University of Virginia Library

ORIGINAL POEMS.

Prologue, for Mr. Garrick;

[On the Duke's Return from Scotland.]

Sent to Lord Chesterfield; writ on a blank Leaf, of a Poem, called, The Religion of Reason.

To Lord Bolingbroke,

writ on a blank Leaf of a Poem, which was sent him, by the Author.

Go, Thought's lost child, born dark, beneath wit's pole,
Seek the ray'd track, to taste's departed soul:
Awfully conscious, dare the depths invade,
Where silent St. John suns his pensive shade:
There, if he smiles—'tis whole mankind's assent;
Scorn the short world, thou leav'st, and die, content.

To C---O.

To Mr. Pope.

Stung by a Nettle

Revenge, you see, is sure, though sometimes slow!
Take this—'tis all the pain I'd have you know!
There's odds enough, yet left, betwixt our smart,
I sting your fingers, and you sting my heart.

The Snuffers.

Despis'd, and worthless, tho' I seem to be,
Yon new-top'd flames owe their best light to me.
Tho' scorn'd—you see, I can do service still!
Some good lies hid, in every seeming ill.
And hence, let fortune's fav'rites learn to know,
That virtue's virtue, tho' in rags it go.

On a Bee,

that was swallowed, by a Lady, in a Glass of Wine.

The Lover's Degree of Comparison.

Happy the man, who does Celinda view,
More happy he who sees, and loves her too;
Most happy, sure! of all mankind is he,
Who, loving her, belov'd by her shall be.

To a satirical young Lady.

Forbear, loud thing! to live in laugh and jest,
Wit is like love—the softest is the best!
If thou, by this, wouldst lively thought proclaim,
If empty praise is thy wild fancy's aim;
A while, this salt may season single life,
But no man's taste approves a picquant wife.
Be wise, and match, and charm, by judgment's aid,
Or witty, and despis'd, and die—a maid.
So, the thin razors, which young learners please,
Grow notch'd, and edgeless, by unmark'd degrees,
'Till worn, and blunted, by too frequent use,
Th' experienc'd hand detects the steel's abuse:
Then cheaply thrown aside, they gather dust,
Like thee, neglected, 'till consum'd by rust.

To Celinda, complaining that her Harpsichord was out of Tune.

To the Preacher of an excellent Charity Sermon

To the excellent Daughters of a deceas'd Lady.

Prologue,

for Mr. Cibber, junior.

Comes slowly, and reluctantly, forward; stands silent, and sideling, twirling his Hat—and, now and then, looking up, with a half-suppressed Leer of Irresolution.

Paraphrase on the third Chapter of Habakuk.

The Muse's Expostulation,

with a Lady, who denied herself the Freedom of Friendship, from too delicate an Apprehension of the World's mistaken Censure.

An Epigram,

occasion'd by some Verses, on a Monument, in Westminster Abbey.

How lost this pomp of verse! how vain the hope,
That thought can dwell on Craigs, in view of Pope!
When, upon Rubicon's fam'd bank is shown
Cæsar's press'd foot, on the remember'd stone;
No traveller once asks the quarry's name,
Whence the coarse grit, by chance distinguish'd came;
But thinks, with rev'rence, here great Julius trod,
And hails the footstep of a Roman God!

To Mrs. L---r, playing on a Bass-Viol.

On a Lady, preach'd into the Cholic, by one of her Lovers.

Bellona the fierce, who held man in disdain,
And despis'd her own sex, to whom love cou'd give pain;
Went to church, in defyance, and met with her fate,
From a pulpited Cupid, who there lay in wait:
But her head was so arm'd, and so hard was her heart,
That his arrows rebounded, in scorn of his art,
Then, with voice of revenge, he exalted his pipes,
Shot in spleen at her belly, and gave her the gripes.
Thus I wound her, cry'd he, in a whimsical place,
'Cause she covers kind wishes, with haughty grimace.
Let her now twist and skrew—'twill but fasten the dart;
She has love in her bowels, tho' she hates in her heart.

To a Lady,

with a Book return'd, call'd The Intelligencer.

I Have kept your Intelligence, Madam, so long,
That I hardly dare hope, you will pardon the wrong.
Had you been but a man, no excuse I had writ,
For we're seldom severe to the faults, we commit;
But intelligence kept, the kind ladies must gall,
Who no sooner receive it, than part with it all.

The CHANGE;

To the Lovely Cause of it.

A SONG.

[Oh! forbear to bid me slight her]

A SONG.

[Now ponder well, ye husbands dear]

On the March of the Russian Auxiliaries, in 1748.

Long look'd-for comes at last.—Th' unfreezing pole
Beaks her bald eagle, and awakes to soul!
O'er trackless wilds, with snow-surmounting feet,
Roads to bought blows, the furry veteransbeat;
But arm'd for stipend, not allied, but paid,
The moving market, sells its martial aid.
So modern prudence, waging war by tale,
O'er sense of praise bids sense of price prevail;
Nor fame, nor faith, nor vengeance, move supply,
For glorious subsidy we live, and die.
Bribes battling bribes, embroil each bleeding coast,
And he, who buys his valour, triumphs most.
O! soul of Peter! now sustain thy fame;
No venal muster mock'd thy dreaded name;
From death's dark hall, to days dimm'd prospect rise,
O'er thy chang'd country roll thy guardian eyes.
Round the slow legions, gleam thy aweful shade,
With Dantzic's bloody banners, high display'd:
March 'em to meet French fire, there, quench'd before,
And tread it out, in blood, to blaze no more.

Hint from some old Verses,

on a Stone, in Stepney Church-wall.

Two thousand years, e'er Stepney had a name,
In Carthage walls, I shar'd the punic fame;
There, to the strongest, added strength I lent,
And proudly propp'd the world's best ornament.
Now, to cold Britain, a torn transport, thrown,
I piece a church-yard pile, unmark'd, unknown:
Stain'd, and half sunk in dirt, my sculpture lies,
And moulders, like the graves, which round me rise.
Oh! think, blind mortals! what frail dust, you claim,
And laugh at wealth, wit, beauty, pow'r, and fame!
Short praise, can fleeting hopes, like yours, supply,
Since times, and tongues, and tow'rs, and empires die!

On Clio's Birth-day.

To a Lady,

desiring her Letters might not be exposed.

Epitaph,

on Sir Isaac Newton.

More than his Name were less.—'Twou'd seem, to fear,
He, who increas'd Heav'n's fame, could want it here.
Yet, when the Suns, he lighted up, shall fade,
And all the Worlds, he found, are first decay'd;
Then, void, and waste, Eternity shall lie,
And Time, and Newton's Name, together die.

To Mr. Dyer;

on his attempting Clio's Picture.

Soul of your honour'd art! what man can do,
In copying nature, may be reach'd by you:
Your peopling pencil a new world can give,
And, like Deucalion, teach the stones to live.
From your creating hand, a war may flow;
And your warm strokes, with breathing action, glow:
But, from that angel form, to catch the grace,
And kindle up your ivory, with her face.
All, unconsum'd, to snatch the living fire,
And limn th' ideas, which those eyes inspire;
Strong, to your burning circle, to confine
That awe-mix'd sweetness, and that air divine;
That sparkling soul, which lightens, from within!
And breaks, in unspoke meanings, thro' her skin.
This, if you can—hard task l and yet unprov'd!
Then, shall you be adorn'd, as now belov'd.
Then, shall your high-aspiring colours find
The art, to picture thought, and paint the wind.
Then, shall you give air shape, imprison space,
And mount the painter to the maker's place.

Whitehall Stairs.

To the same.

A SONG.

[Clio! smiling, soul-invader!]

Writ on a blank Leaf of an obscene Poem.

The sacred nine, first, spread their golden wings,
In praise of virtue, heroes, and of kings:
Chast were their lays, and ev'ry verse design'd,
To soften nature, and exalt the mind.
Loosely the moderns live, and loosely write,
And woo their muse, as Mistress, for delight.
Thick, in their lays, obscenities abound,
As weeds spring plenteous, in the rankest ground:
All, who write verse, to taint a guiltless heart,
Are vile profaners of the sacred art.
Cloy'd, the sick reader from the work retires,
And, e're the writer dies, his fame expires.

To Mrs. T---t.

To a Lady,

who put herself into a bad way, by taking Spirit of Nitre, by Spoon-fulls, instead of a few Drops.

A SONG.

[O Celia! be wary, when Celadon sues]

The Reconciliation.

On the Birth-day of Miss ---

The GLOVE.

Ronald and Dorna;

by a Highlander, to his Mistress. From a literal Translation of the Original.

Writ on a blank Leaf of Merope;

sent to Mr. Garrick, by the Author.

Into your hands, a dumb dead likeness take,
Whose form you quicken'd, and whose soul you make.
Mine was a painted fire—your piercing rays
Lent light'ning; and effulg'd it into blaze.
Now, on a shelf, some silent nook impart
To him, you've loudly lodg'd on ev'ry heart.

EPIGRAM.

Abstract from Psalm cxiv.

When, from proud Egypt's hard and cruel hand,
High-summon'd Israel sought the promis'd land,
The opening sea divided, at her call,
And refluent Jordan rose, a wat'ry wall!
Light, as met lambs, the starting hills leapt wide,
And the slow mountains roll'd themselves aside!
Why, O thou sea! did thy vast depth divide?
And why, O Jordan! fled thy back'ning tide?
Why leapt your lines, ye frighted hills, astray?
And what, O mountains! rent your roots away?
Hark! I will tell—proud earth confess'd her God,
And mark'd his wond'rous foot-steps, as he trod.
While bent to bless, He chear'd his thirsty flock,
And, into floods of liquid length, dissolv'd the loosening rock.

The Singing-Bird.

To the un-declared Author of the Poem, call'd Patriotic Love.

A SONG.

[Gentle Love, this hour befriend me]

My Soul's last Sighs, to the divine L---r---a.

