Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye nymphs of Helicon begin the song,
For themes of love to heavenly nymphs belong.
What swain, what savage can a song refuse,
When Hymen calls, and Boyle inspires the muse.

With every virtue blest, a youthful Peer,
Friend to the shades, and to the muses dear,
Yields to the soft captivity of love,
What breast so hard that beauty cannot move?
When sweetness, sense, and innocence conspire,
With blended charms, to fan the gentle fire.
Thrice happy Peer! possest of such a Bride;
Thrice happy Nymph! to such a Peer ally'd.

Let lawless libertines licentious live;
Virtue alone true happiness can give.
Let cavern'd anchorites, in cell, or bower,
With sullen pleasure spend the gloomy hour;
Born for a social life—the bliss we boast
Is half in monkish celibacy lost;
But in connubial harmony ally'd,
We both our pleasures and our pains divide.
Soft are the chains, when friendship mingles hands,
And Cupid yokes the doves in silken bands.
Love fixt on Virtue, always burns the same;
Love stirs the fire, but Friendship fans the flame.
If storms of adverse fortune war shou'd wage,
Her gentle bosom softens half its rage;
Her peaceful smiles will smooth the rugged way,
Brighten the gloom, and make the desart gay.

Hail happy Pair! in such blest union join'd,
By mutual love, and sympathy of mind.
Hark! whispering zephyrs propagate the tale
Thro' every conscious grove, and vocal vale:
From hill to hill the joyful echos fly,
And waft the pleasing tidings to the sky.
See how gay Flora paints th' enamel'd ground,
And nature smiles in all her pride around;
For you new beauties deck the dawning year,
And halcyon skys in azure robes appear:
For you the fields new liveries assume,
And sudden verdures open thro' the gloom:
While morn and eve the amorous planet light,
Gilds with unclouded beams the bridal night.
See from afar the mountain nymphs advance,
And Sylphs and Dryads in the valleys dance:
See Paphos queen with all her train of loves,
To Sturton fly, and leave the Idalian groves;
The bowers of Cythera no longer please,
But yield in beauty, and in bliss to these.

Hail happy Sturton! elegant retreat!
At once the Graces and the Muses' seat;
And Love now makes the Paradise compleat.

O! cou'd my humble muse, in equal strains,
Paint thy fair landskips, and thy verdant plains;
Thy silver fountains, and thy fragrant flowers;
Thy nodding forests, and romantic bowers:
Where solemn grottos blend with sunny glades,
And lyric birds inspire poetic shades;
Then shou'd thy seat, when all these scenes decay,
When groves, and grotts, and temples fade away,
Smile with the laurels which the muses give,
And in the smooth description always live.
Thy trees should then unfading greens display,
Thy streams still murmur in the Poet's lay;
Clad in eternal verdure, bloom as long
As Windsor Walks, immortaliz'd in song:
Long as the Name of Boyle's illustrious Line
Shall grace the Seat, or in the Senate shine.

Alluding to the uncommon fine serene Season, which continu'd all the Spring, and will soften the Hyperbole.

THE Mouse and the Oyster:

Occasion'd by a Mouse caught in an Oyster-Shell.

Wrote at the Command of the Right Honourable Lord Viscount WEYMOUTH.

Divina opici rodebant carmina Mures.

Let loftier pens the hero's acts relate,
I sing the Mouse's memorable fate;
Nor let a critic ear the theme refuse,
Immortal made by the Mæonian Muse.

'Twas when the shades of night o'erspread the plain,
When bats, and fairies, mice, and meteors reign;

When lab'ring hinds forget the toils of day,
And Philomel begins her lonely lay;
A daring Mouse, that dauntless long defy'd
The various arts which Abigail had try'd,
His destin'd doom receiv'd,—for soon or late
Both Mice and Monarchs must submit to fate.

Oft' was the moon with silver lustre crown'd,
Since the nocturnal vagrant march'd his round.
Soon as his foe, the sun, had took its flight,
Tript forth the little pyrate of the night;
With cautious tread,—secure from fell mishap,
Of tabby tyrant, or tremendous trap.

So from some port of Sallee, or Algier,
Their star-light course advent'rous corsairs steer,
Intent some bark, from Naples fraught, to seize,
Or some rich merchant from Levantine seas.

Still at the head of his rapacious clan,
He skipt from shelf to shelf, and pan to pan:
With nose sagacious snuffs the baited gin,
Wary and conscious of the snare within.
In vain the cook, alarm'd with frequent fear,
On shelves aloft conceals the daily geer:
Puddings in vain,—that smoak but once a week,
On cupboard high a sanctuary seek;

Vent'rous he storms the garrison sublime,
Or saps that closet which he cannot climb.

When pantry fails—books oft' confess his rage,
And hungry ruin spreads from page to page.
The sacred theft here mangl'd bibles shew;
Here mystic Bunyan mourns, and there De-Foe.
Romances, riddles, tales of monks, and witches;
With songs of Robin Hood, and dying speeches.
Thus liv'd the wily Mouse on various prey,
Plunder'd all night, and slumber'd all the day.

When ruddy morn wak'd the more ruddy maid,
What scenes of ruin were around display'd!
Bright basons here in painted fragments lie,
And there the squallid relicks of a pie.
Oft' in polluted loaves, aghast! she sees
Arch'd caverns yawn, and sepulchres of cheese.
Not more tremendous lookt the Cyclop's den,
Or Cuma's grot, describ'd by Maro's pen.

But the lamented saucer grieves her most,
Whose brims blue letters in a circle boast:
That saucer, which her swain last rural wake
Gave her, adorn'd with motto, and with cake;
'Twas then, with weeping eyes, revenge she swore,
And threw the last sad remnants on the floor;

Invok'd both Gods and Dæmons in despair,
And mutter'd half a curse, and half a pray'r.
Not with less grief the Trojan heroes found
Their prostrate banquets scatter'd on the ground;
When from on high rapacious Harpys flew,
With claws obscene, and all the feast o'erthrew.

Thus long, unharm'd, the Epicure patrol'd,
And fearless o'er the silent mansions strol'd;
Luxurious nights in pleasing plunder past,
Nor wot that this was doom'd to be his last.
For now the time—the destin'd time, was sent;
So fate ordain'd,—and who can fate prevent?
Once more night's shades involv'd the haunted house;
Once more from covert bolts the advent'rous Mouse,
As usual, ranging for nocturnal prey,
In some ill hour, he crept where Oysters lay.
The Fish, commission'd from the wat'ry throng,
With tegument of scaly armour strong,
Lay with expanded mouth—an horrid cell!
What pen the dire catastrophe can tell?
Stretcht on the shore, thus ready for surprize,
With jaws expanded, Nile's dread monster lies.
Th' insatiate thief, now fond of some new dish,
Explores the dark apartment of the fish;
Conscious of bearded touch, the Oyster fell,
And caught the head of caitiff in the shell.

In vain the victim labours to get free
From durance hard, and dread captivity:
Lockt in the close embrace—dire fate! he lies
In pillory safe—pants, struggles, squeaks, and dies.

Instructed thus—let Epicures beware,
Warn'd of their fate—nor seek luxurious fare.

But when the Cook beheld her foe confin'd,
O say what raptures fill'd her anxious mind?
What acclamations fill the joyful house?
What wond'ring crouds behold the captive Mouse?

Still hangs the shell—a monument sublime,
Safe where no boys can reach, no cats can climb:
Where ostrich-eggs, and birds presaging weather,
Dry'd herbs, dry'd hams, and halcyons swing together.

And when beneath the jovial master smoaks,
And cracks his nuts,—his bottles,—or his jokes,
This tale he tells, to grace the rescu'd Pie;
And to the trophy'd relic points on high.

TO A Beautiful Young Lady,

ON HER Conveying a Viper into a Clergyman's Pocket, at the Earl of Orrery's, at Marston-House, Aug. 1744.

Possest with such resistless charms,
Why should you covet other arms?
Why any foreign aid explore,
You who cou'd wound too fast before?
With Cupid's whole artillery clad,
'Twas barbarous, poison'd darts to add.

In other foes 'tis deem'd unfair,
With venom'd arms to wage a war,
Achilles, or fam'd Pella's lord,
In poison never dipt their sword.

Tyrants, of high despotic views,
Will arbitrary weapons use.
Sure you are some tyrannic maid,
To call in Vipers to your aid,
And make us run still further risque;
You, who have eyes of Basilisk.
But as of old, in Eden's ground,
Serpents in flow'ry fields were found:
So hence this Moral we may take,
No Paradise without a Snake.

'Twas well a grave and reverend Seer
You thus inspir'd with mortal fear;
For men of sanctity, they say,
With spells can conjure harm away:
But ah! no spells can exorcise
The fatal magic of your Eyes;
Eyes that at every glance can kill,
And baffle Mead's, and Galen's skill.

TO A Young LADY,

On her Liking the Preceding Verses, in Praise of Miss P---tt.

Since free from a detracting spirit,
You bear to hear a rival's merit;
The praise which is to Celia due,
Fair Nymph! but echoes back to you.

With candour, and good-nature blest,
No envy swells your peaceful breast.
Envy and Pride too oft' are found
Like wasps to visit flow'ry ground;
And murm'ring most in fragrant air,
Buz thro' the circles of the fair.
Pity such guests shou'd e'er annoy
Bosoms of beauty, and of joy.
As Vipers often hide unseen,
Beneath some bank of mossy green;
But candid minds, and generous Hearts,
Despise such low censorious arts.

Tho' sparkling beauties Celia bless,
Delia's and your's are not the less.
What if the Muse applauds like you,
Fair Phillis, and Orinda too;
Say, gentle Nymph, would you repine,
If I should sing, and they should shine?

Envy, like some contagious blight,
Blasts the fair blossoms of the light;
That canker beauty's force disarms,
And robs the fair of half their charms:
Like trees which cast such noxious shades,
That every plant about them fades.

True merit still our praise extorts,
Whether in cottages, or courts;
Whether it gilds the rich brocade,
Or humbly lurks in freeze, or plaid:
While the vain pomp, which crouds adore,
Is only folly, varnish'd o'er.

Oh! happy Nymph!—in whom we find
The charms of body, and of mind:
And happy Swain! whose lot shall share
A Nymph so generous, and so fair.

To the Reverend Mr. Lionel Seaman, M.A.

ON HIS Building a new Vicarage-House at Frome, on the Ruins of the old House, FEBRUARY, 1748.

Vetustis dare novitatem, obscuris gratiam
Obsoletis nitorem, &c.
Cicero.

Where late an old monastic Structure stood,
In ruins clad, and silent solitude;
In antient times, as popish legends tell,
Of Austin saints, a venerable cell:
(When superstition her dark empire spread,
And learning lurk'd in cobweb, and in shade;

When monks in pious ignorance were nurst,
And tomes immortal lay conceal'd in dust),
A finish'd Fabric now salutes the day,
With pleasing pomp, magnificently gay.
Where yawning arches nodded all around,
The fair Creation rises from the ground;
In graceful elegance attracts the sight,
Smiles o'er the ruins, and dispels the night.

As when the weary traveller, with surprize,
Sees sudden verdure in the desart rise;
Thus midst the waste the beauteous pile appears,
And mocks the spoil of time, the wreck of years.
Admiring crouds the pleasing change explore,
While order reigns, where discord spread before.

Order still pleases each judicious eye,
E'en dunces Art admire,—they know not why.
Beauty and Harmony strike every mind;
In Herds and Hottentots a taste we find:
That eye or organ must have some disease,
Which sounds can't touch, or beauty cannot please.

Thus when you charm the list'ning croud around,
With pious precepts, and pathetic sound;
Each tuneful period still attention draws,
And sullen envy whispers out applause;

The soft conviction strikes the poison'd ear,
And contrite sinners drop th' unwilling tear.
So when mad spiders bite th' Italian swain,
Music's soft power restores the sense again:
Or when relax'd the tuneful hours you spend,
To banish care, or entertain your friend,
The conscious nerves feel each transporting string;
The groves are husht, and birds forget to sing.

Others of prouder palaces may boast,
Of blundering labour, and unmeaning cost;
Where shapeless plans absurdity confess,
In Gothic ornaments, and barbarous dress;
Where stone and timber lie in chaos more,
Than in the quarry, or the wood before:
Like Babel's tower such piles blaspheme the skys,
And mock the more, the more sublime they rise.

Here sense and symmetry in every part,
Command the eye, and captivate the heart.
Now in a cornice, or a light we trace,
Romano's genius, or Vitruvio's grace.
O'er all a grand simplicity is seen,
A modest beauty, and majestic mien.
Here Attic windows welcome in the day,
Fair without state, and without splendor gay:

No wanton rays, with glaring lustre shine,
The light looks solemn, and the day divine:
If some fair villa, or saloon we raise,
Corinthian wreaths, and fluted columns please;
Inlaid Mosaic shews its figur'd face,
And swol'n festoons the gaudy pillars grace:
But when Religion bids the structure rise,
No flow'ry sculptures shou'd allure our eyes;
The plan, like epic, should be grand and one,
And no unhallow'd chissel mark the stone.

From hence expanding landskips strike the view,
Whose wild variety seems always new.
Deep in the vale below, the river glides;
Gay fields and gardens deck its verdant sides;
Peaceful it glides the noisy town along,
Calm, and unmindful of the busy throng:
As some lone pilgrim, bent on his abode,
With steady steps pursues the silent road.
From hence, the hills, the gardens, and the trees,
With blended bowers, and checquer'd beauty's please.
While tufted farms, embosom'd deep in green,
With miscellaneous view divert the scene.

Close by the pile, where stood the antient hall,
A new Gymnasium rears its humbler wall.
Religion thus, with learning in her eye,
Together rise—and shall together die.

One fate attends the Rostrum and the Rod,
Still Pallas trembles, when her temples nod;
Still in one orb, like sister stars they shine;
Move in one track, and in one shade decline.
Frome smiles, and views with pleasure and surprize
Her sacred walls from desolation rise.
The mystic Muse sees brighter days revolve,
The rays of knowledge dawn, the clouds dissolve:
With eyes prophetic sees her sages rule,
And wave the gentle sceptre o'er the school:
Sees youths unborn inspire the classic ground,
And learned accents o'er the roof resound.
While factious Ignorance, with jealous eyes,
Far from the rising seminary flies.

Long may you live, to grace the happy seat,
And peace and pleasure bless the sweet retreat.
Correct mad vice, neglected laws restore;
Bid laurels bloom where ivy crept before;
While Arts and Learning all about you smile.
And exil'd Muses hover o'er the pile.

The Bite of the Tarantula is cured by Music.

A Farewel to the Country.

By a LADY.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

How shall the Muse, distress'd in numbers, tell
The pain she feels at this sad word—farewel?
Scarce can she bear the oft' repeated sound,
While, echo like, the accents back rebound;
And still pursue her, like some frighted ghost,
'Till in great London's crouded streets they're lost.
Farewel to all the pleasures of the fields,
Those sweet delights each spangl'd meadow yields.
Farewel ye silver streams, ye bubbling brooks,
Ye reverend lofty trees, and rural rooks.
Farewel to the melodious feather'd throng,
Whose artless notes inspir'd my rustic song.

While warbling sweetness sooth'd my cares to rest,
And peace and harmony fill'd all my breast.
Farewel each shady wood, each fragrant grove,
Each verdant plain, where fleecy flocks still rove.
Farewel the lowly huts, where virtue dwells;
Farewel to merit, hid in lonely cells.
Farewel each charming dear delicious shade,
Where balmy Zephyrs fan the harmless maid.
No more shall I your jovial pastimes join,
Watch my dear flocks, or curious garlands twine.
When free from care in beachen bower I sung,
Nor ever thought the Halcyon moments long:
That sweet retirement, and those blissful joys,
I now exchange for tumults, crouds and noise.

Farewel then, Thyrsis, by the Gods design'd
A blessing to these plains, and all mankind.
Still sweetly sing your soft melodious lays,
And with your sacred art prolong our days.

Farewel Philander! lovely Delia too,
But oh! the muse can scarcely say adieu.
Still to the nuptial band an honour live,
That Hymen, long disgrac'd, new joys may give.

Farewel Palemon! may that pleasing art,
Which undesigning charms our virgin heart,

Still its unsully'd innocence retain,
And may you never breath one sigh in vain.
But when the speaking chords you artful prest,
Or tuneful sung, what nymph could guard her breast?
But oh! may generous passions charm your soul,
And friendship's sacred ties your love control.

To Strephon too I now must bid farewel,
In whom the pleasing graces sweetly dwell:
That sweet vivacity, that sprightly air,
That lovely mien will charm th' admiring fair.

Farewel to Philomela's tuneful strains,
Which bless the fields, and charm the wond'ring swains:
Whose warbling numbers oft' my soul inspir'd,
Rais'd my dull soul, and every passion fir'd.
But tho' deny'd the music of your tongue,
On which the softest eloquence is hung,
Yet deign to bless me with some tuneful thought.
And let me not, tho' absent, be forgot.
Oh! make these scenes immortal with your praise;
Still may they bloom in Philomela's lays.

But how my dear Belinda can I quit?
Blest with good humour, eloquence, and wit.
How bright her soul! her language how refin'd!
How just her thoughts! how uncorrupt her mind!

With her how swift the pleasing moments flew!
Sure such a form can savage souls subdue.
But yet tho' distant, may we ever prove
The noblest friendship, pure angelic love.

And dear Myrtilla with regret I lose,
Who first did smile upon my infant muse.
Else had she still in shades obscure have lain,
And not appear'd on this censorious plain.
But banish'd now from your auspicious smile,
My muse no more shall fleeting hours beguile.
Should she with all her rural, artless trains
Of unsuspecting harmless nymphs and swains,
'Midst beaus and belles, in the gay town appear,
At virtuous innocence, how wou'd they sneer?
How would they listen with a strange amaze,
To hear her pipes and reeds, 'midst balls and plays
While she (unskill'd in those pernicious arts,
By which they triumph o'er unwary hearts)
Must be insulted by corrupted wit,
Or fly their jeers, or what is worse, submit.
Guilty amours must then her lays recite,
And perjur'd love her tuneful thoughts indite.

Ah! can I wish my inoffensive muse
Wou'd thus her virtuous innocence abuse?
Forbid it Heaven, my muse should faithless be;
Oh! rather let her fly to shades and liberty,

And live unnoted on those blissful plains,
Where spotless love in rural sweetness reigns.
There let me visit thy delicious bowers,
And range the fields to gather new-blown flowers;
Watch the gay nymphs in their delightful sports,
Which yield more joy than baneful bliss of courts.
In vain the fates have plac'd me in the town,
Where noise and discord would my numbers drown.
Domestic cares may here some hours employ,
But the dear shades will give a lasting joy.
My tuneful fancy oft' will take her flight,
Where once she us'd to revel with delight:
No theme can here one well-form'd number raise,
For all my soul was form'd for rural lays.

Then Philomela will my songs approve;
While every note Myrtilla's soul will move.
Grant this request, the rest I will resign,
Nor ask one favour of the tuneful nine.

VERSES,

In Praise of the Society of Card-Makers, Lately Establish'd at Frome, 1738.

Come, Muse, forsake the grove, and purling rill,
To sing the wonders of mechanic skill:
More useful themes demand thy future lays,
Pregnant with blessings, and a nation's praise.

Let antient legends, of romantic Greece,
Applaud the union of the golden fleece:
In later days, let popish records boast,
Great Godfry's band, and the Teutonic host.
More worthy leagues mechanic patriots frame,
For manual arts deserve a nobler name.

On that fam'd day, when cursed Jesuits vow'd
To blast the senate in a sulphurous cloud,
The members meet; a memorable band,
Tho' mean their rank, their toil supports the land:
Linkt in the chain of business, peace and love,
Such senates are the stay of that above.
No party feuds, no politician's prate,
Disturb the order of the little state:
No impious oaths, no vanity obscene,
Polute the synod, and the feast prophane:
But commerce, harmony, and publick good,
Ease for the sick, and for the hungry food;
Illustrious Motives! crown the great design,
Nor courts can frame a purpose more divine.

But now, the Muse, if Pallas deign her aid.
In a rough verse, shall paint a rougher trade:
She first the virgins taught to card and spin,
And bid the loom its wond'rous web begin:
Immortal Vida sung the Silk-worm's skill,
And Virgil's Numbers taught the swain to till.

Of Ash or Beechen wood, an oblong square,
Is the first basis of the future care:
The master next, with mathematic art,
In figur'd diagrams dissects each part;
Curious as those who destin'd victims slay,
What part to save, and what to cast away:

Or as fam'd Dido, who with leathern thong
Mark'd out the ground from whence great Carthage sprung.
By artists next the leaves are well refin'd,
Shav'd, moos'd, and suppl'd for the use design'd;
Then stretch'd on tents, of pain unconscious, feel
Two pungents darts of penetrating steel,
'Till in a thousand gaping wounds pritch'd thro';
Each orifice extends exactly true.
Now from its bonds th' imprison'd captive flies,
And stands the test of criticising eyes.
Review thus pass'd—each pore receives a tire
In shining weapons clad, of stapl'd wire.

So glittering cohorts, marshal'd in array,
In even files their shining arms display;
While polish'd blades thro' every vista glide,
And in a thousand ranks the leaf divide.

Hail Art divine! by thy laborious toil
We see the texture of the fleecy spoil.
From hence Britannia's artful sons procure
Wealth to the rich, and plenty to the poor.
'Tis thus her loaded fleet the sea commands,
And cloaths the savages in distant lands.
Commere and Liberty enrich our shore,
While slothful Spaniards pine amidst their store.

VERSES,

Written on the First Leaf of a Lawyer's Coke upon Littleton.

Oh! thou, who labour'st in the rugged mine,
May'st thou to gold th' unpolish'd ore refine;
May each dark page unfold its haggard brow;
Doubt not to reap, if thou can'st bear to plough.
To tempt thy care, may each revolving night
Purses and maces swim before thy sight,
From hence, in times to come, advent'rous deed!
May'st thou essay to speak, to look like Mead.
When the black bag and rose no more shall shade,
With martial air, the honors of thine head;
When the full wigg thy visage shall inclose,
And only leave to view thy learned nose,
Safely thou may'st defy beaux, wits, and scoffers,
When tenants in fee-simple stuff thy coffers.

TO A Young LADY,

ON HER Return to the Country, After a long Pilgrimage at BATH.

