The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison

Ovid, in all his Changes, shews great Art,
But Pattison by Nature strikes the Heart.
Europa's Bull we find, and Leda's Swan,
Sink far beneath that Lordly Creature Man.
He never deviates from Creation's-Road,
Nor would assume a Brute to be a God.

Miscellaneous POEMS.

Select Epistles from OVID.

Sapho to Phaon.

The Argument.

I have often, and very justly I think, ranked this beautiful Epistle of Ovid's, among his Masterpieces, both for its refined Touches, and softest Strokes of Nature; the Diction is sweet and harmonious, the Sentiments delicate and tender; and in short, such as a Lady of Sapho's amorous Disposition, as her celebrated Ode represents her, might very justly, and very happily be supposed to write.

In the Design of this Epistle, Sapho kindly upbraids her Lover Phaon (who had left her and fled to Sicily) for his cruel and abrupt departure, and by very passionately deploring his absence, endeavours to regain his Affections; concluding with this Resolution, either to recover his Love, or abate her own, by throwing herself from a Rock in Leucadia, famous for relieving Persons in her Distress.

Is then this Hand to Phaon's Eyes unknown?
Is Sapho then so soon forgotten grown!
Can no Remembrance of a former Flame,
What not my Love! reflect the Writer's Name?
Nor tho' unusual Strains my Measures tell,
Enquire a Cause you sure must know too well:
Alas! no more the Lute, no more the Lyre,
Untun'd by Griefs, my Love-sick Soul inspire:

Mix'd with my Tears, my mournful Numbers flow,
And my sad Numbers breathe the Voice of Woe.
Alas! I burn—but Sighs my Flame inspire,
As Winds thro' kindled Corn diffuse the Pire.
To glowing Ætna faithless Phaon goes,
While more than Ætna in my Bosom glows.
Mellifluous Musick now no more can please,
Musick can only charm a Mind at ease;
Soft soothing Arts on me unartful prove,
For as they soothe, they fan the Flames of Love;
In vain, my kind Companions, once so dear!
With study'd Wiles, amuse my gloomy Care;
In vain their friendly Avocations please,
Love turns the very Med'cine to Disease:
Love's warmer Fires the former Friend controul,
For Phaon, dearest Phaon! fills my Soul!
Phaon!—so sweet he smiles, then sighs such Darts,
That surely 'tis an Heaven to lose our Hearts!
Like Bacchus, wou'd the Charmer bind his Brow;
Like Phœbus, tune the Lyre, or twang the Bow;

Bacchus at his, might feel fresh Blushes rise,
And Phœbus trust his Arrows to his Eyes.
Yet both these Gods, the Power of Love confess'd,
And human Beauties warm'd their Heavenly Breast;
Beauties, that ne'er like me, soft Measures knew,
To court those Gods, as I have courted you:
Yet, tho' my Numbers flow, surpass'd by none,
Or to sublime Alceus yield alone,
Tho' ev'ry Muse inspire my softer Strain,
While Phaon's deaf, alas! I sing in vain!
What tho' perhaps my Face can boast no Arts,
No Female Magick of alluring Hearts;
Yet Nature, for that transient Power declin'd,
With Wit's superiour Power improv'd my Mind:
Short tho' my Stature, yet my lofty Name
O'er the wide World distends my deathless Fame;
If fair I am not, yet a swarthier Face
Cou'd charm young Perseus to a dear Embrace.
The jetty Turtle seeks the silver Dove,
Yet both, you know, are call'd the Birds of Love.

With various Colours, various Colours join,
And Vivids with Cerulæan Azure shine:
But if such Nymphs, as not your Equals prove,
You ne'er can love, alas! you ne'er can love.

Nor should I think too humbly of these Charms,
That once could win a Phaon to my Arms;
That once—for ah! how Love records each Joy!
That once alone could Phaon's Soul employ!
Ev'n Trifles then, like Magick Charms could move,
And ev'ry Trifle was a Charm of Love:
Whene'er my Musick breath'd, you bless'd the Song,
And o'er my rising Neck enamour'd hung;
With speaking Eyes confess'd the pleasing Pain,
And with a dying Softness drank the Strain:
At ev'ry Note, you led away a Heart,
At ev'ry Look, receiv'd a double Dart;
'Till panting at the flowing Joy we sigh'd,
Mix'd our warm Souls, and into Life we dy'd!

The soft Sicilians now thy Soul subdue,
Gods that I were a soft Sicilian too!
Nor boast, ye Nymphs! the Conquest of your Eyes,
Tho' glorious, yet delusive is the Prize!
If ye, like me, the Tempter's Oaths believe,
Too soon they'll conquer, and too soon deceive!
Prov'd by my Fate, experienc'd are his Arts,
And constant only, in destroying Hearts.

Oh Venus! since Sicilia owns thy Power,
To these fond Arms, the roving Youth restore;
Indulgent to my Strains, afford a Cure,
Or teach my Soul her Sorrows to endure.
With my first Years, began my early Grief,
And must Misfortunes lengthen with my Life!
Corroding Sorrows canker'd all my Bloom,
Sprung from my Parents too untimely Tomb.
My Brother next opprobrious to our Race,
His Fame polluted by a lewd Embrace:

A Pyrate now, repairs his squander'd Wealth,
And what by Lust he lost, regains by Stealth.
Oft with a Sister's Care, the Youth I warn'd,
But he my Care, with haughty Taunts return'd;
A much-lov'd Daughter's Fate distracts me now,
Adds Grief to Grief, and Misery to Woe!
Yet, these Afflictions, Reason might controul,
Did not more deep Afflictions sting my Soul;
Did not thy Wrongs, the last, the greatest prove,
For neither Death, nor Fortune wound like Love.

No more my Robes the costly Fair display,
No more my Fingers dart a Diamond Day;
No more my flowing Looks enstarr'd, exhale
The clouding Odours of Arabia's Gale;
But, all disorder'd with the ruffling Air,
Denote a Mind disorder'd more with Care:
On whom should these alluring Arts be shown
But him I love? And him I love is gone!

What killing Arrows wound my tender Heart?
Yet, such is Love, I bless the killing Dart.
For so the Fates my vital Thread ordain,
And sure they spun it from a Lover's Chain!
What Arts I try to chase my Cares away?
How all my Actions all those Arts betray!
In vain I touch the Lute, or sweep the Lyre,
Soft Musick but indulges soft Desire:
Harmonious Charms in vain my Fancy move,
For ah! far stronger are the Charms of Love,
Far stronger are thy soft enchanting Charms!
Who would not die to clasp thee in her Arms!—
For thee, Aurora, Cephalus might scorn,
Nor blush to paint her Passion on the Morn;
Cynthia, for thee, Endymion might despise,
And gild her Crescent with thy brighter Eyes:
Venus would place thee with the Gods above,
Would not thy Charms supplant the God of Love.
Oh dear enchanting Youth! transporting Boy!
The Bloom of Life, the Spring of Love enjoy:

To my soft Breast in Tides of Transports flow,
There Phaon,—take the Love you won't bestow.
See! while I write, my Eyes in Torrents stream,
To kiss, and mingle with dear Phaon's Name!
Dear Phaon! Yet this Phaon left me tho'—
Can Lovers leave a melting Mistress so?
Could no deceitful Sigh, no lying Tear,
Express at least a counterfeited Fear!
If not your Love, your Gratitude to shew,
You might have utter'd formally, Adieu.
Nor could that Accent, like this Silence wound,
Thy soothing Tongue had soften'd the harsh Sound.
No Kiss you breath'd, the Lover's last Relief,
No Kiss receiv'd, nor left me aught but Grief!
No Gift I gave, nor cou'd my Gifts impart,
So pure a Token as my love-sick Heart!
No binding Vows we join'd, our Faith to prove,
Alas! I trusted to the Bonds of Love!
Nor, had I known your Flight, had utter'd more
Than—Live, and love your Sapho, as before.

By ev'ry Muse that e'er my Mind possess'd,
By Love, that Guardian of thy cruel Breast,
When doubtful Fame at first proclaim'd thee gone,
Such swift cold Shiv'rings thro' my Pulses run,
My startled Soul alarm'd by Grief, like you
Had nearly fled, her Phaon to pursue;
Speechless a-while I bore the desp'rate Strife,
And seem'd a frozen Monument of Grief:
'Till Storms of Sighs that long imprison'd lay,
Burst out, and stream'd in Tides of Tears away.
Distracted, griev'd, I beat my lab'ring Breast,
And each Extravagance of Grief express'd.
Less pang'd, the widow'd Parent makes her Moan,
Less griev'd, deplores her dead, her darling Son.
My Brother too, if such his Nature shows,
With an insulting Pride enjoys my Woes;
With scornful Comfort counterfeits Relief,
Intruding breaks, and aggravates my Grief.
“Thy Daughter lives (he cries) then why these Cares?
“And whence this Female Flood of idle Tears?

At this, I rave, my wounded Bosom tear,
And raging, to the World my Wrongs declare;
Accuse thy Crimes, regardless of my Fame,
For Love, alas! is ever blind to Shame!
And what is Fame, or all, compar'd to thee?
Thou! thou art Fame, Life, Love, ah!—All to me!
Thy dear Idea all my Soul employs,
Streams in my Tears, and sparkles in my Joys:
Thy dear Idea wounds my lonesome Days,
By Night, my Griefs, with kinder Dreams repays:
When bound in those soft Banes, I taste thy Charms,
And sink incircled in thy softer Arms:
Then, then I feel thee to my Soul return!
Phaon, the same in all, except thy Scorn.
Then Phaon! then, thy balmy Lips I press;
And then, thy balmy Lips repeat the Kiss!
Repeated Kisses animate Desire,
And breath'd in Whispers blow the rising Fire;
'Till kindling at a Soul-dissolving Sigh,
Fainting, o'er-power'd I pant—and melting die

Away in Joys, that only Lovers know,
In Joys, that only can from Phaon flow:
In Joys, that soon their Author's Arts betray;
Like Phaon, charm!—like Phaon flit away!
Wing'd with the Dawn, they take their hasty Flight,
And the Morn blushes at the dear Delight;
When I, again deceiv'd, again betray'd,
With study'd Slumbers court the fleeting Shade;
In vain,—the Sun emergent, pours the Day,
And the deluding Phantom melts away.
A Stranger to the balmy Joys of Rest,
Raving I rise, and beat my throbbing Breast;
Frantic, to some Night-shaded Grot repair,
Wild as my Thoughts, and dark as my Despair:
The Grot that once our mutual Pleasures knew,
In plaintive Echoes murmurs to my Woe;
O'er the rough Rocks, my musing Eyes I roll,
There view the savage Image of my Soul;
See Nature's Hand her simple Works impart,
Superiour to the Mimickries of Art.

How thick-brow'd Rocks with mossy Horror frown,
And wildly emulate the polish'd Stone;
O'er-arching Forests crown the solemn Scene,
And wave with gloomy Pleasure o'er the Plain.
Oft, as I sigh my former Joys, explore
Embrown'd with Shades the dear frequented Bower;
Each Bank, the Treasury of Love survey,
But find, alas! the Treasure lost away;
Press the dear Place, where dearer Phaon lay,
And sigh, and weep, and slumber out the Day:
Bath'd with my Eyes, the Grass my Anguish wears,
Imbibes my Woes, and seems to weep my Tears.
As livery'd with Grief, the Groves appear,
And seem, like me, to shiver with Despair;
The Groves in leafy Tears, their Phaon weep,
And the sad Birds their Songs in Sorrow steep;
No tuneful Notes amuse the silent Plains,
No Sounds, but Philomela's mournful Strains;
With Philomela's Strains, I murmur mine,
And to her Tereus, faithless Phaon join.

To Slumber sacred, and serene Repose,
In silver Sounds a crystal Current flows;
A flow'ry Lotos shades the velvet Green,
Fans the cool Streams, and paints the floating Scene;
Here, as I late repos'd my weary Head,
An azure Nereid rose, and rising said,
“Unhappy Nymph! by Love betray'd, arise,
“And boldly seek the fam'd Leucadian Seas;
“A Rock there stands by great Apollo's Fane,
“A Charm for those, who love like thee, in vain:
“Deucalion once by Pyrrha's Scorn oppress'd,
“Here quench'd his Flame and freed his lab'ring Breast;
“The Flame reviv'd, in Pyrrha's Bosom burn'd,
“And all her Scorn to softer Passion turn'd:
“Like him resolv'd, perform the lofty Leap,
“Nor dread the Dangers of the distant Deep.
She said, and sinking in the circling Flood,
From my dim Eyes the streaming Sorrow flow'd.

I fly, Oh Nymph! I fly the Charm to prove,
Strong are my Fears! but stronger is my Love!
Resolv'd, I fly, enflam'd by fierce Disdain;
Assuage I may, but not increase my Pain!
With the soft Gales, oh Love! be kinder now,
Hover thy Wings, and ease my Fall below:
Decreas'd by Cares, nor let my guiltless Blood
With blushing Stains pollute the sacred Flood!
Then shall my Lyre Apollo's Temple grace,
And, grateful, wear inscrib'd this votive Verse;
“This Lyre on Phœbus, Sapho's Hand bestow'd,
“A tuneful Off'ring on a tuneful God;
“May the same God, with kind indulgent Power,
“Protect the sacred Lyre he tun'd before!

Yet, why oh Phaon! must I seek the Main,
When you alone, that caus'd, can ease my Pain;
Shall the rough Rock, and savage Ocean prove
More soft than one, by Nature form'd for Love!

Thy stronger Charms have Magick to prevail,
Where all those Charms, and ev'n their God can fail.
Methinks, thou could'st not rather see me lie,
Dash'd on sharp Rocks, than on thy Bosom sigh!
Could'st thou thus doom these tender Breasts of mine,
From panting, growing, melting into thine:
These Breasts that once could all thy Soul employ,
And beating kindle dear Alarms to Joy!
Alas! in vain they charm'd, that charm'd no more,
Now swell'd with Griefs, that swell'd with Joy before!
Ye Lesbian Nymphs, no more my Lays require,
Lost is the Poet's, in the Lover's Fire!
No more my Voice with wonted Musick sings,
No more my Hand awakes the warb'ling Strings:
Since my dear Phaon, since my Love Divine—
Ah me! my Tongue would still pronounce thee mine:
Since from these Arms the faithless Phaon fled,
Dull are my Strains, and all my Fancy's dead.
But, oh! ye Nymphs, engage his quick Return,
Then shall my Breast with wonted Ardour burn;

Transporting Strains revive my lofty Lyre,
And Love the long-neglected Lute inspire.

How canst thou, Phaon, so obdurate prove,
Deaf to each Charm, and ev'ry Art of Love!
Alas! in vain, I fear, my Prayers I sigh,
Like me, I fear my Prayers in Silence die!
Waft them, ye Gales, to wand'ring Phaon's Ear,
And with them, join to waft the Wand'rer here.
Swift as the Gales, my ling'ring Love convey,
How my Soul suffers by this long Delay!
Fair Beauty's Queen shall smooth her Parent Seas,
Lull the loud Winds, and smile the Waves to Peace:
Love, Love himself the flying Course shall guide,
Swell the soft Sails, and waft the floating Tide.

But if poor Sapho must for ever mourn,
And if You Phaon never will return;

If endless Absence must increase my Pain,
O! let one Line confirm that cold Disdain!
Despairing, then those kinder Rocks I'll try,
And there, forget to love, or learn to die.

OEnone to Paris.

The Argument.

When Hecuba was with Child of Paris, she had a Dream of her being delivered of a Firebrand: Priam, upon this, consulting the Oracle, was told, that, the Infant she went with, should cause the Destruction of Troy; Priam therefore resolved at its Birth, that it should be torn to pieces by wild Beasts. Hecuba privately conveys away the Boy to Mount Ida, leaving him to the Shepherds care. Here, in process of Time, he became enamoured with the Nymph OEnone. But at last, being found out, he went upon an Expedition to Greece, and carried Hellen to Troy; OEnone hearing thereof, writes him this Epistle.

These Lines my lovely faithless Swain peruse,
If yet your Bride such Liberty allows;
No Rage they threaten from resenting Greece,
No News relate obnoxious to your Peace,

For poor OEnone now, tho' once so dear,
Below your Grandeur, is below your Care!
Yet hear, tho' deaf to Love, yet hear her Moan;
And listen to those Joys, you deign'd to crown.

What cruel Gods thus emulous could prove,
Destroy our Happiness, and blast our Love!
What Guilt of mine could call their Vengeance down!
If Love can be the Crime, the Crime's their own:
Ills when deserv'd, in Patience find Relief;
But, when thus hardly borne, dissolve to Grief!

Yet, once there was a Time, when Ida's Plain
Confess'd no Title but the lovely Swain;
When I, the fairest of the rural Fair,
Warm'd your young Breast, and was your only Care;
When you, a Shepherd, with the Shepherds strove,
And innocently won me into Love:
Sooth'd with those harmless unaffected Charms,
Heedless, I caught the Passion from your Arms.

In my dear Paris center'd all my Joy,
And all OEnone fill'd my faithful Boy.
How happy then we languish'd out the Day!
Toy'd in soft Shades, and slept in new-made Hay.
How happy then we languish'd out the Night!
New Joys returning with returning Light!
Fresh as the Morn, I join'd the Sylvan Chace,
And tun'd the Chorus of the latrant Race;
With you the Groves I rang'd, the Fields beset,
And watch'd the Motions of the swelling Net:
With you retiring to the breezy Shade,
Cool Fruits, and slaking Streams our Thirst allay'd.
There, on each Tree you carv'd our mutual Names,
And with the living Letters grew our Flames:
While Love, recording with a keener Dart,
Engrav'd each Token deeper on my Heart!

Close by a Stream, and bord'ring on a Grove,
A Beech now bears this Token of our Love;

Long may it bear! long stand the Test of Years!
And flourish by the Sanction of this Verse!
“When Paris his OEnone falsly leaves,
“Xanthus! like him be false, reverse thy Waves.
Reverse thy Waves, O Stream! return again,
And murm'ring, mourn with me my faithless Swain!

Curst be that Day! my blooming Hope's Annoy!
Date of my Griefs, and Period of my Joy!
When the bright Powers descended from the Skies,
To learn the Judgment of your brighter Eyes.
This when you told, my dead'ning Heart was struck,
And all my Soul with sudden Horror shook:
Each Sage, consulted warn'd some Change too near,
Increas'd my Sorrows, and confirm'd my Fear!

But when prepar'd, your Fleet at Anchor lay,
To bear my fond, believing Heart away;
How spoke those parting Eyes! O ne'er reprove
The noble Tenders of a virtuous Love!

How lock'd in Folds these clasping Arms I cast!
Nor Vines, nor Ivy circle Elms so fast!
Nor Elms when shook with Winds o'ercharg'd with Dew,
Whispers such Sighs, or drop such Tears as you.
What Sighs! what Tears! what Tenderness express'd
Your Soul dissolving on my panting Breast!
What kind! what dear—enchanting Sorrows fell,
To sooth, and soften that harsh Sound, Farewel!
Still the harsh Sound sunk deeper in our Heart,
And still we met a thousand Times to part!
The Sailors wonder'd at your tedious Stay,
But Love still fram'd Excuses for Delay.

'Till now, at last the long-expecting Gales,
Rais'd by our Sorrows, fill'd the swelling Sails,
With slow reluctant Feet our Way we bend,
And sadly-loving on each other lean'd;
With melancholy Steps approach'd the Shore,
Stop'd at each dear Recess; now dear no more!

Survey'd each solitary Scene of Love,
And bid adieu to ev'ry lonesome Grove;
The lonesome Groves, as if they sorrow'd too,
Wav'd by the Gales, submissive bow'd, Adieu!

And now the last, dear parting Kiss was given,
And now the last, dear Vow was breath'd to Heaven;
When to the Shore the hast'ning Vessel row'd,
And dancing off, seem'd lighter with its Load:
My streaming Eyes the floating Fleet pursue,
Their Griefs increasing at the less'ning View;
But when the pleasing Prospect sunk in Air,
My melting Heart I view'd, and view'd thee there;
Each Power I weary with imploring Cries,
Swell with my Tears the Floods, the Winds with Sighs:
In soft-beseeching, plaintive Murmurs mourn,
And court the Nereids for your quick Return.
The list'ning Nereids soon my Swain restore,
But ah! how chang'd from what he was before!