Pallas's Whisper,

in a Dream, to two Beauties, at Eltham.

Expell'd th' assembly! 'twas discreetly done!
Could the torch shine, but where it miss'd the sun?
Wisely, the old and ugly, shun compare,
Nor prune their with'ring barks, against the fair!
You gone, they glean a cold respect, undue,
But drop their plunder'd sheaves, at sight of you.
So, the shock'd Indian, conscious of his face,
Broke the bright glass, to hide his own disgrace.
Smile, un-revengeful, leave their pride forlorn,
And mix some pity, with the public scorn.
'Twere hard, to clip the starver's stinted shares,
No—let the balm of envy still be theirs.
Leave 'em the needful pow'r, to hate their bane,
And shun those eyes, by which they wish, in vain.
Nature indulg'd a self-defence to all;
For that, she gave the dry'd old maid, her gall;
For that, long vipers wind their hiss along,
And, but for that, th' assembly mourns your wrong.

Verses, to the unknown Author of the Rover Reclaim'd;

written extempore, at the Rehearsal of that Play.

To Mr. James Thompson;

on his asking my Advice, to what Patron he should address his Poem, called Winter.

TIDDI DOLL.

A SONG.

[Vainly, now, ye strive to charm me]

The Western Paradise.

There is, there is, a soft, a peaceful shore!
An un-curs'd Eden, still in nature's store!
A spring, whence un-imbitter'd pleasures flow!
A treasury, of ev'ry thing, but woe!
Un-promis'd Canaan! which th' Almighty knew,
Too great a blessing for th' unthankful Jew:
Thence veil'd her beauties; pre-ordain'd, to grace
The destin'd triumphs of a nobler race!
On thy sweet plains, where all delights are sure,
Men can, by turns, be ev'ry thing, but poor.
The doubt-freed miser, here, sleeps void of care,
For, who will plunder that, which all may share.
In other lands, our toil prepares our meat,
Our only labour, here, is—take, and eat.
Such various shapes does tempting pleasure wear,
That, which to chuse her in, is all our care.

A SONG.

[Attempt not, dissembler, to move me]

On a Rakish Officer,

who writ a very silly Epilogue, in Affront to all Women.

When Rakes become reformers, masquerade
Must be allowed a most extensive trade:
You call the world a stage—you find it so,
And well, to play, behind the curtain, know:
Mean while, your partners, on the far-fam'd strait,
Act hero's sillier parts, and serve the state:
Fond of a safer toil, you change the scene,
And, not in fields of war, but wit, grow lean:
How blest your fortune, in the king's warm pay,
That lets your muse her own expence defray!
Merit, like yours, unprosp'rous else, might strive,
Shine inward, and be too refin'd to thrive.
O, Captain! you, who write, with such a grace,
What thanks owes woman to your saving face!
Were but your eyes as piercing, as your quill,
Tho' your sword's idle, yet your looks would kill.

A Translation, from some Italian Verses, of Mr. Milton;

sent to a Lady, when he was in Florence.

Verses, writ for, and sent to, a Widow Gentlewoman,

on Occasion of her Son's Melancholy, upon their Losses, and Disappointments in Life.

The Stage's Improvement,

an Epigram.

The Patent laugh'd at, its supporters gone,
Blank verse depos'd, and silence creeping on!
Aid us, ye Gods! cry'd H---h---re, in distress,
Save our great Play-house, and be damn'd the less.
O'er rebel worth let licens'd dulness blaze,
Teach us our willing dignity to raise.
Strong, as our plans, let our performance rise,
And fortune grant us, what our wit denies.
Think, O, ye pow'rs! whose fortunes are at stake,
Let Tragedy succeed, for my lov'd sake;
With tints, like Jack's, re-touch the faded stage,
'Till it, like Widow W---k's charms engage:
The smiling gods these pray'rs, together, sum,
At once, indulge 'em all—and lo! Tom Thumb.

EPIGRAM.

[Widow W---ks came, of late, in a terrible rage]

St. Matthew, Chapter v.

St. Matthew, Chapter vi.

Part of the Sermon on the Mount.

St. Matthew, Chapter vii

After reading an unknown Author's Book.

Plain, modest, pleasant, deep, distinct, and clear,
The author's honest soul was printed, here;
His faithful memory past scenes surveys,
His sparkling fancy, on their surface, plays:
Strong understanding adds reflection's weight,
And all draw purpose, from his manly heart.

The Thoughts of a Cadet, the first Time upon Duty.

On a Miser.

The Misplac'd Love.

To the lovely Mrs. H---e,

on her Descent from the first Saxon Kings of our Island.

H---e, sweet name! whose princely meaning shows,
From what high spring, your blood's rich current flows,
With needless awe, reminds us of your race,
Since heav'n has stampt dominion on your face.
Still, in your sov'reign form, distinctly live,
All royal rights, your father kings could give!
In your commanding air, we mark their state,
And, in your words, their wisdom, and their weight.
Warm, in your noble breast, their courage lies,
And all their pow'r, and mercy, in your eyes.

Epilogue,

spoke by Mrs. Roberts.

Epilogue.

[One word before you go—Grave critics, say]

One word before you go—Grave critics, say,
The moral is the meaning of the Play:
I'm sure, that hope, in ours, we did not couzen,
For—let me see—I'll point out half a dozen:
First—folly makes a quiet state, a mad one;
Next, a good king is better than a bad one.
Third, when a virtuous prude expects foul play,
She'll ne'er be ravish'd—if she runs away.
Fourth, by the old and young, at once, addrest,
She, who prefers the young one, chuses best.
Fifth, where our wits too weak, for our ambition,
Our grief, and shame, keep pace, with our condition.
Sixthly, and lastly—to avoid confusion,
And keep the best instruction, for conclusion,
A jealous fair, who would a rival hate,
Should love, like me, a minister of state:
Safe, in her choice, she might, in peace, caress him,
And, with un-envy'd property, possess him.
By claim of custom, politicians bait him,
And, right, or wrong, the fair find cause to hate him.

Prologue,

for Mr. William Giffard, on his Benefit Night.

Young, and but forming distant hopes, to please,
What I have done?—that call'd for smiles, like these;
'Tis your own worth—not mine—to night, is shown!
That truth my grateful heart delights to own.
Shall I say more—Oh! how might words surprize,
Could they but borrow power—from those bright Eyes!
I feel your presence, know your worth's high rate,
Yet still—tho' reason claims respect's full weight,
Tho' conscious rev'rence rash presumption awes,
What dumb tongue pleads not, in a Father's cause?
Strong are the tides, he stems!—How good, how kind,
'Twould be!—to swell his sails, with pity's wind!
Shoal'd, on the flats of your neglect, we lie,
Half buoy'd—half grounded—you might float us—try.
Help us to shun cold coasts of dry despair,
And take th' improving future to your care.
Then, shall new prospects raise our cherish'd aim,
'Till our stage lightens, and our actors flame.
Nor let this pride provoke our rival's gall,
The muses contests should be peaceful, all.
By emulation, not by envy, mov'd,
Slow time might teach us, all, to grow belov'd.
Teach comic shame, to pierce the mended mind,
And laugh away low tastes, that cramp mankind.
Might teach the stage's foes—plain truth reigns here,
And rich corruption loves a loftier sphere.
Teach passion's pangs—teach how distresses shake,
How hearts, that feel, bid hearts, that listen, ake.
How action paints the soul, upon the eye,
And the wing'd muscles, into meanings fly.
Slow time can teach us this.—Slow time can do
Still more:—Slow time can add new friends—like you.
'Till, to reward our will's industrious pain,
No more thin benches make our labours vain;
But long-wish'd favour lifting modest claim,
You lend us ear, tho' you refuse us fame.

Epilogue,

spoke by Miss Kitty Bolton.

Ladies!

Prologue, to Harry the 5th;

intended for Mrs. Woffington, dressed in the new Blue uniform, with Firelock, (and fixed Bayonet) in her Hand.

[Grounds in the military Posture.]
[Takes up her Firelock, and marches off shoulder'd]

Prologue,

spoken by a young Gentleman, At a Play, called the Tuscan Treaty, acted for the Benefit of Mr. William Bond, in Covent Garden Theatre.

Prologue,

spoke by Mrs. Heron, at her Benefit, after the Misfortune of putting out both her Knee-pans.

The Garden Window.

At Setting Day:

A SONG.

To Dr. Atkins;

on his Arcade of Dutch Elms, dug up, in repairing the Sewer.

Prologue,

for a distressed Widow.

Epilogue,

for a Lady, who acted Eudocia, in the Siege of Damascus, represented at the Duke of Bedford's, at Wooburn.

Apology for Death.

Passing a Lady, in the Park, without seeing her.

So slide our comforts by, unmark'd, unknown,
While our ill fate comes felt, and all our own!
Too cruel world! where things, we wou'd refuse,
We start upon—and, what we wish, we lose!
And, yet, Lotharia would be hid, in vain,
She cannot be conceal'd, whom thoughts retain.
Air, and Lotharia, every where, are found;
Held by our breath, and, to our being, bound!
Darkness, itself, wants pow'r to cover friends,
Whom the soul dwells with, and the sense attends.

To the Lady, that laughs, at dying in Metaphor.

And why, fair Trifler, does that meaning eye
Smile, in contempt, when lovers swear they die?
'Twixt death, and love, but one small diff'rence lies,
The soul, in both, from its left body flies:
In death, 'tis gone, like smoak, dissolv'd in air,
Lost, in expance, the loser knows not where:
In love, we trace it, with such willing pain,
'Twere to die twice, to take it back again.

Modesty.

As Lamps burn silent, with unconscious light,
So modest ease, in beauty, shines most bright:
Unaiming charms, with edge resistless, fall,
And she, who means no mischief, does it all.

To a Lady,

who sent back the Top af a Sweet-briar Branch, and retained the worst End of it.

