The Works of Richard Savage :: :: University of Virginia Library

Forgive an artless, an officious friend,
Weak, when I judge, but willing to commend;
Fall'n as I am, by no kind fortune rais'd,
Depress'd, obscur'd, unpity'd, and unprais'd;
Yet, when these well-known features I peruse,
Some warmth awakes—some embers of a Muse.

Ye Muses, Graces, and ye Loves appear!
Your Queen, your Venus, and your Clio's here!
In such pure fires her rising thoughts refine!
Her eyes with such commanding sweetness shine:
Such vivid tinctures sure thro' ether glow,
Stain summer clouds, or gild the wat'ry bow:

148

If life Pygmalion's iv'ry fav'rite fir'd,
Sure some enamour'd God this draught inspir'd!
Or, if you rashly caught Promethean flame,
Shade the sweet theft, and mar the beauteous frame!
Yet if those cheering lights the prospect fly,
Ah!—let no pleasing view the loss supply.
Some dreary den, some desart waste prepare,
Wild as my thoughts, or dark as my despair.

But still, my friend, still the sweet object stays,
Still stream your colours rich with Clio's rays!
Sure at each kindling touch your canvass glows!
Sure the full form, instinct with spirit, grows!
Let the dull artist puzzling rules explore,
Dwell on the face, and gaze the features o'er;
You eye the soul—there genuine nature find,
You, thro' the meaning muscles, strike the mind.

Nor can one view such boundless pow'r confine,
All Nature opens to an art like thine!
Now rural scenes in simple grandeur rise!
Vales, hills, lawns, lakes, and vineyards feast our eyes,
Now halcyon Peace a smiling aspect wears!
Now the red scene with war and ruin glares!
Here Britain's fleets o'er Europe's seas preside!
There long-lost cities rear their ancient pride!
You from the grave can half redeem the slain,
And bid great Julius charm the world again:
Mark out Pharsalia's, mark out Munda's fray,
And image all the horrors of the day.

149

But if new glories most our warmth excite;
If toils untry'd to noblest aims invite;
Would you in envy'd pomp unrivall'd reign,
Oh, let Horatius grace the canvass plain!
His form might ev'n idolatry create,
In lineage, titles, wealth and worth elate!
Empires to him might virgin honours owe,
From him arts, arms, and laws new influence know.
For him kind suns on fruits and grains shall shine,
And future gold lie rip'ning in the mine:
For him fine marble in the quarry lies,
Which, in due statues, to his fame shall rise.
Thro' those bright features Cæsar's spirit trace,
Each conqu'ring sweetness, each imperial grace,
All that is soft or eminently great,
In love, in war, in knowledge, or in state.

Thus shall your colours, like his worth amaze!
Thus shall you charm, enrich'd with Clio's praise!
Clear, and more clear, your golden genius shines,
While my dim lamp of life obscure declines:
Dull'd in damp shades it wastes, unseen, away,
While yours, triumphant, glows one blaze of day.

150

VERSES SENT TO AARON HILL, ESQ.

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF SIR THOMAS OVERBURY,

EXPECTING HIM TO CORRECT IT.

I

As the soul, stript of mortal clay,
Grows all divinely fair,
And boundless roves the milky way,
And views sweet prospects there,

II

This hero, clogg'd with drossy lines,
By thee new vigour tries;
As thy correcting hand refines,
Bright scenes around him rise.

III

Thy touch brings the wish'd stone to pass,
So sought, so long foretold;
It turns polluted lead, or brass,
At once to purest gold.

151

PROLOGUE SPOKEN AT THE REVIVAL OF SHAKESPEARE'S KING HENRY VI.

AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.

[_]

PRINTED BEFORE THE PLAY, FROM A SPURIOUS COPY.

To-night a patient ear, ye Britons, lend,
And to your great forefathers' deeds attend.
Here cheaply warn'd, ye blest descendants, view
What ills on England, Civil Discord drew.
To wound the heart, the martial Muse prepares;
While the red scene with raging slaughter glares.

Here, while a monarch's suff'rings we relate,
Let gen'rous grief his ruin'd grandeur wait.
While Second Richard's blood for vengeance calls,
Doom'd for his grandsire's guilt, poor Henry falls.
In civil jars avenging judgment blows,
And royal wrongs entail a people's woes.
Henry, unvers'd in wiles, more good than great,
Drew on by meekness his disastrous fate.

Thus when you see this land by faction tost,
Her nobles slain, her laws, her freedom lost;
Let this reflection from the action flow,
We ne'er from foreign foes could ruin know.
Oh, let us then intestine discord shun,
We ne'er can be, but by ourselves, undone.

152

THE ANIMALCULE.

A TALE.

OCCASIONED BY HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND'S RECEIVING THE SMALL-POX BY INOCULATION.

I

In Animalcules, muse, display
Spirits, of name unknown in song!
Reader, a kind attention pay,
Nor think an useful comment long.

II

Far less than mites, on mites they prey;
Minutest things may swarms contain:
When o'er your iv'ry teeth they stray,
Then throb your little nerves with pain.

III

Fluids, in drops, minutely swell;
These subtil beings each contains;
In the small sanguine globes they dwell,
Roll from the heart, and trace the veins.

153

IV

Thro' ev'ry tender tube they rove,
In finer spirits strike the brain;
Wind quick thro' ev'ry fibrous grove,
And seek, thro' pores, the heart again.

V

If they with purer drops dilate,
And lodge where entity began,
They actuate with a genial heat,
And kindle into future man.

VI

But when our lives are Nature's due,
Air, seas, nor fire, their frames dissolve;
They matter, thro' all forms pursue,
And oft to genial heats revolve.

VII

Thus once an Animalcule prov'd,
When Man, a patron to the bays;
This patron was in Greece belov'd;
Yet fame was faithless to his praise.

VIII

In Rome, this Animalcule grew
Mæcenas, whom the classics rate!
Among the Gauls, it prov'd Richlieu,
In learning, pow'r, and bounty great.

154

IX

In Britain, Halifax it rose;
(By Halifax, bloom'd Congreve's strains)
And now it rediminish'd glows,
To glide thro' godlike Rutland's veins.

X

A plague there is, too many know;
Too seldom perfect cures befall it:
The muse may term it beauty's foe;
In physic, the Small-pox we call it.

XI

From Turks we learn this plague t'assuage,
They, by admitting, turn its course:
Their kiss will tame the tumor's rage;
By yielding, they o'ercome the force.

XII

Thus Rutland did its touch invite,
While, watchful in the ambient air,
This little, guardian, subtil spright
Did with the poison in repair.

XIII

Th' infection from the heart it clears;
Th' infection, now dilated thin,
In pearly pimples but appears,
Expell'd upon the surface skin.

155

XIV

And now, it mould'ring, wastes away:
'Tis gone!—doom'd to return no more!
Our Animalcule keeps its stay,
And must new labyrinths explore.

XV

And now the Noble's thoughts are seen,
Unmark'd, it views his heart's desires!
It now reflects what it has been,
And rapt'rous, at his change admires!

XVI

Its pristine virtues, kept, combine,
To be again in Rutland known;
But they, immers'd, no longer shine,
Nor equal, nor encrease his own.

156

TO MRS. ELIZA HAYWOOD,

ON HER NOVEL, CALLED, THE RASH RESOLVE.

Doom'd to a fate which damps the poet's flame.
A muse, unfriended, greets thy rising name!
Unvers'd in envy's, or in flatt'ry's phrase,
Greatness she flies, yet merit claims her praise;
Nor will she, at her with'ring wreath, repine,
But smile, if fame and fortune cherish thine.

The sciences in thy sweet genius charm,
And, with their strength, thy sex's softness arm.
In thy full figures, painting's force we find,
As music fires, thy language lifts the mind.
Thy pow'r gives form, and touches into life
The passions imag'd in their bleeding strife:
Contrasted strokes, true art and fancy show,
And lights and shades in lively mixture flow.
Hope attacks Fear and Reason, Love's control,
Jealousy wounds, and Friendship heals the soul:
Black Falshood wears bright Gallantry's disguise,
And the gilt cloud enchants the fair-one's eyes.
Thy dames, in grief and frailties lovely shine,
And when most mortal half appear divine.

157

If, when some godlike, fav'rite passion sways,
The willing heart too fatally obeys,
Great minds lament what cruel censure blames,
And ruin'd Virtue gen'rous pity claims.

Eliza, still impaint Love's pow'rful Queen!
Let Love, soft Love! exalt each swelling scene.
Arm'd with keen wit, in fame's wide lists advance!
Spain yields in fiction, in politeness, France.
Such orient light, as the first poets knew,
Flames from thy thought, and brightens ev'ry view!
A strong, a glorious, a luxuriant fire,
Which warms cold wisdom into wild desire!
Thy Fable glows so rich thro' ev'ry page,
What moral's force can the fierce heat assuage?

And yet—but say, if ever doom'd to prove
The sad, the dear perplexities of love!
Where seeming transport softens ev'ry pain,
Where fancy'd freedom waits the winning chain!
Varying from pangs to visionary joys,
Sweet is the fate, and charms as it destroys!
Say then—if Love to sudden rage gives way,
Will the soft passion not resume its sway?
Charming and charm'd, can Love from Love retire?
Can a cold convent quench th' unwilling fire?
Precept, if human, may our thoughts refine,
More we admire! but cannot prove divine.

158

AN APOLOGY TO BRILLANTE,

FOR HAVING LONG OMITTED WRITING IN VERSE.

IN IMITATION OF A CERTAIN MIMIC OF ANACREON.

Can I matchless charms recite?
Source of ever-springing light!
Cou'd I count the vernal flow'rs,
Count in endless time the hours;
Count the countless stars above,
Count the captive hearts of Love;
Paint the torture of his fire,
Paint the pangs those eyes inspire!
(Pleasing torture, thus to shine,
Purify'd by fires like thine!)
Then I'd strike the sounding string!
Then I'd thy perfection sing.

Mystic world!—Thou something more!
Wonder of the Almighty's store!
Nature's depths we oft descry,
Oft they're pierc'd by learning's eye;
Thou, if thought on thee would gain,
Prov'st (like heav'n) enquiry vain.
Charms unequall'd we pursue!
Charms in shining throngs we view!
Number'd then cou'd nature's be,
Nature's self were poor to thee.

159

An EPISTLE TO MRS. OLDFIELD, OF THE THEATRE-ROYAL.

While to your charms unequal verse I raise,
Aw'd, I admire, and tremble as I praise:
Here art and Genius new refinement need,
List'ning, they gaze, and, as they gaze, recede!
Can Art, or Genius, or their pow'rs combin'd,
But from corporeal organs sketch the mind?
When sound embody'd can with shape surprize,
The muse may emulate your voice and eyes,

Mark rival arts perfection's point pursue!
Each rivals each, but to excel in you!
The bust and medal bear the meaning face,
And the proud statue adds the posture's grace!
Imag'd at length, the bury'd heroine, known,
Still seems to wound, to smile, or frown in stone!
As art wou'd art, or metal stone surpass,
Her soul strikes, gleaming, thro' Corinthian brass!
Serene, the saint in smiling silver shines,
And cherubs weep in gold o'er sainted shrines!

160

If long-lost forms from Raphael's pencil glow,
Wond'rous in warmth the mimic colours flow!
Each look, each attitude, new grace displays;
Your voice and motion life and music raise.

Thus Cleopatra in your charms refines;
She lives, she speaks, with force improv'd she shines!
Fair, and more fair, you ev'ry grace transmit;
Love, learning, beauty, elegance, and wit.
Cæsar, the world's unrivall'd master fir'd,
In her imperial soul, his own admir'd!
Philippi's victor wore her winning chain,
And felt not empire's loss in beauty's gain.
Cou'd the pale heroes your bright influence know,
Or catch the silver accents as they flow,
Drawn from dark rest by your enchanting strain,
Each shade were lur'd to life and love again.

