Miscellaneous poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I sing the Pleasures of the Rural Throng,
And mimick Wars, as yet unknown to Song,
Whilst on weak Wings uncommon Flights I soar,
And lead the Muse thro' Tracts untry'd before;

Ye Sylvan Maids, be present to my Lays,
Inspire my Numbers, and my Fancy raise.

The distant Sun, now shoots a feeble Ray,
And warms with fainter Beams the fading Day;
Now cooler Breezes fan the sultry Glade,
And waving Trees project a longer Shade;
When on a wide Extent of level Ground,
Which spreading Groves and rising Hillocks bound,
The num'rous Crowd, with Wonder and Delight,
At once confound, and entertain the Sight.
Here Troops of Horsemen throng the vary'd Scene,
Or view the Goal, or gallop o'er the Green.
There jolly Rusticks, in their best Array,
Impatient for the Sport, the Field survey.
Tir'd with preceding Mirth, the buxom Lass
Reclines her weary'd Limbs upon the Grass;
There laid at Ease, receives her Lover's Treats,
Or makes new Conquests, or old Vows repeats,

Some laugh and chat, some dance, while others run,
But all agree to wish the Sport begun.

At length Old Hobbinol the Crowd address'd,
And Words like these, with sounding Voice express'd;
Attend ye lusty Swains assembled here,
Ye Men of Soards, and ye of Lusk, give Ear;
Who e'er would try their Fortune at the Ball,
And bravely conquer, or as bravely fall:
Six Holland Caps, (the Victor's lawful Prize,)
With Ribbands bound, here wave before your Eyes,
Tho' such as win, immortal Honour gain,
Yet shall the Vanquish'd not contend in vain;
Of Gloves full twice three Pair, a Gift as great,
Shall help to reconcile them to their Fate.
Besides our 'Squire, the Conq'rours Hearts to cheer,
Will treat them with a Cask of humming Beer.

View here my Lads, the Prizes you may win,
So—Save the King—and let the Game begin.

When Lo! Six Men of Soards (a goodly Sight!)
Their active Limbs, all loosely clad in White,
Move tow'rds the Barrier with a sprightly Pace,
A joyful Pride sat smiling on each Face;
A Crimson Ribband, trimly ty'd behind,
Hung from each Cap, and wanton'd in the Wind.

Young Terence led the Van; a blither Swain,
Ne'er charm'd with tuneful Song the neighb'ring Plain;
Than him none better skill'd his Flocks to feed,
The Sires to fatten, or increase the Breed;
To crop the woolly Fleece with artful Care,
Or from his Fold the wily Fox to scare.

Mov'd by no Thirst of Gain, he seeks the Prize;
No sordid Passions in his Bosom rise;

All that he hopes his Labours to beguile,
Is from bright Norah one approving Smile;
Norah with Pleasure view'd the gallant Youth,
Proud of his Love, yet grateful for his Truth;
And sure severest Censure might excuse,
The Fair One's Pride, when so much Merit sues:
In Country Weeds the lovely Nymph was drest,
A flow'ry Chaplet deck'd her snowy Breast,
Of new blown Roses she compos'd the Wreath,
Fresh as her Face, and fragrant as her Breath:
Terence on her his watchful Eyes had set,
And as he gaz'd, their changing Glances met;
Amaz'd, confus'd—she strove to look around,
Then fix'd her modest Eyes upon the Ground;
The sudden Blush which o'er her Visage came,
At once display'd her Beauty and her Shame.

O happy Youth, how envy'd is thy State,
How like our Passions? How unlike our Fate?

For Love you play, nor covet empty Praise,
For Love I sing, nor grasp at barren Bays;
But yet (O dire Reverse) you both obtain,
Whilst wretched I lament my fruitless Pain.

O were my Lays, like thy Diversions, gay,
Or were I skill'd in Song, as thou in Play;
Then might I hope Muslinda's Breast to move,
And make my Fame immortal, as my Love.

Two Brothers next of equal Size came on,
The Elder Darby, and the Younger John:
For Singing This, and That for Dancing fam'd,
This ne'er was rude, and That was ne'er asham'd;
Both swift of Foot, in artful Grappling skill'd,
Born on the Confines of the fatal Field.

The next to these in Place was sturdy Hugh,
His Sinews tougher than the twanging Yew,

Far hence on Wicklow's steepy Mountains bred,
With strength'ning Pig-nuts, and Potatoes fed;
But now (so Fate ordain'd) our better Cheer
Has charm'd the wand'ring Wight, and fix'd him here.

How shall I, Felim, thy just Praise set forth?
Words can but faintly represent thy Worth;
Tho' Three Times Twenty rolling Years have shed
Their hoary Honours on thy Rev'rend Head,
Entellus-like, thou could'st not brook to stay,
A bare Spectator on this glorious Day;
Practice and Years to thee the Knack impart,
To shift with Cunning, and to trip with Art.

Last Daniel came, to Oxman-Town long known,
In many a well-fought Field his Skill was shown;

At good Defence his chiefest Talent lay,
His prudent Conduct oft retriev'd the Day.

Before them march'd (and as he march'd he play'd)
Ventoso in his newest Weeds array'd;
From Leathern Baggs he squeez'd a grateful Tone,
Which Humming issued thro' the Concave Drone.
This wooden Tube (as ancient Bards have sung)
From the same Hills, which Eccho to it, sprung;
Old Murtagh first (to him it owes its Rise)
Thereon aloft display'd the Champions Prize;
From which, thro' various Offices it run,
'Till made a Broom-staff by his eldest Son;
Next as a Crutch, when worn with Years, he bends,
To our Ventoso's crippled Sire descends;
Who, dying, left (and bid him keep with Care)
This only Pledge to his afflicted Heir:
Pleas'd with the Gift, he first with Iv'ry bound,
Then bor'd a Passage for the tuneful Sound.

And now once more it cheers the Champions Hearts,
A joyful Vigour to each Youth imparts,
And fires with Ardour, to obtain the Prize:
It's Notes, tho' sweet, were drown'd in shriller Cries,
Loud Acclamations fill the spacious Round,
Whilst distant Rocks repeat the gladsome Sound.

On t'other Hand, the Green begins to clear,
And see six lusty Lads of Lusk appear;
Supple their Sinews are, their Bodies light,
Their Aspects chearful, and their Dresses white;
A Ribbon in his Cap, of Azure Hue,
Distinguish'd each bold Champion to the View.

With these young Paddy holds the foremost Place,
In Shape to none inferior, or in Face;
In Gardens bred, Herbs were his choicest Fare,
And Flora made him her peculiar Care;

Fond of inglorious Ease he shun'd the Green,
Nor ever was at Rural Pastimes seen,
Nor with Heroick Sentiments inspir'd,
'Till Norah's lovely Eyes his Bosom fir'd.
Desist, vain Youth, thy hapless Fate to learn,
The Gods are just, and Norah can discern:
The Gods to more Desert decree the Prize,
And Form to Merit yields in Norah's Eyes.

