The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison

Nor Heaps of Gold, nor Monuments as high
As the Ambition of the Great,
Can buy one Moment tow'rds Eternity,
Or change the fix'd Decrees of Fate;
'Tis Verse alone can give a Name,
And crown our Actions with eternal Fame:
Thus mighty Cæsar's Triumphs live,
Not in his Monuments, but those his Poets give.

II

In Fields of Death, the bleeding Warriors toil,
And brave the loudest Storms of Fate;
They die to make eternal Fame their Spoil,
And pawn their Life for being Great:

To Virtue, Verse this Fame can give,
Virtue by Verse, by Virtue Poets live;
For her they tune their Numbers high;
For Virtue is the Burning-Glass of Poetry.

III

But, ah! where does this heavenly Goddess dwell?
Where does her blessed Seat remain?
We search the Palace, and the Hermit's Cell,
We search, but search, alas, in vain!
Gold is the Load-stone of the Great,
And vulgar Souls must catch the glitt'ring Bait;
The Scale of Justice sinks with Gold,
And impious Bribes to win the Cause, must damn the Soul.

IV

In Tufton, Muse behold the Deity,
With him begin to grace your Song;
All that is great, and good in him, you see,
To him your Voice, and Lyre, belong;
He rais'd you from a low Degree,
Then let your Numbers raise him to the Sky;
Offer what Gifts the Muse can give,
He gave you Fame, then make his Fame to live.

V

But, ah, my Muse, your Colours are too faint,
Your Strength too weak, your Theme too great,
Alas! in vain, your Pencil strives to paint,
What Mortal cannot imitate:
But if he Smile, then stretch your Wing,
And tune his Praises on a bolder String;
Then ev'ry Tongue shall speak his Fame,
And Criticks spare my Verse, protected with his Name.

VI

Thus Gold, at first, is but a sluggish Mass,
Whilst it lies cover'd in the Earth;
But when 'tis coin'd, the awful Monarch's Face
Makes it a God, and gives it Birth;
The World the sudden God adore,
And humbly own his universal Power;
Sceptres and Kings are in his Hand,
And Nature reverences his supreme Command.

[Three Poetasters in One Age were born]

Three Poetasters in One Age were born;
And all at once did Appleby adorn;
The first in Penury of Thought surpast,
In Rumbling Cant the next, in Both the Last;
The Force of Dulness could no farther go,
To make a Third she join'd the former Two.

[As the Brute-World to Father Adam came]

As the Brute-World to Father Adam came,
Requesting, with enquiring Looks, a Name,
To ev'ry Beast, a Title he assign'd,
And nominated all the Sylvan-kind.

So savage Multitudes about Me throng,
Did Adam's Talent but to Me belong!
Yet, tho' they cheat the World, by their Disguise,
They are but Asses, to Poetick Eyes.

[Whoever gives himself the Pains to stoop]

Whoever gives himself the Pains to stoop,
And take my venerable Tatters up;
To his presuming Inquisition I,
In Loco Pattisoni thus reply.
‘Tir'd with the senseless Jargon of the Gown,
‘My Master left the College, for the Town;
‘Where, from Pedantick Drudgery secur'd,
‘He laughs at Follies which he once endur'd;
‘And scorns his precious Minutes to regale,
‘With wretched College-Wit, and College-Ale;
‘Far nobler Pleasures open to his View,
‘Pleasures for ever Sweet! for ever New!

‘Bright Wit, soft Beauty, and Ambition's Fire
‘Inflame his Bosom, and his Muse inspire;
‘While to his few, but much endearing Friends,
‘His Love, and humble Service, he commends.

[There is a Time, when Love no Wish denies]

There is a Time, when Love no Wish denies,
And smiling Nature throws off each Disguise;
But who can Words, to speak those Raptures find?
Vast Sea of Extacy, that drowns the Mind!
That fierce Transfusion of exchanging Hearts!
That gliding Glimpse of Heav'n, in pulsive Starts!
The Rush of Joy! that wild tumultuous Roll!
That Fire! that kindles Body into Soul!
And, on Life's Margin, strains Delight so high,
That Sense breaks short, and while we taste, we die!

YARICO to INKLE:

AN EPISTLE.

Dear, faithless Man! if e'er that cruel Breast
Love's pleasing Toys, and soft Delights, confest;
Distress like mine, may sure thy Pity move,
For tender Pity is the Child of Love!
But can Compassion from thy Bosom flow?
Source of my Wrongs, and Fountain of my Woe!
Wilt thou, repentant, soften at my Grief,
Melt at my Tears, and lend a late Relief!

What have I done? ah! how deserv'd thy Hate?
Or was this Vengeance treasur'd up by Fate?
Then will I mourn my Fate's severe Decree,
Nor charge a Guilt so black, so base on Thee;
For O! I know, ah no! I knew, thy Mind
Soft as the Dove, and as the Turtle kind;
How have I seen thy gentle Bosom move,
And heave, contagious, to some Tale of Love!
How have I heard thee paint the faithfull'st Pair,
Describe their Bliss, and e'en their Raptures share!
Then have thy Lips, with sweet Transition swore
Thy Love more lasting, and thy Passion more!

And what, is Truth, if Signs like these deceive?
Signs! that might win the wariest to believe.

[OMITTED]

VERSES on the Death of Mr. W. Pattison.

Oft have I sung to thee, my Friend, when living,
Oft have I sung,—and thou hast sung to me:
Oft the delightful Musick of thy Numbers,
Has sooth'd the Anguish of my anxious Mind.
I weep to think of all our youthful Actions,
I weep and wish, and weep and wish again,
That all these Actions could but be renew'd,
And we our once liv'd Life again live o'er,
And run the Stream of easy Innocence—
But now no more—I sigh to say no more,
How can I say that Word without a Tear,
The Tribute due from me to thy pale Ghost:

And since it is thy Due I will not wrong thee,
But pay thee all thy Due, and more than's Due,
If I can more than's Due—Accept them all
I pour the willing Stream upon thy Ashes.

When I reflect upon our Actions past,
The innocent Amusements of our Youth,
When I reflect upon the great Esteem
We always entertain'd for one another.
I pish at Life—and wish and seek for Death,
To give me to those Regions where thou art:
Those Regions which before we but imagin'd,
And form'd a faint imperfect Vision of.

Oft have we when in Solitude retir'd
A faint imaginary Heav'n describ'd,
By Words proportion'd to our grosser Senses;
And what we fancy'd most delightful here,
Of such Materials we compos'd our Heaven.
‘Heav'n's made of Gold, a golden vaulted Roof
‘O'erhangs the Pavement of a Silver Floor,
‘And Diamonds dart their sparkling Waters round,

‘To light the Courts of Heav'n!—and thus we strove,
By sensible Resemblances to see
That unimagin'd State thou now enjoy'st.
Now heav'nly Bard thou know'st,—ay—well thou know'st
That Gold and Silver give but faint Ideas
Of that ineffable transcendent State,
Where all Ideas are abstract from Sense.
Gold has no Lustre to the Souls of Man,
Gold is but tempting to our worldly Eye:
But in the blessed Mansions of Above,
There is some other Thing, I cannot think of,
Whose faint Resemblance we describe by Gold,
Silver and Diamonds; yet are none of these,
Nor nothing like them. But by this we know
That it is great and truly valuable.

When we describ'd th' Inhabitants of Heaven,
We gave them human Shape, because most perfect
We yet have thought of, and we give 'em Wings,
As Emblems of their great Velocity.
But now, dear Bard, methinks I see thee living,
Not shap'd like Man, or wing'd as we imagine;

There's no Description that can soar to thee,
Tho' enliven'd with thy own poetick Genius:
Tho' thy Descriptions have been rich as Thought,
Yet far below thy self they fault'ring fall.
Thou hast no Shape as we imagine Shape,
Nor Substance palpable to Touch or Eye:
And when we say thou art an heav'nly Being,
By that we mean a Thing we know not what,
And paint a Being we know nothing of.
Whene'er we form an Image of a Being,
We give it Substance, and we give it Shape,
Or else we lose the Meaning of our selves
In Speculation. In this new State thou art
An insubstantial Essence, a beauteous Being
Too great to be compar'd to aught Below.

When we delineate the Joys above,
By Flowers, by Fruits, by Streams, by Groves we show them,
And fill those Groves with Innocence and Musick,
And ev'ry Colour that obliges Sense

Of mortal Man, abound in great Profusion.
But these are nothing like the Joys above,
These are not Joys incomprehensible;
But the Felicity thou now enjoy'st,
Are too, too big for human Comprehension,
Which soars no higher than the Bounds of Sense.
When we put off this mortal Body, then
We are divested of corporeal Senses,
And then the Joys above would be invalid,
If they address'd themselves, as those on Earth
To the five Organs of the Senses only.
The Joys, the Beings, or the Seats above,
Are only to be known by Metaphor,
And are not Objects to our finite Senses.

What shall I say to thee, cælestial Bard,
Words are too feeble to express my Thoughts.
Sweet was thy Fancy, and exact thy Ear,
Thy Numbers easy, and thy Judgment fine,
Thy Conversation pleasing, and thy Mind
Enliv'n'd by the Wit of ev'ry Author,

And by thy own. Thy Memory was strong,
Rich with Variety of Observations;
Thy Correspondence friendly and sincere,
And every other good Accomplishment,
That is to be desir'd in a Friend,
Companion or Poet were in Thee.

Accept this Verse, the Tribute that is due
From me to thee, from one Friend to another:
Accept it, as an Instance of th' Affection
That has surviv'd thee, and can never die:
The Source of Friendship is Celestial,
And there will be a Time in future Days,
When this our Friendship shall exist again,
And be immortal as our Souls in Heaven.

TO A FRIEND.

Sid. Coll. Cantab. March 15th 1724–5.

SIR,

From sacred Shades, and Academic Groves,
Where, lost in Thought, a musing Fancy roves;
What kind endearing Numbers shall I send,
To meet the Critic, in the fondling Friend?

Here learned Solitudes salute our Eyes,
And the gay Scenes in real Raptures rise;
Thro' Classic Shades majestick Domes aspire,
And dimly from the piercing Eye retire.
Deep thro' the Groves, old Cam serenely flows,
Free from the pratling Naiads babling Noise.

His Nymphs in gentle Silence move along,
And hear their Murmurs in some soft'ning Song;
Till by the forcing Torrent borne away,
They mourn because they can no longer stay:
Poetic Hills the wide Horizon bound,
And wall the learned Paradise around.

But yet—Tho' all Things with my Soul agree—
Pall'd are my Joys, and tasteless, without Thee;
These visionary Pleasures but renew
The real Happiness I found in You;
Where venerable Cowley's sacred Shade
The sweetest Scene of Solitude is made;
When stretch'd at Ease, amusingly we lay,
How tunefully the Minutes danc'd away!

Oh! sooth me, Fancy, with some pleasing Dream,
And gently waft me to Ituna's Stream—

Hark! the soft, balmy, breathing Breezes blow—
Hark! Hederinda's warbling Murmurs flow—
Here oft I left the busy World behind,
And found the better Part, in You refin'd.

But would you know how I divide my Time,
Betwixt my Studies, Business, and my Rhime?

Wak'd, by the Promise of a Day, we rise,
And with our Souls salute the dawning Skies;
All summon'd, to Devotion's Fane repair,
And piously begin the Day with Prayer;
Thence, led by Reason's glimm'ring Light, descry
The dark Recesses of Philosophy;
Thro' Classic Groves the wily Wanton trace,
And logically urge the puzling Chace.

But when the Sounds of the presaging Bell
Noon's pleasurable Invitation tell;

Moods, Methods, Figures, swim before my Sight,
And Syllogisms wing their airy Flight.
Confus'd, the Fairy Vision flitts away—
And no Ideas, but of Dinner, stay.

Thus, fabled Hags, at Midnight's solemn Noon,
With Magic Spells inchant the lab'ring Moon;
But when the Cock proclaims the springing Light,
Each horrid Phantom disappears in Night.

Now, those, whom recreating Toils invite,
Pour'd on the Plain, indulge their lov'd Delight;
Now flies aloft in Air the whirling Ball,
Anxious, the learned Rabble wait its Fall;
Pursu'd by wafting Caps the Fury flies,
Rises in Height, and lessens in the Skies.

Thus, healthfully refresh'd, we leave the Plain,
For Pleasure, oft repeated, is but Pain.

Next we survey the vast capacious Ball,
And take long Journies o'er the learned Wall;
Or from her tender Birth Britannia trace,
And all her Glories center'd in great Brunswick's Race.
The dark Original of Time renew,
And bring three thousand wond'ring Years to View.

Now, to the Muses soft Retirements fly,
Or soar with Milton, or with Waller sigh;
Each fav'rite Bard o'erpays my curious View,
For who can fail to please who charms like You.

To find us thus, Apollo takes his Way,
To sooth the sultry Labours of the Day;
The tuneful Muses charm his listning Ears,
And in soft Sounds he hears away his Cares.

Thus, dearest Florio, thus, my faithful Friend,
In learned Luxury my Time I spend;
Till length'ning Shades the setting Sun display,
And falling Dews lament the falling Day:
Then, tost in Thought, where aged Cam divides
Those verdant Groves that paint his Azure Tides,
With musing Pleasure I reflect around,
And stand inchanted in Poetic Ground.
Straight to my glancing Thought those Bards appear,
That fill'd the World with Fame, and charm'd us here:
Here Spenser, Cowley, and that awful Name
Of mighty Milton, flourish'd into Fame;
From these amusing Groves, his copious Mind,
The blooming Shades of Paradise design'd.
In these Retirements, Dryden fann'd his Fire,
And gentle Waller tun'd his tender Lyre;

Hail! happy Bards, whilst thus I think, I hear
Your tuneful Melody improve my Ear,
With Rev'rence I approach each sacred Shade,
Perhaps by Your creating Numbers made.
Delusion helps my Fancy as I walk,
Hears Waters murmur, and soft Ecchoes talk;
Thro' the dim Shade its sacred Poet sees,
Or hears his Music in the wasted Breeze.

Here, Locke and Newton thro' the World were known,
And made unravell'd Nature's Works their own;
Too soon we lost those Fav'rites of the Sky,
Yet, Florio may the double Loss supply.
Haste, then, my Friend, nor let me mourn your Stay,
Lo! the World suffers by your long Delay—
Let prosp'rous Fortune on your Will attend,
And in your happy Wishes bless your Friend,

W. Pattison.

THE Jealous SHEPHERD; A PASTORAL.

It happen'd once upon a Summer's Day,
When Lads and Lasses go to making Hay;
The weary Mowers laid themselves adown,
To take a Bottle, and a Nap at Noon;
When Bootyslub (for so was call'd the Swain,
That languish'd under Dorothy's Disdain)
While others slept, by Love was kept awake,
To mourn his Fate, and mend his Dolly's Rake.

Dolt as I am (complains the Love-sick Lout)
Not to consider what I am about?

Here I employ my little Stock of Art,
But who, alas! shall mend my broken Heart?
None can that Work perform but Dorothy,
And that will ne'er be done by Cruelty;
For still she persecutes me with Disdain,
Laughs at my Woes, and banters all my Pain.

Ah, Dolly! Dolly! can you be so dull,
To leave your Lover for a foppish Fool?
A Butterfly the Cabbages destroys,
On you a Butterfly his Breath employs—
I say no more—My Meaning you may guess—
Perhaps you had been pleas'd, had I said less.

But yet, there was a Time, or else I dream'd,
When Bootyslub in your good Graces seem'd;
Then, if you knew I kiss'd a Lass at Town,
How have I seen you pout, and fret, and frown?
Nay, once you told me, that I need not roam,
For Charity should still begin at Home.

These jealous Hints, or I mistake them, prove
The greatest and the surest Signs of Love;
Yet, if you lov'd, methinks you cou'd not be
So kind to Floripert, so cross to me.

Remember, how, to Jealousy betray'd,
You scolded at the Parson's pretty Maid;
When with enquiring Looks you pass'd the House,
And catch'd me keeping up the Damsels Cows;
Your scornful Eyes with jealous Fury burn'd,
On her they glanc'd, and then on me they turn'd;
I took the Hint, and fear'd what might ensue,
So stooping, seem'd to buckle up my Shoe,
Then left the Lass, and sneak'd away to you.
Alas! alas! that I your Love believ'd!
I lov'd, and in my Turn am thus deceiv'd.
Nor dare I of my cruel Fate complain,
Or, if I do, alas! 'tis all in vain.

For ever curst be that detested Day,
When from the last May-Fair we took our Way,
Remember how you forg'd a false Excuse
Your easy-natur'd Lover to abuse.
No fondling Father call'd you back again,
A better Reason! 'twas your fondling Swain;
And if I meet him e'er alone, I vow,
I'll surely beat the Puppy black and blue.
I mark'd the watchful Coxcomb all the Day,
And kept him from his meditated Prey;
Invited him to exercise the Ball,
And bravely give, or bravely ward a Fall:
So should we both our pleading Merits show,
And you, tho' blind, the Difference might know:
But all I urg'd, I urg'd, alas! in vain,
Nor would he Glory give, nor could he gain.

Ah, Dolly! Dolly! where were all your Vows,
When Cheese-Cakes lur'd you to the Tavern-House;
Your Vows were as your Cheese-cakes sweet, yet weak!
And can you both alike together break?
But if you do so—You, with equal Ease,
Can make new Vows, and Cheese-cakes, when you please.

And could you then your Bootyslub forget,
And in another's Lap so kindly sit?
Around his Neck your fondling Arms you flung,
And learn'd the silly Catches which he sung.
Whilst unconcern'd at Home you hear me sing,
Or tunefully torment the rosin'd String;
Your Favour every Way I try to gain,
But dance, or fiddle; sing, or pipe; in vain.

Oh! learn at last a Flatterer to hate,
And think on Susan Silly's cruel Fate:
Her Pride poor honest Hobbinol despis'd,
And vainly Tommy Taudry's Folly priz'd.
But now, too late she sees herself undone,
Her Portion squander'd, and her Honour gone—
What better canst thou hope from such a Flame,
But Love refuses what my Rage would name.

How chang'd is Dolly now, from what she was
When first—Ah, had I never spy'd the Lass!
The very Time I perfectly can tell,
For Love remembers every Thing too well!

Sure, I can ne'er forget the Sunday Morn,
Tho' from her Mem'ry so soon 'tis worn:
A goodly Bible in my Hand I took,
And very gravely thought to read my Book;

When thro' the Window, by a luckless Chance,
Heedless, I cast a customary Glance;
'Twas there I saw the pretty Dolly walk,
Fair, and upright as Roses on their Stalk:
So trimly was the tidy Damsel dress'd.
That, Spite of all the Flow'rs, she seem'd the best.
Sometimes to smell a pretty Rose she stop'd,
Pleas'd with the Smell, the pretty Rose she crop'd;
Then in her snowy Breast the Fav'rite plac'd,
Her sweeter Breast the blushing Fav'rite grac'd;
But then! how did I wish myself between
Her swelling Bosom, and the Flow'r, unseen?
But as I wish'd, I found a pleasing Smart,
I know not how, begin to melt my Heart:
Nay, all my Limbs with such a Shiv'ring shook,
That I the Chillness for an Ague took.
Ah, had it been one, I had felt less Harm,
For I can cure an Ague with a Charm!
Now, all my Spells and Charms but Trifles prove,
Far stronger are the magic Charms of Love.

But when I found she smil'd to see me look,
I pleas'd as well, soon laid aside my Book.
And, boldly blithsome, to the Garden went,
Where she, as well as I, knew what I meant;
Yet seemingly my searching Sight to shun,
Behind an Apple-Tree the Gipsy run;
But soon I found the amorous Deceit,
And forc'd a Kiss, to reconcile the Cheat.
But forc'd it so, that when she seem'd to strive
To keep it most, the more she seem'd to give.
Remember then, my lovely faithless Maid,
What Oaths, what Vows, what Promises, you made;
Think for your own, if not your Lover's Sake,
How bad it is a binding Oath to break.

But while I thus these silly Tales repeat,
I find my self already in a Sweat:

What shall I do, too well she knows my Love,
And her Coy Coldness does the Scorner prove.

Well then—When Shadows length'ning o'er the Vale,
Call forth the Milk-maid, with her cleanly Pail,
To my old Sweet-heart Cicely will I go,
And more than all my former Kindness show;
Conduct the Girl along the crouded Mead,
And to teaze Dolly, thro' the Pasture lead;
Perhaps I'll whisper out some secret Place,
And kiss her too before her jealous Face;
Then let her Rival cry, and frown, and fret,
And in my Cruelty her own forget.
Then let her be as much, or more afraid
Of Cicely, than she was the Parson's Maid.
So shall my Scorn, and counterfeit Disdain
Revive her Love, if any Love remain.

Sid. Coll. April 5th 1725.

TO Mr. JOHN SAUNDERS,

Occasioned by a Sight of some of his Paintings at Cambridge.