While the way of the world is, to keep all the best,
And then, in due form, oblige friends, with the rest,
You, Madam, who would lend, ev'n trifles, a grace,
Teach your meanings to borrow a smile, from your face;
And, polite, to your pain, when a present you send,
Give the thorn to yourself, and the rose to your friend.

To the Lady who sends me all her good Wishes.

Suppose, that the sun had a tongue, and shou'd say,
May your journey be bless'd, with a very fine day:
Then, withdrawing his face, slip aside, with his light,
And surround me, at once, with the coldness of night;
What would Florimel say, to this trick of the sun?
I would say, cry'd the charmer, 'twas cruelly done.
Would you so, answer'd I?—have a care what you own,
Who have wish'd me all blessings, yet granted me none.

To a Lady,

who was expected, in vain, on a Sunday.

That the eye's pow'r could shake the heart, I knew:
Is there, who doubts it?—let him look on you:
And wit, in woman's tongue was ne'er found weak;
Witness their suff'rings, who have heard you speak.
Yet, strong, as woman's wit, and charms are thought,
They've one strange influence, 'till this hour, untaught:
Safely oppos'd to God's decrees, they stand,
And smile, unhurt, in face of heav'n's command.
Let this, said God, a day of rest remain;
You came not—and it prov'd, a day of pain.

A SONG.

[Love's the cause of all my weeping]

To a Lady,

who sung inwardly.

Kindly suppress'd, your voice rolls soft, within,
And, in slow warblings, holds its transports in;
Yourself unpleas'd, in giving others pain,
The tide of tuneful mischiefs you restrain:
So, the fierce beams, which make all nature bright,
Revolving inward, check their long'd-for light;
Lest, deluging the world with seas of fire,
We die, beneath the lustre, we require.

Writ upon a Pain of Glass in Westminster House.

All happy, then, while o'er their smiling air,
A living mother breath'd her guardian care;
But, joyless, since their sweet supporter dy'd,
They wander, now, thro' life, with half a guide.

To a Lady,

who talked not much.

Charmers, like you, are dumb, in vain,
Their very silence speaks too plain:
That sparkling eloquence of eyes,
Proclaims you lovely, gay, and wise;
While the mild meanings of your air,
A soul, as soft, as ev'ning show'rs, declare.
Your ev'ry motion, arm'd, with speaking grace,
Tells some new wonder, and assists your face.

Bellaria,

at her Spinnet.

Celia,

in the Garden.

The Recollected Complainer.

The Resignation.

Copies, for Children to learn to write.

The Body's beauty dwells in shape, and face,
The soul's, in mildness, modesty, and grace;
The first but charms an earthly lover's eye,
The last draws angels, from beyond the sky;
One, for a moment, man's frail heart procures,
The other makes your God, for ever, yours.

Advice to the Virgins,

to guard against Flattery.

Fairest! forgive the too officious lay,
That sends the muse, you charm, to smooth your way,
I, tho' admiring, act no lover's part,
Nor bid soft sounds seduce your list'ning heart:
Candidly touch'd, my pen's obtrusive fear,
Nor dares to shock, nor aims to sooth your ear;
Needless, 'tis true, to bid such nymphs, beware,
Who ev'ry grace, and virtue, make their care:
Yet, modest excellence will oft descend,
To thank, unwanted, caution, in a friend.
A faithful pilot, fervent, in his fears,
And, trembling, anxious for the worth, he steers.
'Twere mortal pain, to see such beauty mourn,
By bold distress, or impious falsehood, torn.
Love's gay delusion tempts, a thousand ways;
Now, wounds, with softness; now destroys, with praise.
Thy veil, O Flatt'ry! hides a traitor's heart,
And gives up confidence—a prey to art:
Unbridled youth, to consequences, blind,
Indulging body, hears no call of Mind.
Feeble discretion, so, by warmth, o'er-run,
Does, with a peacock's feather, fan the sun.
Beauty, that trusts too fast, is beauty's bane,
A self-betrayer, that embraces pain.
Oh! hear, suspicious, when the lover sues;
She most attracts, who longest can refuse.
Poize the try'd terms, on which his hope depends,
Prop'd, on the parent's council, and the friend's:
So, leaning safe, and wanting space, to stray,
Love's guardian angels crown your nuptial day.
Or, should the gilded hypocrite, at last,
Show, that he meant your spotless fame to blast;
Fly the found tempter, each low lure despise,
And lift your heart's wrong'd wish above surprize.
Nature, that form'd you loveliest, doubly kind,
To like perfection, rais'd your conquering mind.
Fram'd you to truth, to virtue turn'd your taste,
For honour, dress'd you, and, for rev'rence, grac'd.
Freedom regain'd, pursue the shining track,
And leave the base repenter, to his rack.
Then, bless the verse, that from such ruin, sav'd
An artless conqu'ror, by success, enslav'd:
Now, happy, painless hours shall un-perplex
The best-lov'd pattern of the loveliest sex.

Lesbia's Lamentation,

on the Death of her Sparrow; altered from Mr. Cartwright.

The Messenger.

To Dr. Atkins,

on his Birth-day.

To a length of new birth-days, your health we drink round,
In this glass of good punch, may your sickness be drown'd;
You've insur'd a long life, by your gout held so fast,
And your grand climacteric, this morning, o'erpast:
So, we've nothing to wish you, but bliss, at a stay,
'Till the nation hates bribes, and her rogues run away.

The Mis-grounded Compassion.

You've heard it, and read it, a million of times,
That men are made up of delusions, and crimes.
Look over old stories, and search all the new,
You'll find, in love-trusts, not a man of us, true.
Then, why this reproachful, and termagant face?
Why so feelingly fierce, for another's disgrace?
Oh! I learn, by your blush, the true cause of your pain,
You were bit, by the tooth against which you complain.
What a pity, this sense of a sufferer's fate,
Came a little too home, and a good deal too late!
Had you felt, for a friend, e'er yourself was betray'd,
Such a well-tim'd concern might have made you afraid;
And the caution your own, tho' another's, the evil,
You had safely defy'd love, old apes, and the devil.

On the Death of the Czarina,

Wife to Peter the Great.

Thus, to the long-lov'd partner of his reign,
Spoke great Alexiowits, in death's last pain:
Now, be the world's vast empire yours, alone;
She heard—re-claim'd his breast, and scorn'd his throne.
Glad, to the realms of light, a ghost, she flew,
Found her lost lord, and charm'd him, to her view.
O! check th' amazement, in your looks, she cry'd,
Nor blame th' impatient haste, with which, I dy'd.
Kind was your trust—but, when you ceas'd to share,
You left the world, you gave, beneath my care,

A SONG.

[As Damon sat by Silvia's side]

The Gnat.

The Kiss, through a Window.

Sav'd, on a shoal, the ship-wreck'd sailor stands,
And views, with watry eyes, and wringing hands,
Soul-chearing prospects, from the nieghb'ring lands;
But if he tempts the waves, he toils in vain,
Big, buoyant billows rise between, and float him back again.
Oh! shameful loss of an invited kiss!
Can brittle glass impede so near a bliss?
Frail is our am'rous hope, if love must be
Subservient to a thing, so weak, as thee!
We knew, before, nor sought thy aid to prove,
That light's a nat'ral enemy to love!
But now, thy malice does new arts employ;
First, give the hope, then dash the proffer'd joy.
Thus, absent fanciers dream, they meet the ghost,
Of some dead partner, whom they value most:
But when, with op'ning arms, they rush to greet,
And, mix'd in mutual grasp, would warmly meet,
Cold blasts of wind divide the starting pair,
And the thin phantom flows away, in air.

Epitaph, on the Tomb of Henry Jernegan, Esq

All, that accomplish'd body lends mankind,
From earth, receiving, he, to earth resign'd:
All, that e'er grac'd a soul, from heav'n, he drew,
And took back, with him, as an angel's due.

Writ on a Glass Window.

Let him, whose present fortune gives him pain,
Scorn the low, vulgar custom, to complain:
All, that with-holds his wish, the brave will break,
Or, silent, bear those chains, 'tis poor, to shake.

The Happy Man.

The Power of Royal Pity.

Verses, made for a young Gentleman in Despair, and sent to Queen Caroline, by N. C---p---r.

An Ode; on Occasion of Mr. Handel's great Te Deum,

at the Feast of the Sons of the Clergy, on Feb, 1, 1732.

A SONG.

[O that e'er I knew thee! now, no more I woo thee]

The Wedding Day.

The Dream.

The Northern Star.

The Picture of Love.

Advice to the Poets.

The Impartial.

The Lover's Complaint.

If, on the tow'ring Alps' amazing height,
Whose cliffy tops our climbing eyes affright,
And, with chill horror, strike the startled sight,
If, there, Celinda, thou had'st chanc'd to be
The piny product of some teeming tree;
Tasteless, of human pity, might'st thou grow,
And, forc'd to bend, when ruffling tempests blow,
Nod, angry, at the plains, that spread, below.
Ev'n pines, and oaks, can bend to stones, and be
More flexible, than thy strong hate, to me!
The greedy ocean, whose insatiate waves
Flow, to devour; whose smoothest smiles are graves;
Of all its monstrous forms, has none so cold,
Nor does one rock, in its vast bosom, hold,
That, had it sense, such cruelty would show,
To triumph, in the shipwreck'd sailor's woe:
Nothing, in nature, does, so fix'd, remain,
But love's soft fire can gradual entrance gain,
And all, but thee, once lov'd, will love again.

The Transport.

The Statesman.