How chang'd his Manners, and how chang'd his Name!
Ev'n nothing but those Eyes remain the same;
Those dear-deluding Eyes, those blooming Charms
Are still the same to all—except these Arms!

Beat by the Tides, and crown'd with waving Woods,
A lofty Mountain rises o'er the Floods;
Here daily with expecting Looks I sat,
By turns dejected, and by turns elate;
From hence, at last, I saw your Streamers play,
Waft o'er the Floods, and drink the beamy Day;
So gay, so bright, the fierce Effulgence shone,
The Sails emerging seem'd a rising Sun:
Struck by the Splendour of the pompous Show,
My gazing Eyes could scarce believe 'twas you;
But more confounded, more amaz'd, I see
A Rival-Beauty sit, and sit by thee;
With those soft Locks her wanton Fingers play'd,
Her Head reclining on your Bosom laid.

Stung to the Soul, with Fury fir'd, I stood,
Now thought to quench it in the roaring Flood;
Now to the plaintive Groves my Griefs I pour,
And sigh my Sorrows in a silent Shower.

How shall I mourn those dear enchanting Charms!
How curse the cruel Rival of these Arms!
O! may those Charms to her as fatal prove!
O! may she mourn like me neglected Love!

Tho' now far-distant Nations learn your Fame,
Tho' foreign Ladies catch the flying Flame;
Yet when an humble Swain your Flocks you fed,
No Princess, but OEnone, knew your Bed;
No gaudy Title plum'd the golden Dart,
'Twas Love and Innocence surpriz'd my Heart;
When melting in the Circle of these Arms,
You swore you sought no Glory like such Charms;
No Pomps, no Dignities desir'd to prove,
Unless to raise your Merits to my Love:

Of all those Dignities I ask no part,
Desire to share in nothing but your Heart!
For that alone, I wish indulgent Fate,
High as my Love, would raise my humble State;
Then should no Rival the vain Triumph boast,
But Pomp regain the glorious Prize it lost!
Nor need your Royal Parents blush to own,
A Daughter much more virtuous than their Son.

Say, do your silken Sofa's gentle prove
Softer than these sweet sylvan Scenes of Love?
Say, can your Hellen, bright in guilty Charms,
Like innocent OEnone please your Arms?
Can study'd Sounds indulge a purer Dream,
Than the wild Musick of this purling Stream?
Here, no rude Fears the slumbring Soul annoy,
No fierce Alarms intrude but those of Joy!
Yet these, and more than these, must sure affright
The false Possessor of another's Right:

Tho' sweet her Charms, those Charms must be restor'd,
When Justice rouzes their avenging Lord.

But, does your Sire approve your loose Desires?
Does sage Antenor's Wisdom fan your Fires?
Should Troy assist, and second your Resolve,
Yet would a prudent Prince his Land involve?
Would any warlike Chief his Weapon draw
To brave the Gods, and violate the Law?

But soon your Fair, your boasted Fair, may change,
Condemn her Choice, and chuse again to range,
Some fond Variety may long to prove,
And turn, like you, a Commoner in Love;
Like you, Atrides once enjoy'd her Charms;
You too, like him, may mourn deserted Arms.
And should your Force the ravish'd Bride regain,
Her Innocence can ne'er return again.

O bless'd Andromache! whose kinder Fate
Bestows a Spouse, as virtuous, as he's great;
From her firm Loyalty I copy'd mine,
O could her Hector's so in Paris shine!
But faithless Paris, wanton as the Wind,
Light as the Leaves, enjoys a fickle Mind;
Quick as the Winds his wand'ring Thoughts are past,
And, like the Leaves, are turn'd with ev'ry Blast!

Too well my fatal Fortunes now unfold
What once prophetical Cassandra told;
When swell'd, and lab'ring with Divinity,
Full of the God she cry'd, and cry'd to me.

Cease, Nymph, to plough these barren Lands, O cease,
These barren Lands shall yield no kind Increase,
The Grecian Heifer shall your Hopes destroy,
Despoil your Cares, and prove the Bane of Troy!

She comes! good Heaven divert her fatal Way—
Sink! sink the Ship! and plunge it in the Sea:
What Flames of Rage! what Deluges of Blood!
O! quench them! drown them in the whelming Flood.

She said: her Servants the mad Priestess caught,
And left my gloomy Soul involv'd in Thought;
Ah! now too plain the Fates the Heifer seize,
For Hellen reaps the Harvest of the Seas.

Fair tho' she be, would any, but a Whore,
With one unknown forsake her Native Shore,
Neglect her Honour, disregard her Life,
And stain the Duty of a virtuous Wife?
But lost to ev'ry Sense of honest Fame,
She nothing but reiterates her Shame:
Debauch'd by Theseus, blushes now no more,
And laughs at Scruples she might fear before.

When young, with him she stole a base Escape;
Tho' her Friends smooth the Story with a Rape;
Pretend the Ravisher restor'd her Charms
Untouch'd, untasted from his longing Arms:
Let those that will believe the specious Art—
Her Eyes had Power, he a Lover's Heart!
And she that once but yields to loose Desires,
For ever burns in those unlawful Fires.
But I, because a Stranger to those Thoughts,
Must mourn my Virtues, as I mourn my Faults.
Should I, like you, my plighted Faith betray,
Well might you spare the Crime, who lead the Way!

How sacred, how inviolate my Love!
How clear my Honour! witness every Grove!
Mov'd by their fruitless Hopes, the rural Train
Declare their Passion, but declare in vain:
For me, the Sylvan Powers forsake their Shades,
And kindly court me to their cooling Glades;

With ever-living Wreaths adorn their Hair,
And for my sake, the Lover's Garland wear.
Ev'n He, the God whose Rays the World inspire,
Despair'd to set my virtuous Breast on fire,
With ev'ry soothing Blandishment he try'd,
But Honour ev'ry Blandishment defy'd.
Despis'd his Proffers with disdainful Eyes,
And scorn'd the Lover in the sordid Price;
'Till Flame increasing, as his Flatt'ry fail'd,
The baffled Lover in the God prevail'd:
Nor could his Strength an easy Conquest boast,
I lost reluctant, what at last I lost.
With streaming Eyes atton'd the base Abuse,
And hope'd the Author could the Crime excuse:
Mov'd by my Wrongs, and influenc'd by my Grief;
The grateful God administred Relief;
Inspir'd each wise, medicinary Power,
To sooth my Sorrows, and my Soul restore;
Disclos'd each Secret, open'd ev'ry Art;
Taught to save Life—but not a Lover's Heart!

Here, all his Secrets, all his Arts must fail!
Nor could the God his own Distemper heal.

But charming Paris! lovely, faithless Swain!
'Tis you alone can give, and ease that Pain!
Your Arts alone beyond the Gods can prove,
And speak a greater God, at least in Love!
O haste my Paris! my Complaints regard,
My Sorrows pity, and my Truth reward!
In loose, unlawful Flames no longer burn,
But, where you left your Innocence return;
There let our early sacred Passions shine,
Rejoin their Lustre, and commence Divine.

Paris to Hellen.

The Argument.

Paris being gone to Sparta in quest of Hellen, whom Venus had promised him as the Reward of his Judgment in assigning to her the Prize of Beauty, was there nobly entertained by her Husband Menelaus; who being sent for to take Possession of the Effects of his Grandfather Atreus, at Crete, earnestly recommends Paris to Hellen's Care. During his absence, Paris commences her Suitor, and writes her the following Epistle.

All Health to thee, fair Nymph! thy Paris sends
All Health to thee, on whom, his own depends:
Must I then speak? and must my Tongue reveal
A Secret, which my Eyes too plainly tell?

O! could I hide the Wish I fear to name!
Would rather kinder Fortune guide my Flame!
My Flame! that, spite of all Restraints, displays
Its rising Force, and ev'n it self betrays;
In private, prompts my tim'rous Tongue to prove,
To thee, my beauteous, charming Nymph, I love:
I love! may no severe Reproof controul,
The true, the tender Message of my Soul!
May no fierce Passions that soft Bosom fire,
But such as kindle, such as feed Desire.

How bless'd these Lines obey my soft Command,
To see that Face, and touch that melting Hand!
Yet, if my Hopes, and Promises are true,
I, soon, like them, may kiss those Fingers too:
For know, fair Nymph, to justify my Flame,
'Twas by the Gods, the Gods Command, I came;
Else, nor my Pride, nor Vanity could dare,
To whisper at your Feet a dying Prayer.

Led by the Promise of the Queen of Charms,
I come to court her Image to my Arms:
For this, the Goddess brought me thro' the Sea,
And calm'd old Ocean as she led the way;
For this, soft Cupids fann'd the wasting Gales,
And with kind Whispers swell'd the silken Sails.
Still may such gracious Powers controul the Main,
Still kind to Voyagers, like me remain!
And as they lull'd the Roarings of the Deep,
O! may they lull my raging Fears asleep;
Compose my troubled Soul to peaceful Rest,
And guide my Heart to harbour in your Breast.

Led by no Error, by no Tempest tost,
I landed on the Confines of your Coast;
No mercenary Prospects I pursue,
Prospects too far below a Lover's View!
The Fates, already, have bestow'd me Store
So large, that only you can make it more.

Nor came I here a gazing Spy to prove,
For what could I discover, blind with Love?
For thee, bright Nymph! for those dear Charms I came,
The Gift, the Promise of the Cyprian Dame;
Thy lovely Person, tho' unseen, I knew,
My Wishes, all my Soul was fix'd on you:
Nor wonder, how, so far, my Breast was fir'd,
When Fate, and Love, with Eyes like yours conspir'd;
To reconcile your Faith, my Story hear;
Believe the Wonder, and the Gods revere.

E'er yet my labouring Mother brought me forth,
Whilst I lay strug'ling for the Pangs of Birth;
By the Delusion of a mighty Dream,
She thought, her Offspring prov'd a Torch on flame:
Amaz'd, the Vision to my Sire she told,
And thus, the summon'd Seers the Fates unfold.
“That I to Troy a future Flame should prove—
How well the Prophets pointed at my Love?

My Parents, mov'd by superstitious Care,
To shun the Danger, and avert their Fear,
Committed me to the Ideän Swains,
Doom'd to the simple Pleasure of the Plains;
But soon, my growing Years disclos'd a Mind
Superior to those humble Ends design'd;
Intrinsically great, my Virtues shone,
And, tho' eclips'd, they seem'd to claim a Throne.

A tow'ring Hill there stands in Ida's Grove,
Unbrowz'd its Turf, and dark with Shades above;
Here, as with musing Eyes, I once survey'd,
Troy's Turrets rising thro' the misty Shade;
A sudden Sound of Feet, I seem'd to hear,
And quick Commotions echo'd on my Ear;
When to my Sight a Form Divine appear'd,
And Maija's Son, the Form Divine declar'd;
My wond'ring Eyes confess'd the Heav'nly Power,
Known by the Wand, and Silver Plumes he wore.

But soon I saw, descending from above,
Saturnia, Pallas, and the Queen of Love;
Aw'd by superior Majesty, I stood,
And, trembling, heard the missionary God,
Who thus bespoke my Fears—“Shepherd! be bold—
“These Rivals for their orient Fruit, behold;
“Here—to the fairest Form adjudge the Prize;
“The brightest Present to the brightest Eyes;
“In this, obey th' Almighty Mandate given—
He said, and rising, slowly sail'd to Heaven.

And now, my Strength restor'd, my Thoughts renew'd,
Distinctly each cœlestial Fair I view'd;
On each, my Eyes, alternately, were cast,
And ev'ry Look was vanquish'd by the last.
Alike, they all deserv'd my voting Voice,
But one, and only one, must win my Choice;
Now this I found, now that, now ev'ry Part,
The momentary Tenant of my Heart.

On ev'ry Side persuasive Gifts assail'd,
To buy my Favour, where my Judgment fail'd.
Great Juno laid whole Empires at my Feet,
Minerva proffer'd deathless Wreaths of Wit;
While thus the sweet-enchanting Queen of Smiles,
(Securely laughing at their vainer Wiles.)

“Shall such unworthy Gifts thy Kindness move?
“Thy tender Soul was surely tun'd to Love!
“To me, my Swain, to me, thy Smiles incline,
“And Hellen, fairest Hellen shall be thine;
“My Wishes crown'd, enjoy her brighter Charms,
“And reign a greater Monarch in her Arms.

So soft she spoke, so sweetly glanc'd her Eyes,
Transported, I resign'd the glitt'ring Prize;
Deceiv'd, the baffled Deities withdrew,
Back to her Skies the lovely Victress flew.

And now the Fates, to call my Glories forth,
Disclos'd the long-hid Secret of my Birth;
With Joy receiv'd, in princely Pomp I shone,
And Acclamations hail'd the Royal Son;
What Numbers flow'd, fair Beauty's Judge to see!
And not a Lady languish'd but for me:
Soft Nymphs, enamour'd at the passing Show,
Yielding, confess'd the Flames I feel for You:
Ev'n Princesses with rival Ardour strove,
To warm my Bosom, and to win my Love;
For me they sicken'd, and for me they sigh'd,
But for imagin'd Hellen, were deny'd:
For You alone, my Soul conceiv'd Desire,
Unknown, ador'd, and burn'd in fancy'd Fire;
Your dear Idea all my Bosom charm'd,
Amaz'd me waking, and when slumb'ring warm'd;
No wonder then those Eyes so potent prove,
Whose very Thoughts could melt my Mind to love.

Now, fir'd with Hopes, impatient of Delay,
And all in Transport for the happy Day,
With eager Haste, the neighb'ring Groves I fell'd,
To fit my Voyage, and my Fleet to build;
Quick to my Wish, the naval Streamers rise,
And swelling Streamers flutter in the Skies;
Gay painted Figures gild the Poops below,
And wanton in the Waters as they flow:
Here, Venus views each wave-reflected Grace,
And smiles her Parent-Ocean into Peace;
Young, flutt'ring Cupids round the Goddess play,
Court the cool Breeze, and quiver in the Sea.

And now prepar'd to seek your happy Shore,
With ardent Prayers my Friends my Stay implore;
Condemn my Rashness, urge the stormy Main,
Foretel my Dangers, but foretel in vain:
My Sister too, prophetically bold,
Fore-warn'd my Fate, and thus my Fortune told.

“O! whither does my Brother run? (she cry'd)
“Blind to those Flames, to which these Waters guide!
“Those fatal Flames! that with him shall return,
“And, spite of quenching Oceans Ilion burn!

How right her Prophecies your Eyes exprest?
How right, divin'd the Flames that burn my Breast?

But while these fabling Fears in vain withstand,
The favouring Winds convey me to your Land;
When now fulfilling Heaven's Decree, your Spouse
Receiv'd me at your hospitable House;
With free Reception, kindly entertain'd,
And shew'd me all the Glories of the Land:
But all with cold Indifference, I view,
Blind was my Sight to ev'ry Thing, but You:
But when your fair-fam'd Beauties struck my Eyes,
Sure Heaven with Wonder witness'd my Surprize;
What secret Transports trickled thro' each Part,
Beam'd on my Eyes, and trembled to my Heart!

From Vein to Vein, the dancing Message flew,
And all my panting Soul confess'd 'twas You.

So look'd the heart-enchanting Queen of Love,
When with the rival Goddesses she strove:
But had your self been there, those brighter Eyes,
From each contending Power, had gain'd the Prize.
Those radiant Eyes, the mighty Boast of Fame,
Each Land eclipse, and all the World inflame;
What Nymph, but you, can boast so sweet a Face?
How fair the Nymph, that claims the second Place!
Shines there on Earth a Form so heavenly fair,
But thine would suffer by the low Compare?
Struck from Report, thy Beauties I receiv'd,
Amaz'd, admir'd, but doubtfully believ'd;
Yet now I find Report but wrong'd your Frame,
So vast your Charms! so weak the Voice of Fame!

Well might that Face omniscient Theseus fire,
Well might it such a glorious Theft inspire;

When those amazing Beauties shone expos'd,
And all the real Goddess stood disclos'd:
Ne'er was his boasted Wisdom better show'd
Than when he snatch'd you from the gazing Crowd;
But such a Prize so calmly to restore,
Confess'd his Folly, as his Wit before.
Should Paris thus resign those sacred Charms,
Should Paris thus remit them from his Arms;
Sooner should Heaven with Light'ning blast me dead!
And level triple Thunders at my Head!
If wrested from my Arms, the Joys were forc'd,
I'd make them mine, at least enjoy them first;
Ravish so lasting Token of my Bliss,
And steal Eternities in every Kiss.
O! try my Courage! prove your faithful Swain,
And learn, that Paris never boasts in vain.
Not ev'n 'till Death, my Passion shall expire,
And then Love's Flames shall light my funeral Pyre.

When Beauty's doubtful Cause by me was try'd,
And the fair Rivals crown'd the fount-ful Ide,
For Thee, the Pomp of Empires I despis'd,
And thy dear Charms beyond all Empires priz'd;
To those deep Wonders that from Wisdom rise,
Preferr'd the silent Eloquence of Eyes;
Nor can I ever at my Choice repine,
So Hellen, promis'd Hellen be but mine!
Were she but mine, I'd make my Wish compleat,
And snatch ev'n Joys beyond the reach of Fate!

But, lest Alliances disgrace your Line,
Know, Fair! my Lineage is, like yours, Divine;
From Dardanus, our Ancestry I prove,
Begot! descended, and belov'd by Jove:
What need I farther long Successions trace?
Fam'd are the Founders of the Trojan Race!
Wide o'er the World, our large Domains extend,
And with the World alone, our Glories end:

But when your self shall prove our Grandeur true,
You'll own Fame false to us, as well as You.
How shall your Eyes our lofty Domes admire,
Built to the Strains of the Phebeän Lyre!
How gaze with Wonder on sublime Abodes,
Fit to receive their tutelary Gods!
What Nymphs, what num'rous Beauties shalt thou see,
Nymphs! far superior to all Nymphs, but thee!
What heaping Crowds! what glitt'ring Tides surprize!
What Pomp, what Grandeur strike your ravish'd Eyes!
While you, confounded with Amazement, cry,
“How poor is all our Greece compar'd with Troy!
Not that your Spartan Cities I despise,
Blest be the Place that gave fair Hellen Rise!
Beauty, like yours, may well atone for Store,
Sparta, with Hellen, can desire no more:
Yet, brightest Nymph! those Charms were ne'er design'd
To brighten Shades, and be to Shades confin'd;

Beauty, like thine, was made to grace a Throne,
And lend new Lustre to a sparkling Crown;
Beauty, like thine, superior to thy Fame,
Should glow in Splendor, speak a Trojan Dame!

Nor scorn to take a Trojan to thy Arms,
Who, like a Trojan, can deserve thy Charms?
A Trojan graces the divine Abodes,
And fills the foamy Nectar to the Gods,
A Trojan charm'd the Queen of springing Light,
And warm'd the frozen Empress of the Night;
A Trojan, Beauty's sacred Power comprest,
And yielding Venus panted on his Breast:
O! let me too my Country's Glory prove,
Charm, and enjoy a brighter Queen of Love!

Nor think that Menelaus can compare
With me in Cupid's, or the Camp of War;
At least I should not fear the Point to try,
Or trust the Judgment to your conscious Eye:

But were you mine, no Kindred could disgrace,
No bloody Atreus stain your Royal Race;
No Pelopean Guilt, to blot your Name,
Or cloud the rising Glories of your Fame:
No Sire of mine, like Tantalus, is curst,
Starv'd amidst Stores, and parch'd in Floods with Thirst.
Yet, whilst I talk, a Wretch confines you now,
Sprung from that Race, perhaps as impious too;
A Wretch! that, like his Grandsire, ne'er enjoys
The tempting Fruit, or if he does, it cloys:
Shame to the Genealogy of Jove!
Flat are thy Sweets to him, and pall'd thy Love!
Gods! shall he, tasteless, riot on such Charms!
The dull Incumbrance of thy longing Arms!
Whilst I, all tender Passion, all Desire,
Scarce gain a Look, and that too fans my Fire!