Are you return'd at last—apostate maid!
To calm retirement, and the rural shade?
Welcome, sweet Sylvia, to your silent seat,
Your sylvan solitude, and green retreat;
Welcome to quiet days, untroubled nights,
To guiltless joys, and innocent delights;
Welcome, fair fugitive, to peaceful Holt,
Almost a desart grown since your revolt.
When you withdrew, politer guests retir'd;
The place grew dull, the fountains uninspir'd:

Your wit, your company, and verse prevail'd,
And oft' recover'd when the fountains fail'd.

'Twas such a charm, as antient poets told,
Inspir'd the fam'd Castalian springs of old:
No healing power those sacred streams possest,
But some poetic God the region blest.
So if seraphic Sylvia deigns to sing,
Each list'ning stream is a Castalian spring;
Each grove divine, and every hill around,
Blooms with Parnassian laurels at the sound.

Long the forsaken fields your absence mourn'd,
And meadows wept, in dews, 'till you return'd:
But now, again, the feather'd warblers sing,
And in the midst of winter make a spring.
The tuneful sisters, when you fled, withdrew;
For where you go, those Syrens will pursue:
While some in equipage, and showy pride,
In gilded vehicles triumphant glide;
Compar'd to yours, their shining pomp is vain,
For all the muses mingle in your train.
When poets travel, rural nymphs attend,
Sylphs dance around, and Goddesses descend.

What cou'd you do in Bath's tumultuous air?
Can you Impertinence and folly bear?

What cou'd you do amongst the vain and proud,
But live in solitude amidst the crowd:
When to the rooms you rov'd with pensive mien,
Still anxious Clio hover'd round unseen;
On the Parade oft' whisper'd in your ear,
Fly Sylvia, fly,—Contentment is not here:
Your genius calls you like some beckoning ghost;
Fly Sylvia, fly—from this enchanted coast.
Deluded Maid, what tempts your longer stay?
The Country calls—come Sylvia, come away.

January 8, 1750–1.

To an Ingenious Young LADY,

Ruffled with Passion, Who grew Calm on Reading some Lines in EPICTETUS.

Say, much incensed Maid! can anger swell
That peaceful bosom, where the Muses dwell!
Can female passion discompose that Breast,
Where Graces us'd to smile, and Cupid's rest?
Far other flames should such a breast inspire,
Far other transport—and poetic fire.
No other flames shou'd in that region glow,
But such as Seraphs feel, and Poets know.

But see a ray of reason from on high,
Dart thro' the gloom, and clear the troubl'd sky.
(How chang'd that sky, which shone so bright before?
How soon with frowns o'er-cast, and clouded o'er?)
Soon as her gentle influence presides;
The tempest scatters, and the storm subsides.
Thus Neptune smooths the bosom of the deep,
Governs the winds, and bids the billows sleep.

Peace to the soul of that immortal Sage,
Who gave you peace, and calm'd the rising rage.
Sacred the page, the writing all divine,
Where heavenly rhetoric dwells in every line.
Divine philosopher! whose powerful spell,
And giant truths, can monster passion quell.
The steady stoic sits with soul serene,
When tempests rise without, or storms within.
Let thoughtless fops, and conscious courtiers dread,
Earthquakes below, or meteors o'er their head;
The upright mind can see without a shock,
Dissolving hills, and the convulsed rock;
See the earth shake, and labouring mountains bow,
With mind unshaken, and composed brow.
When sudden fits of rage the soul inflame
'Tis a short earthquake in the human frame.

In vain those momentary storms shall rise,
When Epictetus at your elbow lies;
While on your desk the stoic lamp burns bright,
Or near your pillow sheds its peaceful light.
Protected thus—no storms your mind shall move,
And S---a's bosom swell with nought but love.

March 26, 1750.

Epictetus commonly study'd by a Lamp at Night.—He comprised all Philosophy or Wisdom in these two words, sustine, et abstine; or bear and forbear. When he died, his earthen Lamp was sold for 3000 Drachmas, or about 50 Pounds.

THE PHILOSOPHER;

OR CONTENTMENT. Republish'd.

Happy the Man, old Solon cry'd,
Who with his farm content,
Can smile at Croesus' pomp and pride,
From his low tenement.

Who can at freedom range the wood,
Or rest upon a rock;
Can at some fountain take his food,
Or tend his fleecy flock.

Harmless and innocent as they,
And free from clam'rous strife,
He reads or sings the time away,
And tastes the sweets of life.

Happy the man, say all the wise,
Who wears a chearful mien,
Scorns to be govern'd by the skies,
Or clouded by the spleen.

Whose thoughts, free, open, unconfin'd,
Are void of all deceit;
Where reason only rules the mind,
And keeps her God-like seat.

Smooth thro' his heart glides soft repose,
No storms that seat surprize;
Calm as the stream which by him flows,
Or cavern where he lies.

On Virtue's turret rais'd he stands,
And crowds beneath him sees;
Firm as a pile on rocky lands,
Sublime as cedar trees.

No dangers fright his steady soul,
Nor discompose his rest;
Let the earth shake, or thunders roll,
'Tis sun-shine in his breast.

Thus unconcern'd, Fabricius sat,
When Pyrrhus plac'd, unseen,
The monster arm'd in dreadful state,
Behind the Roman's screen.

Sedate, and steady as before,
He saw the beast appear,
And o'er his head, with hideous roar,
His great proboscis rear.

On the Death of Miss GOLDNEY.

Inscrib'd to Mrs. S---K.

Fair and unspotted, to the realms of light
Accomplish'd Flavia takes her silent flight:
Heaven envy'd mortals such a beauteous prize,
And to secure her, snatch'd her to the skies.
Despairing lovers languish'd here in vain,
Nor gold nor grandeur could the vestal gain:
'Till ravenous Death each avenue possest,
And storm'd the chrystal palace of her breast;
Then gently lands her on that peaceful shore,
Where tempests cease, and billows rage no more.

So young, so chaste, so beautiful, so gay,
The conqueror stood relenting o'er his prey.
So griev'd the Roman o'er the town he burn'd;
Sigh'd o'er the flames, and as he conquer'd mourn'd.

Still lives the Nymph blest in Elysian shades,
Where youth still blooms, and beauty never fades.
With pitying Eyes views this fantastic show,
This Tragi-Comedy of Life below.
To crown her bliss harmonious bands conspire,
She wants but you to make her heaven entire.

A REBUS ON THE AUTHOR's NAME.

What was chiefly in use before guns were invented,
And the place of retreat for wild beasts under ground,
Where they couch under covert, secure and contented,
Makes the name of a Poet that's highly renown'd.

TO THE Unknown Contriver Of the Foregoing Rebus on Bow and Den.

[_]

See the Bath Journal of Dec. 1, 1747.

The Author Bows with half his name
To him from whom the Rebus came:
And to the other moiety—Den
Invites the poet with his pen;
There to regale with wine and sallad,
And for the desert, song and ballad.
No rarities my cave afford,
But moss and peace to bless the board.
Simple is all poetic diet;
Bards can on vegetables riot.
If blest with freedom, peace, and quiet.

Poets and hermits we are told,
In dens and caverns liv'd of old.
There if I live from tumult free,
This cell a palace proves to me.

Sweet peace—that stranger to the great,
Still hovers round my rural seat.
Sweet liberty, about my cell
That mountain nymph delights to dwell.
Then teize me not to court or wed,
She reigns the mistress of my bed:
Wedded to her, with all her charms,
I clasp the Goddess in my arms.

Mean while may you be blest by Phœbus,
Who thus dissect my name in Rebus;
And could with Bow and Den contrive
To keep six letters thus alive;
And with the trammel'd muse in fetters,
Anatomize it in six letters.
Poetic chymist, to sublime
And filtre me in witty rhime.
The tortur'd name you thus divide
Between two words, stands crucify'd;
Now shall my name immortal reign,
As long as Bow—and Den remain.

ODE to ECHO.

By Mr. R---L.

1

Daughter sweet of voice and air.
Gentle Echo haste thee here.
From the vale where all around
Hollow rocks return the sound:
From the swelling surge that roars,
On the tempest-beaten shores:
From the silent moss-grown cell,
Haunt of warbling Philomel.
Where unseen of man you lie,
Queen of woodland harmony.
Daughter sweet of voice and air,
Gentle Echo haste thee here.

2

Listen nymph divine, and learn
Strains to make Narcissus burn.
Hark! the heavenly song begins,
Air be still! breath soft ye winds!

Peace ye noisy feather'd choir,
While Dione strikes the lyre.
See each eye, each raptur'd ear,
Fix'd to gaze, and charm'd to hear!
All around enchantment reigns,
Such the magic of her strains:
Strains, which if thou can'st but learn,
Soon will make Narcissus burn!

3

Echo should they fail to move
His obdurate heart to love,
Borrow (for she well can spare)
Borrow her enchanting air.
Learn her ease and elegance
Of motion in the airy dance.
Learn the grace with which she strays
Thro' the light fantastic maze;
And a thousand charms untold,
Should Narcissus still be cold.
Charms! the least of which would move
His obdurate heart to love.

ON THE Earl of ORRERY's (Now Earl of CORK's) Cutting down the Limb of an Aged Tree,

In his Garden at MARSTON, Which intercepted a fine View.

Annosa excelsos tendebat ad æthera ramos;
------ nulla violata securi.

Long unresolv'd, my Lord, you knew not how
To save the prospect, and preserve the bough;
And while the dire event you anxious weigh'd,
Alternate passions in your bosom sway'd.

Long had the reverend branch, with head sublime,
Defy'd the rage of tempests, and of time.

Its aged top, and venerable shade,
Its hoary honours, and majestic head,
To save the favourite limb, pathetic plead.
But the dark foliage intercepts the sight
Of opening beauties, and obstructs the light.
Condemn'd at last, in spight of all debate,
For trees and tyrants must submit to fate;
With trembling hand the pensive gard'ner stands,
Unwilling to obey his Lord's commands:
Thus Pyrrhus paus'd o'er Priam's hoary age,
With sword suspended, and reluctant rage,
In vain—for Juno frown'd, and fate decreed,
That stately Troy must fall, and Priam bleed.

But while the steel inflicts the fatal wound,
The sympathizing Dryads hover round;
At every stroke the conscious Genii groan,
And mimic echos murmur to the moan.
But cease your plaints, an aged Sylvan cries,
In future times a nobler shade shall rise:
Already see the new creation bloom
With infant greens, and flourish in its room;
In unknown paths glad Zephyrs learn to rove,
With pleasing whispers, thro' the rural grove.

These groves shall then Boyle's yet unborn inspire,
And give to summer shade, to winter fire:

Here the bright youths shall spend the learned hours,
In classic walks, and philosophic bowers.

Blest is the man, and happy, if not great,
Whose fair plantations cloath his rural seat.
To future times, and publick good a friend,
He sees new forests from his hands ascend.
Descending sons shall bless the happy change,
And o'er the rising woods delight to range:
New beauties here, and verdant walks explore,
Where barren fields, and desarts spread before.
Here vocal oaks, here towering elms arise,
And waft the planter's praises to the skies:
Fair rows of ash, in vistas long extend,
And trees beneath their ruddy burden bend.
Here bowering beech, and lofty firr-trees climb,
And o'er the humble meadows wave sublime.
While the gay moderns, of politer taste,
What former ages rais'd, in riot waste:
Quit their old villas, and paternal seats,
Or in mad folly dissipate estates:
Disperse their wealth in Vanity and Vice,
And lose a Dairy at a throw of Dice;
For smoaky towns forsake the fields and brooks,
And leave their farms to peasants and to rooks.
While some, a false capricious taste to please,
Destroy the greens, the gardens, and the trees.

Like beacons now the modern villas rise,
To form a view, expos'd to northern skies:
Stript of their greens, the naked mansions mourn,
And flow'ry gardens into pastures turn.

But you, my Lord, who nobler views attend,
Your wiser hours in rural business spend;
Bid gardens bloom, and trees adorn your pile,
Bless the poor swain, and bid the desart smile;
Diffuse your generous bounty all around,
And while you feed the peasant, bless the ground.

So high—your thoughts with noble scorn despise,
With mean ambition, in a court to rise:
And yet, from pride and haughty spirit free,
So low—you smile upon my Muse, and Me.

On the Death of Mr. John Smith, Clothier,

Novemrer 1745.

Much like the fabrick of my trade,
Death has dissolv'd the human thread.
My frame I thought so firmly join'd,
Was but the Cloathing of the Mind.
The cloth we weave, the thread we spin
All imitate this frail Machine.
Devouring Death will soon consume
The strongest labours of the loom:
The closer texture of my frame,
This Webb of Nerves is just the same.
And now the Fates which spun the chain,
Have cut the Thread of Life again.

TO A Young Lady at Holt,

ON HER Recovery from the Small-Pox, By INOCULATION.

Sylvia, a painful, yet a pleasing flight,
Your health restor'd—the muse attempts to write.
Inoculation! unharmonious name!
And dire disease, afford no grateful theme;
Yet thus inspir'd, no dangers shall dismay,
When friendship prompts, and Sylvia smooths the Way.

Long had triumphant death, with fatal wound,
Spread its malignant influence all around;

From age to age, with barbarous spoil convey'd
Untimely ghosts to Styx's gloomy shade:
As with fell blast, commission'd from the sky,
O'er guilty lands avenging angels fly;
From realm to realm the curst contagion past,
With raging sores, and pestilential blast.
The spotted monster, with polluted gore,
Breath'd putrid death at every poison'd pore:
Not with less fury o'er Numidian plains,
Or Barca's waste, the spotted panther reigns.
Noxious as steams which from Averno flew,
Replete with mortal mists, and sulphurous dew;
The birds which o'er the gloomy caverns stray'd,
Sudden dropt smother'd in the tainted shade;
O'er the blue lake, mute fish astonish'd lie;
Forget their useless fins, and gasping die.

Thus thro' the air, Variola exhales
Effluvia keen, and taints the sickening gales.
Oft' from contagious town, th' unhappy swain
Imbibes from fœtid smell, the fatal stain.
Home to his honest toil and rustic life,
He meets his smiling babes, and anxious wife;
But thoughtless, wots not death, that silent sleeps
Within his veins, and o'er his vitals creeps.

Heav'n to mankind this ignorance bestows,
And in kind shades conceals our future woes.

Too long such havock had contagion spread,
And peopl'd all the regions of the dead;
Too long had death the cruel spoil enjoy'd,
And mortals half deform'd, or half destroy'd:
As insects hovering in an eastern breeze,
Or kill with baneful blast, or mark the trees;
'Till sent from Heaven, th' inoculating art,
Its fury checkt, and sheath'd th' envenom'd dart.

Th' immortal art, far back in distant time,
Was practis'd first in fair Circassia's clime.
'Twas thus the beauties of that martial race,
From foul deformity preserv'd the face:
There the fond mother, when the babes she nurst,
Dar'd in their veins the morbid ichor trust;
Unspotted thus the beauteous babe she saves,
Expos'd to shine amongst Seraglian slaves;
For Turkish sale, and venal fortune bred,
To grace a Signor's, or a Basha's bed.

Blest be th' invention, and the art ador'd,
Which sav'd mankind, and Sylvia's Health restor'd.

Say, Sylvia, how debating passions sway'd,
With pulse alternate, when th' attempt you weigh'd?

To graft distempers, and inflict disease,
Seem'd a bold challenge on divine decrees.
Too fast comes sickness, with its solemn train,
Shall mortals then anticipate their pain?
Ingenious—nature's artifice to ape,
And seek diseases which they may escape.
But preservation turns the dubious scales,
And reason o'er fantastic fears prevails:
Obvious the choice, let prejudice depart,
To die by Nature—or to live by Art.

Say, with what thoughts your beating breast was fill'd,
When in your veins the poison first distil'd?
Calm and sedate, no anxious cares you felt,
For peaceful: Virtue in that region dwelt.
So undisturb'd, good Socrates drank up,
The mortal mixture of the poison'd cup.
More anxious far attentive Sylphs stood round,
And conscious Muses hover'd o'er the wound:
For all the light militia of the sky
Still round their favourite fair patroling fly.
From the Pandoran box, with heavenly art,
And balm divine, some chace the destin'd dart;
While some with poppy fans soft sleep infuse,
And o'er your pillow pour pacific dews.
Protected thus—what dangers cou'd you dread,
While tutelary Saints watch'd round your bed?

For see disease with all its fury flies,
Gay health returns, and sparkles in your eyes.
The smiling spring salutes your smiles again,
And birds address you in harmonious strain.

Thus sav'd from cruel fate, good Sylvia say,
What trophies will you raise, what offerings pay?
Can you a tributary song refuse,
Some votive shrine, some altar to the muse?
Some grateful Hymn to that Protecting Power
Who thus preserv'd you in the dangerous hour.
Let others their own way the Powers address,
Sylvia's must be a Hecatomb of Verse.
Accepted thus, poetic Prayers will rise,
And breath in fragrant incense to the skies.

The Name of a poisonous Lake near Naples, which formerly emitted such mortal Exhaltations, that Birds were soffocated who flew over it.

A Description of Chedder-Cliffs;

And Part of Mendip-Hills near Wells, In Somersetshire.

Nemorosa juga, et scopulosi vertice colles.
Hinc atque hinc vastæ rupes.
Virg.

Now Chedder-Cliffs, our wand'ring steps invite,
And o'er fam'd Mendip's glebe, we speed our flight;
And as the dreary waste we bound along,
Mendip itself demands the Muse's song.

Hail! ye bleak mountains—lin'd with hidden store,
Fallacious wilds, concealing mines of ore;

Rich veins of calamine the desart fills
And lead the solid basis of thy hills:
Thus oft' disguis'd, in poverty we find
Bright genius sparkle thro' an humble mind.
What tho' no gold or diamonds gild the mine,
No glittering strata in the caverns shine;
Yet useful minerals, of various birth,
Lodge in the fruitful bowels of the earth.
Here savage scenes in wild confusion reign,
And desolating prospects fill the plain.
Thick fern in humble forests waves around,
And sable furzes darken all the ground.
Scatter'd some solitary trees appear,
And o'er the waste their haggard branches rear;
Whose naked fronts, like the stern Cyclops stand,
When they pursu'd Ulysses to the strand,
The wither'd tops confess eternal blight,
And hungry ravens on the branches light.

Some fruitful spots smile beautiful around,
And charming pastures cloath the verdant ground;
Where peaceful shepherds slumber on the plain,
Or with their crook direct the fleecy train.
Here o'er our head familiar lapwings play,
With hovering wings, and bask in open day;
While at a distance rapid falcons buoy'd,
With poised pinions skim the liquid void;

The tuneful larks, still chanting, upwards climb,
And lost in ether Sea-gulls soar sublime.

And now the tall, tremendous cliffs arise,
And awful fronts, and towering alps surprize.
Two chains of rocks erect on either hand,
O'er many a furlong stretch'd contiguous stand.
With brow sublime, gigantic towers ascend,
And o'er the vale with frowning aspect bend.
The nodding arches big with ruin show,
And prominent still frown with ponderous woe.
Thus hangs, suspended on a single thread,
The sword still threat'ning o'er the tyrant's head.
Their adamantine fronts ascend so high,
Half way they bid defiance to the sky.
Whose solid ribs, like parapets a-far,
Look like embattel'd garrisons of war.

Yet nature here in sweet disorder smiles,
And verdant plants peep thro' the craggy piles:
Uncommon herbs, peculiar to the place,
Burst thro' the fissures, and the prospect grace.
The studious simpler here delights to stray;
Nature his guide, and his companion Ray:
And when some long-sought plants their race disclose,
The sage, with philosophic rapture, glows;

Pleas'd with the green anatomy, now roves
Thro' untrod paths, and vegetable groves;
The curious texture of each herb to find,
Whether of bulbous, or umbellous kind,
This search, great Cowly! thy last hours employ'd,
When with gay life, and courtly duty cloy'd;
The fields then saw their fugitive again,
And bloom'd a fresh in his botanic strain.

Here flowers amidst rude precipices grow,
And with wild sweets, and untaught beauty grow:
Pale pinks, and purple stocks the air perfume,
And fragrant woodbinds in the desart bloom.
Yon lonely beasts browse on the savage weed,
And o'er the vast abyss securely feed.
In the deep vale astonish'd travellers stand,
Fenc'd with aspiring rocks on either hand:
Before the view unfathom'd vistas lie,
And theatres of horror fill the eye;
Each winding sound reactive hills repeat,
And echoing flocks from distant pastures bleat.
Thus thro' the parting sea, great Moses fled;
While the uplifted waves forsook their bed,
And pil'd on high, in terrible array,
Silent withdrew, and made, and fenc'd the way.

Tir'd with romantic scenes again we rise
On Mendip hills, and breathe serener skys.
Far off monastic Wells its domes erects,
And from its gilded spires the sun reflects.
Wells whose Cathedral with majestic pride
Once with Italian Architecture vy'd:
Nor cou'd Turin, or Florence fair display
Columns more splendid, or a Front more gay.

A neighbouring scene here gives a new surprize,
And Wookey Cave attracts our wond'ring eyes.

Low in the covert of a rural vale,
Where mighty dews from weeping rills exhale,
Deep sunk beneath a hill the cave profound,
With awful gulph! divides the gaping ground;
With shade Cimmerian, and tremendous look,
Dark as the passage to th' infernal brook;
Vast, and impervious! not one beam of light,
There sheds its lustre, to dispel the night.
Only faint tapers guide our doubtful way,
And scatter thro' the gloom a sickly ray.

As when Æneas, led by fond desire
To see the shade of his departed sire,
Felt when he first approach'd those awful plains,
A sudden horror shudder thro' his veins.

So at the entrance seiz'd with pannic dread,
We seem to trace the regions of the dead.
Thro' subterranean grottos winding stray,
Entomb'd alive—and wish for absent day.
Here secret paths, and labyrinths are found,
Like Delphian shades, or Sybils cave profound.
The weeping rocks distil with constant dews,
And still a new-form'd drop the last pursues.
With solemn sound the silent moments mark,
And mock the adder hissing in the dark.
A gentle lake, here calm as Lethe stands,
And like a mirror shews transparent sands:
A hollow rock the silver flood contains,
Which never sinks with drought, or swells with rains.
Here a low track, anon a spacious room,
Where the arch'd vault collects substantial gloom:
So vast the arch, the cavity so wide,
Scarce can the eye extend from side to side.
High o'er the roof alternate murmurs wave,
And every step reverberates round the cave;
From cell to cell the wand'ring accents rove,
Like winding Zephyrs whispering thro' the grove:
Unnumber'd echos ring from rock to rock,
And all the cavern trembles with the shock.

