The Works of the Late Aaron Hill :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of the Late Aaron Hill

... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting

Hill, Aaron (1685-1750)

ORIGINAL POEMS.

Prologue, for Mr. Cibber, in the Fatal Bribery.

Epilogue, to the same Play, spoke by the Person, who represented Amelia.

An Entertainment, by Way of Epilogue, in the Characters of Wisdom, and Love.

PROLOGUE.

Prologue, to The Cure for Jealousy; spoken by a Woman, in Man's Cloaths.

Epilogue, to the same Play.

Prologue, spoke by Mr. Johnson.

PROLOGUE. Spoke by a young Gentleman,

EPILOGUE, To the same: spoke by Monimia.

PROLOGUE.

EPILOGUE, To the same.

PROLOGUE, For Mr. Johnson, in the Character of Cato.

PROLOGUE, To the Fatal Extravagance: spoke by Mr. Ryan.

EPILOGUE, To the same, spoke by Mrs Seymour.

Writ on a Window, in the Highlands of Scotland.

ORRA MOOR.

Verses made for Mr. S---v---ge; and sent to my Lady M---ls---d, his Mother.

On Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's bringing with her out of Turkey, the Art of Inoculating the Small-Pox.

To Clelia, in the Country.

To a Lady, who lov'd Angling,

To a Lady, who had a very fine Shape, and fine Complexion.

Answer to the Resolve.

Answer to a scurrilous, obscene Poem, entitled, An Epistle from Mrs Robinson to Senesino.

The Choice, to a Friend.

To the Editor of Clarissa.

Honest Tom Tar's Prayer.

Miss A---n---l's Circle.

To the two generous Masters St. Quintin,

Sent to a Lady with a Pocket-Looking-Glass.

To David Mallet Esq;

PROLOGUE:

The Actor's Epitome.

EPILOGUE, To the Lover

PROLOGUE.

The Lord's Prayer in Verse.

An Address, from the Statues at Stowe, to Lord Cobham, on his Return to his Garden.

What is God?

Writ on a Blank Leaf of Alzira,

To Lady W---,

To Mr. GARRICK. On his united Ideas of Actor and Writer.

On Sir ISAAC NEWTON.

To the Learned and Worshipful, the President, Censors, the Fellows, of the College of Physicians in London,

To CLIO:

On Two Lovely and Loving Sisters.

To the Editor of Albania, a Poem:

To Celia, with a return'd Tragedy.

To Lady W---.

PROLOGUE For the third Night, at Zara, when first play'd, at the Great Musick Room, in Villars Street, York Buildings.

EPIGRAM, On Occasion of the General Mourning.

EPILOGUE, For a Friend, Spoke by Miss Robinson.

EPILOGUE, for a Friend.

PROLOGUE. Spoke by young Mr. Giffard.

EPILOGUE, for a Friend.

PROLOGUE, to Every Man in his Folly.

EPILOGUE, for the Play, call'd Much ado about nothing,) Spoke by Mrs Pritchard.

Verses written, on Windows in several Parts of the Kingdom, in a Journey to Scotland.

The Distinction of Ages.

Description of a Tempest, from CVII Psalm.

Woman's Resolution.

EPITAPH. Upon a Man, and his Wife.

EPILOGUE, To Every Man in his Folly, Spoke by Mrs Clive.

PROLOGUE to the Tuscan Treaty.

The Muse to the Writer.

An ODE, to Astræa

PROLOGUE, To the Double Deceit.

The humble Petition of Pegasus to the White Horse of H---r.

EPILOGUE, To Zara

EPIGRAM, On giving the Name of Georgia to a Part of Carolina.

A Letter from a departed Spirit;

The CIVth Psalm.

To his Muse.

The Tears of the Muses: A Poem.

The Creation.

CAMILLUS:

Free Thoughts upon Faith: Or the Religion of Reason.

Sareph and Hamar: An Episode.

The Judgement-Day: A Poem.

CLEON to LYCIDAS;

The Excursion of FANCY: A Pindaric Ode.

HOR. Lib. I. ODE XXII.

HOR. Lib. I. ODE V.

HOR. Lib. I. ODE XX.

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ORIGINAL POEMS.

Epilogue,

writ for Mrs. Pritchard, in the Play, call'd the Massacre of Paris.

Poor, once fam'd Lee, when he compos'd this Play,
Brainsick, and touch'd, on Bedlam's borders lay,
And 'twas no wonder—for, in sober sadness,
Church Massacres wou'd scare even saints to madness.

O, ladies! heaven forbid such serious frights!
Such strange dead doings—on your wedding nights!

Kill us, with kindness, let 'em—if they dare:
But downright dying—ah!—what bride could bear?

These are thy trophies, France!—no Briton dares,
With tame, cold murder, stain the cross he bears.
In day's broad face, o'er seven French mounds he clambers,
But stabs not, in the dark, in sleep's still chambers:
No base assassin plots defame these nations,
Ours are more open, honest, associations.
Generous, in anger, with reluctant glow,
Our brave, blunt soldier beats, yet spares, his foe:
Weeps, while he wounds, with conscious pain, to see
Kings, call'd Most Christian, more like Turks than he!
Well! 'tis no matter—still let France deceive us—
Sound strength, and English knocks, can soon relieve us.

Yet, while this faithless Prince, on all sides, plies us,
Let us not teach his tradesmen to despise us:

Cover'd with guile, let art's low tricks be theirs,
Ours to repel their arms, and spurn their airs;
May that mistaken taste be starv'd to reason,
That does not think French fashions—English treason.
Souse their cook's talent—and cut short their taylors,
Wear your own lace—eat beef, like Vernon's sailors,
Or good sound Mutton's manly juice delight in,
Your Chicken's à la daub's no food for fighting.
Seem we not slaves, while to their language leaning,
We teach our son's first words to lisp French meaning?
War, on their modes,—or bow, beneath their feather;
Sweep out French tongues, tails, fops, and faith, together.
Laugh at their Jargon, bid disdainful Satire
Blot from your stile, tapis and recognoitre:
Goût, and escort—to taste and guard,—restore,
And act, and talk, plain English, evermore.

Nor let the youth, who means for spoil to scramble,
Trip, like patch'd, petite maitre's puny amble!

[imitating the modish effeminate tread]

Step out, bluff Britons—not disgrace good eating:
Light pumps, and short, minc'd steps, half bode retreating.
Man, on his mien, should carry firm defiance:
Yet—let his modest heart sigh soft compliance.
So, shall his mistress grasp her fame's defender,
And waste no wishes, on a false pretender.
Fix'd, as her oaks, shall Britain's freedom flourish;
And France and Spain, chimeric tempests nourish.

Fir'd, with this foretaste of my country's zeal,
Verse is (alone) too faint, for what I feel!
Help me, ye souls of Musick—come—and sing,
Tune my touch'd heart's plain prayer—God save the King.

[Waving her handkerchief, as a signal for Mr. Beard, and other singers to enter.]

PROLOGUE.

In this faint age, when British growth is missing,
And dapper beaux want stilts to climb to kissing;
Ill dares an author hope your pardon granted,
Who gives a man, more woman, than he wanted.
But I, to comfort him, have been declaring,
You can forgive all sins, you take your share in.
Let me look round—aye—'tis my firm persuasion,
Your calls, that way, outgo your best occasion.

Two wives! what then—suppose 'em two and twenty,
Spendthrifts shou'd never frown, on other's plenty.
And pray, what right have you, to rail at changing,
Who still, quit old, for new—and live, for ranging?
Just warm one's hopes, to glowing expectation,
Then, baulk one—in the nick, of provocation:

Here's, your first spouse, good reverend, Mrs, Drury!
By turns, the object of your smiles, and fury,
Has, for an age, been yours, in form, and fashion,
Lull'd every care, to sleep—sooth'd every passion;
Yet, almost in her view, you quite renounce her,
For a huge, rampant, Covent-Garden bouncer!
Fie, fie, 'tis English policy—it savours
Of want of Wit, not to divide your favours.
Now here, now there, might half disguise the treason,
Or, a wise wife wou'd wink—who found such reason.
But, to forget entirely, while you wander,
Who claims, at home, the rights, you loosely squander,
O'erturns a matron's peace, however stable,
And proves, (if not ungenerous) you're unable.

Well! after all, when we no longer please ye,
'Tis want of sense, and policy, to teize ye.
Time may befriend our hopes—and, till that blessing
Comes, in its turn, once more, to our possessing;

Grant us one modest prayer—and, from that minute,
If e'er we murmur, say,—the Woman's in it:
Give us your evenings only, when we claim ye,
Lie, where you please, all night—we'll never blame ye.

Prologue,

intended to have been spoken, at Lady Jane Grey.

All danger past, in Greece, I'm hither come,
Post haste, to have one timely stroke, at Rome.
Papists! have at ye—slaves of superstition!
I'll rack the rackers—in my Inquisition.

When (in return for tricks, your priests have show'd us)
We burn th' all-burning Pope, for ballance ow'd us,
Rome, says we persecute—Oh! front amazing!
She—that so oft, set Smithfield fires a-blazing!
We—roast a Pope of straw—for recreation;—
She—lumps us to the Devil—and roasts the Nation.

Dark, sowre, proud, bloody,—turbulent and vain!
Bodies, and Souls, must burn—or bear her chain.

Preaching, or plotting—Rome's true plan is Power:
Blessing, she robs!—and worships—to devour!
Blood is her taste—Religion—her disguise:
Her sons are murd'rers—and her Saints—are Lies:
Faith's alchymist renown'd for transmutation,
She finds rank heresy—in reformation.

Oh! what obsequious babes imbibe her lectures!
No busy searchers, they! no bold suspectors!
Pliant believers! they, by wholesale, swallow:
And, like tame geese—(implicit cacklers!) follow.
Thought, truth, sense, Scripture—all—are guides, that stray.
Nothing, forsooth's infallible—but they!

Ask this Church Cockatrice, what right it crows by;
Darkness, you'll find, is all the light, it goes by.

Hoodwink'd, at whooper's hide, to hunt salvation,
They guard their back-held nose from demonstration.
With force resistless, faith's disputes they handle,
And cut short wrangling—by bell, book, and candle.
Meekness their cant—humility their skreening—
Pride their true deity—and Fire—their meaning.
Brimstone and flames, choak Heaven's high road to glory,
And parboil pilgrim's tails—in purgatory.

Sins a poor Girl?—(save with some crown-cropt brother)
Down goes she, unabsolv'd—'midst smoke and smother:
Spite of her horse-hair smocks, and straps of leather,
Hot, half-way fires must singe—the lord knows whither.
Heavens!—how we players should feast their well-fed fury—
If Purgatory's hundreds reach'd—to Drury!

Oh, Britons! 'tis no joke—repell th' assaulters.
Let no prig popery e'er be-farce your altars;

Bravely disdaining slav'ry e'en to Princes,
Freedom's fierce horse, at a Pope rider winces,
Proud of the manag'd bit—when law directs it;
But skakes it from his teeth—when force injects it.

Bless'd be our King, forever bless'd our church!
Pure church! that lov'st no pomp, and fears no search!
Long, by contempt of Rome's proud mummery, fir'd,
Be thy plain truths, and honest zeal, admir'd:
Long live the faith—that holds not reason deaf!
But saves by virtue—and dissects belief!
Builds, on strong, moral Rock—loves decent Form,
Preaches internal peace—and stills each storm,
Trusts heaven—with aweful hope—and holds it odd,
By man's dark passions—to decypher God.

Prologue, for Mr. Cibber, in the Fatal Bribery.

Debtor and Creditor th' account begin,
But then, comes joy—wife—misery—death—and sin.
While, from these varying lights, fierce fires we raise,
Lend but attention, and your tears shall praise.

Poor (at first opening) seems the plot, we chuse;
But no felt indigence unfir'd the muse:
Insolvent pris'ner bears no aweful sound;
Yet, hope strong buildings, from that humble ground.
Few, are the public stains, that tinge the fame,
Of this brave, rich, good-natur'd, nation's name.
Yet, one there is—from time's long license grown,
That blots out pity, and turns flesh to stone.

'Tis the deaf rage, that, where hard wants oppress,
Doubles th' insolvent suff'rer's dire distress,

Stung by this wasp, past friendships lose their weight;
Warp'd estimation wears a face like hate!
Suspended mercy bids affliction smart,
And, in a scale of stint, immures her heart.
Self, yet unreach'd by woe—made proud by gain,
Blind to disaster, and insulting pain;
Short-sighted ease hugs her own lot secure,
And marks no diff'rence, 'twixt the base, and poor!
Flings from calamity, turns short on grief,
And to the prison, (live grave!) refers Relief.

So, for a while—triumphantly, severe,
Tow'rs the big insult—and disdains to hear;
At last, comes disappointment home—Then, starts
Touch'd sense—and wonders! at men's cruel hearts!
Then, (self, still, upmost) the rows'd sleeper shakes—
And, insolently, hopes—compassion wakes!
But scorn (close waiter!) kicks the scorner's heel,
And he, that shun'd to hear, vouchsafes to feel.

Too late, he feels!—the eye, that wakes for all,
Foredoom'd his anguish, and enjoys his fall;
Points, to his trembling view, that Wiseman's school;
That God-given law th' all-temp'ring Golden-Rule!
Bids him thank bitterness—for due despair,
And—since he could not pity—learn to bear.

From our last age's Play's exemplar aim,
Present, and past (we find) too much, the same:
Stern, unrelenting, interest's partial will
Reign'd, then, resistless:—and it reigns so, still.
How happy were th' effect, could miseries (here)
From pride's correction; mourn'd by pity's tear,
Teach the dry rock to melt, in pain-touch'd flow!
And ease th' unhoping crowds—that sigh, in woe!

Epilogue, to the same Play, spoke by the Person, who represented Amelia.

I've 'scap'd, to-night, two terrible disasters,
My honour's indignation—and my master's:
And heaven best knows, what hapless, hole can hide me,
If (to crown all my woes) your help's deny'd me.

Ladies!—you see, how much expos'd our sex is:
Sleeping or waking—some sad chance perplexes.
Man's a more wily Snake, than mother Eve's was;
In his own shape—and others to—deceives us:
Hungry devourer! never tir'd, with snapping;—
Shun him, with open eyes, he'll catch us napping.
Rise, fall—run, stay—standing upright, or lying,
One way, or t'other, he's forever trying—
And, how to 'scape him, if I know—ne'er let me
Break thro' th' entangling nets, that thus beset me.

Now, Gentlemen!—to your own thoughts, appealing,
(Fitter, I doubt, for making wounds,—than healing!)
—What would you have have poor woman do with Honour?
When Danger heaps such monst'rous loads upon her!
—D'ye think, in conscience now—half-wak'd, half-weary,
With frights fore-gone—for one's departed deary—
T' had been so strange a crime?—or worth such pother?
—In darkness—to mistake one's buss for t'other?
Pray think on't—put yourselves behind the curtain:
What can't be cur'd must be endur'd—that's certain.
'Tis a fair question;—and 'tis plainly ask'd ye:
Answer it—or confess, I've overtask'd ye.
Suppose me, bound, in sleep's soft silken fetter,
And one of your dear selves the dark besetter.

Sight has no eyes, at midnight—and for touches,
Joan (says the proverb) in the dark's—a Dutchess.

For my part—I can't find, we've any senses,
Can furnish such attacks, with fit defences:
If Wedlock's towns lie open, (foes too nigh 'em)
E'en, let the Liege Lord Husband fortify 'em,
—Not safe in one's own bed, without concluding,
That one of love's stray gnats will be intruding,
Let trusty spouse, when bus'ness sends him packing,
(Safe bind, safe find)—leave no due caution lacking.
Let him place round, lest some night insect eat us,
Nettings of wyre—to keep of Man-musketa's.
Bold must besiegers be, who, then, dare venture,
Where they must storm two forts, before they enter!

I see some judge-like eyes, that look too sprightly,
To miss a She law-point, put to 'em rightly.
Is mine the court's decree?—I humbly move it,
That, if your hearts affirm—your hands approve it.

An Entertainment, by Way of Epilogue, in the Characters of Wisdom, and Love.

[PALLAS descending with Helmet, and Spear, to an Overture of warlike Musick.]
Pallas.

Pallas , the guardian of the slighted stage,
Brings a complaint, that fires her into rage:
Stung to the soul, she cannot—will not, bear it,
But for the sex's honour must declare it.

Of fifty powder'd beaux, here, wedg'd, behind,
Not one fast friend can fading woman find!
They rail—they joke—nor their distaste conceal;
Unconscious of your power, from head, to heel!

Cupid! thou airy God of empty dreams!
How fall'n thy empire! and how false thy schemes!
Why weighs the sex, too light, in love's own scale?
And why, thus faintly, does thy power prevail?

[Cupid descends, with his bow, and his quiver, to a change of soft musick.

Cupid.
Goddess! I heard thee—thy reproachful pride
I, thus defy—and shade thy towery side!
I, too, dare strutt!

[they cross disdainfully]
Pallas.
—Proud toy! his wings he spreads:
But his blunt arrows, all, have lost their heads!
Go, helpless, tasteless, thoughtless, powerless, Chit,
Thou ghost of passion! and thou jest of wit!
Where are thy boasts, of touching man with pain?
And, what is Woman, now?—

Cupid.
—Vain—sweetly vain.

Pallas.
'Tis thence love languishes—

Cupid.
—unjust complaint.
Love languishes, because desire grows faint:

And that, proud scorner! I must charge on thee.
Thine are their minds.—their beauties busy me.
Of late, e'en there, my power has been unknown;
All their new modes of charming are—their own.
I taught the sex their art, of wounding sure,
But they themselves have taught the arts of cure.
Each amorous scene, that fills this active space,
Sees a light laugh, disarm some angel face:
No serious sounds can their light hearts engage,
Sweet sep'rate Actors! they despise the stage!
Attention is beneath a Beauty's care,
Her whirlwind spirit scatters sense in air.
Absent, in presence, they unlistening sit,
Too gay for meaning! and too fine for wit!
Or, when they grieve, they bring their own chagrin,
Nor feel the foreign sorrows of the scene.
Impatient, five, long, acts, they loll, reclin'd:
And sigh for Plays of a more winning kind,
All, of one mind, of late, agreed—they fall,
Victims, to one gallant.

Pallas.
—But one, for All?
Sure! he must be some rarity!

Cupid.
—No doubt,
I'll draw his picture, and you'll point him out.
A painted, thin, smooth, pale-fac'd, tottering beau!
Deaf, dumb, blind, lame—too weak to stand or go!
From hand to hand, kind souls! they stoop to shift him;
For he can't stir a limb, but as they lift him!
Yet, more than love, or wit, their hearts he moves,
And changes oft'ner, than they change their loves!

Pallas.
And do they like this monster?

Cupid.
Aye:—and will.

Pallas.
What! all?

Cupid.
All—all

Pallas.
What is his name?

Cupid.
—Quadrille.

Pallas.
It has been said, that love and folly, fit:
But you're a Joker, Cupid! and a Wit;
Let us, each, singly,—our perswasion try:
Take you one half the house—the other I.

Cupid.
Alas! 'twill never do—'Tis fruitless zeal:
Passions, that move that sex, must make 'em feel.
All—you can say, they laugh at—

Pallas.
Boy, be still,
Yours, let the Ladies hear—the men my will.
[Advances to the front of the stage]
If, Gentlemen! you disregard the Player,
Or hear him, coldly, and with-hold your care;

For your own sakes, support his powerful Art,
That lets in love, and pity to the heart.
Here, first, imprinted sighs an entrance find;
And the soul opening, leaves disguise, behind.
Taught by the scene with gen'rous warmth to glow,
To feel another's joy, and share his woe;
Your fair adopts each suff'ring lover's view,
And by the worth of heroes, measures you.

But if, regardless, of your cause, and ours,
You join the enemy's triumphant powers;
—Sly Matadores will each man's hope betray,
And melt his mistress down, the quite wrong way.
—Now Cupid, to the Ladies

[stepping back]
Cupid.
—E're I go,
I'm sure, my labour's lost—

Pallas.
—Despair not, so.

[Cupid comes forward]
Cupid.
Ladies! your rivals in gay climes, complain,
That winds and frosts, assail your charms, in vain;
'Twere glorious envy! could they, also say,
That, while their taste quits love and wit, for Play,

You, noblier-minded, and of sense more true,
Scorn to be loveliest, and not wisest, too!
That, form'd, like them, to be the themes of wit,
You not, like them, forsake—but cherish it.
Think of your glory, Ladies!

[Pallas comes forward, again.]
Pallas.
—Gentlemen!
Think of your int'rest—and forsake the scene,
At your own peril—Wives, who, from Quadrille,
Return, with ruffled face, and fighting will!
Would, at the scenes soft fire, new point their charms;
And bring redoubled transport, to your arms.

Cupid.
Enough—The prudent urge no wish, too high.

Pallas.
E'en Love can counsel well when Wisdom's by!

Cupid.
YOU, Goddess boast your power in man's strong breast;
But I know woman's weaker bosom, best.
Still what they will, they will—

Pallas.
Then, be it ours,
Perswasion failing, to exert new powers.
Let both henceforth, our diff'rent influence join,
And see reluctant beauty forc'd to shine.

Cupid.
Great Pallas! I embrace thee:—Be it so—
[embracing
Goddess of arts, and arms! receive my bow:
[gives the bow
Take, and new-point, Love's every blunted dart:
[gives the arrow
And tipt with reason, wound, and heal, the heart.

Pallas.
Cupid!—associate God, of smiles, and joy!
Take, in exchange, this spear—no feath'ry toy!
And now, where'er thou see'st a fair one's breast
Flutter, too lightly,—touch—and give it rest.
But, where some solid virtue sighs, in vain,
Wound, with my lance: and dignify the pain.

Cupid.
Now, woman's empire's fix'd!

Pallas.
Confirm it, Jove!

Cupid.
Love softens Wisdom—

Pallas.
—Wisdom strengthens love.

PROLOGUE.

Ladies and Gentlemen, since all transgression
Is promis'd pardon, when it makes confession:
Know, that our Play—a sheaf of foreign gleaning,
Dreads, to be damn'd, for its excess of meaning.
What tho', to court kind judges, our translator
Has let loose Scandal, and unbridled Satire!
Vain are his arts—that play was built for sinking,
Where none can laugh—but at th' expence of thinking.

In a free nation, 'tis too like subjection,
To pay, for mirth, both money, and reflection.
Wise poets are content with present laughter,
And leave the reason for't—to rise hereafter.

Our author's muse, importing wit, to charm ye,
Would, with a Frenchman's boasted wildfire warm ye;
Gives ye a Play, which, e'er it wander'd hither,
Brought Paris seventy crowded nights, together.
What it may do, in London—you'll inform us:
French batt'ries guard in vain—if Britons storm us.

'Tis no gay Opera—but there's much, that's smart in't,
'The God of wit vouchsafes to act a part in't.
I play the ass, in't—that, you'll say's no wonder,
'Tis a disguise, most men are actors under.
I grant it—asses in men's shape, are common;
But reasoning asses have been heard by no man.
Yet, since he needs must change me—would he had run it
Up to the fashion's height, not underdone it!

Had my long ears, and hoofs 'scap'd transformation,
And one gay dance been learnt—I'd charm'd the nation.
These empty Frenchmen of their wit may vapour,
But, what's a nimble tongue, without a caper!

That's one defect—another ten times greater,
Is, that his Ladies taste is out of nature;
She doats on ruin'd merit,—loving honey!
And weds her Timon, 'cause he 'd lost his money:
Did men want wives, and for that cause would take 'em,
What choice of blessings kind Quadrille would make 'em!

The rest I'll not anticipate—sit quiet,
And, if your taste delights in change of diet,
You'll meet it, in the plenteous feast, you came for,
Dress'd in a foreign form, we have no name for.

Prologue, to The Cure for Jealousy; spoken by a Woman, in Man's Cloaths.

To cure man's jealously, that spleen, too common,
Our author chose me, a firm friend to Woman!
A willing doctor—But the downright fact is,
In this new way, I'm but ill turn'd for practice.

Yet, hang it—in an age unform'd for daring,
What is there in the breeches, but the wearing!
My outside's man, and I've seen many a true one
Look—full as little likely—to undo one!

Mark, Ladies! and from this night's scene discover,
What art's I'll teach ye all, to hunt a lover;
Wind him, thro' fear to hope, thro' rage to smiling,
Till he distrusts his truth, by my beguiling:
Cruel, with kind intent, I'll first inflame him;
Then, when he's quite horn-mad, look kind, and tame him.

Gall him with pain, to make him worthy pleasure,
And teach him, by his Trips, my Truth measure.
This done—I'll wed—for, then should love's ambition
Start some dim cause, that might deserve suspicion,
Sense of past blunders strikes his recollection,
And fear, of new ones, shames him from inspection.

Oh! 'tis a glorious thing, when poets write
Thus, usefully—that we can profit by't!
They talk of lessons, drawn from tragic scenes,
Where tyrant lovers stab suspected queens;
Where one imperious ranting, fierce, Othello
Roars Lordship, into every tiny fellow.
But, give me Comedy, the world's true picture;
There, when the jealous doubter thinks, he's nick'd her,
Up starts the sex's wit, to aid our nature,
And then, poor spouse, himself, is prov'd the traitor.

Ah Ladies!—If you dread the side-long eye,
The low-brow'd squint, of joyless jealousy;

If, in the pangs of innocence, oppress'd,
You e'er have sigh'd, untrusted and unbless'd:
Smile on this friendly hand, that serves your cause.
And crown his favour'd scenes, with just applause.

Epilogue, to the same Play.

If only novelty can give delight,
I fear, we've lost that favourite plea to night:
What meant the Poet, when he hop'd success,
From making man and master change their dress?
'Tis now so long, since this was thought a wonder,
That none but men of taste know 'em asunder.
Fam'd, for associate airs, the rivals quarrel,
Which shall trip tightest in its next apparel.
Improving, each by each, so fast, that neither
Excells—but all are charm'd, alike, with either.

Well! 'tis an humble age, when pride and greatness,
Give up ambition, for long sticks and straitness:
When conscious, none were gentry by creation,
Peers drive out pomp, and level all the nation;

And crop-ear'd knights instruct the herald prater,
Tom and Sir Thomas, are the same, by nature.
Joy to the pulpits—now, there needs no railing,
At vanities, o'er head or foot, prevailing:
Declaiming saints would all their satire lose,
Who once preach'd laces, from the lady's shoes.
'Twould make the holiest, of those good men, stare,
To see my Lady buckled, like her mare,
And, free from mincing modesty, walk strong,
Jut frank, and elbow nervously along.

As to the Play I'd praise it, if I could;
But e'en the title proves, it can't be good:
A Cure for Jealousy!—'tis useless quite,
'Till charms grow strong, our passion to excite:
But guardian fashion, now, so models dress;
It cools desire and keeps down love's excess.

Prologue, spoke by Mr. Johnson.

As painters mingle shade to set off light,
So contraries are mix'd, when poets write:
All shadow would be darkness—Too much blaze
Would dazzle—each, by each, new force displays.

Form'd, on this principle, to night, we show,
An unbred brute, against a wrong-bred beau:
Our sprightly fop, to froth and France inclin'd,
Fills his gay vacuum, with Parisian wind.
Heavy by nature, volatile by art,
Be-dull'd to briskness, and mis-call'd a smart.
Oppos'd to this extreme, our home-grown shoot,
Whose sense wants breeding, thinks himself to brute:
Wise without pity—without temper plain,
His friendship festers—and his love gives pain.
His rough sincerity, ill-dress'd, uncouth,
Offends by coarseness, whom it charms by truth:
All virtues, if unprun'd, some folly blights;
The rugged kindness, wanting sweetness, frights:
And pert good-nature, coxcomb'd o'er, with flame,
Provokes, like insolence, and stings, like shame.
Betwixt these two, our author had design'd
A third, fix'd, stedfast, English medium mind:
Fram'd, like his country, with just hand to sway
Th'unresting balance—byass'd neither way:
But here deficient—he submits his cause,
An humble stranger to the worth, he draws:
Had some of your accomplish'd minds supplied
His failing skill—he had not err'd, so wide,

Judge but his aim—and, if his random throw
Falls short, condemn not the unreaching blow.
Should his imperfect scheme your spleen provoke;
Be kind, or all his balance will be broke.

PROLOGUE. Spoke by a young Gentleman,

who play'd the Part of Castalio in the Orphan, for the Benefit of his Friend, who play'd Polydore.

In , for one night, receive a volunteer,
At a friend's call—Who would not, arm'd, appear?
Danger looks lovely, where the Cause invites,
And the near prospect rather charms; than frights.
Yet, since the task is arduous, and requires
A sea of passions, and a storm of fires;
For strength, a borrower to your stores I come,
And every bounteous hand shall lend me some:

Teach me, ye Fair, how love and pity charm;
Your eyes can light me, and your influence warm:

Triumphs, and joys, your smiles can best supply;
But from your lovers, I must learn, to die.

Next—with your spirit, Sirs, my breast inspire,
Lend me your eloquence, your air, your fire.
Teach me your Softness, when in love I sue,
And, to encrease it, if I conquer, too.
But your inconstancy and lightness—those
Keep to yourselves, I want 'em not—Heaven knows!

Thus far, self-mov'd, and heedless of my trust,
I, guardian like, serv'd my own interest, first;
Now, I your smiles for Polydore exact,
Should I not speak for him, for whom I act?
Foes to all craft in love, your spleen express,
And nobly hate him, for his dark success:
To-night, forgive him—he but acts a part,
Far from his wish, and foreign to his heart:
He wears the blush of virtue on his face,
And rather would be wretched, than be base.

If, in the stage's gathering night, we stray,
And (all its guides, now lost,) mistake our way;
Be this my Polydore's, and my defence;
Indulge us—'tis our first, and last offence.

EPILOGUE, To the same: spoke by Monimia.

I was just plotting, as the curtain fell,
To hit the general taste, and please ye well:
'Twere a sure way, thought I, their frowns to soften,
Should I, oft kill'd, and brought to life, as often,
Now, in good earnest, draw oblivion o'er me,
And die—as Tragedy has done, before me.
Troth! it were no untimely resolution,
Had one a heart dispos'd for—execution:
Since there's a mode in minds, as well as dress,
'Tis too old fashion'd now to give distress.
When you're resolv'd to laugh, and to be easy,
Why should unsummon'd sense break in, to teize ye?

Once, we had tuneless times—so out of measure,
That wit was business, here—and thought was pleasure.
Naked of song, dance, farce,—or Harlequining!
A plain, dry Play, then charm'd, good heaven!—by meaning,
Well! since it comes affirm'd—we must receive it;
But, 'twas so long ago, I scarce believe it.

This age, thank heaven, is wiser—Pit and Gallery,
Treat their good, grave, forefathers taste, with raillery,
What! sit three hours, to hear dull Actors prating,
No Entertainment, after all that waiting—
I'd give a dozen such Plays—for one Bear-baiting?
Your humble actors, slowly stretch ambition,
To top these arts of Play-house erudition:
How e'er unapt by time, and you conducted,
We too, shall mend, grow wise, and be instructed:
Would I were six yards taller tho'—to charm ye!
Or petite Mademoiselle en chienne t' alarm ye.

Something, I soon, must learn above plain speaking—
Teach me, some pig of taste, thy art of squeaking!
No Patentee, now, holds us worth contracting,
'Till we have learnt more ways than one, of acting.
What thinking face will any praise ordain us,
Whose climbing eyes have scal'd—Mynheer Cajanus!
Give place Great Alexander!—Go, retire—
We have enroll'd a Hero—Three foot higher!
From Cæsar's death, no future grief shall flow,
Since every joyful night restores Pierro!
While poor Monimia's and Castalio's die,
Aye, let 'em go—the improv'd spectators cry;
Mind what a cunning fellow—Harlequin is!
And what a charming plot in every scene is:
Well! in our turns, we yet may entertain ye;
We shall be soon struck dumb—and, then we gain ye.

PROLOGUE.

When love's taught dangers animate the stage,
Let the soft scenes your hearts, ye fair! engage:
Let each bright list'ner mark the wiles, we show,
And catch dumb caution, from the pictur'd woe,
Guiltless of farce, to night, the meaning player
Courts not your laughter, but alarms your care.

Man, the deceiver, veils his cruel art,
And skreens himself within th' attempted heart;
There, to ungen'rous empire, climbs, e'er long,
Help'd by the confidence he means to wrong:
This to detect, we act his falshood o'er,
And the deluder known, betrays no more.

SUCH the best business of the comic muse:
Love has a thousand lessons to infuse,
Not always lightness should ungrace the scene;
To laugh at folly, but indulges spleen:
Coxcombs and Fops, in harmless error, stray,
And trip, undangerous, out of passion's way:
Misers and Sots, less mirth than pity move,
And dulness brings an antidote, for love.

But there's a Traitor, arm'd in amorous mail,
Born to attempt, and fashion'd to prevail:
Disguis'd in softness, by deep arts endear'd,
And always dangerous, because never fear'd;
Him in our glass of life, to night we show,
Nor stoop the condescending scene, too low.

Hence, if too grave, for Comedy, we seem,
Think us but suited to our serious theme;
'Tis no light loss, when charming woman falls,
On our defence the sex's merit calls;
We, who the picture's of a world impart,
Neglect not, what concerns its fairest part;
All danger to that sex, thus frankly shown,
At the same time, does honour to our own.
Nor let neglect of laughter move the pit,
To dread, in consequence, a dearth of wit:
Unmeaning mirth may live, in empty noise,
But solid converse swells our softer joys.
Once, in an age of tumbling, dance, and song,
Suppose not two short hours of sense, too long:
Not e'en the fashion, change of taste denies;
Oft merry here, let us be, sometimes, wise.

EPILOGUE, To the same.

Baulk'd, as I am, my heart's best hope miscarry'd,
Try'd, cast, and sentenc'd, to be hang'd—that's marry'd!
E'er I'm turn'd off—I think it but my duty,
To warn, in my last speech, fast-falling beauty.
First, Maidens,—Let my sad example teach ye,
To put no trust in Man, till he can't reach ye;
For, if you strive, too near, his strength's so mighty,
That down you come at once—and then, good night t'ye:

Next, O ye Wives, trust not in beauty's merit,
But, to your body's influence, add your spirit:
With your eye's light'ning, mix a tongue, that thunders;
Believe me, love, so double-arm'd, works wonders.
Yet, if nor charms, nor eloquence can save ye,
But your good man will break the faith, he gave ye,

Be you before hand with him—that reproving
Will make him owne—there's guilt in too light loving.

As for you, Widows,—you're too wise, for teaching,
But suff'ring malefactors must be preaching:
So, take one word of counsel in your calling,
Though you're too brave, I know, to fear a falling,
From your old yoke set free—admit no new one,
Unless, with some, poor, brisk, young, kind, and true one:
The conscious youth, long mindful of your favour,
Will make up all defects—with good behaviour:
Loth, that his wants, his gratitude shou'd smother,
What he can't give you one way, he'll give another.

And now, good people, what I've more to say t'ye,
Should be a doleful tune, and sigh, and pray t'ye:
But—doleful tunes of late, are grown so common,
They move more sorrow, than a dying woman:

And sighs, and pray'rs, are best, when made in private,
As you all know—who have good ends, to drive at.

What shall I do then?—shall I hang and tarry,
Or bold, in saving faith, go on—and marry.
'Tis both ways, bad—But I've at once bethought me,
Of a sweet lesson, dear revenge, has taught me:
I'll stay, and see Sir Harry in his fetters,
Nor be so rude to swing, before my betters:
Pass but his honey-moon of sunshine weather,
And he, and I, may then, go hang together.