Him follow'd Kit, near Nanny Water bred;
But now, by Thirst of Reputation led,
A Denizen of Lusk; none better skill'd,
To crop with dextrous Art the waving Field,
To ted the Grass upon the new-shorn Plain,
Or from the well-crush'd Ear expel the Grain.

Next Neal and Cabe, whom Poverty sent forth
From the bleak Regions of the rugged North,
Wasted with Toils, and starv'd on scanty Oats,
With tatter'd Shirts, and destitute of Coats,

To Lusk they came; but now indulg'd in Ease,
With strength'ning Turnips fed, and fat'ning Pease,
Joyful they trip the Field, and long to show
Their active Courage on so brave a Foe.

Le'nard succeeds, for Strength and Skill renown'd,
No Wight like him in all Fingal is found,
So swift to gain, and firm to keep his Ground.

See surly Dick, the Miller, last appear,
And with a gloomy Look, bring up the Rear;
Nor fir'd with Pleasure, nor with Danger aw'd,
Strong were his knitted Limbs, his Shoulders broad;
Few better skill'd than him to play the Game,
Or toss the Football with a surer Aim.

Hail'd by no friendly Voice, they take their Stand,
No prosp'rous Omens chear the luckless Band;
Before them struts, and with his thruming Song,
Uninterrupted charms the list'ning Throng,

Old Tim,—supported by one Leg of Wood;
Yet tho' his Limbs were maim'd, his Heart was good:
Of Hounds and Foxes, he could Fights rehearse,
And sing Saint Patrick's Praise, in Splay-foot Verse;
Whole Fights and Sieges, to his Song could joyn,
And tell Old Tales of Aughrum and the Boyn.

Soards and Lusk are two adjoyning Baronies in the County of Dublin, the Inhabitants of which are celebrated for this Exercise and continual Rivals at it.

Oxman-Town is all that Part of Dublin on the North Side of the Liffy; and the Green, so called, is frequently the Scene of this Diversion.

CANTO II.

While the bold Youths arrang'd on either Hand,
Around the Field in decent Order stand,
Amid the Throng, lame Hobbinol appear'd,
And wav'd his Cap in order to be heard:
The Green stood silent as the Midnight-Shade,
All Tongues but his were still, when thus he said;

Ye Champions of fair Lusk, and ye of Soards,
View well this Ball, the Present of your Lords;
To outward View, three Folds of Bullock's Hide,
With Leathern Thongs fast bound on ev'ry Side:
A Mass of finest Hay, conceal'd from Sight,
Conspire at once, to make it firm and light;
At this you'll all contend, this bravely strive,
Alternate thro' the adverse Goal to drive:
Two Gates of Sally bound the spacious Green,
Here one, and one on yonder Side is seen:
Guard that ye Men of Soards, ye Others this,
Fame waits the Careful, Scandal the Remiss.
He said; and high in Air he flung the Ball:
The Champions crowd, and anxious wait its Fall.
First Felim caught, he pois'd, and felt it soft,
Then whirl'd it with a sudden Stroke aloft:
With Motion smooth and swift, he saw it glide,
Till Dick, who stop'd it on the other Side,
A dextrous Kick, with artful Fury drew,
The light Machine, with Force unerring, flew

To th'adverse Goal; where, in the Sight of all,
The watchful Daniel caught the flying Ball;
He proudly joyful in his Arms embrac'd
The welcome Prize; then ran with eager haste,
With lusty Strides he measur'd half the Plain,
When all his Foes surround and stop the Swain;
They tug, they pull; to his Assistance run,
The strong-limb'd Darby, and the nimble John:
Paddy, with more than common Ardour fir'd,
Out-singled Daniel, while the rest retir'd:
At Grappling, now, their mutual Skill they try,
Now Arm in Arm they lock, and Thigh in Thigh;
Now turn, now twine, now with a furious Bound,
Each lifts his fierce Opposer from the Ground:
'Till Flora, who perceiv'd the dire Debate,
Anxious and trembling for her Darling's Fate,
Round Daniel's Leg (unseen by humane Eyes)
Nine Blades of Grass, with artful Texture ties.
From what slight Causes rise our Joy or Grief,
Pleasure or Pain, Affliction or Relief?

Th'entangled Youth but faintly seems to stand,
Bound by one Leg, incumber'd in one Hand;
For yet he held, nor till his hapless Fall,
Dropt from his Arms, the long contended Ball.

As when a Mountain Oak its Ruin finds,
Which long had brav'd the Fury of the Winds;
In vain it stands against the dreadful Blast,
And tho' reluctant, must submit at last:
Such, Daniel, was thy Fall; nor can it be
To thy Reproach, since by the God's Decree.

And now both Bands in close Embraces met,
Now Foot to Foot, and Breast to Breast were set;
Now all impatient grapple round the Ball,
And Heaps on Heaps in wild Confusion fall.

Thus when of Old the Cloud-begotten Guest,
Disturb'd the Revels, and embroil'd the Feast;

With sudden Frenzy fir'd, All rise to Arms,
And rend Heav'n's Azure Vault with loud Alarms;
With drunken Rage, and Resolution steel'd,
The mingling Warriours bustle thro' the Field;
Centaurs and Lapithæ (a dreadful Sight!)
Mix in the Throng, and void of Order fight;
Thro' the wide Waste, Death and Confusion reign,
And cover all around with Heaps of Slain.

Thy Trip, O Terence, fell'd the lusty Neal;
Kit dropt by Felim; Hugh by Paddy fell;
Toss'd down by Darby, Dick forbore to play;
John tugg'd at Cabe: While thus confus'd they lay,
Sly Le'nard struck th'unheeded Ball, and stole,
With easy Paces, tow'rds th'unguarded Goal:
This Daniel saw, who rising from the Ground,
(Where, like Antæus, he new Strength had found,)
Flew to his Post, and halloo'd to his Crew;
They start, and swift the flying Foe pursue:

Le'nard observing, stood upon his Guard,
And now to kick the rolling Ball prepar'd:
When careful Terence, fleeter than the Wind,
Ran to the Swain, and caught his Arm behind;
A dextrous Crook about his Leg he wound,
And laid the Champion grov'ling on the Ground;
Then toss'd the Football in the ambient Air,
Which soon was stop'd by nimble Paddy's Care.
Now Flora to the Zephyrs Cell repairs,
And bribes the Deities with ardent Pray'rs,
To waft the Ball from him with certain Aim,
And, by one Stroke, to end the doubtful Game.

The Zephyrs smiling, promis'd Heav'nly Aid,
Flew by the Swain, and with his Vesture play'd.

Pleas'd with the Sign, he listened to the Call,
And when the Goddess urg'd him, struck the Ball;
No feather'd Shaft, sent from the sounding Yew,
E'er went so straitly, or so swiftly flew:

For on their Wings (to mortal Eyes unseen,)
The careful Zephyrs bore the light Machine.
Daniel, despairing of his promis'd Prize,
Jumps up, and strives to stop it as it flies:
They, to avoid his Fury, upward soar,
'Till past the Goal the flying Ball they bore:
At this Advantage, all the Forces pause,
And the Field ecchoes with the loud Applause.