When Nature, from her unexhausted Mine,
Resolves to make some mighty Science shine;
Her Embryo-Seeds inform the future Birth,
Improve the Soul, and animate the Earth;
From thence, an Homer, or Apelles, rise,
A Shakespeare, or a Saunders, strike our Eyes;
And, lo! the promis'd Wonder charms my View,
The old Apelles rivall'd in the New!
See! like the Sun, his Beams their Pow'r disclose,
Like him, he paints his Progress, as he goes;

Renews the opening Spring's enlivening Dye,
Or bids rich Autumn ripen to the Eye.

Let some, elaborately vain, impart
The cold Effects of Industry, and Art,
Thy warmer Draughts deserve a nobler Name,
Nature's thy Art, as Nature is thy Theme,
Taught by thy Touch, the Lilly fairer blows,
A softer Damask blushes in the Rose,
And a more gay Creation from thy Pencil flows.
Nor Flowers, nor Fruits alone, improv'd we see,
But Beauty owes her Empire half to Thee:
How bloom Belinda's never-fading Charms!
How, in thy Paint, the fair Perfection warms!
What pure Vermillion tinctures ev'ry Grace!
How all the Goddess brightens in her Face!
The mimic-rolling Eye, now seems to move,
Dawns into Life, and kindles into Love;
Struck, at each Look, a Captive of thy Art,
I sigh! and fancy Arrows in my Heart:

Confounded at thy nice, creative Hand,
Think the Draught lives, and, like some Picture, stand.

Would thus each Nymph, with providential Care,
Ensure her Charms, and shine for ever fair,
How might she brave the dire, detested Rage,
Of Spleen, Small-Pox, or All-devouring Age!
Then, when old Time should bid the Roses die,
Pale the red pouting Lip, and dim the sparkling Eye,
Then might the Fair a bright Reversion save,
Bloom in her Death, and triumph in her Grave:
Then Celia, spight of that bewitching Frown,
Would see thy Paint more lasting than her own.

But lo! more glorious Aims thy Hand pursues,
More glorious Scenes attract the ravish'd Muse:
Silent I stand, and, lost in Wonder, see,
A Godhead shrouded in Mortality!

What Majesty eclips'd thy Shades display!
How thy Lights kindle with eternal Day!
What Beams of Love! what pitying Tears are seen!
Meltingly sad, yet solemnly serene!

O Happy Artist! Live, for ever blest!
Whence dawn'd this Heav'n-sprung Image in thy Breast?
Sure some kind Angel, studious in thy Art,
Ting'd the bright Dyes, and quicken'd every Part;
Hence, like their Great Original, they shine,
Appear as human, but are all Divine!
What, may not now thy lively Touch command?
What may not owe new Glories to thy Hand?
Thy wond'rous Hand not only Nature drew,
But copied ev'n the Lord of Nature too!

Sidney-Coll Feb. 9. 1725–6.

TO Mr. SAUNDERS,

Occasioned by the breaking of the Glass of Mr. Eusden's Picture.

Oft have I thought thy wonder-working Art,
Could more than Nature's outward Form impart;
But now my Eyes convinc'd the Truth believe,
For lo! the Picture more than seems to live,
Pleas'd to decide mistrusting Reason's Strife,
Breaks thro' the Glass, and startles into Life.

BURLESQUE.

Dear Hulse,

When Ovid in his Exile wrote,
Low was his Verse, and barren was his Thought;
My Case is just the same, and for to mock it,
The Muse keeps equal Tenour with my Pocket;
And for th' Assurance of a modern Poet,
I think these Lines are Proof enough to show it.
Rest that, howe'er, as 'twill—can I be-song ye,
So as to get a little Cash among ye;
This Week, by Carrier-Haswel, you may send it,
And, may the Gods that guard the Roads defend it!
With that inspir'd, a gorgeous Sword I'll buy me,
And, plum'd with Hopes, to good Sir Robert hie me.

Present my self with this new-modell'd Trifle,
Which, should he chance to like, I'll lay my Life, He'll
Make every Wish, a Bard can frame, succeed,
And then my Muse, and I, are made indeed!
But stay—One Word forgot—with Love commend me,
To all such honest Fellows as befriend me
With their Subscriptions—But I cannot on
For Rhime—And so excuse your Pattison.

P.S. Septemb. the twenty-fifth, or twenty-sixth
As to my Lodging, for a Date, t'en't fix'd.

N. B. For Memorandum, you may put once
More, your Direction to your Friend, at Button's.

A SESSION OF THE Cambridge POETS.

By a vacant Preferment Apollo thought fit
To settle the Bays, and establish a Wit,
For his trusty Friend R***h, by much Merit and Grace,
Had obtain'd in Elysium the Laureat's Place;
Accordingly, to the fam'd Borders of Cam,
Descended the God, with a Goddess hight Fame,

The Figure she wore, as Dan Virgil declares
Was illumin'd with Eyes, and becluster'd with Ears,
(And Faith, as you'll find, she had of them all,
To pick one good Poet, and hear ev'ry Call,)
A Trumpet she blew, for a Trumpet she bore,
As the laudable Custom informs us of yore.
Thick as Bees, when they swarm to the tinkling Brass,
The Bards flock around her, and darken the Place;
Each Pretender, for such was Apollo's command,
Brought his Works, and conducted his Muse in his Hand:
But, good Lord! how his Godship at first was amaz'd,
To find the chaste Nine to such Numbers were rais'd?
However, to banish immodest Suspicions,
He order'd a Silence, and heard the Petitions.

B***ll first, as the Candidates jostled along,
With a Gate most affected, emerg'd from the Throng.
Apollo observ'd somewhat odd in his Look,
And, giving a Beck, thus the Goddess bespoke.
Prithee, what's that same Fellow? Some half-witted Beau?
I don't know as ever I've seen him 'till now—
Nor can I remember, I think, replies Fame,
To have heard of his Worth, or so much as his Name:
But Odds I will, lay by those Papers there brought,
'Tis the same, who the Place in the Memoirs has bought—
Say, you so, cries Apollo, and is he so vain?
Yet pshaw—'tis the only Place that he can gain.

The Bard now elate with Ambition appear'd,
Propos'd his Pretence, and desir'd to be heard;
When Apollo strait bid him his Labours produce,
And, for his Authority, bring him his Muse.
More hasty, than wisely, the Labours were shown,
But, alas, for the Muse, the sly Gipsey was flown,
For her Birth it was mortal, nor could her feign'd Power
Stand the Test of the Godhead she mimick'd before;
O'eraw'd by the Deity no longer could stay,
But like Spenser's false Florimel faded away!

De V***l in the Tumult ran bawling aloud,
And swore that he ought to be heard by the God,
And heard too he was, for the God cut him short,
And ask'd what Pretensions could draw him to Court!
What Pretension, cries he! but the Godhead replies,
Before you are witty, pray learn to be wise,

And if, as they say, you are Lunatic grown,
For I hear you converse with my Sister the Moon,
In secret Confinement, a Purge or two try,
And let your own Essay Bum-fodder supply.

Next Ch***y roll'd onward, a Bard of renown,
For Bulk and Bumbast super-eminent grown,
Of Lampoons and Pindaricks huge Bundles he brought,
But the Burthen was light, because barren of Thought,
From railing at Friends, falsly smiling he came,
Detraction his Pleasure, Ambition his Aim.
But Apollo soon knew him, notwithstanding all Art,
For your Gods at first Sight can discover the Heart.
And told him, that Pride, and inhuman Backbitings
Were the worst of all Evils,—except his own Writings;

Ay, I see, cries the God, I see your Excuse—
But hang it, that's nothing in Shape of a Muse!—
I suppose, that it's term'd by you Mortals here, Satire,
But we Gods have thought fit, to bename it Ill-nature.
Besides such a Bulk, for high Flights was ne'er made well—
And I mortally hate the Remembrance of Shadwell.

Little R***th took the Hint, and right archly declar'd,
That if Body diminutive distinguish'd the Bard,
Then his Cause it was just,—but, to humour the Joke,
With an affable Air, thus the Deity spoke;
And told him, he could not Heroics right suit,
For his Body, at full Length, was scarce more than one Foot.

Ho, W***d! cries the God, as he saw him stand by,
Come forward a little, and don't be so shy—
I know you are modest; but harkee between us,
Here, lookee this Token, 'twas sent you by Venus—
For her Ladyship told me, some few Days ago,
She came down in the Form of a Nymph that you know,
And, pleas'd with a Copy or two of your Verses,
Presents you this Myrtle—'twas wreath'd by the Graces—
Here tak't,—'tis as good as my Laureat's Place is.

H***se next he beheld with poetical Rage,
And told him, 'twas pity he was not at Age—
Nor mind, cries the God, those dull Fools, that desire to
Eclipse that bright Merit,—they ne'er can aspire to;

Just so, in a Morning, I see, as I rise
Black Fogs, and dull Vapours usurping my Skies—
But two Dramatists here, the mere Scum of the Gang,
Broke the Simile short, and began to harangue;
Four Acts of a Play, cries the one I have writ,
And had I a Plot, then the Work were compleat;
My Characters—go, cries the God, scribling Elf,
And learn first to get thee a good one thy self.

As Pattison stood unconcern'd in the Crowd,
Apollo beheld him, and call'd him aloud;
Declaring his Manners, tho' perhaps not his Wit,
His identical Self to a Nicety hit;
Alike their Employments, alike their Delight,
Both rambled all Day, and both tipled all Night;
Both us'd the same Haunts, both pursu'd the like Game,
And Laura and Thetis but differ'd in Name.

Now the Bard, without Doubt, the Reason acquir'd,
But Woman, and Fate both against him conspir'd,
For, unhappily! just as he drew up more nigh,
A pretty tight Damsel came tripping it by;
No longer the Laurel attracted his Eyes,
They were fix'd on a far more desirable Prize—
His Highness he thank'd; but resigning his Lays,
Declar'd, that a Nymph was far better than Bays.

Apollo now, tir'd with Debates and Confusion,
Was glad for to draw his Affairs to Conclusion,
And, sick at the Numbers still swarming around,
Thrice T***r he call'd, but no T***r was found:
Not here? (cries the God) oh! I guess at his Stay—
He stole a few Poems of mine t'other Day—
But, howe'er, I forgive him the cunning Device
And, since his are my Labours, be his too my Prize.

1725–6.

Rosamond to Henry: AN EPISTLE.

Qualis populeâ mærens Philomela sub Umbrâ
Flet Noctem ramoque sedens, miserabile Carmen
Integrat, & mæstis latè Loca Questibus implet.
Virgil. Georg.

From these lone Shades, and ever-gloomy Bowers,
Once, the dear Scenes of Henry's softer Hours!
What tender Strains of Passion can impart,
The Pangs of Absence to an amorous Heart!
Far, far too faint the Powers of Language prove,
Language that slow Interpreter of Love!

Souls pair'd like our's, like our's, to Union wrought,
Converse by silent Sympathy of Thought;
O then, by that mysterious Art, divine
The wild Impatience of my Breast, by thine!
And to conceive what I would say to thee,
Conceive, my Love, what thou wou'dst say to me!

As in the Tenderness of Soul I sigh,
Methinks, I hear thy tender Soul reply;
And as in Thought, o'er Heaps of Heroes slain,
I trace thy Progress on the fatal Plain,
Perhaps thy Thought explores me thro' the Grove,
And, soft'ning, steals an Interval of Love.
In the deep Covert of a bow'ring Shade
Describes my Posture—languishingly laid!
Now, sadly solac'd with the murm'ring Springs,
Now, melting into Tears the softest Things!
And how the feign'd Ideas all agree!
So bowers the Shade, so melt my Tears for thee!

Here, as in Eden, once we blissful lay;
How oft Night stole, unheeded, on the Day!
Our soft-breath'd Raptures charm'd the listening Grove,
And all was Harmony, for all was Love!

But hark! the Trumpet sounds! see Discords rise!
'Tis Honour calls; from me my Henry flies!
Honour, to him, more bright, than Rosamonda's Eyes!
Not thus my Honour with his Passion strove,
His Sighs I pity'd, and indulg'd his Love:
He then cry'd, Honour was an empty Name,
And Love a sweeter Recompence, than Fame.

Oh! had I liv'd in some obscure Retreat,
Securely fair, and innocently sweet;
How had I bless'd some humble Shepherd's Arms!
How kept my Fame as spotless as my Charms!

Then, hadst thou ne'er beheld these Eyes of mine,
Nor they bewail'd the fatal Power of thine!
Dear fatal Power! to me for ever dear—
Fix'd in my tender Breast, and rooted there!
For ever in my tender Breast remain—
And be for ever a delightful Pain!

With what Surprize those Glories first I view'd,
That in one Moment my whole Heart subdu'd!
With such resistless Beams, so fierce they shone,
Not such the dazling Radiance of thy Crown!
Sent from thy Crown I never felt a Dart;
The Lover, not the Monarch, won my Heart:
Nor e'er the Monarch with such Charms appears,
As when the Lover's soften'd Dress he wears:
As when he, silent, deigns my Breast to seek,
And looks such Language, as no Tongue can speak.

Whene'er my Crimes (if Love a Crime can be,
If 'tis a Crime to live, and die for thee!)

In hideous Forms arise, and cloud my Soul,
One Thought on Henry can that Gloom controul:
No more my Breast alternate Passions move,
The Frosts of Honour melt before the Fires of Love.

Again, I must repeat that fatal Hour,
Which snatch'd my Henry from his Woodstock Bower;
When mad Bellona, with tumult'ous Cries,
The Heroe rouz'd, and drown'd the Lover's Sighs.
Stretch'd on my downy Couch, at Ease I lay,
And sought by Reading to beguile the Day;
With am'rous Strains I sooth'd a grateful Fire,
And all the Woman glow'd with soft Desire.
Till, as I wish'd, I heard the vocal Breeze
Proclaim my Henry rusling thro' the Trees;
O'erjoy'd, I ran to meet thy longing Arms,
And taste a dear Remembrance of thy Charms;

But soon I saw some sad conceal'd Surprize,
Fade on thy Cheeks, and languish on thy Eyes;
Thro' each dissembled Smile, a Sorrow stole,
And whisper'd out the Secret of thy Soul.
What this could mean, uncertain to divine,
No Fault I knew, yet fear'd, some Fault was mine.
But soon thy Love dispell'd those airy Fears,
Dispell'd alas!—but brought too solid Cares.
For as with Hands, entwin'd in Hands, We walk'd,
Of Love, and hapless Lovers, still Thou talk'd:
Thy Tears of Pity answer'd each sad Moan,
And in their seeming Mis'ries, wept thy own.
“I cannot leave Her!—I o'er-heard Thee say,—
Pierc'd to the Soul, I sunk, and dy'd away.
What Art restor'd me, thou alone can'st tell,
For thy kind Arms embrac'd me, as I fell.
My opening Eyes, fix'd on thy Beauties, hung,
And my Ears drunk the Cordial of thy Tongue.
Again my Thoughts return with killing Pain,
Within thy Arms I sink, and swoon again:

Again thou do'st my sweet Physician prove,
From Death to Life alternately I move,
Now dead by Anguish, now reviv'd by Love.
But when, without Disguise, the Truth I found,
My agonizing Sorrows knew no Bound:
My Locks I tore, then, all-intranc'd, I lay,
Till by Degrees my Grief to Words gave Way,
And soft I cry'd,—oh! stay, my Henry, stay.
One Moment more!—add yet,—and yet, a Kiss!—
Oh! give me Thine, and take my Soul in This!
Farewel!—perhaps, farewel for ever!—oh!
Who can sustain so dire a Weight of Woe?

Ah! wretched Maid!—alas! a Maid no more!
No Herbs that spotless Title can restore!
Ah! who shall now protect thy injur'd Fame?
Who shield thy Weakness from th' Assaults of Shame?
Who lull thy anxious Soul to balmy Rest,
If Henry, dearest Henry, flies thy Breast?

Yet, tho' he flies, your Wings, ye Angels, spread,
And hover Guardians o'er my Henry's Head!
Who knows, but this kind Pray'r is pour'd too late,
And he already struggles with his Fate?
Already, wounded, pants, and gasps in Death,
And Rosamonda is his latest Breath?

Propitious Heaven! vouchsafe a gracious Ear!
Grant, these be only Phantoms of my Fear:
Heav'n still is gracious, if true Suppliants pray;
And lo!—the foul Chimæras fleet away!
Transporting Prospects to my Wishes rise,
Beam on my Soul, and brighten in my Eyes!
He lives! he lives! I see his Banner spread,
And Laurels, wreath'd round the gay Victor's Head!

Ye Winds! convey the News to Albion's Floods!
Ye Floods! resound it to the joyous Woods!
Ye joyous Woods! your tuneful Choirs prepare
To hail my Heroe from the Toils of War!

Delusive Scenes! too beautiful to stay!
They fade in visionary Streaks away.
Alas! no lovely Henry now is nigh!
His Genius took his Form to sooth my Eye.
No more I seem his melting Voice to hear!
Peace! babling Fountains! nor abuse my Ear.
Ye Flow'rs! ye Streams! ye Gales, no longer move!
For ah! how strong is Fancy, join'd with Love!

O! frail Inconstancy of mortal State!
One Hour dejected, and the next elate!
Rais'd by false Hopes, or by false Fears deprest,
How different Passions sway the human Breast!

Now smiling Pleasures, with fair Charms, invite,
Now frowning Horrors, with black Trains, affright.
Future Distrusts the present Joys controul,
And Fancy triumphs o'er the reas'ning Soul.

As 'mid the Trees I, solitary, rove,
The Trees awake some Image of my Love:
Where-e'er their Arms in am'rous Foldings join,
My longing Arms I spread to fold in thine.
The beauteous Flow'rs thy Face reflected bear,
(If Flow'rs, in Beauty, may with thee compare,)
Their wafted Fragrancies thy Breath inspire,
And my Soul kindles with ideal Fire!
The thick-weav'd Shades, and Grove incircling Grove,
Are Emblems of th' Eternity of Love.
My blushing Guilt the crimson Roses paint,
And I, like Roses, unsupported faint:

Like their's my youthful Charms (if Charms) consume,
For Love, a closer Canker, eats my Bloom.

How blest might other Nymphs survey these Scenes,
Fountains, and Shades, and Hills, and flow'ry Greens?
Prospects, on Prospects, might detain the Sight,
And still Variety give new Delight.
But I, with thee, should find in Desarts Ease;
Without thee, not ev'n Paradise could please.
Wilds, by thy Presence, Gardens would appear;
Gardens are Wilds, since Henry is not here.
Let Grottoes sink, or Porticoes arise!
Heedless I view them with unpleasur'd Eyes:
Their mantling Umbrage cools the Noon-day Fire,
But what can cool a Lover's fierce Desire?

In the deep Bosom of a darksome Shade,
By baleful Eugh and mournful Cypress made;
A Widow-Turtle weeps her ravish'd Love,
And Sorrowfully solaces the Grove;
Sometimes my Passion I aloud disclose;
The widow'd Turtle, answering, coes her Woes.

Bred by my Hand, my Sorrow's sad Relief,
A little Linnet learns to sigh my Grief;
Taught by my Voice, and by Obedience tame,
The pretty Lisper whistles Henry's Name:
Perch'd on my Head, the sylvan Syren sings,
And tunes the harsher Notes of gurgling Springs.

Embosom'd in a Vale, thou know'st the Shade,
Fast by the Murmurs of a soft Cascade;
There, while one Night full Beams of Cynthia play,
(Warm was the Night) with wand'rings tir'd, I lay,

Till, by Degrees, the falling Waters clos'd
My Eye-lids, and my weary'd Limbs repos'd.
Sudden the fairy Monarch I behold,
Near he approach'd, and thus my Fate foretold:
('Twas the same Oberon, that once we saw
Circle the Green, and give his Dancers Law,)

Unhappy Nymph! thy Beauty is thy Crime,
And must such Beauty perish in its Prime!
No more great Henry shall enjoy these Charms,
Nor thou ill-fated Fair adorn his Arms!
Cropt like an op'ning Rose, thy Fall, I fear!
But rise and supplicate the Vengeance near.

Then (as methought) I wak'd with threaten'd Woes,
Emerging from thick Shades, a Phantom rose.
One Hand sustain'd—a short, but naked Sword,—
And one a Golden Bowl, with Poison stor'd.

The jealous Queen, the frowning Form express'd,
It spoke, and aim'd the Dagger at my Breast.

Arise! nor ask thy Crime—but chuse thy Fate,
Know Prayers are vain—Repentance is too late!
Vengeance is mine—Here! drink this poison'd Bowl,
Or this keen Dagger drinks thy guilty Soul?
It ceas'd: Convulsions in my Bosom strove,
My curdling Blood scarce in stiff Tides could move.
Thrice I cry'd, Henry, with a feeble Sound,
And thrice I started at the sad Rebound!
Ev'n Echo now grew frightful: with surprize
Trembling I lay, nor dar'd t' unveil my Eyes,
Till warbling Birds proclaim'd the Morning Light,
And told me 'twas a Vision of the Night;
Yet not the Morn could chace my gloomy Care,
But Winds, and Trees, alarm'd my Soul with Fear;

While waving Boughs, that in the Sun-Beams play'd,
Seem'd to shew Daggers in each pointed Shade.