PROLOGUE, For Mr. Johnson, in the Character of Cato.

E'er I presume, to try to night's fam'd part,
Kind to the modest, chear a doubtful heart:

No vain conceits too rash a speed create;
I bend, all conscious of a Cato's weight;
Calmly content, by measur'd steps, to rise,
I view the distant goal, with patient eyes:
Fond of the stage, where life's strong passions glow,
But shun the choaky weeds, that o'er it grow.
Unpush'd by pride, climb slow care's due degrees,
Humbly aspiring—and—but long—to please.

Well can my mem'ry—to my blush—restore
Whose steps I tread in—who was here—before.
Him have you seen—A Cato, worth your praise!
Fill'd with Rome's fire, and form'd, to grace her Bays!
Ill, to supply such absent splendor, sent—
Receive me—in the light—His lustre lent.
Judge me not vain, while lengths, unwish'd, I run;
See, the faint shadow—and suppose—the Sun.

Such, I would be—such—if time's future day
Frowns not, on hopes too bold—perhaps—I may:

Try, with kind confidence, what praise can do:
Think it, but, possible—and make it—true;
Stoop, when I fall—support me, where I stand;
Weakness grows strength—in Pity's guardian hand.

NOT at one step, far distant heights we climb:
Merit and favour—are the gifts—of Time.
Gradual in growth, and kindling at your flame,
So, might you teach my taste to meet your aim:
Rais'd by your smiles, to touch the point in view,
You make your Cato—and he dies—for you.

PROLOGUE, To the Fatal Extravagance: spoke by Mr. Ryan.

Warm'd by a kindred sense of England's woes,
A Caledonian muse, with pity glows:
From ruin'd hopes a saving moral takes,
And paints th' unhappy, for the happy's sake:

Scotland's new taste our meaning scene supplies,
And a first flight, on tragic pinions, tries,
Brave and long-fam'd in arms, her warlike race
Have trod the fields of death with dauntless grace!
Fierce and untir'd in blood, have nobly dar'd,
And every toil and every danger shar'd:
Now, fir'd by rising arts, she grasps the Bays,
And her old cant, like falling stocks, decays:
Her long-lost muse new-lights her antient flame,
And our scene blazes with recover'd fame.

We teach to-night—ah! would 'twere not too late,
How rash-believing avarice galls a state!
What private sorrows, from wild hazards flow!
And, how false hope produces certain woe.

THIS, the most natural business of the stage,
Will all your generous hearts, 'tis hop'd, engage:
None can their pity for those woes conceal,
Which most, who hear, perhaps, too deeply, feel.
The rants of ruin'd kings, of mighty name,
For pompous misery—small compassion claim:

Empires o'erturn'd, and heroes, held in chains,
Alarm the mind, but give the heart no pains.
To ills remote from our domestic fears,
We lend our wonder, but with-hold our tears.

Not so, when, from such passion, as our own,
Some favourite folly's dreadful fate is shown;
There the soul bleeds for what it feels, within,
And conscious pity shakes, at suffering sin.

O! give attention to the moving scene:
And shun, what yet may be, by what has been.

EPILOGUE, To the same, spoke by Mrs Seymour.

You've seen the Play—and I'll unfold the Poet,
To whom (stray'd sheep of a pure flock) we owe it,
He's a chance blessing—somewhat strangely flung us!
Dropt, from the clouds of innocence, among us!

Slipt through the Kirks loose pale, we gave him quarter;
Poor soul! he had like to've been the muse's Martyr:
When stage-plays! and abominations! took him,
Grace, and the shepherds of the Saints forsook him.
'Twas given thenceforth, to Satan's power, to win him;
—The root of the sound matter was not in him.
Yet, tho' rebuk'd, full sore—he's no huge sinner.—
You'll scarce see one of his pure brethren, thinner.
Most sanctified of face! troth—I'm afraid,
If his looks lie not—the poor man's a maid!

The Bard, not carnal-minded, (say the curious,
How come th'unfleshly folks, to be so furious?
Judge you the quarrel, right—we'll briefly show it:
—Good Plays give good instruction, said the Poet:
Vanity! cry'd the brethren—gross defilement!
And, so, the war broke out, past reconcilement.

Young Bays, provok'd, here drew his wrathful pen;
Shine forth, said he, my muse, on these dark men:
And prove, by dint of fair example, whether
Much goodness is not learnt, by coming hither.

But what he teaches, be to him alone:
I'll teach a secret lesson, of my own.

SAY they, of Plays, that men learn nothing by 'em?
I stand the stage's champion, and defy 'em:
Who that has seen, to night, how I, a wife,
Gave counsel, fit to've sav'd my spouse's life,
Learns not this moral, past all contradiction,
That disobedient husbands—meet affliction?
That he's most happy, who his fetters eases,
And lets his wiser wife—do—what she pleases.

This, for our sex's fame, his Play produces,
You see, all doctrines have their hidden uses:
To this—if the bluff brethren preach resistance,
Let 'em, as they love safety, keep their distance;

For, should we catch 'em, in our wrong'd dominion,
Stiff, as they are, we'll make 'em change opinion.

Writ on a Window, in the Highlands of Scotland.

Scotland! thy weather's like a modish wife!
Thy winds and rains, forever, are at strife:
So, termagant, a while, her Thunder tries,
And, when she can no longer scold—she cries.

ORRA MOOR.

A SONG, alter'd.

I

Stay, stay, O Sun! whose chearful Ray
Has drawn my Orra's feet astray:
O! chase the Fogs—O! clear the Skies!
And guide my Orra, to my eyes.

II

O! were I sure my Dear to view,
I'd climb the top of that tall Yew!
Aloft, in air, I'd quivering stand,
And round, and round, explore the land.

III

Where, Orra Moor! where art thou stray'd?
What wood conceals my sleeping maid?
Torn by the thorns, enrag'd I'll tear
The trees, that hide my silent fair.

IV

Oh! I could ride those clouded skies,
Or, on that Raven's pinions rise!
Ye Storks! ye Swans!—a moment, stay,
And waft a Lover, on his way.

V

Far! far! from me, my Orra flies,
While, here, forsaken Summer dies:
Come, Winter, come! no frost I fear;
Her icey heart has bound me, here.

VI

No, no—I'll burst each wint'ry bar,
Thy chain, O love! is strongest far!
By steel may bodies be confin'd,
But love, my Orra, chains the mind.

VII

Cease, cease thy pain, O throbbing breast!
When thoughts are woes—the first are best:
'Tis Death to go—'Tis worse—to stay:
I'll die with Orra—haste away.

Verses made for Mr. S---v---ge; and sent to my Lady M---ls---d, his Mother.

Hopeless, abandon'd, aimless, and oppress'd,
Lost, to delight, and, every way, distress'd:
Cross his cold bed, in wild disorder, thrown,
Thus sigh'd, Alexis, friendless, and alone.

Why do I breath? what joy can Being give,
When she, who gave me life, forgets I live!
Feels not these wintry blasts—nor heeds my smart:
But shuts me, from the shelter of her heart?
Saw me expos'd, to want! to shame! to scorn!
To ills!—which make it misery to be born!
Cast me, regardless, on the world's bleak wild:
And bad me be a wretch, while yet a child!

WHERE can he hope for pity, peace or rest,
Who moves no softness—in a mother's breast?
Custom, law, reason, all! my cause forsake:
And nature sleeps to keep my woes awake!
Crimes, which the cruel, scarce believe can be,
The kind are guilty of, to ruin me!
Even she, who bore me, blasts me with her hate,
And, meant my fortune, makes herself my fate?

Yet, has this sweet neglecter of my woes
The softest, tend'rest breast, that pity knows!
Her eyes shed mercy, wheresoe'er they shine,
And her soul melts, at every woe—but mine.

Sure, then! some secret fate, for guilt unwill'd,
Some sentence pre-ordain'd to be fulfill'd!
Plung'd me, thus deep, in sorrow's searching flood,
And wash'd me, from the mem'ry of her blood.

But, oh! whatever cause has mov'd her hate,
Let me but sigh, in silence, at my fate;
The God, within, perhaps, may touch her breast,
And, when she pities—who can be distress'd?

On Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's bringing with her out of Turkey, the Art of Inoculating the Small-Pox.

When Greece, reviving, into short delight,
Felt pride, and comfort, at our muse's sight,
The rival'd nine no sooner saw her face,
But e'en their envy gave their wonder place!
Charm'd, into love, of what eclips'd their fame,
They wak'd Apollo, with her powerful name.

See!—God of Grecian wit! Urania cries,
How sweet a Muse the Western World supplies!
Say, should she ask some favour from your throne,
What could you bid her take, that's not her own?
Sparkling in charms, the heavenly stranger view,
So grac'd!—she scarce can owe a beam to you!
Beauty, with love, her power to your's prefers:
And wit, and learning, are, already, hers!

Rous'd, at her name—receding, from her eyes,
The gazing God rose slow, in soft surprize!
Fair miracle, he said,—and paus'd, a while:
Then, thus—Sweet glory of your envy'd Isle!
Charm'd, and oblig'd, lest we ungrateful seem,
Bear, hence, at least, one mark of our esteem.
One of my three great claims, your wish may fit;
Whose voice is musick, and whose thoughts are wit!
Physic, alone, remains, to grant you, here—
A skill! your godlike pity will endear.
Form'd, to give wounds, which must no ease procure,
Atone your influ'nce, by new arts, to cure.

Beauty's chief foe, a fear'd and fierce disease!
Bows at my beck; and knows its God's decrees.
Breath'd, in this kiss, take power, to tame its rage,
And, from its rancour, free the rescued age:
High o'er each sex, in double empire, sit:
Protecting beauty, and inspiring wit.

To Clelia, in the Country.

On the pulling down St. Martin's Church.

While, from the noisy croud, you lean, retir'd
In silent shades, by love of thought inspir'd;
I, vex'd by various cares, to business chain'd,
Mourn'd your lost converse, and in town remain'd:
Dark, as the midnight world, your sunshine gone,
Guideless, in sullen gloom, I wander'd on:
Passion's wild influence ebb'd, and flow'd, my mind,
As seas drive diff'rent, with the changing wind:
But to what point soe'er, my will was bound,
In vain, I turn'd th'unresting compass round:

Doubtful, a while, the wav'ring needle hung,
Then, trembling, backward to your image sprung.

Pensive, I view'd a sacred pile, of late,
Which falls, like man, to rise, in nobler state,
The Doors thrown wide, it seem'd unveil'd to lie,
And reverend ruin struck my startled eye.
Ent'ring, amidst the busy hammer's sound,
I saw time's dusty trophies scatter'd round:
Each violated pillar stood, bedew'd:
And wept in solemn grief, a fate so rude.
From tombs by force disjoin'd, reluctant stones
Roll'd, mix'd with clouds of dust, and human bones:
From faithless walls, defac'd inscriptions fled,
And, to long night, consign'd the nameless dead:
The pews pale squares, in their whole lengthen'd row,
Gave way, and open'd a sad scene, below!
Beauty, youth, wealth, and power, reduc'd to clay,
Larded with bones, yet moist, unshelter'd lay:
Remnants of eyeless Skulls, with hollow stare,
Mock'd the proud looks, which living charmers wear:

Coffins rose broke, unfaithful to their trust!
And flesh flew round me, in unjointed dust.
Scarce a short span, beneath that opening floor,
Where kneeling charmers pray'd, the week before;
Where forms, like yours! rejoic'd th' admiring eye,
Forms, once, like yours! in naked atoms, lie.
O! fate of failing life! O! flatt'ring dream!
What wint'ry sunshine is thy shadowy gleam!

Thus, while I mus'd, thy soul approach'd my ear;
Thy soft-wing'd soul! that, always, hovers near.
See'st thou, it sigh'd—How these sad relicks lie!
And do'st thou fear, that Clelia, thus, can die?
No—She's all mind; and her immortal name,
Eluding death's short reach, shall tread on fame.
Tongues, yet unthought off, Clelia shall adorn,
And charm adoring nations—yet unborn.
Heroes, at whose resolves, the world will shake,
Shall treat thy sex with reverence, for thy sake;
And each fair tyrant, who would Empress be,
Form but one wish—to think, and look, like thee.

To a Lady, who lov'd Angling,

from a Hint, out of Dr. Donne.

I

Some , by the bending reed's slow aid,
May boast th' unwary fish betray'd:
Others may finny shoals beset,
And sweep 'em, with the treach'rous net.

II

But, why shou'd Sylvia use deceit,
Who is, herself, her own best bait?
Step but, undress'd, within the brook,
And smile at every needless hook.

III

Each willing fish will, round thee, swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
Or, if one fish, uncaught, goes by
That fish, is wiser, far, than I!

To a Lady, who had a very fine Shape, and fine Complexion.

Can forms, like yours, want Ornament of dress?
Beauty, like truth, shines most in Nakedness.
Dressing may skreen deformities from view,
But, e'en, adornment does but shadow you!
Most, but by what they wear, are lovely made,
You, Madam, lose, whene'er you seek such aid.
While others dress, their lover's hearts to warm,
You put off nothing, but what veil'd a charm!

Answer to the Resolve.

Whilst empty coxcombs blast a woman's fame,
In every state, and every age, the same:
With their own folly pleas'd, each Fair they toast
And, where they least are happy, swear they're most;
No diff'rence marking, 'twixt the gay and lewd,
But dreaming, all, who fly, would be pursued:

While thus, they vainly think, and vainly live,
Lost, to that reverence, love's soft lessons give;
Let this great Maxim be my passion's guide;
May I ne'er hope, where I am ne'er deny'd,
Nor gain a Woman, willing to be try'd.

Answer to a scurrilous, obscene Poem, entitled, An Epistle from Mrs Robinson to Senesino.

From thy loose lines, I turn my eyes away,
Nor know, o'erspread with blushes, what to say:
The modest muses, wounded, by thy strain,
For me, and for themselves, do thus complain.

O thou! our country's folly and expence!
Dull foe to Tragedy and God-like sense!
Too long mean, mercenary shade, too long,
Has't thou these Isles inchanted with thy song.
Musick's soft God unbinds the charm, he rais'd,
He blest thy tongue, and while he blest, we prais'd:

By thee polluted, he disclaims his choice,
And will no longer warble in thy voice.
His trembling notes, where melting softness hung,
And every grace, will seek a chaster tongue.
No more, the lover shall thy song repeat,
No more, the fair one sigh—'Tis wondrous sweet!

Oh! guilty Senesino! thou, no more,
Shalt bravo! bravo! hear—or loud encore.
The loose and dull, shall all thy audience be;
The chaste and witty shall resent for me.
All unattended shall thy aukward form,
To sad, uncrowded scenes, or whine, or storm.
Thy wretched ha—shall unapplauded, grow,
And ill-plac'd bays fall, with'ring from thy brow.
Know, Songster, Julius, Godlike chief disdains
Thy shrill, unnatural, ungraceful, strains:
With rage redoubled, Pompey's ghost must burn,
To find such tears profane his sacred urn.

Remember, Echo, soon thou'lt know the time,
Stript of thy robes, thy legions, and thy rhyme;
Thou poor Machine, of mean delusive sound,
When I shall see thy temples all unbound,
And those who heroes act, like heroes, crown'd

THOU to thy famish'd Italy shalt go,
And rival Faustus, to the shades, below.

The Choice, to a Friend.

Oh, greatly bless'd! who can, as fate requires,
By ductile wisdom, temper your desires!
Balanc'd, within, you look abroad, serene,
And, marking both extremes, pass, clear, between.
Oh! could your lov'd example teach your skill!
And, as it moves my wonder, mend my will!
Calm would my passions grow: my lot might please;
And my sick soul should think itself, to ease,
But to the future, while I strain my eye,
Each present good slips, undistinguish'd by.
Still, what I would contends with what I can;
And my wild wishes leap the bounds of Man.

If in my power it lies, to limit hope,
And my unchain'd desires can fix a scope:

This were my choice—Oh, friend, pronounce me poor:
For I have wants, which wealth can never cure!
Mean is that soul, which its own good can fill;
A prosp'rous world, alone, could feast my will.
He's poor, at best, who others misery sees,
And wants the wish'd-for power, to give it ease.
He's rich, who sole-supreme, and unconfin'd,
Can, with unbounded influence, bless mankind.
A glory this! unreach'd—but on a throne!
All were enough—but less, than all, is none.
This my first wish—But, since 'twere wild and vain,
To grasp at glitt'ring clouds with fruitless pain;
More safely low, let my next prospect be:
And life's mild evening this fair sun-set see.
Far, from a Lord's loath'd neighbourhood—a state,
Whose little greatness is a pride, I hate!
On some lone wild, should my strong house be plac'd,
Surrounded, by a vast, and healthy, waste:
Sterile and coarse, the untry'd soil should be;
But forc'd to flourish, and subdued by me.
Seas, woods, meads, mountains, gardens, streams, and skies,
Shou'd, with a changeful grandeur, charm my eyes,

Still, where I mov'd, new marks of my past pains,
Shou'd plume the mountain tops, and paint the plains:
Greatly obscure, and shunning courts, or name,
Widely befriended, but escaping fame.
Peaceful, in studious quiet, would I live;
Lie hid, for leisure; and grow rich, to Give.

To the Editor of Clarissa.

Painters to Poets, owe their noblest praise;
Mute are their tints, 'till voic'd by living lays:
Passive, the semblant forms but seem to breath;
Delusive surface holds no depth beneath.

Far other lines Clarissa's painter drew!
Far other force his pensive colours knew!
There, in round fulness, active pictures glow,
Turgid with speaking life, and thinking woe.
His, the soul's pencil, whose warm strokes impart
Mind, to the form, and passion to the heart.
A delegate Creator! calm, he lies,
And sees the worlds, he calls for, round him, rise.

Oh! might he live, 'till his Clarissa's death!
But life immortal suits not mortal breath.
Let him but live, 'till all, who read, are taught,
What aided influence, beauty draws from thought!
Then, would his length'ning years all bounds defy,
And nature, and her friend, together, die.
So, would he charm whole time—yet, vainly, too:
Reach every conscious heart—to change—how few!
Let him not hope too much—nor heaven, nor he,
Sets human minds, from human frailties free:
Tho' each can own, where all the rest are hit,
And every flaw, remote from self, admit:
Tho' marks, external catch the visual ray,
All in-shut objects shun the search of day.
Each ugliest likeness, for another, shown,
Strikes all: but none find eyes, to note their own.
Yet his—whate'er stage, press, or pulpit can!
Whate'er the heart's touch'd feelings lend, to Man:
All, that from all is learnt, one genius gives,
And, in collective right of virtue, lives.

WHENCE was his more than magic power supply'd,
So skill'd, to start life's game, on every side!
Where could his line th'unmeasur'd vastness find,
To fathom all the depths, of all mankind!
Piercing, as light, from heaven, to earth, he flows,
And every stain, and every beauty, shows!

The three great powers, that shake the human heart,
Are musick, eloquence, and paintive art:
Picture and eloquence, already, charm,
In every tearful page, divinely warm!
Oh! let tun'd numbers fill th' illustrious trine:
In some new work, let added musick shine,
Let his next wreath, the Poet's Ivy claim:
And his own verse immortalize his name.
Verse, so inspir'd, inspiring, and combin'd,
Would pour th' enrapt'ring virtues, o'er the mind;
Rouse, from their roots in earth, hearts, hard as steel,
And teach, once more, the trees, and beasts, to feel!

Honest Tom Tar's Prayer.

Honest Tom Tar, of unpacific fist,
Plunder'd by Dons, he must not dare resist;
Longing, unlicens'd, to revenge his smart,
Curs'd 'em in valiant bitterness of heart.

GOD grant us grace, he cry'd, old debts to pay,
And give these rogues their own another day!
God teach Jack Spaniard cowardice and flight,
And teach Old England, in exchange, to fight.
Kind Heaven, with pity, heard the brave bold fellow,
Gave his curse force—and Spain his Farinello.

Miss A---n---l's Circle.

I

In all the state of sovereign love,
See, see the worshipp'd Goddess shine!
While crowding suppliants round her move,
And every hope, too hard, for mine.

II

Easy and sprightly, near her, see
The Son of titled L---n---le plead!
Without a sigh, he smiles his plea,
And brings a heart, too gay, to bleed.

III

Mark, next, a youth, more close, than he!
'Tis C---r---l, in his dawn of day:
Softly bold, and humbly free,
His French adroitness paves the way.

IV

S---l---n no dangerous rival seems,
While he, forsaking love for wit,
All unadoring, just, esteems,
Crows, claps his wings, and leaves the Pit.

V

In earnest struck, and sick, within,
Young C---n with woes, would move;
Tells real pains, and thinks, to win
A Woman's heart by infelt love.

VI

P---h's noble Duke, with shape, and air,
Adorning dignity with grace,
From every look assaults the fair,
And carries courtship, in his face.

VII

In rear of these, and yet to come,
Her namesake, next, his fate to prove,
Stops short, and turns, in sight of Rome,
And quits the Saints, to bow to love.

VIII

What has poor J---rn---n to hope,
Dim-shining, in so bright a crowd?
Shall he, despairing, court a rope,
Or hopeless flame be still avowd?

IX

Hang mean distrust—The Charmer knows,
What rapture dwells, in life and fire!
And never beauty wrongly chose,
That crown'd warm truth and met desire.

To the two generous Masters St. Quintin,

on their tender Affection to each other, in their Progress through, and Recovery from, the Small-Pox.

Sexes are needless aids, in love's pure claim,
Since souls (not bodies) light our social flame.
Lamps, of imprison'd life, misplac'd, we shine,
Leap, lean our lengthening points—and long to join!

So, long'd your brother minds, to mix embrace;
As light meets light, and space is lost, in space.

DEATH, with suspended hand, beheld your strife,
Call'd off disease's rage, and set free life.
Why should they die, the ghastly Pauser cry'd
Whom names but separate, and but forms divide?
See, with what spring th' elastic strugglers flew!
Clung to their fate, and to death's horrors grew!

In vain eruptive fires their faces skreen:
Fever's hot anguish, vainly, burnt, between.
Wolves, that behind some thicket, scent their prey,
Not with more fierce delight, o'er thorns make way,
Than, lur'd by danger, one, with rapture sought
Th' infectious grasp, that his best half had caught:
There smil'd, their twisted souls, farewel, all fear;
We rise, together, to a Heaven, not here.

No—let 'em stay, to earth's dim dust confin'd,
Cross'd, in their clouded way, t'ward realms of mind.
'Twas not Death's drift to strike for—added bliss,
In next world, Angels—You're but Men in this.

Sent to a Lady with a Pocket-Looking-Glass.

See! my soul's serene invader!
See the face, I first, ador'd!
Heaven, for love, and pity, made her,
And with angel's graces, stor'd.

Mark her forehead's aweful rising,
See her soul-subduing eyes!
Every look, and air, surprizing!
Modest, lively, soft, and wise.

Next to you, I own, I love her;
But your sweet, discerning, eye,
Must not, now, be jealous of her:
She's ne'er seen, but you are by.

To David Mallet Esq;

on a mistaken Supposition, that I had forgot him.

Wit, like yours—and yet forgot?
Dreamy doubt? believe it not.

Faith, in silence, loves to dwell,
Fill'd with sense, it shuns to tell.
Shoaly waters loudest dash;
Distant light'nings longest flash:
Spare pretence's empty drum,
Deepest joys are, oft'nest, dumb:
Bodies part—but mutual mind
Stretch'd immense, continuous join'd,
Ever tangent, always seen,
Souls embrace, with world's between.
Pride, indeed, avows it fit,
Men, forgotten, should forget:
Reason more to justice owes;
Reason loves—because it knows.
Debt can ne'er for traffick stay;
Unreceiving, it, must pay:
Taste of other's worth—shou'd none
Lend a weight, to aid our own—
Don't, howe'er, the balance fail,
Toss in self to turn the scale.

PROLOGUE:

To Eurydice.

In youth, when modesty and merit meet,
How rare the union, and the force, how sweet!
Tho' at small praise, our humble author aims,
His friend may give him, what his blush disclaims.

Ladies!—to you, he makes his chief address,
Form'd, to be pray'd to, and e'en born, to bless!
He feels your pow'r, himself, and makes it felt,
His scenes will teach, each stubborn heart, to melt:
And each fair eye, that, now, shines softly, here,
Anon, shall shine, still softer, thro' a tear:
Let not constraint your generous sighs repress,
Nor veil compassion—nor repel distress:
Your sex's strength is—in such weakness found,
And sighs, and tears, but help your charms—to wound.

Of all the wonders, taught us, by the fair,
'Tis strangest—Tragedy should lose their care!
Where love, soft tyrant! in full glory, reigns,
And sovereign beauty holds the world in chains.

Less polish'd, and more bold, the comic muse
Unkings your Cupid, or obstructs his views:
Upholds presuming wit's familiar claim,
And blots out awe, from love's diminish'd flame;
Find, or makes, faults; and sets 'em strong in sight,
And dares draw woman—false, or vain, or light.
While Tragedy—your servant, try'd, and true,
Still to your fame, devoted, and to you,
Enslav'd to love, subdu'd ambition brings;
Firms beauty's power, and crowns it King of Kings.

Let wish'd attention grace our scene to night,
And mourn'd afflictions move refin'd delight:
Each tender light of life we recommend:
Wife, husband, subject, parent, son, and friend,

All your impassion'd interests shall engage,
And hopes, and fears, and pity, fire the stage.
Then, when soft sorrow swells the fair one's breast,
And sad impressions mix, with nightly rest;
Pleasing remembrance shall our scene supply,
And the sweet sadd'ning influence never die.

The Actor's Epitome.

If comprehension, best, can pow'r express,
And that's, still, greatest, which contains the less;
No rank's high claim can make the player's small,
Since acting each, he comprehends them, all.

OFF, to due distance, half the stalking train!
Blots of a title, your low tastes profane!
No dull cold mouther shares the actor's plea,
Rightly to seem is transiently, to be.

Arduous the task, and asks a cimbing brain;
A head for judgment, and a heart for pain:

E'er sense, impress'd, reflects adopted forms,
And changeful nature shakes, with borrow'd storms.

TEN strong-mark'd passions signs external bear,
And stamp assum'd distinctions on the player;
Joy, grief, fear, anger, pity, scorn, and hate,
Wonder, shame, jealousy, and love's soft weight.

These, when he paints, did he but first conceive
Each, on his fancy, would its image leave;
Thence, ductile fibres catch the expressive spring,
And the eyes dart it, and the accents ring.

You, who would Joy's triumphant pride express,
What most you wish, imagine you possess.
Strait, flames th' idea to the kindling eye,
And every nerve, in concord, braces high:
Treading on air, each joint a soul displays;
The looks, all, lighten—and the limbs, all, blaze.

But you, who act unhoping grief's distress,
Touch fancy, with some home-felt wretchedness.

Then, slack'ning nerves the loose impression take;
Each sad look sickens: the shock'd spirits break:
Dim falls the faded eye;—the steps drag, slow,
And ev'ry heedless gesture heaves, with woe.

FEAR is but active grief, avoiding pain,
Yet flies, too faintly, and avoids, in vain:
While stagnate spirits, thick'ning, as they spread,
O'er the cold heart, crawls slow, the living lead.
What, tho' the eye's prompt ray keen light'ning dart!
'Tis fruitless:—loos'ning fibres lame the heart.

ANGER is pride provok'd, beyond controul,
When some felt insult fires the smarting soul:
Then, the will's warmth, repelling fancy'd shame,
Strings the nerves hard, and bids the eye-balls flame:
Then marks of menace, air, and face deform;
And short, thick, breathings, paint the infelt storm.

PITY is active sense of alien grief;
Think, some dear, dying suff'rer begs relief:
Aidful idea springs, to succour woe,
And ev'ry quivering sinew learns to glow,

While, mild, as sighing saints, the sadd'ning face,
Clouds, into anguish, with relenting grace.

SCORN is cold anger, careless and at ease,
Calm sense of wrongs, too harmless, to displease;
Bold, in undoubted safety, 'twould disclaim
Defiance—and with proud remissness, flame.
Now smiles, now frowns;—yet both with eye, serene;
And lets the nerves play loose, with painless spleen.

HATRED is sullen fury, long retain'd:
'Tis willing mischief, warily restrain'd:
This to paint strong, the back-brac'd nerves should toil,
In fetter'd strain; and heave in curv'd recoil:
While, with impatient frown, th'averted eye
Shuns the loath'd object, it disdains, too nigh.

Pain-seeking Jealousy feels doubtful rage,
Which trustful pity struggles to asswage:
Thence, frets uncertain pain, with pensive glow,
And look, and action, share divided woe.
Sad, in the face, the heart's felt softness reigns,
While each tugg'd sinew angry vengeance strains.

WONDER is curious fear—Suppose, by night,
Some pale, met spectre cross'd the moon's dim light!
Sudden, the back'ning blood, retreating swift,
Swells the press'd heart:—Each fibre fails, to lift;
Lost, in short pause, arrested motion lies,
And sense climbs doubtful, to the straining eyes.

LOVE is, at once, intense and slack desire:
There, hope inflames, while reverence cools the fire.
Fear of repulse, bold sense of joy withdraws;
Sighs in each accent; every movement awes:
Soft, earnest looks blush o'er th' inclining face,
And sinewy transport borrows shade, from grace.

EPILOGUE, To the Lover

The scene now clos'd, and Eustace eas'd, at heart,
Pardon six lines, in pity of poor Smart:
One play will bear two morals; and I'll show,
There's something for our sex, e'en in a beau.

I have, a spark, of captain Smart's fine airs;
His front white-border'd, with a fringe of hairs,
His new-print Hat, like Elziver in small
Tips a huge round O face, in Capital!
Short, and hid, harmless, hangs his sword declin'd,
While a long tail, misplac'd, struts out, behind.

Strange contradictions his mixt dress implies:
A short, Dutch waiste, with skirts of blue-coat size,
Two harness-buckles his poor shoes must wear,
Yet be allow'd no heels, their weight to bear!
Narrow his ruffles—but in broad amends,
Up, to his shoulders, the flap'd sleeve extends!
And yet, while this pert dress, thus, two fold ran,
His short red waistcoat—look'd but half a man.

In my averted eyes, he read my thought,
And vow'd to charm me, the first glance he caught.
Then stoop'd—hung wriggling back—wav'd, smil'd, and scrap'd,
And clos'd his hands—and cock'd his chin and gap'd.

Madam, said he, 'twill poze your wit to guess
The mysteries of this emblematic dress;
These Hats we wear, to prove us free from pride;
Light, humble measurers of the brains, they hide.
This round head-crop, a mystic sign appears,
In due detection of our meaning ears.
Our sword's old needless length away we threw,
As sworn, to shun all battles, but with you.
Inside and out, each mark your claim insures,
And every inch of every Smart is yours.
He bow'd and sneer'd;—and I a convert grew,
Nor 'till that moment, half his merits knew.

Let wives, who wish subjection, marry wits;
Women love power—A fool our fancy hits:
We can be heads ourselves—and want of brain,
Let him have no worse want, ne'er gives us pain.

PROLOGUE.

Spoke by Mr. Johnson.

Tonight, no languid love shall dare complain:
Woe, far more serious, asks more serious pain;
Critic, be ours; 'tis now, the patriot's cause;
What Briton wars, on liberty—and laws!
Sweet liberty! thou sunshine of the heart!
Thou smile of nature! and thou soul of art!
Without thy aid, no human hope could grow:
And love, and wealth, and wisdom, were but woe!
Thine, in all ages, all the wise and brave:
No hero ever was—or wish'd a slave.

BRITAIN, fair Queen of states! feel if thou can'st,
Feel thy own happiness—'Tis all thou want'st:
Blest Isle! while every groaning nation, round,
Bows, to the servile yoke, ignobly bound,
Thou, from their confines, and their miseries, rent,
Safe, sea-set gem!—thy own, great continent!

Shew'st a tame, truckling world, one generous land,
Where power ne'er prosper'd, in a tyrant's hand!
Live, ye brave guardians of your country's cause!
Live, and give freedom life, by living laws.
From your white cliffs, look round a world enslav'd;
And hug th' asserted rights, your fathers sav'd.

But, while slow-rous'd, your dreaded arms prevail,
And commerce, spite of envy, spreads her sail,
Stoop not to forfeit Wits all-bright'ning claim:
Sword, Trade, and pen, should guard the conqu'ror's fame.
Taste, for yourselves—be all French power disdain'd:
Not e'en a slave wou'd bear his fancy chain'd.
Off with their fripp'ry modes—their Kings, in vain,
Attempt us—shall their cooks, and taylors reign?
Cross 'em, in taste, dress, politicks,—and dance;
Scorn, e'en, a Step, that leaves the lead, to France;

Smile at the pride, their light stage-cap'rer feels,
Firm-standing Britons need no flying heels.
Rise, rise, lost muse! re-wake the slumb'ring scene,
Teach show, to animate—and sound, to mean.
Solemn, and high, new-string the tragic lyre;
Tempt back the Poet's God, to lend his fire.
Here, must he dwell; his face no slave dares see,
And who, not British-born, is, now, left free?

Hither, from Rome, Rome's antient genius flies:
For fancy cannot live, where courage dies,
Hail, my last hope, she crys—inspir'd by me,
Wish, think, talk, write, and act—for liberty.
Yet—would you build my fabrick, to endure,
Be your hearts warm, but let your hands be pure.
Never, to shine, yourselves, your country sell:
Displac'd, think nobly: when in power, act well.
Agree, like modern, fight, like antient, Rome:
War but abroad—and taste sweet peace, at home.
Let no self-server, general trust betray;
No pique, no party bar the public way:
Front an arm'd world, with union on your side,
No foe shall shake you—if no friends divide.

The Lord's Prayer in Verse.

Almighty father! of high Heaven possess'd!
Be thy name holy, and thy power confess'd!
Teach us, on earth to know, and do thy will;
As Heaven's bright train thy great commands fulfill.
Gracious, our daily bread of life, bestow:
And show us mercy, as we mercy show:
Guard us, from strong temptation's powerful call;
Nor, when we meet with evil, let us fall.

An Address, from the Statues at Stowe, to Lord Cobham, on his Return to his Garden.

From every muse, and every art, thy own,
Thy bowers, our Theatres, thy mind, our throne;

Hail to thy virtues, manumiz'd from state,
Hail to thy leisure to be wisely great!
Fetter'd by duties, and to forms enslav'd,
How timely has thy life a remnant sav'd!
To taste that freedom, which thy sword maintain'd,
And lead, in letter'd ease, a life unpain'd!
So Scipio, Carthage fall'n, resign'd his plume,
And smil'd, at the forgetfulness of Rome.

O, greatly bless'd! whose evening sweetliest shines,
And in unclouded slowness, calm, declines!
Now, free reflection, with reverted eye,
Wan'd from hot noontide, and a troubled sky,
Divides life well—the largest part long known
Thy country's claim—the last, and best, thy own.

Go, like the masters of the world, go shine;
Be Charles' life, and Dioclesian's thine:
Form thy own power; dependent peace create,
And shade distinction from the storms of state:
With pray'rs, and praise, thy toil, (like heaven's) be paid,
And guard the growing world, thy hands have made.

There, while detach'd, thy self-supported soul
Resumes dominion, and escapes controul;
Moves, with a grandeur, monarchs seek, in vain,
Above all forms, all dangers, and all pain:
The muse shall find thee, in thy bless'd retreat,
And breathe this honest wish at Cobham's feet:
Fresh, as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow;
And breezy, like thy groves, thy passions blow
Wide as thy fancy, be thy spreading praise,
And long, and lovely, as thy walks—thy days.

What is God?