See'st thou yon mountain, so immensely high,
Around whose sky-crown'd head raw tempests fly!
How, low'ring darkly, o'er the shadow'd plain,
It hangs, the genuine seat of horror's reign!
Its craggy sides hold, thin, a sterile soil,
Which, promising no harvest, tempts no toil!
No grazing cattle crop subsistence, there,
Nor flow'r-fed breezes feast the hungry air!
No soft meand'ring current glides along,
To court the meadows, with its murm'ring song,
No lofty spires a wand'ring glance invite,
Nor wind-shook woods arrest the ravish'd sight!
All rough, and wild, it rears its rocky head,
Severely aweful, and un-lovely spread:
From its cold top, soil-sweeping torrents flow,
Form'd, by unfruitful floods of native snow!
Sorrow sits, brooding, on its furrow'd face,
And desolation covers all the place.
See'st thou all this, fond youth! so charm'd, with state?
Such is the envy'd bliss, that gilds the great!
Such are the barren honours they enjoy!
For such distinction, they their cares employ!
They move our pity, while they tempt our fight;
High above all, indeed, but fruitless, in their height.

SOLITUDE.

On Mr. Cowley's introducing Pindaric Verse.

The Miracle at Cana.

When Christ, at Cana's feast, by pow'r divine,
Inspir'd cold water, with the warmth of wine,
See! cry'd they, while, in red'ning tide, it gush'd,
The bashful stream hath seen its god, and blush'd.

On hearing a very dull Sermon.

If, who would speak things well, must make them clear,
And souls are touch'd, most strongly, thro' the ear,
If none convince, but they, who, first, perswade,
These preaching quacks, of heav'n, mistake their trade:
Who cloak their brightness, with a cloud of form,
And freeze the fancy, which they ought to warm.

Arria and Pætus, from Martial.

When, from her breast, chaste Arria dragg'd the sword,
And, faintly, reach'd it her expecting lord;
My wound, said she, but wastes unvalu'd breath,
'Tis thine, dear Pætus, gives the sting to death.

An EPITAPH.

Why in such thoughtless haste? O stay, and know,
The dust, now mould'ring here, once hurried, so!
If will, to serve, or art, to please mankind,
If being mild, just, gen'rous, and kind;
If harmless mirth, free friendship, stingless truth,
Unswerving judgment, and un-erring youth;
If these cou'd e're have brib'd the dart of death,
This grave's gay tenant still had kept his breath:
Stay, then! and lend one sigh, to mourn his fate,
So may your loss be griev'd! so may your death be late.

Teresa, to Du-Mont.

Du-Mont to Teresa.

To Celinda, desiring him to describe her.

Alas you know not what you bid me do!
He, who loves well, can ne'er distinguish, too.
To paint you, justly, asks cool reason—I
Thro' passion's faithless glass, should look too high.
If, when I trace you, absent, killing fair!
I catch the aguish influence of despair;
To search you, near, my soul cou'd ne'er endure,
Without dissolving quite, in love's hot calenture.

On the Death of Prince George, of Denmark.

Since she, by whom her people all live blest,
To sorrow's reign, has giv'n her ruling breast,
Grief should be loudly heard, as well as seen,
To noise his death, and mourn our widow'd queen.
The friends of Anna must not, silent, weep;
Of streams, 'tis said, the gentlest are most deep!
But grief is passion, and, where passion reigns,
Nature scorns decency, and breaks her chains:
Like some fierce wind-driv'n show'r, true grief appears;
'Tis but a breeze, that is allay'd, by tears.
She does, indeed, with sighs, and tears, complain,
Like spring-born zephirs, mix'd, with sprinkling rain!
But we, the cloud, with thunder charg'd, should spread,
And gen'ral woe speak big, to suit the virtue dead.
Great, as his mercy, should our pity be,
Ah! who, unmov'd, can yon fair sorrow see?
The royal Dane that treasure long possest,
Dear, to her soul, and faithful, to her breast!
Free from ambition, innocently great,
'Twixt faction's shoals, he piloted the state!
And temp'ring pow'r, tho' lord of sov'reign sway,
Shone bright, yet scorch'd not, like the sun, in May.

PROLOGUE,

Spoke by Mr. Keen.

Gravely, inspir'd, we find ourselves, to-day,
As much inclin'd to preach, almost, as play.
What moral subject can we, then, advance,
More edifying, than the turns of chance!
All earthly bliss rolls, unperceiv'd, away;
All mortal pow'r but prospers, to decay!
Time was, when Rome's wide zeal took in such scope,
That kings, and emperors stood below the Pope;
But holiness, soon growing out of fashion,
Dominion thought it time to change her station,
And snor'd an age out, with the Spanish nation.
That past, t'wards France, she wing'd her dreadful way,
And flatter'd Monsieur, with all Europe's sway.
Now, we, bold Britons, claim her, as our right;
And, next, she talks of turning Muscovite!
Thus, favour'd, by the taste of a late age,
The tyrant, tragedy, engross'd the stage:
Then, did the sighs of dying heroes move,
And, then, you smil'd on honour, and on love:
But love, and honour, bear too strict a sway,
And our free Britons could not long obey!
So tragedy expir'd, with many a groan;
And tragi-comedy usurp'd the throne:
This princess was, it seems, of mungrel nature,
Fair cause for England's unmix'd race to hate her!
She reign'd, but little time, and, when she fell,
Brisk comedy rose, rul'd, and govern'd well:
Yet, cou'd not independent pow'r maintain,
So, call'd in farce, co-partner of her reign:
The syren op'ra, next, uprear'd her head,
And, uncontroul'd, her wide dominion spread:
'Till whim, great whim, hurl'd pow'r, at one huge throw,
From opera—good Lord! to puppet-show!
But 'tis mere folly, to recount past ills!
'Tis ours, to please your tastes, not check your wills!
Do but, to-night, forgive our comic crime,
We'll get the dev'l, and Punch, to please, in time!
Cou'd you but one of our fam'd wits engage,
To write some opera, fit for Punch's stage;
The wire-mov'd heroes, here, should pipe their flames,
And stride, in jerks, to woo their wooden dames;
So, might our ruin'd stage look big, again,
And break our rivals, in St. Martin's Lane.

PROLOGUE, for a Friend.

Prologues were look'd upon, in former days,
But as the porches, not the props, of plays!
At first, confin'd, in humble tone, to pray,
They beg'd their hearers smile, upon the play:
Favour'd, in that, they climb'd, still higher, and higher,
As rising fortune much inflames desire:
'Till now, our poets teach their judges sense,
And damn the audience, in the play's defence.
Our author, less presumptuous, bids me say,
He courts your favour, in a gentler way:
The untam'd genius of the British nation,
Disdains constraint, but smiles on resignation:
And when, in love, or wit, we take the field,
The surest way to conquer, is to yield.
Not but, our brainless, has good int'rest, too,
And might, perhaps, claim kin, with some of you,
But he believes, he says, that, when we've shown him,
The nearest to his blood, will, first, disown him.

The EPILOGUE.

I have been thinking, what this house must do,
To share your envy'd favours, with the new:
But find, we strive, in vain, their match to grow,
While 'tis not they deserve, but you bestow!
And no endeavours will advantage give;
Our foes, who, cuckow-like, can sleep, and live!
You'll not be angry, gentle-hearted beaux!
'Tis natural, you know, to hate our foes!
The he controulers of our changeful state,
With patient silence, bear their falling fate:
But women, wives or virgins, young, or old,
All claim one grand prerogative—to scold.
Long have we been neglected, why, heav'n knows,
For tumblers—eunuchs—fugh—and puppet-shows!
Ye gods! that all new things shou'd charm the mind!
New hopes, new cloaths, new faces, gull mankind.
Nay, could but women change as fast as you,
Your very wives, in time, might please you, too:
Yet, there's one thing, that all the rest surpasses,
That a new house should please, ev'n with old faces.
Well, Sirs, these slights no female pride can bear,
That I, this house's championess, declare;
We do not only claim kind smiles, from you,
But must be own'd most worthy of them, too.
This, he, who dares deny, provokes my rage,
And I defy him, by this knightly gage:
[throws down a glove]
At twelve, to-night, I'll come, alone, to meet him,
And ne'er trust woman, if I don't defeat him.

On the broad-brim'd Hats,

which were brought over, by the French, about the Time of the Treaty at Utrecht

How comes it, Messieurs! that we see you wear
Hats, that so much out-swell your usual air?
Had fam'd Gertruydenburg beheld this size,
Th' enormous brims had spoke the wearers wise,
While, there, proud conq'rors heard your monarch pray,
And, roughly, clipp'd the pinions of his sway;
Then, lost to fortune, and disrob'd of fame,
They'd pass'd for modest cov'rings of your shame.
But, now, you land, triumphant, on our shore.
And Anna's thunder has forgot to roar:
While, here, you, smartly, give your master law,
And, from lost battles, vict'ry's triumphs draw:
An English cock, methinks, with better air,
Wou'd grace the transport your glad eyes declare:
Change, change, your hideous brims, and timely chuse,
To strike a bargain, without fear to loose:
There are, at court, they say, who needs must know,
Their heads will soon require a broad chappeau.

The Sun-flower.

The Discovery.

To Liberia,

with a Squirrel.