When social Hours indulge the genial Feast,
What Cares! what Torments rend my tortur'd Breast!

That only Time my longing Eyes improve,
And starve my Appetite, to feed my Love;
Fix'd on that magic Face, I grieve to see
Those Smiles bestow'd on him, deny'd to me;
But when the Husband-Lover lolls to Rest
On the soft Effluence of that snowy Breast;
With bleeding Heart, I mourn thy ruffled Charms,
And curse the Rudeness of his clumsy Arms;
Tho' free, I banquet at a dear Expence,
And pay with Griefs the grand Benevolence:
With envious Eyes behold each melting Kiss,
Pant for the Joy, and languish for the Bliss;
Asham'd, enrag'd, I sigh, I fret, I frown,
Gnaw my vex'd Lips, and glance obliquely down;
But, when thy Eyes with Flames too kindly burn,
Melt as his Glance, and ev'ry Glance return;
To cool the raging Fever of my Soul,
To drown my Cares, I drink the sparkling Bowl;
But Wine still kindles up a new Desire,
Revives each Flame, re-animates each Fire!

How oft I turn aside my jealous Eyes?
But Love returns them to some new surprize!
Still would I feast on that dear, charming Face,
For ever languish, and for ever gaze!
But can my injur'd Sight with Patience bear,
A heavy, fulsome, Husband-Lover there?
In a sweet-tort'ring Look, at once remains,
Excess of Pleasures, and Excess of Pains!

O that my Conduct could disguise my Care,
But Love, that's naked, scorns all Dress to wear;
The more suppress'd, the more my Passions rise,
Speak in my Looks, and sparkle in my Eyes:
Too plain the Secrets of my Soul they shew!
And O that they were known to only you!
For oft, with Reason too, I felt a Fear,
Oft as I breath'd a Sigh, or dropt a Tear,
Lest some officious Question should display
Your Husband's Care, and all my Love betray:

How oft, to hide my too apparent Flame,
Have I reveal'd it in a foreign Name?
Bewail'd some poor unhappy Lover's Moan,
And, in their seeming Sorrows breath'd my own;
On thy dear Face, I fix'd my dying Eyes,
Wept in his Tears, and languish'd in his Sighs;
And if enflam'd too far, I snatch'd a Kiss,
Feign'd Drunkenness excus'd the ravish'd Bliss.
Once, I remember, as your flowing Vest
Disclos'd the naked Wonders of your Breast,
How meltingly the snowy Globes arose!
Fair, as the Fleeces of descending Snows!
Bright as the Down that cloath'd your Parent Jove,
When Leda panted with the Thund'rer's Love,
Like that their Tenderness, like that their Hue,
Soft as those silver Plumes, and heavenly too!
Gods! how I stood, transported with Surprize!
How heav'd my Bosom, and how flam'd my Eyes!
Ravish'd, I drop'd the purple-foamy Bowl,
And all the melting God came rushing on my Soul!

But mark me, how industriously I strive
To feed my Flame, and keep my Love alive!
If your dear Lips salute the flowing Wine,
Fix'd on the Place, I make the Nectar mine;
Ev'n from the Child, the Kiss you give, I take,
And love the Daughter for her Mother's sake.
Now soft-adapted Songs conspire to move;
For Music is the sweetest Voice of Love!
Supinely laid, I languish out each Air,
And tunefully prefer my dying Prayer.
Each Passage to that cruel Heart I've try'd,
But Cupid ev'ry Avenue deny'd:
Oft to your faithful Maids my Love I've told,
And smooth'd my Rhetoric with persuasive Gold;
But all I urg'd, alas! I urg'd in vain,
Deaf to my Prayers, they leave me to my Pain.

O could Heroic Acts my Fair obtain,
This Hand, this Heart the noble Prize should gain!

Like Atalanta's, could thy Charms be won,
I'd leave the swiftest, with the fleetest run;
Inspir'd by Love, pursue the flying Chace,
And, lifted on his Pinions reach the Race.
Could Strength prevail, like Hercules, these Arms
Should win a brighter Dejanira's Charms!

But O thou dear! un-utterably Fair!
Since all my Hopes depend on Sighs and Prayer,
By the sweet Splendour of those starry Eyes,
Bright, as their Brother-Orbs that gild the Skies!
By Jove, whose Throne such Beauties might adorn,
Were not thy kindred Charms too nearly born;
Unless yourself will grace my glad Return,
Here will I doom my fading Life to mourn!
At thy dear Feet resign my panting Breath,
Adore thee, love thee, bless thee ev'n in Death!
O view my throbbing Breast, behold my Pain!
Nor let my earnest Passion plead in vain!

Ah me! that destin'd Flames consume my Heart,
And those bright Eyes confess the heavenly Dart!
Cassandra kindly warn'd me of my Fate,
But I believ'd her Prophecies too late!
Yet, charming Nymph! the Gods Commands fulfil,
For Justice bids you cure, as well as kill.

More could I say, but rather hope to meet,
And breathe my Soul in Transports at your Feet;
In some convenient Place, my Passion prove,
And dedicate this happy Night to Love.
Nor blush, my charming Fair! nor idly dread
To violate, or stain the Marriage-Bed;
Too innocently nice such Scruples are,
To think that Woman can be chaste and fair:
Some human Blemishes are no Disgrace,
Like Patches, they adorn a beauteous Face:
Let your own Mother's kind Example move,
Nor dread a Vengeance from a guilty Jove;

Sprung from the Transports of a like Embrace,
Shall lovely Hellen deviate from her Race?
Yet, when we reach the happy Shores of Troy,
Marriage shall crown our honourable Joy;
Till then, believe me, Fair, to slip this Time,
Would be the greater Sin, the greater Crime:
For this, the Gods with ev'ry Wish conspire,
For this, your Husband seconds our Desire;
By their Commands, officiously withdraws,
And absent, silently asserts our Cause:
By his Example, his own Acts pursue,
In leaving him, as he in leaving you:
What! could no other Time his Journey fit?
Indeed, 'tis very like a Husband's Wit!
Poor Soul! he cry'd “Be careful of our Guest,”
He said no more, and we may think the rest—
But you his very last Commands neglect,
A certain Token of a forc'd Respect;
To both alike a cold Indifference prove;
Both lost alike to Duty and to Love!

But could a longing Lover leave you so?
Thus easily such tasted Joys forego!
No! dull Fruition all his Taste destroys,
Nor knows he half the Jewel he enjoys;
Else, could he ne'er desert those tempting Charms,
At least, resign them to a Rival's Arms!
O! let my Love awake his sated Eyes,
And teach them each dear Beauty how to prize!
Cold, lonesome, in a widow'd Bed you lie,
And, languishing in Solitude, I sigh;
What Fear, what barring Obstacle remains,
But you may wreak your Wrongs, and ease my Pains?
Transporting Thought! to riot in those Charms,
To clasp those balmy Beauties in my Arms!
Imparadis'd in those soft Folds I'll lie,
Look such dear things, such sweet Persuasions sigh;
With such prevailing Elocution burn,
To sooth you with your Paris to return;
That sure, if Love has Power, you'll feel my Fire,
And in dissolving Murmurs breathe Desire!

To vindicate your Honour, and your Fame,
On me be all the Rape, on me the Blame;
Let Theseus and your Brother's Actions plead,
Leaders like these will dignify the Deed;
They stole Leucippa's Daughters, Theseus You;
And can't his Licence be my Licence too?
Already mann'd, my Fleet attends your stay,
And the Winds murmur at your long Delay;
Inviting Gales, impatient, court the Joy,
To waft us to the sacred Shores of Troy:
How shall those Charms our gazing Crouds amaze!
How speak a Goddess! how confess a Grace!
What shining Pomp shall gild the passing Show!
What heaping Numbers without Number flow!
What Gifts, what Honours shall all Troy decree!
Gifts, worthy Priam's Court, and worthy thee!
Where'er you turn, what Altars shall arise!
What aromatic Incense cloud the Skies!
Such Glories wait—with greatness un-exprest,
For Praise were there Detraction at the best.

Nor think that Greece shall follow with Alarms,
Did e'er a Rape excite a Nation's Arms?
When Thracia stole the bright Athenian Dame,
Did Thracia suffer for the guilty Flame?
Did Colchos with resenting Vengeance rise,
To snatch from Jason's Arms his beauteous Prize?
Safe from the Terrors of invasive War,
Theseus enjoy'd at Peace his Cretan Fair.
When Theseus snatch'd thy brighter Beauties too,
What Vengeance did the Ravisher pursue?
Then, trust me, Nymph, 'tis all an empty Fear;
Or we may think of Danger, when 'tis near.
But should all Grecia's hostile Troops engage,
Know, we have Forces to repel their Rage;
Like Grecia, we have Armies at Command,
As brave our Heroes, and as wide our Land.
But if your Husband should Atrides dare;
My self will meet his Shock, and stand his War:
Tho' young, yet bold in martial Toils of Fame,
My early Valour dignify'd my Name;

When fir'd with gen'rous Rage I boldly rose,
Rescu'd my fleecy Flocks, and slew my Foes:
Deïphobus, Illioneus can tell
How far my Courage and my Strength excel;
Nor does this Arm alone the Javelin throw,
But launch the Spear, and arch the moony Bow;
With equal Judgment, and with equal Force,
Direct the feather'd Fate and urge its Course:
Can Menelaus boast Atchievements so?
Or, boasting, can he prove his Actions true?
But should (what I ne'er think) his Arm prevail,
Should Heaven conspire to make your Paris fail;
Great Hector could retrieve that Glory lost,
Hector, our Bulwark! in himself an Host!
O! did you know to what deserving Arms,
The bounteous Gods ordain those heavenly Charms!
May, then this certain Oath my Passion prove,
Confirm your Courage, and inflame your Love;
That hostile Greece shall never cross the Main,
Or, baffled by this Arm, return again:

Fir'd by those Eyes, I'd singly meet a War,
Confront each Fury, and each Danger dare!
While future Fame should glory in your Charms,
And boast how Hellen set the World in Arms!
But haste, my Fair! the Gales their Aid employ,
And Fate has fix'd your Happiness in Troy.

Penelope to Ulysses.

The Argument.

Hellen's Rape having drawn all the Grecian Princes to the Siege of Troy; among the rest, Ulysses on this Occasion distinguished himself in a very remarkable manner. But he not returning to Penelope, after the Siege was over, she remands him by this Epistle, having behaved as well at home, by her Chastity, as he had done at Troy by his Valour. She recites the various Addresses of her Suitors, and pathetically bewails his Stay; acquainting him at the same time with the misconduct of his Family-Affairs, thro' his Absence, and earnestly presses his speedy return, in order to their Regulation.

These Lines, my Lord, your cruel Absence mourn;
O! let your Answer be your quick Return:

Sure Troy, the fatal Fountain of our Woe!
Has felt her finish'd Ruin long ago!
But not all Troy restor'd could e'er repay
The Griefs I suffer by your long Delay.

Had Paris, when he sought the Spartan Dame,
Sunk in the Seas, and quench'd his lawless Flame!
Those sad Anxieties I ne'er had known,
Nor sigh'd out solitary Nights alone!
With widow'd Hands engag'd the daily Toil,
Nor slumb'ring sought my Sorrows to beguile!
But slumb'ring, still alas, in vain I strove;
Clos'd were my Eyes by Sleep, but ope'd by Love!
In Dreams, at visionary Scenes I swoon'd,
Shrunk at each Stroke, and felt each fancy'd Wound;
Beheld my daring Lord in loud Alarms,
And Fate and Hector rushing on his Arms!
Shock'd at the Sight, and shiv'ring with cold Fear,
Confus'd I wak'd, and breath'd a pious Prayer.

When some Report, descriptive of the Fight,
Reviv'd the recent Horrours of the Night;
Wak'd at each Tale my boding Dreams return'd,
And all my Fears as real Ills I mourn'd.
Griev'd, I deplor'd Patroclus, wise too late!
His borrow'd Glory, his lamented Fate!
With Tears I heard Tlepolemus, o'erthrown,
And made the Warrior's Miseries my own.
But if some Grecian Brave-Unknown were kill'd,
Ulysses thro' my trembling Pulses thrill'd;
My pallid Looks confess'd the widow'd-Wife,
And my Soul panted for my Hero's Life!

But blest be ev'ry Love-indulgent Power?
For now those Fears, with Ilium are no more:
Rich in her Spoils, our conqu'ring Chiefs return,
And to our Gods their grateful Off'rings burn:
With joyful Pride relate the Trojan War,
And dwell on ev'ry honourable Scar.

On her lov'd Lord each longing Lady lies,
Views the dear Man, and at his Glory sighs;
With sweetly-smiling Looks delights to trace
The dawning Features of the former Face:
Immortal Acts the list'ning Crouds engage,
Boastings for Youth! and future Tales for Age!

While some, less eloquent, their Toils design,
Figure each Fight, and miniature each Scene:
In purple Wines each purple River pours,
And, dy'd with mimic Blood, Scamander roars:
Here fam'd Sigeum's tow'ry Tops arise,
There Priam's cloudy Turrets pierce the Skies;
Here, stretch'd around, the tented Shores display,
Where great Ulysses and Achilles lay:
Here, thund'ring Hector bursts the Grecian Walls,
There storms in Triumph, there, a Triumph falls.

From Nestor's Lips your Son imbib'd your Fame,
And all your Glory all his Soul inflame;

Pleas'd, he relates that memorable Night,
And dwells on ev'ry Horror with Delight:
But could my Hero so forgetful prove,
So quick to Dangers! and so deaf to Love!
When thro' the Gloom you sought the hostile Host,
And all the Lover in the Hero lost;
With only one Companion of your Toils,
What Tents destroy'd! how made those Tents your Spoils!
As from their Stalls the Thracian Steeds you drew,
How might some swift-revenging Hand pursue!
Rescue the proud triumphant Prize you sought,
And snatch your Life, that richer Prize you brought!
Could then your Heaps of Spoils, your Hills of Slain,
Sooth my sad Soul, or mitigate my Pain!
But yet, tho' safe from all those fierce Alarms,
You live not, if you live not in these Arms!

Ah what avail the Deeds Reports declare,
Unless you reap the mighty Honours here!

While others bless their happy Hopes compleat,
Their Joys deriving from Troy's finish'd Fate;
Widow'd, I seek in vain for kind Relief,
And Troy, my former Terror, is my Grief!
Her ruin'd Streets enrich'd with human Gore,
Now teem with Corn, that teem'd with Men before:
Her once-rich Domes with richer Harvests flow,
But yield, as still, to me the Fruit of Woe!

From ev'ry Stranger that invades our Coast,
With Tears I ask my wand'ring Lover lost;
To his kind Care my Letter'd-Griefs commit,
And pray that pitying Heaven may make ye meet.
At Pylos I my doubtful Chief explor'd;
But Pylos told no Tidings of my Lord:
To Sparta's Realms my speedy Message went,
But Sparta's Realms uncertain Answers sent.

O! still had Troy maintain'd her bright Abodes,
Nor felt the Fury of her hostile Gods;

Exempt from this Variety of Care,
I'ad known no Dangers, but the Chance of War;
But now what sad Anxieties inclose!
What real, what imaginary Woes!
What Horrors my distemper'd Fancy fill!
What Fears I frame! how ev'ry Fear I feel!
From Rocks, from raging Seas what Scenes I feign!
Wild as the Rocks, and boundless as the Main:
Oft fear, averse to these domestic Charms,
You lull your Honour in some Stranger's Arms;
To please her Pride describe your homely Wife,
And bant'ring ridicule a virtuous Life!
But soon my Love dispels those Fears away;
And on the Gods I charge your long Delay.

My urgent Sire, lest Sorrows should consume
The youthful Beauties of my vernal Bloom,
With Pray'rs engag'd my Heart again to wed,
And taste the Pleasures of a second Bed;

But not my Sire could move my Soul's Decree,
Still was I thine, and thine will ever be!
Now conscious of my pure, unspotted Flame,
Himself he censures, and applauds my Name.

Yet where e'en Duty, and his Will could fail,
Audacious Lovers labour to prevail:
Their Suit the Samians, the Dulichians move,
With all the flatt'ring Fopperies of Love;
In noisy Crouds intrude, unbidden Guests!
Carouse our Banquets, riot on our Feasts.
In wanton Luxuries our Stores decay,
And all, but Love, becomes an easy Prey!
Pisander, Polybus, and Medon too,
With num'rous others, join the lawless Crew.
Why should I each detested Name repeat?
Spunge to our Wealth! and Canker to our State!
Rude by Reproof, and insolently bold,
Unaw'd they revel, triumph if controul'd.

Alas! what Force of ours can end the Strife?
A feeble Father, and a widow'd Wife!
Your tender Son, unbred to fierce Alarms,
Implores his Sire to lead his Soul to Arms.
As lost, of late, the duteous Youth I mourn'd;
Bent on your Search, to find his Hopes return'd.
But may kind Heaven its choicest Blessings shed,
From Harms protect his dear devoted Head;
His Fame for-ever guard, for-ever raise,
To crown the peaceful Ev'ning of our Days!

But who shall now our injur'd Right maintain,
Controul Offenders, and assert our Reign?
Decay'd, your Father scarcely dares command;
Tho' wise his Counsels, wither'd is his Hand!
What can my helpless, tender Nature shew?
A Woman only, and a soft one too!
Unhappy We! whose Weakness is our Power!
I'll weep! I'll sigh! but I can do no more—

Let Sighs, and Tears your quick Return engage,
To guide your Son, and guard your Father's Age,
From Life's last Verge conduct him gently down,
And teach the Youth to soar to high Renown!
Then haste! lest as I weep for your Return,
Too late, like me, my fading Charms you mourn.

Ariadne to Theseus.

The Argument.

The Athenians having basely killed Androgeos the Son of Minus King of Crete; that Prince, by a severe War, compelled them to send annually seven Batchelors and as many Virgins to be devoured by the Minotaure. This was a Monster engendered by a Bull upon Pasiphae, the Wife of Minus, while he was engaged in the Athenian Wars. Among others, the Lot fell upon Theseus to be one of these destined Youths, but he encountered and killed the Monster, and afterwards by the direction of Ariadne made his escape out of the Labyrinth, and fled with her, to the Isle of Naxos. Afterwards, upon a Summons from Bacchus, he left her one Morning when asleep: she finding her self thus deserted, sends him this Epistle.

From that inhuman Shore these Lines receive,
Where late you left a tender Nymph to grieve;
Tho' there expos'd to savage Beasts of Prey,
She lives to call thee savager than they:

Their Cruelties no more than Nature prove;
But Theseus hid his Cruelties in Love,
When Sleep, and his endearing Arms betray'd
A drowzy, easy, miserable Maid!

Scarce had the tuneful Birds awak'd the Day,
And the Dew glitter'd at each dawning Ray;
When melting in soft Dreams, my Arms I threw,
To clasp my Joys, and circle them in you;
But as I stretching turn'd me to your Place,
An empty Grasp receiv'd my warm Embrace;
Turning, again I reach'd, I search'd again;
I lookt, I felt; but lookt, or felt in vain:
Wak'd in a Fright, I started from the Bed,
And as I fear'd, I found my Swain was fled.
At this I beat my Breast, I tore my Hair,
And stood a-while the Image of Despair.

Led by the Lustre of the waning Moon,
From Place to Place distractedly I run;

By her pale Rays, not half so pale as I,
Dimly the solitary Land espy;
With widow'd Eyes survey the mournful View,
But all, like me, seem'd destitute of you:
Theseus! along the concave Shores I cry'd;
Theseus! the repercussive Shores reply'd:
The Shores, tho' deaf to Storms, more kind than you,
Heard ev'ry Call, and echoing call'd you too.

