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

Shall every pension'd scribbler draw his pen,
And gild with venal praise the worst of men?
(E'en Dixon glean the scandal of a year
In one dull tripos, to be thought severe?)

174

Shall Wilks his Golden Farmer still rehearse,
And void of thought roar out his frantic verse?
Then by mad fits with margin notes explain
The mystic labours of his muddy brain?
Shall tragic Macer plague the sacred nine,
Nor fear the satire of one Dunciad line?
Or barren Codrus strain his bastard wit,
To be the jest of galleries and pit?

175

To me scarce any place is better known,
Where fops resort, the triflers of the town,
Than the large theatre, and vaulted hall,
Where emulating hawkers pamphlets bawl.
What ladies an Italian's favour boast,
(For him the fair sex innocently toast)
When the shrill eunuch warbles out his charms,
What rapture, Gods! to pant within his arms?
His thrilling notes their ravish'd souls employ,
Tho' drudging husbands scarce can give them joy.

176

Such themes our youthful poetasters charm,
Who fir'd with thirst of fame in numbers swarm,
With brazen lungs to bellow out their wit,
Till the dome trembles, and the columns split:
While wiser bards from Merlin's prophecies
To sooth the great extract a thousand lyes;
From whose dark record of eight-hundred years,
That Caroline should bless this land, appears;
Born with a taste each science to refine,
To sink a cave, or raise a hermit's shrine.

177

This privilege of verse all authors claim;
Who write for bread, or for immortal fame.
Such madness I abhorr'd, and rather chose
To give good counsel even to my foes;
To warn corrupted statesmen of their fate,
And bid the knight withdraw before too late;
Left Cochran's destiny reward his pains,
And if no patent, sure to hang in chains.

178

When such a swarm of scribblers plague this age,
Why should the muse restrain her pointed rage?
But hold, says one! is there no subject fit,
But writing satire to employ your wit?
Sir Robert's virtues claim a just applause;
I leave Sir Robert to his country's laws.
What!— no encomiums on the British fleet,
When every year such mighty squadrons meet:
How would Iberia tremble to behold
Such naval forces, — were it not for gold?—
To treat,— not fight,— was their pacific aim;
And make a mighty monarch sign his name.
These are the triumphs happy counsels bring,
When such wise ministers will serve their king.

179

But thanks to Fleury! whose refining art
'Twixt jarring nations play'd so nice a part;
What senates labour'd, he perform'd alone,
And cancell'd treaties which we blush to own:
Convention-tools their former votes disdain,
And claim unbounded empire o'er the main:
But by your leave, good Sir, the reason's clear,
Why satires flourish each revolving year.
When eunuchs by the ladies favour thrive,
And in the sun-shine of a palace live;

180

When fops protest, and younger brothers swear,
The spawn of Rome are stallions to the fair;
When tender virgins mount the fleeting horse,
And urge with full career the rapid course;
Fir'd with a thirst of glory never rest,
Till the beast's spoils adorn their manly breast:
When upstart politicians, venal knaves,
Basely conspire to make their betters slaves;

181

When vulgar wretches, by dependance great,
Commence the necessary tools of state;
Tho' born to labour, delicately nice,
To live like modern Conoisseurs in vice;
What honest spirit can his spleen contain,
Nor dare to lash the vices of this reign?
Matho, the curse of chairmen for his weight,
To every court of justice rides in state,

182

With all his useful implements of law;
Saints that can swear to what they never saw:
Vile minions!— who with ease their fortunes earn,
And candidates without a vote return;
Assisted by these arts, great Matho's cause
Eludes stern justice, and defies the laws;
While forfeited estates his zeal reward,
Tho' patriots scarce can move without a guard:
To him all lesser villains bow their heads,
E'en Sk---r without bribes his presence dreads;

183

To country principles a friend profess'd,
But now like G---h thinks honour but a jest;
Without one sigh each virtue can resign,
And prove in ministers a right divine;
Curs'd by his stars to bear the public scorn,
By nature form'd a slave, a villain born:
E'en female wits in state intrigues too wise
Are banish'd, lest their tongue betray their eyes,
Tho' libertines, by being dupes to lust,
Supplant you, as more worthy of the trust;

184

With brawny vigour act the stallion's part:
Such gallantry may gain the widow's heart.
Insatiate Messalina's death will prove
Him richest, who has best indulg'd her love.
Poor Limberham expects in vain to share
One half, whose limbs such labour could not bear;
And sure lord Vainlove can have no pretence
To please a blooming widow's craving sense.
But let such miscreants earn their gilded dust,
By being slaves to courts, or women's lust;
Till rioting in vice has made them pale,
As batter'd harlots, when their colours fail;

185

As trembling orators that plead for life,
Or gallants taken with a neighbour's wife.
What other evils shall the muse relate?
Of guardians, by their orphans ruin great;
Of senators that only can complain,
(For W---'s numbers make impeachments vain;)
Those arts, by which he rose, maintain his pow'r,
A standing army and a royal dow'r;

186

His crimes confirm the greatness of his soul,
Above nice conscience, and the laws controul;
He smiles to think how frantic patriots rage,
And blesses the corruption of the age.

