University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

[The blackest ink of fate was sure my lot]

The blackest ink of fate was sure my lot,
And when she wrote my name she made a blot.

[For ev'ry station of a woman fit]

For ev'ry station of a woman fit,
Jemmat has sense, vivacity and wit;
Nor let the want of stature raise a strife,
In less of matter there is more of life.
So di'monds polish'd into brilliants rise,
And gain in lustre what they want in size.
Once we confess, deluded by the throng,
She lean'd to folly, but she lean'd not long.
By nature lively, she grew wild by art,
For sure it was so pretty to be smart.
But soon recov'ring, flush'd with mirth and youth;
Contented she came home to sense and truth.
Of ev'ry foreign idle grace disarm'd,
She grew herself,—she reason'd,—and she charm'd.
Yet tho' she reasons, she can triflle still,
With equal spirit—but superior skill.
And with some change of manners and of stile,
For folly laughs, when wisdom does but smile.
The pertness fled,—the liveliness remains,
She then diverted,—now she entertains,
With lively humour and with easy sense;
Not at her neighbour's, or her own expence.
But nice reflections on the present cast;
And modest censures on the follies past.
Shy to decide, tho' ready to discern,
Fond to improve, yet not asham'd to learn;
Her reason with the charms of fancy grac'd,
She feels a relish, and she shews a taste:
Her life by principle and truth she steers,
Not turn'd by ev'ry whistle that she hears
Like half her sex, from matrons down to girls,
With eyes that twinkle and a head that twirls,
Now light and giddy, now demure and prim,
All pride and passion, prejudice and whim;
Her heart still regularly taught to beat,
Is warm'd with nature, not with passion's heat;
With her own sorrows apt to swell or flow,
With gen'rous pity for another's woe;
While friendship, piety, compassion move,
And ev'ry tender sentiment of love.
Yet love's admittance too was gain'd but slow,
He was a stranger only—not a foe;
Her heart was to be won, but at her price,
She was not so insensible as nice:
Thus ev'ry virtue shining in its place,
And ev'ry virtue follow'd by a grace;
She claims our praises—Are our praises due?
The picture charms us—Is the picture true?
All poets rant, their fancy is their law,
They colour brightly what they falsely draw;
Or grant that one in twenty speaks his mind,
He may not flatter, yet he may be blind;
Some praise with art, who cannot judge with skill,
And many flourish, who can reason ill;
Jemmat, your worth the writer's same insures,
He drew the picture, made the picture yours.
Shew to the women how their glories sink,
Shew to the men, a woman dares to think;
Till all confess, discov'ring whom I paint,
The image faithful, tho' the copy's faint.

[In disappointment not unskill'd]

To Mrs. Jemmat.

In thee to blow the flow'r of human kind,
Sure ev'ry star and ev'ry pow'r combind,
From the full source of whose diffusive heart,
Stream the rich currents of each polish'd art,
While virtue, sweetness, elegance and grace,
Breaths in thy mind, and lives upon thy face.
Oh might my verse assume a strain divine,
Soft and obliging, as each act of thine,
The flowing tinctures of a deathless lay
Shou'd all thy excellence of soul display.
Thee bounteous heaven, indulgent sent to teach,
The summit female eminence cou'd reach;
And bid your manners, sense and judgment soar,
A pitch unknown to all your sex before.
'Tis thus the princely eagle wings his way,
Tow'rds the fix'd orbit of resplendent day.
The smaller species of the feather'd race,
A while attend him thro' the liquid space.
Till soon fatigu'd, reluctant they give o'er,
Behold astonish'd, but aspire no more,
While he undaunted traces spheres unknown,
And views the planetary world alone.
Ambitious nymphs by whom perfections sought,
May emulate thy dignity of thought.
But a consummate majesty of mind,
Marks you the first and best of womankind,
Where dwell the pity'ng pang, the tender tear,
For suff'ring innocence the sigh sincere,
The spirit lib'ral, which no bounds controul,
And evry social offspring of the soul.

Address'd to a very beneficent Nobleman.

Address'd to the right Rev. the Lord Bishop of ---.