Why was I form'd with such a coward Mind?
The sport of Shadows, or a rustling Wind!
Nerves, better strung, did manly Spirits warm,
Glad would I part with ev'ry Female Charm,
Then, cas'd in Steel, the Front of Battle dare,
And, with great Henry, rouze the Soul of War!
This Arm should guard the Heroe from the Foe,
Repel the Storm, or intercept the Blow;
And should my Weakness in the Warriour fail,
The soft-beseeching Woman should prevail;
For Thee, I'd sooth each proud insulting Foe,
And melt him with petitionary Woe;
With Thee, in ev'ry hardy Hazard join,
In Dangers save thy Life, to make it Mine:
By Night, compose thy harrass'd Soul to rest,
And hush it on the Pillow of my Breast;

With patient Eyes eternal Vigils keep,
And court good Angels to protect thy Sleep.

Alas! in vain I urge my frustrate Will,
I find my self a feeble Woman still;
The feeble Woman to my Breast returns,
For Henry's gone, and Rosamonda mourns!
O! see my Eyes their streaming Anguish pour,
O! hear my Sighs increase the swelling Shower;
What can I more than shed my Tears and Sighs?
Poor Woman's Strength alone in Weakness lies?

But whether is ungovern'd Fancy flown?
Thoughts of Impossibilities be gone!
Guilt claims no Miracles, nor Heav'n conspires
To aid my Crimes, and fan my lawless Fires.
Life irksome grows; detested is the Light,
And my Soul dreads the Visions of the Night.
Swift let me to some hallow'd Convent go!—
Can I for ever Henry leave?—ah! No:—

But O lost Innocence!—I lost a Name:—
O Honour!—broken is the Bubble, Fame.
Are my Sins monstrous? Do invented Crimes,
Alike unknown to past, or present Times,
Demand red Vengeance? Some peculiar Curse?—
Crowds stand recorded for the same,—or worse.
Have I, unpitying, heard the Poor complain,
Or seen the Wretched weep, and weep in vain?
Have I my Flame feign'd for a sordid End?
E'er wrong'd a Foe, or e'er betray'd a Friend?
Not to my Charge such Crimes has Malice brought,
Love, only Love, is my unbounded Fault:
A Fault, that sure may Heav'n to Pity move,
Since half of Heav'n ('tis said) consists in Love.

Ah! foolish Nymph!—Here, view the Queen! the Laws!—
But there, view Henry, as th' inchanting Cause!

By such a Cause the Priestess would retire,
And quit the Vestal for a nobler Fire.

I will again th' immortal Powers implore;
Brave Henry for Britannia's sake restore!
In Him she lives, to Him her Joys are due,
And only fends her earliest Thanks to you.
But O! my Lord, my darling Lord, beware!
Tempt not too bold the Dangers of the War!
Think, when thou seest the fate-impelling Dart,
O! think it aim'd at Rosamonda's Heart!
Were but each Breast as soft as mine! no more
Should Tumults rise, or martial Thunders roar:
Heroes should scorn the Glories of the Field,
And the fam'd Laurel to the Myrtle yield:
For sweeter Passions, sweeter Strifes inspire,
And Love alone should set the Soul on Fire.

May then these Eyes in Tears no longer mourn,
But chearful hail their Henry's wish'd Return!
O! swift, victorious, hush the War's Alarms!
Swift, if thy Rosamonda boasts some Charms,
Fly on the Wings of Love, and Conquest to her Arms!

Octob. 20. 1725.

Henry to Rosamond: AN EPISTLE.

Shall then his beauteous Rosamonda mourn,
Nor Henry's Soul the soft Complaint return!
O cease, my Fair! I deeply feel thy smart,
And all thy Sorrows double in my Heart:
Far from my Breast, ye Scenes of War! remove,
Far from my Breast be every Scene, but Love;
Soft rising Thoughts as when, in Woodstock-Bowers,
Joyful, we lov'd away the laughing Hours.

Now mid-night Rest relieves the Soldier's Care,
Hush'd are the Drums, and every Voice of War;
Faint gleam the Fires along the dewy Field,
And faint the Noise, that sleeping Coursers yield;

Yet Love, the lordly Tyrant of my Breast,
Alarms my Soul, and interrupts my Rest;
In vain a Nation's Cares the Monarch move,
For ah! far greater is the Monarch Love!

Warm from my Lips, thy tender Letter lies,
And every Word is Magick to my Eyes;
Weeping, I read, and hear thy soft-breath'd Woes,
And all the Warriour in the Lover lose:
Then I by Fancy vanish'd Joys restore,
Feast on false Love, and act past Pleasures o'er;
Fancy can sooth my Soul with pleasing Dreams,
While tented Gallia, bowery Woodstock seems;
Led by delusive Steps, in Thought, I rove
Thro' well known Greens, and every winding Grove.
There, haply on some flowery Bank reclin'd
My sweet-reposing Rosamonda find;
When then (for then thy secret Thoughts I see)
In pious Slumbers breath'st thy Soul to me;

Dissolv'd with Joy, and feasting on thy Charms,
I clasp thee in imaginary Arms;
And then—ah then!—I seem sincerely blest—
Then only Rosamonda, knows the rest—

O Glories! Empires! Crowns! how weak ye prove,
If thus out-rivall'd by a Dream of Love!
O Love! what Toys thy real Sweets bestow,
When ev'n their Shadows can transport me so!
O Bliss extatick! blest Relief from Cares!
Thus let me lose my Soul in softer Wars!
Be Love's transporting Sighs my sweet Alarms,
Nor Worlds, but Rosamonda crown my Arms!
In Her alone, my full Desires agree,
Her Charms are Empires, Glories, all to Me!

THE HOUR-GLASS.

As in my silent Study late I sate,
Intent on Poets poor precarious State,
Around my Sight a sudden Dimness play'd,
And ting'd the Taper with a blewy Shade;
When to my Eyes appear'd that watchful Power
Which measures out the sandy-streaming Hour,
An human Form the meagre Phantom wore,
And on its Brow a faded Laurel bore:
On me were fix'd its Looks, whilst thus it spoke,
And Sounds like these the solemn Silence broke.

“At length the Time is come to tell a Truth
“To thee, to thee alone, O fated Youth!
“Then mark my Story well—in happier Days,
“Like thine, my Bosom panted after Praise;
“Foe to the grave Fatigues of Life, I strove
“To grow immortal in a Myrtle-Grove:
“Lost there, I lavish'd out my little Store,
“Destin'd to live poetically poor;
“What slender Gains my Labours brought, I spent,
“And thro' the Glass my luscious Profit went;
“From thence, with fictious Inspiration warm'd,
“A vain Eternity's Reversion charm'd;
“My Fate I bless'd,—for future Fame reserv'd!
“For that I glory'd! and for that I—starv'd!
“Thence, by some pow'rful Transmigration turn'd,
“In these repentant Streams my Folly mourn'd:

“Here, as you see, my fleeting Minutes pass,
“Still, as of old, devoted to the Glass.
“As once, too humble for proud Rooms of State,
“In homely Cottages I seek my Fate,
“And find my vast Poetic promis'd Land
“All dwindled to this little barren Sand;
“With which advise, ye youthful Sons of Rhime,
“In abler Studies to employ your Time;
“Warn'd by my Fate, to learn, for learn you must,
“That all your Fame, like mine, but turns to Dust.

The Cambridge Beauties.

By an Admirer of the Fair Sex.

Ye gentle Nymphs, to whom my Lays belong,
Approve my Numbers, and assist my Song;
Soft-smiling may your bright'ning Eyes inspire
At once the Poet's, and the Lover's Fire:
So shall the Muse each magic Charm rehearse;
So shall each Charm be lasting as her Verse.

Bless'd in my Choice! what blooming Beauties rise!
How court my Numbers with inspiring Eyes!
O could my Lays like gentle Waller move,
Like gentle Waller tune the Soul to Love;
Bright as my Theme, each easy Note should shine,
And Sacharissas Smile in ev'ry Line.

To Aurenelia, fam'd Carlisle should yield,
And Waller own his fav'rite Fair excell'd:
Had Charms like Her's inspir'd his lofty Lays,
How had he grown immortal in Her Praise!
How might the Muse Her wonted Gift receive,
And Poetry from Beauty learn to live!

When Sylvia smiles, methinks, she smiles to prove
Her Charms superiour to the Power of Love.
Gay-sportive Cupids flutter round the Fair,
Pant on her Breast, and wanton in her Hair;
With ev'ry Lock, a new Adorer gain,
And ev'ry Ringlet is a Lover's Chain;
The Orbit Ringlets, soft dissolving down,
Flow on her Breast, and half her Bosom drown;
Thro' the bright Shades, her panting Bubbies heave,
Like Swans emerging from a silver Wave.

On Delia's Cheeks, eternal Roses bloom,
Her ruby Lips exhale a sweet Perfume;
Her ruby Lips indulge a mutual Kiss,
And blush luxuriant in their envy'd Bliss.

When bright Belinda leads the sprightly Dance,
With ev'ry Step, our captive Hearts advance;
Her magic Charms the soft Enchantress prove,
And on her Breast descends the God of Love
Smiling, she seems to imitate those Airs,
That form their Regularity by Her's;
Moves, as the Soul-dissolving Numbers move;
And musically swims the Maze of Love:
On the soft Sounds, her gentle Motions flow,
And sail along majestically slow:
Her waving Arms in snowy Circles play
And all the easy Conquerour display;
Melodious Music warbles Love's Alarms,
Sounds the soft Charge, and sings her conqu'ring Charms.

When Flora sings, ye Gods! 'tis Heav'n to hear,
We listen to the Music of the Sphere;
Our ravish'd Sight confirms the sweet Surprize
And owns the Angel, by her heav'nly Eyes.

But, O! my Muse, your tunefull'st Charms prepare,
Harmonious, as your Aurenelia's fair.
Where-e'er she looks, her Eyes like Lightnings wound,
Whene'er she speaks, there's Music in the Sound;
From her dear Lips such melting Softness flows,
Soft as when Zephirs kiss the silken Rose:
But when the wond'rous Charmer talks of Love,
Good Gods! what Raptures in our Bosom move!
How each Discourse our Soul transported warms,
And, if 'tis possible, improves her Charms.

O ever beauteous, ever lovely Fair,
Pride of my Verse, and Object of my Care.
O take me, clasp me, melting in thy Arms,
Unfold thy Sweets, and open all thy Charms
On those dear Breasts for ever let me rove,
Those Breasts to me the true Poetic Grove!
On those soft Hills for ever let me sing,
And sip thy sacred Heliconian Spring.

Were Paris here to judge fair Beauty's prize,
How might these brighter Goddesses surprize;
How could his Choice the doubtful Favour place,
When a new Venus shines in ev'ry Face?
But since that Task, that pleasing Task I claim,
O Venus guide me to a brighter Flame:
To Aurenelia's Charms my Wishes move,
Warm her cold Heart, and tune her Breast to Love;
There, let my Soul a nobler Prize impart,
And for an Apple, give my bleeding Heart.

ABELARD to ELOISA.

In my dark Cell, low prostrate on the Ground,
Mourning my Crimes, thy Letter Entrance found;
Too soon my Soul the well known Name confest,
My beating Heart sprung fiercely in my Breast;
Thro' my whole Frame a guilty Transport glow'd,
And streaming Torrents from my Eyes fast flow'd.

O Eloisa! art thou still the same?
Dost thou still nourish this destructive Flame?
Have not the gentle Rules of Peace, and Heaven
From thy soft Soul this fatal Passion driven?

Alas! I thought you disengag'd, and free,
And can you still, still sigh, and weep for me?
What pow'rful Deity, what hallow'd Shrine,
Can save me from a Love, a Faith, like Thine?
Where shall I fly, when not this awful Cave,
Whose rugged Feet the surging Billows lave;
When not these gloomy Cloister's solemn Walls,
O'er whose rough Sides the languid Ivy crawls;
When my dread Vows, in vain, their Force oppose,
Opposing Love, alas! how vain are Vows!
In fruitless Penance here I wear away
Each tedious Night, each sad revolving Day:
I fast, I pray; and with deceitful Art
Veil thy dear Image from my tortur'd Heart.
My tortur'd Heart conflicting Passions move,
I hope, despair, repent, but still I love.
A thousand jarring Thoughts my Bosom tear,
For Thou, not God, my Eloisè art there.
To the false World's deluding Pleasures dead,
No longer by its wand'ring Fires misled;

In learn'd Disputes, harsh Precepts I infuse,
And give that Counsel, I want Pow'r to use.
The rigid Maxims of the Grave, and Wise,
Have quench'd each milder Sparkle in my Eyes;
Each lovely Feature of this well-known Face,
By Grief revers'd, assumes a sterner Grace:
O Eloisa! would the Fates once more
(Indulgent to thy Wish) this Form restore,
How wouldst thou from these Arms with Horror start,
To miss those Charms, familiar, to thy Heart!
Nought could thy quick, thy piercing Judgment see,
To speak thy Abelard, but Love of thee:
Lean Abstinence, pale Grief, and haggard Care,
The dire Attendants of forlorn Despair;
Have Abelard the gay, the young, remov'd,
And in the Hermit, sunk the Man you lov'd.

Wrapt in the Gloom these holy Mansions shed,
The thorny Paths of Penitence I tread;
Lost to the World, from all its Interest free,
And torn from all my Soul held dear in thee;
Ambition, with its Train of Frailties, gone,
All Loves, all Forms forgot, but thine alone.

Amidst the Blaze of Day, and Dusk of Night,
My Eloisa rises to my Sight;
Veil'd, as in Paraclete's Sea-bath'd Tow'rs,
The wretched Mourner counts the lagging Hours;
I hear her Sigh, see the swift-falling Tears,
Weep all her Griefs, and pine with all her Cares.
O Vows! O Convents! your stern Force impart,
And frown the melting Phantom from my Heart;
Let other Sighs a worthier Sorrow show,
Let other Tears, for Sin, repentant flow;
Low to the Earth, my guilty Eyes I roll,
And humble to the Dust my contrite Soul.

Forgiving Pow'r! your gracious Call I meet,
Who first impower'd this rebel Heart to beat;
Who thro' this trembling, this offending Frame,
For nobler Ends diffus'd Life's active Flame:
O change the Temper of this throbbing Breast,
And form a-new each beating Pulse to rest!
Let springing Grace, fair Faith and Hope remove,
The fatal Traces of voluptuous Love;
Voluptuous Love from his soft Mansion tear,
And leave no Tracks of Eloisa there.

Are these the Wishes of thy inmost Soul?
Would I its softest tend'rest Peace controul?
Would I, thus touch'd, this gloomy Heart resign
To the cold Substance of the Marble Shrine?
Transform'd like these pale Saints that round me move,
O bless'd Insensibles! that knew not Love!
Ah! rather let me keep this hapless Flame,
Adieu, false Honour, unavailing Fame!

Not your harsh Rules, but tender Love, supplies
The Streams that gush from my despairing Eyes:
I feel the Traytor melt around my Heart,
And thro' my Veins with treach'rous Influence dart!

Inspire me Heav'n! assist me, Grace divine!
Aid me ye Saints! unknown, to Crimes like mine!
You, while on Earth, all Pangs severe could prove,
All but the tort'ring Pangs of hopeless Love.
An holier Rage in your pure Bosoms dwelt,
Nor can you pity what you never felt:
A sympathizing Grief alone can cure,
The Hand that heals, must feel, what I endure.
Thou Eloisè! alone, canst give me Ease,
And bid my strugling Soul subside in Peace;
Restore me to my long lost Heav'n of Rest,
And take thy self from my reluctant Breast:
If Crimes, like mine, could an Allay receive,
That bless'd Allay, thy wond'rous Charms must give.

Thy Form, which first my Heart to Love inclin'd,
Still wanders in my lost, my guilty Mind:
I saw thee as the new-blown Blossoms fair,
Sprightly as Light, and soft as Summer-Air;
Wit, Youth, and Beauty, in each Feature shone,
Bless'd by my Fate, I gaz'd, and was undone!
There dy'd the gen'rous Fire, whose vig'rous Flame,
Enlarg'd my Soul, and urg'd me on to Fame;
Nor Fame, nor Wealth, my soften'd Heart could move,
My Heart, insensible to all but Love!
Snatch'd from my self, my Learning tasteless grew,
And vain, Philosophy, oppos'd to you.

A Train of Woes we mourn; nor should we mourn,
The Hours that cannot, ought not, to return;
As once to Love, I sway'd thy yielding Mind,
Too fond, alas! too fatally inclin'd!

To Virtue now let me thy Breast inspire,
And fan, with Zeal divine, the holy Fire;
Teach you to injur'd Heav'n, all chang'd to turn,
And bid thy Soul with sacred Raptures burn.
O that my own Example could impart
This noble Warmth to thy soft trembling Heart!
That mine, with pious undissembled Care,
Might aid the latent Virtue strugling there!
Alas, I rave! nor Grace, nor Zeal divine,
Burns in a Breast o'erwhelm'd with Crimes like mine:
Too sure I find (whilst I the Fortune prove
Of feeble Piety, conflicting Love)
On black Despair, my forc'd Devotion built,
Absence, to me, has greater Pangs than Guilt.

Ah! yet, my Eloisè, thy Charms I view,
Yet my Sighs break, and my Tears flow for you;
Each weak Resistance stronger knits my Chain,
I sigh, weep, love, despair, repent in vain!

Haste Eloisa, haste, thy Lover free,
Amidst thy warmer Pray'rs, O think of me!
Wing with Thy rising Zeal my grov'ling Mind,
And let me Mine, from thy Repentance find:
Ah! labour, strive, thy Love, thy self controul,
The Change will sure affect my kindred Soul:
In blest Concert our purer Sighs shall grieve,
And, Heav'n assisting, shall our Crimes forgive.
But if unhappy, wretched, lost in vain,
Faintly th' unequal Combat you sustain:
If not to Heaven you feel your Bosom rise,
Nor Tears, refin'd, fall contrite from your Eyes:
If still thy Heart thy wonted Passions move,
And thy Tongue prompts thy tender Soul to Love;
Deaf to the weak Essays of living Breath,
Attend the stronger Eloquence of Death.

When that kind Pow'r this captive Soul shall free,
(Which, only then, can cease to doat on thee)

When gently sunk to my eternal Sleep,
The Paraclete my peaceful Urn shall keep;
Then Eloisa, then, thy Lover view,
See, these quench'd Eyes, no longer fix'd on you,
From their dead Orbs that tender Uttrance flown,
Which first on Yours my Heart's soft Tales made known.
This Breath no more; at length, to Ease consign'd,
Pant, like light Aspines quiv'ring with the Wind;
See, all my wild tumultuous Passions o'er,
And thou, amazing Scene! belov'd no more:
Behold the destin'd End of human Love,
But let the Sight thy Zeal alone improve;
Let not thy conscious Soul, with Sorrow mov'd,
Recal how much, how tenderly you lov'd!
With pious Care thy fruitless Grief restrain,
Nor let a Tear thy sacred Veil prophane;
Nor e'en a Sigh on my cold Urn bestow,
But let thy Breath with sacred Rapture glow;

Let Love divine, frail mortal Love, dethrone,
And to thy Mind immortal Joys make known;
Let Heav'n, relenting, strike thy ravish'd View,
And still the bright, the blest Pursuit, renew:
So, with thy Crimes, shall thy Misfortunes cease,
And thy wreck'd Soul be calmly hush'd to Peace.

TO The last (King George's) Guinea.

Inscribed to the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.

What Call, bright Monarch! can engage thy Breast,
To leave thy Loyal Subject thus distrest?
Who knows, my Guardian-Aid, when thou art gone,
What foreign Tyrant will usurp thy Throne?
When Want, rebellious, arrogates thy Reign,
What equal Power shall Faction's Rage restrain?
Too well, alas! my future State I see,
I can but sigh, and only think of Thee!

So, when thy bright Original repairs
To foreign Realms, with equal Griefs and Cares:
Britannia mourns; and anxious for her Fate,
Implores some Favourite to protect the State;
Wisely, as still, the Monarch makes his Choice,
And for his Walpole joins the general Voice.

O, couldst thou there advance an equal Claim,
Repos'd in him, our Safety were the same!
Auspicious Thought! and with what Ease may He,
Who has secur'd Three Nations, succour Me.

To a Needle, that pricked his Mistress's Finger.

[_]

From BONEFONIUS.

Miracle of Cruelty!
Must my Laura bleed by thee?
Her Finger too, endure the Smart?
That tender, inoffensive Part!
What could the sweet Offender do,
Soft, and fair, as falling Snow;
To suffer innocently too!
Was it not Envy caus'd this Hate,
Because thy self wert found less strait?
Did not this thy Fury move
To wound the brighter Queen of Love?

But, ah! then dreadful Foe, forbear
To execute thy Fury here;
Yet, if you still to Rage incline,
Revenge at once, your Cause, and mine:
Let her obdurate Bosom feel
The angry Fury of thy Steel.
Her Bosom! soft as Turtle's Down,
Yet harder than the hardest Stone!
Her Bosom! colder than the Snow,
Burning at once, and freezing too,
Will brave thy fiercest, deadliest Blow.
Here infix thy piercing Dart,
Deep as Love has pierc'd my Heart:
Then, if thou gain'st the Victory,
How wond'rous will the Conquest be?
To win a Fortress that withstood
The utmost Fury of a God;
At once thy small, yet glorious Dart
Shall conquer Love's, and Laura's Heart.

