University of Virginia Library

PASTORALS, EPISTLES, ODES, AND OTHER ORIGINAL POEMS, With Translations from Pindar, Anacreon, and Sappho.

PASTORAL POEMS.

THE FIRST PASTORAL. If we, O Dorset, quit the city-throng

LOBBIN.

THE SECOND PASTORAL. Is it not Colinet I lonesome see

THENOT, COLINET.
THENOT.

COLINET.
Though blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate;
Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state.
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born,
As they to mirth and musick, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft' mingling with the falling dew.

THENOT.
Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain;
Or who may, then, the weight of eld sustain,
When every slackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load presseth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn, bend
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a chearful temper still retains:
And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me then: it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.

COLINET.
Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day,
Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs,
In loud complaints, require their absent dams.

THENOT.
See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I,
'Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye.

COLINET.
Where to begin I know not, where to end.
Does there one smiling hour my youth attend?
Though few my days, as well my follies show,
Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe:
No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear,
My lowering sky, and wintery months, to chear.
My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see:
Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms, and sport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th'approach of spring;
Nor birds among the leafless branches sing:
No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherds throng
With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.

THENOT.
Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blighting mildews spoil the rising corn,
Or blasting winds o'er-blossom'd hedge-rows pass,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass,
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill-luck betides thee still.

COLINET.
And can there, Thenot, be a greater Ill?

THENOT.
Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep:
From these good shepherd's care his flock may keep:
Against ill-luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

COLINET.
Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy silvery flood.
Ah, silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which, on thy flowery banks, I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I, once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore?
When, in the crystal of thy water, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall I see my hut, the small abode
Myself did raise, and cover o'er with sod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace, and me, to dwell.

THENOT.
And what enticement charm'd thee, far away,
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

COLINET.
A lewd desire strange lands, and swains, to know:
Ah God! that ever I should covet woe.
With wandering feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.

THENOT.
Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither rome
In search of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling stone is, ever, bare of moss;
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.

COLINET.
Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill fare,
And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold greensward, for my nightly bed,
And some slaunt willow's trunk to rest my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpracticed swain:
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

THENOT.
Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue?

COLINET.
Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Make mock of all the ditties I endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail:
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas seems to like my simple strain:
And, while that He delighteth in my song,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude musick cease;
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

THENOT.
Menalcas, lord of these fair, fertile, plains,
Preserves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns:
For him our yearly wakes, and feasts, we hold,
And choose the fairest firstling from the fold:
He, good to all, who Good deserve, shall give
Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural songs.

COLINET.
First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,
And every rapid river cease to flow,
'E're I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

THENOT.
This night thy care with me forget, and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th'injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd,
With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard,
Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite:
And now behold the sun's departing ray,
O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day:
With songs the jovial hinds return from plow;
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

THE THIRD PASTORAL. When Virgil thought no shame

ALBINO.

ANGELOT.
Thus, yearly circling, by-past times return;
And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn.
Sent into life, alas! how short thy stay:
How sweet the rose! how speedy to decay!
Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell,
Sad-sounding wide from every village-bell?
Can we forget how sorely Albion moan'd,
That hills, and dales, and rocks, in echo groan'd,
Presaging future woe, when, for our crimes,
We lost Albino, pledge of peaceful times,
Fair boast of this fair Island, darling joy
Of Nobles high, and every shepherd-boy?
No joyous pipe was hear'd, no flocks were seen,
Nor shepherd found upon the grassy green,
No cattle graz'd the field, nor drank the flood,
No birds were hear'd to warble through the wood.
In yonder gloomy grove out-stretch'd he lay,
His lovely limbs upon the dampy clay;
On his cold cheek the rosy hue decay'd,
And, o'er his lips, the deadly blue display'd:
Bleating around him ly his plaintive sheep;
And mourning shepherds come, in crowds, to weep.
Young Buckhurst comes: and, is there no redress?
As if the grave regarded our distress!
The tender virgins come, to tears yet new,
And give, aloud, the lamentations due.
The pious mother comes, with grief opprest:
Ye trees, and conscious fountains, can attest
With what sad accents, and what piercing cries,
She fill'd the grove, and importun'd the skies,
And every star upbraided with his death,
When, in her widowed arms, devoid of breath,
She clasp'd her son: nor did the Nymph, for this,
Place in her dearling's welfare all her bliss,
Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield,
And rule the peaceful empire of the field.
As milk-white swans on streams of silver show,
And silvery streams to grace the meadows flow,
As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn,
So thou, to thine, an ornament wast born.
Since thou, delicious youth, didst quit the plains,
Th'ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains,
In labour'd furrows sow the choice of wheat,
And, over empty sheaves, in harvest sweat,
A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield;
And thorns, and thistles, overspread the field.
How all our hope is fled, like morning-dew!
And scarce did we thy dawn of manhood view.
Who, now, shall teach the pointed spear to throw,
To whirl the sling, and bend the stubborn bow,
To toss the quoit with steady aim, and far,
With sinewy force, to pitch the massy bar?
Nor dost thou live to bless thy mother's days,
To share her triumphs, and to feel her praise,
In foreign realms to purchase early fame,
And add new glories to the British name:
O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit rest!
The flowery turf ly light upon thy breast;
Nor shrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round,
Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground.

