A collection of original poems and translations :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO THE HONOURABLE Horatio Walpole, Esq. Usher of His Majesty's Exchequer; THESE POEMS Are most humbly inscribed, By his most obliged, and obedient humble Servant, J. Whaley.

CORNARO and the TURK,

A TALE.

Where, mid' Italia's ever Sunny Lands,
Fast by the Streams of Po Ferrara stands,
At Manhood's full Increase now just arriv'd,
In splendid Leisure young Cornaro liv'd;
Of a full Bed the first and best belov'd,
Each Gift kind Nature lent him, Art Improv'd.

He knew and lov'd his City; yet wou'd know
What other Cities diff'rent had to show;
Eager to gratify his stretching Mind,
In One small Realm too narrowly confin'd.
To tell his Sire his Wish, was to succeed;
The Son but hinted, and the Sire agreed.
Then, as became him, full supply'd he went,
And to Livornia first his Way he bent;
On whose fair Shore each distant Nation meets,
And fills, with various Tongues, her Peopled Streets.
Each Object there his strict Attention drew,
Much he observ'd, yet still found something new,
And sought it still, for, Knowledge all his End,
Him, who cou'd that advance, he thought his Friend;
To Rich and Poor alike he cast his Eye,
As 'twas a Treasure they might both enjoy,

And he might teach him who the Vessel steer'd,
What the rich Freighter thought not worth Regard.

Leghorn, a great and rich City and Seaport in Italy.

Of graceful Presence and inviting Mien,
He in each Place of full Resort was seen,
On the throng'd Quay, or in the busy Hall,
And skill'd in Tongues, seem'd Countryman to all;
To Observation deep Reflection join'd,
And fix'd the gather'd Honey in his Mind.
His Lodging on a large Quadrangle's Side,
To him still Thinking, farther Thought supply'd;
And as each Hour of passing Day went by,
Some Scene, worth Note, still met his curious Eye.
Yet one among the rest he long had weigh'd
And oft'nest seen the stronger Mark it made;
For the sad Sigh that keen Misfortune drew
Still to his Breast an easy Passage knew.
As he each Morn the rising Sun beheld,
E'er yet the moving Square with Crouds was fill'd,

On one same Spot, as still he look'd around,
One solitary Wretch he always found;
A Porter's Garb declar'd his present Yoke,
But his whole Mien a Birth far diff'rent spoke.
In his swoln Breasts, Sighs, spite of Shame, wou'd rise,
And Tears, kept back, flow'd faster from his Eyes,
Which with the knotted Rope he wip'd away,
Sad Ensign of his Fortune's deep decay!
The Youth, who pitying saw the frequent Grief,
Thought Pity blameful carrying no Relief;
So, generously curious, sought to know,
In hopes to ease, the Cause of so much Woe;
And call'd him from his melancholy Stand.
He came—and silent waited his Command;
Thinking some Errand wou'd a Mite afford,
Just to support a Being he abhorr'd,
Which yet he durst not of himself destroy,
Since Heav'n again might change the Grief it sent to Joy.

But other Bus'ness fill'd Cornara's Breast,
And his kind suit in tend'rest Terms he prest,
Wish'd that he wou'd his cause of Grief impart
To one who lov'd to sooth an aching Heart,
And always thought, however low his Sphere,
A Man who felt Affliction worth his Care;
Yet here believ'd the Stroke of fickle Fate
Was fall'n on one had known a happier State.
“Then speak, he said, nor let false Shame conceal
“Whate'er with Truth a Suff'rer may reveal,
“And, if my happier Lot may ease thy Woes,
“Whate'er a Stranger's Ear may learn, disclose.
The list'ning Wretch each Word with wonder heard,
Perceiv'd 'em Virtue's Dictates, and was chear'd,
Ventur'd to throw his slavish Badge aside,
And thus with Manly Confidence reply'd.

“I was not always what I now appear;
“But Truths, thy Nobleness has challeng'd, hear.
“First I'm a Mussul-man, yet here confin'd
“Must wish thee, as thy milder Doctrines, kind.
“Oh! Love thy Faith, yet hate not me for mine,
“Which had, hadst thou been born a Turk, been thine.
“Next know, e'er fall'n to this most abject State,
“Smyrna once saw me happy, tho' not great;
“By Merchandize with sumptuous Affluence blest,
“And sweet Content, which great ones seldom taste.
“But Oh! to have been blest brings no Relief,
“But adds a stronger Bitterness to Grief;
“Forgive my Tears that utter, as they flow,
“A Son's, a Father's, and a Husband's Woe;
“To swell each Sigh these various Sorrows join,
“For all those dear Relations once were mine.
“Nor was it Hopes of adding to my Store,
“By lawless Plunder sent me from my Shore,

“To gain in bleeding Fields a cruel Name,
“Or wish on slaughter'd Heaps to build my Fame.
“'Twas Duty bid me watch the fav'ring Gale,
“And filial Love that hoisted ev'ry Sail.
“'Twas to a Father's fond Embrace I went,
“E'er yet his Lamp of Life was wholly spent;
“While still a kneeling Son might please his Eye,
“And swell his aged Heart with tender Joy.
“For Cyprus then I sail'd—what since befel
“Let these hard Chains, and this vile Habit tell;
“Which with for-ever growing Grief I bear,
“And now the fourth sad Winter sees me wear;
“And Years may roll on Years, unstopp'd my Grief,
“Till welcome Death shall bring his last Relief,
“In whose cold Arms, by some dire chance betray'd,
“My Friends may long e'er this believe me laid.
“My fond old Sire perhaps, my Fate unknown,
“Wailing my ravish'd Life, consum'd his own;
“And oh! what Pangs my orphan Children feel,
“Hast thou a tender Parent, thou canst tell.

He stopp'd,—Tears drown'd his Accents, and the rest
A Silence far beyond all Words exprest.
Nor spoke Cornaro more—he too was mute,
Nor Language found his Fellow-grief to sute;
But struggling with a Tear-attended Sigh,
Just mutter'd out—“Friend, take this small supply,
“'Twill give thee some Relief—and were it mine
“To give, Freedom and Happiness were thine.
He took the Gold and bow'd, and slow return'd,
And, as was wont, in hopeless Sadness mourn'd.

Cornaro see, in other Guise appear!
Sudden he stopp'd the commendable Tear.
“And be, he said, my Soul, thy Joy exprest,
“'Tis in thy Pow'r to make the Wretched blest.
“Now am I blest indeed, since on my Wealth
“Depends another's Being, Freedom, Health.

“'Tis I can bid the Sun of Mercy shine;
“This Man's Peace, Life, and Liberty are mine.
“Whatever Joys he has or may receive,
“His Country, Children, Wives are mine to give;
“Now India's Lord, amidst his hoarded Store,
“And endless Mines, compar'd with me is poor.
“Quick then, Cornaro to his Ransom flee,
“And let this Morning's Sun behold him free.

Strait to the Lordly Governor's he went,
His Name, his Rank, his Cause of coming sent;
Nor need he long to wait, his Errand told,
Bringing, that ne'er refus'd Credential, Gold.
The Price requir'd for Liberty he gave,
And quick return'd to find the now but fancy'd Slave,
And said,—“Be free: His Transports who can tell?
Prostrate before him in wild Joy he fell,
Which only his who caus'd it cou'd excel.
Gladness and wonder in his Bosom wrought,
With lab'ring Gratitude his Soul was fraught,
Nor had he Pow'r to utter half he thought.

“Yet, oh! my great Deliverer, he cry'd,
“Can such amazing Worth in Man reside?
“Or can it be that Christian Doctrines teach
“Virtues beyond our sacred Prophet's Reach?
“But oh! whate'er the won'drous Cause, receive
“As much of Gratitude as Words can give;
“Nor let these bursting Tears its Force destroy,
“Slaves late of Grief, soft Offspring now of Joy.
“And how my Deeds shall with my Words agree,
“Let me once reach my Country, thou shalt see,
“And find thy mighty Bounty is not lost.
“I scorn to ask thee what my Freedom cost,
“That to my Gratitude has no regard,
“Up to thy Worth I'll measure the Reward.
“Yet can that be”? “Stop there, Cornaro said,
“If thou art happy, I am more than paid.
“But that thy Happiness meet no delay,
“There's Gold wherewith to speed thee on thy Way.

“If grateful thou wou'dst be, at thy Return,
“Amid the Crouds that there in Bondage mourn,
“Search out some Christian from the wretched Band
“Who best shall merit Freedom at thy Hand,
“Then think 'tis in thy Pow'r to pay my Debt,
“By showing him the Mercy thou hast met.
He said, and to his Lodging back return'd,
(Honour's bright Lamp within him gently burn'd)
Felt and enjoy'd the Riot of his Breast,
While Conscience furnish'd out the noble Feast.
As free as Air from Prison just broke out,
The Turk with rapid speed the Harbour sought,
There found a Ship all trim with spreading Sails,
And just prepar'd to catch the coming Gales,
Smyrna her Port; with prosp'rous Winds she flies,
And gives him to his Home and former Joys.

Livornia now, as his Ferrara known,
Her Trade, her Arts, her Pleasures all his own,
Where next for Knowledge was Cornaro flown?
For a Soul's Banquet far he need not fly,
Venice, old Ocean's fairest Child, so nigh;
O'er the proud Adriatick where she stood,
That swells unenvious of the Tuscan Flood,
Tho' Naples, Florence on his Banks he names,
And to him Tiber pours from Rome his Streams.
When o'er the Continent fell Slav'ry flew,
Hither the Goddess Liberty withdrew;
Here plac'd her Cap, her Staff, her Armour here,
And, as her own fierce Sparta, held it dear.
Each Art and Science this their Dwelling own,
As Guardians to their Goddess Freedom's Throne;
And as her Hand-Maid busy Commerce toils,
Her Sister Goddess Plenty chearful smiles.

Here glad Cornaro fix'd; and hop'd to find
Whate'er might please a Knowledge-loving Mind,
Or where the Columns rose with beauteous Wreath,
Or Sculpture seem'd to speak, or Paint to breath;
And tho' each Day increas'd his curious Store
Thought his capacious Soul had room for more;
And little deem'd the Moment was so nigh,
When all these Pleasures of his Breast should die,
The Beams of Science from his Soul retire
And fade, extinguish'd by a nobler Fire,
As kindled Wood, howe'er its Flames may rise,
When the bright Sun appears, in Embers dies.
Minerva sudden from his Soul was fled,
And Venus reign'd successive in her stead.
A thousand fair ones of her frolick Train,
Long at the Youth had aim'd their Shafts in vain;
Lanc'd from the wanton Eye they sought his Heart,
But Virtue's Temper still repuls'd the Dart,

Nor all their Force nor Poison need he fear,
Virtue must tip the Point that enter'd there;
As Diamonds scorn the Pow'r of keenest Steel,
And touch'd alone by Fellow-Gems can feel.
One Glance at last an easy Passage found,
And undirected made the deeper Wound;
From Modesty's bright Quiver it was sent,
Nor knew its beauteous Owner where it went.
From chaste Delphina's pow'rful Eye it came,
Malta to Venice lent the charming Dame;
Malta, blest Isle! Whose Daughters all are fair,
Whose Sons to Manly Fortitude are dear,
So properly do Love and Glory meet,
And Valour still with Beauty holds his Seat.
Soon as his Breast receiv'd the potent Ray,
Whate'er possest it, instantly gave way;
As in the Wood before the Lightning's Beam,
Perish the Leaves, and the whole Tree is Flame.

To Venice by a noble Father sent,
Some pleasing Months the Fair one there had spent,
Beneath a tender Uncle's careful Eye;
Where but to him should then Cornaro fly?
To him he did each Circumstance unfold,
His Country, Riches, Parentage he told,
At last confess'd his honourable Flame,
Begg'd his Permission to address the Dame,
And did his Leave obtain; nor long he su'd
E'er the coy Maid was in her turn subdu'd,
Nor Chastity itself a Blush put on,
To be by such a Lover quickly won.
Smoothly thus far to Happiness he went,
Nought now was wanting but tho Sire's Consent,
Which one, endow'd as he, was sure to gain,
And needed only see him to obtain.

Th'observing Uncle mark'd the wond'rous Youth,
Fathom'd his Love, his Virtue, and his Truth;
Said—to her Father, pleas'd he, they wou'd speed.
He said, and strait th'enamour'd Youth agreed.
Lo! with its precious freight the Vessel stor'd,
Cornaro and his Happiness on Board;
Blest with chaste Beauty he such Trifles scorn'd,
As Jason stole, or Menelaus mourn'd.
Can Gold the Heart like piercing Beauty move?
Or what is Lust compar'd with sacred Love?
And now for Malta with full Sails they stand—
Saw, knew, and all but trod the wish'd for Land;
When oh! sad Proof of Fortune's al'tring Brow,
False as the Skies above, and Seas below!
A Turkish Galley mark'd 'em from a-far,
Pursu'd the Vessel unprepar'd for War,

Resistance vain with Numbers overbore,
And led them wretched Slaves to Smyrna's Shore.
Can Words, what Thought can scarce conceive, express,
The Uncle's, Virgin's, Lover's deep Distress?
Compar'd with which the mangling Knife wou'd please,
And the fierce Rack's severest Pain be Ease.
Death in his horrid'st Form had met their Pray'rs,
But that was Liberty, and so not theirs.
And now to publick Sale expos'd they stood,
Amid the chaff'ring Turks insulting Croud,
Immortal Souls, the Property decreed
Of the best Bidder, like the grass-fed Steed.
E'en this the Lovers bore, each other near,
And, yet unparted, knew not full Despair.
But see! at length accomplish'd Woe arrive,
To deal the last, worst Wound she had to give;

Her sable Store she cull'd the Dart to find,
Nor left one half so venom'd Shaft behind.
Amongst the Dealers at this cruel Fair,
Traffick accurst, that makes Mankind its Ware!
A youthful Turk pass'd poor Cornaro by,
Health flush'd his Cheek, and Lust enflam'd his Eye;
And to the Female Slaves his Way he bent;
'Twas there his Gold must have its wanton Vent.
How should Delphina 'scape his prying Sight?
Too fatally, in spite of Anguish, bright!
Her Breast took Beauty from the heaving Sigh,
Nor cou'd the Tear, that drown'd, eclipse her Eye,
But falling on her damask Cheek it stood,
Like the Pearl Dew-drop on the Morning Bud.
He quickly saw the too-distinguish'd Fair,
And thought his Prophet's Paradise was there.
Her Price at once unquestioning he paid,
The fatal Veil around her Beauties spread,
And led exulting off the swooning Maid.

'Twas then Cornaro felt Despair compleat,
And knew the worst Extreme of tort'ring Fate.
Furies to plague him more had strove in vain,
And gnawing Vultures not encreas'd his Pain,
Too fierce for human Nature to sustain.
He sunk beneath his Sorrow's wondrous Load,
And senseless from Excess of Pain he stood.
And now one graver Turk amongst the rest,
And more distinguish'd by his richer Vest,
A nicer Curiosity exprest.
Each Slave examin'd as he went along,
And on each Circumstance attentive hung;
He ask'd their Country, Parentage, and Name,
And how each mournful Wretch a Slave became,
Behold him to Cornaro then apply;
Full on his Face he fix'd his stedfast Eye,
Then ask'd his Heart if what he saw was true,
And that it was from sure Reflection knew.

His Nerves all trembling with the glad Surprize,
To Heav'n he stretch'd his Hands, and rais'd his Eyes,
And then—“I thank thee, Mahomet, he said,
Hither by thy divine Direction led
Sounds struck Cornaro's Ear he ought to know,
And wak'd him from his dismal Trance of Woe,
He saw the Turk prepar'd for his Embrace,
Mark'd the glad Transport sparkling in his Face,
Saw 'twas the very Slave he once set free,
And cry'd aloud—Great God of Hosts, 'tis he!
Then folded in each others Arms they stood,
And Voice was lost in Joy's o'er-bearing Flood.
The Turk at length recov'ring rear'd his Head—
“And now he cry'd, my mighty Debt be paid;
“Which, wert not Thou the Slave I here survey,
“Peruvian Mines were much too poor to pay.

To the Man-Merchant then he stretch'd his Hand,
“And take, he said, whate'er thy Wants demand;
“Quick set my Friend, and his Companions free,
“Name you the Price, unbart'ring I agree.
The Ransom'd home he led in bounteous State,
His swelling Soul with Godlike Joy elate,
Joy such as fill'd the great Creator's Breast,
When Adam in his Paradise he plac'd.
And now he calls his houshold all in View,
To give his Freemen Guests their welcome due.
His lofty Hall with richest Sophas grac'd,
His Wives, his Children all in Order plac'd,
(Such was his Will tho' hidden his Intent)
Sate in mute Wonder waiting the Event.
Amidst 'em all he then Cornaro led,
And wip'd away a Tear of Joy, and said,

“Ye of my licens'd Bed the Partners fair,
“Who my divided Love yet equal share;
“With whom so many pleasing Moons I've spent,
“Nor known one shaded yet by Discontent:
“And ye, lov'd Issue of our honest Joys,
“If ought my Precepts did, ye gen'rous Boys:
“My Children, and my Wives, to whom I ne'er,
“But by my dismal Exile, caus'd a Tear;
“If, since from that sad Bondage I arriv'd,
“Your Griefs all perish'd, and your Joys reviv'd,
“If, in my Absence, ye not falsely mourn'd,
“If your vast Joy was true when I return'd;
“If Alha knew ye without Guile rejoice,
“And his great Prophet heard your real Voice,
“Now more adore them, prostrate praise their Pow'r,
“Admire their Bounties still encreasing Show'r;
“But now from Chains I freed this Captive's Hands,
“And here—Cornaro, my Deliv'rer, stands.

All prostrate at that sacred Name they fell,
How touch'd, great Gratitude alone can tell;
Great Gratitude that dictated their Joy,
Smil'd on each Cheek, and spoke from ev'ry Eye.
The Turk with Rapture saw the pleasing scene,
The Home-felt Joy ran warm thro' ev'ry Vein.
Their Gratitude his inmost Soul approv'd,
That loudly told how much himself was lov'd.
“Come then, he said, the sumpt'ous Feast prepare,
“My Wives, to deck the Banquet be your Care,
“As if great Ottoman himself was here.
“For know th'Imperial Crescent's sacred Flame,
“Can ne'er more Homage than Cornaro claim.
“And ye, my Sons, whate'er my Wardrobe boast,
“What Crimson, Gold, or Gems can have of cost
“Bring forth; but oh! however rich the Dress,
“How faintly will it his Soul's worth express!
“Come then, my Friend, but why that downcast Eye,
“That Cheek yet pale, and that still heaving Sigh!

“Freedom thou hast, and what else Wealth can give,
“Is my blest Task—Yours only to receive.
Cornaro blush'd and sigh'd, and would have spoke,
But as he strove, Grief still his Accents broke.
The Uncle saw, yet silent, his Distress,
And what he could not, ventur'd to express;
Told the whole Tale of Love—the Fair pourtray'd,
Pencil'd the semblance of the charming Maid,
E'er that perhaps some Turk's abandon'd Prey,
Torn from Cornaro's Arms for e'er away;
Cornaro doom'd no farther joy to prove,
But Life's and Freedom's Slave bereft of Love.
The Turk with Anguish heard the fatal Tale,
Fearing his utmost Bounty here must fail;
Fearing he never could the Maid restore,
Already Slave to some lewd Tyrant's power;
Immers'd already in some cruel Grove,
Where brutal Lust usurps the Name of Love;
Some close Seraglio's Gloom, from whose sad Bourn
No Maid did e'er inviolate return.

But as this Thought perplex'd his working Brain,
And ev'ry Hope that rose he still found vain;
His Son all sudden smil'd, and rear'd his Head,
(The eldest Blessing of his fruitful Bed)
Then bow'd again, and smote his Breast and said.
“Thee first, Creator Alha, I adore,
“Untrac'd, mysterious, Wonder-working Pow'r,
“How could thy lowest Servant's untry'd Noon
“Of useless Life deserve so vast a Boon?
“Be hush'd, all Grief, and open'd ev'ry Ear,
“My Words with Rapture let Cornaro hear;
“Let too my Sire his genuine Offspring own,
“While I, nor vainly boast I am his Son.
“My Heart how moulded let my Actions prove,
“And rise victorious Gratitude o'er Love,
“If my exulting Soul aright divine,
“To make Cornaro blest is only mine.

“For know these Walls contain the pictur'd Fair,
“Chaste yet as Snow, and pure as Spring-tide Air.
Then, Go ye Slaves, he said, and quick return,
With the fair Christian whom I bought this Morn.
Return'd—Delphina bless'd their eager Eyes,
And on each Breast shed wild extatic Joys,
Bright as the Sun, with stronger Light array'd,
When rescu'd from the Moon's eclipsing Shade.
Then thus again the Turk, with gracious Air,
(As to her Lord he led the blushing Fair)
“My Friend, in this blest Moment be it mine,
“Taught by thyself, to show a Soul like thine;
“Forgive a Vaunt, 'tis Virtue sends it forth,
“A Soul that strives with e'en Cornaro's Worth.
“In thy gay Paradise, great Prophet, hear,
“By Mecca's ever sacred Shrine I swear;
“Were all the Treasures now before my Sight,
“That fill'd Damascus' glitt'ring Plains with Light,

“When in fierce Triumph furious Caled rode,
“And drench'd the Syrian Soil with Grecian Blood,
“Wou'd some great Sultan say, That Maid resign,
“And the whole Wealth of all the East is thine;
“From him unhesitating wou'd I turn,
“And look upon his trifling Bribe with Scorn.
“Beauty like this, which wond'ring we survey,
“'Tis Virtue only in Exchange can pay.
“'Tis thee, great Goddess Virtue, I pursue,
“To thy bright self I raise th'aspiring View;
“Thus kneeling thy almighty Pow'r I own,
“And sacrifice my Passions at thy Throne;
“To thy Cornaro lo! this Hand restores
“What most, Thyself except, his Soul adores.
So saying, with a Smile their Hands he join'd,
And his rich Prize without a Sigh resign'd.
Virtue was pleas'd, and own'd in Heav'n above,
How Deeds like these e'en Gods with Pleasure move;

Gentle Compassion shed a Tear of Joy,
And Gratitude loud shouted thro' the Sky.
What Joy the Lovers ravish'd Souls possest,
How all around their vast Delight exprest,
What conscious Pleasure touch'd the Father's Breast,
Lest in th' Attempt the falt'ring Muse prove weak,
Let Children, Parents, Lovers, Virtue speak.

A JOURNEY TO HOUGHTON,

The Seat of the Right Hon. Robert Walpole, Earl of Orford, in the County of Norfolk.

A POEM.

Sweet Nymphs, that dwell on Pindus' verdant Side,
And o'er the Woods, without a Blush, preside,
Celestial Muses, deign your Bard a Lay,
As on the winding Banks of Yare I stray.
Yet if the Nymphs from Pindus scorn to bow,
Nor deign to listen to a Voice so low;
Their Pride I will repay, and in Despite,
While such my Theme, of all the Muses write.

Recall we then, for still 'twill please, to mind
The Morn we left dull Norwith Smoke behind,
When, as the lofty Spire just sunk from View,
To a fair verdant water'd Vale we drew;
Where 'midst fair Liberty's all-joyous Plains
Pop'ry still seems to hug her galling Chains.
The Dragon in Hesperian Gardens old
Thus slumbring lay, and tasted not the Gold;
Thus, 'midst th' eternal Spring Judæa keeps,
The lazy Poison of Aspholtus sleeps.

Bend then, my Muse, thy flight to Weston's Plains,
(No Verse can flow where Papal Slav'ry reigns)
Weston! whose Groves not envy Pindus' Shade,
Nor blest with Ridley, want Apollo's Aid.
Here Virtue reigns, and o'er the fruitful Land
Religion walks, with Freedom Hand in Hand;
His little Flock the Pious Priest informs,
And ev'ry Breast with Heav'n-born Doctrine warms,

Soft flows his Stream of Eloquence along,
And Truths Divine come mended from his Tongue.
Here the known Bounty of the Place we blest,
And to our Number join'd the Chearful Priest.
Thro' ancient Elmham next our Way we take,
And gravely nodding wise Reflections make;
How strongest Things destructive Time o'erturns,
And the waste Town its ravish'd Mitre mourns;
Mitre! repeats the Priest with simp'ring Leer,
'Twill fit at Norwich full as well as here.

