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.

University of Virginia Library

MEMOIRS OF THE Author's LIFE, &c.

ODE.

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