A Collection Of Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Collection Of Poems

By John Whaley

Whaley, John (1710-1745)

[section]

AN ESSAY ON PAINTING.

[Poems on Several Occasions]

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AN ESSAY ON PAINTING.

To call the long past Ages back to view,
To make each Act of old for ever New,
To bid each Breast with fancy'd Sorrows groan,
Or feel the force of Transports, not its own:
Each various Passion of the Soul to move,
To rouze to War, or sink it into Love;

For this the Poet strikes the sounding Strings,
For this its Aid th'informing Pencil brings:
To the charm'd Ear the rapt'rous Poet speaks,
Strong on the Eye the Painter's Language breaks;
A Language, not to one small Land confin'd,
But speaking to the Sense of all Mankind.

Inventive Love first taught a tender Heart
The Infant Traces of the Pencil's Art;
A Nymph in Tears for her departing Swain,
Bid something of the much-lov'd Form remain;
Inspir'd by Love th'ingenious Fair began,
And from a deep-cast Shadow sketch'd the Man.
Each well reflected Part with Care design'd,
To help th'Idea's of her am'rous Mind.

From these small Hints the dawning Science sprung,
Improv'd by Time, and by degrees grew strong.
From thee, fair Greece, the sweet Invention came,
Thy Children's Breasts receiv'd the noble Flame.
They, greatly fir'd, pursu'd the first Design,
With Care improv'd the imitating Line;
Bid each kind Colour its Assistance lend,
Each various Herb its well-dy'd Juices send,
To tell the Thoughts that swell'd each Master's Breast
Nor cou'd, but by the Pencil, be exprest.

Then those, whom e're Poetick Warmth had fir'd,
Became with Pow'rs, 'till then unknown, inspir'd,
And found the Force of Colours cou'd prevail,
Where all the Energy of Words must fail.

Hence first the Race of Saturn grew ador'd,
And Greece with new-born Deities was stor'd;

The potent Pencil gave each God his Air,
Hence Jove grew terrible, and Venus fair.
Had not Apelles drawn the rising Maid,
She still conceal'd beneath the Waves had laid;
Her ev'ry Beauty to his Hand is due,
He gave her Charms the Cestus never knew.

Thy Fame, great Zeuxis, too the Muse wou'd tell;
On thine, Parrhasius, with Delight wou'd dwell;
But Grief forbids the Masters Skill to praise,
Whose Works are lost to these remoter Days.
Nor yet consum'd by all devouring Age,
But a sad Prey to War, and Gothic Rage.

Long lay the Arts by barb'rous Force o'er-turn'd;
Apollo wept, and all the Muses mourn'd.
Statues, that faithful had preserv'd the Fame
Of each great Warrior's Act, or Patriot's Name,

Fell to some brutal Peasant's Ax a Prey,
Or sadly moulder'd unobserv'd away.
Nor ought avail'd disdainful Marius Frown,
Nor Cæsar's Sword, nor learned Tully's Gown.
Thick Wounds again pierc'd the Dictator's Breast,
Again the Pleader fell, by Slaves opprest.
The Pencil's Labours too were all defac'd,
Each Colour blotted, and each Act eras'd;
No more th'expressive Canvas cou'd explain
Th'Egyptians Smiles, or Herod's fierce Disdain;
No more the well united Colours speak
Young Ammon's graceful Brow, or fair Campaspe's Cheek
Long Europe, thus by Gothick Pow'r opprest,
The sad effects of Ignorance confest;
Nor ever warm'd by Learning's kindly Ray,
Wrapt in Cimmerian Night dejected lay.

Some Stars at last, with Influence benign
Some happier Beams of Light began to shine.

By slow degrees her Head fair Science rear'd,
And waking Arts the lazy Darkness chear'd.
Some Works of old, that buried long had laid
In Earth's dark Womb, or Tyber's oozy Bed,
By lucky Accident to light were brought,
With all the Charms of antient Sculpture fraught.
A polish'd Statue here the Cave reveal'd,
And there a fair Relievo lay conceal'd;
Here a soft Venus scatter'd Smiles around,
And there a lusty Gladiator frown'd:
Here Hymen's Torch the Nuptial Chamber grac'd,
And there the mournful Pile in Marble blaz'd.

From these great Patterns then each gen'rous Mind
The Rise of long neglected Arts design'd:
Cimabué first pursu'd the happy Thought,
The Pencil's Touch, and aiding Colours brought,

Follow'd th'Idea's of the Sculptor's Breast,
And in soft Paint the mimick Stone exprest.

To his re-animating Hand is due
Whate'er or Michael thought, or Titian drew;
From this great Fountain of the Art we trace
Romano's bold Design, and Raphael's matchless Grace

As o'er the Field Cimabué thoughtless stray'd,
Watching his Flock, a rustick Boy was laid,
And as the Sheep pass'd by in wanton Play,
To pass the tedious Hours 'till Noon away,
He sketch'd their Shapes, express'd their curling Wool.
And drew their various postures with a Coal.
The Master stopp'd, the Boy with Care he view'd,
And saw the Lines were just, the Strokes were good;
He took him home, with kindly Warmth increas'd
The native Fire that glow'd within his Breast,

'Till the bright Sparks produc'd a lasting Flame,
And Europe gloried in Giotto's Fame.

Hence fair and vigorous the Science grew,
And each Day onward to Perfection drew;
Swift over Italy's fair Clime it went,
And spread with Lustre thro' the Continent.
The Masters now with studious Care design'd
The bright Idea's springing in their Mind;
With Prudence curb'd each else too fiery Thought,
Each Stroke, each Line to just Proportion brought;
And with the Fierceness of Poetick Fire
Bid Rules of strict Geometry conspire.
Thro' Nature first they look'd with piercing Eyes,
Whate'er she work'd on Earth, in Sea, or Skies,
With Care they treasur'd in their faithful Heart,
Then to their Aid they call'd the Pow'r of Art;

Preserv'd each Charm that careless Nature taught,
And banish'd from their Breast her ev'ry Fault,
'Till finish'd Beauty rose at their Commands,
And all her Works came perfect from their Hands.
But to acquire a real Master's Name,
To constitute a Painter's noble Frame,
No Art, no Labour ever will suffice,
If Pallas her auspicious Aid denies.
'Tis Nature in the Breast implants the Ray,
Art only feeds, and wakes it into Day.

The pregnant Fancy, and the swelling Breast,
The great Conceptions scarce to be exprest,
The sprightly Warmth of Homer's rapid Lines,
The striking Force of Angelo's Designs,
The Charms with which the Mantuan Diction glows,
The Grace that from a Guido's Pencil flows,
To Jove's great Favourites alone is given;
'Tis the Promethean Fire deriv'd from Heav'n;

The Rays, that on Egyptian Memnon shone,
And call'd the Sounds from out the Vocal Stone:
A Warmth like this did Vinci's Breast inspire,
His Soul confess'd the animating Fire;
His happy Genius ev'ry Science own'd,
His ev'ry Labour sweet Perfection crown'd.
If to Parnassus' Top he bent his Eye,
Apollo smil'd, and ev'ry Muse was nigh;
With Nature's Ease his Verse harmonious flow'd,
Bold was his Thought, and bright his Language glow'd;
His tuneful Pipe each ravish'd Hearer charm'd,
And ev'ry Heart his sprightly Viol warm'd.
But when Ideas fill'd his lab'ring Breast
Too strong to be by Words or Sounds exprest,
His Pencil its all pow'rful Diction brought,
Th'enliven'd Colours told the rapt'rous Thought;

The Canvas all its Master's Heart reveal'd,
Nor one bright Ray of Fancy lay conceal'd.
What Strength, what Force, attends his whole Design?
What full Expression dwells in ev'ry Line?
Such Energy the pow'rful Touches show,
With such bold Eloquence the Colours flow,
As ev'ry Passion of the Soul employ,
Quick they dissolve in Grief, or swell with sudden Joy.

See where with anxious Care, and Thought profound,
The Holy Twelve their dying Lord surround;
With awful Fear they take his last Commands,
Lift up their pious Eyes, and trembling Hands;
With strongest Terror and Surprise they hear:
Him calmly talking of a Death so near.
Grief mix'd with Rage indignant Peter burns,
And sunk in Floods of Tears the lov'd Disciple mourns.

Who sees these well dissembled Forms, but shares
In all their Griefs, and justifies their Tears?
Who but discovers with disdainful Eyes
The Traitor Judas, midst his ill-feign'd Sighs?
Nor are the Strokes of deathful Treach'ry faint,
But strong the Villain glares thro' all the Paint.

Thus far the Master's potent Hand prevail'd,
Nor in his Style compleat Expression fail'd;
One Form alone unfinish'd yet remain'd,
One mighty Form his swelling Bosom strain'd.
Conscious the lab'ring Pencil ne'r cou'd tell
The Charms Divine, that in the Godhead dwell;
Imperfect that great Form he left alone,
Which Luke without an Angel ne'er had drawn.

Fair Science nurtur'd Michael's tender Heart,
And with his Milk he suck'd the Streams of Art;

With Infant Hands he form'd the rugged Stone,
And e'er the Man was ripe the Sculptor shone.
But how shall Words his Thoughts mature declare,
Whether he hangs the swelling Dome in Air,
Or plants the Columns beauteous Ranks beneath,
Or animates the Brass, or bids the Picture breath?
Rome by his matchless Works more splendid grew,
And Glory more than Augustæan knew;
Nor cou'd the fam'd Rotunda's Honour last,
By Angelo's strong Genius far surpast;
The Capitol restor'd with Graces shone,
That Consuls ne'er had seen, nor Cæsars known;
Nor this the only Source of Michael's Fame,
The Pencil too exalts his honour'd Name.
That which the harder Marble cou'd not reach,
He bad the temper'd Colours Softness teach;
With manly Force he bad each Line appear,
Bold were his Thoughts, and all his Strokes severe.

Exact, as Nature, ev'ry Limb he drew,
Close knit the Bones, and firm the Sinews grew;
With lusty Strength replete each Muscle rose,
And the full Veins the mantling Blood disclose.

Lo! where the zealous Persecutor lies,
O'erturn'd by Rays, swift darting from the Skies.
See the mad Horses prance in wild Affright,
And furious strive to shun the dazzling Light;
While all amaz'd the trembling Riders lay,
Confounded with intolerable Day.
From the fierce Blaze our weaken'd Eyes we turn,
And, like Converted Paul, with Christian Ardours burn.

But oh! what Eyes can unastonish'd bear
The last great Judge triumphant in the Air,

While round his Throne obedient Angels stand,
To execute their Lord's supreme Command?
See the strong Colours lab'ring to explain
The dreadful Glories of that fatal Scene:
Their antient Forms the rising Atoms wear,
And buried Nations waken into Fear.
Here Tyrants weep the envy'd Sway they bore,
And Monarchs curse the tempting Crowns they wore:
The murd'ring Friend, and secret pois'ning Train,
Shudd'ring with conscious Guilt, anticipate their Pain.
The Griping Miser here, whose bolted Door
Ne'er turn'd the Hinge, nor open'd to the Poor,
Shrinks trembling from his Lord's indignant Brows,
Nor one kind Gleam of healing Mercy knows.

The Pencils utmost Force these Forms declare,
Anguish in all is seen, and deep Despair;
On scorching Coals, and vengeful Flames they tread,
And Clouds of Sulphur burst around their Head.

But Oh! how diff'rent flow the sprightly Lines,
How all around diffusive Beauty shines,
Where the just Few expect their happy Fate,
And for their much lov'd Master's Mercy wait!
Kings, that to Pow'r preferr'd their Peoples Good,
Patriots, that for their Country gave their Blood,
And those whose flowing Bounty scorn'd Restraint;
Who dry'd the Widows Tears, and sooth'd the Orphans Plaint.
Beyond learn'd Volumes can such Paint prevail,
And Michael's Lessons move, where Sherlock's fail.

At Raphael's Birth each happy Planet shone,
And on his Cradle shed their Influence down.
Round his young Paths attendant Graces play'd,
And ev'ry Virtue lent the Boy its Aid.
Softest Humanity inform'd his Mind,
And in his Mien attracting Sweetness shin'd.

Hail! ye fair Piles of Hampton's happy Groves,
Which Raphael's Works adorn, and Brunswick loves.
What can or Kensington's fair Gardens show,
Where Art adds Charms to Natures verdant Brow?
Or what do Windsor's lofty Turrets boast,
But match'd with Raphael's Paint, is faded all, and lost?

Who sees the mighty Christian Pleader stand
With Look undaunted, and persuasive Hand,
But bows with Athen's Sons the list'ning Ear,
And each convicting Sentence seems to hear?

See next the Wretch, whose Hardness dar'd withstand
The Saint inspir'd, and God's declar'd Command,
With sudden Clouds o'erspread, and wrapt in Night,
And vainly feeling for the banish'd Light:
The darken'd Balls exclude the wonted Ray;
Nor can one stretching Nerve admit the Day.

The fatal Sentence ev'ry Eye approves,
Yet the sad Form each Breast with Pity moves.

Relentless Death, cou'd'st thou not stay the Dart,
That pierc'd the mighty Raphael's Youthful Heart?
Cou'd'st thou not let that Sun's enliv'ning Ray
Fall gently down, and by Degrees decay,
Nor from his full Meridian plunge him down,
E're half the Course of Glory yet was Run?
But well thy Wrongs his potent Hand repay'd,
By Thousands rescu'd from thy baleful Shade.
Saints, that in vain sent up the pious Vow;
Monarchs, whose baffled Strength confess'd thy Blow;
Aided by him, thy deepest Wounds survive,
And in his Colours act, and speak, and live;
Preserv'd, 'till rolling Years shall bring the Day,
When Worlds shall fall, and dark'ning Stars decay.

Nor yet the Flames extinguish'd ceas'd to burn,
Buried and lost, in Raphael's mournful Urn;
When from the Heav'ns Young Castor hasten'd down,
With social Beams ascending Pollux shone.
The rising Scions Raphael's Hand confest,
And bloom'd with happy Growth in Julio's Breast:
His tow'ring Fancy mounted quick on high,
And soar'd with Eagle Pinions to the Sky.
His Breast Apollo's warmest Ray inspir'd,
And fiercest Heat his strong Conception fir'd.
His Thoughts like unresisted Torrents flow'd,
And his Design with Pindar's Fury glow'd.

Olympian Jove, thy Heav'nly Throne defend,
See rolling Mountains to thy Skies ascend:

In bold Rebellion sturdy Titans meet,
And threat with Ruin thy Eternal Seat.
Thy heav'nly Offspring fears the Danger nigh,
And trembling Deities affrighted fly.
But see! the God enrag'd, his Arrows show'rs,
And on their Heads his angry Light'ning pours.
Lo! where the vengeful Thunders seem to roll;
Swift burst the Clouds, and trembles either Pole.
Nor can our Eye the Terrors long sustain,
We fly, and almost feel the Giants Pain.

But oh! what soothing Pleasure fills our Eyes,
What soft Ideas in our Bosom rise;
When Titian's Stroke the mellow Colours blends,
And glowing Warmth his ev'ry Touch befriends?
Of its soft Blue he robb'd the Ev'ning Sky,
And stripp'd the Rainbow of its various Dye;

Gather'd the Red that fills the blushing Rose,
And caught the charming White with which the Snow-Drop blows:
He knew the Social Colours to unite,
Nor e'er with jarring Atoms hurt the Sight;
But so the Lights and friendly Shades dispos'd,
All Nature in the Mixture stood disclos'd.
The Flow'rs with Native Lustre deck'd were seen,
And Arbours smil'd with more than Vernal Green;
The flowing Vestments hung with easy Grace,
And human Softness play'd in ev'ry Face.
Oh! whence so forcefully can Colours charm?
Whence has a lifeless Mass such Pow'r to warm?

The downy Swan here pants on Leda's Breast,
And each soft yielding Feather seems comprest;
While there Europa on her Bull convey'd,
Shrinks from the rising Waves, and crys for Aid.

For Danae here Jove leaves his Heav'nly Tow'r,
Nor can the Maid resist the golden Show'r;
While Phœbus there in vain pursues his Fair,
Quick shoot the Laurel Leaves, and mock his eager Care.

Thy Fame to Ages, Titian, fix'd shall stand,
And unborn Nations praise thy happy Hand.
Worn out by Years the strong-built Palace falls,
Perish the Tow'rs, and sink the stately Walls;
Broken the monumental Marble lies,
Decays the bending Arch, and lofty Column dies:
But ne'er shall Time thy noble Works deface,
Each annual Period lends to them a Grace.
Cent'ries but serve to make thy Paint more warm,
And Ages hence thy Colours more shall charm.
Oh! had Rebellion never rais'd her Head,
When Havock rag'd, and madding Britons bled,
When the lewd Populace usurp'd Command,
And more than Gothic Fury fill'd the Land,

The Product of thy Hand we yet had own'd,
And conqu'ring Cæsars still in Britain frown'd.

With grand Ideas, Paulo, swell'd thy Breast,
And all thy Strokes their Master's Mind confest;
Unbounded Freedom dwelt in thy Design,
And Force inimitable fill'd thy Line.
The Cloth with beauteous Piles thy Pencil grac'd,
Swell'd the broad Arch, and less'ning Column rais'd.
The soft Volute in mimick Marble roll'd,
And form'd the gay Corinthian Leaf in Gold.
The gaudy Banquet oft thy Paint exprest,
And the rich Colours told the sumptuous Feast,
With massy Plate the bending Shelves are stor'd,
And glitt'ring Vases speak their wealthy Lord.

With prosp'rous Light the Nuptial Torches burn,
Diffus'dly blazing from their golden Urn:
The smiling Guests their happy Hour employ,
And ev'ry Face displays the bridal Joy.

But Oh! how greatly bless'd the Marriage Board,
Where humbly sat the World's Almighty Lord!
Unknown, partaking of the common Feast,
'Till Miracles declar'd the mighty Guest.

Ye harden'd few, who dare these Facts deny,
On Paulo's Colours fix th'attentive Eye,
See his bold Strokes the mighty Work proclaim,
And forc'd to Truth your Unbelief disclaim.

Where-e'er Bassano's Labours greet our Eyes,
Delightful Scenes of rural Nature rise.
The ready Trees spring up at his Command,
And spreading Leaves grow green beneath his Hand:
His Pencil darts the scorching Noon-day Beam,
Or o'er the Canvas rolls the cooling Stream,
While on its Edges nods the trembling Reed,
And the strong Peasant mows the neighb'ring Mead.
There the fair Flock o'er shelving Mountains stray,
While in the Vale the sporting Lambkins play.
See where the stately Heifer seems to low,
And the fierce Bull contracts his angry Brow,
While the blith Damsel milks her Ev'ning Cow.
Here well describ'd the lab'ring Horse is seen,
Dragging the heavy Load a-cross the Green,
While unregarding of his useful Pains
The surly Carter wounds his stretching Veins.

By Bassan's Pow'r fresh Greens delight the Eye,
When raging Sirius rules the burning Sky;
Aided by him we gaze on blooming Flow'rs,
While all its Storms the cold Aquarius show'rs;
See yellow Harvests nod amidst the Snow,
And fragrant Chaplets on December blow.

How far the Force of Nature cou'd prevail,
Correggio's sweetly soften'd Colours tell.
Untutor'd Beauties fill'd his happy Heart,
His Breast the only Source of all his Art.
His Notions sweet, and all his Thoughts were mild,
And soft Conceptions thro' his Fancy smil'd.
No shocking Scene his Pencil e'er explain'd,
Nor e'er with Blood his Virgin Tints were stain'd.

A Worth innate fill'd each Caracci's Mind,
By happy Parentage together join'd;
With social Arts the Knot more firm they ty'd,
Still closer in their Souls than Blood ally'd.
Each boldly touch'd the Canvas into Life,
And Virtue only warm'd the noble Strife.
The Labours of the one each other prais'd,
Nor Envy gen'rous Emulation rais'd.
But as when full against the Noon-day Sky
Th'instructing Eagles teach their Young to fly,
Tho' arm'd with native Strength all bear the Ray,
And strive to stem the blazing Tide of Day,
Yet one with stronger Pinion soars above,
And mounts still nearer to the Throne of Jove;

O'er him the Parent's fondest Cares prevail,
And their applauding Wings the genuine Eaglet hail.
Thus Hannibal the stretching Wing displaid,
And o'er the rest with Strength superior fled;
Search'd ev'ry Fountain of the mighty Art,
Their Treasures stor'd in his capacious Heart,
And unconfin'd excell'd in ev'ry Part.
With great Ideas was his Bosom fraught,
Copious, sublime, and regular his Thought:
Lofty and free, yet just was his Design,
Glowing his Colours, yet correct his Line.

With Heat like Homer's swell'd Caracci's Breast,
Ovidian Softness Guido's Stroke exprest:
His graceful Airs the Soul so sweetly move,
As melt each Gazer's Heart, dissolv'd to Love.

Struck with Surprize we view th'unreal Charms,
And a false Fire our cheated Fancy warms.
See Paris bears away the willing Maid,
And thinks the Prize of Beauty well repaid.
Nor were Ten tedious Summers spent in vain,
A Nymph like Guido's Helen to regain.
What moving Strokes the beauteous Sorrow trace,
That fills deserted Ariadne's Face?
How soft her Cheek, how flows her curling Hair?
Cou'd Theseus faithless prove to one so fair?
But, see, the weeping Nymph young Bacchus spies,
And hastens to her with a Lover's Eyes.
False Theseus' Wrongs his kinder Smiles repay,
Gently he wipes her falling Tears away.
Nor cou'd the coldest Fair his Mien withstand,
Flush'd with the Grace that flows from Guido's Hand.