On LAURINDA.

When Nature fram'd Laurinda, heavenly fair,
With each attractive Charm, and winning A
Minerva's Eloquence refin'd her Tongue,
Charm'd in her Speech, and warbled in her Song;
Imperial Majesty from Juno came,
Sooth'd with the Softness of the Cyprian Dame.
O! wou'd some other Powers employ their Care,
To make her kind, as these have made her fair,
That single Act should all the rest out-shine,
And make the fair Perfection all Divine.

THE BEE and CUPID.

[_]

From THEOCRITUS.

As Cupid in a flow'ry Valley stray'd,
Where Bees around their Hives in Clusters play'd,
The Honey's fragrant Scent allur'd his Nose,
And to the Hive, the groaping Archer goes.
Boldly he thrusts his roguish Fingers in—
Nor in that Heaven of Sweets could fear a Sting—
But soon he merited, and met his Fate,
Repenting of his Roguery, too late;
And now, in vain, he frets, he stamps, he tears
The flowing Honours of his waving Hairs;
Deep is the Wound, alas! what can he do!
Revenge he Vows, but then he fears the Foe?

Now, swift as Thought, to Ida's Grove he flies,
And thus, complaining, to his Mother cries,
Alas! Mamma, what Pain my Hand endures!
O take it, kiss it, cool it, rub 't with yours.
Searching for Honey, I this Torment found,
Small was the Author, but O! deep the Wound—
To whom the Mother Goddess thus reply'd,
Unkindly laughing, while poor Cupid cry'd.

Fie, fie, is this your Courage, mighty Love!
And is a Bee a stronger Foe than Jove?
Hence Child, compassionate each Lover's Heart,
Since you are conquer'd by so small a Dart.

TO AN Old Lady that used to Paint.

Kneller , with animating Art, could trace,
The magick Wonders of a lovely Face;
His nice creating Fancy could impart,
Fire to each Charm, and Flames to ev'ry Heart;
Yet all this Skill could but at best command
A fancy'd Goddess at the second-hand.

You, brighter Nymph, can greater Wonders show,
And all this superficial Art out-do;
What if his Hand a seeming Life could give,
Your greater Wonder more than seems to live!
His Nymph, at best, could only raise our Fire,
But you Create, and satisfy Desire.

To One who blamed me for Writing in Praise of a very undeserving Lady.

I Own, my Friend, Olivia is not fair,
An aukard Creature with a slattern Air;
She's Nature's Error, I confess indeed,
What then? the Sick alone the Doctor need:
Thus cunning Tradesmen praise their paltry Ware,
And cry, the very best in all the Fair;
But let the Diamonds sparkle into Fame,
And each Spectator with their Worth inflame.

When Fancy's in her Infancy, the Muse
Some trivial Theme, in trifling Lays, pursues,
Till, by Degrees, she takes a loftier Aim
And crowns her Actions with immortal Fame.

Thus the keen Sword that's bath'd in Heroes Blood,
First, to be temper'd, drinks the filthy Flood.

AN Unseasonable Surprize.

As Tom laid Moll beneath a Shade,
To play a Game for Maidenhead;
With smacking Buss, and Chuck 'o th' Chin,
The Prologue to the future Scene!
He thus address'd his bowzy Molly,
Nay, pish, this Coyness is a Folly!
Unwilling? blush? nay, pshaw—my Dear!
My Love, came we for Nothing here?
Alas! quoth she, should I prove fruitful!
You know, at best, that would but suit ill—
Pish, then, if that's thy Care, my Moll,
There's one Above provides for all—
To which, quoth Sly, upon the Tree,
Your Brats, and you, be Damn'd for me.

Presenting Waller's Poems to a Lady.

Madam,

Accept the softest sweetest Strains,
That ever breath'd a dying Lovers Pains;
That ever yet could unsuccessful prove,
When arm'd with all the Eloquence of Love;
And if you find some tender moving Part,
Soften your Soul, and steal upon your Heart;
(For sure the most obdurate Maid must blame,
The rigid Coyness of the Cruel Dame:)
Then lovely Laura, think, you faintly feel
The Symptoms of a Flame I dare not tell,
Think, then, you hear your suppliant Lover sigh,
But generously, more than see him dye;
And if you kindly listen to his Pain,
Successful Waller has not sung in vain.

TO A Lady at King's-College Chapel, Cambridge.

Unskill'd in Love, unpractis'd in those Arts
Of gaining Mistresses, and giving Hearts,
Mix'd with the gazing Croud I hither come,
Nor dreamt Destruction near this sacred Dome;
Where holy Hymns, and solemn Songs of Praise,
A venerable Adoration raise;
But with Surprize, at once I hear and see
A speaking, and a silent Harmony:
Transporting Sounds! my fainting Senses rise,
Wing'd with the sweeter Musick of your Eyes:
Your Eyes, that speak a Form so bright, so fair,
You seem the Object of each fervent Prayer.

Our Souls the sweet Divinity adore—
Aspiring Vanity can hope no more—

But ah! forbear, thou holy Fair, unknown,
Our Happiness to hazard by your own;
Can Heaven, impartial, to your Hopes comply,
And give you that, which you to all deny.
Mistaken Maid! you think you Blessings gain,
When 'tis your very Prayers create our Pain,
And save us, but to kill us, with Disdain.
Alas! I feel the fatal Poison run,
I gaze, I sigh, I love, and am undone—
Harmonious Charms, in vain, my Mind reprove,
They sympathize, and melt, with me, to Love:
Whilst, in soft Sounds, my Soul, transported, flew,
Mistook her Heav'n, but found a Heav'n in You.

ΚΥΝΔΥΜΟΓΕΝΙΑ: A TALE.

For Arms to shield the Phrygian Knight,
In warm Encounters, vent'rous Fight,
Her Cuckold, Venus coax'd one Day,
The Gipsey has a winning Way,
She press'd, he melted, she was blest;
Who would not melt when Venus prest?
The blended Ore now thrice had boil'd,
The Cavern smoak'd, the Cyclops toil'd;
Work of a God! the Arms appear,
Arms! might beseem a God to wear;
But which provided Mettle sheen,
The Lemnian King, or Paphian Queen,

Is still in Doubt—
Though, if we state the Matter fair,
The Wife had sure the most to spare;
And could you think it better done,
To make, than to preserve a Son?

But waving this—the Arms were wrought,
And to the Trojan Heroe brought,
With Joy, he took the wond'rous Boon,
Made a rough Scrape, and put 'em on;
For Soldiers then (unlike these now)
Knew better how to Fight, than Bow.

Thus far, all Matters went to please ye,
Venus was merry; Vulcan easy;
For he, unless inspir'd by Drinking,
Was not addicted much to Thinking;
But soon a solemn Feast ensu'd,
For which, much Nectar had been brew'd:

Jove's Wedding-Day (O Day of Thrall!)
And now the Gods were summon'd all
To Meet, and Tipple in his Hall.
Old Vulcan came among the rest,
To raise the Mirth, improve the Jest;
Too weak his Brains were for a Drinker,
Jove, therefore, wisely made him Skinker.
With Hand unsteady, Feet unsound,
And aukard Gaite, he limp'd around.
'Twas Dian's Turn (a prudish Lass,
Who, spite of Thirst, would baulk her Glass.)
You Prudes (quoth Vulcan half in Jest)
Refuse a good Thing, tho' home-prest—
Endymion once—come, make no Rout,
But take your Cup, or all shall out.

Here (whether thro' Effect of Guilt,
Or his rude Push) the Wine was spilt:
Her mantling Blood soon spoke her Ire,
Her glowing Cheeks; Eyes darting Fire;

For why? by double Motion pain'd,
Her Rep, and Petticoat were stain'd.

Hence! hammer Arms (cry'd she, thou Dastard)
For thy lewd Wife's vile Trojan Bastard—
I own indeed—so never fret—
'Tis Justice to repay a Debt;
And sure enough God Mars, and she,
Long since, a Head-Piece made for Thee;
He scoul'd, She pouted, Venus maunder'd,
And all protested they were slander'd.
The Bowl was out, the Gods arise,
'Tis said, more merry too than wise;
And each, Salutes and Congees ended,
With Steps unsteady, homeward tended;
The moody Vulcan and his Bride,
Together pac'd it Side by Side;
In Silence sad their Pace they steer,
(He dumb thro' Rage, She aw'd by Fear)

To Lemnos-Isle, (a smoaky Place,
Dire Enemy to beauteous Face)
Arriv'd! his Anger long ypent,
Now lab'ring upwards, gain'd a Vent—
Must I for Brats!—but Talk is vain—
Look, Madam, yonder stands your Chain.
From Marriage-Vows so oft to trip—
Here! Polyphemus! bring the Whip.—

But stop, my Muse, nor be it nam'd,
How Venus' Body was profan'd;
Those who would more, let them enquire
Of that base Tribe, devoid of Fire;
Who think to court their Goddess Grace,
By Imitation of her Case;
Wretches, with Passions gross, and dull,
By Jilts, and Bawds term'd Flogging-Cull.
Suffice it, each their Weapon us'd,
She was well beaten, He abus'd:

But from that Day, with Iron sated,
Its very Name's by Venus hated.
Her Warriour's Valour, you may note,
Lies seldom deeper than the Coat;
Captains of Blood, who scorn the Guilt,
Nor e'er saw more of Sword than Hilt;
For these her Sons, without the aid
Of Spouse, new Armour she has made!
Hence the old Churl's rejected Ware,
His Brass, and Steel, are banish'd far;
Their Coat of Mail, the Gift of Love,
Is soft, and pliant as a Glove;
The interceptive Shield they bear,
Fit only too for Love to wear:
On this, no Images are plac'd,
Of Ages present, Ages past;
The Wolf-nurst-Twins, the Rise of Rome,
The ravish'd Sabines, Metius' Doom;

Were cautelously banish'd hence,
Lest the rough Surface damp the Sense:
Its Colour, as you here may view,
A dirty Yellow, bound with Blue;
Of Parent wave, from whence it came,
Still mindful, the Idalian Dame,
Ordains it shall all Sizes fit,
Provided, that it first be wet;
And, when put off to End of Time,
Should smell of Fish, and feel of Slime.

Safely the well-cas'd Warriour goes,
Thro' Squadrons of the Goddess, Foes,
The Buboe, Cordee, and Phymosis,
The Shanker, Ficus, Exostocis;
(With all the numerous Store of Ills,
St. Thomas cures, and Drury feels)
Nor need when each, or all appear,
Give back, or seem appall'd with Fear,

These Arms, preventive, render vain,
Apollo, and his idle Train;
By these defended, he lays by,
Now useless grown, each old Ally:
Lint, Syringe, Gally-Pot, and Phial,
And, Self-Protective, stands the Trial.

The FOP.

Sir Plume, the Banker, of each trading Lass,
(That newest French Edition of an Ass!)
Charm'd by dear Self, with Love may safely sport,
(As Things inanimate receive no Hurt)
On his own beauteous Person, deeply read,
No Love e'er reach'd his Heart, no Thought his Head;
Pangless, he woos some pangless Dame of Fashion,
And, in bad French, serenely lisps his Passion;
Then, as the Suit he makes is Right, or Wrong,
Triumphs in Rigadoon, or dies in Song.

100

The Refusal of Her Hand.

I

That with an Eagle's piercing Eye,
Ned look'd, what Man with Eyes can doubt,
When from the feather'd Family,
He singled this fair Chicken out.

II

A Lion's Heart, the gen'rous Boy
Proudly, in ev'ry Act maintains,
Bravely attacks the Nymph, when coy,
When yielding, bravely he disdains.

III

To play the skilful Surgeon's part,
Two necessary Points are gain'd;
But to be Master of his Art,
Poor Ned still wants the Lady's Hand.

101

THE Morning Contemplation.

As I range these spacious Fields,
Feast on all that Nature yields;
Ev'ry Thing conspires Delight,
Charms my Smell, my Taste, my Sight;
Ev'ry rural Sound I hear
Sooths my Soul, and tunes my Ear.

Yonder azure Hills arising,
Peeping thro' the wide Horizon;
Strive for the Priority,
Which shall first salute my Eye:
Gentle Winds, each Sweet adorning,
Breathe the wholsome Breath of Morning;
Birds, on blossom'd Hawthorns, sing
Jocund Carols to the Spring;

102

Hopping o're the fragrant Lawn,
Merrily salute the Dawn,
And with their Musick seem to chide
Man's Ingratitude and Pride.

O venerable Solitude!
Best of Blessings, chiefest Good!
Chiefest Good! for in You is
Ev'ry Part of Happiness:
No racking Passions here controul,
The peaceful Surface of my Soul;
Nothing can my Bliss destroy,
Whilst I thus my self enjoy.
E'er the Heavens or Earth were made,
Or their vast Foundations laid;
E'er Angels yet were taught to sing,
To tune the Lyre, or touch the String;
In God-like Pomp the great Three-One
Reign'd in their Solitude alone.

103

Tell me, all ye mighty Wise,
Ye Governours of Colleges?
What deeper Wisdom can ye know,
Than easy Nature's Works here show?
All the lonesome Night ye pore,
Philosophick Sages o'er:
To what prodigious vast Account
Can all your mighty Works amount?
The wise Man was as wise as You,
And yet his Wisdom was, He nothing knew.

Come, ye Covetous! ye Proud!
Come ye wise fantastick Croud!
And as your Follies ye discern,
Nature's plain Instructions learn.

See, this River, as it goes,
With what Eloquence it flows?
How clear the Water, and how fine!
How deep, how rapidly serene!

104

But should it fearful of Decay,
Stagnate, and stop up its Way;
No longer would its Streams appear,
Wholsome, delicate, or clear:
But bury'd in a Quagmire sink,
Or in a choaking Deluge stink.

Believe me, Life's the very same,
The very Image of this Stream:
If of future Fortune, fearless,
If of present Changes, careless,
It uninterrupted goes,
How sweet! and how serene it flows!
But if stopt with these Restraints,
Present Ills, and future Wants;
If anxious Doubts, and clogging Care,
Betray our Reason to Despair;
Life's dull Enjoyment only cloys,
And painfully it self destroys.

105

View this reverential Shade!
Sacred to Retirement made!
What surprizing Sweets surround me!
What Varieties confound me!
Bless'd, in this obscure Abode,
I think my self almost a God!
I think my self so too the more,
Because I'm out of Envy's Pow'r!
And if Angels envious be,
They alone dare Envy me;
And doing so, they let me know
I am happier here below.

Where is self-enamour'd Pride!
Tinsel Vanity beside:
In what gilded Rooms of State,
Shaking with the Storms of Fate,
Do they now luxurious lye,
Bound in purple Slavery?

106

Can their artificial Flowers
Rival these delightful Bowers?
Compar'd with Nature's Charms, how faint
Is their mimick-colour'd Paint?
I, the living Forest have,
They, the empty Shadows crave;
Yet, in spite of all their Theft,
I too have better Shadows left.

Behold this little scrubby Thorn,
Of Verdure destitute, forlorn,
As if it were e'en Nature's Scorn.
Yet this, is of much more possess'd,
Than any Tyrant of the East;
Is richer; nay, is happier far
Than Oriental Monarchs are:
Can, with equal Grandeur, show,
Its brillant Head with Diamonds glow:
And contented, knows, next Day
Doubly will the Loss repay,
If Fortune snatches it away.

107

Princely Honours thus remain,
And thus they flee—but ne'er return again—

By this flow'ry Meadow walking,
To this pratling Echo talking;
As along the Stream I pass,
Gazing on my floating Face;
Lo! the ruffling Winds arise,
To snatch the Prospect from my Eyes:
The mimick Form their Fury braves,
And proudly triumphs o'er the Waves;
Yet, tho' with every Wave 'tis tost,
The Reflexion is not lost.

Virtue wages such a Strife,
In this turbulent Stream of Life;
Rack'd with Passions, tost with Fears,
Vext with Jealousies, and Cares:

108

But a good unspotted Soul,
Tho' subject, yet knows no Controll,
Whilst it turns on Virtue's Pole.

But, Lo! the Clouds obscure the Sun,
Swift Shadows o'er the Waters run!
Trembling too, my Shadow flies?
And by its very Likeness dyes.

Hence learn, reflecting Pattison,
How silent Fate still hurries on,
How suddenly you must be gone!
And as you now can tell no more,
The Likeness that your Visage wore,
On the Surface of the Flood,
Where but now you gazing stood:
So, as soon as you shall dye,
And resign Mortality;
The delusive Breath of Fame,
Shall forget your very Name.

109

THE INDIFFERENT: Wrote to a Gentleman in Love.

I

If from the Lustre of the Sun,
To catch your fleeting Shade you run,
In vain is all your Haste, Sir;
But if your Feet reverse their Pace,
The Fugitive will urge the Chace,
And follow you as fast, Sir.

II

Thus, if at any Time, as now,
Some scornful Chloe you pursue,
In Hopes to overtake Her;
Besure you ne'er too eager be,
But look upon 't—as cold as she,
And seemingly forsake Her.

110

III

So I, and Laura, t'other Day,
Were coursing round a Cock of Hay,
While I could ne'er o're-get Her;
But, when I found I ran in vain,
Quite tir'd, I turn'd me back again,
And, flying from Her, met Her.

111

VERSES, Occasioned by the Fifth of November.

Mourn, Rome! thy baffled Arts, thy conquer'd Arms,
For know! 'tis Heav'n thy impious Zeal disarms;
Learn by thy Fate, and oft-experienc'd Cost,
Our Temples still the true Palladium boast:
With Shame review that dire vindictive Day,
When hostile Nations plow'd the liquid Way;
With rebel Rage inspir'd, but ah! how vain
They brav'd the Cynthia of our British Main!
Wing'd with false Hopes, their floating Cities flew,
Like Sodom, doom'd to flaming Vengeance too:
Immortal Drake, the British Thunder drove,
Swift, as the Bolt, hot-hissing from above;

112

Wide o'er the Main, the bright Infection flew,
And flying, with tempestuous Fury grew;
Reflecting Billows shot a gleamy Glare,
And boil'd, and flam'd, with Elemental War;
From the deep Cavern of his ouzy Bed,
Old Ocean's Sire emerg'd his azure Head;
Like scorching Xanthus, felt his Floods retire,
And roar'd in Anguish at the God of Fire:
But when he saw Britannia's Peace alarm'd,
And Heav'n, and Drake, with sacred Vengeance arm'd;
With billowing Storms he urg'd the Work of Fate,
And heav'd huge Mountains at the burning Fleet;
The burning Fleet deplore their impious Aim,
And dread the Thund'rer, now they feel his Flame;
With Shame, with Anguish, and with Guilt, expire,
Or sink in watry Floods, or Floods of Fire.

113

Calm o'er the Waves great Drake triumphant rode,
Safe in the sacred Sanction of a God;
His Ark, like Noah's, saw the whelming Tide,
Absorp an impious World, and gorge its Pride,
Conquest sat smiling at the Scene Heaven wrought,
And, like the Dove, the peaceful Olive brought:
Like Israel, England, on her Sea-beat Shore,
Beheld the proud Egyptians, proud no more.

But, as when once, the rebel Titans strove,
And fell sad Victims to a vengeful Jove;
Sprung from the Poison of their Hydra Gore,
A Race arose, as impious as before;
A Race, that durst usurp the bless'd Abodes,
Defy the Thund'rer, and dethrone the Gods:
So, from this base Defeat, with impious Rage,
New Titans dar'd our British Gods engage;

114

Salmoneus like, with mimick Power they strove,
And madly arm'd the Thunder 'gainst its Jove.

In the deep Bosom of the cavern'd Earth,
Close plotting Treason laid the nitrous Birth;
Old Midwife-Night with dusky Pinions sate,
To hatch the Seeds, and brood them into Fate:
When Britain's Genius from his ruling Star,
Beheld the latent Ruin from afar;
(Such, once in Heaven, he saw black Treasons Rage,
When rebel Angels durst their God engage)
With sailing Wings the sacred Pow'r descends,
And hov'ring o'er his Isle incumbent bends;
With tutelary Care, the Guardian sate,
And anxious, watch'd the Birth of future Fate.

And now the gloomy Wings of sable Night,
Embrown'd the silver Empire of the Night;

115

Nor yet the choral Cock proclaim'd the Day,
But all in Silence, all in Horror lay;
No breathing Breeze the dreery Forest shakes,
And Heaven alone with watchful Treason wakes:
Repos'd, the meditated Martyr lay,
Nor slumb'ring dream'd himself a future Prey:
Well might he rest secure from mortal Fear,
Whose Happiness was Heaven's peculiar Care!

Lo! thro' the Gloom, a darting Lustre streams,
And, like a Comet, sheds its baleful Beams;
Like that, each baleful Beam malignant Springs,
Denouncing Fate to Empires, and to Kings:
For lo! black Treason lifts her Hydra Head,
Struck at her Monster-Form, she starts afraid,
Shrinks in the deepest Gloom, and seeks the darkest Shade!
But, ah! she turns—“O Britain see thy Doom—
“Awake! arise! 'tis Hell conspires! 'tis Rome!