Say, sweet inspirer! were each annal known,
What living greatness shines there not your own!
If the griev'd muse by some lov'd empress rose,
New strength, new grace it to your influence owes!
If pow'r by war distinguish'd height reveals,
Your nobler pride the wounds of fortune heals!
Then cou'd an empire's cause demand your care,
The soul, that justly thinks, wou'd greatly dare.

Long has feign'd Venus mock'd the muse's praise,
You dart, divine Ophelia! genuine rays!
Warm thro' those eyes enliv'ning raptures roll!
Sweet thro' each striking feature streams your soul!

161

The soul's bright meanings heighten beauty's fires:
Your looks, your thoughts, your deeds, each grace inspires!

Know then, if rank'd with monarchs, here you stand,
What fate declines, you from the muse demand!
Each grace that shone of old in each fam'd fair,
Or may in modern dames refinement wear;
Whate'er just, emulative thoughts pursue,
Is all confirm'd, is all ador'd in you!
If god-like bosoms pant for pow'r to bless,
If 'tis a monarch's glory to redress;
In conscious majesty you shine serene,
In thought a heroine, and in act a queen.

162

VERSES, OCCASIONED BY READING MR. AARON HILL'S POEM CALLED GIDEON.

[_]

The lines marked thus ‘ ’ are taken from Gideon.

I.

Let other poets poorly sing
Their flatt'ries to the vulgar great!
Her airy flight let wand'ring Fancy wing,
And rival nature's most luxuriant store,
To swell some monster's pride who shames a state,
Or form a wreath to crown tyrannic pow'r!
Thou, who inform'd'st this clay with active fire!
Do thou, Supreme of Pow'rs! my thoughts refine,
And with thy purest heat my soul inspire,
That with Hillarius' worth my verse may shine!
As thy lov'd Gideon once set Israel free,
So he with sweet, seraphic lays
‘Redeems the use of captive poetry,’
Which first was form'd to speak thy glorious praise!

163

II.

Moses, with an enchanting tongue,
Pharaoh's just overthrow sublimely sung!
When Saul and Jonathan in death were laid,
Surviving David felt the soft'ning fire!
And by the Great Almighty's tuneful aid,
Wak'd into endless life his mournful lyre.
Their diff'rent thoughts, met in Hillarius' song,
Roll in one channel more divinely strong!
With Pindar's fire his verse's spirit flies,
‘Wasted in charmful music thro' the air!’
Unstop'd by clouds, it reaches to the skies,
And joins with angels' hallelujahs there,
Flows mix'd, and sweetly strikes th' Almighty's ear!

III.

Rebels should blush when they his Gideon see!
That Gideon, born to set his country free.
O, that such heroes in each age might rise,
Bright'ning thro' vapours like the morning-star,
Gen'rous in triumph, and in council wise!
Gentle in peace, but terrible in war!

IV.

When Gideon, Oreb, Hyram, Shimron, shine
Fierce in the blaze of war as they engage!
Great bard! What energy, but thine,
Cou'd reach the vast description of their rage?

164

Or, when to cruel foes betray'd,
Sareph and Hama call for aid,
Lost and bewilder'd in despair,
How piercing are the hapless lover's cries?
What tender strokes in melting accents rise?
Oh, what a master-piece of pity's there?
Nor goodly Joash shews thy sweetness less,
When, like kind heav'n, he frees 'em from distress!

V.

Hail thou, whose verse, a living image shines,
In Gideon's character your own you drew!
As there the graceful patriot shines,
We in that image, bright Hillarius view!
Let the low crowd who love unwholesome fare,
When in thy words the breath of angels flows,
Like gross-fed spirits sick in purer air,
Their earthy souls by their dull taste disclose!
Thy dazzling genius shines too bright!
And they, like spectres, shun the streams of light.
But while in shades of ignorance they stray,
Round thee rays of knowledge play,
‘And shew thee glitt'ring in abstracted day.’

165

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE BESSY, COUNTESS OF ROCHFORD,

DAUGHTER OF THE LATE EARL RIVERS, WHEN WITH CHILD.

As when the sun walks forth in flaming gold,
Mean plants may smile, and humble flow'rs unfold,
The low-laid lark the distant ether wings,
And, as she soars, her daring anthem sings;
So, when thy charms celestial views create,
My smiling song surmounts my gloomy fate.
Thy angel-embryo prompts my tow'ring lays,
Claims my fond wish, and fires my future praise:
May it, if male, its grandsire's image wear;
Or in its mother's charms confess the fair;
At the kind birth may each mild planet wait;
Soft be the pain, but prove the blessing great.

Hail Rivers! hallow'd shade! descend from rest!
Descend and smile, to see thy Rochford blest:
Weep not the scenes thro' which my life must run,
Tho' fate, fleet-footed, scents thy languid son.
The bar that, dark'ning cross'd my crested claim,
Yields at her charms, and brightens in their flame:
That blood, which, honour'd, in thy Rochford reigns,
In cold, unwilling wand'rings trac'd my veins.

166

Want's wint'ry realm froze hard around my view;
And scorn's keen blasts a cutting anguish blew.
To such sad weight my gath'ring griefs were wrought,
Life seem'd not life, but when convuls'd with thought!
Decreed beneath a mother's frown to pine,
Madness were ease, to mis'ry form'd like mine!

Yet my muse waits thee thro' the realms of day,
Where lambent lightnings round thy temples play.
Sure my fierce woes, will, like those fires, refine,
Thus lose their torture, and thus glorious shine!
And now the muse heaven's milky path surveys,
With thee, 'twixt pendant worlds, it wond'ring strays,
Worlds which, unnumber'd as thy virtues, roll
Round suns—fix'd, radiant emblems of thy soul!
Hence lights refracted run thro' distant skies,
Changeful on azure plains in quiv'ring dyes!
So thy mind darted thro' its earthy frame,
A wide, a various, and a glirt'ring flame.

Now a new scene enormous lustre brings,
Now seraphs shade thee round with silver wings;
In angel-forms thou see'st thy Rochford shine;
In each sweet form is trac'd her beauteous line!
Such was her soul, ere this selected mould
Sprung at thy wish, the sparkling life t' infold!
So amidst cherubs shone her son refin'd,
Ere infant-flesh the new-form'd soul enshrin'd!
So shall a sequent race from Rochford rise,
The world's fair pride—Descendants of the skies.

167

TO THE EXCELLENT MIRANDA, CONSORT OF AARON HILL, ESQ.

ON READING HER POEMS.

Each soft'ning charm of Clio's smiling song,
Montague's soul, which shines divinely strong,
These blend, with graceful ease, to form thy rhime,
Tender, yet chaste; sweet-sounding, yet sublime;
Wisdom and wit have made thy works their care,
Each passion glows, refin'd by precept, there:
To fair Miranda's form each grace is kind;
The Muses and the Virtues tune thy mind.

168

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY.

Polly, from me, tho' now a love-sick youth,
Nay, tho' a poet, hear the voice of truth!
Polly, you're not a beauty, yet you're pretty;
So grave, yet gay; so silly, yet so witty;
A heart of softness, yet a tongue of satire;
You've cruelty, yet, e'en with that, good-nature:
Now you are free, and now reserv'd awhile;
Now a forc'd frown betrays a willing smile.
Reproach'd for absence, yet your sight deny'd;
My tongue you silence, yet my silence chide.
How would you praise me, shou'd your sex defame!
Yet, shou'd they praise, grow jealous, and exclaim.
If I despair, with some kind look you bless;
But if I hope, at once all hope suppress.
You scorn; yet shou'd my passion change or fail.
Too late you'd whimper out a softer tale.
You love; yet from your lover's wish retire;
Doubt, yet discern; deny, and yet desire.
Such, Polly, are your sex—part truth, part fiction,
Some thought, much whim, and all a contradiction.

169

THE GENTLEMAN.

ADDRESSED TO JOHN JOLIFFE, ESQ.

A decent mien, an elegance of dress,
Words, which, at ease, each winning grace express;
A life, where love, by wisdom polish'd, shines,
Where wisdom's self again, by love, refines;
Where we to chance for friendship never trust,
Nor ever dread from sudden whim disgust;
The social manners and the heart humane;
A nature ever great and never vain;
A wit, that no licentious pertness knows;
The sense, that unassuming candour shows:
Reason, by narrow principles uncheck'd,
Slave to no party, bigot to no sect;
Knowledge of various life, of learning too;
Thence taste; thence truth, which will from taste ensue:
Unwilling censure, tho' a judgment clear;
A smile indulgent, and that smile sincere;
An humble, tho' an elevated mind;
A pride, its pleasure but to serve mankind:
If these esteem and admiration raise;
Give true delight, and gain unflatt'ring praise,
In one wish'd view, th' accomplish'd man we see;
These graces all are thine, and thou art he.

170

CHARACTER OF THE REV. JAMES FOSTER.

From Codex hear, ye ecclesiastic men,
This past'ral charge to W*bs*r, St*bb*ng, V---n;
Attend ye emblems of your P---'s mind!
Mark Faith, mark Hope, mark Charity, defin'd;
On terms, whence no ideas ye can draw,
Pin well your faith, and then pronounce it law;
First wealth, a crosier next, your hope enflame;
And next church-power—a pow'r o'er conscience, claim;
In modes of worship right of choice deny;
Say, to convert, all means are fair—add, why?
'Tis charitable—let your power decree,
That Persecution then is Charity;
Call reason error; forms, not things, display,
Let moral doctrine to abstruse give way;
Sink demonstration; myst'ry preach alone;
Be thus Religion's friend, and thus your own.

But Foster well this honest truth extends—
Where Mystery begins, Religion ends.

171

In him, great modern miracle! we see
A priest, from av'rice and ambition free;
One, whom no persecuting spirit fires;
Whose heart and tongue benevolence inspires:
Learn'd, not assuming; eloquent, yet plain;
Meek, tho' not tim'rous; conscious, tho' not vain;
Without craft, rev'rend; holy, without cant;
Zealous for truth, without enthusiast rant.
His faith, where no credulity is seen,
'Twixt infidel and bigot, marks the mean;
His hope, no mitre militant on earth,
'Tis that bright crown which heav'n reserves for worth,
A priest, in charity with all mankind,
His love to virtue, not to sect confin'd:
Truth his delight; from him it flames abroad,
From him, who fears no being, but his God:
In him from christian, moral light can shine;
Not mad with myst'ry, but a sound divine;
He wins the wise and good, with reason's lore;
Then strikes their passions with pathetic pow'r;
Where vice erects her head, rebukes the page;
Mix'd with rebuke, persuasive charms engage;
Charms, which the unthinking must to thought excite;
Lo! vice less vicious, virtue more upright:
Him copy, Codex, that the good and wise,
Who so abhor thy heart, and head despise,
May see thee now, tho' late, redeem thy name,
And glorify what else is damn'd to fame.

172

But should some churchman, apeing wit severe,
The poet's sure turn'd Baptist—say, and sneer;
Shame on that narrow mind so often known,
Which in one mode of faith owns worth alone.
Sneer on, rail, wrangle! nought this truth repels—
Virtue is virtue, wheresoe'er she dwells;
And sure, where learning gives her light to shine,
Hers is all praise—if hers, 'tis, Foster, thine.
Thee boast dissenters; we with pride may own
Our Tillotson; and Rome her Fenelon .

In this character of the Rev. James Foster, truth guided the pen of the muse. Mr. Pope paid a tribute to the modest worth of this excellent man: little did he imagine his Rev. Annotator would endeavour to convert his praise into abuse. The character and writings of Foster will be admired and read, when the works of the bitter Controversialist are forgotten.

173

THE POET'S DEPENDANCE ON A STATESMAN.

Some seem to hint, and others proof will bring,
That, from neglect, my num'rous hardships spring.
Seek the great man! they cry—'tis then decreed,
In him if I court fortune, I succeed.

What friends to second? who for me should sue,
Have int'rests, partial to themselves, in view.
They own my matchless fate compassion draws;
They all wish well, lament, but drop my cause.

There are who ask no pension, want no place,
No title wish, and would accept no grace.
Can I entreat, they should for me obtain
The least, who greatest for themselves disdain?
A statesman, knowing this, unkind, will cry,
Those love him: let those serve him!—why shou'd I?