In Ruben's Breast luxuriant Greatness dwelt,
The Muses strongest Influence he felt;
Impetuous Heat his swelling Bosom fir'd,
And copious Energy his Line inspir'd.
If ever uncorrectly he design'd,
'Twas but the Wildness of a noble Mind,
In too strict Limits not to be confin'd.
How warm his Pencil moves, his Colours speak,
How just his various Masses join or break!
In what full Light the nearer Forms are laid,
While those retire amidst the less'ning Shade!
His sumptuous Paint the Pomp of Spain befriends,
And Lustre to the proud Escurial lends.
Nought can the Louvre's wide Façade display,
In thy fair Walks, Versailles, no Graces play
Like those sweet Charms that Ruben's Hand supplies,
Where Luxembourg's more happy Tow'rs arise.

Lo! where in Air the anxious Fates are seen,
Meas'ring the Life of Gallia's future Queen.
Attendant Graces round the Infant play,
And o'er the Medicean Venus stray;
Minerva's Self instructs the rising Maid,
Destin'd her Fav'rite Conqueror to wed.
Lo! where the youthful King his Fair receives,
And in the Paint all Bourbon still survives.
In each bold Stroke we strongly see design'd
Each glorious Virtue of the Hero's Mind.
With pleasing Wonder on the Form we gaze,
And give him all a gen'rous Warriour's Praise.
The Pencil in our Minds his Acts renews,
Our Fancy all his great Designs pursues,
Wages 'gainst Guise imaginary War,
And joins in all the Triumphs of Navarre.

Nor by the Pencil only were exprest,
Th'extensive Pow'r of Rubens' happy Breast.
With Honour deck'd, he went to distant Lands
To execute his Monarch's great Commands.
Successful Peace his faithful Labours crown'd,
And jarring States his Mediation own'd:
With Pleasure Kings his happy Genius prov'd,
Honour'd the Envoy, and the Painter lov'd.
With Glory, Charles, he own'd thy lib'ral Heart,
Well knew thy Judgment to reward Desert.
With critick Eyes thou view'dst the Painter's Line,
Scanning with just Attention his Design:
On ev'ry Beauty fix'dst th'admiring Eye,
And set'st displeas'd the faulty Canvas by.
With Care preserv'dst what antient Masters drew,
And with thy royal Bounty warm'dst the new.

Thy gen'rous Soul thy large Rewards confest,
And well-plac'd Bounty spoke thy happy Taste.

Vandyke at thy Persuasion blest our Isle,
And bad new Arts on happy Britain smile:
His youthful Hand instructing Rubens form'd,
And thy Munificence his Fancy warm'd.
And well his grateful Strokes thy Bounty pay,
Preserv'd by him thy Form shall ne'er decay.
Still amiable in his Colours stands
Thy Majesty secure from Traitor's Hands.
The soften'd Grandeur of thy Brow we view,
And curse th'unsatiate, bloody, Rebel-Crew.

What Lustre still his potent Pencil lends,
To the fair Worth of thy illustrious Friends!
Well is each gen'rous Form, each noble Name,
In his strong Paint consign'd to endless Fame.
His Strokes disclose each Hero's loyal Thought,
Shew with what Courage ev'ry Breast was fraught,
And with what Ardour for their King they fought.
The venal Pen may falsify Renown,
And give to Warriours Glory not their own;
But Vandyke's Colours nought but Truth declare,
His honest Pencil writes them as they were.
Here may we see a Falkland's Thought exprest,
Hence guess what Valour dwelt in Lindsey's Breast.
Here still we view the warm ungovern'd Fire,
That did impetuous Rupert's Soul inspire;
Hence learn what Title Compton had to Fame,
And what sure Virtue waits on Candish' Name.

Here too we see the heav'nly Forms that mov'd
Those Heroes Hearts, and view the Fair they lov'd.
See Charms like those that Queensberry now grace,
And Beauties blooming still in Sidney's Race.
Happy the Stroke! that equally can speak
The Warriour's Frown, and Virgin's blushing Cheek,
That tells the various Effects that fly
From the stern Brow, or softly melting Eye,
That ev'ry Passion of the Soul befriends,
Wakes into Action, or to Languor bends.

Hail, brightest Art, fair Goddess Painting, hail!
Whose happy Influence can so far prevail!
With prosp'rous Rays on fair Britannia shine,
Join'd to thy Sisters, the harmonious Nine.
Aided by thee, a stronger Force they bring,
Rise more sublime, and sprightlier tune the String
Blended in fair Society ye live,
And mutual Lustre to each other give

Th'Expression only does the diff'rence make,
In Words the Poet paints, in Colours Painters speak.
When Wars of old in Homer's Verse we read,
Or Virgil's Pen explains some mighty Deed;
When fierce Achilles treads the sanguine Plain,
Or good Æneas stems the boist'rous Main;
When Ajax thunders at the Trojan Walls,
When youthful Pallas, or fierce Hector falls,
Quick to our View their various Toils arise,
And Julio's Pencil all their Forms supplies.
Such Charms we see as mov'd the Pthian Boy,
And ten long Years deferr'd the Fall of Troy.
Priam's grey Hairs we see, and Helen's Charms,
Ulysses' Bow, and Glaucus' golden Arms.
These in the faithful Paint are all display'd,
Nor truer were on Carthage Walls pourtray'd.
Again Æneas might with Wonder gaze
On Pyrrhus' Rage, and Ilium's fatal Blaze.

Nor thou, young Ammon, weep thy hapless Fate,
Whose Deeds no strong Mœonian Verse relate.
Nor think Achilles shall exceed thy Fame,
Tho' Homer's Song immortaliz'd his Name.
With equal Laurels shall thy Brow be crown'd,
So great a Guardian has thy Glory found;
Le Brun's free Stroke thy Valour still displays,
And on thy Acts we still with Wonder gaze.
The swelling Granicus still purple flows,
Nor can its Tide thy stronger Arms oppose.
Darius still shrinks from thy dreadful Frown,
And captive Queens thy smiling Mercy own:
Nations, thy Sword ne'er knew, revere thy Name,
And Worlds, thou wep'st to find, proclaim thy Fame.

Thus Ages hence some happy Stroke may tell,
How Britain conquer'd, and proud Gallia fell.

Some future Hand, with Julio's Vigour fir'd,
With great Le Brun's or Verrio's Warmth inspir'd,
May to our wond'ring Successors declare
Great Nassau's Strength, and Churchill's Thought in War:
Show how Namur in Ruins smoaking lay,
How Marlb'rough forced at Blaregnies his Way;
How Brunswick flesh'd his Maiden Sword in Blood,
And Chæronea's Field at Oudenard renew'd.

A Nymph, Corynthia of Sicyon. Plin. Nat. Hist.

Cimabué born at Florence, 1230, died 1300.

Giotto, born near Florence, 1276, died 1336.

Leonard de Vinci, born at the Castle of Vinci, 1445, died in France, 1520.

A Picture of the last Supper, Drawn by Leonard, at Milan.

A Piece of St. Paul's Conversion, drawn by Michael Angelo, in the Pauline Chapel at Rome.

The famous Day of Judgment, by Michael Angelo, in the Pope's Chapel at Rome.

Raphael Sanzio, born at Urbin, 1483, died at Rome, 1520.

Julio Romano, born 1492, died 1546.

The Battle of the Giants, painted by Julio, in the Palace of [illeg.] at Mantua.

Titiano Vecelli, born at Cadore in Friuli 1447, died 1476.

Loves of the Gods painted by Titian. The Originals are at her Grace the Dutchess of Marlborobgh's at Bleinheim.

The Twelve Cæsars, drawn by Titian, were lost in the Civil Wars of England.

Paulo Cagliari Veronese, born at Verona, 1530, died 1588.

The Marriage of Cana in Galilee, painted by Paulo in the Refectory of St. George at Venice.

Giacomo Bassano, born 1510, died 1592.

Antonio da Correggio, born at Correggio in Modena, 1473, died 1513.

Ludovico Caracci, born at Bologna, 1555, died 1618, was Uncle and Master to Augustino Caracci, born 1557, died 1605, and Annibal Caracci, born 1560, died 1609. These great Men founded the famous Academy of the Caracci's at Bologna.

Guido Reni, commonly call'd, il Guido, born at Bologna, 1574, died 1640.

The Rape of Helen, drawn by Guido for the King of Spain, but afterwards fell into the Hands of Mr. Vrilliere, Secretary to Louis XIV.

Sir Peter Paul Rubens, born at Cologn, 1577, died 1640.

Anthony Vandyke, born in Antwerp, 1599, settled afterwards in England, where he was Knighted by King Charles I. married a Daughter of the Lord Ruthuen, Earl of Ghorre; died in London, 1685, and lies buried in St. Paul's Cathedral.

[Poems on Several Occasions]

[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations

Norwich Assembly,

OR, THE Descent of VENUS.

Norfolk 's proud Villa's now were left,
Each of its fav'rite Nymphs bereft:
While happy Norwich saw the Fair,
In Crouds to its tall Dome repair.
The Swains too thither fly with Speed,
For Beauty where it will can lead.

And now the Ranks of various Mien,
Forming the sprightly Dance are seen:

Each Swain by motion graceful grows,
Each Nymph with heighten'd Beauty glows;
A thousand various Ways they move,
And emblematically love.
The Nymph now flies with coy Disdain,
While eagerly pursues the Swain;
And now the churlish Swain with Care,
Runs from the tender suing Fair.

This Venus from Olympus spies,
(For Goddesses have piercing Eyes;)
And down she comes, resolv'd to know,
What Joys from mortal Dancing flow.
But in deep Thought sometime she stood,
(Cover'd, observe ye! in a Cloud:
The same which once Æneas wore,
Shipwreck'd on good Queen Dido's Shore.)

Debating which Nymps Form to wear,
In which she might Incog. appear,
For all she lik'd where all were Fair.

And first two beauteous Forms were seen
Of equal Charms, but diff'rent Mien:
Each might the Golden Fruit have gain'd,
Yet Each by Venus was disdain'd.
Nor cou'd the jealous Goddess e'er,
A Form so like her Rival's bear.
'Twas the Majestick Juno's Mien
Made Berney scorn'd by Beauty's Queen;
And St. Clair's ev'ry sprightly Look,
The Goddess with Confusion struck;
While in each Sentence of the Fair
The hated Pallas grates her Ear.

Then throwing round her busy Eyes,
Sidney's all potent Charms she spies.

There ev'ry Pow'r was lodg'd to please,
And Grandeur sweetly join'd to Ease.
Her Eyes with killing Light'nings shone,
But healing Smiles around were thrown:
Such perfect Beauty grac'd the Dame,
As richest Fancy ne'er cou'd Frame:
Beyond a Muses Pow'r to tell,
In which e'en Prior's Pen might fail;
Which soft Bernini ne'er cou'd reach,
Nor Titian's warmest Colours teach.

This Venus saw, nor cou'd repine,
Her Charms Celestial to resign
For such a Form—yet still around
Her Eyes she cast, and many found
Equally Bright: For there was seen
Another Berney's softer Mien.

There Warner, ever beauteous Maid,
Her op'ning Morn of Charms displaid:
Muse, strike with sweeter Touch the Lyre,
When Warner does thy Strains require.
Harmonious Fair, whose tuneful Hand,
By Charms unaided, cou'd command
The ravish'd Soul but while my Mind
On Warner's Beauties is inclin'd,
Poor Venus was almost forgot,
Who now repenting of her Plot,
And jealous of her Darling Fame,
(For from the Skies that Passion came)
Resolv'd she wou'd each Nymph excell,
And bear in Triumph Home the Bell.
Reviewing then each lovely Maid,
Thus to herself at length she said;

“Thrice happy Norfolk, Nymphs like thine
“'Tis Venus only can out-shine.

“Wou'd I thy foremost Honours wear,
“In my own Form I must appear.

Then soon dispell'd the Cloud was gone,
And all reveal'd the Goddess shone:
Each Heart confess'd the Paphian Dame;
But Morden was on Earth her Name.

The Two STATUES;

A Fable.

In Days of Yore a Grecian State,
On a proud Temple's utmost Height,
Which was to great Minerva rais'd,
Resolv'd a Statue should be plac'd,
Expressive of the Virgin's Charms,
Compleat in Beauty and in Arms.

Two Masters then of Rival Fame,
In Sculpture each a Phidias, came;
And to them thus the Senate said:
“By Each a Statue shall be made;
“And he, whose nicer Hand excells,
“Whose happier Art the Publick tells;
“A Golden Talent shall receive,
“Besides the Joys that Fame can give.
“But he, whose vanquish'd Hand shall fail,
“Disgrace alone shall pay his Toil.
Each then with equal Hopes began,
Inspir'd by Glory and by Gain,
Compleat the Work with utmost Care:
They to the Temple straight repair,
And in the Portico are plac'd
The Marbles, variously grac'd:
While from the Crouds admiring Eyes
Each anxious Master waits the Prize.

The one each Soul with Pleasure struck;
On that all Eyes directed Look.
Ten Thousand Charms adorn the Piece,
The Waste grew beautifully less;
With happy Roundings swell'd the Breast,
And Art Divine each Stroke confest;
With such bright Lightnings flash'd the Eyes,
As ne'er had lost the Golden Prize.
Charms o'er each Attitude were thrown,
And Harmony inform'd the Stone.
From t'other wretched Piece with Scorn
And Indignation mix'd they turn;
The aukward, rough, unpolish'd Stone,
Scarce seem'd the Chissel's Touch to own.
The Eyes with clumsey Largeness glar'd;
The Face was masculinely hard:
The wretched Sculptor they despis'd,
And undisputed thought the Prize.

The Artist stood attentive by,
Sedate his Mind, and fix'd his Eye.
But calm at length the Silence broke,
And to the murm'ring People spoke.
“Hold, hold, Good Folks, not quite so fast,
“Nothing is gain'd by too much haste.
“Pray, Neighbours, was this Statue made,
“Here in the Church Porch to be laid,
“Or to be plac'd upon the Steeple?
“There let them both be try'd, good People;
“And then let Brother Phidias see
“Who's in the right, himself or me.

Up then with Speed both Ladies mount;
Gods! what a different Account?
The Statue e'rst so much desir'd,
By ev'ry Eye so much admir'd;
In vain its curious Strokes displays,
Surpriz'd its old Admirers gaze,

While to the distant failing Eyes
Each Feature's lost, each Beauty dies.
The other now by Distance grac'd,
And in its Light intended plac'd;
With Beauties shines, till then unknown;
And looks with Air Majestick down.
The Shield a regular Orb displays,
The Snakes in just Proportion blaze:
And the whole fills the gazing Eye
With Splendors worthy of the Sky.

To judge aright in ev'ry Case,
Let each Thing hold its proper Place.

THE Rose and the Butterfly;

A Fable.

Midst a fair Garden's various Wild,
A Rose there stood of beauteous Hue,
Of Aspect beautifully mild:
And deck'd with Gems of Morning Dew.

A gilded Butterfly sat nigh,
And softly breath'd his am'rous Prayer;
And with a well adapted Sigh
Persuaded soon the blushing Fair.

(For the far Happier Insect kind,
Are thus with Joys untainted blest,

No Marriage Deeds their Nuptials bind,
Their Torch they light without a Priest.)

Oh! ever faithful may'st thou prove,
The yielding Vegetable cry'd:
Ruin attend my lessen'd Love,
The glitt'ring Bridegroom straight reply'd.

With full Possession blest he was,
Then clapp'd his Wings and careless fled,
O'er each untasted Flow'r he strays,
Nor Turns but with the length'ning Shade.

And's this your boasted Truth and Love?
The Rose with scornful Blushes said,
Thus faithful do you Gallants prove,
To ev'ry too believing Maid?

I saw thee, Traytor, as thou art,
Roam o'er each Bed of various Hue;

And Kisses to each Flow'r impart,
Which only to thy Rose were due.

The simple Violet cou'd please,
Dark as she is, thy changing Taste:
Nay, e'en the smelling tub'rose Leaves
By you in common were embrac'd.

What can th'insipid Tulip fill,
That such an eager Kiss bespeaks?
Or how the pale Jonquil excell
The ruddy Damask of these Cheeks?

Hast thou enough betray'd thy Vows,
Perfidious, art thou yet content?
Or must I still my faithless Spouse
In wretched Solitude lament?

She said, and dropp'd a silent Tear;
When thus the Butterfly begun,

Your Accusation's true, my Dear,
The Crimes alledg'd, and more I own.

Yet, Madam, sure by you unblam'd,
These short Excursions might have slept:
For why so sacredly are nam'd
Vows which your self so ill have kept?

I saw with what an eager Joy
Your ev'ry Odour you display'd;
While o'er your Leaves the am'rous Boy
The wanton Zephyr lewdly stray'd.

He scarcely had my Honour stain'd,
But your unsatiable Desire
Each Bee with Pleasure entertain'd;
And quench'd each Hornet's glowing Fire.

Nay, not the piteous Negro-Fly,
Nor the Dwarf-Gnat cou'd you withstand;

Each vilest Insect of the Sky
Your fickle Temper cou'd command.

This Form each Curtain Lecture bears;
And charg'd with Nymphs of private Cost,
My Lord 'gainst China Shops declares,
And Voles at once, and Virtue lost.

ON THE Statue of Laocoon,

At the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole's Seat, at Houghton, in Norfolk.

Whilst with a too officious Care
The Priest to save his Country strove;
Offended Pallas frown'd severe,
And came in Vengeance from above.

In sharpest Agonies, the Wretch
A dreadful Victim groaning lies;
Yet this the pitying Goddess grants
That in the Punishment he dies.

Tho' fellest Serpents Poisons shoot,
And round his tortur'd Body cling;
Yet e'en their Venom gives a Joy,
Since instant Death is in their Sting.

But the relentless Sculptor's Art
Anguish and Tears implor'd in vain;
He bad the Wretch in Torments live,
And has Immortaliz'd his Pain.

To a Young Lady,

On her Recovery from the Small-Pox.

Midst thousand bleeding Hearts, and sighing Swains,
And Crouds of Lovers groaning with thy Chains;
When with the sad Disease thou first wert seiz'd,
The Nymphs exulted, and the Swains seem'd pleas'd.
These from thy Arrows thought themselves secure,
And those insulted o'er thy blasted Pow'r.
But lo! again their various Sorrows rise,
While keener Darts 'gin sparkle from thy Eyes:
Beauty restor'd more pow'rful thou dost prove;
The Nymphs for Envy die, the Swains for Love.

Thus while young Ammon flush'd with Conquest flew,
And to the trembling Persians nearer drew;
By sudden Sickness seiz'd the Victor laid,
Darius triumph'd, and the World was glad.
But soon their Joys were spent, their Grief renew'd,
And Ammon's conqu'ring Course again pursu'd;
When by Philippus' potent Hand restor'd,
He made the subject Nations know their Lord.

To the Same.

[Weep not, Fair Nymph, if of some Charms]

Weep not, Fair Nymph, if of some Charms
This cruel Sickness thee disarms.
Thou erring think'st thou art less bright;
Our diff'rent Grief will set thee right:
Thou sigh'st for so much Beauty 'reft,
We, that thou still hast so much left.

On the Statue of VENUS at Cnidus.

Touch'd into Life at Cnidus' sacred Shrine
The soften'd Marble glows with Charms Divine.
E'en Venus viewing it with Envy cries,
Had such bright Fires shot from Minerva's Eyes,
Had Juno smil'd so soft, my-self had lost the Prize.

On the Same.

[When Virgin Pallas, and the Wife of Jove]

When Virgin Pallas, and the Wife of Jove,
To view this Venus left their Realms above;
Struck with the charming Form aloud they Cry'd,
With Justice did the Trojan Boy decide.

Imitation of HORACE.

Lib. 2, Od. 5.

Unable yet the Yoak to bear,
Or fill the full Grown Female's Place,
To stand against the eager Bull's
Impetuous Weight, and strong Embrace;

The tender Heifer's early Bloom
Deep in thy thoughtful Heart is laid;
While she the cooling Stream prefers;
Or careless frisks along the glade.

Then thirst not for the ungrown Grape,
Which soon at rip'ning times command:
And taught by Summer Suns to swell,
Shall fill the Eye, and call the Hand.

Thou, o'er thy Life's Meridian past,
Declin'st with ev'ry setting Sun;
Her Charms each rolling Hour encrease,
And onward to Perfection run.

E're many Springs their Course have sped,
The now coy Flora in her Turn,
Repaying back thy softest Vows,
With Flames as strong as thine shall burn.

Then let the bright Idea reign,
Supreme of all thy Joys confest,
And know a Pow'r to Charm beyond
Or Chloe's Eye, or Celia's Breast.

To CÆLIA who gave me Her Picture.

With Joy, my Fair, I view th'enliven'd Paint,
And Zinks has happily thy Charms exprest;
But oh! the Strokes, the Colours all are faint
To thy dear Form imprinted on my Breast.

Thy absent Beauty that alone supplies,
Thence all my Pains, thence all my Pleasures spring:
So cou'd I too be present to thy Eyes,
Loves ev'ry Dart wou'd want the Pow'r to sting.

On the Statue of Pythagoras.

See there! who held that loos'd from breathless Man
The Soul thro endless Change of Being ran,
Now lives again to prove his Doctrine true,
In Form like that which won'dring Samos knew.

