day, your Dreams by Night?
Remember ah! (for sure you can't forget)
The thousand tender Things you would repeat:
But if you can't; my Breast the Truth can tell,
For ah! a Love like mine remembers all too well.
How could you fondly say, this Face was fair,
Yet leave this Face a Prey to grim Despair?
How could you say, these Eyes were bright as Stars,
Yet leave these Eyes alas! dissolv'd in Tears?
How could you say, these Lips like Coral glow,
Yet leave these Lips to utter nought but Woe?

198

How could you say, these Breasts all Snowy rise,
Yet leave these Breasts to heave with Nought but Sighs?
For if such Charms I could in Conscience own,
Alas! they all were Charms for you alone.
This Face alas! which once you said was fair,
For Thee is made a Prey to grim Despair:
These Eyes, which once were bright as rising Stars,
For Thee alas! are now dissolv'd in Tears:
These ruby Lips, which Coral-like could glow,
For Thee are taught to utter nought but Woe:
These Breasts, which once all Snowy-White could rise,
For Thee must heave alas! with Nought but Sighs:

Then do but call these tender Things to Mind,
Do but reflect, and sure you must be kind:
For ah! you cannot, will not take it Ill,
If Phæbe tells you, she's your Phæbe still.

199

Dear, faithless Youth! I here my Loss deplore,
Whilst you, perhaps, can think on me no more;
Charm'd with some Fair more beautiful and gay,
With whom you fondly spend the livelong Day:
Whilst I alas! must wander in Despair,
Distracted beat my Breast, and tear my Hair.
At Close of Day I roam the lonely Woods,
And gently listen to the falling Floods;
The lonely Woods wave murm'ring to my Woe,
And falling Floods in seeming Anguish flow.
Then I with Tears the mossy Bank survey,
Where once we both together fondly lay;
Prostrate I fall upon the printed Grass,
And within my Tears bedew the sacred Place.
In gloomy Shades and Grotts I vent my Grief,
But gloomy Shades and Grotts denie Relief.

Tho' far from Phæbe false Florelio flies,
Sleep sets the charming Youth before my Eyes;

200

Around my Neck he throws his snowy Arms,
And rushes on me in a Thousand Charms:
But when the Morn my fleeting Hopes destroys,
I wake, and chide the visionary Joys;
Far to the Woods and desart Wilds I go,
There give the flying Gales my Tale of Woe.

In the dark Covert of a neighb'ring Shade,
By lofty Elms and dreery Cypress made,
A melancholy Turtle sits alone,
And coos, responsive to my wretched Moan,
Widow'd, like me, forsaken by her Mate,
She sighs in Murmurs her relentless Fate:
Each Morn we meet, and both aloud complain,
Each Morn aloud we both lament in vain.

No more the Small-Birds twittle out their Loves
Nor Sylvan Musick warbles down the Groves;
No more I listen to the Evening Breeze,
No more it softly fans the waving Trees.

201

High o'er the darksome Grove, and lone Retreat,
Once, my dear false Florelio's happy Seat!
Black Melancholy sits, with Horrour Crown'd,
And breaths a gloomy Silence all around:
Night, and her Shades more horrible appear,
But all would please, was but Florelio here:
His lovely Presence lightens ev'ry Green,
Dispels the Gloom, and gladdens all the Scene:
Sweet are his Looks, bright as the risen Day,
Chasing the melancholy Dark away:
When he appears, my Soul exults with Joy,
And starts into my Eyes to meet the Boy.

Oft' thro' the Grove I solitary walk,
And with the vocal Ecchoes fondly talk,
Sometimes I sudden stop, and think I hear
Florelio's Voice, sweet-thrilling thro' my Ear,
Whilst Hopes and Fears, alternate in my Breast,
Beat high, affording neither Joy nor Rest:

202

I run, stand still, then rush among the Trees,
And seem to hear him talk in ev'ry Breeze;
At last I lay me down beneath the Shade,
And blame the Weakness of a love-sick Maid.

Oh! had I never known those pow'rful Charms,
Never been clasp'd in those bewitching Arms!
Oh! had I liv'd in some far-distant Place,
And never seen that Dear Enchanter's Face!
Oh! better had I never seen the Light,
But slept for ever in the Womb of Night!
But oh!—then I had never known the Boy,
Oh! never felt the Soul-dissolving Joy!
Ne'er had I laid my weary head to Rest,
On the soft Pillow of Florelio's Breast,
Ne'er to his Bosom had he strain'd me fast,
As once he did—But that, I fear's the Last.