Say, shall I turn where lucre points my views;
At first desert my friends, at length abuse?
But, on less terms, in promise he complies:
Years bury years, and hopes on hopes arise;
I trust, am trusted on my fairy gain;
And woes on woes attend, an endless train.

174

Be posts dispos'd at will!—I have, for these,
No gold to plead, no impudence to tease.
All secret service from my soul I hate;
All dark intrigues of pleasure, or of state;
I have no pow'r, election-votes to gain;
No will to hackney out polemic strain;
To shape, as time shall serve, my verse, or prose,
To flatter thence, nor slur a courtier's foes;
Nor him to daub with praise, if I prevail;
Nor shock'd by him, with libels to assail.
Where these are not, what claim to me belongs?
Tho' mine the muse and virtue, birth and wrongs.

Where lives the statesman, so in honour clear,
To give where he has nought to hope, nor fear?
No!—there to seek, is but to find fresh pain:
The promise broke, renew'd, and broke again;
To be, as humour deigns, receiv'd, refus'd;
By turns affronted, any by turns amus'd;
To lose that time, which worthier thoughts require;
To lose the health, which shou'd those thoughts inspire;
To starve on hope; or, like camelions, fare
On ministerial faith, which means but air.

But still, undrooping, I the crew disdain,
Who, or by jobs, or libels, wealth obtain.
Ne'er let me be, thro' those, from want exempt;
In one man's favour, in the world's contempt;
Worse in my own!—thro' those, to posts who rise,
Themselves, in secret, must themselves despise;

175

Vile, and more vile, till they, at length, disclaim
Not sense alone of glory, but of shame.

What tho' I hourly see the servile herd,
For meanness honour'd, and for guilt prefer'd;
See selfish passion, public virtue seem;
And public virtue an enthusiast dream;
See favour'd falshood, innocence belied,
Meekness depress'd, and pow'r-elated pride;
A scene will shew, all-righteous vision haste!
The meek exalted, and the proud debas'd!—
Oh, to be there!—to tread that friendly shore,
Where falshood, pride, and statesmen are no more!

But ere indulg'd—ere fate my breath shall claim,
A poet still is anxious after fame.
What future fame would my ambition crave?
This were my wish, cou'd ought my mem'ry save,
Say, when in death my sorrows lie repos'd,
That my past life, no venal view disclos'd;
Say, I well knew, while in a state obscure,
Without the being base, the being poor;
Say I had parts, too mod'rate to transcend;
Yet sense to mean, and virtue not t' offend;
My heart supplying what my head denied,
Say that, by Pope, esteem'd I liv'd and died;
Whose writings the best rules to write could give;
Whose life the nobler science how to live.

176

AN EPISTLE TO DAMON AND DELIA.

Hear, Damon, Delia hear, in candid lays,
Truth without anger, without flatt'ry, praise!

A bookish mind, with pedantry unfraught,
Oft a sedate yet never gloomy thought:
Prompt to rejoice when others pleasure know,
And prompt to feel the pang for others woe;
To soften faults, to which a foe is prone,
And, in a friend's perfection, praise your own:
A will sincere, unknown to selfish views;
A heart of love, of gallantry a muse;
A delicate, yet not a jealous mind;
A passion ever fond, yet never blind,
Glowing, with am'rous, yet with guiltless fires
In ever-eager, never gross desires;
A modest honour, sacred to contain
From tattling vanity, when smiles you gain;
Constant most pleas'd when beauty most you please:
Damon! your picture's shown in tints like these.

Say, Delia, must I chide you or commend?
Say, must I be your flatt'rer or your friend?

177

To praise no graces in a rival fair,
Nor your own foibles in a sister spare;
Each lover's billet, bant'ring to reveal,
And never known one secret to conceal;
Young, fickle, fair, a levity inborn,
To treat all sighing slaves with flippant scorn;
An eye, expressive of a wand'ring mind;
Nor this to read, nor that to think inclin'd;
Or, when a book or thought from whim retards,
Intent on songs or novels, dress or cards;
Choice to select the party of delight,
To kill time, thought, and fame in frolic flight;
To flutter here, to flurry there on wing;
To talk, to tease, to simper, or to sing;
To prude it, to coquet it—him to trust,
Whose vain, loose life, shou'd caution or disgust;
Him to dislike, whose modest worth shou'd please.—
Say, is your picture shown in tints like these?
Yours—you deny it—Hear the point then tried,
Let judgment, truth, the muse, and love decide.
What yours!—Nay, fairest trifler, frown not so:
Is it? the muse with doubt—Love answers No:
You smile—Is't not? Again the question try!—
Yes, judgment thinks, and truth will Yes, reply.

178

TO MISS M--- H---,

SENT WITH MR. POPE'S WORKS.

See female vice and female folly here,
Rallied with wit polite, or lash severe:
Let Pope present such objects to our view;
Such are, my fair, the full reverse of you.
Rapt when, to Loddon's stream from Windsor's shades,
He sings the modest charms of sylvan maids;
Dear Burford's hills in mem'ry's eye appear,
And Luddal's spring still murmurs in my ear:
But when you cease to bless my longing eyes,
Dumb is the spring, the joyless prospect dies:
Come then, my charmer, come! here transport reigns!
New health, new youth inspirits all my veins.
Each hour let intercourse of hearts employ,
Thou life of loveliness! thou soul of joy!
Love wakes the birds—Oh, hear each melting lay!
Love warms the world—come, charmer, come away!
But hark!—immortal Pope resumes the lyre!
Diviner airs, diviner flights, inspire:
Hark where an angel's language tunes the line!
See where the thoughts and looks of angels shine!
Here he pour'd all the music of your tongue,
And all your looks and thoughts, unconscious sung.

Alluding to the beautiful Episode of Loddona in Windsor Forest.

A spring near Burford.

179

ON THE RECOVERY OF A LADY OF QUALITY FROM THE SMALL-POX.

Long a lov'd fair had bless'd her consort's sight,
With am'rous pride, and undisturb'd delight;
Till Death grown envious, with repugnant aim,
Frown'd at their joys, and urg'd a tyrant's claim.
He summons each disease!—the noxious crew,
Writhing, in dire distortions, strike his view;
From various plagues, which various natures know,
Forth rushes beauty's fear'd, and fervent foe.
Fierce to the fair, the missile mischief flies,
The sanguine streams in raging ferments rise!
It drives, ignipotent, thro' ev'ry vein,
Hangs on the heart, and burns around the brain!
Now a chill damp the charmer's lustre dims!
Sad o'er her eyes the livid languor swims!
Her eyes, that with a glance could joy inspire,
Like setting stars, scarce shoot a glimm'ring fire.

Here stands her consort, sore, with anguish prest,
Grief in his eye, and terror in his breast.
The Paphian graces, smit with anxious care,
In silent sorrow weep the waining fair.

180

Eight suns, successive, roll their fire away,
And eight slow nights see their deep shades decay.
While these revolve, tho' mute each muse appears,
Each speaking eye drops eloquence in tears.
On the ninth noon, great Phœbus, list'ning, bends!
On the ninth noon, each voice in pray'r ascends!—
Great God of light, of song, and physic's art,
Restore the languid fair, new soul impart!
Her beauty, wit, and virtue, claim thy care,
And thy own bounty's almost rival'd there.

Each paus'd. The God assents. Would Death advance?
Phœbus, unseen, arrests the threat'ning lance!
Down from his orb a vivid influ'nce streams,
And quick'ning earth imbibes salubrious beams;
Each balmy plant, encrease of virtue knows,
And art, inspir'd, with all her patron glows.
The charmer's opening eye, kind hope, reveals,
Kind hope, her consort's breast enliv'ning feels,
Each grace revives, each muse resumes the lyre,
Each beauty brightens with re-lumin'd fire.
As Health's auspicious pow'rs, gay life display,
Death, sullen at the sight, stalks slow away.

181

THE FRIEND.

AN EPISTLE TO AARON HILL, ESQ.

O my lov'd Hill, O thou by heav'n design'd
To charm, to mend, and to adorn mankind!
To thee my hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows tend,
Thou brother, father, nearer yet!—thou friend!

If worldly friendships of cement, divide,
As interests vary, or as whims preside;
If leagues of lux'ry borrow friendship's light,
Or leagues subversive of all social right:
O say, my Hill, in what propitious sphere,
Gain we the friend, pure, knowing, and sincere?
'Tis where the worthy and the wise retire;
There wealth may learn its use, may love inspire;
There may young worth the noblest end obtain,
In want may friends, in friends may knowledge gain;
In knowledge bliss; for wisdom virtue finds,
And brightens mortal to immortal minds.
Kind then, my wrongs, if love, like yours, succeed!
For you, like virtue, are a friend indeed.

182

Oft when you saw my youth wild error know,
Reproof, soft-hinted, taught the blush to glow.
Young and unform'd, you first my genius rais'd,
Just smil'd when faulty, and when mod'rate prais'd.
Me shun'd, me ruin'd, such a mother's rage!
You sung, till pity wept o'er ev'ry page.
You call'd my lays and wrongs to early fame;
Yet, yet, th' obdurate mother felt no shame.
Pierc'd as I was! your counsel soften'd care,
To ease turn'd anguish, and to hope despair.
The man who never wound afflictive feels,
He never felt the balmy worth that heals.
Welcome the wound, when blest with such relief!
For deep is felt the friend, when felt in grief.

From you shall never, but with life, remove
Aspiring genius, condescending love.
When some, with cold, superior looks, redress,
Relief seems insult, and confirms distress:
You, when you view the man with wrongs besieg'd,
While warm you act th' obliger, seem th' oblig'd.

All-winning mild to each of lowly state:
To equals free, unservile to the great;
Greatness you honour, when by worth acquir'd;
Worth is by worth in ev'ry rank admir'd.
Greatness you scorn, when titles insult speak;
Proud to vain pride, to honour'd meekness meek.
That worthless bliss, which others court, you fly;
That worthy woe, they shun, attracts your eye.

183

But shall the muse resound alone your praise?
No—let the public friend exalt her lays!
O trace that friend with me!—he's yours!—he's mine!—
The world's!—beneficent behold him shine!

Is wealth his sphere? If riches, like a tide,
From either India pour their golden pride;
Rich in good works, him other wants employ;
He gives the widow's heart to sing for joy.
To orphans, prisoners, shall his bounty flow;
The weeping family of want and woe.

Is knowledge his? Benevolently great,
In leisure active, and in care sedate;
What aid, his little wealth, perchance, denies,
In each hard instance, his advice supplies.
With modest truth he sets the wand'ring right,
And gives religion pure, primeval light;
In love diffusive, as in light refin'd,
The lib'ral emblem of his Maker's mind.

Is pow'r his orb? He then, like pow'r divine,
On all, tho' with a varied ray, will shine.
Ere pow'r was his, the man, he once caress'd,
Meets the same faithful smile, and mutual breast:
But asks his friend some dignity of state;
His friend, unequal to th' incumbent weight?
Asks it a stranger, one whom parts inspire
With all a people's welfare would require?

184

His choice admits no pause; his gift will prove.
All private, well absorb'd in public love.
He shields his country, when for aid she calls;
Or shou'd she fall, with her he greatly falls:
But, as proud Rome, with guilty conquest crown'd,
Spread slav'ry, death, and desolation round,
Shou'd e'er his country, for dominion's prize,
Against the sons of men a faction rise,
Glory, in hers, is in his eye disgrace;
The friend of truth, the friend of human race.

Thus to no one, no sect, no clime confin'd,
His boundless love embraces all mankind;
And all their virtues in his life are known;
And all their joys and sorrows are his own.

These are the lights, where stands that friend confest;
This, this the spirit, which informs thy breast.
Thro' fortune's cloud thy genuine worth can shine;
What wouldst thou not, were wealth and greatness thine?

185

AN EPISTLE TO MR. JOHN DYER, AUTHOR OF GRONGAR-HILL,

IN ANSWER TO HIS FROM THE COUNTRY.