That pensive Brow scarce without Worship seen;
Speaks the great lab'ring Something now within:
His Tongue too wou'd declare the rising Thought,
But deepest Meditation holds him Mute.

On ROME.

Quick let Olympus' massy Gates be barr'd,
And thou, great Jove, thy Throne celestial guard:
The Seas, and Earth, submit to Roman Chains,
And Heav'n alone yet unsubdu'd remains.

An Epigram, To Mr. ---

Your Farms 'tis true, Sir, you enjoy alone,
Your House, your Money too, is all your own;
Your Wines, your Meats, were tasted yet by no Man;
Your Wife's the only Thing you have that's common.

To a Friend;

On Riding some Miles out of the Way to see MISS. ---

Tell me not, Damon, that I err,
Tho' thus misled I seem to thee,
The Venus Star directs my Course,
And prosp'rous must the Voyage be.

Or e'en suppose deceiv'd I roam,
My Soul no other Way can find;
The Error sure may be excus'd,
The Paphian Boy, my Guide, is blind.

His Godship's Self in Days of yore,
As Poets tell us, went astray;
And happy had his Error been,
If thus he could have lost his Way.

Poor Venus might have Sobb'd and Cry'd,
And rang'd the Skies from Morn to Even;
Th'enchanted Boy had ne'er return'd,
Nor miss'd his Mother nor his Heav'n.

To a Lady with Parnell's Poems.

In these sweet Lines for ever blended shine
The sprightly Poet, and the strict Divine:
Harmonious Truths these flowing Numbers teach
Which Pope might sing, or Tillotson might preach.
Fair Woman's Charms the first smooth Lays compose,
These too her thousand Vanities disclose;
If on the last too much the Poet dwells,
He only says what antient Hesiod tells:

Surely he paints not Women as they're now,
But as they were three thousand Years ago,
Of which the brightest, strongest Proof art Thou.
While Thee we know, and read his venom'd Lines,
With what just Shades the beauteous Contrast shines?
Then onward as he bends his tuneful Strain,
Here jocund Tales, there serious Precepts reign.
With Oberon the sprightly Dance we share,
And feel the anxious Hermit's pious Care.
Thus in some River's variable Tide,
Murm'ring midst Stones here shallow Waters glide;
Till Strength and Depth collecting as they go,
There with a silent solemn Pace they flow.

BLEINHEIM, 1728.

Parent of Arts, whose skilful Hand first taught
The tow'ring Pile to rise, and form'd the Plan
With fair Proportion; Artichect divine,
Minerva; Thee to my advent'rous Lyre
Assistant I invoke, that means to sing
BLEINHEMIA, Monument of British Fame,
Thy glorious Work! For thou the lofty Tow'rs
Did'st to his Virtue raise, whom oft thy Shield
In Peril guarded, and thy Wisdom steer'd
Through all the Storms of War.—Thee too I call,

Thalia, Sylvan Muse, who lov'st to rove
Along the shady Paths and verdant Bow'rs
Of WOODSTOCK's happy Grove: There tuning sweet
Thy rural Pipe; while all the Dryad Train
Attentive listen; Let thy warbling Song
Paint with melodious Praise the pleasing Scene,
And equal these to PINDUS' honour'd Shades.

When EUROPE freed, confess'd the saving Pow'r
Of Marlb'rough's Hand; BRITAIN who sent him forth
Chief of Confederate Hosts, to fight the Cause
Of Liberty and Justice, grateful rais'd
This Palace, sacred to her Leader's Fame:
A Trophy of Success; with Spoils adorn'd
Of conquer'd Towns, and glorying in the Name
Of that auspicious Field, where Churchill's Sword
Vanquish'd the Might of GALLIA, and chastis'd
Rebel Bavar.—Majestick in its Strength

Stands the proud Dome, and speaks its great Design.
Hail happy Chief, whose Valour could deserve
Reward so glorious! Grateful Nation hail,
Who paid'st his Service with so rich a Meed!
Which most shall I admire, which worthiest praise,
The Hero or the People? Honour doubts,
And weighs their Virtues in an equal Scale.
Not thus Germania pays th'uncancell'd Debt
Of Gratitude to Us.—Blush, CÆSAR, blush,
When thou behold'st these Tow'rs, ingrate, to Thee
A Monument of Shame. Canst thou forget
Whence they are nam'd, and what an English Arm
Did for thy Throne that Day? But we disdain
Or to upbraid or imitate thy Guilt.
Steel thy obdurate Heart against the Sense
Of Obligation infinite, and know
BRITAIN like Heav'n, protects a thankless World
For her own Glory, nor expects Reward.

Pleas'd with the Noble Theme, her Task the Muse
Pursues untir'd, and through the Palace roves
With ever-new Delight. The Tapistry rich
With Gold, and gay with all the beauteous Paint
Of various-colour'd Silks, dispos'd with Skill,
Attracts her curious Eye. Here Ister rolls
His purple Wave: And there the Granick Flood
With passing Squadrons foams; here hardy Gaul
Flies from the Sword of BRITAIN; there to Greece
Effeminate Persia yields.—In Arms oppos'd
Marlb'rough and Alexander vie for Fame
With glorious Competition; Equal both
In Valour and in Fortune, but their Praise
Be different, for with different Views they Fought;
This to subdue, and That to free Mankind.

Now through the stately Portals issuing forth,
The Muse to softer Glories turns, and seeks

The Woodland Shade, delighted. Not the Vale
Of Tempe fam'd in Song, or Ida's Grove
Such Beauty boasts: Amid the Mazy Gloom
Of this Romantick Wilderness once stood
The Bow'r of Rosamonda, hapless Fair,
Sacred to Grief and Love; the Crystal Fount
In which she us'd to bathe her beauteous Limbs,
Still warbling flows, pleas'd to reflect the Face
Of Spenser, lovely Maid, when tir'd she sits
Beside its flowry Brink, and views those Charms,
Which only Rosamond could once excel.
But see where flowing with a nobler Stream,
A limpid Lake of purest Waters rolls
Beneath the wide-strech'd Arch, stupenduous Work,
Through which the Danube might collected pour
His spacious Urn! Silent a while, and smooth,
The Current glides, till with an headlong Force
Broke and disorder'd down the Steep it falls,

In loud Cascades; the Silver-sparkling Foam,
Glitters relucent in the dancing Ray.
In these Retreats repos'd the mighty Soul
Of Churchill, from the Toils of War and State,
Splendidly Private, and the tranquil Joy
Of Contemplation felt, while BLEINHEIM's Dome
Triumphal, ever in his Mind renew'd
The Mem'ry of his Fame, and sooth'd his Thoughts
With pleasing Record of his glorious Deeds.
So by the Rage of Faction, home recalld,
Lucullus, while he wag'd successful War
Against the Pride of Asia, and the Pow'r
Of Mithridates, whose aspiring Mind
No Losses could subdue, enrich'd with Spoils
Of conquer'd Nations, back return'd to Rome,
And in magnificent Retirement spent
The Evening of his Life—But not alone,
In the calm Shades of Honourable Ease,

Great Marlb'rough peaceful dwelt: Indulgent Heav'n
Gave a Companion to his softer Hours,
With whom conversing, he forgot all change
Of Fortune, or of State, and in her Mind
Found Greatness equal to his own, and lov'd
Himself in Her—Thus each by each admir'd
In mutual Honour, mutual Fondness join'd:
Like two fair Stars with intermingled Light,
In friendly Union they together shone,
Aiding each others Brightness, 'till the Cloud
Of Night eternal quench'd the Beams of one:
Thee Churchill first, the ruthless Hand of Death
Tore from thy Consort's Side, and call'd thee hence,
To the sublimer Seats of Joy and Love;
Where Fate again shall join her Soul to thine,
Who now, regardful of thy Fame, erects
The Column to thy Praise, and sooths her Woe
With Pious Honours to thy sacred Name

Immortal. Lo! where tow'ring on the Heighth
Of yon Aerial Pillar proudly stands
Thy Image, like a Guardian God, Sublime,
And awes the Subject Plain: Beneath his Feet,
The German Eagles spread their Wings, his Hand
Grasps Victory its Slave. Such was thy Brow
Majestick, such thy Martial Port, when Gaul
Fled from thy Frown, and in the Danube sought
A Refuge from thine Ire.—There where the Field
Was deepest stain'd with Gore, on Hotchstet's Plain,
The Theatre of thy Glory once was rais'd,
A meaner Trophy by th'Imperial Hand:
Extorted Gratitude; which now the Rage
Of Malice Impotent, beseeming ill
A regal Breast, has levell'd to the Ground:
Mean Insult! this with better Auspices,
Shall stand on British Earth, to tell the World
How Marl'brough fought, for whom, and how repay'd

His Services. Nor shall the constant Love
Of her who rais'd this Monument be lost
In dark Oblivion: That shall be the Theme
Of future Bards in Ages yet unborn,
Inspir'd with Chaucer's Fire, who in these Groves
First tun'd the British Harp, and little deem'd
His humble Dwelling should the Neighbour be
Of BLEINHEIM, House Superb; to which the throng
Of Travellers approaching, shall not pass
His Roof unnoted, but respectful hail
With Rev'rence due. Such Honour does the Muse
Obtain her Favourites.—But the noble Pile
(My Theme) demands my Voice.—O Shade, ador'd
Marlb'rough! who now above the starry Sphere,
Dwell'st in the Palaces of Heav'n, enthron'd
Among the Demi-Gods, deign to desend
This thy Abode, while present here Below,
And sacred still to thy immortal Fame;

With tutelary Care preserve it safe
From Time's destroying Hand, and cruel Stroke
Of factious Envy's more relentless Rage.
Here may long Ages hence, the British Youth
When Honour calls them to the Field of War,
Behold the Trophies which thy Valour rais'd;
The proud Reward of thy successful Toils
For Europe's Freedom, and thy Country's Fame:
That fir'd with gen'rous Envy, they may dare
To emulate thy Deeds.—So shall thy Name,
Dear to thy Country, still inspire her Sons
With martial Virtue; and to high Attempts
Excite their Arms; till other Battels won,
And Nations sav'd, new Monuments require,
And other BLEINHEIMS shall adorn the Land.

An Epistle to Mr. POPE, FROM A Young Gentleman at ROME.

An quidquam nobis tali sit munere majus?
Et Puer ipse fuit cantari dignus ------
Virg. Ecl. 5.

May 7, 1730

Immortal Bard! for whom each Muse has wove,
The fairest Garlands of th'Aonian Grove,
O born. our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many Stars extinct in Night,
The darken'd Age's last remaining Light!

To Thee from Latian Realms this Verse is writ,
Inspir'd by Memory of antient wit,
For now no more these Climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their Glory and their Virtue lost:
From Tyrants and from Priests the Muses fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty.
Nor Baiœ now, nor Umbria's Plain they love,
Nor on the Banks of Nar, or Mincio rove,
To Thames's flowry Borders they retire,
And kindle in thy Breast the Roman Fire:
So in the Shades, where cheer'd with Summer-rays,
Melodious Linnets warbled sprightly Lays;
Soon as the faded falling Leaves complain
Of gloomy Winter's inauspicious Reign,
No tuneful Voice is heard of Joy or Love,
But mournful Silence saddens all the Grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd State
Has felt the worst Severity of Fate:

Not that Barbarian Hands her Rods have broke,
And bow'd her haughty Neck beneath their Yoke;
Not that her Palaces to Earth are thrown,
Her Cities desert, and her Fields unsown;
But that her antient Spirit is decay'd,
That sacred Wisdom from her Bounds is fled,
That there the Source of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich Streams supply'd the World before.

Illustrious Names, that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to instruct and to command Mankind;
Chiefs, by whose Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who those Chiefs sublimely prais'd;
Oft I the Traces you have left explore,
Visit your Ashes and your Urns adore;
Oft kiss, with Lips devout, some mould'ring Stone.
With Ivy's venerable Shade o'ergrown;

Those hallow'd Ruins better pleas'd to see,
Than all the Pomp of Modern Luxury.

As late on Virgil's Tomb fresh Flow'rs I strow'd,
While with th'inspiring Muse my Bosom glow'd,
Crown'd with unfading Bays, my ravish'd Eyes
Beheld the Poet's awful Form arise;
“Stranger, he said, whose pious Hand has paid
“Those grateful Rites to my attentive Shade,
“When thou shalt breathe thy happy native Air,
“To Pope this Message from his Master bear:

“Great Bard! whose Numbers I my self inspire,
“To whom I gave my own harmonious Lyre,
“If mounted high upon the Throne of Wit,
“Near Me and Homer thou aspire to sit;
“No more let meaner Satire taint thy Bays,
“And stain the Glory of thy nobler Lays;

“In all the flow'ry Paths of Pindus stray,
“But shun that thorny, that unpleasing Way:
“Why wou'dst thou force thy Genius from its End?
“Form'd to Delight, why striv'st thou to offend?
“When every soft, engaging Muse is thine,
“Why court the least attractive of the Nine?

“Of Thee more worthy were the Task to raise
“A lasting Column to thy Country's Praise;
“To sing the Land, which now alone can boast
“That Liberty unhappy Rome has lost;
“Where Science in the Arms of Peace is laid,
“And plants her Palm beneath the Olive's Shade;
“Where Honours on distinguish'd Merit wait;
“And Virtue is no more a Foe to State.

“Such was the Theme for which my Lyre I strung,
“Such was the People whose Exploits I sung;

“Brave, yet refin'd, for Arms and Arts renown'd,
“With different Bays by Mars and Phœbus crown'd,
“Dauntless Opposers of Tyrannick Sway,
“But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.

If these Commands submissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy Name shall live:
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with Furies in tormenting Fire:
Remotest Times shall consecrate thy Lays,
And join the Patriot's to the Poet's Praise.

Fasces.

An Epistle, To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.

Great Minister, whose gen'rous Soul disdains
The sordid Flatt'rer's unavailing Pains,
To whom in vain the abject Rhymer sings;
In vain the venal Muse extends her Wings.
On such cheap Incense thou with Scorn look'st down,
Yet on the modest Muse dost never frown,
Whose honest Art thy Actions wou'd rehearse,
And justly turn the Panegyrick Verse.

A Heroe's Soul supplies it-self with Fame,
And wou'd be injur'd by a borrow'd Name;

It want's not Praise, fill'd with its own desert,
Like Bullion Gold, tho' unadorn'd by Art.

But yet the Patriot's Cares, or Warrior's Fire,
The World in Silence never will admire.
The Nine, and Phœbus' Self forbid that crime,
Just Panegyrick is the Soul of Rhyme.
Hence for his Dorset Dryden's Harp was strung,
Hence to the Great Mecœnas Horace sung,
To Nassau, Prior, and to Brunswick Young.
Oh! were my Soul endu'd with equal Fire,
Such warmth Divine wou'd some kind Muse inspire,
Or Maro's then I'd scorn, or Pindar's Fame,
Equal to theirs my Verse, and greater far my Theme.

Yet mount, my Muse, enflam'd with juster Fire,
In Strains which Walpole only can inspire;
With his fair Acts adorn the slowing Verse,
Which loftiest Song may sing, or strictest Truth rehearse.

When Rome from Pontus' Shore Victorious turn'd,
And the great King his Strength inferiour mourn'd,
The Roman Name with Fear each Nation knew,
And with her Eagles certain Conquest flew:
Yet had not then the Prudent Tully rose,
And from Rome's Senate cull'd her fiercest Foes,
Struck by her Sons her blasted Fame had lain,
And her long Race of Consuls fought in vain.

BRITANNIA! thus with thickest Laurels crown'd
Her greater Pow'r, by trembling Gallia own'd:
Had well nigh fall'n, eclips'd her long Renown
And Nassau's Works, and Marlb'rough's Toils undone;
For Catilines fierce War was dreaded less,
Than Harley's treach'rous Arts, and St. John's fatal Peace.

This Walpole saw, and greatly dar'd oppose
United Pow'r, and Crouds of treach'rous Foes.

While he maintain'd his future Master's right,
Nor Chains cou'd hurt, nor threaten'd Death affright.
Till Brunswick came, (blest ever be the Day)
And sav'd the Realms which he was doom'd to Sway.
Th'illustrious Stranger saw the Wounds, and Griev'd,
Which Britain from her Guardians had receiv'd;
And view'd with noble Scorn a Wretch so mean
As dar'd, to gain a Smile, betray his Queen.
But fill'd with Joy he saw the Glorious few,
To their just Cause 'midst thousand Dangers true.
Thee, Walpole, chief his well judg'd Favours own,
Thee, who coud'st guard his Right, he bad defend his Throne.

And when some younger Guards of Britain's State,
That may in long Futurity be great;
Shall roll the well wrote Annals back with Care,
And Age impartially with Age compare:

See the Third Edward glorious in the Field,
And haughty FRANCE to youthful Henry yield.
Behold with joy Eliza's Halcyon Days,
And run great William's Labours o'er with Praise.
Where the First Brunswick's Reign the Pages tell,
Their Soul shall there in sweet Attention dwell.
Shall see or Tudor's Olives springing there,
Or Laurels which Plantagenets might wear.
There Churchill shone, Illustrious from his fall,
Less dreaded was Camillus by the Gaul.
Fair Commerce there with Plenty deck'd each Board,
And ENGLAND's Navies told the Seas their Lord.
That Period mark'd with fairest White shall stand,
When George by Walpole's Counsels rul'd the Land.

Nor yet the Panegyrick Page shall cease,
(For to recite a Brunswick's Acts is praise.)

The next great King shall shine with equal Fame;
Nor Titus yield to Old Vespasian's Name.
There too shall flourish Walpole's Patriot Cares,
The Virtue fix'd which in his Breast he wears;
Th'unchang'd Integrity, extensive Thought,
And deep Design to ripe Perfection brought:
The Zeal with which he pleads his Country's right,
And wrests the Sword from Kings resolv'd to Fight.

HE whose young Valour gain'd the Laurel Crown,
That but his second Praise with Pride shall own;
While from his calmer Greatness springs a Peace,
A Nations Joy, a Monarch's noble Ease.
For not the field of Death gives Fame alone,
Prevented Wars are more than Battles won.

On seeing the Monument of the Right Honourable SIDNEY, Earl of Godolphin, in Westminster-Abbey.

Less noble Names let rising Columns grace,
And Sculpture tell how great the Dust once was;
With Marble loaded let each Monarch sleep,
And polish'd Muses round each Poet weep;
Let too the well wrote Epitaph be shown,
Join'd to the Eloquence of wounded Stone.
Yet this one Bust superior Honour wears,
Ennobled only by the Name it bears.
Godolphin fills with Sentiments each Heart,
Beyond the Pencil's Touch, or reach of Art;
At this one Name each Reader glows with Fire,
Which Stone or graving Steel cou'd ne'er inspire.

His Glory unconfin'd to scanty Stone,
Can only by th'Historick Pen be shown.
To him a Monument which ne'er shall die,
The British Annals only can supply;
Those too alone can tell the mighty Fame,
Of Churchill's Honours join'd to great Godolphin's Name.

To a Friend;

In Imitation of PROPERTIUS. Lib. 1, Eleg. 7.

Whilst thou, great Bard, art filld with nobler Fire,
And into Musick wak'st the Tragick Lyre,
Commanding us with dying Kings to Groan,
And make each suff'ring Heroe's Woe our own.

Thy Friend as usual lighter Themes employ,
The charming Cælia, Beautiful and Coy
Requires my Verse, to her alone I bend,
And only touch the Lyre at her command.
Hence must my Fame, and hence my Joy too flow,
Hence my Delight, and hence my Laurels grow.

Thou too, my Friend, if e'er thy Soul shall feel
A Pain which none but those who Love can tell;
Shalt then, like me, in softer Numbers write,
Shalt then, like me, to Love alone indite.
In vain shalt each sublimer Muse invoke
And touch the Lyre unansw'ring to thy Stroke.
Mute shall the wretched Polinices lie,
And fierce Eteocles in Silence die.
Then Scorn not rashly my too tender Lays,
Nor think a fair one's Smile but empty Praise,
Least angry Love the Wrong with Int'rest pays

Sulpicia to Cerinthus,

In Imitation of TIBULLUS. Lib. 4, Eleg. 12.

Let me be Tortur'd with what most I fear,
Let me by Thee, my Life, be held less dear;
If e'er thro' heedless Youth I play'd a part
Which forc'd such true Repentance from my Heart,
As leaving Thee, my Soul, last Night alone,
Dissembling those Desires I blush'd to own.

On a Young LADY's weeping at Oroonooko.

At Fate's approach whilst Oroonooko Groans,
Imoinda's Fate, undaunted at his own;

Dropping a gen'rous Tear Lucretia Sighs,
And views the Heroe with Imoinda's Eyes.
When the Prince strikes who envy's not the Deed?
To be so Wept, who wou'd not wish to Bleed?

To a LADY in Years, who married a GENTLEMAN of a suitable Age to Her-self.

MADAM,

Charm'd with the Theme no venal Muse essays
To sing your Wisdom in instructive Lays;
Let giddy Youth the treach'rous Sallies prove,
Of Feav'rish Transports, and Romantic Love:
'Tis yours to choose by Reason,—yours to show,
What solid Joys from gen'rous Friendship flow.
Crown'd by your prudent Match each Year shall roll,
Profuse of Bliss, perfective of the Soul;

Till hoary Age shall ask a new abode,
And Angels guide your flight to Friendship's God.

To a LADY,

Who after accepting a Present of a Diamond Ring, and wearing it sometime, offer'd by way of Refusal to return it to the Donor, who was then about Sixty.