A Silver stream, like Nile, of unknown source
Here peaceful glides its solitary course:
Thro' dark meanders bends its silent route,
And at the cave's wide conduit issues out:

Fam'd Alpheus' stream is story'd thus to rise,
And see new light beneath Sicilian skys.

Nor shall the neighb'oring piles of Stanton-drew,
Tho' unobserv'd, escape the Muses view.
Whose monuments might once with Stone Henge boast,
Now sunk in ruins, and in buildings lost.

Thy birth-place next, immortal Locke we trace,
And Wrinton owns the consecrated place.
Whose towering mind forsook the servile croud,
And chas'd th' enchantment of the schoolmen's cloud.
Who taught the youth on reason's wings to rise,
And bid new morning dawn thro' misty skies.

Here nobler subjects, call for nobler strains,
To sing O! Somerset, thy fruitful plains;
Thy shady forests, and romantic rocks,
Thy smiling meadows, and thy numerous flocks;
But see yon gilded towers attract the sight,
And smoaky Bristol stops the Muse's flight.

Polycrates.

Chedder Cliffs abound with curious, uncommon Herbs, much frequented by Botanists.

Superstition: A Tale:

OR, THE Glastonbury Pilgrimage.

------ quid quid
Dixerit Astrologus, credent a fonte relatum
Ammonis ------
Tuven.

As zealous pilgrims, far and near,
Inspir'd by superstitious fear,
Flock to Loretto's sacred shrine,
To beg some grace, or gift divine;
Or as to Mecca's holy air
Enthusiastic Turks repair;
So crowds, eke full of monkish zeal,
Repair to Glaston's healing well:

There to be conjur'd from their ails,
When Galen's art no more prevails;
And into health to be enchanted,
Tho' with Pandora's curses haunted.
This sacred stream will soon supply
A salve for every malady:
The groping blind receive their sight;
The staggering cripple walks upright;
Asthmatic lungs expand again,
And gouty patients lose their pain.
Drink, and believe; believe, and drink;
Marasmus fills, and Dropsies sink.

But how this spring got reputation,
Attend this genuine relation.

A Farmer, who had try'd much physic,
In vain, to cure his lab'ring Pthisic,
Divinely dreamt the other night,
As he lay snoring in bad plight,
This water wou'd asthmatic fetters
Release, if drank for seven red letters:
So in observance of his dream,
Seven Sunday morns he drank the stream;
'Till on the seventh auspicious day
His panting lungs begun to play,
And every ailment fled away:

While busy fame, from door to door
Soon propagates the wond'rous cure.

Say, what strange power resides in seven,
To charm us into health and Heaven?
At seven times seven trumpet's sound,
Proud walls fell prostrate to the ground.
The seventh son is doctor sworn,
By inheritance, as soon as born;
And without learning, moods, and tenses,
A conjurer at his birth commences.
Seven planets too adorn the sky,
To govern our nativity;
The fatal climacteric line;
Is sixty-three, or seven-times nine.
Then wonder not that power is given,
To work such miracles by seven.

This water free for rich, or poor,
Works eleemosynary cure.
Too long have venal fountains flow'd
From Bath, from Bristol, Holt and Road.

Besides, the place is sacred ground,
Where saints lie bury'd all around.

This wondrous, salutary rill
Flows from the Torr's religious hill;
And filtres thro' the holy clay,
Where ghostly monks, and martyrs lay:
Whose reverend relicks still supply
The stream with healing energy.
Here Arimathean Joseph's bones
Hallow the consecrated stones,
And Glastonbury thorn—like May,
Still blossoms every Christmas day.

Be silent now, romantic Wales!
With all thy legendary tales:
No more of Merlin's visions tell,
Or Winifred's enchanted well:
This panacean fount surpases
The brook of Siloa, or Parnassus.

Cou'd Abbot Whiting from the sky,
Or Torr where once he hung so high,
Look down on this deluded rabble,
And hear their superstitious babble,
How wou'd he bless his aged eyes,
To see so rich a sacrifice;

To see old relics idoliz'd,
And ghostly wonders canoniz'd.
To see restor'd Rome's darling daughter,
Infallibility—in water:
Still may thy manes rest in peace,
Tho' prayers of Ora nobis cease.

Now cease reviling Rome to cry
At hugonot infidelity:
No more let protestants expose
The holy-water, or the rose;
No more the sainted beads explode,
The crucifix, or wafer-god,
Since the same spirit still prevails,
We only here have turn'd the scales.

Blest Becket from thy tomb arise,
And view thy saints with ravish'd eyes:
As crowds did at thy altar bow,
So this is Canterbury now.

Water that has intrinsic merit,
Needs no support from dream, or spirit.
True virtue in this fountain lies,
Without imputed sanctities;
Founded on solid fact, and cure,
This only will its same secure;
Fixt on this basis, 'twill not mock us,
But all the rest is Hocus Pocus.

It is certain that some Thousands resorted to this well every Sunday Morning, at least, for a considerable Time.

Jericho.

Tho' these Storys are trifling, and are even too gross, and fabulous for Poetry itself, they were yet reported, and believ'd as Matters of Fact by the Country in general. And it was on the Sanction of these miraculous Cures, that the Waters first gain'd Reputation, and that there was a fancy'd Divinity suppos'd to reside in them.

A famous well in Flintshire, much resorted to formerly for its miraculous cures.

The last Abbot of Glastonbury, who was hang'd on the Torr by Henry the 8th.

AN ÆNIGMA.

Ye Ladys, whose enchanting eyes,
Outshine the beautys of the skys,
Forget awhile your chat and needle,
To find out this mysterious riddle.

Inconstant is my mien and shape,
For I can various creatures ape:
And like old Proteus can transform
To mouse, or monkey, fly or worm.
From place to place I love to range:
My motion too is very strange.
I sometimes fly, and sometimes creep,
And travel most when others sleep:
Nay often to oblige my spark,
Perform long journeys in the dark;
And without whip, or spur can haste,
And make the dullest jade go fast.

In stormy nights I love to roam,
On wings of tempests far from home.
As hermits by their beards grow sage,
My power encreases with my age:
I still my largest empire hold,
When feeble, impotent and old.
And when my teeming days are o'er,
I often suckle as before.
Provok'd, much mischief oft' I do,
Proud kings my indignation rue.
I cattle bane, and beauty marr,
And shatter many a china jar.
Once in a mad, fanatic trance,
I drove the English out of France.
Fair ladys oft my power command,
With too severe, tyrannic hand.

Now your bright fancy soon will guess
At what yourselves so much possess.

AN EPITAPH ON AN ONLY CHILD,

Remarkable for Piety.

What once had virtue, grace and wit,
Lies mould'ring now beneath our feet.
Poor mansion for so fair a guest,
Yet here she sweetly takes her rest.
Cold is the bed, and dark the room,
Yet angels watch about the tomb.
Pleas'd they patrol, nor sleep nor faint,
They only watch a sister saint.
'Till the loud music of the skies,
Relieves her guards, and bids her rise.

TO THE Memory of a Young Lady,

Who, exposing Her own Life to visit a Sick Brother, dy'd in the SMALL-POX, March 15, 1732.

And art thou fled, O! much lamented maid!
And all thy rising glory sunk in shade?
As some gay phantom plays before the sight,
Or meteor cheats the wand'ring swain by night,
Delusive thus appear'd the fleeting fair,
Just mock'd our view, and melted into air.

Thro' what dark scenes deluded mortals stray?
How blind the stage, when death winds up the play;
Yet each brave actor may sedately die,
Laugh at vain fortune, and her darts defy.
Thus Lucia calmly fell in all her bloom,
Smil'd at the plot, and triumph'd o'er the tomb.

Living she spread her amorous conquests wide,
And still victorious, conquer'd when she dy'd.
Like those brave chiefs, who dying, win the day,
She made inexorable death obey.
To save a dying brother's breath she came,
Wept o'er his bed, and kept alive his flame;
If one of us must fall—she nobly cry'd,
The lot be mine—and generously dy'd:
When he lay panting, all his pains she bore,
And in her own last anguish felt not more.

But oh! ye guardian Powers, where'er she flys,
With hovering wings conduct her thro' the skys.
See how the clouds to grace her virgin bed,
Have o'er the skys a mourning mantle spread;
See all the fields in fleecy veils are drest,
See all creation wear a virgin vest.
Vain is the tinsel pomp of funeral show,
See mournful nature, o'er her bosom throw
A feather'd covering, and a shroud of snow.

A happy picture of the fair design'd,
White as her bosom, gentle as her mind,
Soft as those blossoms fall, then melt away,
Spotless she fell, and fled to realms of day.

A great Deal of Snow fell the Day she was bury'd.

TO AN Astrological Gentleman,

Who pretended to draw a Circle round a Young LADY, by Way of Spell, to secure her from all other Admirers.

Giants in castles strong of old,
Secur'd their damsels, and their gold;
'Till some renown'd, adventurous knight,
Rescu'd Dulcinea from sad plight.
I come that knight of prowess bold,
To conquer this enchanted hold.
For tho' the doors were double barr'd,
And Argus watch'd upon the guard,
In spight of all that you can do,
Love and the Muse will venture thro'.

Strong garrisons will often yield,
Soon as the Muses take the field:
And mighty conquests have been crown'd,
By magic force of verse and sound.
Orpheus by music's powerful spell,
Redeem'd Eurydice from hell.
And walls of Jericho fell down,
When trumpets had besieg'd the town.

In vain you try with hostile air,
To draw entrenchments round the fair,
And in that circling battery,
All other candidates defy.
In vain with arbitrary arms,
You'd fain monopolize such charms.
But 'tis a most despotic duty,
To lay embargo upon beauty;
To keep the treasure to yourself,
As misers hoard their shining pelf.
But what is wealth hid under ground,
Or what is beauty thus in pound?
Vain is the gold that gilds the mine,
Or beauty when it does not shine.

Such arts of sorcery I despise,
'Tis in her looks the magic lies;
Where e'er she takes her fairy round,
'Tis every inch inchanted ground;

That path is consecrated more,
Than Delphian groves, or Circe's shore.

Then lay aside your fruitless care,
No circle can secure the fair:
Nor lines of strong circumvallation,
Keep so untenable a station.
The pale where beauty dwells should lie,
Wide as the circle of the sky:
Compast with all your spells and charms,
The surest circle is her arms.

January 24, 1747.

TO A Young LADY,

ON HER Plotting a Paper Hat.

Cease fair mechanic! nor employ
Vain labour on this paper toy;
Beneath whose wavy wings you mean,
Hid from the croud, to shine unseen.
Those sparkling eyes were never made,
To be invelop'd thus in shade.
Besides too weak th' umbrello'd veil,
Expos'd to each intruding gale:
Kind Zephyrs oft' will round you play,
And fan the paper-screen away.

Yet 'twas ingenious to contrive,
This little emblem of a hive;
Which oft' is plotted thus together,
To screen the bees from wind and weather:

But ne'er a hive with all its store,
Such sweetness e'er inclos'd before:
Nor bee that ever labour'd there,
Can with your industry compare.
With artful maze, and texture fine,
The braided shreds, promiscuous twine;
In wild, perplext meanders led,
Thro' many a labyrinth of thread.

O! fair projector! since your skill,
Can such a paper circle fill,
The wond'ring Muse shall weave these lays
On the same paper to your praise.
With this you may some other time,
Contrive a paper-hat in rhime:
Crown'd on your brow—the Muse thus worn,
Shall view a diadem with scorn.

Industrious nymph! in you we find
O economy, and sweetness join'd;
Good humour, and good sense ally'd,
Unstain'd with vanity, or pride:
The distaff in Minerva's arms,
Still adds fresh lustre to her charms.
Coquets like butterflys may smile,
In painted circles for a while;
'Tis but a false, delusive glare,
But merit still adorns the fair.

May, 1747.

On the Death of an Only CHILD,

Of very Pregnant Parts.

Ungentle Death with fatal dart,
Has pierc'd young Phillis to the heart.
Tyrannic death that wou'd not spare
The wise, the witty, and the fair.
She blossom'd with so quick a shoot,
You had the bloom, but heav'n the fruit.
(Young plants, thus loaded, often drop,
Kill'd with their own luxuriant crop.)
Transplanted to that happy shore,
Where sickly Winters blast no more.

TRANSLATIONS FROM MARTIAL.

LIB. 1. Epigram 1. On Cæsar's Amphitheatre.

Gigantic wonders on the Memphian coast,
Or Babel's towers no more let story boast:
No more let fame Diana's temple sound,
Or Delos' god with horned altars crown'd:
In vain romantic Carians idolize
Mansolus' tomb suspended in the skys;
Since Cæsar's pile superior praise shall claim,
And this alone employ each voice of fame.

Epig. 6. On the Combat of a Woman with a Lion, in the Amphitheatre.

Not Mars alone, great Cæsar fights for you,
In armor fierce, but Venus triumphs too.
In Nemæa's vale, let antient records tell,
How the dread lion by Alcides fell;
Your nobler shows eclipse the hero's fame,
For lo! a female arm performs the same.

Epig. 9. The RHINOCEROS.

Unusual games now entertain our sight:
The vext Rhinoceros prepares for fight.
How did his anger kindle to the full?
How strong his horn, whose javelin was a bull?

Epig. 72. To the GOD of SLEEP.

With glasses seven Lucinda's name is crown'd,
Diana's toast in five shall circle round;
Four are to Lucy, six to Sylvia due
Of bright champaigne, and three remain for Sue.
Thus health we send to every absent fair,
'Till thou, sweet sleep descend, to ease our care.

The Romans were wont to drink their Mistresses Health in as many Glasses as there were Letters in their Names.

Epig. 74. To CECILIAN.

When free, and unrestrain'd, your wife was kept,
No beaus approach'd her, and in peace you slept:
But guarded now, gallants unnumber'd rise,
Methinks, Cecilian, you are wond'rous wise!

LIB. 2. Epig. 90. To QUINCTILIAN.

Quinctilian! of capricious youth, bright guide,
And of the Roman bar, the boast, and pride,
Tho' poor and old, yet wisdom cleaves to age,
And gilds each hour of life's declining page;
Time must be treasur'd while the lamp shall last,
For who can hasten to be wise too fast?
Let misers toil, who sordid wealth acquire,
And with rich furniture their seats attire.
Some smoaky cot I chuse, by whose green side
Thro' artless turf unlabour'd fountains glide.
A decent servant, an unlearned wife,
Sweet sleep at night, and days that know no strife.

Epig. 59. The VIPER inclosed in Amber.

Where Amber tears the conscious poplar weeps,
With sluggish pace, th' entangled Viper creeps:
Arrested in the liquid grave, in vain,
He twists, and struggles with the viscons chain;
With sudden cramp, and glewy fetters bound,
In captive gums, he stiffens all around.
Ægytian sepulchres let others prize,
Lodg'd in a nobler bed the viper lies,
And Cleopatra's splendid tomb outvies.

The Poplar Tree was said by the Poets to weep Amber.

Epig. 60. On CURATIUS's Death.

When Cancer burns, we seek some rural seat,
And some to Scarborough, some to Holt retreat.
Why blame we Tunbridge Wells for Curio's death,
Can sovereign waters save the hero's breath?
No place can fate exclude—when death has sent,
Its fatal shafts, even Bath becomes a Brent.

A Place amongst the Moors, and Fens in Somersetshire, noted for a moist, unhealthy Air.

Maittaire's Edit. 1716.

THE Description of a Cottage, Lately Re-built by the Right Honourable Earl of CORKE and ORRERY, In his Gardens at Marston;

TO THE MEMORY of the Reverend Mr. ASBERRY, Who Lived there in the Year 1649.

Pauperis et tugurî, congestum cespite calmen.
Virg.

Let others praise in pompous rhime,
Villas, and palaces sublime;
Chatsworth, magnificently great,
Blenheim, or Stowe's romantic seat:
My humbler Muse shall not disdain,
To sing the Cottage or the Swain:

Where you, with wiser thoughts inspir'd,
Vouchsafe, my Lord, to live retir'd;
Amidst the shade bid merit bloom,
And raise old Asberry from the tomb.

In days of pious persecution,
When saints usurp'd the constitution.
A grave Divine this Cottage chose,
A safe asylum from his foes;
Where, free from sacrilegious rage,
He liv'd in peaceful pilgrimage;
Furnish'd with books, and rustic spade,
Alternately to dig or read;
'Till death, as antient records tell,
Destroy'd the Hermit, and the Cell.
But you, my Lord, whose candid spirit,
Still prompts you to distinguish merit,
Pleas'd suffering virtue to requite,
And bring obscurity to light,
Have the old mansion rais'd once more
In pristine plainness, as before:
Adorn'd with antiquated tools,
Grave chairs, and venerable stools.

A Horse-shoe at the threshold lies,
And all unhallow'd feet defies;
To exorcise the habitation,
From evil spell, and fascination.

The door appears like coat of mail,
Emboss'd with many a massy nail.
Around the reverend walls we see
Wainscot of antient pedigree;
With pictur'd Ballads cover'd o'er,
Of Chevy Chace, or of Jane Shore;
The story of the Wand'ring Jew,
And how St. George the Dragon slew;
Of Prester John, and Robin Hood,
And of the Children in the Wood;
Three Kings of Cologne, Friar Bacon,
And how the town of Troy was taken,
With Merlin's dreams—and many more,
Hung round the wainscot, or the door.

Oak shelves, oak tables, black as jet,
Mock the bureau, and the beau-fet.
Joint-stools, and shining coffers vie
With ebon, or mahogony.

Hail! venerable, British oak,
Beneath whose shade the Druids spoke:
Deriv'd from thy oraculous tree,
Sprung misseltoe, and prophesy;
And mystic sounds inspir'd by Jove,
Once murmur'd thro' Dodona's grove.

Bright porrengers—a numerous band,
Aloft in glittering order stand:
And maple trenchards—decent sight!
High on carv'd cup-boards smile in white.
A looking-glass, adorn'd with red,
Still glitters at the window head;
And not far off—akin together,
The razor, hone, and strap of leather;
For things by sympathy ally'd,
Associate near each other's side.
Close by a painted hour-glass stands,
Where time the moments rolls in sands.
On hanging rack, exalted high,
Old spits, and dusty truncheons lie;
Cleavers, and rusty swords forsaken,
With hostile look, guard rusty bacon.

Here ropes of onions please the view,
Dangling—the anchorite's ragoùt,
Rich root—the nectar of old age,
And honour of the hermitage.
Plant of ambrosial, pungent taste,
The country swain's divine repast,
Thy vigorous juice in former days
Egyptian Pyramids cou'd raise.

Nor shall the andirons Gothic size,
Or pots escape the Muse's eyes;
Whose brazen heads forever bright,
Like Gorgon's shield reflect the light.
A tinder-box of look obscure,
With all its houshold furniture,
Hangs near the rush-light candles ty'd,
Eternal neighbours, side by side.

Nor shall thy worth unsung remain,
O! gossip's bowl—of structure plain,
Whose potent liquor can inspire
The Clown with wit—the Bard with fire.
Sweet source of many a midnight tale,
Replete with nutmeg, toast, and ale.

Without, a garden, neat and clean,
With leeks, and box forever green,
Where sage, rosemary, crimsons grow,
And savory, pot-herbs in a row;
With parsly, not unknown to fame,
Gay garland at the Olympic game.

Here you, my Lord, oft' condescend
At vacant hours to treat a friend;
Here lay aside the forms of state,
The splendid harness of the great,

Read, or converse with whom you please,
And live in philosophic ease.
Great Epictetus thus withdrew,
Scipio, and Cincinnatus too;
Here triumph'd o'er mankind much more,
Than all their conquests did before.

Life's a vain farce—and he most blest,
Who finds some peaceful port of rest;
Some safe Linternum of retreat,
Or mossy cell, or rural seat;
And happy in his Hermitage,
Smiles at the follies of the age.

VERSES,

Occasion'd by the uncommon, dull, rainy Season, which continu'd Half a Year after the Death of the PRINCE, Being the Time appointed for the GENERAL MOURNING.

------ et consia sidera Fati.
Virg.

While crouds in tears, great Frederick's loss deplore,
And sable mourning spreads from shore to shore,
Tho' the mute court appear'd like Memnon's queen,
In shades of black, and robes of bombazine;
How impotent is art? how vain the show
Of pageant dress? the mockery of woe.
To mean such Mourning—for when Frederick dies,
All nature seems around to sympathize.

Soon as the tidings reach'd the realms of day,
A while celestial anthems ceas'd to play.
Swift from the skys deputed heralds go
To all the tutelary powers below:
Dispatch'd with sacred orders thro' the air,
That nature's self shou'd in the Mourning share.
While some to gloomy Æolus resort,
Who curbs the struggling whirlwinds in his court;
Swift from his cell, commission'd thunders fly,
And long imprison'd tempests shake the sky.
Some seek the silent mansions of the deep,
In oozy beds where drizzly Naiads weep,
The watry nymphs in humid grottos mourn,
And pour lymphatic tears at every urn.
Creation conscious of some tragic fate,
With all her meteors mourns in solemn state.
The clouds distil, the winds in zephyrs sigh,
And robes of Mourning cloath the darken'd sky.
In Mourning stand the melancholy hills,
Majestic mutes—in Mourning roll the rills.
In swelling floods, impetuous torrents stray,
And sweep in tides of sorrow to the sea.

Not Caria's queen with rich Mausolean coast,
Or Egypt's towers, cou'd greater trophys boast:
Not Rome in tears beheld such funeral pride,
When Cæsar dropt, or young Marcellus dy'd.

When martial Cromwell fell, his poet drew
All nature round him in convulsions too;
“It must be so—Heaven his great soul does claim,
“In storms as loud, as his immortal fame;
“His dying groans, his last breath shook the isle,
“And trees uncut, fall for his funeral pile.

When Cromwell fell, no race was left behind,
To finish the great conquests he design'd:
But brighter scenes appear, tho' Frederick dies,
Succeeding princes in his offspring rise,
With happier days to blest Britannia's skys.

Alluding to a fine Poem of Waller's on the Death of the Protector, and the great Tempest on the same Day.