But nobler sentiments inspir'd his youth,
Who boldly spoke in the defence of truth;
Who stood the vengeance of perverted laws,
Who suffer'd chains in freedom's glorious cause,
And with a sigh lamented Fleury's fate,
Because his country's thraldom made him great:

187

But statesmen's principles will strangely veer,
In the short course of one revolving year:
The public spirit of an honest heart
Degenerate, to act a villain's part;
The voice of liberty in senates loud
Now rails at patriots,— a licentious croud,
And the free sentiments which charm'd before,
Can flatter kings in arbitrary pow'r.

But now this flaming meteor of the skies
Has spent his blaze, and in oblivion dies,
Whose conduct had estrang'd the people's love.
Their ardent zeal the willing nation prove
Against rebellion to defend the crown,
And with their loyal persons guard the throne.

188

Since vice is sacred held among the great,
And virtue spurn'd by ministers of state;
Since men, with delegated power drunk,
Without a blush in triumph wed a punk;
Whose shining virtues should deserve command,
Set bad examples to a tainted land:
While gaping crouds with dazzled eyes adore
The gems that sparkle on a foreign whore:

Shall such dark vices seek the gloom of night,
Nor satire dare to drag them forth to light?
But the nice manners of the present age
Abhor the name of villain on the stage;
When a feign'd traytor's tainted blood is spilt,
The real statesman shudders at the guilt.

189

Gustavus , pleading in his country's cause
For liberty, the first of nature's laws,
Offends the wise reformers of the times,
Whose stern decree makes public virtues — crimes.
Let other poets haunt the purling stream,
And spin out verses softer than their theme:
Such trifling subjects would defile my page,
Whose pointed lines should glow with manly rage.

190

When husbands, that have blooming beauties, snore,
To give their loving consorts leave to whore;
When noble heirs esteem it no disgrace
To spend their fortunes, and then beg a place;
Thro' gaping crouds in gilded cars to ride,
While harlots blaze in jewels by their side,
And as their wills direct, the coursers guide.

191

When forging lawyers injur'd heirs beguile,
Grow rich, and fatten on the perjur'd spoil;
Affect to dress like fops with foreign air,
With vests embroider'd, and their bosoms bare;
Such flagrant follies would make Welsted write
In Pope's, Minerva's, and the Muses spite.

But these are trifles, when to some compar'd,
Who trade in blood, and murder for reward:

192

Such dark artificers are skill'd in death,
To stab, or poison your untainted breath.
If wanton wives their wicked aid implore,
Or spendthrift sons wish fathers were no more,
Gold signs their passage to the Stygian shore.
If you resolve some vast estate to raise,
Leave starving honesty to barren praise!

193

Act some unheard of sin, that hell may own
Its master foil'd, and all his crimes undone,
The splendid equipage, and stately dome,
Magnificence, that rivals ancient Rome,
Are no more signs of merit, than a place,
Stars, garters, titles, emblems of disgrace.
Tho' lands are mortgag'd, yet their crimes afford,
To spread rich banquets on the costly board.
When virgin brides their lawful husbands flight,
And make them cuckolds on the wedding-night;

194

When beardless youths adulteries commit,
Rapes, riots, massacres, to show their wit:
Fir'd with just wrath, his pen each poet draws,
And writes without a muse in virtue's cause.

From the first period of revolving time,
When blooming nature flourish'd in her prime,
The various passions, which to man belong,
Their hopes, and fears, are subjects of my song.

195

When were such glaring vices ever known
To spread contagion over all the town?
How many, born to riches that suffice
For more than all the luxury of vice,
Their whole estate upon a card advance,
The fools of fortune, and the slaves of chance?

196

Whose hopes, like visionary chymists, fail,
That waking find their golden dream a jail.

When did such tow'ring fabrics ever rise,
Or such rich banquets feast our fathers eyes?
Yet, starving clients from the Forum haste,
And find a shotten herring their repast;

197

But first their patrons, in a surly tone,
Ask the mean tools what party-service done?
Then with fair promises their cause promote;
And livings in reversion for a vote!
While slaves and nobles croud their levees door,
And with a servile voice some boon implore;
Pimps, peers, and courtiers eagerly contend,
Whose darkest deeds shall gain the greatest friend.

198

Here a proud upstart with his lordship vies,
And spite of merit carries off the prize;
Tho' rich in virtue, if your fortune's less,
'Tis reckon'd arrogance to wish success.
Gold is at court, the standard of all merit,
Makes ideots wise, and cowards men of spirit:

199

Then, Plutus, let us sacrifice to thee:
E'en atheists will adore thy deity.
Now sordid patrons yearly reckon o'er,
How much extortion has increas'd their store;
While needy clients mourn their wretched state,
Whose plunder'd fortunes make oppressors great.

200

When the bright sun first gilds the purple dawn,
And fair Aurora ushers in the morn,
Dependant wretches on proud Sylla wait,
And cringe obsequious at his palace-gate;

201

In servile crouds before his chariot run,
And strive, like fools, who first shall be undone;
Buoy'd up with promises of friends profess'd,
To starve in expectation of a feast.
While ransack'd elements their stores reveal,
To make a glutton happy for a meal:
Whose lands are forfeited to gorge his maw,
Tho' sure to groan beneath the griping law.