PALIN.
No more, mistaken Angelot, complain:
Albino lives; and all our tears are vain:
Albino lives, and will, for ever live
With Myriads mixt, who never know to grieve,
Who welcome every stranger-guest, nor fear
Ever to mourn his absence with a tear,
Where cold, nor heat, nor irksome toil annoy,
Nor age, nor sickness, comes to damp their joy:
And now the royal Nymph, who bore him, deigns
The land to rule, and shield the simple swains,
While, from above, propitious he looks down:
For this, the welkin does no longer frown,
Each planet shines, indulgent, from his sphere,
And we renew our pastimes with the year.
Hills, dales, and woods, with shrilling pipes resound;
The boys and virgins dance, with chaplets crown'd,
And hail Albino blest: the valleys ring
Albino blest! O now, if ever, bring
The laurel green, the smelling eglantine,
And tender branches from the mantling vine,
The dewy cowslip, which in meadow grows,
The fountain-violet, and the garden-rose,
Marsh-lillies sweet, and tufts of daffadil,
With what ye cull from wood, or verdant hill,
Whether in open sun, or shade, they blow,
More early some, and some unfolding slow,
Bring, in heap'd canisters, of every kind,
As if the summer had with spring combin'd,
And nature, forward to assist your care,
Did no profusion for Albino spare.
Your hamlets strew, and every publick way;
And consecrate to mirth Albino's day:
Myself will lavish all my little store,
And deal about the goblet flowing o'er:
Old Moulin there shall harp, young Myco sing,
And Cuddy dance the round amid the ring,
And Hobbinol his antic gambols play:
To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay;
Nor fail to mention thee in all our chear,
And teach our children the remembrance dear,
When we or shearing-feast, or harvest, keep,
To speed the plow, and bless our thriving sheep.
While willow kids, and herbage lambs, pursue,
While bees love thyme, and locusts sip the dew,
While birds delight in woods their notes to strain,
Thy name and sweet memorial shall remain.

THE FOURTH PASTORAL. This place may seem for shepherd's leisure made

MYCO, ARGOL.
MYCO.
This place may seem for shepherd's leisure made,
So close these elms inweave their lofty shade;
The twining woodbine, how it climbs! to breathe
Refreshing sweets around on all beneath;
The ground with grass of chearful green bespread,
Through which the springing flower up-rears the head:
Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue,
Medly'd with daisies white and endive blue,
And honeysuckles of a purply dy,
Confusion gay! bright-waving to the eye.
Hark, how they warble in that brambly bush,
The gaudy goldfinch and the speckly thrush,
The linnet green, with others famed for skill,
And blackbird fluting through his yellow bill:
In sprightly concert how they all combine,
Us prompting in the various song to join:
Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply
Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding try:
And since our ewes have graz'd, what harm if they
Ly round and listen while the lambkins play?

ARGOL.
Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express
Fair nature's bounties in the fairest dress:
'Tis rapture all! the place, the birds, the sky;
And rapture works the finger's fancy high.
Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breez
Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trees:
Ill such incitements suit my rugged lay,
Befitting more the Musick thou can'st play.