This Pan indignant saw, fierce Anger spread
Upon his ruddy Face a deeper Red.
Not far from hence a shady Forest lies,
Its nodding Summit tow'ring to the Skies:
In the Midwood (a lonely, awful Seat)
Stands the great Shepherd's best belov'd Retreat:
Here bloom the Trees, in goodly Order set,
While on each Side the spreading Branches met;
Here thro' the waving Boughs, the doubtful Day
Casts on the shaded Ground a chequer'd Ray;

Harmonious Birds hop warbling thro' the Trees,
And the Leaves quiver with the cooling Breeze.

Here the gay Scene with choicest Sweets is crown'd,
Here lavish Nature decks the teeming Ground;
Adorns the Sod with Grass of cheerful Green,
While interspers'd the vary'd Flow'rs are seen.

The Primrose here its fragrant Pride displays,
And there the Daisy shoots its Milk-white Rays;
Jonquils around their op'ning Bloom disclose;
Here smiles the Pink, and there the Tulip glows.
Here, stretch'd at Ease, the God supinely lay,
And smiling, view'd the well-disputed Fray:
But when he saw the Goddess interpose,
His Friends dishearten, and assist his Foes;
Fierce Gusts of Passion fir'd his swelling Soul,
His Bosom rages, and his Eye-Balls roll:

In wild Disorder, rising from the Ground,
He starts, and casts his gloomy Looks around,
Then sunk, and seem'd in sullen Sorrow drown'd.

'Twas at this Time, when from the Field retir'd,
To taste the Sweetness which the Grove expir'd,
Fair Flora entred the Divine Abode,
And, in a pensive Posture, found the God;
His Back reclin'd against an aged Oak,
Scowling his Eyes, and drooping o'er his Crook.
While various Thoughts roll anxious in his Breast,
Thus with a Frown, the Goddess he address'd;—
What Folly moves Thee, or what Pride excites,
To bar my Pleasures, or usurp my Rights?
And dost thou know the Swain's my proper Sphere,
While Flow'rs and Herbs alone demand thy Care?
And dar'st thou yet (by Jove's Decree confin'd)
Exceed the Limits to thy Charge assign'd?

Shock'd at these Sounds, while Anger and Disdain
Rage in her Breast, and boil in ev'ry Vein;
The Goddess answer'd, Whence this rising Storm?
And why these gloomy Clouds thy Brow deform?
To this Precedence, what is thy Pretence?
And whose the Pow'r, to which I gave Offence?
That thus you rave of violated Right,
In Sounds to deafen, and with Frowns to fright?

And dost thou ask? (reply'd the furious Pan)
And hast thou learn'd how first these Sports began?
Know then, I first of Gods or Men was seen,
To toss a Football on yon' Flow'ry Green;
Me Phœbus taught, when from Jove's Wrath he fled,
And on the Plain, Admetus' Cattle fed:
'Twas on yon' Field, and at that Game, I won
This long-contended Crook from Maya's Son;
To it (that stinging Thought renews my Woe)
This circling Wreath, which binds my Brows, I owe

This fatal Wreath—More as he strove to say,
Sighs choak'd his failing Words, and stop'd their Way:
Adown his Cheeks, the Tears each other trace,
And all his Anger to his Grief give Place.
Sighs so unfeign'd, soft Flora's Heart engage,
And kind Concern succeeds the ebbing Rage;
With calmer Brow she fondly asks his Care,
(Pity's the darling Weakness of the Fair.)
Pleas'd with her Words, the God forgot the Foe,
(So much we love Indulgence, ev'n in Woe,)
View'd her Intent, and with a kinder Look,
And in a gentler Tone, more softly spoke.
Tho' the Recital stab me to the Heart,
Revive my Suff'rings, and renew my Smart:
Tho' it recall past Horrors to my View,
Tear my old Wounds, and make them bleed anew;
Yet you shall hear—then beckon'd to the Plain,
When lo! appear'd a Satyr of his Train:

Two butting Horns adorn'd his curling Head,
His Limbs an Hairy Cov'ring overspread;
With scudding Tail, on cloven Hoofs he ran,
Receiv'd the God's Command, and thus began.

Eurytus the Centaur. Vid. Ovid. Met. Lib. 12.

CANTO III.

In Days of Yore, a lovely Country Maid
Rang'd o'er these Lawns, and thro' these Forests stray'd;
Modest her Pleasures, matchless was her Frame,
Peerless her Face, and Sally was her Name:
By no frail Vows her young Desires were bound;
No Shepherd yet the Way to please her found.
Thoughtless of Love, the beauteous Nymph appear'd;
Nor hop'd its Transports, nor its Torments fear'd:

But careful fed her Flocks, and grac'd the Plain,
She lack'd no Pleasure, and she felt no Pain.

She view'd our Motions, when we toss'd the Ball,
And smil'd to see us take, or ward a Fall;
'Till once our Leader chanc'd the Nymph to spy,
And drank in Poyson from her lovely Eye.
Now pensive grown, he shun'd the long-lov'd Plains,
His darling Pleasures, and his favour'd Swains,
Sigh'd in her Absence, sigh'd when she was near,
Then big with Hope, and now dismay'd with Fear:
At length, with falt'ring Tongue, he press'd the Dame
For some Returns to his unpity'd Flame;
But she disdain'd his Suit, despis'd his Care,
His Form unhandsome, and his bristled Hair;
Forward she sprung, and with an eager Pace,
The God pursu'd, nor fainted in the Race;
Swift as the frighted Hind the Virgin flies,
When the Woods eccho to the Hunters Cries:

Swift as the fleetest Hound, her Flight he trac'd,
When o'er the Lawns the frighted Hind is chac'd;
The Winds, which sported with her flowing Vest,
Display'd new Charms, and heighten'd all the rest:
Those Charms display'd, increas'd the God's Desire,
What cool'd her Bosom, set his Breast on Fire:
With equal Speed for different Ends they move,
Fear lent the Virgin Wings, the Shepherd Love:
Panting at length, thus in her Flight she pray'd,
Be quick, ye Pow'rs, and save a wretched Maid,
Protect my Honour, shelter me from Shame,
Beauty and Life with Pleasure I disclaim.