Permit, transporting Fair, a plaintive Muse
To breath her suff'rings at that word—Refuse.
What tho' Idalian sweets compose that Face,
Nor can all India's Mines improve one Grace;
Yet, yet accept this emblem of my Love,
Which, lasting as the Diamond's Self shall prove.

Accept, and dissipate my sick'ning Fears;
Shun roving Youth, and Try the worth of Years:
Years,—which gave me to make my Passion known,
And form'd the trembling Lustre of this Stone.

A Reflection upon the shortness of Human Life:

Being a Paraphrase upon the two first Verses of the 14th, Chap. of the Book of Job.

1. Man that is Born of a Woman hath but a short time to Live, and is full of Misery.

2. He cometh up, and is cut down like a Flower; he fleeth as it were a Shadow, and never continueth in one Stay.

Lord what is Man! or what his span of Life!
Replete with growing Ills, and ceaseless Strife!
Scarce Born e're to his kindred Earth convey'd!
A moving lump of Clay! a living Shade!

So springs the Flower amidst the fertile Land,
Springs but to fall beneath the Mower's Hand:
So have we seen the lengthning Shadow spread,
Hardly have seen, when lo! the Phantom's fled

VERSES, To an Unfortunate Young LADY of Quality.

Receive this Present from a pensive Mind,
To you alone, midst all your Sex, resign'd:
Think, as you Read, you see each stealing Tear,
Each hope cut off thro' resolute Despair:
Then judge, O judge, what Pangs must pierce my Heart,
When Fate proclaims that stabbing Sentence,—Part.

Torn from my-self by Virtues rigid Laws
I greatly struggle in Religion's Cause;
Yet faint,—Alas! too weak to reach the Prize,
While Reason yields as stronger Passions rise.
Help me, good Angels, to appease the Storm,
And each loud tumult of my Breast reform:
Lo! with the Storm thy sweet Idea's join'd,
As both to plunge this sinking Bark, combin'd.

Oft I look back, but what avail past Joys?
Dear, deadly Sources of eternal Sighs!
Reflection serves but to enhance my Pain,
And call forth moist'ning Dews that Wet—in vain,
To trace the Spring from whence my Suff'rings flow,
And form to Horror each succeeding Woe.

Sometimes my Fancy in a flatt'ring Vein,
Paints me possessing all thy Sweets again:

No longer absent from these Arms you seem,
I hug th'Illusion, and devour the Dream.
E'en now a Tide of Rapture swells my Mind,
But Ebbs—how soon!—and leaves a Wretch behind.

How does that Thought my bleeding Bosom rend!
Thy Name!—a Lover's Name!—prophan'd to Friend.
Yet sprung from Thee, Thou poor disastrous Fair,
E'en Friendship sooths, nay charms my ravish'd Ear.

Say, as a Man, I ought to bear my Woe,
Feel it I must—the Man must feel it too.
And where's the Hero so from Clay refin'd,
To bear the Tortures of a wounded Mind?

Yes; 'tis resolv'd,—aid but ye pow'rs Divine—
And Friend's the only Name shall now be mine.

Hail social Pleasure!—permanent Delight!
Lavish of Bliss that soars no vulgar Height!
I pause—convinc'd 'tis more than Half reveal'd,
How much the Lover's in that Friend conceal'd.

To CÆLIA absent.

At thy approach each new-born Joy appear'd,
Each growing Pleasure fill'd thy Lover's Breast,
As by the Sun's returning Lustre cheer'd;
Each blooming Hedge with sprightlier Green is drest.

But now alas! I sigh in lonesome Woe,
My former Pleasures now my Tears employ,
Cou'd it be thought such bitter Pains shou'd flow,
From the Possession of such heav'nly Joy?

100

On the famous Contests between Signora Cuzzoni, and Signora Faustina.

While with the heighten'd Force of Rival sound,
Each tuneful Stranger struck the ravish'd Ear,
Careless of Joy the adverse Hearers frown'd,
And each in Rage extoll'd his fav'rite Fair.

Strange! that from Harmony's all-Soothing spell,
Tumultuous Jars, and fiercest Discord came,
Strange! that the Breast of Man enrag'd shou'd Swell
By notes which list'ning Savages wou'd Tame.

101

Verses wrote in the Summer-House where Sir RICHARD STEEL wrote his Conscious Lovers.

Sure this is more than Classic Ground I tread,
All Pindus seems to bloom around my Head;
Wake then, my Muse, what Lyre can lay unstrung,
In Shades where Phœbus, or where Steel hath Sung?
A Cimberton each gaudy Tulip shows,
And each gay Bed is throng'd with Lacquey Beaux.
In each fair Plant young Bevil greets my Eyes,
And Indiana in each whisper Sighs.

Verses wrote in the same Summer-House, as belonging to Capt. NELLY.

Gods! who'd e're tempt the stormy Main,
That thus retir'd cou'd Live in Ease?

102

Who'd scorch beneath the Line for Gain,
And quit the verdure of these Trees?

What weightiest Ingots e'er can pay,
The absence of that curling Vine?
What sparkling Diamond's brightest Ray,
Yon pearly Dew-Drop can out-shine?

Who'd stand the angry Light'nings Blaze,
Or the hoarse Thunder's Terrors bear,
That on those well rang'd Greens cou'd Gaze,
That yon Harmonious Birds cou'd hear?

These harmless Joys, these safe Delights,
The wretched anxious Miser flies;
While China's Wealth his Toil invites,
And India sparkles in his Eyes.

Far nobler views good NELLY move,
Himself of Happiness secure,
He still o'er stormy Seas can rove,
And the Sun's fiercest Heats endure:

103

While for his Son are all his Cares,
For him alone he quits his Rest;
The Boon of Heav'n to his Pray'rs,
The dear effect of Wedlock blest.

This only is his great Design,
That from the Wealth his Labours raise,
Plenty with Learning may combine,
To bless his Offsprings future Days.

To a LADY who Plays finely on the Harpsichord, lately recover'd from a Dangerous Fever.

March 29th, 1730.

1

To what dark Shades, what distant Woods,
Ye sacred Sisters, were ye flown:

104

When Fair Almeria Dying laid,
And sent unheard a plaintive Moan?

2

For sure, nor thro' Aonia's Vales,
Nor on Parnassus' Top ye stray'd,
Nor on Eurotas' shady Side,
Nor Aganippe's Banks were laid.

3

Or rather did you envious Hear
The Fair Almeria's pow'rful Strains,
And trembled least the list'ning World,
For her shou'd Justly quit your Shrines?

4

Doom'd ye to Death the tuneful Fair,
Whose only Fault was to excell?
So Niobe's all-beauteous Race,
To your God's Pride a Victim fell.

105

5

But see the all-reviving Spring
Visits with Health th'harmonious Maid,
And juster Phœbus shines more pure,
To send his Fairest vot'ry Aid.

6

Again the Fair resumes the Lyre,
And double Spring seems Bloom around;
Harmony's self with her revives,
And new Life Breaths in ev'ry Sound.

7

Well, cruel Sickness, didst thou strip
The Nymph of her sweet Pow'r to charm:
While thus she Plays, Death dares not strike,
Nor has, or will, or pow'r to Harm.

8

Thus sweetly David tun'd the Lyre,
Nor fear'd the Rage of envious Saul;

106

While in celestial Strains he Play'd,
The Jav'lin harmless struck the Wall.

9

Convinc'd by Thee, Fair Nymph, we Soar,
And seek to Joys supreme our way,
For sure that doubly must be Heav'n
Where Strains like thine eternal Play.

To a GENTLEMAN lately Married.

May 20th, 1724.

1

If Beauty, Truth, and sparkling Wit,
Good Sense that faithful guide,
And thousand Charms no words can Teach
Compose a lovely Bride;

107

2

Too happy, Strephon, is thy Fate,
To thee the Gods have given
A Nymph, whose Virtues Rival theirs,
And make an Earthly Heav'n.

3

Her matchless Body's perfect Charms
Are but her second Praise:
Superior Beauties from within,
Her spotless Soul displays.

4

So fair a Theme might Poets make,
Without Apollo's Art,
And to the coldest Genius soon
The brightest Flames impart.

5

Yet while with Love, and Duty fir'd,
Her Praise my Muse wou'd sing,

108

In vain alas! she strives to Soar:
Grief clogs her rising Wing,

6

For whilst with Joy to distant Climes,
The charming Prize you bear,
With Sorrow we, and weeping Eyes,
Pursue the flying Fair.

7

Hard Fate! that from thy source of Joy,
Our Grief its Birth derives,
And to the Blessing thou hast gain'd,
Our Curse united Lives.

8

Oh may she soon again, to Bless
Our longing Eyes return;

109

And ever may the Nuptial Torch,
With growing lustre Burn.

9

Thy choicest Influence on this Pair,
Propitious Hymen pour:
Thy Rival, lovely Venus, bless,
Since Beauties Strife is o'er.

10

Ye little Cupid's, smiling Troop,
Attend your beuateous Care;
In sportive bands of Pleasure Dance,
Ye Graces round the Fair.

11

And Thou to whom with pious Vows,
The teeming Matrons pray,
Let not the charming Psyche fall
To cruel Death a Prey.

110

12

Thy timely Aid, Lucina, bring,
And ev'ry Pang assuage,
An Offspring like the Parents give
The Envy of the Age.

On a Statue of VENUS Sleeping.

What beauteous sleeping Form lies there?
Know'st Thou not then, too happy Swain,
Tis Love's great pow'r whom Men revere,
Who can e'en Deities enchain.

Hold off, advent'rous Wretch, be Wise,
Thy Safety's only in thy Flight.
Wake her; the Lustre of her Eyes,
Will strike thine with eternal Night.

111

To CÆLIA.

Whilst thy enchanting Voice I hear,
And on thy Beauties fix my Eye,
By diff'rent Charms at once subdu'd:
See, see, a double Death I die.

The pow'r of Musick reason oft,
And oft of Beauty can controul:
But oh! resistless is their Force
When both united Court the Soul.

Did both united fail to move;
Still wou'd the Beauties of thy Mind,
(For there e'en Reason dictates Love:)
A sure and easy Conquest find.

112

A SONG.

[Wanton Gales that fondly Play]

Wanton Gales that fondly Play
Round about my love sick-Head;
Quickly waft my Sighs away,
To the Nymph for whom I Bleed.

Softly Whisper in her Ear,
All the Pains for her I feel,
All the Torments that I bear,
Tell her, She alone can heal.

Then with unsuspected Care,
Gently Fan her lovely Breast:
(Happy you may Revel there,
Where each God wou'd wish to Rest.)

113

If one spark of fond Desire,
Harbour'd there by Chance you find,
Raise it too a lasting Fire,
Such as burns within my Mind.

To CÆLIA.

The Amulet.

From those bewitching Charms which grace
Thy Siren Voice, thy Angel Face,
The only Method too be free
Is not to Hear, and not to See.

114

The GLUTTON;

A Tale.

Gormando for Gluttony fam'd thro' the Town,
At Supper was sat, (as he lov'd) all alone.
A monstrous huge Sturgeon was served up whole,
Whole? no a miracle repriev'd the Jowl.
His Fists, Knife, and Teeth, he so Manfully plies,
That he fairly has emptied the Dish in a trice.
The Fish it was Eat—but the Devil would have it,
Tho' his Coat he unbutton'd, and unty'd his Cravat;
In spite of warm Water, and Clysters apply'd,
His Belly was bursting, and out of his Side
Blood and Gravy just flowing,—his Friends all in Tears,
Advise him to settle his worldly Affairs.

115

Wrong were it, said he, that I who of late
Fed so well, shou'd now grudge the poor Worms a good Bait.
This then the last Meal I am likely to make,
(Since in the next World none Roast, Boil, or Bake;)
Without whimp'ring, or adding one rascally Pish,
Prithee step, and bring hither the rest of my Fish.

A TALE.

[Fat—from Breakfast now pretty well rested]

Fat—from Breakfast now pretty well rested,
(A Pidgeon Pye Corner since Morning digested;)
A glad Summons receiv'd from a neighb'ring College,
Where Ven'son and Port, pass'd for Genius and Knowledge.
As for Latin or Greek, they knew no such Trash Man,
Fill your Pipe is the word, from the Head to the Fresh Man.

116

And for Tully and Plato who the Devil wou'd heed 'em,
That had e'er crack'd a Joke with the fam'd Dr. ------?
Well, at Dinner in Glee now the Dr. is seated,
The Table with Guests, and with Dishes compleated;
His merciless Knife a Plumb Pudding first mourn'd,
Then to Bak'd, Boil'd, and Roast, he alternately turn'd,
On the Ven'son he fasten'd when e'er it came nigh him,
And each Fowl as it pass'd, or repass'd, he Shot flying.
At length looking round, and his Knife laid aside,
With Eating tho tir'd, yet not satisfied;
Fill a Bumper, he cries,—O good Sir, no Water,
In ακρατον for ever, Sir drink Alma Mater:
Then he sunk it full soon,—and stroaking his Band,
And lifting to Heav'n his Eyes and his Hand,
Grant us Patience he cries, what hard Labours attend them,
Whom the Church and Religion have chose to defend them?

117

The Kiss repay'd;

A Tale.

As Roger with his Jug was walking,
Smiling full Blith, and gayly Talking:
Sir John an am'rous Knight pass'd by,
And chanc'd on Jug to cast his Eye,
And with her native Beauty pleas'd,
The rustick Husband thus addrest.
Hail honest Friend! why ods my Life!
You've got a wondrous pretty Wife!
If you'll Permit me one small favour,
To Kiss her once, I mean, and leave her,

118

When e'er you chance to meet my Dame,
You shall be Welcome to the same.
Quoth Roger, if that's all you crave,
Your Worship freely has my leave.
The Knight stept up without delay,
Kiss'd her, and walk'd Content away.
Some few Days after this in hast
As o'er the Meadows Roger past,
His gentle Friend Sir John he spy'd,
My Lady tripping by his Side,
He Bow'd, and tho' his Mouth did water,
Pass'd on, and mention'd not the matter.
The Knight then spying him, says, Friend,
To Promises I always stand,
See here, my Wife at your Command.
The Clown approach'd and Kiss'd the Dame,
Then fir'd with more than usual Flame,

119

He went, and to himself thus said,
Since the Good Knight so well has paid
His Promise, Troth, I had much rather,
He'd gone with Jug a little farther.

The Linx and the Mole;

A Fable.

In Days when Fables first were wrote,
When Lyons Talk'd, and Asses Thought,
When Centaurs scowr'd it o'er the Plain,
And tuneful Sirens skimm'd the Main;
A Linx there liv'd of mighty Fame
Midst Beasts well worthy Argus' Name.
So clear his Eyes, so quick his Sight,
As baffled all the Pow'rs of Night,

120

Each darkest Hour to him was Noon,
Nor Sun he ever miss'd, nor Moon;
His piercing Sight with Ease cou'd pass
Thro' Walls of Flint, or Doors of Brass;
Nought e'er was hidden from his View,
In short, he look'd all Nature thro.

Beneath a Brambles ample Shade,
Watching for Prey, our Linx was laid,
For Hunting was his usual Trade.
And as his Eyes he cast around,
He spy'd just issuing from the Ground
A dusky Mole, and thus in Mirth
He Scoff'd the Groveling Son of Earth.

Soho! what's here! Heav'n grant me grace,
Friend Mole, I pity much thy Case.
Why what one Pleasure can it give,
To such a Wretch as Thee to live?

121

What not one Eye? no Beam of Light?
Of the dear attribute of Sight
Wholly depriv'd? in vain the Sun
May all his radiant Courses Run,
The Seasons may return in vain,
To deck with various Charms the Plain;
To make the gay Carnation blow,
To bid the blushing Rose Bud glow:
To thee nor Sight of vernal Bloom,
Nor Autumn's Golden Charms can come.
Why Nature sure forgot her Trade,
When such an Elf as Thee she made.
Thou only know'st thou liv'st from Pain,
And Death wou'd be to Thee a gain.
So pitying much thy wretched Blindness,
Methinks I'll Eat Thee out of kindness.

Oh, good Sir, strait reply'd the Mole,
Thanks to your gen'rous pitying Soul,

122

But for your Favours, pray reserve 'em,
For those who more than I deserve 'em;
And know that I full well perceive,
Perceive with Pleasure too I live.
What tho' I want the use of Sight,
Tho' wrapt I live in endless Night?
Yet I've an Ear will well repay,
The loss of all the Pow'rs of Day.

But Hold!—what Noise is that I hear?
Something comes whizzing in my Ear,
Good Friend, for you I'm much in fear.
Then breaking short, the cunning Mole,
Popp'd speedily into her Hole.
For from afar the Sound she knew
Of the resounding twanging Yew,
And heard the Arrow as it flew.

With fatal certainty the Dart
Reach'd the unguarded Linx's Heart,

123

And, useless his all piercing Sight,
He groan'd, and sunk to endless Night.
The Mole again thrust up her Head,
And thus the Earthly Moralist said.

See where the Wretch lies Dead! may all
Unthinking Boasters like him fall:
For Nature with discerning Eyes,
To each his Share of good supplies.
Who can another's Virtues tell?
But each his own may Practice well,
Tho' none can e'er in all excell.

124

The Two BOOKS;

A Tale.

In Tonson's Shop, at Shakespear's Head,
Two Books by chance together laid;
The one as smart as Birth-Day Beau,
In all that Brindley's Art could show:
In Turkey's finest Leather Bound,
And deckt with Flowers of Gold around.
T'other in greasy Parchment drest,
The sad effects of Time confest;
Thick Dust thro' all his Leaves was pour'd,
And Worms his learned Sides devour'd.

The Beau then of his Coat full proud,
Turn'd up his Nose; and cry'd aloud.

125

Ye Gods! what Fate has plac'd me here?
Who can that wretched Sloven bear?
That load of Nastiness so near?
His very Dress offends my Sight,
His stink of Age destroys me quite.
Thus spoke the Modern's gilded Pride,
And thus the Son of Time reply'd.
Neighbour, to all by equal Heaven
Their Portion of desert is given.
'Tis yours, Sir, to be Nice and Fine,
Something perhaps as good is mine.
Pray hearken, Sir, and you shall hear it,
Oh! by no means, I cannot bear it.
Nay, give me liberty to Speak,
Foh! how he stinks, here Jacob, quick,
Remove me from this odious Fellow,
He'll make me all o'er Dirt and Tallow.
A Revd. Dr. passing by,
On our Old Grecian cast his Eye.

126

Here—what's the Price of that there Stevens?
Nine Guineas, Sir,—I'll give you Seven;
Faith, Sir, I can't abate one Farthing,
Nay, I'll assure you 'tis a bargain.

Well here!—but what's that Bound in Red,
All o'er with Flowers of Gold bespread?
Why what Extravagance is this?
Was e'er Expence so much amiss?
Such curious Art, and to bestow it,
Upon this rascal L---t Poet!

Say, are these Characters not plain,
Etch'd out in emblematick Strain?
Do not the Courtiers scornful Eyes
The Man that's meanly Cloath'd despise,
Tho' oft a real Man is this,
The other nothing but a Dress?

127

Minos and the Miser;

A Fable.

Midst largest heaps of untouch'd Gold,
And Treasures never to be told;
If ancient News Papers not ly'd,
For fear of want a Miser dy'd.
Of all his Shillings, Pounds, and Pence
No single Doit he carried hence;
But one poor Half-penny to pay
For crossing Styx's watry Way:
And even that his Shame to save,
His thankless Heir unwilling gave.
Our Ghost arriv'd at Styx's Flood,
On the black Margin trembling stood,

128

Just as Hell's Ferryman was there,
And plying for his usual Fare:
And driving each poor Ghost away,
That had not wherewithal to pay.
The wretched Miser, vex'd at Heart
With his dear Half-penny to part,
And thinking not that Proverb true
That says, give e'en the Devil his due;
Plung'd into Styx with stretch'd out Hand,
The Boatman bilk'd, and swam to Land.
Joyful and safe he got to Shore
While Charon storm'd, and Curs'd, and Swore.
But soon as e'er his rascal Mien,
By triple Cerberus was seen,
Aloud he bark'd, and at his call
Up came the Furies, one, and all,
And on the Ghost with Fury fell,
For Smugglers suffer ee'n in Hell.

129

In Cuffs and Fetlocks, first they lay him
And then to Minos' Bench convey him.
Minos cou'd scarce tell what to do,
The Nature of the Crime was new.
Some punishment he'd have most ample
To make the Villain an Example.
Shou'd he then fix him in the River
With Tantalus to Thirst and Shiver,
Or make him pains Promethean feel,
Or stretch him on Ixion's Wheel,
Or give him Sisyphus's Stone,
Or Labours never to be done.
All these are small, old Minos cries,
Trifles like these will ne'er suffice;
Well send him back to Earth again,
There shall he feel the sharpest pain.

130

This be his Sentence.—Let him see
(For the reward of Usury)
How the heap'd Wealth of threescore Years
Is squander'd by his lavish Heirs.

A Prologue to an English PLAY, Perform'd by the young Gentlemen, of Norwich School.

Ladies, To ye this Night we consecrate,
And on your Smiles or Frowns depends our Fate;
And nought shall e'er our 'stablish'd Glory move,
If ye our mimick Gallantry approve.

But oh! If from our awkward Air ye find
Us unacquainted with your softer kind;

131

If unpolitely we address the Fair,
If we accost her with too rough an Air,
Oh! spare the Student tho' you Damn the Player.