MYCO.
No skill of musick kon I, simple swain,
No fine device thine ear to entertain:
Albeit some deal I pipe, rude though it be,
Sufficient to divert my sheep and me;
Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill)
Oft' guides my fingers on the tuneful quill,
And fain would teach me on what sounds to dwell,
And where to sink a note, and where to swell.

ARGOL.
Ah, Myco! half my flock would I bestow,
Should Colinet to me his cunning show:
So trim his sonnets are, I pr'ythee, swain,
Now give us, once, a sample of his strain:
For wonders of that lad the shepherds say,
How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay!
The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse;
And ask what Boon thou willest for thy verse.

MYCO.

ARGOL.

MYCO.
Bid then our dogs to gather in the sheep.
Good shepherds, with their flock, betimes should sleep.
Who late lies down, thou know'st, as late will rise,
And, sluggard-like, to noon-day snoring lies,
While in the fold his injur'd ewes complain,
And after dewy pastures bleat in vain.

THE FIFTH PASTORAL. In rural strains we first our musick try

CUDDY.

THE SIXTH PASTORAL. How still the sea behold! how calm the sky!

GERON, HOBBINOL, LANQUET.
GERON.
How still the sea behold! how calm the sky!
And how, in sportive chase, the swallows fly!
My goats, secure from harm, small tendance need,
While high, on yonder hanging rock, they feed:
And, here below, the banky shore along,
Your heifers graze. Now, then, to strive in song
Prepare. As eldest, Hobbinol begin;
And Lanquet's rival-verse, by turns, come in.

HOBBINOL.
Let others stake what chosen pledge they will,
Or kid, or lamb, or mazer wrought with skill:
For praise we sing, nor wager ought beside;
And, whose the praise, let Geron's lips decide.

LANQUET.
To Geron I my voice, and skill, commend,
A candid umpire, and to both a friend.

GERON.
Begin then, boys; and vary well your song:
Begin; nor fear, from Geron's sentence, wrong.
A boxen hautboy, loud, and sweet of sound,
All varnish'd, and with brazen ringlets bound,
I to the victor give: no mean reward,
If to the ruder village-pipes compar'd.

HOBBINOL.
The snows are melted; and the kindly rain
Descends on every herb, and every grain:
Soft balmy breezes breathe along the sky;
The bloomy season of the year is nigh.

LANQUET.
The cuckoo calls aloud his wandering love;
The turtle's moan is hear'd in every grove;
The pastures change; the warbling linnets sing:
Prepare to welcome in the gaudy spring.

HOBBINOL.
When locusts, in the ferny bushes, cry,
When ravens pant, and snakes in caverns ly,
Graze then in woods, and quit the shadeless plain,
Else shall ye press the spungy teat in vain.

LANQUET.
When greens to yellow vary, and ye see
The ground bestrew'd with fruits off every tree,
And stormy winds are hear'd, think winter near,
Nor trust too far to the declining year.

HOBBINOL.
Woe then, alack! befall the spendthrift swain,
When frost, and snow, and hail, and sleet, and rain,
By turns chastise him, while, through little care,
His sheep, unshelter'd, pine in nipping air.

LANQUET.
The lad of forecast then untroubled sees
The white-bleak plains, and silvery frosted trees:
He fends his flock, and, clad in homely frize,
In his warm cott the wintery blast defies.

HOBBINOL.
Full fain, O bless'd Eliza! would I praise
Thy maiden rule, and Albion's golden days:
Then gentle Sidney liv'd, the shepherd's friend:
Eternal blessings on his shade attend!

LANQUET.
Thrice happy shepherds now! for Dorset loves
The country-muse, and our resounding groves,
While Anna reigns: O, ever, may she reign!
And bring, on earth, the golden age again.

HOBBINOL.
I love, in secret all, a beauteous maid,
And have my love, in secret all, repaid;
This coming night she plights her troth to me:
Divine her name, and thou the victor be.

LANQUET.
Mild as the lamb, unharmful as the dove,
True as the turtle, is the maid I love:
How we in secret love, I shall not say:
Divine her name, and I give up the day.

HOBBINOL.
Soft on a cowslip-bank my love and I
Together lay; a brook ran murmuring by:
A thousand tender things to me she said;
And I a thousand tender things repaid.

LANQUET.
In summer-shade, behind the cocking hay,
What kind endearing words did she not say!
Her lap, with apron deck'd, she fondly spread,
And strok'd my cheek, and lull'd my leaning head.