Yet may the friendly Gods propitious prove,
And bless Florelio in his future Love!

203

If greatly bold he seeks the War's Alarms,
Slow fly the Dart, Success attend his Arms:
If on the Waves he braves the Stormy Main,
May India's wealthy Mines reward his Pain.
Breath soft, ye Winds! ye Billows! gently rowl,
Ye bear the mighty Treasure of my Soul:
Be calm, ye Heavens! no surging Waters rise,
No lowry Storms disturb the angry Skies;
Safe send Florelio back, tho' tender Phæbe dies.

204

A SESSION OF THE OXFORD POETS.

To the fam'd Sons of Isis Apollo of late
Came down from the Skies in Poetical State;
His Harp and his Fiddle hung loose at his Back,
Just so as a Pedlar would carry his Pack:
And to shew that the God was to Women inclin'd,
Nine pretty, tight Damsels came tripping behind.
But what came he for? (quoth a Friend that is near)
Have Patience, Good Sr.? and in Time you shall hear.

205

You must know then, a vacant Preferment was made,
And who was to have it, but one of the Trade?
Upon this, Sr. Apollo was call'd for in Haste,
To summon the Brethren and fill up the Place;
A Summons he call'd by a long-sided Dame,
Who (if I'm not mistaken) Dan Virgil calls Fame.

Whilst Fame was a-blowing her Trumpet so loud,
To the Court there came flocking a numerous Croud,
Not half such a Tribe run to Theatre-Speeches,
Or croud at St. Mary's when C---re preaches.

Apollo began now to be in a Sweat,
And complain'd, that he almost was stifl'd with Heat;
Upon which (says a Bard, that had shoulder'd along,
As fierce as a Beef-Eater, quite thro' the Throng,)

206

One would think, Sr! that you could not well disapprove
Of the Heat, since you feel it so often above.
The God made no Answer, but turning to Fame,
Prithee! who is this Coxcomb! and what is his Name?
His Name, Sr! is V---ne; and pray, what can he do?
For to Me he seems Something quite foreign and new,
As to outward Appearance he's far from a Poet,
Or rather, I think, like a Thing, that has no Wit;
Why sure he don't think to come in for this Place,
I don't see one Promising Sign in his Face:
Oh! Sr! replies Fame, he's the best of the Clan
For singing or writing a bonny Scots Sang.
The Poetical Loon, who stood by all the while,
Presented his Lays to the God with a Smile:
The God soon return'd 'em, and told him, he thought
They might pass pretty well there, from whence they were brought,

207

But he vow'd and protested, he couldn't in Conscience
Make him a Professour, who wrote so much Nonsense.
But harkee! says he, prithee! don't be dejected,
And think you're dealt hard by, because you're rejected;
Here's a good Laurel-Staff, to make you amends,
And as you're a Stout Fellow, you know, (between Friends)
Prithee! step to yon Door, and keep out the Croud,
And you shall have for your Pains, something more than's allow'd.

Little H---e came the next, with an arrogant Face,
As thinking himself Cock-sure of the Place;
Apollo soon knew him, and check'd his Career
By asking, how he could in Conscience appear,

208

In Hopes of Succeeding as Heir to the Bays,
Who by his own Poems had got so much Praise.

Upon this, up came B---d, and laid in his Claim,
Not dreaming, that e'er he should miss of his Aim;
But Apollo protested, he thought him too Gay
For such an Employment, and bid him away,
For he shew'd his Parts best at th' Assembly and Play.

P---tt observ'd with Concern the two others rejected,
And could not forbear being sorely dejected.
The God was so took with his modest Behaviour,
That he talk'd to him much, and much in his Favour,
And told him, that such a Place he would not need
For he fanci'd, that soon he would better succeed.

The next that appear'd, was a Bard of great Fame
Who presented some Verses with Fe---y's Name

209

Oho! says Apollo, This here, I'm affraid, is,
The very same Person, that libell'd the Ladies;
'Tis the Same, you are sure, says Fame, without Doubt,
I remember the Verses when first they came out.
What a Pother and Rout the Girls made at that Time,
That their Beauty should fade so sudden in Rhime?
The Lady was angry, her Beau soon turn'd Poet,
And fir'd with Resentment, he scribbled to shew it.
Well then, says Apollo, since thus the Case stands,
I cannot, I dare not, Sr! grant your Demands;
For, I must confess, I bear so much Regard
To the Ladies, I would not prefer any Bard,
Who had injur'd the Sex (whatsoe'er be the Cause)
And besides, 'tis against the Poetical Laws.