Hold!—'Tis too much for thought! decide no more:
But, in safe silence, awefully adore.
Lost, in th' immense abyss, man can but see,
That he, who knows God, right, must, first, be he.

Writ on a Blank Leaf of Alzira,

when given to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.

Go, Muse! nor vainly mourn Britannia stray'd,
In faction, roughning, or dissolv'd, in trade;
Tasteless of letters; yet, to Fame, inclin'd,
Busily viewless, and profoundly blind:
Go, to thy Country's Hope, invoke his care;
Watch, if he smiles, and, then, suspend despair;
Bless his protective hand, that calls out Arts,
And hail his Empire, o'er a people's hearts.

To Lady W---,

on seeing her in the Park, after her Recovery from a long Illness.

Pleas'd, at your wish'd return, to chear the shade,
For your long life, a pensive neighbour pray'd;

Shock'd, and disgusted, at the modern fair,
Vacant of thought, and turbulent of air;
He hail'd your health, restor'd, who live, to prove,
How, women, once, compell'd the wise, to love.
How unaffected case, in motion, charms!
How knowledge holds the heart, that sweetness warms!
How thinking Spirit quickens every grace,
Till the soul lightens, thro' the meaning face!

Griev'd, to observe, what, now, the sex employs,
Whose wit is laughter, and whose converse noise:
Who loudly ignorant, and coarsely light,
Repel men's reason, and offend their sight;
Make youth distasteful, dignity despis'd,
And every claim of beauty pass unpriz'd:
Charm'd, he beheld, once more, your air sublime,
In all, but wisdom, still unchang'd by time:
Patterns, like you, may teach the faithless eye,
What, in your absence, wou'd be judg'd a lye;
Shou'd it be told these quenchers of Love's fire,
That woman, once, was soft, and mov'd desire;
By modest tenderness, compell'd respect,
And, arm'd with Influence, never fear'd neglect:

That friend, and lover both, she cou'd impart
Peace to the mind, and passion to the heart,
'Twou'd, now, be thought a dream—but that, in you,
They see such proof, that they must own, 'tis true.
Live, then, a lengthening age of painless hours,
Your Sex's envy—and the wish of ours.

To Mr. GARRICK. On his united Ideas of Actor and Writer.

Form'd for each other's aid, these powers but meet,
As nature's self shows light, combin'd with heat:
Oh! born, to grace their union, let 'em share
Thy thoughts exertion, and reward thy care:
The willing arts bid all their praise be thine;
For thee, tun'd discords into musick join;
What others, lab'ring hopeless, hardly gain,
'Twas thine, at once, to start for, and obtain.
To instant growth, without gradation, drawn,
High noon leapt backward, to embrace the dawn;

Time and experience sunk, to speed thy way,
And genius grasp'd creation, in a day!

Nor let malignant envy blast thy claim,
Since wit, and virtue, triumph, in thy fame.
Oh! let no rogue, of damn'd Iago's race,
To wile-try'd torture, rack that honest face:
Seem, what thou art, brave, faithful, amorous, gay;
The noblest passions please, the noblest way.
Heart humaniz'd, head clear, hands clean, soul great,
Sharp sense, mild manners, ease, adorning weight,
Sun of our Stage, shine on: we feel thy light:
Thy warmth how fruitful! and thy beam, how bright!
Each guilt thou paint'st, by borrow'd art, is shown,
But every goodness native, and thy own.

On Sir ISAAC NEWTON.

Oe'r nature's laws, God cast the veil of night,
Out-blaz'd a Newton's soul—and all was light.

To the Learned and Worshipful, the President, Censors, the Fellows, of the College of Physicians in London,

The Humble Petition of Thomas Trade, of the said City, Wool-Stapler.

That, in rhyme, I petition, you must not complain,
For, I oft, have try'd reason, and found, 'twas in vain:

The known sturdy beggar, who, now, craves your aid,
Was, once, a fam'd citizen—honest Tom Trade;
His father a clothier, his mother Creole,
Bid their Son—a blunt, English, impolitic, soul,
Always think what he pleas'd, and speak what he thought;
And (a fool for my pains!) I e'en did, as I ought.
Hence it came—and, no wonder, you Doctors will say,
That my fortune turn'd tail, and fell to decay:

How it happen'd, I know not; but, soon, from a Tun,
I was shrunk to a Noggin—and fairly undone!
From a fat, florid cheek, and an eye void of care,
With a freeholder's belly, and bluff British air,
I assum'd a lean, Spanish, lank, leathery, jaw,
And look'd dry, tall, and yellow, and light, like a straw:
Well! no matter, you'll say, for my air, or my face;
So, I hasten, to sigh out my sorrowful case.

There's a shameless old quack, by name Dr Shift,
Who does very strange things, at a very dead lift;
'Twas to him, or to none, all agreed I must go,
If I meant any better, or bigger, to grow.

When I show'd him my bones, as they peep'd thro' my skin,
And complain'd, what a dryness consum'd me, within;
I must fleece thee, he cry'd, if thou wishest to live.
De'el a lock (answer'd I) have they left me to give.

Set your seal, then, to mortgage the hopes of your son,
And the cure be my care, so the bus'ness is done.
For, I ne'er cou'd ask fees, nor be seen any more,
If my patients, so peel'd, were as sick, as before.

With a trembling weak hand, I comply'd with his will,
While he laugh'd, in my face, at due sense of his Skill.
Don Mustacho, he cry'd—(and with arrogant mien,
Came his surgeon, at call) “Here's a patient, too lean;
“Take and purge him, one year; and then vomit him, two:
“All the third, let him blood—and, if that shou'd not do,
“Sweat him, six, nine, or twelve—and, at last, to work sure,
“Let a blister all over make short with his cure.”
Oons! a Doctor, said I!—and slunk back, in a fright,
Don, the Devil, and You, will demolish me quite!
Where's your conscience? D'you think such a poor dog, as I,
Can be tapp'd at all ends, and yet never run dry?

I'll complain to the college, and get 'em to trounce
A horse-doctor, whom all honest beasts wou'd renounce.

Now, ye learned and grave! you, who think, for our health;
If a wretch deserves life, who has lost all his wealth,
Let me hope due revenge, on this foe, to men's breath,
Who wou'd cure a consumption, by bleeding to death.

To CLIO:

On her praising Mr. D---r, and shewing me some of his Verses.

Matchless inspirer of my muse, and me,
Thou heaven, of blended smiles, and Majesty!
Thou, by whose light, all other's worth is shown,
While thou art dark, as midnight, to thy own:
Praising desert, like his, you charm me, too,
And, for your blessing him, my thanks are due.

Mean are the minds, who but their own possess,
And reap no joy, from other's happiness.
I groan, beneath their pains, whom sorrow wrings,
And, when their hope is rising, mine has wings.

O Clio! to deserve such praise from thee,
Points out thy friend, a bosom one, for me,
My sympathetic soul reveres his name,
And my warm heart beats anxious, for his fame.
Sweet are his thoughts, and soft, as evening air;
Joy gilds his smiles,—his sighs invite despair:
Strong is his sense, and his reflection deep,
Wide, as his prospects—as his mountains steep;
Oh! may he still be blest, with thy esteem,
Oh! may thy charms, forever, be his theme!

Vast is my wonder, at his Fancy's flight,
Till I remember, whence his store was drawn;
Clio, the inspirer Clio! lent him light,
And spread soft influence, o'er his wid'ning dawn:
Warm'd, by th' enliv'ning lustre of her beams,
His rip'ning reason burnt with conscious glow;
Blaz'd, in the radiant charmer's starry streams,
And shed diffusive heav'n on all, below:

Oh! thou soft sun of wit, and love's gay clime!
Point but one ray of thy broad shine, on me,
Then, shall my kindled soul flame out sublime,
And glitter proudly, with thy friend and thee.

On Two Lovely and Loving Sisters.

When equal charms, in different colours dress'd,
Have two sweet sisters rival persons bless'd,
How kind is heaven, their minds, with love, to strike,
And teach 'em both, to look, and think, alike!

To the Editor of Albania, a Poem:

Address'd to the Genius of Scotland, and dedicated to General Wade.

Known, tho' unnam'd, since, shunning vulgar praise,
Thy muse wou'd shine, and, yet, conceal her rays,
Think thyself hid; and hope, in vain, to be
Unseen, like light, that shews us all, we see.

But, while thy readers are deny'd thy name,
They feel, thy genius, and attest thy flame.
They pity, too, in death, thy noteless friend,
Poor by the generous aid, thy wealth wou'd lend,
Prefac'd by thee, his feeble lights expire,
Even, in producing, thou obscur'st, his fire.

Not, but the muse had warm'd his youthful song!
Bold were his notes! and his ideas strong!
But, where domestic dearness warp'd his lays,
And partial birth misled the patriot praise,
Wilt thou not join, to blame the bounded zeal,
That bids us, only, for our Country feel?
Yes—Thou wilt censure this too scanty care,
That shuts out pity, and appropriates prayer!
Thou wilt enlarge affection, till it sees,
Beyond itself, and pants for public ease.
Stretch liberty—to disengage mankind,
And, ev'n, from nature's byass, free the mind.

What, tho' (we know not why) soft, inbred pride,
Makes home, seem sweetest, and can choice misguide;

100

Till native darkness erring taste constrains,
And Lapland desarts rival Persia's plains.
Let the soul's reach the heart's restraint reprove,
And widen, to the world, our Country's love.

Base are these local limits to men's hearts,
That canton out humanity, in parts.
Truth has no districts, to divide her toil;
And virtue is at home, in every soil.
Since, on one common globe, we neigh'bring, dwell,
What narrower line shou'd man, from man expel.
Each, born alike, and sons of nature, all,
Human can ne'er, from care of human, fall.

But passion's rapine, nature's union breaks,
Not soil, but int'rest, all this difference makes:
Born brothers, each, from each, wou'd something draw,
Till ravag'd equity is shrunk to law:
Blindly forgetful, that the whole is dust,
We hate, for parts, nor feel ourselves unjust:
Confine repute, to place; and praise, or rail,
As self, or stranger, turns the varied scale:
Till, sense grown harden'd, in her partial plea,
Justice is crippled, into bribery.

101

Thou!—son of liberty!—can'st shun this shelf;
Loos'ning reflection, and out-launching self:
Can'st burst the chain of custom, round the heart,
And, from worst slavery—(that of reason)—start.
Thou, on thy country's hills, can'st praise bestow,
Yet stoop not the Encomium, to her snow!
So, wants, confess'd, but strengthen merit's claim,
And right, from wrong distinguish'd, fixes fame.

When rock-fenc'd Scotland boasts her hardy race,
Or English beauty claims but matchless grace;
When France the praise of sprightliest wit assumes,
And German plainness spreads its honest plumes;
Concurring plaudits grant unquestion'd dues,
And truth and reason sanctify the muse.

But, shou'd Teutonic heaviness aspire,
From French vivacity, to ravish fire;
Or Caledonia's manlike virgins vie,
With the soft sunshine of an English eye,
Justice wou'd blush, at nature's erring pride,
And each forc'd trophy be, by truth, deny'd.

102

More just thy mind, more gen'rous is thy muse!
Albanian born, this English theme to chuse!
No partial flattery need thy verse invade,
That, in the ear of Scotland, sounds a Wade!

Such, as thy Muse, such is thy Patron's aim;
Nor North, nor South, can bound his spirit's claim.
Warm'd from within, he burns with Roman fires,
Shines for the World: and, for Mankind, aspires;
Adorning power, he beautifies a state;
Endears dominion, and absolves the great.
Kind, by his care, rapacious license grows;
And polish'd jealousy no hatred knows:
Felt in their hearts, to love of faith he charms,
And, softly conqu'ring, needs no aid of arms.

When (ages hence) his last line's length'ner dies,
And his lost dust reveals not, where it lies:
Still, shall his living greatness, guard his name,
And his works lift him, to immortal fame.
Then, shall astonish'd armies, marching high,
O'er causeway'd mountains, that invade the sky,

103

Climb the rais'd arch, that sweeps its distant throw,
Cross tumbling floods, which roar, unheard, below:
Gaze, from the Cliff's cut edge, thro' midway air,
And, trembling, wonder at their safety, there!
Pierce, fenny deeps, with firm, unsinking tread,
And, o'er drain'd desarts, wholesome empire spread.

While charm'd the soldier dwells, on wonders pass'd,
Some Chief, more knowing, and more touch'd—at last,
Shall (pointing) to the attentive files, explain,
How (many a cent'ry since)—in George's Reign,
Wade's working soul, that grac'd his Prince's throne,
Built these vast Monuments—and spar'd his own.

104

To Celia, with a return'd Tragedy.

I

Take, O Celia! muse divine!
Take again the tragic tale:
Wit, so light, if weigh'd with thine,
Mounts, like feathers, from thy scale.

II

Yet, 'twere wise O soul of verse!
Soft, to smile, upon his flight:
Blazing tapers, scarce, wou'd pierce,
Were there no such thing, as night.

III

Di'monds wou'd be less admir'd,
Were not brittle christal known;
And by Poets poorly fir'd,
Our rich Celia's wealth is shown.

105

IV

But, alass! I strive, in vain,
Worth, above me, to display:
Sunk, beneath thy streamy strain;
Like a Glow-worn, lost in day.

To Lady W---.

Age has but one defect—and that's decay:
Your beauty fades not, and your graces stay;
All the dear difference, that your years inspire,
Is ripen'd wisdom, and increase of fire;
Bright'ning, by age, you glow, like gold, in mines,
That length of time corrodes not, but refines!

Yet, from this groundless wrong, you've done your charms,
Let my instructed wishes catch alarms;
If your time's short—Ah! rob not, while you stay—
Leave the night mine—or, you begloom the day.

106

PROLOGUE For the third Night, at Zara, when first play'd, at the Great Musick Room, in Villars Street, York Buildings.

He, whose wish'd service did my help engage,
(Nor Actor I—nor studious of the stage!)
To aid whose purpose, and support whose cause,
This scene unaqual (to our Zara) draws:
To night, by sickness, from this presence, held,
Mourns his weak will, by want of power repell'd,

Willing to please—and struggling to succeed,
He's gone, from acting death—to die, indeed!
Exhausted spirits, urging on decay,
Wasted his strength, and wore his life away:
'Till from the stage, to his last bed, confin'd,
He left us—But, he left his thanks, behind:
Living, he owns his gratitude your due;
And, if he dies—in death, he blesses you.

For me, mean while—who can but what I can,
To Osman's weight, is added Lusignan!

107

Two parts, at once!—that height I fear to scale!
Would he were here, to charm!—for, I shall fail,
Musick was his—But now, by woes oppress'd,
Sad Nightingale! the thorn is, at his breast;
His suff'ring virtue! his undue distress!
Learning, unprop'd! afflicted manliness!
Sickness, and pain, with patience, holding strife!
Wrestling with merit; and disjointing life!
These are pretensions, which must, here, prevail,
And touch your generous hearts—howe'er I fail.

EPIGRAM, On Occasion of the General Mourning.

Not I—I'll wear no black—why others do—
Ay—let them mourn the old—I love the new,
Fie! 'tis the fashion—Oh! the fashion?—well,
News for your news, kind, courtly Sir—I'll tell—
He, who but mourns, for fashion's sake, to day,
To-morrow, will, for fashion's sake obey.

108

EPILOGUE, For a Friend, Spoke by Miss Robinson.

Little and light, myself like things in vogue;
You'd guess me fond, of a light Epilogue;
But you're mistaken—I've a taste, improving,
And fancy nothing but what's strong and moving:
You Ladies, too, spite of what criticks say,
Lean all your judgments the same natural way.

When Oratordos lull this tuneful nation,
Who is not mov'd to strong—commiseration?
When Harlequin jumps, nimbly, thro' the casement,
All the charm'd house is mov'd to wise amazement!
Then mark!—some well-writ Tragedy comes after;
And that ne'er fails to move—your general laughter.
Pleas'd, that we please—next, comedy, we play,
And, then, the whole town's mov'd—to keep away.

109

'Twere endless, thus to tire your ears with proving;
—Not a toupee, but's either mov'd—or moving!
Gay belles are mov'd, to talk,—soft beaux, to stare,
Players, to fret—poor poets are mov'd, to swear!
And I, not last, in will, tho' least, in measure
Am, in my turn, too, mov'd—to wish you pleasure:
In fine, which way soe'er your taste may run ye,
Our Managers are mov'd—to get your money.
Move ne'er so strangely—I'll be short and pithy
We should move poorly—did not we move with ye.

EPILOGUE, for a Friend.

Well! the Play's over,—and the author's waiting,
To hear his cause supported, by my prating;
But, he mistakes the favour I intend him;—
Have at him—I shall courtier like, defend him.

110

Oh! 'tis provoking, how these poets wrong us,
When, with imaginary loves, they throng us,
Like girls, they give us trinkets, to look gay with,
Which, when night comes, we have no right, to play with,
Strange doctors, these! our appetites they quicken,
And, then, remove the feast, for fear we sicken.
To think of only one, when twenty love us!
Can flesh and blood bear that?—no—that's above us.
We'd make a shift, with one—did but one proffer:
If we try ten—the fault is theirs, who offer.
Weak woman, push'd, and press'd, now here, now there,
Falls, not, by choice—but want of strength, to bear.

Surrounded, as I was, by slaves, to night,
Troth, I e'en thought, to take all five—was right!
Since I'd enough for all—what harm, to barter,
And deal with each, for his own, separate quarter?
Worthy possess'd my will—my Lord my eye,
Grinly my spleen—my scorn Sir Lubberly.
Chip had my laughter;—every Man his part,
And room for forty more, in woman's heart,

111

As, when some City-Worthy mounts Lord-Mayor,
Mere dignity requires, that folks shou'd stare,
Rob'd, he looks big—and rides the streets, in state,
While, in long order, his puff'd nothings wait:
So, when a toast assumes her envied reign,
A length of coxcombs ought to grace her train:
Dear Nizies! never heed, what's said, about ye,
Woman, is woman—and can't live without ye.
Fools are the froth of life—they give no merit,
Yet brisk it, like champaign, with sparkling spirit.

BRITAIN, the Queen of nations! let us see,
What the world's offerings should to beauty, be:
Bright, and unrivall'd, 'midst the sea, she stands,
Attracting tribute, from remotest lands.
From Afric, Gold—from India, gems she draws,
Yet, mix'd with these, come—Parrots,—Apes,—Maccaws,
Civet and assa fætida, unite,
And all, that shocks or charms—taste, touch, and sight,

112

From these, she chuses all, she wants—the rest
She leaves, for poorer states, who like 'em, best.

So, gay coquets shou'd man's whole homage claim;
Wits, fools, beaux, slovens—every rank, and name;
All, should adore, divert,—attempt—and please,
Encrease her business—and adorn her ease.
Yet, among all, she keeps but what's most taking,
And spares the rest, for prudes—whose hearts are breaking.

PROLOGUE. Spoke by young Mr. Giffard.

The authors Prologue having claim'd your care,
Hear, next th' address of an unfriended player,
Forc'd, as in war, his abler leaders gone,
To fill their ranks, by stepping boldly on:
There, thrown too forward, into points of sight,
He trembles, conscious of th' excess of light.

113

YOUNG, and untaught as yet, myself to trust,
I plead their pity, who have tastes, too just.
In Plays, which practis'd actors, long, have fill'd,
How great his danger, who succeeds, unskill'd!
The self-known diff'rence must, with terror, strike;
The part, less painful, than your due dislike.

In scenes, untry'd, he moves, with easier heart,
There, uncompar'd, he shrinks not, from his part;
Unprejudic'd—you aid his first essays,
And push his panting hope, with generous praise.

But, task us not, too hard, who wait our day,
Be partial, if at all, the noblest way:
Indulge some notice, where we chance to touch,
Nor think, who longs to please, presumes, too much.

114

EPILOGUE, for a Friend.

Of all the tricks, these Poets bring in vogue,
Methinks, their strangest whim, is Epilogue:
Hard task, on us, poor damsels of the stage!
A Bard's long, tiresome, bauble, fires your rage;
And, when that rage inflames you, to abhor him,
He pops in one of us, to cool you, for him.

'Tis an ungentle treatment, to perplex,
With strongest danger, thus, the weakest sex;
Troth, one wou'd think—but custom's hard to stem,
That they shou'd do for us—not we for them!
At least, since each was made, to join with either,
In downright conscience, both shou'd move, together.
But, be it so!—I care not, tho' I venture,
Cou'd I but see, on what soft side to enter:
Grave Gentlemen!—some, of you, look so sadly,
That, troth! I fear—I shall come off but badly.
Yet, hang it, I'm engag'd—th' event I'll try,
And, if I'm doom'd to fall—why there I lie.

For our new Author, then, and for his Play,
I have one vast, important truth to say:

115

Smile, on his hopes, do—for my sake, forbear him,
Not, that my wishes bid your Justice spare him:
But shou'd you not—you will but make me trouble!
He'll write, till you approve, and plague me, double.

PROLOGUE, to Every Man in his Folly.

[_]

Spoke by Mr. Quin.

You call the stage, a glass; and look, to find
The imag'd passion, and reflected mind:
Yet, in one point, our glass, but ill agrees
With yours, where each his own resemblance sees:
Whereas, in ours, each self is, dimly, shown,
But, ev'ry other's likeness, strongly, known!

'Tis the same thing, in life—Nature is kind,
And, to home-follies, keeps us wisely blind:
Else, what dejected wits!—what crest-fall'n airs!
Shou'd none dare rally a defect, he shares!

116

Each eye, turn'd inward, less wou'd there be seen,
To raise the spirits, than provoke the spleen!
Yet, tho' self-censure might disturb the gay,
And pride turn, startled, from the sad survey;
Rightly conceiv'd, the oft examin'd pain,
Wou'd slowly ripen, into solid gain:
Each, losing something, to the common store,
Wou'd, from the general profit, draw back more.
What malice miss'd, benevolence wou'd find,
And joy, and peace, re-fill the balanc'd mind.

Fix'd on this point, and bending to the wise,
Our Author, not his wit, but reason, tries:
Full, to your view, presents that partial pride,
By which all weakness, but our own, is try'd;
Each can, with eagle's eye, the frailty see,
Which none more practises, more loves, than he!

All, we propose; all, we dare wish, or hope,
Lies, circumscrib'd, within this humble scope;
Weigh the design, and, where small faults, you find,
Let the clouds pass, and watch the light, behind.

117

EPILOGUE, for the Play, call'd Much ado about nothing,) Spoke by Mrs Pritchard.

Hold her not thankless, that (oblig'd by you)
She thus, with nothing, pays, your Much ado:
'Tis the world's frugal mode, and each wise nation
Keeps weights, and scales of air, for obligation.
Sunshine pretence ends, oft, in rainy weather;
And many a head's best boast—is hat and feather!
Trust nothing, but your wives—we plot no treason,
'Till unkind husband's cease, to do us reason.
But, as for wit, fame, taste—they're mere deceivers:
Ev'n politic's shew teeth, but bite believers.

WHO, that has seen high-posted zeal, peace-hating,
Raise dust for Ins, and Outs, by turns debating,
E're guess'd, till time and chance, set crowds a staring,
That Outs, and Ins, gave coats, with all one bearing!

118

Who, that, of late, saw bold Rebellion's standard
Rais'd, rounded, common-soldier'd, and commander'd,
Hop'd, at a spurt, to see such schemes, to cramp us
Scatter'd, and scouting back, to brouze Mount Grampus!

WHO, ye bloom'd fair! most us'd to soft protesting,
And hardly brought to think, love's wounds but jesting,
Sees her scorch'd victim, at her feet expiring,
And dreams he'll come to life, for other's firing?

All, that you see, touch, taste, hear, wish, or dream on,
Is but deceit's broad bog, to build esteem on.
Our Shakespear knew mankind, and rightly drew 'em;
And, as for women, faith he peep'd quite thro' 'em.
I, and my Benedick, each sex emblazing,
Shew neither over-fit, for either's praising.
All brought to all, each lives to gull the other,
And Disappointment closes love's long pother.

119

Tho' much ado is passion's loud beginning,
'Tis about nothing—still, and not worth winning.

But, I forget my cue—thus humbly low,
Serious, I pay the solid thanks, I owe.
Warm'd, by quick sense of your protective praise,
Inflaming gratitude more worth may raise.
Bid unforc'd laughter rise, from native strains,
And free-touch'd humour shun distortive pains.
Bid tears, unwhining, find their source within,
And, from touch'd hearts, the band's applause begin.
Un-borrow'd be my pow'r, or none at all;
Let me, on pity, not for pity, call.
Failing to move your grief, were judgment's fault,
For sorrow moves me, first, by nature, taught;
Nature, in unaffected freedom, drest,
By plain simplicity, hits passion, best.
Shown, like your virtues, [to the gentlemen] strongest, without glare,
And, like your beauties, [to the ladies] without paint, most fair.

120

Verses written, on Windows in several Parts of the Kingdom, in a Journey to Scotland.

[Letters, from absent friends, extinguish fear]

Letters, from absent friends, extinguish fear,
Unite division, and draw distance near;
Their magic force each silent wish conveys,
And wafts embody'd thought, a thousand ways:
Cou'd souls to bodies, write, death's power were mean,
For minds cou'd, then, meet minds, with heaven, between.

[Order! thou eye of action! wanting thee]

Order! thou eye of action! wanting thee,
Wisdom works, hoodwink'd, in perplexity:
Entangled reason trips, at every pace,
And truth, bespotted, puts on error's face

[Tender-handed stroke a nettle]

Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it slings you, for your pains:
Grasp it, like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk, remains.

121

'Tis the same, with common natures,
Use 'em kindly, they rebel:
But, be rough as Nutmeg-graters,
And the rogues obey you well.

[How is the world deceiv'd, by noise, and show!]

How is the world deceiv'd, by noise, and show!
Alas! how diff'rent, to pretend and know!
Like a poor, high-way brook, pretence runs loud
Bust'ling, but shallow, dirty, weak, and proud:
While, like some nobler stream, true knowledge glides,
Silently strong, and its deep bottom hides.

[Whig and Tory scratch and bite]

Whig and Tory scratch and bite,
Just, as hungry dogs we see:
Toss a bone 'twixt two, they fight,
Throw a couple, they agree.

122

[Women talk of love for fashion]

Women talk of love for fashion,
So they do, of Spirit's walking:
But no more they feel the passion,
Than they see the ghost of which they're talking.

[Have a care, gay, young, and wanton]

Have a care, gay, young, and wanton,
Give no ground, for love to plant on;
Guard against the fair deceiver,
See and hear, but don't believe her:
Or, if nothing seems unjuster,
Than to love, and yet distrust her:
On your side to turn the laughter,
Try her, first, and trust her, after.

[Here, in wet, and windy, weather]

Here, in wet, and windy, weather,
Muse, and I, two mopes, together,
Far, from friends and short of pleasure,
Wanting every thing, but leisure:
Scarce content, in any one sense,
Tell the showers, and scrible nonsense.

123

[Where'er the diamond's busy point could pass]

Where'er the diamond's busy point could pass,
See! what deep wounds have pierc'd the middle glass!
While partial and untouching, all the rest,
Highest and lowest panes, shine, unimpress'd:
No wonder, this!—For, e'en in life, 'tis so;
High fortunes stand, unreach'd—unseen the low,
But middle states are marks, for every blow.

[As, in a journey, just begun]

As, in a journey, just begun,
We think the distance, vast,
Yet, while we travel, gayly, on,
Insensibly, 'tis past.

So, in our youth, we measure slow,
Long views of promis'd breath:
'Till, like a shadow, out we go,
And vanish, into death.

124

[Were Women wise, their names on glass]

Were Women wise, their names on glass,
Light froth of empty fashion!
Wou'd, to their lovers sorrow, pass
For proofs of brittle passion.

Love should, in secret, like the sun,
Burn, tho' a world should shade it;
But shows it source of heat, to none,
Except that God, who made it.

[Whisp'ring close a maid, long courted]

Whisp'ring close a maid, long courted,
Thus, cry'd Drone, by touch transported;
Prithee, tell me, gentle Dolly!
Is not loving long a folly?
Yes, said she, with smile reproving,
Loving long, and only loving.

125

The Distinction of Ages.

The seven first years of life, (man's break of day)
Gleams of short sense a dawn of thought display,
When fourteen springs have bloom'd his downy cheek,
His soft, and blushful meanings learn to speak,
From twenty one, proud manhood takes its date,
Yet is not strength compleat, 'till twenty eight:
Thence, to his five and thirtieth, life's gay fire,
Sparkles, burns loud, and flames, in fierce desire.
At forty two his eyes grave wisdom wear,
And the dark future dims him o'er with care;
On, to the nine and fortieth, toils increase,
And busy hopes and fears disturb his peace,
At fifty six cool reason reigns, intire,
Then, life burns steddy, and with temp'rate fire.
But sixty three unbinds the body's strength,
E'er th' unwearied mind has run her length;
And, when, from seventy, age surveys her last,
Tir'd, she stops short—and wishes, all were past.

126

Description of a Tempest, from CVII Psalm.

They, who, in ships, the seas vast depths descend,
And, o'er the wat'ry world, their passage bend;
They (more than all) their God's great works discern,
And midst th' unfathom'd deep his wonders learn.
There, from smooth calms, on sudden storms they rise,
Hang on the horrid surge, and skim the skies!
Now, high as heaven, they climb their dreadful way,
Now, sink in gulphy slants, and lose the day!
Giddy, they reel, to shoot the frightful steep,
And their souls melt, amid the sounding sweep!
Helpless, they cling to what supports 'em, first,
And, o'er 'em feel the breaking billows burst.
Then, to their last almighty hope, they cry,
Who hears, and marks 'em, with a pitying eye:
He bids the storm be hush'd—The Winds obey;
And the aw'd Waves, in silence, shrink away,

127

Woman's Resolution.

Oh!—cry'd Arsenia, long, in Wedlock blest,
Her head reclining, on her husband's breast,
Should death divide thee, from thy doating wife,
What comfort could be found in widow'd life?
How the thought shakes me!—Heaven my Strephon save,
Or, give the lost Arsenia half his grave!

JOVE heard the lovely mourner and approv'd:
“And should not wives, like this, said he, be lov'd?
“Take the soft sorrower at her word, and try,
“How deeply rooted Woman's vows can lie?”
'Twas said, and done—the tender Strephon dy'd;
Arsenia, two long months—t'out live him try'd,
But in the third—alas! became a bride,

128

EPITAPH. Upon a Man, and his Wife.

Stay, Bachelor! if you have wit!
A wonder to behold!
Husband and Wife, in one dark pit,
Lye close, and never scold!

Tread softly though,—for fear she wakes;
Hark! she begins, already?
You've hurt my head—my shoulder akes:
These sots can ne'er move steady.

Ah, friend, with happy freedom blest!
See! how my hope's miscarried!
Not death itself, can give you rest,
Unless you die, unmarried.

129

EPILOGUE, To Every Man in his Folly, Spoke by Mrs Clive.

SILENCE —sit down, Sirs—hats off—that will do—
I know, you love a joke, if it be new;
You smart ones of the pit—I speak to you,
Criticks—mistake me not, for I protest,
Not one of you are aim'd at in the jest;
But, I perceive, among you, some of those,
Our author has, to night, thought fit t'expose,
You, Virtuosi—Connoisseurs—and Beaux.
A poet may—by just Dramatic laws,
Except against such jurors in his cause,
As parties, in the suit.—His humble prayer,
Is therefore only to the wise, and fair,
For this first fault, the criminal you'd spare.
'Tis from the life, his characters are shewn,
You're, first, invited here—then pencil'd down:
They, only, are to blame—who will the likeness own.

130

As for example—here's my Lord and I,
Perhaps, this circle may'nt the like supply;
O, yes, it does!—I have you, in my eye!
And, gad,—you're no unfashionable pair,
But, hush—sit still—you own it, if you stir.
In Araminta! pha!—ill-judging creature!
He has not hit you; in one single feature:
To make her, squeamishly, reject a lover,
When ev'ry trial, that cou'd shock, was over,
And nought remain'd, but what, with joy, shou'd move her.
She is no woman, faith—who, in that station,
Cou'd run the dangerous risk—of hesitation:
Gad!—we're for no such ticklish situation!
Give us a certainty, however small,
It must be better, sure!—than none at all.
But hold—what need have I, such truths to tell?
You penetrating devils!—you know't, too well.
Next—of our author's humour, wit, and plot,
Style, chaste expression, and—I know not what:
I saw, how 'twas—and faith—I ask'd him, plainly,
If he propos'd success, from being cleanly?
I bid him, here and there, throw in a scene,
(But, pray says I—take care, 'tis wrapt up clean,)
Of something, psha!—you all know, what I mean.

131

I own, I blush'd,—but he blush'd more, than I,
And said—if I can tell you—let me die.
What do you think the silly creature said?
That his chaste muse had yet—her maidenhead,
And should not be a prostitute, egad.
But now—I have a word, or two, to say
To you, who feel the satire of the Play:
What! you expect—that I should court your favour,
Curt'sy and pray;—I scorn such poor behaviour:
Don't you all know, when you, with us, dispute,
We have an argument to strike you mute?
And, as friend Bays has said—look to't—we'll do't.
Then yeild, at once—nor, 'gainst our poet, thunder:
I'll try, if you, or I, will be kept under.

PROLOGUE to the Tuscan Treaty.

Now, mercy on our poet:—for the pit
Will ne'er judge, kindly, of so rash a wit;

132

Who, 'twixt two fairs, untimely, makes pretence,
To please, by Tragedy, and Common sense.
Troth, 'tis a wild adventure! tho' his play
Were double-arm'd, and guarded every way.
What! tho' our scene does tyrants disapprove;
And smiles on vertue, liberty, and love?
What, tho' a minion meets with ill success,
While a good statesman helps his King, to bless?
Still, 'tis but labour lost, to hope succeeding:
Where the court's empty, what avails fine pleading?
We reap no summer harvests,—player and printer,
Bloom, like your Glassonbury thorn, in winter.
And you, yourselves, (thank heaven!) have ne'er sound reason,
To bear with good instruction, out of season.

All this I told him, plainly—but he hears not:
He knows your tastes, it seems—and, therefore, fears not:
Tho' half the world runs mad, (says he)—depend on't,
Good sense has some friends left—and there's an end on't.

133

The Muse to the Writer.

[_]

A Translation from the French of Dubartas.

I

Scarce was the April of my life begun,
When anxious to immortalize my name,
Pleasure, and soft repose, I learnt to shun,
And lab'ring, upward, sought the mounts of fame.

II

But, as a traveller, in viewless plains,
Stops, amid crossing roads, and doubts his way;
Pensively searchful, and, unsure, remains,
Eager to journey on, yet, loth to stray.

III

So stopt, and so unfix'd, I mark'd, around,
The flow'ry paths, that led to groves of Bays:
But, pausing doubtful, long confusion found,
Which, best to chuse, of all those tempting ways.

134

IV

One while, my genius plan'd the glowing scene,
And from the Grecian source, example drew:
Taught pride to pity; ignorance to mean;
And form'd the many, by the suff'ring few.

V

Anon domestic discord, snatch'd my pen;
My Country's woes I, now, aspir'd to feel:
Historic truths, and wrongs of injur'd men,
Impell'd my justice, and inflam'd my zeal.

VI

Then sinking sudden, from the glorious height,
Low mercenary praises quench'd my fire:
Poorly, a flatt'rer, I for profit, write,
And, to my fortune, tune my tortur'd lyre.

VII

At length, grown lazy, I, by love, was caught,
And, finding age, and taste, and will, too fit,
In warm light sallies, wanton lessons taught,
And, to the size of Cupid, cropt my wit.