HOBBINOL.
Breathe soft ye winds; ye waters gently flow;
Shield her ye trees; ye flowers around her grow:
Ye swains, I beg ye, pass in silence by;
My love, in yonder vale, asleep does ly.

LANQUET.
Once Delia slept on easy moss reclin'd,
Her lovely limbs half bare, and rude the wind:
I smooth'd her coats, and stole a silent kiss:
Condemn me, shepherds, if I did amiss.

HOBBINOL.
As Marian bath'd, by chance I passed by;
She blush'd, and at me glanc'd a sidelong eye:
Then, cowering in the treacherous stream, she try'd
Her tempting form, yet still in vain, to hide.

LANQUET.
As I, to cool me, bath'd one sultry day,
Fond Lydia, lurking, in the sedges lay:
The wanton laugh'd, and seem'd in haste to fly,
Yet oft' she stopp'd, and oft' she turn'd her eye.

HOBBINOL.
When first I saw, would I had never seen,
Young Lyset lead the dance on yonder green,
Intent upon her beauties, as she mov'd,
Poor heedless wretch! at unawares I lov'd.

LANQUET.
When Lucy decks with flowers her swelling breast,
And on her elbow leans, dissembling rest,
Unable to refrain my madding mind,
Nor herds, nor pasture, worth my care I find.

HOBBINOL.
Come, Rosalind, O, come! for, wanting thee,
Our peopled vale a desert is to me.
Come, Rosalind, O, come! My brinded kine,
My snowy sheep, my farm, and all, are thine.

LANQUET.
Come, Rosalind, O, come! Here shady bowers,
Here are cool fountains, and here springing flowers:
Come, Rosalind! Here ever let us stay,
And sweetly waste the live-long time away.

HOBBINOL.
In vain the seasons of the moon I know,
The force of healing herbs, and where they grow:
No herb there is, no season, to remove
From my fond heart the racking pains of love.

LANQUET.
What profits me, that I in charms have skill,
And ghosts, and goblins, order as I will,
Yet have, with all my charms, no power to lay
The sprite that breaks my quiet night and day?

HOBBINOL.
O that, like Colin, I had skill in rhimes,
To purchase credit with succeeding times!
Sweet Colin Clout! who never, yet, had peer;
Who sung through all the seasons of the year.

LANQUET.
Let me, like Merlin, sing: his Voice had power
To free the 'clipsing moon at midnight hour:
And, as he sung, the fairies with their queen,
In mantles blue, came tripping o'er the green.

HOBBINOL.
Last eve of May did I not hear them sing,
And see their dance? And I can shew the ring,
Where, hand in hand, they shift their feet so light:
The grass springs greener from their tread by night.

LANQUET.
But hast thou seen their king, in rich array,
Fam'd Oberon, with damask'd robe so gay,
And gemmy crown, by moonshine sparkling far,
And azure scepter, pointed with a star?

GERON.
Here end your pleasing strife. Both victors are;
And both with Colin may, in rhyme, compare.
A boxen hautboy, loud, and sweet of sound,
All varnish'd, and with brazen ringlets bound,
To each I give. A mizling mist descends
Adown that steepy rock: and this way tends
Yon distant rain. Shoreward the vessels strive;
And, see, the boys their flocks to shelter drive.

THE STRAY NYMPH

THE HAPPY SWAIN

EPISTLES

LAMENT FOR QUEEN MARY.

TO A FRIEND WHO Desired me to write on the Death of King William.

From Holland to a Friend in England in the Year 1703.

TO THE EARL of DORSET

To the Right Honourable Charles Lord Halifax, one of the Lords Justices appointed by His Majesty.