Now various birds in melting concert sing,
And hail the beauty of the opening spring;
Now to thy dreams the nightingale complains,
Till the lark wakes thee with her cheerful strains;
Wakes, in thy verse and friendship ever kind,
Melodious comfort to my jarring mind.

Oh, could my soul thro' depths of knowledge see,
Cou'd I read nature and mankind like thee,
I should o'ercome, or bear the rocks of fate,
And draw e'en envy to the humblest state.
Thou canst raise honour from each ill event,
From shocks gain vigour, and from want content.

Think not light poetry my life's chief care!
The muse's mansion is, at best, but air;
But, if more solid works my meaning forms,
Th' unfinish'd structures fall by fortune's storms.

Oft have I said we falsly those accuse,
Whose godlike souls life's middle state refuse.

186

Self-love, I cry'd, there seeks ignoble rest;
Care sleeps not calm, when millions wake unblest;
Mean let me shrink, or spread sweet shade o'er all,
Low as the shrub, or as the cedar tall!—
'Twas vain! 'twas wild!—I sought the middle state,
And found the good, and found the truly great.

Tho' verse can never give my soul her aim;
Tho' action only claims substantial fame;
Tho' fate denies what my proud wants require,
Yet grant me, heav'n, by knowledge to aspire:
Thus to enquiry let me prompt the mind;
Thus clear dimm'd truth, and bid her bless mankind;
From the pierc'd orphan thus draw shafts of grief,
Arm want with patience, and teach wealth relief!
To serve lov'd liberty inspire my breath!
Or, if my life be useless, grant me death;
For he, who useless is in life survey'd,
Burthens that world, his duty bids him aid.

Say, what have honours to allure the mind,
Which he gains most, who least has serv'd mankind?
Titles, when worn by fools I dare despise;
Yet they claim homage, when they crown the wise.
When high distinction marks deserving heirs,
Desert still dignifies the mark it wears.
But, who to birth alone wou'd honours owe?
Honours, if true, from seeds of merit grow.
Those trees, with sweetest charms, invite our eyes,
Which, from our own engraftment, fruitful rise.

187

Still we love best what we with labour gain,
As the child's dearer for the mother's pain.

The Great I wou'd nor envy nor deride;
Nor stoop to swell a vain Superior's pride;
Nor view an Equal's hope with jealous eyes;
Nor crush the wretch beneath, who wailing lies.
My sympathizing breast his grief can feel,
And my eye weep the wound I cannot heal.
Ne'er among friendships let me sow debate,
Nor by another's fall advance my state;
Nor misuse wit against an absent friend:
Let me the virtues of a foe defend!
In wealth and want true minds preserve their weight;
Meek, tho' exalted; tho' disgrac'd elate;
Gen'rous and grateful, wrong'd or help'd, they live;
Grateful to serve, and gen'rous to forgive.

This may they learn, who close thy life attend;
Which, dear in mem'ry, still instructs thy friend.
Tho' cruel distance bars my grosser eye,
My soul, clear-sighted, draws thy virtue nigh;
Thro' her deep woe that quick'ning comfort gleams,
And lights up Fortitude with Friendship's beams.

188

VERSES. OCCASIONED BY THE VICE-PRINCIPAL OF ST. MARY-HALL, OXFORD,

BEING PRESENTED BY THE HON. MRS. KNIGHT, TO THE LIVING OF GOSFIELD IN ESSEX.

While by mean arts, and meaner patrons rise
Priests, whom the learned and the good despise;
This sees fair Knight, in whose transcendant mind,
Are wisdom, purity, and truth enshrin'd.
A modest merit now she plans to lift,
Thy living, Gosfield, falls her instant gift.
Let me (she said) reward alone the wise,
And make the church-revenue virtue's prize.

She sought the man of honest, candid breast,
In faith, in works of goodness, full exprest;
Tho' young, yet tut'ring academic youth
To science moral, and religious truth.
She sought where the disinterested friend,
The scholar, sage, and free companion blend;
The pleasing poet, and the deep divine,
She sought, she found, and, Hart! the prize was thine.

189

FULVIA.

A POEM.

Let Fulvia's wisdom be a slave to will,
Her darling passions, scandal and quadrille;
On friends and foes her tongue a satire known,
Her deeds a satire on herself alone.
On her poor kindred deigns she word or look?
'Tis cold respect, or 'tis unjust rebuke;
Worse when good-natur'd than when most severe;
The jest impure then pains the modest ear.
How just the sceptic? the divine how odd?
What turns of wit play smartly on her God?

The fates, my nearest kindred, foes decree:
Fulvia, when piqu'd at them, strait pities me.
She, like benevolence, a smile bestows,
Favours to me indulge her spleen to those.
The banquet serv'd, with peeresses I sit:
She tells my story, and repeats my wit.
With mouth distorted, thro' a sounding nose
It comes, now homeliness more homely grows.
With see-saw sounds and nonsense not my own,
She screws her features, and she cracks her tone.
How fine your Bastard? why so soft a strain?
What such a mother? Satirize again!

Oft I object—but fix'd is Fulvia's will—
Ah! tho' unkind, she is my mother still!

190

The verse now flows, the manuscript she claims.
'Tis fam'd—The fame each curious fair enflames:
The wild-fire runs; from copy, copy grows:
The Brets, alarm'd, a sep'rate peace propose.
'Tis ratified—How alter'd Fulvia's look?
My wit's degraded, and my cause forsook.
Thus she: What's poetry, but to amuse?
Might I advise—there are more solid views.
With a cool air she adds: This tale is old:
Were it my case, it should no more be told.
Complaints—had I been worthy to advise—
You know—But when are wits, like women, wise?
True, it may take, but think whate'er you list,
All love the satire, none the satirist.

I start, I stare, stand fix'd, then pause awhile;
Then hesitate, then ponder well, then smile.
Madam—a pension lost—and where's amends?
Sir (she replies) indeed you'll lose your friends.
Why did I start? 'twas but a change of wind—
Or the same thing—the lady chang'd her mind.
I bow, depart, despise, discern her all:
Nanny revisits, and disgrac'd I fall.

Let Fulvia's friendship whirl with ev'ry whim!
A reed, a weather-cock, a shade, a dream:
No more the friendship shall be now display'd
By weather-cock, or reed, or dream, or shade;
To Nanny fix'd unvarying shall it tend,
For souls, so form'd alike, were form'd to blend.

191

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

Clos'd are those eyes, that beam'd seraphic fire;
Cold is that breast, which gave the world desire;
Mute is the voice where winning softness warm'd,
Where music melted, and where wisdom charm'd,
And lively wit, which decently confin'd,
No prude e'er thought impure, no friend unkind.

Cou'd modest knowledge, fair untrifling youth,
Persuasive reason, and endearing truth,
Cou'd honour, shewn in friendships most refin'd,
And sense, that shields th' attempted virtuous mind,
The social temper never known to strife,
The height'ning graces that embellish life;
Cou'd these have e'er the darts of death defied,
Never, ah! never had Melinda died;
Nor can she die—e'en now survives her name,
Immortaliz'd by friendship, love, and fame.

192

THE GENIUS OF LIBERTY.

A POEM. OCCASIONED BY THE DEPARTURE OF THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF ORANGE.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1734.

Mild rose the morn; the face of nature bright
Wore one extensive smile of calm and light;
Wide, o'er the land, did hov'ring silence reign,
Wide o'er the blue diffusion of the main;
When lo! before me, on the southern shore,
Stood forth the pow'r, whom Albion's sons adore;
Blest Liberty! whose charge is Albion's isle;
Whom Reason gives to bloom, and Truth to smile;
Gives Peace to gladden, shelt'ring Law to spread,
Learning to lift aloft her laurel'd head,
Rich Industry to view, with pleasing eyes,
Her fleets, her cities, and her harvests rise.
In curious emblems, ev'ry art, exprest,
Glow'd from the loom, and brighten'd on his vest.
Science in various lights attention won,
Wav'd on his robe, and glitter'd in the sun.

193

My words, he cry'd, my words observance claim:
Resound, ye Muses, and receive 'em, Fame!
Here was my station, when, o'er ocean wide,
The great, third William stretch'd his naval pride:
I, with my sacred influence swell'd his soul;
Th' enslav'd to free, th' enslaver to controul.
In vain did waves disperse, and winds detain:
He came, he sav'd; in his was seen my reign.
How just, how great, the plan his soul design'd,
To humble tyrants, and secure mankind!
Next Marlb'ro' in his steps successful trod:
This godlike plann'd; that, finish'd like a god!
And while Oppression fled to realms unknown,
Europe was free, and Britain glorious shone.

Where Nassau's race extensive growth display'd,
There Freedom ever found a shelt'ring shade.
Still heav'n is kind!—See, from the princely root,
Millions to bless, the branch auspicious shoot!
He lives, he flourishes, his honours spread:
Fair virtues blooming on his youthful head;
Nurse him, ye heav'nly dews, ye sunny rays,
Into firm health, fair fame, and length of days!
He paus'd, and casting o'er the deep his eye,
Where the last billow swells into the sky,
Where, in gay vision, round th' horizon's line,
The moving clouds with various beauty shine;
As dropping from their bosom, ting'd with gold,
Shoots forth a sail, amusive to behold!

194

Lo! while its light the glowing wave returns,
Broad like a sun the bark approaching burns.
Near, and more near, great Nassau soon he spy'd,
And beauteous Anna, Britain's eldest pride!
Thus spoke the Genius, as advanc'd the sail—
Hail, blooming hero! high-born princess, hail!
Thy charms thy mother's love of truth display,
Her light of virtue, and her beauty's ray;
Her dignity; which, copying the divine,
Soften'd, thro' condescension, learns to shine.
Greatness of thought, with prudence for its guide;
Knowledge, from nature and from art supply'd;
To noblest objects pointed various ways;
Pointed by judgment's clear, unerring rays.

What manly virtues in her mind excel!
Yet on her heart what tender passions dwell!
For ah! what pangs did late her peace destroy,
To part with thee, so wont to give her joy!
How heav'd her breast! how sadden'd was her mien!
All in the mother then was lost the queen.
The swelling tear then dimm'd her parting view,
The struggling sigh stopp'd short her last adieu:
E'en now thy fancied perils fill her mind;
The secret rock, rough wave, and rising wind;
The shoal, so treach'rous, near the tempting land;
Th' ingulfing whirlpool, and the swallowing sand;
These fancied perils all, by day, by night,
In thoughts alarm her, and in dreams affright!

195

For thee her heart unceasing love declares,
In doubts, in hopes, in wishes, and in pray'rs!
Her pray'rs are heard!—For me, 'tis thine to brave
The sand, the shoal, rock, whirlpool, wind, and wave:
Kind Safety waits, to waft thee gently o'er,
And Joy, to greet thee on the Belgic shore.

May future times, when their fond praise would tell
How most their fav'rite characters excel;
How blest! how great!—then may their songs declare,
So great! so blest!—such Anne and Nassau were.

196

E GRÆCO RUF.

QUI TE VIDET BEATUS EST,
BEATIOR QUI TE AUDIET,
QUI BASIAT SEMIDEUS EST,
QUI TE POTITUR EST DEUS.
Buchanan.

THE FOREGOING LINES PARAPHRASED.

I

Happy the man, who in thy sparkling eyes,
His am'rous wishes sees, reflecting, play;
Sees little laughing Cupids, glancing, rise,
And, in soft-swimming languor, die away.

II

Still happier he! to whom thy meanings roll
In sounds, which love, harmonious love, inspire;
On his charm'd ear sits, rapt, his list'ning soul,
'Till admiration form intense desire.

III

Half-deity is he who warm may press
Thy lip, soft-swelling to the kindling kiss;
And may that lip assentive warmth express,
'Till love draw willing love to ardent bliss!

IV

Circling thy waist, and circled in thy arms,
Who, melting on thy mutual-melting breast,
Entranc'd enjoys love's whole luxurious charms,
Is all a God!—is of all heav'n possest.

197

THE EMPLOYMENT OF BEAUTY.

A POEM. ADDRESSED TO MRS. BRIDGET JONES, A YOUNG WIDOW LADY OF LLANELLY, CARMARTHENSHIRE.