135

VIII

While roving, thus, uncenter'd, and unstaid,
I lik'd, by turns, and did, by turns, refuse:
Sudden, before me, a descending maid
Confess'd the shape of a cœlestial muse.

IX

All, that we dream of angels, form'd her air;
Sweet was her gesture, and her step divine:
But, when she spoke, she would have charm'd despair,
And taught the gloom of wither'd age, to shine.

X

High, from her head, aspir'd a starry crown,
Immensely, beaming its effulgence round:
An azure mantle flow'd, obliquely down,
And, bright with lamps of silver, swept the ground.

XI

MORTAL! she cry'd, Urania's face behold!
Urania—muse, of all the heavenly nine,
Best skill'd—the paths of glory to unfold,
And make the poet (like his art) divine.

136

XII

I, thro' the dancing numbers, breathe a soul,
And, to the sound of reason, tune mankind:
I teach true pleasures false ones to controul,
And warm the yielding heart, to stamp the mind.

XIII

Mark me, and keep my image, long, in sight,
And, when departed to my starry sphere,
Strike this new harp, and, from it, draw delight,
By sounds, that list'ning angels love to hear.

XIV

Long, have I mourn'd my sister's sully'd fame,
By friendless mirth, or chearless malice, stain'd;
Cramp'd by cold flatteries, that blight their name,
Or, by wild warmths of loose desire, profan'd.

XV

But, most, I grieve that rebel waste of wit,
Which, boldly, pushing its infernal claim,
With darkness, for such blind presumption, fit,
Turns its own arms, on Heaven, with impious aim.

137

XVI

Learnt are the vulgar arts—But Poets draw,
From heaven alone, the Gift, that wings their fire:
Not the best lights, that ever learning saw,
Could living verse, by study'd strength, inspire.

XVII

Thence 'tis, that Homer, powerless, poor, and blind,
Beggar, himself, has taught e'en kings to shine:
Buoy'd sinking heroes, by fresh floods of mind,
And stretch'd the human grasp, with reach divine.

XVIII

Thence 'tis, that Ovid could not speak, in prose,
But wept in measure, and expir'd, in verse:
Thence, the Jessæan lyre, to musick rose,
Which seraphs, in their Maker's Ear, rehearse.

XIX

Read, meditate, reflect, grow wise—in vain;
Try every help; force fire, from every spark;
Yet, shall you ne'er the poet's power attain,
If heaven ne'er stamp'd you, with the muses mark.

138

XX

Man must be, out of man, sublimely swell'd,
Whose wreckless verse wou'd swim the storms of time,
By force, not fury, meaningly, impell'd,
To scorn the puny prostitutes of rhyme.

XXI

The warmth of fury but compassion moves,
And less than man, makes man, to man, appear:
But warmth of genius, man, from man, removes,
And lifts his wid'ning soul, to Heaven's high sphere.

XXII

Mark this soft Flute—when, void of vocal wind,
In tuneless silence, rests the sleeping sound:
Yet, when thus breath'd in, hark! what power 'twill find,
To waft the modulated raptures round!

XXIII

So, 'till the whisp'ring God-head bids—begin,
The poet's silent spirit stands unbent:
But, when he feels th' inspiring power, within,
Tuneful, he spreads the transports, heaven has lent.

139

XXIV

Since, therefore, all, that makes his genius shine,
Is heaven's own gift,—how dares he subjects chuse
Base, and unworthy, of that warmth divine,
And poorly noxious, to the passive muse?

XXV

Why is his pen employ'd, on idle themes?
Why is his fancy light? his purpose low?
Why does he waste his fire, in fruitless dreams?
And, with a tide of wanton wishes, flow?

XXVI

Why does he stoop to praise unletter'd pride?
Why celebrate defects, in those, who rule?
Why does his wit soft, am'rous trains provide,
And bid love's wild fire catch, from fool to fool?

XXVII

Ah! 'tis too much, that he, himself, has crimes,
Which, unrepented, ne'er unpunish'd go:
Why would he lend his guilt to distant times,
And teach an un-born race, to merit woe?

140

XXVIII

As, on the yielding wax, the seal we find,
Left in strong likeness, with imprinted glow;
So does the reader steal the poet's mind,
And, to the byas lent, inclining go.

XXIX

Shame on your pens, ye flexible of heart!
Whose poorness does not hurt yourselves alone,
But teaches blockheads to despise your art;
Judg'd by false patterns, you have, lightly, shewn.

XXX

Conscious of this, wou'd you but turn, at last,
And bid true genius, with true lustre, shine;
All would, admiring, lose th' impression past,
And feel, and own you, of a stamp divine.

XXXI

Then, as my Moses his Jehovah sung,
And Israel, wafted by the guardian rod:
Poets, from every kindling country, sprung,
Shall, in a thousand tongues, uncover God.

141

XXXII

O, you! who wou'd the deathless laurel win,
No King's vile badge, but time's all-rev'rend crown!
High, as the fountain, of your verse begin,
And, with the God, you write for, share renown.

XXXIII

This is a subject, that, out-stretching thought,
Thro' depths, unsounded, wit's long plummet draws:
There, by immense effects, immensely taught,
Pour out your straining souls, and claim applause.

XXXIV

There, and there only, find the road to fame;
The hardiest themes, the noblest glory yield:
On low, light subjects, scorn to build a name;
But, ent'ring boldly, plow th' untrodden field.

XXXV

Vainly, shall envy blast your budding praise;
Malice and hatred, vainly, press you down:
Slow shall you rise, indeed, but sure to blaze,
And, hourly broad'ning, reach decreed renown.

142

XXXVI

Envy's a curr, that, at all Strangers, barks;
But, on the known and licenc'd, creeps to fawn:
It's hov'ring smoke, hangs hard, on kindling sparks,
But, when the fire burns up, 'tis, strait withdrawn.

XXXVII

On then, be mine—Urania hears your pray'r;
Glows, in your breast, and fans it's gen'rous flame:
Write, to be read—be times to come, your care,
And bloom, forever fragrant, still the same.

XXXVIII

She said: and breath'd, ambrosial, o'er my face:
The circling sweetness swell'd my ravish'd mind;
She rose; and left me, in an empty space;
But left her pow'rful influence, still behind.

143

An ODE, to Astræa

[_]

From the French of Dubartas.

I

Fairest Pattern, from above,
Tho' I only live, for love,
'Tis not for those sparkling eyes:
Tho' the stars, that gild the skies,
When the twinklers shine most bright,
So compar'd, have lost their light.
Tho' the sun, in all his blaze,
Sees that smile, and hides his rays.

II

'Tis not, that my fancy dips,
In the Rainbow's red, thy lips,
'Tis not ev'n thy lips, that please:
Tho' the happiest Hybla bees,
When they rob the flow'ry spring,
Never ply'd the busy wing,
Charg'd with honey, half so sweet,
As 'twou'd be, those lips to meet.

144

III

'Tis not your neglect of air,
Far out-charming others care;
Nor those locks, that fall, resign'd,
Catch'd, and courted, by the wind:
Tho' the drifts of glitt'ring sand,
Strow'd o'er Africk's yellow strand,
Ne'er, to charm ambition, roll'd
Half such tempting veins of gold.

IV

'Tis not to those polish'd rows,
'Twixt whose openings, musick flows;
That I find my offerings due,
Vows, so tender, and so true!
Tho' the pearl-producing East,
Ne'er did Europe's wonder feast,
Spite of all its toothy store,
With such Ivory, before.

V

'Tis not that declining waist,
Nor that neck, so sweetly grac'd;
Nor the pantings of that breast,
(Soft as pity, and as blest!)

145

I cou'd even that breast defy:
Tho' were Læda's swan but nigh
All its Down wou'd fail to show,
Half so white, and soft a snow.

VI

When that forehead I behold,
(Smooth, as flatt'ry, and as cold!
'Tis not its majestic frown,
Throws my heart's defences down:
Tho' the silver moon, at height,
Shines less aweful, thro' the night,
Than the meanings of that brow
Shoot correction at me, now.

VII

'Tis not, that this azure vein
Marks your arm, with heav'n's own stain,
While, along the white, it flows,
Swell'd with triumph, as it goes:
'Tis not this engaging hand,
Holds my Heart, in soft command;
Tho', to hear it touch the lute,
Rocks wou'd speak,—and birds grow mute.

146

VIII

Teach me, then, mysterious fair,
What your power to charm? and where?
If this flame of my desire,
Did not, at your eyes, catch fire:
If those lips (how sweet they be!)
Have not, thus, entangled me;
Tell me, what my heart cou'd move?
Teach me, whence arose my love?

IX

If those ringlets of your hair,
Did not string this amorous snare;
If that beauteous mouth has fail'd,
Nor those ivory teeth prevail'd:
Tell me, what resistless cause,
Felt unknown, my fancy draws?
Still, unpleas'd, but where you are,
Still untaught, what pleases, there!

X

Since those breasts—(how soft they rise!)
Reach no farther, than my eyes;
Since I count a thousand charms,
None of which my heart disarms:

147

Let your still-uncounted store
Guide my search, to find out more,
'Till the cause I learn to know,
Pleasing cause! that charms me so.

XI

Ah! 'tis found—delightful truth!
Sense, with beauty, temp'ring youth.—
'Tis that peerless soul, of thine,
Breaks, like daylight, into mine;
Charg'd, with heaven's ætherial flame!
Full of charms, without a name!
'Tis thy converse, turn'd to move,
Claims respect, and forces love.

PROLOGUE, To the Double Deceit.

Poets misled by fondness for their own,
Think, the same fondness actuates the town:
Like the charm'd parent, that its child surveys,
And wonders, any, with less joy, can gaze:
Till better taught, both see their weakness, plain,
And, by their former joy, now, weigh their pain.

148

Convinc'd of this, (e'er an example made)
Our bard, by no self-love will be betray'd:
To your free judgments, he submits his cause,
And asks, from what you feel yourselves, applause,
Yet, from your justice, dares this hope maintain,
You take no joy, to give another—pain,

JUDGMENT, oft, varies, as th' affected mind
Is, from within, to joy, or grief, inclin'd:
If pleas'd, the well wrote play affords delight,
And each gay scene looks gayer, in your sight:
If vex'd—(as sorrow disinclines the brain,)
The poet suffers, for your private pain.

Above each weakness, dare, from sense alone,
To praise, or blame, what will, to night, be shown;
If to the task unequal, he shou'd seem;
Th' attempt, to please you, merits some esteem:
If he should please—remove, at once, his pain;
Applause will make him grateful, but not vain.

149

The humble Petition of Pegasus to the White Horse of H---r.

Right humbly, fair Cuz! in these presents, is shown,
By your kinsman most loving, tho' poor and unknown,
That, since all your delight is in bounding and prancing,
I have wings, at my back, that might help your advancing.
Therefore, pray, tell your owner, who loves to aspire,
He must cherish our stud, if he means to ride higher:
'Tis the gift of our breed, and the task of our calling,
Both, to bear men aloft, and to keep 'em, from falling:
All the plates, which his bounty, bestows, on you racers,
But encourage good Runners, which ne'er make good Chasers.

150

Not my lord, nor his groom, nor the rat-catcher's mare,
Can forsake the dull earth, and get foremost, in air;
But were Pegasus spurr'd, by crown-plates, to move faster,
He wou'd rise, from this world, and win next, for his master:
You'll forgive me this scrawl, tho' it comes the wrong way,—
But S---r R---t's too busy, to mind, what I say.
And, tho' oft, he spares money, to buy an ass traces,
Won't subscribe a gold plate, for the Helicon races.

EPILOGUE, To Zara

[_]

Spoke by Miss C---, in Boy's Cloaths.

Ladies, 'twill give but very little pain t'ye,
When such a tiny thing, as I, complain t'ye.

151

Were I grown big, and bold enough, to charm ye,
I'd do't—but, for the world, I wou'dn't harm ye.

Alas!—we've lost our stage;—whereon to strut,
Was the unlicenc'd claim of Lilliput.
Yet, here, where never patent monarch reign'd!
We see our ground, by strange usurpers, gain'd!
On our own soil condemn'd to over laying,
By these dramatic rats, in mouse-hole playing;
Ah! do us right—Since like with like engages,
Give little actors way, on little stages.

One poor pretence they urge—but strain'd their wit for't,
That we'er too young, for business, and unfit for't.
Lord! how some folks will lie!—from truth, he flinches,
Who measures our ability, by inches.
You know—'tis young and lively—old and crazy—
Then, short, and sweet's the word—but—long, and lazy.
All things, that please, are short—no—short caressings,
I fear, you'd, all, give up;—and chuse—long, blessings.

152

Well!—such be yours, if after they've done playing,
You come, and make our troop amends, for staying.

EPIGRAM, On giving the Name of Georgia to a Part of Carolina.

While, rip'ning slow, the future purpose lay,
And conscious silence plann'd th' op'ning way;
Kind, o'er the rising scheme, an angel hung,
And dropt this counsel, from his guardian tongue.

Wish you, this way, the royal pair inclin'd?
To Carolina be a Georgia join'd—
Then, shall both colonies sure progress make,
Endear'd to either, for the other's sake:
Georgia shall Carolina's favour move;
And Carolina bloom, by George's love.

153

A Letter from a departed Spirit;

to the Author (Mr. Pope) of a Lady's Character, lately publish'd, in a Thursday's Journal.

Stript, to the naked soul, escap'd, from clay,
From doubts, unfetter'd; and dissolv'd, in day:
Unwarm'd, by vanity; unreach'd, by strife,
And all my hopes, and fears, thrown off, with life:
Why am I charm'd, by Friendship's fond essays,
And, tho' unbody'd, conscious of thy praise?

Has pride a portion, in the parted soul?
Does passion still, the formless mind controul?
Can gratitude out-pant the silent breath?
Or, a friend's sorrow pierce the glooms of death?
No—'tis a spirit's nobler taste of bliss!
That feels the worth, it left, in proofs, like this:
That, not its own applause, but thine, approves,
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves!
Who liv'st, to crown departed friends, with fame,
Then dying late, shall all, thou gav'st, reclaim.

154

The CIVth Psalm.

I.

Let my exalted harp be doubly strung!
High-tune thy praise, my soul! and let thy God be sung!
See! how around his throne the conscious rays
Shoot quiv'ring, with continuous curve, and tremble in their blaze!
See! what soul-shaking majesty, effulgent, he displays!
Cloath'd with embodied light, see! where he stands!
Pointing wide his dread commands!
As earth's dim flames, o'erwhelm'd by streaming day,
Beneath the sun-beams die away,
The sun, full met, with cover'd face, retires,
Burns inward, and rolls back his frighted fires!
Gracious, th' unequal eye of man to skreen!
See! where the maker kindly shades the too resplendent scene!
And, like a curtain, widely drawn, spreads out whole heaven, between.

155

Look! now, amazing! where he glides!
Look! where yon gathering host of clouds, he dreadfully bestrides!
And, aweful, on those self-roll'd chariots, rides!
He moves! he walks, upon the swift-wing'd wind!
He steps, from world to world, at once, and leaves even thought, behind!

II.

Myriads of hovering angels croud the God-grac'd scene to fill!
Angels! fit heralds for th' almighty's will!
Ten thousand fiery light'nings sweep his way!
Nimble Couriers of his sway!
And, round his temples, hissing swift, in blue Mæanders, play!
The firm-fix'd balance of the self-poiz'd globe,
To neither byas, partial sway'd,
Became thus just, at his great word, and lastingly obey'd!
At his command, the covering deep, drew off the world's wet robe;

156

Gave back, and fill'd the chanels, he had made!
But, peeping o'er the hills, reluctant staid;
Displeas'd with its new bounds, but more afraid,
Its old to re-invade!
E'en yet the stubborn-hearted flood, no more
High-licenc'd, as before,
Disdains to give its proud repinings o'er:
Oft, with bold murmurs, it alarms the shore,
And, now and then, with rebel rage, breaks out, in general roar!
But, when presumptuous billows swell, too high,
And sprinkle heaven's eternal eye:
Streight, all the thunders of God's voice, in loud resentment, rise;
The starting flood hears, shakes, and flies!
Down sinks the quash'd aspirer, from the skies,
And, hush'd, in humble flatness, lies!
Yet, if the sovereign will but nods, black oceans quit their bed!
Foamy, they lash each other on, with high discovering head!
And, curling, climb the steepy hills, and, o'er drown'd mountains spread!
Thence call'd again, again they rush! confessing God's controul!

157

Again let loose, reseek their sandy beds!
Tumble, for haste, o'er one another's heads!
And, sweeping with resistless breadth, o'er delug'd kingdoms roll!
Fierce, as they are, they're subject to his check!
They know th' appointed bounds, and watch th' imperious beck!

III.

From the huge treas'ry of the briny deep,
Thro' thousand earth-form'd lab'rinths, taught to slide,
In search of springs, the salt-stript waters creep,
And trickling thence, into sweet rivers glide.
Smooth-travelling, to seek their mazy way!
And, devious, 'twixt th' enamour'd hills, slowly, delightful, stray;
These God appointed thus to flow, exhaustless, stores of drink,
Where every beast may quench his thirst, that seeks the smiling brink!
And, in the shady groves, which on their borders, rise!
He hous'd the warbling songsters of the skies!

158

The pride-swoln mountains, which ambitious grow,
And, neighb'ring heaven, disdain the world, below,
Nor will, to humble brooks, refreshment owe,
He waters, with th' ætherial seas, or coronets of snow!
Amazing goodness! where's the smallest space!
That does not feel, and boast his grace?
For cattle's food, green flourishes, the flow'r-embroider'd mead:
For man's free use, is every fruit decreed:
For him, th' inspiring grape was taught to bleed;
Bread-bearing corn makes glad the labourer's toil;
And his rough skin grows supple, smooth'd with oil.

IV.

When, at fix'd times, up rolls the changeful moon,
God shoots her shadowy gleam, thro' night's black noon!
Rapid, as is the ever-wheeling sun,
He dares not measure heaven, one thought, too soon?

159

Yet, at God's word, the flag of day is furl'd,
And licenc'd darkness rises o'er the world!
Then, does the gloomy forest quake!
And all th' assembled savage kind their holiday, then, make!
Leaf-trembling trees, in silent horror, shake!
And panting herds creep, terrified, away!
While the stern lion, hungry, roars, and stalks abroad, for prey!
God suffers him the needful prey to take!
And, then, new-wakes the day!
Out breaks the sun, and, to their dens, the beasts fly swift away!
Almighty power! how dost thou thought confound!
What human search can trace thy mazy round?
How wisely, and how vastly, Lord! are all thy wonders done!
Not earth, alone, does, with thy wealth, abound,
But all, above, and all beneath the sun!

V.

The sea's wild herds, as well as those, on land,
Rough-moulded sons, too! of thy formful hand,
All live and move by thy command:

160

The horrid wonders of that scene, fatigue the akeing eye,
There, wave-toss'd ships the op'ning depths defy!
And, circly, thro' th' imprison'd winds, their diff'rent courses ply!
There does Leviathan, wide-wallowing, lie:
And, while his broad, unweildy sports, the scaly people fly!
He, dreadful monster! sucks in seas, and spouts 'em, at the sky!
On thee, obedient, all thy creatures wait:
And, in due season, all, by thee, are fed,
Thy single bounty does their bliss create;
They gather, what thy op'ning hand has spread:
If thou but hid'st thy face, they fall away:
Thou tak'st their breath, and they decay;
At once, return to unform'd dust, and old paternal clay.
Again! thou dost but speak thy potent will!
And life, rekindling, glows within 'em, still!
Forever, shall thy glorious power endure!
The pillars of thy majesty stand steadfastly, and sure!
Approach'd by thee, the conscious mountains smoke;
And earth, dissolv'd, flows loose, beneath thy stroke!

161

To his Muse.

Thy country! blast it, if it once disdains,
To prop thy virtues, or reward thy pains!
If there I prosper, here was only born,
That claims my duty! this deserves my scorn!
O muse! 'tis mean to stoop to helpless moan!
Try, if no clime is gentler, than thy own!
Offer, on distant shores, a faithful hand,
In vain, not useless, in thy mother land!
When fortune frowns, and care's black harvest springs,
A change of place, a change of prospect brings!
Far off, thy reason's force, uncurb'd, may reign;
But even the prophets preach'd at home in vain.

Yet, hold! and e'er it quite determin'd grows,
Let me some sudden starts of hope disclose:
E'er, widely wand'ring, led by false distrust,
From my wing'd feet, I shake their native dust!
Perhaps, my doubt clouds some domestic ray:
And hides a prospect, bordering on my way!
Tho' men of title seem exempt from thought,
And pride's assistance is but vainly sought:

162

Tho' truth, oft try'd, this known advice imparts,
That noble blood may warm ignoble hearts!
Hid in a cloud of pomp, which hems the throne,
There may be greatness, to my hopes unknown!
Howe'er unsought, howe'er unseen, by me,
There may some soul-distinguish'd nature be!
Some gen'rous breast, whose mind, divinely warm,
Has taught him, how uncourted favours charm!

If such there be, so rich, so strong, a mind!
And thou, blest muse, shall his bright bosom find!
Whisper, in gentle notes, thy master's pray'r:
And, in soft accents, this sad truth declare.

There lives, O, brightest gem, of honour's crown!
Thou angel-acted theme of just renown!
There lives, who, skill'd, in Fortune's wanton sports,
Hopes, with such faintness, for regard from courts,
That, tho' not blind to worth, which all men see!
He sends me, half-despairing, even to thee!
No gain-polluted aim inspires his views!
He seeks not office, nor reward pursues!

163

More nobly fir'd, his thoughts high schemes design,
To stretch dominion, and make empire shine!
Oh! were his wishes blest! and thy kind ear
Wou'd, once, impartial, his conceptions hear!
Th' important moment might resolves produce,
And cloath ideas, with substantial use!

Stop there, O muse! 'twere needless more to say!
And, with unwilling slowness, glide away:
If, mov'd, he calls thee back, regardful, go!
If not, return, ungriev'd: all vain complaint is low.

The Tears of the Muses: A Poem.

Germanicus, for love, and empire, born,
At once to govern kingdoms, and adorn;
Too good for greatness, but that kings can bless,
Too firm for fear, but of his friend's distress:
Fore-temp'ring pow'r by reason's generous plan,
To task the monarch, meditates the man.

164

In a town grove, whence dryads noise exclude,
And hush loud streets, to sylvan solitude,
Veil'd by a verdant skreen's incircling shade,
Whose angly sides eight arching lights pervade,
Friend to mankind, their pensive fav'rite stood;
Revolving previous plans of purpos'd good.

Soft, to his sight, a female suppliant press'd,
In all the speaking marks of mis'ry dress'd:
Down-look'd, relax'd of mien, oft bending, low;
Now stopping short, now re-advancing, slow:
Pardon, she cry'd, th' intruding sighs of grief;
Hope is the friendless wretche's last relief.

GERMANICUS, who, when distress draws nigh,
Catches quick sorrow, from the suff'rer's eye,
With gentle waft invites her back'ning fears,
And smiles the warmth of pity on her tears.
Her, while advancing, heedful he survey'd,
Chance stretch'd his eye to the remoter shade:
Where, dimly obvious, from the bord'ring wood,
Dark'ning the arches, eight new phantoms stood;
All, like the first, thin forms of shiv'ring woe,
Wept all—in dumb, sad, solemn, circl'y show!

165

Think, cry'd th' approacher, prostrate at his feet,
How sharp is insult! and relief how sweet!
Pity a wretched sisterhood of tears:
Nine friendless mourners, whom no comfort chears.
All arts were ours, that polish'd life cou'd gain:
But arts, and polish'd life, were ours in vain.
See! what reward wish'd knowledge cou'd impart!
Where fool is fashion, ignorance is art.
Urg'd by derision, and escaping hate,
We, sad, slow, exiles, seek some gentler fate.
To the bleak north's new-rising coasts we go;
Less cold than these, amidst eternal snow.
Glory's gay beams, to whose felt warmth we run,
More than supply the absence of their sun.
There, mourning merit cannot miss relief;
Where watchful pow'r supplants prevented grief.
Fam'd for munificence, thy princely hand
Singly absolves an unbestowing land.
Ah! save the friendless—help the wrong'd away:
Too poor to go, yet too un-lov'd to stay!
Pay but wish'd passage from this cruel shore:
And never, never, will we trust it more.

166

Scarce had th' imploring accents voic'd her pray'r,
When the known sounds and recollected air,
Through the false semblance, natively convey'd,
To the charm'd prince, a speaking muse, betray'd.
Round, while, uncrediting the storied woe,
His curious eyes discov'ring glances throw.
Th' examin'd umbrage, as he turn'd, reveal'd
Each muse, that ev'ry distant arch conceal'd.
Waiting impatient, for the finish'd tale,
Quit your vain hope, he cry'd, by want's thin veil
Unhid, to 'scape the rev'rence of my zeal,
Who all your power, thro' all your changes, feel.

Joyful, he snatch'd th' implorer from the ground,
Then, turning graceful, bow'd progressive, round;
Press'd their joint access undisguis'd and gay;
And shone, receptive of each effluent ray.

Seated, and circled by the beamy train,
Their shapes, resuming, and themselves again,

167

Tell me, said he—ye soul-inspiring nine!
Ye living fires, that give the great, to shine,
Who, quick'ning regal courage into flame,
Guide it, by justice, to immortal fame!
Why wou'd ye leave a land distinguish'd, long,
For love of valour, and for hate of wrong?
Where freedom unrestrain'd her empire holds,
And legal monarchy new bloom unfolds?

He paus'd—and Clio answering, thus began,
Perish, pale Malice!—It oblit'rates man.
Where envy blasts, the muse inspires in vain:
No human culture, there, extends its reign.
Lost in malignity by civil hate,
Virtues, that clash with virtues, curse a state.
Stifled in faction, arts unfriended sink:
Or, pigmy'd into partial flatt'ry shrink.
Hist'ry must blush, the wiles of spleen to pen,
And grace the bloodless broils of angry men.

Smother'd in self, there breathes no public soul,
Where sep'rate strugglings gen'ral strength controul;

168

There, Policy's old gen'rous straitness bends;
And shifting medium crawls to sidelong ends.
There, fraud triumphant tempts the just to fall:
And every one man's gain is loss, to all.
There, love, internal, checking sighs that roam,
Begins, and ends, all charity,—at home.
Each pray'r appropriates one man's modest aim:
And humbly trusts to God the common claim.
Crush'd by contempt of praise, exertion dies:
And public spirit, laugh'd at, shuns to rise.

Thither when hope misleads th' historic muse,
Swift let her seek some scene of nobler views.
Where guileless pow'r no praise to craft ascribes,
Where Courage scorns deceit, and duty—bribes.
Where nervous meaning dares, directly, speak:
And crooked windings teach no truth to sneak.

'Tis found—for, see!—the icy pole dissolves!
Honour's new warmth with sunny force evolves!

169

There, glows event! there, more than Roman arms
Clash their prophetic thunder's fear'd alarms!
There, the puls'd public beats, in ev'ry vein:
Strong, to one purpose, lifts with equal strain.
No vile pretension, there, at titles aims:
No Pride-swoln lumber lazy lordship shames.
There, shines the sword, in honour's guarded track,
No knighthood blushes, on a miser's back.
No bought emblaz'nings, eminence efface,
No dirty dignity sublimes disgrace.
There, Heroes multiply; and labouring fame
Grows busy,—to record each sparkling name.

She ceased—the prince his patriot eyes withdrew,
Weigh'd the long charge, and wish'd it, half, untrue.
Sigh'd at the waste domestic discord made:
And mourn'd unfriended arts, by spleen betray'd.
Then view'd the sisters, reprepar'd to hear:
While Erato, soft sighing, charm'd his ear.

170

Lur'd, said the am'rous muse, from realms above,
Pleas'd, I descended on this land of love;
Look'd and approv'd: and form'd aërial schemes,
Of heart-felt tyes, and hope's elusive dreams;
Vainly propos'd—each sex by each to mend;
And smooth the rugged paths of life, with friend.
Snatch'd at one sweet example, new to fame,
Urg'd its dear pow'r, th' unhappier to reclaim:
Misguided millions hail'd th' acknowledg'd charms;
And lov'd perfection, when it bless'd thy arms.
But ah! too lost a length themselves were gone!
They worship'd, and confess'd:—but still sinn'd on.
Yet I, vain hoper! still new helps apply:
And, ever failing, wou'd forever try.
To slighted beauty wou'd new powers impart:
And stretch the aided empire of the heart.
Teach man, that woman's strength in softness lies:
Teach woman, why the modest charm the wise.
Useless to either, I from both, remove.
Money's th' inspiring muse of modish love!
O'er truth and passion, avarice prevails,
All vows are venal, and all sighs are sales.

171

Int'rest and vanity, and self, disarm
Mutual esteem, till neither sex can charm.
Then, blanc unnat'ral whims pervert desire:
Attraction failing, they exchange attire.
Then, man's lac'd lightness apes the lady's air:
And bluff, big, boldness, masculates the fair.
With changing sexes, love's lost motives change,
From wish to wish the short-liv'd passions range.
Recorded constancy becomes romance:
And, among millions, two may love—by chance!

Why should I, then, supporting present scorn,
Stretch my too patient hope, to times unborn?
When, to the North, where nature shines unstain'd,
Confiding sexes love, with faith unfeign'd,
Their native beauties, in no clime excell'd,
To rising force by conscious worth impell'd;
While thro' the sparkling eye taught spirit breaks,
And the felt lustre of their fame partakes.

The lover prince unwillingly believ'd
Faults, which his nobler nature scarce conceiv'd.
Touch'd for the honour of the human heart,
His own glow'd painful, with ideal smart.

172

When loftier accents from Urania broke,
And snatch'd his list'ning soul, while science spoke.

From heav'n's unsounded depth, she cry'd, I stole
Angelic fire, and form'd a Newton's soul.
Taught him the secret walks of God to tread;
And 'twixt the starry worlds his spirit led:
All Æther op'ning to a mortal's eyes,
Till earth sent colonies, and held the Skies!
What King, for this magnificently just,
Bless'd him in life, or dignified his dust?
What voted honours mark the aspirer's race?
What thinking statues emulate his face?
He, who immortaliz'd his country's name,
Beyond ten thousand conqu'rors bounded fame,
He, who, to lift mankind, new heav'ns display'd,
And every human breather nobler made,
Did he to public fame all nature raise?
And is he poorly left to private praise!
In such a land, ah! what can arts expect?
What claim has hopeless science, but neglect?

O! fate of wint'ry worth, by climate cross'd!
Budding untimely, to be nip'd in frost!

173

Newton has multiplied the suns!—yet pours
In vain, the light of all their orbs, on ours.
When will th' incurious courts, for which, he found
New worlds, find will to trace an old one round?
What promis'd pension ships th' unshaken soul,
To dare discov'ry, and ungloom the pole?
What coasting keel, indenting southern strands,
Starts the long shores of cloud-benighted lands?
No annual bounty, persevering, kind,
Draws the dark veil, that covers half mankind.
What regal influ'nce, easing learning's birth?
Now, adds new stars to heav'n? or arts, to earth?
Who sows munificence, to root up sloth,
And call forth harvests, of eternal growth?

Hail, to the land, where war makes science room!
Where realms from desarts rise! and ruins bloom!
Where conquest, spreading to embrace distress,
Lets loose ambition, not to waste, but bless!
There, pow'r inverts destruction, into birth;
And the prolific sword empeoples earth!
There, desolation, fruitful in decay,
Fades, into opulence, and strengthens sway.

174

There, ports (un-native) indrawn seas confine:
And climbing streams o'er channel'd mountains shine.
There, public splendor swallows private pride,
And claims, which all men share in, all men, guide,
There art, rewarded, strains excited skill;
Till dazling wonders wid'ning empire fill.
The fierce free Tartar sees the Tartar taught;
Grins, at advancing rule, and pants for thought.
Then, in long link, new nations forward draw:
And the drain'd wilds of nature crowd to law.
Hail, promis'd land!—All, now, that seems severe,
Is—that, removing hence, we leave You here.

Urania stopp'd and bow'd.—The prince, whose heart
Inly confess'd the pow'r of cherish'd art,
Nobly approving praise, so justly warm;
Smil'd, conscious of his inborn right to charm.

Next, rose Terpsichore,—melodious muse!
Soft, her first accents, like descending dews:
Sweet, and slow swelling, till in livelier sound,
Gay, to the ravish'd ear, quick transports bound.

175

Tim'd to the tuneful voice, each trembling tree
Strain'd its tugg'd roots, and labour'd to be free.
Warm'd thro' the wak'ning stone, the sculptur'd ear
Of every starting statue seem'd to hear.
Air catch'd, and length'ning back the mazy notes,
Curls, while the undulating music floats.
Earth list'ning to inhale harmonious pain,
Sigh'd it, in soft vibration, back again.

Pardon a mourning muse, that leaves, with tears,
The land, that lov'd Germanicus endears.
But, ah! what toils, what anguish, shalt thou bear!
What endless labour must o'erload thy care!
Ere thy last views a taste, like thine, inspire,
And sparkling kingdoms catch thy manly fire!

Near opera's fribling fugues, what muse can stay?
Where wordless warblings winnow thought, away!
Music, when purpose points her not the road,
Charms, to betray, and softens, to corrode.
Empty of sense, the soul-seducing art
Thrills a slow poison to the sick'ning heart.

176

Soft sinks idea, dissolute in ease,
And all life's feeble lesson is, to please.
Spirit, and taste, and generous toil, take flight:
And lazy love, and indolent delight,
And low luxurious weariness of pain,
Lull the lost mind,—and all its powers are vain.

Hence, to the realms of fame, ye muses, fly.
There, to the drum's big beat, the heart leaps high.
There, sighing flutes but temp'ring martial heat,
Teach distant pity and revenge to meet.
The manly pipe, there, scorns th' expanded shakes,
That wind wav'd nothings, till attention akes.
There now, concurring keys and chords increase
The heart's soft social tyes, and cherish peace.
Then, trumpets, answ'ring trumpets, shrill, and far,
Swell to the sounding wind th' inspiring war.
There, the rous'd soul, in exercise, grows strong:
Nor pools to puddly foulness, stopp'd, too long.
Strength'ning and strengthned, by the poet's fire,
There, music's meaning voice exalts desire.
There, harmony not drowns, but quickens, thought;
And fools, unfeeling words, by notes are caught.

177

Soft sigh'd the prince, for suff'ring music, pain'd,
And Polyhymnia, rising warm, complain'd.
Deign to be told, impartial, gen'rous, wise!
Why fruitless eloquence indignant flies.
Gall'd at lost time, in cases vainly clear'd,
At truths untouching, and at sounds, unheard;
Blushing, while Oratory's lab'ring strains,
On præ-decision, waste derided pains;
And flourish'd periods, to no purpose fine,
Like suns in desarts, without notice, shine,
Hating grave insult, I disdain to stay,
Where talk but trifles, and where tropes but play.
If serious rhet'ric sweats, where sneering mutes
Hast'ning the hurried question, crop disputes;
If law sells argument, yet forms must reign,
And, custom pleading, equity is vain;
If the dark pulpit's short mysterious art
Lifts faith to heav'n; and damns the moral heart;
Bear me, dishonour'd God! to some plain state,
Where truth, in spite of aye and no, is weight.
Where pleas of right a reas'ning bench persuade,
And justice scorns in precedent to trade.

178

Where no bold blasphemy wou'd faith enslave:
But, humble, honest, doubting, works can save.

Euterpe, watchful of her sister's close,
Snatch'd her sunk cadence, and impatient rose.
Pleasure, she cry'd, is mine; mine, the gay skill,
To paint the fancy, and adorn the will.
But where dry avarice has taste betray'd,
Pleasure is robbery, in masquerade.
Contending sexes push one common aim:
And youth, and wit, and beauty, meet, to game!
At cards to conquer, or at dice to sweep,
Is all the humble joy, the polish'd reap!