To breasts like thine paternally that share,
In each vicissitude of human care,
When friends and fortune from the wretched fly,
To ease the heart, and wipe the streaming eye
Inspires seraphic extacy of mind,
Which the supremely virtuous only find;
Not pride or pomp, or luxury or dress,
Not all that elocution can express,
Such home-felt joy and ravishment impart
As warms and elevates a Christian heart.
The thund'ring peal that earth's foundation shakes,
Peace to the good man's conscious spirit speaks;
Shews what magnificence and pow'rs attend
That aweful being he esteems a friend;
Commission'd angels guard his soft repose,
And sweet content his fearless slumbers close:
Such calm felicity, such bliss divine,
Rewards bright --- a soul like thine,
That holy'st sanction to religion gives,
And up to each instructive precept lives.
'Tis yours with boundless hand to bring redress,
When sickness, want, or nakedness oppress;
The mourning widow's anguish to restrain,
And kindly mitigate the orphan's pain:
To see affliction at her dreadful goal,
And vanquish with benevolence the soul;
Thro' ev'ry step thy hallow'd master trod,
To act the impartial delegate of God.

To Cælia, fond of a cat.

A picture of a good husband.

Should Providence present a man of parts,
Not learn'dly vain, yet skill'd in lib'ral arts;
Whose principles are solid, pious too,
Just to himself, and to his monarch true;
In conversation grave, but not precise;
Unmov'd in dangers, yet in counsel wise:
His carriage humble, mix'd with decent pride,
Instruct by actions, and as wisely chide;
Who hates all flatt'ry, and does truth revere,
Deeds prove his words, and ev'ry act sincere;
One who the world's temptations can withstand,
And all his passions equally command;
If this uncommon creature should agree
To like an honest dull sincerity,
(For wit and beauty ne'er belong'd to me)
I could contentedly accept the bliss,
And with a pleasure know no will but his.

Wrote in a young lady's Milton.

Had our first parent known but to controul,
And guide, like you, the passions of the soul;
In vain had Satan all his arts essay'd;
Virtues, like yours, would scorn to be betray'd.
Then no such thoughts had Milton's breast inspir'd,
Nor you, nor I, his tender lines admir'd:
Then learn from hence this female vice to shun,
Search not too far, by this was Eve undone.

A new simile for young batchelors.

As when a mouse that quits her cell,
Attracted by the tempting smell
Of dainties cleanly Nan has drest,
And guarded for to-morrow's feast,
Unfortunately meets her fate,
By sliding thro' the wiry grate
To gain the well-dissembled bait:
So the found youth, whose easy heart
Falls a quick prey to Delia's art,
Despairs, impatient, 'till his rage
Finds entrance into wedlock's cage;—
Then cancels all the vows he swore,
And wonders how he could adore:
Like Mus laments lost liberty,
And the same fate must set him free.

On Chance and Predestination.

Three diff'rent schemes philosophers assign;
A Chance, a Fate, a Providence divine.
Which to embrace of these three diff'rent views,
Methinks it is not difficut to chuse;
For first, what wisdom, or what sense to cry
Things happen so and so, we know not why?
Or how are we advanc'd one jot, to know,
When things once are, that they must needs be so?
To see such order, and deny all laws,
Feel such effects, and yet confess no cause,
What can be more extravagant and odd?
He only reasons, that believes a God.

On the May morning.

To Miss --- in the country.

The Choice.

The Lover's Resolve.

Genius, Virtue, and Reputation.

The Heron. A tale for the old maids.

A Her'n erect, with stately stride,
Was coasting by a river's side;
Where gilded carps, in limpid stream,
Sported before him, in the gleam;
And lordly pikes courted his taste,
He needed only stoop to feast:
But hoping something nice would offer,
Dainty, he slights the present proffer:
Not long, but appetite restor'd,
Draws him again down to a ford;
Here the firm, slimy tench he found,
(But nothing better all around)
Such low repast with scorn refus'd,
Thus proudly with himself he mus'd:—
What, tench for me! such wrethed stuff
Might serve an otter well enough;
But herns thus low to condescend,
Like city-mouse with country friend!
Unmov'd, he views the homely fare,
Nor thinks it worth a single care:
The tench swim off.—The gudgeons next
Approach our hero—now perplext;
But he, who scorn'd their betters so,
Scorns them—and lets the gudgeons go;
And now all's gone, both good and bad;
(A fin on no terms to be had)
Poor long-shanks, seeing no great choice,
Knew 'twas a folly to be nice;
And so, to make his supper sure,
Eat snails like any epicure.