Warm'd only by the Virgin Muses Fire
We yet have touch'd the String, or tun'd the Lyre,
And to those learned Dames alone we speak
In manly Latin, or sonorous Greek;
Spondees, and Dactyls form their Seranades,
And Choriambics please Aonia's Maids.

But hold!—perhaps yon smart Toupéts will hear,
And these harsh Sounds offend their nicer Ear.
Well then, ye Beaux, whose sprightlier Souls despise
These useless Labours of the duller Wise.
Teach us, O teach us in the softest Strain
To tell our Flame, to breath our am'rous Pain.
Teach us genteely, en Francois, to Sigh,
Or in Italian tell the Nymph we Die;

132

In sprightly Ariets to ask the Favour,
Or in a sad Adagio Vow we'll have her.

But, Faith, we plodding Folks shou'd be but dull,
We have no Eunuch Doctrine in our School.
More nervous Virtues have confirm'd our Choice,
Than the weak Sounds of unprolific Voice.
Yes, thank our Stars—then let us not Despair,
Lets try if—Sense or Worth can move the Fair.

Yes, yes, mistaken Beaux, in vain ye Dress,
In vain are daub'd with Powder, Snuff, and Lace.
What tho' the Fair One deigns a civil Glance,
Or asks you what's the latest Cut from France?
What tho' she trips it with you at a Ball,
Or Blushing thanks you if her Fan shou'd fall?
Think ye each sprightly Nymph must yielding prove?
Or must each careless Smile be constru'd Love?

133

No: from far nobler Springs that Passion flows,
And tho' its Birth to trifles oft it owes,
Yet only cherish'd by desert it grows.
Portia with joy her manly Lord carest,
And in wise Tully was Terentia Blest;
Our British Dames by Virtue have been mov'd,
The rugged Hotspur by his Kate was lov'd:
Great Nassaw was with fair Maria grac'd,
And all his Honours by her Charms increas'd.

Let then this beauteous Circle hear my Pray'r;
Like those bright Dames of old make worth your Care,
And be more lov'd than they, be lov'd as ye are Fair.

134

An EPISTLE To Mr. J. W. on his Illness.

O cou'd my Numbers sweetly flow like thine,
Thou early fav'rite of the sacred Nine,
The Muse shou'd sooth the Sickness she bewails,
And Harmony give ease where Med'cine fails.

To thee, dear Jack, this Verse I send
Not as a Poet, but a Friend.
What ever Faults then you espy,
O frown not, but let Friendship's Eye.
With gentle Candour pass them by.
'Tis yours to sweep the golden Lyre
At will Heroick warmth Inspire,
Or melt the Soul to soft Desire:

135

The charms of Norfolk Nymphs to Paint
In Colours which make Kneller's faint;
Or else upon a nobler String
To Sing of Walpole and the King.
I meddle not with such high Matters,
But humbly leave them to my Betters,
To you, or D---s to rehearse,
(True Offspring of the God of Verse,)
But when with Spleen oppress'd sometimes
Divert my self with tinkling Rhimes.
Or tir'd with poring over Greek. [OMITTED]
Or turning musty Commentators,
(The dullest of all mortal Creatures)
Casaubon, Harpocrat, Valesius,
Meursius, Hartungus, and Salmasius,
With fifty more, Sir, I cou'd tell ye,
As Suidas, Pollux, and Drexeli

136

Thus in a low prosaic Stile
The Evenings tedious Hours beguile,
In Verse Sermoni propriore
My own Condition lay before ye,
And humbly, Sir, request to know
By the next Post how 'tis with you.
If baffling all the Doctor's Pains
Febris still rages in thy Veins,
Or does no more the Fight renew
Defeated by the Bark Peru.
If spightful Tumours yet Disgrace
The Honours of thy ample Face,
Or shining in a narrower Sphere
Its native Charms again appear:
If jocund Laughter shake thy Side
—With twenty others things beside.

137

As—what new product of thy Brain
From late purgations shall we gain,
How have Emeticks help'd Invention,
What new made Subjects to Descant on?

An Answer To the foregoing Epistle.

In vain alas! My Muse wou'd rise
In vain my Fancy upward flies,
Phœbus no more on Pindus dwells,
Nor walks thro' fair Aonia's Vales,
He now nor Cynthian will hear,
Nor turn to Delian his Ear;
No more he Shines with pleasing Rays,
As God of Verses and of Days,

138

But dim his Light, and dull his Strains,
Only as Physick's God he reigns.
His Head no more with Laurels ty'd
His Lyre unstrung, and laid aside,
He comes not now in Glory drest
As when o'er Delos' Hills confest,
He Marches, or in Pindus' plains
Sends forth his sprightly jocund Strains.
Bright Clouds he wears not as of Old,
But Blue his Cloke, his Buttons Gold,
His looks Demure, and slow his Pace,
He feels my Pulse, and asks my Case.
Talks not in lofty epick Strain,
Or softer elegeiack Vein;
His Words no pleasing sweetness know,
Nor with harmonious cadence flow,
But grating Sounds he utters Forth
In dialect as Dorick rough,

139

Talks of Phlebotomy, and Blisters,
Emeticks, alt'ring Draughts, and Clysters,
Alexipharmic's, Febrifugs,
And harshest Names of bitt'rest Drugs.
And thus his Syllables wou'd Chime,
Thus his Prescriptions run in Rhyme.

Balsam. de Tolu,
Adde 3 Unc. de Cort. Peru,
Tum superinfundas Aq. ferventem,
Cum Camom. rad. Serpent & Gentian:
Et 3tiâ quâq; horâ bibat,
Tres coch. aut plures, aut ut libet.

Such, Sir, are now Apollo's flights,
In such smooth Accents he Delights,
And thus he, as Physician, Writes.

In short, so different his Dress is,
From what you've seen him on Parnassus,

140

From what I've known him to descend,
At yours or D---s's Command:
I shou'd as soon the God have known,
In some grave Serjeant's Coif and Gown,
Or bearing B---y's critick wand,
With mangled Milton in his Hand.

But hold!—methinks again my Health returns,
My lamp of Life again with Lustre burns,
My Blood again runs sprightly thro' my Veins,
And Health renew'd o'er all my Body reigns.
Hail! mighty Phœbus, Epidaurian hail,
Whose pow'r o'er baleful Sickness can prevail;
At whose approach, Disease, and Pain retire,
And Health rekindles her all-chearing Fire.
Hail! Phœbus too, illustrious God of Day,
Great Cynthian, hail! whose warm prolifick Ray
Impregnating the gloomy Womb of Earth,
Gives to each potent Herb, and Plant its Birth,

141

Thy pow'rful Beams enrich the dusky Mine,
And bid the Ruby blush, and Diamond shine;
They bid the Topaz' Rays be strongly bright,
And give the Emerald its reviving light,
The beauteous Amethyst its Purple hue,
Yet leave the Onyx pale, and tinge the Saphir blue.
Yet, great enliv'ning Pow'r, tho' such thy Force,
Tho' such th'Effects of thy illustrious Course;
At thy command tho' Liquid Silver flows,
And ripening Gold in Earth's dark Bosom glows.
Yet nought so great thy Chymic pow'r commands
In Mexico's, or wide Peruvia's Lands;
As that fam'd Tree, whose Bark with Health full fraught,
Exceeds each potent Herb, each strongest Draught.
Blest as the happy Tree of Life it grows,
While from it Joy and Health spontaneous flows,
And Sickness far recedes, and mourns her baffled Blows.

142

To a Young LADY in the Country.

Thou happy Stranger to thy Sexes Arts,
And each dear Toy that cleaves to Female Hearts,
Whose Soul such heav'nly Qualities displays,
An Angel's form, is an inferior Praise.
Shine on in silent State, like hidden Ore,
Conceal'd till piercing Eyes thy worth explore;
Till the Heav'n favour'd Man by Pallas' aid
Behind the Cloud discerns the Goddess laid.
While Fops, like Hamlet's Mother, wond'ring stare,
In vain with aiding Glasses seek the Fair;
To Eyes of Fools invisible as Air.

143

Love lays his Golden Arrows at thy Feet
To pierce the Wise, the Virtuous, and the Great,
Resigns the Quiver, whose unerring aim,
Pierc'd Eleonora, never dying Name.
Who with strong Passion more than Woman dar'd,
Nor by black Death, nor Danger's Form deterr'd,
She suck'd the Poison, and restor'd her Lord.

The God with Leaden Darts in cruel sport
Rules at the Playhouse, Masquerade, and Court.
Hence the unequal Pair, the sighing Bride,
Trembling her Hand, the holy Knot is tied;
Slow from her Tongue (as if some dreadful Curse
Cleav'd to the Sound) th'unwilling Accent bursts.
Ten thousand Plagues, a Heart for Life to bleed,
Eternal discord, an unnatural Bed,
All in one comprehensive Word decreed.

Where e're thy Arrows light, good Humour reigns,
And sweet complacence heals the Lover's Pains;

144

Wing'd with soft Innocence they cut the Air,
Tipp'd with a Gentle, but undying Fire;
Pure as what Vesta's pale Ey'd Virgins guide,
Snatch'd from some Spartan Dame's unspotted Side,
Or from the Heart of Lucreece when she dy'd.
The same which made Rome's stubborn Patriot's melt,
By Portia kindled, and by Brutus felt;
Whose Fires eternal Burn, nor know decay,
Till with Life's fading lamp they Die away.

145

To J. C. Esq

When shall I break the fav'rite Seal,
On which my Fingers love to dwell?
Which oft as eager I undo,
Welcome I cry, thrice welcome, Thou;
Whither with am'rous Story fraught,
Or glowing with some gen'rous Thought;
What e'er thou bring'st, or Wit, or News,
Gladly thy Paper Bonds I loose.
No news of Politicks or Plays,
Of Hessian Troops, or Operas?
Of Duels, Pamphlets, and all that,
On which we unfledg'd Statesmen Chat,

146

And with the Bead-roll alamode
Of Knave at home, and Fool abroad;
National Debts, and ruin'd Trade,
Treaties unmade, and Blunders made:
Run o'er the stupid Cant of Names,
And catch the Offals of St. James?

Say, is it State Affairs or Love,
These mighty Alterations move?
What will thy Projects bring to pass,
Treaties of Marriage, or of Peace?
A speedy Truce, or dang'rous War,
Where th'Enemy no Terms will hear,
Where once engag'd in vain you yield,
Nor tho' disarm'd, dare quit the Field?

What e'er the mighty Cause, a Line
Sure cou'd not hurt the great Design.

147

To us Pedantick Folks a Letter,
Think'st thou 'twou'd spoil one modish Feature?
You might a vacant Hour purloin
From Balls, Ridottos, Ladies, Wine,
From Park or Play,—and condescend
To Scribble to your Country Friend.
Nor yet be wanting on your Duty,
Still thou mightst guard the fav'rite Beauty,
Nor less in publick Places shine,
Her Pride, the Envy of the Men.

A Prologue to the Fair Penitent, Perform'd by the Young Gentlemen of Norwich School.

Methought I heard some rigid Reas'ner say
What! shall these Boys be tutor'd by a Play?

148

What can they learn from the fantastick Scene,
The idle droppings of some Scribbler's Pen?
How cou'd it e're possess their Master's Heart
To bid his Scholars play the Strolers Part?
To change the learned Academic Grove
For gaudy Scenes, and trifling Tales of Love?

Grave Nonsense this! Sprung from the Pedant Rules,
And precepts of some Modern Stoick Schools;
Precepts to learned Athens never known,
And which a Roman Sage had blush'd to own;
Like Sophocles might Socrates have Thought,
And like Euripides great Plato wrote.
Fill'd with Morality their Pieces Shine,
And Virtue's Dictates flow in ev'ry Line.

Nor less was Rome with moral Precepts charm'd,
By tuneful Terence into Musick warm'd:

149

Witness the Scenes which ye so late beheld,
With sprightly Wit, and solid Virtue fill'd:
Scenes which strict Cato not refus'd to hear,
Which struck with rapture Godlike Scipio's Ear;
Scenes with such Language, Sense, and Strength replete
As Tully's Self was proud to imitate.

Our Stage with Lessons great as these is fraught,
By learned Johnson and bold Shakespear Taught.
What e'er has Law, or peevish Collier said
That can with Justice Addison upbraid?
When honest Wycherley employs his Pen,
Who not more Virtuous grows from ev'ry Scene?
Taught by just Steel, in Virtue's Paths we tread,
Vice flies at his Rebuke, and hides her guilty Head.

Nor do we owe less Pleasure and Delight
To him, whose Art compos'd our Scenes to Night.

150

What English Heart for Freedom not declares,
When on its side the Tartar Emp'ror Wars,
When his great Soul, and gen'rous Actions show,
The diff'rence 'twixt a Bourbon, and Nassau?

To Night in humbler, yet as moving Strains,
A wretched Fair of Virtue lost complains:
Who can unmov'd such real Anguish hear?
Who can refuse Calista's Woes a Tear?
Yet all must own the Sentence just, tho' hard,
And guilty Love but met its full reward.
Her Sorrows then, ye blooming Fair, approve,
For they will stop th'attempts of lawless Love,
Tho' Beauty great as yours shou'd each Lothario move.

151

An Epilogue on the same Occasion,

Spoken by Altamont.

The Licence ready, and the Ring bespoke!
The Day appointed, yet the Marriage broke!
Had ever Man before such hard Denial?
Why not a Stoick could have born this Tryal.

Yet faith I can't be sorry for my Life,
But keep my Patience, tho' I've lost my Wife.
For spite of all her boasted Charms and Riches,
I ne'er cou'd bear a Spouse that wears the Breeches.

Yet stay, lets look around, here's One, Two, Three,
Five, Ten, nay Fifty faith, as fair as she,

152

But are ye all too as Calista Coy?
Not one amongst you that wou'd Wed a Boy?
But all of ye suspect and fear at Heart,
That I cou'd ne'er perform the Husband's part?
I've heard that some on Boys like me had ventur'd,
Had not the scrup'lous Priest his Caveat enter'd.

Yet, shou'd you all refuse, I'll not complain,
But take me to the Muses once again.
Those fair Platonicks easily are won,
No Youth was e'er by their Deceits undone.
Like Dames of old, they live in frugal way,
And are Content with elemental Tea.
Plain honest Girls, that hate a Man who flatters,
E'en more than modern Dames do Citron Waters.
No hopes of Chariot gilt can move their Breast,
They laugh at Coxcombs, tho' in Velvet Drest.

153

To them alone the Man of Sense is dear,
No Beaux insipid Vows can please their Ear;
With rage from Nonsense and Toupéts they turn,
And worse than Impotence ill-spelling scorn:
Like them, Ye Fair, of Britain's happy Isle,
On Sense and Virtue, only deign to Smile;
'Tis those alone your Charms can truly move,
For Fools and Coxcombs were not Born to Love.

Venus's Hue and Cry after Cupid.

Imitated from MOSCHUS.

Venus in Tears from Morn to Even,
Sought Cupid lost all over Heaven.
Thro' ev'ry Mansion of the Skies,
North, South, East, West, with speed she flies,
And into ev'ry Corner pries.

154

In vain, for no where can she Spy him,
Then loudly she begins to Cry him.

O yes! whoever in his Road,
By chance shall meet Loves wand'ring God,
(For stroll'd this Morning out to Play,
My Rascal Boy has lost his way)
Who e'er can Tidings of him tell,
Shall be by me rewarded well;
A glorious Boon he shall receive,
A Kiss from my own Lips I'll give.
But him that brings the Boy that's missing,
I'll Pay with something more than Kissing.
Now by his Shapes, his Looks, his Voice,
You'd know him among twenty Boys.
Like Fire all o'er his Body glows,
Fire from his sparkling Eye Balls flows;
In his designs all mischiefs meet,
But tempting is his Voice, and sweet;

155

Sweet as if Hybla's Honey sprung,
From ev'ry accent of his Tongue.
Yet in his little treach'rous Heart,
Dwells each deceitful cruel Art,
Falsehood thro' all his Temper reigns,
And all his Joys are others Pains.
Long o'er his Shoulders flows his Hair,
As Phœbus' Golden Tresses fair.
Tender and small his Fingers are,
Yet great their Force: far, very far
And sure they throw the wounding Dart,
And e'en in Hell reach Pluto's Heart;
Nor Gates with Iron ever barr'd,
Nor Lethe's Lake their Flight retard.
With Wings, much like my Doves, stretch'd out
Th'extensive World he roams about,
O'er Male, or Female Bosom hovers,
Nor heeds what Pains he gives poor Lovers.

156

Now wou'd you know what Arms he wears,
Nor Sword he ever bore, nor Spears;
A gilded Bow he only carries,
And Quiver charg'd with slender Arrows,
Full small they are, yet far they fly,
And Soar beyond the topmost Sky;
Nor Jove with all his Thunders grac'd,
Beyond these Arrows reach is plac'd.
Not I, with all a Mother's pow'r,
Can from their Wounds my Heart secure.
If then this straggling Boy you find,
His Arms and Legs relentless bind.
Let not his Tears or Sobbings move,
Least you too late his Treach'ry prove.
Nor tho' he Laughs, and flatt'ring Smiles,
Give Credit to his various Wiles:
But bind him faster, and with speed
Bring him and take the Prize decreed.

157

Or shou'd he Cry, and to you say,
For Freedom all I'm worth I'll pay;
My fav'rite Bow I will resign,
My Quiver and my Darts be thine.
The treach'rous Gifts, good Swain, forbear,
Avoid them with a prudent Fear;
From them ten thousand Dangers flow,
Ting'd with ten thousand Flames they glow,
Destruction scarce more certain flies
From Sidney's Air, or Morden's Eyes.

On a Young LADY's weeping at the Fair Penitent.

Calista 's hapless Fate, her guilty Flame,
And peace of Mind exchang'd for endless Shame.
In deep Attention fix'd, whilst Myra hears,
Behold the tender Maid dissolv'd in Tears.

158

See! o'er her Crimson Cheeks how fast they flow,
Which look like Morning Roses wet with Dew.
Not so th'ill-natur'd Prude—with haughty Mind
She triumphs in the Faults of Woman-kind;
Exults with Joy to hear of Nymphs betray'd,
And blesses Heav'n—that she has never stray'd.
Far other motions felt thy Gentle Heart,
In the fall'n Fair's Distress thou bear'st a part;
With Sympathetick Tears lament her Woe,
Tears which from Innocence and Nature flow;
And griev'st that Beauty, bright as thine, shou'd prove
A prey to loose Desire, and guilty Love.

Oh! may this sad example warn the Fair
Of Man, false Man, with caution to beware.
And, Oh! may'st thou, thou charming Maid, learn hence
To keep thy Soul a stranger to Offence,

159

To fly betimes the first approach of Ill,
To let thy Duty dictate to thy Will;
So shalt thou wisely shun the fatal Snare,
Nor want that Pity which thou show'st for her.

An EPISTLE to --- Written by Moon-Light.

1

As o'er the wide extended Plain,
By Cynthia's trembling Light I rode,
Whilst all the beauteous starry Train,
In silent Concert hymn'd their God.

2

To Heav'n, and Thee, my raptur'd Soul
Dear charming Maid, alternate flew:

160

Now wander'd far as Pole from Pole,
Now quick returning fix'd on you.

3

From thee again to Heav'n, my Fair,
My soaring Fancy took its Flight;
Nor cou'd it form a Seraph there
So sweet to Sense, so dear to Sight.

4

When you to those blest Seats repair,
How small the change you shall endure!
Thou want'st not, to be welcom'd there,
A form more bright, a Soul more pure.

5

But oh! Before that Day shall come,
May I give up my willing Breath;
Nor wait to mourn, Oh! Dismal Doom!
Thy loss—a far more bitter Death.

161

6

Bereav'd of thee, my better Part,
What comfort cou'd thy Damon know?
Break, rather break, my tortur'd Heart,
Than only live, to live in Woe.

7

With thee, my best, my sole Desire,
For endless Ages wou'd I live:
Nor ever cou'd my Soul aspire
To joys beyond what thou can'st give.

An EPISTLE To Mr. J. W. at Poplar.

Camb. July 21. 1730.

Whilst you, my Friend, on Poplar's Shore receive
The ev'ry bliss that Man can ask or have,
At worthy Nelly's hospitable Seat
In Learned Ease from London's Dust retreat;

162

Accept these Lines which fond Affection drew,
These Lines which Friendship told me long were due;
While I far diff'rent Scenes condemn'd to bear,
Must the dull round of College Duties share,
Fortune her Fav'rite of such Loads has eas'd,
Not plagu'd with Logick, nor by Euclid teaz'd;
What e'er is Gay, magnificent, polite,
Unask'd flows in, and courts you to Delight.
Here Greenwich Domes in pompous Order rise,
There far stretch'd Greens invite the ravish'd Eyes.
There roll your River's wide extended Waves,
That on its Side uncrouded Fleets receives.
See! Ships adorn'd with either India's Freight,
Unload their Treasures at their Masters Feet,
And confluent Stores of utmost Nations meet.
In their rich Product on our Thames are seen
Arabia, Turkey, China, and Japan.

163

Thus you to fresh Delights, each Morn, awake,
Perhaps in Park your Ev'ning Fresco take,
Now cheer with Verse each solitary Grove,
And consecrate the Song to Liberty, or Love.

Oh! Happy thou! Whom pleasure's easy Joy
And Learning thus alternately employ.
What ever Task thy busy Mind engage
The Greek, the Roman, or the Modern Page,
What ever part of Classic Ground you tread,
The Sage Historian, or the Poet Read;
Or on thy Maps with studious Pleasure gaze,
View Ganges, Nile, the Danube, or the Maese,
And single out the track that leads to India's Seas.