Once Beauty, wishing fond desire to move,
Contriv'd to catch the heart of wand'ring Love.
Come purest atoms! Beauty aid implores;
For new soft texture leave etherial stores.
They come, they crowd, they shining hues unfold,
Be theirs a form which Beauty's self shall mould!
To mould my charmer's form she all apply'd—
Whence Cambria boasts the birth of Nature's pride.

She calls the Graces—Such is Beauty's state,
Prompt, at her call, th' obedient Graces wait.
First your fair feet they shape, and shape to please;
Each stands design'd for dignity and ease.
Firm, on these curious pedestals, depend
Two polish'd pillars; which, as fair, ascend;

198

From well-wrought knees, more fair, more large they rise;
Seen by the muse, tho' hid from mortal eyes.
More polish'd yet, your fabric each sustains;
That purest temple where perfection reigns.
A small, sweet circle forms your faultless waist,
By Beauty shap'd, to be by Love embrac'd.
Beyond that less'ning waist two orbs devise,
What swelling charms, in fair proportion, rise!
Fresh-peeping there, two blushing buds are found,
Each like a rose, which lilies white surround.
There feeling sense, let pitying sighs inspire,
Till panting pity swells to warm desire:
Desire, tho' warm, is chaste; each warmest kiss,
All rapture chaste, when Hymen bids the bliss.
Rounding and soft, two taper arms descend;
Two snow-white hands, in taper fingers, end.
Lo! cunning Beauty, on each palm, designs
Love's fortune and your own, in mystic lines;
And lovely whiteness, either arm contains,
Diversified with azure-wand'ring veins;
The wand'ring veins conceal a gen'rous flood,
The purple treasure of celestial blood.
Rounding and white your neck, as curious, rears
O'er all a face, where Beauty's self appears.
Her soft attendants smooth the spotless skin,
And, smoothly-oval, turn the shapely chin;

199

The shapely chin, to Beauty's rising face,
Shall, doubling gently, give a double grace,
And soon sweet-opening, rosy lips disclose
The well-rang'd teeth, in lily-whitening rows;
Here life is breath'd, and florid life assumes
A breath, whose fragrance vies with vernal blooms;
And two fair cheeks give modesty to raise
A beauteous blush at praise, tho' just the praise.
And nature now, from each kind ray, supplies
Soft, clement smiles, and love-inspiring eyes;
New Graces, to those eyes, mild shades allow;
Fringe their fair lids, and pencil either brow.
While sense of vision lights up orbs so rare,
May none, but pleasing objects, visit there!
Two little porches, (which, one sense empow'rs,
To draw rich scent from aromatic flow'rs)
In structure neat, and deck'd with polish'd grace,
Shall equal first, then heighten beauty's face.
To smelling sense, Oh, may the flow'ry year,
Its first, last, choicest incense offer here.
Transparent next, two curious crescents bound
The two-fold entrance of inspiring sound,
And, granting a new power of sense to hear,
New finer organs form each curious ear;
Form to imbibe what most the soul can move,
Music and Reason, Poesy and Love.
Next, on an open front, is pleasing wrought
A pensive sweetness, born of patient thought:

200

Above your lucid shoulders locks display'd,
Prone to descend, shall soften light with shade.
All, with a nameless air and mien unite,
And, as you move, each movement is delight.
Tun'd is your melting tongue, and equal mind,
At once by knowledge heighten'd and refin'd.

The Virtues next to Beauty's nod incline;
For, where they lend not light, she cannot shine;
Let these, the temp'rate sense of taste reveal,
And give, while nature spreads the simple meal,
The palate pure, to relish health design'd,
From luxury as taintless as your mind.
The Virtues, Chastity and Truth impart,
And mould to sweet benevolence your heart.

Thus Beauty finish'd—Thus she gains the sway,
And Love still follows where she leads the way.
From ev'ry gift of heav'n, to charm is thine;
To love, to praise, and to adore, be mine.

201

VERSES SENT TO MRS. BRIDGET JONES,

WITH THE WANDERER, A POEM:

ALLUDING TO AN EPISODE, WHERE A YOUNG MAN TURNS HERMIT FOR THE LOSS OF HIS WIFE OLYMPIA.

When with delight fond Love on Beauty dwelt,
While this the youth, and that the fair exprest,
Faint was his joy compar'd to what I felt,
When in my angel Biddy's presence blest.

Tell her, my muse, in soft, sad, sighing breath,
If she his piercing grief can pitying see,
Worse than to him was his Olympia's death,
From her each moment's absence is to me.

202

ON FALSE HISTORIANS:

A SATIRE.

Sure of all plagues with which dull prose is curst,
Scandals, from false historians, spot the worst.
In quest of these the muse shall first advance,
Bold, to explore the regions of romance;
Romance, call'd Hist'ry—Lo! at once she skims
The visionary world of monkish whims;
Where fallacy, in legends, wildly shines,
And vengeance glares from violated shrines;
Where saints perform all tricks, and startle thought
With many a miracle that ne'er was wrought;
Saints that ne'er liv'd, or such as justice paints,
Jugglers on superstition palm'd for saints.
Here, canoniz'd, let creed-mongers be shown,
Red-letter'd saints, and red assassins known;
While those they martyr'd, such as angels rose!
All black enroll'd among religion's foes,
Snatch'd by sulphureous clouds, a lye proclaims
Number'd with fiends, and plung'd in endless flames.

Hist'ry, from air or deep draws many a spright,
Such as, from nurse or priest, might boys affright;

203

Or such as but o'er fev'rish slumbers fly,
And fix in melancholy frenzy's eye.
Now meteors make enthusiast-wonder stare,
And image wild portentous wars in air!
Seers fall intranc'd! some wizard's lawless skill
Now whirls, now fetters nature's works at will!
Thus Hist'ry, by machine, mock-epic seems,
Not from poetic, but from monkish dreams.
The dev'l, who priest and sorc'rer must obey,
The sorc'rer us'd to raise, the parson lay.
When Eachard wav'd his pen, the hist'ry shows,
The parson conjur'd, and the fiend uprose.
A camp at distance, and the scene a wood,
Here enter'd Noll, and there old Satan stood:
No tail his rump, his foot no hoof reveal'd;
Like a wise cuckold, with his horns conceal'd:
Not a gay serpent glitt'ring to the eye;
But more than serpent, or than harlot sly:
For, lawyer-like, a fiend no wit can 'scape,
The demon stands confest in proper shape!
Now spreads his parchment, now is sign'd the scroll;
Thus Noll gains empire, and the dev'l has Noll.

Wond'rous historian! thus account for evil,
And thus for its success—'tis all the devil.
Tho' ne'er that dev'l we saw, yet one we see,
One of an author sure, and—thou art he.

But dusky phantoms, muse, no more pursue!
Now clearer objects open—yet untrue.

204

Awful the genuine historian's name!
False ones—with what materials build they fame;
Fabricks of fame, by dirty means made good,
As nests of martins are compil'd of mud.
Peace be with Curl—with him I wave all strife,
Who pens each felon's, and each actor's life;
Biography that cooks the devil's martyrs,
And lards with luscious rapes the cheats of Chartres.

Materials, which belief in gazettes claim,
Loose-strung, run gingling into hist'ry's name.
Thick as Egyptian clouds of raining flies;
As thick as worms where man corrupting lies;
As pests obscene that haunt the ruin'd pile;
As monsters flound'ring in the muddy Nile;
Minutes, Memoirs, Views and Reviews appear,
Where slander darkens each recorded year.
In a past reign is feign'd some am'rous league;
Some ring or letter now reveals th' intrigue:
Queens, with their minions, work unseemly things,
And boys grow dukes, when catamites to kings.
Does a prince die? What poisons they surmise!
No royal mortal sure by nature dies.
Is a prince born? What birth more base believ'd?
Or, what's more strange, his mother ne'er conceiv'd!
Thus slander popular, o'er truth prevails,
And easy minds imbibe romantic tales.
Thus, 'stead of history, such authors raise
Mere crude wild novels of bad hints for plays.

205

Some usurp names—an English garreteer,
From Minutes forg'd, is Monsieur Menager .

Some, while on good or ill success they stare,
Give conduct a complexion dark or fair:
Others, as little to enquiry prone,
Account for actions, tho' their spring's unknown.

One statesman vices has, and virtues too;
Hence will contested character ensue.
View but the black, he's fiend; the bright but scan,
He's angel: view him all—he's still a man.
But such historians all accuse, acquit;
No virtue these, and those no vice admit;
For either in a friend no fault will know,
And neither own a virtue in a foe.

Where hear-say knowledge sits on public names,
And bold conjecture or extols or blames,
Spring party-libels; from whose ashes dead,
A monster, misnam'd Hist'ry, lifts its head.
Contending factions croud to hear its roar!
But when once heard, it dies to noise no more.
From these no answer, no applause from those,
O'er half they simper, and o'er half they doze.

206

So when in senate, with egregious pate,
Perks up Sir --- in some deep debate;
He hems, looks wise, tunes thin his lab'ring throat,
To prove black white, postpone or palm the vote:
In sly contempt, some, Hear him! Hear him! cry;
Some yawn, some sneer; none second, none reply,

But dare such miscreants now rush abroad,
By blanket, cane, pump, pillory, unaw'd?
Dare they imp falshood thus, and plume her wings,
From present characters, and recent things?
Yes: what untruths! or truths in what disguise!
What Boyers and what Oldmixons arise!
What facts from all but them and slander screen'd?
Here meets a council, no where else conven'd;
There, from originals, come, thick as spawn,
Letters ne'er wrote, memorials never drawn;
To secret conf'rence never held they yoke,
Treaties ne'er plann'd, and speeches never spoke.
From, Oldmixon, thy brow, too well we know,
Like sin from Satan's, far and wide they go.

In vain may St. John safe in conscience sit;
In vain with truth confute, contemn with wit:
Confute, contemn, amid selected friends;
There sinks the justice, there the satire ends.
Here, tho' a cent'ry scarce such leaves unclose,
From mould and dust the slander sacred grows.
Now none reply where all despise the page;
But will dumb scorn deceive no future age?

207

Then, should dull periods cloud not seeming fact,
Will no fine pen th' unanswer'd lie extract?
Well-set in plan, and polish'd into stile,
Fair and more fair may finish'd fraud beguile;
By ev'ry language snatch'd, by time receiv'd,
In ev'ry clime, by ev'ry age believ'd:
How vain to virtue trust the great their name,
When such their lot for infamy or fame?

The Minutes of Mons. Menager; a book calculated to vilify the administration in the four last years of queen Anne's reign. The truth is, that this libel was not written by Mons. Menager, neither was any such book ever printed in the French tongue, from which it is impudently said in the title-page to be translated.

208

A CHARACTER.

Fair Truth, in courts where Justice should preside,
Alike the Judge and Advocate would guide;
And these would vie each dubious point to clear,
To stop the widow's and the orphan's tear;
Were all, like York, of delicate address,
Strength to discern, and sweetness to express,
Learn'd, just, polite, born ev'ry heart to gain,
Like Cummins mild; like Fortescue humane,
All-eloquent of truth, divinely known,
So deep, so clear, all Science is his own.

Of heart impure, and impotent of head,
In hist'ry, rhet'ric, ethics, law unread;
How far unlike such worthies, once a drudge,
From flound'ring in low cases, rose a Judge.
Form'd to make pleaders laugh, his nonsense thunders,
And, on low juries, breathes contagious blunders.
His brothers blush, because no blush he knows,
Nor e'er ‘one uncorrupted finger shows.’
See, drunk with pow'r, the circuit-lord exprest!
Full, in his eye, his betters stand confest;
Whose wealth, birth, virtue, from a tongue so loose,
'Scape not provincial, vile buffoon abuse.

209

Still to what circuit is assign'd his name,
There, swift before him, flies the warner—Fame.
Contest stops short, Consent yields ev'ry cause
To cost; Delay, endures 'em, and withdraws.
But how 'scape pris'ners? To their trial chain'd,
All, all shall stand condemn'd, who stand arraign'd.
Dire guilt, which else would detestation cause,
Prejudg'd with insult, wond'rous pity draws.
But 'scapes e'en Innocence his harsh harangue?
Alas!—e'en Innocence itself must hang;
Must hang to please him, when of spleen possest;
Must hang to bring forth an abortive jest.