Rais'd on the Margin of the thirsty Sands,
A rough, a barren Promontory stands;
Advent'rous by Despair, the Top I climb,
For Passion gave a Pinion to each Limb:
Thence, the wide Seas, and subject Floods survey,
And o'er the blue Expansion roll my Eye;
When strait I saw thy distant Streamers blow,
Float on the Breeze, and o'er the Billows flow.
Amaz'd, at first I doubted my Surprize,
And Reason held a Conflict with my Eyes:

But soon (too soon!) I found the Terror true,
Nor did my wond'ring Eyes deceive, but you!
Then, in what Agony of Thought I stood!
How chill'd my Bosom! and how freez'd my Blood!
'Till o'er my speechless Rage, my Grief prevail'd,
Unloos'd my frigid Tongue, and loud I call'd!
O Theseus! Theseus! whither do you fly?
Return—'tis Ariadne calls! I die—
At ev'ry Call I beat my panting Breast,
And where my Accents fail'd, my Rage exprest:
From my cold Limbs my parting Vest I tore;
And high in Air the waving Signal bore.
In vain! my Breath but made you faster fly,
Nor would you see the Sign, nor hear the Cry.

But when my Sight no farther could pursue,
And intervening Oceans dimm'd my View:
Till then restrain'd, my Tears in Torrents flow'd,
Stream'd down my Eyes, and all the Woman show'd:

My Eyes! their only Office, let them weep;
And mourn the Theseus, that they could not keep.

Now like some frantic Bacchanal I fly,
Now bath'd in Grief, on some bleak Mountain lie,
From thence the solitary Seas explore,
See the Waves rise, and hear the Billows roar;
Cold as the Flinty-Rock, there sit alone,
And seem a Piece just growing from the Stone.

Oft to the conscious Grotto I return,
Sigh o'er my Grief, and o'er thy Absence mourn:
There, as some Transport to my Soul appears,
Kindles my Breast, and melts my Heart in Tears;
Falling I press thy dear, deserted Place,
And breathe my Sorrows on the briny Grass;
To the sad Shades in plaintive Accents cry,
O cruel! could you let my Theseus fly?
I brought my Theseus hither true, and kind,
Sure 'tis your baneful Influence chang'd his Mind!

Ye Shades, ye Shades, my gentle Swain restore,
True, as at first; and tender, as before.

What shall I do! or whither can I fly?
What Succour, what Inhabitant is nigh?
No human Race possess the savage Isle,
No rising Harvests on the Peasants smile;
No Trade the barren Wilderness supplies,
Girt with rough Seas, and bound with barren Skies.

But should some favourable Ship appear,
Moor on these Shores, and wait my Passage here,
To what far unknown Region should I roam?
Where seek a Shelter? and where find a Home?
No Cretan Cities will Protection give,
Nor can my Friends, my injur'd Friends! forgive.
To you, false Man, my Father I betray'd;
And Heaven has justly now the Crime repaid!
To gain your Love, your wand'ring Steps I sped,
And thro' the Labyrinth too kindly led;

But when I first the active Present bore,
What Words! what Vows! what Promises you swore!
By this dear Gift, you cry'd, this magic Clue,
Which thus for ever binds my Heart to you!
To your last Breath my faithful Love I swear,
Firm be my Oath, as Ariadne's dear.
False Man, I live, (if one like me can live)
To see your Love, your Promises, deceive!
O! had you me with my poor Brother slain,
Then had your Vows been void, and void my Pain.

But, whilst I these experienc'd Griefs relate,
Blind to my future Griefs, reserv'd by Fate;
What fictious Horrors all my Thoughts controul,
Rise on my Sight, and sink upon my Soul!
In ev'ry Breeze some ranging Beast I hear,
And start at Phantoms conjur'd by my fear:
Imagine Lions in the Oceans roar,
And fabled Monsters rising from the Shore:

See murd'ring Ruffians' bloody Daggers rise,
Gild the green Gloom, and glimmer in my Eyes;
Faint, scarce I move, pant with thick-beating Breath,
And my Soul suffers with ideal Death:
Fearful some servile Slavery to prove,
Below my Lineage, and below thy Love.

Where-e'er I turn my Sight, where-e'er I go,
Fresh Scenes of Horror multiply my Woe;
As o'er the desart Rocks my Eyes I roll,
There view the gloomy Image of my Soul:
On the wide Seas with black'ning Tempests fill'd,
Survey my troubled Breast with Sorrows swell'd.
Nor in my deepest Anguish scarcely dare
Breathe a sad Sigh to Heaven, or steal a Prayer;
For would the list'ning Gods relieve my Pain,
Those Gods that ev'n have chang'd my faithless Swain!
Those cruel Gods that leave me thus a Prey
To savage Beasts, or Man more fierce than they!

O that my Brother's Blood had ne'er been spilt,
Nor Athens paid so dearly for the Guilt!
O that by thee the Monster ne'er had dy'd!
Nor this fond Hand the ductive Clue supply'd!
Thro' the blind Maze I taught thy Steps to rove,
But lost myself in Labyrinths of Love!
Nor do I wonder that you conquer'd so,
Yourself the greater Monster of the two!
Steel'd with that Savageness you dar'd the War,
And fac'd a Danger that you could not fear:
Well might that Breast the horned Combate try,
Whose Powers the sharper Darts of Love defy.

Ye treach'rous Slumbers, that deceiv'd my Joys,
O close again, for ever! close these Eyes:
Robb'd of my Bliss, in vain you bring Relief,
Unless, as you begun, you end my Grief.

Ye faithless Gales, that bore my Love away,
No more in sportive Zephirs idly play;

But charg'd with Griefs in deeper Murmurs blow,
Sigh out my Sighs, and whisper out my Woe,

And thou, false Theseus, listless of my Cries,
Could not a Brother's Death thy Rage suffice!
By diff'rent Means you act an equal Wrong,
He felt your Sword, and I that flatt'ring Tongue;
That Tongue that first my easy Heart betray'd,
Till Sleep, and rising Gales conspir'd their Aid;
Conspir'd, like silly me, a Swain to please,
Like that, too soothing, faithless too like these!

Must then alas! these widow'd Eyes no more
Survey the Confines of my Native Shore!
But daily fading in a foreign Land
Expire, without a Parent's closing Hand!
Shall no dear heart-dissolving Friend be near,
To sooth my Sorrows with a tender Tear!
Shall no religious Rites be kindly paid!
No Comfort dying! and no Guard when dead!

But must my Body un-inhum'd decay,
Alike, when living, and when dead, a Prey.

While You at Athens seek a glorious name!
To reap the mighty Harvest of your Fame;
Describe the Monster-Man, the Conquest blaze;
And traverse o'er again the winding-Maze:
How great 'twill sound, to name a certain Maid,
That crown'd your Arms deserted! and betray'd!

But cruel as the Rocks that brought thee forth,
(For I can ne'er believe thy boasted Birth)
Would some kind Power my Spectre-Figure show,
'Twould touch thy Soul with sympathetic Woe!
But since the distance such a Sight denies,
O see my Sorrows by Idea rise.
Think then, you see a Mountain's batter'd Brow,
Beat by rough Winds, and stunn'd by Floods below;
On some deep-bellying Crag behold me there,
My Locks dishevel'd, and my Bosom bare.

Behold me on the clammy Stone reclin'd,
Like rainy Harvests bending with the Wind;
While o'er the dewy Sheets I breathe my Pain,
Drench'd in my Tears, and spatter'd by the Main.
“Theseus relent, and if at your Return,
“You find me dead—O Theseus close my Urn.

Dido to Æneas.

The Argument.

Æneas, at the Destruction of Troy, having saved his Houshold-Gods; his Father, and his Son Ascanius from the Flames; set Sail with twenty Vessels, and was at length shipwrecked on the Lybian Shore. Where Dido, secreting herself from her Brother Pygmalion's Cruelty (who had murdered Sichæus her Husband) built the City of Carthage. Æneas and his Fleet were very hospitably Entertained, and the Queen fell passionately in Love with him, and compleated her Wishes by Enjoyment. But Æneas in a Dream being admonished by Mercury to go in quest of the Kingdom of Italy, long before promised him by the Gods, he readily prepares for the Expedition. Dido soon alarmed thereat

tries all Arts to dissuade him from his intended Enterprize, which proving fruitless, she at last, in Despair, sends him this Epistle.

Thus some expiring Swan bewails her Woe,
While with the Streams her Strains in Anguish flow:
Nor think I these, that Heart so hard, can move,
Shall Sorrow stronger than my Passion prove!
When Love, when Honour, and when Int'rest fail,
Can a weak Woman's soft Complaints prevail:
These all were yours, but are not worth your Care,
Alas you leave the Giver to despair;
With ardent Wishes court the rising Gales,
False as your Oaths, and flatt'ring as your Tales;
While now the Ships their swelling Wings display,
To bear your Vows, with all my Hopes away!
Led by delusive Thoughts of Fame to come,
Perhaps the Fates but tempt you out to roam;

But if a future Empire fire your Mind,
Think of this Empire which you leave behind.
To crown that Wish the proffer'd Gift receive,
With all a Lover and a Queen can give.
Suppose you reach this foreign unknown Shore,
Safe from the dang'rous Ocean's stormy Roar,
What Friend, what Subject shall your way prepare,
Or who commit on trust the regal Care?
What Stratagems, what Methods will you prove?
All are not easy Nymphs betray'd by Love!
Nor will your Cities on a sudden rise
To vie with Carthage, and invade the Skies:
But can propitious Fortune e'er bestow
A Nymph like Dido, kind, like Dido, true?
That you, like wretched Dido, may undo!

Alas my tender Heart! I burn, I burn!
Like Tapers dying o'er some holy Urn.
Æneas all my tortur'd Breast employs,
Streams in my Tears, and sparkles in my Joys:

For ever in my Sight his Image seems,
Charms when awake, and melts me in my Dreams.
Yet whilst the lovely Tyrant mocks my Pain,
How often do I curse the cold Disdain?
But soon, for still his pleading Eyes are by,
Revoke the Curse, and give my Tongue the Lye.

O Venus! kindly sooth a bleeding Heart,
O Cupid! pierce him with an equal Dart.
Thy Shafts the very Deities controul,
Shall they then fail to reach a Mortal's Soul!
O teach me how this Passion to resign,
Or touch his Bosom with a Flame like mine.

False-hearted Man, no more thy Fates deceive,
Which breathing Vows enforc'd me to believe;
No tender Goddess could thy Parent prove!
At least the Goddess, and the Queen of Love:
'Twas Pride that forg'd the vain delusive Lye,
For thou hast nought of Love but Perjury.

From savage Rocks, or treach'rous Seas you sprung,
Where Sirens tun'd that false bewitching Tongue:
From that inhuman Stock your Nature drew
Hardness, Inconstancy, and Coldness too.

But whither, cruel Wand'rer, would you run?
What Dangers tempt, my injur'd Sight to shun?
Tho' deaf as Rocks the raging Sea deforms,
Tho' fickle as the Winds that drive the Storms;
Think on your perjur'd Faith, and O refrain!
Nor tempt the Dangers of the stormy Main.
Behold the swelling Waves obstruct your way,
Kindly they form Excuses for Delay;
Shall the rough Winds, and Billows prove more true,
More soft, more tender, and more kind than you?
If thus to wrong my Love you tempt your Fate,
Disdain you'll purchase at too dear a rate!
But if you'ad rather wander o'er the Deep,
Than in these longing Arms be lull'd asleep;

May Heaven indulgent yet a while reserve,
The fatal Vengeance you so well deserve.

Nor into Perils thus so rashly fly,
But wait the Promise of a kinder Sky;
Strait shall the Winds be chang'd, the Storms blown o'er,
And gentler Breezes court thee from the Shore:
While, if my Wishes, and my Hopes are true,
Some God may work an equal Change in you.

But would you thus a fresh Experience gain,
Thus by repeated hazard prove the Main;
O think what latent Dangers fill the Deep,
Tho' Winds lie hush'd, tho' Billows lull'd asleep;
The treach'rous Waves some Vengeance may conceive,
May, like that false deluding Face, deceive.
And should some low'ring Storm involve the Skies,
What violated Power would hear your Cries?

Would Venus, tho' your Parent, guard her Foes,
Her Power controuls the Seas from whence it rose.

Not that I wish this fatal Judgment near!
I only caution, what I kindly fear;
Tho' led by thee, abandon'd, and betray'd,
Methinks I could not see thee thus repaid:
O rather live, to save that perjur'd Breath,
Be false, be cruel, triumph in my Death.

But think you hear the angry Billows roll,
(Good Heaven avert the Omen of my Soul)
Think then what Scenes of Horror will ensue,
Rise in your Mind, and open to your View:
When Dido, whom, you'll pity then too late!
Shall rise the bloody Witness of her Fate;
Repeat those tender Perjuries you said,
And point for Vengeance on the Wounds you made.
Confounded by Despair, with Guilt oppress'd,
You'll feel a fiercer Tempest in your Breast:

In the sad Anguish of Affliction call,
“'Tis just ye Gods, my Crimes deserve it all.
Each Moment some impending Judgment dread,
And think the Thunder levell'd at your Head.

If Dangers and Persuasions fail to move,
Let your own Care a stronger Motive prove;
I'll not receive the Kindness, as my Boon,
I'll call it tender Pity to a Son:
Think on his blooming Years, nor trust his Life,
'Tis Crime enough to wrong an injur'd Wife.
Think then upon those Deities you bear,
Nor late their dread Divinity revere;
You, that redeem'd them from the Flames of Troy,
Shall you by a worse Fate their Powers destroy!
But neither Gods, nor Mortals you regard,
No Pity ever touch'd a Heart so hard;
Those Shoulders ne'er reliev'd a Sire oppress'd,
Rather thy Crimes sat heavy on his Breast.

False as thy self, 'tis all an empty Cheat;
Nor have I first experienc'd thy Deceit.
Like me, Creüsa thy fond Tales believ'd,
Like me deserted, and like me deceiv'd!
How have I made her Miseries my own,
Which now alas too fatally are one!
For this with Vengeance arm'd the Gods pursue,
To give your perjur'd Villainies their due;
For this, for seven long Years they made you roam
A vagrant Wretch, unworthy of a Home.

Driv'n on my Coast, you su'd a suppliant Guest,
Undone by Fortune, and by Storms oppress'd;
Mov'd by your Wants, I melted at your Grief,
And sooth'd your pleading Sorrows with Relief.
I gave alas!—what gave I not to you?
My Crown, my Kingdom, and my Honour too!
And is it thus my Kindness you reward!
And is it thus my Pity you regard!

Ungen'rous! can you so forgetful prove,
So lost alike to Gratitude and Love!

But curst for ever be the fatal Day,
When in the conscious, shelt'ring Shade we lay:
Alas how dear did that Protection cost!
For that my Honour, and my Fame I lost!
With what presaging Howls the Furies yell'd?
What Ululations all the Vallies fill'd?
E'en Nature labour'd to divert my Fate;
But I the doubtful Signals learn'd too late!

Tormenting Anguish! self-accusing Thought!
What have I done! O whither am I brought!
Reflecting, from my self in vain I fly;
Asham'd to live, and yet afraid to die!
Can my dear Lord this spotted Soul receive?
Or will his injur'd Ghost my Guilt forgive?

Last Night his Statue in the gloomy Grove,
A pious Token of my chaster Love;
With Chaplets, and with verdant Foliage dress'd,
To me these deep prophetick Words express'd;
“Come Dido,—thrice the hollow Echo spoke,
Trembling I heard it thrice, and thrice I shook.
I come dear injur'd Shade—but sadly slow,
Loaded with Shame, and overcharg'd with Woe.
O can you pardon me! indeed his Charms
Would melt the coldest Virtue in his Arms;
His heavenly Birth, and his more heavenly Eyes,
So strongly, so unwarily surprize!
Such Looks, such Words would make all Hearts believe
It was not in his Nature to deceive:
But if his dear enchanting Wiles you knew,
My Wrongs you'd wave, and wish the Charmer true.
And were he such, I'd glory in my Shame,
Excess like that would justify my Flame!

Too truly I my rigid Fortune know,
Destin'd to Sorrow, and inur'd to Woe!
Slain at the Shrine my much lamented Lord,
Fell a sad Victim to my Brother's Sword:
Oppress'd, the Blood-polluted Land I left,
By Foes pursu'd, and of my Friends bereft.
Here fled, here built this City which you see,
And dearly purchas'd what I give to thee;
With those wide Lands that stretch along the Shore,
Far as the misty Prospect can explore.
With grudging Hearts my Neighbours saw me rise,
And view'd my Glories with malignant Eyes.
Lur'd by my Wealth, pretending Courtiers came,
And hid the Traytor in the Suiter's Name:
Who soon when you are gone, by force may storm,
And show th' Usurper in his proper Form;
While I defenceless, seek in vain a Friend,
My Self to succour, and my Right defend.
But first O bind these Arms, your Bonds will prove,
More easy and more gentle than your Love:

To my curst Brother's Sword my Life consign,
A Victim to my murder'd Husband's Shrine.
Far off the Object of your Hate convey,
To scorn'd Hyarbas send the Captive Prey:
Then go to foreign Lands, your Deeds relate,
And nobly triumph in a Woman's Fate;
But wisely first from Sacrilege refrain,
Nor with polluting Hands your Gods prophane;
Your Gods from ev'ry Touch may suffer more,
Than e'er they fear'd from Trojan Flames before.

But you perhaps have left me e'er you go,
Some miserable Legacy of Woe;
Time soon may see the Token of our Flame,
Blush into Life, and kindle into Shame;
Then sure my Death must melt that savage Heart,
At least you'll suffer for your tender Part.

But with a Credit to deceive, you say,
A God excites, and blames your long Delay:

O had that cruel Deity before
Preserv'd your Fortunes, and preserv'd my Shore!
Does then this tutelary Power again
Direct your Voyage thro' the pathless Main?
What Scenes of Sorrows next compleat your Woes?
What unattempted Dangers must oppose!
Dangers, which Troy, restor'd to all her State,
Could never purchase at an equal Rate:
Yet you imaginary Lands pursue,
And with chimeric Kingdoms feast your View:
In unknown Latium Empires are design'd,
And Tiber's Streams run ever in your Mind.
But 'tis Variety you long to prove;
Fickle alike in Fortune, and in Love.

Can Crowns or Scepters Satisfaction give;
This Crown a Token of my Flame receive:
My subject Kingdom at your Feet I'll lay,
With all Obedience which a Queen can pay:

To Lybian Lands consign your spreading Fame,
And raise new Ilium by a happier Name.
But if you scorn the gentle Arts of Peace,
And in mere quest of Dangers search the Seas;
Bestow that Courage on my Country's Foes,
For fierce Invaders every Side inclose.
Here let Ascanius with your Arms controul,
Live o'er his Sire, and copy all his Soul;
Encreasing Fame diffuse to foreign Shores,
And shade with conqu'ring Wreaths our softer Hours.

But, by those kindred Deities you boast,
By those you rev'rence, those you honour most:
By all that ever could your Wishes move,
Command your Pity, or reward your Love;
So may your Son adorn your Age with Joy,
And all the Father crown the blooming Boy;
So may your Parents Ashes rest in Ease,
So may your Soul with his be blest with Peace.

O hear! O listen to my dying Prayer,
Nor plunge a wretched Abject in Despair!
What have I done, that thus you leave me so,
In what have I declar'd my self your Foe?
Did I, or mine, our hostile Arms employ,
And with the Grecians urge the Fate of Troy?
No! no! from Love, not Hatred flows my Ill,
And what afflicts me, I must love you still!

Perhaps the Thoughts of stale domestic Charms,
Bar from my Breast that Heaven in your Arms:
If so, all specious Titles I'll resign,
Be what you will! so I may make you mine.
Grant but your Love, I beg no nuptial Tie,
For Love is Life, is Honour, all to Me!

Yet if this dear Petition be too great,
One momentary Favour I intreat:
While thus descending Tempests toss the Sea,
And swelling Billows stop the watry Way;

100

With Patience wait, and prudently prepare
Your Crew to strengthen, and your Ships repair.
Nor on a sudden leave my Soul accurst,
But softly sooth it into Patience first;
Administer some gentle, kind Relief,
And teach me by degrees to bear my Grief.
Then, if your Resolutions must prevail,
And all my Tears, and all my Prayers must fail;
Soon shall the Storms in whisp'ring Gales expire,
And the calm Ocean with your Wish conspire.