These, my last lines, I write with bleeding heart,
For, oh! Liberia, and her silph, must part!
I must no more engross that envy'd care,
Which angels, now, in crowds, have beg'd to share.
Now, I no more must flutter, in your sight,
And, from your eye-beams, gild my wings, with light:
No more, in fields of air, when silphs rejoice,
Dance to the soft-tun'd musick of your voice!
Listen no more, while, in the Mall, you walk,
What the admiring crowds, that meet you, talk.
On your right shoulder's tip, no more, shall blaze,
Bright, with the flash of eyes, which, passing, gaze!
And, when, sometimes, you're sad, no more shall I
See myself weep, by peeping in your eye!
These comforts past, and mention'd, now, in vain,
Serve but to make remembrance ake, with pain!
Little, alas! I thought, when last I writ,
That I, so soon, my boasted charge must quit!
But our great king, whom all we silphs obey,
Wretch, that I am! commanded me away:
Far off, to eastern shores, I was to go;
Where the proud turk keeps love, and woman, low:
Where full twelve hundred rival beauties strive,
To keep one lover's lazy flame alive:
Where female charms are taught the humble skill,
To court the fancy, and not bow the will:
To this new post preferred, I was to fly;
And pass before the haughty sultan's eye;
There, in his glitt'ring palace, gay with state,
On his new fav'rite sultaness to wait:
But, ah, Liberia! by thy sweetness won,
Thy doating silph was doom'd to be undone;
These proffer'd honours had no charm for me;
I cou'd not taste a joy, remote from thee!
Thou art my pride, and, where thou art not seen,
Sorrow would catch me, tho' I serv'd a queen!
This, when I told our prince, he never weigh'd
My grief's just cause, but thought I disobey'd.
Swift, he o'ertook me, with an angry vow,
And chang'd me to the shape I come in, now.
Scarce had I time, to write my wretched fate,
And beg'd a friend to bring me to your gate;
Helpless, and dum, ah! whither should I go,
But to her breast, whose pitying soul I know?
She, who, to Puss and Mopsy, kind can be,
Will, sure! thought I, have some concern for me.
Weak, though I am, some gratitude is due:
I claim your care, for my past care of you.
Elsewhere, I will not my new wants supply,
And when you starve me, 'twill be time to die.
I may, hereafter, some small service do,
For yet my body's weak, and form but new.
If you shall please to help me, thro' my youth,
And, with milk-soften'd bisket, save my tooth;
Grateful, when I grow up, I'll keep yours strong,
And crack nuts, for you, all the glad day long;
If, kindly, you shall bless me, with your care,
And shield me, from the pinching wint'ry air;
Close, round your neck, like some warm tippet, roll'd,
In frosty nights, I'll guard you from the cold;
And while, in your soft hand, you let me play,
I'll growl the Captain's rivals all away.
Refuse not, then, tho' chang'd, to keep me, still,
And, oh! remember, Pug was Seraphil.

The Motto on Pug's Collar.

I am no common earth-born Pug;
My name is Seraphil:
Once, I was fair Liberia's silph,
And am her servant, still.

To my dear, and ever honoured Mother;

in Answer to some Verses, which she sent me, about Spirits, from Malmesbury Abbey.

An Epitaph,

upon a talkative Lady.

How apt are men to lye! how dare they say,
When life is gone, all learning fleets away?
Since this glad grave holds Chloe, fair, and young,
Who, where she is, first learnt to hold her tongue.

A Dialogue between Damon and Philemon,

concerning the Preference of a Town Life, to a Country Life.

Philemon.
Why does not Damon, unaspiring swain!
Chuse rather not to live, than live in vain?
From bright examples, thy ambition fire;
Let others honours whet thy dull desire:
Let rustie sports engage the lab'ring hind,
And cultivated acres plow his mind!
Let him, to unfrequented woods, repair,
And snuff, un-envy'd, his lean mountain air;
'Till death, unsought, o'ertakes his heavy pace,
And unfam'd dust consumes his mould'ring race.
Do thou to warmer joys, thy wishes raise,
And taste the pleasure of deserving praise!
If sparkling genius does thy fancy fill,
In muse-led stages, try thy journeying skill:
Or, if thy soul, more roughly, is possest,
And struggling valour swells thy glowing breast;
To war's red toils let glory call thee hence,
And draw thy untry'd sword, in Britain's just defence.

Damon.
And why, Philemon, to the vicious town!
Not that way lies the road to just renown;
No virtue prospers, in that barren soil;
That nursery of unregarded toil!
There, fools, and knaves, by purchas'd favour, rise,
And shine, beyond the valiant, and the wise!
Shall hope allure me to the wretched state,
Of cringing at the levees of the great?
With servile awe, to court a stately nod,
And treat some glorious folly, like a god?
No! sooner, I'll the clown's free labours share,
And, with their brutes, a nobler burthen bear!
The wars, I must allow, a gen'rous thought,
A glory, by fame-thirsty spirits sought;
Who, scorch'd, within, by hot ambition's flood,
Quench passion's fever, in a lake of blood!
'Tis great, to see 'em march thro' cannon's roar,
While sweat-wash'd wounds all-gild their faces o'er:
To brave the northern blasts, and, with swoln veins,
Bear scorchings, when the sultry dog star reigns.
But, will your un-nerv'd youth encounter these?
Ah, no! effeminate, they rust, in ease!
And, should our sinewy hinds forsake the field,
France will stand high, when Britain learns to yield.

Philemon.
Can Damon, whose bright genius strongly shines,
Thro' the soft beauties of his tuneful lines;
Can he defend, or muses bless the strife,
Th' inglorious preference of a country life?
'Tis not, alone, for honour, or renown,
The seat of wit, and pleasure, is the town:
To her, ungrateful! all those darts you owe,
Which, now, against her battlements you throw.
For, sure! no rural dictates cou'd inspire
The rapt'rous energy of Damon's fire!
The cot-bred soul, with ignorance, content,
Is meanly miserable, by consent:
Proud, in his native sloth, he scorns to think,
And has no end, in life, but meat, and drink;
While the brave learn'd, whole knowledge bids him try,
The mystic gulph of deep philosophy;
Wades 'cross the narrow bounds, to reason, giv'n,
Spurns back the measur'd earth, and fathoms heav'n!
Had glory's props, in ages, long since past,
In the rough mould of country life been cast;
A blind stupidity the world had sway'd,
And mother ignorance been, still obey'd:
No deathless wit had crown'd the Grecian stage,
Nor skill-mix'd courage grac'd the Julian age!
No sun of thought had shin'd, with glorious beams,
No, seas of knowledge spread their silver streams:
Then, Damon, come, to courtly pleasures, fly,
Nor, thus, th' attractive charms of wealth, and pow'r, deny.

Damon.
Oh! wou'd this tuneful youth, whose numbers flow,
Soft, as the love-inspiring zephyrs blow:
Sweet, as maids look, when, first, they own their loves,
Smooth, as the down, which feathers Venus' doves.
Sweet, as the dulcid streams, from Hybla run,
Or, as the bloom, displaying to the sun!
Oh! wou'd he to our silvan shades repair,
To taste our wholesome, our inspiring air!
Wou'd he but leave that sable-clouded soil,
On which Aurora never seems to smile;
What bright, what glorious images would rise,
From all his thoughts, to emulate the skies!
For, if such charms, there, in his numbers, shine,
Here, they would prove extatic, and divine.
But, why is Damon so ungrateful thought;
As if the town his humble sallies taught!
What muse cou'd e'er endure your smoke, and noise?
Your night-alarms, and your tumultuous joys?
No! 'tis the murm'ring brook, the shad'wy grove,
And flow'r-dress'd valley, that invite their love!
Then, haste, Philemon, to our blissful state,
And learn to live, before it grows too late.

Philemon.
If truth, dear swain! with freedom, might advise,
Thou may'st be happy, for I know thee wise.
Quit, for a trial, once, this meagre air,
And, all impartial, to thy friend repair.
Then, wilt thou, ever, fix'd with me remain,
And envious rustics tempt thee back, in vain.
Thus, some raw youth, on a domestic shore,
With terror, hears th' encircling surges roar;
Trembling, he sees the threatning tempest roll,
And ev'ry rising billow lifts his soul:
But, when a riper age has call'd him o'er,
To try the pleasures of some foreign shore,
Sad, he returns, nor will, at home, remain,
But pants, to taste abandon'd joys, again.
Your muse, in vain, of boasted prospects sings;
Your flow'ry meadows, and your murm'ring springs:
Poor short-liv'd scenes of shadow-skimming joy,
Whose pride a change of season can destroy!
The rising floods your valleys over-flow,
And winter spreads your hills, with sheets of snow:
Autumnal winds strip bare your gawdy trees,
And cold December nights your purling currents freeze.
But we, more happy, constant blessings share,
Nor hang our comforts in the changeful air:
Our diff'ring seasons have their different sport,
The park, the play, the tavern, and the court!
Our rolling hours can sweetly wear away
The utmost moments of the longest day:
When, tir'd with business, we wou'd care decline,
We drown the weight of thought, in gen'rous wine:
By that, made sprightly, to the park repair,
And, eloquently silent, court the fair:
Thence, to the theatre, inspir'd, we move,
And feast, at once, on mingled wit and love!
These and a thousand nameless new delights,
Make our days fruitful, and enrich our nights;
While you, 'midst few repeated pastimes, live,
Nor ever taste the joy, which changing pleasures give.

Damon.
'Tis true, Philemon, our autumnal storms
Disrobe our trees, and strip their quiv'ring forms:
'Tis true, our liveliest beauties are but short,
Short as the joys, which recommend your court:
But these new charms, in following springs, obtain,
While those, once set, shall never rise again.
In vain; your plays allure; all there, that's fine,
Does, faintly, to our artless beauties, shine.
Their scenes, as grossly, imitate our groves,
As their lewd actors, our soft past'ral loves.
Frequent, their comedies, to please the town,
Descend to borrow, hence, some wit-grac'd clown.
The park, their folly's larger stage, charms less;
An ill-mix'd scene, of noise, grimace, and dress!
The court, 'tis true, shines out, with tempting state;
For ruin, angling, there, to catch the great,
Hides the hook, wisely, with attractive bait!
The joy, which wine can give, like smoaky fires,
Obscures their sight, whose fancy it inspires.
Thus, like old Sodom's fruit, that seat of sin,
Your pleasures, fair, without, are worms, and dust, within.

Philemon.
Assist me, sacred sisters! aid my voice,
And guide lost Damon to a nobler choice!
The crowds of rustics, who, to town, repair,
And quit, for vulgar hopes, their native air,
Are gross-form'd vapours, heavily, exhal'd,
Where profit's sunny influence has prevail'd;
But those, alone, my friend! are beams, for me,
Which draw such limpid innocence, as thee!
What pleasures reap you, from the un-prun'd field,
Which cities cannot, more compleatly, yield?
If, to some peace-blest cot, we wou'd retire,
An hour's short journey crowns the soft desire:
There, strait, we taste the sweets, so prais'd, by you,
And, then, return to those, you never knew!
Ev'n heav'n approves not solitude; else, why
Did his great will direct society?
Why did the antients, else, to towns repair,
And quit, for houses, tents, and open air?
Would the great Hebrew favourite of heav'n,
To whom, both pow'r and wisdom's charms were giv'n!
Wou'd he, on Sion's hills, have fix'd his seat,
Had rural pleasures been, in truth, most sweet?