116

Thanks Heaven! thy Beams dispel the hideous Sprite,
She flies, she sinks, she seeks th' Abyss of the Night.
Sink Fury! to the deepest Hell of Pains,
There, curse thy Rage, in adamantine Chains!
But, hark! Britannia's rousing Lion roars,
And thunders Treason thro' her concave Shores;
But Heaven protects—ye Echoes! waft it round,
Ye repercussive Rocks! repeat the Sound.

Hence learn, O treach'rous Rome! repuls'd retire,
And only with Britannia's Peace, conspire;
Oft as thy Plots, and Stratagems engage,
As often shalt thou mourn thy baffled Rage;
For know, we dare thy poor intending Hate,
Whilst Walpole stands the Bulwark of our State:
Whilst his judicious Hands our Vessel guide,
Boldly we'll stem Old Time's tempestuous Tide;

117

Led by that Star, the Storms of Fate defy,
And launch into immense Eternity.

Tho' Rocks, and Seas begird Britannia's Isle,
Her happy Shades with Sweets eternal smile,
Tho' the Winds rage, and the rough Billows roar,
Soft-Halcyon Ease adorns Her peaceful Shore;
Compos'd, she sees the factious Floods engage,
And smiles Superiour to their empty Rage;
The breaking Waves her Rocks with Fury beat,
And mourn, like thee, O Rome! in Tears their base Defeat.

1725.

118

THE EXCHANGE.

I

While Careful scolds his Daughter Molly,
And tells Her, she's undone,
By lying with her Lover Jolly,
Their Neighbour's eldest Son.

II

My Maidenhead's gone indeed, (cries Miss)
Yet, what care I a Farthing—
I give Him it—but, then got His,
And Pleasure into th' Bargain.

119

ON CRASSUS.

Don Crassus plum'd with Bacularian Pride,
A Cap, a Gown, and eke a Robe beside;
Pedantically saunters up and down,
To satisfy the misbelieving Town,
Proud of Himself—but prouder of his Gown.
And well he may so; for the dapper Fellow
Is but poor Fustian, tho' his Gown's Prunello!

120

THE ROVER Fixed.

Damon , whom all the World, but I believ'd
The falsest Wretch that ever Nymph deceiv'd,
According to the Promise of my Mind,
The truest, and the faithfull'st Youth I find;
Thro' ev'ry little Vice I trac'd the Swain,
But still found Honour in his Bosom reign:
So Proteus, if a Chain but held him fast,
Shook off the Beast, and prov'd a God at last.

121

THE Shooting Match: TO CUPID.

Come, little God of Love, for once, let's try
Who is the better Mark's-man, You, or I:
So—fill your Quiver, summon all your Art,
Well now the Bust? the bright Corinna's Heart,
There, Sir, you've miss'd, and I have pierc'd the Part.
I own I miss'd! but 'twas thro' want of Sight,
To guide my never-erring Arrow right;
But—lest you should conceive that I design'd,
To take Advantage o'er you, 'cause you're Blind;
We'll have another Tryal in the Dark,
And let him take the Maid, who hits the Mark.

122

CHLOE Reproved.

As Chloe, conscious of her pretty Face,
Kiss'd the reflected Goddess in the Glass;
And shall these Charms, she cries, these matchless Charms,
To Night be buried in an Husband's Arms?
No!—since the Gods indulgent give me Power,
I'll reign, at least, the Tyrant of an Hour!

She said, and to the glitt'ring Toilet flew,
Heighten'd each Charm, and e'en Diviner grew;
A thousand Arts, a thousand Airs she tries,
And thus computes the Conquests of her Eyes.

With Scorn, Honorio's Passion I resign,
Brillantis, dear Brillantis! shall be mine;

123

Conquer'd Sireno shall these Charms adore,
Sylvander, and an endless Thousand more.

Thus spoke the proud pre-meditated Bride,
And the Cosmetick Oracle reply'd.

Beware, fair Maid, beware, nor strive to prove,
The dangerous Varieties of Love;
But think, how brittle are those Charms you boast,
And think, how soon that Beauty may be lost.
For this (take Notice what I say)
Depend on, to your Sorrow,
That if you change your Mind to Day,
I'll change your Face to Morrow.

124

THE Nightingale and Shepherd, Imitated from Strada.

'Twas when the Sun diffus'd a milder Ray,
And length'ning Shades confess'd the shortning Day:
To Tyber's Banks repair'd an am'rous Swain,
The Love, and Envy, of the neighb'ring Plain;
To cool his Heat, he sought the breezy Grove,
To cool his Heat, but more, the Heat of Love;
To sooth his Cares, on a soft Lute he play'd,
But the soft Lute reviv'd the lovely Maid:
Conspiring Elms their Umbrage shed around,
Wav'd with Applause, and listen'd to the Sound:
When Philomela, gentle Bird of Love,
Poor, pretty, harmless Syren of the Grove!

125

Enchanted, heard the Shepherd as he play'd,
And stole attentive to the tuneful Shade,
Perch'd o'er his Head, the Charmer seem'd to grow,
And to the Lyre, in Shadows danc'd below;
With scornful Eye elate, inclin'd to hear,
And lent her Soul to listen in her Ear;
As his swift Fingers tremble o'er the Lute,
Softly she sings responsive to the Note;
Each Air, each flowing Accent of the Song,
She soothes, and sweetens, with her softer Tongue;
Gently refines each imitated Strain
And with his Musick charms the ravish'd Swain:
The ravish'd Swain admir'd the just Replies,
At first mistaken for the echoing Breeze;
But when he found his little Rival near
Imbibing Musick both at Eye and Ear;
Sublimer Notes improv'd each lab'ring Air,
The daring Prelude to the tuneful War:

126

O'erjoy'd, the Charmer heard the bold defy,
And warbling, answer'd, with a brisk Reply.

Now tend'rest Thoughts the gentle Swain inspire,
And with a dying Softness tune the Lyre,
Echoe the Musick of the vernal Woods,
Warble the Murmurs of the falling Floods.
Thus sweet he plays, but sweet he plays in vain,
For Philomela sings a sweeter Strain;
With easier Art she modulates each Note,
More nat'ral Musick melting in her Throat.

Much he admir'd the Magick of her Tongue,
But more to see his Lute, and Art out-done;
And now, to loftier Airs, he tunes the Strings,
And now, to loftier Airs, his Echoe sings;
Tho' loud as Thunder, tho' as swift as Thought,
She reach'd the swelling, caught the flying Note;

127

In trembling Treble now in deeper Base,
She show'd how Nature could his Art surpass.

Amaz'd, at length, with Rage the Shepherd burn'd,
His Admiration into Anger turn'd;
Enflam'd with emulating Pride, he stood,
And thus defy'd the Charmer of the Wood.

And wilt thou still my Musick imitate?
Then see thy Folly, and thy Task is great—
For know more pow'rful Lays remain unsung,
Lays! far superiour to that mimick Tongue—
If not, this Lute, this vanquish'd Lute, I swear,
Shall never more delight the ravish'd Ear;
But, broke in scatter'd Fragments strew the Plain,
And mourn the Glory, which it could not gain—

He said, and as he said, his Soul on Fire,
With a disdainful Air, he swept the Lyre;

128

Quick to the Touch, the Tides of Musick flow;
Swell into Strength, or melt away in Woe;
Now, raise the shrilling Trumpets clanging Jar,
Now, rouze the raging Thunders of the War;
Now, soft'ning Sounds, and sadly-pleasing Strains,
Breathe out the Lover's Joys, and Lover's Pains.

He sung, and ceas'd his Rival's Notes to hear,
As his dy'd list'ning in the ambient Air.

But now, too late! her noble Folly found,
Sad Philomela stood subdu'd by Sound.
Tho' vanquish'd, yet, with gen'rous Ardour fill'd,
Ignobly still she scorn'd to quit the Field;
Each emulated Air, each labour'd Note,
Trills on her Tongue, and trembles thro' her Throat,
But slowly faint her pensive Accents flow,
Weaken'd with Grief, and over-charg'd with Woe:

129

Again, she tunes her Voice, again she sings,
Strains every Nerve, and quivers on her Wings;
In vain! her sinking Spirits fade away,
And in a tuneful Agony decay;
Dying, she fell, and as the Strains expire,
Breath'd out her Soul in Anguish on the Lyre;
Dissolv'd in Transport, there, resign'd her Breath,
And gain'd a living Conquest by her Death.

130

THE Court of VENUS, From CLAUDIAN.

Where the fair Paphian Goddess kept her Court,
Where the Loves wanton, and the Graces sport;
A tow'ring Mountain lifts its lofty Brow,
And bends with Pleasure o'er the Plains below;
O'er distant, blue-retiring Hills surveys
Its Shadows floating in Ionian Seas;
The Top impervious, all Access denies,
Tires the faint Foot, and dims the dizzy Eyes:
No fierce, inclement Winter shivers here,
No blasting Seasons nip the blooming Year,
No smoaking Mists, nor foggy Damps arise,
Hang o'er the Hills, or sail along the Skies;

131

But an untainted Æther shines serene,
And sheds its Influence on the smiling Scene;
Eternal Sweets the wafting Breezes bring,
And whisper out an everlasting Spring.

This pleasurable Mountain by Degrees,
Sinks in a Level, to salute your Eyes;
Where Joy, succeeding Joy, for ever new,
For ever rising to the ravish'd View,
The wand'ring Sight with sweet Amusement leads
Thro' golden Groves, and ever-living Meads.

These were the Gifts, his Gratitude to prove,
Vulcan bestow'd upon the Queen of Love;
For these, the Queen of Love, resign'd her Charms,
And over-sold the Heaven in her Arms.

Here, a soft Grove its cooly Shade affords,
Fann'd by the Musick of the warbling Birds;

132

To this, the Sylvan Choristers resort,
Hop on the Boughs, and to the Breezes sport:
The Queen of Love, amid the tuneful Throng,
With gracious Smiles rewards the fav'rite Song;
Elects the worthy Tenant of the Grove,
And dedicates him to the God of Love.

Embow'ring Trees the mingled Shade compose,
That imitates the Fair, for whom it grows;
With complicating Poplars, Poplars twine,
With spreading Alders, spreading Alders join:
Majestick Elms with bending Foliage flow,
Float in green Waves, and fan the Shades below;
The Shades below, the cooling Gale receive,
And rising, with the cooling Gale, revive:
Two diff'rent Rivers murmur thro' the Grove,
Two fatal Contrarieties in Love!
This, sweet as mutual Joy in youthful Veins,
That, bitter, as a dying Lover's Pains:

133

Conscious, the Streams, each other seem to shun,
But, in Meanders lost, too soon are One!
Dipt in these fabled Waves, Love's fatal Dart,
Stings the distracted Soul, to sooth the Heart;
To these, their double Pow'r his Arrows owe,
Soft-pleasing Joys, and sad consuming Woe.

Rang'd on the Banks, the little Loves resort,
Plight fancy'd Oaths, and bend their Bows in sport;
These, tender Nymphs produc'd, a blooming Race!
And left their Virgin Image on their Face.
Their ruddy Cheeks their Parents Charms proclaim,
Alike their Habit, and their Look the same:
O'er all these Troops, presides the God of Love,
A God, whom all the Gods revere above;
Sprung from the Mother, and the Queen of Charms,
He shines distinguish'd in superior Arms;

134

His cogent Power e'en Deities controuls,
And awes the Thunderer, that awes the Poles;
On Earth, he triumphs o'er a Monarch's Cares,
And blasts the Laurel, which the Thunder spares:
In Woods, and Groves, th'inferiour Archers reign,
Contented with the Conquests of the Plain.

Close by the Streams, in fatal Pomp array'd,
Love's wild romantick Equipage is laid:
Here lawless Liberty for ever roves,
For ever Riots in Excess of Loves;
Inflam'd with Wine, distracted Rage appears,
But soon dissolves in self-accusing Tears.
Here warming Whispers propagate Replies,
Sweet-melting Murmurs, soft-consenting Sighs;
With all the Eloquence that Hearts confess,
With all the Harmony that Eyes express:
There young Desires their tasted Joys pursue,
Pleas'd with the past, and panting for the new;

135

When strange Chimeras on a sudden rise,
Shift the false Scene, and intercept their Eyes;
Tormenting Jealousies, uneasy Cares,
Dissembling Hopes, imaginary Fears;
Accusing Crimes of ill-requited Love,
And breaking Vows re-echo thro' the Grove.
Full in the midst, with nice-becoming Grace,
Stood Youth, too conscious of his comely Face;
Proud of his nervous Strength, and vig'rous Veins,
With Pain, his Blood the luscious Tide contains;
With haughty Smiles he mocks declining Age,
His starv'd Enjoyments, and dissembled Rage;
The wither'd Crone avoids him with Remorse,
And sickens at the Thought of, Once he was—

Proud o'er the Groves a glitt'ring Dome ascends,
Rich with the Labour of Vulcanian Hands;
Thro' the green Ranks, the darting Lustre streams,
And the Shades kindle with reflected Flames;

136

This Master-Piece of Skill, the Lemnian God,
On his fair Spouse, a worthy Gift, bestow'd.
Immortal Monuments of Art support
The vast Foundations of each ample Court,
On Diamond Pillars, Diamond Pillars rise
At once invade, and emulate the Skies;
Pelucid Crystal clarifies each Stone,
And by excluding, makes a double Sun;
In Oval Steps the wavy Topaz roll'd,
Gleams by Reflexion on the valving Gold;
Each Stone conspires its emulating Rays,
Glitter the Beryls, and the Rubies blaze;
Carv'd Saphirs melt in undulating Flame,
And drink the lucid Amber's fainter Stream.

Here spacious Greens, reviving Areas rise,
And with a milder Scene refresh the Eyes;
Thro' Cassia Groves ambrosial Breezes breathe,
And steal the aromatick Sweets beneath;

137

There, soft, inferiour Shades of Myrtle grow,
And Lillies, blushing as the Roses glow;
Dissolv'd with Joy, the trickling Balm runs o'er,
And the sweet Tears distil at every Pore.

But now, his Journey past, the God of Love,
With joyful Steps approach'd his native Grove;
And now he re-assumes a solemn Pace,
He moves with Majesty, and looks with Grace.

It happen'd then, with future Joys elate,
His Goddess-Mother at her Toilet sate;
On either Side, th' Idalian Sisters stand,
Proud of the smiling Goddesses command;
These scatter Odours o'er the fragrant Fair,
Those thread the mazy Tendrils of her Hair;
Part exercise the nice correcting Comb,
Smooth the soft Curles, and call the Straglers home,

138

The comely Fav'rites, by a nice Design,
They leave to sport, and wanton with the Wind,
The comely Fav'rites, with adorning Grace
Wave on the Breeze, and flow upon her Face,
With cooling Airs create an easy Pride,
And, but increase the Charms, they strive to hide:
No Glasses here, deluding Lights supply,
The brilliant Diamond, guides the judging Eye;
For as the Goddess moves new Mirrours rise,
And catch augmenting Splendors from her Eyes;
As to the multiplying Stones she turns,
In all she dances, and in all she burns.

But, Lo! a sudden Scene of Glory fires
Her rising Soul, and breathes more gay Desires;
Her Son's reflected Image she surveys,
With trembling Joys, she turns to prove the Rays;
But turning, conscious of her only Son,
Into the bloomy Boy's Embraces run,
Receives him panting at unfolding Charms,
And hugs the little Darling in her Arms.

139

Orpheus and Eurydice,

From Virgil's Fourth Georgick.

Incens'd, the raging Prophet thus replies,
Gnashes his Teeth, and rolls his azure Eyes.
No common Vengeance does your Crimes pursue,
Your Crimes, which well deserve their fatal due:
But humbly supplicate immortal Hate,
And wisely shun the threat'ning Rage of Fate;
O! think on Orpheus, and his injur'd Spouse,
And mark the wicked Author of their Woes;
When lawless Lust enflam'd thy boiling Blood,
To chace the flying Fair along the Flood:

140

Think, how the Snake, in verdant Ambush laid,
Unwarily surpriz'd the panting Maid;
Shrieking, she fell, resign'd her fainter Breath,
And sought the kinder Arms of icy Death:
The Nymphs, the Swains, the dying Virgin mourn'd
The River Deities, the Grief return'd;
The Winds, with sympathizing Sorrow, sigh'd,
And the sad Streams their trickling Tears supply'd.

The wretched Husband, hopeless of Relief,
In tuneful Anguish sought to sooth his Grief;
But rising Sorrows all his Thoughts controul,
Flow in his Eyes, and melt his soft'ning Soul;
In plaintive Strains he mourns his Consort gone,
Sighs to the rising, and the setting Sun;
Till wildly lost in Solitude, and Woe,
Raving, he sought, the dreary Shades below,
Advent'rous by Despair, and dar'd to tread
The melancholly Mansions of the Dead;

141

With Songs to supplicate th' infernal Power,
And sooth the God, who ne'er was sooth'd before.

Lur'd by the Magick of the sacred Sound,
Swift-gliding Crouds of Spectres hover round;
Thick, as when Fowls obscure the Ev'ning Air,
And to their Groves in feather'd Clouds repair;
Men, Matrons, Maids, a visionary Throng,
Surround the Poet, and imbibe his Song;
With all those Multitudes of empty Ghosts,
Where Stygian Streams surround the squallid Coasts;
Heedless their own unhappy Fates to mourn,
Weeping, they make his Misery their own.
E'en Hell it self, with all its Fiends, was charm'd,
Its Terrors soften'd, and its Rage disarm'd;
The grinning Guardian loll'd his triple Tongue,
And fawning, lick'd the Poet, as he sung;
The very Furies heav'd away their Chains,
And sound their own too weak for Musick's Strains,

142

Ixion his eternal Toil forewent,
And list'ning, on his rolling Labour, leant.

But now the tuneful Bard, his Bride restor'd,
Back to the Realms of Day, the Path explor'd;
Slowly she follow'd, as he led the Way,
Obedient to Proserpina's Decree:
For if, before the gloomy Shades were past,
He turn'd to Look, the Look must be his last,
A Fault which Hell might pass in Silence by,
Could Hell behold it with a Lover's Eye:
And now near travers'd o'er the Realms of Night,
They rose emergent on the Beams of Light;
When the poor Youth unfortunately kind,
Cast a too fond-conductive Glance behind:
But, as he turn'd, three Peals of Thunder spoke,
The dire conditionary Promise broke;
While thus the sadly sweet, reproving Maid,
Bespoke the Youth by too much Love betray'd.

143

Unhappy Orpheus! ah, unhappy Boy!
What mov'd thee thus to blast our bloomy Joy?
Alas! for ever lost, I leave Thee now!
This parting Kiss, to sooth eternal Woe—
Farewel—dim Shades of Horrour round me rise,
And sudden Night o'erwhelms my swimming Eyes.

She said; and as she said, in Shades withdrew,
From his deluded Arms, the Vision flew;
With strict Embrace, in vain he stops her Stay,
Desolv'd to air, unfelt, she glides away;
In vain he seeks her with incessant Eyes,
In vain invokes her with imploring Cries;
What could he do? All Efforts are too late,
Again her Soul is summon'd down by Fate;
Th' infernal Ferry-man relents no more,
And e'en his Musick now forgets its Power!

144

Seven Months, by Fame's Report, the lonesome Swain,
Devoted to his melancholly Pain:
Where Scythian Hills are bleak with drifted Snow,
And shiver in the frigid Floods below,
Distracted, with Indulgency of Grief,
In Soul-restoring Strains he sought Relief;
In Strains that e'en the barren Mountains charm'd,
And their eternal Frosts with Pity warm'd:
The list'ning Salvages his Power confess'd,
Their Rage he sooth'd, but could not sooth his Breast.

As the lamenting Nightingale complains,
Of cruel Spoilers, and destructive Swains,
When sad! she sees her Younglings borne away,
Her downy Darlings, an inhuman Prey!
Sunk in some Gloom, she darkling Pines alone,
Sighs out her Grief, and murmurs out her Moan.

145

Thus Orpheus sought to calm his peaceless Breast,
A Stranger to the Quietude of Rest;
Now wildly tortur'd by Despair, he goes,
O'er freezing Mountains of eternal Snows,
Delighted to the barren Rocks to tell,
The rigorous Benevolence of Hell;
Averse to Venus, and the Nuptial Joys,
In unavailing Grief his Life destroys;
Till frantick Bacchanals that madly strove
To warm his Bosom to a second Love,
With Rage, Revenge, and brutal Fury arm'd,
More Salvage, than those Salvages he charm'd,
Conspir'd against his Life, the Bard they slew,
And on cold Hebe's Streams his Head they threw;
Yet, e'en in Death, his Voice bewails his Woe,
And with the Streams his Strains in Anguish flow;
Eurydice! his dying Tongue deplores,
Eurydice! resounds along the length'ning Shores.

146

Upon a NEEDLE:

Occasioned by seeing a Lady Embroidering.