But now, my Muse, in Blushes hide thy Face,
Nor deign the next vile Town in Verse a Place,
Unless thouc anst indite in Blackmore's Strain,
And say, we call'd full hungry at the Swan,
But found not Hay for Horse, nor Meat for Man.
Dire Hunger! that with Meagre Visage stalks,
And never fails to cross the Poet's Walks,

But three short Miles soon brought us bounteous Aid,
And Mileham's Fulness Brisley's Want o'er paid,
See! the gay Unicorn the Wood adorn,
Fair sign of Plenty with his Iv'ry Horn!
Here Ceres spread her Fruits with lavish Hand,
And Bacchus laughing waited our Command.

Hence pleas'd and satisfied we take our Road,
And sometimes laugh and talk, but oftner nod.
Yet this soft Indolence not long we kept,
But wak'd to see where others faster slept;
Where Coke's remains beneath the Marble rot,
His Cases and Distinctions all forgot;
His Body honour'd and to Fame consign'd,
For Virtues flowing from th' immortal Mind.

What wou'd avail this sumptuous Mass of Stone,
Were he not from his Works for ever known?
Let the Survivors of such great Men's Dust,
Ne'er think to add to Virtue by a Bust;
If false, Posterity will find the Lie,
If true, without it, it will never die,
But thro' succeeding Ages shine the same,
Or from some Leicester catch a brighter Flame.

But farewell Death, and Tombs, and mould'ring Urns,
Our Eye with Joy on neighb'ring Raynham turns;
Where Pleasures undecaying seem to dwell,
Such as the Happy in Elysium feel,
Where Heroes, Statesmen, and the virtuous Croud,
Receive the great Reward of being Good.
Such Pleasures ev'n on Earth had Heav'n ordain'd,
For him who once our tott'ring State sustain'd;

Who join'd the glorious Freedom-loving Crew,
Fixt to great Cæsar what was Cæsar's Due,
And then, Dictator-like, to Fields withdrew.
Fair ran the Current of his Age, serene
As the pure Lake that bounds the various Scene.
Here whate'er Nature beauteous boasts we find,
Charming when sep'rate, but more charming join'd,
Pleasures, tho' chang'd, we meet where'er we rove,
On Hill, in Dale, on Plain, in shady Grove;
Here swell the Hillocks crown'd with golden Grain,
There, at their Feet, fair flows the liquid Plain,
O'er those the Larks extend their labour'd Note,
On this the Swans in snowy Grandeur float.

To Houghton then we take our pleasing Way,
Thrice happy Bound'ry of a well-spent Day;
Here chearful Plenty met the wearied Guest,
And splendid Welcome doubly crown'd our Rest.

Thou then, Apollo, aid the Poet's lay,
Thy Beams gave Lustre to the following Day;
When in one House more Beauties join'd we found,
Than e'er thou feest in all thy glorious Round;
Where Walpole plac'd with curious happy Cost,
Whate'er Magnificence or Taste can boast,
Where, in what Building noblest has, we find
Preserv'd, what Painting liveliest e'er designed.
See! Sculpture too her Beauties here disclose,
Such as old Phidias taught and Rysbrack knows.
Laocoon here in Pain still seems to breath,
While round his Limbs the pois'nous Serpents wreath,
Life strugling seems thro ev'ry Limb to pass,
And dying Torments animate the Brass.

The Pencil's Pow'r the proud Salon displays,
And struck with Wonder on the Paint we gaze.

See! the proud Rabbins at the sumptuous Board,
Frown on the Wretch who kneels before her Lord,
And the rich Unguent, in Devotion meet,
Pours, mixt with Tears, on her Redeemer's Feet.
In vain with Hypocritic Rage they glow,
While Mercy smooths the Heav'nly Stranger's Brow,
He the true Penitent with Ease descries,
Sees the Heart speaking in the melting Eyes,
Bids ev'ry Tear with full Effect to stream,
And from his Vengeance all her Sins redeem.

On the next Cloth behold Vandyke display,
Celestial Innocence, immortal Day,
His Pencil here no more with Nature vies,
Above her plastic Pow'r his Genius flies;

Soars on Promethean Wing aloft, and there
Steals Forms which Heav'n-born Cherubs only wear;
Pours Airs divine into the human Frame,
Darts thro' his Childrens Eyes Seraphic Flame,
While o'er the sacred Forms such Beauties reign,
As not belie the Saint-hood they contain.

Behold! where Stephen fainting yields his Breath,
By great Le Sueur again condemn'd to Death;
With strange Surprize we view the horrid Deed,
And then to Pity melted turn the Head,
Lest, as Spectators of the Martyr's Fall,
We innocently share the Crime of Saul.
Here too Albani's Pencil charms the Eye;
Morellio here unfolds the azure Sky,
Sweet modest Charms the Virgin's Cheek adorn,
To Heav'n, on Wings of smiling Seraphs born.

The next gay Room is known by Carlo's Name,
Fair Mausoleum of Maratti's Fame!
Such Strokes, such equal Charms each Picture boasts
We venture not to say which pleases most.
Thus on the Galaxy with Joy we gaze,
Nor know which Star emits the brightest Rays.
Yet if beyond himself he ever flew,
If e'er beyond a Mortal's touch he drew,
Amidst the Glow that from that Purple breaks,
Look on yon Pope , nor wonder if he speaks.
With length of Days and Fame Maratti blest,
Ne'er wept departed Genius from his Breast;
But when just drooping, sinking to the Ground,
Spread sportive Loves, and laughing Cherubs round;
E'en Death approaching, smil'd, and made a stand,
And gently stole the Pencil from his Hand.

Thus falls the Sun, and, as he fades away,
Gilds all th' Horizon with a parting Ray.

Next on the gorgeous Cabinet we gaze,
Which the full Elegance of Paint displays,
In strong Expressions of each Masters Mind,
The various Beauties of this Art we find;
Here vast Invention, there the just Design,
Here the bold Stroke, and there the perfect Line,
With Ease unequal'd here the Drawing flows,
And there inimitable Colour glows.
With Summer here the Cloth Bassano warms,
There locks the World in Winter's hoary Arms,
On the warm View we look with pleas'd amaze,
Then turn to Frost, and shudder as we gaze.

Mirth unrestrain'd in Rusticks humble Cells
On chearful Teniers' laughing Canvas dwells,

Nor ever are his warm Expressions faint,
But laughing we enjoy the Comic Paint;
'Till Scenes more horrid break upon our Eye,
Effects of Borgognone's too cruel Joy.
Strong was his Fancy, and his Genius good,
But bred in Camps, he mix'd his Tints in Blood;
Alternate bore the Pencil and the Sword,
And the same Hands that fought, the Fight record.

But lo! and let the pious Tear be shed,
On the sad Cloth the World's Great Master dead.
The Mother see! in Grief amazing drown'd,
And Sorrow more than mortal spread around.
What striking Attitudes! what strong Relief!
We see, we wonder at, we feel the Grief.
Who cou'd such Pow'r of speaking Paint employ?
Own, Parma, own thy darling Son with Joy;
Still to his Memory fresh Trophies rear,
Whose Life, insatiate War itself cou'd spare.

No Arms he needed 'midst the fatal Strife,
But to his potent Pencil ow'd his Life,
The wond'ring Soldier dropp'd the lifted Sword,
Nor stain'd those Hands he only not ador'd.

Now, as Æneas in the Stygian Glades
Wond'ring beheld departed Heroes Shades,
Amidst the Forms of Worthies dead we range,
By eternizing Paint preserv'd from Change.
Here Law and Learning dwell in Wandesford's Face,
While valiant Whartons shine with martial Grace;
And the soft Females of the Race declare
That these no braver were, than those were fair;
In garter'd Glory drest here Danby stands
And Laud with Air imperious still commands.

The next great Form with melancholy Eye,
And inauspicious Valour seems to sigh.
Peace to his Soul! howe'er 'gainst Right he fought,
Be in his dreadful Doom his Sin forgot;
Too much misled to leave his Honour clear,
Too wretched not to claim a gen'rous Tear!
A Wretch, to Virtue's still a sacred thing!
How much more sacred then, a murder'd King!
But be our Wrath, as it deserves, apply'd
To his Two Guides, still closest to his Side,
Laud and the Queen, whose fatal Conduct shew,
What bigot Zeal, and headstrong Pride cou'd do.

But see where Kneller now our Eye commands
To pictur'd Kings, familiar to his Hands
Kings to support a free-born People made,
Kings that but rul'd to bless the Lands they sway'd.

Sov'reigns, whose inoppressive Pow'r has shown
Freedom and Monarchy, well-join'd, are One.

See mighty William's fierce determin'd Eye,
Freedom to save, or in her Cause to die;
As when on Boyne's important Banks he stood,
And, as his Deeds surpriz'd the swelling Flood,
All torn and mangled false Religion fled,
And crush'd Oppression snarl'd beneath his Tread.

Next, in the steddy Lines of Brunswick's Face,
Majestick manly Honesty we trace;
Pleas'd, as on Sarum's Plain with glad accord,
When willing Thousands hail'd their new-come Lord,
And (far beyond a Tyrant's baleful Glee)
The King rejoic'd to find his People free.
Good Prince, whose Age forsook thy native Land
To bless our Albion with thy mild Command,

Long may this sacred Form of Thee remain,
Here plac'd by him whose Counsels bless'd thy Reign,
And ever may his Sons with Joy relate,
That He as Faithful was as Thou wert Great.

But now, my Muse, to sob'rer Pomp descend,
And to the cool Arcade my Steps attend.
Here, when the Summer Sun spreads round his Ray,
Beneath the bending Arch young Zephyrs play,
And, when it farther from our Orb retires,
Old Vulcan smiling lights his chearful Fires.
Hither the jolly Hunter's Crew resort,
Talk o'er the Day, and re-enjoy their Sport.
Here too, with Brow unbent, and cheerful Air,
The mighty Statesman oft forgot his Care;
Knew Friendship's Joys, and still attentive hung,
On Pelham, Edgcumbe, Devonshire, or Young,
In Senates form'd or private Life to please,
There shar'd his Toil, and here partook his Ease.

Here be thy stay, my Muse, tho' pleas'd, not long,
Thy Sister Painting claims again my Song,
Where thron'd in State the Goddess we descry
As the gay Gall'ry opens on our Eye.
Here in her utmost Pomp well-pleas'd she reigns,
Nor weeps her absent Rome or Lombard plains;
Here the great Masters Genius still survives
Breaths in the Paint, and on the Canvas lives.
What e'er in Nature's forming Pow'r is plac'd,
Fair to the Eye and luscious to the Taste,
Is by our cheated Sense with Joy perceiv'd,
Nor but by touching are we undeceiv'd.
Pausing and loath to be convinc'd we stand,
Lest the fair Fruit should suffer from our Hand,
Lest the press'd Plum our ruder touch should own,
Or swelling Peach bewail its injur'd down;

Less dare we to the Fish or Fowl draw near,
Tho' tempting, strongly guarded they appear,
Frighted we scarce can brook the horrid Looks
Of Dogs, and snarling Cats, and swearing Cooks.
What Strokes, what Colours Sneyders could command!
How great the Power of Rubens' daring Hand!
Immortal Rubens! whose capacious Mind,
Of the vast Art to no one Part confin'd,
Pierc'd like the Sun's quick Beam, all Nature thro';
And whatsoe'er the Goddess form'd he drew.
See! Mola next the Roman Deeds displays,
That bid our Hearts be Patriot as we gaze.
Here Julio's wond'rous Buildings still appear,
And swelling Domes still seem to rise in Air.

Great Shade of Poussin! from the Muse receive;
All the renown a Verse, like hers, can give.

Genius sublime! to reach thy soaring Praise,
A Muse like Maro's should renew her Lays;
Rival of Raphael! such thy wond'rous Line,
'Tis next to his; and only not divine.

Ye Maids, employ'd in spotless Vesta's sight,
Lend me a Beam of your Eternal Light;
Full on yon' Picture throw the sacred Ray,
And high Imperial Chastity display.
See! the great Roman on his martial Throne,
Outdo what e'er in War his Arms had done,
See him rise far beyond a Soldier's Fame,
And Afric's Victor but a second Name.
Valiant and Great he trod the Field of Blood,
But here is Virtuous, Bountiful, and Good;
Resists the utmost Pow'r of Female Charms,
Feels all their Force, yet gives 'em from his Arms,
And Lord of all the Passions of his Breast,
Defeats e'en Love, and makes his Rival blest.

Wonderful Strokes, that thro' the Eye impart,
Such various Motions to the human Heart!
Thro' it a Thousand floating Passions move,
We pity, wonder, weep, rejoice and love.

The moral Tale thus exquisitely told,
His Colours now diviner Truths unfold;
At Horeb's Rock in sacred Awe we stand,
And pencil'd Miracles our Faith command.
The mighty Law-giver his Rod displays,
And the tough Flint his potent Touch obeys;
Quick into Streams dissolves the solid Stone,
And floats the Waste with Waters not its own.
See there the shrivel'd Cheek, or languid Eye,
Swell into Health, or lighten into Joy;
As eager, crouding in the Draught they join,
Reviving Thousands bless the Stroke Divine.
But thou, fair Damsel, with distinguish'd Worth,
Emblem of filial Piety, stand forth.

Forgot her own consuming inward Fire,
She lifts untouch'd the Vessel to her Sire;
With the cool Draught his heaving Breast relieves,
And, as she sooths his Pain, her own deceives.

With Scenes too sad Salvator strives to please,
Since what creates our Wonder spoils our Ease;
We give the wretched Prodigal a Tear,
And wish his kind forgiving Father near.

As on Avernus' Banks the Heroe stood,
Scar'd at the dreary Darkness of the Wood,
'Till thro' the Leaves fair shot th' auspicious Light,
And with the branching Gold reliev'd his Sight;
So rescu'd from the horrid Scene we stand,
By the sweet Effluence of Guido's Hand.

Soft to the Sight his ev'ry Colour flows,
As to the Scent the Fragrance of the Rose.
Pure Beams of Light around the Virgin play,
Clad in the Brightness of celestial Day;
Be as they may the Broils of fierce Divines,
Pure and unspotted here at least she shines.

Thee too, Lorraine, the well pleas'd Muse shou'd name,
Nor e'er forget Domenichini's Fame,
But sudden Sorrow stops the flowing Line,
And not one Smile is found among the Nine.
Behold where all the Charms that Heav'n could give,
Blended in one sweet Form still seem to live;

Then sink to Tears, nor stop the bursting Groan,
When thou art told that all those Charms are gone.
Relentless Death still forcing to the Grave
The Good, the Fair, the Virtuous, and the Brave,
Here the whole Malice of his Pow'r put on,
And aim'd a Dart that slew them all in one.
How Fair, how Good, how Virtuous was the Dame,
A thousand Hearts in Anguish still proclaim,
How brave her Soul, against all Fear how try'd,
Sad fatal Proof she gave us when she dy'd.

Thou then, my Friend, no farther Verse demand,
Full swells my Breast, and trembling shakes my Hand,
And these sad Lines conclude my mournful Lay,
Since we too once must fall to Death a Prey,
May we like Walpole meet the fatal Day.

now a small Village, formerly the Bishop's Soc, which is now at Norwich.

a Village, in the Church of which is the Burial Place, of the noble Family of Coke, and a very fine marble Monument of the Right Honourable Sir Edward Coke Lord Chief Justice of the Kings Bench in the Reign of King James I. and Ancestor to the present Right Honourable Thomas Earl of Leicester.

the Seat of the Right Honourable Charles Viscount Townshend.

The Statue of Laocoon in Bronze by Girardon, from the Antique.

The Picture of Mary Magdalen washing Christ's Feet, by Sir Peter Paul Rubens, born at Antwerp 1577. and died 1640.

The holy Family with a Dance of Angels, by Sir Anthony Vandike a Scholar of Rubens, born at Antwerp, 1599. and died 1641.

The stoning of St. Stephen, by Eustache Le Sueur, born at Paris 1677. and died 1655.

John baptizing Christ, by Francis Albani, who died 1660.

An Assumption of the Virgin Mary by Morellio.

The Green-Velvet Drawing is called the Carlo-Marat Room, from being fill'd with Pictures of that Master and his Scholars.

Carlo Maratti was born at Rome, 1625, was a Scholar of Andrea Sacchi and died 1713.

A Portrait of Clement IX.

He painted the Judgment of Paris in this Room, when he was 83.

The Bassans, Father and Sons, were very eminent Landskape Painters, about the Middle and towards the End of the sixteenth Century.

Christ laid in the Sepulchre, by Parmegiano.

Francis Mazzuoli, commonly called Parmegiano, was born 1504. and died 1540. There is a Story of this Master at the taking of Parma, like that of Archimedes, and also like that of Protogenes, at the taking of Rhodes, while he was painting his famous Ialysus.

In the Yellow Drawing are Portraits by Vandyke, of Lord Chief Baron Wandesford, Lord and Lady Wharton, their Daughters, Archbishop Laud, King Charles the First and his Queen. The Portrait of the Earl of Danby, now hangs in the Great Parlour.

Charles the First.

Sir Godfrey Kneller.

King William the Third on Horseback.

George the First on Horseback.

The four Markets by Rubens and Snyder.

The Stories of Curtius and Cocles, by Mola, born 1609. died 1665.

A Piece of Architecture, by Julio Romano, born 1492, and died 1546.

Here are the Stories of Scipio's Continence, and of Moses striking the Rock, by Nicolò Poussin, born 1594, and died 1665.

A very capital Picture of the Prodigal Son on his Knees at Prayers amidst the Herd of Swine, by Salvator Rosa, born 1614, and died 1673.

The famous Picture by Guido, of the Doctors of the Church, disputing on the Immaculate Conception. Guido Reni, born 1575 and died 1642.

Claud. Gille of Lorrain, born 1600, and died 1682.

Domenico Zampieri, commonly called Domenichini, born 1561, and died 1641.

The Portrait of Catherine Shorter, first Wife to Sir Robert Walpole. She died Aug. 20, 1737.

PROTHALAMIUM

Sun, with Light peculiar shining,
Usher in the smiling Morn,
Round thy Head thy Glories twining
Bid th' auspicious Day be born;
Bid the Hours with nimblest Paces
Free and frolick to advance,
And bid Venus lend her Graces
Tripping at thy Wheels to dance.

Think how swift, when once a Lover,
Skimming o'er the Plains you flew,
When the charming cruel Rover
Bad a God in vain pursue.
Think how deeply you were wounded,
When you stretch'd your eager Arms,
And a lifeless Trunk surrounded
For your Daphne's sprightly Charms.

By the Pains with which you languish'd,
By the Joys you then desir'd,
By the Youth's impatient Anguish
Keen with Expectation fir'd;
Swiftly speed the Heav'ns over,
But that happy Minute rest,
When you see a luckier Lover
By a fairer Daphne blest.

To C. P. Esq.

From Horace, Book iv. Ode 12.

Observe how calmly warm my Friend,
O'er the smooth Plains the Zephyrs Blow,
While Trees in gentlest Motion bend,
And Streams scarce murmur as they flow.
Sweet Philomela sends her Song
Of pleasing Sadness thro' the Groves,
Wailing a wretched Virgin's Wrong
And a base King's incestuous Loves.
The Shepherds to the Shades repair
And on the Grass their Verse indite,
And the great Patron of their Care,
Arcadia's list'ning God delight.
Thirst with the Season, Charles, comes on,
Woud'st thou not then in Thrist repine,
Bring the sleak Soal, or Turbot down
And well thou shalt be paid with Wine.

See! as the sounding Cork comes forth
Pale Care and Sadness startled fly,
And each Reflection, Foe to Mirth,
Drown'd in the swelling Brimmer lie.
If then you'll throw your Coke aside,
To such enliv'ning Joys enclin'd,
Quick mount your Steed, and briskly ride,
But bid Tom bring the Fish behind.
For think not Gratis to come off
Or tipple Scot-free at my Board,
As when o'er sumptuous Meals you laugh,
With yon fair Villa's bounteous Lord.
Come then, nor rack thy Brains to know,
How many Fees would Wimple buy;
Come and considering as you go,
That Hardwick's self at last must die,
Severity for Folly leave,
Best Successor to puzzling Laws;
In Publick howsoever grave,
Be mad in Private with Applause.

Wimple in Cambridgeshire, the Seat of the Right Hon. Philip Lord Hardwick Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain.

THE DISSAPPOINTMENT.

The Cattle sleek, the gilt Machine
Along the verdant Road,
Moving in sprightly Pomp were seen
To take two Belles abroad.
The one good natur'd Hymen's Care,
Late stole from Dian's grove,
T'other, tho' as her Sister fair,
Yet knew not wedded Love.
Serene and gay they roll'd along
Like Goddesses at ease;
The softly flowing Streams among,
And gently-waving Trees.
This, from whoe'er should meet her Eyes,
Her future Empire plann'd;
That smil'd, content to boast the Prize
She had already gain'd.

But oh! how soon the fairest Scheme
Or pleasing'st Hope is crost!
Behold them at the Park's extreme
Stopp'd short.—The Key was lost.
With Rage, 'till then unknown, inflam'd,
And vex'd the Matron-Fair
Her ever careless Footmen blam'd,
Her Keeper's Over-care.
While the sad Maid in silent Guise,
With gently-sobbing Breast,
And big full overflowing Eyes
Her sob'rer Grief exprest.
Thus when the Sky fierce Lightnings rend,
And Thunders shake the Plain,
The sorrowful soft Clouds descend
In copious Showr's of Rain.
Thus when Cassandra rag'd around
And curst the Foes of Troy,
In Beauteous Sorrow on the Ground
Sate Helen weeping by.

At length cool Reason Passion sway'd
And the reflecting Dame
Smiling, address'd the weeping Maid,
Dear Girl, we're both to blame,
Why should we fret, tho' thus confin'd?
The Prospects round we see,
Sure more should please a thinking Mind,
Than Scandal-raising Tea.
Here then, beneath these verdant Walls,
At leisure let us roam,
'Till the returning Ev'ning calls
To Ease and Joy at Home;
Of your Philosophy, my Dear,
Quoth she, I give you Joy;
And were content—if like you there
My Time I could employ.

ODE.

On the Anniversary of the Nuptials Of I. D. Esq.

Bright Phœbus, and thou Goddess Maid,
Who mak'st the springing Woods thy Care,
Whose Ears our yearly Vows invade,
Oh! bend, and listen to our Pray'r.
Great God, whose Steps bright Day attends,
With Thee it comes, with Thee retires;
May none be happier than my Friend,
Who bless thy Light, or feel thy Fires,
Thou too, Lucina, hear our Strains,
Tho' Virgin thou thy self and pure,
Oh teach the teeming Wife her Pains
With happy Patience to endure.
For thro' the rolling Nights and Days,
Since Hymen call'd this Pair his own,
Nor thy soft Beams, nor Pæan's Rays,
A purer nuptial Torch have known.

Ye certain Fates, on whose fix'd Will
Unalt'rable Decrees depend,
Oh! guard this chosen Pair from Ill,
Like their Beginning be their End.
For them may ever chearful Health
In ev'ry breathing Gale be born,
And flowing yet well-order'd Wealth
Their Fields, their Streams, their Board adorn.
To their whole Youth give sprightly Joy,
And to their long-extended Day,
Those tranquil Measures that ne'er cloy,
Nor sink 'till Life's Lamp fades away.

VERSES

Wrote in the Oak-Walk at Billingbear in Berkshire.

Sacra Jovi Quercus, Veneri gratissima ------

Thou ever verdant, venerable Shade,
Ye sacred Oaks, by Time thus charming made,
More blest than those, the Fav'rites once of Jove,
Eternal Offspring of Dodona's Grove.
Here flourish safe, nor Envy, nor complain,
Tho' your tall Brotherhood in George's Reign
Assert the Empire of the frighted Main.
The Sea and all its Wealth to them resign,
For know a Treasure far more dear is thine;
Bend then your Branches round the Sea-born Fair,
And bending own that Venus is your Care.