She said—The Pow'rs, in Pity to the Fair,
Direct her weary'd Steps, and grant her Pray'r.
To fenny Marshes now her Course she bends;
Now on her Neck the rushing God impends;
Now he prepares to clasp her in his Arms,
And in his Fancy revels in her Charms;

When on a serpent Riv'let's miry Brink,
Down to the Bosom he beheld her sink;
He caught her by th'expanded Arms, and those
Sudden he felt a circling Rind inclose;
Her Hair he grasp'd, but that his Sense deceives,
He fills his Hands with slender Twigs and Leaves;
The Part which downward sunk became a Root,
Her Arms on either Side like Branches shoot;
To outward View the Virgin ceas'd to be,
But still her Life lay latent in the Tree:
The grateful Tree yet loves the watry Glade,
Or casts o'er purling Streams its pleasing Shade:
Next to the Reed in Place as next in Fame,
And from the lovely Sally takes its Name:
Yet in Remembrance of the Nymphs Disdain,
Her useless Beauty, and his fruitless Pain,
Tho' ev'ry Spring her budding Blossoms shoot,
The barren Tree continues void of Fruit.

This monstrous Change the Love-sick God amaz'd,
Silent he stood, and at the Wonder gaz'd;
At length his Words broke out, and thus he said:
Thou canst not crown my Love, but shalt my Head,
In all my Pleasures thou shalt mix, and raise
Eternal Trophies to thy Virtue's Praise;
O'er all the Land thy Stock shall be display'd,
Adorn my Suppliants, and my Altars shade;
Each Victim's Brow shall with thy Leaves be crown'd,
And with thy Twiggs his tender Limbs be bound:
Erected Goals on ev'ry Football Green,
Torn from thy blooming Boughs, shall still be seen:
From my Example, each succeeding Swain,
Whom cruel Nymphs permit to sigh in vain,
With thee shall shade his drooping Head, and wear
Thy Verdant Leaves; an Emblem of Despair!

This said: He fram'd a Garland for his Brow,
Which long he wore, and see he wears it now.

He ceas'd. In Tears the pitying Goddess fate,
And sighing cry'd, All must submit to Fate;
But let the Swains now re-assume their Play,
And Chance or Merit end the doubtful Fray:
Too sensibly your Griefs afflict my Breast,
To marr your Pleasures, or your Rights contest:
Whence you may learn, when Rage and Threatnings fail,
Soft soothing Arts on Female Minds prevail.

The warlike Leaders, now their Stations change,
And round the Field their gallant Forces range;
Big with their Hopes, expectant of the Prize,
Lusk's Champions their dishearten'd Foe despise.

Unhappy Mortals! Whose unthinking Mind
Swells with the Present, to the Future blind,

Pleas'd without Reason, vain without Success;
Small Joys exalt you, and small Griefs depress:
Sudden these Hopes shall be for ever crost,
And all your Honours, with the Prize, be lost.

First Paddy struck the Ball, John stopt its Course,
And sent it backward with redoubled Force;
Dick met, and meeting smote the light Machine,
Reptile it ran, and skim'd along the Green,
'Till Terence stop'd—with gentle Strokes he trolls,
(Th'obedient Ball in short Excursions rolls)
Then swiftly runs, and drives it o'er the Plain;
Follow the rest, and chace the flying Swain.

So have I seen, upon a Frosty Day,
(By Fowlers frighted, or in quest of Prey)
Skim thro' the Air, whole Covies of Curlew,
One only leading, while the rest pursue.

Paddy, whose fleeter Pace out-stript the rest,
Came up, and caught the Champion by the Vest;
Between his Legs, an artful Crook he twin'd,
And almost fell'd him, e're he look'd behind.
Norah with Horror saw the destin'd Wile,
Grew pale, and blush'd, and trembled for a while;
But when she saw him grasp the Warriour's Hand,
And Face to Face the grappling Rivals stand,
What diff'ring Pangs her anxious Bosom tear,
Now flush'd with Hope, now chill'd with sudden Fear!
Paddy, to see the Champion disengag'd,
From so well form'd a Trip, with Fury rag'd,
Bounds to pursue the Ball; but Terence stopt,
Athwart him flung his Leg, and down he dropt.

So some tall Pine, which many Years had stood,
The Pride of Trees, and Mistress of the Wood,

Braves for a while the Strokes, and seems to foil
The piercing Axe, and mock the Peasant's Toil;
'Till lop'd at length by one fell dext'rous Wound,
It falls, and spreads its Ruins all around.

Terence, unmindful of the Danger past,
A side-long Glance at his lov'd Norah cast,
There saw her Pleasure mix'd with her Surprize,
Glow on her Cheeks, and sparkle in her Eyes:
He saw; and with uncommon Joy inspir'd,
Rush'd on the Foe, and from her Sight retir'd.

Mean while, the sturdy Neal the Football caught,
And to his Friends with Strokes repeated brought;
The Warriours now disperse: Between them all,
Flies to and fro the repercussive Ball:
'Till Terence came, thus secretly he pray'd,
Propitious Pan, lend thy directive Aid;
And on thy Altar, if my Aims succeed,
A Lamb, the whitest of my Flock, shall bleed.

The God consents—one Kick he softly stole,
And with the other drove it thro' the Goal.
Lusk's Champions droop, loud Acclamations rise,
And the shrill Clamours pierce the vaulted Skies;
Joy smiles on ev'ry Face, all Heads are bare,
While Clouds of Hats fly in the wanton Air.

Thus o'er some ancient Rook'ry, thro' the Sky
The feather'd Race in wild Confusion fly;
When mimick Thunder breaks the ambient Air,
All screaming rise, and for the Flight prepare;
In Crowds they soar, the leaden Death to shun,
Darken the Day, and intercept the Sun.

While others claim their well-contended Prize,
Terence alone to his dear Norah flies,
Clasps the lov'd Fair One in his eager Arms,
And thus with softest Elocution warms:
Joy of my Life, and Pleasure of my Youth,
Behold this Mark, this Witness of my Truth!

No Prize but you, was worth such hard Pursuit;
And for no other would your Swain dispute:
For you all Hardships I could learn to bear,
For you, with Joy, I'll leap the Stools next Year.
Then quickly yield, nor kill me with Delay;
For Love and Life are fleeter than the Day.
Silent she stood. The pressing loving Swain,
Gaz'd on her Eyes, and read her Meaning plain;
He saw the Passion, which she could not speak,
Pant on her Breast, and flush upon her Cheek:
Thence takes the Hint, pursues his first Intent,
And from her Silence argues her Consent;
Leads to the Nuptial Bow'r the willing Maid,
No Jointure settled, and no Portion paid;
No glowing Jewels from her Bosom glare,
Shine on her Hands, or glitter in her Hair;
No Robes of White her native Charms adorn,
Nor gaudy Silks are by the Virgin worn;
But sweetly artless, innocently gay,
Her sparkling Eyes, a cheerful Light display;

The Crimson Blushes on her Cheeks outvie
The Golden Streaks that paint the Western Sky.

What Monarch's Envy might not Terence move,
So crown'd with Conquest, and so blest with Love?

The Nymph Syrinx was turn'd into a Reed, as she fled from Pan. See Ovid Met. Lib. 1.

TO A Jealous HUSBAND.

By the Same.

Tell, me Sileno, why you fill
With fancy'd Woes your Life;
Why's all your Time expended still,
In Thinking, or in Talking ill,
Of your too virtuous Wife?