When he was dismiss'd, J---es, a Bard of Renown,
Esteem'd a bright Genius all over the Town!

210

His Highness accosted, and hop'd he wou'd give it
To Him, who with Thanks should be glad to recieve it;
To whom with a Smile his Godship repli'd,
You'll excuse me, I hope, Sr. if once you're deni'd,
For pray, let me tell you, I never bestow it
On One, whom I know is my Equal as Poet.

As H---ds soon after was going to shew
His Credentials, the God cry'd, I very well know,
That you have neglected the Muses of late,
For Employments more serious, the Church and the State,
And He, that is too much Intent on Divinity,
I am sure, to the Muse has but little Affinity.

As thus they were talking, Apollo espi'd
A Fellow come sneaking up close to his side,
Who is This? (says the God, upon turning to Fame)
He's but of small Note, Sr! and Woodward's his Name:

211

Well Sr! says his Highness, what have you for to say?
I suppose you are come too to stand here to day;
Yes Sr! (quoth the Bard with a Cringe) by your Leave,
Very proud Sr!—I hope, your Highness will give—
When the God read his Lays, (which he lugg'd from his Pocket)
What Stuff is all this? says he, go, for a Blockhead:
You Professour! you shall; your Pretensions resign,
Thou'rt no more of a Poet, than thou art a Divine.

The next that appear'd, was One of great Fame,
A Lady of Beauty, and J---nes was her Name;
With a modest Behaviour she offer'd her Lays,
And hop'd, that Apollo, would give her the Bays;
His Highness beheld her with Pain and Surprise,
And swore by her Dimples and sparkling, bright Eyes,

212

That was it e'er granted to Females before,
There was none of 'em all, that e'er merited more;
But Women-Professours were out of Date grown,
And was now such a Thing, as never was known,
And since her Renown was Superiour to Others,
He hop'd, she'd resign it to One of her Brothers.

His Highness being tir'd and fatigu'd out at last
With the Tribes, that came flocking about him so fast,
Call'd out to One Sp---e, who was gaping about,
Ne'er dreaming of this, in the midst of the Rout,
And told him, 'twas thought most convenient and fitt,
That He should be made the Professor of Witt;
Not for stealing from Him what was none of his own,
But contriving it so, that it never was known.

213

Then his Godship declar'd, that the Critique was His:
The Trumpet was blow'd, and the Court was dismiss'd.

His Critical Essay on Pope's Odyssey.

214

THE POET.

Tell me, dear Florio! didst thou never know
The Poet by his Mien, and outward Show?
Say, didst thou ne'er observe the Head elate,
Slow-measur'd step, and ever-sober Gate;
The serious Look, with fix'd, uplifted Eyes,
In pensive Mood conversing with the Skies?
Hast not thou seen him musing thro' the Woods,
Or lonely dreaming by the silver Floods,
Where a slow River rowls it's easy Stream,
Calm as his Thoughts, and gentle as his Theme?

215

Oft by his Dress you may the Bard descry,
The Sun-burnt Caxton, stareing all awry;
The brown, unbuckled Shoe, the Stockings down,
The Crop-ear'd Hat, and tatter'd Morning-Gown;
The Shirt unbutton'd at his tuneful Throat,
Whilst Want sits cringing on his Thread-bare Coat;
Unknowing where, he passes thro' the Throng,
And rumbles Verses, as he moves along.

Have you not seen him in an upper Floor,
Scratching for Rhime, Poetically Poor?
The Books he has, one little Shelf contains,
No Ready Cash, the Price of all his Pains!
Whate'er the Muses bring with Morning Light,
Melts in mild-Ale the next succeeding Night.
His Room's uncooth, disorder'd, as his Dress,
The very Windows speak his sore Distress:
No glitt'ring Candlesticks adorn his Board,
Nor common Candles will his Purse afford;

216

A black Tobacco-Pipe must serve instead,
And Make-weight Candle light the Bard to Bed.
Broke by the Chimney stands an Elbow-Chair,
The bursten Bellows wheezing for Repair:
Extended Cob-webs hang the sable Room,
And throw around a dim, Religious Gloom:
Disjoynted Table, Chimney void of Grate,
All speak their Master's broken, low Estate.