These Verses are here printed in Memory of that most accomplish'd young Lady, the Honourable Miss Essex Griffin, who was only Daughter to the late Right Honourable the Lord Griffin, and Niece to the present Right Honourable the Countess of Portsmouth.

A Thought on Gaming.

To gild o'er Av'rice with a specious Name,
To suffer Torment while for Sport you Game,
Time to reverse, and Order to defie,
To make your Temper subject to a Die,
To curse your Fate for each unlucky Throw,
Your Reason, Sense, and Prudence to forego;
To call each Pow'r infernal to your Part,
To sit with anxious Eyes, and aching Heart,
Your Fortune, Time, and Health to throw away,
Is what our modern Men of Taste call Play.

To I. D. Esq.

Swallowfield Place, March 25, 1740.

Dear absent Master of this sweet Domain,
Attend a while, 'tis Friendship breaths the Strain;
This bids the Heart midst Ease and Plenty moan,
And makes Joy tasteless when confin'd to one.
The Morn, 'tis true, can no where fairer rise,
No Zephyrs softer fan the Evn'ing Skies,
Spring has no sweeter Task than to improve
Yon flow'ry Level, and that sprouting Grove;
The warbling Birds send Peace to ev'ry Ear,
And the Streams murmur rest to ev'ry Care.
Yet this my Lot, thus ev'ry Sense employ'd,
Sighing I find each Pleasure unenjoy'd;
True Joy from Friends made blest alone can rise,
For Bliss, if uncommunicated, dies.

Thee then the happiest far of Men I deem,
Whose copious Bounty's ever-flowing Stream
Gives Joy to ev'ry Heart, that's to thee known,
And makes the Gladness of a Croud thy own.
Come then, my Friend, and grant me to receive
Joys which Society alone can give.
How I exult when as thy Tread I hear?
Attendant, Valgius' Voice salutes my Ear!
See him his honest, ample Face display,
Broad as the Moon, and chearful as the Day.
Mirth and her Train, his Slaves he brings along,
Gay Gambols, Revelry, and wanton Song,
Nor needs the Aid of the inspiring Bowl
To warm his Fancy, or disclose his Soul,
Which always op'ning in his Face we scan
Claiming a Friend where'er he meets a Man.

Nor less sincere, tho' calmer Joys arise
With Aspect mild when Gallus greets my Eyes,
And challenges from this thy new Abode
The Hospitality he once bestow'd;
When Leominster Sheep, long from the Butcher kept,
Their Master's Bounty, and our Hunger wept;
And as on Pinsley's Sunny Banks we lay,
The Cyder Tons ran unperceiv'd away.
Here, as in Greek and Roman Times, we find
The pious Priest and tuneful Poet join'd;
His Verses what good Men should be declare,
And his whole Life informs us what they are,
Prudently gay, and chearfully severe.

Who can but feel the Joy that Friendship gives,
When Paulus' honest Hand his Hand receives?
Blest Man! to whom he deigns that Pledge impart,
Unfailing Servant to a valiant Heart!

Whose Warmth whenever Justice bids is shown,
In a Friend's Cause, still warmer than his own.
But oh! forgive the Muse, if droops her Wing,
If e'en to thee she can but faintly sing,
While the dear Pleasures Friendship e'er has shown,
Are now but from a past Enjoyment known.
Th'imperfect Joy remembrance gives my Breast,
Is that in thee and—I once was blest,
Blest in thy gen'rous Friendship what I feel,
Thy Soul, from whence it springs, forbids me tell.
And thy Experience knows what Fate denies,
While—for Health to distant Scarbrough flies;
For often has he fix'd thy list'ning Ear,
With sprightly Wit, or Argument severe,
In his Wit Dignity, his Learning Ease,
T'instruct his Business, his Delight to please.

Come then, nor farther a Friend's Woes prolong,
Whose Grief sincere you find from this sad Song.

A SONG

The Youth on whom Cloe deigns smile,
And cast the warm Beams of her Eyes,
Shall never leave Britain's fair Isle,
Nor aim at the Warrior's Prize.
Ostend shall not see the fond Boy,
Amidst the brave Troops as they land,
Her Sons loudly shouting for Joy,
As Britons advance on the Strand.
But Vaga's soft murmuring Stream,
And each verdant Hill and Grove,
Shall give the fond Youth all his Fame,
As he warbles out Musick and Love.
And lo! the Beaux fluttering Throng
Bedaub'd all with Powder and Lace,
While Cloe attends to my Song,
Withdraw and with Blushes give Place.

Apollo, as in the fam'd Ring,
And the Muses are all in her Eyes,
Mute Fish, should she bid 'em, would sing
As sweet as the Swan when she dies.
How I ventur'd to sing, and cou'd please
By singing, if e'er 'tis enquir'd,
The Question is answer'd with Ease,
She bad me and I was inspir'd.

ANOTHER.

Sweet Solitude, that e'en Despair canst charm,
And of their Force their sharpest Ills disarm,
Oh! ease a while the Anguish I endure.
Ye Zephyrs still more gently whisp'ring blow,
Ye Streams, with still a softer murm'ring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.

Ye Nightingales, whose melancholy Song,
Rolls on with pleasing Sadness all Night long,
Lend me your Notes to tell what I endure.
Ye Zephyrs still more gently whis'pring blow,
Ye Streams with still a softer murm'ring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.

And thou, cold Maid, if the dull Winds that bear,
My dying Sighs, convey them to thine Ear,
Speaking the killing Torments I endure;
Oh say, tho' Hopes of Love from thee are vain,
Say thou canst Pity an expiring Swain,
And sooth at lest the Wounds you will not cure.

To a Lady

On the Birth Day of her Husband, 1740.

Awake, fair Bride to this returning Morn,
And hail the Day on which thy Lord was born;
But double let his Salutations be,
Since to his birth he owes the Bliss of loving thee.
Long may this be the Subject of the Nine,
Nor other Day with equal Glory shine,
That one except which gave his Hand to thine,
Ever with White may these distinct appear,
The fairest Children of the rolling Year,
Shine, Venus, shine on these profusely Gay,
Ever on these, Lucina, shed thy Ray;
Sorrow and Pain be ever from the Fair,
And Love, blest Bridegroom, Love be all thy Care.
Joys which they fancy'd ne'er could be excell'd,
Still still with Streams of purer Joys be swell'd.
As the fair rolling Moons their Influence shed

To bless the Labours of the Nuptial Bed,
Lend them, ye Pow'rs above, a gracious Ear,
And hear and grant a Friend's and Poet's Pray'r.

As the immense Benevolence of Heav'n,
Can give my Friend what yet it has not giv'n,
As the excess of Joy that fills his Breast,
Can by some chosen Gift be still encreast,
As all that Beauty, Youth and Wealth can give,
Will double Lustre from an Heir receive,
Deny not, Heav'n, this dearest, last, best Boon;
Blest with the Parent's Virtues send a Son.

ODE

On the Birth-day of two Friends. In Imitation of an Epigram of Martial.

Bright morning Star, revisit Earth,
Nor give our Joy delay,
Sacred to Virtuous Friendship's Birth,
Bright Star, bring on the Day.
Each Nymph, each Swain the Day requires,
Come on, nor let us deem
Thou borrow'st, to bring on thy Fires,
Bootes' lazy Team.
When well thou know'st thou may'st command
The swift Ledæan Horse,
Pollux to thee would pleas'd descend,
And Castor urge thy Course:

And wishing void the Boon of Jove,
Own these more Wisdom show,
Who live, nor envy Joys above,
Unparted Friends below.
Come then, nor stop the eager Sun,
His fretting Coursers neigh,
And bright Aurora's blush is on
To usher in the Day.
Nor Cynthia, nor Night's Stars will fade,
But long e'er they retire
The happiest Pair e'er Friendship made
To shine on and admire.
Let them then stand—with all his Light
Be Phœbus far away,
In Cynthia's and in Nature's spight
Our Joy shall make the Day.

To a Friend.

In Imitation of an Epigram of Martial.

The Things that best teach Life to please
My dearest, happiest Youth, are these.
A Fortune, some kind Kinsman's Boon,
Unearned by Labour of your own;
A pleasant fruitful Berkshire Soil,
O'erpaying still the Tiller's Toil,
And from all Law-suits ever free,
Tho' even Pratt your Counsell be.
In State Affairs too small a share
Domestick Pleasures to impair.
A Body sound, a perfect Mind,
And Health to chearful Spirits join'd.
An open, yet discerning Brow,
A Board for welcome deck'd, not show;
And sprightly Mirth attendant there.
But free from Drunkenness as Care;

And ever fill'd with equal Friends,
Whom Worth like Walpole's recommends.
A Wife, from all Reserv'dness free,
Yet chaste as soft-ey'd Modesty;
In her pleas'd Arms a simp'ring Boy
The Pledge and Crown of all your Joy.

Then, to be blest above Man's Share,
Desire to be just what you are;
But raise to Heav'n your grateful Eye,
And neither wish, nor fear to die.

In Imitation of Horace,

Book iv. Ode iii.

He on whose birth Apollo strongly shone,
Whom then the Muse saluted as her own,
Shall ne'er on Isthmian Sands pursue renown,
But scorn the Piny Wreath and Laurel Crown;
Nor after Toils of many a well fought Day,
To the proud Capitol direct his Way.
But on the Banks of murm'ring Tiber laid,
Trees in soft Whispers waving round his Head,
To the sweet Lyre his Song he shall rehearse,
And all his Glory be deriv'd from Verse,
Imperial Rome, whose Nod the World obeys,
Who gives to warlike Heroes martial Praise,
Has plac'd me in the Poet's charming Choir,
And Envy, tho' unwilling, must retire.
Sweet Nymph, that dost in fair Pieria dwell,
And call forth Musick from the vocal Shell,

Thou who coud'st give to silent Fish a Breath
Sweeter than Swans e'er warbled at their Death;
To thee 'tis due, that as I pass along
Each Eye selects me from the vulgar Throng,
As Father of the Roman Lyric Song.
And that I charm each Ear with Notes divine,
And that I please, if I can please, is thine.

In Imitation of Horace.

Lib. I. Epist. IV.

O ------ to whose keen yet candid Sense,
My Verse I trust, and know its Value thence;
While rattling Coaches just beneath me roll,
Ruffle my Thoughts, and discompose my Soul;
How shall I guess my Friend his Time employs;
In London fix'd, yet rescu'd from its Noise?
Flows from thy Pen the sweet spontaneous Line,
While Cælia's Look supplies the absent Nine?
Or do you thro' Ideal China rove,
And mixt with Brachmans in the hallow'd Grove?
Or are you posting o'er some Roman Road,
By captive Kings and conqu'ring Consuls trod,
By which the Worlds remotest Ends were join'd,
And Rome's dread Orders issu'd to Mankind?
Or dost thou sit in serious musing Mood
Weighing within thy Mind what's Right and Good,

Teaching thyself, without the Aid of Schools,
True Virtue's, Honesty's, and Friendship's Rules?
For thou, my Friend, art not mere breathing Clay,
But all thy Thoughts the strongest Sense display.
To thee the Gods sufficient Wealth have giv'n,
And taught its use, the greatest Gift of Heav'n.
What for his Child would more a Parent have?
What for his Pupil more could Tutor crave,
Than that with Health and Fame Heav'n wou'd him bless,
Make him think right, and well his Thoughts express?

Mid'st Hope and Care, and jealous Fear and Rage,
Expect each coming Day to close thy Age;
Then if propitious Fate shall add one more,
Happier you'll pass the sweet unthought for Hour.

Translation of Tibullus.

Book IV. Elegy II.

Great Mars, see Delia bowing at thy Shrine;
To gaze on her, leave, leave thy Seats divine;
Not Venus self can blame thee, yet beware,
Lest, as you gaze, you drop the threat'ning Spear,
And the soft Maid subdue the God of War.
In her bright Eye Love lights his double Fire,
When he would fill Immortals with Desire.
Whate'er she does, where'er her Feet she turns,
Grace lurks beneath her Steps and ev'ry Act adorns.
How graceful flows her loose dishevel'd Hair?
Nor less the twisted Locks become the Fair.
She fires, if purple Vestments round her flow,
She fires in Garments emulating Snow,
Thus decks Vertumnus the celestial Hall,
Grac'd with a thousand Robes and adding Grace to all.

Translation of Tibullus.

Book IV. Elegy III.

Ye furious Boars, that haunt the shady Grove,
Or dreary Plain, O spare my youthful Love,
Nor whet your Tusks against my charming Boy;
Thou, Cupid, guard him for Sulpicia's Joy.
The love of Sport has born him far away,
Perish, ye Dogs, ye Forests, all decay.
Is it not Madness o'er the Hills to roam
And bring thy tender Hands all mangled Home?
Can it be sweet to pierce the thorny Wood,
And stain thy Beauteous Legs with starting Blood?
Yet might I my Cerinthus' Pleasures share,
Nor Hills, nor Woods, nor Thorns, nor Wounds I'd fear.
Careful I'd search the Stag's uncertain Way,
And loose the eager Dog upon his Prey.

Then, then the Woods should truly pleasant prove,
E'en 'mid the Toils I'd grasp my manly Love;
And the rough Boar should pass unheeded by;
His Safety owing to our thoughtless Joy.

But tho' thy Sports, my Love, exceed my Charms,
Oh! take no other Mistress to thy Arms,
At Dian's Shrine his Vows the Sportsman pays,
Chaste then, like hers, for ever be thy Ways.
And oh! if any shameless Nymph shall dare,
Joys due to me alone, by Stealth to share,
Her guilty Limbs may hungry Tigers tear.
But come, my Love, my Charmer, come away,
To others gladly leave the rural Prey,
To others leave the dusty dang'rous Field,
More Joy the narrow space of these fond Arms can yield.

To R. D. Esq.

A SONG.

Who has breath'd Heliconian Air,
Of loiter'd on Pindus' Side,
Gives to the wild Winds all his Care,
His Grief to the full-flowing Tide.

While his Muse and his Verse are his own,
Alike inattentive he hears
Elizabeth mounting a Throne,
Or Austria sinking with Fears.

Then, Phœbus send down from thy Choir
Sweet Clio, and thence let her bring
A Song that would suit thy own Lyre,
For such only Varus should sing.

To War if he tunes his loud Voice,
Alcæus shall pay him with Smiles;
Nor less shall soft Sappho rejoice
Of Tears when the Nymphs he beguiles.

Nor Envy him, tho' her pleas'd Ear
His Charmer doth ever incline,
But own tho' his Daphne's as fair,
She's kinder and wiser than thine.

Translation from Tibullus.

Book I. Elegy I.

Let num'rous Acres others Hopes employ,
Let Heaps of hoarded Gold give others Joy,
Whom neigh'bring Fear for ever keeps awake,
Or whose short Slumbers early Trumpets break;
Let Ease, by Poverty begot, be mine,
While on my Hearth the scanty Faggots shine,
And my own Hand sets down the swelling Vine.
Let but each Year afford me fresh supplies,
And faithful to my Hopes my Crops arise;
For to each Stock or Stone I bend my Brow,
That bears the hallow'd, tho' neglected, Bough;
And the first Fruit with which my Branches nod,
Falls ever sacred to the rural God.
Nor be the Gift to Ceres' Temple small,
But the full Sheaf hang trembling on the Wall;

And in the Garden let Priapus stand
To scare the Birds with his red threat'ning Wand.
Ye too, once Guardians of a happier Plain,
Now scarce employ'd to watch my small Domain,
Ye Lares, yet ye shall your Rites obtain.
Then the fat Calf before your Altars bled,
Suffice it now that the Lamb's Blood be shed;
An ample Victim from my lessen'd Mead.
The Lamb; round whom the rustick Lad and Lass
Shall briskly trip it o'er th' unbending Grass,
And Io! Ceres, sing, and crown the sparkling Glass,
Content I live now on the humble plain,
Nor envy toilsome Riches got with Pain;
While the Palm guards me from the Dog Star's Heat,
And the cool Stream runs murm'ring at my Feet.
Without a Blush I oft bear home the Lamb
Shiv'ring and cold forsaken of its Dam;
Nor sometimes scorn to hold the Plowman's Rein,
And force the Oxen thro' the stubborn Plain.

Oh! spare ye Wolves, and Thieves, my little Stock,
Your Appetites require the rich Man's Flock.
To Shepherd Pan I sacrifice each Year,
And the next Shrine to peaceful Pales rear,
On humble Tables serv'd, and earthen Ware:
On earthen Ware, such was the Ancients Way,
And such they fashion'd of the yielding Clay.
I ask nor Gold nor Silver on my Board,
Nor Barns with Corn by thrifty Grandsires stor'd,
Let my small Table be but neatly spread,
And give me, Gods, a clean, tho' homely Bed;
And in my Arms when charmig Delia lies,
Let the Sea roar and blust'ring Winds arise,
Her Breasts my Port, my Guardian Stars her Eyes.
How sweet those furious Blasts and Tempests prove,
That make each Kiss come warmer from my Love?
How do thick Show'rs improve my silent Joy,
And aid the Sleep they threaten to destroy?
This be my Fate.—Wealthy the Wretch shou'd be
That bears the Wind, and Rain, and raging Sea.

101

Rather be lost all Wealth; all India burn
Than any Nymph should for my Absence mourn,
In dreadful War let great Messalla shine,
And on the Land or Main his Battles join;
Me the soft Fair agreeably detains,
A Captive blest I triumph in her Chains.
Thee only Delia, thee I seek, not Fame,
To live with thee I'll bear a Coward's Name:
May I thy Face in my last Hour behold,
May I thy Hand with dying Farewel hold;
Thou'lt weep and place me, Delia, on the Pyre,
And with thy Tears a while retard the Fire:
Thou'lt weep, I know thy gentle Soul, my Fair,
No senseless Steel, no rugged Flint dwells there.
From that sad Dirge no Youth unmov'd shall go,
No Nymph not bear away a friendly Woe.
But mod'rate then thy Sorrow, Oh my Fair,
Nor strike in Grief thy swelling Breasts, nor dare
To violate thy Cheeks or flowing Hair.

103

Come then, lets sport, my Delia, while we may,
Our Hours, tho' unobserv'd fly swift away,
And Love and Revels ill become the Grey.
Gay sportive Venus now demands our Time,
While Blood flows warm, and Youth is in its Prime;
While in the Dance unblushing we appear
Or o'er the flowing Bowl the rising Morning cheer.
A Soldier brave, or Captain here I stand,
Here fight with Pleasure, here with Pride command.
Far off, Ye Drums and Trumpets, bear your Sounds,
And give Ambition, what it wishes, Wounds;
Give it Wealth too—blest with my little Store,
Secure in Competence, I ask no more
Than to scorn Wealth and not be counted Poor.

104

On reading Lord Bacon's Flattery to King James I.

Ye, to whom Heav'n imparts its special Fires,
Whose Breasts the wondrous quick'ning Beam inspires,
That sheds strong Eloquence's melting Rays,
Or scatters forth the bright Poetick Blaze,
Look here and learn, those Gifts how low and light,
If conscious Dignity not guides their Flight,
How mean when human Pride their Service claims,
And Bacon condescends to flatter James.

105

Epitaph on Charles VI. Emperor of Germany.

[_]

From the French.

The last proud Austrian's Tomb the Eye surveys,
Too many for his Honour, were his Days,
For his unhappy Family too few,
While his false Object was an Heir in View.

His Wisdom to his wretched Child has left,
(Of Wealth, of Pow'r, of Crown at once bereft)
A doubtful Kingdom, yet by War annoy'd,
And Counsellors such as himself employ'd;
And to support proud Titles vainly told
Nothing she wants but Fortune, Friends and Gold.

107

In Praise of Water. A. D. 1736.

Perish then Bacchus, and his darling Vine,
And bold Lycurgus, let thy Task be mine,
And freely I'll the Godhead's Wrath endure,
Whatever Wounds he gives my Theme can cure;
And arm'd with Water I'll maintain the Field,
'Gainst him who made the Earth-born Giants yield.
For sure Apollo will my Cause avow,
Who taught Castalia's temp'rate Fount to flow,
Who only drinks of Aganippe's Stream,
That knows no Warmth but from his own pure Beam.
Hail then, ye limpid Streams, that sweetly glide,
Daughters of Pinsley's ever-flowing Tide.
But from your Sire in happy Error speed
Pleas'd to be lost in Kingsland's verdant Mead;

109

With you for Fame while Mincio vainly strives,
Since Maro's dead, but tuneful Gallus lives:
And, as you sweetly murm'ring glide along,
Repays each Murmur with a sweeter Song;
Nor is the Price beyond the Gifts you bring,
Tho' sweet as Orpheus' self he tunes the String;
Soft Pleasures sport along the Shores you lave,
And Health comes rolling on in ev'ry Wave.
Let golden Tagus boast his flowing Wealth:
Base Dross, what art thou, when compar'd with Health?
Let him too boast the Vines that round him stand,
And with their Clusters redden all the Land,
Bless the near Influence of the Mid-day Star,
And think the Grape inspires his Sons to War.
Vain Boast! for Strangers would his Vintage flow,
And for proud Spain his Purple Harvests grow,
Did not the temp'rate North its succour lend,
And Britain's watry Sons his Realms defend.

These Verses were made when Sir John Norris lay with the English Fleet before Lisbon.

111

Mistaken Bards of old in vain pretend
That drunken Bacchus was to Mars a Friend;
True Courage needs no adscititious Charm,
Be the Head coolest when the Heart's most warm.
No drunken Heroe e'er maintain'd his Ground,
'Twas Water kept Achilles free from Wound,
By that inspir'd the naked Spartan stood,
And made a second Bath of hostile Blood.

As vainly do their Legends strive to prove
That Bacchus is a pow'rful Friend to Love.
What should endear the Swain to Venus' Arms
But that fair Element which gave her Charms?
How gain'd the rugged Mars the temp'rate Dame
But that from Thrace the temp'rate Godhead came?
And who e'er Bacchus for a Lover took
But one poor Girl whom all the World forsook?

Then to th' inspiring Streams, ye Swains, retire;
'Tis Water gives the active Youth desire,
And, cool itself, gives Heroes all their Fire.

113

Imitation of Horace.

Book IV. Ode VII.

The Winter's gone, Grass cloaths the Meads once more,
And the fresh Trees with Leaves are cover'd o'er;
The glad Earth owns her Change in flow'ry Pride,
And by their Banks the less'ning Rivers glide.
Join'd with the Nymphs the Sister Graces dare
Lead naked up the Dance in vernal Air.
The Year, the Hours that steal the passing Day,
Tell us that all is subject to Decay.
The Hoar Frost sinks beneath warm Zephyr's Wing,
And Summer (soon to perish) drives off Spring:
And loaded Autumn scarce its Fruits has shed,
But sullen Winter once more rears its Head.
Yet the Swift Moons their bright Decays repair,
But we, when Clotho cuts the destin'd Hair,

115

At once we fall, with all the mighty dead
Mere Dust become and unapparent Shade.
Who knows if they, who bear almighty sway,
Will add a Morrow to the present Day?
All that to cheat your best lov'd self you spend,
Shall 'scape your greedy Heirs rapacious Hand,
Once dead, not all the Blood Descent can give,
Not all the Fire which Breasts inspir'd receive,
Not Virtue's self again can make you live.
Phœbus, who Milton fir'd with Heav'nly Flame,
Can ne'er the Poet from the Grave reclaim;
Nor the whole Fount that Helicon supplies,
Wash Lethe's deadly Stains from Shakespear's Eyes.

117

To C. P. Esq.

Translation of Horace,

Book I. Epist. II.

While you, my Friend, were pleading at the Bar,
I read the Writer of the Trojan War.
Whence Good or Evil, Shame or Honour flows,
The Philosophic Bard exactly shows;
With useful Rules and sage Instructions fraught,
Beyond what Crantor or Chrysippus taught.
What makes to me this bold Assertion clear,
Unless some golden Brief detains you, hear.
The Tale that tells how arm'd by Paris' Love
For ten long Years two bleeding Nations strove,
Contains a Tide of Turbulence that springs
From witless Crouds, and full as witless Kings.

Give up the Quarrel's Cause, Antenor cries,
But the fond Lover, hear what he replies;

119

Nor Health, nor Life, nor Empire's easy Charms
Shall force the ravish'd fair one from his Arms.