For faith, I can't see to what End
You keep her up so close;
Nor how you cou'd your self offend,
That like a Snail, my gloomy Friend,
You never leave your House.

Ah! Were she but advis'd by me,
Her many Taunts and Scorns
With Int'rest shou'd refunded be,
She'd make a perfect Snail of thee,
By decking thee with Horns.

To the Right Honourable Charles Lord Tyrawley.

By the Same.

Your most humble Servant, with lowest Submission,
Lays open his Case, and prefers his Petition.

About twelve Months ago, upon searching my Brain,
To try how 'twould serve me some desperate Day,
I soon found I had got a poetical Vein;
So (my Lord) I sat down, and I scribled a Play.

When a Finis was writ, and the Book copy'd fair,
Tho' not very ambitious of seeming a Poet,
But expecting to meet a Reward worth my Care,
To our Set of Comedians I ventur'd to shew it.

They laugh'd, while I read; so the Jest was not lost,
They swore it was handsome, and promis'd to play it;
But faith I've discover'd long since to my Cost,
'Tis harder to do a Thing much, than to say it.

Last Season they told me, because my young Muse
Should not want her Conveniencies, they would not stint her
To a Compass of Time; with this handsome Excuse
They civilly stav'd off my Play all the Winter.

Then the Summer came on, all my Hopes to fulfil,
For Summer Assizes (my Lord) is the Name on't,

Yet the Season's near spent, tho' it lies dormant still,
While ev'ry one wonders what the Devil became on't.

Now I think this is hard, I'm accus'd for a Wit,
And to very small Purpose repeat my Denial;
Yet they won't hold th'ASSIZES to search what I writ,
Nor have a Court summon'd to bring on my Tryal.

So, in private I'm bam'd, tho' in publick with Praise
I am fed; at this Rate I shall soon become Carrion,
For Fame is but thin windy Diet, and Bays
Is a Plant that (your Lordship knows) always was barren.

I have search'd for the Reason, and find it springs hence,
(So these Sparks very often declar'd, I assure ye)
No Person of Honour undertakes my Defence,
Nor ever gave Orders to impannel a Jury.

Now (my Lord) I would beg—but you'll certainly say
That my Stock of Assurance, than Wit is much greater,
Consider (my Lord) that I once wrote a Play,
And address with the Air of a Poet in Metre.

I said I would beg—but for what dare n't tell,
Only say, tho' the Muses don't much love to quarrel,
Yet Poetical Bays never thrives half so well
As under the Shade of the Conqueror's Lawrel.

May it please you therefore, to command the Comedians,
To let me have fair Play, and soon, at their Hands,
For to you their best Patron they owe all Obedience;
And who fears Success where TYRAWLEY commands.

So for your good Lordship, by Night and by Day,
Your Petitioner shall sing, but can't promise to pray.

AN EPIGRAM.

[Prithee, is not Miss Cloe's a comical Case?]

By the Same.

Prithee, is not Miss Cloe's a comical Case?
She lends out her Tail, and she borrows her Face.

Another [Epigram]. Imitated from Buchanan.

By the Same.

Phillis my Thoughts you often pray
About your Face's Wearing,
Yet never credit what I say,
Until you hear me Swearing.

Then may I want a Place to dwell in,
And a kind buxom She,
If I think Læda, nay or Helen
Can be compar'd with thee.

For Hero's did these Damsels woe,
Yet sigh'd in sober Sadness:
Whoever falls in Love with you,
Runs headlong into Madness.

EPILOGUE TO The Amorous Widow.

[_]

Written by the same Hand; and spoken at the Theatre-Royal in Dublin, by Miss Nancy Lyddall.

A brow-beat Husband, and Triumphant Wife,
Grant me, ye Pow'rs, O grant me such a Life;
You nicer Dames, who think it a hard Sentence,
To buy short Pleasures with such long Repentance;

Were matrimonial Broils thus always carry'd,
Tell me, Who wou'd not covet to be marry'd?

Tho' my kind Aunt here, hardly cou'd agree,
That State was fit for one so young as me,
—As if I did not know What's What as well as she.
As well as She—No, that was too far wrought on,
Since She has practis'd what I only thought on:
She felt,—I fancy'd Joys beyond expressing:
You marry'd Ladies—an't I good at Guessing?

Young, tho' I seem unfit for such a Toil,
With this poor Face, and some small Share of Wit,
At his own Weapons, I'd engage to foil,
The wisest, gravest He-Thing in the Pit.
Well, you may laugh—but pray before you flout me,
Or, by your gay Behaviour, seem to doubt me,
Let me be heard—then say—you need not flatter,
If I han't fine Ideas of that Matter?

Were I to chuse a Husband; he should be
A Man, no doubt on't—ay—but let me see,
A Fool—not rotten-ripe, but barely mellow,
Such as you Ladies call a pretty Fellow;
A Thing bred up a Beau, tam'd to my Hand,
With little Brains, but with a deal of Land:
One of these Fops, who crowd behind our Scenes,
To shew their ill-shap'd Legs, and awkward Miens;
Their want of Sense to the whole Pit expose,
To charm the Boxes with embroider'd Cloaths:
Such, cou'd I find, I'd shew you humble Wives,
In how much Ignorance you spend your Lives;
Submission makes Men proud and domineering,
And 'faith, I see no middle Course of Steering;
To rein them hard's the Way; for not to jest,
'Tis better tyranize, than be oppress'd.

Now, if you doubt my Skill, in these Affairs,
E'en let him try, and be convinc'd, who dares.

A PROLOGUE

[_]

Written by the same Hand, and spoken on the same Stage, by Mr. Giffard.

The surest Method ancient Wits could find,
To mend Man's Manners, and improve his Mind,
To make Vice odious, Folly mean appear,
Was well-drawn Satire, pointed, and severe.
This Method's taken by the Comick Muse,
Vice to correct, and Virtue to infuse:
With Humour join'd; what Charms does it impart?
When so well mix'd, and with such curious Art,
That while one wounds, the other heals the Smart.

Like skillful Artists, who are always found
To sooth the Patient, while they search the Wound.

With this our Author treats—but you'll excuse
This first Essay of an unpractis'd Muse,
Who boldly soars in search of Fame, and sings,
E'er twenty Summers yet have fledg'd her Wings.
This Title to the Fair he recommends,
'Tis by their Means he hopes to gain his Ends,
For Youth and Beauty should be always Friends.

But to the Play—He says 'tis mostly new,
The Plot he thinks his own, the Language too,
The Characters he owns he stole—from You;
But not so stole, as may with Ease appear
Who's represented, how he lives, or where;
No—several Fools have sate for ev'ry Picture here.

No single Fop is by his Satire shewn,
Nor whence he came, nor how he may be known,
For then 't had dwindled into low Lampoon.