Why liv'd he not ere Star-chambers had fail'd,
When fine, tax, censure, all but law prevail'd;
Or law, subservient to some murd'rous will,
Became a precedent to murder still?
Yet e'en when patriots did for traitors bleed,
Was e'er the jobb to such a slave decreed,
Whose savage mind wants sophist-art to draw,
O'er murder'd virtue, specious veils of law?

Why, Student, when the bench your youth admits;
Where, tho' the worst, with the best rank'd he sits;
Where sound opinions you attentive write,
As once a Raymond, now a Lee to cite.
Why pause you scornful when he dins the court?
Note well his cruel quirks and well report.
Let his own words against himself point clear
Satire more sharp than verse when most severe.

The honourable William Fortescue, Esq; one of the justices of his Majesty's Court of Common Plea.

When Page one uncorrupted finger shows. D. of Wharton.

210

EPITAPH ON MRS. JONES,

GRANDMOTHER TO MRS. BRIDGET JONES, OF LLANELLY IN CARMARTHENSHIRE.

In her, whose relicks mark this sacred earth,
Shone all domestic and all social worth:
First, heav'n her hope with early offspring crown'd;
And thence a second race rose num'rous round.
Heav'n to industrious virtue blessing lent,
And all was competence, and all content.

Tho' frugal care, in Wisdom's eye admir'd,
Knew to preserve what industry acquir'd;
Yet, at her board, with decent plenty blest,
The journeying stranger sat a welcome guest.
Prest on all sides, did trading neighbours fear
Ruin, which hung o'er exigence severe?
Farewel the friend, who spar'd th' assistant loan—
A neighbour's woe or welfare was her own.
Did piteous lazars oft attend her door?
She gave—farewel, the parent of the poor.
Youth, age, and want, once cheer'd, now sighing swell,
Bless her lov'd name, and weep a last farewel.

211

VALENTINE'S DAY.

A POEM. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG WIDOW LADY.

Adieu, ye rocks that witness'd once my flame,
Return'd my sighs, and echo'd Chloe's name!
Cambria, farewel!—my Chloe's charms no more
Invite my steps along Llanelly's shore;
There no wild dens conceal voracious foes,
The beach no fierce, amphibious monster knows;
No crocodile there flesh'd with prey appears,
And o'er that bleeding prey weeps cruel tears;
No false hyæna, feigning human grief,
There murders him, whose goodness means relief:
Yet tides, conspiring with unfaithful ground,
Tho' distant seen, with treach'rous arms surround.
There quicksands, thick as beauty's snares, annoy,
Look fair to tempt, and whom they tempt, destroy.
I watch'd the seas, I pac'd the sands with care,
Escap'd, but wildly rush'd on beauty's snare.
Ah!—better far, than by that snare o'erpower'd,
Had sands engulf'd me, or had seas devour'd.

Far from that shore, where syren-beauty dwells,
And wraps sweet ruin in resistless spells;

212

From Cambrian plains; which Chloe's lustre boast,
Me native England yields a safer coast.
Chloe, farewel!—Now seas, with boist'rous pride,
Divide us, and will ever far divide:
Yet while each plant, which vernal youth resumes,
Feels the green blood ascend in future blooms;
While little feather'd songsters of the air
In woodlands tuneful woo and fondly pair,
The muse exults, to beauty tunes the lyre,
And willing Loves, the swelling notes inspire.

Sure on this day, when hope attains success,
Bright Venus first did young Adonis bless,
Her charms not brighter, Chloe, sure, than thine;
Tho' flush'd his youth, not more his warmth than mine,
Sequester'd far within a myrtle grove,
Whose blooming bosom courts retiring love;
Where a clear sun, the blue serene displays,
And sheds, thro' vernal air, attemper'd rays;
Where flow'rs their aromatic incense bring,
And fragrant flourish in eternal spring;
There mate to mate each dove responsive coos,
While this assents, as that enamour'd woos.
There rills amusive, send from rocks around,
A solitary, pleasing, murm'ring sound;
Then form a limpid lake. The lake serene
Reflects the wonders of the blissful scene.
To love the birds attune their chirping throats,
And on each breeze immortal music floats.

213

There, seated on a rising turf is seen,
Graceful, in loose array, the Cyprian queen;
All fresh and fair, all mild, as Ocean gave
The goddess, rising from the azure wave;
Dishevel'd locks distil celestial dews,
And all her limbs, divine perfumes diffuse.
Her voice so charms, the plumy, warb'ling throngs,
In list'ning wonder lost, suspend their songs.
It sounds—‘Why loiters my Adonis?’—cry,
‘Why loiters my Adonis?—rocks reply.
‘Oh, come away!’—they thrice, repeating, say;
And Echo thrice repeats,—‘Oh, come away!’—
Kind zephyrs waft 'em to her lover's ears;
Who, instant at th' inchanting call, appears.
Her placid eye, where sparkling joy refines,
Benignant, with alluring lustre shines.
His locks, which in loose ringlets, charm the view,
Float careless, lucid from their amber hue.
A myrtle wreath, her rosy fingers frame,
Which, from her hand, his polish'd temples claim;
His temples fair, a streaking beauty stains,
As smooth white marble shines with azure veins.
He kneel'd. Her snowy hand, he trembling seiz'd,
Just lifted to his lip, and gently squeez'd;
The meaning squeeze return'd, love caught its lore
And enter'd, at his palm, thro' ev'ry pore.
Then swell'd her downy breasts, till then enclos'd,
Fast-heaving, half-conceal'd and half-expos'd:

214

Soft she reclines. He, as they fall and rise,
Hangs, hov'ring o'er 'em, with enamour'd eyes,
And, warm'd, grows wanton—as he thus admir'd,
He pry'd, he touch'd, and with the touch, was fir'd.
Half-angry, yet half-pleas'd, her frown beguiles
The boy to fear; but, at his fear, she smiles.
The youth less tim'rous, and the fair less coy,
Supinely am'rous they reclining toy.
More am'rous still his sanguine meanings stole
In wistful glances, to her soft'ning soul:
In her fair eye her soft'ning soul he reads;
To freedom, freedom, boon, to boon, succeeds.
With conscious blush, th' impassion'd charmer burns;
And, blush for blush, th' impassion'd youth returns.
They look, they languish, sigh with pleasing pain,
And wish and gaze, and gaze and wish again.
'Twixt her white, parting bosom steals the boy,
And more than hope preludes tumultuous joy;
Thro' ev'ry vein the vig'rous transport ran,
Strung ev'ry nerve, and brac'd the boy to man.
Struggling, yet yielding, half o'erpower'd, she pants,
Seems to deny, and yet, denying, grants.
Quick, like the tendrils of a curling vine,
Fond limbs with limbs, in am'rous folds, entwine.
Lips press on lips, caressing, and carest,
Now eye darts flame to eye, and breast to breast.
All she resigns, as dear desires incite,
And rapt, he reach'd the brink of full delight.

215

Her waist compress'd in his exulting arms,
He storms, explores, and rifles all her charms;
Clasps in extatic bliss th' expiring fair,
And, thrilling, melting, nestling, riots there.

How long the rapture lasts, how soon it fleets,
How oft it pauses, and how oft repeats;
What joys they both receive and both bestow,
Virgins may guess, but wives experienc'd know:
From joys, like these, (Ah, why deny'd to me?)
Sprung a fresh, blooming boy, my fair, from thee.
May he, a new Adonis, lift his crest,
In all the florid grace of youth confest!
First let him learn to lisp your lover's name,
And, when he reads, here annual read my flame.
When beauty first shall wake his genial fire,
And the first tingling sense excite desire;
When the dear object, of his peace possest,
Gains and still gains on his unguarded breast:
Then may he say, as he this verse reviews,
So my bright mother charm'd the poet's muse.
His heart thus flutter'd oft 'twixt doubt and fear,
Lighten'd with hope, and sadden'd with despair.
Say, on some rival did she smile too kind?
Ah, read—what jealousy distracts his mind!
Smil'd she on him? He imag'd rays divine,
And gaz'd and gladden'd with a love like mine.
How dwelt her praise upon his raptur'd tongue!
Ah!—when she frown'd, what plaintive notes he sung!

216

And could she frown on him—Ah, wherefore, tell!
On him, whose only crime was loving well?

Thus may thy son, his pangs with mine compare;
Then wish his mother had been kind as fair.
For him may Love the myrtle wreath entwine;
Tho' the sad willow suits a woe like mine!
Ne'er may the filial hope, like me, complain!
Ah! never sigh and bleed, like me, in vain!

When death affords that peace which love denies,
Ah, no!—far other scenes my fate supplies;
When earth to earth my lifeless corse is laid,
And o'er it hangs the yew or cypress shade:
When pale I flit along the dreary coast,
An hapless lover's pining plaintive ghost;
Here annual on this dear returning day,
While feather'd choirs renew the melting lay;
May you, my fair, when you these strains shall see,
Just spare one sigh, one tear to love and me,
Me, who, in absence or in death, adore
Those heavenly charms I must behold no more.

217

TO JOHN POWELL, ESQ. BARRISTER AT LAW.

In me, long absent, long with anguish fraught,
In me, tho' silence long has deaden'd thought,
Yet mem'ry lives, and calls the muse's aid,
To snatch our friendship from oblivion's shade.
As soon the sun shall cease the world to warm,
As soon Llanelly's fair that world to charm,
As grateful sense of goodness, true like thine,
Shall e'er desert a breast so warm as mine.

When imag'd Cambria strikes my mem'ry's eye,
(Cambria, my darling scene!) I, sighing, cry
Where is my Powell? dear associate!—where?
To him I would unbosom ev'ry care;
To him, who early felt, from beauty, pain;
Gall'd in a plighted, faithless virgin's chain.
At length, from her ungen'rous fetters freed,
Again he loves! he woos! his hopes succeed!
But the gay bridegroom, still by fortune crost,
Is, instant, in the weeping wid'wer lost.
Her, his sole joy! her from his bosom torn,
What feeling heart, but learns, like his, to mourn?

218

Can nature then, such sudden shocks sustain?
Nature thus struck, all reason pleads in vain!
Tho' late, from reason yet he draws relief,
Dwells on her mem'ry; but dispels his grief.
Love, wealth and fame (tyrannic passions all!)
No more enflame him, and no more enthral.
He seeks no more, in Rufus' hall, renown;
Nor envies Pelf the jargon of the gown;
But pleas'd with competence, on rural plains,
His wisdom courts that ease his worth obtains.
Would private jars, which sudden rise, encrease?
His candour smiles all discord into peace.
To party storms is public weal resign'd?
Each steady, patriot-virtue steers his mind.
Calm, on the beach, while madd'ning billows rave,
He gains philosophy from ev'ry wave;
Science, from ev'ry object round, he draws;
From various nature and from nature's laws.
He lives o'er ev'ry past historic age;
He calls forth ethics from the fabled page.
Him evangelic truth, to thought excites;
And him, by turns, each classic muse delights.
With wit well-natur'd; wit, that would disdain
A pleasure rising from another's pain;
Social to all, and most of bliss possest,
When most he renders all, around him, blest:
To unread squires, illiterally gay;
Among the learn'd, as learned full as they;

219

With the polite, all, all-accomplish'd ease,
By nature form'd, without deceit, to please.

Thus shines thy youth; and thus, my friend, elate
In bliss as well as worth, is truly great.
Me still should ruthless fate, unjust, expose
Beneath those clouds, that rain unnumber'd woes;
Me, to some nobler sphere, should fortune raise,
To wealth conspicuous, and to laurel'd praise:
Unalter'd yet be love and friendship mine;
I still am Chloe's, and I still am thine.

Mrs. Bridget Jones. See vol. II. p. 197, 201.

220

THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.

A POEM ON HER MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, 1731–2.

No. I.