Good Nestor strives the fierce Disputes to quell,
With which Achilles and Atrides swell;
Keen Love permits one Heroe's Soul no rest,
And Anger rules alike in eithers Breast.
The People's Grief from Monarch's Errors springs,
And Subjects pay the want of Sense in Kings.
Sedition, Falshood, Evil, Lust and Rage
The Camp alike and Garrison engage.
Again what Virtue Wisdom-join'd can do
Th'instructive Chief of Ithaca will show,
Who, Troy in Dust, on many a distant Shore
Much study'd human Arts, and Manners more.
He o'er the Sea by varying Tempests born,
Pursuing long his own and Friends return,
Stemm'd Fortune's Waves, and with unwearied Pain,
Plung'd in Adversity, rose safe again,

121

The Siren's Songs and Circe's Cups are known,
Which with his Comrades had he swallow'd down,
Unmann'd he'd rued th' imperious Harlot's Wine,
And yelp'd a Dog, or roll'd in Mud a Swine.
We're useless Mouths, made but to eat and drink
Shunning Life's only good Employ, to think.
We're poor Penelope's disorder'd Train,
Phœacian Youth of soft Alcinous' reign,
A vicious Crew, that lull the tortur'd Breast
With Midnight Song and Noon-tide Sleep to rest.
The murd'ring Felon active leaves his Bed,
And, e'er the Sun be ris'n, in Blood is red;
When he so swift to others Ruin hies,
Cannot Self-preservation make you rise?
Tho' well, you will not leave your easy Chair,
When the full Dropsy swells you, you must stir.
Call then for Book and Candle e'er 'tis light,
Give your whole Mind to search out Truth and Right,
Lest some worse cause intruding break your Rest,
And Love disturb, or Envy taint your Breast.

123

If penetrating Gravel tries your Reins,
The Doctor's call'd in haste to ease your Pains,
And shall your Mind a worse Disease endure
And you let Years pass by, and seek no Cure?
Set out, the Race's hardest Part is run,
Great Wisdom's Work's half finish'd when begun.
Who lets the present Hour unus'd pass by,
Waits with the Clown until the River's dry,
Poor senseless Rustick! the unvarying Stream,
Flows on, and will for ever flow the same.
Wealth to acquire is most Men's sov'reign Care,
And then a Wife to bring that Wealth an Heir.
In Tracts of Waste th'improving Plowshare's seen,
And barren Heaths in fruitful Tilth are green.
Who's satisfy'd, however small his Store,
Should scorn to throw away a Wish for more.
No stately Equipage, no splendid Plate,
No sumptuous House, no Rent-roll of Estate,
E'er gave the fever'd Blood a Moment's Rest,
Or pluck'd one Thorn from out its Master's Breast.

125

Who thinks to know the use of Joy and Wealth,
Must first be well in Mind, and strong in Health.
Who lives in Fear, or longs with much for more,
Has just such Pleasure from his useless Store,
As Age-dim Eyes from Painting can receive,
Or Musick's Strains to Ears impostum'd give.
The tainted Cask sours all it does contain;
Shun Pleasures, ever bought too dear with Pain.
The Wretch that covets, always lives in Want,
Stint your Desire, Heav'n has no more to grant.
The envious fall to others Joy a Prey,
And as their Neighbours thrive, they pine away;
The Breasts that's Envy's Slave with Pains is prick'd
Beyond what fell Inquisitors inflict.
He who his rising Anger can't controul,
Shall rue the Sallies of his heated Soul,
Shall wish, in Agony of Heart, undone
What Passion will'd in absent Reason's Throne.
Anger's a short-liv'd Madness, and with Sway,
Rules Sovereign if not tutor'd to obey.

127

Keep strongly in the hot rebellious Mind,
Be it with Bits restrain'd, and Curbs confin'd.
The docile Horse in prime of Years is broke
To bear the Rein, or stretch beneath the Yoke.
The Whelp that hunts the Deer Skin round the Court,
Staunch loves the Field, nor ever quits the Sport.
Drink early then, my Friend, at Reason's Bowl,
And fill with wholesome Draughts thy youthful Soul.
If Wine or Gall the Recent Vessel stains,
Each Scent alike the faithful Cask retains.
Start then on Virtue's Course without Delay,
If you get on but slow, I shall not stay,
Nor press upon you if you lead the Way.

129

To Lydia.

Translation of Horace.

Book I. Ode XXV.

Full seldom now the Rake's bold Beat
Thy clatt'ring Window moves,
To break thy Sleep: nor quits thy Gate
The Threshold that it loves.

Fond once its willing Hinge to turn.
Less, nightly less you hear,
“While I the live-long Midnight mourn,
“Sleeps Lydia free from Care?

You old in turn, the scornful Rakes
In some lone Lane shall curse,
When with the changing Moon outbreaks
The North Wind's furious Force.

131

When Lust, all hot as Mares e'er felt,
Thy canker'd Liver burn,
Thou into scalding Tears shalt melt,
Nor ever cease to mourn,

That frolick Youth dry Leaves will throw,
To Winter's Eastern Winds,
And Ivy green still round its Brow
And lasting Myrtle binds.

133

Translation of Theocritus.

Idyllium the First.

Thyrsis and a Shepherd.

By a Genleman.

THYRSIS.
Sweet is the Musick of yon lofty Pine
Amidst the Fountains; nor less sweet is thine;
Melodious Shepherd, when soft pleasing Strains
Flow from thy Pipe, and charm the list'ning Plains.
Pan ever foremost of the tuneful Band;
The second Seat unrivall'd you command.
If Pan the He goat claims, superior Bard,
To thee the Female falls a just Reward;
If to the God this latter Choice belong,
The luscious Kid crowns thy triumphant Song.

SHEPHERD.
Soft as the sound when murm'ring Waters glide,
Descending thro' the Mountains craggy Side,

135

Is thy sweet Accent; if the sacred Nine
Claim the first Honours of the fleecy Kine,
The Lamb for thee, sports in the flow'ry Meads,
And to thy Glory a just Victim bleeds.

THYRSIS.
Say, wilt thou sit and tune thy mellow Reed,
Amidst these Bushes while thy Flock I feed?

SHEPHERD.
Alas! we fear great Pan, who now retreats,
Fatigu'd with early sports from Noon-tide Heats.
Then solemn Silence rules thro' all the Plains,
Or hasty Vengeance seeks the guilty Swains.
But thou expert in ev'ry Rural Muse,
Recline with me beneath these shady Boughs,
In this cool Arbour Daphnis' Fate bewail,
For well thou know'st the melancholy Tale;
And if such pleasing Notes flow from thy Tongue
As when with Libyan Chromius late you sung,

137

This milky Mother of two Kids shall pay
The grateful Tribute of thy tuneful Lay.
A two-ear'd Cup besides compact and grand
Fresh smelling from the skilful Artist's Hand;
Around its Lips the circling Ivy strays,
And a young Kid in wanton Gambols plays,
Within a Virgin's heav'nly Form embost,
Her mantle gently by the Winds is tost;
Just by two comely Swains in youthful Life
For her contending in alternate Strife.
To both her Smiles the sportive Damsel lends
And now to Damon, now to Strephon tends,
To neither kind; she unrelenting hears,
Their fruitless Plaints, and sees them bath'd in Tears.
Not far from hence a rugged Rock ascends,
On it a hoary Fisher lab'ring bends,
Dragging his heavy Net along the briny Sands.
Each swelling Muscle speaks the hardy Toil,
And in his Veins the vig'rous Fluids boil.

139

Near this old Sire shoots forth a purple Vine,
Luxuriant Grapes on loaded Branches shine;
A Boy to watch the golden Fruit is set,
While two sagacious Foxes ling'ring wait;
One thro' the cluster'd Rows with Silence creeps,
Nibling the Tendrils t'other slyly peeps,
Into the well-fill'd Pouch; the wily Beast,
Grins at the prospect of a future Feast.
The heedless Keeper, he takes no Alarm,
Nor loss of Breakfast fears, nor other Harm;
But fix'd on other Work in haste prepares
For chirping Grashoppers insidious Snares;
The soft Acanthus circling spreads the Whole,
And all astonish'd view the perfect Bowl;
For this a She-Goat in exchange I paid,
A Cheese besides of Creams delicious made;
Untouch'd, unsully'd this shall crown thy Pains,
This Price I pledge for thy harmonious Strains.
Come on; I envy not thy pleasing Art
Death to thy Muse a Silence must impart.

141

THYRSIS.

Begin, Sicilian Muses, lead the Song;
This Thyrsis sings, one of your tuneful Throng.
Where were ye all, ye Nymphs, when Daphnis dy'd,
Were ye to Peneus' flow'ry Borders hi'd,
Or Pindus' Shades? For Acis winding Brim,
Nor Ætna saw ye, nor Ænapus' Stream.
The savage Crouds were heard lamenting there,
The Wolf, the Lion dropt for once a Tear,
The milky Kine, the Bull's majestic Low,
The Calves and Heifers testify'd their Woe.
First Maia's Son thro' Grief the Mountain quits,
And asks why Daphnis thus desponding sits;
The Shepherds, Herdsmen came, and ev'ry Swain
With Pity seeks the Cause of all his Pain.
Next comes Priapus with sarcastic Jest,
Why pines my Daphnis? prithee take thy Rest.

143

The Nympth grows kind, and trips it in the Grove,
And seeks in haste her fond deluded Love.
Unhappy, simple—Shepherd once you wrote,
Now rather Watchman of the lustful Goat,
He ne'er beholds his Herds in wanton Toy,
But burns for Envy of the luscious joy.
Nor can he now amongst the Nymphs resort,
But soon grows pale, and pines for am'rous Sport.
The lovesick Shepherd makes to none Replies,
Takes no Relief, and wastes away in Sighs.
Then smiling thither comes the Cyprian Queen,
Inwardly pleas'd but with affected Spleen;
The Shepherd this that spurn'd the Pow'rs above,
And vainly thought to bend the Queen of Love!
How is he fall'n? Then Daphnis thus rejoin'd,
Ah Venus, cruel Empress of Mankind,

145

Flee from a Dying Swain to Ida's Grove;
There please thy Fancy and indulge thy Love;
Here humble Willows can but faintly meet,
There Oaks for Pastime form a safe Retreat;
There call to mind Anchises' youthful Arms,
And sweet Adonis in his blooming Charms,
A vig'rous Youth, and fond the Scent to trace
With early hunt, and swift pursue the Chace;
Go boast to Tydeus' Son a Shepherd slain,
And boldly dare him to the Fight again.

Adieu, ye Wolves, no longer Daphnis roves,
Amid your humble Shrubs, or stately Groves.
Adieu, ye Streams, and Arethusa's Tide,
That into Thymbris' gentle Current glide.
Oft to your Beds I drove my thirsty Herd,
Oft on your flow'ry Beds my Fatlings rear'd.

147

Thou God, that o'er Lycœus tak'st thy Flight,
Or if Mænalian Hills can more delight,
Quit for a while, the venerable Tomb
Of great Lycaon's Son, and deign to come
Into these Groves: this well tun'd Pipe, O Pan,
Accept th' Oblation of a dying Swain.

On Brakes let Purple Violets be born,
And fair Narcissus flourish on the Thorn,
Let Nature be revers'd when Daphnis dies,
Loaded with Pears let bending Pine Trees rise,
Let fearful Stags pursue the greedy Hound,
And Owls with Nightingales contend in sound.

Here dropt the Shepherd, nor was heard again,
Venus wou'd raise him, but alas! in vain,

149

The fatal Sisters cut the Vital Thread,
And to the Shades the Ghost of Daphnis fled;
Daphnis, a fav'rite of the Aonian Train,
And to the fairest Nymphs the dearest Swain.

151

Translation from Theocritus,

The Cyclops,

Idyll. XI.

No Balm so strongly healing can we find,
As Verse or Musick to the Love-sick Mind;
Verses are light, and light the tuneful Strain,
Yet, Trifles as they are, they're hard to gain.
This well thou know'st, a Priest at Phœbus Shrine,
And a sweet fav'rite of the tuneful Nine.
'Twas thus the Cyclops sooth'd his fierce Desire,
When Galatea fill'd his Soul with Fire;
Just as the rising Down his Manhood spoke,
Nor yet his Voice to Notes too harsh was broke.
'Twas not with gentle Gifts he woo'd the Fair,
Nor glitt'ring Dress, nor nicely curling Hair;
But raging keen Desire possest him whole,
And Love's wild Tempest madded in his Soul.

153

His Sheep unheeded oft at Night went Home,
His Herds he valued not, but chose to roam
The Melancholy beaten Surge along,
And to the rolling Surges tune his Song.
So strongly dipp'd, so ranc'rous was the Dart,
With which great Venus pierc'd the Shepherd's Heart,
One Remedy he found,—the Rock on high
He climb'd, and on the Green Sea cast his Eye,
And thus he sung, and wish'd his fair One by.

Why, Galatea, fliest thou him who loves?
Whiter than clouted Cream, more soft than Doves,
Blith as the Bull, that from th' Enclosure scapes,
Yet tart and harsh as Juice of unripe Grapes.
When Sleep e'er seals my Lid thou ventur'st nigh,
But fleest when e'er thou seest my op'ning Eye,
As from the brindled Wolf the Lambkins fly.
Then first, sweet Maid, my Soul confest the Flame,
When with my Mother to the Hills you came,

155

And as among the Flow'rs you chose to stay,
Pleas'd with th'enchanting Task I show'd the Way.
Then, then I look'd and lov'd, and still love on,
How vainly to the Gods, and you is known,
But oh! I know what makes you fly and fear,
Because upon my gloomy Brow the Hair,
Stretches its shaggy Breadth from Ear to Ear;
And one red Eye-ball in my Forehead glows,
And o'er my Lips broad swells my op'ning Nose.

But being thus, a thousand Sheep I feed,
And when I thirst, their choicest Milk's my Meed,
All Summer long my Stores of Cheese I boast,
Nor less in Autumn's Heat and Winter's Frost.
With Musick none like me the Reeds can fill,
When on the rough Verge of some shadowy Hill
I sing thy Charms, and my unpity'd Woe,
Nor heed the Hours that pass, or Storms that blow.
For thee eleven pregnant Hinds I keep,
And round my Cave four gentle Bearlings creep.
Come then, all these my Love shall have and more,
Come then, and leave the Sea to lash the Shore.

157

With me much better shalt thou pass the Night,
See here the the Laurel and the Cypress straight,
The gloomy Ivy and the fruitful Vine.
Around my Cave with mingled Branches twine.
See? where yon Stream from woody Ætna fell,
And now runs level trickling thro' my Cell.
Who wou'd not these to briny Waves prefer?
What tho' I'm Brawny-limb'd and rough with Hair,
For thee these Limbs, this Flesh, this Heart I'd tear,
For thee my very Soul I would destroy,
Nay lose, still more, my one dear Eye with Joy.
Woe's me! that on these Arms no Fins I wear,
That diving at thy Feet I might appear,
And on thy Hand my Lips with Kisses feed;
Thy Mouth t'attempt you'd think too bold a Deed.
The Lilly fair, and Poppy smooth I'd bring,
In Winter one, and t'other in the Spring;
The Poppy that, if silent, gives despair,
But loudly cracking speaks the willing Fair.

159

Oh! that some Ship swift sailing I could spy,
And stop it with my Voice, and bring it nigh,
Then would I learn to swim, and then I'd know,
What Charms thy Sea green Mansions have below.
But come, my Galatea, from the Sea,
Come, and, when here, forget thy Home like me.
Our Sheep let's feed, receive their milky Stream,
And pour the Runlet thro' the thickning Cream,
Alas! my Mother! she alone's to blame,
She never woo'd for me, ne'er told my Flame,
Tho' sleepless on the Banks she knew I lay,
And saw each Morning how I fell away.
To vex her, of the Head-ach I'll complain,
Why shou'd not she, as well as I, have Pain?
Oh Cyclops, Cyclops, where's thy Reason flown?
Go Home, and to thy Labours sit thee down.

161

Thy Baskets weave, and feed thy hungry Sheep,
What boots thy whining to the senseless Deep?
Seek some kind Girl, nor follow flying Feet,
Some fairer Galatea shalt thou meet.
There's Nymphs enough would fain o'er me prevail,
And titt'ring laugh when I attend their Tale.
And howsoe'er the Sea Nymphs flout and fling,
The Cyclops here's no despicable Thing.
Thus Polypheme for Ease, nor vainly, strove,
But found th'all pow'rful Charms of Musick prove
More prevalent than Gold to conquer Love.

163

Translation from Theocritus.

Idyllium XXI.

By a Friend.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Want can edge Wit, and Sciences inspire,
The Tutor of all Arts, if not the Sire:
Known such a Pother in the Brain to keep.
As robs poor Mortals of their balmy Sleep;
Or with short Slumbers if a Moment blest,
Care steps unkindly in, and breaks their Rest.

Two Fishermen, a Life of Thrift and Pain,
May some how serve the Moral to explain.
In their pleach'd Cabin, on a leafy Bed
Of dry Sea Weeds, and Osiers at their Head,
Supinely stretch'd their aged Limbs, and near
Their Baskets, Tools, and all their Fishing Geer,
Rods, Hooks and Lines, and Instruments, and Hairs,
And Baits of various Sorts, and various Snares,

165

The Mazy wicker Wheel, the codded Net,
From Yesterday's Employment Green and Wet;
Hard by a crazy Boat; a Mat o'er-spread,
Their Caps and Jackets bolster'd up their Head:
Fishing their Wealth, their Toil, and their Reward,
With neither Spit, nor Pot, nor Dog to guard.
Gallant their Trade, Ambition's utmost end!
Blest, who cou'd find in Poverty a Friend!
No Neighbour to disturb, and Noise was not,
Save the dash'd Tide that play'd against their Cot.
The Moon had scarcely finish'd half her Course,
When our Tars waken'd; such the pleasing Force
And Memory of sweet Fatigue;—and now
They yawn'd and rubb'd the Slumber from their Brow.
When one to t'other Mate began a Song.

Jacob.
I'm thinking Peter, what they say is wrong.
That Summer Nights are short because the Day is long.
I dreamt, and dreamt again, since I was born.
I ne'er dreamt thus, and look it is not Morn.

167

Forget I, or sleep still I, by yonder Moon
'Tis strange, what may this mean? long Nights in June?

Peter.
Jacob, you speak of Summer as in Tau't,
Alas! 'tis not in Summer, but in Thought.
Time goes, as he is bid; nor flies nor reels,
Tho' Trouble oft hang Lead upon his Heels!

Jacob.
An' have you skill a Dream t'interpret right,
I'faith a brave and bonny one to night.
Thou shalt go halves, whatever Fortune brings,
And share my Dreams as well as other Things.
Peter, thour't shrewd and full of wise Remark,
And such can best unriddle what is dark.
Come speak, old Boy, Time hanging on our Hand,
Lets not lie mute like Cockles on the Sand,
Our sedgy Lodging and the tumbling Deep,
Afford but little Appetite to sleep.

169

I warrant a fine Day. Observe the Light
From Edystone's high Tow'r looks clear and bright.

Peter.
Come then, lets have it now, thy Dream reveal
And nothing from thy Brother Tar conceal.

Jacob.
At fade of Sun when to our Rest we crept,
With weary Bones, and soon and soundly slept,
Too well thou know'st how slenderly we eat,
No Danger of a Surfeit from our Meat:
Methought I sat me down with eager Wish,
(Dogs dream of Carrion, and we dream of Fish)
Upon a Rock and kept a sharp look out,
And trail'd my Line, and mov'd my Bait about
When lo! a great, a huge one, over-grown,
Made to the Bait, and greedy gorg'd it down,
By Blood about the Gills I knew him struck,
And straitway found him tugging at my Hook:

171

The Rod was double bent, and as he flounc'd,
My Heart went pit a pat and with him bounc'd.
My Arm I put forth at its utmost reach,
Fearing the Line might crack upon the stretch,
And now let out, now drew it to the Beach,
'Till Master of his Strength; when to be gone
He struggled; I'll be with you, Friend, anon!
In short I drew a Golden Fish on Shore,
Scales, Fins, and Inside Gold—now frighten'd more;
Lest Some great Admiral his Claim should bring,
Or Officers might sieze it for the King.
My Chap in Hand full gingerly I took,
For fear some Gold might stick about the Hook.
Then thanking Heav'n a lusty Oath I swore,
Never upon the Seas to venture more.
But with my Treasure drink, and roar, and sing,
And live on land as happy as a King.
This wak'd me—but what think you of my Oath?
To be forsworn I am exceeding loath.

173

Peter.
With these strange Fancies prithee, Man, have done,
Art mad? No Oath you swore, and Fish caught none.
Go to that Rock, not sleeping, but awake,
Thy Eyes and Guts will show thee thy Mistake.
Need my Friend Jacob at this Age be told,
That they must starve who only dream of Gold?

178

Vacuna.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By a Friend.

Sceptre of Ease! whose calm Domain extends
O'er the froze Chronian, or where lagging Gales
Fan to repose the Southern Realms. O! whom
More Slaves obey than swarm about the Courts
Pekin, orAgra,—Universal Queen!

Me hap'ly slumb'ring all a Summer's Day,
Thy meanest Subject, often has thou deign'd
Gracious to visit. If thy Poppy then
Was e'er infus'd into my gifted Quill,
If e'er my nodding Muse was blest with Pow'r,
To doze the Reader with her opiate Verse—
Come, Goddess; but be gentle; not as when
On studious Heads attendant thou art seen
Fast by the twinkling Lamp, poring and pale
Immers'd in Meditation, Sleep's great Foe?
Where the Clue-guided Casuist unwinds

179

Perplexities; or Halley from his Tower
Converses with the Stars. In other Guize
Thy Presence I invoke, serene approach,
With Forehead smooth, and sauntring Gait; put on
The Smile unmeaning, or in sober Mood
Fix thy flat, musing, leaden Eye: As looks
Simplicius, when he stares and seems to think.
Prompted by thee, Reservo keeps at Home,
Intent on Books: He when alone applies
The Needle's Reparation to his Hose,
Or studious slices Paper. Taught by thee
Dullman takes Snuff, and ever and anon
Turns o'er the Page unread. Others more sage,
Place, Year, and Printer not unnoted, well
Examine the whole Frontispiece, and if
Yet stricter their Inquiry, e'en proceed
To Leaves within, and Curious there select
Italicks, or consult the Margin, pleas'd
To find a Hero or a Tale: all else,
The Observation, Maxim, Inference

180

Disturb the Brain with Thought.—It sure were long
To name thy sev'ral Vot'ries, Pow'r supine,
And all thy various Haunts. Why should I speak
Of Coffee-house? Or where the Eunuch plays,
Or Roscius in his Buskin? These and more
Thy crouded Temples, where thou sit'st enshrin'd
Glorious, thy Incense Ambergris, and Time
Thy Sacrifice.—About Thee Cards and Dice
Lie scatter'd, and a thousand Vassal Beaux
Officiate at thy Worship.—Nor mean while
Is Solitude less thy peculiar Sphere;
There unattended you vouchsafe to shroud
Your Beauties, gentle Potentate; with me
By Vale or Brook to loiter not displeas'd:
Hear the Stream's pebbled Roar, and the sweet Bee
Humming her Fairy-tunes, in Praise of Flowers;
—Or clam'rous Rooks, on aged Elm or Oak,
Aloft the cawing Legislators sit,
Debating, in full Senate, Points of State.

181

My Bower, my Walks, my Study all are thine,
For Thee my Yews project their Shade; the Green
Spreads her soft Lap, and Waters whisper Sleep.
Here Thou may'st reign secure, nor hostile Thought,
Nor Argument, nor Logick's dire Array
Make Inroad on thy Kingdom's Peace.—what tho'
Malicious Tongues me harmless represent,
A Traitor to thy Throne: Or that I hold
Forbidden Correspondence with the Nine,
Plotting with Phœbus, and thy Foes! what tho'
Of Satyre they impeach me, Strain severe!
Thou know'st my Innocence: 'tis true indeed
I sometimes scribble, but 'tis thou inspir'st:
In Proof accept, O Goddess, this my Verse.

The Goddess of Indolence.

The Capital of China.

The Capital of the Mogul's Country, lately plunder'd by T. Kouli Kan.

182

Rhapsody, to Milton.