Patron of verse, O Halifax, attend,
The muse's fav'rite, and the poet's friend!
Approaching joys my ravish'd thoughts inspire:
I feel the transport; and my soul's on fire!
Again Britannia rears her awful head:
Her fears, transplanted, to her foes are fled.
Again her standard she displays to view;
And all its faded lillies bloom anew.
Here beauteous Liberty salutes the sight,
Still pale, nor yet recover'd of her fright,
Whilst here Religion, smiling to the skies,
Her thanks expresses with up-lifted eyes.
But who advances next, with chearful grace,
Joy in her eye, and plenty in her face?
A wheaten garland does her head adorn,
O Property! O goddess, English-born!
Where hast thou been? How did the wealthy mourn!
The bankrupt nation sigh'd for thy return,
Doubtful for whom her spreading funds were fill'd,
Her fleets were freighted, and her fields were till'd.
The floating squadrons now approach the shore;
Lost in the sailors shouts, the canons roar:
And now, behold, the sovereign of the main,
High on the deck, amidst his shining train,
Surveys the subject flood. An eastern gale
Plays through the shrouds, and swells in every sail:
Th'obsequious waves his new dominion own,
And gently waft their monarch to his throne.
Now the glad Britons hail their king to land,
Hang on the Rocks, and blacken all the strand:
But who the silent extasy can show,
The Passions which in nobler bosoms glow?
Who can describe the godlike patriot's zeal?
Or who, my lord, your generous Joys reveal?
Ordain'd, once more, our treasure to advance,
Retrieve our Trade, and sink the pride of France,
Once more the long-neglected arts to raise,
And form each rising genius for the bays.
Accept the present of a grateful song;
This prelude may provoke the learned throng:
To Cam and Isis shall the joyful news,
By me convey'd, awaken every muse.
Even now the vocal tribe in verse conspires;
And I already hear their sounding lyres:
To them the mighty labour I resign,
Give up the Theme, and quit the tuneful Nine.
So when the spring first smiles among the trees,
And blossoms open to the vernal breez,
The watchful nightingale, with early strains,
Summons the warblers of the woods and plains,
But drops her musick, when the choir appear,
And listens to the concert of the year.

To the Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Esq; Secretary at WAR.

Believe me, Sir, your Breast, that glows with Zeal
For George's Glory and the publick Weal,
Your Breast alone feels more pathetick Heats;
Your Heart alone with stronger Raptures beats.
When I review the Great Examples past,
And to the Former Ages join the Last;
Still, as the Godlike Heroes to me rise,
In Arms triumphant, and in Councils wise,
The King is ever present to my Mind;
His Greatness traced in every Page I find:
The Greek and Roman Pens his Virtues tell,
And under Shining Names on Brunswick dwell.
At Hampton while He breathes untainted Air,
And seems to Vulgar Eyes devoid of Care;
The British Muses to the Grove will press,
Tune their melodious Harps, and claim Access:
But let Them not too rashly touch the Strings;
For Fate allows no Solitude to kings.
Hail to the Shades, where William, Great in Arms,
Retir'd from Conquest to Maria's Charms!
Where George serene in Majesty appears,
And plans the Wonders of succeeding Years!
There, as he walks, his comprehensive Mind
Surveys the Globe, and takes in all Mankind:
While, Britain, for thy Sake he wears the Crown;
To spread thy Power as wide as his Renown:
To make Thee Umpire of contending States,
And poise the Ballance in the Worlds Debates.
Back to thy Source I trace thy silver Train,
That gently winds through many a fertile Plain;
Where Flocks and lowing Herds in Plenty feed;
And Shepherds tune at ease the vocal Reed:
Ere yet thy Waters meet the briny Tide,
And freighted Vessels down thy Channel ride;
Ere yet thy Billows leave their Banks behind,
Swell into State, and foam before the Wind:
Thy Sovereign's Emblem! In thy Course compleat!
When I behold Him in his lov'd Retreat,
When Rural Scenes their pleasing Views disclose,
A Silvan Deity the Monarch shows;
As if He only knew the Woods to grace,
To rouze the Stag, and animate the Chace:
While every Hour, from Thence, his high Commands,
By speedy Winds convey'd to various Lands,
Controul Affairs; give weighty Councils Birth;
And sway the mighty Rulers of the Earth.
Were He, our Island's Glory and Defence,
To reign unactive, at the World's Expence;
Say, generous Craggs, who then should quell the Rage
Of lawless Faction, and reform the Age?
Who should our dear-bought Liberties maintain?
Who fix our Leagues with France, and treat with Spain?
Who check the headstrong Swede; asswage the Czar;
Secure our Peace, and quench the Northern War?
The Turk, though He the Christian Name defies,
And curses Eugene, yet from Eugene flies,
His Cause to Brunswick's Equity dare trust;
He knows him Valiant, and concludes him Just:
He knows his Fame in early Youth acquir'd,
When Turban'd Hoasts before his Sword retir'd.
Thus while his Influence to the Poles extends,
Or where the Day begins, or where it ends,
Far from our Coasts he drives off all Alarms;
And those his Power protects, his Goodness charms.
Great in Himself, and undebas'd with Pride,
The Sovereign lays his Regal State aside,
Pleas'd to appear without the bright Disguise
Of Pomp; and on his inborn Worth relies.
His Subjects are his Guests; and daily boast
The Condescension of their Royal Host:
While Crowds succeeding Crowds on either Hand,
A ravish'd Multitude, admiring stand.
His manly Wit and Sense with Candour join'd,
His Speech with every Elegance refin'd,
His winning Aspect, his becoming Ease,
Peculiar Graces all, conspire to please,
And render him to every Heart approv'd;
The King respected, and the Man belov'd.
Nor is his Force of Genius less admir'd,
When most from Crowds or publick Cares retir'd.
The Learned Arts by turns Admittance find;
At once unbend and exercise his Mind.
The secret Springs of Nature, long conceal'd,
And to the Wise by slow Degrees reveal'd,
(Delightful Search!) his piercing Thought descries.
Oft through the Concave Azure of the Skies.
His Soul delights to range, a boundless Space,
Which Myriads of Celestial Glories grace;
Worlds behind Worlds, that deep in Aether lye,
And Suns, that twinkle to the distant Eye;
Or call them Stars, on which our Fates depend,
And every ruling Star is Brunswick's Friend.