Ths little Instrument of Art,
Methinks, resembles Cupid's Dart;
As the silken Wound it gives,
With enliv'ning Beauty lives;
So the pointed Shafts of Love,
On my Heart, their Power prove;
And, as the vital Threads they pierce,
Animate a Spring of Verse,
Whilst the Flowers of Poetry
Arise, these brighter Flowers to see.

Yet, tho' thus like, both Darts appear,
In the main Point, they differ far;
For, but consider, their Employs—
This Creates, but that Destroys!

147

TO Mr. Taylor, A. B. of St. John's, &c.

Upon Reading some of his excellent Poems.

As Suppliants e'er they seek the sacred Shrine,
Prefer their Off'rings to the Power within;
Thus let me fix this Token of my Zeal,
Here, thro' these Gates of Fame, a Pass-port steal;
Pursue the Paths of Glory where you run,
And, like the Lark, salute the rising Sun.

But hark! what sweet enchanting Notes I hear!
Does Horace, or does Taylor charm mine Ear?
Delusive Thought! the Roman, now no more,
To Latium lost, delights th' Elysium Shore;

148

There, hap'ly could he hear thy loftier Strain,
Thy Lyre would charm him into Life again.

Securely may'st thou dare the Darts of Death,
Defy the Tyrant with thy latest Breath;
For this Life lost, eternal Life receive,
And in thy own Pindaric ever live.

What may not all thy lofty Numbers raise,
When Light receives new Lustre from thy Lays?
Amaz'd, I view'd thy Beams, like antient Night,
Silver my Gloom, and chear my Soul with Light:
Like the fair Orb you sing with equal Force,
By your own Brightness you direct your Course;
To us below, thy genial Rays dispense,
The glorious Beams of everlasting Sense;
Ripen each Thought, recal each Fancy forth,
And warm Poetic Harvests into Birth.

149

In thee, as in Apollo, both unite,
Celestial Lustre, and celestial Wit.

Had Holy David heard thee weep his Woe,
The Psalmist had resign'd his Harp to you;
Music, like yours, would all his Griefs controul,
And sooth him, as he sooth'd distemper'd Saul.

But whilst I thus thy pleasing Paths pursue,
What Fields of Glory open to my View?
What rising Raptures, all my Breast inspire,
How my Soul kindles with reflected Fire!
Still, as I read, with Rage divine I glow,
Dwell on each Thought, and strive to think like you:
With Wonder view judicious Ardour shine,
Bloom in each Thought, and ripen ev'ry Line:
Each manly Verse, with female Sweetness flows,
With Fruits, and Blossoms, like the Orange glows.

150

But, O! forgive a weak officious Friend,
And let these Lines my honest Love commend:
Whilst to sublimer Flights your Wings aspire,
Thus let me gaze at Distance, thus admire;
Receive a single Portion of your Power,
Nor, like Elisha, could I wish for more.

But, when Time sees thy future Laurels grow
For some Great Iliad, to adorn thy Brow,
In the soft Shade, thus let me chaunt my Love,
And live the Linnet of thy Laurel-Grove.

151

To LAURA.

When Paris saw the bright Celestial Three,
And view'd those Beauties, now reviv'd in Thee,
Hadst thou, my Laura, seen the grand Dispute,
Hadst thou contended for the glitt'ring Fruit;
Heaven's Queen had found her princely Presents vain,
Nor proffer'd Empires you alone could gain;
Pallas abash'd, had own'd with sweet Surprize,
The silent Eloquence of magic Eyes:
Such Eyes had smil'd Thee fairest of the Fair.
And Venus own'd a brighter Venus there.
Tho' Venus shone with each alluring Grace,
Her Charms had only gain'd a second Place:
Thine! Thine had won the Shepherd's noble Part,
Tho' Hers the Apple, Thine had been his Heart.

To the Same, Weeping.

If Laura weep for those her Eyes have slain,
Then Smile, my Fair, and we'll revive again.

152

To the SAME. ON HER PATCHES.

Laura , you say, these sable Spots impart,
The seemly Tokens of each Love-burnt Heart;
As conquer'd Trophies grace some sacred Shrine,
So they adorn a Power, as much Divine:
But if, among those Conquests of your Eyes,
My humble Heart can prove a worthy Prize;
O let your Lip the faithful Token wear,
And let me live on endless Kisses there!

153

TO Her RING.

Blest Ornament! how happy is thy Snare,
To bind the snowy Finger of my Fair!
O could I learn thy nice-coercive Art,
And as thou bind'st her Finger, bind her Heart!

Not Eastern Diadems, like Thee, can shine,
Fed from her brighter Eyes with Beams Divine;
Nor can their mightiest Monarch's Pow'r command
So large an Empire, as Thy Charmer's Hand.

O could thy Form Thy fond Admirer wear,
Thy very Likeness should in all appear;
My endless Love, Thy endless Round should show,
And my Heart flaming, for Thy Diamond glow.

154

ON A Lady's Necklace.

Ye Crystal Orbs that on her Bosom lie,
The glitt'ring Planets of a brighter Sky,
Like Stars illumin'd by the Lamp of Day,
From my Selinda's Eye you catch your Ray;
Well may those Eyes of Light like yours inspire,
When their least Beam can set my Heart on Fire.

O happy Chain! thy artless Foldings prove
Superior to the magic Charms of Love!
O! were you, by a just Possession, mine,
And had I Power to make you more Divine;
Could Art increase each Globe, as large as This,
Like Anthony, I'd give it for a Kiss:
My Worlds, tho' swell'd to Thousands, I'd bestow,
To circle my Selinda's Neck, like You.

155

TO A LADY, Who is most Beautiful, when Angry.

Cælia , methinks, that sweet contracted Brow,
Resembles angry Cupid's bended Bow;
Like, That, it aims a Stroke at every Heart,
Whilst either Eye supplies a keener Dart.

On WOMEN.

Bright, as those glittering Worlds that roll above,
Are Women, when in Virtue's Orb they move;
But then, like Stars, once fall'n, their Light they lose,
Unheeded fade, and turn to Slime, like those.

156

TO Mrs. WIGMORE,

Upon seeing Her at the Mountebank's Stage.

Could Smith's Medicinary Power but heal,
With half that Ease, your fatal Glances kill:
How might we bless the Love-relieving Art!
How might it sooth this sad afflicted Heart!
But yet, for O! so pleasing is the Flame,
So like the charming Fair, from whom it came!
First, let each Pang distract my peaceful Rest.
But never, never! leave my Love-sick Breast;
Still, still, let Hope indulge the dear Desire,
And with the Lamp of Life alone expire;
So shall my Death, my faithful Passion prove,
And my Heart die a Martyr to my Love.

157

TO Mr. EUSDEN,

Desiring his Corrections on a Poem.

Dear SIR,

If what a grateful Heart can give,
May meet a kind Reception, This receive;
To these low, humble Lines, a while unbend,
And let the Critic soften to the Friend;
Let human Candor aid thy judging Art,
And thy Head ever dictate from thy Heart!

Fond to be thought a Candidate for Fame,
My Muse, Ambitious, takes a lofty Aim;
But, ah! too bold her Wish, too large her View,
Unless approv'd, unless inspir'd by you;

158

Unless you tune her Notes, in vain she sings,
Unless you Aid, in vain she spreads her Wings;
Aw'd by your Word, she'll, blushing own her Fault,
Disclaiming each Extravagance of Thought;
Nature, and Art, at once, like you, dispence,
And ripen Fancy into Strength of Sense.

Thus, tender Trees, with Flowers luxuriant Smile,
Waste their vain Sap, ungrateful to their Soil;
Till some wise Hand, with kind corrective Care,
Prune their gay Pride, and bid their Branches bear:
Then Fruits, and Flowers, promiscuously abound,
Teem from the Stroke, and Blossom from the Wound.

Sidney College, Jan. 27. 1725–6. W. Pattison.

159

AN Apology to Mr. Bell.

Clarior in Tenebris si latuisset, erat.

SIR,

If I my Tributary Lays refuse,
O blame not me, but blame the conscious Muse!
For when commanding Duty bids me sing,
She stops my Voice, and breaks the jarring String;
And when I would the pleasing Task renew,
The awful Roman rises to my view,
Let those, says he, who aim in all they write,
At once to mingle Profit, and Delight;

160

Their Theme exactly to their Measures fit,
Nor vainly hope to rise above their Wit:
Who looks aloft, will surely tread awry,
And may mistake a Marl-pit for the Sky.

Yet, like the rest, I can my Tribute bring,
Like some perhaps in spite of Nature sing:
Ransack each common Author, and from thence
Profane good antient Phrase with modern Sense.
In Rapine rich, laboriously dull,
Witty, but just enough to show a Fool;
How could I languish in a rural Song,
And tag the Tadpole-Pastoral along?
How sweetly should the tuneful Murmurs creep,
And lull the ravish'd Reader fast a-sleep?
The blasted Oaks should then more justly fear,
My Rhyming Fury, than the Thunder's Scar.

How could I, wing'd with Splay-foot Lyrics fly,
Like Hag, on Broomstick, thro' the troubled Sky!

161

Rhyming, I'd mount, like Dennis, heretofore,
Bluster, as loudly, and as proudly soar.

Well may such Poets rise a tow'ring Height,
Who have no Thought to intercept their Flight;
Nor need they Fear to tumble from the Skies,
For those can never Fall, who never Rise.

But shall I with collected Theft prophane,
The great, the bless'd, the venerable Name!
Shall I with Murd'rers to the Altar flie,
Not thro' religious Zeal, but Infamy,
As Blackmore sought in Job a Sanctuary!
Forbid it, Heav'n—I chuse an humbler Fate,
Nor would be wicked, to be vainly Great.
Let me in lowlier Scenes a while delight,
With cooling Judgment meditate the Flight;
Then, worthy Sir, if Time confirm my Thought,
The Tribute, if 'tis worthy, shall be brought;
With double Ardour I'll the Task pursue,
To sing of Heaven, and to sing to You.

162

To Mr. HEDGES,

On Reading his Latin Ode to Dr. Broxholme.

Unskill'd in Greek, and Roman Tongue,
Which Words are short, and which are long,
To Thee, these home-spun Lines I send,
Not as a Scholar, but a Friend.

Here I might shew, from wise Example,
In Work elaborate and ample,
That Homer, tho' he writ in Greek,
Writ what his Mother taught him speak;
Horace and Virgil's learned Latin,
Was what, when Boys, they us'd to prate in.

163

That all fam'd Bards, except the Dutch,
(If there were ever any such)
Have writ the Poems, they excel in,
In the same Tongue they learn'd to spell in.

To Thee alone, with greatest Ease,
'Tis granted, in all Ways, to please;
And, by a Gift from Heaven miraculous,
All Lingua's are to thee Vernacula's:
That Horace self had scarcely known,
Thy Thoughts, or Language from his own.

Many a Lad returns from School,
A Latin, Greek, and Hebrew Fool;
In Arts and Knowledge still a Block,
Tho' deeply skill'd in Hic, Hæc, Hoc.
Heavy they tread the up-hill Way,
O'er craggy Rocks, and found'ring Clay,
Till weary with their Road, they stop
Just at the Mountain's lofty Top;

164

Still poring on the barren Ground,
View not the beauteous Prospect round;
Which, hid beneath the Summit, lies
Conceal'd from low, and vulgar Eyes,
And which alone can amply Pay
The Toil and Drudgery of the Way:
From hence, they might, with Transport view
All that the antient Sages knew;
What they perform'd, and what they Thought,
How Tully spoke, and Cæsar fought;
What Manners of a World unknown
Should guide their Youth, and form their own;
What bright Examples lead to Fame,
And Vicious teach to fly their Shame.

Yet we might spare the mighty Pains
In searching ancient dark Remains;
Since greater Worthies rise at Home,
And Britain scorns to yield to Rome.

165

Augustus' Reign, renown'd for Peace,
For Learning, Wit, and Wealth's Increase;
No more we Envy, while our Land
Is doubly bless'd from George's Hand.
Ammon's Success, and Cæsar's Mind,
To form victorious Marlbro', join'd;
Demosthenes', and Tully's Fame,
Must yield to Walpole's greater Name;
Faction, and Strife, to hear his Voice,
Are dumb, and cease their jarring Noise:
Whole Senates bow their yielding Minds,
Like Woods before the Southern Winds;
Free from Deceit, and servile Art,
He speaks the Dictates of his Heart;
His Tongue enchants, his Counsel leads;
Peace enters first, then Wealth succeeds:
His Virtues thro' the Land confess'd,
While thus he soothes us to be blest.

166

If to new Scenes we turn our View,
And Learning, Arts, and Wit pursue,
Our Land can furnish Men of Fame,
To eclipse the Greek, and Roman Name.
Locke shall instruct, and form our Youth,
And teach their Understandings Truth.
Vice shall look pale, and Virtue thrive,
Humanity, and Friendship live;
While Addison our Morals rules,
And proves all Villains to be Fools.
Newton shall lead our ravish'd Souls,
Thro' boundless Worlds beyond the Poles;
From Star to Star direct our Way,
As certain, and as fix'd as they.
Examples were but vain to prove,
Our Nation's boast, our Country's Love.
A Land of Patriots brave, and free,
While all Mankind are Slaves but We!

To what a Height true Wit can reach,
Let Waller, and let Congreve teach;

167

And if we needs must write by Rules,
Without th' Assistance of the Schools,
In flowing Verse, and Lines well-wrought,
What Horace, what Quintilian thought,
Join'd with a little Mother Wit,
Roscommon, and our Pope have writ.

The Fair, who best the Muse inspire,
Who warm the Heart, and tune the Lyre,
Superiour to all former Dames,
Inhabit now the Banks of Thames:
Th' Egyptian Queen, the Ancient's boast,
For whom the well-fought World was lost,
Tell me, dear Hedges, thou canst tell,
Thou know'st the Dead, and Living well,
Could she her haughty Charms compare
With her, who represents her here?
Old Homer's Theme, the Grecian Dame,
Who set whole Nations in a Flame,

168

No more had been the beauteous Prize,
Had they beheld Lavinia's Eyes:
The Greeks for her alone had strove,
And Paris had been false to Love.

Thus taught, and thus inspir'd, I write
What Friendship, and what Love indite;
Free from each Modern Witling's Vice,
Envy, and Slander, Flattery, Lies,
To please our Pride, or gain our End,
Each Jest should sacrifice a Friend;
While One's Ill-nature joins to praise,
What t' other's Malice dully says;
In Peace my harmless Minutes pass,
'Twixt Business, Beauty, and a Glass;
Nor Want I aught, my Soul to cheer,
But thee, to join in Pleasure here;
Thus may I live, till Life shall end,
And love my Mistress, Country, Friend!

169

SONG.

I

Here's to Thee, my Damon, let's drink, and be merry,
And drown all our Cares in full Bumpers of Sherry;
Commit e'ry Care to the Guardians above,
And we'll live like Immortals in Pleasure and Love.

II

Here's Phillis's Health, Lo! the Liquor flows higher,
'Tis Phillis's Name that awakens its Fire;
Since the Liquor is clear, let our Eloquence shine,
And Fancy be brisk, as the sparkling Wine:

III

Ye Nymphs, and ye Graces, ye Cupids, ye Swains,
Go pluck the sweet Roses, the Pride of the Plains;
Pluck only such Roses, as worthy the Fair,
And weave her a Chaplet, with diligent Care:

IV

While to yon cool Poplar's kind Shade we retire,
To melt in Embraces, and mingle our Fire;
In languishing Blisses, we'll live, and we'll die,
She'll melt in the Flames, that I catch at her Eye.

170

TO A FRIEND,

Dissuading him from loving a certain Lady.

If aught a kindly Caution can impart,
Be This, not Love, imprinted on thy Heart;
Let every Line a well-known Truth commend,
And, where you doubt the Poet, trust the Friend;
Let vanquish'd Reason re-assume the Field,
And to the True, the fictious Goddess yield.

What Homer feigns, when fierce Tydides strove,
Inspir'd by Pallas, with the Queen of Love;
But shows the Weakness of vain Beauty's Art,
Whilst Wisdom's sacred Influence arms the Heart:
Yet, green in Age, unvers'd in Female Wiles,
Each specious show our easy Sight beguiles;

171

Gay-courting Scenes, the early Path adorn,
And blooming Beauty paints our youthful Morn;
Our heedless Pleasures, with false Objects, rise,
Blind to the black'ning Cloud, and gathering Skies.
But, ah! methinks, I hear thee, sighing, say,
Such Charms invite! so flowery Smiles the Way!
Resolv'd, fair Beauty's lovely Maze I'll run—
Who might not thus? who would not be undone!—
O stay, rash Youth! beware, be timely wise,
Lurk'd in that Labyrinth, another Monster lies!

How weak were Female Snares, how vain each Wile,
Did not our Eyes our hood-wink'd Minds beguile?
Like gross Idolaters, we form the Power,
Then, the dull Image, as a God, adore;
Breath'd in soft Sighs, our pleading Souls impart,
And, for the Victim, Sacrifice our Heart:

172

Hence, Cælia rules, the Tyrant of thy Breast,
In all the seeming Deity confest;
Hence, when she Speaks, there's Musick in the Sound,
Hence, when she Looks, her Eyes like Lightenings wound:
But, to thy Reason's Eye, the Scene display,
And the proud Phantom-Goddess fades away;
No more her Immortality remains,
Unless preserv'd in thy immortal Strains.

Grant we, thy Cælia's Charms superior shine,
Or, in the Lover's Language, look Divine;
Yet, is each Charm to her alone confin'd?
Or canst Thou judge, by partial Passion blind?
Still, will each faithful, Love-alluring Grace,
Beam in her Eye, and brighten up her Face?
So, the blue Summit of some Mountain's Height,
Wrapt in gay Clouds, deludes the distant Sight;

173

But, as with gazing Eyes, we draw more near,
Fades the false Scene, and the rough Rocks appear.

Nor outward Form thy easy Thought controul,
But be the Look an Index to the Soul;
For when old Nature fram'd the faithless Fair,
From every Work, the Goddess cull'd a share;
In heav'nly Beauty bad her Face excel,
But made her Heart the Treasury of Hell:
Hence, Pride, and Lust, and jealous Fury grow,
The Springs of Sorrow, and the Seeds of Woe!
Thus Brothels with a painted Angel shine,
Whilst latent Devils en-ambush'd, lurk within.

Nor think, my Damon, that I rashly blame,
Thy too good Nature, thy too generous Flame;
Like thine, my victim'd Heart, the Pangs has bore,
But, (ah delightful Change!) endures no more;
Yet O! for oft the Thought disturbs my Rest,
'Tis hard to heal a love-envenom'd Breast;

174

So soft each Arrow steals upon our Heart,
It glides a Feather, but it grows a Dart!
Yet, wouldst thou from increasing Ills be free,
Pursue my Precepts, and resolve like me,
When the false Syren singles out her Man,
Tips the lewd Leer, or flaps the flirting Fan;
O shun th' Infection swift, victorious, fly,
She smiles a Ruin, and she looks a Lie!
But, must some lovely, some divinely Fair,
Sweeten this Draught of Life, and sooth thy Care;
Let the gay Muse relieve thy sickening Pain,
And form a brighter Venus of the Brain;
Then shalt thou scorn those Charms that made thee grieve,
And, by the fair Illusion, learn to live.

So Israel's Sons, by poisonous Serpents stung,
Aloft in Air, a mimick Serpent hung;
Fix'd on the Sight, the sad afflicted Train
Gaz'd into Health, and look'd away their Pain.

Sedney-Coll. Feb. 19. 1725–6.

175

ON A Painted LADY.

Cælia 's fair, the charming Toast,
May of each Perfection boast;
What penurious Nature owes,
Art more liberal bestows:
Bids a fresher Blush arise,
Keener Light'ning arm her Eyes;
Adds, or animates a Grace,
And wakes the Wonders of her Face:
The blushing Tinctures smiling flow,
To see how cunningly they grow;
To see how all the Beaus adore
Cælia, mortal now no more,
New created by their Power.

176

Thus the fairest sweetest Place,
Once uncultivated was;
Where Parterres their Flowers disclose,
Bushes, Brakes, and Briars rose;
Thorns with pointed Horror stood,
And arm'd the Borders of the Wood;
But since the Workman's pow'rful Hand
Subdu'd, and civiliz'd the Land;
Tun'd the Torrents to Cascades,
And soften'd Forests into Shades,
Surprizing Scenes attract our Sight,
And turn Displeasure to Delight;
The Savages forsake their Place,
And yield to nobler Human-Race.

177

The COMET.

To a Divine, On his saying, He had seen every Thing but a Comet.

Great has your Pleasure, Doctor, been,
You Nature's choicest Works have seen,
All, but a Comet—and
Would Nature by her dread Command,
One of her long-tail'd Children bring,
You might say, you've seen every Thing.

If so—you must have, Doctor, seen,
All Sarah hides in quilted Green;
I long to know how it appear'd,—
A Comet has a flaming Beard.
'Tis Comet-like, if I guess right,
At once 'twill entertain and fright;
'Tis Comet-like, agreed by all,
And seldom seen, but Great Men fall.