By the same.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Soul of the Muses! Thou supreme of Verse!
Unskill'd and Novice in the sacred Art
May I unblam'd approach thee? May I crave
Thy Blessing, Sire harmonious! amply pleas'd
Shou'd'st thou vouchsafe to own me for thy Son;
Thy Son, tho' dwindled from the mighty Size,
And Stature; much more from the Parent's Mind.
Content and blest enough, if but some Line,
If but some distant Feature, half express'd,
Tell whence I spring.—This Privilege deny'd,
Grant me at least thy Converse now and oft
To ruminate the Beauties infinite,
To trace thy Heav'nly Notions, to enquire
When from above they came, and how convey'd:
If darted on thee by the Sun's bright Ray,
Meridian Fire! Or rather by the Muse

183

Nocturnal wafted to thy favour'd Ear,
How else, explain, cou'd human Mind exile
Grasp universal Nature, Treasure huge!
Or even say, where could'st thou Language find
Able to bear the Burden of thy Thought?
Such Thought, such Language, that all other Verse
Seems trifling (not excepting Greece and Rome)
So lofty and so sweet, beyond compare,
Is thine: Whether thy sounding Pinion match
The Clang of Eagle's Flight: Or thy pois'd Plume,
Dove-like cut silently th'unconscious Sky,
Calm as the Summer's Breath, softer than Down.
Witness the Scene of Eden, Bow'r of Love,
Of Innocence, of Happiness; o'erlaid
With Fancy's finest Texture; strew'd with Flow'rs
Of Amaranth; her Rivers Nectar; Winds,
To which Arabia's spicy Gales are poor.
Witness a bolder Page, where coping Gods
In Battle rend the stedfast Hills, and shake
Heav'n's Basis: lively flash the painted Fires,

184

And the imagin'd Thunder rolls methinks
More terribly, than tearing the vext Air
When troubled Nature speaks.—But why select
A Charm from thousand? And what need of Praise?
Who fondly seeks to praise thee, does thee wrong,
Impairs thee, greatest in thyself. Thy Hell,
Copied by other Hand whate'er, will lose
It's Terrors; and thy Paradise it's Sweets,
Soil'd by rude Touch.—Enough then to admire,
Silent admire; and be content to feel:
Or, if we follow thy bright Track, advance
With Reverence, and shew that not Desire
To Rival, but Resemble, is our Aim:
Resemble thee, tho' in inferior Strain.

For O! great Pattern to succeeding Times!
Dost thou not smile indignant, to behold
The tinkling modern fetter'd, yet well pleas'd,
Dance to the tiresome Musick of his Chains;
While all Parnassus rings the silly Chime:

185

And Pegasus, that once with spurning Heel
Kick'd the dull Ground, Ridiculous and Tame
Can amble with a Monk upon his Back?—
Cou'd Milton think, when his high Standard rear'd
Th' Emblazonry of Freedom, none shou'd throng
To gaze, and kiss the Manumizing Staff?
Dastards in Choice! what, Legislator, then
Avail thy Charter, thy Example bright?
As when some Hero, to redeem a state
Long harrow'd by Oppression; lifts his Arm,
To crush th'imperious Yoke: the many scar'd
Stand tremblingly aloof, and love the Mace
That bruises 'em: Or, if the Chief return,
From the red Hall with Liberty proclaim'd,
Know not to prize, or keep, the mighty Gem;
The Romans on a Time, a Madman kill'd,
Rather than not be lorded, chose a Fool,
When Claudius in a lurking Hole was found
By Band Prætorian. Abject thus our Age
And Slaves, because their Fathers were, to Rhime.—

186

Is it then Custom, (Superstition's Plea)
Ears poorly tickled with returning Sounds,
Why Jingling Charms? Is it to speed our Course!
A Peal of Bells were right, if we were Mules:
The Courser asks no Spur.—Ah me! I fear,
And see, and feel the Reason; Faulters why
The Muse this Moment, wearied, flags and pants
Despairing? Such a Distance hast thou got
From thy first start, and left Pursuit behind:
On the Top Brow of Fame, in laurel'd Chair
Seated, and thence look down on Mortal Toil,
That climbing emulous would pace in vain
Thy Footsteps, trackless thro' Excess of Light.

187

A Voyage to Tinterne Abbey in Monmouthshire, from Whitminster in Glocestershire.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

From where the Stroud, smooth Stream, serenely glides,
We reach the peopled Severn's rapid Tides;
Stop, e'er we sail; and from this Point survey
The Hill-encompass'd, Sea-resembling Bay;
See the ridg'd Tide with sober Grandeur heave,
And float in Triumph o'er the River-wave.
Lo! where it comes, with what extensive Sweep,
Like some Whale sidelong rolling on the Deep.
Wide and more wide, it joins the distant Hills
By swift Degrees, and the great Bason fills.

We sail; now steadily; now Gulphs inform
The tumbling Waves to imitate a Storm.

188

The rising Shores a thousand Charms bestow,
Lawns at their Feet, and Forests on their Brow;
The pleasing Villas, Neighbours to the Flood,
The taper Spire, and the surrounding Wood.

These Lines, my C---, read, and pity too,
The shadowing Pencil to the Scene untrue:
See the bright Image of thy Thought decay'd,
And all it's Beauties in Description fade.

Where to each other the tall Banks incline,
And distant Cliffs dividing seem to join,
A narrow Frith! our gallant Argo's Way,
A Door that opens to the boundless Sea:
What, if some Ship with strutting Sails come on,
Her wanton Streamers waving in the Sun!
Just, in the midst, as Fancy would contrive,
See the proud Vessel o'er the Billows drive.

The Streight is past; the Surges stronger beat,
The Prospects widen, and the Shores retreat,

189

Tritons, and Nereids! how we leave behind
Towns, Palaces, and run with Tide and Wind?
Here, noble Stafford, thy unfinish'd Dome,
And thence the long-stretch'd Race of Berkley come.
Till tossing, and full feasted, more than tir'd,
We change the wilder Scene for Paths retir'd,
Quit the rough Element, and watry Strife,
As from a publick to a private Life,
Seek a calm Coast and up the Channel ride,
Where Vaga mingles with Sabrina's Tide.

The Sister Sreams, from the same Hill their Source
Deriving, took, when young, a various Course,
And many a City, many a Country seen,
High Tow'rs and Walls antique and Meadows Green,
Now glad to meet, nor now to part again,
Go Hand in Hand, and slide into the Main.

190

In Spight of Time, and War and Tempest great,
Ascending Chepstow shews it's Castled Seat,
Beneath slope Hills, and by the rolling Flood,
Clasp'd in a Theatre of aged Wood,
With Air Majestick, to the Eye stands forth,
Towring, and conscious of it's pristine Worth;
Lifts its sublime Decay, in Age's Pride
Erect, and overlooks the climbing Tide.

Pass but some Moments, the returning Sea
Shall those high-stranded Vessels sweep away;
That airy Bridge, whence we look'd down with Fear,
Will low and level with the Flood appear.

The crooked Bank still winds to something new,
Oars, scarcely turn'd, diversify the View;
Of Trees and Stone an intermingled Scene,
The shady Precipice and Rocky Green,
Nature behold, to please and to surprize,
Swell into Bastions, or in Columns rise:

191

Here sinking Spaces with dark Boughs o'er grown,
And there the naked Quarries look a Town.
At length our Pilgrimage's Home appears,
Tinterne her venerable Fabrick rears,
While the Sun, mildly glancing in decline,
With his last gilding beautifies the Shrine:
Enter with Reverence her hallow'd Gate,
And trace the glorious Relicks of her State;
The meeting Arches, Pillar'd Walks admire,
Or musing hearken to the silenc'd Choir.
Encircling Groves diffuse a solemn Grace,
And dimly fill th' Historic Window's Place;
While pitying Shrubs on the bare Summit try
To give the roofless Pile a Canopy.

Here, O my Friends, along the mossy Dome
In pleasurable Sadness let me roam:
Look back upon the World in Haven safe,
Weep o'er it's Ruins, at it's Follies laugh.

This manner of the coming in of the Tide to the River Severn is call'd the Eager or the Hyger of the Severn. There is a beautiful Allusion to it in Bishop Sprat's History of the Royal Society.

The Remains of a noble Seat begun by Stafford Duke of Buckingham.

Berkeley-castle, the Seat of the Earl of Berkeley.

The River Wye.

The River Severn.

Chepstow-castle in Monmouthshire, the Seat of the Duke of Beaufort.

193

To J. W.

Imitation of Horace. Book I. Epist. X.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

D---, of rural Scenes a Lover grown,
Salutes his Friend a Lover of the Town,
Ecexpt the Variance this and Fatness make,
Who think we disagree, perhaps mistake;
(The Difference much the same, as is between
The Egg a Swan produces, and a Hen:)
Debating, scribling, sauntring, sitting still,
Studious of Ease, and Brothers of the Quill.

London your Choice, I know it; but approve
The mossy Seat, the River and the Grove.
If you shou'd ask how I employ my Hour;
Better than those in Place, or e'en in Pow'r,

195

Not plagu'd with Patrons, nor a Slave to Pelf,
Lord of my Time, and Master of Myself.
What have your noisy Streets like this to give?
Or what like this, Sir Robert to receive?

C---, disgrac'd in Ariconian Vales,
Likes, I am told, the Neighbourhood of Wales,
Sick of Parade, Attendance, and Resort,
Flies, and exhales the Surfeit of a Court.

A Ground-plot wanting for some neat Design.
Consult the Oracle at Nature's Shrine,
“Build in the Country, says the Voice Divine”.

Is there, where Winters purer Joys inspire,
Morn's wholesome Frost, and Even's smokeless Fire?
Is there, where Summer's more refreshing Gales,
Fan the scorch'd Hills, and chear the drooping Dales?
Where Discontent a rarer Guest is seen,
And Slumbers fall untainted by the Spleen.

197

What is that Marble Portal to this Bow'r,
Array'd in Green, or pearl'd by ev'ry Show'r?
Or what the Stream, that Pipes and Conduits yield
To the bright Rill, that trickles thro' my Field?

Know then, ye own your Wants; for it is clear
In Town ye humbly mimick what is here.
Look at St. James or on Lincoln Square,
Behold our Walks, our Trees, and our Parterre.
Why Buckingham's gay Ville so pleasant stands?
Because a length of Country it commands.

Nature in spight of Violence and Removes,
Returns elastic to the Point she loves;
Spight of Distortions, she appears the same,
And from the Bend recovers, like the Palm.

Not she, whose want of Tast, or want of Care,
Buys the resembling Delft for China-Ware:

199

Not they who to a City-Vault resort,
Instead of Claret, Purchasers of Port,
Are not howe'er so much deceiv'd, as who
Mistake unreal Blessings for the true.
Who launch too far in Fortune's peaceful Lake,
The Tempest of Adversity will shake.
Hard 'tis to part with what allures the Eyes
And the Hand pauses e'er it drops the Prize.

Fly then betimes from Levees, Balls and Rings,
To the still Shade where Peace eternal springs
Despise with me the Great, and pity Kings.

Britons, impatient of the Saxon reign,
Call'd in, suppose, their good Ally the Dane.
Their good Ally to Conquest led the Way,
But took the whole Dominion for his Pay,
The Stranger wanton in his new Abode,
Soon on the Neck of Vassal Nobles trod,
And lifted high the Hand, and exercis'd the Rod.

201

Thus, if my Friend should for Preferment trade,
And sell his Liberty, of Want afraid;
The meagre Monster is no more, I own,
But a more Lordly Tyrant mounts the Throne;
And who a Treasure by Dependance gains,
I wish him well, and long to wear his Chains.

'Tis known that Shoes (and why not an Estate?)
Pinch or supplant, too little or too great.

Be wise, and be content, tho' short of Wealth,
With the rich Gifts of Competence and Health:
Don't trifle with the Happiness they bring,
For virtuous Freedom is a Sacred Thing.
And when you see me break the Rule laid down,
When you behold me fawning in the Town;
Give Indignation an uncheck'd Career,
Don't spare thy Satire, prithee be severe.

202

On J. W. ranging Pamphlets.

By the same.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

What ken mine Eyes, enchanted? Man of Ease,
In Elbow Chair, and under Brow of Thought
Intense, on some great Matter fixt, no doubt:
What mean the Myrmidons on either Hand
In Paper-Coats, and orderly Array,
Spread far and wide, on Table, Desk, and Stool,
Variety of Troops, White, Purple, Pied,
And Grey, and Blue's Battallion trim; and who
In marbled Regimentals, some in Vest
Gay edg'd with Gold; of various Garb, and Tongue,
And Clime; extended o'er the wooden Plain.

Not Force more numerous from her teeming Loins
Pours forth Hungaria to the Danube's Bank
Croats and Pandours: Nor the swarming War
Of Turk, and Nadir, nodding opposite

203

With particolour'd Turbans. Sing, O Muse,
Their marshal'd Numbers, and Puissance. First,
With Sable Shield, and Arms opaque, advance
Divinity Polemic, sober Rage.
Yet deadly! (and can Rage in Minds Divine
Inhabit!) Councils, Synods, Cloysters, Schools,
Cowl beats off Cowl, and Mitre Mitre knocks.
Presbyt'ry here with wither'd Face askew.
Vengeance demure? and there devoutly fierce
Catholicos, in Lawn sprinkled with Blood.

Not far behind with her divided Troops
Comes Policy, with Democratic Shouts
On one Hand, on the other loud acclaim
For Pow'r Hereditary, and Right Divine:
I see the various Portraiture display'd,
Brutus and Nimrod, Libertines, and Slaves,
And Crowns, and Breeches flutter in the Air.

204

Who next with aspect Sage and Parchment wav'd
Voluminous come on? I know their Beards
Historic, see the style acute, with which
They fight old Time, maugre his desp'rate Scythe,
And as he cleaves the Pyramid, apply
Their puny Prop. Hence Annals, and Defoes,
And Memoirs, doubtful Truth, and certain Lies,
And Tales, and all the Magazines of War.

What Muse, O Poetry, can pass unsung
Thy flowing Banners, and gay Tent, adorn'd
With Airy Trophies? or would leave thy Name
Uncatalogu'd, were it but Nereus-like
To beautify the List. Not that thou want'st
Th'offensive Dart, 'till Satire's Quiver fails.

All these, and more came flocking;—but await
The dread Commander's Voice, and dare no more
Start from their Place, than did the Theban Stone,
E'er yet Amphion sung.—From side to side

205

The sedentary Chief, in studious Mood,
And deep Revolve, darts his experienc'd Eye.
Forth from his Presence hies his Aid-de-Camp,
A sturdy Cambro-Briton, to survey
The Posture of the Field; from Rank to Rank
Posting succinct he gives the Word, which Way
The Squadrons to advance, where wheel their Course.
“Vanguard to Right and Left.” Forthwith the Bands.
As at the Sound of Trump, obedient move
In perfect Phalanx. Each their Station knows
And Quarters, as the General's Will ordains.

First to its Place spontaneous Verse repairs,
Knowing the Call, and practis'd to obey
His Summons. Peaceful Controversy sheaths
Her Claws, contracted to make Room for Scot
And Tom. Aquinas, slumb'ring Side by Side;
And Bellarmine, and Luther, heard no more
Than Delphi's Shrine, or Memnon's Statue dumb,
All, all, in order due and Silence, look

206

A modern Convocation. Hist'ry lies
By Hist'ry,—Hyde and Oldmixon agree.

Which when the Marshal, from his easy Chair
Of Callimanco, saw; knit his calm Brows
Thoughtful, and thus th'assembled Leaves bespoke.

Ye Hierarchies, and Commonweals, and Thrones,
Folios, Octavos, and ye Minor Pow'rs
Of Paper, e'er to Winter-Quarters sent,
Hear me, ye list'ning Books. First I direct
Submission to your Lord and Faith entire.
Did I not list you, and enroll your Names
On Parchment? See the Volume; look at me.
Did I not mark you (as the Prussian late
His Subjects) Badge of Service when requir'd?
'Tis well,—and let me next, ye flimsy Peers,
Love Brother-like and Union recommend:
Live peaceful, as by me together tied
In Bands of strictest Amity: shou'd then
Your Master lend you to some Neighb'ring State

207

Auxiliaries; remember ye preserve
Your first Allegiance pure, and chearful Home
Return, when summon'd by your natural Prince.
Be humble nor repine, tho' smear'd with Ink
And Dust inglorious; know your Birth and End,
For Rags ye were, and must to Rags return.

Alluding to the Arms impress'd on the Money of the Commonwealth of England.

208

To the Hon. and Rev. ------

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

In Frolick's Hour, e'er serious Thought had birth,
There was a Time, my dear C---s, when
The Muse wou'd take me on her Airy Wing
And waft to Views Romantic, there present
Some motley Vision, Shade and Sun; the Cliff
O'er hanging, sparkling Brooks, and Ruins gray:
Bad me Mæanders Trace and catch the Form
Of varying Clouds, and Rainbows learn to paint.

Sometimes Ambition, brushing by, wou'd twitch
My Spirits, and with winning look sublime
Allure to follow. What tho' Steep the Track!
Her Mountain's Top would overpay when climb'd,
The Scaler's Toil, her Temple there was fine,
And lovely thence the Prospects. She cou'd tell,
Where Lawrels grew, whence many a Wreath Antique;

209

But more advis'd to shun the barren Twig,
(What is immortal Verdure without Fruit?)
And woo some thriving Art; Her numerous Mines
Were open to the Searcher's Skill and Pains.

Caught by th' Harangue, Heart beat, and flutt'ring Pulse
Sounded irregular Marches to be gone;—
What, pause a Moment, when Ambition calls?
No, the Blood gallops to the distant Goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame sit still
When Fortune gentle, at the Hills Verge extreme,
Array'd in decent Garb, but somewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd, and what Occasion, ask'd,
Of Climbing? She already provident
Had cater'd well, if Stomach cou'd digest
Her Viands, and a Palate not too nice.
Unsit, she said, for perilous Attempt,
That manly Limb requir'd, and Sinews tough.

210

She took, and laid me in a Vale remote,
Amid the gloomy Scene of Fir and Yew,
On Poppy Ground, where Morpheus strew'd the Bed:
Obscurity her Curtain round me drew,
And Siren Sloth a dull Quietus sung!

Sithence no Fairy Sights, no quick'ning Ray,
Nor stir of Pulse, nor Objects to entice
Abroad the Spirits; but the Cloyster'd Heart
Sits squat at Home, like Pagod in a Nitch
Demure; or Grandees, with Nod-watching Eye,
And folded Arms, in presence of the Throne,
Turk or Indostan.—Cities, Forums, Courts,
And prating Sanhedrims, and drumming Wars,
Affect no more than Stories told to Bed
Lethargic, which at Intervals the Sick
Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Instead of Converse and Variety,
The same trite Round, the same stale silent Scene;
Such are thy Comforts, blessed Solitude.

211

But Innocence is there, but Peace all-kind,
And simple Quiet with her downy Couch,
Meads lowing, Tune of Birds, and Lapse of Streams,
And saunter with a Book and warbling Muse
In Praise of Hawthorns.—Life's whole Business this?
Is it to bask i' th' Sun? if so, a Snail
Were happy crawling on a Southern Wall.

Why sits Content upon a Cottage-fill
At Even-tide, and blesses the coarse Meal
In sooty Corner? Why sweet Slumbers wait
Th'hard Pallet? Not, because from Haunt remote,
Sequester'd in a Dingle's bushy Lap:
'Tis Labour makes the Peasant's sav'ry Fare,
And works out his Repose. For Ease must ask
The Leave of Diligence to be enjoy'd.

O! listen not to that Enchantress Ease
With seeming Smile, her palatable Cup
By standing grows insipid, and beware

212

The Bottom, for there's Poison in the Lees.
What Health impair'd, and Crouds inactive maim'd?
What daily Martyrs to her sluggish Cause?
Less strict Devoir the Russ and Persian Claim
Despotick; and as Subjects, long inur'd
To servile Burden, grow supine and tame;—
So fares it with our Sovereign and her Train.

What tho' with Lure fallacious she pretend
From worldly Bondage to set free? What gain
Her Votaries? What avails from Iron Chains
Exempt, if Rosy Fetters bind as fast?

Bestir, and answer your Creation's End.
Think we that Man with Vig'rous Pow'r endow'd,
And room to stretch, was destin'd to sit still?
Sluggards are Nature's Rebels, slight her Laws,
Nor live up to the Terms on which they hold
Their vital Lease. Laborious Terms and hard,
But such the Tenure of our Earthly State.

213

Riches and Fame are Industry's Reward,
The nimble Runner courses Fortune down,
And then he banquets, for she feeds the Bold.

Think what you owe your Country, what yourself.
If Splendor charm not, yet avoid the Scorn
That treads on lowly Stations. Think of some
Assiduous Booby mounting o'er your Head,
And thence with saucy Grandeur looking down.
Think of (Reflection's Stab!) the pitying Friend,
With Shoulder shrug'd, and sorry. Think that Time
Has golden Minutes, if discreetly seiz'd:
And if some sad Example indolent
To warn and scare be wanting,—Think of me.

214

At seeing Archbishop Williams's Monument in Carnarvonshire.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

In that remote and solitary Place,
Which the Seas wash, and circling Hills embrace,
Where those lone Walls amid the Groves arise,
All that remains of thee, fam'd Williams, lies.
Thither, sequester'd Shade, Creation's Nook,
The wand'ring Muse her pensive Journey took,
Curious to trace the Statesman to his Home,
And moralize at Leisure o'er his Tomb:
She came not, with the Pilgrim, Tears to shed,
Mutter a Vow, or trifle with a Bead,
But such a Sadness did her Thoughts employ,
As lives within the Neighbourhood of Joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty Shade,
His Glories, and his Miseries, she said:

215

“How poor the Lot of the once honour'd Dead!
Perhaps the Dust is Williams', that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politick, and great,
Statesman, and Prelate, this alas! thy Fate.
Cou'd not thy Lincoln yield her Pastor room,
Cou'd not thy York supply thee with a Tomb?
Was it for this thy lofty Genius soar'd,
Caress'd by Monarchs and by Crouds ador'd?
For this, thy Hand o'er Rivals cou'd prevail,
Grasping by Turns the Crosier and the Seal?
Who dar'd on Laud's meridian Pow'r to frown,
And on aspiring Buckingham look down.
This thy gay Morn,—but e'er the Day decline
Clouds gather, and Adversity is thine:
Doom'd to behold thy Country's fierce Alarms,
What had thy trembling Age to do with Arms?
Thy Lands dragoon'd, thy Palaces in Dust,
Why was thy Life protracted to be curst?
Thy King in Chains,—thyself by lawless Might
Strip't of all Pow'r, and exil'd from thy Right.

216

A while the venerable Hero stood,
And stemm'd with quiv'ring Limbs the boist'rous Flood;
At length, o'er-match'd by Injuries and Time,
Stole from the World, and sought his native Clime.

Cambria for him with Moans her Region fills;
She wept his Downfal from a thousand Hills:
Tender embrac'd her Prelate tho' undone,
Stretch'd out the Mother Rocks to hide her Son:
Search'd, while alive, each Vale for his Repast,
And, when he died, receiv'd him in her Breast.
Envied Ambition! What are all thy Schemes,
But waking Misery, or pleasing Dreams,
Sliding and tottering on the Heights of State!
The Subject of this Verse declares thy Fate.
Great as he was, you see how small the Gain,
A Burial so obscure, a Muse so mean.

John Williams was consecrated Bishop of Lincoln November 11. 1621. was translated to York December 4. 1641. and died March 25. 1649. and was buried at Landegay near Bangor.

He was made Lord Keeper of the great Seal July 20, 1621.

217

A Song of Deborah.

From the Book of Judges, Chap. v.

By the same.

Glory to God th' Avenger! Pow'r supreme!
Who breath'd his Soul into the jarring Tribes,
Uniting Discord. All ye Nations hear,
Ye Principalities, ye Thrones, attend
While to Jehovah's Name I lift my Song.