TO A GENTLEMAN,

Who sitting near a YOUNG LADY, presented a Pop-Gun at the Author.

------ lethalis arundo.
Virg.

Mistaken Marskman! I defy
Your impotent artillery;
Your level'd tube I value not,
Nor tremble at the threaten'd shot;
When the fair Lady who sits by,
Shoots darts more fatal from her eye.

As well I might a hornet fear,
When the arm'd porcupine is near;
Or from a hissing squib retire,
When lightnings set the heavens on fire.

Mistaken Marksman! now you may
Such idle bullets throw away;
For what avails your Pop-gun skill,
Your shot may wound—but hers can kill.

The Gentleman's Answer.

Ut vidi, ut perii.

Your lines, my Friend, on Chloe's eyes,
Nor raise my wonder, or surprize,
Since every tender breast she fills
With pains, that baffle all your pills.
Here Laudanum, here Amber fails,
No quantum sufficit prevails.

But while you my machine defame,
Certes, for this you merit blame;
Had not that little engine there,
Your eyes diverted from the fair,
Her radiant flashes blaze so bright,
They wou'd have kill'd the Poet quite.

Thus you, with joy, I save, my friend,
From such a miserable end.
But on myself what torments wait,
When every look declares my fate.
While I with mimic art aspire
To rival her celestial fire;
Salmoneus like, my bolts I dart,
'Till Jove's true lightning rends my heart.

To Mr. John Prowse,

On seeing a POEM of His wrote at the Age of Fourteen.

Nec puer Iliaca quisquam de gente—
In tantum spe tollet avos.
Virg.

Tho' venal writers, and degenerate times,
Call for Lucilius' lays, or Oldham's rhimes
While o'er neglected lyres the Muses weep,
Implor'd in vain—or in their grottos sleep;
Yet when some rising genius breaks the cloud,
Shouts of applause will echo from the croud:
Contraste by such opposing views is made,
And merit shines the brighter thro' the shade.
Such early worth commands unwilling lays
From the stern critic, and extorts our praise.
Pleas'd with your infant Muse, and manly rhime,
Even envy speaks, and silence is a crime.

Thus when we see some plant of goodly size,
With towering state, amidst the desart rise,
Tho' savage shrubs the forest round o'erspread,
O'er the wild waste it lifts its lofty head,
With fair, luxuriant branches mounts on high,
Scorns the low earth, and blossoms to the sky.

Hence may the bard's prophetic pen presage
Descending blessings to the rising age.
I see transported into future time,
New lights emerging thro' the foggy clime.
Dim is the ken to unassisted sight,
Yet clear in waking visions of the night.
Yet can the Muse anticipate the day,
And rapt in fancy distant scenes survey.
She from her torched watch-tower can descry
The promis'd morn, with purple gild the sky.
See from the west illustrious youths appear,
Where Selwoods groves once darken'd half the shire.
See Thynne, and Prowse, and bright descended Boyle,
Reflect new honours on their native soil:
Round their gay villas with poetic shade,
The bay-trees bloom, and lawrels never fade.
Hail! happy groves—whose shades so oft' inspire
The hermit's visions, and the poet's fire.

Born on this spot seraphic Singer sung,
Immortal made by Prior's tuneful tongue.

Behold the youths in future senates shine,
With manly sense, and eloquence divine.
O! born to greatness, and reserv'd by fate,
To bless your country, and adorn the state;
To prop those altars, which vain fools despise,
Bid ruin'd domes, and prostrate temples rise.
Recal the exil'd Muses to the isle,
Bid wit return, and slighted science smile.
While drowsy dullness in her dungeon pines,
A goddess made in Pope's immortal lines.

Thus patroniz'd the drooping arts shall thrive,
And nodding learning from its trance revive.
'Till by tyrannic dunces cramp'd no more,
Britannia's genius to the skys shall soar;
The wither'd olives smile with greens again,
And bloom as in Astræa's golden reign.

August, 1750.

The Name of a vast Forest, which once overspread all the eastern Part of Somersetshire, and Part of Wiltshire; where the Earl of Orrery, Lord Weymouth, and Mr. Prowse, have their Country Seats.

The celebrated Mrs. Rowe, whose Maiden Name was Singer, was born at Frome, near these Seats, where she was often visited in her Solitude by People of the first Rank, viz. the present Dutchess Dowager of Somerset, Lady Carteret, Lady Weymouth, Mr. Prior, &c.—See her Life, prefix'd to her Poetical Works, in two Volumes.

THE ALPHABET in VERSE: For the Use of Children.

At early dawn of day arise,
Bless first the Ruler of the skys,
Cleanse, wash, and comb, and every day
Dress, read, or work before you play.
Each hour in useful business spend,
For time soon hastens to an end.
Govern your thoughts by wisdom's rule,
Hate every knave, and shun a fool.
Improve in each ingenious art,
Knowledge, like beauty, wins the heart.
Love all your friends, nor hate your foes,
Make these your friends, as well as those.
No bribe shou'd tempt you to a lie,
Or glittering bait allure your eye.

Place not your heart on sordid pelf,
Quarrel with no one but yourself.
Rail not at others—since you may
Some faults commit, as well as they.
Tell not a secret, nor pretend,
Under disguise, to be a friend.
Value no one for gold, or lace.
Wisdom will more than rubies grace.
Xerxes o'er millions weeping cry'd,
Yon host the grave must shortly hide.
Z comes at last—best place of any,
To fit a zealot, or a zany.

1748.

An EPITAPH.

Here Lies EDWARD BOND, Esq; OF THE County of Armagh, Much Lamented by all that knew Him. He Ordered his Funeral should be Private; And, instead of Pomp, Order'd a Hundred Pounds to the Poor: He Order'd A Dial to be erected at his Grave, And the following Verses:

No marble pomp, no monumental praise,
My tomb this dial, epitaph these lays.
Pride, and low moldering dust but ill agree,
Death levels me to beggars, kings to me.
Alive, instruction was my work each day;
Dead, I persist instruction to convey.
Here Reader mark, perhaps now in thy prime,
The stealing steps of never-standing time;
Thou'lt be what I am, catch the present hour,
Employ it well, for that is in thy power.

TO A Young LADY at Holt,

(A Place famous for Mineral Waters) ON HER Late Ingenious POEMS.

Whilst you from Holt sweet accents sound,
Shall neighb'ring bards sit silent round?
So tunes the bird her midnight flute,
In shades—while all around is mute.
Enchanted with your lays too long,
I break from silence into song.

Nymph of these healing Waters! say,
What power inspires your magic lay?
Smooth as the stream where You reside;
Rich as its vein, your numbers glide.
Say, do those salutary springs,
Pierian like, raise fancy's wings;

Not only cure the sick, the lame,
But animate poetic flame.
Sacred the stream—the fount divine,
And You some sister of the Nine;
Some tuneful Naiad to preside,
And warble near the fountain's side.

As at fam'd Aix, historians tell,
Great Charles's horse struck out a well;
So now we need no farther proof,
That Pegasus here stuck his hoof.
No more shall Holt its name retain,
Castalian springs shall bless the plain.
With You 'tis all poetic ground,
And Aganippè murmurs round;
Not Holt, but Helicon is seen,
And You the Sappho of the green.

March, 1749.

Historians say, the Mineral Waters at Aix-la-Chapelle were discover'd by the Emperor Charles's Horse accidentally striking on the spring.

100

The LADY's Answer.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

What strains are these, say Muse! which strike my eyes?
How smooth the dangerous soothing numbers rise?
Come all my faults, and follys to my aid,
E'er pride, and vanity my heart invade.
What Muse inspir'd? can they be female lays;
Can woman thus a woman deign to praise?
No 'tis some candid pen, some generous bard,
Who thus vouchsafes unmerited regard.
In whose bright Muse, mine by reflection shines,
And borrows lustre from his brighter lines.

But cease—for Rochefaucalt says we design,
More praise to gain, whene'er we praise decline:
For which I dare not contradict your pen,
Least you suppose I'd hear it o'er agen.

Blockheads may praise, 'till their vain tongues are tir'd,
We ne'er grow vain, when by vain fools admir'd:
But when harmonious lays, and sense commend,
From pride, what woman can herself defend?

101

That meteor praise, does oft' our sex misguide,
By nature prone to vanity and pride.

Why shou'd you ask what power inspires my lay?
Does not my humble Muse herself betray.
Some homebred offspring of inferior line,
Who ne'er claim'd kindred with th' immortal Nine?
But if you fancy Holt's salubrious streams,
Can kindle in the soul poetic themes;
From these she owns her feeble strains may rise,
Since oft' to these refreshing rills she flies:
But thoughtless drank, and never dreamt she quafft,
'Till you inform'd her an inspiring draught.

Yet blushing owns, she's quite surpriz'd to find,
That obvious thought ne'er enter'd in her mind;
Since 'tis as evident as noon-day light,
What streams are drank, when Sylvia dares indite:
Since Water only does her Muse inspire;
No wonder if she wants poetic fire.

While here, inclos'd in shades, I tune my voice,
And with the painted warbling race rejoice,
While in these streams I dip my humble quill,
Methinks I see you mount the sacred hill.
While every Muse does every line inspire,
And Phœbus warms them with celestial fire.

HOLT, April 1749.

Sylvia.

102

THE Author's Reply to Sylvia,

Who pleaded Not Guilty of the Charge lately exhibited against Her:

OR, The Young LADY's Tryal.

Sylvia, in vain you wou'd evade
The accusation I have laid:
Your witty, criminal excuses,
Prove your intrigues with all the Muses.
Your guilty commerce with the nine,
Appears from each harmonious line;
Your guilt encreases—since 'tis fit,
We now add modesty to wit.

For at the Poets last assize,
Held at their temple near the skys,
The Cause was fairly tried at large,
And you found guilty of the Charge.

103

The Muses gave in their Report,
Unspotted witnesses at court.
Fancy can raise—her cause to plead,
Poetic counsel from the dead.
Departed Bards—an awful show,
Rose from Elysian bowers below,
By Mercury subpœna'd all,
Bright cohorts croud the heav'nly hall,
And round the court attentive prest,
In myrtle wands, and lawrel drest.
In jury some impannel'd sate,
To hear the elegant debate:
While Pallas to prevent all jar,
Sat Umpire of the heav'nly bar:
For feuds, sometimes, like those below,
Will in immortal bosoms glow.

Now every witness being try'd,
(Tho' some say Cupid was deny'd)
Without much pause, they soon withdrew,
And verdict gave, the charge was true:
For Clio swore point-blank one day,
That you had stole her harp away.
Thalia clos'd it with a vow,
She saw you pluck a lawrel bough:
A Third depos'd, you climb'd the hill.
And drank the Hippocrenian rill:

104

I saw you too, Urania said,
In concert with the Pythian maid;
From her with enigmatic flight,
You learnt dark oracles to write.

Then Cowly cry'd—what need we more,
Examine witnesses, a score?
And Prior said, 'twas all a jest
Celestial counsel to contest:
Waller and Congreve too were there,
And Wicherly began to swear:
But Pallas murmur'd, and was loth
To take the rebel poet's oath;
While Dryden's shade, with nodding bow,
Shook all the lawrels on his brow;
Pope's satyr-ghost stood mute awhile,
But soon consented with a smile.

Then sentence pass'd—the court was hush'd,
Pallas condemn'd,—and Sylvia blush'd:
Loud rung the sound—and every muse,
O'er all Parnassus spread the news.

105

Thus guilty—you're to make confession,
At the next Poets petty session:
And Iris, herald of the court,
Attends you now with this report.

Then clos'd the books—the court withdrew,
Back to the skys, the Muses flew;
And poets tir'd with noisy law, and light,
Again to shades, and silence bent their flight.

The Lady was famous for writing Enigmas.

106

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

By a Batchelor.

Address'd to a Young Gentleman on his late Marriage.

Since you, my friend, o'er-rul'd by fate,
Have ventur'd on the marriage-state,
At your request, I hail the station,
With verses of congratulation.

'Twas wisely done, tho' young and gay,
No more to triffle time away;
No more to rove this sea of life,
But make safe harbour in a wife.
While we inconstant chace maintain,
Advent'rous rovers on the main,
Safe anchor'd on this peaceful shore,
Tempestuous passions rage no more:

107

While from this station we survey
The shipwreckt Batchelors at sea.
Now tost by billows, here, and there,
Or sunk in quicksands of despair;
Now on piratic plunder bent,
Which, when obtain'd, gives no content;
Still wishing, wand'ring after rest,
Still bless pursuing, never blest.

Let anxious Batchelors complain,
That wedlock is a servile chain;
But soft the chain, the bondage sweet,
When lovers in such fetters meet.
When gentle bonds the union bind,
'Tis freedom to be thus confin'd.
Blest freedom from a thousand snares,
Temptations, tumults, sighs, and cares.
In vain we rove the world around,
In wild pursuit no bliss is found.
In vain mad pleasures we pursue,
Without some object in our view.
Without this gaol we still embrace,
Some phantom in th' eternal chace;
And in the room of Juno's charms,
Clasp some false phantom in our arms.

This happiness, my friend, you prove,
Thus wedded to the Fair you love.

108

No sordid views of worldly pelf
Inspir'd your love, to curse yourself.
The happy husband thus ally'd,
Enjoys a goddess in his bride.
Let the low wretch of sordid view,
Match with the mountains of Peru;
The nymph, content, aspires not so,
But dwells in the sweet vale below;
Hid in some solitary dale,
With the melodious nightingale;
Or seated in the shady grove,
Smiles at the storms, which roll above.
On high battlements, and towers,
See how the swelling tempest pours,
While only harmless zephyrs blow,
To fan the peaceful seats below.

With such a gentle Consort blest,
Here all your passions are at rest.
If adverse fortue war shou'd wage,
Her bosom softens half its rage;
Her smiles can smooth the rugged way,
And make the barren prospect gay:
With such a Fair content to dwell,
Or in a cottage, or a cell;
Nor envy all the pomp and strife
Of the gay slaves in higher life.

109

TO Peter Lovel, Esq;

Occasion'd by His VERSES in Praise of the Author's Poem on the Vicarage-House at Frome, and his censuring him for omitting the Architect.

Ingenious Lovel! your harmonious lays,
By meaning mine, establish your own praise.
Thus public favour, generous Cæsar won,
And raising Pompey's statues,—fix'd his own.
But tho' you find some beautys to commend,
And often lose the critic, in the friend;
Yet you arraign the Poet of neglect,
Who prais'd the pile, and not the Architect.
But to applaud the structure couches still,
An approbation of the builder's skill:

110

You who a Poem, I a Pile commend,
The Author's merit modestly intend.

The Artist's Virtues too conspicuous shine,
To need such humble eulogys as mine.
At nobler schemes he aims—The Good of Man,
The state his care—the commonwealth his plan.
He can design a landscape, or a pile,
And with that pencil make his country smile:
Not only sketch a building for his friend,
But laws project, that building to defend:
Tho' fine the taste, fair fabrics to erect,
A Patriot is the noblest Architect.
Such best adorn the structures which they raise,
And lofty palaces proclaim their praise.
'Tis Merit only makes a happy seat,
A cavern glorious, and a cottage great.

July, 1748.

Vid. p. 14.

111

The Disappointed Travellers of Frome:

OR, THE Three Professions in Tribulation.

Occasion'd by A Gentleman's inviting some Friends to Dinner; and, tho' of a very hospitable Disposition, through mere Inadvertence forgot the Appointment.

Suadet enim vesana fames.
Virg.

A Lawyer, Physician, and reverend Divine,
Were invited abroad in the country to dine,
The weather was pleasant; the season was May,
All nature around them look'd smiling and gay:
The fields, in new liverys ravish'd the view,
And smiling, and gay lookt the travellers too.

112

Invited to Banquet three miles out of town,
They threw aside business, and books, and the gown.
Overjoy'd with the jaunt—they said to themselves,
Let Coke, Shaw, and Sherlock now sleep on the shelves.
Farewel to concordance, dull statutes, and Mead,
While we feast abroad, let the pale student read,
They thought it far best, to relax, and to roam,
And pity'd their pensive companions at home.

Thus forward they march'd, amus'd with chit-chat,
The Rebels—Don Carlos—the Dutch and all that:
Much pleas'd with the prospect this time of the year,
But more with the thoughts of approaching good cheer.
As the walk now grew less—their hunger wax'd more,
They think of full dishes, and bowls running o'er.
Anticipate all the delights of the feast,
And smell fancy'd fumes, full a furlong at least:
Imagine they see a table well spread;
Here smoakt the fat beef—there lay a calfs head;
The gammon, and fowls, rang'd in order close by,
And lease-hold, wou'd wind up the whole with a pie.
But Lebeck, and corpulent Bently will tell ye,
That chimerical banquets will not fill the belly:
That love is platonic—some stoics declare,
But diet platonic—no mortal can bear.

113

Now the house, their wish'd haven, appear'd to the view,
One adjusted his wig, and another his shoe.
But the parson, much wont to contemplate on high,
Looking up—cou'd no smoak in the chimney descry:
The complaisant Lawyer first knockt at the door,
—Is your master at home, pray?—and lookt so demure.
Lord! Sir, why my master a journey is gone;
And said, he should not be at home 'till anon.

Æneas of old, lookt not more like a ghost,
When searching old Ilium, Creusa was lost;
Nor half-famish'd Trojans were so much aghast,
When the Harpys devour'd their rural repast.

The thunder-struck pilgrims withdrew very sad,
For hunger, like hemlock, will make a man mad.
The parson declar'd, with a sorowful face,
To fly from engagements shew'd great want of grace.

For first,—Revelation, and Reason allow,
That a promise obliges as much as a vow:
It appears next from Habukkuk chapter the first,
That denounces a breach of performance accurst;—
And thirdly—the fathers—from old Martyr-Justin,
Condemn breach of trust—down to Jerom, and Austin.

114

And fourthly—Hold, crys Habeas Corpus, we did not come hither,
To join both in fasting, and preaching together.
When Lawyers are hungry—'tis a merciless sign,
Poor criminals hang—for fat judges to dine.
He cou'd prove from the statutes—Wood, Wingate, and Skinner,
That eloping from home, and demurring a dinner;
By defrauding the subject of his natural food,
Was as actual man-slaughter, still understood:
And by Magna Charta's authentic commanding,
Was robbery plain—any wise notwithstanding.

But the Doctor declar'd, it was no time for frolic,
And that fasting did often occasion the cholic.
Then he quoted Hippocrates, Galen, and Wynne,
That when food is all out—the wind will rush in.
Tho' Descartes, wou'd never a vacuum allow,
He thought his inside cou'd demonstrate it now.
He shew'd that when passions are rais'd, like a tide,
Disappointed at once, they too soon subside;
As the string of a fiddle, or screw of a jack,
When wound up too high, of a sudden will crack.

Thus having bewail'd their misfortunes alone,
Dire hunger will sharpen men's wits like a hone.
They deem'd it most requisite, not to relate
To their neighbours at home, their tantaliz'd fate:

115

For shou'd it be known, 'twould increase their chagrin,
To be jeer'd at, like Burton, and Bastwick, and Prynn;
And by consequence very much add to their load,
To be banter'd at home, and famish'd abroad:
But by Gown, and Cassock,—Diploma,—and Seal,
They vow'd full revenge for the loss of their meal.

Thus vex'd at their fortune, and bilkt of their feast,
Travell'd home in the dumps, Lawyer, Doctor, and Priest.

April 1746.

A Divine, a Physician, and a Lawyer, who flourish'd in the Reign of King Charles the First, and were for some Time the Objects of public Pity, and Ridicule.

116

To the Right Honourable the EARL of ORRERY, (Now Earl of CORKE)

On his Marriage with Miss HAMILTON, In IRELAND, AND Their Arrival at MARSTON-HOUSE.

Junxit honestus Hymen tædis illustribus ambos.

While Crowds, my Lord! with triumphs hail the day,
Permit the Muse to join her grateful lay:
Tho' low her notes, and unobserv'd her song,
Lost in the louder murmurs of the throng,
Yet true her raptures, and her duty paid,
Tho' sung to rocks, and utter'd in the shade.
Yet shall the vocal rocks resound the lays,
And vocal groves the nuptial chorus raise.

117

Ye powers of love, assists the Muse's flights,
Sacred to you belong connubial rights:
Love's generous passion, and th' harmonious Nine,
Blended, unite in sympathy divine.
As nature's self, immortal is the tie,
They spring together, and together die.

Thus you, my Lord! who long have sat sublime,
The Muse's guest, on Pindus' flowery clime,
Whose brow poetic wreaths have long embrac'd,
Are now, with blooming, nuptial garlands grac'd.
No flame impure, with wild, despotic sway,
Kindl'd your bosom with unhallow'd ray;
No spoils fantastic from the Paphian grove,
But chaste, and fadeless greens of virtuous love.
Unbridled passions, like a blaze of fire,
Soon vent their fury, and in smoak expire;
But calm, and constant, as a vestal light,
Love fixt on friendship, burns forever bright.

Say what strange sympathy in kindred souls,
(Strong as the fam'd attraction of the poles,)
Governs the lover with magnetic force,
Inspires the passion, and directs its course;
Thro' life's dim curtain sheds the guiding ray,
Which to the destin'd union points the way.
She must be all that fancy can require,
To reign sole object of a Boyle's desire;

118

See from Hibernia's shore, th' illustrious pair
Sail—while the seas are conscious of their care.
See round the ship cerulean Tritons play,
And tutelary Nereids smooth the way:
While Amphitrite keeps her coral court,
And on the surface bounding Dolphins sport:
The Muses pleas'd, convoy their charge along,
With hovering wings, and hymenæal song.
With you, my Lord! th' harmonious choir withdrew,
And still from clime to clime your steps pursue.
While some with proud retinue sweep the plain,
Pierrian guardians mingle in your train:
Still the divine companions of your flight,
As o'er old Israel shone the travelling light.

Welcome, blest pair! to your triumphant seat,
Which silent long had mourn'd her Lord's retreat;
Whose lonely walks in deeper shadows clad,
And towers forlorn, lookt desolate, and sad.
Long had immortal tomes unnotic'd slept,
And dewy walls in tears your absence wept;
Long had the tuneful swains their lyres forgot,
And pensive Pan long slumber'd in his grot.
Oft' wou'd the humble Muse in vain essay
A laxy flight, and unpropitious lay;

119

If no Mecænas props her feeble wing,
What Muse can rise, what Bard attempt to sing?