Damon.
While, here, the rosy-fronted morning's light
Shines o'er the hills, and charms the distant sight;
While heav'n's gay choiresters, in clouds, arise,
And, with harmonious warblings shake the skies:
While we our mirth, with moderation, crown,
And shun th' excesses of the dangerous town.
Why wou'd Philemon, un-advis'd, obtrude,
On us, the unfelt woes of solitude?
What, tho' the Hebrew, whom you well call great,
Made Sion, for her temple's sake, his seat?
What knowledge did his city life impart?
But, that 'twas empty all! and vanity of heart!
Cowley, that shining bard, had try'd, and known,
The whole heap'd pleasure of your boasted town;
And, finding all its beauties false, and base,
Retir'd, and, ever after, loath'd the place.
Great Dioclesian, when he reach'd the height
Of human glory, shook off cumb'rous state,
Wak'd into man, and shun'd th' alluring bait.
To rural peace, his search he, next, address'd,
And, there, his crown-despising choice was blest.

Philemon.
Immortal Cowley's tuneful verse I own,
Spoke pow'rful arguments, against the town!
So Æsop's fox, in vain, exerts his pow'r,
And, then, like Cowley, cries—the grapes are sow'r.
Had court indulgence smil'd, as he desir'd,
He never had, to rural shades, retir'd!
Your Dioclesian, from plebeian birth,
Rais'd to the rule of a dependant earth,
Stagger'd, with giddy steps, beneath the weight,
And, trembling at his danger, cast his state!
But, if examples can thy genius fire,
And move the rusty springs of dead desire;
Behold great Plato, whose acknowledg'd fame
Has, from his worth, immortaliz'd his name!
Big, with town-hopes, to Dionysius, fly,
And, to ambition, tune philosophy.
Far-fam'd Charibdis threaten'd him, in vain,
Nor Scylla's terrors fright him back again.
Sicilian grandeur, like the Golden Fleece,
Drew all the men of excellence from Greece;
Pythagoras, to town, invites his friends;
And Socrates our city life defends.
But, lest you should the pow'r of truth deny,
And, in a cause, so bad, unmov'd, reply;
Know, tho' assembled nature's sweets combin'd,
And art the country's honour had design'd;
Their joint endeavours would allure, in vain,
While heav'n-sought Anna does, with us, remain!
For, as those parts, where Phœbus fullest shines,
Tho' rough, and wild, are stor'd with silver mines;
Whose wealth, attractive, draws, from lovelier lands,
Advent'rous thousands, to those barren strands!
So, though the city no delights possest,
Did Anna chuse it, for a place of rest,
Millions wou'd hurry thither, and be blest.

Damon.
Farewel! ye once-belov'd, retir'd abodes!
Ye murm'ring springs! and unfrequented woods!
Farewel, ye winged choirs! that warble there!
And fill with melody, the fluid air!
Ye soft amusements, which indulge, and please!
And life's bent springs relax, with blissful ease!
Farewel, ye rural sports! the eager chase,
The mountain falcon, and the nimble race?
Philemon calls; the charming swain invites!
And wakes my drowsy soul to new delights.
Impregnated, with fire, from his bright lines,
My mind unfreezes, and my bosom shines:
We not to all our country pleasures, owe
Such soft delights, as, in thy numbers, flow:
Less bright the rosy blushes of the morn,
Than those ideas, which thy thoughts adorn!
Not tuneful Philomel, so musical!
Nor murm'ring springs, with sweeter accents, fall!
The god of oracles inspires thy songs,
And all is truth, which, to that god, belongs!
Let others, then, th' unequal strife maintain.
And, with Philemon's muse, contend, in vain:
I yield; and, in his conquest, take more pride,
Than if I'd conquer'd all the swains beside!
Farewel, ye once-belov'd, retir'd abodes!
I'll to Augusta, now, the darling of the gods.

Philemon.
Welcome, dear Damon! in a high degree,
Welcome, sweet swain! to London, and to me!
To love the late-shun'd field, I now begin,
For, yielding thus, you, more than conquest, win.
Such tender warmth, in thy soft soul, I see,
That I could dwell, in woods, to dwell with thee!
Secure of thee, I may, with ease, defy
Th' attempt of any future enemy!
Abandon'd nymphs will, now, forsake the plains,
And dew-drench'd valleys weep departed swains:
Envy shall leave the lonesome cottage free,
For wit, and virtue, both, must follow thee.

A Dialogue, between Damon and Philemon,

concerning the Preference of Riches to Poverty.

Damon.
Accursed gold! 'till thou begot'st offence,
All nature smil'd, with artless innocence:
Men's days slid, smoothly on, in soft delights,
Nor fear'd they villains, to disturb their nights:
No blooming virgins, then, were basely sold,
Slaves, to the sordid tyranny of gold!
But swains, with honest hearts, kind truths express'd,
And nymphs, un-blushing, their felt flames confess'd:
Astræa, then, with un-stain'd glory, reign'd;
The judge's ear, by brib'ry, yet ungain'd.
No avarice, with her foul train, was known,
But his was theirs, and ours was no man's own.
War had not, yet, with stains of blood, and rage,
Her mangled offspring brought upon the stage;
But all, beneath the peaceful olive, sate,
Fill'd, and delighted, with their blissful state.
But, when thy birth, O Gold! disturb'd the world,
Nature was into swift confusion hurld:
Her charms were lost, and her all-pleasing forms,
O'erwhelm'd, by tempests, or disguis'd, by storms:
Noise, and destruction, with gigantic strides,
And all their horrid children, at their sides,
March'd round the frighted globe, in search of thee,
And plow'd up murder, shame, and perjury!
Philemon! then, th' inglorious chace refrain;
Nor waste thy life, in search of sordid gain.

Philemon.
Gold! thou gay quintessence of earth refin'd!
Which heav'n, to balance struggling pow'r, design'd!
'Till thy decisive weight depress'd the scale,
Contenders did, alternately, prevail!
Now, reign'd, as lord, some chance-ascending swain;
Another conquers him, yet wins, in vain;
A third dethrones 'em both, nor can his pow'r maintain.
Each wou'd be chief, but all un-help'd by thee,
Stick, in the mire of mean equality.
Gold, first, the famish'd mouth of learning fed,
And drew the curtain, which dark ignorance spread.
No lab'ring industry alarm'd the day,
For there was no reward, such toil to pay.
None, to the search of knowledge, would aspire,
Since wit's increase could raise their wealth no higher:
Supine stupidity forbad all strife,
And sleep refresh'd not, but imprison'd life!
But, since thy worth, O Gold! was greatly known,
Arts have sprung, thick, and hope is wider grown.
Men, blest with thee, the murm'ring world command,
And tread down discord, in each rebel land:
In hopes of thee, the stupid aim, to think,
And sin's broad eye, for profit, learns to wink.
The sea's vast depth, for thee, we boldly sound,
And sleep, un-dreading, upon hostile ground.
For thee, the hind, with plenty-spreading hand,
Lifts lazy nature, from his sluggish land:
Thou, Gold! can'st melt the frosty-breasted fair;
And dry damp sorrows, and soul-drenching care!
In short, by gold alone, we happy live;
O, Damon! joys are goods, which only gold can give!

Damon.
Thus, does the glitt'ring fiend debauch our wills,
And smiles, to see us stroke his sting-hid ills:
Base dirt! the fools, who are enslav'd, by thee,
Slaves to a slave confess themselves to be!
'Tis true, thou art the origin and source,
Whence pow'r first rose, and which maintains her course!
But, what is pow'r, which wealth, not justice, gives?
How ill-distinguish'd such a sov'reign lives!
Could men but read the Gallic monarch's breast,
And trace swift tumults thro' his broken rest,
How would they curse his shadow-circled state,
And laugh at envy, which maligns the great!
Sometimes, O shame! the fair thy pow'r adore,
And feign to love, where they disdain'd, before.
But, ah! the tempters, who this charm have try'd,
Gain'd not the woman, but the woman's pride!
Can, then, Philemon, whose alluring strains,
Lov'd by the nymphs, and envy'd, by the swains,
Might reconcile antipathies, and move
The cruel hearts of savages, to love!
Can he esteem that baneful oar divine?
Or kneel, dishonoured, at blind fortune's shrine?
No—rather in her lewdest form, describe
That stain-affixing foe, to virtue's snow-wash'd tribe.

Philemon.
Damon, I love thee! and thy welfare seek;
Thence, lend my truth the liberty to speak:
Just as I wish, my friendship wou'd advise,
And have thee rich and mighty, as thou'rt wise:
Thy keen-wrought edge of satire, cuts too deep,
Not, always ills, we, from wealth's harvest, reap.
Gold is the gift of heav'n; and heav'n is wise!
And knows the worth of virtue's far-wish'd prize.
The starts, which shake the Gallic monarch's breast,
Those night-born tumults, which distract his rest,
Spring not from gold, my Damon, but, from pride,
Which swell'd ambition, with too high a tide.
Had he been pleas'd, with glories gain'd before,
Fate had not dash'd his hopes, in search of more:
Tho' gold the engine of man's fortune is,
The pilot wisdom must direct the bliss:
Calm moderation ought to measure choice,
And high-flown wishes stoop, at reason's voice.
The sun, which, at such distance, paints the year,
Would scorch it, Damon, if it came too near.
You may, with ease, o'er shining millions reign,
And never be a slave to flowing gain.
But he, whose birth-directing stars decree,
That he shall wear out life, in poverty;
Let him be cast in nature's choicest mold,
And lord of every gift of heav'n, but gold;
While that, alone, he wants, to crown the rest,
Not all his other charms can make him blest.