Say then, dear Florio! didst thou never see
The wretched Creature of this mean Degree?
Macer's the Man (if e'er you heard his Name)
And if we were to search the Books of Fame,
I fancy, all True Poets are the Same.

217

THE FORCE OF BEAUTY.

Myrtilla with her Arts
So enslaves all our Hearts,
Her Presence 'tis Death to abide;
She faster can take 'em,
Than Heaven can make 'em,
Good Heav'n! lay your Moulds all aside.

218

'Tis but Labour and Pain
To work so in vain,
That the Women may shew their nice Arts;
Can You but contrive
Without Work to live,
Never fear, we can live without Hearts.

219

SONG.

[Softly breath, ye musky Gales!]

Softly breath, ye musky Gales!
Phæbe lies in yonder Shade;
Little, warbling Nightingales
Lull to Rest the Sleeping Maid.
Cupids, hov'ring round her Head,
Their silken Wings Indulgent spread.

Gently flow, ye silver Streams!
Gently to your Parent-Deep,
Melt her Soul with tender Dreams,
As purling by the Nymph ye creep:
Ev'ry Stream and whisp'ring Wind,
All conspire to sooth her Mind.

220

Should the tender Thing but dream,
Should kind Visions to her flee,
Should Florelio be the Theme,
Should her Dreams be all of Me,
Long may Phæbe take her Rest!
Long, Florelio! be Thou bless'd!

221

Hor. Ode 18.

Nymphs pursuing thro' my Farm,
Faunus! do my Flocks no Harm!

If each Year a tender Kid,
On thy Altar, Faunus! bleed;
If the sprightly circling Bowls
Cheer with wine our amorous Souls;
Let my Lambkins free from Harm,
Frisk around my little Farm!

222

When the Year brings back thy Feast,
Beasts as well as Men shall rest:
All the Nymphs and all the Swains
Nimbly tripping o'er the Plains;
Kids and Wolves shall free from Harm
Graze around my little Farm.

All the Village far and near
At thy Festival appear:
To Thee, of Woods and Groves a Friend,
Woods and Groves their Branches bend:
While Lads and Lasses free from Harm,
Dance around my little Farm.

James Clarke Ætat. 15.

223

A HYMN TO THE CREATOUR.

An Imitation of Milton's Style.

To Thee I'll lift my Voice, to Thee I'll sing,
Father of Light and Life! Thou Good Supreme!
Eternal Majesty! whose awful Throne,
Inviron'd by thick Waters, Clouds on Clouds
Convolv'd, support; Darkness embow'ring shrowds
Thy sacred Presence, to the feeble Eye
Of Man invisible, yet These thy Works,
This lower World, and yon huge starry Vault

224

Bespeak thy Greatness; These thy Hand Divine
Proclaim, and Those thy Grandeur in the Heav'ns,
Infinite, ineffable, beyond all Thought
Incomprehensive: who shall tell thy Praise?
Who walk'st the Sun-pav'd Circuit of the Skies
From all Eternity, Thou Great Three-One!

E'er yet the mighty Fiat was sent out
Into rude Chaos, or Informing Light
Began to spring; e'er yet th' Ætherial Spirit
Soft-breathing o'er the watry Surface mov'd;
Before the deep Foundations of the Earth
Were stretch'd upon the Floods; before the Air,
Contexture Fine! was spun, or yon blew Fields
Of Æther were display'd; e'er the bright Orbs,
Worlds countless! were launch'd forth upon the Deeps
Of Space Interminate; before Old Time
Eldest of Things! e'er was, Thou art for ever,
Being uncreated! Self-Existent Cause!

225

But how shall I attempt this mighty Theme?
How shall I sing of him, (whose high Behests
Were utter'd erst, on Sinai's radiant Mount,
In Clouds and dreadful Thund'rings; all the while
Was heard a shrilling Clangour wondrous loud,
Sonorous Metal breathing from on high
Tremendous Harmony, the Mountain smok'd,
Thick, dusky Vapours rising, Israel quak'd,
And trembled all below,) the groveling Muse
Sinks far beneath, nor dares renew her flight
Ætherial: O! ye flaming Pow'rs above!
Ye, who behold him dayly, and in Hymns,
And sacred Songs, rejoycing laud his Name,
His Greatness, Majesty, and wondrous Works,
Lend me your Harps, Oh! guide my trembling Hand,
Instruct my Heart, and teach me how to sing.