But now each scene a cheerful face assumes,
The fields look gay around, the garden blooms;
Again the sickening flowers begin to rise,
And spread new fragrance in autumnal skies:
New charms appear, new beautys deck the ground,
And sudden paradise smiles all around.

Long may you live, to grace the happy seat,
And every pleasure bless the sweet retreat;
'Till other Boyles—if right the Muse presage,
Transmit the blessing to the latest age.

120

VERSES,

To the Memory of the Late Pious and Ingenious Miss WEREAT, of Haygrove, Near TROWBRIDGE, Who Died OCTOBER 1752. Aged 24.

Whoe'er may musing chance to tread
About these caverns of the dead,
Blush not to drop a silent tear,
O'er the chaste nymph who slumbers here.
A moment pause—and sympathize,
Behold the witty, fair, and wise,
The gay, the gentle, and the just,
Here hous'd with darkness and with dust;
Here mingle with her sister dead,
And moulder in a dusty bed.
Sad victim to the ravenous tomb,
In all her innocence, and bloom.

121

With every social virtue blest,
Humility crown'd all the rest.
So free from pride, her worth was known
To all, but to herself alone.

No storms her peaceful bosom felt,
Calm region where religion dwelt.
Calm as autumnal, halcyon skys,
Still as the mansion where she lies.
Her gentle breast no passion knew,
But such as Heaven was witness too;
Sweet passions which the soul surprize
In sacred rapture to the skys;
Such as from just devotion flow;
Such as the pious only know;
Such as old story'd saints inspir'd,
And holy nuns, and vestals fir'd.

Yet Death has only snatch'd away,
The textur'd vehicle of clay.
The prince, the peasant, poor and great,
Must all alike submit to fate.
Nature must sink, and empires burst,
And diadems dissolve to dust.
But deathless virtue soars sublime,
Beyond the ravages of time:
Safe landed on her peaceful shore,
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar.

122

But tho' stern death, the gentle maid
Invelop'd in its sable shade;
Yet shall the Muse prolong thy date,
And some few moments steal from fate:
The Muse can triumph o'er the slain,
And bid her votarys live again.
(For of the Muse's train was she,
And lov'd their bright society)
She bids her spotless memory bloom
Beyond the ruins of the tomb.

How lovely virtue's image smiles
Amidst these consecrated isles?
Mark how she gilds the vaulted gloom,
And casts a lustre o'er the tomb.
Can light divine, and gladness shed
O'er these dark grottos of the dead.
Religion softens pain and care,
And smooths the visage of despair;
Bids sorrow wear a cheerful mien,
And scatters anguish, and chagrin.

Sleep on, sweet shade! in endless rest,
Soft are the slumbers of the blest.
Sleep, fearless of a future doom,
While angels watch about thy tomb;
Pleas'd to escorte thee to the skys,
Where Youth still blooms, and Virtue never dies.

November, 1752.

She was bury'd in Road Church.

123

ON EDUCATION.

Inscrib'd to the Rev. Peter Mayson, M. A. On his Opening A New GRAMMAR-SCHOOL at Frome.

------ Sed vos sævas imponite leges,
Ut præceptori verborum regula constet.
Juven.

To form rude minds, and make the savage wise,
Science of old descended from the skys:
The eastern climes first felt the friendly ray,
And dawn'd alike with learning, and with day.
There clad in wisdom's robes the Magi shone,
And China glitter'd in a heaven its own.
The sacred flame, the Grecian sages fir'd;
Warm'd every breast, and every grove inspir'd.

124

But when mad mortals wealth and discord knew,
Back to the skys the exil'd goddess flew:
Smote in eclipse, the sickening olives fade,
Some splendid stars shot only thro' the shade:
While Goths and Scythians, and the monkish sway,
Of pious vandals intercept the day:
Yet from those northern clouds she broke and blest,
In her last flight, the regions of the west.
'Twas then her Influence reach'd Britannia's isle,
Dispel'd the mist, and made the desarts smile;
Serene on Cam, and Isis' banks she shed
Her gentle rays, and night before her fled.

Peace to their pious manes in the skys,
Who thro' the realm bad seminaries rise;
While some by arms, and desolation rule,
'Twas theirs to found a College or a School;
O'er barbarous climes, while others tyrannize,
'Twas theirs, those barbarous climes to civilize.
Such Edward was,—in every virtue nurst,
And Frome still owes some tribute to his dust;
An humble nursery yet speaks his fame,
Whose hollow ruins echo with his name,
By time decay'd,—while drooping learning slept,
And o'er the sweating walls the muses wept.

125

But see restor'd,—again the classics smile,
And science hovers o'er the new-rais'd pile;
Where metaphysic tomes in cobweb hung,
Sweet sound the shelves with Virgil's sacred song:
In dust the pensive poets pine no more,
But olives bloom, where ivy crept before.

See a new Tutor, with pacific sway,
To grammar's thorny doctrine smooth the way.
Inspir'd with sense, and sweetness to impart
To list'nings youths, the rudiments of art;
Severely mild, and cautious of th' extreme,
Can teach with temper, and rebuke with phlegm;
Best form'd t'unfold the poet's sacred page,
And mark their charms, who feels himself their rage.

As the wise husbandman explores with skill,
What soil is best to plant, and what to till;
The wise preceptor studies every art,
To know the genius, and to mend the heart.
As well one med'cine, each disease will hit,
As the same method all complexions fit.
Fruitless the toil, to wash the negro white,
To polish boors, or make a blockhead bright:
So vain is teaching, time, and terror try'd,
Where genius fails, and nature has deny'd;
In vain by tutors train'd, by parents nurs'd,
If warp'd in embryo, and by Pallas curs'd.

126

Yet Busby's pedants still one circle keep,
Like mills, which in one motion always sleep:
To every scholar the same system suit,
And treat a Bacon, as they treat a brute;
Still keep the passive slaves in one dull round,
With birchen sceptre, and despotic sound.

Severity, for brutes alone design'd,
Enervates half the vigour of the mind:
Confounds the modest—makes the vicious mad,
Destroys good parts—and never mends the bad.

They who correct with anger and chagrin,
E're they reprove, shou'd with themselves begin.
Some rugged minds, incorrigibly bold,
May be by fear subdu'd, or force control'd;
But for one savage, by compulsion tam'd,
Ten are by love, and gentleness reclaim'd.
Disgrace,—or praise,—or pride, will oft' prevail,
When slavish fear, and furious ferules fail:
For generous minds, with native freedom born,
Disdain the thraldom, and the tyrant scorn.
Or when releas'd from grammar's servile fetters,
Still learning loath, and dread the smart of letters.
The child by nurses terrify'd at night,
Always associates darkness, and a sprite:
So boys to rods, and reading, long confin'd,
Still couple books and bondage in their mind.

127

The verbal knowledge of grammatic art,
Of Education is the lowest part.
In Priscian's rules, some scrupulously nice,
Correct false concord, and connive at vice.
Clowns may be taught to construe, or translate,
As pies, or parrots, may be taught to prate,
Expound all Walker—all Parnassus scan,
But in the critic, often lose the man;
Exact in prosody, in mood and tense,
Well skill'd in sound, but destitute of sense.
Some listed are to learn—they know not how,
Constrain'd to plod—whom nature meant to plough;
Like squirrels with their bells, to jingle round,
As some learn notes, without a taste for sound;
Who shade the rostrum, or disgrace the bar,
Might shine behind the counter, or the car.

To country-school the satchel'd youths are sent,
O'er barbarous sounds to pore in discontent;
Like felon slaves condemn'd to banishment.
To learn tongues spoke two thousand years ago,
Who scarce their own domestic language know.
So Marcus travels to Marseilles, or Rome,
Mere stranger to his laws, and lands at home.

If youths for no profession are design'd,
Mere verbal knowledge but contracts the mind.

128

Yet some with tympany of sound will swell
With pompous language, like an empty bell.
But if design'd, without a genius fit;
You often spoil the tradesman in the wit.
Laws,—ethics,—painting,—globes, and stars on high,
Each station suit, and shine to every eye.
Geography and history invite,
Improve the genius, and the mind delight:
Things, more than words th' attentive youth engage
Please every taste, and polish every age.

Critics object, such studies are the care,
Of higher life, and academic air:
But few e'er reach that philosophic plain,
Stuck in the mire of grammar and chicane:
Did narrow pœdagogues their province know,
Knowledge, and language wou'd promiscuous grow.
As on one tree beneath indulgent skys,
Blossoms and fruit with blended beauty rise.

Low reptile minds, on earth still grovelling lie
'Tis Education lifts the soul on high.
While thro' the stormy sea of life we sail,
This smooths the tide, and swells the promis'd gale:
Launch'd well at first,—in vain the billows roar,
She calms the tempest, and secures the shore;
Taught by this goddess,—how to steer sedate,
Amidst the Favours, or the frowns of fate;

129

Rove while we will,—that peace and competence,
Mock all the shine of courts,—the joys of sense;
That happiness alone in virtue lies,
And to be truly learn'd,—is to be wise.

Near Frome's romantic vales, the muse thus sung,
Where pious Rowe once tun'd her silver tongue.
Close by those laurels, where the vestal pray'd,
I oft' invoke her venerable shade;
Lofty the subject,—and not low the praise,
If she inspire, and B---le approve the lays.

King Edward the Third founded the Grammar-School at Frome.

130

TO A Young LADY,

Who complain'd that her Muse was eloped from her.

Sylvia, I lately heard you say
Your truant Muse was gone astray,
And, like some transitory spright,
O'er hill and dale had took her flight:
And mine's of late so sullen grown,
I scarce can call the prude my own,
A rural jaunt inspires my mind,
Your vagrant fugitive to find:
Thus to divert my Muse's gloom,
Or meet a better in its Room.
O! wou'd some kind, some angel scout,
Direct me where to find her out;
Whether o'er boundless plains she roves,
Or haunts the music of the groves:
Or if the hills delight her more,
Where lofty larks, and lapwings soar,

131

Or when descending from the steep,
She seeks the cell where Sylvan's sleep;
Close to her steps I'd follow still,
And trace the nymph from hill to hill.

Tell me, ye swains! O! tell me where,
To find the solitary fair.
Cou'd I but hear her distant song,
Chaunting far off the wood's among,
Invited by the rural lay,
I'd thro' the pathless desart stray,
Where roses wild adorn the green,
And wither in the shade unseen;
And many a pink and painted flower,
Sprinkle gay twilight thro' the bower,
While cooing turtles from on high,
Murmur soft love-plaints near the sky.
I'd ask each wood-nymph of the shade,
If they had seen the wand'ring maid,
And in what bosky grove, or cell,
The tuneful vagabond might dwell:
Or if the drowsy god of sleep,
Has clos'd her eyes in slumber deep,
And with enchantments magic tie,
Seal'd up those lips of harmony;
Diana's horn shall break the spell,
And shake the dormitory cell.

Sept. 4, 1749.

132

A Friendly CAUTION TO A GENTLEMAN,

Who lately publish'd his Intention Of going in Quest of a Stray'd Muse.

Soon as my eyes had trac'd each line,
And found what jaunt you did design,
It rais'd a smile upon my face,
To think what a vain wild-goose chase
You'd undertake, Sir Knight, shou'd you
My giddy run-away pursue.

133

As luckless travellers o'nights
Are led astray by wand'ring lights,
And plung'd in ponds, or hung in briers
By these delusive dancing fires.
So if upon this bold adventure,
Like errant-knight of old you enter,
My roving Muse astray may lead you,
Tho' sometimes grave, she's often giddy.
The sportive Ignis Fatuus may
Thro' countless dangers make you stray.
Her wanton wiles therefore beware,
With warning voice, I cry, forbear.
Hearken to my prophetic pen,
She may bemire you in some fen;
Or mount in air aloft from sight,
And leave you in the gloom of night;
Then perch some airy heighth upon,
To draw th' unwary traveller on.
And when you've climb'd the rocky steep,
She down the craggy cliffs might creep,
And plunge you in the boundless deep.

Or shou'd you think to fly, she'd rise,
And chearful dance before your eyes;
'Till by her wand'ring light beguil'd
You're buried in some forest wild,
A dark impenetrable shade,
For fairies, ghosts, and goblins made;

134

Ne'er blest with Phœbus' chearful ray,
But like a Lapland's sunless day;
Then might she soar in yielding air,
And leave you in the mazy snare;
'Till tired with her sportive jaunt,
Once more she sought my rural haunt,
Here, while you pensive stray alone,
Laugh at the mischief she had done.

But shou'd you meet a milder fate,
And in the chace be fortunate.
If you my fugitive shou'd find,
Take her, and leave your own behind,
Your judgment each one wou'd arraign;
Apollo and his tuneful train
Wou'd never more to own you deign.
All must condemn you, shou'd you chuse
To drop a swan, and take a goose.

But shou'd the following dream prove true,
In vain you'd seek, in vain pursue.
Your dang'rous jaunt ran thro' my head,
When ten smart strokes warn'd me to bed;
There soon I sunk in Somnus' arms,
A victim to his downy charms;
Then forth by busy Morpheus drawn,
Methought I trac'd a velvet lawn,

135

Fierce Syrius reign'd, my strength declin'd,
And for some cool recess I pin'd;
When just before my longing eyes,
I saw a dusky grove arise,
'Twas form'd of Cypress, Box, and Yew,
Round which entwining Ivy grew;
I press'd into the wish'd-for shade,
And wand'ring down a lonely glade,
I at a gloomy grot' arriv'd,
Which seem'd for endless rest contriv'd,
Then to the mossy entrance went,
And found it was of vast extent;
Within one feeble, sickly light,
Was all I found t'assist my sight,
Just in the midst, close veil'd from day,
Dulness and Ease supinely lay;
These lazy powers do here preside,
While round in downy fetters ty'd,
Where countless willing captives laid,
Who, drawn by Ease, had hither stray'd.

But O! what Muse shall Sylvia bribe,
This sleepy grotto to describe?
Shou'd I attempt the tedious theme,
Too long, I'm sure, you'd think my dream;
The magic scepters, crowns, and taper,
Wou'd take too much of B*dd*ly's paper.

136

Here on a mossy bank reclin'd,
My vagrant Muse I chanc'd to find,
Upon a wither'd cowslip bed
She laid her drowsy senseless head.
The verdant crown which late she wore,
Adorn'd her stupid brows no more.
High on her head a nodding plume
Of sleepy night-shade, in its room;
Her brow a wreath of poppies bound,
And shed their drowsy influence round.
With eager joy I call'd aloud,
And strove to drag her from the croud.

Three times she yawn'd, then half awoke,
And thus with peevish accent spoke:
Away, forbear, nor longer tease,
Here I resolve to dwell in ease;
No more I'll seek the public sight,
But veil me here in peaceful night.
Have I not won sufficient fame,
Since B****n's Muse has sung my name;
Deign'd to approve my rural lays,
And crown'd me with a wreath of bays.
In youth I met a glorious fate,
Nor slept too soon, nor sung too late.
Then prithee, Sylvia, tease no more,
Let me lie quiet, as before.

137

Here magic slumbers seiz'd her brain,
And down she sunk to sleep again.

With grief oppress'd I sigh'd so deep,
It broke the silken chains of sleep;
Gay morning rush'd upon my eyes,
And bade the drowsy dreamer rise.

These friendly cautions, Sir, I send you,
To shew what dangers may attend you;
Shou'd you pursue my rambling Muse,
And if you my advice refuse,
None but yourself you can accuse.
Thus timely warn'd, be timely wise,
Nor tempt your fate with open eyes.

Sept. 15, 1739.

138

THE REPLY To a Young LADY's Friendly Caution to the Author,

Who Travel'd In Quest of her Stray'd Muse.

Sylvia, you shew me the wrong way,
To find your Muse who went astray.
Fallacious guides you now depute,
Only to puzzle my pursuit:
When I had chas'd the nymph so long,
'Twas barbarous to direct me wrong.
Send me not Sylvia into brakes,
Untrodden paths, and fenny lakes;

139

Nor into woods, and forests deep,
To see th' enchanting Syren sleep.
Into no caves will I repair,
For what shou'd Sylvia's Muse do there?

Sure you th' immortal maid abuse,
And make a Gipsey of your Muse.

No—to the skys she flew away,
Amongst her kindred stars to stray.
The winged goddess long'd to soar,
And see her native heaven once more.
Oh! Sylvia, when she left your breast,
What place was fit for such a guest?
What grove below, what hill or plain,
Cou'd such a stranger entertain?
What soil, what paradise on earth,
Cou'd nurse this plant of heav'nly birth?

A Sylph, whom I retain as spy,
Told me he saw her mount on high,
Celestial pilgrim to the sky.
Elijah-like, she bent her flight,
And left behind a trail of light.
The Sylph close track'd her all the way,
By this new galaxy of day.
Wet were her wings with morning dew,
As thro' his airy tracts she flew.

140

The watchful shepherds were amaz'd,
And at the mounting meteor gaz'd.
Some thought it was a shooting star,
Or baleful comet, boding war.
Sylvia,—'twas no delusive light,
No Ignis Fatuus of the night,
Which on a summer's eve is seen,
Hovering o'er the fairy green.
Strong were her beams, and brighter far,
Than Hesper's, or the Morning star.

She stop'd not 'till she reach'd the gaol,
Where the sparkling Pleiads roll;
While all her sister Muses there,
Welcom'd the stranger to the sphere.
Near Virgo's celebrated sign,
Th' exalted nymph was seen to shine:
Nor cou'd astronomers devise,
What new star glitter'd in the skys.
Some nights beheld her twinkling ray,
Then shot the prodigy away.

For tho' excursions she might make,
Up to the stars for soaring sake,
Yet long the truant cou'd not stay,
Nor long from Sylvia's bosom stray.

141

No farther in the heavens she'd go,
Who left another heaven below.

Then no such ramble need I take,
Or climb the hills, or beat the brake.
For by the brightness of your pen,
I see she's now return'd again;
Let me to Holt's sweet shades repair,
I'm sure to find the vagrant there;
'Tis but to visit Sylvia's cell,
For where she is the Muse must dwell.

142

PLEASURE.

Written at the Request of Mrs. ELIZABETH SINGER, (Afterwards Mrs. Rowe) BY THE Late Reverend Mr. John Bowden.

1.

In vain, unless thou first inspire,
Shall I attempt thy boundless praise,
In vain my grov'ling genius try to raise,
'Till wing'd by thy immortal fire.
O! Goddess kindly then dispense
Thy gentle powerful influence;
Let ev'ry passion, ev'ry sense,

143

Let all my willing soul thy transports prove,
Let vig'rous warmth, soft joy, and melting love,
Invade, and uncontrol'd thro' all my pulses move.

2.

'Tis done! thy charms already I obey,
A wond'rous bright, and heav'nly day
Already does its morning lustre shed:
Already infant-light sits smiling round my head.
Darkness, and melancholy gloom,
In awful haste resign their room.
In haste, the baleful monsters of the night,
Pierc'd with thy flaming darts of light,
Attempt their long unwilling flight.
In ev'ry vein a blooming ardor burns,
And all my kindled blood to active spirits turns.
Enchanting joys surround my heart,
And nimbly rush thro' ev'ry part;
And now the tide flows large and high;
And now, I hardly stem th' impetuous joy;
And now, I'm rapture all, and extasy!

3.

What lofty praises are thy due!
What theme more fit for Men, and Angels too?
Angels, who grace the seats above,
Those realms of purest joy, and love.

144

Where feeble age, and shiv'ring fear,
And sullen grief, and chill despair,
And anxious care, and pining woe,
Do ne'er their ghastly visage shew.
There, with immortal youth they're crown'd,
While fadeless glorys round them play,
And heavenly splendors gild their way,
And all they hear is music's sacred sound.
Ten thousand joys around them throng;
Ten thousand joys inspire their song;
And him they praise, and him they bless,
From whose vast bounty num'rous pleasures flow,
To them above, and us below.
Th' exhaustless fountain of all happiness.
And whilst their Maker's praises they recite,
They spring fresh oceans of delight;
And with fresh praises these abound.
Thus rapture, love, and praise,
By turns engage their happy days,
This their employment is—this their eternal round.

4.

Before old Chaos into order roll'd,
Or heav'n essay'd its wonders to unfold.
Before the mighty orbs to flame begun,
Or restless planets whirl'd about the sun.
Before, before, Man's dusty frame was rais'd,
Or Angels more divine in hymns their Maker prais'd,

145

Long, long, before the universal sire,
Made thee the object of his vast desire.
And when faint nature breaths her latest groan,
And times scant limits are no longer known.
When jarring spheres asunder fly,
And all their glorys wink and die:
When wild confusion thro' the whole is hurl'd,
And ruin's dreadful voice resounds from world to world;
Still the Creator from all changes free,
O! charming pleasure! still he dwells with thee:
Still, still, he feels ineffable delight,
He's God, because his joys are infinite.

5.

The most exalted earthly God,
That shakes whole realms with his imperious nod;
Who common mortals does despise,
And lifts his lofty head up to the skies:
Ev'n he, to thy soft sceptre bows,
And at thy altar pays his constant vows:
Ev'n he, prefers his bliss before his state,
And to be pleas'd, oft' ceases to be great.

6.

Victors themselves thy conquests own,
And fall like vassals at thy throne.

146

Thy gentle hand their hurtful force restrains,
And with more natural passions warms their veins.
No more they rage, no more they swell,
No more of blood and slaughter tell;
No more wild fury sparkles at their eyes,
The monster sees thee come, and all disorder flies.

7.

Hail! to the spring of all that's brave, and great,
Hail! thou that dost inspire the hero's gen'rous heat.
Tyrants might else regale with blood,
And villains trample o'er the good;
Long virtue might in rags appear,
And vice triumphant garlands wear:
The groaning nations long complain,
And captives drag their hated chain,
And injur'd orphans cry for help in vain.
Nassau himself confess'd thy force,
Which led the godlike man thro' all his shining course.
Those acts which broke th' oppressors rods,
Did monsters quell, and furies tame,
Which won the hero's deathless name,
And now have plac'd him high among the Gods.
Were all the inspiration of thy flame:
Divinest transports urg'd his royal breast,
He felt, like God, the joys of making mortals blest.

147

8.