But if inexorable you remain
Deaf to my Griefs, and careless of my Pain;
Think that you ne'er shall triumph long, for know,
This Hand can put a Period to my Woe.
This Sword, your fatal Gift, the Task can do;
Sure it can kill, because it came from you:
Close in my Lap the thirsty Weapon lies,
Bath'd with the briny Torrents of my Eyes:

101

Which, if I fail, my Passion to redeem,
Shall turn the crystal to a crimson Stream.
From my torn Breast the rooted Pain remove,
And there conclude the Wound began by Love.

And thou, dear Anna! conscious of my Woe,
This last kind Office to a Sister show:
With pious Care my breathless Bones inhume,
Shed some soft Sorrow, and erect a Tomb.
Nor there Sichæus, as my Consort, name,
Alas that Title will disgrace his Fame!
But let the partial Monument relate,
This sad, this melancholy Tale of Fate:
“Unhappy Dido lies beneath this Stone,
“By false Æneas, and his Vows undone;
“True to her Love, tho' scorn'd; deceiv'd, she dy'd;
“He gave the Sword; her Hand the Sword apply'd.

102

Leander to Hero, Priestess of the Temple of Venus

Upon his being by Tempests, prevented from paying his nightly Visits to Her, by swimming over the Hellespontic Sea.

That Health Leander to his Hero sends,
Himself would bring, were Winds and Seas his Friends.
If the kind Gods my constant Passion speed,
These Lines my Charmer with Regret must read.
But sure I fear, the cruel Deities
Conspire against me with the Winds and Seas;
Assiduous Prayers are offer'd up in vain,
Waves choak my Passage o'er the stormy Main.

103

See! what a pitchy Gloom involves the Sky,
How fiery red the nimble Light'nings fly:
Scarce any Vessel will the Danger prove,
Of high-swoll'n Billows, and of angry Jove.
One only ventures from the Shore to part;
Fraught with the Wishes of my bleeding Heart;
O may propitious Love conduct her way,
Swift as his Shafts, unerring too as they.
I would have climb'd the happy Vessel's Side,
But all Abydos then my Love had spy'd,
Which I so long conceal'd in deep Disguise
From all the World, and from my Parents Eyes.
This when I wrote, with murm'ring Sighs I said,
Go, faithful Paper, to the lovely Maid,
Feel the soft Touches of her beauteous Hands,
(Thy Master envies thee such sweet Commands)
As with her Iv'ry Teeth she strives to break
Thy slender Chains, close by her glowing Cheek:
Enjoy the Bliss of every breathing Gale,
And Fragrance, which her rosy Lips exhale.

104

These are the Dictates of an am'rous Heart,
To senseless Paper which my Hands impart:
But O! how much more willing would they sweep,
The level Surface of the long-known Deep!
Seven Nights are past, to me a tedious Year;
Since howling Tempests stun my tortur'd Ear:
If during these, soft Sleep has seal'd my Eyes,
Mourning to see the low'ring Morns arise,
Kept by the Dangers of the furious Main,
May I no more thy dearest Sight regain.
Sometimes upon a rugged Rock reclin'd,
I strive to sooth my melancholy Mind;
With earnest Look, and ardent Thought pursue
The distant, dear, forbidden Shore in View:
Swifter than Light, Imagination flies,
And gains what intervening Space denies.

As o'er the lonely Rocks, and Shelves I gaze,
Methought I saw thy watchful Taper blaze.

105

Thrice I depos'd my Garments on the Sand,
Thrice plunging in the Deep, forsook the Land.
The surging Waves my youthful Blows repell'd,
Beat on my Temples, and my Fury quell'd.
But O! thou Chief of all the swelling Tribe,
What mighty Treasure could thy Malice bribe,
To thwart my Will? against unhappy me
Thy Spite is vented, rather than the Sea.
Cold tho' thou art, thy chilly frozen Veins,
Thaw'd by warm Love, have thrill'd with am'rous Pains.
How hadst thou bluster'd, if some pious Aid
Had stopt thy Passage to the ravish'd Maid?
Taught by thy self then, Boreas, learn to spare
My sick'ning Hopes, and hear a Lover's Prayer;
Deaf to my Prayers, regardless of my Moan,
Boreas re-murmurs in a louder Tone.
O! had I, Dædalus, thy daring Wings,
Scorning the Danger which Ambition brings,

106

Soaring aloft, I'd skim the buxom Air,
And fly to the Embraces of my Fair.
This too's deny'd; then let me for a while
With sadly-sweet amusing Thoughts beguile
The tedious Time, recall those fleeting Hours
Of killing Extasy, that once were ours.
Forth from my Father's House I stole alone,
As Night slow-mounting up her Ebon-Throne,
Began her twinkling Glories to display,
And to the Shore unheeded took my way:
Then threw my Garments with my Fear aside,
And plunging, buffeted the sturdy Tide.
The friendly Moon with kind officious Beams,
Silver'd the Surface of the trembling Streams;
Yet ever and anon she seem'd to shrowd
Her fading Lustre in a fleecy Cloud.
Then I; Fair Goddess of the silent Night,
Bereave me not of thy auspicious Light;
Mindful of young Endymion's bloomy Charms,
Conduct me safely to my Hero's Arms.

107

You, tho' a Deity, forsook the Skies,
Lur'd by the Magick of a Mortal's Eyes:
A Goddess is the Object of my Care,
Her Form, her Mind, her All, Divinity declare!
Her Charms to none the Preference resign,
But to the Paphian Queen's, or Cynthia, thine.
As all the Stars in yonder azure Field,
To thy serene superior Brightness yield,
So do the fairest Nymphs with Envy die,
And fade when near the Lustre of her Eye.
This swimming softly to my self I spoke;
The yielding Waves divide at ev'ry Stroke.
The glassy Plain reflects the quiv'ring Ray,
And the Skies brighten with a fainter Day.
Scarce any slumb'ring Breeze was heard to breathe,
Or sound, but of the bubbling Stream beneath.
Halcyons alone their hapless Fate deplore,
Moaning along the melancholy Shore.
And now with vent'rous swimming almost sped,
High from the Main erect I rais'd my Head:

108

But with what Transport spy'd I from afar,
The ruddy Gleamings of my better Star:
Within, I said, a brighter yet remains,
Source of my Joys, and End of all my Pains.
Sudden my Sinews reassum'd their Force,
And with fresh Vigour I pursu'd my Course.
Too weak Old Ocean's confluent Waters prove,
To quench the Flames of my resistless Love.
Near and more near the Land advances still,
But lags too slow for my fond eager Will.
Now, now I view the Queen of my Desire,
And all my raging Passions are on fire.

109

Laodamia to Protesilaus

When he lay Wind bound at Aulis, on board the Grecian Fleet, designed against Troy.

The Winds expiring in a softer Breeze,
Swell'd the stretch'd Sails, and smooth'd the peaceful Seas.
When, o'er the Waves, in Thought thy Course I sped,
Whilst on thy Eyes my famish'd Eyes were fed:
Nor could my Eyes the lovely Scene detain,
Dimm'd by my Tears, and dizzy by the Main.
But lost to those thy flutt'ring Sails pursue,
Thy flutt'ring Sails still less'ning to my View,
Float o'er the blewy Surge, and seem to wave Adieu.
Now bent beneath a Weight of Woe I stood,
With Eyes still fixing on the Desart Flood,

110

Till froze with agonizing Pains I swoon'd,
And Grief suffus'd a Night of Shades around.
Near was I lost to ev'ry healing Power,
And scarce my Friends my fleeting Soul restore.
Kind tho' their Care, yet kind alas in vain,
Me they reviv'd, but ah! reviv'd to Pain.
With Life's new Tides, new Tides of Sorrow flow,
Grief melts my Soul, and Love dissolves to Woe.
New Scenes of Sorrows to my Soul appear,
Hear in each Sigh, and stream in ev'ry Tear.
No more my Dress reveals the easy Fair,
But, like my self, neglected, suits my Care.
No Flower-wrought Robes my tender Limbs infold,
Shaded with Dyes or interwove with Gold:
No more my Locks with starry Gems imprest,
Soft-waving, flow adown my rising Breast:
But frantick as some Bacchanal, I go,
Alike in Figure, and alike in Woe.
In vain the fair Physicians sunk in ease,
With Female Airs my Soul distracted teaze;

111

Arise, they cry, reject these Words of Care,
Dress and be gay; for so becomes the Fair:
And let the costly Pomp of Dress delight;
Whilst thou in Arms, sustain'st the Toils of Fight.
Shall purple Robes these careless Limbs invest,
And the rough Buckler brace thy tortur'd Breast?
Shall my loose Locks diffusive Odors shed,
And the big Helmet load my Warrior's Head?

113

LAURA: OR, THE MISTRESS.

Petrarch and Pattison invoke one Name,
And both by Laura gain immortal Fame.

115

AN EPISTLE TO LAURA.

To you, dear Object of my first Desires,
And only Partner of my softest Fires:
In artless Eloquence these Lines I send,
And let my Love each lowly Verse commend.
Nor scorn these Numbers, tho' too sadly slow,
Alas! they labour with a Weight of Woe!

116

The Sibyl of the Godhead dispossess'd,
Speechless, no more the Prophetess confess'd:
The Muse bereft of your inspiring Eyes,
Neglected, now her wonted Aid denies;
From you alone her Harmony she drew,
Nor ever charm'd, unless she charm'd by you.

What can I tell you new! You know I love,
For that long since is register'd above.
But when I think on that amazing Art,
That could so easily engage my Heart:
I dread I know not what—but O my Dear!
Kindly forgive your Swain the fondling Fear,
This Heart as easily you may despise,
And scorn so mean a Conquest of your Eyes.
For Fancy often hears new Lovers sigh,
And prostrate sees adoring Vassals die:
But now to chace the Image of Despair,
Kindly she whispers Comfort in my Ear.

117

Then Heavens! what rising Raptures fill my Soul!
How brisk the Tides of Life around me roll!
Reviving Pleasures dance in ev'ry Vein,
I love, I languish, and I live again.
But ah! too soon these Intervals decay,
And in returning Sorrow melt away!
Raving I curse the stretching Hills that rise
To intercept the Pleasure of my Eyes:
With mournful Looks I measure the wide Vale,
And waft kind Wishes in each passing Gale;
Then melancholy, mourn my self asleep,
And my sad Soul in Tears and Slumbers steep.

Sometimes to lose, or chace my Cares away,
I mix among the Hurry of the Day.
Pensive, I wander thro' each crowded Street,
But lost my self, bewail my faithless Feet,
The Streets to my distemper'd Fancy seem
But swimming Shadows of a sickly Dream:

118

While to my Mind the fluctuating Crouds,
Appear but solitary waving Woods.
Where-e'er I turn my thoughtful Eyes, I find
All, but the lovely Image of my Mind;
'Till lost in wild Rapidity of Thought,
Amaz'd, I wonder at the Place I sought.

If I to Books, and Study take Recourse,
Ev'n Books, and Study lose their wonted Force;
For what's persuasive Eloquence to me,
Unless to breathe my Love-sick Soul to thee!
And why should I perplexing Thoughts explore,
My Mind's too thoughtful to admit of more.

Thus I the Drudgery of Life pursue,
For Life's but painful Bondage void of You;
My Cares, almost despairing of Relief,
Turn fancy'd Pleasures into real Grief.

119

But O my lovely Laura, charming Fair,
Joy of my Soul, and Object of my Prayer;
By all those Transports that my Soul exprest,
When I lean'd trembling on your panting Breast:
By all those Languishments that told my Love,
Those Languishments which then could Laura move!
By those dear Sighs that on each Whisper hung,
And sweeten'd e'en the Music of your Tongue:
So may kind Fortune try each happy Art,
To join true Lovers which she cannot part.
Inviolable let our Vows remain:
And imitate, my Dear, your faithful Swain.

120

On a Rose gathered, by Laura, in Winter.

While fierce inclement Storms descend,
And Forests with the Winter bend;
While no kind genial Suns appear,
To mollify the frozen Year;
Tell me, Laura, in what Skies
Could this early Rose arise!
Or perhaps the Queen of Love,
A Sister's Kindness for to prove,
Sent it from her Cyprian Grove.

But blushing don't deny, my Dear,
If I should tell you how, or where,

121

You found the little Wonder grow,
Rising from a Bed of Snow:
For we have Reasons to suffice,
'Twas created by your Eyes;
That Nature by a sudden Look
For the Sun their Beams mistook;
They shed their Influence on the Earth;
And smiling blest the fragrant Birth:
By their genial Rays it grew
Sweet in Odour, sweet in Hue,
Full of Beauty, full of you.

But whilst you blush, to hear me say,
Things so far from Reason's Way,
You your very self betray.
For 'twas that Blush, with which you glow,
That Blush which e'en revives me too!
That could such wond'rous Influence give;
Create, and make a Flower live.

122

Achilles in the Nymph conceal'd,
Was by the Warrior's Hand reveal'd.

Then, Laura, since it is your own,
Let a Mother's Love be shown:
In dewy Tears it mourns for Rest,
Then take your Infant to your Breast.

For since at first it sprung from Snow,
And there, 'tis likely, loves to grow;
Your Bosom's the best place I know;
For that not only has the Hue,
But e'en the very Coldness too.

123

On Laura's Singing.

When Laura's tuneful Airs my Soul surprize,
And fan the Flame created by her Eyes;
Forgetful of myself, I rashly gaze
On the dear Magic of her fatal Face;
Each soft'ning Sound my melting Soul disarms,
And I'm an easy Conquest to her Charms.

Thus the bold Warriour, with undaunted Eye,
Sees scatter'd Troops and Armies round him die;
Inspir'd with Music's animating Sounds,
In Death he triumphs, and he smiles at Wounds,
Undaunted views with Pride the deadly Dart;
Nor fears it, till he feels it in his Heart.

124

To Laura, walking in the Rain.

See, lovely unrelenting Laura, see,
The very Heavens bewail your Cruelty!
The sobbing Breezes to my Grief reply,
Weep to my Tears, and to my Murmurs sigh:
In-animate, my Pity they regard,
And mourn a Nymph so soft, and yet so hard!
But wretched Swain for ever now despair,
Nor fondly hope to melt the cruel Fair;
For how should Mortal's Sighs and Tears prevail,
When even thus the Gods themselves can fail!

125

To Laura, who thought I mistook her for another in the Dark.

I

Tho' Night her deepest Sables spread,
To favour the Deceit;
Tho' you yourself, my lovely Maid,
Conspir'd, I knew the Cheat.

II

But yet, my charming Nymph, I swear
By that dear stolen Kiss,
That you can cheat me any where,
Or any way but this.

126

III

You wonder since each Lover's blind,
How I could Laura know!
But pardon me, severely kind,
They're such, that Cupid's so.

IV

Nor think I boast I found the Cheat
By my own, but by your Eyes;
'Twas they for once, free from Deceit,
'Twas they discover'd the Disguise.

V

'Tis they alone the Sun outshine,
Like his, their Darts are hurl'd;
Like his their Office is divine,
But guide a nobler World.

127

Laura's Picture.

When Nature form'd the lovely Spartan Maid,
Amaz'd the charming Wonder she survey'd;
And thus delighted cry'd: At length in Greece,
With safety I may claim a finish'd Piece.
Yet soon she found, in spight of all her Boast,
Those Beautis but in human Frailties lost.

The Goddess griev'd at what she first essay'd,
But common Beauties for long Ages made;
'Till once beholding Britain's beauteous Isle,
Where ev'ry thing conspir'd to make her smile,

128

Her former Hopes reviv'd with secret Joy,
Awak'd her Pleasure to some new Employ:
Yet still she fear'd th' irreparable Cost
That once was in a fatal Beauty lost;
And nicely cautious, did at first impart
But half the Power of her wondrous Art:
On beauteous Rosamonda try'd her Charms;
And gave the Present to great Henry's Arms:
Then exercis'd her nice creating Care,
To make one virtuous too as well as fair;
In Sacharissa shew'd her justest Art,
The sweetest Face, and the severest Heart.
But fearing yet again to be betray'd,
For she ne'er knew the Woman's Heart she made,
Waller the tunefull'st of the tuneful Swains,
With all the softest, and the gentlest Strains,
By cunning Nature was inspir'd, to prove
The Nymph superior to the Power of Love.

129

Confirm'd at length, the Goddess now design'd
To make One perfect Wonder of the Kind,
And all her Charms at once in Laura join'd.

Hellen.

On a Feather in her Hair.

If Laura but wear it, a Feather can charm,
Ah who can be safe, if a Feather can harm?
Since first I beheld it, the Life I have led!
All Quiet and Ease with the Feather are fled.
Fly Youth from my Laura, whoever thou art,
And, warn'd by the Feather, beware of the Dart.

130

Hellen and Laura.

Two charming Nymphs to Man's Destruction born,
One Græcia did, one England does adorn.
The first bright Fair too kindly fatal lov'd,
This by Severities as fatal prov'd:
Alas! how different is our equal Fate!
For that Age fell by Love, and this by Hate.

Alluding to Mr. Dryden's Epigram on Milton. See, another Allusion to this Epigram in Mr. Pattison's Life. Vol. 1st. Page 7.

131

To a Lady, fishing.

Nay, now I yield—for who could e'er withstand
A Foe victorious both by Sea, and Land.
But cannot Earth afford you Slaves enow,
That thus you triumph o'er the Water too?
Yet I confess these Realms to you belong,
Because at first from them fair Beauty sprung;
From them originally took its Rise,
Its boundless Power and Inconstancies.
And lo! the finny Nations of the Flood,
As if they knew you too, around you croud.
Ah! little harmless Wantons timely fly
The magic Influence of her fatal Eye;

132

In vain these Floods! where now secure ye shun
The scorching Fury of the Mid-day Sun:
In vain shall they oppose their cooling Streams,
To guard ye from Belinda's fiercer Beams.

Here you, bright Nymph, your subject Realms survey,
And see both Elements alike obey:
At once victorious with your Hands and Eyes,
You make the Fishes, and the Men your Prize;
And while the pleasing Slavery we court,
I fear you captivate us both for Sport.

But ah! fair Nymph, be cautious, and beware,
Nor to the faithless Margin press too near;
Lest ravish'd with your Charms, some wat'ry God,
Surpriz'd, behold you from his blue Abode;
And hoping long-lost Venus to regain,
Should bear you to the Bottom of the Main.

133

THE Fatal Request to Cupid.

Shew me, said I, thou mighty God of Love,
The brightest Nymph that ever trod the Grove;
When thus the laughing Deity reply'd;
Well, Swain, for once I'll gratify thy Pride:
Laurinda's Form divinely fair behold,
And that the Boast more safely may be told,
Here, take a Signal of her Power; this Dart:
He said, and fiercely shot it in my Heart.

134

On hearing a very homely, and deformed Lady sing finely.

While with strange Surprize, I see
A Form so foul! such Harmony!
I fancy Things too strange to tell,—
A sudden Taste of Heaven and Hell:
That some bright Angel from above,
Pleas'd a-while on Earth to rove,
Invisible to every Eye,
Has left the Regions of the Sky;
Cœlestial Harmony to show
To us Mortals here below.

And now, (O listen) now I hear,
The very Music of the Sphere!

135

Unseen the Angel hovers round,
Melting in harmonious Sound.
But hideous Balba strangely vain,
With moving Lips usurps the Strain:
While her Shape, and Figure show,
A Fiend just conjur'd from below;
A Fiend, that but upon Parole,
From Hell, to hear such Musick, stole;
Knowing when she returns again,
The sure Succession of her Pain;
And learns these Notes to sooth her Grief,
Which in her Torments bring Relief;
To charm each horrid Scene of Woe,
And make another Heaven below.

136

To a Friend in Love.

In vain, my Damon, you look pale, and write,
Languish all Day, and sigh away the Night;
For while these inconsistent Forms you try,
She thinks you rival her Inconstancy.
Then show the Man again, and re-assume
The sprightly Pride of One-and-twenty's Bloom:
With Courage take her in your longing Arms,
And when she's conquer'd, she must yield her Charms.