202

E'en hungry citizens would blush to eat,
With such devouring rage, at sheriffs treat.
The banquet o'er, each bloated guest complains
Of sudden qualms, short breath, and racking pains:
Nature wants strength to circulate the blood,
Oppress'd with loads of indigested food.

203

Scarce have the wretches time to make a will,
So swift is foul intemperance to kill,
Beyond Ward's drop, or epidemic pill;
Whose disappointed parasites lament
Their sudden death without a testament.
Posterity will curse these hated times,
And damn themselves in vain to match our crimes;
Each vice has reach'd its greatest altitude,
Spent all its rage, and deviates into good.

204

But where's a genius, whose satiric quill
Can make such harden'd wretches blush at ill?
Where is that ancient liberty of wit,
When every fool, and knave, by name was hit?
Then servile H---l---ms might know his abject state,
Who feels the world's bleak scorn without their hate;
Polite to please, to flatter, to deceive,
Wily as Satan when he tempted Eve;
In whose dark mind his double actions blend
The secret villain with the public friend;

205

The mean servility, and humble pride,
Which men of spirit with contempt deride.
Curs'd with five senses to endure his pain,
With industry, to seek relief in vain;
With parts and learning, which the world respect;
With honesty, that all mankind suspect;
With tyranny, which makes himself a slave,
Weary of life, yet shudders at the grave;
With principles,—by which some fools are shamm'd,
And just enough religion,—to be damn'd.

206

Let others fulsome panegyrics write,
While I set villains in a proper light;
Or else describe a fop in smoother stile,
Correct my muse, and make e'en satire smile.
St. James's modish petit maitres own
Philemon is the darling of the town:
A mighty pretty book Philemon wrote,
Without one glimmering of sense or thought:

207

Exact in judging, as the fair agree,
Of fans, and silks, perfumes, or Hyson tea;
Endow'd by nature with a trifling mind,
Prone to spread scandal like the female kind:
But fops, like him, that propagate abuse,
Are scarcely worth the censure of the muse;
Then let the coxcomb unmolested pass,
To that fool's paradise, a looking-glass.

208

When, arm'd for virtue, manly Pope will write,
What swarm of fools precipitate their flight?
Each secret villain, struck with conscious awe,
Dreads more his censure than the penal law;
E'en harden'd Peter blushes at his satire,
And wishes honesty was in his nature:
Gay modern atheists kiss the poet's rod,
Reform their lives, and tremble at a God.
Tho' Walpole's virtues claim applause from peers,
From courtiers, senates, bishops, gazetteers;

209

The muse secure may point each venom'd line,
With Empson, Dudley, or a Cataline;
Brand their foul names to each succeeding age,
And make the living dread the future page.

One of the senior fellows of Trinity-College in Oxford, who published an incomparable poem, called the Golden Farmer, which he writes marginal notes on every full moon.

See his life, printed in 1734, for A. Dod.

The convention.

A play that was prohibited, because it contained some lines in praise of liberty, which offended the minister.

On the Widow Scarf, Goddess of the Three-Tuns at Cambridge.

Shall Bradgate's name adorn the poet's verse,
And not one muse Lenora's praise rehearse?
Whose melting looks resistless force impart,
To charm the fight, and captivate the heart;
Whom nature form'd so virtuous, and so fair,
As kindles love, and yet creates despair;

210

Tho' warm as wanton Venus, when she strove
On Ida's mount to win the prize of love.
Forbear, rash youth, to trust your wand'ring eyes,
Conceal'd in beauty's smiles perdition lies:
Thus mortals gaze upon the lightning's blast,
Tho' sure to perish in the flame at last.

Fair Queen of Delos, tender thoughts inspire,
Which melt the yielding soul to soft desire!
Let all the Graces hover on the wing,
And aid my fancy, while her charms I sing!
Who borrows blushes from Aurora's dawn,
And breathes more fragrant than the rosy morn;
Like the first scene of opening paradise,
E're nature's beauty was deform'd by vice:

211

Whose converse e'en philosophers approve,
And rigid Stoics languish into love:
The wither'd sages, and the blooming young
Attentive listen to the syren's song,
Who knows with skill the mortal part to hit,
And make each coxcomb wonder at her wit.
Tho' courted, humble; tho' admir'd, not vain;
The boasted pride of Granta's female train:
But, cease my muse, nor in too languid lays
Detract from merit, which you mean to praise.

A Familiar Epistle to Doctor Reeve,in London.

From gallant scenes at park and play,
From beaux and belles, for ever gay;

212

From Covent-Garden rakes and wits,
From crouds of money-loving cits,
And near relations understood
As dearest friends by ties of blood;
Banish'd by Fortune, I retire
(Nor court her smiles, nor dread her ire)
To solemn scenes, which hermits chuse,
To solitude, the friend of muse;
Who never, like a tinsel crony,
Forsakes you for the want of money;
But, thro' the various scenes of life,
Waits on you like a faithful wife,
To sportive schemes of mirth and glee,
Or mourns your fate at Tyburn tree.
No fools I envy their estate,
No titled villain's being great;

213

But find that calm content can dwell
Within an humble, rural cell.
While you, by inclination hurl'd,
(Excuse the phrase, that rhimes to world)
Attend the busy hum of men,
And live by learned dash of pen;
Wait on the miser for his wealth,
And give him in exchange his health.
But why such study, care, and strife,
To play this idle farce of life?
Since death so soon the scene must close;
That period to all human woes.