The lady's resolve.

Whilst thirst of praise, and vain desire of fame,
In ev'ry age is ev'ry woman's aim;
With courtship pleas'd, of silly toasters proud,
Fond of a train, and happy in a crowd;
On each poor fool bestowing some kind glance,
Each conquest owing to some loose advance;
While vain coquets affect to be pursu'd,
And think they're virtuous, if not grossly lewd;
Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide;
In part she is to blame that has been try'd;
He comes too near, that comes to be deny'd.

The gentleman's answer.

Whilst pretty fellows think a woman's fame,
In ev'ry state and ev'ry age the same;
With their own folly pleas'd, the fair they toast,
And where they least are happy, swear they're most;
No difference making 'twixt coquet and prude;
And her that seems, yet is not really lewd;
While thus they think, and thus they vainly live,
And taste no joys but what their fancies give.
Let this great maxim be my action's guide,
May I ne'er hope, tho' I am ne'er deny'd;
Nor think a woman won, that's willing to be try'd.

To-morrow.

Thoughtless on fate, tho' of its essence sure,
View man the bound'ries of his state explore;
The soft, delusive sweets of life avail,
To charm (just for a while) the sense of all;
In some they raise a discontented mind,
In some corrupted, and in some refin'd.
Harden'd thro' crimes impenitently gay,
See here a man bewilder'd in delay;
From time to time defers his mending hour;
Bold in his vice, he thinks himself secure.
To-morrows with to-morrows blended lye,
All his defects to-morrow must supply.
To-morrow comes, is but a common day:
His sins predominant must still delay.
Thus endless series of whole years may fly,
To-morrow he's to mend, to-morrow he's to dye;
At last cold death approaches with her aweful train,
Clasps our bold hero, who submits with conscious pain,
To-morrow he wishes, being now too late, to save,
Withdraws into the confines of the sleepy grave.
Thus liv'd, thus dy'd, and left sufficient ground to say,
There's no to-morrow, 'tis happy there is to-day.

Wrote on seeing some flowers blow in an apartment.

Address'd to a gentleman on seeing his gardens and improvements.

Behold the pow'r of elegance and taste,
Awake to harmony the dreary waste,
Where'er I tread, spontaneous beauties rise,
And new form'd wonders captivate my eyes.
Is it a scene in paradise I view?
Or is Amphion's pow'r devolv'd to you?
That rocks and woods, and waters should be taught,
A prompt obedience to each happy thought.
Whether I wander thro' the artless shade,
Where nature's simplest aspect is display'd;
Or fill'd with wild imagination, rove
Amidst the fragance of thy orange grove;
Whether yon Gothic temple I survey,
Or mark the waters trickling in their way,
My tongue and pen ambitiously contend,
One to describe, the other to commend.
From such divine improvements we may find
Sure means to judge of an accomplish'd mind,
Where all the sweets of each remoter land
Stand here compil'd by a judicious hand.

Address'd to a lady who had two lovely boys.

She comes, immortal pleasures to impart,
Love in her looks, and honour in her heart,
She comes, attended by her native train,
That sportive cupids emulate in vain,
Those blooming boys, whose lineaments proclaim
The long illustrious race from whence they came;
Belov'd by all, majestic she appears,
Emitting lustre thro' a veil of tears.

EPIGRAM.

[All agree that a poet can seldom get bread]

All agree that a poet can seldom get bread
Till age has destroy'd ev'ry tooth in his head,
Then why should I be in the dumps;
From the maxim 'tis clear,
My preferment is near,
Since mine are all worn to the stumps.

On the death of the Right Hon. Henry Pelham, Esq

Say Pelham, say, what now avails thy toil,
Thy constant watchings o'er the midnight oil;
To read the grave historian's labour'd page,
To admire the raptur'd bard, or thoughtful sage;
Could all thy knowledge stop thy parting breath?
Could all thy grandeur charm the eye of death?
Ah no! it could not charm no more than save,
'Tis virtue only triumphs o'er the grave.
'Twas she, kind goddess, soften'd ev'ry care,
Allay'd thy anger and dispell'd thy fear,
She grac'd thy life, she bid thee bravely die,
And guides thee to immortal joys on high.