Lord, when descending Thou from Seir's Top
Didst dreadfully go forth, with Pomp and Strength
Marching o'er Edom's Plain, the shrinking Earth
Shiver'd with Fear, the conscious Heav'ns alarm'd
Bow'd low, and Tears fell copious from the Clouds.
'Twas then the solid Rocks, like melting Snow
Thaw'd at Thy Look; before Thee dropt the Hills
Cow'ring; and Sinai's self by Thy bright Arm
Aw'd, in a sable Mantle wrapt his Head.

218

E'er yet brave Shamgar with his conqu'ring Goad
Had thinn'd Philistia's State; e'er Jael yet,
The Saviour Woman, smote her mighty Foe;
My Israel be thou thankful! Where was then
Thy Safety? tell me, fearless coud'st thou roam?
Thy Highways unfrequented, save by Thieves,
Were left: no wary Traveller wou'd risque
The Ruffian's public Haunt, but turn aside
To shaded Allies, trust th' entangled Path
Of Thicket, climb the Mountain's craggy Side.
The pleasing Villages, the Flocks, the Herds,
To plunder were abandon'd, while the Swains
To the next City, panting and dismay'd,
Huddled in Swarms. Dire Havock! 'Till myself,
I Deborah arose, Parent arose
To Israel. Foolish Israel left the Lord
For new Divinities and stranger Gods,
Then the fierce Din of War besieg'd your Gates;

219

Among twice twenty Thousand, helpless Crew
Had one a Shield to guard, or Spear to lance?
How my Heart throbb'd with Gratitude, to see
The forward Rulers, in the gen'rous Strife
Heading their Tribes! On them be Blessings show'r'd,
But ever and incessant bless the Lord.
Speak ye, who ride on Asses, Silver-white,
With gorgeous Trappings; Ye, who Judges sit
In the bench'd Sanhedrim or crouded Gate,
For these his Mercies ever speak his Praise.
Ye Travellers, in Deserts now secure,
Ye Shepherds, piping by the River Side,
And ye, blithe Herdsmen, in his Praises join.
Where's now the Archer with his galling Bow,
The sudden Skirmish, or close Ambush, where
The Cattle slak'd their Thirst! go to, ye Swains
Go to those Waters; there with Reverence due
Tell forth his Acts, and there record his Praise.
Awake, O Deborah, awake, awake,
Break forth in Harmony divine, give Speech

220

To Rapture; and thou Barak, rise and lead
Captivity thy Slave, Abinoam's Son.
A scanty Remnant (so God's Will ordains)
O'er prostrate Nobles shall bear Sway; and I,
A feeble Woman, o'er the mighty Reign.

Next to thy Tribe, O Benjamin, in Arms,
Came Ephraim (from Mount Amaleck he came,
There marshal'd;) nor was Machir long behind
In pouring forth his Princes: Nor detain'd
Ingenious Zebulun his letter'd Sons,
Who drop't the studious Pen, and grasp'd the Sword.
Nor less did Issachar, while Barac led
By Providence, descended to the Vale,
Of Chiefs and Soldiers yield a numerous Host.
But Reuben, much of thee thy Friends complain,
Inquisitively sad to know the Cause,
Why, mid the Trumpet's Sound you list'ning chose
The lazy Bleatings of your Fleecy Care.

221

Gilead too came not; Jordan his Excuse
Flowing between.—Why then did selfish Dan
Cling to his Ships? And bartering Asher lov'd
His Ports and Sails, more than the blest Campaign?
But Zebulun and Napthali be prais'd,
Careless of Life, and foremost in the Field.
In Battle opposite, encountring warr'd
The Lords of Canaan, by Megiddo's Flood,
Conquest their Expectation, Blows their Spoil,
Not so our Host; Assistant Angels came,
Confederate Heav'n was listed; and the Stars
Fought in their Course, 'gainst Sisera they sought.
Kishon, that ancient Stream, Kishon renown'd,
In Story, rolling to our Aid, involv'd
Full many a hostile Warrior, and away?
Swept whirling—O! what Might was vanquish'd then,
My Soul, thou glorious Leader of the Day?
The prancing Steeds yet rattle in our Ears,
As they o'er pointed Rocks in War, in Flight
Madded; the Blood gush'd from their mangled Heels.

222

O curse ye Meroz, (God applauds the Curse,
Commanding by his Angel) curse again
In Bitterness, and often; for that he
Coward and Traitor, arm'd not for the Lord
And Israel tho' within the reach of Shouts.
But ever among Women and above,
Be celebrated Jael, Heber's Wife;
Thrice famous Jael! O my Friends ne'er pass
Her Tent unsung, the Noble Scene of Death.
Water he crav'd; she brought the fattest Cream,
Copious and brimming in a lordly Dish.
She went, she came: In her right Hand she took
The Workman's Hammer, in her Left the Nail,
Then to his Forehead dauntless she applied
The fatal Iron, and the Temples pierc'd
Of Sisera: He stunn'd essay'd to rise,
The Woman-chief astride him, but he bow'd,
He fell; there, where he bow'd, he sunk down dead.

223

Mean time the Mother of the Warrior slain
Sat waiting her Victorious Son; and oft
Listen'd impatient, to the Windows oft
Ran in Surprize. “Why comes he not? She cried,
Bless me! What means the Gen'ral, not return'd?
Why creeps his Car, why loiter thus his Wheels?
—Her reas'ning Ladies would have said,—but she
Too quick for Answer, save her own, replied.

“Conquer'd they have; methinks I hear their Shouts
The glorious Spoil dividing; to each Man
Well pleas'd a blooming Damsel; but to him,
To Sisera, the choicest of the Prey,
Garments of nicest Art, the Needle's Brag,
The Mantle all embroider'd (on both Sides,
Ladies, embroider'd) and in various Hue
Rival to Heav'n's gay Bow; such as befits
A General, a Conqueror, and my Son.

224

Almighty Lord supreme! may all thy Foes,
Thy vaunting Foes thus perish, thus laid low
Their Pride, their Splendor thus eclips'd:—But O!
May Israel, thy own People, Gracious God,
Thy Worshippers, still flourish, still advance,
Glorious and lasting: Like the mighty Sun,
When from Heav'n's East-gate, Giant-like, he strides,
Marching sublime to his meridian Throne.

225

The Nativity.

By the same.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

'Twas when the cruel Idumæan reign'd,
His Childrens' Butcher, and Judæa's Scourge
Severe! Fit Head, and worthy to command
That wry-neck'd People with an Iron-Rod.
Nathless, in festal Pomp, Salem serene
Rejoic'd, and to her Temple's lofty Gate
With smother'd Curses climb'd; yet well at Ease,
And reck'd not, tho' with sorest Bondage gall'd,
'Long as the broad Phylactery remain'd,
The Market-greetings, and the Chairs of Pride!
Save who, attentive to Prophetic Song,
Explor'd the sacred Rolls, mystical Leaves
And Days and Years computing, found the Time
Big with foretold Events, and ripe for Birth.
The World, not only Judah, but the World
That Time stood gazing; for the Fame was rise,

226

And widely scatter'd, that a mighty Prince
Should rise, and rule the Universe. But most
The Sons of Solyma with eager haste
Open'd their spacious Portals to let in
The great Messiah; or on Zion's Top
Expectant, when the Saviour shou'd descend,
In his Ætherial Equipage, all arm'd
With Angels and with Thunder; when arrive
And his triumphal Entry glorious make,
On Plumes of Seraphim, in fiery Car.
Fond! to believe his Presence shou'd avail
Their Spleen and Hebrew Gall; with angry Bolt
Smiting the blasted Foe.—He gracious came
With Balm upon his healing Wings; he came
Not to destroy, but lift the World to Heav'n.
Yes he was born, and (in a Stable laid,
A Manger) from his Cradle lectur'd Pride,
And left inferior Royalty to blush
In Purple. Were Gold of intrinsick Worth,
Or Gems; think we, Creation had denied

227

Her Author these? cou'd thankless Nature grudge
The Giver his own Gifts? She at a Nod
Had pour'd her inmost Treasure up to Day,
Had roll'd her Pearl and Coral all ashore,
To deck her Infant King.—Nor Tokens none
Of Grandeur: Hymning Angels sung the Tale,
In Heav'nly Chorus, over Bethlem's Field:
Sung it to lowly Shepherds, as they lay
Tending their fleecy Charge: They listen'd glad,
And from their Hovels drank immortal Strains.

Why, in the Firmament, that beaming Star
New-kindled? Ask the Magi; from beyond
Euphrates, cross Arabian Sand and Rocks
They came, directed by the Meteor-guide:
Which hov'ring o'er the Straw-roof'd Palace spoke
Their Journey's End, with Ray down-pointed. Soon
The swarthy Worthies ope their precious Casks,
And open'd, on the bended Knee present

228

Oblation rich, Gold, Myrrh, and Frankincense;
Hailing the King, the Prophet, and the God.

The Virgin Mother pensive, as in doubt
What these Portents might mean, and whither lead,
With Tenderness extreme, and mingled Awe,
Hung o'er the Child enamour'd. Much of Seers
Antique, and Angel-Talk revolving, she
With Care and Wonder rock'd the holy Babe.

229

To the Spring.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

Fairest Quarter of the Year,
Absent long—O re-appear.
Ruthless Stranger to our Isle,
Where hast been this tedious while?
Brooding o'er the Southern Main,
Nursing Oranges in Spain?
Or if in Italian Air,
The Citron Blossom was thy Care,
Thrice the Sun has annual whirl'd
His Car flaming round the World,
And you never ventur'd forth,
Dainty Lady, so far North.

Saw you not the British Swain
Wishful, beck'ning you in vain?
Nor had Ears to his sad Lay,
Chiding your unkind Delay?

230

But your sober Plea produce,
We admit the Just Excuse:
Wither'd Hag, deform'd and black,
Sullen Winter kept you back,
Ling'ring long her frosty Rear;—
And by then we hop'd you near;
Summer with her tawny Face,
Had got Possession of the Place.

Thus between two neighb'ring Powers,
Some fair Province lifts her Towers;
Some Silesia tempting lies,
To either Borderer a Prize,

Jostled no more 'twixt Cold and Heat,
Now regain thy ancient Seat,
Nor thy Sister Seasons rude
On thy Right again intrude,
But ever flourish blith and free
Restor'd to thy gay Tetrarchy.

231

How did Nature sad, forlorn,
Naked in thy Absence mourn?
The wrinkled Earth of Moisture dried,
With Frost and Sun alternate fried,
The tainted Grass forgot to shoot,
The Trees were ignorant of Fruit,
And Ceres shew'd us here and there
A stragling Solitary Ear.

Bless us! knew you what we felt,
You are gentle and wou'd melt.
Come abroad, o'er Hill and Vale
Floating in a show'ry Gale,
Till thirsty Nature has her Fill,
In big round precious Drops distill.
With encreasing Lamp of Day
Come and smile the Storms away,
Genial Pow'r! Creating Queen!
Touch the Forest into Green:

232

Come at length and spread around
Thy broider'd Mantle o'er the Ground.
Come, and ever re-appear,
Fairest Quarter of the Year.

233

To the Queen of Hungary 1741.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

'Tis not thy Fault that Europe is undone,
Retire, and calm enjoy thy setting Sun,
While yet thy conscious Dignity remains,
Nor base Compliance wears the Gallic Chains.
Assume the Glories of the fallen Brave,
Nor think that lost, which Virtue cou'd not save.
Know there's a Triumph in well-earn'd Distress,
'Tis thine:—let others quake at their Success.
E'en leave the Field, and blast them with the rest,
The princely Dupes of half thy Realms possest,
Leave them, O! leave them to the curst Event,
To reign and sigh, to conquer and repent.
See Fleury with one Hand presents the Crown;
T'other conceals the Scourge within his Gown.

Thus France rewards her gay confed'rate Slaves;
The Prussian Boy shall have the Rod he craves:

234

And Poland on his Sons, if he prevail,
Descending Crowns and Servitude entail.
Who would not trust such venerable Things,
As hoary Prelates, and Most Christian King?
A violated Faith unheard and new is,
In Successors of Mazarine and Lewis!

But see the Eagle to Bavaria flown:
Happy the Man who mounts the Roman Throne:
Happy to flutter in Imperial Plumes,
With length of Titles, and with Sound of Drums;
Eas'd of all Pow'r; which Gallia will supply
For her good Cousin, Brother, and Ally.—

From thy Allies what mighty Aids ensue,
(To Thee not faithless, to Themselves if true)
All that let sober History declare,
To make each future Generation stare.

235

Retire thou peaceful to Etruria's Seat,
In Soul, superior to all Sceptres, great.
Here shall kind Neptune fence thy watry Bound,
There Nature stretch her Guardian Hills around;
No more thy Towns be storm'd, thy Armies bleed,
But nobler Arts to Diadems succeed,
Think there thy Joys begin, thy Labour ends,
Secure from Foes, Relations, Turks, and Friends.

236

To C. P. Esq.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

From Friendship's Cradle, up the verdant Paths
Of Youth, Life's jolly Spring; and now sublim'd
To it's full Manhood, and Meridian Strength,
Her latest Stage, (for Friendship ever hail
Knows not old Age, Diseases, and Decay,
But burning keeps her sacred Fire, till Death's
Cold Hand extinguish.) At this Spot, this Point,
Here, P---t, we social meet; and gaze about,
And look back to the Scenes, our Pastime trod
In Nature's Morning; when the gamesome Hours
Had sliding Feet, and laugh'd themselves away.
Luxurious Season! Vital Prime! where Thames
Flows by Etona's Walls, and chearful sees
Her Sons wide-swarming; and where sedgie Cam
Baths with slow Pace his Academic Grove,

237

Pierian Walks!—O never hope again,
Impossible! Untenable! to grasp
Those Joys, again; to feel alike the Pulse
Dancing, and fiery Spirits boiling high:
Or see the Pleasure that with careless Wing
Swept on, and flow'ry Garlands toss'd around
Disporting! Try to call her back:—as wise
Bid Yesterday return, arrest the Flight
Of Time; or musing by a River's Brink
Say to the wave that huddles swiftly by
For ever, “from thy Fountain roll anew.

The Merriment, the Tale, and Heart-selt Laugh,
That eccho'd round the Table, idle Guests,
Must rise and serious Immates take their Place:
Reflection's Daughters sad, and World-born Thoughts
Dislodging Fancy's Empire.—Yet who knows
Exact the Ballance of our Loss and Gain?
Who knows how far a Rattle may outweigh
The Mace or Sceptre? But as Boys resign

238

The Plaything—Baubles of their Infancy,
So fares it with maturer Years: They sage
Imagination's airy Regions quit,
And under Reason's Banner take the Field;
With Resolution Face the cloud or Storm,
While all their former Rainbows die away.

Some to the Palace with regardful Step,
And courtly Blandishment resort; and there
Advance Obsequious; in the Sun-shine Bask
Of princely Grace, catch the creating Eye,
Parent of Honours.—In the Senate, some
Harangue the full-bench'd Auditory, and wield
Their list'ning Passions, (such the Pow'r the Sway
Of Reason's Eloquence!)—Or at the Bar,
Where Cowper, Talbot, Sommers, York before
Pleaded their Way to Glory's Chair supreme,
And worthy fill'd it. Let not these great Names
Damp, but incite: Nor M---s Praise obscure
Thy younger Merit. Know these Lights, e'er yet

239

To Noon Day Lustre kindled, had their Dawn.
Proceed familiar to the Gate of Fame,
Nor think the Task severe, the Prize too high,
Of Toil and Honour for your Father's Son.

240

A Night Thought.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

Mortal, whoe'er Thou art, beware,—since Time
To the Thatch'd Hovel, to the Trophied Arch
Levels alike his undiscerning Scythe;
And Death, wide-sweeping, no Distinction owes
To the crown'd Villain. All alike in Hell.
Caligula and Chartres, seated both
On burning Couches in the fiery Hall.

Whence is that milder Blaze, of Æther pure,
As op'ning Clouds a Scenary Divine
Unfold? Where brightest in her Robe of Sky
Sits Virtue under Shade of Palm; with look
Serene, but stern: Herculean Strength behind
Waiting, and trampled Worlds beneath her Feet.
Nearest her Throne, Associates ever dear,
(Not sullen Cato, not th' unfriendly Stroke
Of Brutus, much less Cæsar's lawrel'd Pride)

241

Epaminondas smiling at his Blood,
For his dear Thebans as it streaming ran,
Warrior benign: Here Antonine the Just,
The Wise, the Humble, with his Sceptre low
In Homage to the Queen: And Nerva there,
Humanity Imperial! pleas'd in Death,
An Heir adopting, who shall bless Mankind.
All the choice Few, Union of Great and Good;
Poor Epictetus, with his Free-born Soul:
More's chearful Wisdom, Boyle with Study wan,
Beneficent, and meek; th' Athenian Sage,
And Indian, in abstruse Discourse sublime
Of the first Good,—their Eyes turn'd up to Heav'n.
Gather'd around, and pick'd from all the World,
The shielded Saint rejoices in her Sons.

242

EPITHALAMIUM.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

Ye Nymphs, that from Diana's Sport retir'd
Yon Forest leave awhile, and love to haunt
The bord'ring Vallies; saw ye, as they pass'd,
A chosen Pair, the Glory of your Plains,
Array'd in Youth's full Bloom, and Nature's Prime?
Saw ye the Glance of Beauty, when the Fair,
Quiver'd with Charms, and by the Graces dress'd
March'd on: With Joy the Bridegroom flush'd, beyond
What liveliest Fancy, unpossess'd, can dream?

Heard ye the Musick of the Groves around
Warbling, while Choirs of Gratulation rung,
From ev'ry Spray; and Nightingales, soft tun'd,
In Notes peculiar trill'd, the Nuptial Song!
Such as in Neighb'ring Windsor's fav'rite Shade
They chaunt; and, if their Handel's Ear be true,
No where on Silence steal with Lay so sweet.

243

Auspicious Omens brood on the fair Hour!
Did ever Hymen's Look more fresh appear,
Or his bright Vest with deeper Yellow flow?
The Vest that on Occasions high and rare
Pontifical he wears, when Hearts sincere
Combine; Of healthy Cheek, and sparkling Eye
As in the State of Nature, e'er his Shafts
By Gold were blunted. How the blazing Torch,
Fann'd by Love's Pinion, sheds unusual Fire!
Lo! by the Trail of Light, he left behind,
As from the Shrine his Jubilee return'd,
The Muse, invited Guest, attends her Theme
Right to the Nuptial Bow'r. There ent'ring, thrice
She hemm'd, thrice blest the Threshold with a Sneeze,
Prelude of Happiness to come. Her Lyre
She strung,—a friendly, voluntary Strain.

“Hail (she began) distinguish'd Pair! how sit
To join in wedded Love, each other's Choice!

244

Bridegroom, thy Taste is elegant indeed,
And Fingers nice, that on some Sunny Bank
In Beauty's Garden cull'd so fair a Flow'r.
To thine transplanted from her native Soil.
Cherish besure thy blooming Charge; keep off
Each Blast unkind, and Zephyr's Gale alone
Blow there, and genial Suns for ever smile.
Who not applaud thy Vow? Hereafter who
Dispute thy Palate, judging and exact,
Owner of curious Bliss?—Nor Thou, fair Bride,
Repine, nor homeward cast thy longing Eye;
'Twas time to sever from the Virgin Choir.
What Joy in Loneliness to waste the Hours
Unfruitful? see, hard by, Loddona's Stream
Cold and inactive creep along; her Face
Shaded with pensive Willow,—till anon
Married to jovial Thames, briskly she glides
O'er many a laughing Mead.—'Tis Nature wills
Such Union: Blest Society! where Souls
Move, as in Dance, to Melody divine,

245

Fit Partners. (How unlike the noisy Broils
Of wedded Strife!) Hence Friendship's gen'rous Glow
At Love's high Noon; and hence the sober Flame
Steddy, as Life declines.—All Comforts hence
Of Child and Parent, strongest, dearest Ties!
Think not the fair Original design'd
To flourish and be lost. The World expects
Some Copies to adorn another Age.—
Thank the kind Gods; Be happy, live and love.

246

To a Gentleman,

On the Birth-day of his First Son.

Thy sanguine Hope compleated in a Boy,
Hymen's kind Boon, my Friend, I give thee, Joy.
Of fine strange Things, and Miracles to be,
Expect no flatt'ring Prophecy from me.
'Tis Time's maturing Bus'ness to call forth
Degen'rate Meanness, or transmitted Worth:
Under his sliding Course of Hours and Days
The Artist's Labour mellows or decays.
Then, let me see, what my fond Wish bespoke,
The lively Colouring, and manly Stroke.
Is there the Sweetness, Easiness, and Grace,
Maternal Beauties, shed upon his Face?

247

Is there the frank Benevolence; the Fire
Sincere and gen'rous, darted from his Sire?
The judging Muse, where Lines like these must strike,
Will eye the Copy,—own,—'tis very like:
Point out each Virtue, each Resemblance tell
Pleas'd, that the Parents drew themselves so well.

249

Imitation of Horace.

Book I. Epist. XI.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the same.

What says dear A---th to fine Places seen,
Magnificent Versailles, polite Turin?
Is Paris quite so charming, as we hear?
And not one Sigh for Thames and B---r?
With Roman Glories is thy Spirit fir'd,
Or to Geneva studiously retir'd,
With Arts delighted, and with rambling tir'd?

Yes, yes (you cry) that Corner be my Lot,
Of English Friends forgetful and forgot;
By gliding Rhone th' oblivious Slumber take,
Or musing, view the wide-expanded Lake.

'Tis well, I own, to bait upon the Road,
But who wou'd make an Ale-house his Abode?

251

Arriv'd in Town, thro' Cold, and Dirt, and Snow,
Late, wet, and weary, to the Bagnio go:
The Bagnio for a Night affords good Chear;
But not the best of Lodging by the Year.
Too wise, if cast upon a distant Shore,
To sell the Vessel, and return no more.
France, Flanders, Spain, and Italy and Greece
Are doubtless as essential to our Peace;
As, in the scorching Dog-days, warm Attire,
A Stream in Winter, or in June a Fire.
At Ease, in Affluence—Naples, Florence, Rome,
Are pretty Things to chat about at Home:
Commend the soft Montpelier's balmy Air,
But, hail and vig'rous, what need you go there?

When Fortune hovers with Auspicious Wings,
In Gratitude accept the Boon she brings:
No nice Delays; for if you like your Meat,
Ne'er quarrel with the Room, in which you eat.
If Reason and good Sense alone give Ease,
Not airy Views, and Prospects of the Seas;

253

Voyage and Travel, are but Loss of Time;
Our Temper will not alter with the Clime.
In idle Diligence from Morn to Night,
We trifle to live well with all our Might.
For this, in Scythia's Cold, and India's Sun,
On Horse, in Ships, we swim, and ride, and run.
Live well we may, without the Help of Sails,
No Matter where, in Cumberland or Wales;
Content is stinted to no certain Space,
The Man may be in Fault, but not the Place.

254

On two Friends born on the same Day.

By the same.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

There are it seems who think the natal Star
Softens to Peace, or animates to War;
That yon bright Orbs, as in their Course they roll,
Dart their strong Influence on the dawning Soul;
Whether to Empire led by shining Jove,
Or lull'd to Pleasure by the Queen of Love:
Whether Mercurius gently wav'd his Hand;
And point to Arts and Sciences the Wand;
Or angry Mars inspiring warlike Heat,
Alarm the Pulse, and at the Bosom beat.

If so: Then why the Muse a Contrast finds
In Palamon's and Arcite's various Minds?
The one of Nature easy and compos'd,
Untoss'd by Passion, and in Arts repos'd;

255

T'other of eager and impetuous Soul,
Starting in Honour's Race, and stretching to the Goal.
One Calm, like Theodosius, to desire,
The other Glowing with Varrane's Fire,
This pleas'd to wander in Pierian Glades,
Where the Rill murmurs, and the Lawrel shades;
That warm'd and rous'd by what his Soul approves,
The Sport, the Mistress, or the Friend he loves.

Yet the same Sun saluted them on Earth,
Yet the same Planets glitter'd at their Birth,
The same soft Gale, or whisper'd in the Wood,
Or the same Tempest discompos'd the Flood.
It is enough, that Harmony appears,
And Friendship reconciles, where Nature jars,
For whatsoe'er the Scheme of Dreamers be,
Their Stars may differ, since their Lives agree.

256

On the Death of Mrs. M. H.

By the same.