Could fleeting youth for ever stay,
And pleasure crown each smiling day;

214

Could neither want, nor pale disease
(But then indeed you'd lose your fees)
Cast o'er the mind a dismal gloom,
And make us rashly wish a tomb:
Or was there any certain ground,
Where happiness is to be found?
The search, methinks, were not amiss,
To live in settled state of bliss.
But, since all sublunary joys
Prove vain, as giddy children's toys,
No longer let us blame our stars,
Nor wage with Heaven impious wars:
Nor like fond fools ourselves deceive,
And want the means, or pow'r to live;
Since Pope has sung in living lays,
T'enjoy; proclaims our Maker's praise.

215

Then revel o'er the present hour;
(The only bliss within our pow'r)
Be thankful for the pleasure past,
And neither wish, nor fear the last:
Still bless'd, tho' fortune prove unkind,
If all is right within the mind.

These simple rhimes I did indite,
While I, like miserable Wight,
Was riding on a jaded horse,
On whom the spur had lost its force:
So mounted Pegasus a-stride,
(The poet's phantom of a guide)
And left a melancholy fit
Should in my pericranium sit;

216

To pass away the tedious time,
This letter jingled into rhime.
But here the muse shall end her work,
For now (thank God) I'm come to York.

PS.

Pray give my services, by dozens,
To all my uncles, aunts, and cozens;
Remember me to my dear sister,
Your wife, I mean, since you have kiss'd her:
On Monday morning, every vassal
Cries whip and spur for Skelton-Castle,
Where bounty, wit, and mirth appear,
And pleasure crowns each smiling year.

York, March 16, 1740–1.

217

The Second Epistle of the First Book of Horace imitated. First published in 1741–2.

While you, dear Paulus, sacrifice your rest,
To plead in noisy courts for worth distress'd;
Or, bold in senates for the public cause,
Revive our injur'd country's dying laws;
Watch o'er the growth of pow'r with zealous eye,
And unexcis'd preserve our liberty:
From all the vanities of life retir'd
To Cam's fair banks, where Spenser lay inspir'd,
I read with rapture Homer's sacred page,
Whose strong description glows with martial rage.

218

Whose nervous lines, with wisdom fraught, impart
Those virtues, which adorn or mend the heart;
With greater force the moral rules explain,
Than Whitfield's cant, or Clarke's pathetic strain.
But, left you think this doctrine too severe,
My reasons, Paulus, if at leisure, hear.
Fair Helen's charms, that kindled fierce desire
In Paris' breast, and set the world on fire,

219

For ever bloom in his immortal strains,
Whose fable with such energy contains
The zeal of foolish monarchs mad with pride,
The mob's wild tumult, like a rapid tide.

Antenor his dear country's fate deplor'd,
And said the fatal fair should be restor'd;
But peevish Paris, obstinately wrong,
Detain'd the blooming theme of Homer's song.

220

The sage of Pylos eloquently show'd,
What dire effects from civil discord flow'd.
From love's soft passion equal evil springs,
To the rash violence of lawless kings.
All the foul vices of an earthly God
Prove to the meanest slave an iron rod.
Sedition, dark deceit, and burning lust,
Corruption, violence, and breach of trust,
On courtier, citizen, and templar seize,
And spread o'er all the land the rank disease.

221

Again Ulysses' bright example tells,
What good in wisdom, and in virtue dwells;
Who left Troy's smoaking ruins to explore
The men and manners of a distant shore;
Rough toil encounter'd with a steady soul,
Which pleasure could not melt, nor fear controul.

222

You know the fable of the syren's strain,
And Circe's feast, that charm'd the thoughtless train;
But, had her soothing arts allur'd his soul
To taste the banquet, or partake the bowl,
The sage had dwindled to as low a thing,
As G---h in senates, or some modern king.
But we seem mortals of another race,
The sons of luxury, contempt, disgrace;

223

Soft as Phœacian fops, who turn'd their care
To mend a feature, or adjust a hair:
Mere pimps, and revellers of Comus' court,
Where beaux' in muffs, fools, parasites resort;
All the lewd tribe of prodigals undone,
Who, steep'd in vice, sleep down a summer's fun,
And by soft music, languishingly slow,
Detain the drowsy God from realms below.

224

Shall dark assassins, for a golden prize,
Amidst the sable gloom of night arise?
And will no danger break your calm repose,
No friend's misfortune, or your country's woes?
Nor e'en that high regard, which patriots feel
For Vernon's safety, and the public weal!
When no malignant fever fires the brain,
And health luxuriant revels in each vein,
Tho' sunk in sloth, from all diseases free,
In dropsies, you will run to Reeve or Lee.

