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

A collection of original poems and translations

By John Whaley

Whaley, John (1710-1745)

[section]

[dedication]

CORNARO and the TURK,

A JOURNEY TO HOUGHTON,

In Imitation of Horace,

In Imitation of Horace.

Translation of Tibullus.

To R. D. Esq.

Translation from Tibullus.

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

Epitaph on Charles VI. Emperor of Germany.

In Praise of Water. A. D. 1736.

Imitation of Horace.

To C. P. Esq.

To Lydia.

Translation of Theocritus.

Translation from Theocritus,

Translation from Theocritus.

Vacuna.

Rhapsody, to Milton.

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

To J. W.

On J. W. ranging Pamphlets.

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

At seeing Archbishop Williams's Monument in Carnarvonshire.

A Song of Deborah.

The Nativity.

To the Spring.

To the Queen of Hungary 1741.

On two Friends born on the same Day.

On the Death of Mrs. M. H.

To Miss A. W. a very young Lady.

To the Sparrows at Menwinyon in Cornwal.

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.

On a young Lady of the North.

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

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

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

To the same.

To *****

On the Tomb of the Virgin Laura.

Epitaph on Albina.

On Charinus the Husband of an ugly Wife.

On the Statue of a Heifer.

ABELARD to HELOISA.

ON THE Death of a Young Bride.

THESEUS and ARIADNE.

Looking on a Tomb Stone,

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

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

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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.