TO LORD CARTERET, departing from Dublin.

ODES. ETC.

A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

SONG.

[From White's and Will's]

SONG.

[Why we love, and why we hate]

TO SIGNORA CUZZONI.

Little Siren of the stage,
Charmer of an idle age,
Empty warbler, breathing lyre,
Wanton gale of fond desire,
Bane of every manly art,
Sweet enfeebler of the heart,
O, too pleasing in thy strain,
Hence, to southern climes again;
Tuneful mischief, vocal spell,
To this island bid farewel;
Leave us as we ought to be,
Leave the Britons rough and free.

To MIRANDA.

To the Memory of the late EARL of HALIFAX.

To the Honourable MISS CARTERET.

On the Death of the Right Honourable. William Earl Cowper.

To the Right Honourable William Pulteney, Esq

To Miss Margaret Pulteney, daughter of Daniel Pulteney Esq; in the Nursery.

Dimply damsel, sweetly smiling,
All caressing, none beguiling,
Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,
Every charm to nature owing,
This and that new thing admiring,
Much of this and that enquiring,
Knowledge by degrees attaining,
Day by day some vertue gaining,
Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,
Beardless poets, fondly rhyming,
(Fescu'd now, perhaps, in spelling,)
On thy riper beauties dwelling,
Shall accuse each killing feature
Of the cruel, charming, creature,
Whom I knew complying, willing,
Tender, and averse to killing.

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her Mother's Arms.

Timely blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn, and every night,
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please,
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tatling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue,
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the linlet in the bush.
To the Mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat,
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy spray,
Wearied then, and glad of rest,
Like the linlet in the nest.
This thy present happy lot,
This, in time, will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy time prepares;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.

To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE Esq

Supplication for Miss Carteret in the Small-Pox.

TO Miss Georgiana Youngest Daughter to Lord Carteret.

Occasion'd by the early SINGING of a LARK.

A MIDNIGHT THOUGHT.

When Gamesome Youth, and Love's unruly Fire,
Are quell'd by Age, that deadens all Desire;
When Chearful Days and Jovial Nights are fled,
And drooping Health inclines her sickly Head;
When downy Sleep, tho' courted long, denies
To bless my Bed, and close my weary Eyes;
When Nature sickens, and with fainting Breath,
Struggles beneath the bitter pangs of Death;
When helpless Art no hopes of Life can give,
Nor Pray'r, nor Tears, the sentenc'd Wretch reprieve;
When all our Friends, then few, make heavy Moan;
And heighten all our Sorrows by their own:
Amid the Terrors of this solemn Woe,
The fleeting Soul begins her self to know;
Turns o'er the Register of Life in Haste,
Weighs all her Thoughts, her Words and Actions past.
Then, if no frightful Images appear,
No ghastly Ills awake her conscious Fear;
Gently she lays her down in Peace to rest,
As Infants sleep upon their Mother's Breast.