225

Soon as Aurora dawns, some book peruse,
That treats of subjects pleasing, yet of use!
To charm each wand'ring thought from envy's rage,
Or love, that tyrant o'er our blooming age.
Whate'er offends the sight we shun with haste,
And shall the mind's disease for ever last?
Dare to begin, and half your work is done:
Plain reason tells us what to seek, or shun.

226

Whoe'er delays to live by reason's rule,
Waits on the river's bank, like nature's fool;
With visionary hope, like courtiers fed,
He thought the stream would leave its ouzy bed;
But still the sacred spring for ever glides
Thro' flow'ry meadows, with revolving tides.
Wealth, beauty, children, are the joys of life,
That make each mortal happy in a wife:
Patient of cold we tame the stubborn plain,
And pant beneath the noon-tide heat for gain.

227

Why should we wish for more? If fortune grants
That competence, which modest nature wants:
Except that Godlike pleasure to bestow
On friends who sink beneath a weight of woe.
Not all the splendor, which the world admire,
The pride of life, each object of desire,
From burning fevers can preserve their lord,
Or to the wounded spirit ease afford.
Still W---e's conscience throbs beneath a star,
And shakes his fabric with intestine war;

228

Our country's wrongs sit heavy on his breast,
And, like Macbeth, his guilt has murder'd rest;
Exalted on the top of fortune's wheel,
He wants that peace, which men of virtue feel.
Wealth is but vain, if gout, or stone annoy;
'Tis health alone that gives us to enjoy.
Who live dependant slaves to hope or fear,
To them life's greatest blessings will appear
As Kneller's pictures to a German race,
Or Ward's specific in a gouty case!

229

To such Belinda's melody of voice,
With Handel's music, seems a grating noise.

In vain philosophers their rules define,
Except their pupils breathe a soul divine.
Youth's fleeting pleasures leave a sting behind;
And want eternal racks the miser's mind.
With bold rebuke each wild desire restrain,
Nor let another's bliss create your pain.

230

No tyrant can a greater plague invent,
Than restless envy, foe to calm content.
Who lets each sudden gust of passion rise,
And, like a tempest, mingles earth and skies;
Thro' various scenes, some rash exploit will mourn,
And trace repentant sorrow to his urn.
Rage is a short-liv'd madness, that requires
The firmest curb to check its warm desires;
So strong an impulse can no medium have,
But reigns a tyrant, or becomes a slave.

231

Who knows with skill the fiery steed to rule,
While young, will train his spirit in the school;
And tender hounds their infant voices try,
Before they join the chorus of the cry.

Now, in the bloom of your untainted youth,
Imbibe the precepts of unerring truth!
Such early principles will ever last,
Like season'd vessels that preserve the taste

232

Of their first tincture; but if you remain
Supinely slothful, and the prize disdain,
Or rush impetuous o'er the dusty plain;
I will not emulate the glorious strife,
But save my distance in the course of life.

Author of the panegyric on the Queen.

This passage shows the antiquity of coxcombs, which makes me wonder they are not held in more veneration by the curious.

233

Verses addressed to a Gentleman, who commended the Durham Ladies.

In vain you talk of Mowbray's mien,
Who moves in Dance the Cyprian queen;
Of Dunning's charms, with pow'r to move
The frozen heart of age to love;
Of Williamson's enchanting air,
Majestic form, divinely fair!
Whose beauty sets the world on fire,
And virtue makes the flame expire,
Yet her sweet converse strikes you more,
Than all those charms mankind adore;
Of Fanny Hall, her sex's pride,
By merit made a blooming bride;

234

(So fond a sympathy of hearts
Their mutual happiness imparts;
Each man of taste her form approves,
And spite of resolution loves;
Those dimpled smiles and piercing eyes
Make half the gallant world her prize:
With sense of that peculiar cast,
Which merit will for ever last,
When all her beauties in their prime
Shall wither in the arms of time.)
Or Lascelles, in the bloom of youth,
Adorn'd with innocence and truth,
Whose carriage flows with so much ease,
In her 'tis natural to please;
And sprightly Trotter debonnair,
With all the graces of the fair;

235

Who raises in your breast alarms,
Without the help of beauty's charms,
With virtues, which you seldom find
To flourish in a female mind.
‘Bowes, Wharton, Rutter, claim your song,
‘(Their praise would make my verse too long)
‘And many a nymph on Durham plain,
‘Who captivates her dying swain.’

Here Venus blushing, in a rage,
Condemn'd to flames my partial page:
‘To beauty dedicate your lays,
‘Yet Wilkinson escape your praise!
‘Poets should have a better taste,
‘Or else their works will never last.’

236

I own'd the censure too severe,
Let drop a penitential tear,
Which moves the Goddess to forgive
My crime, and let my verses live.
But, what are all their boasted charms,
Except you revel in their arms?
No more than colours to the blind,
Or lovers sighing to the wind:
Or lovely Bacon's manly sense,
If silent,—with such eloquence;
Whose modesty conceals her worth,
Like treasure hid beneath the earth.

‘But honour checks each loose desire,
‘And reason cools the raging fire;

237

‘For none but villains can approve
‘The joys, that ruin her they love.’
Yet nature claims her tribute due
To the frail part of me and you:
'Tis not to gaze upon the fair
Makes their creation worth our care;
If travellers with drought are curst,
Will painted rivers quench their thirst?