Or, if, aspiring to robuster praise,
Some livelier genius, warmth more active sways,
Then, frock'd in groomy sleekness, tight, and smart,
The pert, capp'd, racer, dares the jockeys art,
At stake and plate, his skill profoundly shewn,
He, from his horse's worth, presumes his own.

Or, nobly stung by John the coachman's claim,
Climbing th' advent'rous box, disputes his fame!

179

Scatt'ring malignant dust, cracks voice and thong,
Glows, for a livery's right, and burns along!
Proudly display'd, looks back, and shouts to find
Poor conscious John, less glorious, hang behind.

Not so, th' Olympian rivals charm'd, of old,
When fiery youths in whirling chariots roll'd!
Then, the watch'd signal bad the rank disjoin;
And rushing wheels dissolv'd the breaking line:
Strain'd to th' expanded whip's impulsive sound,
Light leap'd th' exulting axles o'er the ground:
'Twixt crowding nations, partial, panting, gay,
The prais'd plum'd hero skim'd the less'ning way,
The smoaking steeds obey'd the watchful rein,
And winding warlike, swept the shouting plain.
Now, graceful rais'd, now pendent in career,
High, and far-glitt'ring, shone the charioteer;
Firm in his seat, superior in his mien,
Flew o'er the course, and flam'd along the green:
Martial in gesture, eminent in grace,
His birth and grandeur light'ning from his face.

Or, if to sweeter contest match'd he mov'd,
And, in some ball, led the kind hand he lov'd,

180

The modest fair, slow thro' the mazy dance,
Swam to the love-sick soul, in soft advance.
No light coarse frisking kick'd off woman's air:
No strong, stretch'd, limb, out-trod attraction, there,
Decent their pleasures, and discreetly weigh'd;
Active the youth, and delicate the maid.
Honour, by elegance, its right maintain'd:
And, thought correcting rapture, prudence reign'd.

Mournful Melpomene, with tragic frown,
Spoke next: and thus deplor'd a tasteless town.
Why strove the scenic muse to shine, in vain,
Where wit is levity, and art is gain?
Where law's blind hope wou'd curb corruption's rage,
Yet, left undue contempt to taint the stage?
Hence, Theatres, neglected into shame,
Catching at concourse, purity disclaim.
By pow'r deserted, make their humbler court
To rake, and rancour, or to fool and sport.
Piqu'd to reprizal, unconfed'rate wit,
Noting the popular, evades the fit.
Then, the play plots on state-craft, laughs at truth:
Misguides allegiance, or unsinews youth.

181

Thither crouds faction, to be taught complaint:
Where pow'r, the martyr, might have reign'd, the saint.
There, wisdom bleeds, by pleasure's feath'ry dart:
And love's loose hand unstrings the slacken'd heart.
There, discontent, first, tries her tim'rous force;
Hints, and finds help, and dares her dang'rous course.
There, froth, farce, flatt'ry, chance, sedition, rule:
And virtue scarce finds place, in virtue's school!

Farewell, forsaken stage—When courts refuse
To urge wit's wand'ring rein, she shames a muse.
Hail! from afar—thou, fate-foretelling light!
Beaming prognostic, through the eye of night!
Kindling a hundred realms, the' enliv'ning flame
Wings the wak'd energy of courted fame.
There, empire flashing into glory's blaze,
Conscious intention blushes not at praise.
There spurring virtue, wit has leave to mean:
And pow'r exciting passion, prompts the scene.

So must it be, ere tragic fire is felt!
But, where grave thoughts are marks, for fools to pelt,

182

Where tir'd illit'rate viewless yawning pride
Must hear, unlist'ning, and, untaught, decide,
There, let lost sentiment mispoint no beam;
To hope, were blindness: and to wish a dream!

Up leap'd Thalia, glowing red with rage,
Fir'd and indignant at a farceful age.
Shall Comedy's insulted muse, she cry'd,
Hold hoops, to tumblers!—
She paus'd,—unable to proceed;—sigh'd strong:
Repell'd the big disdain—and trac'd her wrong.

Shall Comedy, for sworded harlequin,
Split lathes? and arm him, for the mimic scene!
While he, proud impotence! with modish strut,
Cocks bluff, diffusive of his wooden cut!
Must she swing Gypsies o'er the winnow'd pit,
Mounting posteriors, in defect of wit!
Or clap some human whirlwind's blust'ring rage,
That o'er twelve heads descending, shakes the stage!
Stare, while th' unmanly reptile's wriggling twist
Threads the stav'd ladder, and descends, unhiss'd?
Or, for the rope-aspirer's jirkful tread,
Shall she poize right their emblematic lead?

183

No—Let implor'd expulsion wing me thence!
Far let me fly, to some fair seat of sense:
Where life's stol'n humour glows with mirthful grace,
And comic picture copies nature's face:
Where imag'd passion, dear to the polite,
Leaves low buffoon'ry to the rabble's right.
Tir'd, yet untask'd, let me no longer wait,
Laughing unheeded—at the laughing great:
While, with the roar of boys, to tricks they run,
Which mobs shou'd shout at, and the wise shou'd shun.
Gravely, good souls! reserving solid scorn,
For thoughts, to feel whose force, themselves were born.

Warm'd in wit's cause, lamenting genius lost,
Nor tasting ecstasy, at judgment's cost,
List'ning Germanicus, with pensive grace,
Revolv'd wish'd soft'nings, for a pitied race:
When, like a trumpet pouring music's flood,
Speaking Calliope thrill'd thro' his blood.

184

There was a prince! ah! bid me add, ere long,
There is—impulsive of the epic song.
Flame, of imperial prominence, he shin'd:
Terror, at once, and charm, of humankind!
All the soft praise of social life his due:
All the rais'd pow'rs, of arms, and arts, he knew:
Fearless, impell'd his father's fortune on:
And, in youth's dawn, a dazzling victor shone!
In force resistless, yet undaring wrong:
Honest, in vengeance! and in pity, strong!
Without, dwelt war, in all her thund'ring din:
While peace in all her stillness, wept, within.
Form'd for a lover, for a thinker taught;
Bloodless reflective eminence, he sought:
Born to be greatest, chose but to be best:
But heav'n, that knew his use, forbad his rest:
Then, from the calms of conqu'ring thought, he rose,
Glow'd in tempestuous war, and scorn'd repose.
Uncrown'd, gave crowns, at will, their thorns untry'd;
And more than reigning, without reigning died.

185

Such, though the land I leave cou'd shew me still,
Calm seasons call not for a Pilot's skill.
Peace is the blessing, commerce loves to chuse;
But war, and glory, task the epic muse.
Farewel, sure subject of my future song!
When, rising shameful at a people's wrong,
In times yet distant, thy rememb'ring hand
Lets loose correction at some foreign land.
Then, loud as thy applause, reclaim us, all:
And every muse of nine shall wait thy call.

Speaking she rose: and, with her, rising slow,
Her eight sad sisters, sighing, turn'd to go.
Lively upstarting from his shadow'd seat,
Stay, cry'd the prince, alarm'd,—suspend retreat.
Just though your anger, yet revenge forbear:
Lest, taught by muses, man forgets to spare.
Too soon, degen'rate nature warps awry,
The bad to copy, and the good to fly.
Have you beheld wit's stream discolour'd glide,
And pour'd lost azure on th' unconscious tide?

186

Think the blame yours, who heav'n's best tincture bring,
To stain the current, yet neglect the spring!
Wou'd you, at once, Cœrulean depth renew?
And, gayly bright'ning, flush th' improvement, through?
High, at the source, th' infusive tinge bestow:
And ev'ry downward drop shall tinctur'd flow.

But, while, a vagrant, inspiration strays,
And, here and there, unlicens'd pow'r displays,
Though sep'rate, individual strollers share
Some uncollective scatt'rings, of your care;
This way, and that, though some faint hint of light
Gleams, like a meteor, and shrinks back in night,
Or, mingling beams, to form some deathless blaze,
Once in an age, you, Popes, or Thomsons, raise:
All the lost labour serves but to express,
How wide our wants! how thinly we possess!
Till the day breaks, expect no gen'ral glow:
For, the sky darken'd, keeps all dark, below.

187

Here, for wit's fountain, dream not of a court,
False and injurious, slight th' unweigh'd report.
Meant, for a clime, where thrones appropriate pow'r,
And one man's passions all mens rights devour.
But, in free states, where liberty may chuse,
Taste knows no monarch, and obeys no muse.
Senates their muses; property their aim:
Their boast but safety—and their play-thing, fame.

No—wou'd your willing culture waste no toil?
Wou'd your bays thrive, in a reluctant soil?
Ductile of form, and changing shapes at will,
Assume new sex, new names, new views, new skill.
Safe, in sage politics, conceal your wit:
Then, by my bounty, qualify'd to sit,
Nine Cornish boroughs might assign you place,
Where, mix'd unthought-of, you may shun disgrace.
There, breathing unsuspected influence, lurk,
Till patient progress crowns your arduous work.

188

Thence, shall descending radiance taste convey:
And willing kingdoms make the muses way.
Till, time slow fav'ring, you may quit disguise,
And wear wit, plain, among th'unlaughing wise.

Pausing, he smil'd humanity, so kind,
That ev'ry muse was touch'd, and chang'd her mind:
All bow'd consent, to his grave purpose wrought;
And, thus, Urania voic'd her sister's thought.

Born to a people's hearts, their Darling, shine!
Let ev'ry wish, and hope, and joy, be thine!
Mov'd by the magic mercy of thy view,
We feel good counsel, and embrace it too.
One sole condition grant, and we obey:
No dang'rous notice must detect our stay!
Hid in thy grove, each menial muse shall claim
Domestic shelter from reproach and shame:
Till, by thy scheme, their yet unrival'd friend!
Their influ'ence widens, and their suff'rings end.
Then, shewn the world, and privileg'd to please,
And, gath'ring face and fashion, by degrees,

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Seen at assemblies, belles may jokes forbear:
Nor, shocking modest strangers, turn and stare!

Thus, in his shade, from public pain exempt,
Sleeping, the visionary poet dreamt.
Then wak'd; and found his sparkling Prince was there:
But ev'ry empty muse was lost in air.

The Creation.

[_]

A Paraphrase upon the first Chapter of Genesis.

[I.]

In the beginning, the Almighty God!
Sending out his loud decree,
Begot existence, and bid being be!
Creation! first-born child of un-nam'd night,
Swell'd slowly, upward, at his pow'rful beck:
Aloft, he wav'd his threat'ning rod,
And, strait, resistance fled the aweful check!
And trembled, downward, from his dreadful nod!

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Then, out of chaos, streak'd with sudden light,
Up roll'd the face of form, wrapt round with night,
And, from the curling clouds, march'd out, magnificent, and bright.
Loose earth, at first, was rude, and shapeless, made,
And cover'd thick, with still, and empty shade;
For darkness, brooding o'er the deep, had motion overlaid!
Out went the spirit, o'er the lifeless waste,
And breath'd, in breezy gales, God's high command:
Let there be light, said he; and e'er the word was past,
Pale, quiv'ring beams shot thick, on every hand:
And gath'ring into lustre, devious, flew,
Ready to act, but ignorant what to do.
The spirit swift collected all, and rang'd em, on one side,
And drove the sever'd darkness on a heap,
Curling black with wheely sweep,
In piles, immensely horrible, and steep:

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Then, passing slow, between, their borders to divide;
Henceforth, be this bright fluid, day, he cry'd,
And night this dusky mount, on my left side:
So saying, pleas'd with his own work, he shot himself away,
And morning, thus, and evening, join'd, made up the first great day.

II.

The hand of God, again, was stretch'd o'er all:
Ascend, he cry'd, ye thin, and subtile train,
That, lightest, in the mingled mass, remain.
The floaty atoms started, at his call,
And hasted to him all;
Whose voice was never heard in vain.
High, from the grosser heap, they steam'd away:
A nimble host of springy bodies, curl'd,
In various forms, and struggling every way,
To be at ease, and fly unfurl'd;
But each, obstructive to the other's care,
Together twisted wide they spread, a liquid field of air!

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Here, cry'd the mighty Former, draw a line,
All above this, be mine!
Heaven shall be here, and, here, my throne shall shine!
Hither, ye thinnest, purest, atoms rise,
Possess, and fill my topmost skies!
You second ranks, rest where you are,
And call your fluid force the Atmosphere:
But you, more heavy climbers! backward fall,
Keep you the humblest post of all:
Condens'd to closer substance, roll below,
And, murm'ring hoarse, in wat'ry vastness flow.
All, widely differing, hear alike, and equally obey,
And so found end, the second formful day.

III.

Let all these currents, which, divided, run,
Unite, says God, and gather into One!
At once, with hollow roar, the back'ning flood,
Unveil'd the reeking earth, and shrunk away:
'Twas then the third astonish'd day,
Disclos'd a swelling globe of naked mud,
A lifeless bulk, which all unactive lay:
And saw the channel'd Ocean, round it, play!

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Warm, breath'd prolific spirit o'er the face
Of each new dreary space;
Th' impregnate glebe, grown conscious of her worth,
Conceiv'd at once, at once brought forth.
With mineral pangs, her stiff'ning bowels groan,
Her heaving mountains harden into stone.
The muddy surface brightens into green:
Sturdy shrubs are, this way, seen;
Stemless herbs rise, there, between.
The opening rose, by nature gay,
Blushes at the kiss of day!
Pale, hard by, the lilly blows,
Envious of the ruddy rose;
And, pining at her sicklier white,
Hangs her head, to shun the sight.
Each verdant vale embroider'd beauty fills;
And shooting forests crown the waving hills.
Carpets of grass o'erspread th' extended plains;
And, here and there, for ornament, an uncloath'd rock remains!

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IV.

Well-pleas'd, the Maker saw his work succeed:
'Tis wond'rous fair, he said! these charms below,
With sparkling beauty seem to plead,
That heaven shou'd pay 'em back some show.
Then, let there be two glorious lights:
Let one inspire the days, and one adorn the nights.
The word was God's! 'twas said, and done!
Out-blaz'd, at once, the glorious sun!
All heaven, and earth, strait, catch'd the quickning fire;
And melted into warm, and new desire.
The sea, enamour'd with his beams,
Smil'd, upward, from a thousand streams;
And, longing to approach him nigher,
Dissolv'd, in exhalations, to aspire!
Wide, this new torch of heaven, the world adorns;
The crescent moon, too, show'd her silver horns:
But, with a paler lustre shin'd:
For she, distasteful, that she ow'd her light
To a proud rival's envied sight,

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At her inferior fate, repin'd,
And, as he rose, declin'd!
God saw her grief, and bent to ease her pain,
And ornament her shadowy reign,
Struck out a myriad of illustrious sparks,
The Gems of heav'n, her starry marks!
And, e'er the bashful Planet cou'd complain,
Bid her light up the sun-left world, with her night-twinkling train.

V.

The fifth day dawn'd; and, thus, God's voice was heard,
Why shou'd this world of waters steril flow?
By inborn offspring, let her wastes be chear'd.
Bring forth, O sea! and fill the depths, below:
Loud ocean, hush'd to stillness, and afraid
To let one wave the shore invade,
Wonder'd, yet, to feel, within,
A kind of moving war begin!
Fermenting vigour stirr'd the wat'ry heap,
Liquid life began to creep,
And half-form'd monsters flounder'd, thro' the deep.
Panting sensation, by degrees, spread wide;

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Fishes, swift-shooting, from the bottom, glide,
To stem, in scaly shoals, the topmost tide.
The shell-drest tribe, of growth, and motion, slow,
Crawl, humbly, on the strands, below:
Warm, and gay, the nimbler kind
Upward roll, the top to find,
And, leaping, cool their livers, in the wind.
In the mid-way, the plunging whale plays round,
Wanton in life, he whirls, with antic bounds,
And, sometimes, to the surface mounts, and, sometimes, sweeps the ground;
The boiling deep about him foams, and, with his sport, resounds.
Thence, too, the feather'd nation, flutt'ring, rise,
Clouds of sun-obscuring size!
And, every bird, as from the wave he springs,
And tries his new-form'd throat, and sings,
Shakes the moisture from his wings;
Then, drawn by instinct, upward flies,
And tow'rs, ambitious, to the tempting skies.
Be fruitful, all, God said, and multiply,
And fill the seas, and fill the sky:

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Throughout the ocean, O, ye Fish! abound:
And let your various kinds, O Fowl! o'er all the earth be found.

VI.

Now, air was peopled, and the roomy seas!
And nesting inmates fill'd the branchy trees!
Thou, earth, said God, shalt, yet once more, conceive,
E'er our mighty task we leave:
Earth, trembling from her center, heard the sound,
And felt, thro' all her chasms, inspiring heat!
Warm germination heav'd th' enliv'ning ground,
And, from the forest's close, and dark retreat,
Lynxes, and Tygers, on a sudden, bound.
From the silent, mountain cave,
Glaring round, the lion stalks!
And wond'ring, frowns, in fierceness grave,
To meet the clumsy Camel, in his walks!
The sprightly horse neighs, from the rugged hill,
And, shooting downward, thunders o'er the plain;
Bounding along, strikes out his heels at will,

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Till, in his way, encount'ring there,
Rais'd, on his hinder paws, a grinning Bear,
Roughly fix'd, in stupid stare,
Snorting, he starts, and gallops back, again!
From the moist fen, th' unfinish'd Frog
Croaks faintly, yet but half-way freed;
And, struggling with his muddy clog,
Drags out his limber legs, and skips along the mead!
From the bush, the speckled Snake,
With high-rais'd head, astonish'd, glides;
Hissing, he journeys on, from brake to brake,
Proud of the curly folds, whereon he slides!
From the high precipice, the bearded Goat
Looks down, with gravity, on distant flocks:
The Wolf discerns him, and, with barking throat,
Springs upward, at him, and assaults the rocks!
In every plain, on every hill,
The busy world is stirr'd throughout:
And, labouring with its maker's will,
In breathing mists, a swarm of life breaks out!

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VII.

High, on a mount of Eden's happy shore,
Thoughtful, at last, the great Creator stood:
I find, says he, there wants one labour more,
And, then, the work is good!
And, be it, so, e'er yet I give it o'er:
One shall be form'd, to rule the millions, form'd before!
He said; and wav'd, on high, his aweful hand,
Strait, from hot Arabia's sand,
And Scythia's wild, and frozen land,
A gathering whirlwind toward him blew;
Sweeping, from East to West, from pole to pole,
Swifter, than thought, the circling eddies roll;
And a long train of each land's dust, in clouds, together drew.
Th' approaching atoms their Creator knew,
And guess'd his mighty meaning, too;
And, knitting into close embrace, a human shape they grew!
God touch'd the light, and unconnected frame,
And breath'd the breath of life throughout.
A sudden flash of spirit, thro' it, ran!
At once, the dry conjunction catch'd the flame,
And kindled into man.

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The jointed dust look'd wild about, and living soul became;
He saw his God, and prostrate fell, oppress'd with virtuous shame.

VIII.

Hear me, thou captain of my creatures! thou,
Whose nobler form, in my own image, made,
Forbids thee, any where, to bow,
But to my glory, in these works, display'd,
I, thy great Maker, must be well obey'd:
All else shall thy commands fulfil,
Only subject to thy will:
Look round those wide-extended plains, below,
Whate'er thou see'st, is all thy own!
Yon distant mountains, topt with snow,
Swell'd to that height, for thee, alone!
For thee, yon winding rivers flow;
Fill'd, within, by finny shoals!
There's not a bird of heaven, which shall not know,
And stoop to thy controuls.
For thee, yon wind-shook forests grow;

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And all these lovely flowers,
Enamel earth, and scent the breezy showers,
Which give 'em strength to rise, and paint the leafy bowers.
The fruits, of various hew, are also thine;
For thee, yon rip'ning clusters shine:
The loaded stems, which bear 'em, bending stand,
But to invite thy hand.
But, have a care, O Son of dust! thus rais'd,
That I am duly prais'd:
Remember, grateful, by whose pow'r thou art,
And, in the flowing fullness of thy joy,
Be mindful, he, who made thee, can destroy,
And curb the haughty swellings of thy heart.

CAMILLUS:

A Poem.

Humbly inscrib'd to the Right Honourable Charles Earl of Peterborough and Monmouth.

Writ, in the Year 1707.

When injur'd Heroes suffer in their fame,
Justice, unsummon'd, shou'd their wrongs proclaim:

202

But Phæbus' Sons shou'd raise resentment higher,
And light up vengeance, with poetic fire.
For, where injustice clouds a noble name,
The Patron's scandal is the Poet's shame.

Permit, Great Sir, my humble muse to raise
A private monument, of public praise:
Unbend your mighty soul, and stoop to fame,
Whose voice shall sound, to heaven, your glorious name,
Minds, that are great, like yours, disdain applause,
Their inborn virtue gives their reason laws:
Above the reach of malice, blest, they live,
Proud to be envy'd, and, like heaven, forgive.
What depth of line must my rais'd fancy find,
To sound th' unfathom'd ocean of thy mind!
Or, thro' the lab'rynth of thy wonders wind!
How dares my untry'd pen attempt a verse,
Worthy thy God-like actions to rehearse?
How dares my flutt'ring muse invade that sky,
Where Virgil, eagle-wing'd, wou'd fail, to fly!
Dark, in my breast, tumultuous terrors roll,
And rising passions shake my lab'ring soul:
Encount'ring reasons, thro' my judgment, shine,
Some urge, and some forbid, the vast design:

203

Here, justice summons—there, my youth denies;
Duty, to this, to that, my will replies.

Resolv'd, at last, your safe return to greet,
I throw my worthless numbers, at your feet;
Assur'd, the generous goodness of your eye,
Will see my zeal, and pass my errors by.

But, if my feeble genius chance to fail,
Nor ardent pray'rs can, with the nine, prevail;
Think, Sir, how various your great acts appear!
There, war, and glory—wit, and honour, here:
One glitt'ring moment spreads your wond'rous fame,
Battles, and bloodshed, celebrate your name!
Now, the great hero, in a purple flood,
Plunges, thro' stormy seas of hostile blood.
Now, strides, with skilful courage, from afar,
To stop some gap, of unsuccessful war:
Another moment, smoothly, gilds his face,
With lovely sweetness, and delightful grace:
Calmly, he tunes his mind, to softer sports,
And lives the matchless Paragon of courts.

NO wonder then, if my presumptuous eye,
Viewing thy Sun of excellence, too nigh,
Dazzled with light, is forc'd to look awry!

204

A traveller, who, thus, without a guide,
O'er some unmeasur'd tract, attempts to ride;
Where thousand paths, of equal breadth, appear,
And each fair course seems safe, alike, to steer,
May, spite of strictest caution, lose his way,
And, scarce, be justly said, to go astray.

In peace, the fam'd Hispania, long, had slept,
And free possession of her Indies kept:
Made poor, by plenty, dull content she knew;
Her strength declining, as her riches grew:
Till, forc'd to valour, she begins too late,
And climbs, unwilling, but to pull down fate.

Their second Charles resign'd his princely breath,
And swift-wing'd fame proclaim'd th' expected death:
Sudden, the trumpet echoes, from afar,
And friendly nations rise to furious war:
The hardy veterans their arms prepare,
And waving banners fan the heated air:
The sprightly steeds, with lofty bounds, advance,
And curb'd, by skillful riders, proudly prance:
A wild confusion, o'er the globe, is hurl'd,
And warlike earthquakes shake the christian world.

205

The Austrian prince, heir, in affirm'd descent,
To grasp the crown, his strong endeavours bent:
Bourbon oppos'd, and, in the vacant throne,
Wou'd place a royal offspring of his own.
Doubtful the right—but pow'r, which all obey,
Appear'd, to justify the second's sway:
The arms of France allure the voice of Spain,
And Anjou seated, will his post maintain.

Sighing, the young prevented Austrian stands,
And lifts, to gracious heaven, his eyes, and hands:
Implores swift justice, to an injur'd man;
And heaven directs his prayers to heaven's vicegerent, Anne.
Thither, they fly, whom pow'rful wrongs oppress,
And find a certain shelter from distress:
By her, the proud aspirer, daily, bleeds,
And biass'd monarchs wait her dreaded deeds,
Aw'd, tho' displeas'd, to her decrees they stand,
And own the fate of Europe, in her hand.
Thither, with tow'ring hopes, and longing eyes,
The young, excluded monarch, swiftly, flies:
Whispers, in Anna's ear, his weighty grief,
And, from her pitying soul, extracts relief.

206

At her command, th' intrepid Britons fly,
Exert their inborn worth, and proudly die:
Pleas'd with their fate, they dearly sell their breath,
And smile, amidst the raging pangs of death.
A chosen band of these, who all things dare,
For distant war, their mighty souls prepare:
Thro' every ear, their glorious cause they ring,
To curb proud France, and right an injur'd King.

O'er these, a Chief, by art, and nature, grac'd,
Renown'd in war, and policy, was plac'd:
Beyond mankind, his judgement cou'd discern,
And much improve what others could not learn:
He ow'd no virtue, to a dread of shame,
No seeming honesty, to promis'd fame:
On its own base, in him, true honour stood,
Wash'd, by a generous tide of noble blood.
Him the great Anna chose—Camillus go,
Revenge my brother, on his haughty foe:
Guard him to Spain,—there, let my will be known,
And seat the monarch, in his ravish'd throne.

The valiant chief, without ambition, brave,
Humbly receiv'd the weighty charge, she gave:

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Destin'd, in spite of malice, to be great,
His daring soul contemns the tricks of state:
Swiftly, he bids his glad commanders meet,
And lead their army to the waiting fleet:
Their swelling hopes the swelling gales invite,
And heaven, and they, propitiously, unite:
In loud salutes, the deep-mouth'd cannons roar,
Answer'd, by zealous wishes, from the shore:
Whence mingled crowds their hearty prayers repeat,
'Till rising waves obscure the sailing fleet.

On the extremest limits of that land,
Thro' which the Tagus, rich in golden sand,
His rapid course, in depth of waters bends,
And twice two hundred miles his stream extends;
Old Barcelona, strong by nature, stands,
And rules a vast extent of fertile lands:
With rocky mountains, half environ'd round,
The other half, by bogs, and marshy ground:
Beneath her walls, surrounding trenches lie,
Beyond those depths, rise bulwarks, vastly high:
Walls within walls, the solid place defend,
Where watchful Centinels their charge attend:
Whence trains of hollow brass, with fiery breath,
Vomit black sulph'rous messages of death;

208

Ram'd with destruction, burst with horrid roar,
And scatter terrors, round the trembling shore.

Hither, with crowded sails, the Britons bent,
Big with the message, their great mistress sent:
Their warlike souls to emulation rise,
And breathe out pious wishes, to the skies:
And, now, those powers, which brave designs attend,
Had brought their voyage to a happy end:
From Barcelona's tow'rs, with wild affright,
The trembling foe beholds th' unwelcome sight;
A mighty fleet, approaching, by degrees,
In graceful order, plows the smiling seas;
Harmonious music spreads the joy, they bring,
And clam'rous shouts proclaim the coming king:
The sounding trumpets his intent declare,
And waving streamers flourish in the air:
Arriv'd, at length, the cannons loudly roar,
And shake, with panic fright, the wond'ring shore.

Mean while, the Spaniards all their force prepare,
And arm, confus'dly, for defensive war:

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Blind, with amazement, and ignoble fear,
They double all the Britons, that appear:
All think with horror, England, now, had bent
Her utmost force, to form one grand descent.

But, when they saw so small a number land,
And boldly tread the surface of their sand,
The paler marks of fear forsook their face,
And wonder, far more great, supplies the place.
An equal force, within their walls, they found,
Yet, fear'd, to meet their foes, on equal ground:
They saw, with wonder at an act, so vain,
Th' undaunted Britons win the neighb'ring plain,
Where, soon, their squadrons form'd a camp, and then,
They thought, or dreaded, they were more, than men.

Thus had the great Camillus forc'd his way,
And, void of fear, in midst of dangers, lay:
Impatient of delays, the Austrian youth,
Deep-touch'd with sorrow, listen'd to the truth:
He saw the weakness of his daring few,
And, with concern, his foe's advantage knew:

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The brazen tubes of death were mounted high,
And clouds of rolling smoke obscur'd the sky;
All this, and more, from his small camp, was seen,
And death, disguis'd with horror, stalk'd, between.

The aged chiefs, in cautious war, grown old,
Wou'd rather be too backward, than too bold:
Therefore, advis'd the Prince to haste away,
Since 'twas scarce possible, to live, and stay.
The Prince, with melancholy thoughts opprest,
Came to Camillus, and unlock'd his breast;
Told him the pangs of sorrow, shame, and rage,
Which shook the blooming comforts of his age:
Told him the flames, in which his soul wou'd burn,
Shou'd he thus, unsuccessfully, return.

With grief, the gen'rous Briton heard him tell
The deep misfortunes, he but knew, too well:
He rolls his eyes, accuses partial fate,
And tells the Austrian, that he shou'd be great.
Resolv'd to act, the council speak, in vain,
And, by debates, protract the fall of Spain:

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Camillus had a soul, whose heavenly fire
Cou'd compass all things, and to all aspire.
Himself, alone, cou'd with himself debate,
And mov'd, obscurely, like the hand of fate.

Hard by the towers of Barcelona, stands,
High, on the rocks, o'erlooking neighb'ring lands;
A strong-built castle, whose extended sway
Obliges ev'n the city, to obey.
Five hundred men the solid ramparts keep,
On rocks, beyond imagination, steep:
Whence rolling stones invading foes can chase,
When, with an aking eye, they climb the dreadful place.

This was the source, whence victories must flow,
Hither the British chief resolv'd to go:
Unus'd to fear, and more unus'd to boast,
With temp'rate words, he chear'd his wond'ring host;
Strove not to hide the hazard of the task,
Nor cover danger, with a gilded mask:
He bids each soldier, like himself, perform,
And, by example, wins 'em, to the storm.

212

The rosy morning usher'd in the sun,
Which was to see a bloody business done;
His beams shone bright, to guide the battle well,
And drank their blood, in pity, as it fell:
Eight hundred Britons, on this glorious day,
O'er pathless forests, force their oblique way:
In tedious march, o'er high ascents, they past,
And won the dangerous precipice, at last.

With strange surprize, the Spaniards rush to arms,
And bells rung backward, in confus'd alarms:
The summon'd soldiers hurry to their post,
And pour whole vollies on the climbing host:
Repeated charges from the cannons fly,
Like fiery meteors, blazing, thro' the Sky:
The shatter'd limbs of men, who nobly dare
Are borne on bullets, thro' the flaming air:
The dismal prospect shocks the bravest hearts,
And adds new motion, to disjointed parts;
The brave Camillus, with a fierce delight,
Drives on the head-long fury of the fight:
Urges his bleeding troops, still higher, and higher,
And scatters death for death, and fire for fire.

213

Thus, when, of old, the mighty giants strove,
To check the boundless power of angry Jove;
With force, like this, but, in a cause, less good,
The huge Briareus, their great leader! stood;
The solid centre shakes, beneath his weight,
Who, all-unknowing, or, unfearing fate,
Kicks at the thunder, which, with horror, flies,
And, while swift light'ning flashes, in his eyes,
Tears up a hundred rocks, and hurls 'em at the Skies.

But now, aloft, the mingled war grows high,
On heaps, promiscuous numbers fall and die;
Rivers of blood, from the mix'd battle, flow,
Till death, scarce, sees, to guide a destin'd blow.

The walls are won, the Spaniards lose the day,
And crowding Britons win the cover'd way:
While some, on high, the conquer'd pass defend,
Others, below, by mutual help, ascend:
No more, the driven foes their fortune try,
But quit their bloody battlements, and fly:

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Despair, and horror, fill the dismal place,
And terror sits, enthron'd, on every face.
Destructive fate grows cruel, to excess,
And rages, blindly, in her blackest dress:
Matrons, and virgins, weep, with bitter cries,
And noisy sorrows pierce the distant Skies.

But cease, mistaken wretches! cease your moan.
Proud of your conqu'ror, your conquest own;
Your friends, victorious, might tyrannic be,
Your foes but conquer you, to set you free.
No base design distains a Britons cause,
But pity guides the sword, which justice draws.

With such success, was that great day begun,
Which not the army, but their general, won:
While he, impatient his great task, to end,
Which heaven appear'd, so early, to befriend,
Chears his glad soldiers, with divided gain,
And leads 'em down, undreading, to the plain:
Ranges 'em, widely, near the city's bound,
Resolv'd to force a place, they scarce surround.

Thus, moves he, brightly, like some wand'ring star,
And scorns the heavy arts of common war:

215

In their own fire, his matchless actions blaze;
He needs no council, and he seeks no praise:
While other generals tedious projects form,
He thinks, and acts, and wins applause, by storm:
With furious courage stands, and tempts his fate,
But heaven, still, spares the man, to bless the state.

With threat'ning look each ready Briton stands,
And sharp-edg'd weapons grace their warlike hands:
Obsequious silence waits the General's nod,
As antient Grecians watch'd the Delphian God.

Mean while, each trembling tow'r, with horrid dread,
Loosen'd its walls, and shook its batter'd head:
The lofty works, which shou'd the town defend,
The shocks of hostile thunder, widely, rend:
Amidst these crowds of terrors and despair,
The Britons, for a sharp assault, prepare:
The Spaniards see, and shun the lou'ring Fates,
And, widely, open their submissive gates.

And, now, the mighty deed is greatly done;
A king reliev'd, and kingdoms, bravely, won.

216

The warlike Chief, with glory, fir'd his breast,
Forgot his pleasures, and forsook his rest:
The Austrian fix'd—He, bravely, onward bent,
And conquer'd rebel countries, as he went:
The stubborn Catalans, unus'd to bow,
Gladly, submit, to firm subjection, now:
With joyful shouts, their happy monarch greet,
And leave their mountains, for the regal seat;
That strong-built fort, whose state the rest excell'd,
And thrice ten thousand Gallic foes repell'd,
Afraid to strive, her iron gates unlock'd,
And gladly open'd, when Camillus knock'd.
To his successful arms, whole nations yield,
And, freely, give him up an untry'd field.
At his bless'd feet, the rich Tortosa lay,
And matchless conduct gain'd him Lerida.
Valencia's kingdom, gloriously, he won,
And triumph'd, o'er the prostrate Arragon.

But hold, unwary Muse! no higher soar;
He, who did this, alas! must do no more!
Oh! that thy numbers cou'd but reach my aim,
How wou'd I celebrate his glorious name!
How wou'd I paint the battles, he has won,
And all the noble actions, he has done!

217

How wou'd I paint him, spilling gen'rous blood,
And tempting death, for his dear country's good!
How wou'd I draw his two illustrious Sons,
Proud of their mangled flesh, and shatter'd bones!
How wou'd I tune my elevated song,
And shame the men, who do Camillus wrong!

But, since his works, thro' clouds, are forc'd to shine,
How cou'd I hope success, from such, as mine?
Let virtue be rewarded, if it can,
When gratitude forgets so great a man.

Free Thoughts upon Faith: Or the Religion of Reason.

Oh, thou!—who-ere, what—ere, where-ere, thou art,
Sole—or associated—conceiveless power!
In search of whom, o'erstretch'd Idea bursts;
And sense rolls back, on darkness—cause, uncaus'd!
Progressive un-beginner—without end!
Giver, of thought, oh, guide it.—Arm a mind,

218

Tremblingly struck,—to stem but one short glimpse,
One distant, transient, momentary, flash
Of thy keen light—and live!—oh!—far from dream
To draw th' Almighty's deign'd approach too near—
All, that my soul's touch'd sense aspires to tell
Is,—that she dares not view thee—thou, who know'st
The muse's conscious rev'rence—aid her song.