An Acrostick on my brother's going to sea.

When tempests with their thousand horrors rise,
Inspect th'impending ruin not with eyes
Loaded with tears; but when destruction's near
Look on and slight it with intrepid air;
In gulph of dread uncertainty ne'er know
A passion that does in cowards glow;
Mindful of heav'n, and that that heav'n design'd,
Yield to its providential care resign'd;
Eternal gods to them submission show,
Oft think on them, as we on thee poor Yeo.

By a young gentleman on the death of my brother.

To whom shall I my labouring breast disclose,
Reveal my tortures, and disclose my woes;
To thee, dear Lycidas, surviving friend,
To me thy aid, thy pen, thy muses lend;
While I in faithful, tho' in humble strain,
Deplore my loss, and of the fates complain;
No more in pleasing themes the muse delights,
Now sadly murmuring, trembles as she writes.
Far different thoughts must now my pen employ,
And into deepest anguish turn my joy;
Let love a while be banish'd far away,
Whilst I the last sad debt of friendship pay.
Ye virgins listen to this tale of woe,
And let the tender tears of sorrow flow;
You who once knew the dear departed youth,
That he was all made up of love and truth:
But oh, the brightest virtues cannot save
Their lovely owner from the insatiate grave.
For you, ye fair, there may be some amends,
All men are lovers, 'tis but few are friends;
Your shock of sorrow may in time decline,
Time may assuage your grief, but never mine;
You for new lovers may new smiles put on,
But I for no such friend now he is gone.
Who does not mourn this youth's unhappy date,
What heart but melts with pity for his fate;
Farewell too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own.
Have I not cause, relentless heaven, to mourn;
Did ever breast with purer friendship burn,
Did ever youth so beautiful appear,
Did ever branch so sweet a blossom bear:
Death view'd his beauties with unfriendly eyes,
Stept proudly forth and snatch'd the glorious prize;
Thus does the lovely rose its sweets dispense,
Fair to the eye and pleasing to the sense:
Till hoary winter with its icy arms,
Nips the fair bud and rifles all its charms.
Behold his weeping sisters first appear,
For ever torn from what they held so dear;
Adorn'd with cypress shades and springing flowers,
Shining thro' tears, like April suns in showers;
And great must be that merit which can draw
Streams from the loveliest eyes that ever saw.
Lo there she sits, and silent as she crys,
A chrystal flood of tears bedew her eyes;
Tears which would melt a heart even free to view,
How then must mine that's conquered bleed anew:
Conquer'd by thee dear maid, some pity shew,
Restrain those tears, ah! still alas they flow,
Compassion, love, and friendship all combine,
Can I resist? no, I'll for ever pine,
Sad luxury of grief how will I rove,
From sorrow still, to circling sorrow move,
From endless glory, kindlest endless love.
But why thy untimely fate should we deplore,
Sure we shall meet when once this life is o'er;
Where op'ning scenes of wonder charm the view,
And the soul springs to joys for ever new.
Heav'n only calls him to the realms above,
To teach the cherubims how they should love.
But hark! what voice is that invades my ears?
A voice which bids me cast away my fears;
Sure I should know the form, so young, so gay;
Yes, 'tis his shade, and thus it seems to say:
Lament mistaken friend my fate no more,
I'm safely landed on a happier shore,
And blest to full perfection I can now
With pity view whate'er I left below;
Indulge no more this sad complaining voice,
Nor by intemperate grief disturb my joys.
He spoke no more, but wing'd away his flight
To the bright mansions of eternal light.

Sent to me with a nosegay the latter end of the season.

Accept, my fair, this latter bloom,
And lay it on thy breast,
Where angels would delight to come,
Could they be half so blest.
Go happy nosegay, sweet as May,
To Kitty's sweeter bosom go,
And whilst amidst her charms you lay,
My secret passion let her know.

Sent to Mr. H. by an old gentleman, at the time he courted me.

Adam alone could not be easy,
But he must have a wife, an't please you;
But how did he procure this wife
To chear his solitary life?
Why from a rib out of his side
Was form'd this necessary bride;
And how did he the pain beguile?
Pho, he slept sweetly all the while:
But when the rib was re-apply'd
In woman's form to Adam's side,
How then, I pray you, did it answer?
He never slept so sweet again Sir.

Sent me by Mr. S.