Those fadeless monuments of wit, and sense,
Like inmost heav'n refin'd, and pure,
And which like that shall still endure,
And countless blessings to the world dispense,
Are all the genuine fruit of thy sweet influence.
By thee the Greek, and Roman shine;
Milton by thee is all divine,
And Locke's immortal works are thine.
When lovely Philomela strikes the lyre,
Thou dost the soft harmonious song inspire.
Those strains which all mankind surprise, and bless,
Which charm illustrious Anna's heart,
Which ravish seraphs, and disclose their art,
Do all thy sacred force, and mighty power confess.

9.

Thro' all the various courses men pursue,
Thou art the mark they keep in view;
They still are constant to thy charms,
And find no rest but in thy tempting arms.
For thee the heavyest toils we bear,
Nor life itself in search of thee is dear:
Where danger shews its frightful'st face,
Heedless, we plunge thro' all, to feel thy soft embrace.

148

10.

Where thy auspicious form draws near
All ghastly phantoms disappear;
Sorrow and rage transform to love and play,
Night wantons in the gawdy robes of day.
Chagrin vouchsafes a smile, and age its self looks gay;
Life's nimble wheels a swifter motion try,
The blooming cheeks put on a rosy dye,
And sportive Cupids flutter in the eye.

11.

May still thy brightest scenes my mind employ,
Still plunge me goddess, in thy purest joy.
Joys which no ebb nor interruption know,
But in full current always flow,
Triumph o'er adverse fate, and make a heaven below.
Joys which can no where else be found,
But on fair virtues sacred ground;
The rest, the more they please, the more they wound.
All guilty pleasure like the syrens charm,
With hov'ring ills the cheated wretch alarm.
They sooth the sense, but strike a dreadful blow,
And for a moments joy, repay an age of woe.

Mrs. Rowe.

149

ELEGIAC VERSES,

ON A Late Gay Gentleman, (Skill'd in Music) Who Dy'd Young.

Say, Melpomene, mournful mistress! say,
Why loiters thus the elegiac lay?
Why hangs the cittern in thy bower so long
Untun'd, and loth to warble out a song?

Come, gentle Venus! from thy Cyprian grove,
And mourn a friend to music, and to love.
Come, gentle goddess! not with crimson clad,
But rob'd in cypress, come demure, and sad.

150

See o'er their silent lyres the Muses weep,
And on their quivers drowsy Cupids sleep.

Husht were the groves, the zephyrs breath'd no more,
And the last echos languish'd on the shore.
When our harmonious Strephon fled the plain,
And shepherds pip'd, and fountains play'd in vain.
Then sunk the rural songs, the birds were mute,
The birds which often listen'd to his flute;
Yet the soft muse shall whisper thro' the vale,
And publish to the rocks the tragic tale:
Yet shall his echo dwell about the cave,
Where poplars nod, and solemn willows wave:
Where sable yews an awful gloom display,
And the chaste groves will scarce admit the day.
There on his image shall my fancy feed,
Fair as when once he sung the banks of Tweed.
Beneath some rock, I'll raise a mossy bed,
An deckd a flow'ry pillow for his head.
Shall gentle Strephon want a tragic line,
Strephon, who sung so oft', and sung so fine?

'Twas on that night, when all was blithe and gay,
Bright shone the stars, and ladys bright as they:
When, lo! a sudden damp the scene o'ercast,
Mourn all ye fair—for Strephon breathes his last.

151

Then silent sunk the music at the sound,
And the wan lamps lookt sickening all around,
Poor Strephon once at every ball the chief,
Forever flies—and joy transforms to grief.

So when an army marshal'd on the plain,
With shining ranks begins the great campaign:
If by some adverse fate the leader dies,
Thro' all the camp a sudden pannic flies.

Strephon was graceful, free, genteel, and gay,
All eyes lookt sad, when Strephon was away;
No splendid circle of the fair was found,
But sprightly Strephon with his music crown'd.
Of hyp, and spleen he chas'd away the gloom,
And sullen care forsook the chearful room.
Envy can add no follys to his score,
But love, and wine—tho' malice count them o'er.
Zealots must own he had a generous mind,
Was honest, humble, affable, and kind;
True to his promise, faithful to his friend,
Averse to slander, forward to commend.

Prudes may profess, and hypocrites may cant;
Sly saints devoutly curse, and bigots rant;
Some cheat in private, who in public pray,
And villains parts behind the curtain play.

152

Some flaws in every character we find,
His faults were few, and of a generous kind;
Censorious minds are often over nice,
And with ill-nature call all pleasure vice.
Some faults, and follys stain the brightest soul,
But love and charity still crown the whole.

153

AN ÆNIGMA.

Fashion'd of various shape, and clay,
I Proteus like, am grave, or gay.
Like Flora now polite and fine,
I with rich, sculptur'd figures shine:
Then in demure apparel clad,
Am like an Hermit plain and sad.

My temper too is altogether,
As fickle as the wind or weather:
I'm hot, or cold, am moist, or dry,
In whimsical variety.
Now am inflam'd with boiling rage,
Yet oft' devour much baum and sage,
But herbs which raging fevers tame,
Are but a fuel to my flame;

154

With such intestine heat I fume,
My exhalations fill the room.
Like Ætna's gulph my entrails glow,
And with eruptive streams o'erflow.

An issue often gives me vent,
Or I shou'd burst my tenement.
Others by toping reel, and sink,
But I grow stronger, as I drink;
And when with moisture running o'er,
Am fix'd much firmer than before.
The common liquor which I drink,
Makes women gay, and students think;
My sprightly juice dispells all gloom,
And fills you with ambrosial fume;
Twill fire the fancy, clear the brain,
And thus my latent name explain.

1747.

155

A LATIN EPIGRAM.

English'd, By the Rev. Mr. George Russel.

But one bright eye fair Acon's face adorns;
For one bright eye fair Leonilla mourns.
Kind youth to her thy single orb resign,
To make her perfect, and thyself divine.
For then (wou'd heaven the happy change allow,)
She shou'd bright Venus be, and Cupid thou.

156

On the Death of Miss AMYAND.

By the Same.

1

With radiant charms, with virtue crown'd,
And wit above her years,
Fair Amarylla bloom'd awhile,
Then left the world in tears.

2

The bow of Iris thus display'd,
We praise th' ideal form,
'Till all the glorious colours fade,
Succeeded by a storm.

157

TO A YOUNG LADY, With a Bird and Cage.

By the Same.

This little Bird, when you receive,
An emblem of my heart believe.
Like him it wander'd wild and free,
Nor thought to lose its liberty.
The Bird indeed may wish to rove,
And once more flutter in the grove;
But cou'd I find some happy art,
In your fair breast to lodge my heart,
Pleas'd in that prison to remain,
I'd never wish to rove again.

158

TO A GENTLEMAN,

Who Ask'd, Why Miss G---g always shut her Eyes when she laugh'd?

Extempore.—By the Same.

When Celia laughs—you're in surprize,
That she shou'd always shut her eyes;
'Tis pity in the fair:
But shou'd she smile, and view you too,
With those bright eyes—oh! tell me who
Such mighty charms cou'd bear?

159

Translation from Martial.

Lib. 7. Epig. 84.

To John I*****d, Esq;

By the Same.

O! how shou'd my friendship, my bounty appear,
Wou'd heaven but give me five hundred a year?
What a table I'd keep! what numbers maintain?
Treat strangers with port,—and my friends with champaigne:
Not a creature shou'd sigh for a favour deny'd;
The Gods prais'd thy bounty,—and kindly comply'd.
But now not a stranger must enter thy door,
Thy coat, and thy table, much worse than before.
Instead of thy port, and champaigne,—who wou'd think it?
Thy wine is so bad, not a creature can drink it.
Ne'er a friend in distress—now 'tis come to a trial,
Who desires thy help—but receives a denial.
Either let thy great bounty, and friendship appear,
Or restore back again the five hundred a year.

160

ANTHOLOGIA, EPIG. 25.

By the Same.

I Search'd the fields, of every kind,
The fairest flowers I chose;
And sent a beauteous wreath to bind
My Rodoclea's brows.

Here Hyacinthus ting'd with blood,
In purple beauty glows,
There bursting thro' the swelling bud,
Appears the swelling rose.

Th' Anemone of paler kind,
That moist in vallys grows;
Narcissus fair, that hangs the head,
And near the fountain blows.

To boast thy charms, when crown'd with these,
Cease, cease, O! beauteous maid,
Thy face that blooms, so like the rose,
Like that alas! shall fade.

176

AN ELEGIAC POEM,

Occasion'd by the Death of The late Rev. Mr. John Bowden.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By a LADY.

All hope is vain! call'd from this mortal state,
My guide! my friend at last resigns to fate.
Th' impatient spirit flies th' inactive clay,
And with it's convoy, mounts to realms of day.

In vain pale mourners his sad loss deplore
Clos'd are his eyes, the scenes of life, are o'er.
He quits this mortal stage with just applause;
A friend to virtue, to religions cause.

In vain dire envy rear'd her snaky head,
And with her forked tongue vile slanders spread;
Whilst bigotry, with black censorious arts
Level'd in vain, and threw her poison'd darts:
All impotent!—unblemish'd was his life;
Above detraction, calumny, and strife.

177

In him, true merit found a constant friend;
Peaceful his life as peaceful was his end:
Easy he sunk into the arms of death;
And, with a smile, resign'd his latest breath.

Droop, droop your heads, oh! all ye rural swains,
Who once attentive, catch'd his tuneful strains.

When Philomela, of immortal fame,
Call'd forth his Muse, and gave the darling theme;
The darling theme at once his soul inspir'd,
And with Apollo's wit his genius fir'd:
With other tuneful bards his lyre he strung,
And, equal to the theme unrival'd sung.
Tho' all expected from their well-wrote lays,
And justly merited distinguish'd praise,
Yet B****n only won, and wore the bays.

Hark! cease your lays, all grief forbear—on high,
What heav'nly music fills th' ætherial sky!
Celestial airs of praise, of love, and joy,
His golden harp with sweet delight employ.
There he enraptur'd joyns the sacred throng,
Oh! change your notes and joyn his sweet immortal song.

178

MARTIAL,

Book 3d, Epig. 25.

By the Rev. Mr. Russel.

That thou hast Burgundy, my friend,
To all the world is known;
But churlish, thou enjoy'st thy wine
In secret, and alone.

Gold too thou hast, but in thy fob
Securely it remains:
Wit too you boast, but to be seen
By others it disdains.

Of all your store, for other's use
One thing alone we find,
Your wife, my friend, you but enjoy
In common with mankind.

179

AN EPITAPH ON Richard Middleton, Esq; A. M.

Late of Queen's-College, and Christ-Church, Oxford.

(By the SAME.)

With solid sense, in learnings robe array'd,
Fancy's gay light, thro' reason's sober shade;
Unweary'd industry with genius joyn'd,
And fervent zeal by charity refin'd;
Justice and truth, with christian awe profound,
And stedfast faith with righteous actions crown'd.

With these, in manners pleasingly sedate,
He sought perfection in an earthly state.
Virtue and wisdom large improvement gain'd,
Sin seem'd subdu'd, but frailty still remain'd;
Till pitying heav'n remov'd this last restraint,
Destroy'd the mortal, and receiv'd the saint.

180

THE DIE in CAPTIVITY.

INSCRIB'D TO Thomas Carew, Esq; of Crocomb, ON HIS Promoting the Laws for the Suppression of Gaming. Occasion'd by Seeing A compleat DIE inclos'd in an Ivory-Ball, by the ingenious Mr. James Clark, of Frome.

Long did the enchanting power of dice
Decoy the fickle youth to vice.
Fortune, and freedom, friends, and fame,
Fell martyrs to the darling game;
Even life and health become a prey
To the capricious chance of play;
'Till penal laws the vice restrain'd,
And th' epidemic madness chain'd.

181

Peace to that breast whose honest zeal,
Glow'd fervent for the public weal:
Who with unbiass'd, generous mind,
The spreading malady confin'd.

This little emblematic sphere,
Is a just symbol of your care.
Within this hollow globe immur'd,
The fatal Die here lies secur'd.
Th' ingenious hand does here impart
The wonders of mechanic art.
By mathematic skill profound,
The hydra view in durance bound.
Beneath this ball imprison'd deep,
Thus sulphurs in their strata sleep;
Smooth carpets on the surface grow,
While mortal vapors lurk below.

Six little windows let in day,
Thro' which you see the monster play;
But harmless here he plays in vain,
And only struggles with his chain,
As felons lock'd in Newgate's cell,
Peep thro' the lattice where they dwell.

182

So thro' its avenues of light,
The tyrant grins, but cannot bite,
Like Bajazet in iron cage,
In vain is all the captive's rage.
Venus, and Mars were thus beset,
And caught in Vulcan's wond'rous net.
Thus fevers, famine, plague and pox,
Lay hid within Pandora's box;
'Till Pyrrha's sire the engine burst,
And all mankind with evils curst.

Long may the Die lie fetter'd here,
And never break the ivory sphere.
'Till the great globe with all its frame
Shall perish in the final flame.

183

An EPITAPH,

On a Negro Servant, Who died at Governor Phipps's, At Haywood, near Westbury.

European vain—mock not my hue,
Nor ridicule a slave;
Death soon, like me, will blacken you,
In darkness, and the grave.

Tho' nature o'er my swarthy skin
Diffus'd a sable blot;
Yet was my mind unstain'd within,
And free from vicious spot.

It boots not here, or black, or white,
All colours suit the tomb;
Black guests, and Æthiopian night,
Sit round this funeral room.

184

Releas'd from servitude, and woe,
Here all my toils are o'er,
To some green island I shall go,
And see my native shore.

Tho' with reluctant mind I part,
From my kind master here;
Yet my old country has my heart,
And liberty is dear.

There in some shady, Indian grove,
I shall forever stray;
Or o'er the pathless mountain rove,
And hunt for savage prey.

It matters not, or rich, or poor,
But 'tis the honest man;
Whether he lives on India's shore
In Europe, or Japan.

Live well—nor tremble at the grave,
The good shall live again;
The wicked man's the truest slave,
And death a tyrant then.

185

A SONG. (By a Lady.) ALEXIS.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

The sun's declining, milder ray,
O'erspreads the eastern skys:
Thro' fragrant trees soft zephyrs play,
And ev'ning shades arise.

The flow'rs reviving raise their heads,
Refresh'd with silver dews:
The ev'ning primrose gaily spreads,
And beauteous scenes renews.

Come Chloe, then these charms partake,
In yonder rosy bow'r:
Come, thy Alexis happy make,
This is th' appointed hour.

There talk of love, whilst free from care,
We both are kind and true:
Come let us to the shade repair,
And seal, our vows anew.

186

PSALM CXXI.

(By the Same.)

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

Beyond the sacred mountain's height,
Which tow'rs with awful pride;
From whence the rays of morning light,
Down to our regions glide.

2

From the Creator's boundless store,
My wants, are all supply'd;
He spake—and heav'n obey'd his pow'r,
And spread its circuit wide.

187

3

The earth, with various blessings stor'd,
Obedient to his call,
Arose—and by his pow'rful word,
Whirls round its circling ball.

4

Israel! thy keeper slumbers not,
Nor can refreshment need;
His eyes, survey the happy spot,
On which his servants feed.

5

Heav'n's glorious majesty! still deigns
His servants, to defend;
My watchful guardian he remains,
A sure protecting friend.

6

Surrounded by the king of kings!
And guarded by his pow'r,
Perpetual peace and safety springs,
And ev'ry blissful hour.

7

Beneath his sweet refreshing shade,
My weary soul shall rest,
Nor of the scorching sun afraid,
Nor by the moon distrest.

188

8

No evil, can destructive prove
While shelter'd by the Lord;
My soul, the object of his love,
His love, shall still record.

9

My steps well order'd by his care,
From ev'ry ill, secure;
With safety pass each gilded snare,
That wou'd to vice allure.

10

And when from this bewilder'd state,
To happier realms I fly,
Thy glorious name I'll celebrate
To all eternity.

189

Aurelia to Strephon.

ON THE Sudden Appearance of the Spring.

(By the Same.)

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Strephon—how gay the changing scenes!
The sun-beams gild the opening greens.
No chrystal brook, in fetters bound,
Nor hoary frost, enchains the ground.
The feather'd wantons, how they sing!
Those tuneful warblers of the spring.
The primrose and the violet too,
What fragrant smell! what modest hue!
Imprison'd nature, now is free,
This is the muse's jubilee.

190

No noxious fogs, distract the head,
Nor smoaky vapours, dullness spread.
Titan's bright rays, must clear the brain,
And wing the soaring tuneful strain.
Hark! how the gentle zephyrs play,
And o'er the verdant meadows stray,
The limpid rivulets, murmuring roll,
To sooth the passions of the soul.
These charms, inspiring, oh! what breast,
The pleasing impulse, can resist?
Come then—and natures voice obey,
And joyn the concert with your lay.

191

AN EPITHALAMIUM,

INSCRIB'D TO LIONEL SEAMAN, M. A. Archdeacon of Taunton;

On his late Marriage to Miss Wills, Daughter to the Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells.

Felices, ter et ampius, quos
------ Irrupta tenet Copula.
Hor.

When 'erst your pile inspir'd the Muse's quill,
Who risqu'd her own—to praise the builder's skill:
Tho' all around was beautiful, and gay,
And order rose, where shapeless chaos lay;

192

Tho' all within was elegant, and neat,
Yet long unfurnish'd lay the lonely seat.
And like some beauteous form, without a soul,
Something was wanting to compleat the whole.
While in her sable robes, desponding gloom,
Sat brooding o'er each solitary room.
'Till the fair nymph for every charm admir'd,
Adorn'd the structure, and the seat inspir'd:
Sprung from a prelate whose distinguish'd sense,
Shines in the pulpit, and adorns the bench.

In vain before, enchanting music's strain,
Wou'd oft' the pensive moments entertain:
In vain fair prospects open'd all around,
And infant sweets perfum'd the fragrant ground.
What tho' the meadows smile, the garden blooms
And polish'd sculptures animate the rooms,
What tho' mute pictures round the walls were plac'd,
And learned shelves the gilded volumes grac'd;
The fairest picture in her looks we find,
And the best volumes copy'd in her mind.

Thus when Almighty Power created man,
Something was wanting to compleat the plan:
Unhappy man! of paradise possest,
In single solitude remain'd unblest;

193

Tho' happy groves, and Eden was his lot,
He pin'd, and panted, for he knew not what;
Some undiscover'd bliss, some unknown fair,
His cares to lessen, and his joys to share.
In vain around unspotted nature smil'd,
Yet, wanting her, all Eden was a wild:
'Till like some Delian goddess from the grove,
Shone forth in all her charms the queen of love.
'Twas then new beautys op'd in every flower,
With her more fragrant smelt each fragrant bower.
What charming once appear'd, now charm'd the more,
And Eden was no paradise before.

Hail! blest society—thy force divine,
Brightens the gloom, and makes the desart shine.
Both savages below, and saints above,
Confess thy genial power, Almighty Love.
Let cynic monks, or bearded hermits dwell,
In some lone cloyster, or sequestred cell,
Mankind for nobler purposes were made,
Not born to live in solitude, and shade.
Even howling beasts who in the forest stray,
Or on the pathless mountain roam for prey,
Fir'd with a social sympathy combine,
Herd into clans, and feel thy force divine.
'Tis this that rolls the starry orbs along,
And gives the birds their notes, the muse her song:

194

Before thy presence clouds and tempests fly,
And balmy zephyrs whisper thro' the sky;
The earth, prolific, teems with fruits, and flowers,
And in thy lap autumnal plenty pours:
Nature thro' all her works reveres thy sway,
And universal worlds thy power obey.

See the Poem on the Vicarage, Page 14.

Te, Dea, te fugiunt, venti, te nubila coeli Adventumq; tuum; tibi suaves dœdala tellus, Summittit flores, &c. Lucret.

195

EAST-BRENT,

A POEM.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

INSCRIB'D TO THOMAS PALMER, Esq;

(By Mr. D*****r)

Oh! happy you, whom Quantock overlooks,
Blest with keen, healthful air, and crystal brooks;
Whilst wretched we, the baneful influence mourn,
Of cold Aquarius, and his weeping urn:
Eternal mists their dropping curse distil,
And drisly vapours all the marshes fill.
Here ev'ry eye with brackish rheum o'erflows,
And a fresh drop still hangs at ev'ry nose.

196

Here the winds rule with uncontested right,
And wantonly at pleasure take their flight;
No shel'tring hedge, no tree, or spreading bough
Obstruct their course, but unconfin'd they blow;
With dewy wings they sweep the wat'ry meads,
And proudly trample o'er the bending reeds;
Expos'd to northern and to southern breeze,
By one we drown, and by the other freeze.
Let Venice boast, Brent is as fam'd a seat,
For here we live in seas, and sail thro' ev'ry street.
Besides, this privilege we further gain,
We're not, like them, oblig'd to pray for rain.
Sure this was nature's gaol, for rogues design'd,
Whoever lives at Brent, must live confin'd.
Moated around, the water is our fence;
None come to us, and none can go from hence.
But shou'd a sun-shine day invite abroad,
To wade thro' mire, and wallow in the mud,
Some envious rheen will always thwart the road.
And then a small round twig is all one's hopes,
We pass not bridges, but we walk on ropes.

All dogs here take the water, and you find
No creature, but of an amphibious kind.
Rabbits with ducks, and geese here sail with hens,
And all for food must paddle in the fens:

197

Nay, when provision fails, the hungry mouse
Will fear no pool, to reach a neighbouring house,
The good old hen clucks boldly o'er the stream,
And chicken, newly hatch'd, essay to swim:
All have a moorish taste, cows, sheep, and swine,
Eat all like Frog,—and savour of the Rhine.
Bread is our only sauce, and barley cake,
Hard as your cheese, and as your trencher black;
Our choicest drink (and that's the greatest curse)
Is but bad water made, by brewing, worse.

To him that has, is always given more,
And a fresh stock improves the rising store:
Not only rain from bounteous heaven descends,
But us the sea with after floods befriends;
For nature this as a relief designs,
To salt the stinking savour of the Rhines.

As when of late, enraged Neptune swore,
Brent was a part of his own lawful shore,
He said,—and hurl'd his trident o'er the plain,
And soon the waves assert their antient reign;
They scorn the shore, and o'er the marshes bound,
And mud-wall cots are levell'd with the ground;
Tho' the poor building was so very low,
That when the house is fall'n, you'll scarcely know.
Bury'd we are alive—the scanty dome
Has, like the grave, but one poor narrow room,
But little larger than a six foot tomb.