178

An Natura intendat Monstrum? Neg.

[_]

Translated from the Carm. Quad.

Press'd with a Load of Poverty, and Years,
How strange a Prodigy the Wretch appears;
Whose trembling Limbs, and furrow'd Brows reveal,
The noxious Witch, Foe to the publick Weal;
Who gathers Herbs by Moon-Light, and alarms
The neighb'ring Villages with magick Charms:
To her imagin'd Spells dire Woes succeed,
The gen'rous Courser loaths the flow'ry Mead;
Spurning the Glebe around the Field he flies,
Forsakes his dappled Mares, repines, and dies.

From Infants tender Throats (what Nurses say
There Numbers shall to wond'ring Ears convey)
Sharp Pins, and Needles, tear their bloody Way.

179

From Heifers stubborn Teats the trickling Store
Of milky Nectar now descends no more;
Dame Baucis trudges to the Fields in vain,
Few Drops, alas! her stinted Pails contain.

Oft the malicious Hag is seen to flie,
Thro' the large Convex of the nether Sky;
Upborn by magick Staff she rides secure,
(Superiour to the giddy Whirlwinds Power.)
Advent'rous, o'er the pathless Welkin strays,
Mocks the rude Winds, and in the Tempest plays.
Now dwindled to an Hare, she scours in View,
While the full Cry her circling Mare pursue;
Now, tir'd, the Beagle's eager Speed eludes,
In puzling Thickets lost, or trackless Woods:
The baffled Hunters for the Witch enquire,
Now safely seated by the Kitchin Fire;
Hid in Grimalkin's Form, with sullen Pride,
Demure she sits, and licks her Tabby side.

180

Whence knows she thus to vary her Disguise,
And in a borrow'd Shape deceive our Eyes?
She, whom the restless Course of Time made old,
(Time that distorts the fairest human Mould)
Tho' a poor simple Soul as ever liv'd,
Is by the Vulgar as a Witch receiv'd.
Thus Monsters in our Mind alone exist,
We give 'em Birth, and Shape them as we list.

181

To Mr. ROCHE,

Upon his Translating the foregoing Piece.

To Praise unknown, unknowing to commend,
Distinguishes the Critick from the Friend:
Such was my just Applause when publick Fame
Proclaim'd your Merit, but conceal'd your Name.
Like Ægypt we Ador'd the teeming Flood,
And bless'd the latent Author of our Good.

No more shall silly Tales the World deceive,
No more the sillier World those Tales believe;
Each wither'd Crone shall live, and die unblam'd,
And be no more a Witch, or Wizard nam'd:
No publick Grievances infest her Ease,
But innocently she may stink in Peace.
The only Prodigy which now appears,
Is such a Genius so beyond its Years.

182

TO A Wretched Poetaster;

That went into Mourning to counterfeit His Sister's Death.

In vain, poor fustian Fop, you dress and write,
Begot in Nature's Scorn, and Wit's Despite;
For sure she made thee, only for a Rule,
To form a Coxcomb, and a canting Fool:
In vain you tag dull miserable Rhime,
And make it with your shambling Legs to chime;
The Muse you may pursue in Nature's spite,
But never over-take her tow'ring Flight;
In this you're only right, so smart in Black,
For then, you show your Soul, upon your Back.

As the sly Peasant hangs a breathless Crow,
To scare the Vermin from the Corn below;

183

So Fortune sets thee in a World of Wit,
To keep Fools like thy self from tasting it.

Of old, we read Amphion's sacred Song,
Could draw dull Blocks, and senseless Stones along;
The same Effect among thy Books we see,
For they draw Blocks, as dull, in drawing Thee.

Thy Wit, and Money, both are of a Length,
Both stol'n, dependant on each other's Strength;
But soon thy Sister shall resume her Breath,
And to thy Muse, and Thee give surer Death;
Then, those black Ensigns of her wish'd-for Fate,
May mourn thy transient Wit, and lost Estate.

Wrote at Appleby-School, 1723.

184

SONG.

I

'Twas in the solemn Noon of Night,
As I lay by a murmuring Stream,
Betray'd by Fancy's sweet Delight,
Amus'd by an amorous Dream.

II

When strait I heard, or seem'd to hear,
From an Ivy's dark reverend Shade,
A solemn Sound assault mine Ear,
And heavily pierce the thick Glade.

III

But soon a faint-pale Form appear'd,
Like a Shade on a Moon-shiny Wall;
To it's gor'd Breast it's Hand it rear'd,
And utter'd this sorrowful Call.

185

IV

O pity me kind hearted Swain!
For you knew, ah too well! the false Maid;
She lov'd me first, first sooth'd my Pain,
She sooth'd it, but then she betray'd!

V

Depress'd with Anguish, Rage, and Grief,
I fatally sought out this Grove,
Here rashly cut the Thread of Life,
And ended all Hopes of my Love!

VI

But yet, tho' Beauty cannot please,
And, tho' I'm now tasteless of Charms,
'Twill rob me of eternal Rest,
To think her enjoy'd in thy Arms.

VII

Yet once, I think, thou wert my Friend,
Till the Friend in the Rival was lost,
O kindly let the Rival end,
Nor farther torment a poor Ghost!

186

VIII

For this a restless Shade I rove—
Be warn'd by my pitiful Fate!
Betimes, betimes renounce your Love,
Nor ponder this Lesson too late!

IX

So may good Angels guard thy sleep—
But I to the false-hearted Maid
Will glide, and thro' the Curtains peep;
There shew Her the Man she betray'd.

X

She cannot, sure, she cannot see
So wretched an Object unmov'd!
At least, I think, she'll pity me,
More truly, than ever she lov'd.

XI

Farewel—but, go to yonder Cave,
Where my Bones to the Ravens lie bare;
Inhume them kindly in a Grave,
And my Fame from Aspersors, O clear!

187

XII

I trembled as the Spectre spoke,
And starting, awak'd with the Fright,
While the hoarse Night-Bird's hollow Croak,
Presented the shivering Sprite.

XIII

A sudden Chillness freez'd my Breast,
My Soul in a Terror was fled;
Fainting, I sunk, benumb'd, oppress'd;
And dreamt that Beliza was dead.

XIV

When soon, for now the dawning Light
Be-jewell'd the dew-dropping Vale,
A Youth came posting thro' the Night;
To tell me the fore-boded Tale.

XV

The Maid was dead—my Fears were just
I arose, and soon found out the Cave,
Prepar'd an Urn, then mix'd their Dust,
And weeping laid both in a Grave.

188

FROM London to Cambridge.

An Epistle to Mr. Roche.

SIR,

Yours, I receiv'd, with mighty Pleasure,
Attended with my learned Treasure;
And had I Burkett's Knack, and Time,
I'd shoe my Muse's Feet with Rhime,
I'd send you such a Pack of News,
Nay, make an Hackney of my Muse:
Prove Logically Pope a Fool,
Sagely denounce great Shakespeare dull,
To both prefer good Master Fenton,
Or, in a Moment's Time invent One;

189

But for Necessity you know,
One's Self might stand—in Statu Quo.

But hang it, I've no Turn for Satire,
Besides, 'tis quite against my Nature;
For Criticisms! pshaw the Bottle,—
The Devil take your Aristotle:
Give me a sparkling foaming Glass,
As bright, and clever as my Lass;
Thus let us dance an endless Round,
Till one, or t'other throws me down.

But now to talk a little serious,
Nor vainly light, nor yet mysterious;
Pray how do Cambridge-Matters stand?
How fare the Brethren of the Band?
For now I think on't in your last,
Those things were negligently pass'd;
But in your next, pray let me know,
If you can come to Town, or no;

190

For solitary here I stay,
Impatient at your long Delay;
Most indolently spend my Time,
Or sleep, or drink, or idly Rhime;
Now lay new Models for a Poem,
Then in a Moment's Time undo 'em;
For faith the tuneful Tribe neglect me,
While you are absent to direct me.
But, if you'll come, then in a Trice,
Assisted by your good Advice;
I'll polish my poetick Store,
And fish for Trouts in Metaphor;
To Thames' serene Retreats repair,
And finish my Six Cantoes there;
My pleasurable Labours done,
Subscribe, your Servant Pattison.

191

To the Same.

While You, my dear, sit moap'd in College,
And lose your Wit in search of Knowledge,
Restrain'd by Tutors, aw'd by Doctors,
And watch'd by supercilious Proctors;
I make the present Day my own,
And Dedicate it to the Town:
As how? why thus; here's just a Piece
And this is all, my Pleasure's Price;
With this I'll get politely drunk,
With this I'll get some courtly Punk,
Not one of your damn'd common Whores,
That ply it at your Merchant's Doors;
But one, ay, such a one! so fine!
You Bards would call her some Divine—

192

Some—but a Rapture here encroaches,
Time spends—you Captain of the Coaches!
Here Master—where? why to the Rose,
(A Place that every Body knows.)

But now we've got a Moment's Talk,
As Folks tell Stories as they walk;
For once I'll be as dull and sober,
As if I 'ad guzzled fat October.

I know now You, and Twenty more,
If once Poetically—Poor;
Would sit and frown, be hip'd, and snivel,
And curse your Fortune to the Devil;
Whilst I, all Gay, and Debonair,
Till, I must feel, would nothing fear.
Riches are Joys indeed—I want 'em,
And I'll thank Fortune if she'll grant 'em;
If not—why I'm the richer still—
No, no, you mean the poorer Will—

193

The richer, Sir, I say again,
And thus the Matter I'll explain.

Those Mortals, happy, you'll allow,
Who nothing Borrow, nothing Owe?
But search the World; and if you can
In Town, or Country, find that Man,
To your Opinion I'll descend,
If not, I hope, you'll hear your Friend.

Well, for that's nearest, go to Court,
Begin your Search, I wish you Sport:
His Honour, Lordship, and His Grace,
All mighty Men! in mighty Place!
But how are all those Honour's gain'd?
Those mighty Places, how obtain'd?
How? why by Interest, and Favour,
Then let me Note, Sir, by your Leave here;
Those Dignities 'tis plainly shown,
Are but Another's, not their Own;

194

Soon got, they may as soon be lost,
While Whim, and Fancy rule the Roast;
And very plainly, by the bye,
Belong as much to You, or I.

But if they're bob'd by Church or State,
You say they've got a great Estate:
A great Estate! by whom? or how?
Lord, Sir! your're too inquis'tive now—
Job's Father's dead, he's eldest Son,
Just come to Age, so All's his own;
What would you more? but lend your Ear,
And in a Moment you shall hear;
Your 'Squire has Wealth, and therefore Parts!
Is great at Court, deep vers'd in Arts:
Yet whilst his Stock of Wealth and Sense,
Is due to Men, or Providence,
He lives!—but on another's Pence!
And while he grows the richer, yet
He only runs the more in Debt,

195

Hence Logically I could show,
The more we Have, the more we Owe;
But Time's too precious thus to spend,
And see we're at our Journey's End—
Here, O delicious! take the Glass—
O fill it higher! name the Lass—
Now make a Fool, as Tale shall bless us,
Of Aristotle, and of Crœsus.

196

TO Mr. MITCHELL,

Upon His Poetical Petition to the Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.

Back Scribler, to thy Caledonian Plains,
Cold as thy Genius, barren as thy Brains;
To those inhospitable Mountains shew,
A cursed Rhiming-Itch, they never knew;
Nor think to read thy Lectures here, for know,
We never take Dictators from the Plough:
Then peaceably betimes resign thy Quill,
Scotland, to British-Power, is Subject still;

While Congreve with a just Politeness warms,
While easy Pope with flowing Musick charms;

197

While witty Swift shall every Muse adorn,
And Dennis scourge the Fools he does not scorn;
While Philips' Verse delights the list'ning Swains,
And Steele declines the Praise his Merit gains;
While Fenton's sadly-pleasing Numbers move,
And Granville kindles up a nobler Love.
While happy we these tuneful Bards can hear,
No Foreign Jargon shall debauch our Ear.

Yet warm'd by British Heat, and British Lays,
Thou striv'st to turn thy Libel into Praise;
Thus Ægypt's Streams in muddy Currents run,
And ripen into Monsters by the Sun.
In vain thou'rt sanctify'd with Milton's Name,
Not even Homer should protect thy Shame;
In Pope, that mighty Greek thy Baseness knows,
And Zoilus and Homer still were Foes,
Murderers like Thee to an Asylum fly,
Not to shew Zeal, but hide their Infamy:

198

And with convicted Villains mayst thou go,
Guilty of Robbery, and Murder too;
For trace thy Steps, and presently we find,
The Hand that robb'd Pack's Garden of the Mind,
Murdering each Sweet, disguising it for Thine,
And making Mortal what he made Divine.

ON HIS MISTRESS's Favours.

Like Alexander, Cælia spreads her Power,
Like Him, She makes the Vassal-World Adore;
But, ah! like Him, to sooth a proud Desire,
First conquers Towns, then sets those Towns on Fire.

199

TO Mr. POPE.

Dear SIR,

And sure that fond, familiar Name,
May hint, that Friendship is my gen'rous Aim,
O then this Frankness of my Heart excuse,
And with a Smile confirm the Blushing Muse;
Ambitious Hope! yet say, to bless our Eyes,
Thy mighty Homer should again arise,
Wouldst Thou not pant the wondrous Man to see?
Speak from thy inmost Soul!—then censure Me!
And as Aloft in laurell'd State You sit,
And view below the Subject Sons of Wit;
O teach those arduous Ways thro' which you came,
And lead Her thro' the flowery Paths of Fame.

200

A Child, as yet, no certain Steps she takes,
But, now and then, a wild Excursion makes,
Mocks the grave Dictates of Her Guardian Art,
Steals from Her Sight, and plays a Wanton's Part:
Tho' cross'd my self in every glorious Aim,
'Tis Hope, at least, to be ally'd to Fame.
And whilst the Witty, and the Fair commend,
It hints some Merit to be call'd Thy Friend.
Fir'd at that Word, against my Fate I'll strive,
And dare to emulate that Praise I'd give.
What, tho' I fail the bold Attempt to gain,
Mean were the Thought to think it made in vain.
The richest Ore shines useless unreveal'd,
And smallest Talents should not be conceal'd.
For sure the Muse that Gen'rous Verse inspires,
Which Friendship dictates, and Affection fires;
Warm'd by a faint Reflexion of thy Flame,
My Bosom kindles at immortal Fame;
But well I know the Rashness of my Youth,
Perhaps these Lines confirm the fatal Truth!

201

No sordid Views could ever yet seduce,
The Virgin-Chastness of my youthful Muse;
Let venal Bards in State-Promotion play,
There Sport like Atoms in the Stream of Day.
I never made a wealthy Ideot laugh,
Or Israel-like ador'd a Golden-Calf;
But when I see true Worth conspicuous shine,
I burn to make the bright Alliance mine.
Superior to the formal World's controul,
Pride in its Charms, and claim a kindred Soul;
O! then this Token of my Zeal receive,
For next to Merit Praises, is to Give.

202

VERSES:

Humbly Inscribed to the Right Honourable Brownlow, Earl of Exeter, &c. Occasioned by the Birth of his Son and Heir the Lord Burleigh.

My Root was spread out by the Waters, and the Dew lay all Night upon the Branch: My Glory was fresh in me, and my Bow was renewed in my Hand, Job xxix. 19, 20.

From this auspicious Hour let Glory trace,
The lengthened Honours of the Cecil's Race;
And, as her Eyes indulge the Purple Scene,
The glad Procession, and the shining Train,
Of Ermin'd Ancestors, and Burleigh's Son,
And Annals ever-blending with her own;
Weigh ev'ry Worth, and each distinguish'd Claim,
To the vast Splendor of superior Fame;

203

Till fairest Omens check her fruitless Care,
And fix the long-disputed Lustre here.

To polish Worth, and fill the glowing Heart
With purest Strains of Honour and Desert;
Till finish'd Merit can refine no more,
And Nature gives the generous Conflict o'er;
Till the last Touch compleats the labour'd Piece,
And Glory cries, I'm satisfy'd with This:
The Toil of rowling Seasons must engage,
The Pangs of Years, the Labour of an Age.

In this fair Pledge of Burleigh's endless Name,
This happy Earnest of continuing Fame;
Let gen'rous Cecil lend one falling Tear,
And read the narrow Date Mortality must share.
Pass but an Year, an Age, or Æra by,
Our Selves, our Merits, and our Names shall dye:
The poor capricious Being of a Day,
The slender Vassals of a swift Decay.

204

Like shadowy Heroes of a Theatre,
Born for a while to Blaze—and disappear;
The mould'ring Subject of a scanty Date,
Prais'd in this Age—and in the next forgot.

But gracious Heaven with healing Care ordains,
For transient Merit still its kind Remains;
Thus God-like Stems she Labours to retrieve
From the dark Bosom of the silent Grave:
And by successive Blooms of Worth repays,
The hasty Flow of quick-expiring Days.

His Course of Glory well has Cecil run;
“He ow'd his Britain nothing but a Son,
To speed th' immortal Glories of his Line
Along the Flood of Ages, and the Flow of Time.
If Patriots claim an Int'rest in the Praise,
And share the future Glories of their Race:
The Father blooms with Triumphs of the Son,
And all the distant Merit is his own;

205

Repaid is He that watch'd for Britain's Queen,
Nor has great Burleigh merited in vain.

Illustrious Youth! to early Fame appear,
And answer all Eliza's forming Care:
Here in thy own Britannia's Annals learn,
What Time and Glory ask from Cecil's Son.
Already I survey this watchful Care,
To crush the Embryo Seeds of rising War;
To Prop the awful Pile of Britain's State,
To curb the Rhine, and balance Europe's Fate:
Hear Thee proclaim'd thy Country's best Defence,
And chose to speak a Loyal Nation's Sense.
But O! when Heaven grows envious of his Days,
And re-demands her Blessing to the Skies;
Let Burleigh join his Labours with thy own,
And be the Tutelary Saints of Britain's Throne.

J. Taylor, A. B. Div. Johan. Coll. Cant.

206

Upon seeing a Lady at the Musick-Booth at Sturbridge-Fair.

By the Same.

I

Could these faint Numbers glow with equal Fire,
To that which in his Breast the Writer feels:
Could Phœbus like the Fair Unknown inspire,
And Verse, but emulate the Flame it tells,
The Lover some Success had found, and she
Been known to Fame, tho' lost to Love and Me.

II

Wound not that Love with too severe a Name,
Which was not Chance, but Passion in Excess,
Conceal'd the Shaft from whence the Arrow came,
My Hopes may be, but not my Anguish less:
Strikes not the Light'ning with a Fate as true,
Tho' baffled Reason wonder'd whence it flew.

207

III

If not in Pity to your Lover's Woes,
For your own Sake, at least, your self reveal,
Lest when I die, and Thou the latent Cause,
You lose a Triumph you deserve so well;
Nay, ev'n repaid with all my Suff'rings be,
And envy'd by my Fall—if known, I fall by Thee.

IV

Yet more—a thousand Loves may lurk behind,
And half the Course of Glory yet to run;
A flowing Wit, discreet, and beauteous Mind,
May crown the Conquest which your Eyes begun;
Nor bid me dread the thousand Deaths in store,
I look'd, I sigh'd, and lov'd—and was undone before!

208

V

In vain I, Midnight-Anchorite, must boast
Of rugged Maxims, and pedantick Rules,
For what is Life, if best Enjoyment lost
In the dull Mazes of insipid Schools?
Love, must refine what Science scarce began,
And mould the Letter'd Savage into Man.

VI

Let lazy Hermits dream in College-Cells
Severely great, and indolently good,
Whose frozen Breasts such glimm'ring Rapture swells,
As Lifeless, dull Platonicks understood.
Go, tell that doating Sage, who looks on Thee
With Plato's Eyes, may question if He See.

209

VII

Judge now my Passion by severest Truth,
And read what rig'rous Justice cannot blame
If I have err'd, inform a willing Youth,
At lest, mistaken only was my Flame.
Was Love a Crime? then teach me to Adore,
And Zeal shall be what Passion was before.

210

TO A LADY, That sent me a Flowered Cap.

I

What Flowers of Rhet'rick can I use
These brighter Flowers to commend?
What Gift, or Present, can I chuse,
Equivalent to send?

II

I've search'd the Muses fertile Field,
But searching no where can find such,
Nor even Nature's Self can yield,
What I admire so much.

III

This Token, o'er my Temples spread,
A double Power does impart;
For as it gently warms my Head,
It fires my bleeding Heart.

211

IV

But let the blust'ring Storms engage,
The ruffling Winds blow high;
Thus arm'd I'll mock their empty Rage,
And every Blast defy.

V

Like the bold Grecian-chief I stand,
In Arms superior Shine;
Like His, they boast an Heavenly Hand,
But Skill, much more Divine!

VI

He did not fear a Wound, 'tis true,
From none, except the Deities:
And I'm invulnerable too,
To All—except my Laura's Eyes.

212

ODE on LIGHT

By Mr. Taylor of St. John's College.

And God said: Let there be Light, and there was Light,
Gen. i. 3.

I.