Twice twenty tedious moons have roll'd away,
Since hope, kind flatt'rer! tun'd my pensive lay,
Whisp'ring, that You, who rais'd me from despair,
Meant, by Your smiles, to make life worth my care;
With pitying hand an orphan's tears to skreen,
And o'er the motherless extend the queen.
'Twill be—the prophet guides the poet's strain!
Grief never touch'd a heart like Your's in vain:
Heav'n gave You pow'r, because You love to bless,
And pity, when You feel it, is redress.

Two fathers join'd to rob my claim of one!
My mother too thought fit to have no son!
The Senate next, whose aid the helpless own,
Forgot my infant wrongs, and mine alone!
Yet parents pityless, nor peers unkind,
Nor titles lost, nor woes mysterious join'd,
Strip me of hope—by heav'n thus lowly laid,
To find a Pharaoh's daughter in the shade.

221

You cannot hear unmov'd, when wrongs implore,
Your heart is woman, tho' Your mind be more;
Kind, like the pow'r who gave You to our pray'rs,
You would not lengthen life to sharpen cares;
They, who a barren leave to live bestow,
Snatch but from death to sacrifice to woe.
Hated by her from whom my life I drew,
Whence should I hope, if not from heav'n and You?
Nor dare I groan beneath affliction's rod,
My queen my mother, and my father—God.

The pitying muses saw me wit pursue;
A Bastard-son, alas! on that side too,
Did not Your eyes exalt the poet's fire,
And what the muse denies, the Queen inspire,
While rising thus Your heav'nly soul to view;
I learn, how angels think, by copying You.

Great Princess! 'tis decreed—once ev'ry year
I march uncall'd your Laureat Volunteer;
Thus shall your poet his low genius raise,
And charm the world with truths too vast for praise.
Nor need I dwell on glories all your own,
Since surer means to tempt your smiles are known;
Your poet shall allot your Lord his part,
And paint him in his noblest throne—your heart.

Is there a greatness that adorns Him best,
A rising wish, that ripens in his breast?
Has He foremeant some distant age to bless,
Disarm oppression, or expel distress?

222

Plans he some scheme to reconcile mankind,
People the seas, and busy ev'ry wind?
Would He by pity the deceiv'd reclaim,
And smile contending factions into shame?
Would his example lend his laws a weight,
And breathe his own soft morals o'er a state?
The muse shall find it all, shall make it seen,
And teach the world his praise, to charm his Queen.

Such be the annual truths my verse imparts,
Nor frown, fair fav'rite of a people's hearts!
Happy if plac'd, perchance, beneath your eye,
My muse, unpension'd, might her pinions try;
Fearless to fail, whilst you indulge her flame,
And bid me proudly boast Your Laureat's name;
Benobled thus by wreaths my Queen bestows,
I lose all memory of wrongs and woes.

223

THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.

A POEM ON HER MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, 1732–3.

No. II.

“Great Princess, 'tis decreed! once ev'ry year,
“I march uncall'd, your Laureat-Volunteer.”
So sung the muse; nor sung the muse in vain:
My Queen accepts, the year renews the strain.
Ere first your influence shone with heav'nly aid,
Each thought was terror; for each view was shade.
Fortune to life each flow'ry path deny'd;
No science learn'd to bloom, no lay to glide.
Instead of hallow'd hill, or vocal vale,
Or stream, sweet-echoing to the tuneful tale;
Damp dens confin'd, or barren desarts spread,
Which spectres haunted, and the muses fled;
Ruins in pensive emblem seem'd to rise,
And all was dark, or wild, to Fancy's eyes.

But hark! a gladd'ning voice all nature chears!
Disperse, ye glooms! a day of joy appears?
Hail, happy day!—'Twas on thy glorious morn,
The first, the fairest of her sex was born!

224

How swift the change? Cold, wint'ry sorrows fly;
Where-e'er she looks, delight surrounds the eye!
Mild shines the sun, the woodlands warble round,
The vales sweet echo, sweet the rocks resound!
In cordial air soft fragrance floats along;
Each scene is verdure, and each voice is song!

Shoot from yon orb divine, ye quick'ning rays!
Boundless, like her benevolence, ye blaze!
Soft emblems of her bounty, fall ye showers!
And sweet ascend, and fair unfold ye flowers!
Ye roses, lilies, you we earliest claim,
In whiteness, and in fragrance, match her fame!
'Tis yours to fade, to fame like hers is due
Undying sweets, and bloom for ever new.
Ye blossoms, that one varied landscape rise,
And send your scentful tribute to the skies;
Diffusive like yon Royal Branches smile,
Grace the young year, and glad the grateful isle!
Attend, ye muses! mark the feather'd quires!
Those the spring wakes, as you the Queen inspires.
O, let her praise for ever swell your song!
Sweet let your sacred streams the notes prolong,
Clear, and more clear, thro' all my lays refine;
And there let heav'n and her reflected shine!

As when chill blights from vernal suns retire,
Chearful the vegetative world aspire,
Put forth unfolding blooms, and waving try
Th' enlivening influence of a milder sky;

225

So gives her birth, (like yon approaching spring,)
The land to flourish, and the muse to sing.

'Twas thus, Zenobia, on Palmyra's throne,
In learning, beauty, and in virtue shone;
Beneath her rose, Longinus, in thy name,
The poet's, critick's, and the patriot's fame!
Is there (so high be you, great Princess, prais'd!)
A woe unpitied, or a worth unrais'd?
Art learns to soar by your sweet influence taught;
In life well cherish'd; nor in death forgot:
In death, as life, the learn'd your goodness tell!
Witness the sacred busts of Richmond's cell!
Sages, who in unfading light will shine;
Who grasp'd at science, like your own, divine!

The muse, who hails with song this glorious morn,
Now looks thro' days, thro' months, thro' years unborn;
All white they rise, and in their course exprest
A king by kings rever'd, by subjects blest!
A queen, where-e'er true greatness spreads in fame;
Where learning tow'rs beyond her sex's aim;
Where pure religion no extream can touch,
Of faith too little, nor of zeal too much;
Where these behold, as on this bless'd of morns,
What love protects 'em, and what worth adorns;
Where-e'er diffusive goodness smiles, a Queen
Still prais'd with rapture, as with wonder seen!

See nations round, of ev'ry wish possest!
Life in each eye, and joy in ev'ry breast!

226

Shall I, on what I lightly touch, explain?
Shall I (vain thought!) attempt the finish'd strain?
No!—let the poet stop unequal lays,
And to the just historian yield your praise.

227

THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.

A POEM ON HER MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, 1734–5.

No. IV.

In youth no parent nurs'd my infant songs,
'Twas mine to be inspir'd alone by wrongs;
Wrongs, that with life their fierce attack began,
Drank infant tears, and still pursue the man.
Life scarce is life—Dejection all is mine;
The power, that loves in lonely shades to pine;
Of faded cheek, of unelated views;
Whose weaken'd eyes the rays of hope refuse.
'Tis mine the mean, inhuman pride to find;
Who shuns th' oppress'd, to fortune only kind;
Whose pity's insult, and whose cold respect
Is keen as scorn, ungen'rous as neglect.
Void of benevolent, obliging grace,
Ev'n dubious friendship half averts his face.
Thus sunk in sickness, thus with woes opprest,
How shall the fire awake within my breast?
How shall the muse her flagging pinions raise?
How tune her voice to Carolina's praise?

228

From jarring thought no tuneful raptures flow;
These with fair days, and gentle seasons glow:
Such give alone sweet Philomel to sing,
And Philomel's the poet of the spring.

But soft, my soul! see yon celestial light!
Before whose lambent lustre breaks the night.
It glads me like the morning clad in dews,
And beams reviving from the vernal muse:
Inspiring joyous peace, 'tis she! 'tis she!
A stranger long to misery and me.

Her verdant mantle gracefully declines,
And, flow'r-embroider'd, as it varies, shines.
To form her garland, Zephir, from his wing,
Throws the first flow'rs and foliage of the spring.
Her looks how lovely! health and joy have lent
Bloom to her cheek, and to her brow content.
Behold, sweet-beaming, her etherial eyes!
Soft as the Pleiads o'er the dewy skies.
She blunts the point of care, alleviates woes,
And pours the balm of comfort and repose;
Bids the heart yield to Virtue's silent call,
And shews Ambition's sons mere children all;
Who hunt for toys which please with tinsel shine;
For which they squabble, and for which they pine.
Oh! hear her voice, more mellow than the gale,
That breath'd thro' shepherd's pipe, enchants the vale!
Hark! she invites from city smoke and noise,
Vapours impure, and from impurer joys;

229

From various evils, that, with rage combin'd,
Untune the body, and pollute the mind:
From crowds, to whom no social faith belongs,
Who tread one circle of deceit and wrongs;
With whom politeness is but civil guile,
And laws oppress, exerted by the vile.
To this oppos'd, the muse presents the scene;
Where sylvan pleasures ever smile serene;
Pleasures that emulate the blest above,
Health, innocence, and peace, the muse, and love;
Pleasures that ravish, while alternate wrought
By friendly converse, and abstracted thought.
These sooth my throbbing breast. No loss I mourn;
Tho' both from riches and from grandeur torn.
Weep I a cruel mother? No—I've seen,
From heav'n, a pitying, a maternal queen.
One gave me life; but would no comfort grant;
She more than life resum'd by giving want.
Would she the being which she gave destroy?
My queen gives life, and bids me hope for joy.
Honour and wealth I chearfully resign;
If competence, if learned ease be mine!
If I by mental, heartfelt joys be fir'd,
And in the vale, by all the muse inspir'd!

Here cease my plaint—See yon enliv'ning scenes!
Child of the spring! Behold the best of Queens!
Softness and beauty rose this heav'nly morn,
Dawn'd Wisdom, and Benevolence was born.

230

Joy, o'er a people, in her influence rose;
Like that which spring o'er rural nature throws.
War to the peaceful pipe resigns his roar,
And breaks his billows on some distant shore.
Domestic discord sinks beneath her smile,
And arts, and trade, and plenty glad the isle.
Lo! Industry surveys, with feasted eyes,
His due reward, a plenteous harvest rise!
Nor (taught by Commerce) joys in that alone;
But sees the harvest of a world his own.
Hence thy just praise, thou mild, majestic Thames!
Rich river! richer than Pactolus' streams!
Than those renown'd of yore, by poets roll'd
O'er intermingled pearls, and sands of gold.
How glorious thou, when from old Ocean's urn,
Loaded with India's wealth thy waves return!
Alive thy banks! along each bordering line,
High culture blooms, inviting villa's shine;
And while around ten thousand beauties glow,
These still o'er those redoubling lustre throw.

“Come then, (so whisper'd the indulgent Muse)
“Come then, in Richmond groves thy sorrows lose!
“Come then, and hymn this day! The pleasing scene
“Shews, in each view, the genius of thy Queen.
“Hear Nature whispering in the breeze her song!
“Hear her sweet-warbling thro' the feather'd throng!
“Come! with the warbling world thy notes unite,
“And with the vegetative smile delight!

231

“Sure such a scene and song will soon restore
“Lost quiet, and give bliss unknown before;
“Receive it grateful, and adore, when given,
“The goodness of thy parent, Queen, and heaven!

“With me each private virtue lifts the voice;
“While public spirit bids a land rejoice:
“O'er all thy Queen's benevolence descends,
“And wide o'er all her vital light extends.
“As winter softens into spring, to You
“Blooms Fortune's season, thro' her smile, anew.
“Still, for past bounty, let new lays impart
“The sweet effusions of a grateful heart!
“Cast thro' the telescope of hope your eye!
“There goodness infinite, supreme, descry!
“From him that ray of virtue stream'd on earth,
“Which kindled Caroline's bright soul to birth.
“Behold! he spreads one universal spring!
“Mortals, transform'd to angels, then shall sing;
“Oppression then shall fly with want and shame,
“And blessing and existence be the same!”

232

THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.

A POEM ON HER MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, 1735–6.

No. V.