198

Where, as in Noah's Ark, in one close stye,
Men with their fellow brutes, in equal honor lie.

No joyous birds here stretch their tuneful throats,
And pierce the yielding air with warbling notes:
But the hoarse sea-pyes with melodious cry,
Skim o'er the marsh, and tell that storms are nigh.
The curst night-raven, and the hooping owl,
Disturb our rest, and scare the guilty soul.

Here gnats surround you with their humming drone,
Worse than e'er plagu'd the Ægyptian tyrants throne;
In vain the weary limbs expect repose,
Their din invades your ears, and sting your nose.
The sighing lovers here may toss and turn,
And under double itch and anguish burn,
While bright Celinda's beautys fire the heart,
Those Insects wound in ev'ry other part:
While Roger unmolested with his Joan,
Tir'd with their toils, still snore, and still sleep on,
Their sun-burnt skins, impenetrable found,
In vain the gnat's proboscis strives to wound;
He sooner might expect his sting to shoot
Thro' the tough fortress of a strong jack-boot.

Serpents innum'rous o'er the mountains roam,
Man's greatest foe thought this his safest home;

199

Nor cou'd expect a hated place to find,
More likely to be void of human kind.
And yet if dust be doom'd the serpent's meat,
'Tis wond'rous strange, if here they ever eat:
Nor are the beasts of better kind, that fill
The breaks and caverns of the neighb'ring hill.
But all are delving moles, and prowling brocks,
The ven'mous viper, and the crafty fox.

Agues and Coughs with us as constant reign,
As th' itch in Scotland, or the flux in Spain.
Under the bending Knowle's declining brow,
Where toadstools only to perfection grow,
A cave there is, I thought by nature made,
For want of trees a necessary shade;
Hither I came, and void of fear, and thought,
Drew near the entrance of this gloomy grot;
But ah! this was the place, the dismal cell,
Where spitting colds, and shiv'ring agues dwell,
The constant home of that malicious fiend,
That with a third day's visit plagues mankind;
Here a small fire glow'd in a smoaky grate,
And hov'ring o're the coals old Febris sate;
A thick coarse mantle o'er her shoulders hung,
She gnash'd her teeth, and shew'd a furred tongue,

200

Greedy she drank of the unwholsome brook,
But still the more she drank the more she shook.
When me the fury saw, she shook her head,
And anger to her paleness gave a red;
Here I had been undone, had I not brought
Of Indian Cortex an inchanted draught;
Thus arm'd with its sure force I forward pass,
And with the magic bark, besmear'd her face;
Dreadful she shriek'd, and with one mighty shake
The hag down sunk into the neighbo'ring lake.
The unhappy frogs perceiv'd the fiend was come,
And all the croaking tribe bemoan'd their home;
The dreadful, chilling cold, they scarce can bear,
And their hoarse quiv'ring lips confess an ague there.

Had mournful Ovid been to Brent condemn'd,
His Tristibus more movingly he'd penn'd.
Gladly he wou'd have chang'd this miry lough,
For wat'ry Pontus, or the Scythian snow.
The Goths were not so barbarous a race,
As the grim natives of this dismal place.
Of reason wholly void, whom instinct rules,
Yet will be knaves, tho' nature made them fools;
A strange half human, and half beastly brood,
Of speech uncouth, and in their manners rude.
When they essay to speak, the mortals roar,
As loud as waves contending with the shoar.

201

Their widen'd mouth into a circle grows,
For all their vowels are but A's and O's.
The beasts have the same language, and the cow,
Seems like her owner's noisy voice to low.
The lamb to bah, taught by its keeper, trys,
And puppys learn to howl from children's crys,
It never yet cou'd be exactly stated,
What time o'th year this ball was first created,
Some plead for summer, but the wise bethought 'em,
That th' earth like other fruit was ripe in Autumn;
While gayer wits the vernal bloom prefer,
And think the finish'd world did first appear
I'th' youthful glory of the budding year.
But the black nole, and all the marshes round
(A sort of chaos, and unfinish'd ground,)
Were made in winter, one may safely swear,
For winter is the only season there.

Of four prime elements, most things below,
By various mixtures were compos'd we know,
But here at most they are reduc'd to two.
The daily want of fire our chimneys mourn,
Cow dung and turf may smoak, but never burn.
Water and earth are all that Brent can boast,
The air in mists, and foggy steams is lost.
So thick our fogs are in this moory sink,
That when we're thought to breath, we rather drink.

202

It's said the world at last in flames must dye,
And thus interr'd in its own ashes lye.
If any part shall then remain entire,
And be excepted from that common fire,
Sure 'tis this watry spot which nature meant
Shou'd be from all the force of flames exempt;
The last consumed morsel will be Brent.

Wide Ditches of Water, which separate the Fields or Moors from each other, and are called Rheens.

Badgers.

203

VERSES

In Praise of an Eminent Old Speaker Amongst the Quakers,

Remarkable for his Venerable Beard, and Sanctity of Manners.

In thee, O! venerable sage! we find
Simplicity of manners, and of mind:
With grave demeanor, and majestic grace,
A philosophic beard adorns thy face;
Humble deportment, free from pride appears,
And calls for sacred homage to thy years.
Like trees in blossom snowy age has shed
Its hoary honours o'er thy reverend head.

Let the vain world external pomp adore,
And worship fools with tinsel varnish'd o'er;
In vain unthinking fops thy garb despise,
Whose merit only in the outside lies;

204

In vain deride the quaker's simple dress,
What more than nature wants is all excess.
What more than cold requires, or hunger needs,
Only our folly, or our luxury feeds.
Content with little, and with virtue blest,
Vain, and superfluous, is all the rest.

Thy dress is such as cloath'd the antient sage,
And patriarchs wore in the primæval age.
'Twas thus the old philosophers were clad,
E're the vain world grew dissolute and mad.
'Twas thus the Druids liv'd, the Bramins drest,
And all the sapient Magi of the east.
Thus Quintus liv'd, and rigid Cato shin'd,
E'er vice prevail'd, and polish'd Rome declin'd.
Who guided armys, and the truncheon bore,
With the same hand, which held the plough before.
'Twas thus Lycurgus form'd the Spartan state,
Plain in their manners, but in virtue great.

Adorn'd with wisdom, and with native sense,
Thy tongue displays an artless eloquence.
When truths divine thy hallow'd lips explain,
Attentive crouds oft' listen to thy strain.
Which free from loud, enthusiastic cant,
No impulse feels of rhapsody and rant.
Pleas'd we behold exalted virtue shine,
And in thy doctrine trace the light divine.

205

Immortal light!—spark of celestial flame,
Angelic ray! that animates our frame;
Whose energy all nature round pervades,
Shines in the stars, and gilds the darkest shades;
That beam, by whose propitious light we fail,
Thro' dim mortality's beclouded vale.
Mistaken wits will oft' its influence slight,
Burlesque the name, and mock the sacred light;
Who at religion laugh, themselves deride,
This light is only reason's sacred guide;
Which bids us all ignoble joys despise,
And like a lamp conducts us to the skys.

206

A Parent's Lamentation,

On the Death of An Only Promising Child.

Where art thou fled my hope, my joy,
What shade conceals my lovely boy?
Just as the dawn of life begun,
The circle of thy race was run.
So dawns Aurora fair, and gay,
'Till clouds o'ercast the opening day.
Just as thy cheeks begun to bloom,
Thy feet to totter round the room;
With infant sounds thy tongue to prattle,
Thy hands to play with toys, and rattle,
Stern death—inexorable death,
Seal'd up thy eyes, and stop'd thy breath.

207

Nor didst thou know, unthinking boy!
That life itself was but a toy,
A painted dream, a gilded bubble,
Checquer'd with sorrow, care, and trouble.

Peace to thy shade, O! lovely child,
In death's cold arms how sweet he smil'd;
Lodg'd in the silent tomb he lies,
Eternal slumbers seal his eyes.
No more to murmur, cry, or crave,
Rock'd in the cradle of the grave.
O! happy child—in early age,
To quit this transitory stage:
Just in thy opening bloom to die,
And shoot, and ripen in the sky.
So tender flowers nurs'd up with care,
In colder climes, and northern air,
Transplanted with new beauty rise,
And flourish in indulgent skys.

208

AN ÆNIGMA.

(By a Young Lady)

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A Thousand sweet pleasures from nature's rich treasures,
To please me, does heav'n impart;
And man seldom content, with what nature has sent,
Supplies me with more by his art.
I in gardens delight, tho' I'm blind as the night,
By all I'm fed, squeez'd, and caress'd;
I decency love, and good house-wives approve;
But a slut, and her works I detest.
Man by luxury taught, from the Indies has brought
Strange food, which much pleases my palate;
While nature more wise, looking on with surprize,
Would as soon feed the ears with a sallad.

209

Tho' feet I've not one, 'tis well known I can run,
And when in that troublesome mood,
For a servant oft' send, who at hand does attend;
But when running, ne'er relish my food.
I'm sagacious, and wise, beyond mortal eyes,
Foul matters I oft' bring to light;
Without eye, without ear, to me they are clear,
Tho' by art they're conceal'd from the sight.
If Chloe should be, with the bottle too free,
Tho' silent I tell her disgrace;
And often discover the desolate lover,
And expose the too amorous lass.
Being learned so deep, in the van I still keep;
While all parties, each sex, and degree,
Tho' often they wrangle, fight, quarrel, and jangle
Are united in following me.

HOLT.

The ANSWER.

Fair Nymph! did you guess, that a poetic dress,
Cou'd so far embarass the case.
Tho' the truth lay conceal'd, it is now all reveal'd,
And as plain as the Nose in one's face.

210

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

(By the Same.)

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Awake my Muse, and tune the lyre,
Oh! warm me with celestial fire.
Attend my call, thou long-lost maid,
For Love, and Hymen crave thy aid.
See, see, she comes on purple wings,
And thus the smiling virgin sings.
While the gay, sparkling glass goes round,
With sprightly wit, and pleasure crown'd,
Permit the Muse, with nuptial song,
To mingle in the cheerful throng.

Here Hymen's torch, gay Cupid's light,
And hearts, as well as hands unite:
O! may the flame forever burn,
'Till love shall into friendship turn.
That noblest passion of the mind,
For friendship's flame is love refin'd.

211

May bounteous heaven on you bestow,
The highest bliss it gives below.
May peace, and plenty, lovely pair!
Still make you their peculiar care.
Let every joy, by each possess'd,
Be doubl'd in each others breast:
Let every care, and every pain,
(For cares the stream of life will stain)
Be ever lighter made, and less,
By sympathizing tenderness.
To this refin'd, and pure delight,
The joys of sense are low, and light.

May love, and reason hand in hand,
To guard the blissful mansion stand:
Nor let harsh discord enter there,
With pale repentance in the rear.

Thus may the blissful moments move,
Upon the downy wings of love.
On virtue, and on reason grow,
Firm base of happiness below.
And when the glass of time is run,
And life's weak slender thread is spun,
May you together seek the skys,
And in celestial glory rise.

HOLT.

212

THE Mechanic Inspir'd:

OR, THE Methodist's Welcome to Frome.

A BALLAD.

[_]

It may be proper to mention, that the Design of the following Song is not to lampoon the honest and sincere, but only to expose pretended Zealots, and designing Enthusiasts. Irony and Banter seem best adapted to ridicule such Visionarys, who are declared Enemies to all Reason and Learning. Those who depart from Reason become the proper Objects of Satyr and Laughter. Some will say, that every Thing may become the Subject of Drollery, Wit, and Banter, but 'tis impossible to ridicule the virtuous, sincere Man: Therefore this Song has no Relation to such.

1

Ye vagabond levites, who ramble about,
To gull with your priest-craft, an ignorant rout,
Awhile your nonsensical canting suspend,
And now to my honester ballad attend.

213

2

These pretended reformers recruiting are come,
For volunteer saints with canonical drum;
And with impudent jargon, and spiritual pother,
Damn one half of their hearers, and plunder the other.

3

By Jesuits deluded, with pious commission,
To kindle the schismatic coals of sedition;
The dupes of sly Romish, itinerant liars,
The spawn of French prophets, and mendicant friars.

4

Ye pious enthusiasts! who riot, and rob,
With holy grimace, and sanctify'd sob:
Ye saints in rebellion—far worse than the sword,
Who cheat—pray—and lie—in the name of the Lord.

5

Say, brother Fanatics—what led you to Frome,
Where weavers expound, as they sit at the loom;
Where mechanics inspir'd, the gospel explain,
And weave at a text, as well as a Chain.

6

Here at your own weapons you're fairly outdone,
For teaching, and trucking the town has o'er run;

214

With Grub-street devotion our stomachs are cram'd,
While bigots pronounce—believe—or be damn'd.

7

Here tinkers, and taylors, deep doctrines can handle,
By the light of the spirit—or light of the candle;
Here seekers—sots—ranters, religion will trim,
And tell you that virtue, and vice is all whim.

8

Here the knave, cheat, and liar, by grace are protected,
For the Lord sees no backsliding in his elected;
O! comforting creed! to sooth us in evil,
To rely all on faith—and to deal with the devil.

9

Tho' loaded with sins, yet the saints cannot fall,
The chosen are safe, and Christ must bear all.
O! perfect believers—how blest your condition?
But wo! to the reprobate sons of perdition.

10

If such-gifted brethren can gospel explain,
Then churches are needless, and learning is vain,
Who compound with the scripture, and truck with religion,
As Mahomet cheated the croud with his pidgeon.

215

11

Like that prophet they fall into trances, and fits,
And frighten the populace out of their wits;
Then utter their dreams, which they call inspirations,
By the devil suggested in those agitations.

12

Thus from Caledon hills, strolling saints, second sighted,
By call of the spirit,—and hunger invited,
With their wild-fowl, flock southward from Tweed and from Tay,
Like Calvin to curse—like Peter to pray.

13

And after their toils in the wilderness past,
Here find out the promised Canaan at last.
By instinct inspir'd with the cock, snite and widgeon,
In more fertile climate to forage provision.

14

But these winter birds, when the spring season smiles,
Repair back again to their northerly isles;
But when settled here, the devil a Scot,
E'er back to his desolate mountains will trot.

15

To proceed, these Reformers pretend to a call,
To convert the lost gentiles, like Peter or Paul.

216

But e'er one considerate convert you win,
Gospel-miracles work, and we all will come in.

16

Some wonders indeed you boast of, by saying,
That your flock is supported by fasting and praying;
For their money you feed them with spiritual leaven,
Then bid the fools gape after manna from heaven.

17

But my friends, it is surely most whimsical barter,
To starve the poor here—for to save them hereafter.
'Till decoy'd with their hypocrite tales and pretences,
The credulous dupes lose their Time, Wealth and Senses.

18

Struck with puritan looks, and barefac'd assertion,
They stake all below, for the skys in reversion,
'Till politic Satan cuts off the entail,
And sends them to Bedlam, to Box or to Jail.

19

How modest these innocent methodist elves,
Who curse half mankind, but are righteous themselves:
Those who plunder the poor, are surely accurst,
And of all rogues—the sanctify'd Rogue is the worst.

217

20

These pious reformers but frighten the croud,
And pour forth extempore nonsense aloud,
Then their sect, with much modesty, methodists call,
When th' enthusiasts observe no Method at all.

21

Much terror they preach, with boldness asserted,
And some are, for fear of the devil, converted;
But with all their wild rant, they can teach us no more,
Than the practical dutys, we all knew before.

22

Then begone, ye false prophets—go whine out damnation,
Experiences, impulse, and regeneration;
We want no such tutors, our duty to shew,
If we copy in practice—but half what we know.

23

In vain bigots prate, and zealots declaim,
While Heaven-born Virtue shines always the same;
Let them damn,—and debate,—and divide while they will,
True Religion resides in the the honest Man still.

A noted Mad-House.

218

The STORY of the Barber and his Lanthorn.

In Imitation of Chevy-Chace.

[_]

Tho' the following ironical Ballad is too local, and personal for the Public, I was yet desir'd to print it to gratify the Importunity of some Friends.

1

God prosper long our peaceful king,
And guard us all from danger;
A dire catastrophe I sing
Which rais'd my hero's anger.

2

Achilles' wrath, the bard inspir'd,
Three thousands years ago;
I sing what rage the Barber fir'd,
And all its tragic woe.

219

3

To drive off care, with lighted-horn,
The Barber bent his flight;
The child may rue that is unborn,
The drinking of that night.

4

'Twas on a Thursday's fatal day,
In dark, and stormy weather;
And under some unlucky ray,
The club was met together.

5

All men of Frome's delightful dale,
All honest hearts, and jolly,
Who knew full well, with mug of ale
To banish melancholy.

6

And now the tubes begun to smoak,
The circling glass went round,
With many a tale, and many a joke,
No slackness there was found.

7

Hard by upon a window's side,
A lanthorn peaceful lay;

220

Which many a winter's storm had try'd,
And seen thro' many a fray.

8

But now the fatal hour drew nigh,
For all things have their date,
And lamps below, and lamps on high,
Must all submit to fate.

9

For suddenly, like clap of thunder,
The pendent lanthorn fell,
And in a moment burst asunder,
But how no tongue can tell.

10

Thus the fam'd Pharos of the east,
Was in a tempest lost,
Which long the mariners had blest,
And lighted Egypt's coast.

11

Up rose the gouty hero griev'd,
With madness, and with anger,
Soon as the valiant knight perceiv'd
His noble lamp in danger.

221

12

“Hast thou, he cry'd, transparent guide,
“So many perils past,
“So many midnight ills defy'd,
“To perish here at last?

13

“Oft' has thy aid preserv'd my shin
“From grating, and from gout,
“For still thy friendly light was in,
“When mine was often out.

14

“Still didst thou guard the dangerous way,
“Beset with every evil,
“And sprites, and bailiffs drive away,
“Owls, mastiffs, and the devil.

15

“For thee I long endur'd the cramp
“With flannel on my feet;
“For sure a more renowned lamp,
“Mischance did never meet.

16

I need not tell, how full of scorn,
He left his pipe, and pot,

222

And vow'd he wou'd revenge his horn,
And spoil their wicked plot.

17

It wou'd too tedious make my tale,
His actions to recite,
How Lamb at his fierce looks wax'd pale,
And Hector fled with fright.

18

How from the fire a mighty bar,
With both his hands he took,
And like stern Pyrrhus in the war,
The flaming javelin shook.

19

How Mithridate, and many more
Sat trembling round the hall,
Cleaver, who scarce cou'd speak before,
Now cou'd not speak at all.

20

Stout Soder too, was sore afraid,
Old Buckram sat in dumps,

223

And Bunnamore devoutly pray'd,
For mercy on his stumps.

21

Two woollen friends , who serious sat,
Lamenting loss of trade,
Broke off their manufacturing chat,
Of sudden ills afraid.

22

And now to close the tragic theme,
And wind up the disaster,
Together stagger'd home, both lame,
The lanthorn, and the master.

23

But in the road a giant-post,
Don Quixote durst attack,
Which humbl'd after all his boast
The hero on his back.

24

Now heaven preserve all honest men,
And grant that storms may cease;
And Tonsor long enjoy again
A brighter lamp in peace.

The Destruction of the Lanthorn was contriv'd by the Club.

The Landlord.

An Apothecary.

A Stammering Butcher.

A Glazier.

An old Taylor.

Two Clothiers.

262

On the Death of Mr. S--- B---, of Bristol.

As blooms a flower beneath the morning skies,
Smiles all the day, and in the evening dies;
Thus fell the youth, a victim to the tomb,
Stript of his charms, and wither'd in his bloom;
His last immortal stage appears in sight,
And e'er his noon arrives, he sets in night.
He left this flattering comedy below,
This chequer'd theatre of bliss and woe;
Where men of pleasure have a transient reign,
And others live but to grow old in pain;
Where good and ill by turns our minds amuse,
And shift so fast, we know not how to chuse.

Florello's fled!—lament him all ye youth,
And mourn in him lost innocence, and truth.
Ye dear companions, and ye happy few,
Who, when he liv'd, his shining virtues knew,
Leave your insipid mirth, for you have lost,
All that good-nature, or a friend cou'd boast.
View your old comrade in the pangs of death,
With languid looks, and agonizing breath;
See his nerves tremble, and his lips turn pale,
His blood congeal, and every organ fail:

263

His farewel tears, his swimming eye-balls view,
And think how oft' those eyes have smil'd on you:
How soon the treach'rous day may cease to shine,
How soon the morning sun in shades decline!
Then boast the glories of the human state,
Is it a pleasure to be bury'd great?
Tho' life looks splendid, fate is ever blind,
And in thy train death waits unseen behind;
Perhaps now hovers round thy gilded dome,
Or with thy last sad tapers lights thee home;
With meagre looks haunts thy voluptuous seats,
Or at thy board with funeral napkins waits.
See one not idle in thy female train,
Pensive her air, and in her vesture plain:
See by thy side pale Clotho beck'ning stands
And spins thy fate, the distaff in her hands.

Florello mourn, ye trees with all your shade,
Ye gardens which he lov'd, your glories fade;
Ye flowers in dews close up your dying charms,
Once wont to close them in his youthful arms.
Droop ye tall limes, ye poplars hang your head,
For oh! Florello from your walks is fled!
Florello's fled! but only fled to rise
More gay, more bright, more beauteous in the skies;
Where love and virtue shine without a stain,
And fadeless youth, and joys unsully'd reign.

284

TO A LADY.

[Numbers like yours, cou'd gild the tragic show]

Numbers like yours, cou'd gild the tragic show,
Give smiles to death, and decency to woe;

285

Diffuse a pleasing lustre o'er the tomb,
Brighten the shade, and beautify the gloom.
To be thus mourn'd,—some generous souls wou'd chuse,
To fall submissive martyrs to the muse;
Wou'd court the cold embrace, nor fear the sting,
Pleas'd with the fate, which such a pen shou'd sing.
Death has no terrors to the good, and brave,
The dread of fools, and bugbear of the slave.
A mind like yours, can all its rage defy,
And hail the storm, that wafts you to the sky.

306

[Whether o'er plains she likes to rove]

Whether o'er plains she likes to rove,
Or haunts the music of the grove;
Or if the brooks delight her more,
Or airy heights where lapwings soar,
Close to her steps I'd follow still,
And trace the nymph from hill to hill.
Tell me, ye swains, O! tell me where,
At noon to find the sleeping fair, &c.