Awefully shrinking from th' assumer's hand,
That points me to thy place, thy power, thy will,
Astonish'd at his pride! I start—and fly.
O, pityer of presumption! whence aspires
Awak'ning dust's brief glance of shadowy life,
To launch its little plummet—into depths,
Profounder, than Eternity!—how dare
O'erweening, mole-blind, furro'wers of dark earth
Engross, to their low selves, their God's whole care?
Slight nobler orbs,—as skirts to this dim ball,
That, day by day, rolls round its eye-less bulk,
To beg light's needful alms, from one, kind sun—

219

While tracts, superior to conception's bound,
See suns, in millions, o'er new Worlds, pour blaze—
Yet, reach but confines of new Suns—and die!

Require not these vast works of God God's grace,
Proportion'd to their vastness?—how, then, dares
Conceit's proud pref'rence of its own clay'd cott
O'erleap those azure voids—where thought, and space,
And number, and immensity,—are lost:
And comprehension akes, to scale repulse!
Whence had man's insect arrogance of guess
Such impotent out-starting—to presume,
His momentary nothingness of grasp
Cou'd know, task, limit, and describe—his God!

Say, bigot boaster of unmanner'd zeal,
Thou, that art impudently sure, of heaven!
And, cov'ring blasphemy, behind faith's name,
Sin'st deepest, where, most, sanctified!—weigh, pause,
Think—answer not, from custom's light assent:

220

But the try'd soul's true test, un-warp'd, within.
—Is it in Revelation's aweful claim,
That dust should dare mis-plead th' almighty's Will,
For insult on his Justice?—dare men pass
For intimates of heaven, who, thus, degrade
Th' all-gladd'ning Lord of all those wid'ning worlds—
To one poor partial care, of one poor part,
Of one poor corner, of one world's poor clan?

Out with this av'rice of fanatic scrape!
That, pinching, to itself, God's nibbled grants,
Hedg'd in th' eternal's common! Greedily,
Forestall'd all power of op'ning mystery's gate,
For it's own pick-lock tribe—un-key'd by heaven.
—Why, if enlighten'd most, should will most dark
Bid these few, fav'rite, hand-led, spies, of grace,
Conceal from modest doubt their arts to know?
—Why, if possess'd of some eductive clue,
That shews lost diffidence truth's lucid ray,
Claim they consent, implicit!—Why submits
Belief, to bold assumption?—tasteless faith

221

Dishonours, where it worships. Heaven disdains
Obedience from the blind: and every sect
Were orthodox—if to believe is Proof.

To me:—nor let the rev'rence of my pause
Offend the power that caus'd it!—it shou'd seem
More impious, to decide, of God, than doubt.

Oft, when I pant for aid, to shake distrust,
Humbling imperious reason, while I bend
With meek attention, to the calls of faith,
Where pious fury lends the pastor gall:
And what falls short in proof o'erflows, in rage—
—While revelation, thund'ring on my ear,
Low-rates my hearts admission—help me, heaven!
To check th' impassive struggler's infelt hint;
That asks, how God's almighty? if his Will
Who made this captious world, whereon we crawl
Cou'd to the worm call'd man, be shewn, in vain.
—If 'twas the maker's law—to man proclaim'd,
By man's resistless God—my trembling soul
Whispers in shiv'ring horror,—Oh 'tis strange!—

222

God will'd—God spoke that will—yet, Man—proud dirt!
Divides, disputes, examines—disobeys!—
—Had heav'n requir'd, cou'd heav'n want force to cause?
Or, not requiring, why was heav'n profan'd?

Hum, from thy dusky hive, unreas'ning drone,
Stretch thy tame wings—heave thy dull search along;
Leave thy cav'd home behind—and look, more wide.
—Seest thou not, every where, earth's emmet swarms,
Scheming their busy mount's loose-crumbling hope—
For the next cataract shower,—that sweeps down all.
—Such are the toils of Mufti's, Popes, Pauwau's,
Lhamas and Rabbis, Morabuhts, Bonzees,
All the long-labouring props, of faith's lost boast;
Fabricks of tow'ry air—that fright—and die.

O'er worships thus distinct, have sep'rate Gods
Presided?—or, beneath but sep'rate names,

223

Did one sole power inspire divided prayers,
And smilingly accept 'em?—Nature feels
This question: and, methinks, I hear her voice,
Bid reason thus reply—If but one light
Insur'd salvation's course,—un-socketed,
Un-lanthern'd, It had known no curtail'd shine.
All dark had been illumin'd;—ne'er withheld
Just heaven, from more than half th' extended globe,
All glimpse of dawn, yet curs'd, the gloom he caus'd!

Or, grant some race indulg'd with kinder smile,
Why partial to the proud? Sin's haughtiest sons?
Yet heedless of unfolded flocks, more meek,
More aw'd, more simply serious, in faith's field;
Anxious, in adoration's twilight gleam,
And prostrate, tho' neglected?—Why again!
In truth's appropriate and selected seats,
Shoots Eden's heaven-watch'd tree, for-ever prun'd,
For-ever fruitless? into monstrous growths,
Of thorn-branch'd opposition?—If, to doubt
Religion's lifeless form were to destroy
The essence of her purpose, why, o'er lands,

224

That boast high claim to systems heav'n-inspir'd,
Spread schemes, of diff'rent texture?—Each avow'd
God's own injoin'd sole path, reveal'd, to save?

Alas! 'tis man's proud heart—that, idly fill'd,
With self-paid rev'rence, for desert mis-claim'd,
Grown impious, in imagin'd rectitude,
Hugs his own day-dreams, idoliz'd within—
And styles 'em revelation!—Hence the buz
Of honeyless, and stingful wasps of zeal:
Alike, on all sides heard—and felt on all!
Each, charg'd, in heaven's pretence, with menace'd hell!
Jews, Tartars, Bramins, bord'ring Ganges' flood,
Swift hords, of hot Arabia's swarthy sons;
Far China's dateless race—Long Nile's old claim
To superstition's childhood.—Each, heav'ns choice
Yet, each from each distinct, all, spurn'd by all,
Split revelation, into canton'd snarls:
And murder, to shew Mercy!—damn—to save!

Even these divisions, sub-dividing on,
Break from their center, like the wind's wide points,

225

Yet, every radius right!—and every, wrong!
—All err—but each,—peace be to that, alone!
The rest, let war involve—and curse their creeds!

Where art thou found, fair Charity?—sweet power!
That stills the stormy soul!—soft Cherub's eye!
That weep'st, at all this mischief—see'st man's pride
Mistaken, for his virtue!—arguing, low,
In the calm voice of pity's whisp'ring God,
The od'rous breathings of thy balmy hush
Fly, scatter'd, on the winds of keen debate.

Lost, and benighted, in this warring wild,
How shall a lightless wand'rer find, which front
Bears heav'n's commission'd stamp?—and which bold brow,
Fright'ning credulity, miscals it faith?

Bid Miracles decide contested claim.
Where are they? call aloud.—They shun to hear.
Prudent restraint forbids expectant prayer
To court renewal of old eye-sight proofs,
Which deign'd in days long past—to strike doubt dumb.

226

Dead time's departed ghost, recorded, holds
Millions of wonders done—Faith's grey supports!
—But, millions of pretences, too,—diffus'd
O'er earth's contentious face, each unlike each,
As night's dim veil, compar'd with sun-gilt day!
Match miracles 'gainst miracles, array'd,
And push back ev'ry Angel's vain descent,
Who comes, on errands hostile to their own.
Where miracles try truth, no faith is false.
What nameless, corner of the world—untouch'd
By trade's far-furrowing keel—even safely new
To the unquenchable, and sacred, thirst
Of missionary rapine's holy ken—
But boast believ'd descent of some kind God,
That chose their lov'd fore-fathers, blest their race,
And taught 'em, for his glory?—Fill'd with trust
In their transmitted tale, th' invited guests
Take place, at heaven's high table—upmost, all.
The white-fac'd, olive-hued, the sably jet,
The grease-anointed, woolly-headed, shorn,
Long-hair'd, and short-hair'd, curl'd and cropt Elect—
All, sagely satisfied, All else must err—
Swol'n with inflative zeal, catch martyr's flame:
And die—to live again—in scorn of pain.

227

Since then, th' extremest polar tracts, of faith,
Where reason's one eye winks, unbeam'd for day,
Plead Miracles in proof—which none can try,
Because but, heard not seen—let Learning shun
Such hoary feebleness of palsied plea:
Which error must assert—or truth disclaim.

But, off! stand wide—make room, ye coarse profane!
Ye vulgar of religion's suburb world!
Ye Goats un-shepherded! un-fish'd-for shoals!
Un-mesch'd, by mystic union's indragg'd Net
Of never-erring sweep, deduc'd from heaven!
Room, for the papal Pontiff's triple crown!

NOW—heretic presumer!—bow, convinc'd
Infallibility unwinds her scroll:
—Saints, martyrs, angels, seventeen cent'ries down,
Link power to power, and lenght'ning truth's old rod,
Lend faith Tradition's line—to hook mankind.

Hail, venerable weakness!—aweful dream!
Shade, of a shadow!—thou, that blindly hop'st,

228

By twice nine age's loud-concurring noise,
To drown soft reason's evidence!—yet, shun'st
To recollect, how thrice ten cent'ries join'd
Their vain support—yet saw Jove's fabrick fall!

Plead'st thou duration? plead'st thou breadth of space?
What art thou, but an infant's tott'ring Step,
Compar'd to mightier growths, now found no more?
—Where are the Deities of muse-tongu'd Greece?
Greece, from whose hundred states, strong science flow'd:
And arms, and arts, in one mix'd blaze of power,
Held out high Freedom's torch, to half mandkind!
Where is her Phœbus?—where her Neptune—now?

Turn thy sight Eastward, o'er the time-hush'd plains,
Now graves, of vanish'd empire—once, gleam'd, o'er,
From flames on hallow'd altar's, hail'd by hymns

229

Of seers—awakeners of the worship'd Sun!
—Ask silent Tigris—bid Euphrates tell—
Where is the grove-crown'd Baal, to whose stern frown
Bow'd haughty Babylon?—Chaldea, fam'd
For star-taught sages: Hard Phoenicia's sons,
Fierce, fear-surmounting, curbers of the deep!
Who stretch'd a floating scepter o'er the seas,
And made mankind one empire?—Where is, now,
Egypt's wide-homag'd Isis?—where the Mars,
That shook, the shakers of the Roman world?
Where the Teutonic Woden! in his name,
Alone, still reverenc'd, each revolving week,
Even in fair Albion's isles!—If Age bore proof,
Why have these sunk? why all the lifeless Gods,
Lost Demi-gods, long, nameless, countless, powers!
That fill'd th' adoring world, with fabled fame?
Are they not dead? whelm'd o'er in time's black tide?
And known, but by contempt—to mem'ry's claim?

How was this possible—had noise been proof?
Of faith's extent in space, with realms, for guard,

230

Mellow'd mistake, to equity?—Far short
Of heaven, fall Time's perspective—vainly climbs
Guile-founded God-craft. Let proud fortune spread
The lye-tipt pyramid's broad covering base,
Till earth groans wounded, at th' oppressive weight,
Still, but, the wider ruins, mark its fall.
—Let him, who boasts blind multitudes convinc'd,
Or builds on time, for truth's imagin'd test,
Ask his unjudging rashness—what rent heart
Of celtic Druid, but had shook, more bow'd,
Than his storm-lab'ring oak—cou'd some pale shade,
That scann'd futurity, pointing thro' fate,
Have shewn him his insulted God-head's doom!

Nor let vain pref'rence of our own touch'd sense,
Our own-seen surer lights, our own safe trust,
Degrading antient stubbornness in faith,
O'er-rate attachment's warmth, as, now, most strong.
—What aw'd allegiance, what more firm belief,
What haughtier sureness, more imprints the soul,
By modern truth's new cast of thought inspir'd,

231

Than sway'd the solemn Pagan's breast, of old,
When bow'd, before his Idols?—Idols, (now)—
But (then)—vindictive Gods, who shook mankind.

Where are faith's Certainties—if time's best boasts,
Sacred to arts, arms, numbers, learning—all!—
All, fam'd, beyond fate's dread, found, all Unsure?

Whence, then, th'imperious, positive, disdain,
That spurns back modest doubt—and damns debate?
Where, the foundation, of that holy scorn,
Which lifts the Bigot's brow, to scowl reproach?
To pity, sects, that hurl his pity back,
And hate him,—for his hatred?—If nor Time,
Nor Numbers, who sustain'd th' attested cause,
Nor Miracles, renown'd in reverend hoards,
So aweful, that no sacrilegious mouse
Dare satiate hunger on the dust-veil'd roll,
But dies, to leave, untouch'd, the dry record—
If evidence, like these, falls short of proof,

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Where, in what dark domain, of thought's deep maze,
Shall reason—through doubt's crooked windings drawn,
Find truth's white face, un-spotted?—Think: and tell.

What, if we seek her, in man's moral walks?
Judge her by Life's try'd practice!—what, more just,
Than to conclude, the Saint's uncensur'd deeds
Lend sanction, to his doctrine?—Here, methinks,
Truth loves to chuse her test. Yet, here, (again)
We wander—into new defect of plea,
That proves too much—or nothing.—Cou'd loose life
Infer false faith,—how stain'd even Christian zeal!
Where avarice, and revenge, and pride's big bloat,
Taught guilt's blood-colour'd hat to hint church Spleen:
Whence, murders, robb'ries, treach'ries, perj'ries, rise,
Like taints effluvient from infectious fens,

233

Dispeopling, in their progress!—un-aten'd,
Till death-bed sanctity absolves remorse,
By scar'd conformity, to faith's flat modes—
To mock'ries of belief—and rotes of prayer!

Since then, bad life, must leave no stain on faith,
Try, if life's Purity refines coarse creeds?
Try, if the good man's virtues church his claim?
No—If they cou'd—then pole from pole but bounds
Th' extensive, true-nam'd, Church's general pale.
Dreadful indeed were (then) th'excluder's power!
Then—excommunication's reachful hand
Had push'd off exiles, to new worlds—ere dead!
For, this had, all, been Church—one truth's known claim:
Turks, Jews, wild Afra's Wood-men,—India's Mopes,
Who pine, in pang-ful abstinence from sin,
And shudder, but, to crush the trodden fly:
Australia's art-untasting solitudes,
Where all ambition's wealth is ease from care;
And hope's consumptive diet starves desire:

234

Columbia's many-peopled bow'ry groves,
Fanning, in feath'ry pomp, her tawny tribes,
From the sun's down-driv'n ray:—Cold Zemhla's cots,
Of fish-fed shiv'rers, furr'd in shaggy mail,
Trampling the ice-bound ocean, whiten'd o'er
With endless snows, to spoil the spoilful Bear:
All, among these, who love not vice, draw claim,
From Lives, of simplest sanctity—to heaven:
And multiply th' elect—were virtue faith.

PAUSE here, encompass'd soul. Look round. reflect.
Engulph'd and central to this whirl of tides,
With each proud vortex threat'ning—all, to shun
Seems safer, than trust either. Hark! they roar.
Look, with what rage they whiten!—All foam sure:
All climb, to drown each other. None recede:
None conquer. Universal uproar reigns—
And faith's a fighting Chaos—Is this truth?
This, revelation's word, disclos'd by heaven?
Boldly, refuse consent—It cannot be.

235

What, then, must be believ'd?—Believe God kind—
To fear, were to offend him. Fill thy heart
With his felt laws: and act the good he loves.
Rev'rence his power. Judge him, but, by his works:
Know him, but in his mercies. Rev'rence, too,
The most mistaken schemes, that mean his praise.
Rev'rence his Priests—for, every priest is his,—
Who finds him, in his conscience—by what name
So-ere distinguish'd—howso-ere misdrawn,
They deviously believe—What, tho' they preach
Perdition to the mod'rate! Truth dares owe
Respect, to Error: if it's end is grace,
And aims at reformation. Mindful, yet,
Men are but men. Where most thou trust'st—beware.
Stretch not esteem, to homage. Be, nor slave,
Nor censurer: but, hear strong Reason's voice,
Tongu'd, by the power who loves it. And, since that
Crys Liberty, too loud for law to drown,
Free thy chain'd thought, from fears unworthy God,

236

And know him for himself—Were one prim form,
One forc'd identity, the maker's wish,
Ne'er had that wish prov'd frustrate. Dare not doubt
But he, whose will was power—whose wish compels,
Had moulded all, to that one form, he lov'd.

Loves he not Unity? He does.—But, know,
The unity, God loves, is lodg'd in mind.
'Tis the heart's conscious glow—that beats to thank,
Not scrutinize, his bounty. 'Tis the chain,
That links Intention—in one warmth of Will:
Not binds to one forc'd act, of outward Form.

Thus thinking—thou wilt feel the Godhead, right:
Unclosing, in a house of jointed stone,
Him—in whose temple twenty thousand Suns
Serve but as lamps—and all their spangly Worlds
Form footsteps to his altar—This, believe:

237

And dread no vengeance, on mistaken man,
Unadequate, to man's brief power in sin,
Offending grain, of animated dust!
'Gainst him, beneath whose smile the Stars catch fire!

Fill'd with ideas, thus becoming heaven,
Pity the hag-ridd'n quiv'rer, who contracts
To superstition's gloom, religion's Joy,
And humbles adoration, into dread.
Who, eke-ing his inch'd measure, from within,
Peeps thro' his narrow soul's dim loop-hole wink,
And insolently, by his own scale, takes
The altitude of Heaven—But, if, compell'd
To lend thy patient ear,—and press'd too hard,
By self-sufficiency of teazing faith,
—That—nothing knowing,—will be sure of all—
Hear, with dumb smile: and, ask'd, why reason's range
Acquits dissention—teach thy judging Eye
To read God's answer, in his works for man:
Where do they tell thee, Sameness was his choice?

238

How various are his creatures! various, all,
His animal, his vegetable, tribes:
Earth's, air's, wide ocean's products—all, un-like.
In qualities, forms, colours, diff'rent, all.
—Tread but th' enamell'd Mead—or, o'er yon Fields,
'Twixt the wind-waving Corn, indent thy way.
Or, partial to the Garden's painted proofs,
Lend there, thy first, pleas'd noting—Snuff this air:
How numberless the scents, yet each distinct,
Of every tree's known bloom!—Lean o'er these flow'rs—
Lowliest, yet loveliest! Excellence, depress'd!
Worth trod on by despisers! short-liv'd sweets!
How oppositely soft, the streak-touch'd shades,
That tinge their fragrant families!—Turn short,
From pity due, to life so lov'd, so brief!
Wish'd long, by ev'ry shortner!—Now, look out,
On yon fair op'ning plain—There herb meets herb,
All green—yet none resembling! Shades, less deep,
Touch lights, more soft'ning: feastful to the eye,

239

That dwells, on their distinctions!—Still, new glows
Diversify the verdure's fluid Surge:
And dance, delightful, to the breezy bend!

Next, up this steepy shelve, ascending slow,
Win we the Down's high top—whose carpet mound
Ends at the jutting Cliff, that shades the shoar.
Hence, to the wing-divided air, extend
Survey's charm'd outlet—O'er this upper sea,
Where meditation founders,—flights immense
Cross-cut the winnow'd Æther. Black, white, grey,
Red, blue, brown, golden, verdant, motley-stain'd—
Distant in size, as colours!—'Mongst 'em all,
None looks, nor calls, like other. No sweet bird,
That beats the pathless void, but pours new notes;
Distinct, from every plumey rival's song.

Stop thy endanger'd foot. Recal the range
Of thy recovering eye—bend o'er the brow
Of this touch'd precipice: and, hence, look down,
Where the broad sea, scarce heard, rolls murmering, in.

240

Ponder the Deep's dumb legions—Infinite
Their numbers! still more infinite, their shapes,
Bulks, movements!—Swift, slow, timid, fierce, horn'd, barb'd,
Coatless, finn'd, scaly, shell'd, wing'd, motionless:
All diff'ring—till immensity grows tir'd,
To note their changeful natures!—Can it be,
That he, who fill'd each crowded element,
With unresembling sons of endless change—
Peopled each puny drop, with varied states—
Each leaf, with new-shap'd nations too minute
To dread ambition's ravage—veil'd each path
To heaven's blue lawns, with clouds, that shift each hour,
Form, texture, hue—to suit their painted glow
To man's undazzled gaze—attemp'ring lights,
That teach the sun's too fervid beam to break
In coloury rays, and touch the sight, more safe!
—Can it be possible—that He,—pleas'd power!
Who o'er Creation's glebe, sow'd seeds of change,
Shou'd, but from Unity's bald harvest, reap!
And burn,—for tares—those beauteous growths, he rais'd,
To smile such lov'd variety!—'Twere Sin—
'Twere blasphemously blind—to dream such wrong.

241

No—let me, fill'd with awe, think fear a fault.
Fear but affronts the God, I'm born, to love.
I am, but by his pity: and want weight
To justify his anger.—If I err
'Gain'st in-lodg'd impulse, by his goodness lent,
To guide man's choice to virtue, some sure fate,
From suff'rings adequate, must punish guilt.
But what, where, how—he, who decreed, can tell.
—If, by mistake, on life's blind rocks I split,
By no safe Pilot pointed out, to shun,
There—erring weakness meets avoidless sin:
And needs no pardon: for it meant no wrong.

Doubt all faiths, boldly, then—undoubting God,
Appendant to no pride, mis-rob'd like zeal,
Hope all men bless'd alike—and injure none,
Grateful, I'll trace the fainter lights I find,
Un-envying other's blazing:—humbly, own
My aw'd conviction, of man's reachless power
To pierce omnipotence—and know it, near.
Let me, with distant rev'rence, pond'ring, dumb,
Dread arrogant decision; persecute

242

No fancied heresy—but, closing, calm,
Opinion's dazzled eye, bow darkly down,
And hail th' unfathom'd vastness! Thro the dusk
Thought fails to penetrate, revere what is—
Undaring to describe it. Let no pomp
Of positive presumption swell my soul,
To self-preferring scorn, of alien creeds,
Uncertain, in my own: Yet—sure, of this,
That virtue cannot err, but judgment may.

Peacefully patient, let me travel out
Life's unoffending journey. Mark, well-pleas'd,
New prospects, manners, tastes, beliefs, chang'd modes,
New systems—Every view, that sides my way,
Unprejudic'd to any: till—at last
Death opening truth's barr'd gate, 'tis time, to see
God's meanings—in the light, his presence lends.

243

Sareph and Hamar: An Episode.

[_]

From a Poem call'd GIDEON.

Joash from Ophra now was come, dispatch'd by Gideon's care,
Attended by the lately pardon'd ten;
These in the shortest roads, experienc'd were,
All grateful, brave, and dext'rous men:
But chiefly Phurah had a foul too strong
For fortune's adverse weight to strain, or bend:
Though low his lot, his mind cou'd upward tend:
He, much inur'd to grievous wrong,
Had mark'd, that interest was mens common end;
And since his former happier life, such misery did attend,
He little hop'd his woes wou'd make a friend:
But when by Gideon's noble pity sav'd,
He look'd more nearly thro' the hero's breast:
No more he mourn'd, that he was once enslav'd,

244

But the delightful misery blest;
Which, thro' the worst of human kind, thus led him to the best;
And burnt, impatient, with a gen'rous aim,
To serve his glorious lord's designs, and his high worth proclaim;
Well mounted, and well arm'd, a trusty guide;
He follow'd Joash, with a chosen train;
Who slow descending rough Bethulia's side,
Saw Midian's marching host o'erspread the plain:
And keeping near, had well observ'd the way,
'Till now encamp'd on Rama's hills they lay.
Joash, unwilling to advance more nigh,
'Till he had weigh'd their aim, the following day;
Resolv'd that night beneath his tent to lie,
On a declining spot, which charm'd his eye;
And sloping to the river's edge, was by a forest crown'd:
Half wilderness, half garden, widely sweet,
Where self-sown rose-trees shade the well-swarth'd ground,
And o'er the fragrant tops, thick-arching meet

245

Wild Orange trees, whose flow'ry breath perfumes the breezes round,
Charms, which at once cou'd all the senses greet,
And did in unbought store for each, with bounteous care abound,
Low, on the river's grassy brink, he sees
A meadow, shelter'd round with branchy trees;
His mules and camels, there, he turn'd to graze,
While higher in the grove he stays,
Beneath the canopy to pass the night;
Where the highway, near bord'ring, reach'd his sight;
Refresh'd by sleep, he rose serene and gay,
And walk'd abroad to see the breaking day,
With dawning lustre, thro' the boughs, in trembling sallies play.
Where-e'er he pass'd, the golden fruit hung low
And dancing, wanton, bow'd to court his hand,
Proud of the native charms they had to show;
While, from above, the sweet wind-wasted flow'rs,
Rain'd on his silver hairs, in milk-white show'rs;
Modest, the blushing rose-trees round him stand,

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And, rudely shook, weep tears of pearly dew;
And to his smell send soft complaints, and scent the forest through.

Now, thro' the grove, the thirsty Sun did his hot face disclose,
And drank the steamy nectar, as it rose;
When Joash, looking out upon the plain,
Beheld a comely youth approach the grove;
Weary he seem'd to walk, and full of pain,
As if against some inward woe he strove;
Close after him an ill-shap'd ass he led,
Whereon sate pensive, as in deep distress,
A lovely woman, with declining head.
Rich in her charms, but careless in her dress;
Often the youth look'd back with am'rous air,
And mix'd much tenderness with constant care,
Curious, and wond'ring what this pair shou'd be,
Joash sate low, against a bending tree,
Whence, 'twixt the bushes, he unseen cou'd see.
When they close and sheltry umbrage gain'd,
Soft in his arms, the youth his fair companion took,
Proud of the burthen, his glad grasp obtain'd,
And with slow step, and love directed look,

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Chose a well-swarth'd and shady spot, and having plac'd her there,
Sate down himself, and seiz'd her hand, and sigh'd with silent care.
Long on his face, with blushful innocence.
And unspoke meanings fill'd, she fix'd her eyes,
At last, with all love's natural eloquence,
Thus her soft soul, her trembling tongue supplies.

O SAREPH! how capricious is our fate!
Sure, I was doom'd to mis'ry from my birth,
While I was blind, and wou'd not know thy worth.
Then I had power to give it a reward;
But now, when thou hast won my whole regard,
When sick with shame, I see how much I owe,
And wou'd with joyful gratitude bestow;
I find myself distress'd and poor and loss'd in wilds of woe:
Why wilt thou share in my afflicted state,
And by partaking give my griefs new weight?
Leave me, too gen'rous youth! to bear ill fate alone;
Let pains to-come, past pride atone;

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Why, Sareph, shou'dst thou die for me,
Who thought it hard to live for thee?
Alas! how hopeless thus unknown, to roam!
What can we meet abroad but misery,
Who found no friends at home?
Wide is the world, my Sareph, and but few
To pity the unhappy are inclin'd;
Vast is the sorrow, we must travel through,
And small the speck of hope we go to find:
Oh! 'tis too hard to fall from wealth and fame,
To pinching hunger, and to pining shame:
Why live we longer then, since life is curst?
The beggar's lot is bitt'rer, than the grave.
Misery's too patient, when she waits the worst;
By death, at once, the wretched and the brave
May mend their fortune, and their honour save:
More she had said, but rising grief her breaking voice opprest
A-while, with speaking tears, she look'd the rest,
Then sigh'd, and with declining head fell soft against his breast.

Charm-cover'd Hamar, the sad youth reply'd,
And half his mantle o'er her gently threw;

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Unus'd to want, nor yet in misery try'd,
Rest, now, in safety, by my guardful side:
Faint with thy toils, and damp and cold, with night's descending dew,
Sleep will refresh thee, and thou then may'st find
Courage restor'd, revive thy waking mind:
That heav'n, which help'd thee to escape thy foes,
Well thy wond'rous virtue knows.
And will pursue thee with reward, where-e'er thy beauty goes.
Nor fear, that, being strangers, and unknown,
We wander, hopeless, o'er the world's wide breast;
Alas! what country can we call our own,
Who have at home been thus opprest?
Pity to foreign woe is soonest shown,
While fear, or envy, always robs domestic worth of rest:
To flourish is the way to be distrest;
And safe obscurity lives still most blest.
Want's heavy hand shall never drag thee down,
While I have life to lavish for thy sake:
Fear nothing, let storm-gath'ring fortune frown,

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For ever, thus, thy rest in safety take,
And on my shoulders let the tempest break.

Ev'n while he spoke, swift to the grove there came
Four straggling plund'rers, who, from Midian's host
Stole out by night, with predatory aim,
To rob and murder on this peopled coast.
These had, at distance, watch'd the mournful pair,
And, following to the shade, surpriz'd them there.
Sareph, resisting, was o'erpower'd, and all the four agree,
That bound upright against a tree,
Pierc'd by their arrows he dispatch'd shou'd be:
And now with bloody speed, and fierce intent,
Their steely bows stood strongly bent;
The levell'd shafts were pointed from the eye,
And the strings struggled with desire to fly:
Hamar, beyond description, stunn'd with woe,
Kneel'd, trembling, dumb, unfit for pray'r or flight;
She felt herself a stiff'ning statue grow,
Nor knew she liv'd, but by the curse of sight.

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Sareph, with swelling indignation choak'd,
Sometimes heav'n's help, sometimes the four invok'd,
Then, with mad starts of heat, their rage provok'd:
Now torn with pity, now with grief, convuls'd, he rolls his eye,
Now looks on Hamar with despair, now hopeful on the sky;
Then stamps, and weeps, and strains his bands, and wishes but to die.

Just in the fatal point, one soldier thus,
With lifted hand his fellow's purpose staid:
What will this stranger's death advantage us?
For life perhaps a ransom may be paid:
If not—To kill him, will our bliss with this fair prize destroy,
Make her distasteful, sad, and coy;
And blast the very spirit of our joy.
But for his life she may, with willing arms,
Reward us with the fulness of her charms.
Whose she shall be, by lot may soon be try'd;
Chance will impartially decide.
Brothers, reply'd another, 'twere a shame,
Shou'd lots determine in a soldier's claim:

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With that he hurl'd a jav'lin from his hand,
And pierc'd the trunk of a distinguish'd tree:
Now let us all, said he, at distance stand,
And he, whose arrow, hither shot, most near this mark shall be,
His be the claim, and the possessor he.
The rest, with joint applause, consent declare,
And backward far, their station chuse, and their best shafts prepare.
Thus they, suspicious of no danger near,
While Joash softly left his bushy seat,
And ran, with pity touch'd, his men to meet:
Soon he discern'd them, and with earnest cry,
Sent his swift summons to their willing ear;
They with a loud and general shout reply:
The Median archers hear the noise, and quit their prize and fly.

Joash with cautious foresight, check'd the haste,
With which his rushing guard pursu'd their flight:
On the grove's border, closely rang'd, a trusty file he plac'd;
Defensive there, to watch with reachful sight:

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Then to Sareph drawing nigh,
And viewing the transported youth with a joy-sprinkling eye,
From the flesh-furrowing cords his arms he frees,
Who grateful bends with rapt'rous thanks, and clasps his feeble knees.
Hamar, mean-while, sunk spiritless away,
And stretch'd upon the verdant surface lay;
Unable passion's wild extreams, with temper to sustain;
Excess of joy upon excess of grief,
Drove back a tide of strong resisting pain,
And overwhelm'd her with too fierce relief:
But Sareph kneeling earnest by her side,
Hung over her with love's officious care;
A thousand soft and tender arts he try'd,
A thousand times invok'd th' unanswering fair.
Waking at last, to love and life, amidst a warm embrace,
Her op'ning eyes flash'd sudden on his face;
Then round his neck her eager arms she threw;
Unguarded nature, thus surpriz'd, gave way;
Recov'ring life no nice disguises knew,

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Passion, unfetter'd by reserve, did its full force display,
And extasy did modesty betray.
On either side supported, slow she went,
Guided by Joash, to his distant tent;
There, soft reclining, sought a short repose,
Her scatter'd spirits to compose:
While Joash, curious to enquire,
What sad occasion plung'd them in their woe,
Address'd the youth, with mild desire,
The story of their mournful loves to know.
Sareph comply'd with the approv'd request,
And in these words, with mingled sighs, his wond'rous tale exprest.

Tyre, fam'd for golden splendor o'er the east,
Gave birth to Rekem of a fair descent;
But who, by honest industry, his wealth so much increas'd,
That he, in fortune's race, all others far outwent;
Yet was he not more blest, than innocent:
Rare were his virtues, and his soul as far excell'd the rest,
As did his wealth—He was at once the richest, and the best.

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None from his friendly door were empty sent,
He us'd his heaps, but as a treasure lent,
To be dispos'd for others good, and not in pride mispent.
He was the common father of th' opprest;
To him, 'twas merit but to be distrest:
My self became an early proof, how pity sway'd his heart,
In helpless infancy an orphan left,
At once of parents and of food bereft,
Rekem, that best of men, assum'd a father's part,
Sav'd me from want's soul-pinching smart,
And with a gen'rous care, and lib'ral hand supply'd
What my own lot, less happy, had deny'd.
This lovely Hamar, here, but now enslav'd,
This fainting charmer, whose dear life your timely succour sav'd,
Was the good Rekem's lov'd, and only child;
So soft her nature, and so sweetly mild,
That upon all the world, but me, she smil'd:
With bold, but fruitless passion fir'd, long time I strove in vain,
The wish'd reward of lovers sighs to gain;
But she, who wept at others woes, took pleasure in my pain.

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Rekem's superior wealth, and virtue too,
On his just aims, the grievous weight of general envy drew:
Out shining all, he stirr'd up all men's hate,
And stood a mark for the distrustful state.
They fear'd his virtues, and his wealth they sought,
And secret means, to work his ruin, wrought:
But long their willing malice watch'd in vain,
His life, unsully'd, white and pure, disclos'd no single stain,
Till fortune pointed out at last, a blind, but fatal way,
At once her former blessings to betray,
And to the hungry grasp of power gave up the long-wish'd prey.
Scarce past a month, since from the Midian host,
Which now o'er-conquer'd Israel wasteful sways,
Zalmunna sent two captains to our coast,
To mark our strength, and well observe our ways:
These to Tyre, with vent'rous aim,
Perhaps, not uninvited came;

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But while the city they with care survey'd,
They found themselves by some ill chance betray'd:
The house, they lay in, was beset by night,
And one was seiz'd, and one escap'd by flight:
The cautious state hence took alarm,
And strait resolv'd, defensively, to arm:
Maliciously inquisitive they find,
That Rekem once, by public fame deceiv'd,
To strangers converse ever much inclin'd;
Had the two spies, as travellers, receiv'd;
And feasted them with hospitable care,
Tho'tless, alas! how dang'rous guests they were.
Vain was the just defence his virtue made,
They seiz'd his wealth, and on his ruin prey'd:
And as by nature men; who once have injur'd us before,
Seek their own safety from new wrongs, and still oppress us more,
So with a blind, and barb'rous speed,
They the good Rekem ev'n to death pursu'd;
Dress'd rapine in her solemn form, and publicly decreed,
That on the morning, which ensu'd,
Beheaded in the market-place he should for treason bleed.