Long thus in borrow'd Shapes Vertumnus strove
To cheat the fair Pomona into Love;
Yet still he try'd his Fallacies in vain,
She mock'd the Soldier, and she scorn'd the Swain:
But when his proper Form the God confess'd,
Yielding, she clasp'd him to her panting Breast.

137

The Disappointed Maid, and the drowzy Swain.

A TALE.

As Dolly and her fav'rite Swain
Were interrupted by the Rain,
From tedding out the fragrant Hay;
Beneath a shelt'ring Cock they lay:
When thus the lovely, longing Jade,
Unto the drowzy Shepherd said,
Nay, prithee Lobby, why so sleepy?
Indeed—upon my Word I'll nip ye.—

138

How pretty might we sit, and chat,
Tell o'er old Stories, and all that.—
But you—O L---d, the careless Beast!
As if Folks lie down to take Rest.
Lob, half asleep, made no Replies,
Or answer'd with a Grunt her Sighs.
While she to be reveng'd, arose,
And play'd a Tickler in his Nose.
(But some, the Virgin to disgrace,
Will say, 'twas in another Place.)
Be that as 'twill, she wak'd the Swain,
And tickled him with Words again.
Come Sweeting, Lobby, come my Dear,
I'm sure that nobody is near;
Indeed we may, pray ben't afraid,
Poor I am but an harmless Maid
For since you're so dispos'd to rest,
Pray take a Nap upon my Breast.
You see Time, Leisure, Place, and all
For such Employment, seem to call.

139

And you remember People say,
When the Sun shines, then make your Hay.
Augh! Augh! quoth Lob, wak'd with Surprize,
To see the Sun flame in his Eyes.
Heigh hoa! come Doll, for as you say,
The Sun shines, we must make our Hay;
So reach me there my Rake and Prong,
'Twas well you wak'd—we've slept too long.

140

The Case stated.

Inter cæsa, & porrecta.

Horace , I think, prescribes this Rule,
(And surely Horace is no Fool)
Poets should keep, e'er the World knows it,
Their Poems nine Years in their Closet:
I own the Fancy's very good;
But pray, let this be understood:
Your meagre Poets now-a-days,
Write more for Profit than for Praise:
And whilst their Poems live in Garret,
Themselves, alas! may die for Claret.

141

A PROLOGUE TO THE FUNERAL:

A COMEDY.

[_]

Supposed to be spoken before the University of Cambridge.

I've very often heard what Fear can do,
But never found the sad Effects till now;
And now my Face in sober Sadness shows it,
But hush—before each teazing Coxcomb knows it.

142

Pray Sirs, forgive me if I shrewdly guess,
The latent Meaning of this sable Dress;
Did not I know ye, I should think ye come,
Like Ravens, to foretel our Poet's Doom;
But since we act the Funeral to-day,
We'll but suppose ye Mourners in the Play.

Yet thanks to Fate, some dawning Hopes appear,
Break thro' the Gloom, and gild the low'ring Sphere.
Lo! Comet-like the Commoners arise,
And as the streaming Light'ning gild the Skies,
But thank 'em, they're too witty to be wise.
Like Light'ning, yet I fear, they'll blast our Toil,
And wound the very Place, on which they smile.

But O ye Sophs, ye mighty Men of Wit!
You that so well can lord it o'er a Pit!
For once guard this with ruminating Face,
And stand the solemn Guardians of the Place!

143

Clear it from snearing, sly, pretending Fools,
And lug the beardless Criticks to the Schools:
So may the Fresh-men ev'ry Pun approve,
So may your Puns the Fresh-mens Jokes reprove.
So may your Gravities with equal Ease,
Guzzle fat College-Ale, or take Degrees,
Turn Pedants, Parsons, Criticks, what ye please.

But if the Play's intolerably bad,
And nothing but Damnation can be had;
Torment it with your criticising Tools,
Time, Place, and Characters, and twenty Rules;
Nay, use it like a Fresh-man in the Schools.
But pray, good surly Gentlemen, be sure ye
Observe the just Decorum of a Fury;
And this, among the rest, a Maxim hold,
That, Vixens always clap their Hands and scold.

144

The Enjoyment.

Come my Laura, come my Love;
Come my tender Turtle-Dove;
Let us from this Heat retire,
To languish in a softer Fire.
How the waving Elms invite us!
How these Rosy Bowers delight us!
How their am'rous Foldings twine,
To imitate thy Arms and mine!
See these Snowy Lillies blowing,
With the blushing Roses glowing,
Silently the Soul inspire,
To kindle at thy Lover's Fire:
See these springing Violets rise,
Animated by thy Eyes;

145

Lavishly their Charms they spread,
To make a soft enamel'd Bed;
And like this downy swelling Breast,
They rise, and languish to be press'd.

But O thou happy, happy Grove,
Sacred to the God of Love,
With the thickest Umbrage shade us,
Let no piercing Rays invade us:
Let no Light but Beauty's charm us,
Let no Heat but Beauty's warm us:
Make our artificial Light,
Close and sweet as our Delight.

And now, my Dear, no longer coy,
Let us give a Loose to Joy!
Then, closely lay thy Lips to mine,
And let our Souls and Bodies join:
Let me suck thy balmy Breath,
And fainting, glory in my Death.

146

Take me dying to thy Arms,
And revive me with thy Charms.
Ah me! I die with pleasing Pain,
O kindle me to Life again.
And now, my brighter Queen of Love,
I'll confess the stronger Jove.

O happiest Transport, dearest Blessing,
Sweetest Rapture past expressing!
Who can tell the thrilling Pleasure,
When the Nymph resigns her Treasure!
When she melts in ripen'd Blisses,
Breathing out her Soul in Kisses!
When in Paradise she lies,
And rolls her pretty dying Eyes:
While the Snake with softer Strains,
Sweetly stings her tickling Veins!
She pants, she sighs, she heaves her Charms,
And locks her vig'rous Lover in her Arms.

147

A Description of his Mistress.

She's young, and She's tender,
She's handsomely slender,
She's genteel, She's pretty,
Good-natur'd, and witty:
Adorn'd with those Graces,
We want in some Faces;
But moves,—O most sweetly!
Then dances so neatly!
No Scandal she tattles,
But agreeably prattles;
Learns Love and such Fancies,
From Plays, and Romances.
Is proud, but a little,
And my Soul to a Tittle.

148

Sent Me, from a Lady, with a Rose.

Whilst these vernal Sweets exhale,
Whilst you bless the Rosy Gale;
Think upon the Giver's State,
Think, and O compare our Fate!

View your Laura, view her Flower,
Smiling Daughters of an Hour!
Sweet's our Beauty, fair our Hue;
Sweet, and fair, at least to you.
When with tender Ardour prest,
We lie blushing on your Breast:
Happy! could we still enjoy;
Happy! could we never cloy:

149

Happy! could we keep our Charms
From, or, ever in those Arms!
But when once those Charms decay,
Both, like Weeds, are thrown away.

On an Apple, given me by Laura.

Sure all submit to lovely Laura's Charms,
Who with a thousand Darts an Apple arms;
With Adoration I approach'd the Dame,
My Hand receiv'd the Fruit, my Soul the Flame:
Alas, too deep I feel the deadly Smart,
I gain'd an Apple, but I lost my Heart.

150

A Song.

I

Shepherd! if you see me, fly;
And why should that thy Fears create?
Maids may be too often shy,
As well in Love, as Hate.
If from you I fly away,
'Tis because I fear to stay.

II

Should I out of Hatred run,
Much less would be my Pains and Care.
But the Youth I love, I shun;
Who can such a Trial bear?
Who, that such a Swain could see,
Or who can love, and fly like me!

151

III

Cruel Duty bids me go,
But gentle Love commands my Stay,
Pity, still to Love a Foe;
O shall I this, or that obey?
Duty frowns, and Cupid smiles,
That destroys, but this beguiles.

IV

Ever by this Crystal Stream,
O! I could sit me down and weep;
Ravish'd with the pleasing Theme,
O! 'tis worse than Death to sleep;
But the Danger is so great,
That Love gives Wings, instead of Hate.

V

Shepherd! if you love me, leave me,
Leave me to my Self alone,
O! you may with Ease deceive me!
Prithee, charming Boy, be gone!
Heaven has decreed that we must part,
That has my Vows, but you my Heart.

152

On hearing a Lady sing Prior's Alexis.

I

When Philly sings these tender Strains,
Such magic Airs the Notes improve,
I languish with the Shepherd's Pains,
And kindle at another's Love.

II

Some from a sweet bewitching Eye,
Receive the gaily fatal Dart;
Their Cupid's Arrows I defy,
'Tis Musick only strikes my Heart.

III

But when soft Strains, and Beauty's Charms,
Harmoniously to wound, conspire;
A double Stroke my Breast disarms,
And breathing Musick blows the Fire.

153

IV

Such is charming Philly's Power,
Enchanting Smiles, enchanting Sound!
That were we from her Eyes secure,
Her Voice, with latent Force would wound.

V

Thus when keen Light'nings gild the Skies,
The Trav'ler shakes with holy Dread;
Trembles as the Flashes rise,
Nor sees the Bolt that strikes him dead.

VI

So soft! so sweet the Charmer sings,
Each yielding Thought the Strains controul.
But Love—and Love from Music springs,
That sooths, with piercing Sounds, the Soul.

154

VII

But would the powerful Charmer try
This Token of her Art to prove,
To melt me first with Harmony,
Then make me such as she can love!

To a Lady,

Who, in return for a Copy of Verses, sent me a flower'd Cap.

Is this, dear Maid! the Price of all my Pains,
My Sighs, my Prayers, and never-ceasing Strains?
Fair Daphne thus, a grateful Heart to show,
The Lover scorn'd, but crown'd the Poet's Brow.

155

On Crito , who wrote against Me.

They say that out of pure Ill-Nature
Crito has lately wrote a Satire;
On me too—That the silly Elf
Should be forgetful of Himself!

Satire's a very dangerous thing,
And often wears a double Sting;
And tho' it chance to lose its Aim,
It seldom fails in getting Game.
So Gun enrag'd to miss the Black-bird,
Recoiling, knocks poor Lobcock backward.

156

But Crito tells me, full of Choler,
He'as drawn me in my proper Colour;
I thank him for his merry Whim,
And fain would do the same by him;
But hang it tho', 'tis cursed Cost,
To daub an Ass on every Post!
But all consider'd tho', I think
I'ad e'en as good take up with Ink:
On second Thoughts too, 'cause 'tis black,
It seems the very thing I lack,
For I am apt to think his Soul
Is somewhat darker than a Coal.

But yet, old Boy, I see in spight
Of all your forc'd ill-natur'd Wit,
The very self-same thing you strive at;
The very End and Aim you drive at:
But faith I han't Time, tho' you lack now,
The Favour Dryden did for Flecknoe.

157

And slily want to steal in Print,
And that I'm sure is all that's in't.

So Country-Girl, in Breeding awkard,
Whips up Ralph's Chair, and tilts him backward;
Tho' all the while she means no Hurt,
And does it, as she says, for Sport:
Ay, ay, but if I rightly guess,
Her Sport, summ'd up, amounts to this;
That she, in jest, may teach the Clown
To throw herself in earnest down.

One Ch---y, of St. John's Coll. a most vain Scribler, who bound up his own Rhymes in Turkey Leather, and set 'em off with Pictures. See his Character in the Session of Poets. Vol. 1. page 28.

158

On Reading the Turtle and Sparrow, A TALE.

Let Tears no more lament the Dead in vain,
For see! our easy Prior lives again.
These genuine Lines the gentle Bard reveal,
And paint that Nature he alone could feel:
With tender Accents touch the soft'ning Soul,
Or gaily mock the Philosophic Fool.

159

When Turturella tells her piteous Moan,
Who does not make the Mourner's Grief his own?
How ravishingly sweet the Numbers move,
And breathe the dying Agonies of Love!
Such sympathizing Tenderness impart,
They melt the Reader's to a Lover's Heart.

But while th' inimitable Bard displays,
The wanton Sparrow in gallanter Lays;
The Marriage-State is image'd to the Life,
The careless Husband and the peevish Wife;
The Troubles of the fet-lock'd Couple shew,
And either Sex is open'd to the View.

Thus sung delightful Matt—but sings no more,
Long since lamented on the lonesome Shore;
Pensive for Him in vain my Voice essays,
To court Thalia to her Poet's Praise;
Like Turturella she neglects her Charms,
Despairing of another Prior's Arms:

160

Alike their Tenderness, alike their Woe,
For what Columbo was, is Prior now:
Time's Period past—He shall for ever live,
And like these Labours by his Death revive.

These Verses are prefixed to Mr. Prior's Posthumous Works. Printed for H. Curll in the Strand.

On seeing Mr. Prior's Monument in Westminster-Abbey.

Say, Prior, stands this Busto here to show;
Thy Life had not its Vanities enow;
And could a Poet, that immortal Name,
Implore the Chissel's Charity of Fame?

Alluding to these Words of Mr. Prior in his Will (after having ordered a Monument) “For this last Piece of Human Vanity, I Will, “that the Sum of Five Hundred Pounds be set aside.

161

A Receipt to make a Modern Poet.

Semper ego Auditor—

Q.
Well then—when will these Railings end?

A.
Lord Sir, as soon as Poets mend.

Q.
But durst thou thus, profanely bold,
Thy Argument so stiffly hold?
Restrain in time this sour ill-Nature,
And dread The Universal Satire.
How durst you say (nay ne'er deny,
And poorly truckle with a Lye)

162

That ex probato you could show it,
We scarce have now one Perfect Poet.

A.
Why what I think, Sir, still I'll stand to,
And what I say I'll set my Hand to:
But lest uncourteously you think,
I mix ill-Nature with my Ink,
For leaving out Pack, Prior, Pope,
This Answer may suffice I hope—

Q.
Faith Sir, you're very wise I own,
Is Homer then no better known?
Tibullus and old Chaucer too,
I wonder you forget them so.

A.
Those Bards, but now, you heard me name,
And are not These the very same,
Alike their Worth, alike their Fame!
For Nature conscious of the Cost,
(And her Receipt-Poetic lost)
In Prior, Pack, and Pope infuses
Their very transmigrated Muses;

163

But now since Nature thus knocks under,
Let's see how Art can work a Wonder;
And where the Lion's Skin shall fail,
We'll patch it with the Fox's Tail.
Well then—Imprimis—Recipe—

Q.
But what? How much?—

A.
Why let me see,
First, take, a little Stock of Learning,
Then, a less Portion of Discerning,
Sufficient, if you reach the Rules
(Of Ipse Dixit, and the Schools)
Next take, of Vanity enough,
Modest-Assurance, Irish proof;
Then frugally to spare your Wit,
Take something that resembles it;
And to prevent a thousand things
Which Judgment to my Fancy brings,
This one Ingredient is the best,
(Nay faith 'tis worth e'en all the rest,
For I have known it oft prevail
Where Art and stronger Nature fail)

164

I mean a very good Estate,
But 'tis so hard to get of late!
To this infuse a Knack of Rhyming,
Then set the Whirligig a chyming.
These, nicely mix, but if you lack more,
You'll find 'em all summ'd up in Blackmore.

Dr. Young's Universal Passion.

165

The Battle of the Pygmies and Cranes.

Translated from the Latin of Mr. Addison.

Contending Troops, and Fields of Death I sing,
Ye tuneful Nine your sacred Succour bring,
In Arms my Pygmy-Sons of Fame prepare,
And rouze the Cranic Furies to the War;

166

Their Acts, their Valour, and their Worth rehearse,
And let their slaughter'd Heroes live in Verse.

The Wrath of Peleus' Son, the Golden Fleece,
With all the num'rous labour'd Themes of Greece,
Long since exhausted, are too vulgar grown,
To shine in any Colours but their own;
Who does not know the pious Prince of Troy?
And William's Triumphs ev'ry Tongue employ:
Whilst in reviving Numbers I pursue,
A Theme less Glorious, but a Theme more new;
Wars yet unsung, and Warriours yet unknown,
Rush thro' the Fields of Air my Brow to crown.

Where Indian Groves their warmer Shades display,
Blest with the earliest Influence of the Day,
Deep in a Vale, by Nature's Hand secur'd,
With Woods defended, and with Rocks immur'd,

167

In happier Days indulgent Fate design'd
To fix the Empire of the Pygmy Kind:
Here long in easy State the Nation reign'd,
Soft Peace indulging what their Toils obtain'd.
O happy had it known an happy Life,
Serene from Cares, and unally'd to Strife:
But heedless Mortals ever blind to Fate,
Rush on impenitently, wise too late!
For now the tender-hearted Traveller,
Weeping, beholds the sad Effects of War;
No more he views, alas! with sweet Surprize,
The early Hopes of future Empires rise:
But O! the miserable Turn of Fate,
Presents reverse, a ruinated State;
Skulls, broken Arms, a pallid Horrour spread,
The wretched Ruins of the mighty Dead!
While with insulting Pride the Cranic Foe
Menaces Vengeance on the Bones below:
Triumphantly the screaming Tyrants reign,
And proudly lord it o'er th' unpeopled Plain.

168

Not thus they dar'd when happier Days of Yore,
Loudly confess'd the potent Pygmies Power:
How timorously then they skimm'd the Air!
And e'en in Clouds, imagin'd Pygmies near.
Then durst the boldest Crane the Plains invade,
His forfeit Life the certain Ransom paid;
His mangled Carcass furnish'd out a Feast,
At once the Banquet, and at once the Guest:
Or could he rarely 'scape their hostile Rage,
'Twas but with greater Evils to engage:
For he no sooner to his Nest returns,
But that despoil'd with bleeding Infants mourns;
Eluded Danger gives him no Relief,
Weeping, he dies with fond paternal Grief.

From these inhuman Villanies arose
The Cranes Resentment, and the Pygmies Woes;
Hence dreadful Wars ensu'd, and direful Arms,
That shook the peaceful Country with Alarms.

169

Less Wrongs resented, and less noble Rage,
In former Days did Homer's Muse engage,
When to the Field his downy Chiefs he led,
With sable Troops of croaking Heroes spread:
Deep thro' the Vales confounding Clamours rise,
And in hoarse Echoes murmur to the Skies;
Disjointed Heroes of their Limbs bereft,
Bewail the useless Life that Fate has left.

And now the great, th' important Day appear'd,
A Day for ever by the Pygmies fear'd!
Now conscious of their Crimes, they view their Fate,
And penitentially grow wise too late!
In vain the Cranes their plumy Troops prepare,
And rally all their Forces to the War;
Summon'd the Chiefs that drink Cayister's Stream,
Receive the welcome Call, and thirst for Fame;
Cold Scythia pours her winged Armies forth,
And heads the hardy Millions of the North.

170

Fomented Wrongs their injur'd Souls excite,
Burn for Revenge, and kindle to the Fight;
Eager they meditate their absent Foes,
And exercise imaginary Blows:
Imaginary Conquests swell their Minds,
And each Breast labours with some vast Designs.

But now warm Breezes melt the frozen Year,
And warbling Birds bespeak the Summer near:
Embody'd then the winged Nations rise,
Darken the Day, and stretch along the Skies;
In sounding Gales the hov'ring Armies flow,
And seem a Tempest to the World below.
Shrill screaming Thunders thro the Welkin fly,
And terribly presage Destruction nigh.

All Mr. Addison's Latin Poems are translated by Dr. Sewell, Mr. Newcomb, and Mr. Amhurst. viz. 1. On the Peace of Reswick. 2. On the Resurrection. 3. The Bowling-Green. 4. The Barometer. 5. The Puppet-Show. 6. The Battle of the Pygmies and Cranes. 7. An Ode to Dr. Burnet, on his Theory. 8. An Ode to Dr. Hannes, &c. With his Dissertation upon the Classicks. Printed for H. Curll, in the Strand.

171

AN EPISTLE TO HIS MAJESTY, King GEORGE II.

On his Accession to the Throne.

My Sacred Liege, if Sorrow cease to flow,
And reasoning Nature yield a Pause to Woe,
In the sad Silence of Ideal Gloom,
Whilst Death, triumphant, mocks the Monarch's Tomb,
Reflect, how Glory crouds Life's narrow Span!
And let the Prince recover from the Man.