314

THE ANSWER TO THE Lady's Last Letter of August 1749.

315

Yet if by chance I heard her song,
Chanting far off the woods among,
Invited by the rural lay,
I'd thro' the pathless desart stray,
Where roses wild adorn the green,
And wither in the shade unseen;
And many a pink, and artless flower,
With purple stain the sylvan bower.

316

While cooing turtles from on high,
Murmur their love plaints near the sky.
I'd ask each wood-nymph of the shade,
If they had seen the wand'ring maid;
And in what bosky grove or cell,
The solitary fair might dwell.
Or if the drowsy god of sleep,
Has clos'd her eyes in slumber deep;
And with enchantments magic tie,
Seal'd up those lips of harmony.
Pan, with his horn, shou'd break the spell,
And shake the dormitory cell.

319

AN Allegorical Dialogue, BETWEEN THE Huck-muck, and the Beesom,

Which is Lately introduc'd by some Brewers, instead of the Old Huck-muck.

Thou upstart son, of mungril race,
Presume not to usurp my place.
From antient, royal lineage born,
Thy mean original I scorn.

320

In bright, hereditary line,
Th' immortal race of Huck-mucks shine.
My antient pedigree I hold,
From fam'd Diogenes of old;
Only this difference is observ'd,
I thrive, and fatten, where he starv'd.
The Cynic snarl'd in empty cell,
While I in plenteous moisture dwell;
And revel oft' from morn to night,
Like Bacchus in distended plight.

Secur'd by right divine, I reign
O'er every tributary grain:
Millions of subjects round me throng,
And pay me tribute, right, or wrong.
And tho' they oft' rebel, and jar,
Fermenting with intestine war,
Yet soon with spunging power I quell
All insurrections in my cell;
And drain my subjects vital sap,
At my old custom-house, the tap.
The juice which slakes a monarch's thirst,
Is thro' my vessels filter'd first.
Round me in daily sacrifice,
Sweet clouds of smoaking incense rise;
While from my fountain-head below,
Rich tides of fragrant liquor flow.

321

Of portly, and majestic size,
Thy taper structure I despise.
Shall such a mean, Plebeian scrub,
Reign in the palace of my tub?
Vile offspring thou, of bending broom,
Or humble heath, shalt thou presume
T' invade my old paternal throne,
Who hast no title of thy own?
While I from loftier trees high-born,
Regard thy reptile race with scorn.
No more my awful sceptre brave,
Fit implement of every slave;
Thy servile drudgery I disdain,
Go sweep the kitchen which I stain.

Thus from his throne the Huck-muck spoke,
And next the Beesom silence broke.

The Beesom's Reply.

Proud haughty Huck-muck! boast no more,
Of Ancestors, a numerous score.
Thou bloated, pamper'd son of pride,
Thy empty lineage I deride.
I value not thy royal line,
Nor thy pretended right divine;

322

What boots high blood, and antient state?
Mine is as good, tho' not so great.
By genealogy of old,
A birchen sceptre too I hold;
And oft' the blood of monarchs stains
With purple ornament my veins;
In every hall and every school,
I often bear the sovereign rule.

No longer shalt thou strut and swell,
In thy dominion of the cell.
For while thou govern'st with oppression,
I value not thy high succession.
A right divine, to govern wrong,
Can to no potentate belong.
Kings are but fathers of the state,
And if not virtuous, can't be great.
When subjects feel the servile chain,
The tyrant has no right to reign.
Dominion's but an empty thing,
The people constitute the king:
A scepter'd creature made at will,
And is himself a subject still;
Subject to laws far more divine,
Than Cyrus' race, or Cæsar's line.

Thy people long opprest complain,
Of thy unjust, tyrannic reign.

323

My subjects own my gentler sway,
Nor feel the tribute which they pay.

But after all our long debate,
Let no new jars disturb the state;
Tho', 'twixt your majesty and me,
In certain points we disagree,
Yet in one scheme we both comply,
To drain our subjects mighty dry.
While every tributary grain,
Curses our arbitrary reign,
And murmurs thro' the tub in vain.
Let us unite a safer way,
And govern with alternate sway,
Then if the sturdy slaves rebel,
And raise new ferments in our cell,
We'll both agree at next election,
To keep the vassals in subjection.

Pleas'd with the Beesom's smooth deceit,
The Huck-muck left his royal seat;
The Beesom took the throne and charter,
But never wou'd resign it after.
Whilst vext to loose his ancient sway,
For grief the Huck-muck pin'd away.
This world, good reader, where we dwell,
Is but a larger brewing cell:

324

A cell where many Huck-mucks reign,
And monarchs bustle for a grain:
A vessel floating here and there,
In seas of circumambient air,
Where pious princes wars are brewing,
And meditate each other's ruin.
While injur'd subjects groan in vain,
And change their master, not their chain.
'Tis the same game, look where we will,
The Beesom, and the Huck-muck still.
Happy the man who calm and wise,
Smiles at the storms which round him rise.
Who can in some still harbour dwell,
And make a palace of a cell.

The Strainer us'd in Brewing.

325

A Mirror for Detractors.

Address'd to a Friend.

By a Young Lady.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

This wit was with experience bought,
(And that's the best of wit 'tis thought)
That when a woman dares indite,
And seek in print the public sight,
All tongues are presently in motion,
About her person, mind, and portion;
And ev'ry blemish, ev'ry fault,
Unseen before, to light is brought.

326

Nay generously they take the trouble
Those blemishes and faults to double.

Whene'er you chance her name to hear,
With a contemptuous smiling sneer
A prude exclaims, O she's a wit!
And I've observ'd that epithet
Mean self-conceit, ill-nature, pride,
And fifty hateful things beside.

The Men are mighty apt to say,
This silly girl has lost her way;
No doubt she thinks we must admire,
And such a rhiming wit desire;
But here her folly does appear,
We never chuse a learned fair.
Nor like to see a woman try
With our superior parts to vie.
She ought to mind domestic cares;
The sex were made for such affairs.
She'd better take in hand the needle,
And not pretend to rhime and riddle.
Shall women thus usurp the pen?
That weapon nature made for men:
Presumptuous thing! how did she dare
This implement from us to tear?

327

In short, if women are allow'd,
(Women by nature vain and proud)
Thus boldly on the press to seize,
And say in print whate'er they please,
They'll soon their lawful lords despise,
And think themselves as sybils wise.

Thus far the men their wit display,
Let's hear now what the women say:

Now we'll suppose a tattling set
Of females o'er tea-table met,
While from its time-consuming streams
Arise a hundred idle themes,
Of fans, of flounces, flys and faces,
Of lapdogs, lovers, lawns and laces.
At length this well-known foe to fame,
In luckless hour brings forth my name:
Then they exclaim with great good-nature,
O Lord! that witty, rhiming creature!
Alternate then their parts sustain;
Pray don't you think she's mighty vain,
Says one;—no doubt, another cries;
Vain,—lord, of what? a third replies.
What tho' suppose the thing can rhime,
And on the changing numbers chime,
No merit lies in that, 'tis plain,
And others if they were as vain,

328

I make no doubt, cou'd write as well,
Would they but try, perhaps excel.

Then thus Philantha, in whose breast
Good-nature is a constant guest,
I own I've heard before with pain
Some people call her proud and vain,
I know her well, yet ne'er could see
This mighty pride, and vanity.

You, Madam, are I find her friend,
But I can never apprehend,
She ever yet a poem penn'd.
They're all another's work, no doubt,
With which she makes this mighty rout.

That's very like; but, Miss, suppose,
She does the tedious stuff compose;
Yet for my part tho' some may praise,
And stick the creature out with bays,
I can see nothing in the scrawls,
That for such vast encomiums calls.
'Tis true, in length if merit lies,
From all she'll bear away the prize.

This for her poems may be said,
They're mighty good to lull the head;

329

For nothing there picquant you'll find
To raise a laugh, or rouse the mind.
No doctor's opiate can exceed 'em,
Whene'er I want a nap I read 'em.

Philantha then—'tis so well known,
That all those poems are her own,
I wonder any one can doubt it,
Or have a single thought about it;
And oft' I've heard the lines commended,
Then all allow they're well intended.

That may perhaps be true enough,
But who's the better for her stuff.
I see no difference in the times,
The world's not mended by her rhimes.
She to the men I apprehend,
Intends herself to recommend
By scribbling verses, but she'll find,
They don't so much regard the mind;
For tho' they're civil to her face,
'Tis all a farce, and meer grimace;
Her back once turn'd, I've heard 'em swear,
They hated wisdom in the fair.

Then she's so nice, and so resin'd
About the morals, and the mind,

330

That really, Madam, I'm afraid,
This rhiming wit will die a maid;
And if she weds, it is high time,
I think she's almost past her prime.
Why with the men as I've been told,
She'll paper conversation hold.

Madam that's fact, I long have known it,
Without a blush i've heard her own it.

Good Lord, some women are so bold,
I vow, I blush to hear it told.
I hate censoriousness, but when
Girls freely correspond with men,
I can't forbear to speak my mind,
Altho' to scandal ne'er inclin'd.
Well, I protest I never yet
To any man a letter writ;
It may be innocent 'tis true,
But 'tis a thing I ne'er could do.

Well cry'd Philantha, I protest,
I almost think you are in jest,
For really, miss, I cannot see
In this the breach of modesty;
With men we chat away our time,
And none regard it as a crime;

331

And where's the difference if we write,
'Tis but our words in black and white.
I think, we may without offence,
Converse by pen with men of sense.

Well let us say no more about her,
But entertain ourselves without her;
No harm I meant, nor none I wish;
Miss won't you drink another dish?
Not one drop more, I thank you, madam,
Here take away the tea-things, Adam.
And bring the cards, and since we're met,
Pray let us make at whist a set.

Thus tea and scandal, cards and fashion,
Destroy the time of half the nation.

But Sir, methinks, 'tis very hard
From pen, and ink to be debarr'd:
Are simple women only fit,
To dress, to darn, to flower, or knit,
To mind the distaff, or the spit.

Why are the needle and the pen,
Thought incompatible by men?
May we not sometimes use the quill,
And yet be careful housewifes still?

332

Why is it thought in us a crime
To utter common-sense in rhime?
Why must each rhimer be a wit?
Why mark'd with that loath'd epithet?
For envy, hatred, scorn, or fear,
To wit, you know, are often near.
Good-natur'd wit, polite, refin'd,
Which seeks to please, not pain the mind,
How rare to find! for O, how few
Have true and gen'rous wit like you!
Your mind in different mould was cast,
To raise a character, not blast;
Please to encourage what I write,
And smile upon my humble flight.

1748.

333

DIRECTIONS,

How to Steer with EASE and SAFETY, O'ER THE Rough, Tempestuous SEA of LIFE.

By the Same.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

If thro' the rugged road of life,
An easy course you'd glide.
Free from affliction, care and strife,
These rules shou'd be your guide.

Your spring of life to heaven devote,
Religion will bestow,

334

The safest, surest antidote,
For every mortal woe.

Let virtue, bright, immortal maid,
Be your unerring guide;
And wisdom, with celestial aid,
O'er all your steps preside.

Thro' life be this resolve pursu'd,
Whate'er your lot shall be,
To act with honest rectitude,
And keep a conscience free.

Hope not your happiness to find
Abroad, but homewards bend,
And ever let your peace of mind,
Upon yourself depend.

Passion and fancy, hope and fear,
Will sometimes gild the scene,
But move within bright reason's sphere,
And keep the golden mean.

Hope not for wild, romantic bliss,
Nor wish a lofty state,
The first is follys paradise,
The last a war with fate.

Seek not from gold your happiness,
Nor in that bubble fame,

335

Pain, care, disease, the rich oppress,
And envy blasts a name.

Fondly by childish fancy led,
Ne'er seek for bliss complete;
Pain's twisted in life's slender thread,
And care in every state.

Sufficient ills in life arise,
Then why, with cruel art,
Shou'd we new cares, new pains devise,
And groan with fancy'd smart?

But since, while on this stage of life
Fortune oft' shifts the scene;
Since every state with care is rife,
And pain will intervene.

Arm well, with fortitude, your mind,
And shou'd distresses rise;
Think 'tis by Providence design'd,
To teach us to be wise.

If smiling fortune shou'd appear,
And glittering gifts bestow,
Of pride and vanity beware,
Nor swell with fortune's flow.

336

Thus arm'd—when cares and griefs arise,
(For rise they often will)
Serenely calm, without surprise,
You'll meet the lessen'd ill.

With steady mind, and equal soul,
You'll view the changing scene;
On soft content the hours shall roll,
And all be peace within.

And when the dangerous journey's past,
And shades of death arise,
In death's embrace you'll sweetly rest,
And wake in happier skys.

379

TO Dr. MORGAN, ON HIS Philosophical Principles OF MEDICINE.

As useful labors call for grateful praise,
Accept this tribute of my humble lays:
Great is the task, extensive is the theme,
Great as your work, extensive as your fame;
Yet shall the muse attempt the vast design,
And your applause resound in every Line.

In the primæval, happy days of old,
When golden years their radiant circles roll'd,

380

When on wild fruits, and herbs, men liv'd content,
And thankful took what heaven's rich bounty sent.
No noxious humors stain'd the purple tide,
Nor luxury sought, what nature had deny'd:
They drank the chrystal stream, and sweetly slept
On mossy couches, with the flocks they kept;
Grief then was absent, sickness hardly known,
Peaceful they liv'd, and dy'd without a groan.

Disease at first sprung from its parent vice,
And hence the Healing Art deriv'd its rise:
Immortal art! whose power divinely saves,
From pining sickness, and devouring graves.
Plain remedys at first were valu'd most,
The drugs were few, and moderate the cost.
The sick were cur'd without a gilded pill,
A sovereign bolus, or a pompous bill.
As vice increas'd, so physic, by degrees,
Increas'd its empire, and increas'd its fees;
In after ages more misterious grew,
As pride prevail'd, and interest came in view;
Drest by designing Men, in dark disguise,
And veil'd in awful shapes from vulgar eyes.

With Galen's sect a cloud of med'cines came,
Of various form, and venerable name;
Physic was all confusion, all profound,
While jargon reign'd, and learning lay in sound.

381

The learned Arabs, from old writings, drew
A compound scheme, and model'd all anew.
Involv'd in clouds of smoak, and chymic flame,
Van Helmont next, and Paracelsus came.
While truth, and nature's light, was darken'd o'er,
And the great Coan precepts shone no more,
'Till the last age appear'd, when gleams of light
Shot thro' the chaos, and dispel'd the night.

Then Bacon flourish'd, whose extensive mind,
On solid fact immortal schemes design'd:
While Hobbs, and Harvey, Clerc, Baglive, and Boyle,
Pursu'd fair truth, with an unweary'd toil.
Boyle on experiment alone rely'd,
And nature, which he lov'd, was still his guide.

Locke now appear'd like some propitious light,
And chas'd the shades of metaphysic right;
He all the schoolmen's sophistry display'd,
And welcome truth to every art convey'd.

Sydenham made practice by experience plain,
Taught by no idle fictions of the brain;
Sydenham the old, the simple way renew'd,
Nor study'd what was great, but what was good.

The scene still changes each revolving year,
And lo! new wonders to our view appear:

382

See health on Seraphs wings, divinely bright,
Shines with the rays of mathematic light.
Such was of late the pleasing vast surprize,
When northern streamers lighted all the skys;
When, soon as shades of night the earth o'erspread,
Amaz'd we saw new morning o'er our head.
With thirst of knowledge fir'd, see every sage,
With learned labor, in the work engage.

But tho' such numbers have pursu'd the theme,
To you alone we owe a finish'd scheme.
All that Bellini, Keill, or Pitcairne dar'd,
At best is faint essay, with your's compar'd.
The great Boerhaave will hail the grateful sight,
And read you o'er with wonder and delight.

You leave the beaten circle of the schools,
And the dull round of antiquated rules;
On facts depend, then reason from th' effect,
And with establish'd truths your scheme connect;
While by just consequence, from these you draw
Some fundamental rule, and useful law.

Such was the path immortal Newton trod,
He form'd the wond'rous plan, and mark'd the rod;
Led by this clue, he travel'd o'er the sky,
And marshal'd all the shining worlds on high.

383

Mature in thought, you Newton's laws reduce
To nobler ends, and more important use:
To guard man's feeble frame from fell disease,
Or when we sink with pain to give us ease:
For every ail ascribe its proper cause,
To nature's govern'd by mechanic laws;
You shew how springy air affects our frame,
To raise, or to depress the vital flame:
How orbs above by gravitation steer,
Impress their force, and influence the air;
How Cynthia's silent energy presides,
Ferments the blood, and agitates the tides.

When fatal fevers kindle flames within,
Which raging glow o'er all the scorch'd machine,
You shew how nature prudently detains
Diluting serum in the burning veins;
Your well-tim'd medicines mitigate the heat,
And o'er the frame diffuse a balmy sweat:
The monster Febris flys the potent spell,
In haste retires, and calmly seeks her cell.
Medicine from hence shall triumph with success,
Nor pining patients linger in distress.

My raptur'd muse sees with prophetic eyes,
New ages roll along, new systems rise;
Sees physic on mechanic reasoning climb,
And raise a structure to the skys sublime;

384

Sees sickness fled, Health bloom with cherub face,
And age creep on, with slow, reluctant pace;
Experience with her torch, direct our youth,
Scatter the mists, and light the way to truth.
While dark Hypothesis no more prevails,
Nor pupils listen to romantic tales:
Nor proud authority with bug-bear rules
Enslaves our minds, or dictates in the schools.
But liberty sits Goddess of our isle,
And peaceful blessings all around her smile;
Darkness and bigotry before her fly,
And truth, and virtue, grow beneath her eye.

385

The SURPRIZE:

Occasion'd by a Person's Receiving Mourning for a Friend, a young Lady, Who Feign'd herself Dead.

Are these the presents friends bestow?
Sad representatives of woe!
Black trophys of departing breath,
Signals of darkness, and of death.
Unwelcome gifts! which only wait
To dress the messenger of fate.

And is the blooming fair one fled,
And Delia mingled with the dead?
She who all other darts defy'd,
Herself the fatal shaft has try'd.
Her air so sprightly, and so gay,
She banish'd every care away;
And when alive cou'd wonders do,
And keep her friends from dying too.

386

Thus while I musing sat in tears,
A grateful sound salutes my ears:
It is her voice, her air, her frame,
Or else, some visionary dream.
'Tis Delia's self! with glad surprize,
The living fair salutes my eyes.
To dying criminals, reprieve
Cou'd ne'er more rapturous pleasure give.
Not showers which cool the thirsty plain,
Not smiles to a despairing swain,
Than to my mind, opprest with care,
This Resurrection of the fair.

Life, like a flower, we often say,
Blooms fair awhile, then fades away.
You best the metaphor explain,
For you can die, and rise again.

But oh! how barbarous, how unkind,
To torture thus your lover's mind?
Each friend, for such rude treatment, thinks,
You are more savage than a Lynx;
And frolic as the apish tribe,
In the same region who reside.
May you, for this, for ever more,
Transported be to that wild shore,
Where baboons dance, and lions roar.

Alluding to her curing some young Ladys of the Vapours.

387

THE WHEEL-BARROW, A POEM:

Occasion'd by the Author's seeing his own Works truckl'd along in Bundles, in a Wheel-Barrow.

'Tis said, all nature moves on wheels,
And every world the impulse feels;
The purple tide, on wheels unseen,
Glides thro' the animal machine;
On wheels of state great kingdoms move,
And imitate the orbs above;
State-lotterys thus are wheel'd about,
Where fools put in—and knaves draw out;
The cart-wheel round its axis rolls,
As stars revolve about their poles;
And thus the lofty Muses song,
In humble Barrow rolls along.
Oh! how the bard's bright fame shall rise,
That in a Wheel-Barrow mounts the skys!

388

Ambitious poet! tell us why
You stoop so low—to rise so high?
The lofty Muse sublime, shou'd dare
Ride in her chariot thro' the air,
Elijah like, as 'tis related,
In flying coach to heaven translated.
Sure Pegasus is grown a jade,
To be thus slovenly convey'd:
Yet Blackmore was condemn'd to Styx.
Tho' wont to ride in coach and six.

Our poet, sure, cou'd have no pride,
In such a Phaeton to ride.
Can this vile vehicle be fit
To carry poetry and wit?
This rumbling implement, design'd
For uses of ignobler kind;
To carry rubbish, loam, or lime,
Now groans beneath a load of rhime;
Yet partly its old use retains,
To bear the rubbish of the brains;
And as it bears the poet's song,
With its own music wheels along.
Oh! how the anxious bard wou'd rue,
If thus the verse shou'd rumble too.

I doubt it bodes some fatal spell,
To mount in such low vehicle.

389

In carts as malefactors hie,
At Tyburn's tragic tree to die:
To see your tomes in Barrow vile
Convey'd,—wou'd make a Cynic smile:
And shou'd they share an equal fate,
How short would be the muse's date?
But 'twou'd be most infernal sentence,
For Bards to die without repentance:
Yet thus you'd mount toward the sky,
Aloft in air suspended high.

This Barrow now shall wheel no more,
In dirty errands, as before:
Shall that machine which bore the bays,
And truckl'd with immortal lays,
Be doom'd to labour in highways?
To carry fruit, or lumber fit,
Which bore the golden fruit of wit?
It wou'd, thus prostituted, mourn,
To the old drudgery to return.
Triumphal chariots still by charter
Repose in pomp forever after.
'Tis said the famous Bucentaur,
Which once the Doge of Venice bore,
For such high service does remain
In state—and seldom sail again;
And thus the Barrow shall be blest,
And rot in everlasting rest.

390

Chariots, which won th' Olympic race,
Of other chariots still took place:
So shall all other Barrows bow,
And truckle to this Barrow now.

By sage astronomers we're told,
In fabulous history of old,
That fam'd Auriga by translation,
Became a radiant constallation.
Then who this Barrow can deny
An equal honour in the sky?
There for such merit to remain,
Immortal made, like Charles's Wain:
On this base earth no more to drag on,
No Wheel-Barrow, but now a Waggon.

The celestial Waggoner, or Carter, a Constellation, consisting of 14 Stars. The Inventor of the Waggon was said to be translated to Heaven by Jupiter.

FINIS.