SONG.

[Then never let me see her more!]

Then never let me see her more!
In vain I sigh, in vain adore.
In some lonely Desart Place,
Far from Sight of Human Race;
In some unfrequented Cell,
Where neither Joy nor Sorrow dwell,
Oh! let me' endeavour to forget
At once my self, and Amoret.

Reading Mr. WALLER.

LYING at her FEET.

This Posture, and these Tears, that Heav'n might move,
In vain I use in Favour of my Love:
And while thus prostrate at her Feet I lye,
Like some fair Rock she stands, that tow'ring high,
Seems deaf to those sad Murmurs, which below
The plaintive Waters utter, as they flow.

[Promis'd Blessing of the Year]

EPIGRAMS AND SHORT POEMS

On a Company of bad Dancers to good Musick.

How ill the motion with the musick suits!
So Orpheus fidled, and so danc'd the brutes.

EPIGRAM.

[George came to the crown without striking a blow]

George came to the crown without striking a blow:
Ah, quoth the Pretender, would I could do so!

In Answer to the Question, What is Thought?

The hermit's solace in his cell,
The fire that warms the poet's brain,
The lover's heaven, or his hell,
The madman's sport, the wise man's pain.

Half Masking her Self when she Smil'd.

So, when the Sun, with his Meridian Light,
Too fiercely darts upon our feeble Sight;
We thank th'officious Cloud, by whose kind Aid
We view his Glory, lessen'd in a Shade.

In the YEAR 1714.

In this bright List may generous Passions reign;
And every British Fair a slave disdain!
While, stung with Envy, servile Nations see
Our Nymphs so Beautiful; our Men so Free!
In vain the mock Saint-George would give Alarms
To English Valour, rais'd by English Charms.
How glorious is the Heat, how strong the Fire,
When Liberty and Love, at once, inspire!

To Mr. Addison on Cato.

The mind to virtue is by verse subdu'd,
And the true poet is a publick good:
This Britain feels, while, by your lines inspir'd,
Her free-born sons to glorious thoughts are fir'd.
In Rome had you espous'd the vanquish'd cause,
Inflam'd her senate and upheld her laws,
Your manly scenes had liberty restor'd,
And giv'n the just success to Cato's sword,
O'er Cæsar's arms your genius had prevail'd,
And the muse triumph'd where the patriot fail'd.

On Wit and Wisdom. A FRAGMENT.

In search of wisdom far from wit I fly:
Wit is a harlot, beauteous to the eye,
In whose bewitching arms our early time
We waste, and vigour of our youthful prime:
But when reflexion comes with riper years,
And manhood with a thoughtful brow appears,
We cast the mistress off to take a wife,
And, wed to wisdom, lead a happy life.

The following Epitaph on the Monument of my Kinswoman was written at the Request of her Husband.

WITHIN the Burial-Vault near this Marble, lieth the Body of PENELOPE, youngest Daughter (and Coheir with her Sister ELIZABETH) to ROBERT PHILIPS of Newton-Regis, in the County of Warwick, Esquire. She died in her Six and Thirtieth Year, on the 25th Day of January, MDCCXXVI.

TO the Memory, ever dear and precious, of his most affectionate, most beloved, and most deserving, Wife, is this Monument raised by HENRY VERNON of Hilton, in the County of Stafford, Esquire: to him she bore five Sons and two daughters, all surviving, save Elizabeth; who dying, in her second Year, of the Small Pox, some few Days before, resteth by her Mother.

THE FABLE of THULE,

UNFINISHED.

TRANSLATIONS.

THE First Olympionique of PINDAR.

To Hiero of Syracuse, victorious in the Horse-race.

THE SECOND OLYMPIONIQUE.

To Theron of Agrigentum, victorious in the Chariot Race.

The First ODE of Anacreon.

On his Lute.

The SECOND ODE.

On WOMEN.

The THIRD ODE.

On LOVE.

The Fourth Ode of ANACREON.

On HIMSELF.

ANACREON. Ode 34.

Why so Coy, my lovely Maid?
Why of Age so much Afraid?
Your Cheeks, like Roses, to the Sight;
And my Hair, as Lillies white;
In Love's Garland, we'll suppose
Me the Lilly, you the Rose.