Yet here dejected quite, young Bays appears,
His Hopes submit to his prevailing Fears:
For some there are, who would for Criticks pass,
And who, in Plays, like Cocks before a Glass,
Quarrel with the Reflection of their Face.
These, by resenting, shew the World they're hit,
Since Characters are drawn for whom they fit:
For your own Sakes, then, let our Satire pass;
'Tis Application only makes the Ass.

ON A LADY Throwing Snow-Balls.

AN ODE.

By the Same.

To the bleak Winds on barren Sands,
While Delia dares her Charms expose,
To missile Globes with glowing Hands,
She forms the soft descending Snows.

The lovely Maid from ev'ry Part
Collecting, molds with nicest Care,
The Flakes less frozen than her Heart,
Or than her downy Bosom fair.

On my poor Breast her Arms she tries;
Levell'd at me, like darted Flame
From Jove's red Hand, the Pellet flies,
As swift-its Course, and sure its Aim.

Cold as I thought the fleecy Rain,
Unshock'd I stood, nor fear'd a Smart,
While latent Fires with pointed Pain,
Shot thro' my Veins, and pierc'd my Heart.

Or with her Eyes she warm'd the Snow,
(What Coldness can their Beams withstand?)
Or else, (who would not kindle so?)
It caught th'Infection from her Hand.

So glowing Seeds to Flints confin'd,
The Sun's enliv'ning Heat conveys:
Thus Iron to the Loadstone joyn'd,
Usurps its Pow'r, and wins its Praise.

So strongly influent shine her Charms,
While Heav'n's own Light can scarce appear;
While Winters rage, his Rays disarms,
And blasts the Beauties of the Year.

To ev'ry Hope of Safety lost,
In vain we fly the lovely Foe,
Since Flames invade disguis'd in Frost,
And Cupid tips his Dart with Snow.

A Merry Fellow, and a Sad Poet.

By the Same.

Tom , and his Muse, on ev'ry Theme
Of Rhime and Reason gull us;
Each of an opposite Extreme,
He full of Fire, she clogg'd with Phlegm,
They both conspire to lull us.

Swift rolls his Tongue its straggling Course,
His Pegasus is jaded;
Yet he, too fond of his own Curse,

Takes Muse for better or for worse,
Altho' her Charms be faded,

So have I seen fast bound to clog,
To which his ill Stars joyn'd him,
A pert Baboon contented jog,
Play with his Chain, and hug the Log,
He could not leave behind him.

SELINDA.

By the Same.

Selinda sure's the brightest Thing,
That decks our Earth, or breaths our Air;
Mild are her Looks like op'ning Spring,
And like the blooming Summer fair.

But yet her Wit's so very small,
That all her Charms appear to lye
Like glaring Colours on a Wall,
And strike no further than the Eye.

Our Eyes luxuriously she treats,
Our Ears are absent from the Feast;
One Sense is surfeited with Sweets,
Starv'd or disgusted are the rest.

Thus oft we see with Aspect bright,
And tawdry Pride, a Tulip swell,
Blooming and beauteous to the Sight,
Dull and insipid to the Smell.

TO A LADY Who argu'd in Defence of the AUTHOR, Where he was traduced.

By the Same.

Firm is the Cause your Arguments maintain,
For, like your Eyes, they never plead in vain;

O'er all Defects your Eloquence prevails,
Nor thro' the Subject's want of Merit fails:
To so much Wit and so much Beauty join'd,
The Obstinate must sure be deaf and blind.

When yours appear, Our Reasons quit the Field,
All Hearts submit, and all Opinions yield;
Our best consulted Schemes their Pow'r disarms,
Like Magick Spells undone by stronger Charms:
To them you join the Musick of your Tongue,
Mildly harmonious, and serenely strong:
To awful Sweetness, and majestick Ease,
Add Force to vanquish, Elegance to please.
So from one Cloud (which various Matter fills)
The Lightning flashes, and the Dew distills.

In your fair Face the Graces stand display'd,
In Love's Attire, and Nature's Pride array'd,
The op'ning Blossom, and the rip'ning Fruit,
With blended Charms in friendly Mixture suit.

Such graceful Sweetness coldest Hearts can warm,
Arrest fell Rage, and baneful Envy charm,
Malice destroy, and Prejudice o'ercome,
Make Slander hush'd, and strike Detraction dumb.
In Eden so, the Mother of our Race,
(Such artless Beauty glowing on her Face)
Struck the black Fiend confounded and amaz'd:
He view'd at Distance, and with Rapture gaz'd.
Aw'd by her charming Looks, a-while he stood
Stupidly fond, and indolently good.

With all these Charms, with all this Pow'r supply'd,
You gen'rously assist the weaker Side:
And 'tis but just—that Part alone was fit
To shew your Goodness, and display your Wit.
Then how shall I return what you bestow?
How speak or act the Gratitude I owe?
Thus: As your Wit my threatned Fame secures,
My All shall be employ'd; tho' far, far short of yours.

ON FLOWERS, Embroidered by a Young LADY.

By the Same.

This charming Bed of Flow'rs, when FLORA spy'd,
By FLAVIA's Needle wrought; enrag'd she cry'd,
Still to be vanquish'd by her, is my Doom,
Mine yearly fade, but her's shall ever bloom;
Bloom like her Face, that stings me to the Heart,
Surpass'd in Beauty, as excell'd in Art.

ON Struggling for a KISS.

AN ODE.

By the Same.

Close circled in my fond Embrace,
With ardent Eyes, and ruffled Charms,
While Anger heighten'd ev'ry Grace,
PANTHEA struggled in my Arms:
Strongly I clasp'd, nor set the Charmer free,
Till more than a King's Ranson was my Fee.

She gave, and made my Bliss compleat,
A Kiss with so much Fragance fraught,
So melting soft, so balmy sweet,
As Poets Rapture never thought;
Surpassing Cordials, which our Lives renew,
Hyblæan Honey, or Arabian Dew.

So with Heav'ns Envoy, unapall'd
ISAAC's bold Offspring dar'd contend,
And so the Wrestler's Strength prevail'd,
And so the Combat found an End;
With mortal Gripe he grasp'd his Heav'nly Foe,
Nor till he forc'd a Blessing, let him go.

But Cares and Sorrows ever spring,
Where Joy redundant overflows,
Honey's attended with a Sting,
And with a prickly Thorn, the Rose.

This bitter Lesson, practically true,
The Seer experienc'd, and the Sinner too.

With Anguish both our Blessings buy,
Both wounded from our Angels part;
The Patriarch's Hurt was in his Thigh,
Mine in the Seat of Life, my Heart.
Thus Pleasure always leads succeeding Pain,
And makes us Losers by what most we gain.

THE PICTURE.

By the Same.

So numerous FLAVIA's Charms appear,
As may her Form display,
In all the the Dresses of the Year,
And Beauties of the Day.

Calm and serene, like Spring, her Aire;
Like Autumn, soft her Mold;
Her Face, like Summer, blooming fair;
Her Heart, like Winter, cold.