Begin the Song, ye Sons of Light! begin,
And sing th' Essential Presence: Thou, O Sun!

226

Regent of Day! proclaim him in thy Course,
Both when thou risest from the purpled East,
Emblazoning the Skies, or at Mid-day,
Or when thou bring'st grey Evening on, thy Beams
Shot parallel to Earth. Nor let the Moon
Not know by whom she shines, but as she rides
High on the silver Cloud, with all the Stars,
That lead the mystick Dance around the Heav'ns,
And all the Vocal Planets, joyn in Praise
Of God Eternal; let the waving Air
It's Districts wide expand, and up convey
The grateful Symphony: And ye, ye Winds!
That blow the Cardinals, your Force collect
In one continu'd Blast, and breath aloud
Triumphant Songs of Glory: O ye Birds,
In bolder Notes chaunt out his Praise: ye Springs!
And liquid Fountains! warble in your Flow
Your Author's Goodness, who ordain'd your Course,
And taught you how to run: ye lofty Pines!
And waving Cedars! bow, bow low your Heads,

227

And pay your Homage due: ye scaly Tribes!
That see his Wonders in the mighty Deep,
A Voice assume, and make the Coral Groves,
And hollow Rocks your Maker's Praise resound.
Ye Beasts of ev'ry Wood, Forrest, or Chase,
Your Thanks express in hideous Savage Roar,
Shaking the howling Wilderness: Thou Bed
Of Waters deep, old Ocean! in whose Womb
Capacious, lurk unseen a horrid Brood
Of yelling Monsters, let thy hoary Sons
Their inmost Caverns quit, and mingle Praise;
Let too that Tempest-loving, huge Leviathan,
Whose Breath's a Storm, who shading half the Deep
Rides on the loud Sea-wave, and from his Mouth
Wide-snorting Spouts a Tide, let him attest
The Bounty of that God, who gave him Life,
And those wide, liquid Realms for his Possession,
To take his Pastime there. Ye Storms and Tempests!
Ye Clouds and Meteors! Hail and gushing Rain!
Wheel o'er the darken'd Air, and rend the Skies

228

With horrible Applause; let the loud Voice
Of Solemn Thund'rings, length'ning Peal on Peal,
Loading the Winds, the mighty Concert joyn.

And Thou, God's noblest Work! Man, Lord of All!
Created in his Image! look around,
And view with Reason's Intellectual Eye
This vast, complex, amazing Scene of Things,
This Theatre of Nature! then with all
Th' Harmonious Orbs on high, and all the Earth,
In Choral Symphony extoll that God,
Who is from all Eternity—O! Pow'r Supreme!
If ought of Evil is within me lodg'd,
Hid or conceal'd, may thy all-piercing Ray
Purge me and cleanse me, that (when all must end,
And Time shall be no more) with Angel-Choirs,
And all th' Ætherial Host, I may declare,
In Songs Cherubick, joy'n'd with Harps Seraphick,

229

And Heav'nly Voices, (when the Morning-Stars
Shall once more sing together) without End
Thy Pow'r, thy Glory, and thy wondrous Works.

230

FAREWELL TO POETRY.

Cæstus Artemque repono.
Virg.

To Love's soft Theme my Harp has long been strung,
Long have the Smiling Sex engross'd my Song:
Oft' have I trifled by the Muses Streams,
And on their Hill indulg'd their raptur'd Dreams,
Whilst sportive Fancy roam'd their green Retreats,
Not undelighted with their shady Seats.
'Tis true; but can we always hope to find
The self-same Passions in the self-same Mind?

231

Ah! no; these Inclinations I resign,
Be it henceforth a Crime to call 'em mine!
Ye gay Illusions! fleeting Dreams! Farewell!
Be mine henceforth the Hermit's midnight Cell;
To whose low Roof Philosophy descends,
And o'er the Sage in prompting Visions bends:
'Tis She, that makes our Passions bear Controul,
And breaths warm Comfort o'er the soften'd Soul,
Instructs our Goings in the destin'd Way,
And smooths our Passage to Eternal Day.
There, there, ye Gods! for ever let me hide,
Far from the Baits of Sense, and worldly Pride,
Where Party-Fewds Men's sev'ral Actions blend,
And All are Fools or Madmen in the End.

Fir'd at a nobler View, I'll give it o'er,
And doat on Thee, dear Poetry! no more;
Thy Charms Divine Philosophy shall blot,
And ev'ry Muse—but Phæbe, be forgot.

140

FINIS.