ANACREONTIQUE.

Beneath the Covert of a Grove,
The conscious Scene of all my Love,
Careless, and supinely lay'd,
I took my Lute, and Sung and Play'd.
Of Love's soft Passion did I sing,
And Cupid; Love's Almighty King;
When lo! a String, that would have spoke,
Beneath my Finger, sighing broke;
It broke, and said, methoughts, to me,
Think on thy own Mortality,—

[Thou speakest always ill of me]

Thou speakest always ill of me,
I speak always well of thee:
But, spite of all our noise and pother,
The world believes nor one nor t'other.

An Hymn to VENUS, from the Greek of SAPPHO.

A Fragment of Sappho.

The TEA-POT; or, The Lady's Transformation.

A new Poem By Mr. Philips.

Soft Venus, Love's too anxious Queen.
In fit of Vapours or of Spleen,
Because, perhaps, a fav'rite God
Fail'd to return her smile or nod,
Or that Her Mars of late groun cold,
Behav'd less Kindly than of old,
With inward sullen discontent,
To Juno utter'd this Complaint.
“There lives a Nymph below the Skies,
“That Carries Witchcraft in her Eyes,
“No fond Addresses will she take
“From Lovers of a Mortal make:
“But turns her haughty Looks above
“Perhaps to Mars, perhaps to Jove;
“Disdaining Men she seems to mark
“None less than an Aetherial Spark,
“And of't you know We've born Disgrace,
“Despis'd for those of Human Race.
“If more such Nymphs get leave to Reign,
“Our Empire we shall ne'er maintain,
“But Goddesses resign their Birth,
“To the bright Morts who ply on Earth.
So Venus spoke with Envy fir'd—
The other Jealousie inspir'd,
And red with Rage, and big with Hate,
She thus pronounc'd the Virgin's fate,
“She whose aspiring thoughts can rise,
“To Tempt a Rival in the Skies,
“Who thus with Stubborn Pride neglects
“Th'Addresses of the Kindred Sex.
“Into a Tea-pot's Figure throun
“Shall still attend and serve her Own.
When now, her Doom was fix'd the Maid,
Before a Glass her Form survey'd.
Her Eyes that o'er her beauties range,
Too soon perceive the fatal Change;
She sees, she feels the dire Decay;
Grows cold and stiffens into Clay;
Extinguish'd bye the vital Fires,
And every crimson Blush retires.
The Well turn'd Waste in Canvas bound,
Shrunk to a little hollow round:
The Iv'ry Arm that in her side,
By chance she plac'd with comely Pride.
By Fate was in that Posture held
And in a Handle's form congeal'd—
Amaz'd with Horror and Surprise
She Lifts to Heaven her Watry Eyes;
Unpitying Heaven—and Oh! She cried—
Her Mouth grew circular and wide
Her Lips, that once outvied the Rose,
Turn pale and in a Cover Close.
Her Tongue, which last in health remain'd,
And last its Suppleness retain'd.
With usual Pliance nimbly slips
To feel the Change, between her Lips,
But loosing there all Power to move,
Appears a Little knob above,
Which Helps as formerly to hide,
Seldom to hide the interior Side.
But what was chang'd in to the Spout,
The cautious Muse resolves with Doubt.
Uncertain whether 'twere the Nose,
Because from thence a Liquid flows.
Or Eyes because they oft reveal'd,
What hidden things the Lips conceal'd—
Howe'r it was, by Juno's Hand,
The Nymph a finish'd Teapot stands.
Now from the High Coelestial Plain
The Goddesses Confederate lean,
And with malitious Triumph they
Their Monument of Wrath survey;
Upon a stricter View they find
Some Parts remain unchang'd behind,
And with those Relicts of their Rage,
They furnish out an Equipage—
Part of the Scull, well temper's Clay,
Fell off and in a Slop-Dish lay:
Her polish'd Forehead being thought
Good Mettal, into Spoons were wrought.
Holes in the Heart where Secrets lay,
Became Receptacles for Tea,
The Tea as Secrets did of old
Drops out again before 'tis cold.
Her Lungs another Form receive
And in respiring Bellows heave
The Bellows still delight to blow
Coals that beneath the Kettle Glow.

The DEATH of the JUST.