Her Bosom, Cynthia's full-orb'd Light;
Her Cheeks Noon's Rays adorn;
Her Tresses shew the falling Night;
Her Eyes the rising Morn.

CUPID's Revenge.

By the Same.

As thro' the Woods Panthea stray'd,
And sought, in vain, her wand'ring Sheep,
Beneath a Myrtle's verdant Shade,
She found the God of Love asleep.

His Bow unbent, beneath his Head,
Beside his empty Quiver lay,
His golden Arrows round him spread,
Toss'd by the Winds in wanton Play.

With Terror struck, the Nymph recedes,
And softly on her Tiptoes trod;
Malice, at length, to Fear succeeds,
And she returns, and robs the God.

As to purloin his Bow, she tries,
Of all his scatter'd Shafts possess'd,
The beamy Lustre of her Eyes,
Play'd on his Face, and broke his Rest.

Cupid awaking, scarce descry'd,
'Twixt Slumber and Surprize, the Maid,
And rub'd his drowzy Lids, and cry'd,
Who thought the Sun could pierce this Shade?

At length, recover'd from his Fright,
Thus his mistaken Thoughts express'd,
Art thou return'd, my soft Delight?
Approach, my Psyche, to my Breast.

The frighted Virgin scarcely view'd,
Sprung from his Sight with eager Haste,
No trembling Hare by Hounds pursu'd,
Or fear'd so much, or fled so fast.

Seeking a Shaft, to stop her Flight,
He found himself of all bereft;
His Loss soon set his Knowledge right,
And shew'd the Plund'rer by the Theft.

Panthea stop, aloud he cries,
Why would'st thou, Fair One, fly from me?
Restore my Arrows, thine own Eyes
Have Darts as sharp, enough for Thee.

Unmov'd by this, her Pace she mends,
Regardless of his Pain, or Care,
Th'intreating God no more attends,
Than if 't had been some Lover's Pray'r.

Cupid provok'd, for Vengeance tries—
My Leaden Shafts, these are not lost;
Within my Pow'r the Method lies,
And thou shalt find it to thy Cost.

Enjoy thy Plunder, use my Darts,
Thy Crime shall be thy Punishment,
At random wound despairing Hearts,
Nor for the Pangs you give, relent.

Beauty was made to be enjoy'd,
I'll marr the End for which 'twas giv'n,
Fill up with Pride thy Reason's void,
And useless make that Gift of Heav'n.

Still Cruelty shall taint thy Breast,
And all thy smiling Hopes destroy;
In all my Mother's Beauty drest,
Be thou a Stranger to her Joy.

Since all the Shafts thy Glances throw
Shall still be poison'd with Disdain,
Nor shalt thou e'er the Pleasure know
Of Loving, and being Lov'd again.

Secure in Scorn thy Charms shall lie,
Bloom unenjoy'd, untasted fade,
Till thou at last repenting die,
An old, ill-natur'd, envious Maid:

He said—And from his Quiver drew
A Leaden Hate-procuring Dart,
And brac'd his Bow, from whence it flew,
Unerring to the Fair One's Heart.

TO A LADY, Who commended Another's EYES.

By the Same.

In vain by Parallels you strive
Panthea's Eyes to praise;
Perfection which we can't conceive,
Itself alone displays.

Gaze on them only, if you'd know
What dazzling Rays they dart;
But if what piercing Shafts they throw,
Then view my wounded Heart.

ON Seeing a Friend's Picture.

By the Same.

The pleasing Aspect, and the Front serene,
The comely Stature, and the graceful Mien,
Shall, taught to live by H---'s artful Hand,
In Bloom perennial on the Canvas stand.
Ah! how unlike the Frailty of the Clay,
That while the Colours ripen, melts away;

While the same Course of Time with equal Strife,
Improves the Picture, and impairs the Life.

The present Likeness then to what avails?
Too soon, Alas! the faint Resemblance fails.
Some few Years hence, when weighty Cares shall bend,
And hoary Age sit freezing o'er my Friend,
The Blood shall mantle in his Cheek no more,
And Wrinkles rise where Dimples lay before;
The Leg shall tremble, and the Shoulder bow,
While the warm'd Canvas glows as bright as now;
And Men, surpriz'd, shall see the Piece declare,
Such were his Features once, and such his Aire.
And thence the Meanness of our Nature see,
Since Shadows boast more Permanence than we.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE RIVAL-GENERALS, A TRAGEDY.

By the Same.

Nor Friendship's sacred Call the Muse obeys,
Nor Flattery tunes these tributary Lays;
Thy Merit only from a conscious Mind,
Extorts a Praise, exalted and refin'd.

100

To rob aspiring Virtue of its Name,
Its Glory stifle, or suppress its Fame;
Nay, ev'n with faintly praising to dispense,
Proclaims our Envy, or our want of Sense.

To make each sympathizing Bosom glow,
To make each Eye with gen'rous Pity flow,
To make the list'ning Youth in Anguish melt,
And Virgins sigh for Pains they never felt;
The buskin'd Muse upon the Stage appears,
And takes her Tribute of Applause in Tears.

How much of this thy labour'd Work has won,
How much it speaks Thee Pæan's darling Son,
When I would sing; I mourn my baffled Scheme,
Nor can the Song rise equal to the Theme.
None but your self, none but your Lines are fit
To shew the Strength and Beauty of your Wit:
None but your own Pathetick Muse can show
How well you make our Passions ebb and flow.

101

Who sees thy brave Honorio's hapless State,
Great in his Fall, and glorious in his Fate?
Who hears thy mournful Eloisa's Moan?
Who views their Sorrows, and can stop his own?
When Sygismunda weeps, in tender Strains,
We share her Griefs, and struggle with her Pains;
Each Bosom feels her agonizing Throes,
And sickens with imaginary Woes.
But single Parts afford a weak Delight,
When the Whole shines so excellently bright.

Contemn those Fools who nibble at thy Thoughts,
And think all Wit consists in finding Faults;
Despise their Censure, and defy their Spite;
Such awkward Criticks shew Thee in the right.
Such slender Witlings, of Opinion full,
Such plodding Pedants, venerably dull,
Ne'r hope to please; 'tis shooting in the Dark,
And ev'n to do it is to miss the Mark.

102

Long had our Stage on foreign Refuse fed,
To a proud Mistress bow'd her servile Head;
Her Leavings treasur'd up, and curs'd the Land
With broken Scraps of Wit, at second Hand:
While not one Muse arose in our Defence,
Spoke our Resentment, or proclaim'd our Sense:
With scarce one native Note our Island rung;
Her Bards untuneful, and her Harp unstrung.
By you her Home-born Rage she now displays,
Inspir'd to merit independent Praise.

But let me boast, I first essay'd to sing,
Artless of Voice; and impotent of Wing,
On comick Pinions humble Flights explor'd,
Trifled in Song, nor to the Buskin soar'd.
You swiftly flew, o'ertook me in the Race,
Whilst gladly I retire, and give Thee Place:
To better Hands resign my Country's Cause,
And testify my Zeal by my Applause.