Lo! the mild sun salutes the opening spring,
And gladd'ning nature calls the muse to sing;
Gay chirp the birds, the bloomy sweets exhale,
And health, and song, and fragrance fill the gale.
Yet, mildest suns, to me are pain severe,
And music's self is discord to my ear!
I, jocund spring, unsympathizing, see,
And health, that comes to all, comes not to me.
Dear health once fled, what spirits can I find?
What solace meet, when fled my peace of mind?
From absent books, what studious hint devise?
From absent friends, what aid to thought can rise?

A genius whisper'd in my ear—Go seek
Some man of state!—The muse your wrongs may speak.
But will such listen to the plaintive strain?
The happy seldom heed th' unhappy's pain.
To wealth, to honours, wherefore was I born?
Why left to poverty, repulse, and scorn?

233

Why was I form'd of elegant desires?
Thought, which beyond a vulgar flight aspires!
Why, by the proud, and wicked, crush'd to earth?
Better the day of death, than day of birth!

Thus I exclaim'd: a little cherub smil'd:
Hope, I am call'd (said he), a heav'n-born child!
Wrongs sure you have; complain you justly may:
But let wild sorrow whirl not thought away!
No—trust to honour! that you ne'er will stain
From peerage-blood, which fires your filial vein.
Trust more to Providence! from me ne'er swerve!
Once to distrust, is never to deserve.
Did not this day a Caroline disclose?
I promis'd at her birth, and blessing rose!
(Blessing, o'er all the letter'd world to shine,
In knowledge clear, beneficence divine!)
'Tis hers, as mine, to chase away despair;
Woe undeserv'd, is her peculiar care.
Her bright benevolence sends me to grief:
On want sheds bounty, and on wrong relief.

Then calm-ey'd Patience, born of angel-kind,
Open'd a dawn of comfort on my mind.
With her came Fortitude of godlike air!
These arm to conquer ills; at least to bear:
Arm'd thus, my Queen, while wayward fates ordain,
My life to lengthen, but to lengthen pain;
Your bard, his sorrows with a smile endures;
Since to be wretched, is, to be made Yours,

234

THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.

AN ODE ON HER MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, 1736–7.

No. VI.

Ye Spirits bright, that ether rove,
That breathe the vernal soul of love;
Bid health descend in balmy dews,
And life in ev'ry gale diffuse;
That give the flow'rs to shine, the birds to sing;
Oh, glad this natal day, the prime of spring!

The virgin snow-drop first appears;
Her golden head the crocus rears.
The flow'ry tribe, profuse and gay,
Spread to the soft, inviting ray.
So arts shall bloom by Carolina's smile,
So shall her fame waft fragrance o'er the isle.

The warblers various, sweet and clear,
From bloomy sprays salute the year.
O muse, awake! descend and sing!
Hail the fair rival of the spring!
To woodland honours woodland hymns belong;
To Her, the pride of arts! the muse's song.

235

Kind, as of late her clement sway,
The season sheds a tepid ray.
The storms of Boreas rave no more;
The storms of faction cease to roar.
At vernal suns as wint'ry tempests cease,
She, lovely pow'r! smiles faction into peace.

236

THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.

For the 1st of March, 1737–8. A POEM SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE MAJESTY.

No. VII.

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO HIS MAJESTY.

Oft has the muse, on this distinguish'd day,
Tun'd to glad harmony the vernal lay;
But, O, lamented change! the lay must flow
From grateful rapture now to grateful woe.
She to this day who joyous lustre gave,
Descends for ever to the silent grave.
She, born at once to charm us and to mend,
Of human race the pattern and the friend.

To be or fondly or severely kind,
To check the rash or prompt the better mind,
Parents shall learn from Her, and thus shall draw
From filial love alone a filial awe.
Who seek in av'rice wisdom's art to save;
Who often squander, yet who never gave;

237

From her these knew the righteous mean to find,
And the mild virtue stole on half mankind.
The lavish now caught frugal wisdom's lore;
Yet still, the more they sav'd, bestow'd the more.
Now misers learn'd at others woes to melt,
And saw and wonder'd at the change they felt.
The gen'rous, when on Her they turn'd their view,
The gen'rous e'en themselves, more gen'rous grew,
Learn'd the shun'd haunts of shame-fac'd want to trace;
To goodness, delicacy, adding grace.
The conscious cheek no rising blush confess'd,
Nor dwelt one thought to pain the modest breast;
Kind and more kind did thus her bounty show'r,
And knew no limit but a bounded pow'r.
This truth the widow's sighs, alas! proclaim;
For this the orphan's tears embalm her fame.
The wise beheld her learning's summit gain,
Yet never giddy grow, nor ever vain:
But on one science point a steadfast eye,
That science—how to live and how to die.

Say, Memory, while to thy grateful sight
Arise her virtues in unfading light,
What joys were ours, what sorrows now remain:
Ah! how sublime the bliss! how deep the pain!

And, thou, bright Princess, seated now on high,
Next one, the fairest daughter of the sky,
Whose warm-felt love is to all beings known,
Thy sister Charity! next her thy throne;

238

See at thy tomb the virtues weeping lie!
There in dumb sorrow seem the arts to die.
So were the sun o'er other orbs to blaze,
And from our world like thee, withdraw his rays,
No more to visit where he warm'd before,
All life must cease, and nature be no more.
Yet shall the muse a heav'nly height essay
Beyond the weakness mix'd with mortal clay;
Beyond the loss, which, tho' she bleeds to see,
Tho' ne'er to be redeem'd, the loss of thee!
Beyond e'en this, she hails with joyous lay,
Thy better birth, thy first true natal day;
A day, that sees thee born, beyond the tomb,
To endless health, to youth's eternal bloom;
Born to the mighty dead, the souls sublime
Of ev'ry famous age, and ev'ry clime;
To goodness fix'd by truth's unvarying laws,
To bliss that knows no period, knows no pause—
Save when thine eye, from yonder pure serene,
Sheds a soft ray on this our gloomy scene.

With me now liberty and learning mourn,
From all relief, like thy lov'd consort, torn;
For where can prince or people hope relief,
When each contend to be supreme in grief?
So vy'd thy virtues, that could point the way,
So well to govern; yet so well obey.

Deign one look more! ah! see thy consort dear
Wishing all hearts, except his own, to cheer.

239

Lo! still he bids thy wonted bounty flow
To weeping families of worth and woe.
He stops all tears, however fast they rise,
Save those, that still must fall from grateful eyes,
And, spite of griefs that so usurp his mind,
Still watches o'er the welfare of mankind.

Father of those, whose rights thy care defends,
Still most their own, when most their sovereign's friends;
Then chiefly brave, from bondage chiefly free,
When most they trust, when most they copy thee;
Ah! let the lowest of thy subjects pay
His honest heart-felt tributary lay;
In anguish happy, if permitted here,
One sigh to vent, to drop one virtuous tear;
Happier, if pardon'd, should he wildly moan,
And with a monarch's sorrow mix his own.

240

LONDON AND BRISTOL DELINEATED.

Two sea-port cities mark Britannia's fame,
And these from commerce different honours claim.
What different honours shall the muses pay,
While one inspires and one untunes the lay?

Now silver Isis bright'ning flows along,
Echoing from Oxford shore each classic song,
Then weds with Thame; and these, O London, see
Swelling with naval pride, the pride of thee!
Wide, deep, unsullied Thames, meand'ring glides,
And bears thy wealth on mild majestic tides.
Thy ships, with gilded palaces that vie,
In glitt'ring pomp, strike wond'ring China's eye;
And thence returning bear, in splendid state,
To Britain's merchants, India's eastern freight.
India, her treasures from her western shores,
Due at thy feet, a willing tribute pours;
Thy warring navies distant nations awe,
And bid the world obey thy righteous law.

241

Thus shine thy manly sons of lib'ral mind;
Thy change deep-busied, yet as courts refin'd;
Councils, like senates, that enforce debate
With fluent eloquence and reason's weight.
Whose patriot virtue, lawless pow'r controls;
Their British, emulating Roman souls.
Of these the worthiest still selected stand,
Still lead the senate, and still save the land:
Social, not selfish, here, O Learning, trace
Thy friends, the lovers of all human race!

In a dark bottom sunk, O Bristol, now,
With native malice, lift thy low'ring brow!
Then as some hell-born sprite, in mortal guise,
Borrows the shape of goodness and belies,
All fair, all smug, to yond proud hall invite,
To feast all strangers, ape an air polite!
Crom Cambria drain'd, or England's western coast,
Not elegant, yet costly banquets boast!
Revere, or seem the stranger to revere;
Praise, fawn, profess, be all things but sincere;
Insidious now, our bosom-secrets steal,
And these with sly, sarcastic sneer reveal.
Present we meet thy sneaking treach'rous smiles;
The harmless absent still thy sneer reviles;
Such as in thee all parts superior find,
The sneer that marks the fool and knave combin'd;
When melting pity would afford relief,
The ruthless sneer that insult adds to grief.

242

What friendship canst thou boast, what honours claim?
To thee each stranger owes an injur'd name.
What smiles thy sons must in their foes excite?
Thy sons, to whom all discord is delight:
From whom eternal mutual railing flows;
Who in each others crimes, their own expose:
Thy sons, tho' crafty, deaf to wisdom's call;
Despising all men, and despis'd by all.
Sons, while thy cliffs a ditch-like river laves,
Rude as thy rocks, and muddy as thy waves,
Of thoughts as narrow as of words immense,
As full of turbulence as void of sense:
Thee, thee, what senatorial souls adorn?
Thy natives sure would prove a senate's scorn.
Do strangers deign to serve thee; what their praise?
Their gen'rous services thy murmurs raise.
What fiend malign, that o'er thy air presides,
Around from breast to breast inherent glides,
And, as he glides, there scatters, in a trice,
The lurking seeds of ev'ry rank device?
Let foreign youths to thy indentures run!
Each, each will prove, in thy adopted son,
Proud, pert and dull—tho' brilliant once from schools,
Will scorn all learning's, as all virtue's rules;
And, tho', by nature friendly, honest, brave,
Turn a sly, selfish, simp'ring, sharping knave.
Boast petty-courts, where 'stead of fluent ease,
Of cited precedents and learned pleas;

243

'Stead of sage counsel in the dubious cause,
Attornies chatt'ring wild, burlesque the laws—
(So shameless quacks, who doctors rights invade,
Of jargon and of poison form a trade.
So canting coblers, while from tubs they teach,
Buffoon the Gospel they pretend to preach.)
Boast petty courts, whence rules new rigour draw,
Unknown to Nature's and to Statute-law;
Quirks that explain all saving rights away,
To give th' attorney and the catchpoll prey.
Is there where law too rig'rous may descend,
Or charity her kindly hand extend?
Thy courts, that shut when pity wou'd redress;
Spontaneous open to inflict distress.
Try misdemeanours!—all thy wiles employ,
Not to chastise the offender, but destroy;
Bid the large lawless fine his fate foretel;
Bid it beyond his crime and fortune swell;
Cut off from service due to kindred blood,
To private welfare and to public good,
Pitied by all, but thee, he sentenc'd lies;
Imprison'd languishes, imprison'd dies. [OMITTED]

244

Boast swarming vessels, whose plebeian state
Owes not to merchants but mechanics freight.
Boast nought but pedlar-fleets—in war's alarms,
Unknown to glory, as unknown to arms.
Boast thy base Tolsey, and thy turn-spit dogs,
Thy Halliers' horses, and thy human hogs;
Upstarts and mushrooms, proud, relentless hearts;
Thou blank of sciences! thou dearth of arts!
Such foes as learning once was doom'd to see;
Huns, Goths, and Vandals, were but types of thee.

Proceed, great Bristol, in all-righteous ways,
And let one Justice heighten yet thy praise;
Still spare the catamite and swinge the whore,
And be, whate'er Gomorrha was before.

The author preferred this title to that of London and Bristol compared; which when he began the piece, he intended to prefix to it.

A place where the merchants used to meet to transact their affairs before the Exchange was erected. See Gentleman's Magazine. Vol. XIII. p. 496.

Halliers are the persons who drive or own the sledges, which are here used instead of carts.