Damon.
PHILEMON's lines do gold so far out-shine,
So far more radiant, dazzling, and divine!
That ev'n the praise, he gives it, serves to show,
What more, to wisdom, than to wealth, we owe!
But, oh! 'tis false, that gold can give us friends,
Flatt'ry and friendship, have wide-diff'ring ends:
They, who crowd round us, while our hopes look gay,
Will, in the dusk of fortune, shrink away.
Timon, the brave! the gen'rous! and the great!
Timon, the wise! but wise, alas! too late!
Who dragg'd, of wealth's proud dross, a mighty load,
And shed his blessings, round him, like a god!
Timon, who heal'd the woes of half mankind!
What curs'd returns did wretched Timon find?
Content is bliss, I'll, with Philemon, hold;
But that was never purchas'd, yet, by gold:
Our affluence but serves to spur desire,
And dang'rous flights attain'd, but tempt us higher.

Philemon.
Oh! let me triumph, in a golden fate!
If I am rich, I can be, wisely, great.
With nice-tim'd aids, can fainting worth assist,
And make the wretched happy, when I list:
But, if on fortune's barren strands, I lie,
My fruitless pity shall, unpity'd, die!
You tell me, Damon, friends are bought, and sold,
And that assistance comes, and goes, with gold.
If help, in life, affords the greatest bliss,
Sure! that, which buys that help, the greatest comfort is.

Damon.
All your strong arguments no proof produce,
Of gold's intrinsic value, but its use!
Your generous soul, your friends would entertain,
And general bliss, with wide-spread aids, maintain;
Call forth dim virtue, on the world to shine!
'Tis great! 'tis wond'rous great! 'tis all divine!
But still, Philemon, this sublime delight,
Springs not from gold's access, but from its flight!
You praise the use, yet cannot bear the sight.
Shou'd villains aid me, some worse foe to kill,
I'd love the act, but hate the villain, still!
I'd prize a truth, sent in the Devil's name,
But still abhor that Devil, from whom it came.
So, gold, pernicious in its nature, may,
By souls, like yours, be bent a nobler way:
Thus, as the needle, by magnetic force,
Once touch'd, still, to the magnet guides its course.
Trembling, while wand'ring thence, and finds no rest,
'Till clasp'd, and fastened, to its darling breast.
So, tho' our thoughts, on diff'rent points, design,
Meeting, at last, we, in one center, join,
And, in the union, lose the terms of mine and thine.

Philemon.
I praise, dear swain, the use of gold, 'tis true;
But use includes intrinsic value, too;
Whence, but from use, does estimation rise?
And ev'ry thing is worth, what ev'ry thing supplies.
'Tis true, a diamond cannot keep out cold,
Nor can we eat or drink our heaps of gold:
Yet, bless'd with either, Damon, we can buy,
What neither, in their nature, can supply.
And since, for wealth, the joys of life are sold,
There's an intrinsic value, sure, in gold!
I hold, with Damon, gold should be a slave;
I treat, as such, the moderate sums I have.
And, as kind fortune shall encrease my store,
I'll make a slave of that, and ten times more.
Yet, gold possesses every healing pow'r;
Not love, alone, falls in a golden show'r.
Gold makes men wise, as well as gives 'em rule;
For who e'er knew a wealthy man a fool?
Ev'n in the shades below, the rich were blest,
And borne, by Charon, to the fields of rest.
While the poor beggar, shiv'ring, on the shore,
Wanting his penny, found no passage o'er.
So, poverty, with shame, to death, was hurl'd,
And drew down scandal to the other world!
But, since my Damon, whom the muses bless,
Affects not gold, and bids me love it less,
I'll listen to his sweet bewitching voice,
And guide my soul, to meet him, in his choice.
Since, then, nor you, nor I, can happy be,
You, with much gold, nor I, with poverty,
Let's bend our search, to find some freer fate,
And crown our wishes, in the middle state.

To a Lady,

desiring to know, what Love was like.

Love is a treacherous heat, a smothering spark,
Blown up, by children's breath, who shun the dark:
At first, the fire is innocently bright,
Glows gently gay, and scatters warm delight:
But left, neglected, and unquench'd, too long,
The nourish'd flame grows terrible and strong;
'Till, blazing fierce, it spreads on every side,
And burns its kindler, with ungrateful pride.

Plain Truth.

Chloe , you talk, with joy, of Celia's face,
Admire her wit, and ape her fancy'd grace;
The praise, you give is, sure! sincere respect,
Your practice proves, what airs your thoughts affect.
But, since you know, that friendship should be free,
Give her this hint, and say—it came from me.
A face, like hers, if manag'd well, might please,
But no charm strikes, that is not arm'd with ease,
Striving too eagerly, she strives, in vain:
These studied airs put beauty to the strain:
Wou'd she wound sure, and conquer, with a grace,
Tell her, the careless runner wins the race.

Celinda, in the Snow.

The Windfall.

To Celinda,

in Excuse for looking on her at Church.

If, fix'd on yours, my eyes, in pray'r, you see,
You must not call my zeal idolatry!
For, since our maker's throne is plac'd so high,
That only, in his works, the god we spy:
And what's most bright, most gives him to our view;
I look most near him, when I look on you.

Chloris to Aminta.

Good-Friday.

To a Reverend Friend,

on his first Promotion in the Church.

While easy, now, you, to cool shades, retire,
Soft, as the innocence of your desire;
Refin'd, as your well-govern'd passions are,
And, sharply gentle, like your worldly care:
I, toil'd with life's fatigues, stick fast, in town,
And waste slow hours, in search of vain renown.
Snatch at coy fortune, still, as she appears,
And wear out chequer'd time, in hopes, and fears.
But tir'd, at last, with the bespotted scene,
More pleas'd, I, toward your brighter prospect, lean,
And, while your glitt'ring stars shine out so clear,
I half forget the pains, which gall me, here.
Methinks, I see you far-advancing, still,
I see you, on religion's mightiest hill!
Your sleeves of lawn I see! and mitred head!
And crowds, that kneel before your reverend tread!
Then, aw'd with pious love, my ravish'd eye
Akes, for your blessing, as you pass me by.
'Twill be! the watchful saviour wakes above,
Still views his church, with a paternal love!
He weighs the zeal, which his lov'd laws inspire,
And having mark'd you, of his holy choir,
Will lift you to behold your virtues nigher.
Oh, happy she! who, blest, for both your sakes,
In your pure breast, her earthly heav'n partakes!
And when, at last—long may it be! she dies,
May plead your passport, as she upward flies!

The Disparity.

From a Hint of Sir Henry Wotton.

Martial Epig. 59, Lib. 7.

Ad Jovem Capitolinum.

Great Capitolian Jove! thou God, to whom,
Our Cæsar owes that bliss, he sheds on Rome!
While prostrate crowds thy daily bounty tire,
And all thy blessings, for themselves, desire:
Accuse me not of pride, that I, alone,
Put up no pray'r, that may be call'd my own:
For Cæsar's wants, O Jove! I sue to thee,
Cæsar himself can grant what's fit for me.

In Pompeios.

Great Pompey's ashes, in vile Egypt, lie;
His sons, in Europe, and in Asia, die:
What wonder, that these three, so distant, dy'd,
So vast a ruin could not spread less wide!

Belinda's Grave.

Here, woe-mark'd spot! once, dear Belinda lay;
Here, her cold bosom mix'd with colder clay:
And, here, despairing, and afflicted, I
Planted this tree, which now makes haste to die.
While this lov'd cypress a sad shelter made,
Oft wou'd I lose myself, beneath its shade:
Guide, with a painful pleasure, each dear shoot,
And water, with my tears, the rich-fed root.
Sigh, through the boughs, like some moist April breeze,
And the grasp'd trunk, in am'rous rapture, squeeze.
And when some warbling songster, nested there,
Belinda's voice, methought, shook soft the air!
The murm'ring branches, bending, from the wind,
Breath'd a cool comfort o'er my love-shook mind.
Thus, sev'n long years, I learnt to hear, and see,
My lost Belinda, in her funeral tree!
But mad, at last, and all impatient grown,
To make my fruitless passion still more known:
Fatally fond, I cut a cruel mark,
And carv'd my name, upon the shrinking bark.
Wretch that I was! the tree, from that curs'd day,
In sad resentment, pin'd itself away!
And that new life, which dead Belinda gave,
Wither'd, with pain, crept, downward, to her grave.

The Royal Sepulchre.

Is this the boastful pride of mortal state?
Is it for this we covet to be great?
What short-liv'd bliss, from envy'd grandeur springs,
When these poor reliques, once, were mighty kings!
O frail uncertainty of earthly pow'r!
Where graves can majesty itself devour!
How naked, now, does royalty appear!
Alas! how vast, how sad a change is here!
Tell me, dumb dust? how wide was thy command?
Where's, now, the sceptre, that once fill'd this hand?
Where are those brawny guards, which aw'd thy state?
Where the gay crowds, which, once, were proud to wait?
Can narrow limits, dark, like these, contain
The chang'd extent of thy contracted reign?
Canst thou, at whose least frown, a nation shook,
And, trembling, watch'd the light'nings of thy look:
Canst thou, at last, grown humble, be content,
To let bold search prophane thy monument?
And common men, grown rude, and wanton, too,
Thus poize your dusty bones, and wonder at the view.

May-Day.

Welcome, dear dawn of summer's rising sway,
Fair fav'rite of the year! soul-soft'ning May!
Late, I have learnt, by love's sweet Queen, inspir'd,
Why, from my youth, this day my bosom fir'd;
'Twas for her birth, that blooming nature sprung,
'Twas in her notes, the sky's soft rangers sung!
The breeze blew soft, o sigh her soul's sweet frame,
And the boughs bent, in homage to her name.
Thick shot the meads, to paint her fruitful mind,
And flow'rs, that roll'd her breath, enrich'd the wind.
For her, the sun wake'd out, to bless our isle,
And lighted up half heav'n, to paint her smile:
Oh! we are lovers all! our Celia reigns,
And the warm'd world is sick, with my sweet pains.