103

I yield the Crown, and thence extract my Praise,
Where Phœbus points, who dare deny the Bays?

The Morning Star thus faintly gilds the Skies,
Dispels the Gloom, and shews Aurora's Rise;
But soon o'erpower'd, he hides his feeble Ray,
Lost in the Glory of the op'ning Day.

104

TO A GENTLEMAN Who Corrected some Verses of the Author's writing.

By the Same.

Accept what Thanks a grateful Muse can pay,
Whose Flight you succour, and direct her Wing,
Who while you guide her Hand attempts to play,
And while you tune her Voice essays to sing.

105

To you alone she owes her Claim to Praise,
Rude and unfinish'd are the Draughts she draws;
You stamp Perfection on her lifeless Lays,
And your Impression justifies Applause.

So in the Mine th'unfashion'd Metal grows
With weakly Gleam, a rough unpolish'd Mass,
Until the Royal Stamp its Value shews,
And by the Monarch's Image makes it pass.

Cold and inanimate is my Essay;
You Wit and Judgment, Warmth and Life inspire.
I, like Prometheus, temper earthly Clay;
You, like Minerva, lend cœlestial Fire.

My indigested Thoughts can never shine,
Till you add Lustre, and bright Order give;
My Verses in your Hands become divine,
And from your Touches they begin to live.

106

So on the Banks of Nile, when Floods retreat,
Unfinish'd Insects lie, a shapeless Brood,
Till by Degrees the Sun's enliv'ning Heat
Gives Life, and Form, and Motion to the Mud.

What your Good-Nature to my Lines conveys
Of Wit, or Elegance, I seem to write:
Thus the pale Moon, who shines with borrow'd Rays,
Reflects her beamy Brother's absent Light.

Then let me make my thankful Fondness known,
And with your Merit swell the trembling String:
Thus prove the Praise of Gratitude my own,
And hail you with that Voice you teach to sing.

As brazen Memnon, while Night's Vapours fly,
Dispell'd and vanquish'd by the op'ning Day,
Salutes the rising Glory of the Sky,
And owes his Musick to the friendly Ray.

107

AN ODE, IN Answer to the Foregoing.

By R. M. Esq;

Whilst in immortal Verse my Praise you sing,
Born on thy Fame, I strongly seem to rise;
Like the Wren tow'ring on the Eagle's Wing,
Exalted by thy Lays, I reach the Skies.

108

I'm but the well-carv'd Image of your Mind,
And 'tis the Sculptor's Hand which we admire:
Thus in the Iliad, we a Pleasure find,
Not in Achilles' Rage, but Homer's Fire.

Thy happy Fancy form'd the bright Design,
And crowding Thoughts with charming Numbers grac'd:
So the rude Chaos was by Pow'r divine,
In beauteous Harmony and Order plac'd.

The strong perswasive Flatt'ry of thy Lays,
Makes me thus cherish thy too fond Regard:
Revolting Soldiers were by Cæsar's Praise
Reclaim'd, and strove to merit the Reward.

109

A SONG.

[Fond Orpheus went, as Poets tell]

By the Same.

Fond Orpheus went, as Poets tell,
To bring Euridice from Hell;
There he might hope to find a Wife,
The Pest and Bane of humane Life.

The Damn'd from all their Pains were eas'd;
Not that his Musick so much pleas'd,
But that the Oddness of the Matter
Had justly made the Wonder greater.

110

Pluto, enrag'd that any He
Should enter his Dominion free;
And to inflict the sharpest Pain,
Made him a Husband once again.

But yet, in Justice to his Voice,
He left it still within his Choice;
If, as a Curse, he'd not refuse her,
And taught him by a Look to lose her.

111

ON The Countess of ROSS.

By the Same.

The blooming Spring, delightful May,
The Flow'rs in sweet Confusion gay,
The Heav'nly Bow of various Dye,
The radiant Glories of the Sky,
Serve but as Images to paint
Thy Beauties, ROSS; and all too faint.

Then let vain Man attempt no more,
But from the charming Danger fly;
The Pencil and the Pen want Power
To draw her Soul, or paint her Eye.

For Nature, when she wrought each Grace,
An Excellence design'd,
Beyond the Painter's Skill her Face,
The Poet's Art her Mind.

112

HORACE, B. 1. Ode 13.

By the Same.

Sabina flies me like a Fawn,
Whose tender Dam has wildly stray'd,
So trips the Fields, bounds o'er the Lawn,
Of ev'ry Breath of Air afraid,
Still urging on, by Fear yet fleeter made.

If Zephyrs whisper thro' the Trees,
Of the soft Springs refreshing Gale,
She quakes amid the fanning Breeze;
Her tim'rous Doubts so far prevail,
That her Knees tremble, and her Face turns pale.

Fear not, I'm none of Africk's Brood,
Ho Hungry Tyger chasing Prey,
No Lyon panting after Blood;
I seek thee for delightful Play;
Thou'rt ripe for Man, thy Rattles fling away.

113

HORACE, B 1. Ode 30.

By the Same.

Bright Goddess, potent Queen of Love,
Descend from blissful Seats above,
Forsake thy once-lov'd Paphian Grove,
And far from Cyprus Isle remove;
Make Hamerton thy sole Delight,
Where Beautys, like thy own, invite:
Bring with thee the inflaming Boy,
That all our Thoughts be lost in Joy;
The Graces in their loose Attire,
Thy Nymphs that set our Hearts on Fire;
Let smiling Youth attend thy Flight,
Which, without thee, has no Delight;
And let bewitching Wit be near,
To satisfy the Virgin's Fear.

114

Imitation of the Kit-Kat TOASTS.

Mrs. S. M. Newcomen.

By the Same.

The Graces long, in doubtful Strife,
Consulted how to frame
A perfect Form in humane Life,
Which Envy might not blame.

Each Grace bestow'd a different Part,
And Venus lent her Aid,
To temper all with Heav'nly Art,
So Newcomen was made.

115

AN EPITAPH ON A Young LADY.

By the Same.

If Heav'nly Beauty, blooming Youth,
If easy Wit, engaging Truth,
And Virtue void of Pride,
Could bribe the cruel King of Fears,
We had not shed these fruitless Tears,
Nor had Lucinda dy'd.

116

Heav'n, when it form'd so fair a Frame,
Beyond our Praise, above our Blame,
A Master-piece design'd;
And pairing them with nicest Care,
Strove which should most Perfection share,
The Body or the Mind.

The Work so equal'd the Design,
That Men mistook it for divine;
Mortality alone
Could undeceive their erring Thought,
The finish'd Piece so justly wrought,
With so much Lustre shone.

Heav'n saw, displeas'd, and snatch'd the Fair
From wond'ring Crowds and mortal Air,
With greater Joys to bless;
And adding Charms, a boundless Store,
Made her Divinity much more,
Our Love and Wonder less.