Then come, my Delia, to my bed,
In spite of all the world has said!
Let disappointed coxcombs boast
Of favours granted by my toast!
While modest nymphs devoutly rail,
To show their nature is not frail;

238

And vent their scandal over tea:
That must be truth, where all agree;
No bribe can force a female tongue
Another's injur'd fame to wrong;
For sympathy unites their hearts,
And makes them take each other's parts.
Then let the world condemn, or praise,
Your conduct, or my trivial lays!
In joys extatic we will drown,
And scorn the censure of the town:
For lyes, like mushrooms sprung from earth,
Not long survive their spurious birth;
While fools and knaves repine with shame,
To find their malice miss its aim.

Since married to Walter Hawksworth, Esq; in 1745.

239

An Epistle to Lucinda.

If the soft language of a bleeding heart
Can verses worthy of your ear impart;
Describe my passion with an ardent zeal,
And paint in lively colours what I feel;
These tender lines could never fail to move
Your soul to melt with sympathetic love.

How vain that hope! What numbers can prevail?
E'en Jove, without a golden show'r, would fail:
Except some guardian God your mind directs
To rise above the trifles of your sex,
And, like Ithuriel's spear, with touch refine
The sordid passion from the flame divine.
When dawning nature, in your infant state,
Unveil'd those charms which on your person wait,

240

My bosom kindled with a secret flame,
And my heart panted, when I heard your name:
Still with increasing years my passion grew,
And glow'd with rapture at the sight of you.

The lavish praise of beauty you disdain,
That fading glory of the female train:
Let the vain creatures triumph in their charms,
Who never please, but in their lovers arms;
No other shining qualities can boast,
But just that white and red which makes a toast.
Such fond pursuits, your early reason taught,
Were splendid toys, unworthy of a thought:
Ambition made you act a nobler part,
To polish nature, and correct the heart;

241

To cultivate each virtue of the mind,
And prove the pattern of the female kind.
Oft have I wander'd in the gloomy shade,
Bless'd with thy lively converse,—charming maid:
When my soul languish'd to reveal my love,
(How vain my boasted resolutions prove!)
Too soon the trembling accents dy'd away,
Nor would my fault'ring tongue my heart obey.
What various passions in my bosom roll?
Fear, hope, despair, by turns invade my soul:
My sanguine wishes flatter each desire,
And little Cupids fan the raging fire.
But soon another scene my fancy draws
Of noble youths, whose fortune pleads their cause:
The splendid equipage, the pomp of state,
And all the dazzling glories of the great,

242

Are objects which sollicit every sense:
And female virtue is a weak defence.

What can Lucinda in my person see,
To slight the fashionable world for me,
Whose only merit is to love the fair,
Whose virtues make me languish in despair?
If all my fond suspicions idle prove,
And your breast kindle with a mutual love;
The study of my life shall be to please
The charming fair, who gave me wealth and ease:
Who scorn'd the servile praise of all mankind,
For him, who deems the virtues of the mind
Above the splendid gifts which fortune gave,
Or beauty, to confirm the world your slave.

243

But if some happy rival's planet shine,
Auspicious to your wish, with rays divine;
Conceal this fatal secret in your breast,
And with each other live, for ever blest!
Still in your friendship let me bear a part,
And give me your esteem without your heart.

An Answer to some bad Rhimes on Delia,

wrote by a Parson, who charitably endeavoured to persuade her, that she would certainly be damned.

What gloomy priest, or melancholy maid,
Of their own guilty consciences afraid,
Presumes to persecute a blooming fair,
And make in doggrel verse her soul despair?

244

With superstitious fears let fools be shamm'd;
Without a hell, such poets must be damn'd.
Why was the great Creator's art display'd
To form, like thee, some fair enchanting maid;
Except it wisely was ordain'd above,
To make his creatures happy in their love?
Then let the bigot rail, and prude accuse;
Yet envy the rank pleasure of the stews:
Starve o'er the feast, which nature kindly gave,
And live to their fierce appetites a slave!
What! is this boasted honour of your sex,
To curse yourselves, and all mankind to vex?
How many nymphs their happiness have sold,
To live with men they scorn, for sorbid gold?
And been most wretched prostitutes for life,
Tho' gilded with the specious name of wife?

245

Delia, to thee, these candid lines are sent,
To spurn the fool, that can such malice vent.
Let him rail on, and triumph in his spleen!
His folly, not thy want of worth, is seen.
Without the common place of wit, or sense,
Numbers, or rhime, a poet to commence,
Is e'en below the world's contempt to sink:
Then let him damn himself with pen and ink.

An Epistle to a young Lady.

How shall the muse exert the poet's art,
To speak each strong emotion of the heart;
Each tender sentiment thy looks inspire,
When nature languishes to soft desire;
When all the faculties to Venus yield,
And Pallas quits the long disputed field?