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But when to Hamar's ear this news was brought,
Who can describe the sad effects it wrought?
Imagination may perhaps conceive her dreadful state,
But 'twas a misery of too much weight,
Too sharp, too mighty to relate?
Long was her sad, her earnest pray'r deny'd,
To see her tender father, e'er he dy'd:
At last, the mournful favour she obtain'd,
And 'twixt two weeping maids supported went;
Far in the night together they remain'd,
And the dark hours in mutual mis'ry spent,
'Twixt loud complaints, and silent tears, and wild astonishment.
When Hamar's pious hope, by heav'n advis'd,
Wisely contriv'd her father's wish'd escape;
In her loose robes his body she disguis'd,
And cover'd with her flowing veil his grief-disorder'd shape;
Then seeming weak with woe, and drown'd in tears,
The good old man with artful step, and bent and cover'd head,
Safe 'twixt the faithful maids was from the prison led:

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While Hamar in his dress half dead with fears,
Remain'd the hostage of his flight, and saviour of his years.

Heaven knows what path the hapless Rekem chose,
But he has since been vainly sought by his blood-thirsty foes;
Mean while, in council the grave chiefs of state
Weigh the surprising deed with warm debate;
Some, but, alas! how few! with generous heat,
Applaud the filial piety, and her discharge entreat.
But far less just the general voice agreed,
That, since regardless of the laws she had her father freed,
She should again discover him, or in his place should bleed.
This she, tho' not expecting, bravely met,
And sent for me her last long leave to take,
Saraph, said she, I die without regret,
Since my dear father has escap'd their net;
Nor would I wish to live, but for thy sake:
Long thy love hath faithful been,
But thy great merit was too lately seen:

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A worth, like thine, in such an impious age,
Might hearts less sensible than mine engage:
But fate denies me now all power of choice,
And all, that I can give thee, is my voice:
Were I to live, my life henceforth were thine,
Now death requires me, and 'tis vain ignobly to repine.
By chance this jewel, rich in price, remains,
Sav'd from the general wreck, and secret kept,
Take it, said she, 'twill ease your life from want's voracious pains;
Perhaps your search (and there she wept)
May once again my now lost father find;
'Twill somewhat comfort his afflicted mind,
In his distress to see you kind.
And even the little this may give to share,
The gratitude of you, his friend, and his dead daughter's care.

I took the jewel, and o'erwhelm'd with grief,
Scarce found the pow'r these words to say:
Hamar, fear nothing, heaven's thy friend and owes thee sure relief.
So saying, turn'd, and shot with speed away,
For in that point of time, &c.

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—The pair departed, and with busy mind
Wise Joash thro' the grove reflecting stray'd;
Fill'd with ideas of God's power and goodness unconfin'd,
In each event discern'd to act, in every place display'd:
If downward on the earth he bent his eye,
The party-colour'd surface gaily dress'd,
Grateful, her scented off'rings breath'd to the dew-shedding sky,
And heaven's indulgent hand confess'd.
If he lookt upward to the realms of light,
The glowing sun blaz'd copious to his sight;
Illustrious proof of power immense, and essence vastly bright,
That first cou'd light up day's broad lamp, and guide the eyeless night!
If he the prospect round him view'd,
A vegetable nation widely spread,
With long, but humbler life endu'd,
Were in their seasons, by God's will, with genial moisture fed,

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The lowing herds in nature's lux'ry roll'd,
Wallowing in verdant beds of springing grass:
Air-sailing birds, with broad-spread wings in streams their flight behold,
And stooping wanton to the liquid glass,
With half dip'd pinions skim the floods, and sip 'em, as they pass.
In these, and in all objects, he cou'd spy,
Or with his gross, or intellectual eye;
The formful hand of God, distinctly read,
Amaz'd his thoughts, and o'er his soul a reverend horror spread.

But while thus nobly he employ'd his mind,
Surrounding shouts swell'd circling in the wind;
The grove, on every side, resounded, with alarms
Of mingled voices, crackling boughs, thick steps, and clatt'ring arms, &c.

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The Judgement-Day: A Poem.

I.

Hover no more, my muse! o'er idle themes,
Sliding shadows! slipp'ry dreams!
By heaven's high call, from humane byas freed,
Imagination climbs with dreadful speed!
Unfetter'd, from earth's humble heights, I rise,
And stretch sublime, a dang'rous flight, which none, untrembling, tries.
Tremendous maker! arm my aking eyes;
Aid and support, O God! my failing power,
Teach my bold thought to wing the blazing skies!
Fearless, to stem destruction's driving shower!
And safe, 'twixt burning worlds, ambitious, tower.
O! let my hot, my struggling bosom glow,
Swol'n by a bursting flood of bright desire:
'Till the astonish'd soul is taught, with starting dread to know,

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How groaning nature shall, dissolv'd, expire,
And tumbling orbs, with orbs involv'd, flow loose, in seas' of fire.
How this blue void's immense, and concave frame;
Spangled with starry worlds, to pieces broke,
Shall feel heaven, round it, shrivel from the flame,
And melted suns, from distant spheres, pour, liquid, through the smoke.

II.

Now, now, on fancy's saily wings, I rise,
Aw'd, and confounded! thro' deep wilds of air:
Millions of opening wonders strike my eyes,
And reason's finite view is dazled here!
Globes behind globes, unnumber'd, hence appear!
The twinkling stars, that, from yon earth remote,
Seem heaven-set gems, and scatter'd seeds of day,
Here, wid'ning into flaming worlds, 'midst seas of Æther flote,
And, o'er blue kingdoms, hold a fiery sway!

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In distant Orbits, round each reigning star,
Huge earths and moons, their circly homage pay:
Millions of countless miles are lost between,
And sick'ning thought grows tir'd to stretch so far!
How vast the concave spheres, which, hence, are seen!
Th' enormous vaults, with wheeling worlds glow round!
Rolling, sublime, they slide oblique, yet none their paths confound!
A thousand bright cross-currents cause no jarrs,
Nor one the others progress barrs;
Wide, round their central worlds of fire, their various tours they make;
Yet no proud planet dares his line forsake,
Partial, an intercepted ray to break:
They take, and lend, by turns, the streaming light,
And, silent, form, in solemn round, alternate day and night!
Yet, beauteous, as this heavenly fabrick shines,
An hour shall come, when it must all decay;
When starting man, from midnight sleep, shall see th' incumbent signs,
That time is sick, and nature melts away.

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III.

Hark! the dissolving trumpet roars! thunders o'er thunders roll!
A trembling angel sounds th' eternal call!
The unbounded notes whirl higher and higher, and rend my shiv'ring soul!
Echoing from world to world, they burst o'er all:
And gathering horrors, cold as death, in show'ry shadows fall;
The conscious planets start to hear the sound,
And, from their orbits, bound;
Now, void of motion, and depriv'd of force,
Th' arrested systems stop, at once, their course!
The languid orbs, grown dim, their shine with-hold,
And night creeps o'er them, in a deadly cold:
The guardian angels hear the alarming blast,
And, from their several stations, wing their way;
Upward, in glittering crouds, they tower, in haste,
And, looking back, sigh sad, and feel the day!

267

Thin troops of naked ghosts, long stript of clay,
That, wand'ring 'twixt the spheres, admiring gaz'd,
Start, in loose shoals, and glide, like mists, away;
Gathering above, expecting and amaz'd!
Again, th' intolerable sound I hear!
The dreadful summons tears my deafen'd ear.
The trembling air, unbracing, lets me fall;
O! save me, heaven! I sink apace, to yon benighted ball?

IV.

Hail! doom'd dominions! hail! my native clay!
O! what a blessing, here, were vanish'd day!
Again! what rumbling horror bursts its way!
Save me, my God!—a flood of flashing light
Gleams its red lustre, thro' the depth of night!
The poles start sudden, from the frightful burst,
And earth's snap'd axis, groaning, quits its trust!
No more th' ungravitated globe goes round,
Inward convulsions power, and form, confound;

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Wan desolation fades her cind'ry crust,
And active life creeps thro' the quick'ning dust!
Vales aw'd beneath me, at th'impending doom,
In billowy heavings, roll, upright, along th' incumbent gloom!
Torn from their roots, the groaning forests lie,
And hills leap headlong, and invade the sky.
Mankind, now, first united, join in prayer!
Shrieks, from a thousand kingdoms, rend the air,
And ghastly horror stalks o'er all, and leads on pale despair!

V.

See! how destructive flashes wind their way!
And point the following thunder, where to rend!
Mark! how the spouted rivers, upward, stray,
And hiss against the light'nings, which descend!
Heav'n! how the falling cities, buried lie!
Entomb'd, in their proud palaces, earth's humbled monarchs die!
See! thro' the flash'd distinction, fires can give,
Naked crowds, who wish to live,

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Mix'd, in confusion, to the mountains run;
Mountains, which, more afraid than they, have their own flight begun,
And, rolling, o'er the swallow'd tribe, bring on the fate, they shun!
On every side, from every part,
Disjointed realms asunder start;
Wide gaping clefts earth's inmost entrails show,
And, from th' uprooted mountain's chasms, below,
Unprison'd seas, in roaring torrents, flow.
Commission'd ocean, breaking loose, disdains his crumbling bounds,
And, hoarsely climbing, o'er the rocky mounds,
Swallows Pyrene's snowy top, and Alpine barriers drowns.

VI.

Now all is ocean! and a dreadful blast,
Bursts, from beneath, and swells it to the sky!
Torn, from their seats, the sea-toss'd hills are 'gainst each other dash'd,
And, bulging, on the foaming surface, lie;

270

On floating oaks the wond'ring Lyon rides,
And clings, majestick, to th' unstable seat!
The Elephant bears up his buoyant sides,
And paws the groaning waves, with his broad feet!
Th' assembled birds, in clouds, skim, low, in air,
Wind-shaken, scorch'd, and wash'd by driving rains;
In circly flight, shrill skreams their woe declare,
To find no remnant of their sheltry plains!
Deep-swallow'd earth, mean while, still loos'ning more,
Lets in old ocean, to her central fires;
Th' astonish'd deluge, ne'er so check'd before,
Shrinks from the pain, and in loud roar, retires!
Close in pursuit, the bursting flame breaks thro' th' unusual vent,
O'ertakes the rolling floods slow flight, and climbs th' immense extent!
On all sides, now, the fire-assaulted waves,
Feel themselves boil; and curl to shun the heat;
A night of steam climbs, dark and broad, from their voracious graves,

271

And plunging Whales, which no cool comfort meet,
Spout the hot flood to heaven, in rage, and the froth'd billows beat.

VII.

Melting within, earth's sulph'ry solids flow,
Pierc'd by the force of her expanding flame;
Metals, dissolv'd, in blazing lakes, below,
With liquid burnings, dash her concave frame!
Victor, at length, out bursts the flooding fire,
And rolls, triumphant, o'er the bellow'ing sea!
Rivers of flaming gold, in spouts, aspire,
And struggling thro' repugnant storms, a lab'ring passage free!
As when from furnaces, thick smoke expires,
And towers, in inky volumes, to the sky,
The warring wind beats down th' unyielding spires,
And spreads the sable eddies, broad, and high:
So, rising hills of liquid flame, by cov'ring waves oppress'd,
In glowing whirlpools, driving round, torment the ocean's breast,

272

Furious, the batt'ling elements engage,
And twisting hostile, hiss, with mutual rage,
Coated with fire, in strong and rampant tides,
Reluctant ocean, less'ning fast, subsides;
Mix'd with the melted world, it flames all round,
And seas, that drown'd the earth, themselves are drown'd.

VIII.

How low, proud earth, are all thy honours laid!
Where are thy late-contested empires found?
Where the big boasts of arts and arms display'd!
Where are the dreadful pomps, which hemm'd thee round!
What difference, now, 'twixt rich and poor, remains?
The ruler's sceptre, and the captive's chains?
Where lie the properties of boastful wealth?
Distinction, and degrees, now clash no more!
Pale sickness here, flows, mix'd with ruddy health,
And scorn and pity, now, unite, which never join'd, before!
Melting, like wax, thy kindled rocks in tow'ry flames aspire;

273

And liquid kingdoms undulate in fire?
From the sad sight, tir'd fancy! turn thy eye;
See! what amazing changes blot the Sky!
Longer, and louder, the last trumpet's sound
Rolls its encreasing clangor to the sun;
The starting fires convolve, and, backward, run,
Struck to the heart, he darkens and decays,
And strongly trembles, thro' his breadth of blaze;
As when, in living man, some swift surprize,
Chills the warm region of his beating breast:
The failing members feel th' oppression rise,
And hang, of force, and motion, dispossest:
So, when the sov'reign sun forgets his care,
Dependant worlds, in sympathetic woe,
Halt in their course, and sick'ning, with despair,
Their vast, ætherial rounds forgoe,
And roll, in devious mischief, down the air!
Yon wat'ry Moon, dissolving broad, now, seems a dusky flood,
And now, at once, O, horrid change! she reddens into blood!

274

IX.

Wide from its center, see! th' escaping sun,
With random dread, revolves his loos'ning spires;
Cold orbs, which plac'd remote, his influence shun,
Now feel th' attraction of his bordering fires.
Suck'd to his burning breast, averse they flow,
And icy regions roar, to meet his glow!
Plung'd in embracing frost, unquench'd, he lies!
And the thaw'd clime, round his hot convex fries!
Worlds, by his absence, from dependance freed,
Scud, in loose liberty, along the sky;
Wild, and licencious, drive, with headlong speed,
Till 'gainst some shoaly comet, bulg'd, they lie;
So, rebel kingdoms struggling to be free,
Shun regal power, and split on anarchy!
See, see! where blazing orbs, in spheres remote,
Wrecks of lost worlds! thro' storms of Æther flote!

275

With spiry climb, vast tongues of fire, stretch'd high,
In dreadful cones, to sweep each other try;
While skies; between, shrink up, and warp their frame,
As crackling Bay-leaves curl, in circling flame.

X.

Involv'd, at length, th' attracted planets throng,
And burn, confounded, with their central suns;
Tumbling, from every part, they strike, and, thund'ring rend along!
Th' unhinging shock the list'ning angels stuns.
Worlds against worlds, with clashing horror driv'n,
Dash their broad ruins to the throne of heav'n!
Thro' flaming regions of the burning air,
Down rain distilling suns, in liquid rills,
Mix'd with red mountains of unmelted fire!
Hissing perplex'd, with showers of icy hills,
And cat'ract seas, that roar, from worlds still higher;
Mingled, like driving hail, they pour along,
And, thund'ring, on our ruin'd system fall!
Flames, grappling flames, combine, to grow more strong,
And, in wild blaze, sweep, boundless, over all;

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One firey deluge, wasteful, boils below,
And crumbled worlds, in liquid millions, flow.

XI.

Th' accomplish'd ruin sleeps, creation dies!
And untask'd angels rove o'er empty skies!
The soft'ning trumpet breathes harsh strains no more;
But, in sunk sounds, grows sweet, and falls its roar!
Celestial voices swell, 'twixt warbling notes,
And thrilling joy, on circly rapture, floats!
O'er the vast void, melodious praises flow,
And list'ning fiends, from the red lake, below,
Hush, for a while, the creeping flames, and half suspend their woe!
But, while in deep, and fix'd attention, charm'd,
Their hungry souls devour the blissful sound,
By sudden silence struck, they start, alarm'd,
And mark a sad! an awful! stillness, round!
Conscious of coming judgment, down they sink,
Diving, by thousands, thro' the burning lake;
Calm with incumbent dread, from brink to brink,
Th' unheaving ocean scarce is seen to quake,
Nor swells one daring billow up, in firey foam, to break!

277

XII.

From shore to shore, wide, round the laky flame,
High-arching heav'n contracts its springy frame!
Broad, as the ruin spreads, th' unmeasur'd dome
Tow'rs, in full compass, o'er the waste below!
Assembling angels, now, no longer roam,
But, in throng'd radiance, gild the roofy bow;
A solemn black does the vast concave line,
Where streaky waves of rubied redness glow;
'Twixt their loose curls, white beams, of silv'ry shine,
Involv'd with rolling tides of azure, flow!
Currents of mingled black, red, gold, and blue,
In glitt'ring chaces, sport, perplex'd and wind, unceasing, through!
Stream'd thro' the whole, a quiv'ring lustre darts,
Which, as bright groups of angels interpose,
A twinkling change of coloury rays imparts,
And, from their wings, a show'ry light'ning throws!
Far, above all, thro' the dome's op'ning crown,
Broad, as a world, th' almighty's EYE looks down;

278

Clouds of deep glory, shadowing, round, his keen refulgence hide,
And dazled angels turn their eyes aside!

XIII.

Hark! what transporting majesty of sound,
In solemn sweetness rolls its force along?
Soft, and yet loud, it leads its thunder, round,
And strikes chill rev'rence, thro' th' angelic throng!
'Tis the eternal's pow'rful voice! that calls, to waken death!
And resurrection waits th' omnific breath!
The lake groans deep! the labour will begin!
O'er its broad face, life-heaving billows curl;
The burning bowels sep'rate, slow, within,
And smoaky clouds expire in pitchy whirl!
Bodies of men, in ages, long since past,
Whose wand'ring dust has chang'd a thousand forms,
Purg'd, by the boiling fires, evaporate fast,
And, steaming upward, rise, in misty swarms?
Sexes, conjoin'd in shoaly atoms, swim,
And, sallying loose, the firey surface skim!

279

Kings, slaves, and patriots, undistinguish'd flow,
And mount, entangled, from the gulph, below!
In the mid-air, dispers'd, unnumber'd ways,
Each in his fellow's search, instinctive, strays!
Circling, like flaky show'rs of driving snow,
Which whirlwinds, into mazy wav'rings, blow;
In endless intricacies, winding thro',
Atoms join atoms, and lost forms renew!
With sympathetic cling, together fly,
And limb'd, for life, in cumb'rous millions lie!

XIV.

Once more, sublime, th' enliv'ning voice I hear!
“Souls, descend! your bodies join.
Sudden, thin clouds of hov'ring lives appear,
And leaning anxious, in soft squadrons, shine!
Loos'd, at th'Almighty's word, distinct they fly,
Swift, as the sight-beams of a human eye!
Ardent, with longing shoot, each strikes his own,
And smiles, to fill his long-lost home again;
Bodies supine, by ent'ring breath new blown,
Flash sudden, into life, and start up men!

280

They wake! they pant! they try their limbs! they gaze!
Lost, in short horror, and severe amaze!

XV.

Armies, unnumber'd, throng th' ætherial space,
Paternal Adam views, at once, his whole collected race,
And, with big tears, for conscious woe, bedews his reverend face:
Parents meet children, and, transported, cling,
Long-parted friends, in mutual rapture, greet,
Th' obliger and th' oblig'd, together spring,
And trembling traitors injur'd sovereigns meet!
Cæsar on Brutus looks, serenely, down,
And cloudy Cato stalks, with sullen will,
Glares on him, envious, with inferior frown,
And wonders, that in spite of death, he feels him conqu'ror still!
Majestic, in the solemn front, of Stuart's injur'd race,
The kingly martyr rears his awful brow!
Pierc'd by the force of his forgiving face,
A gloomy host of back'ning rebels bow!
And fear, too late, that sovereign pow'r, they never own'd till now!

281

Decrepit age, to more than youth, restor'd,
And pining sickness, freed from aking pain,
Exert the vigour, their new limbs afford,
And move, transported, at th' apparent gain!
Pale murd'rers meet, alive, whom, once, they kill'd,
And rush thro' crowds th' alarming sight to shun;
Usurpers fly from kings, whose thrones they fill'd,
And loaded with their guilt, unwieldy, run.

XVI.

Fancy, thou fail'st me, here! I feel thee weak!
I feel thee sink, beneath th' o'erpowring weight;
Aid me, O Saviour! teach my soul to speak;
Thron'd, on thy father's red right hand, in all thy dreadful state!
Thou see'st the humbl'd pride of nature wait,
Mankind, collected into life! the lowly, and the great:
And thus, th' eternal doom thou speak'st; the sentence of their fate!
‘Come, my blest remnant, ye selected few!
‘Who practis'd, but, the obvious good, ye knew;

282

‘Who, safely pointed, by the guide within,
‘Struggled to virtue, and resisted sin;
‘Who, or, by prophets, or, by conscience, taught
‘Have, or discover'd truth, or, humbly, sought;
‘Who, from the guilt of choice have still liv'd free,
‘Or done, or suffer'd, for my name, and me!
‘Who, by no conscious weight depress'd, of unrepented sin,
‘Feel yourselves light, and uncondemn'd, within,
‘Rais'd, from yon dark, and sinking crowd! to heaven's high thrones aspire!
‘Enter, with me, to joys, which drown desire;
‘And leave th'accurs'd, to prove by pain, eternity in fire!

XVII.

'Tis spoke: and, lo! th' unroofing arch rends wide;
Swift, descends a radiant tide!
An opening breadth rolls down, of sparkling day;
And, like a scroll, unfolds huge length, of more than milky way!

283

They go! th' admitted saints tread light, as air,
They mount, with more than human eyes, and stem the streamy glare!
Bright, as they move, th' encircling angels throng;
Heard Halleluja's shake th' inferior sky!
In distant thrills, expiring notes prolong,
And with transporting fall of sound, in gradual soft'nings, die!
See! thro' the Portal! how attracted day,
Like a swift current's spiral ebb, glides, after 'em away!
Now, all is dark, and dismal, as yon scene;
Ah! why does closing heaven, so soon, th' entrancing prospect skreen?
What does beyond those glitt'ring confines lie?
And why no room, 'till death makes way, for such a wretch as I?

XVIII.

But murmur not, proud thought! if, here, delay'd,
A wand'ring pilgrim, through this life's cold shade,

284

I must not, yet, with heav'nly choirs, rejoice;
O! be the will of God, not mine, obey'd!
Wait, my impatient soul! his wiser choice!
Trust the strong hand, by which those worlds were made,
And to his pleasure tune thy willing voice!
If I, not yet, shake off this earthy load,
Sure, there is bus'ness, worth my life's best aim;
He, who submits to tire upon the road,
Is faintly soul'd, or travels not for fame;
For me, suffice it, to have taught my muse,
The tuneful triflings of our tribe to shun,
And rais'd her warmth, such heav'nly themes to chuse,
As, in past ages, her best garlands won!
He, who beyond the pow'r of man could write,
Wou'd still fall short of him, who acted well;
To flow in sound, or turn a period right,
Is, but in fairy tow'rs of praise, to dwell!
To pardon wrongs, and benefits requite,
Is, in substantial meaning, to excel!
Why are my wishes bent beyond my power,
But to provoke my speed, to reach that goal,
Whence on the afflicted, I may comforts show'r,
And, with eas'd pity, feast my hungry soul!

285

Be Action, then, henceforth, my life's wide sphere,
A thousand glorious things I wish to do;
All has been said, that's worth a wise man's ear,
But much may be perform'd, that's greatly new.

CLEON to LYCIDAS;

A Time-Piece.

[_]

The Date not mark'd, by the Painter.

Faith, and the muse, have err'd. 'Twas just advice,
Skill'd Lycidas! that check'd too hasty praise.
I shou'd have cool'd pre-currence, into pause,
And weigh'd the public voice, oppos'd to mine:
Then had I found the future, in the past;
Nor falsely charg'd contractions puny grasp
With compass, it conceiv'd not. Share, my friend,
In pity, share, the pain my soul sustains,
To find such hope so faded. Hope, too rais'd,
To stoop at humble self: Hope, wing'd for all.

286

All was my blasted prospect. Fond surmize
O'er-rated, and out-stretch'd, a people's bliss.

Bid throb, the muse's pulse—for thy sweet call,
What muse, uncharm'd, can hear?—Bid burn, the brow
Vindictive, and appeal due satire's frown.
Due, to the stagg'rers, that made drunk by power
Forget past thirst's dry promise: and presume,
Dark dreamers! that the world forgets it, too.
Bid the priest Poet consecrate the rage
Of a wrong'd nation's curses. Rage, at zeal
From ranc'rous gall, hot envy's acrid hell!
Long under cloak of patriot semblance hid,
Guileful to lurk in wait, till av'rice snapt
Corruption's watch'd-for lure: Then, off, at once
Flew wide th' obstructive virtue. Veil'd no more,
Scramblers, in broad exposure's blushless brawn,
Light from the dust, lick'd prone th' admissive gold,
Deep-stain'd with cank'ry ordure. Lambent slaves!
Fiend-cloven tongues! grac'd, once, to shame belief:

287

And make distrust seem virtue!—yet, vain truth!
No sooner hears the muse her Poet's call,
Than venal calumny whets every sting,
To wound his honest purpose. Public sense
With her, is private feeling: Satire's frown
Mean warmth from disappointment. Spurn the hag:
Or, let her err, neglected. Perish warmth,
That acts, or wills or thinks from partial pique,
Unfaithful to its seemings! Self avaunt!
Self is beneath resentment; nor descends
The muse, to note such waste of wild impute.

Unpersonal, the cheeks indignant glow,
That blushes but for others. Fall disgrace
On ears, of dastard start, that dare not hear:
Or tongues, that dare not own, truth's boldest call!
Fall, even, contempt on worth, where, fac'd for scorn,
Tort of revulsive brow bids pride withold
Thy smile, cheap gratitude! which craft's low guile
Oft lends the beggar'd heart, that wants, within.
Shame on the painful stretch, that racks the great!
Needless extension! dignity like light,

288

Dwells in itself, displayer, undisplay'd.
How have I seen the native courtier shine!
Warp'd to no sowre sublime, enchant men's eyes;
Charm dress'd in easy honour's effluent air:
Fill out distinction's voids without pomp's aid,
Strike in descending: and attract, supreme!

Oh, thou! to whom lost Anna's evening ray
Ow'd love's allegiant lustre: flame, of joy,
Wit, genius! tide of art! whence letter'd hope
Drew depth, to fail ungrounded. Soul of taste!
Shade, without chill! soft'ning superior height
With access and urbanity!—what need
Thy name here added? Day's meridian blaze
Marks the known hour, untold.—O, say, best judge,
Thou, who so nobly trod'st th' illustrious steep,
Oft clouded, since thou left'st it!—Teach th' untaught,
Why are the rais'd look'd up to?—'Tis, to try
Their claim to sit, so mounted. 'Tis, to task
Their strength to lift low climbers. Down, proud snails,
That, crawl'd too high, your slime-track'd shells expose!

289

Out with these snuffs in blaze, that shine, to stink!
What have the lame to do, with wrestler's toils?
'Tis impudence, that prompts deformity
To prink itself, like beauty. Want of light
Were flatt'ry, to the ugly. Drag 'em out:
And leave 'em, in the eye of scorn, impal'd.

These are the minds, that disavow the Muse!
Dead to the formful glow, that figures thought,
Blots low sensation from the wid'ning heart;
Lends an elastic nerve, to every sense:
Pushes exerted virtue into act:
Feels, for a world embrac'd; and warms mankind.
—Nothing of this, poor souls! disturbs their calm.
Closing their tortois'd lump of cold content,
Distant, perhaps, they hear the poet's name:
Less probably, sometimes perhaps, half deign
To turn th'untasted page; there, lumb'ring on,
Find nothing in the noblest verse, but rhyme:
And equal Durfey's frost, to Dryden's fire!
Sleep, genius, sleep—the times invite repose.
No source, of all Britannia's silv'ry streams,
Shall feed hope's with'ring root, where hearts, thus dry,

290

Have drunk, like spunges, fortune's ponded swell:
And o'er th' unmoisten'd virtues shake no drop.

O, Lycidas! how climbing zeal will lye!
Come, help me to deplore those blust'ring gales,
Whose ventilative heave puff'd out their void,
With shows, of airy ardour: Till up-driv'n
O'er skreenful clouds, there burst the bubbly forms!
There, shrunk their satiate bulk, to trackless hush!
Speak, ye forgotten graces, if unsworn
To hold dumb distance, round the seats of power,
And rev'rence, un-approaching, step more near:
Untarnish those bald stars: tell 'em, their lights
Were lent, to be reflected. Every muse,
By every art attended, sighing, prone,
Complains of interception. Each, in vain,
Invokes one beam. But pines, in shiv'ring shade.

Why, Lycidas, were ends and means misjoin'd?
Why am I born to pain, for pity, will'd?
Why chose the God, that warm'd thy widening heart,
To curb thy shorten'd hand, and press down fire;

291

What shall we say, to touch these sons of noise
With sense, how boldly death dissects their name?
What shall we do, to break th' imperious blinds,
That rise 'twixt power and taste! to pierce their mist?
And teach th'incumbent reeks, what clouds they form?
How shall a noteless, nameless, silent, friend
To thought's obscure retreats, unnerv'd, like me,
By dignity's bold brace, or fame's felt spring,
Shake those close groves of state, whence kings catch gloom?

Oh! were their reach but thine! or, lot more wish'd,
Happier, and safer, most remote from thrones!
O, were thy will but theirs!—Then, Lycidas,
No self-exposing halt, in place possess'd,
Wou'd shame remember'd sweep to distant hope.
Corrective care wou'd change, what once it charg'd:
Watchful discernment seize unshould'ring worth,
That crowds not into notice. Taste wou'd dare
Feel uninfus'd distinction: take no cue
From int'rests venal nod—less, wait for prayer,
From virtue's bashful pang, or art's dumb claim:

292

For, excellence hugs close her modest veil,
But, (actively inquisitive for woe,
For wit's guess'd wants, for sorrow's cover'd tear,
For pains, wrongs, penury of every good,
With-held by every evil) drag back weight,
That holds down worth depress'd,—and bid it spring.

So, cou'd my verse, ah! fruitless dream! inspire,
Then shou'd I feel I breathe, nor life's dim track
Touch'd languid, lose each footstep's feeble mark,
And leave no streak on time, to note my name.
—But, hush, vain struggler, bid thy breast contract;
And satisfy with will, thy pow'rless soul.
How shou'd such lot be mine, who drink wit's dregs,
In desarts, where seduction's drowth has choak'd
With venal dust, Castalia's dwindled rill!
How shall I raise my voice, till greatness hears?

Write, says the whisp'ring impulse, that assumes
Ambition's airiest hope, yet hates her name:

293

Write, but be read. Write rugged truths, untun'd
To flatt'ry's dulcid lentor: roughly loud,
As when the last heard call shall wake the dead.
Court some kind angels aid, to voice thy theme.
Alas! no Angel dwells, where avarice reigns!—
Oh! for some hoarse Teutonic note, more stern,
Than Runic bard, o'er hostile scalp, e'er sung,
When Woden's hall resounded to his clang!
Then shou'd satiric fervor, sharply strong,
Roar, like the muses's bull, till the wak'd nine
Concurr'd, in frightful consort; while intense,
Up the steep cliffs of Pindus' pathless brow,
Rumbling, I roll'd my tumbril theme along.

Wrong not, by numbers tun'd to concord's shell,
The brawl-devoted taste, that tans thy times.
Softness be Opera's claim: be sharpness thine.
Softness in satire asks good sense, in guilt:
'Twere lost, on power's blind puddlers. Wit's light gnat,
Humming its courteous buz, is brush'd from note:
Her wasp, close-fast'ning, bids th' unlist'ner feel.
Sting then: and force from pain, what pride with-holds.

294

So shall thy verse, at least, out-soar contempt;
And lend distaste discernment.—Touch no praise.
'Tis idol sacrifice, to gods, of Stone.
Praise has but one pleas'd reader: scarce, one friend.
Satire can squeeze kind looks, from bitt'rest gall.

Loosen the reins to spleen, cries angry truth;
Where phlegmful fogs distil their lazy damp
'Tis wholesom to be mad. Nor pause, for thought:
Who, that but sees or hears, needs think, for fame?
Born, to no past'ral plain's romantic range,
Calm, and cool-fann'd by reason's temp'rate gale,
Feel, that thou breath'st in passion's haziest fen,
Contagious air, by sensual suns, inflam'd:
Where carnate emulation, stripp'd of mind,
Glows muscularly strong: where license reigns,
Uncurb'd by law's restraint: where youth's fed fire,
Bids bashful diffidence of self be bold.
Where not to rev'rence, is to know, mankind:
Where disrespect is ease; noise taste in life;
And modesty low breeding. Where descent
Drives literally downward: 'till, behold!
Yon Coachman's copy'd soul propels the peer;

295

And dim-star slouchers shine, by glare of shame,
Downcast decorum swells the public laugh.
Judgments and views run backward. Nature nods.
Ends but succeed, as means prepost'rous err.
Malice grows fast, water'd by pity's tear:
And factions but contend, for rank in wrong.

Up, from rhyme's popy'd vale; ascend fame's hill:
Soft to the soft: Thy theme be tempest—On.
Write with a whirlwind's fury. Snatch the God,
That thunders in blank verse, to ride thy storm.
So may they hear, tho' cricket stakes were pitch'd,
Tho' the won Plate's broad triumph shook the field:
Tho' cock's, hard-conqu'ring crow, to shouting rings;
Or Briton's coarse debates out-quarrel Rome's.
—Muse, I begin. Assist, with all your sail,
Ye prose-inflating hawks, of Helicon!
Lend me your wing's wide stretch, to aid my sweep.

Come! let the soul of Freedom's reinless power,
Vast, and unconscious of constraint, inspire!

296

Wild let her lift me from the lawns of song,
Musick's hedg'd boundlets, mem'ry's measur'd mead's,
Where rhyme-trac'd cadence, in harmonious close,
Rivets recorded sense, and pins down thought.
Light, and disrob'd of softness, let her drive,
Loose, to the voids, of fancy's viewless scope:
Vague, and unshap'd, and pathless, as the air.

What shall be sung? ye sons of vastness, say,
What subject, sadly soundful, like the rush
Of hoarse, broad, Cat'racts, shall blank numbers roar?

Shall it be Sorrow's energetic plaint,
That groans away the sun, and lends new gloom
To midnight's mournful umbrage? Tim'd too well,
Too lately, Albion's boreal wastes had wept
The suited theme: when tears, from rash revolt,
Wash'd ruthless prisons: when th'accessless wilds
Of bleak-brow'd mountains shriek'd, with vocal woe;
Mothers and Orphan's cries! whom famine found,

297

Where only famine cou'd: Despair's pale tribe!
Weeping, in death's chill grasp, their own unfelt,
Some past or future fate, of friend more dear;
Why shou'd the gen'rous Muse insult the fall'n?
Why not deplore the pangs of hostile pain?
Just if they thought their cause, their crime seem'd faith.
Guiltless in will, by taste involv'd in wrong,
From educative custom's devious warp,
Spare the persisting blind: unhoping grace:
Trustless of regal virtues: erring on
From doubt of mercy. For, alas! no voice
Of truth, in desarts heard, had taught 'em, Kings,
Who last can fear offence, can, first, forgive.
Paint, then, their pity'd anguish: nobly feel,
To make sublimely felt, this brave man's test:
That hearts, unshaken by resister's rage,
Are conquer'd by their sorrow.—Vain attempt!
Spread the sonorous wing for flights of joy.
Sorrow renounces latitude of range:
Dwells in confinement's cave; where thought sits chain'd,
Muses are shunn'd: and horror's winking lamp.
Ghastlying night's ebon eye, sees woes on woes,

298

Tear following tear, sigh echoing sigh, combin'd,
Move in close consonance of sist'ring sound.

Shall it be love, soft whisp'ring out the soul,
From its own mansion tenderly exhal'd
To reach some sweeter self? No: dare not touch
That theme; 'tis sacred to the rights of rhyme,
Union will ne'er, by dissonance, be sung.
Love's links are married couplets: hand in hand
The willing yoke-mates share confederate fall:
Soft as the zephyr skims the dew-drop'd rose.
—But, even had rhyme conspir'd to tempt—forbear.
Aweful, resign, a wreath, more nobly won.
Saint-John, his country's boast, his country's crime,
When courts at leisure left his youth, to love,
Saint-John! the Muse's Lord, this theme once sung:
Sung it, in verse more soft, than beauty's eye!
More strong, than her Attraction! Almahide,
Immortal Almahide! by Saint John, lives.
Who shall attempt to touch the Theme he chose?
He, who was voic'd by musick: mien'd by love!
He, who, by turns, has every muse possess'd,

299

And every art, protected: Every grace,
Through every fortune, led—Supreme, in all.
Saint John! whom woman wish'd, man envied; realms
Made war on: yet, whom none found power to hate!