172

Bend, then, auspicious o'er Thy filial Isle,
And with a Father's Eye her Grief beguile;
Joy, o'er her Tears, in gentle Smiles diffuse,
As rising Suns melt off the Morning Dews.

Beam'd on my Breast, how full Thy Glories shine!
Nor more by Lineage, than by Virtue Thine.
From Heaven deriv'd, in Pity to our Woes,
By Virtue, first, the Right to Rule arose:
What time Great Souls to tame the World began,
And broke the wild Barbarians into Man;
Then, stricter Laws their loose Desires restrain'd,
And thro' the Paths of Justice, wisely rein'd:
Aw'd then, destructive Rapine learn'd to cease,
And jarring Factions harmoniz'd in Peace.

As some pure Stream, the hurrying Tempest o'er,
Serenely winds along the Flowery Shore,
Progressive, paints the Borders as they rise;
And each still Scene with living Nature vies.

173

Calm'd thus for Thought, and actively refin'd,
Dawn'd fair Ideas on the forming Mind;
Hence, the fam'd ATHENS rich in Science grew,
And Arts still follow'd where ROME's Eagles flew;
Hence, too, victorious o'er the Powers of SPAIN,
Late Times shall own the Wonders of Thy Reign,
Reviv'd, those ancient Sons of Genius see,
And all their Godlike Patrons crown'd in THEE!

Lost in the Vision of Futurity,
Slowly the Muse steals back her ravish'd Eye,
And nobly kindling at an earlier Aim,
Dates the bright Æra of Thy growing Fame.

Nor shall the Pomp of the Slow-moving Train,
Charm to the Vulgar-Gaze! her Sight detain:
Poor were the Praise, on Themes like those to dwell,
Where Thornhill's Colours might the Verse excel!
Unnoted pass the wide Procession by ---
True Greatness strikes alone the mental Eye!

174

Shot thro' the Covert of a Court's Disguise,
That reads thy Soul; for there the Monarch lies!
And there, in every Attribute exprest,
As once on MOSES, sees the GOD confest.

Thrice happy Hand of Power, to THEE assign'd,
To awe, to govern, and to bless Mankind!
To call forth humble Virtue into Fame,
To shade the Titled Villain o'er with Shame,
With Force to rescue where the Proud oppress,
And count a kind of Merit from Distress;
Or, when despairing in the Cave of Grief,
Surprize the sentenc'd Sinner back to Life,
And by the Favour of one Smile supply,
What gasping Monarchs would with Empires buy.

How great these Acts!—but, since their Praise were poor,
Let me, at least, in Thought, indulge them o'er!

175

Confess the Pride would with my Wish agree,
And bend my Heart, O Power! to envy Thee!
Then Mercy! shouldst thou melt each harden'd Soul,
And Vice turn Virtue by thy soft Controul:
For Man by Nature is a doubtful Soil,
And wildly fertile asks the Tiller's Toil;
Yet the same Place, where the rank Venom grows,
Blushful, may blossom forth the fragrant Rose.

Blest be the Prince, who thus his Power employs,
He moves in Smiles, and lives in circling Joys;
Superior to the Tyrant's savage Arts,
Founds his firm Empire on his Subjects Hearts;
From gentlest Virtues draws the noble Plan,
And proves the Monarch something more than Man.

'Twas thus we saw Thee, lost in sweet Surprize,
Prelude AUGUSTUS to our ravish'd Eyes;

176

Delightful Prospects dawn'd on every Breast,
And All the glorious Interval confess'd!

Nor dwell we distant on the backward Hour,
Urg'd by fresh Views enlarging on before;
Brightening down Ages, with progressive Shine,
They kindle Souls, in vain, to rival thine:
Whilst thro' the Mist of Time thy Fame appears,
The laurel'd Victress of ten thousand Years!

Yet wilt thou still the Course of Glory run,
Rise, height'ning into Lustre, like the Sun:
For generous Minds, tho' Miracles were wrought,
Mourn every Act below their towering Thought:
Thus, tho' our Eye stretch the long Landscape o'er
To the last Point, our Reason flies before.

As in full Circles of Delight we rove,
Ev'n Loyalty itself is lost in Love;

177

Whilst crowded Nations, gazing from the Heart,
With honest Nature mock the Muse's Art.
No more the Labourer mourns his empty Toil;
Nor foreign Weeds infect our happy Soil,
Joyful, we see our Stores on Stores increase,
The bounteous Growth of Liberty and Peace.

O, Fair BRITANNIA! Empress of the Main,
Fresh spring the Joys, an ever-blooming Train!
Steal them one Moment from thy downy Rest,
(For 'twas still thine to pity the distress'd;)
O'er thy wide Ocean cast thy gentle Eye,
There learn how Lands unciviliz'd may die;
And, as thou mourn'st their Happiness o'erthrown,
Nearly reflect, and learn to prize thy own:
Nor envy Nations that remotely run
To the full Influence of a warmer Sun,
When all the various Sweets their Products boast,
Transported, flourish on our happier Coast.

178

Yet thy rich Plains with equal Bounty smile,
And all Elysium opens in thy Isle.
What yellowing Harvests o'er thy Mountains flow,
Wave down, and thicken all the Vale below!
How the glad Merchant views, with greedy Pride,
The World's Abundance pour in every Tide!
E'en Avarice, here, might sate her thirsty Eyes,
There, Famine feast, and into Plenty rise!

In this Profusion of increasing Joy,
Heaves e'er a Breast, or streams a tearful Eye!
Let grating Envy now alone deplore,
E'en injur'd Merit is a Crime no more!
Nor doom'd to watch a chearless Life away,
Like a dull Dial on a Winter's Day.

Sinks there opprest, to Shades obscure confin'd,
The mournful Merits of a generous Mind;
To CAROLINA, breathe the modest Prayer,
Her gentle Soul can charm away Despair!

179

Her gentle Soul from Want's last Verge retriev'd,
And e'en the Shade of ancient Worth reliev'd:
The good Old Genius saw thy Gifts engage,
And mock'd the Malice of a grateless Age.

How lost in sweet Surprize, the World admir'd,
When all the Woman to a Saint aspir'd;
What Time Religion's purer Flame out-shone
The dazzling Splendours of a German Throne!
Charm'd with the Prospect of thy future Isle,
Silent she bad thee every Wish beguile;
Sees Britain's Crown thy softer Power employ,
The glittering Earnest of immortal Joy!

Still then the Promise of our Hopes maintain;
Still dawn fresh Wonders for a future Reign;
And lo! advancing to maturer Years,
GREAT FREDERICK, Image of his Sire, appears!

180

Paternal Virtues all his Soul engage;
And blooming Youth divines a fruitful Age!

So, on the yellowing Orange-Tree, appear,
The flowery Tokens of a golden Year;
Fair, o'er the falling Fruits, new Beauties rise,
And all the sweet Succession never dies.

The Author died on the Day, he was to have been introduced to the King, with this Poem, viz. July 10th, 1727.

The Royal Bounty, sent to Milton's Daughter.

181

POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS: Wrote by Mr. Pattison,

When at Appleby-School;

[_]

Which were in the Custody of a Friend at York, and, now by him, communicated to the Editor.

183

A Pastoral.

'Twas when the pearly Wings of Rosy Light,
Had chac'd the melancholy Shades of Night;
Each blushing Shrub with glitt'ring Diamonds gleam'd,
Each Field a Firmament of Spangles seem'd.
Refreshing Breezes wav'd the verdant Woods,
And fann'd the panting Bosom of the Floods:
Each Swain arose refresh'd with downy Sleep,
And pipe'd, and whistled to his frisking Sheep.

But sad Sireno no Delights could move,
Wild were his Thoughts with late neglected Love.
For him each Virgin sigh'd, but sigh'd in vain,
Whilst lovely Laura show'd unjust Disdain.
On ev'ry neighb'ring Tree he carv'd her Name,
And with the living Letters grew his Flame.

184

To her the Firstlings of his Flock he brought,
For her the earliest Greens and Flowers he sought.
But all in vain—the lovely cruel Fair
As unrelenting as his barren Care.
No downy Slumbers lull'd his Soul to rest,
Sleep fled his Eyes, as Quiet did his Breast:
If some faint Slumber o'er his Temples crept,
Yet wakeful Love eternal Vigils kept.
In fancy'd Dreams he'd catch the lovely Maid,
But waking, curse the visionary Shade.

185

To a Lady.

A Paraphrastical Translation of the third Ode of the second Book of Horace.

Æquam memento rebus in arduis, &c.

I.

Let not the Turns of Fate molest
The sacred Quiet of your Breast;
Tho' the black Storm hang hov'ring o'er your Head;
Your Soul serene its Fury need not dread;
Let Fortune guide your destin'd State,
Yielding to Fortune, we subdue our Fate:
But when the fickle Siren smiles,
Trust not too far her treach'rous Wiles;

186

Not let the flowing Joy,
As it repays your Ill, your Calm annoy:
Catch not with greedy Hopes the fleeting Shade;
Black Storms will soon the visionary Scene invade;
Like the alternate Shades of Day and Night,
The particolour'd Thread of Life is black and white.

II.

Be our Lot good, or be it ill,
It makes no Measure for the fatal Wheel,
Should we spin out a wretched Life
In Cares and melancholy Grief,
'Twere but in vain to beg of Fate,
One fleeting Hour, to recompence our wretched State:
Or should we in some pleasant Grove refine
Our fading Life with sparkling Wine,
'Tis Fate's to measure Time, 'tis ours to live,
Nor can e'en Fate and Jove the past retrieve.

187

III.

Since Fate is still the same,
Then let us in some pleasant Grove,
Lull'd with the Murmurs of the purling Stream,
Banish all Cares and doubtful Life improve;
We'll quaff the sprightly Wine,
While Beauty fires the Eyes, and Fancy fills the Vein;
With Sweets anoint your flowing Hair,
And let it float and wanton in the Air,
Loose, and neglected as your Care.
Let the sweetest Flowers be brought,
Let the Rosy Wreath be wrought;
Let the short-liv'd Chaplet be
A Type of frail Mortality,
T' admonish us to catch the Golden Now;
While Youth and blooming Beauty bless at once the Brow.
Thus will we live and flourish while we may,
Thus will we live and say;
“To-morrow Life is Fate's, 'tis ours to-day.

188

IV.

Be quick, be quick, we cannot live too fast,
This pleasing Rapture cannot last,
An Age already's idly past!
Lo! rapid Hours roll round apace,
Now, now, unseen they swiftly steal the race:
'Tis past, 'tis past,—and now I see
The ghastly Head of bald Eternity!
Grim Death brings up the Rear,
In all the frightful Forms that Mortals fear:
Now must we leave this transitory Stage,
And mourn in vain an ill-spent Age!
Our sweet Delights, our smiling Hours,
Mossy Mountains,
Murmuring Fountains,
Shady Grottoes, rosy Bowers,
Alas no more are ours!
Of all our large Possessions Fate will but allow,
At most a mournful Cypress Bough.

189

Perhaps your Heir
Will shed a counterfeiting Tear,
A Tear but for the sake of your Estate,
Which he must, with himself, too soon resign to Fate.

V.

Our Fates are mingled in one common Urn,
Which soon or late must take their turn:
The Great, the Poor, the Low, the High,
Confus'dly blended lie;
The Weak, the Strong, the Base, the Brave,
Which here so different seem, are equal in the Grave;
Nor can we in the Dust distinction see:
And such as Hellen is, Belinda must thou be.

VI.

In vain the Hero toils, to shew his Worth,
And from a Stem of Gods derives his Birth;

190

In fighting Fields he turns the Scale of Fate,
While Tyrants bow, and Kings around him wait;
Yet at pale Death's approach, this godlike Brave
Trembles amidst his Pomp, and shudders like his meanest Slave!
Ah whither is his Strength and Courage flown,
That made the subject World his own!
How Tyrants trembled at his Nod,
Alas where is the God!
Where is his Pride, his Pomp, his Pageantry,
Which brib'd and conquer'd all—except the Destiny,
That whirls them in the Gulf of black Eternity.
Now in some gloomy Abbey is he laid,
Dismal and silent as the mould'ring Dead,
Who could the World with one small Nod command,
Has nothing but a scanty Spot of Land.
Perhaps a Monument they raise,
Which for a-while records his Praise:

191

Where they inscribe his awful Name,
And all the fleeting Charities of Fame.
But then some Briar, or destroying Root,
Will eat its way, and thro' the Marble shoot—
The Tomb defac'd! this great, this god-like King,
Is a Romantic Tale, and a forgotten Thing.

1722. Æt. 15.

Upon Belinda, who, gathering a Rose, prick'd her Finger.

When you, bright Nymph, design'd to crop a Rose,
To kiss your sweeter Hand, the Buds arose:
Your heedless Hand a pointed Prickle prest,
Stung with the Wound, you sunk into my Breast.
If so small Wounds can cause so great a Smart,
Think, O Belinda, on my bleeding Heart!

192

The Conquest.

Oft had I read of Cupid's Arms,
His matchless Power, resistless Charms,
How he defy'd Jove's thund'ring Hand,
Tho' loaded with the flaming Brand;
These Wonders put me to a stand.
But when I found this mighty God a Boy,
Naked, defenceless, blind, his Arms a Toy;
I laugh'd to think the Gods were foil'd
By such a little silly Child:
When Rosalinda strait came by,
Keen roguish Lightning arm'd her Eye,
Pity, fair Nymph, I faint, I die—
No more I'll wonder at this Infant's Art,
When your bright Eyes direct and head the Dart.

193

ON CONTENTMENT.

Content, thou only Solace of the Mind,
Whom all pretend to seek, but none can find;
Tell me, O Goddess, in what foreign Seat,
Or Realm unknown remains your blest Retreat;
Where I may lull my raging Thoughts to rest,
And calm the Tempest rising in my Breast:
Say, shall I to the splendid Court repair,
And make the proudest Thoughts my darling Care;
Swell high my Soul—and now I am a God—
Bow scepter'd Slaves, obey your Sov'reign's Nod—
Content, I'll make you leave your humble Seat,
You cannot, dare not scorn me now I'm great.

194

Thus rav'd a Fool, when lo! stupendous Sight!
A Nymph appear'd array'd in mantling Light;
Bright was her Aspect, yet serenely mild,
While thus she spoke, and as she spoke she smil'd.

Forbear, vain Man, to seek Contentment here,
Vain are your Hopes, and barren is your Care:
Believe no Fortune can so high aspire,
But proud, ambitious Thoughts are always higher:
What tho' you reign proud Tyrant of the East,
Yet Care, a greater Tyrant, rules your Breast;
You, with a Nod, the suppliant World command,
Yet cannot rule that little Empire, Man.
Hope not in Wealth to find Contentment here,
“For he that gathers Riches, gathers Care.
Then curb this curst Ambition—dare be Poor,
And find a richer in a poorer Store.
Go, vain mistaken Man, if you would find
That golden Ore, Contentment of the Mind,

195

Depart from all these busy Ills of Life
And live exempt from Pride, and Noise and Strife,
From all the griping Bonds of Usury,
From all the wicked Ills of Money free,
Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high.

She said—and vanish'd in a Flood of Light,
Unto her blest Abodes, and left my Sight.

196

A Divine Poem. Selected from the 18th, and 91st Psalms.

To God, my Muse, address your loftiest Song,
To God your Voice, your Lyre, your Lays belong;
Awake his Actions in each heavenly Line,
Great as his Goodness, as his Hand divine:
But first, O Lord, my trembling Breast inspire,
And fill my panting Soul with sacred Fire;
So shall my Lays to blooming Honours rise,
For what Heaven dictates, Time nor Age destroys.

As the cœlestial Eagle stoops his Wings.
While the small Wren upon his Pinions springs,

197

Strait with a Bound he cuts his tow'ring Flight,
Thro' floating Air, and Groves of living Light;
The Wren with wonder views the Milky Way,
And the bright Mansions of eternal Day;
Wonders he does in Realms of Light unknown,
Buoy'd up with rapid Pinions, not his own.

So they who trust in God's Omnipotence,
Find a safe Succour, and a sure Defence;
Not all the Fears that guilty Mortals know,
Can in their Souls create the smallest Woe;
Sweet are their Thoughts, as sweetest Slumbers are,
Calm as mild Evenings, as the Morning fair;
No guilty Conscience breaks their sacred Rest,
No foul Chimæras hover o'er their Breast,
No dismal Visions dare invade their Head,
Or pallid Phantoms stalk around their Bed:
With springing Light no carking Cares are born,
To cloud the pearly Beauty of the Morn;

198

Not loudest Storms that roar from Pole to Pole,
Can raise a Tempest in their settled Soul:
Should pois'nous Pestilence infest the Sky,
Angels would turn each tainted Arrow by,
Spirits unseen would guard their sacred Rest,
Play o'er their Head, and hover o'er their Breast.
Should hissing Serpents on vast Volumes ride,
And singe whole Forests with their spiral Pride;
Pleas'd with Delight, they'd stroke the living Fire,
The flaming Crest, and speckled Pride admire.
Should roaring Lions' Thunder shake the Ground,
To them 'twould seem the Cittern's Silver Sound:
They hear the brazen Throat of War to roar,
They hear—but like soft Music on the Shore.

Tho' Floods of Foes my Soul serene surround,
My God shall all their impious Rage confound;
In God alone I find a sure Defence;
With God who dare dispute Omnipotence?

199

Witness the Day—Behold the Scene appears,
A Grove of Lances, and a Wood of Spears,
A gloomy Tempest threatens from afar
Quick Fate, and flourishes an iron War:
From azure Armour livid Lightnings play,
And gild the Tempest with a momentary Day—
O Lord—my God, the Floods my Soul surround,
And num'rous Deaths appear in num'rous Forms around.
O calm this Tempest with a single Nod,
Thou canst, O Lord—I know thou canst, O God—
Now say, my Muse, what Power disarm'd the Blow,
And rais'd me from the deepest Depths of Woe?
'Twas God—for God alone such Miracles can do.
Can you then cease his Goodness to adore!
To Love, what can be less! and yet he asks no more.

But lo! behold dark Horror sits around,
A sudden Earthquake rocks th' astonish'd Ground.

200

Behold that late insulting Troop appear,
All pale and shivering with a panic Fear,
Confusion leads the Van, and Death brings up the Rear.
Half dead, for Shelter some to Rocks repair,
In vain—the Rocks confess an equal Fear.
Lo! Rivers plunge into their deepest Beds,
And tott'ring Mountains bow their aged Heads,
From their Foundations rugged Rocks are torn,
And in black Whirlwinds thro' the Clouds are borne,
From hollow Caverns, hoarse deep Murmurs roar,
And drive the trembling Billows to the Shoar;
From Pole to Pole tremendous Storms resound,
Loud Thunders split the Heavens, loud Earthquakes rock the Ground.
But now a Scene insufferably bright,
O'erwhelms this Tempest with a Stream of Light—
Unfolding Realms of Day the Terror raise,
All Nature trembles, and the Heavens blaze—

201

But lo! the God—his dreadful Form behold,
In flaming Glory, and in fluid Gold!
Congealing Darkness, with a Night of Clouds,
His awful Majesty in Tempests shrouds;
A Storm of pointed Thunder arms the God,
A Seraph wing'd with Whirlwinds bears the dreadful Load;
Forth from his Nostrils Sheets of Flame expire,
He breathes a Tempest in a Flood of Fire;
With dread Divinity the Heavens bow,
The rolling Thunders fly, and Fate is in the Blow.

202

Part of the 38th and 39th Chapters of Job,

Paraphras'd in Blank Verse.

But now the Lord ineffable and bright,
Shot thro' the Regions of eternal Day;
Swift as the Lightnings that his Vengeance throws,
Buoy'd up with Whirlwinds, on a Cherub's Wings,
He rode; all Nature trembled at her Lord,
And quiv'ring Mountains bow'd their aged Heads;
Whilst in a Storm of Thunders thus he spoke.

Presumptuous Man that dar'st upbraid thy God,
Shew the Omnipotence of which thou boasts;

203

Awake thy Wisdom's Eye, with which thou dar'st
Eclipse thy God's, and dive into his Secrets,
Collect thy self, and let us try our Godheads.