246

'Tis not the lustre of a sparkling eye,
Or rosy cheek, that prompts the frequent sigh;
Each feature glowing in the bloom of youth,
That captivates like innocence and truth:
But when a pleasing form, like yours, we find
United to the virtues of the mind;
From such prevailing charms to guard the will
Exceeds the weaker pow'r of human skill.
How hard is the condition of your fate,
For loving form'd, yet taught mankind to hate?
If the soft passion in your bosom burns,
Stern honour will admit no kind returns;
But like a rigid parent's hand denies
Each seeming good, from which your pleasures rise.
Why should that tyrant custom so prevail,
As to indulge our sex in being frail?

247

Yet, if weak woman chance to go astray,
In paths of bliss, where nature leads the way;
Eternal infamy shall blot her name,
From the bright register of female fame.

When my soul pants with rapture to enjoy
Those pleasures, which in you would never cloy;
Had I the language of persuasive love,
With sympathetic force, your heart to move:
Such ill presaging thoughts of future harms
Would curse me, while I revell'd in your arms;
Lest any pregnant sign of guilt appear,
To cloud each feature with a falling tear;
To cast a veil of sorrow o'er your eyes,
And make your bosom heave with plaintive sighs.

248

How could I bear to see a lovely maid
To the world's bleak contempt by me betray'd,
Where female malice points the hand of scorn,
To brand with infamy the fair forlorn?
Such thoughts as these in easy numbers roll,
When your dear image charms my ravish'd soul:
Each sanguine hope, and every tender fear,
As in my faithful heart, is painted here.
What calm philosophy can teach the mind
In such a doubtful state to be resign'd?
To bear the rapture of a burning kiss,
Yet shudder at the thought of greater bliss;
To gaze with transport on the blooming fair,
Yet languish for her sake in cold despair?
If such a conduct merit some regard,
Let your kind wishes be my just reward!

249

The Author's Prayer.

Eternal God! whose being all adore,
Tho' none can trace thy self-existent pow'r;
Whose eye can pierce the secrets of the heart,
When specious villains act a patriot's part;
Teach me to know the bounds of right and wrong,
And make my life flow smoother than my song!
let sacred honour be my lasting guide,
And moral virtue o'er each act preside!
Nor strictly rigid, nor profanely loose,
Indulge the joys of youth without abuse!
Nor meanly think, that nature's bounteous Lord
Spread the rich feast of life, yet gave the word,
That none presume to taste the cup of joy,
Left the Creator should his works destroy.

250

Firm to this rule, that not one pleasure flow
To feast my ravish'd sense from others woe.
Tho' such a private station can create
But little good or evil to the state;
Yet let each sentiment and action prove
My friendship to mankind, and country's love.
Riches I seek not, but a tranquil mind,
In every character of life resign'd:
Without one pain to interrupt my ease,
And make my being languish in disease.
Such is the tribute of a heart sincere,
Whose adoration flows from love, not fear.
Praise, honour, glory, be to God on high!
For all the happiness mankind enjoy.

I have no notion of any adoration being acceptable to the Deity, that proceeds meerly from the fear of punishment; and think gratitude a much more reasonable motive for divine worship.

251

On the Rebellion in the Year 1746.

What fond deluding hopes our foes beguile
To dream in cells of conquest o'er this isle;
Because her sons unite in freedom's cause,
And watch, like guardians, o'er their country's laws;
In earnest zeal with ministers debate,
In senates, to preserve our happy state;
To fix the pow'r of kings in proper bounds,
Left arbitrary rule the realm confounds:
Such are the tenets of each British soul,
Whose arms the tyrants of the world controul.
Let Fontenoy declare! whose troops beheld
Our army reap the glory of the field,
When all the slaves of France united fought,
How dear that conquest with their blood was bought:

252

There more renown in war did England gain,
Than all the trophies of a French campaign.
Let Gallia practise her delusive arts,
With specious wiles to win the people's hearts!
And send a vain pretender to the crown,
To rouze the spirit of each free-born son,
Whose force shall shake her tyrant on his throne:
Revenge this insult on the nation's sense,
Who love their country, liberty, and prince,
More than they fear the pow'rs of France and Spain,
Combin'd against the masters of the main.
See Britain's youth , unus'd to war's alarms,
Forsake their downy rest, and beauty's charms;
All the soft sweets of luxury decline,
With firm united hearts in battle join;

253

And, under Oglethorpe's auspicious care,
Endure the toils of a rough winter's war;
Whose great example will their bosom fire
To conquer, or in freedom's cause expire.
Such actions claim from princes no regard,
Who think their country's thanks a just reward.
How vain each effort of an honest mind,
To purchase fame by glorious deeds inclin'd?
If Sterling merit is the sole pretence,
That noble plea will prove a weak defence
Against the foul reproach of calumny,
Or gilded tale of specious flattery,
Which with a smooth insinuating tongue,
That character it fears, can meanly wrong:
But merit, like the sun eclips'd, will shine
With double splendor, as the shades decline.

254

How swift the rebels ravage o'er the land,
To fly from Cumberland's avenging hand?
To dark rebellion's native seat repair,
There brood o'er treason in that tainted air,
Curse their vain hopes, and perish in despair?
Then let these rash invaders learn from hence,
(Who rise in arms against the nation's sense)
To conquer George in vain their armies move,
Whose throne is guarded by the people's love.

The royal hunters.

A Familiar Epistle to my Friend Ben Loveling.