Nor grief thy theme, nor love. What choice remains?
Shall it be death's grim waste, War's field of fire?
Aptlier, the subject wou'd have warm'd our isle,
When England's sun shot wide th' irradiate flame
Of her fam'd Edward's day-dawn.—Yet, who knows,
But at some far-thrown moment, whit'ning broad,
Some light, new rising, may (perhaps) once more,
Off-roll the sullen shade, that glooms our fame.
Rekindling sense of martial fire may glow,
Till the rous'd nation blazes. Then, the sons
Of Sires unskill'd to think defeat no shame,
Starting to destin'd vengeance, the struck drum
No more shall bid the form-dress'd soldier sleep:
But roll its deepn'ing bass to wake due death;
Then too, no more, the trumpets clang'ry shrill,

300

Fright'ning the Opera Dame, shall to her ear
Call her affected hand, and shut out claim
To promise of a son, like him she loves.

Hail the wish'd wonder: give him birth, O time!
And into fame's rough ocean launch his name.
—But, when he rises, bid him hate no Muse.
Fan his impatient blaze, to letter'd love.
Pour the enthusiast fervor thro' his ear,
That fir'd the conqu'ring Ammons thirsty soul—
Born for the poet's praise, teach him to know,
That war's wing'd bolt, by love of verse impell'd,
Bursts every bar to glory. Verse, to war
Lends ardour: War, to verse, new warmth, imparts.
So join'd, that never hero reach'd renown:
Or, reach'd, ne'er held; who wrong'd the Muse's claim.

Oh what, ye gothic renders of the ear!
Ye blank verse bursters of Pierian bars!
Strong beyond chaining comet; swerves of thought!
Giant surmounters of wit's loftiest Alps!

301

Ye hurlers of prose rocks at musick's heaven!
What shall deserve the dread, your thunder bears?

Faction deserves, and claims it: cries a howl,
That paints th' attentive soul—Come, learn her laws.
Give, to the deity, that skakes down thrones,
Th' allegiance of thy Muse. Blank verse be mine.
Guideless and boundless in aspiring grasp,
And frownful in majestic sullenness,
Her musick dwells in murmur. Let her growl
For faction: taste her lust of loud complaint,
And hang on empire's wheels the drag of hate.
Range safe beneath her standard: mark its sweep!
Unfurling into length, the dreadful wave
Sees earth's chill'd kingdoms shake, beneath its shade!
Kneel, and be Hers: enroll thy name—and rail.

Thou start'st!—alas, for verse, that dares, not rail?
What can'st thou hope from praise? it wounds no name.
Art thou to learn thou liv'st, where greatness hoards

302

Regard, to bribe repugnance? o'er-assur'd,
And cheaply negligent of zeal inclin'd.
So must it be, where party's billowy surge
Bids wave push wave from power. There, science sleeps.
Uproar and contest reign. Deep, to the root,
Pain-trod Parnassus shakes: and each sap'd sprig,
That green'd the muse's grove, finds dry decay.
While pelted into fright, or laugh'd to spleen,
Deaf ministerial ears, absorb'd in fret;
Or dirtily engross'd by craft's low buz,
Taste not the calm surveys of leisure's range:
Share no delight in song; nor woo, nor weigh,
The power, that dwells in gen'rous praise, to guide
A nation's doubtful heart, to find her friend.

Waste not the warmth of verse on things, like these,
Or, stain their mem'ry, with effaceless gall.
—Yet, since, sometimes, in power's obscurest night,
Through sabley jet, pale threads of white may start,
Shou'd vice shame one, to virtue, lend him light.

303

Faction, that loves no truth, must own this, one:
That never friend to verse malign'd the just.
Virtues, however thankless, forc'd, or few,
Compell the poet's praise—But wou'd thy song
Wake these sublime insolvents, into sense
Of what they owe attachment? Let it rail.
Rail horrible: in accents, like their own,
When envy's acrimonious rage impells
Detraction's venal insult. Nerve, in sounds
Like thunder's gath'ring menace, the rais'd arm
Of opposition's onset. Tell the press,
Where public plunder bawds for private thrift.
Where grandeur holds a stalking-horse, to shame,
And skreens guilt's aim at honesty. Why laws,
Bent and re-bent like wire, crack short, start wide,
And, with two ends, bind nothing. Tell whose thirst,
By taste unguided, snaps at bubbly froth,
And leaves the sapid depth, untouch'd, below:
Teach, where bought strength was weakness: wisdom craft:
And infamy long due, where chance gave joy.

304

Begin, describe, discolour. Spread abroad
Sedition's fluid tints, and stain a state.
So, shall attracted notice deign regard,
And slander snatch the perquisite of praise.
Such are the tastes of office! such, the souls,
That actuate half the mighty! Note it, you,
Who rev'rence high distinction. This unmark'd,
Hope's empty swell plumes broad her feathery crest:
But, bald in disappointment, frights belief.
Court crocodiles are scal'd: they feel no tweak.
He, who wou'd wake must wound: seen danger strikes
More forcibly, than all thy Pathos, Wit!

Say, Tacitus,—thy skill the secret found:
In what state-scale, five hundred insults, poiz'd,
Weigh'd down five hundred thanks, in grateful gold.
Dream not, thy Roman's genius mov'd such boon:
Not his fam'd father's vict'ries, ten times won,
And to thy claim transferr'd, had, there, so charm'd.
Oh power of prompt reproach, to rasp reward:
And flash conception's fire from flint most cold!

305

Call it not bounty: blast it, angry muse;
And from the fame of Albion blot that tale.
Th' imbitter'd hand of calumny bows down
The heart; its gall corrodes, to smile thro' wrongs,
And pay compell'd respect, to dreaded scorn:
While, on the candid courtship of the kind,
No fost'ring glance descends!—untott'ring power
Takes compliment, as tribute. Over-cramm'd
With self, and surfeiting on brief success,
The narrow-compass'd heart wants room, for taste.
—Or grant some glimm'ry ray gave light, to guess
Th' effect of skill'd applause: what thence, results,
But insolent contempt, of aid unsought?
The busy breast, that pants, in post hard held,
Wants leisure to be grateful: 'Tis the task
Of grandeur in disgrace, to thank a friend.

So spoke th' inurbane voice. The muse sigh'd sad:
Paus'd long, withheld consent; and thus reply'd.

Faction is fam'd for falsehood—If she, now,
Hints truth, 'tis infamy too poor for verse:
Leave it to prose-tongu'd party's cool display—
Nor love the measures: nor malign the men.

306

Grant imag'd worth, by erring fancy form'd,
Ideal, as the dreamer's empty grasp,
Who, suffers, but the shown? unmask'd, and found!
What has mistaken candor lost, but faith?

When, miscomputing their unsounded swell,
Deep'ning proud shallows, thou o'er-rat'st design,
And wrong'st the guiltless, by respect undue,
Blush, and be dumb: repent; and sin no more.
Where, arrogant in virtue, conscious claim
Looks cold, on praise consign'd to length'ning time,
Or, uninspir'd to judge, reads flat: nor finds
Distinction, 'twixt the Bell-man's power, and thine,
Smile, and forgive the blind: but, still, be just,
Still, be the worth thy theme: the taste thy scorn.

And thou, fled soul, of Pope! dis-rob'd from dust,
And, in that dust, deposing each faint stain,
That speck'd, while here, thy part divine with man!
If, from that source of truth, where, now, thou shin'st,

307

Spirits, like thine, look down, and love it, still;
Hear, and attest. Sarcastic, as thou wast,
All scorn of flatt'ry sleeps not, in thy grave.
There lives, who dares assert the poet's fire,
Undimm'd by venal smoke. Who boasts no muse:
Yet owns the rights of all; and loves their fame.
Who, from retreat's safe depth, feels virtue's wounds;
Adopts th' impropriate pang, and flies from rest.
Who, from the summit point of fortune's spire,
There, cou'd his fate stand rais'd, wou'd, touch'd as now,
Bow prostrate, as the worm, to hail the wrong'd;
Then greatest, when most lessen'd! by false fears,
From envy's miscreant arts, and stripp'd of name!

And you, whoe'er you are, where-e'er you pine,
Who glow, perhaps, unmark'd, perhaps, o'erlook'd,
Perhaps, untasted, by sublime defect
Of dignity in sense; which kings may want,
But none, 'midst all his titles, can bestow:
Grieve not to seem too little to the great.
What lose the gen'rous, who profusely waste,
On high-plac'd weakness, all the muse's strength?

308

Shines the sun faintlier, for those beams he pours,
Vain, and unthank'd, to warm th' insensate rock?

Tell the big blanks, that he, who courts neglect,
And loves to praise, unpaid, is paid within.
Is greater, than the great: pities their scorn:
And bids their merit live; by verse they wrong'd.

The Excursion of FANCY: A Pindaric Ode.

I.

And why, ye empty names of things, unsound!
Ye almost shadows, e'en, of sound!
Fame! Glory! Fortune! Fate! and all the fairy fancy'd round:
Or rather wou'd ye, but vouchsafe to tell
The cause of ills, ye know too well;
Say? ye proud tracers of disdainful state;
Who buy distinction at the world's low rate!
Ye mean aspirers to be great:
By aims, which earth-born hopes, not heavenly truths, create!

309

Why must the sacred spring of honour's flood,
Be us'd to rince the dusty robes of pride,
With blood, and purple, doubly dy'd?
Why foully trampled in, by wealth's bold feet?
Why, there, must lep'rous vices meet?
And, why must poverty, however sweet,
And naked innocence, unstain'd, and neat,
Be, rudely, driv'n away: or, terribly, withstood,
By giant forms! chimeras, stain'd with blood!
Who, dreadful, stalk about, within,—and raise th' uncleanly mud?

II.

Say, coward learning! long, too long, misled!
If, yet, thou dar'st erect thy dizzy head!
And art not, yet, heart-conquer'd quite,
By power and custom join'd; too, too unequal fight!
If, yet, once more, thou dar'st assert thy eyes,
Once more, undazled, view Truth's beamy skies;
And can'st, with strong, unstagg'ring sight,
Firm-fix'd, in steddy gaze, take in the o'erwhelming light!
Say, nor fear th' oppressive hate,
Which truth, told plainly, must create!

310

The foes of truth, in bulk, tho' great,
Lifted boldly, want, in weight!
Say, to what sad cause, we owe,
That naked virtue must, regardless go!
Or, shiv'ring stand, in fortune's snow:
Till chance does some gay mantle, o'er her, throw,
And notice does not, from her worth, but her adornments, flow?
Immortal heav'n! if man may dare
Climb thither, to refresh his care!
What means our God! when he requires,
That man, in virtue's rugged paths, shou'd tread,
If, to blessings, he aspires?
And yet, strange paradox! permits, to virtue's foes,
The mounts of power, from whence to aim their blows:
And hurl red ruin down, in surer throws,
With levell'd malice, nicely pois'd, to hit the climbing head,
While they sit safe, and laugh, above, to see th' aspirer dead!

311

III.

Why?—If reasons may be giv'n
To earth, for laws, which pass in heav'n!
Why am I doom'd to toil, with vain desire?
Be ever climbing, and yet, never, higher?
Why am I curs'd, with scenes of helpless woe,
Which, since to cure, I must not reach the pow'r,
Why am I not permitted—not to know?
Why feels not yon proud lord his share,
Of my heart-piercing care,
For suff'rings, I can neither help, nor which my bus'ness are?
Why sleep princes, void of pain,
For those sad thousands, who complain;
And wash, with tears, their deep-dy'd grief, in vain?
These men could lend compassion, hands, to reach
The sinking mis'ries, which their help beseech!
I, who my own misfortunes cannot cure,
With barren sorrow, other men's endure!
While they, whose smiles might heal, and voice might chear,
Have eyes, and cannot see!—have ears, and will not hear?

312

IV.

'Tis wond'rous strange, all this!—But, man should never gaze,
With search, too curious, on the mystic ways,
Which form the soul-bewild'ring maze!
It is enough for us, that there must be
Ends in this, we cannot see!
And, since 'tis vain, to tug at fate,
With unavailing, human weight,
Let us throw down this load of doubt, with which no race is won:
And, swift, to easier conquests, lighter, run,
The way, which reason is not bid to shun!
Let us, with never-yielding courage, strive,
In spite of villany, to thrive!
And, from our resolution's spring, long streams of bliss derive!
Like the gay ball, struck down, still higher, let us rise,
And, obstinate, dispute th' unwilling prize!
Rebound, with ten-fold-vigour, at each blow!
And, that to wounds, we may a victory owe,
Antæus like, spring fresh, from ev'ry throw:

313

'Till short-breath'd fortune, tir'd, and sick, with our unthought defence,
At once, permits us, to enjoy, both her, and innocence.

V.

Well, then! resolve we!—Be it so:
Further thought we shall not need:
That we set forward, stands decreed!
But, hold! what journey shall we chuse to go?
I will embark me, on yon boundless sea!
The sea of Knowledge! proud! imperious store!
Of heaven-assaulting waves, which gnaw the shore,
On ev'ry side, with hungry roar!
Yet, always, gaping, always, swallowing more,
Still flows, forever, and will flow—voracious, as before!
Well! I am sail'd!—I plow the foamy deep,
And, now, my climbing vessel mounts, on high,
And, now, I sweep the starry sky!
And, now! stand firm, my brain! rush down the wat'ry steep!
Ah, me! half-founder'd now, in vain, all arts I try!

314

This way, and that, immortal heaven! I drive!
Currents, encount'ring currents, strive!
The fruitless rudder, ill-obey'd, in vain,
Struggles, oppress'd, against the madding main,
Eddies cross eddies whirl!—and whelm it back, again!

VI.

Hold! I am sick! I'll sail, no more:
Pilot, give thy labours o'er!
Put in, and seek repose, on yonder peaceful shore.
Where am I, now?—'Tis wond'rous dark, all round!
What means this shadow-cover'd ground!
This is the land of Ignorance, wild, and rude;
Bleak, comfortless and bare:
A dreary soil! an empty air!
By shadowy nothings, I am, here, pursued;
And gape, and yawn, and tire, in sleepy solitude!
Let me turn, which way I will,
Sight has narrow quarters still!
Scarce, can I see, above a fathom round;
I tread, on soft, and sandy ground!
At ev'ry step, I take, my feet sink in;
Already I, to fear I know not what, begin!

315

Hark! what strange noise is that, which whistles round my head?
Ghosts, and gobblings, this way tread!
Astonish'd eyes! what scenes about me draw!
Now, stagg'ring reason! where's thy law?
My soul grows weak, with childish awe:
Fancy has courage captive led;
Empty somethings, still, I dread!
Ha! see!—at once, what objects rise!—How horribly they spread!
I trod, too loud, and with the noise, have wak'd the silent dead.

VII.

Fly—fly, night-wand'ring feet! explore lost day,
If this the land of ignorance be,
I'll drive, again, on learning's sea!
Here, I dare no longer stay!
And, yet, I see not, how to get away!
What's this?—methinks, I see the rushy brink
Of some deep current, in my way!
Help, help me, fortune! or, I sink!
Now I am in! whelm'd o'er amidst the flood!
Ha? tho' the chance was bad, th' effect, is good!
It is not water this, but fluid mud.

316

Stagnate, and thick, the sleepy depth—I tread, with unhop'd ease!
And, now, I see the land, again; and, now,
The liquid field I, up, before me, plow:
Wade out, and climb the bank, by slow degrees!
I've 'scap'd the lake, thank heav'n! but all this while,
I wander, guideless, in the same dark isle!
What's this, which wou'd be thought a wind?
Which heaves, by sluggish fits, the drowsy air!
Which creeps, in broken murmurs, far behind,
And, idly, seems to slumber, in its care!
Now, swells, in sudden gusts,—now does, at once, asswage?
Like drunken men, who strive to talk, but sleep amidst their rage.
Curse on this soul-condensing solitude!
This land of ignorance appears as rude,
And far more dangerous, these unactive ills,
Than all the busy-frightfulness, which fills
Yon sea, where storms my devious bark pursued!
Tell me, then, directive star!
Thou, that guid'st me, from a-far!

317

If Learning's voyage is not safe to take;
And Ign'rance, dreadful shore! I, now, forsake,
What more inviting land, my next look-out shall make?

VIII.

I see, methinks, far off, a sudden glare!
Ha! look—a mountain rises to the sea!
From which, ten thousand flames, shot thro' the air
Spread circling brightness wide, to such degree,
That a kind trail of light darts, outward, ev'n, to Me!
Bless'd with this glorious, unexpected, guide,
I look about me, now, with pride!
And, lo! a narrow Causeway thither leads!
Narrow, indeed, it is, and seems to show,
That few shou'd, hence, to yon gay mountain go!
Care, and diligence, there needs;
For ev'ry tott'ring step, I stumble so,
That, scarce, I 'scape the waves, which foam, and break, below!
Wou'd I had never landed, on this shore;
This Causeway is a dangerous passage o'er,
And I was nearer, to the mount, before,

318

When my bark miss'd its sight, amidst the ocean's roar!
Courage, my soul! I shall, anon, be there!
I know the country, now, as I draw near:
It is the far-fam'd realm of war!
How red the skies, about it, are!
Oh! let me climb the cliffy steep, and strike yon topmost star!

IX.

Thank heaven! my aking foot has reach'd the strand:
What's this? the earth is iron; and sulphur all the sand.
Instead of air, here's smoke;—but flame does light supply!
And, from within, where, strongly fed, they lie,
Torrents of fiery day break up, and streak the sooty sky!
Hark! as up the hill I go,
From the wide top, huge, full-mouth'd thunders roar,
While far, within, and more below,
Hoarse, infant noises, faintly, blow;

319

And slowly rising, more and more,
Grumble, in horrid notes, their new-taught lessons o'er!
Some, the shrill trumpet imitate, and some
Buffet unskill'd, the sullen drum!
Thro' my astonish'd ear, harsh-mingling pass
The sound of bells, clash'd swords, and clatt'ring brass!
Loud-neighing horses, storms of vollied shot!
Shouts, groans, and words, confounded all, heard, but distinguish'd not,
Well! I am up, at last! and, now I'm, here;
Let me look round, and see, how things appear!
Oh! my glad soul!—what prospects open, there!
My hope-enlivening heart to chear?
Now, I am in my wish'd, my proper, sphere!
What is there, in yon far-ken'd world, which, hence, we may not share?
Oh, heaven! what false appearance dwells, below!
How is man deceiv'd, by show!
Yon Viceroys (as they wou'd be thought) of fate!
Yon poppet-managers of state!

320

Those things, which bid life-wasting followers wait
For bubbles, which, at jewel's price, they rate;
And puff, and swell, with empty pride—and call themselves, the great!
Ye stars!—How humbly they all look this way!
As, who wou'd seem to say;—
Great Sirs! permit us, still, to cheat the fools, with whom we play!
They turn, to us, the cringing side, and strut the other way!

X

Soul, recline! and take thy ease!
Look about thee, by degrees;
The prospect's wide enough, to please!
Since the commanding top is, thus, attain'd,
Use, with care, th' advantage gain'd!
What wilt thou do? that, thus, I feel thee swell!
In struggling silence loves design to dwell?
Or, are thy views, too vast, to tell?
Go on, form boldly; swift, resolve,—and execute it, well!

321

Send out Fancy, she can fly!
Nimbly-wing'd, her own best spy:
Every danger, e'er drawn nigh,
Th' air-footed Amazon discerns; and scatters, with her eye!
Fancy! then, proud Goddess rise!
From earth extend thy stretching size!
And push thy active head, thro' the discover'd skies!
Stamp, ambitious, with thy foot,
And bid the threat'ned world look to't!
For thou hast mighty work to do, and power enough to do't.
Grasp yon escaping earthquake, 'twou'd depart;
Blow new vigour, to its heart!
Take it, and give the lazy globe a shake!
And, when scar'd nature's broad awake,
All her coy aid demand, and take!
Break open ev'ry inmost part!
Thro' all the gloomy chasms of matter dart!
Let in light, to find out art!
And smile, to see the blaze-shot nymph, with sudden wonder, start!
Sieze her, quickly, bind her fast!

322

Distant else, behind her cast;
A thousand mazy turnings, first, must tediously be past.

XI.

Doubly arm'd, and seated, thus,
Who is, now, a match for us?
Begin! begin! the glorious task!
Descend, at once, and strip yon kings, of power's ill-painted mask!
Tell 'em, they the nymph disgrace!
Power should wear a lovely face:
And, hideously, to hide her charms, is horrible, and base!
Bid 'em, in empire's masquerade, elbow no more for place,
But, bravely, dare put on, plain truth, and scorn a borrow'd face.
Are they disturb'd?—Is all the hive, in arms?
See! they buz in hostile swarms!
But, 'tis no matter, let 'em bring
Hoarded malice, in their sting:
They cannot pierce, much less displume, the pinions of thy wing!

323

What is that, they seek to know?
What commission we can show!
Tell me, Fancy! was it so?
Commissions, say, are, sometimes, forms, which men, to custom, owe;
A shape of power, which tyrants steal, and, having stol'n, bestow.
Yet, to please 'em, be they told,
From higher hands, than theirs, we hold!
From justice, truth, and reason, say;
That great triumvirate of power!—which they
Pretend, and but pretend, t'obey!
This our authority! and, if these not suffice,
We can show 'em large supplies
Of vengeance, force, and stubborn will: our sworn auxilaries!
Now, they tremble; now, they mourn!
Now, with helpless rage, they burn!
Well may they rave, indeed, to see their friends against 'em turn.

XII.

Stay! and, e'er we farther go,
Let our great meaning be aloud proclaim'd!
Our deeds shall be as just, as fam'd!

324

Friends, and enemies shall know,
Why we make war; and what we mean to do!
Herald vengeance! swift arise!
Shell, with steel, thy flinty heart!
And since, by nature, blind thou art;
Bury thy lifted hand, in yonder skies,
And pluck two comets, down, to serve for eyes,
Dawb thy dismal face with blood!
And, with extensive stride, crossing the trembling flood!
Of fire-embroider'd smoke, throw on a wind-shook robe,
And shoot thy shadow over half the globe!
In thy right hand, lift quiv'ring light'nings high!
Hardly held, and mad to fly!
From thy rais'd left, let heaven's loud bolt be hurl'd;
And roll th' alarming thunder round the world!
When wak'd attention pricks her frighted ear,
And stalking apprehension pants, with fear!
When all the starting nations, upward, look,
By convulsive horror shook!

325

Borrow the northern wind's big voice, and then!
Three times pronounce, O yes! and, thus, address the sons of Men!

XIII.

Hear, ye people! far, and wide!
Reason's force will, now, be try'd!
Tremble, ye Tyrants! at the near defence,
Of long-oppress'd and helpless Innocence.
Where is the wretch, who deep-entrench'd, in State,
Impiously, defies his fate!
And dares be wicked, without bounds, because immensely great?
Him, let injur'd Virtue show!
And we proclaim ourselves his foe!
Fortunate usurpers, quake!
Let the forc'd thrones, whose seats, uncall'd, ye take,
Beneath your pond'rous ruin shake!
Or, let 'em swell, to throw you out: or, with your fortunes, break:
Rapine, disguised in law! oppression, arm'd with wealth!

326

Rock-hearted cruelty, and scornful pride!
Hear! and tremble, when ye know,
We, the great healers, bring th' unhappy—health!
And draw the thorn, from virtue's bleeding side.
Ye sap-engrossing weeds, which but for mischief grow!
Pay plunder'd excellence, ye slaves! the vast arrears, you owe,
Or, we pronounce ourselves your mortal foe.
Wisdom, knowledge, justice, art,
Peace, meekness, truth, and sanctity of heart!
Discourag'd industry! unfriended grief!
Charity! gentleness! and, to be brief,
Each weeping Virtue, that deserves, and has not found relief!
March, and join us; we are friends!
What, tho' your numbers are but few?
Our muster's well-weigh'd strength attends!
Where show is wanting, substance makes amends!
We, your allies, can lend you arms—and give you courage, too!

327

XIV.

They come! from ev'ry part, they, gathering fly!
But, trembling, backward cast a doubtful eye!
Astonish'd, at the hostile swarms, which, round 'em shad'wing, lie!
Safety! from silent caves arise!
Yon crystal pillar, from heaven's palace, break,
And cope it down to our Allies!
'Twill a glitt'ring Causeway make!
So! they are past! encamp 'em, on th' ascent!
Stretch out the bright divisions, line by line!
Unfold our milky ensigns to the wind!
Draw the battalions down, in just extent;
And bid the iron face of battle shine!
What's this! the rash audacious, foe,
Far from fear, and mad with pride,
Scorns to wait a threaten'd blow;
And this way turns invasion's tide!
They will not stay, it seems, to be a second time defy'd!

328

They weigh! they sail! they spread! from ev'ry part;
Numbers, following numbers, start!
Their navies hide the sea, thro' which they sweep;
And th' o'er-labour'd wind, grown sick, at heart,
After the flagging canvass seems to creep;
And groans, behind, oppress'd with weight, so strong,
That puffing storms, with cheeks half-burst, scarce push it slow along.

XV.

'Tis worth our wonder, Fancy! since we are
Possess'd, at once, of the whole realm of war;
Whence, those prodigious Magazines shou'd spring,
Which nations, ill-ally'd, do, thus, against us, bring!
At times, exported hence, at first, they went,
Like naval stores, from Christendom, to Barbary rovers sent:
And hoarded long, to be, at last, ill spent,
Come, now, against their Mother's bosom bent!

329

Since it is thus, we'll diff'rent arms prepare,
Our terrors shall new, unknown, habits wear:
And, like our Cause, our weapons, too, shall huge advantage bear!
Nature, our confederate found;
And Proteus' art our captive bound;
What force can earth, against us, bring, which these shall not confound!
Hear! thou tall forest! from thy loos'ning root,
Hither, thy piny offspring shoot!
And thou, proud host of gloom-arresting Oak!
Through whose close ranks, the day's light horse ne'er broke,
With reverend awe, confess the mighty call!
Nod consent,—and, groaning, fall!
Now, swift, together rush again, and, once more closer, join,
With animated, sympathetic, twine:
Embrace, at once, and new in form, with concave beauty shine!
Descend, compleat, and plow the flood, in naval-bodied line!

330

Scorn the help of canvass wings!
Art shall lend self-moving springs!
Your active forms shall never need, attend the humorous wind:
Self-oar'd, with spoky fins, your furrowing keels,
Shall dash the billows back, with living wheels:
And striking, swiftly, every mark, design'd,
Sweep on, thro' winds, and tides, averse, and leave the gales, behind.

XVI.

Mountain! open thy hot breast; thy iron sinews strain!
Bleed, at every nit'rous vein!
Yawn horrible! and, with convulsive pains,
Burst thy flame-lab'ring head! and shoot thy mineral brains!
Take 'em, art! and mix 'em well!
Thou can'st the dark proportions tell!
Let death the bitter kernel be, and forge thou thick the shell!
Kindle a fire, like lightning, blue!
And, that its dreadful work, it may, unerring, do,

331

Breathe a living spirit thro',
And give the deadly compound sight, and force, and swiftness, too!
Take this new, gigantic, mould;
And, by it, form such tubes, as may befit
The mass, which their impregnate wombs must hold!
Ram their greedy throats with it;
And teach new thunders, to out-mouth the old!
Hold! It not suffices, yet!
Not one advantage shall the proud foe boast;
'Tis not enough, that victory we get,
Unless the gain is ours, with nothing lost!
Bid yon aërial substance shed its down;
Spin it thick, and weave it strong!
Draw out the force-repelling texture long!
And, with it, fence each vessel round, like some well bulwark'd town;
Now, we are proof against their gather'd Pride,
Be all their batteries, on us, hourly, try'd!
Breathless, and dead, their fruitless force, shall kiss our soft'ned side.

332

XVII.

Embark! ye well-appointed few, embark!
Put out, and meet the number-trusting foe!
Their circling fleet has made the day look dark,
And seems, in sable dress'd, to mourn the coming blow!
Rush against 'em—gore 'em through!
Bear 'em down, beneath the sea!
As weeds before the furrowing plow, torn up, and buried be!
If, while, onward, ye pursue,
On either side, they flank ye, too;
At once, clear all your thunder's dreadful throats,
And roar destruction out, in passant notes!
'Tis done! and, gloriously, the banish'd day,
Which, late, their gloomy squadrons chas'd away!
Restor'd, triumphant, shines with tenfold light:
Their curling ruin shines to heaven, and makes the sun more bright!

333

See! see! mark well this scene, recording fame!
The hissing ocean toils, with vain desire,
To quench, with spouting waves, the batt'ling flame;
But scorch'd, with clinging heat, and mad with shame,
Does every way, at once, in blazing tides, retire,
And, flying, frights th' astonish'd world, with floods of liquid fire.
Pride-swol'n oppression, now, hot vengeance feels;
Their falling flags blush deep, in blood!
And hide their shame, within the flood!
Their masts turn downward, and th' uplifted keels
Float, reverse, with wave-wash'd reels!
And all th' extended strength, but now, so proudly gay,
Like snow-top'd fields, o'er-run by fire, melts all, at once, away.

334

XVIII.

Whither shall we, now, proceed?
Turn your Heads, to yon white shore;
Follow fortune, still, with speed,
Ye, who wou'd engage her more!
It matters nothing, what we, now, have done:
Or, vict'ry must be well pursued, or, she is never won.
Ha! what means yon open'ing scene?
The warlike land is gilded o'er,
With glitt'ring arms, in distant marches, seen,
And graceful troops, that edge the guarded shore!
And, from behind, to close us up, between,
A huge half moon, of naval strength,
Stretch'd, in gay, and pompous length,
Advances on us, slow, and well assur'd:
These cannot of the number be, who, late, such loss endur'd!
Mark the impatient haste of those, behind!
As if o'erjoy'd an Enemy to find;
Their wanton streamers lash the lazy wind!

335

And, like their genius, hov'ering in the air!
See! That glorious something, there!
Which does a form unusual seem to bear;
Moving awful; looking kind:
Now, glides before, to light 'em on; now, chears 'em up, behind.
In shape a Lion, fierce, and strong it seems,
But, like some figure fancy-form'd, that fills mens active dreams;
An Eagle's Talons, and keen bill, it dreadful seems to bear;
An Eagle's broad, and shad'wy wings, direct it thro' the air!

XIX.

Observe! what's he! who solemnly severe,
With grave, and awful Sense of majesty,
Hemm'd with reverence does appear!
Whose eye so piercing seems to be!
Whose forehead wears Beneficence, to temper dignity!
Who marches, stately, down yon hill, to see!
But not to see, with fear!
To look, and judge, what we may be!

336

Ye powers! where are we?—How did fancy steer?
I know the hero, now he draws more near!
How came we, blindly, thus to touch a shore,
Thus, hostilely, a land explore,
Where heaven does only blessings store!
Where wailing sorrow shall be heard, no more,
Nor virtue e'er, in vain, the help of power implore!
Away! heave anchor! we've no business, here!
Yet stay! divinely led, I err, th' unmeant good to blame!
Inspir'd, at once, I see, and own, 'twas heaven's unerring aim!
Hail! immortal son of fame!
Take these legions, they are thine!
With, theirs, thy navy shall, resistless join:
And virtue's squadrons, led by thee, o'er earth's whole surface shine
Root out oppression, wheresoe'er she grows,
Let stubborn tyranny fall dead, beneath thy pond'rous blows!
And, over all the wide-watch'd world, leave innocence no foes.

346

HOR. Lib. I. ODE XXII.

Integer vitæ.

Sinless, and sound, the bold good liver dares,
Nor needs the Moor's keen javelin, or his bow;
No quiver, charg'd with latent deaths he bears,
Where pointed poisons glow.

347

Safe, o'er the quicksand's foamy shoals he rows;
Safe, every wild of Caucasus surveys:
Or, where thy fabled stream, Hydaspes, flows,
Dreadless of danger, strays.

Once, o'er Sabinum's forest's silent shade,
Wand'ring, the charms of Ælia's eyes, I sung:
A Wolf, out-starting, where, unarm'd, I stray'd,
Listen'd, and backward sprung.

Yet, fiercer savage never rang'd the glades
Of warlike Daunia's oak-abounding plains,
Nor paw'd the Lion's patrimonial shades,
Where Juba's offspring reigns.

Thence though expos'd to bleaks, where nothing blooms,
Where never bud unfolds, to let in spring;
But one, long winter's dayless midnight glooms,
Black as the Raven's wing.

Hence—tho' an outcast, to the sun's lost heat,
Houseless, and screen'd by no kind cavern's shades,
Still wou'd I love that face, whose smile so sweet,
A tongue, still sweeter aids!

348

HOR. Lib. I. ODE V.

Quis multâ gracilis.

Cool, within the Grotto toying,
Soft, on scatter'd roses laid,
What young bud art thou destroying?
Why, to day, those charms display'd?

Trimly pain, in subtle sweetness,
What fond heart is, here, beset?
Why, with negligent completeness,
Loosely curls that tressy net?

Soon, by sufferings, taught to know thee,
O! ye changeful Gods! he crys,
Too, too light, thy falsehoods show thee,
Late, the fond believer's wise:

Then, with foolish wonder, starting,
He compares thy sunshine, past,
With those storms of spleen's preparing,
Which thy present looks o'ercast!

349

Silly truster! vain supposer!
In his am'rous, empty, mind,
Soft he forms thee joy's disposer:
Ever grateful, hush'd, and kind.

Out alas! and shame upon thee!
Little dreams he what a sky,
Heaping clouds in whirlwinds on thee,
Soon shall dim thy future eye.

Pity, Gods! those faithful creatures,
Yet, unbroke to woman's arts:
Fondly trusting lovely features,
And for smiles, exchanging hearts.

As for me, by heaven befriended,
Long ago, I 'scap'd the storm:
Safe, with all my sails extended,
Flying from that fraudful form:

Broad, my pictur'd story, flaming,
Now shall Love's gay temple grace:
From some pillar's height, proclaiming
Warnings, to the rising race.

350

HOR. Lib. I. ODE XX.

Vile potabis.

Born to be the plain man's friend,
Come, and to his taste descend;
In temperate draughts, from cans for household use,
Drink lean Salinum's healthful juice.
'Tis thin, and hard—but, ah! Mæcenas knows,
What aid from strength, to pitied weakness flows:
I, my great patron, lending Grecian lees,
Taught the sweeten'd Sharp to please:

'Twas Mæcenas—let me, stay—
Ay! 'twas done, on that dear day,
When the voic'd Theatric player
Hail'd, so loud, your entrance, there,
That the shout's applausive roar
Reach'd your river's distant shore
Whence the Etrurian echo's sound,
(Meeting Rome's, and circling round)

351

Town and country votes to join,
Shook both Alps and Appenine.

Light, unbodied Sabine fits,
Careless hearts, and shallow wits:
Strength of brain, indeed, like yours,
Deeper, mightier, growths endures:
Dares the Cæcubanian bowl;
Drains Calenum's flowing soul:
I, of weaker head, decline
Politician's potent wine:
No Falernian's mingled flow
Bids my blushing Bacchus glow:
Not a single jar I fill,
Formia, from thy factious hill!
Safe, and sober, here, I drink,
Steer no state—but sing, and think.