Now you enjoy the Friend, whose ev'ry Thought
Travels have Polish'd, and Experience Taught;
Methinks I over hear the friendly Chat
Of Pekin, Siam, Agra, or Surat,

164

While Nelly tells of distant Countries past,
Runs o'er in happy Talk the farthest East,
How Armies thunder on the Banks of Ind,
How Savage Hottentots debase Mankind:
Shews where Batavia's stately Bulwarks stand,
Where Holland founds on plunder its Command,
And British Blood enrich'd Amboyna's Land.

An Epistile To Mr. --- at Cambridge.

Poplar, Aug. 13. 1730.

Less grateful to the Trav'ler's Thirst,
Unlook'd for Riv'lets flow,
Or to the Mariner becalm'd
Brisk Gales arising blow

165

Than was thy Letter to thy Friend;
Not more pleas'd is thy Eye
When in our lofty Chapel's Stall
It some fair Nymph doth Spy:

Or when to Bursar's Mess thou'rt call'd,
And gladsome as a King,
The lusty Marrow-bone dost grasp,
Or tear the Pullets Wing;

While humble Scholar Mutton tugs,
Or jokes upon the Text,
Or like poor Israel's hungry Tribe,
Descending Fowl expects.

Thou o'er fair Granta's pleasing Fields
Now manumiz'd dost stray,
And I with gracious Furlo Bless'd
Unjob'd can Sport and Play.

166

Yet in unbounded freedom curs'd,
Thy absence I complain,
And when to thee I shall return,
Again returns my Chain.

Yet thus let's baffle Fortune's Pow'r,
Thus often let us meet,
Thus in firm Friendship's Pleasures dwell,
For what's like Friendship Sweet?

Tho' sunk in down, by Silks secur'd
Till Ten each Morn I Sleep,
Tho' round my ev'ry waking Hour,
New Joys their Vigils keep;

Tho' while in various Thought I set,
Fair prospects greet my Eyes,
Where on the verdant Banks of Thames
Great Jones's Labours rise;

167

Yet these, all these I'd freely quit,
And to dull Cam resort,
To take one serious Pint with Thee
Of best old Mitre Port:

Joyless thro' Greenwich Courts I rove,
Or Thames's Bosom Press;
Tho' there the Pencil's charming Pow'r;
Here Musick strives to please.

While no one Equal Shares my Joys
With Arrack tho' smiles the Bowl,
'Tis but a Tasteless ease I feel,
Untouch'd, unpleas'd my Soul.

168

An Answer To the foregoing Epistle.

Not India's Gems, nor costly Silks
Work'd by some Persian Bride,
Not all Japan in Skreens display'd,
Nor China's boasted Pride,

Not Ingots, nor with Citrons fill'd
Rich Flasks of largest Size,
More joyful had thy Friend unpack'd,
Or deem'd a nobler Prize,

Than the kind Meed of gentle Verse
Breath'd by a faithful Muse;
Than moving Language from a Breast,
Which warm with Friendship glows.

169

How faint, when fiction o'er the Page
Her brightest Rays has flung,
Are fabled Airs to bluntest Truths,
Dropt from an honest Tongue!

Think then how Friendship's glowing thought
In Musick's Voice must please,
And Rudiard's Manly plainness mixt
With Waller's sprightly Ease!

Nor has the Poet sung in vain,
Nor lost the Muses Claim;
W---y approves the fav'rite lays,
And M---y gives thee Fame.

C---r hung o'er the darling Page,
And kiss'd th'harmonious Lines;
The Scholar's Table rears her Head,
Nor her hard Fate repines.

170

With Scorn the untasted Lobster views,
Nor heeds the dainty Bit;
Whilst in thy polish'd Strains pourtray'd,
Her little Senate sit.

Verses Wrote Extempore in the first Leaf of Euclid's Elements.

Let Souls that in a lower Circle move,
What they affirm with nice Exactness prove;
What plodding Euclid says let others hear,
The Soul Poetick knows a higher Sphere.
Beauty in all its various Forms can view,
Nor Demonstration needs to prove it true;

171

Can see the Piles that in just order rise
With higher Joy, with more delighted Eyes,
Than he, who by his dull mechanic Trade,
Squar'd ev'ry Stone, and each in order laid.
I Envy not the Man whose skill can show,
If conically true the Firr-Trees grow;
Who from a gay Parterre no Joy receives,
But what the Box in Angles rising gives:
Who looks on Paint with Geometrick Eyes,
And nought, but well rang'd perspective, can prize.
If that be wanting, Raphael he'll disdain,
And Michael Frowns, and Psyche Smiles in vain.

172

To CÆLIA at Her Toilet.

Let Nymphs less Bright, with nicest Care,
Their else too feeble Charms improve;
Learn from their Glass a softer Air,
And teach their Smiles to kindle Love;

Lay ev'ry Hair with studious Art,
Place ev'ry patch with just Design,
Bid ev'ry Dimple know its part,
Each ruddy Lip its forces join.

Thy perfect Charms might well despise
Each labour'd elegance of Dress;
No Art can e'er improve those Eyes,
No plainness make their Lustre less.

173

Spontaneous white the Lilly decks,
With native Red the Rose Bud glows,
Charming beyond the borrow'd streaks
In which the gaudiest Tulip blows:

Thus will th'admiring World confess,
Fair Cælia, thy unpurchas'd Charms;
Those genuine Smiles thy only Dress,
Those killing Eyes, thy surest Arms.

Nor less thy faithful Swain wou'd Love,
Tho' Sickness turn'd thy Beauties pale;
Truth, Wit, and Sense will ever move,
Tho' Ceruss and Vermillion fail.

174

On a Couple lately Married.

Let softer Pens declare the Virgin's Praise,
And with the Bloom of Beauty gild their Lays;
Tell what enchantments hover round Fifteen,
How gay the Look, how sprightly is the Mien,
How red the Lip, how jetty black the Hair,
How soft the Bosom, and the Cheek how fair.
Charms more confirm'd my Numbers shall rehearse,
To Love's unalt'ring Pow'r be consecrate my Verse.
To Love, who scorns to wound with Vulgar Darts,
To Love, whose Throne's not rais'd on Female Arts,
But fills the Soul with rational Desires,
With Flames that Burn like Vesta's constant Fires;
With one unsully'd, Chaste, and steady Ray,
Nor, but with Life's exhausted Lamp, decay.

175

With these he warm'd Eugenio's faithful Heart,
Of these fair Anna felt the pleasing Smart.
First, by the silent Language of the Eyes,
Each knew the Motive of the other's Sighs;
A thousand Conscious Looks they Daily stole,
And in each Feature read the speaking Soul.
The Cheek with red perfus'd, the down-cast Eye,
The Breast that strove to stop the rising Sigh,
Told what the readier Tongue would gladly speak,
Durst it the Bonds of modest Silence break.
Strong Love at length each bashful Fear o'ercame,
And arm'd with Innocence surmounted shame.
Th'advent'rous Swain no more his Flame conceals,
The Nymph by Ill dissembling her's reveals;
And by Herself unknowingly betray'd,
Owns all the weakness of a Love-sick Maid.
Yet with a Modest Virgin's decent Pride,
She strove t'excuse the Flame she cou'd not hide.

176

Words that wou'd melt the rugged Scythian's Heart,
Or to the frozen Hermit warmth impart,
Fell from her trembling Lips—
On each soft sound the Swain with rapture dwells,
And with new streams of Love his Bosom swells.
The thousand Charms, that first his Soul did move,
Now are his least, his lightest Plea for Love.
The well turn'd Shape, the Skin as Iv'ry white,
The panting Bosom, seat of young Delight,
The sprightly sparkling Eyes serenely Bright,
He views as kindly Stars that led the Way
To Anna's beauteous Mind, that Scource of perfect Day.
From that alone substantial Joy he feels,
From that, where ev'ry pleasing Virtue dwells.
Good Sense adds Lustre to the brightest Eye,
And soft Compliance join'd with Modesty
Will clear the swarthy Lybian's darkest Dye,
Nor Helen's Beauty can with Orra's Virtue vie.

177

Who then can tell the Joys Eugenio knows,
When Beauty yields, and Virtue hears his Vows,
When all his Wishes to Perfection came,
When Hymen lit the Torch, and Cupid blew the Flame?

Thou, O my Soul, such Joys must never own
Who only know'st the Pain of Cœlia's Frown.

To a Gentleman in Love with a Negro Woman.

In Imitation of Horace, Lib. 2. Od. 4. By a Friend.

Don't Blush, dear Sir, your Flame to own,
Your sable Mistress to Approve;
Thy Passion other Breasts have known,
And Heroes justify your Love.

178

By Æthiopian Beauty mov'd,
Perseus was clad in Martial Arms;
And the World's Lord too feeble prov'd
For Cleopatra's jetty Charms.

What tho' no sickly White and Red,
With short liv'd Pride adorn the Maid?
The deeper Yew, its Leaves ne'er Shed,
While Roses and while Lillies Fade.

What tho' no conscious blush Appear;
The Tincture of a guilty Skin?
Her's is a Colour that will wear,
And honest Black ne'er harbours Sin.

Think'st thou such Blood, in Slaves can roll,
Think'st thou such Lightnings can arise,
Such Pow'r was lodg'd to pierce the Soul,
In vulgar and Plebeian Eyes?

179

No, Sir, by Air, and Form, and Dress,
Thy Fusca, of uncommon Race,
No doubt an Indian Princess is;
And swarthy King's her Lineage Grace.

Such decent Modesty and Ease!—
But, least my Rapture be Suspected,
Cease, prying jealous Lover, cease,
Nor judge the Muse too much Affected.

Me paler Northern Beauties move,
My Bosom other Darts receives,
Think not I'll Toast an Indian Love,
VVhile Fielding or a Shirley Lives.

180

Imitation of Horace, Lib. 2. Od. 8.

By the Same.

Wou'd Heav'n by one imperfect Hair
Barine's thousand Charms disgrace,
If on thy Teeth one Speck were seen,
Or smallest Freckle on thy Face:

Wou'd God's in Wrath a Pimple send,
I possibly might turn Believer.
But now, the more at large you Sin,
You look more killingly than ever.

You, each Hearts Flame, the reigning Toast,
May snuggly err, secure from Harm,
Each Guilt enlightens Beauty's Power,
Each broken Vow improves a Charm.

181

Then it avails, dear wicked Fair,
To trick thy Mother's peaceful Shade,
While conscious Stars in Silence roll,
And Gods applaud the perjur'd Maid.

Venus no doubt the Cheat approves,
And in Barine's Cause is hearty,
While Cupid shooting from her Eyes;
Is Listed in the Virgins Party.

Fond of thy Yoke, our Captive Youth
Thy softest Bonds and Empire own;
Each subject Swain, great Queen of Love,
Submissive bends before thy Throne.

Thy old Gallants still hover round,
Nor can thy haunted Chamber leave,
The Flames that threaten'd to Expire,
Their ancient Lustre now retreive.

182

Thee, fair one, thee each Mother fears,
Thee each suspicious tender Bride,
Thy Air may captivate her Lord,
And cut the Knot which Hymen ty'd.

The Travels of a Shilling, Imitated from the Tatler.

By the Same.

Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum
Tendimus ------

The busie Paths of active Men
Treading this foolish worldly Scene;
(With fruitless Strife whilst ev'ry Age
Is bustling thro' a crouded Stage.)
My sad reflective Thoughts engage,
Till soft repose and Gentle rest,
Hush'd ev'ry Tumult of the Breast;

183

And my Ideas, still the same,
Thus rang'd themselves into a Dream.

Methought! a Shilling, round and fair,
In Silver sounds harangu'd my Ear;
Which from its usual Prison freed,
Chanc'd on my Table to be laid:
And op'ning soft its polish'd Mouth,
Related this Historick Truth.

Here, Critick, spare the cross Objection,
Nor sneer my Tale as Idle fiction;
Tripods, you know, in Homer walk,
And Bacon's Head, tho' Brass, cou'd Talk,
Thus, as our use, or whim requires,
(Things known to modern Theatres)
Unheard of Prodigies advance,
Tea Pots may Sing, and Chairs can Dance.

184

“ME fair Peruvia's Climate nourish'd,
Where long our Family has flourish'd;
Witness the Bright continu'd Vein,
That thro' the Earth's wide Bosom ran,
E'er since the Sun with genial pow'r
First visited our sultry Shore.
But fearing my dear Country's Fate,
And fir'd 'gainst Spain with inbred hate;
Least I in Triumph shou'd be carried
In Galleons Prisoner to Madrid:
There wear the Habit of my Foes,
Their Spectacles and Mustachoes!
(Better to live in utmost Finland)
I e'en took Ship with Drake for ENGLAND.

Then good Eliza's happy sway
Adorn'd the Isle, and blest the Sea.

185

Soon as we reach'd fam'd London's Shore,
I was conducted to the Tower;
There by the Artist's curious pow'r,
And quick'ning Touch; no shapeless Ore
As Whilom lay, but in each Feature
Improv'd, I look'd a different Creature;
And chang'd in Form, in Mien, and Dress,
To my surprize, became Queen Bess.
A Ruff about my Neck was plac'd,
My Hands a Globe and Sceptre grac'd;
And in a beauteous Round displaid,
Fair Titles deck'd my letter'd Head.

Thus by the Coiner's forming bounty,
I seem'd a Native of the Country;
And, priviledg'd to roam, my mind
To Travel strangely was inclin'd.
'Twas Liberty's alluring Smile,
That drew me to her fav'rite Isle.

186

Too long in close Confinement pent,
No sooner had I left the Mint,
But strait in active Commerce run
To ev'ry Corner of the Town;
In ev'ry Square, and Street, and Alley,
From Tower-hill, to Piccadilly.
Or when my dwelling I wou'd change,
And in some Suburb choose to range,
My loco-motive Face was seen
At Hamstead, or at Turnham-Green.

In Lodgings better, or in worse,
In Silken, or in Leathern Purse,
In Galligaskins whole or torn,
To Market, Tavern, Playhouse born:
Now on a Mercer's Counter seated,
Now in a Brewer's Pocket sweated.

187

Sometimes was honour'd with a Place
In Cælia's, or in Chloe's Grace;
There took my temporary stand,
And often touch'd the beauteous Hand.
In a fair Station hap'ly blest,
Where Kings wou'd give their Crowns to rest:
E'en left the Service with content,
Upon some pretty Errand sent.
What mighty Kindness have I shown
To each Possessor in his turn?
When Stomach did for Victuals ach,
I've treated Macer with a Stake:
When the Beau fear'd a Show'rs approach,
For a spruce Templar got a Coach.
With me what Student e'er in Cloysters,
Or sigh'd for Ale, or pin'd for Oysters?
So happy was the fav'rites Case,
Whose honour'd Fob I deign'd to grace.

188

Say, Chymist, say, what cou'd be done
More, had you found your fancy'd Stone?

Thus I in restless Journey went,
From Place to Place, from Twede to Kent.
When my ill Stars in cruel Seizure,
Convey'd me to a griping Miser.
Where many crowded Tribes I found
Of my Relations in a Pound:
Unhappy Brotherhood! opprest
In the close Dungeon of a Chest.

There numerous Years in Bondage past,
Till the Old Dotard breath'd his last.
At the Young Lord's commanding Voice,
The Box flies Open in a Trice:
Again we see the Sun's dear Face,
Again renew our jolly Race;

189

To diff'rent Parts away we pack,
For Brandy one, and one for Sack.

In BRITAIN thus when Monarch dies,
And Royal Heir his Place supplies;
Thro' Newgate joyous Cries are heard,
The Debtor freed, the Prison clear'd.

Thence I continu'd much the same
In Honour, Figure, and Esteem;
Till the fam'd South-Sea's flatt'ring Year,
When Palaces were rais'd in Air;
As the fond Schemer ey'd my Figure,
Methought I look'd some Inches bigger.

But one adventure o'er the Rest,
(A thousand else in Silence past)
Is deeply Printed on my Breast.

192

Once then, the Tale perhaps you'll stare at,
My presence bless'd Poetick Garret.
When the Bard smit with eager Zeal,
A while forgot his Cheese and Ale.
Preferr'd me to the fairest Dame,
Near Vaga's Bank, or Severn's Stream:
Invok'd each Muse my Charms to tell,
That on his native Mountains dwell.
And while in Verse my Praise he sketches,
Regretted less his tatter'd Breeches.
Thus a glad Muses Hands I fell in,
(A People which I seldom deal in)
And hence the Poet's splendid Shilling.

193

Verses, Wrote on the 2d. of February.

In Memory of King Henry VI. Founder of the College of Eton, and of Kings-College, at Cambridge.

By the Same.

The circling Months in happy Order past
Lead on the Solemn Day and Annual Feast;
While conscious Joys each grateful Breast inspire,
Provoke our Thanks, and all the Muses Fire:
Her Voice the meanest of the Nine wou'd raise,
Bring in the little Tribute of her Lays,
Chime with the Choir, and join in Henry's Praise

192

Oh! Thou from whence our ev'ry Blessing Springs,
Thou more than Parent, and Thou best of Kings,
Thee shall Devotion ever Hymning own
Her strict Assertor, and her fav'rite Son.
No Papal Legends, Consecrated Lies,
Shall o'er thy Merit cast their spurious Dyes;
Dull Monkish Miracles, and daubing Paint,
That wrong the Man, to Canonize the Saint.
Thy Glories best in real Dress appear,
And only Ecchoe, what thy works Declare.
Thou to the poor did'st ope the friendly Gate,
Shelter'd and guarded from the Storms of Fate;
Under thy Roof to be more nobly us'd,
You rais'd them in your Arms, and Royal Warmth infus'd.
Bid them from thee, expect their daily Food,
And learn the glorious Lesson to be Good:

193

Taught us above our native Hutts to Spring,
To spurn the scanty Nest, and spread a bolder Wing.
Look down, good Henry, from thy blisful Sphere,
See all thy Sons in comely rank Appear,
Here the great Pearson, and a Fleetwood there.
See! Hence, what Glories on thy Albion Shone,
A Mitred Offspring, and a Garter'd Son;
Read in the List, whom Treaty made renowns,
Daring to mediate 'twixt contending Crowns;
Dex'trous when Kings, and angry Nations jar,
To stop the falling Sword, and check impending War.

Thy works beyond the reach of Age proclaim
In living Characters, their Author's Fame:
Fit for the great Inhabitant's Abode,
Awfully high, and worthy of a God.

194

No cumbrous Gothick, of enormous Size,
Heaves into Air, and swells the aching Eyes.
In beauteous Symmetry, the Piles Advance,
With all the Pomp of simple Elegance.
Here soften'd Stones the downy Rose express,
And figur'd Glass a Raphael's Touch confess.
Contending Arts together meet Display'd,
Self-balanc'd hangs the Roof, and scorns the Pillars Aid.

Let Cam, where e'er his kindred Waters roll,
What he has seen, declare to either Pole:
Tell Jordan's Flood, and Israel's wond'ring lands
That, on his Banks, a Rival Temple stands.

No painful Tax, by groaning BRITAIN paid,
Heighten'd our Walls, or wider Arches spread.
Let Murder, Fraud, and Tyranny combine
To raise the Spire, and gild the foreign Shrine;
Uncensur'd Charity our Building rears,
Shock'd by no plaint, and sullied by no Tears;

195

Nor shall be lost the Panegyric Verse
Drown'd by the Orphan's cries, and Subject's Curse.
The charitable Stores, which still we have,
Not the King's Pow'r, but Henry's bounty gave.

Oh! Had kind Fate prolong'd his peaceful Days,
In hoary Goodness, and respected Ease;
What Structures then, had rose to Granta's View!
But oh! Just as the ripening Wonders grew,
Just as the Tree began to Form a Shade,
And gath'ring Boughs a kindly Covert made,
The cruel Spoiler with oppressive Wrath
Struck off the sacred Top, and wither'd all the Growth.
Oh! Where were then the sacred Spirits flown
That us'd to hedge in Kings, and Shield the Throne,
When by the bloody Traitor's cursed Steel,
The first, and best of Men, the Godlike Henry fell?

196

But see! new Walls shoot up, and Domes aspire,
That France may envy, and e'en Rome admire;
Yet still the Work expects its destin'd height
Imperfect, and disturbs the troubled Sight.
Thus, as the Year its certain round repeats,
Henry, on Thee distinguish'd Honour waits.
For thee shall future Plinys Columns rear,
For thee, the Muse her annual Wreath prepare:
Thy goodly Deeds remotest Times relate,
And from thy glorious Æra take their Date.
What tho' thy Sire in Battle dauntless stood,
And snatch'd from France her Lillies steep'd in Blood?
Others in Tracks of Death may hunt Renown,
And on the Fate of thousands raise a Throne,
While on thy Head, more lasting Olives grow,
Give the just Laurel to thy Father's Brow;
Be he the Son of Mars, the pious Numa thou.

197

Soon will the Victor's Colours fade away,
Th'Inscription moulder, and the Bust decay;
These new rais'd Walls from Age their Fate receive,
The Dome may perish, but thy Praise shall Live.

The Song of Moses, Imitated from the 15th Chapter of Exodus.

By the Same.

Now from the forded Main had Israel's Sons
Saluted far Arabia's spicy Clime;
Guided by wonders, and th'Almighty Arm
Their March befriending: They in grateful Choir,
(While Hallelujah's reach the Throne of Heav'n)
Sound forth their raptur'd Thanks, and joyful Sing.