Wast thou a Being when no Being was,
When Night and Darkness brooded o'er the Chaos,
In endless Anarchy and wild Disorder?
Didst thou from Nothing form this mighty Globe,
On nothing hung, but pois'd in fluid Air
Immoveable? or can thy dreaded Word
Dissolve again its brittle Form to Nothing?
Come shew some Miracle of Power and Wisdom,
And make thy wonderful Creator wise.

If since, thou hast attain'd this Power and Knowledge,
Who canst thou boast the Tutor of thy Godhead—
Thy self? exert thy Power upon thy self—
Whence came those dire Afflictions that oppress thee?
Dost thou afflict thy self? or canst thou cleanse
Thy self from all those pestilential Pains?

204

Since from thy self thou canst not boast this Power,
From whence can it proceed but from thy God?
Thy God, above all Power, all Light, all Knowlege!

Fond Man, who know'st not how, or whence thou art,
Curb this distemper'd Weakness of thy Brain:
How canst thou mimic God, and challenge Nature,
Who hast not the least Power o'er thy self!
Say, can thy Thunder shake the solid Earth?
Or can thy Voice, like mine, affright all Nature?
Canst thou, like me, on winged Whirlwinds ride
Thro' all the boundless Realms of endless Day?
Dost thou shew bloody Comets in the Air,
That shake Destruction from their flaming Tresses?
Or hast thou seen the silent Seats of Death,
Where Famine, War, and Plagues, and Pestilence
Attend my Nod? Grim Ministers of Fate:
Hast thou beheld the Chambers of the Deep,

205

Where Ocean rises from his Coral Bed,
Huge Marine Monsters gambol o'er the Ooze;
Or hunt among the Waves their panting Prey.
Say, didst thou form the great Leviathan,
That seems a living Island, when he moves,
He boils the Sea, and spouts it in a Tide.

When rosy Morning gilds the gladsom Sky,
Dost thou with liquid Diamonds sow the East?
Guard'st thou the Sun o'er the cœlestial Plain,
Thro' his nocturnal, and diurnal Course?
Because he travels round the spacious Globe;
Will he obsequious bear thy dread Behests;
Can'st thou with deeper Roses paint the Welkin,
And draw the sable Curtain of the West?
Hush ev'ry Wind that curls the glassy Ocean,
And ev'ry Breeze that waves the drowsy Grove?
Can'st thou on all bestow soft balmy Slumbers,
And cannot give thy self that wish'd-for Sleep?

206

Dost thou ordain the pale-fac'd waning Moon
To guide the Night, and fill the Stars with Flame?
To swell the Tide, or press the faint Reflux;
White spungy Clouds imbibe the lazy Vapours,
And brew a Tempest on the hoary Main?
At thy Command do roaring Channels rise,
Sweep away Plains, and thunder thro' the Woods?
Or can'st thou candy up a Silver Tempest,
To cloath the naked Year with Silver Snow?
Or treasure up thy stony Magazines,
Then pour the fatt'ning War upon the Ground?
Dost thou unlock the Bosom of the Spring,
When blust'ring Flora languishingly courts
Young vernal Zephyr with soft Blandishments?
At thy Command does Autumn crown the Year
With golden Pride and hoary Majesty?
Do all the Seasons their fix'd Stations keep,
And dance in mystic Order to thy Word?
Say, dost thou paint the Peacock's gaudy Plumes
With streaming Azure, and with waving Gold;

207

Here blushing Purples flow in fading Greens,
But waving vanish in a golden Breeze:
With what majestic Air he stalks along,
Struts in his Gait, and spreads his painted Pride?

Could then thy Hand create the brinded Lion,
That makes thee tremble at his very Voice?
Or wilt thou make him (seeing he is strong)
To bear thy Burdens, and to be thy Slave?
Dost thou direct the rapid Eagle's Wings
To sail thro' fluid Fields of floating Air,
There with his Beak to souse upon his Prey?
Or darting from a Cloud to truss a Serpent,
Aloft again he towers his Flight, in vain
The hissing Captive whisks his scaly Tail.

Dost thou the Courser's rapid Force maintain,
With Thunder arm his Neck, his Feet with Lightning?
When from afar he hears the Din of Arms,
He list'ning stands, he stamps, he pricks his Ears:

208

If stronger Echoes bear the flying Noise,
Confus'd with clatt'ring and with rattling Shields,
He shoots his Neck to catch the noisy War,
And drowns the Thunder with his louder Voice;
But if he see the flashing Storm aloof,
The fighting Captains, and the flaming War
He dims the dazling Splendours of bright Arms,
With more incessant Light'ning from his Eye;
He fires, he foams, nor hears the Rider's Voice;
But leaves his Eye behind the rolling Plain,
And bears him in a Tempest on the Foe.

209

AN ELEGY:

To the Memory of a Friend, begun in his Sickness.

[_]

N. B. Mr. Roche recovered, and the Public are obliged to Him for some fine Pieces hereunto annexed.

Yet, yet, He lives—O yet kind Heavens spare
The dear lamented Object of my Prayer!
Vain Hope, vain Wish—else why fresh Sorrows rise,
Spring from my Soul, and overflow my Eyes.
What chilling Anguish freezes ev'ry Part,
Sure tis my Friend just dying from my Heart:
Griefs big with Griefs, and Pangs on Pangs deplore
My dearest Friend, perhaps my Friend no more.
Ill-boding Thought—

210

Hah! from whence streams that melancholy Gloom,
Whence groan'd that Echo, from some hollow Tomb
'Tis sure the Call of Death! my Soul attend;
Lo! hark! I know the Voice, it cries, my Friend;
How pale it looks—but see the Vision o'er,
'Tis he—what Roche! I knew that Form before.
It must be so—Yet whence this guilty Fear!
Why freeze my Nerves, why bristles ev'ry Hair?
Did we thus meet! ah ever friendly stay,
What do I wish—alas I faint away.
Whence rose my Fears! the fictious Vision's flown,
Yet sure, too sure I hear some mournful Groan.
Those baleful Eughs that o'er the Window wave,
Could their deep Murmurs thus my Sense deceive!
Those Mid-night Beams, that pale yon Moon-light Wall;
Could they the Image of my Friend recall?
Could these Delusions thus disturb my Breast,
Startle my Soul, and burst the Bands of Rest?

211

Ah no! those Objects innocent appear,
Nor shock my Sight, nor terrify my Ear.
But hark! the horary-resounding Bower,
Doleful, proclaims the lonesome Mid-night Hour.
Now Sleep with downy Wings broods o'er the Ground,
While Death wide-stalking shapes his Nightly Round,
With Sleep's black Pinions, plumes his Ebon Dart,
And dismally beguiles the Slumberer's Heart.
Ah me! my Friend, my sickly Friend arise,
Death, Death lies ambush'd in the soft Disguise.

Torn from the dear Recesses of thy Heart,
For ever! ah for ever we must part.
Nay, cease to tremble, stop that falling Tear,
'Tis I, my Friend; can I create thy Fear?
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst tell;
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst feel.
Yet would I sooth thy doubt-revolving Soul,
But Heaven forbids, and angry Tales controul.

212

Nor can Discourse as once beguile the Hours,
They're past—my Wish is all—I come, ye Powers.

O ever-honour'd! long-lamented Friend,
And is it thus our promis'd Joys must end?

213

TO LAURA.

In vain my Laura you conceal that Name,
When every Verse betrays you into Fame.
Raptur'd I read, and as I read, I see
Virtue can only be describ'd by Thee.
Drest in thy Verse, how beautiful she shines,
Charms in thy Thought, and by thy Soul refines.
So drawn thro' tuneful Instruments, the Air
In Music warbles, and expels Despair.
Again, fair Nymph thy Power of Numbers try,
And sweeten Sorrow into Harmony.

So oft when touch'd with Sickness I repair
To draw from fragrant Fields a purer Air:

214

Nature still strives t' amuse my Mind in vain,
'Till Birds wide-warbling melodize the Plain.
The sprightly Notes each Sense of Pain controul,
And sudden Health revives my fainting Soul.
Sooth'd, there I stand, and sweetly lost around,
Hear of my Pains, and healthen from the Sound.

With Virtue's Charms, my fair Physician prove,
And kindly make me such, as you could Love.

215

An Idyllium.

Fast by those Banks, where aged Eden glides,
And Trees embow'ring paint his azure Sides,
Young Florio sat; his Lyre the Muses strung,
And to the Streams attun'd the rising Song.
The Birds enchanted, as the Poet play'd,
Perch'd o'er his Head, and peopled all the Shade.
When, lo! descending to the Vocal Grove,
Approach'd the Parent, and the Power of Love:
Quick at his Sight, the Flowers fresh Sweets exhale,
And softer Murmurs dy'd in ev'ry Gale.
While thus the God-head spoke. “Say, Shepherd, say,
“Still shall thy stubborn Soul disdain my Sway?

216

“Still shalt thou brave my All-subduing Dart,
“Nor one sure Arrow pierce thy lawless Heart?
“Have I for this subdu'd fam'd Chiefs of Old,
“Soften'd the Fierce, and Womaniz'd the Bold?
“Shall humbled Monarchs own my mighty Reign,
“And thou, a Boy, the Victor-God disdain?
To hide his Thoughts, in Silence, Florio strove,
Yet even Silence is a Speech in Love:
He watch'd th' unguarded Passage to his Heart,
And unawares deep lodg'd th' envenom'd Dart.

A River, so called, which encompasses the Town of Appleby, in Westmorland.

217

Description of a Shepherd.

Piping he sate, as merry as his Look,
And by him lay his Bottle and his Crook;
His Buskins edg'd with Silver were, of Silk,
And sheath'd a Leg more white than Morning Milk.
Those Buskins he had got, and brought away,
For dancing best upon the Revel Day.

The Dissenter.

Non-con at Satan in the Pulpit rails,
And musters up a Pack of dev'lish Tales:
How by Old Nick, Eve was at first betray'd,
Uriah's Wife by David backwards laid:
But never tells who makes him kiss his Maid.

218

Amoret and Florimello.

A Pastoral SONG.

I

Underneath a mossy Mountain,
Close beside a falling Fountain,
Charming Amoret was laid;
Wanton Zephyrs whisper'd Kisses,
Toying with her flowing Tresses,
When the sighing Virgin said:

II

Must I then for-ever languish,
With this soft consuming Anguish,
O the sadly pleasing Pain!

219

Shame commands me to conceal it,
Love commands me to reveal it,
To my lovely Shepherd-Swain.

III

O thou sweetly vocal Water,
Cease a harmless Maid to flatter;
And convey these dying Sighs,
Thro' this Flow'r-enamell'd Valley,
To yon fair enchanting Alley,
Where asleep my Lover lies.

IV

Florimello sweetly dreaming,
Amoret consenting seeming,
Wak'd, and curst the jilting Shade;
Swift as Light'ning thro' the Bushes,
Half enrag'd the Shepherd rushes,
Finds, and clasps the real Maid.

220

To an old Lady who painted.

In vain, poor Nymph, to win our youthful Hearts,
You purchase Charms, and practise all your Arts.
In former Times we heard our Fathers say,
Flavia was tender, easy, fair, and gay.
Thus may we love each Picture that we view,
For that contains as many Charms as you.

Once more employ this strange creating Art,
And nicely animate each fading Part:
Then keep a constant Eye upon your Glass,
And be the Picture of what once you was:
So shall you gain one half of your Desire,
For then, but not till then, we can admire.

221

Upon Zephyrinda's Singing.

When Zephyrinda's softest Airs I hear,
She draws my Soul into my list'ning Ear;
Aghast I stand, unknowing where to praise,
Lost in a Maze of Joys ten thousand ways:
Sometimes I melt upon her Music's Sound,
And bless that charming Tongue that gives the Wound;
Sometimes I sighing view those magic Eyes,
Where all that's good and all that's lovely lies.
Soft panting Cupids play around the Fair,
They laugh, they peep, they think their Mother there.
But while the charming Zephyrinda sings,
They point their Darts, and wave their Silken Wings.

222

Floating on painted Streams they fly around,
Languish in Airs, and melt with pleasing Sound.

Like her sweet Orpheus sung his fleeting Love,
Like Me attentive stood the list'ning Grove.
But now no more let Poets Orpheus praise,
Or crown his hallow'd Lyre with greener Bays:
To Zephyrinda's Airs and sweeter Song,
A fairer Fame, and loftier Lays belong;
He only made the Hellish-Shades admire;
Her Eyes and Music charm the Heavenly-Choir;
And thus instructs the Soul to sing and love,
At once the Business and the Bliss above.

223

EPIGRAMS.

Spoken Extempore to a Lady, upon seeing her Shadow in the Water.

What Art can prevail o'er this wonderful Dame?
In Water she Burns, and she Freezes in Flame!

Upon a Lame Man newly married.

George Limpus is lame, yet has gotten a Bride,
Since he's lame, he can't Walk—why then he may Ride.

224

Written with a Penknife on a Tree.

Whilst thus my Knife inscribes to Fame
Fair Rosalanda's Name;
Cupid with a keener Dat
Carves the Nymph upon my Heart.

Upon a Lady's having been at Naples.

Like Semele should Cælia try her Charms,
Should Jove with equal Ardour fill her Arms;
Well might the Nymph revenge the blasted Dame,
And fire the Thund'rer with a fiercer Flame.

225

Wrote in a Lady's Pocket-Book.

As on these fading Leaves I wrote my Name,
Belinda cry'd, her Heart could show the same.
The same alas! in ev'ry Point I fear;
Eras'd by the next Touch, as this is here.

On a Drunkard's writing his Mistress's Name on a Drinking-Glass.

While Shallow-Brains scribbles his Phillis's Name,
In many a flourishing Letter;
'Tis only that he may Remember the Dame,
Lest he should grow drunk, and Forget her.

226

The Quack.

Querpo , surrounded by the rabble Rout,
Scatter'd his Packets, and his Jokes about;
When a poor Fellow, sillier than the rest,
Came cringing up, and thus the Quack addrest:
Pray, Doctor, if I may but be so bold,
Amongst the many strange things you have told,
Pray can you tell One how to cure a Scold?
For I, my Neighbours know't, have such a Wife!
That in plain Terms I'm weary of my Life.

227

The Miser.

Old Gripus went to buy a Suit of Clothes,
(And to the cheapest Place each Body knows)
But thinking that the Merchant was too hard,
He fell confounded foul upon the Yard.
Is this your Measure, Sir! is this three Foot!
As I'm an Alderman, by G--- look to't.

He said: and waggish Pickthank thus replies,
(For all your Tradesmen are most monstrous wise)
That it is Measure, Sir, the Cloth I'll lay,
And we'll go try it yonder, o'er the way:
But let me tell you this before you go,
That, were't a Measure for your Conscience, tho'
Before such lumping Pen'worths should go down,
You'd swear't as long, as all the Yards in Town.

228

From Horace.

Turn'd and applied to Chloe.

Auream quisquis Mediocritatem
Diligit—

Let me not be too high, nor yet too low,
(Says Horace) that is, keep a just so, so.
Then think not that I'll humble to your Foot,
Or to your Head on strutting Tiptoe shoot:
But on your Middle all my Thoughts employ,
For there, I fancy, lies the solid Joy.

229

Upon a Lame, Latin Elegiac, Bard.

Tom Hobblestart in Elegiacs writes,
But in no other Poetry delights;
For This, indeed, he seems cut out by Fate,
Witness his rueful Look, and shambling Gait.
His Face inspires him with Poetic-Woe,
And his unequal Legs the Measure show.

Speak Truth and Shame the Devil.

Old Olivia wears a Mask,
If any one the Reason ask,
This, Answer plain, reveals it:
Her Face of late's so ugly grown,
She does not care to fright the Town,
And so forsooth conceals it.

230

Upon One who stiled himself a Great Master of the Easy Poetry.

Tom Jingle's Rivers murmur as they go,
But cold and weak as native Fountains flow;
That they should murmur on, I think it fit;
For who could rest contented with their Wit?

Another.

Dactyl and Squib make Verses as they Go,
I cannot wonder then they walk so Slow.

231

On Chloe.

Chloe's in every part Divine,
Chloe's the Goddess of her Sex:
Who'd think that where such Beauties shine,
The Nymph could ever Swain perplex?

On the same.

Chloe the arrant'st Jilt alive,
Intolerably vain,
Boasting would make us all believe,
What Men her Eyes have slain.

232

Poor Fool! their Life they'll soon recover,
(Stale-Maidenhead replies,)
Ah could you but as well get over
The Wounds, they gave between your T---s.

Another.

Chloe the Wonder of the latter Age,
Tho' antiquated does our Hearts engage;
With such an Art affects the Wits and Beaus!
How like good Wine? by Time she stronger grows.

233

On a Lady's Birth-Day.

This Day that gave Belinda Breath,
Has giv'n a thousand Youths their Death;
Why then fond Youths, so wond'rous gay?
Is this a fit rejoicing Day!
As well might Priam's Subjects load
The Altar of their Guardian-God;
As well express untimely Joy,
On the great Birth-Day of that Boy,
Whom Fate design'd to fire their Troy.

TOAST.

To fair Belinda crown the sparkling Bowl,
And let full Bumpers brighten up the Soul;
Yet these small Comforts to my Passion prove,
I'd drink an everlasting Draught of Love.

234

Another.

You ask me the Nymph that delights me the most,
Why—Sir, here's my Service, Belinda's the Toast.

Upon the Lord Rochester's Poem on Nothing.

Whilst others toil to gain themselves a Name,
Wilmot from Nothing gains a greater Fame,
Strange! can such Structures out of Nothing rise,
And with such wonderful Delight surprize!
Thus out of Nothing sprung this beauteous World,
By one commanding Word in Order hurl'd.

235

TO CÆLIA.

I

I'm sure, my Cælia, that you'd smile,
Nay laugh to hear me say,
That when the Sun shines all the while,
I cannot see the Day.

II

But 'twou'd be more absurd indeed,
If to discover your Disguise,
I should some borrow'd Lustre need
To light me to your Eyes.

236

III

Your dazling Eyes the Sun out-shine,
Like his their Darts are hurl'd;
Like his their Office is divine,
To guide a brighter World.

University of Virginia Library

Miscellaneous POEMS.

Select Epistles from OVID.

Sapho to Phaon.

The Argument.

OEnone to Paris.

The Argument.

Paris to Hellen.

The Argument.

Penelope to Ulysses.

The Argument.

Ariadne to Theseus.

The Argument.

Dido to Æneas.

The Argument.

Leander to Hero, Priestess of the Temple of Venus

Laodamia to Protesilaus

LAURA: OR, THE MISTRESS.

AN EPISTLE TO LAURA.

On a Rose gathered, by Laura, in Winter.

On Laura's Singing.

To Laura, walking in the Rain.

To Laura, who thought I mistook her for another in the Dark.

I

II

III

IV

V

Laura's Picture.

On a Feather in her Hair.

Hellen and Laura.

To a Lady, fishing.

THE Fatal Request to Cupid.

On hearing a very homely, and deformed Lady sing finely.

To a Friend in Love.

The Disappointed Maid, and the drowzy Swain.

A TALE.

The Case stated.

Inter cæsa, & porrecta.

A PROLOGUE TO THE FUNERAL:

A COMEDY.

The Enjoyment.

A Description of his Mistress.

Sent Me, from a Lady, with a Rose.

On an Apple, given me by Laura.

A Song.

I

II

III

IV

V

On hearing a Lady sing Prior's Alexis.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

To a Lady,

Who, in return for a Copy of Verses, sent me a flower'd Cap.

On Crito , who wrote against Me.

On Reading the Turtle and Sparrow, A TALE.

On seeing Mr. Prior's Monument in Westminster-Abbey.

A Receipt to make a Modern Poet.

The Battle of the Pygmies and Cranes.

Translated from the Latin of Mr. Addison.

AN EPISTLE TO HIS MAJESTY, King GEORGE II.

On his Accession to the Throne.

POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS: Wrote by Mr. Pattison,

When at Appleby-School;

A Pastoral.

To a Lady.

A Paraphrastical Translation of the third Ode of the second Book of Horace.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.