All Hail! illustrious Parent of the Day,
Hail! thou of Heaven First-born
To glad Creation at her Dawn,
And gild the growing Harmony.
Source of Ages, Flow of Time,
By Thee the Hours have fledg'd their Wing.
Æras start, and Seasons spring;
From Thee they sprung, by Thee they glide
Light! ever Fleeting, ever Gay,
Light! their Spring, their Lamp, and Guide;
Thou measur'st out their Line,
And chalk'st their destin'd Way.

213

By thy nimble speeding,
Wearied Wish exceeding,
Ray on Ray succeeding
Will we trace,
Thy furious Bound, thy eager Pace,
If that all forming Summons to appear,
That spoke Thee to exist, and bad Thee canton out the Year.

II.

Say, to what friendly Aid we owe
Those Gleams that in the Minds fair Mirrour play?
From what rich Fountain flow
Those ripening Beams of intellectual Day?
By whose fair Pencil is each Image wrought,
That teems to Birth, and burnishes to Thought?
How Fancy every Shape puts on?
How kindling Sparks her Form compose,
And whence the constant-shining Train,
That Mem'ry, or Experience shows?
How Reason's Lamp burns with incessant Toil,
To light the Judgment, and to guide the Will?

214

III.

Yet, where benighted Reason strays
In Faith's un-navigable Ocean lost,
There Heaven a bounteous Light displays,
And steers the scatter'd Vessel to the Coast.
First in the hallow'd Signs,
The glimmering Truth in mystick Notes we trace,
Till gather'd in a full Meridian Blaze,
The swelling Prospect shines.
Thus mimick Colours, on the Canvass laid,
Rise, by Degrees, in nice Distinction spread,
The Light it self displays, and animates the Shade.

IV.

Muse, must the Light of Learning die?
Muse, forbid Obscurity;
Lest, what the rolling Flood of Years had swept away,
Rust, and tarnish to Decay;
Muse, the fleeting Hours retrieve,
And bid forgotten Æras live:

215

Bid the Sister-Arts advance,
Swell the Pomp, and crown the Dance,
Hark! the Strings obsequious move;
See! the bounding Fingers rove;
Now the Majestic Epic sails along,
Hail the great Notes, and bless the rising Song!
Now, in sadly-pleasing Strains,
Weeping Elegy complains:
Now, now the giddy Lyre
Gives Life to Sound, and Sense to Wire;
Blending Notes, and Accents changing
In broken Airs, and wild tumultuous Fury ranging:
Distemper'd Darkness rears her lazy Head,
Oblivion quits her gloomy Bed:
Science blooms, and Arts refine,
Letter'd Ages know
In fair Array to glide;
Athens revives where Cam and Isis flow.

216

TO Mrs. MARY FREWEN,

Upon Her having the Small-Pox.

Let Others pensive o'er their Mirrors trace,
The beauteous Ruins of a former Face;
Nor for thy Beauties, lovely Maid repine,
Thy Beauties mingled in a Mould Divine,
Can but endure a momentary Pain,
And like all Heavenly Substance heal again.

And see thy Dangers, and our Fears are o'er,
Hearts pant, Sighs heave, and Sorrow streams no more!
As Gold by purging Flame still clearer glows,
As Virtue from Affliction brighter grows,

217

Sweet e'en in Griefs, and e'en in Pangs serene,
Dawn the dear Glories of Euphrenia's Mien;
Dear to the Muse, who trembling spreads her Wings,
To shrowd the Lover, as her Poet sings;
But as he Loves, alas! he Sings in vain,
When Beauty's in Affliction, every Strain.
When every Charm a thousand Charms resumes,
And fair as Eden, from Confusion blooms,
Raptur'd He stands, and boldly dares Divine,
How to an Angel Thou must once Refine.

218

TO THE Countess of Hertford.

Madam,

If the following Lines, the Result of my Misfortunes this Morning, can engage your Ladyship's Encouragement to the Poems I propose afterwards, it will be no small Recommendation to their publick Appearance; and, a very great Favour to their Author.

Your Ladyship's most Devoted, and most Humble Servant, William Pattison.

Fair Patroness of gentle Arts excuse,
This rude Address of an unhappy Muse;
A Muse, bereft of every worldy View!—
Unknown she comes—but then She comes to You!
And, if a Stranger's Soul distrestful, Sigh,
Tun'd by kind Sympathy, our Souls reply;

219

Explore the Cause thro' a long Train of Ills,
And, pitying, share those Woes the Sufferer feels:
The Loss of Fortune, Friends, or Fame-Divine,—
O grievous Loss! and must I call it mine!
And must I still reflect those happier Hours,
When, peaceably retir'd, in Granta's Bowers
I lay, the pleasing Paths to Learning plann'd,
And, Moses-like, just saw the Promis'd-Land.
Just saw—but, O my Soul! I live to mourn
The joyous Scene, that can no more return!
Distrest!—and have my boundless Griefs reveal'd
The Thought—Ambition labouring had conceal'd!
In vain, for when we dictate from the Heart,
Nature will speak at every Pause of Art;
And like a bashful Virgin, half exprest,
In spite of all the Woman, blush the Rest—
Tho' pangful-Martyrs smile upon their Grief
To Man, yet Sigh to Him, who sends Relief.

220

Whence then, my Muse, thy Blush, and why thy Tears,
'Tis not the World—alleviate thy Fears;
Remember well, that Virtue still the same,
Sounds the soft Earnest of immortal Fame!
Tho' Want it self might feed her famish'd Eye,
And Sorrow sweeten into Harmony!
O how I long to change this mournful Strain,
But when Fate frowns, the Muses smile in vain!
Doom'd by the sad Severity of Fate,
And must I bound my Glory with my Hate!
It must be so—like Noah's Dove distrest,
In vain I wander up and down for Rest,
From Spray to Spray I traverse every Tree,
And offer up my greenest Branch to Thee!

221

To the Right Honourable the Lord CARTERET.

With an indulgent Smile, my Lord, excuse
This sadly-true Prediction of the Muse;
And may this single Specimen of Woe
Speak for the Rest, and all its Author show;
Nor blushing let me mourn my Youthful Hours,
As vainly spent in the Parnassian-Bowers.
By Nature prompted, and a Slave to Fate,
I strove to please the Witty, and the Great;
Presumptuous hence, nor without Hopes I come
To you, and from your Taste await my Doom;
From thence implore the Sanction of your Name,
To be my Pasport thro' the Gates of Fame.
So, Miners, first, the Bullion-Ore refine,
Then beg their Monarch's Stamp, to make it Currant-Coin.

222

A HARVEST Scene.

Behold——
The Green Fields Yellowing into Corny Gold!
White o'er their Ranks, an Old Man half appears,
How hale he Looks, tho' hoar'd with seventy Years;
His Prospect mounts, slow-pac'd, he strives to climb,
And seems some antient Monument of Time;
Propt o'er his Staff the reverend Father stands,
And views Heaven's Blessings with up-lifted Hands;
Gleeful in Heart computes the Year's Increase,
And portions out, in Thought, his homely Race,
His homely Race before, his Hopes improve,
And labour in Obedience for his Love;

223

Sweepy they Cut, then Bind the Sheafy-Grain,
And bend beneath the Burthen of the Plain;
His chearful Eyes, with silent Praises crown
Their Toils, and Smile at Vigour once his own;
Till the Mid-Sun to second Nature's Call,
Noon-marks the distant Steeple's Ivy'd Wall,
Thence warn'd, he waves his Arms, with giddy Haste,
The circling Summons to a cool Repaste.

224

EFFIGIES AUTHORIS.

Oppress'd with Griefs, with Poverty, and Scorn,
Of all forsaken, and of all forlorn,
What shall I do? or whither shall I flie?
Or what kind Ear will hear the Muse's Cry?
With restless Heart from Place to Place I roam,
A wretched Vagrant destitute of Home;
Driv'n from fair Granta's Shade by Fortune's frown,
I came to court the Flatt'rer in the Town.
Three tedious Days detain'd me on the Road,
Whilst the Winds whistled, and the Torrents flow'd,
On my devoted Head the Gusty Breeze,
Shook the collected Tempest, from the Trees;
For shelter to the Shades, I ran in vain,
The Shades deceitful Delug'd me with Rain;

225

Thus when Fate frowns upon our happier Days,
Our Friend, perhaps, our Bosom Friend betrays:
But as Vicissitudes controul our Fate,
And Griefs and Joys maintain a doubtful State,
So now the Sun's emerging Orb appears,
And with the spungy Clouds dispels my Fears,
In Tears the transient Tempest flits away,
And all the blue Expansion flames with Day.
My gazing Eyes o'er pleasing Prospects roll,
And look away the Sorrows of my Soul,
Pleas'd at each View, some rueful Thought to draw,
And moralize on every Scene I saw;
Here, with inviting Pride blue Mountains rise,
Like Joys more pleasant to our distant Eyes;
In golden Waves, there Tides of Harvest flow,
Whilst idle Poppies intermingling grow,
How like their Brother Fops an empty show!
In every Bush the warbling Birds advance,
Sing to the Sun, and on the Branches dance;

226

No Grief, no Cares perplex their Souls with Strife,
Like Bards they live, a poor, but merry Life;
In every place alike, their Fortunes lie,
Both live in want, and unregarded die.
With like Concern they meet approaching Death,
In Prison, or in Fields, resign their Breath;
Musing, I saw, the Fate I could not shun,
Shook my grave Head, and pensive travell'd on:
But as Augusta's wish'd-for Domes arise,
Peep o'er the Clouds, and Dance before my Eyes.
What Thoughts, what Tumults fill'd my lab'ring Breast,
To be conceiv'd alone, but not express'd;
What intermingled Multitudes arose,
Lords, Parsons, Lawyers, Baronets, and Beaus,
Fops, Coxcombs, Cits, and Knaves of ev'ry Class,
While some the better Half, some wholly Ass,
On either side bewailing Suppliants stand,
Speak with their Looks, and stretch their wither'd Hand.

227

In feeble Accents supplicate Relief,
And by their Sorrows multiply my Grief,
Mov'd by their Wants, my Fortune I deplore,
And deal a Tribute from my slender Store.
With Joy, the Favour they receive, and pray,
That God, the bounteous Blessing, may repay;
Thus providently wise, the lab'ring Swain
O'er the plough'd Furrows strews the fertile Grain:
The grateful Plain o'er-pays his bounteous Care,
With ten-fold Blessings, and a golden Year.

Now lost in Thought, I wander up and down
Of all unknowing, and to all unknown;
Try in each place, and ransack ev'ry News,
To find some Friend, some Patron of the Muse:
But where? or whom? alas! I search in vain,
The fruitless Labour only gives me Pain;
But soon each pleasing Prospect fades away,
And with my Money all my Hopes decay.

228

But now the Sun diffus'd a fainter Ray,
And falling Dews bewail'd the falling Day,
When to St. James's Park my Way I took,
Solemn in Pace, and sadden'd in my Look:
On the first Bench my wearied Bones I laid,
For gnawing Hunger on my Vitals prey'd;
There faint in melancholly Mood I sate,
And meditated on my future Fate.
Nights sable Vapours now the Trees invade,
And gloomy Darkness deepen'd ev'ry Shade;
And now, ah! whither shall the helpless fly,
From the nocturnal Horrors of the Sky;
With empty Rage my cruel Fate I curse,
While falling Tears bedew my meagre Purse;
What shall I do? or whither shall I run?
How scape the threat'ning Fate I cannot shun;
There, trembling Cold, and motionless I lay,
Till sleep beguil'd the Tumults of the Day.

229

“Yet tho' this mortal Body was resign'd,
“Tormenting Objects terrified my Mind,
“Despairing Forms too dreadful for the Light,
“Danc'd on my Eyes, and play'd before my Sight;
“Here worn with Sorrow, Poverty appear'd,
“In ev'ry gastly Form by Mortals fear'd:
“And now to make my Wants the more deplor'd,
“Prepar'd a plenteous Table richly stor'd.
“My Hand I stretch'd impatient of Delay,
“When lo! the fictious Treat dissolv'd away,
“Despair arose, and shook a deadly Dart,
“Then aim'd the thirsty Arrow at my Heart;
“Inly I quiver'd, trembled for my Life,
“Lost in tumultuous Agony and Grief.

“But now a kind, tho' visionary Shade
“Gleam'd thro' the Gloom, and Brighten'd all the Glade,
“On its fair Head a branching Laurel grew,
“And tho' before unseen, the Form I knew;

230

“While thus it spoke—poor Youth thy Fate I mourn,
“And weeping make thy Miseries my own:
“But patiently resign—I bring Relief,
“For as I caus'd, 'tis just, I cure thy Grief.
“Then hear—when Morning's beamy Rays arise,
“And shoot refulgent Glories thro' the Skies;
“To Chiswick's pleasurable Bowers repair,
“To guide your wand'ring Path be Thames's Care;
“In those fair hospitable Shades you'll find,
“Great Burlington, the Muse's surest Friend:
“Fam'd Burlington, as humble as He's great,
“Pride of the Court, and Bulwark of the State;
“To him this visionary Tale disclose,
“His Soul will melt in Pity at your Woes.
“To him return your long neglected Lyre,
“And let his Virtues every Line inspire;
“Farewel it said—when as the Morn appear'd,
To the warm Rays my dewy Head I rear'd,

231

Amaz'd, half drowzy, waken'd in a fright,
I ponder'd on the Vision of the Night;
When thoughtless in my Pocket I reveal'd,
A latent Six-pence happily conceal'd,
Surpriz'd with Transport stood my bristled Hair,
On Wings I seem'd to flie, and tread in Air:
To the first House I took my speedy Flight,
There wrote this recent Vision of the Night;
The wond'rous Tale in snowy Foldings bound,
Then seal'd the Pasport with a waxen Wound.
When prompted by my Genius, swift as Thought,
To Chiswick's-Bowers my rueful Story brought;
Where now with doubtful Hopes, and Fears, I wait
Your bounteous Lordship's Pleasure at your Gate.

W. Pattison.

232

ON A Gentleman's Picture.

Poets and Painters rival Glories claim,
Alike their Labours, and alike their Fame;
Apelles by a Homer's-Thoughts design'd,
And Homer was the Picture of his Mind:
From Both the same immortal Wonders rise,
At once in speaking to our Ears, and Eyes;
The Pencil's Art, a seeming Likeness gives,
But by the Pen alone, that Likeness lives;
For Time, that makes those Colours fainter show,
Gives Life to these, and makes them brighter grow.

But your's bold Artist, claim a longer Date,
The great Original preserves their Fate;

233

To future Fame transmit the finish'd Piece,
And boast a perfect Parallel with Greece;
Nor boast too much—for tho' the Face we find,
We lose the noble Image of the Mind:
'Tis ours to draw the Manners, yours the Men,
And Painting's but the Shadow of the Pen:
Yet happy in your Art, O bless your Fate,
'Tis Honour here enough to Imitate;
Whilst we, confounded by your skilful Hand,
Think the Draught lives, and fix'd like Pictures stand.

234

VERSES By Way of Contraste to the foregoing Copy, and wrote upon the same Occasion.

Crassus , the dullest, most pedantick Fool,
That ever humm'd o'er Jargon in a School,
Ambitious of attaining endless Fame,
At first, by Study thought to raise his Name;
For this, by Day, the plodding Pedant por'd;
For this, by Night, o'er sacred Sages snor'd;
But when he found his dull Attempts were vain,
And Nature gave him too much Tongue for Brain:
Thinks he the Painter shall these Honours give,
And make this Face, at least, in Colours live,
Quick as his Word, the Seeds of Fame arise,
And lo! the mimick Monster strikes our Eyes!
So like! so just the living Copy too,
For both were made for Nothing but for shew!
O may their Fates to the same End be turn'd,
May both be Hang'd, and when decay'd, both Burn'd!

235

On CRASSUS.

Dull magisterial Fool, forbear
To spit thy pointless Venom here;
To more exalted Glories born,
Thy mean Indignities I scorn;
Secure of Fame, I boast my Lays,
While Pope, while Pack, or Congreve praise;
Let these but favour what I write,
And damn'd, like Thee, be all thy spite:
No more shall Duty force my Lays,
To gild thy Vanities with praise;
If e'er again my Colours strive,
To make thy Painter's Daubings live;
May Fate, and ev'ry Muse combine,
To blast me, and the vile Design;
In short, may Heav'n, and all agree,
To make me such an Ass as Thee.

236

WOMEN and WINE:

AN EPIGRAM.

'Twas a Doubt in Debate among Sages of yore,
Whether Women, or Wine, had more absolute Power;
Now had I been the Judge, when the Matter was done,
Not one had been wiser, than when it begun:
For how can Man tell, which the strongest to call,
When with the same Ease, both can give him a Fall?

237

NANCY, the Bed-maker.

An Imitation of Ovid's Corinna.

'Twas once upon a Summer's Day,
As on my downy Bed I lay;
All over in a tedious Sweat,
To ease my Limbs, and cool the Heat;
When pretty Nancy gently came,
Nancy, the Object of my Flame!
So soft she look'd, so sweet, so fair,
With such a winning, yielding, Air;
With such an easy comely Pride,
She seem'd a lovely, longing, Bride!

Obedient to her Eyes command,
I seiz'd her warm consenting Hand;

238

Upon the downy Bed display'd,
The murm'ring, panting, struggling Maid.
There ravish'd, feasted on her Charms,
Her heaving Breast, her twining Arms,
Her Iv'ry Neck, her roguish Eyes,
Her slender Waist, her taper Thighs,
With magick Beauties there between
Too soft! too dazling to be seen!
Melting, I clasp'd them close to mine,
And in a Moment grew divine!

239

On a Lady's Erasing the Picture of Bathsheba Bathing, represented in a Snuff-Box.

I

When Cynthia saw Bathsheba's Charms,
In wanton Colours drest,
Those Lips, those killing Eyes, those Arms,
I dare not name the Rest!

II

The blushing envious, angry Maid
Observ'd with various Passions tost,
To ev'ry vulgar Eye betray'd,
Those Beauties, she alone could boast.

III

A fatal Weapon forth she drew,
To check the curious Painter's Pride,
To veil those Charms, she only knew,
Those Beauties only she could hide.

240

IV

'Tis well enamour'd, Damon cry'd,
E'en let the paltry Copy fall,
By You the Loss is well supply'd,
In You we find the Original.

AD CÆLUM.

Good Heaven! this Mystery of Life explain,
Nor let me think I bear the Load in vain;
Lest with the tedious Passage chearless grown,
Urg'd by Despair I throw the Burden down.

University of Virginia Library

MEMOIRS OF THE Author's LIFE, &c.

ODE.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

[Three Poetasters in One Age were born]

[As the Brute-World to Father Adam came]

[Whoever gives himself the Pains to stoop]

[There is a Time, when Love no Wish denies]

YARICO to INKLE:

AN EPISTLE.

VERSES on the Death of Mr. W. Pattison.

TO A FRIEND.

THE Jealous SHEPHERD; A PASTORAL.

TO Mr. JOHN SAUNDERS,

Occasioned by a Sight of some of his Paintings at Cambridge.

TO Mr. SAUNDERS,

Occasioned by the breaking of the Glass of Mr. Eusden's Picture.

BURLESQUE.

A SESSION OF THE Cambridge POETS.

Rosamond to Henry: AN EPISTLE.

Henry to Rosamond: AN EPISTLE.

THE HOUR-GLASS.

The Cambridge Beauties.

By an Admirer of the Fair Sex.

ABELARD to ELOISA.

TO The last (King George's) Guinea.

To a Needle, that pricked his Mistress's Finger.

On LAURINDA.

THE BEE and CUPID.

TO AN Old Lady that used to Paint.

To One who blamed me for Writing in Praise of a very undeserving Lady.

AN Unseasonable Surprize.

Presenting Waller's Poems to a Lady.

TO A Lady at King's-College Chapel, Cambridge.

ΚΥΝΔΥΜΟΓΕΝΙΑ: A TALE.

The FOP.

The Refusal of Her Hand.

I

II

III

THE Morning Contemplation.

THE INDIFFERENT: Wrote to a Gentleman in Love.

I

II

III

VERSES, Occasioned by the Fifth of November.

THE EXCHANGE.

I

II

ON CRASSUS.

THE ROVER Fixed.

THE Shooting Match: TO CUPID.

CHLOE Reproved.

THE Nightingale and Shepherd, Imitated from Strada.

THE Court of VENUS, From CLAUDIAN.

Orpheus and Eurydice,

From Virgil's Fourth Georgick.

Upon a NEEDLE:

Occasioned by seeing a Lady Embroidering.

TO Mr. Taylor, A. B. of St. John's, &c.

Upon Reading some of his excellent Poems.

To LAURA.

To the Same, Weeping.

To the SAME. ON HER PATCHES.

TO Her RING.

ON A Lady's Necklace.

TO A LADY, Who is most Beautiful, when Angry.

On WOMEN.

TO Mrs. WIGMORE,

Upon seeing Her at the Mountebank's Stage.

TO Mr. EUSDEN,

Desiring his Corrections on a Poem.

AN Apology to Mr. Bell.

To Mr. HEDGES,

On Reading his Latin Ode to Dr. Broxholme.