198

“Thee, mighty God of Arms, at whose dread Will
War turns its dubious Force, and Victory
Inclines her Laurel, where thy Pleasure Points,
Thee, whom tumultuous Seas, and fighting Winds
Submissive hear; Thee, great Deliverer,
We chaunt, Eternal Subject of our Song.

Jehova is our Theme: To him each Voice
Be tun'd, and often dwell upon his Name,
Who broke the Pow'r of Egypt, who trod down
Riders and flound'ring Steeds; who mock'd the vaunts,
Of impious Pharaoh.—He in haughty State;
From his exalted Car, in surly Pride,
Look'd down upon his humble Foes; and deem'd
To ride the Seas, and Scourge the Flight of Israel;
Unknowing that he fought against the Force,
Of God Omnipotent, nor saw the Shield
Of Heav'n Display'd, encompassing our Ranks.

199

When lo! the yawning Deep disparts, the Floods,
Whilom so restless, roll into a Heap,
And carefully compose their chrystal Battlements.
By whose Behests, the Waters first leap'd forth,
By him again are laid, on either Hand
Suspended stand the Waves, and fear to Bath
Our hallow'd Steps: While we securely Trod,
Where er'st Leviathans unweildy Play'd.

We saw their distant floating Cavalry,
Where thousands crouding round their Tyrant KING,
Half cover'd the broad Gulph, we heard their Taunts,
And Hostile Menaces from far—“Come on
Where Vengeance prompts us, and the Spoil invites,
Let's spurn the feeble Host beneath our Wheels.

Sudden the Heav'ns, warring in our Cause,
From their Aerial Treasures pour'd Amain
Tempests and Storms, the rising Billows rage,

200

Inspirited by angry Winds, and drive
Full on presumptuous Pharaoh's Ranks—they sunk,
Like some vast Navy, that had hapless struck
On some rough rising Rock, or pointed Shelves,
And with promiscuous Wreck strew half the Seas.
Thus at God's Voice, the troubled Waves arose,
Thus at his Breath, the proud Egyptian fell;
Peopling the nether deeps. God overthrew
Chariot and Horse; again, and oft repeat
God overthrew the Chariot, and the Horse.

What! To thy dread Divinity, great KING,
Can highest Praise, and loftiest thought Proportion?
What so Divine, so Arduous, so Exalted,
But Shrinks, if plac'd near thee, and flies Comparison,
Whom Demi-Gods Obey, and Menial Cherubs!

201

Warn'd by thy stretch'd out Hand, the gaping Earth.
Op'd for her Prey: Dangers, by thee Averted,
Far off recede, and Safety tends our Paths.
See! what fair Countries, court us to Possession,
A second Paradise, where Nature Smiles
Deck'd in her gayest Robes, our destin'd Realm!
See! frequent Miracles mark out a Passage,
The Close-por'd Rock by Moses' Pow'r chastis'd
Burst's into Streams, and chears the dusty Wild.
Lo! sudden Terror runs thro' all the Nations!
See Pale astonish'd Kings! See tott'ring Walls
Vanquish'd by sound—Hail, great Jehova, Hail,
Eternal, ruling Pow'r! God overthrew
Rider and Horse; again, and of't repeat
God overthrew the Rider and the Horse.

202

Verses On the Twenty Ninth of May;

By the Same.

------ Tanton placuit concurrere motu,
Jupiter, æterna gentes in pace futuras?

Wild Anarchy is hush'd, and discontent
Burning no more, perceives its Fury spent;
Nor at the Throne directs the daring Blow,
That struck the Diadem from Cæsar's Brow:
At length BRITANNIA bends to Charles restor'd,
And Rebel Kingdoms own a rightful Lord.
Sav'd by propitious Gods, and Fortune's Shield,
From Hostile Camps, and Worc'ster's bloody Field.

203

Now banish'd Majesty again commands,
And holds a Sceptre soil'd by Traitors Hands.

At his approach relenting Faction weeps,
And sullen Rage on broken Armour sleeps.
Rebellion sees the Carnage she has made,
Her Torch expiring, and of Light afraid,
Descends to greet her Darling Cromwell's shade.

Too long mad Britons by each other Slain,
Repeated here Pharsalia's dreadful Scene.
From a small Spark the gath'ring Flame encreas'd,
With sweeping Ruin thro' the Island past,
Burnt down whole Forests, and laid Cities waste.
While restless Tumults rage, and giddy Fray,
While Discord sounds her Trump, and Fairfax leads the Way.
Distracted Realms at rising Cinnas shake,
And other Catilines in Cromwell wake.

204

Unruly Spirits! Ignorant of Ease,
That rent off Crowns, and shook a Nation's Peace,
That proudly o'er debas'd Religion trod,
Secure of Conscience, human Laws, and God.

Here mangled Shrines avert the pious Eye,
And there in Dust the trampled Crosiers lye.
Some, grasping at wide Sway, Ambition fires,
And some, devoutly Cruel, Zeal inspires;
In diff'rent Masks they Veil their Latent shame,
To gilded Ill prefix a specious Name,
Under good Liberty's disguise escape,
And dress up Tyranny in Freedom's shape.

Such Ravage Albion ne'er before survey'd,
Not when the stubborn Barons disobey'd,
Nor when the Rival Roses were display'd.

205

Popular Fury, and seditious Hate,
Unpeopled Countries, and bore down the State.
The bold Conspirators still onward trod,
Nor stopp'd, till glutted with a Monarch's Blood;
Their full grown rage to ripen'd Mischief bring,
To more exalted Guilt, and scaffolding a KING.

Oh! let not sad remembrance call to Light
Those Scenes that shun our view, and ask for darkest Night.
Since now no more dejected BRITAIN mourns,
While Peace sits Smiling, and a Charles returns:
From dang'rous Exile, and from Want releas'd,
(What Perils baffled! and what Tempests past!)
Condemn'd to bear the Drudgeries of Fate,
On whose resolves the World must, one Day, wait.
Now, in some bleaker Cottage, sought a Bed,
And now in marshy Wilds, like Marius hid.

206

Yet still the Gods their pitying Succour lend,
Afford him shelter, and from Wrongs defend.
For him the Oaks their verdant Umbrage spread,
And Hospitably form the closest Shade;
The busy Dryads kind Assistance bring,
Industrious to protect an injur'd KING.
Told the pleas'd Groves they never cou'd contain
A charge more precious than their Sovereign;
Tho' loaded they return with Gems and Gold,
The costly Tribute of an Eastern World.

Thus guardian Pow'rs were arm'd in Stuart's Cause,
By them inspir'd the gen'rous Patriot rose;
With inward Sorrow for his Country griev'd,
Was nobly False, and splendidly deceiv'd;
From his ill height to pull th'Usurper down,
And fix a lawful Monarch in his Throne.

207

As the proud Navy nearer floats to Land,
See! confluent Crouds in thickest Order stand;
To their new Lord the joyous Britons Bow,
And on their Temples wear the Typick Bough:
With eager Pleasure, and strong Transport struck,
Demand a nearer Glance, and hang upon his Look.
The KING their Zeal, and publick Love receives,
And 'midst acclaiming Nations shouts arrives;
Not louder Peals cou'd ENGLAND's Joy proclaim
When Brunswick landed, or when Nassau came.

Then glad BRITANNIA, raising up her Head,
Felt her Wounds heal'd, and fir'd with Rapture said.

“At length then Arms, and madding Trumpets cease,
Restless Sedition softens into Ease:
No more my crimson'd Banks with Slaughter sweat,
No more my Mountains form a Rebels Fleet.

208

But o'er my gleby Fields, and fruitful Isle,
Peace Plants her Olives, and young Blessings smile.
Justice, no more by lawless Pow'r despis'd,
Sees her Sword brandish'd, and her Ballance pois'd.

Now Arts and Learning their bright Stores display
Here Wit shall flourish, and the Muses play.
See! Budding Wreaths, and Laurel Chaplets spring,
Each Science reigns, Each Bard exalts his wing,
A Clarendon shall write, and Dryden sing.

From this great Æra, this auspicious Hour,
My growing Sway begins, my Naval Pow'r,
And dreaded Fleets to utmost Indus run,
And stretch my Empire to the rising Sun.

From Java shall black Embassies resort
To my tall Palaces, and pompous Court;

209

Shall fly from underneath the scorching Zone,
And seek Protection from a Northern Throne.

Hence, onward as I dart my ravish'd Eyes,
What Scenes of Glory, and what Triumphs rise?

Behind my Shield Germania trembling lies,
And routed FRANCE before my Standard flies;
By Edward taught the British Might she fears,
Or aw'd by Churchill's Arms, or Walpole's Cares.

See! the gay Years pass on in happy flight;
All big with Plenty, and all mark'd with White.
Brunswick's long race supplies my Realm with Lords,
She spoke, and certain Fate confirm'd her Words.

210

On CÆLIA's refusing to see ME.

By the Same.

Ill fated Damon ne'er can cease to mourn,
From the dear Object of his Passion torn;
In his own Country must an Exile live,
Amidst unbounded Liberty a Slave.
Were it not kinder, Fair One, to admit
The Lover gasping at his Cælia's Feet?
Where thousand Deaths their instant Pow'r employ,
Hang at thy Pendants, on thy Bosom play:
Where certain Fate its Arrows can elance,
Shot from a Dimple, or a well-aim'd Glance!

211

Let not the Wretch, inhuman Fair, complain
In ling'ring Sorrow, and continu'd Pain;
Since thou by more immediate force can'st kill,
Pierce with a Look, or murder with a Smile.

The 6th Epistle in Horace,

Imitated, as far as —Numa quo devenit, et Ancus.

By the Same.

With steady Wing between extremes to soar,
Not proudly Vain, nor despicably Poor;
Our even Soul in Virtues Scale to poise,
Nor sunk by Cares, nor buoy'd by idle Joys:

212

In a calm Medium to secure our State,
Deaf to uneasy Love, and restless Hate,
Above the smiles of Life, or frowns of Fate.

This Golden Lesson antient Sages taught,
What Tully practis'd, and what Horace thought.
Cato for this disdain'd Rome's little Pride,
And Scipio threw his worthless wreaths aside.
These Rules alone insure untainted Bliss,
And point the easy Path to Happiness.
Stay thy fixt Breast by flatt'ring Scenes unbent,
Fond Admiration dwells not with Content.
Some lurking Ills the gaz'd-at Pomp destroy,
Delights fatigue, tumultuous Pleasures cloy.
While abject Crouds are ruffled with surprize,
And Ideot wonder stares from Vulgar Eyes;
No sudden turn the settled Thought can move,
Philosophers admire not, but approve.

213

No glaring Meteors can disturb their Soul,
Nor all the starry Worlds above that roll:
Since what the Dastard Populace affright,
A Newton, or a Derham may Delight.
They trace unmov'd the Comet's dread Career,
Tho' Monarchs shudder, and tho' Nations fear;
Can view the countless Terrors of the Sky,
With cool Reflection, and thro' Reason's Eye.
And shan't we humbler Glories here despise,
Think Honours trifles, Diadems but toys?
Shall the Mind lie unhing'd by each mad flight,
And gaudy Objects catch the giddy Sight?
Our foolish bliss from Paint and Stone receive,
Hang o'er a Statue, on a Picture live?

Go, get thee Play things; and thy Hours beguile,
Doat on a Snuff-Box, languish for a Seal.
The rifled East its Rarities shall bring,
And India's Womb be tortur'd for a Ring.

214

To glut thy sight, lo! Persia sends a Screen,
And Commerce wafts a Tea-Board from Japan.

Can such poor Gew-Gaws all our Heart possess,
Wrap in amazement, and distract with bliss?
A broken Urn, or half a Bust has struck
The poring Antiquaries stedfast Look.
Another's earnest Thoughts enamour'd dwell
On Butterflies, a Pebble, or a Shell.
For Dress vain Florio levels his pursuit,
Pants for Embroid'ry, and a Birth-Day Suit;
Happy to shine distinguish'd at a Ball,
To glare at Courts, or flutter in the Mall.

Yet know, what e'er thou art; whom pleasures bait
Tempts to Delight, or Grandeur prompts to State:

215

Whether for Trifles of a higher Sphere
You long—perhaps a Coronet to wear,
Or thy vain Breast beats fondly for a Star:
Pleas'd from thy gilded Chariot to bestow
A Look on bending Crouds that gaze below;
Or, more exalted, e'en at Courts preside,
And cringing Levies feed thy swelling Pride:
Tho' you at Senates ev'ry Taste cou'd hit,
With Compton's Eloquence, and Stanhope's Wit,
Know thy gay Sun-shine swiftly hasts to set.
Thou to the Common fatal Goal must run,
As all thy mighty Ancestors have done,
Where Tudors, and Plantagenets are gone.

216

The Same continued.

[If thro' thy Blood contagious Humours glide]

If thro' thy Blood contagious Humours glide,
If tort'ring Pains afflict thy aching Side,
If Agues chill, or Fevers scorch thy Brain,
Quick seek a Refuge, from Disease, and Pain.
Do you, (as sure all do) desire with Ease
And true Content, to tread Life's dang'rous ways;
If Virtue can alone the Blessing give,
And her Attendants only happy live;
Pursue the Goddess with unceasing Pain,
On the bleak Mountains, or the barren Plain,
While Wealth invites, and Pleasure smiles in vain.

But if strict Virtue's Laws thy Soul denies,
As holy Cheats impos'd on vulgar Eyes;

217

Let gainful Business all thy Hours employ,
To either Indies send thy Fleet away:
To Int'rest then thy Honesty postpone,
Bid Widows weep, and plunder'd Orphans groan.
Add Plumb to Plumb, thy swelling Stock increase,
Till a Director's Wealth thy Labours bless:
Till thy full Warehouses can hold no more,
Till thy heap'd Treasures bend the groaning Floor,
And H---te pining views thy larger Store.
The Man whom Wealth surrounds, no want laments,
Each Charm, each Grace his ev'ry wish prevents;
Obsequious Friends his crouded Chambers grace,
And willing Beauty yields to his Embrace:
Less Nireus' Form cou'd tempt th'enamour'd Maid,
Less Tully's strongest Eloquence persuade.

If sure Content by Gold alone is bought,
Let that alone employ thy ev'ry Thought.

218

If Pomp and Grandeur sooths the human Breast,
And he, who shines in Courts, is chiefly blest,
Quick to the Park, and Drawing-Room repair,
Like Savage know each Staff and Ribbond there.
Bow to the Minister, accost his Grace,
And talk familiar with the Peer in Place.
Enroll each Noble Lord among your Friends,
Who makes a Bishop, or a Member sends.

If joy and comfort luscious Food supplies,
And truly living well is Eating nice;
The Dictates of thy Palate swift pursue,
Search all that's Costly, Elegant, and New;
Be it the Business of your Life to Dine,
While Meats Pontac supplies, and Jephson Wine.

Thus constant Miller formerly repair'd,
Where each Great Peer luxuriously far'd;

219

And if the luscious Turbot fill'd his Eye
Threw Littleton, and all his Tenures by,
Or while the Ven'son bent his loaded Fork
Left Eloquence and Law, to Reeves and York.

If thy soft Senses Mirth and Musick Charm,
And Wit, and Love, alone thy Soul can warm,
Be seen at ev'ry Masquerade and Play,
Wear at Quadrille the tedious Nights away,
The Joys most Exquisite that Life can give;
From Heydegger's, alluring Arts receive;
Debauch'd and dissolute as Chartres Live.
Each soft Desire, that fires thy wanton Will,
In Epicurus' modern Groves fulfill,
In ev'ry Vice Polite, and fashionable Ill.

These fancy'd Joys, low vulgar Minds Affect,
From these the People happiness expect,

220

Virtue alone Heroick Souls invites,
To her unvarnish'd, but sincere Delights:
In Paths where soft Enchanting Pleasures Play,
A Nero or Caligula may Stray,
But an Alcides' Choice approves the thorny Way.

To CHLOE.

Fairest of the Virgin Train,
Proudest of the Female Race,
Thou that now with coy Disdain
Vaunt'st the Beauties of thy Face;
When those charming Curls shall fall
And their flowing Honours Shed,
Chloe, when those Cheeks grow Pale,
Now, like op'ning Roses, Red,

221

When with horror thou shalt turn
From thy mortifying Glass,
And with conscious Anger burn,
Thinking, once what Chloe was;
Tears shall fill thy faded Eyes,
Thou thy foolish Self detest,
And this sad reflection rise
To thy melancholy Breast.
“Why was I, while young and Vain,
Not endu'd with reas'ning Thought?
Or why can't my Charms again
To my reas'ning Years be brought?

222

A Speech of HERCULES,

From the Trachiniæ of Sophocles.

Ye Gods, what scorching Pain, and sharpest Torments
Rend my whole Frame, and prey upon my Heart!
Nor fell Eurystheus, nor the Wife of Jove
Cou'd wish me Anguish great as that I feel
From the dire Charms of Æneus' cursed Daughter.
Fast to my Sides the burning Garment cleaves,
Corrupts my Flesh, and Feeds upon my Lungs,
Dwells in my Veins, and Taints my circling Blood.
Nor this the Sword, or warlike Spear perform'd,
Nor the strong Force of Earth's gygantick Brood;
Nor the fell Monster's Tooth, nor armed Rage
Of Greece or Barbary; but by an unarm'd Hand
A feeble Woman's treachery I die.

223

My Son, be Hercules thy only Parent,
Nor view with Love, thy ruthless Mother more;
But give her to my Arms that long for Vengeance,
And show thy Father's Woes afflict thee more
Than the just Sufferings of her that bore thee.
Dare to compassionate thy wretched Sire,
Whom all with pity view; whose steady Soul
Each Stroke of hard Adversity cou'd bear:
Who boldly stemm'd Affliction's roughest Tide,
Nor e'er was known to Shrink; yet now he sighs,
And with inglorious Weepings Plays the Woman.
Come near, my Boy, see where the poisn'ous Texture
Eats through my Flesh! Oh Pow'r of pain unspeakable!
Oh force of bitt'rest Woe! Thou gloomy KING
Of black Avernus, call me to thy Realms;
Fall, Thou red Light'ning, on this cursed Head:
Great Jove, at me direct thy hottest Bolt,

224

For Oh! Thy choicest Thunders ne'er can match
The fierce corroding Flames that gnaw my Vitals,
That rend each Art'ry of this lab'ring Breast,
That shoot thro' all my Limbs;—Are these the Hands,
By which the dreadful Nemean Lion fell?
Which spoil'd of all her Lives, the sprouting Hydra,
By which the Centaur's formidable Band,
And the fierce Boar of Erymanthus perish'd,
That dragg'd the triple Cerberus from Hell,
And on Earth's confines, slew the guardian Dragon?
Ten Thousand other Toils have I Surmounted,
Yet none from me, in War e'er gain'd a Laurel.

But shatter'd now and broke, by Steps I perish,
Wast by degrees, and sink beneath the Force
Of the slow working Poison; thus tormented,
Consum'd by utmost Pain, thus helpless Dies,

225

The Strong, the Great, the Conqu'ring Hercules,
Son of Alcmena, and Olympian Jove.

Yet let the Nations know, that not unpunish'd
Shall the fell Murdress go; here let her come,
That, from her sad Example, all may Learn,
How e'en in Death, as Life, I punish wickedness.

David's Lamentation for Saul and Jonathan,

Imitated from The first Chap. of the 2d. Book of Samuel.

Are they then fall'n! Is Israel's Glory fled?
Torn on the Mountains lie the Mighty Dead!
Silence, ye Winds, be still ye whisp'ring Airs,
Nor tell to Gath, what suff'ring Israel bears.

226

Let all our Tears in deepest Silence flow,
Nor let our Sighs tell Askalon our Woe.
Least proud Philistia with fierce joy elate
Raise impious Triumphs on our sad Defeat.

Ye pregnant Dews, ye all refreshing Rains,
Visit no more Gilboa's thrice curs'd Plains;
No more on them, ye Priests, your Offrings kill,
Nor call on God, where God's Anointed fell.
Oh! where was then the sacred Pow'r that Guards
The Lives of KINGS, when nor the Regal Sword,
Nor Orb of Gold, nor Oyl, cou'd save their dying Lord?

Full oft deep ting'd with Hostile Blood I've seen
The Bow of Jonathan, with haughty Mien
When flesh'd with Slaughter Saul from Battle turn'd,
And his resistless Sword the bleeding Nations mourn'd.
In Life the Heroes Grac'd each others Side,
A Pair so lovely nor cou'd Death divide;

227

As unfed Lions fierce they took their Way,
And swift as Eagles darted on their Prey.

Ye Daughters of unhappy Juda's Race,
Sad Witnesses of Israel's Disgrace;
Tear off with Speed, those Robes with Scarlet Bright,
Fling from your Hair, those sparkling Stones of Light,
Hence with that labour'd Elegance of Dress,
And clad in darkest Woe your grief express;
Weep o'er the KING, who all those Trophies won,
And under whose more potent Rays they Shone.
Thousands of vulgar Souls, stood free from Death,
He at the Mighty levell'd all his Wrath,
Nor was appeas'd with less than Royal Breath.

For thee, my Jonathan, thou best of Friends,
Dissolv'd in grief e'en stubborn manhood Bends.
Thou reign'dst, my Friend, unrival'd in my Heart,
In which nor Love, nor Glory claim'd a Part,
Mad Fame it Scorn'd, and mock'd Love's feeble Dart.