Just on the confines of the land,
Where the sea roars against the strand,
In a romantic lonely seat,
From knaves and fools a safe retreat,

255

From envy, malice, hatred, strife,
And all the busy cares of life;
My days glide on in tranquil ease,
Where solitude has charms to please:
Tho' none, with more intense delight,
Enjoy the revels of the night,
When social mirth and wine conspire
To propagate each gay desire:
Wine,—which can latent wit explore,
And set the table in a roar:
For some will never show they think,
Except when over seas in drink.
Yet contemplation has her time
To meditate on things sublime;
To view, with a discerning eye,
The wonders of this earth and sky;

256

And, after the most strict survey,
With grateful hearts due homage pay,
For that existence we derive
From him, who gave us pow'r to live:
Or else with searching thoughts to scan
The principles that govern man;
Each secret of the soul to trace,
And every prejudice eraze,
Which spite of reason, still we see,
Infects us all in some degree.
Sometimes, with retrospective view,
Lament the friends, which once we knew:
Their various talents call to mind,
Their features, humour, taste refin'd;
Snatch'd in a moment from our sight,
Like Hilton, to the realms of night.

257

Here let me sprinkle on thy hearse,
Immortal shade, one plaintive verse!
Let the sad truth in numbers flow,
No bliss is perfect here below!
For, now thy social spirit's fled,
Each jocund swain, and tender maid,
With unfeigh'd tears thy fate deplore,
And the world sighs,—thou art no more.
Here free from luxury and state,
Those splendid evils of the great,
I lead an independent life,
Where Delia serves instead of wife,
Who like a faithful friend behaves,
With care my little fortune saves;
And is, in short, altho' a woman,
In worth inferior to no man:

258

A miracle, so rarely seen,
Will stagger the belief of men;
And must incur the ridicule
Of each insipid sneering fool,
Who takes it as a thing on trust,
No man is honest, woman just.
My purse 'tis far enough above
To aim at matrimonial love;
Without estate to make pretences,
You might as well want all the senses
As wealth. What merit will obtain
A flatter'd idol, weak, and vain?
For women now, like lands, are sold
To the best purchaser for gold;
Who worse than prostitutes expose
Their persons to their greatest foes;

259

Without excuse of poverty,
To wretchedness and infamy.
But not to dwell upon a thing,
No more concerns you than the king;
To carry on this chat in rhime,
I'll tell you how I spend my time.
But tremble not!—no long description,
Which in these cases often hips one.
When first Aurora gilds the skies,
I never hold it good to rise;
But slumber on till nature loaths
Another nap of soft repose;
Then either read, or walk, or write,
Till darkness ushers in the night;
Or on the ocean's bank reclin'd,
When Æolus recalls the wind;

260

No longer stormy Neptune raves,
But sun-beams dance upon the waves,
Whose lustre gilds the whiten'd sails
Of ships, that wait for fresher gales:
In such a calm delightful scene,
What placid thoughts arise within?
Which such an equal tenour keep,
Smooth as the surface of the deep;
The rudest passions grow refin'd,
And all is harmony of mind:
Ambition's wild pursuits appear
Like children's bubbles blown in air;
My soul the pomp of life disowns,
And pities kings upon their thrones.
Not—that these sentiments are meant
To make you think me quite content;

261

Like vulgar souls without a wish
To aim at any greater bliss;
But easy in the present state
Of things, allotted me by fate.
No politics disturb my rest,
No party-zeal now fires my breast:
Tho' once in opposition strong,
Because I though the measures wrong,
And had a strange mistaken notion,
That patriots had a warm devotion
To labour for the public good,
To serve their country with their blood;
To save the nation from disgrace,
Without the prospect of a place.
But, since I find such noble schemes
Are nothing but romantic dreams,

262

It is not worth a single thought,
By whom our country's sold, or bought.
Before I finish this relation
About my present situation,
Perhaps it may not be amiss
To tell you of my greatest bliss.
Not far from hence, there live two swains,
The glory of the Cleaveland plains,
In whom good qualities abound,
And every social virtue's found.
Yet the appearance of a rake
Makes rigid fools their worth mistake;
Their characters, tho' really good,
By numbers are misunderstood:
Because devoid of superstition,
Which zealous bigots call religion.

263

With men of worth and sense, like these,
To join in converse, when you please,
And in their friendship have a place,
You'll own a very happy case:
Their names,—no matter what you call,
The world will think of More and Hall.
But soon the winter's hollow blast
Will make this scene too bleak to last;
And then to York I shall repair,
But look in vain for Kingsland there.
For now,— so cruel fate ordains,
Their presence grace the southern plains:
Whose sprightly converse had the pow'r
To charm away the ling'ring hour;
Each social pleasure to refine,
And give a relish to the wine.

264

In answer to this rhiming letter,
I shall expect from you a better,
Except this sudden revolution,
This wond'rous turn in constitution,
This strange apostasy from wine,
Which makes the dullest genius shine,
Should damp the vigour of your spirit,
And lessen your poetic merit.
However write at all events!
So with my hearty compliments
To Clarke, and all his family,
I'm yours, & cætera,— T. G.

Skinningrave, October 30, 1746.

The Baron.

FINIS.