A lovely Form, so permanently Fair,
That Time and Sickness join'd cou'd scarce impair:
O'er the pale Landskip setting Beauty shone,
And Patience smooth'd the Wrinkles Age brought on.
Within that Form a still more beauteous Mind,
(Like some fair Picture in clear Crystal shrin'd)
Born ev'ry social Blessing to dispense,
Kind with Distinction, wise with Innocence:
The Faulty to reprove, the Good to chear,
Sensibly soft, and tenderly severe.
A pleasing Sanctity! tho' serious, gay;—
Her Life look'd like a well-kept Holiday.

Stoics might wonder at her Christian Mind,
Serene in Anguish, steadily resign'd:
Of God's Correction she wou'd not complain,
But smiling wearied out her Length of Pain;
And, her Soul wing'd, as Nature's Pow'rs grew faint,
By soft Degrees decay'd into a Saint.

257

To Miss A. W. a very young Lady.

I would tell Thee Thou art fair,
But the pleasing Tale, I fear,
Might deceive thy tender Ear;
Make Thee fancy Beauty more
Than thoul't find the Faithless store;
Faithless as the Dream of Night,
Flitting with returning Light;
Just as sure as Summer Seas,
When behind th'inviting Breeze
Storms and Thunders loit'ring wait,
Soon to give the Wretch his Fate.

Let the Muse then send her Song
To thy Mind, Thy Mind yet young,
Yet as pure and free from Stain
As the Snow driv'n o'er the Plain:

258

But how nice th'instructive Lay!
Yet the Muse has bid me say,
Thou hast ask'd, and she'll obey.

Gentle Maid, to whose kind Heart
Friendly Nature doth impart,
(Choicest of the Gifts she brings)
Soft good Temper, first of Things.
May that Temper be your Guide,
May she still with Thee reside,
Free from Passion, free from Pride;
Pride that aims the deadliest Dart
At the growing Virgin's Heart.
Once its Poison enter'd there,
Nought can cure the wounded Fair.
Pride like Venus does not move,
Graces at her Side and Love;
But the fierce Desire of Power,
And dull Ign'rance march before;

259

Affectation, Vanity,
Saucy Sneer and Calumny,
Cruelty, and high Disdain,
Form her Virtue-killing Train.
Shun then Flattery's tainting Breath,
Self-Opinion shun like Death.

Next, my Fair, with curious quest
Search the Garden of thy Breast,
Underneath th'enliven'd Clay,
Midst the Streams that thro' it stray,
Clay as fine as Nature makes,
Streams yet cool in Vestal Lakes;
Search, I say, with nicest Heed,
And, if found, destroy the Weed;
Fruitless, Baleful, and Unkind,
(Fond yet of the Female Mind)
If base Avarice you spy,
Pluck it forth, and bid it die;

260

See! thy Parents praise the Deed,
Loathing the pernicious Weed,
And with Pleasure bid Thee tread
On the Snow-cold Poison's Head.

The observing Muse believe,
Nothing can your Bliss deceive,
If in noble Scorn you hold
Thirst of Power, and Love of Gold.
Quell'd these Passions, Thou shalt find
Virtue easy, soft, and kind.
These two Dangers canst Thou shun,
More than half Life's Task is done.
When thy Breast thus clear'd you see,
When the Soil from Weeds is free,
When no more the Thistle grows,
Nor the Thorn surrounds the Rose,
Thou shalt then employ thy Hours,
Gath'ring Sweets and culling Flowers.

261

All that Virtue has to give
Thou shalt to thy Breast receive.
Under thy commanding Eye,
White-rob'd Purity shall lie;
And thy alt'ring Cheek her Throne
Rose-red Modesty shall own;
Still at thy extended Hand
Glowing Charity shall stand;
And upon thy Lips shall dwell
Truths as pure as Angels tell.

Thus, my fair one, may'st Thou shine,
Till some Youth, by Fate Divine,
Scorn'd the light fantastic Crew,
Rests his Happiness on you;
And Thou pour'st into his Breast,
Joys like what thy Sire confest,
When in Hymen's happy Band
He receiv'd Eliza's Hand.

262

To the Sparrows at Menwinyon in Cornwal.

Birds, in Joy all Birds excelling,
Happy Slaves to endless Love,
Happier here than if your dwelling
Was the sacred Cyprian Grove.

What tho' those celestial Sparrows
Boast their Food from Venus' Hands,
And their Feathers wing the Arrows,
With which Cupid all commands?

Tell 'em Beauty's all Opinion,
And ye much mistaken are,
If the Sisters at Menwinyon
Out go not the Graces far.

Tell the Charms ye daily gaze on,
As ye hop the Woods among,

263

Such no Mortal e'er set Eyes on,
Such Catullus never sung.

Were his Mistress' Sparrow living,
And these Sisters to him shown,
He poor Bird would die with grieving,
Seeing Lesbia so out done.

Here then, Sparrows, each gay Morning
With your chirping Lays salute,
Hither each cool Eve returning
Nestle midst the Leaves and Fruit.

And if e're your Rest be broken
By the Nets of some rude Clown,
To the Sisters be it spoken,
And they'll kill him with a Frown.

265

An ODE, to the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole, Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter, February 6. 1741. On his ceasing to be Minister.

Being a just Panegyric on a Great Minister, the Revolution, and Hanover Succession.

[_]

In Imitation of Justum & tenacem, &c. The Author Anonymous.

The Minister that's Brave and Just,
True to his King's and Country's Trust,
Defies the Tyrant Faction;
Howe'er its many Heads may stare,
Grown dreadful with a Gorgon Air
Of general Distraction.

Not threatning B---d who commands
The restless City's furious Bands,
And brandishes her Dagger;
Not thundring P---y, tho' he awes
The S**n**te to desert his Cause,
His steady Soul can stagger.

267

Th'impending Storm, that louder grows
From shrinking Friends, and swelling Foes,
Intrepidly he faces:
Untouch'd with Guilt, he knows no Fears,
And only Greater yet appears
Divested of his Places.

Thus Somers, for great Service done,
Thus Marlborough, for Realms o'er run,
Were by their Country treated;
Who now quaff Nectar's flowing Tide,
With just Godolphin by their Side,
Celestially seated.

Thus our great Founder William rose,
By Opposition of his Foes,
To his Immortal Glory:
Thus our brave George advanced to Fame,
And still shall have Old Steady's Name
In everlasting Story.

269

George thus address'd his Brother Gods,
Assembled in their blest Abodes,
And Britain's Fate debating:
Long have the S---s ceas'd to reign,
Since J---'s Priests and foreign Queen
Drove on his Abdicating.

Soon as he from the Church withdrew
His Grace by solemn Promise due
And broke all Limitation,
His forfeit Crown by just Decree
Was doom'd to William and to Me,
To save a sinking Nation.

The Bigot King shall now no more
Hold Commerce with Rome's Scarlet Whore,
And back her Superstition;
No more shall S---'s perjur'd House
Britain's Credulity abuse,
While plotting her Perdition.

271

But Foes subdued my Pity meet,
William's fam'd Boyne gave one Defeat,
And my Dunblain another:
My Coward Cousin now I own,
Since Scotland proves him J---'s Son,
Whoever was his Mother.

Nay, Frauds forgotten, I'm content
He should be rank'd in right Descent:
Let but the British Ocean
Still rore between his Sons and mine,
And let the Royal Exiles reign,
Where they can find Promotion.

Since Tyranny has met its Fate,
And Liberty in Church and State
Now triumphs o'er its ruin;
Britain shall stand most truly Great,
And see her Foes bow at her Feet,
For Peace most humbly suing.

273

Her Fleets shall all around proclame
To distant Shores her dreaded Name,
In Peals of British Thunder:
Cross from the Old World to the New
Their Sails shall fly, her Fame pursue,
And fill both Worlds with wonder.

Nor shall she seek for Golden Mines,
That base Allay to grand Designs,
That stain to the victorious:
Shou'd Heroes, after Actions bold,
Turn Misers, and now thirst for Gold,
How must they fall inglorious!

No Bounds shall check her conqu'ring Arms,
Whenever a just Cause alarms,
And Wrongs are to be righted:
Nor scorching Suns, nor freezing Poles
Shall bar my Britons daring Souls,
When once to War excited.

275

But these great Things, that I relate,
Can only be her glorious Fate,
On this express Condition;
That with false Zeal no more she burns,
No more to S------'s Race returns,
And Papal Imposition.

To raise again that hated Line,
Shou'd e'er a factions People join,
Grown Mad with too much Freedom;
Again my Pow'rs shall take the Field,
Again the Coward Chiefs shall yield,
And Sword or Ax shall bleed 'em.

Thrice shou'd Rebellion rear her Head,
With Front of Brass, but Heart of Lead,
Still bent upon Restoring;
Before my Sons thrice shall she fly,
Thrice at their Feet in vain shall lie
Wives for their Lords imploring.

277

But whither wou'd my Muse aspire?
Forbear to tune the merry Lyre
To Themes past thy attaining:
For to attempt, in humble Odes,
The Acts of Heroes, Speech of Gods,
At best is but profaning.

278

On a young Lady of the North.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By ------

Though from the North the Damsel came,
All Spring is in her Breast;
Her Skin is of the driven Snow,
But Sun-shine all the rest.

279

To Alexander Pope, Esq. On his Essay of Man.

By the Rev. Mr. P. L.

Hail moral Bard! to whose instructive Lay,
E'en Greece must yield, and Rome her Homage pay;
Such are thy Numbers, that with wond'rous Art,
They sooth at once the Ear, and mend the Heart.
Amaz'd we view thy strong poetick Flight,
Where Wit and Judgement, Sense and Sound unite.
Thy Words so justly do thy Thoughts express,
That Reason lovely seems in Fancy's Dress.

Let vulgar Bards indulge the trivial Song,
To thee, sublime and serious Truths belong;
Master of Manners, and of Verse, you show
What to ourselves, our Friend, our God we owe.

280

Whate'er great Plato, or Chrysippus thought,
Here doubly charms in pleasing Numbers taught,
Though grave the Theme, the Beauties of thy Page
The gay, the young insensibly engage:
E'en Virtue's strictest Precepts yield delight,
And win those Lovers, they were wont to fright.

No more shall Science now be crampt to Rules,
But free and unconfin'd forsake the Schools;
You, her High Priest, expose to vulgar Eye
Her solemn Rites and darkest Mystery.

Oh! let thy Muse attempt a nobler Theme,
And join the Christian to the moral Scheme.
Let her describe Redemption's mystic Plan,
And God's unbounded Clemency to Man;
Then shall thy Verse o'er Infidels prevail,
And conquer Vice, where graver Doctrines fail.

281

On a young Lady working green Silk on a white Sattin Ground.

In Winter's icy Chains lies Nature bound,
And one cold Whiteness covers all the Ground,
'Till the gay Spring, on Zephyrs born, is seen
And the whole Field is deck'd in sprightly Green;
But where some Snow-drops glitt'ring still remain
Height'ning the Lustre of the verdant Plain.

And lo! how Nature is by Art exprest,
That Silk, er'st white and smooth as Lucy's Breast,
Now stretch'd beneath her animating Hand,
Breaks into Flow'rs, and sprouts at her Command,
And, delicately verdant, charms the Sight,
But where her Fingers touch'd it, shines more white.

282

To a young Lady, who Paints very well, but always Draws her own Sex to Disadvantage.

Ingenious Fair, in whose well mingled Dies,
Reflected Charms delight our ravish'd Eyes;
On whose soft Pencil ev'ry Beauty waits
That Nature boasts, or happy Art creates:
Say, when thy Fancy prompts thee to display
The blooming Flow'rs that deck the youthful May,
Seek you not all that Colours can supply
To cheat our Senses, and delude our Eye?
Strives not your ev'ry Stroke with anxious Pain
The Whiteness of the Lilly to retain?
Blot you not out the ill-united Shades
If but one Tulip on your Canvas fades?
And swells not with a conscious Joy your Breast,
If in the happy glowing Tints thou seest
The downy Blushes of the Rose encreast?
Whence strive you then, to hurt your own fair Kind?
How came your Injuries to them confin'd?

283

Whence dares your Pencil offer to disgrace
Such Looks as well might hint an Angel's Face?
What secret Passion aids thy Touch with Spite
To darken Cloe's Brown, or taint Clarinda's White?
Say, is it Envy guides thy faithless Line?
Can meagre Envy dwell in Breasts like thine?
With Trembling dost thou Cælia's Features trace,
Or fear that Myra's Smiles shou'd thine disgrace?

Thy own fair Self, mistaken Charmer, view,
Learn thy own Power, and let thy Paint be true.
With kindly Care thy happiest Colours blend,
And strive, what Nature fairest forms, to mend:
From Cloe's Eye bid keener Light'nings flow,
Teach Cælia's Cheeks with softer Red to glow:
Still, still, bright Nymph, unrival'd shalt thou shine,
Thy Paint is charming, but thy Form divine.

284

To the same.

When some new rising Beauty fills
With Jealousy the Virgin Train,
Detraction vents the inbred Spleen,
And Whispers ease the Rival's Pain.

Not Myra so; with cruel Skill
She calls the Pencil to her Aid;
Defames the Fair in Effigy,
And Libels with satyrick Shade.

Unable thus, with dazled Eyes
To bear the Sun's Meridian Beam,
With Pride the gazing Swain defies
His fainter Image in the Stream.

Beneath her figurative Hand
Cloe's all-matchless Beauties die,
And faintly languish at her Stroke
The little Loves in Cælia's Eye.

285

As Criticks o'er some ancient Page,
Injurious She to Beauty's Worth,
O'erlooks each bright diviner Grace,
And calls each Imperfection forth.

With Pity and with Anger mov'd,
The partial Likeness we deplore,
And wish the Picture we survey
Or less Resemblance had or more.

But cease, fond Nymph, and ask thy Heart
If that such Injuries cou'd brook,
Should e'er thy beauteous Self be shown
Less killing by a single Look?

Shou'd thy false Maid or ill-bred Glass,
One Dimple or one Smile bely,
Say, wou'd not Betty strait be chid,
Thy Mirrour thrown in Anger by?

Be then to ev'ry Rival just,
And since thy Lips disdain to wrong,

286

Let not thy gentle Hand revile,
But learn a Virtue from thy Tongue.

'Twere nobler for each Rival Face
With more than native Charms to crown,
Thy utmost Art can ne'er pourtray
A Form more lovely than thy own.

287

To the same.

In vain, fair Nymph, thy Pencil wou'd disgrace
The Bloom of Cælia's, or Clarinda's Face;
Against thy Will thou charm'st our ravish'd Eyes,
And what thy Envy prompts, thy Skill denies.
By one judicious Stroke, inform'd we guess
Whose Form inspir'd the Malice of the Piece;
Nor all thy less'ning Colours can suggest,
Can force the sweet Idea from our Breast,
We see 'tis—and forget the rest.

288

To *****

The golden Tripod shou'd thy Worth receive,
The polish'd Brass, and Marble Bust I'd give,
The great Rewards to Grecian Heroes known,
Such as bold Theron gain'd, and Chromius won.
If Phidias' pow'rful Touch I cou'd command,
Or Zeuxis' Pencil grac'd my forming Hand.

But thee the Muses stronger Pow'r delights,
Thy list'ning Ear the flowing Verse invites,
That Phœbus prompts, or tuneful Pope indites.
Me too the Nymphs of Pindus' Grotto's Fire,
Me, tho' the last of all their Train, inspire;
Their mighty lasting Influence I know,
And their immortalizing Pow'r can show.
Not all that Brass, or Stone, or Paint can give,
By which again departed Heroes live;
Great Cæsar's Triumphs still expos'd to View,
Scipio's fair Laurels springing ever new,

289

Perpetuate not so sure the Warrior's Praise,
As the kind Meed of Heliconian Lays.
Shou'd not auspicious Verse thy Mem'ry guard,
Thy Name, thy Virtue were without Reward.

The Man whose Worth the Civic Wreath has gain'd
By Lands from Slav'ry freed, or Laws maintain'd,
The Muse establishes for e'er the same,
Rescues from Death, and consecrates to Fame.

Thus what th' ungrateful Populace deny,
The Muse, to Nassau's Virtue, shall supply.
Long Ages hence in Prior's happy Line
Namur shall blaze, and Purple stain the Boyn.

Destructive Time may sink proud Blenheim's Dome,
And Woodstock's pleasing Bow'rs forget to bloom;
Yet nought shall Malb'rough's settled Fame survive
The Muses Blenheim shall for ever live.

A Poem wrote by G. L. Esq.

291

On the Tomb of the Virgin Laura.

[_]

From Sannazarius.

Had heav'nly Beings been with Tears supply'd,
The Gods themselves had wept when Laura dy'd.
Yet, what they can, see! Love and Venus show,
She quench'd her Torches, and he broke his Bow;
Tho' Gods and Men at thy sad Fate repine,
Nor Gods, nor Men, my Life, feel Grief like mine.
Blest Souls! that with thee to the Shades repair,
Elysium's doubly so, now thou art there.

293

Epitaph on Albina.

[_]

From Marullus.

Here fair Albina lies, yet not alone,
That was forbid by Cytherea's Son;
His Quiver, Arrows, and his Bow lie here,
And Beauty's Self lay Lifeless on her Bier.
Strew Roses then, and Violets round her show'r,
She that's now Dust, was Yesterday a Flow'r.

295

On Charinus the Husband of an ugly Wife.

[_]

From Johannes Secundus.

Your Wife's possest of such a Face, and Mind,
So charming that, and this so soft and kind,
So smooth her Forehead, and her Voice so sweet,
Her Words so tender, and her Dress so neat,
That wou'd kind Heav'n, whence Man all good derives,
In wond'rous Bounty send me three such Wives,
Dear happy Husband, take it on my Word,
I'd give the D---l two to take the third.

296

On the Statue of a Heifer.

[_]

From Johannes Secundus.

Good Friend, this Message to my Owner bear,
That Myron stole me, and has fix'd me here.

297

ABELARD to HELOISA.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By a Lady.

As in my Cell, low prostrate on the Ground
I mourn'd my Crimes, thy Letter entrance found.
Too soon my Soul the well known Name confess'd,
My beating Heart sprung fiercely in my Breast:
Through my whole Frame a guilty Transport glow'd,
And from my Eyes the Torrents streaming flow'd.
Oh! Heloisa, art thou still the same,
Dost thou still nourish this destructive Flame?
Have not the gentle Rules of Peace and Heaven,
From thy soft Soul, this fatal Passion driven?
Alas! I thought you disengag'd, and free,
And can you still, still sigh and weep for me?
What pow'rful Deity, what hallow'd Shrine,
Can save me from a Love, a Faith like thine?

298

Where shall I fly, when not this awful Cave,
Whose rugged Foot the surging Billows lave,
Me from the Horrors of thy Love can save?
When my dread Vows in vain their Force oppose,
Listed 'gainst Love how vain alas are Vows!
In fruitless Penitence I wear away
Each tedious Night, and sad revolving Day,
I fast, I pray, and with deceitful Art
Veil thy dear Image in my tortur'd Heart.
My tortur'd Heart conflicting Passions move,
I hope, despair, repent, yet still I love.
A thousand jarring Thoughts my Bosom tear
For thou (not God) oh Heloise! art there.
To the false World's deluding Pleasures dead,
No longer by its wand'ring Fires misled,
In learn'd Disputes harsh Precepts I infuse,
And give the Counsel I want Pow'r to use.
The rigid Maxims of the Grave and Wise,
Have quench'd each milder Sparkle of my Eyes.

299

Each lovely Feature of this once lov'd Face,
By Grief revers'd assumes a sterner Grace.
Oh Heloisa! should the Fates once more
Indulgent to my View thy Charms restore,
How from my Arms would'st thou with Horror start,
To miss the Form familiar to thy Heart?
Nought could thy quick, thy piercing Judgment see,
To speak me Abelard, but Love of thee.
Lean Abstinence, pale Grief, and hagged Care
The dire Attendants of forlorn Despair,
Have Abelard the gay, the young, remov'd,
And in the Hermit sunk the Man you lov'd.
Wrapt in the Gloom, these holy Mountains shed,
The thorny Paths of Penitence I tread,
Lost to the World, from all its Int'rests free,
And torn from all my Soul, held dear in thee.
Ambition with its Train of Frailties gone
All Love, all Form forgot, but thine alone.
Amidst the Blaze of Day, the Gloom of Night,
My Heloisa rises to my Sight.

300

Veil'd as in Paraclet's secluded Tow'rs
The wretched Mourner counts the lagging Hours,
I hear her Sighs, see the swift falling Tears,
Weep all her Griefs, and pant with all her Cares.
Oh Vows! oh Convent! your stern Face impart
And frown the melting Phantom from my Heart.
Let other Sighs a worthier Sorrow show,
Let other Tears for Sins repentant flow.
Low to the Earth, my guilty Eyes I roul
And humble to the Dust my heaving Soul.
Forgiving Powers, your gracious Call I meet,
Who first impow'r'd this Rebel Heart to beat,
Who thro' this trembling, this offending Frame,
For nobler Ends infus'd Life's active Flame:
Oh change the Temper of this labouring Breast,
And form anew each beating Pulse to Rest.
Let springing Grace, fair Faith and Hope remove
The fatal Traces of destructive Love.
Destructive Love from his warm Mansion tear,
And leave no Tracks of Heloisa there.

301

Are these the Wishes of my inmost Soul?
Would I its softest tend'rest Sense controul?
Would I this touch'd, this glowing Heart refine
To the cold Substance of that Marble Shrine?
Transform'd like these pale Swarms that round me move,
O! blest Insensibles that know not Love!
Ah! rather let me keep this hapless Flame:
Adieu false Honours, unavailing Fame:
Not your harsh Rules, but tender Love supplies
The Streams that gush from my despairing Eyes.
I feel the Traitor melt about my Heart,
And through my Veins the treach'rous Infl'ence dart.
Inspire me, Heav'n, assist me, Grace divine,
Aid me, you Saints, that know not Crimes like mine,
You who in Earth severe, all Griefs did prove,
All but the tort'ring Pains of hopeless Love.
A holier Rage in your pure Bosoms dwelt;
Nor can you pity what you never felt.
A sympathizing Grief alone can cure;
The Hand that heals, must feel what I endure.

302

Thou, Heloise, alone must give me Ease,
And bid my lab'ring Soul subside to Peace.
Restore me to my long lost Heav'n of rest,
And take thyself from my reluctant Breast.
If Crimes like mine, could an Allay receive,
That blest Allay, thy wond'rous Charms might give
That Form, which first to Love my Heart inclin'd
Still wanders in my lost, my guilty Mind.
I saw thee as the new-blown Blossom fair
Sprightly as light, more soft than Summer's Air.
Bright as their Beams, thy Eyes a Mind disclose,
While on thy Lips, gay blush'd the fragrant Rose,
While Youth, and Love, in each dear Feature shone,
Press'd by my Fate, I gaz'd and was undone.
There fell the gen'rous Fire whose vig'rous Flame,
Enlarg'd my Soul, and led me on to Fame.
Nor Fame, nor Wealth, my softned Heart could move
Dully insensible to all but Love,
Snatch'd from myself my Learning tasteless grew,
Vain my Philosophy, oppos'd to you,

303

A Train of Woes succeed, nor shou'd we mourn
The Hours, which cannot, ought not to return!
As once to Love I sway'd your guilty Mind,
Too fond, alas! too fatally inclin'd;
To Virtue now, let me your Breast inspire,
And fan with Zeal divine the Heav'nly Fire.
Teach you to injur'd Heav'n, all chang'd, to turn,
And bid your Soul with sacred Raptures burn.
Oh! that my own Example might impart
This noble Warmth to your soft trembling Heart,
That mine with pious undissembled Care,
Could aid the latent Virtue struggling there:
Alas! I rave, nor Grace, nor Zeal divine,
Burns in a Heart oppress'd with Crimes like mine.
Too sure I find, while I the Torture prove
Of feeble Piety, conflicting Love.
On black Despair, my forc'd Devotion's built,
Absence for me has sharper Pangs than Guilt.
Yet, yet, my Heloise, thy Charms I see,
Yet my Sighs breath, my Tears are shed for thee.