PROLOGUE.

Designed for a Tragedy, yet unpublished, called the Roman Revenge.

[After a short flourish of Musick, enter Fancy, rob'd in white, her hair loose and flowing.]
Fancy.

[To an overture of warlike music, heard at a distance, under the stage, arises, thro' the large central opening, the Genius of Liberty, reclining on the side of a rock, as just wak'd, by the sound of the melody.]
Genius of Liberty.
[Exit Fancy.]

Replaces himself on the rock. Then rises (to brisk musick) the Genius of Good Sense, on one side, and the Genius of Good-nature, on the other.

[_]

[N. B. These two were to be represented by the two little Hamiltons.]

The following SONG, To the Tune of Jolly Watermen.

Genius of Liberty.

Enough, my children; come, attend me, near;
And, going, leave, behind, your influence, here.
[All descend into the Places they rose from.]

Moses's Song of Thanksgiving.

On the Overthrow of Pharaoh, in the Red-sea, from Exodus Chap. xv.

David's Elegy, for the Death of Saul and Jonathan.

(2 Kings, Chap. 1.)

To Celia.

Oh! thou eclipse, and glory, of thy kind!
Thou vast o'erwhelmer of the drowning mind!
Bid me not write my thoughts, or speak my pain,
'Till thou hast giv'n me back my soul, again:
As well might shipwreck'd slaves, who, floating, lie,
Swim, through the billowy storms, which sweep the sky,
As my poor sighing breast its torments show,
And paint, in cool description, burning woe.
Lost to sense, mem'ry, meaning—all, but thee!
I drag on life's dull load, in misery.
Absent, from those dear eyes' destructive shine,
I pant, methinks, to tell thee, why I pine.
But, when I touch my pen, my flaming heart
Burns up, at once, and dazzles trembling art.
Love's scatt'ring sparks, on my full bosom, fall,
And, kindling wild reflection, blows up all.

To a Lady, on calling me Jealous.

Alone, in an Inn,

(at Southampton.)

EPILOGUE, to Euridice

The Shipwreck.

The French Prophets.

Celia to Amintor.

Amintor's Answer.

To Miranda, after Marriage;

With Mr. Lock's Treatise on Education.

Since, every day, with new delight, I see,
These lively little images of thee;
I would their tender minds to virtue, bow,
And have 'em never less belov'd, than now,
Take then, thou gentle partner of my care!
A glass, to show thee, what these infants are:
By this just light, direct their opening way,
Lest road-met folly lead their steps astray:
First, teach 'em, what, to heav'n's high throne, they owe,
Then—whence, on earth, the wise man's comforts flow:
Teach 'em, while fortune smiles, to use her right,
And nobly scorn her, when she takes her flight.
The rare-found charms of friendship let 'em know,
And learn, that love's soft dress is lin'd with woe.
Form, with progressive care, the wid'ning mind,
And, growing, bid 'em leave the world behind:
'Till, having learnt, whate'er becomes the free,
You, lastly, teach 'em, how to charm, like thee.

Epitaph, on a young Lady,

who died unmarried.

Blowing Kisses, at the Play-house.

No more, vain wretch! such trifling arts pursue,
These public fooleries will never do!
Love's secret flames, like lamps, shou'd bury'd lie,
The very moment they take air, they die.
Women, thro' crowds, can unfeign'd passion spy,
Skill'd, in the rhet'ric of a speaking eye:
But when, regardless of their fame, you move,
Your glare of folly blinds their eye of love

Augusta's Complaint to her Thames.

To the unknown Author of the beautiful new Piece, call'd Pamela.

On Corinna's first Attempt in Poetry.

With eyes, un-brib'd, by your enchanting view,
I trac'd, impartial, your soft numbers thro'?
Your loose-dress'd fancy, in each sparkling line,
Gilds the gay current of your deep design.
Your poem, strongly fine, and softly bold,
Is silkworm's labour, spun, with threads of gold.
Go on, bright maid! nor doubt the world's applause;
Wit, arm'd with looks, like yours, the critic awes!
Tho' years may knit, and lengthen your success,
Think not your youth will your due praise oppress:
Ev'n the broad sun, when, first, his glories rise,
With struggling tincture, streaks the eastern skies,
But soon, thro' heav'n's enlighten'd orbs, the conquering lustre flies.

The Valentine.

Why, be it so! it matters not what name
Yon river bears, since, still, it flows the same!
Whate'er I call you, this, I'm sure, I feel,
No name can speak of you, with half my zeal!
In vain, love's meaning, this or that, we call,
The comprehensive lover takes in all!
Yet, since, to custom's bent, we all incline,
You shall, to please you, be my Valentine.
And, since my charming trifler asks a gift.
The mystic value of this present, sift.
Accept these gloves, and, if they worthless seem,
Learn, thus, what pleas they bring, for your esteem.
Their spotless white prefer'd their choice, to me,
As the best emblem of your chastity.
Their smoothness may, almost, the honour win,
To represent the velvet of your skin:
Their suppleness, which, join'd with strength, you find,
Is the just fabrick of your well-mix'd mind.
The kid, that wore 'em, had some faint pretence,
To be the type of your sweet innocence:
How, then, can I a fitter present chuse?
Or you these emblematic gloves refuse?
One stronger reason, too, my fear has found;
Women, they say, oft slight the breast they wound.
And, when dark absence shades us, from their view,
They look not after us, but seek out new:
To shun this fate, these gloves your lover sends,
That you may have him, at your fingers ends.

The Revenge.

To the Flattering Incognita.

Jostling, in Snowy Weather.

Forgive me, Chloris! nor my rudeness blame,
Strange, as it is, this frost has bred a flame!
Driv'n from your breast, I glow, with new desire;
And melt, like straggling snow, that falls on fire.
Had you been black, you might have shun'd this blow;
For diff'rent colours wou'd each other show,
But, oh! you're fair, and cold, and soft, and every way like snow.

Psalm lv. Verse 6.

O That my feet were wing'd, as my desire!
I would not, then, thus tediously retire:
Thus slowly rise, that, while to mount, I try,
I sink, beneath the weight, from which I fly!
Could I, like eagles, sail upon the wind,
Might curses catch me, when I look'd behind!
'Till shaking off this cumb'rous load of breath,
My soul reach'd heav'n, nor stop'd to bait at death.

The Amorous Scrutiny.

Liberia, watch'd at Midnight.

As from a window, in the wane of night,
With starry views, I feasted wand'ring sight,
I saw Liberia watch the rising day,
Whose lustre was to light her friend away!
That friend, whose kindred passion serv'd to prove,
The promis'd ardour of her brother's love!
That brother's love, which, tho' it meets regard,
Remains uncrown'd, with the yet-hop'd reward!
As, in some overcast and dismal day,
We start, to see the sun, at once, break way;
So, at that hour, to see such charms advance,
When ghosts are said to rise, and fairies dance!
With more than usual pleasure, fill'd my sight,
And mix'd some wonder, with much more delight!
While, arm in arm, they trac'd the garden walk,
The love-hush'd air hung list'ning to their talk:
The dancing breeze, which had, 'till then, been gay,
At their appearance, sigh'd, and dy'd away.
As they drew near, the moon more strongly shone,
To view their brightness, not to boast her own.
A gen'ral stillness seem'd to sooth their cares,
And nature's face grew sad, to suit with theirs:
Shrill-barking Mopsy smother'd her own joys,
Fearing to drown her mistress' charming voice:
Liberia spoke, but seem'd to speak in vain,
As if unable to describe her pain!
When grief is true, no words its force can paint,
A silent sorrow far outspeaks complaint!
A thousand leaves the destin'd sisters took;
A thousand unspoke meanings fill'd each look:
Oft, they gaz'd, upward, to the dawning sky,
And curs'd th' expected hour, for drawing nigh:
If now, thought I, some gentle zephyr blew,
Thus shou'd it whisper, as it round her flew:
Think, since your pitying soul does absence hate,
Absence from you, must sharper pangs create!
Think, if, to lose the sister, gives you woes;
What, losing you, the brother undergoes!
Who, every night, from your lov'd presence, sent,
Does long repeated absences lament!
And, if this parting does yourself displease,
Be taught, by sympathy, to give him ease.

On Eliza's design'd Voyage to Spain.

To Spain! forbid it, heav'n! oh, think no more,
To bless, profusely, that abounding shore!
It can, to souls, like thine, no pleasure yield,
To waste manure, on the too fertile field:
Our beggar'd soil, at home, alone, shou'd share,
The gen'rous influence of Eliza's care!
Since Spain, high-treasur'd, grasps the golden west,
Oh! let thy Indies, be, by us, possest!

On Occasion of some Verses, from Eliza.

PROLOGUE.

To Lord George Grahme;

On his Action, near Ostend, on the 24th of June, 1745.

In a blank Leaf of a Book, sent to Miranda.

Go, happy book, ---
Who, void of life, art from life's cares so free,
Thou canst, before my lovely charmer, lie,
Unscorch'd, by all the light'nings of her eye.
'Midst her inspiring touch, thou canst remain,
Tasteless of pleasure, and secure from pain:
While absent beauty breaks thy author's rest,
And hope, and fear, by turns, distract his breast.
My angel mistress must, henceforth, be thine,
And I devote thy offerings, to her shrine:
On varied themes, divert her wand'ring eye,
As o'er thy honour'd leaves, her glances fly;
But, when her thoughts, on softer subjects, rove,
And lead her, where thy pages talk of love.
Oh! then, so mindful of thy author be,
To bid her, in a whisper, think on me.

The Progress of Wit; a Caveat.

The Art of Acting.

The Dedication of the Beech-tree;

Occasion'd by the late Discovery of making Oil, from the Fruit of that Tree.