304

Each weak Resistance stronger knits my Chain,
I sigh, weep, love, despair, repent in vain.
Haste, Heloisa, haste, thy Lover free,
Amidst thy warmer Pray'rs—O! think on me.
Wing with your rising Zeal my grov'ling Mind,
And let me mine, from your Repentance find.
Ah labour, strive, your Love, yourself controul,
The change will sure affect my kindred Soul.
In Concert blest, our purer Sighs shall live,
And Heav'n assisting, shall our Crimes forgive:
But if unhappy, wretched, lost in vain,
Faintly th' unequal Combat you sustain,
If not to Heav'n you feel your Bosom rise,
Nor Tears refin'd, fall contrite from your Eyes;
If still your Heart its wonted Passions move,
If still, to speak all Pains in one, you love;
Deaf to the weak Essays of living Breath,
Attend the strongest Eloquence of Death.
When the kind Pow'r this captive Soul shall free,
Which only then shall cease to doat on thee;

305

When gently sunk to my eternal Sleep,
The Paraclete my peaceful Urn shall keep,
Then Heloisa, then your Lover view,
See his quench'd Eyes no longer gaze on you;
From their dread Orbs their tender Utt'rance flown,
Which first to thine my Heart's soft Tale made known.
This Breast no more (at length to Ease consign'd)
Pants like the waving Aspin in the Wind.
See all my wild tumultuous Passion o'er,
And thou (amazing change!) belov'd no more.
Behold the destin'd End of human Love,
But let the Sight alone, your Zeal improve:
Let then your conscious Soul, to Sorrow mov'd,
Recall how much, how tenderly I lov'd.
With pious Care your fruitless Grief restrain,
Nor let a Tear your sacred Veil prophane;
Nor e'en a Sigh on my cold Urn bestow,
But let your Breast with new-born Raptures glow,
Let Love divine frail Mortal Love dethrone,
And to your Mind immortal Joys make known.

306

Let Heav'n relenting strike your ravish'd View
And still the bright, the blest Pursuit renew:
So with your Crimes shall your Misfortunes cease,
And your wreck'd Soul be calmly hush'd to Peace.

307

ON THE Death of a Young Bride.

When youthful Charms are blasted in their Bloom,
And Wit and Beauty sink into the Tomb,
'Tis just for ev'ry friendly Heart to share
The Father's Anguish, and the Husband's Care;
Then let none wonder at a Stranger's Sighs.
And Tears that flow from sympathetic Eyes,
So great a Loss, unknown to all Relief,
Claims the free Gift of universal Grief.

Oh! Fate severe! when Piety can't save
The destin'd Fair one, from the cruel Grave!
She, in whom Nature's noblest Gifts combin'd,
A graceful Person, and a lovely Mind,

308

In all the Pride of Youth resign'd her Breath,
An early Victim to devouring Death.
Hence learn, ye Fair, nor too much prize your Charms,
None can resist this gloomy Tyrant's Arms:
How should vain Beauty hope his Wrath to stay,
When such transcendent Goodness fell a Prey!
See, each revolving Sun, some sudden Blow
Gives a new Triumph to th' insulting Foe.
Where's then the Shape so exquisitely true?
The snowy Brightness, and Vermillion Hue?
When rueful Death has once a Conquest made,
The Lillies wither, and the Roses fade:
From the pale Face the laughing Graces fly,
And Loves, that wanton'd in the sparkling Eye.
But conscious Virtue scorns his short-liv'd Pow'r,
Our only Succour in the fatal Hour:

309

This calm'd each Terror and remov'd each Fear,
From the fair Saint, her Dissolution near.
She, when Death call'd, attended, undismay'd,
And the quick Summons chearfully obey'd,
With Patience underwent the bitter Strife,
The last best Duty of a well spent Life,
So may the gayest at the Park or Play
Be by To-morrow's Dawning snatch'd away
And from the sprightly Ball or Masquerade,
Sleep in the Marble's cold Embraces laid.
For soon or late at the appointed Day
We all must tread this melancholy Way.
Then happy they, who quit this irksome State,
E'er they know Vice, or feel the Storms of Fate.
Such this bright Pattern in the Bloom of Age
Left all the Tumults of this mortal Stage;
And though so short her Dwelling was with Man,
With ample Virtues fill'd her narrow Span.

310

Why shed we then unprofitable Tears,
For one so old in Works, though green in Years?
Lament the Sinners short-liv'd Date, betimes
Snatch'd in the May-day of his blooming Crimes;
Whose unrepented Follies well might bear
Ages of Sighs and penitential Pray'r.
Who knows what Evils Fortune had in Store,
Had Heav'n not sent her to a safer Shore?
In Death we find a Haven lull'd in Peace,
Where the Winds deaden, and the Tempests cease.
Here she enjoys, from Trouble ever free,
The unmov'd Calmness of a Summer's Sea.
Here Malice sleeps, the lying Tongue is still,
No envious Pow'r to thwart her pious Will.
Add those precarious Ills, that she has fled
By a quick Passage to the silent Dead,
Distempers rising from fallacious Food,
And Poisons lurking in the tainted Blood:

311

The slow Consumption and Rheumatic Pains,
The Fever raging in the throbbing Veins;
Then render Thanks to Heav'n, that let her go
So Young, so Virtuous, from a State of Woe.

312

THESEUS and ARIADNE.

THE ARGUMENT.

Theseus, the valiant Son of Ægeus King of Athens, for a long while knew not his Father; till travelling into Attica, he by great Fortune there discovered him. But soon after, out of a Principle of Honour, he left the Athenian Court to go to Crete, on a dangerous Expedition; Minos was King of that Place, whose Daughter Ariadne at first Sight fell unhappily in Love with the beautiful Stranger; and assisted him in killing the Minotaur, a Monster that was inclosed in the Middle of a large Labyrinth. It seems she presented him with a Clue of Thread, by which, after the Conquest of the Beast, he guided his Steps back through the many Windings of the Grove. After this signal Service, he promis'd to carry her with him to Athens; but in his Passage Home left her on a desert Island call'd Dia. She prays all the Gods to avenge her, which they do, by making Theseus, when he comes within Sight of Attica, forget to give the appointed Signal of Success at a Distance; by which Means Ægeus thinking his Son dead, threw himself into the Sea and perish'd. Ariadne was afterwards carried into Heaven by Bacchus, and made Constellation.

313

Where the rude Waves on Dia's Harbour play,
The fair forsaken Ariadne lay:
Here first the wretched Maid was taught to prove
The bitter Pangs of ill rewarded Love;
Here saw, just freed from a fallacious Sleep,
Her Theseus flying o'er the distant Deep:
Wistful she look'd, nor what she saw believ'd,
Hop'd some Mistake, and wish'd to be deceiv'd.
While the false Youth his Way securely made,
His Faith forgotten, and his Vows unpay'd.
At length she found her partial Fears too true,
The well-known Vessel less'ning to her View;
Then sick with Grief, and frantick with Despair,
Her Dress she rent, and tore her golden Hair.
The gay Tiara on her Temples plac'd,
The fine-wrought Cincture that her Bosom grac'd,

314

The Fillets, which her heaving Breasts confin'd,
Are rent and scatter'd in the lawless Wind.
The wretched Fair regards them now no more,
Wash'd by the wanton Surges on the Shore.
Such trivial Cares, alas! no Room can find,
Her dear deceitful Theseus fills her Mind;
For him alone she grieves the live-long Day,
Sickens in Thought, and pines her Soul away.

Curst be the Time when Theseus first from Home
Reach'd the Gortynian Tyrant's stately Dome:
In that sad Day what Evils unforeseen
Were form'd in Embryo by the Cyprian Queen?
The Story goes, the Minotaur was fed
With human Victims for Androgeos dead.
Forc'd by a Sickness the Cecropians pay'd
This yearly Tribute to the Hero's Shade:
The Flow'r of Athens were compell'd to bleed,
For thus the cruel Oracle decreed.

315

'Till Theseus, to preserve his Country's Blood,
Himself devoted for the Public Good.
Forth for the Cretan Coast he hoisted Sail,
Fleet sped his Ship, and prosp'rous was the Gale;
Soon as to Minos' awful Court he came,
The Princess saw him, and conceiv'd a Flame.
A grand Pavillion on the Ground there stood,
Celestial Odours issued from the Wood;
On this the Royal Fair repos'd her Charms,
Wrapt in th' Embraces of her Mother's Arms.
Such to the View the goodly Myrtle seems,
Which grows beside Eurotas' crystal Streams;
Thus beautiful the vernal Flow'rs appear,
That glad with gay Variety the Year.
She sat and languish'd, nor her Eyes withdrew,
'Till the whole Frame the sweet Contagion knew.
O cruel Boy, that aim'st the Shafts of Love,
And rul'st the Golgi and Idalian Grove,
You give no Pleasure but has some Alloy,
And blend'st with Trouble our sincerest Joy.

316

You first inspir'd with this unhappy Flame
The Royal Virgin for a Foreign Name.
With what Anxiety was she opprest,
What Tempests labour'd in her troubled Breast,
When her lov'd Youth the Monster met in Fight,
Resolv'd to conquer or to leave the Light?
As when a Storm on Taurus' Top descends,
The waving Oak or Mountain Pine it bends,
At last the Tree up-rooted, in its Way
Bears all before it with impetuous Sway;
So the dread Beast by Theseus taught to yield,
Fell down reluctant on the bleeding Field.
The conquering Hero now returns with Praise,
A Clue directs him through the giddy Maze,
Else his misguided Steps would darkling rove
In the blind Windings of the treach'rous Grove.
It now remains the Virgin's Flight to sing,
Her sudden leaving the afflicted King.
The Mother mourn'd her Child's unhappy Case,
Her Sister stop'd her with a forc'd Embrace:

317

But Father, Sister, Mother, little mov'd,
Her all she yielded for the Man she lov'd.
To Dia's fatal Coast the Lovers steer,
Perfidious Theseus leaves his Mistress here.
Wrapt in deceitful Slumbers while she lay,
The perjur'd Lover basely stole away.
The Nymph with Cries ascends the Mountain's height,
And o'er the distant Ocean strains her Sight,
A boundless Tract: now in the Sea she goes
Baring her Knees, and sighing vents her Woes.

“Why did you take me from my Father's Hand
“To leave me, Theseus, in a Foreign Land?
“Could you so soon my plighted Faith despise,
“And, perjur'd, dare the Anger of the Skies?
“Did nothing in your Breast persuasive prove,
“No soft Compassion melt your Soul to Love?
“Ah me! far other Promises you made,
“Far other Prospects to my View you laid;

318

“The Nuptial Joys I hop'd and Bridal Day,
“But envious Winds have born my Hopes away.
“Let now no Woman trust in Man again!
“False is his Promise, and his Vows are vain.
“When the strong Passions riot unsupprest,
“Men promise largely with an open Breast;
“But soon as Love is with Possession cloy'd,
“Their Words they heed not, and their Oaths are void.
“I sav'd your Life and Honour when at Stake,
“And yielded up my Brother for your Sake.
“For this by Beasts I now must die unmourn'd,
“No Tomb to hide me, and no Rites perform'd.
“Surely your Race is not deriv'd from Men,
“Some Savage Monster whelpt you in her Den;
“Some raging Ocean in her Bosom bore,
“Some Scylla suckled on her cruel Shore;
“Who these Returns bestow; who thus repay
“Your Life defended in the fatal Day.

319

“If that your Father's Orders you revere,
“And hence a Foreign Contract justly fear,
“You might at least have carry'd me a Slave,
“A pleasing Servitude is all I'd have.
“Though Princess born, yet humbly at your Board
“I'd act th' officious Handmaid to my Lord.
“The Bath prepare against you homeward sped,
“Adorn with Purple the forbidden Bed.
“But why lament I to the empty Air?
“Can the Winds answer, or the Tempests hear?
“He that shou'd listen is for ever lost,
“And there's no Creature on the dreary Coast.
“For cruel Fate has plac'd me here alone,
“Nor left one Person to partake my Moan.
“O that all-knowing Heav'n had ne'er decreed
“The Cretan Bull by Theseus' Arm to bleed!
“Happy, too happy, did I live, before
“The Grecian Gally touch'd my Native Shore.
“I little thought in such a Face was Guile,
“Nor saw the Michief lurking in his Smile.

320

“Now what's to do, what wretched Hopes remain?
“Shall I my Father's Kingdom seek again?
“No, there the Earth still reaks with Brother's Blood,
“Nor can I pass the intermediate Flood.
“Shall I then think my Theseus still is true?
“No, for the Traitor basely fled my View.
“Cruel Dilemma! could I get away,
“No Hopes are left me, Death is in my Stay:
“For neither Dwellings nor Companions here,
“No Object glads the Eye, nor Voice the Ear;
“But where I turn my wearied Sight, there reigns
“A Death-like Horror o'er the silent Plains.
“Yet I'll not tamely die without Relief,
“Nor let my just Resentment melt in Grief;
“But all the Heav'nly Pow'rs conjure in Death,
“And call down Vengeance with my latest Breath.
“Arise, ye Furies, from your Iron Beds,
“And rouse the Snaky Terrors of your Heads;
“Rear each her ghastly Front, wherein we find
“The baleful Index of the latent Mind;

321

“O list, attend to what my Pray'rs require,
“'Tis Justice prompts me, and my Wrongs inspire,
“Hear then Propitious, while I now impart
“The mournful Dictates of a broken Heart;
“Those Ills which I from Theseus' Hand sustain
“Return on his devoted House again.”

Fir'd with Resentment thus the Fair one pray'd,
And ample Curses for her Grief repay'd.
Just Jove above with-Pity saw her Ill,
And bowing ratify'd her cruel Will;
At which Convulsions seiz'd the trembling Ground,
And all the Frame of Nature shook around.

Now Theseus homeward as he wings his Way,
Forgets those fatal Orders to obey,
Which when he first from Athens did depart,
Were vainly treasur'd in his faithless Heart:
Nor once bethought his anxious Sire to greet
With the glad Signal of his safe Retreat.

322

Fame sings that Ægeus, when his Son with Hast
Urg'd his Departure o'er the wat'ry wast,
Thus taught the Youth, and as he spoke embrac'd.
My Son than Life more dear, since envious Fate
Divides so early what it join'd so late,
And your too forward Courage from me force,
Consent unwilling for your dang'rous Course,
No Happiness I'll suffer, no Delight,
When your lov'd Image leaves my longing Sight.
But ev'ry Face a Shew of Grief shall wear,
And you yourself no joyous Token bear.
I chief in Sorrow will lament a-while,
And in the Dust my hoary Hairs defile;
Then on the Mast a sable Sail I'll rear,
To represent my Grief and black Despair:
But if our Guardian Goddess shall ordain,
That by your Hand the Cretan Bull be slain,
Then cautious heed, and let no length of Days
These weighty Precepts from your Breast erase;

323

When first you see again your native Shore,
Change the Black Signal which your Vessel wore,
And in its Room let peaceful White arise,
A distant Omen to my joyful Eyes.
To keep the Words the Youth in vain design'd,
They fled insensibly and left his Mind;
So fleecy Clouds, that on some Mount appear,
Melt by degrees and vanish into Air.
From a high Rock that beetles o'er the Flood,
With daily Care the pensive Father stood;
And when he saw impatient from afar
The fatal Signal floating in the Air,
Thinking his Theseus was untimely slain,
He rashly plung'd himself beneath the Main.

The Son now suffers in the Father's Fate,
And feels those Sorrows which he gave so late,
When on the Shore he left the Nymph to mourn
Her Love rejected, and her Hopes forlorn.

324

To her Relief the blooming Bacchus ran,
And with him brought his ever jovial Train.
Satyrs and Fawns in wanton Dances strove,
While the God sought his Ariadne's Love.
Around in wild distorted Airs they fly,
And make the Mountains echo to their Cry.
Some brandish high an Ivy-woven Spear,
The Limbs some scatter of a Victim Steer.
Others in slipp'ry Folds of Serpents shine,
Others apart perform the Rites divine
To wicked Men deny'd. These Tabors take,
These in their Hands the tinkling Cymbal shake,
While many swell the Horn in hoarser Strain,
And make the shrill discordant Pipe complain.

Thus the whole Isle in rural Pleasure smil'd,
Their Dances artless, and their Musick wild;
Yet did it all in happy Consort meet,
Gay the Confusion, and the Discord sweet.
But Bacchus now enamour'd with his Prize,
Resolv'd to make her Partner of the Skies,

325

She sweetly blushing yeilded to the God,
His Car he mounted, and sublimely rode,
And while with eager Arms he grasp'd the Fair,
Lash'd his fleet Tygers through the buxom Air.

326

Looking on a Tomb Stone,

The Interred speak.

And so with Look inquisitive you muse
On the cold Earth that close invirons me,
Pleas'd that thyself art free—but ah! how long
Who knows, when he who rais'd thee into Being,
May check his mighty Voice—his Voice, thy Frame
Solely supporting, and permit the Dust
Again into its moulder'd State to drop!
Yet not for ought that Pow'r Almighty can,
Or human Imbecillity can not,
Doth the Fool-wicked stop his wild Career,
But boldly impious pushes still his Course,
'Till Death, the last dread Monitor intrudes.
Away, Repent, and be for ever wise.

327

On a Wasp's settling on Delia's Arm.

How sweetly careless Delia seems,
Her Innocence can fear no harm,
While round th' envenom'd Insect skims,
Then settles on her snowy Arm?

Ye flutt'ring Beaus and spiteful Bards,
To you this Moral true I sing;
Sense join'd to Virtue disregards
Both Folly's Buz, and Satyr's Sting.

328

To the Rev. T. T. D. D.

By a Friend.

French Pow'r, and weak Allies, and War and Want—
No more of that, my Friend; you touch a String
That hurts my Ear. All Politicks apart,
Except a gen'rous Wish, a glowing Pray'r
For British Welfare, Commerce, Glory, Peace.
Give Party to the Winds. It is a Word,
A Phantom Sound, by which the cunning Great
Whistle to their Dependants. A Decoy,
To gull th' Unwary; where the Master stands
Encouraging his Minions, his train'd Birds,
Fed and caress'd their Species to betray.
See with what hollow Blandishment and Art,
They lead the winged Captives to the Snare;
Fools! that in open Æther might have soar'd,
Free, as the Air they cut; sipt purest Rills,
Din'd with the Thames, or bath'd in crystal Lakes.

329

We wear no Badges, no Dependance own:
Who truly loves thee, dearest Liberty,
A silken Fetter will uneasy fit.

Heav'n knows, it is not Insolence that speaks
The Tribute of Respect, to Greatness due,
Not the brib'd Sycophant more willing pays.
Still, still, as much of Party be retain'd,
As Principle requires, and Sense directs;
Else our vain Bark, without a Rudder, floats
The Scorn and Pastime of each veering Gale.

This gentle Ev'ning let the Sun descend
Untroubled: while it paints your ambient Hills
With faded Lustre, and a sweet Farewel,—
Here is our Seat:—That Castle opposite,
Proud of its woody Brow, adorns the Scene.

Dictate, O! vers'd in Books and just of Taste,
Dictate the pleasing Theme of our Discourse.
Shall we trace Science from her Eastern Home

330

Chaldæan? or the Banks of Nile, where Thebes,
Nursing her Daughter Arts, majestic stood,
And pour'd forth Knowledge from a hundred Gates?
There first the Marble learn'd to mimick Form,
The pillar'd Temple rose; and Pyramids,
Whose undecaying Grandeur laughs at Time:
Birth-Place of Letters; where the Sun was shewn
His radiant Way, and Heav'ns were taught to roll.
There too the Muses tun'd their earliest Lyre,
Warbling soft Numbers to Serapis' Ear;
'Till chas'd by Tyrants, or a milder Clime
Inviting, they remov'd with Pilgrim Harps
And all their Band of Harmony to Greece.

As when a Flock of Linnets, if perchance
Deliver'd from the Falcon's Talon, fly
With trembling Wing to cover; and renew
Their Notes: tell ev'ry Bush of their Escape,
And trill their merry Thanks to Liberty.

331

The tuneful Tribe, pleas'd with their new Abode,
Polish'd the rude Inhabitants, whence Tales
Of list'ning Woods, and Rocks that danc'd to Sound.
Hear the full Chorus lifting Hymns to Jove!
Linus and Orpheus catch the Strain; and all
The raptur'd Audience utter loud Applause.

A Song, believe me, was no Trifle Then;
Weighty the Muses' Task, and wide her Sway:
Her's was Religion, the resounding Fanes
Echo'd her Language; Polity was her's,
And the World bow'd to Legislative Verse.

As States encreas'd, and Governments were form'd,
Her Aid less useful, she retir'd to Grots
And shady Bow'rs, content to teach and please.
Under her Laurel frequent Bards repos'd;
Voluble Pindar troll'd his rapid Song,
Or Sappho breath'd her spirited Complaint:
Here the Stage-Buskin, there the Lyrick Choir,
And Homer's epick Trumpet. Happy Greece!

332

Blest in her Offspring! Seat of Eloquence,
Of Arms, and Reason; Patriot—Virtue's Seat!
Did the Sun thither dart uncommon Rays!
Did some presiding Genius hover o'er
That animated Soil with brooding Wings!
The sad Reverse might start a gentle Tear;
Go search in Athens for Herself, Enquire
Where are her Orators, her Sages, now:
Her Arsenal o'erturn'd, her Walls in Dust,
But far less ruin'd, than her Soul decay'd.
The Stone, inscrib'd to Socrates, debas'd
To prop a reeling Cot. Minerva's Shrine
Possess'd by those, who never heard her Name.
Upon the Mount, where old Musæus sung,
Sits the gruff turban'd Captain, and exacts
Harsh Tribute: on the Spot, where Plato taught
His heav'nly Strains sublime, a stupid Turk
Is preaching Ignorance and Mahomet.

Turn next to Rome: is that the Clime, the Place,
Where once, as Fame reports, Augustus liv'd?

333

What Magick has transform'd her? shrunk her Nerves!
A wither'd Laurel! and a mould'ring Arch!—
Could the pure Crimson Tide, the noblest Blood,
That ever flow'd, to such a Puddle turn?
She ends, like her long Appian, in a Marsh;
Or Jordan's River pouring his clear Urn
Into the black Asphaltus' slimy Lap.
Patrons of Wit, and Victors of Mankind,
Bards, Warriors, Worthies (Revolution Strange!)
Are Pimps, and Fidlers, Mountebanks and Monks.
In Tully's Bee-Hive, Magazine of Sweets,
The lazy Drones are buzzing or asleep.—

But we forgive the Living for the Dead,
Indebted more to Rome, than we can pay:
Of a long Dearth Prophetick, she laid in
A Feast for Ages.—O thou Banquet nice!
Where the Soul riots with secure Excess.
What felt Delight! what pleasing useful Hours
Repeated owe we to her letter'd Sons?
We, by their Favour, Tiber's Walks enjoy,

334

Their Temples trace, and share their noble Games;
Enter the crowded Theatre at Will,
Go to the Forum, hear the Consul plead;
Are present in the thund'ring Capitol
When Tully speaks.—At softer Hours attend
Harmonious Virgil to his Mantuan Farm
Or Bajan: and with happy Horace talk
In Myrtle Groves by Teverone's Cascade.

Hail precious Pages! that amuse and teach,
Exalt the Genius, and improve the Breast.
Ye sage Historians, all your Stores unfold,
Reach your clear steady Mirror;—in that Glass
The Forms of Good and Ill are well pourtray'd.

But chiefly thou, divine Philosophy,
Shed thy blest Influence; with thy Train appear
Of Graces mild; far be the Stoick boast,
The Cynick's Snarl, and churlish Pedantry.
Bright Visitant, if not too high my Wish,
Come in the lovely Dress you wore, a Guest

335

At Plato's Table; or at Tusculum,
The Roman Feasting his selected Friends.
Tamer of Pride! at thy serene Rebuke
See crouching Insolence; Spleen and Revenge
Before thy shining Taper disappear.
Tutor of human Life! auspicious Guide!
Whose faithful Clue unravels ev'ry Maze,
Whose Conduct smooths the roughest Paths: whose Voice
Controlls each Storm, and bids the Roar be still.
O condescend to gild my darksome Roof;
Let me know thee,—the Delphic Oracle
Is then obey'd,—and I shall know myself.

FINIS.