228

Fall'n, fall'n is Israel, her Strength decay'd,
Low in the Dust, War's fiercest Sons are laid,
And those are now her Grief, who were her mightiest Aid.

ODE On the Fifth of November.

Great God of Verse, propitious Phœbus, hear,
To thee th'adventrous Muse directs her Pray'r,
To thee she calls, unchanging Source of Light.
For thou, through Time's eternal Flight,
The same unalter'd Pow'r hast been,
Each mighty Period thou hast seen,
Or shining with distinguish'd Virtues Bright,
Or with Rebellion fraught, and Treasons dark as Night.

229

Thy constant Light, with Lustre Shone
When the World Great Julius won;
When in Pharsalia's Field he stood,
His Armour wet, with Roman Blood.
Thy equal Beams alike can tell
At Pompey's Statue, how the Conqu'ror fell.
Thou, through great Eliza's Reign,
Saw'st the fair Years, with Peace and Plenty Crown'd:
Thou saw'st too when o'er James's Head in vain,
Impending Dangers Frown'd.

Ne'er did thy all piercing Pow'r
See Treason with such horror Lour;
Tho' thou fierce Catiline hast known,
Rebellion's consecrated Son.
Tho' thou hast seen Ravillac's hardy deed
Whose holy Treach'ry bad a Monarch Bleed.

230

Nor did'st thou e'er such Blessings know,
From such eluded Mischiefs grow,
Such Triumphs from such baffled Ruin flow.

For tho' the next Ascendants of the Throne
With a paler Lustre Shone:
Tho' the first Charles's Reign was Blotted
With Patriots Blood, in Civil Wars;
Tho' Luxury unbounded Spotted
His Elder Offspring's riper Years.
And tho' his wretched younger Son,
Deeming too mean Britannia's Crown,
Wou'd Laws reverse, establish'd firm as Fate,
And fell by aiming at forbidden Height.

Tho' such various Evils flow'd
From James's rescu'd Blood.
Tho' well nigh fall'n Religion groan'd,
And Albion her sinking Freedom Moan'd;

231

Yet never be the Day unsung,
Ne'er blotted from the Books of Fame;
From which the Great Maria Sprung,
The mighty William's matchless Dame.

Phæbus, with thy brightest Ray,
Usher in the smiling Day.
Thou saw'st, with what an op'ning dawn of Joy,
The Eve of this fair Morn we did employ:
For on that happy Day was born
The last great Heroe of the Nassau Race,
Who cou'd his Fathers, tho' full glorious, Scorn,
And all their brightest Deeds efface.
But from this great Day's Success
Fair Maria did us Bless,
With Plenty, Liberty, and Peace.
Who, join'd in Hymen's sacred Band.
The Princely Nassau cou'd Command
To free a Nation Chain'd, tho' by a Father's Hand.

232

Let other Glories too be Sung
From this great Deliv'rance sprung,
Hence fair Eliza, Sov'reign Maid,
Bohemia's Royal Nuptials Grac'd,
From whose illustrious fruitful Bed,
Yet unborn Monarchs shall be trac'd;
For hence the great Elector rose,
Whose Guardian Labours free Britania shows,
Sprung from whose illustrious Loins
With accessary Light a second Brunswick Shines.

233

Verses On the Twenty Ninth of May.

Twelve dreadful Years had fierce Rebellion reign'd,
And Albion's Soil with British Blood been stain'd;
Blasted the Majesty of Kings had laid,
Religion with her Royal Master dead:
The Pales of Right, and Faith cast vilely down,
The Holy Mitre spurn'd, and broke the Crown
And daub'd with base Plebeian Blood the Throne.
The daring Rebel, at whose bold Command
A Monarch, at the Bar of Slaves did stand,
Now fill'd his Seat, and with despotick Sway
Made those, who rais'd him to such Height, Obey.

234

Was it for this, unhappy Charles, you fell,
And dy'd with Royal Blood the cursed Steel?
And is it thus! that BRITAIN is repaid,
For the Mistakes thy Youth misguided made?
Say, all ye shades, whose Souls were nobly fir'd,
And with the Love of Liberty inspir'd,
Who boldly dar'd Oppose th'encreasing Tide
Of Pow'r illegal, and Monarchick Pride,
And e'en a KING's unjust Demands deny'd.
Say, ye great Patriots, had not e'en your Zeal,
And the strong Love ye bore your Country fell,
If thro' Futurity you cou'd have known,
Such Poisons shoot from Seeds so glorious sown?
E'en midst the Heroes of Elyzium's Shade,
Weep ye not now the bold Defence ye made,
'Gainst Taxes rais'd, and lawless Imposts laid?

235

Wrongs great as these your Souls had not disdain'd,
So Charles had never fell, nor Cromwell reign'd.

Yet, ye great Manes, weep not England's Doom,
But, scatter'd far Rebellion's dismal gloom,
Behold with joy her Glories yet to come.
See! the fair Island blest with happier Rays,
And Peace restor'd in younger Charles's Days.

Friendless and Exil'd did the Royal Boy
His wretched Youth, not unimprov'd, employ.
Misfortunes taught him Greatness to sustain,
And from Adversity he learnt to Reign.

In vain the mercenary States deny'd
To War on a forsaken Monarch's Side.
In vain the haughty Cardinal beheld,
And with disdain the Suppliant KING repell'd.

236

In a superior Force his Safety laid,
He had his God for Guide, nor needed human Aid.
Him Angels led thro' Belgia's watry Lands,
O'er Gaul's extended Plains, and hot Iberia's Sands.
Around him ever watchful Spirits flew,
And safety o'er the wand'ring Monarch threw.
'Midst the fierce Battle's Rage unharm'd he stood,
And scap'd his Traitor Subjects search for Blood.

Witness the Day when Severn's swelling Tide
Ran Purple, with the Blood of Thousands Dy'd,
That Bravely fell at their great Master's Side.
Witness the kindly Hospitable shade,
Where Charles, by Grandeur unattended, laid;
The Pageantry and Splendor all laid down,
That Troop with Majesty, and wait a Crown.

237

In rustick Plainness' rudest Dress he stray'd,
Mimick'd the Peasant's Mien, and aukward Tread
That Sweats beside the toilsome Plow for Bread.
But witness, above all, this glorious Morn
That saw the Royal Sojourner return;
That saw the Clouds of Anarchy dispell'd,
And the fair Beams of Peace again reveal'd.
Quick o'er the Land the sudden Gladness flow'd,
And catch'd, like spreading Flames, the wond'ring Croud.
Augusta's num'rous Throngs with joy came on
To meet their much lov'd Charles's fav'rite Son.
In his Majestick Mien he bote command,
Peace in his Look, and Plenty in his Hand:
And at his Side in fairest Glory drest,
And with th'Applause of shouting Thousands blest,

238

March'd the firm Strength of MONK, and close behind
With Faith and Virtue, Truth and Justice join'd,
Walk'd fair Religion, clad in native White,
And, stripp'd of Ornaments, divinely bright.
While there in dreadful Pomp the Fasces laid,
Here the bright Magna Charta hung display'd:
Peace clos'd the Rear, and spread with lavish Hand
Blessings and Plenty o'er the rescu'd Land.
Nor happier Days were e'er to Albion known,
But when a Nassau Reign'd, or Brunswick fill'd the Throne.

239

On the Death of EDWARD late Lord Bishop of Chichester.

Hard is the Fate when falls exalted Pow'r,
When Wit expires, and Beauty is no more;
But sadder Tears await the Good Man's Urn,
'Tis publick loss, and bids a Nation mourn;
'Tis like the flight th'Angelick Guardians took,
When guilty Paradise they sad forsook,
And left it to its Doom, the Judges Angry look.
Long since from Earth wou'd Guilt and black Offence,
Avert the friendly Eye of Providence;
But scatter'd through the Mass some Virtues shine,
Recall her Look, and Court the Smiles divine.

240

Some loftier Souls, whose tow'ring Piety
Supports Mankind's great Int'rest in the Sky;
For them the Clouds are spread, for them the Earth
Answers the Rustick's Toil, and Teems with smiling Birth,
For them the patient Sun renews the Day,
And rolls o'er thankless Worlds his joyous Ray.
Of these was Waddington, whose mournful Fate
Has thinn'd the Guardians of BRITANNIA's State.
Long, like the faithful Patriarch, greatly good,
He pleaded for his Country with his God.
His pious wish, made ev'ry Valley smile,
Nor knew the Swain who blest his anxious Toil.
Here Charity with bright Devotion join'd,
Display'd their double Blessings on Mankin'd;
Mercy his Lips implor'd, his Hand convey'd,
Himself the mighty Good for which he pray'd.

241

Himself our nearer Deity below,
Rais'd the distress'd, and cheer'd Affliction's Brow.
Let others fight in true Religion's Cause,
Battle her Foes, and vindicate her Laws.
Religion asks not, like a haughty Dame,
The Champion bold her Beauty to proclaim;
To be admir'd the Goddess shou'd be seen,
Allure the Eye, before the Heart she win:
'Twas thine, great Waddington, by Deeds to show
How lovely Virtue shines confest to view.
Thy every Act well justified her Pow'r,
And taught the World by gazing to adore.
Viewing thy Life the Atheist might receive
Conviction, Volumes never knew to give.
There might he pining view with conscious Pain
To what a Godlike height Perfection ran,
And how the Christian can exalt the Man.

242

But what avail'd the great Example shown?
Vice will not see, nor stubborn Sense be won.
Scoffing Profaness midst a Drunken Age,
Rear'd high her Head, and with o'erspreading Rage
Drove the reclaiming Saint from off the Stage,
From an unworthy World he sighing rose,
And won his Heav'n with our Eternal Loss.
Then mourn, thou BRITAIN, so does Fate command,
The holy Lamp expir'd that sav'd the Land.

243

Job, Chap. 20, Verse 5, 6, 7, 8, Imitated.

5. The triumphing of the Wicked is short, and the Joy of the Hypocrite but for a Moment.

6. Though his excellency mount up to the Heavens, and his Head unto the Clouds.

7. Yet he shall Perish for ever, like his own Dung; they which have seen him shall say, where is he?

8. He shall fly away as a Dream, and shall not be found He shall be chased away as a Vision of the Night.

Who seeks for lasting Happiness, or Fame,
On Virtue's base, must raise the goodly Frame.
Short are the Joys, from wicked Deeds which flow;
Short are the Joys—how permanent the Woe!
A while may Vice uprear her tow'ring Head,
Triumphant reign; nor future reck'ning dread;

244

Securely rove in Pleasure's flow'ry ways;
Exult in pride of Youth, nor count the fleeting Days.
Soon shall she mourn, alas! the alter'd Scene,
And bid her transient Pleasures stop—in vain.
Th'illusive Phantoms will no longer stay,
Mock her deluded grasp, and die away.
Black Misery succeeds, remorse, and shame,
And bitt'rest Taunts insult her blasted Name.
So Dreams beguile the Wretches sleeping Sense,
And visionary Happiness dispense:
But short the Date of Mimick Fancy's reign,
The Morn returns;—and lo! He wakes to Pain.

245

The 4th Hymn of CALLIMACHUS.

To DELOS.

When, O my Soul, wilt thou on Fancy's Wing
Begin to soar, and all thy force exerting
Praise Delos, sacred Isle, Apollo's Nurse;
Th'extended Sea no Isles more sacred knows,
Than are the Cyclades, yet brighter far,
And dearer to the Muses Delos shines;
Whose hospitable Soil receiv'd their KING
Harmonious Phœbus, and the God acknowledg'd
E'er yet his Bow was strung, or tun'd his Lyre.
As to the sacred Nine the Bard's ungrateful
Who mention's not Pimplæa, so to Phœbus,
Is he, who in his Song forgets Fair Delos.

246

Be then my Harp to Delos praises tun'd,
And may propitious Phœbus bless the Lays,
Regardful of his Darling Nurses Honours.
Tho' to the Winds expos'd, yet fixt she stands,
Deep rooted in the Sea, that round her breaks,
And dashes on her Shore, th'Icarian Foam.
Nor has old Ocean, or Titanian Tethys,
Among their thousand Islands, one so Fair,
Yet next to her, tho' far less Glorious, rise
Phœnician Corsica, and long Abantia,
And the delightful Plains of fair Sardinia.
And that bless'd Isle, where Venus swam to Shore,
Sprung from her Parent Waves, in perfect Beauty,
And still with kindly influence Protects,
Cyprus, the ever blooming Seat of Love.
These stony Rocks, and strong Built Towers defend,
But Phœbus guards his Isle, Defence Impregnable;
Castles of Stone, and Walls of Brass may Fall,

247

And shatter'd by Strymonian Boreas lie,
But nought destructive can approach Apollo;
So Great, so Mighty, Delos, is thy Guardian.
To thee the Muse might various Tribute bring;
Thee thousand diff'rent Eulogies wou'd Suit
Matter of endless Song, which shall I choose,
Which wilt thou hear most pleas'd? First shall I say,
How the great God of Ocean with his Trident,
Wounded the Continent, and bid the Hills
Far from the Land disjoin'd, and o'er the Waves
Rolling their cumbrous load, in the wide Sea
A second Rooting take, and thenceforth be
Islands immoveable; thee no such Fate,
Thee no such tie constrain'd, but thou at Will
Roamd'st o're the Sea, and wert Asteria call'd.
Thou, who from Heaven's lofty Battlements,
Like a fair Star, that swiftly shoots from High
Dauntless in to the deep Abyss didst Plunge;

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T'avoid the Bed of Everlasting Jove.
Thy Coasts the Jolly Sailors oft have seen
In the Saronic Gulph, from fair Trœzene,
Sailing to Ephyra, but at their Return
Have wonder'd at thy Flight, for thou wert gone,
Or to Euripus, or the Seas that Break
At Foot of Attic Sunium, or to Chios,
Or to the blooming Shores of fair Parthenia,
Now Samos call'd, where the soft Nymphs of Mycale
With kindly Hospitality receiv'd thee.
But when the Natals of the great Apollo,
Made consecrate thy Soil, no more thou stird'st;
But deep in the Ægæan fix'd thy Roots,
Unshaken there for e'er to stand, and bear
Thro' all succeeding Times, the Name of Delos.
Thou did'st not fear the angry Queen of Heaven,
Who held in deepest hatred ev'ry Offspring
Of Jove's illegal Bed, but none she fear'd,

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Like him, who fill'd Latona's ripening Womb;
For 'twas his glorious Destiny to be
More lov'd by Jove, than was her darling Mars.
For this the Goddess Self, thro' Heav'ns wide Plains
Darted her jealous Eye, and thence far drove
Latona, all in Pangs distrest, nor Earth
Wanted her Guards Keen-sighted, Lodg'd on Œmus
Mars aw'd the Continent with looks of War;
His Horses stabled in dark Boreas' Den:
The other Spie, on Mimas' highest Hill,
Iris explor'd the Sea-girt Isles around.
Such was Latona's Plight, none durst receive,
City or Land, the wand'ring Parent Big.
For wheresoe'er her fainting Steps she turn'd,
For Shelter Kind, they with forbidding Frown
Dash'd each Relief of hospitable Rest;
Arcadia fled, and the Parthenian Mount
Slunk from her outstretch'd Arms, nor kinder yet

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Phanëus old from his Foundations Crept.
Fled the wide Land where Antient Pelops Rul'd
Save Argos and Egiale, nor there
Enter'd Latona, Juno's hated Seat.
Aonia fled, and in her flight she drew
Dirce and Strophie with Ismenus Join'd,
Nor stay'd Esopus, but with labour'd Hast,
To shun Latona, in her evil Day,
Painfully roll'd his Thunder-shatter'd Train.
The Melian Nymph, as round she trips the Plain
In joyous Dance, stops with appalled Cheek
To view her Sister Oaks of Helicon,
Bend their dishevel'd Honours to the Blast.
Say, then ye Muses, did one natal Hour
Produce the Oak and call the Nymph to Birth?
Sithence, when vernal Showr's refresh the Tree
Blithsome Exults the Sympathetick Maid.
And when the Winter Blasts dispoil the Year,
Pines for her naked Sister on the Plains.

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With silent Indignation, Great Apollo
Perceiv'd their Flight, but Thebes he menac'd loud.
Why proud unhappy City, art thou Bent
To prove by Symptoms dire thy Fate approaching?
Why dost thou force an Infant in the Womb;
To overthrow thee, with prophetick Curses?
No Tripod yet proclaims the Delphick God,
Nor yet is slain the Serpent, from whose Name
Pythian Apollo shall be known, e'en now
The Monster terrible from Plistus' Flood,
Crawling girds round Parnassus' Holy Mount,
With nine wide Circles, of his slimy Length.
Yet will I speak, nor need the Laurel's Aid
To Dictate Fate, in each important Word.
Fly thou, but know I'll soon o'ertake thy Flight;
To dip my Shaft in Blood, remember thou,
There's Profanation in thy guilty Walls,
The impious Brood of a reviling Woman—
Go speed thy Flight—no such detested Soil
Shall Nurse Apollo, nor abhorr'd Citheron

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Receive to righteous Lands the Honour due.
He said, and thence Latona sore distrest
Turn'd her to seek elsewhere a Place of rest,
But Entrance none throughout Achaia's Cities;
Bura and Elice she found; but back repuls'd
From each inhospitable surly Gate,
Thessalia next she tries, but sorrowing Views
Anaurus and Larissa far were fled
With the Chironian Hills, beyond the reach
Of loudest Lamentation to recall:
And Peneus' Self o'er Tempe's verdant Soil
Hudled his disregarding Streams away.
O Juno, yet no milder Thought of Mercy
Stole to thy Breast, when Woe invincible,
Threw out Latona's spreading Arms to Heav'n,
And wrung this Supplication, from her Heart.
Ye Nymphs of Thessaly, ye Daughters Fair
Of Peneus' gentle Stream, intreat your Sire,

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Hang on his Knees, and stop his hasty Flight.
O why, disdains he in his Waves to take,
A Godhead born, the Son of Jove Almighty.
How easy were the Boon—ah! Why so hasty,
Peneus, as thou would'st Emulate the Winds?
Am I the hated Object wings thy Flight?
Me doest thou shun?—Alas! He listens not,
O thou, my Burden, where shall I betake me,
Where lay thee down! For now from inmost Nature
I feel the slack'ning Nerves give way to Birth;
Oh! Pelion Pelion, yet stay thou more gentle,
The rueful Lioness, can find a Place
To Cradle her young Monsters in thy Woods.
To her complaining Peneus answer'd sad.
Deem not, Latona, that unmov'd I hear
Thy piteous Plaint, but strong Necessity
Witholds my Aid, and checks arising Mercy.
Gladly I'd smooth my Waves into a Bed,
To entertain Latona, and her Son;

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Others less dear, than thou, within my Stream,
Have wash'd their recent Babe. But Juno's Threats,
Deterr me, and that sternly visag'd Guard,
Lodg'd on yon summit high; whose easy Hand,
At Will could lift me, from my dark Foundation,
And dash to empty Air my deepest Tide.
What shall I do? say, could'st thou see well pleas'd
Thy unavailing Friend in ruin lost.
But be it so, for thee I'll meet my Fate,
Yes, though I shrink into a thirsty Channel
By Weeds o'ergrown, despis'd by ev'ry Stream,
My Aid I'll bring; and let thy Prayer Invoke
Lucina Friend to ev'ry gentle Birth.
He said and stay'd his Waves; whom Mars observing,
Had well nigh seiz'd Pangæus neigh'bring Hill:
With meditated blow, to overwhelm,
And blot from Earth the disobedient Flood:
But check'd Design so Dire: The God from High,
Gave Signs of Wrath aloud, and on his Shield

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Smote Thund'ring his vast Spear—the ringing Peal,
Fill'd all the Continent with wild Alarm.
Ossa with the Cranonian Plains out-stretch'd
Trembled around with Fear, remotest Pindus
Caught the dismay, and skip'd from her Foundation,
And Thessaly, through all her Kingdoms shook.
Such noise o'er the Sicilian Shores is heard
When Briareus, ingulphed Giant huge;
Heaves his tir'd Side against the Mountain load,
That whelms his struggle Vain, all Ætna roars,
And Vulcan's Massy Implements within,
Tripods and Chaldrons, in tumultuous Clash
Groan with a ringing Jarr, thro' all the Caves,
But Peneus, nought repuls'd, tho' menac'd Sore
Stood obstinate his kindess to pursue;
Till, Farewell gentle God, Latona cried,
Live thou, nor for a Wretch thy Fate provoke,
Nor unrewarded shall thy Mercy pass.
She said and weary now with fruitless Search;

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The Isles she yet address'd, nor they admitted
Upon their Shores to fix her Pilgrim Feet.
Not the Echinades, else gentle Isles,
With Ports wide open to the riding Bark;
Nor yet Corcyra, of her thousand Sisters
That deck the Seas, most hospitable found.
For Iris frowning from the lofty Top
Of Mimas aw'd the Islands far and near:
To Cos, the Seat of brave Calciope,
Her last sad Hopes, she turn'd; but from within
A Voice reclaim'd her Step, Apollo Spake.
Not here my Birth is doom'd; tho' rich the Soil,
And fit Reception for an Infant God.
But Fate, this consecrated Land reserves,
Nurse for a Future God, a Saviour KING;
Shall here be Born, under whose Diadem
Shall Center proud of Macedonian Rule,
The Inland Nations, and the Sea-girt Isles;

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From farthest West, and where the Orient Sun,
First pours the blushing promise of a Day.
Such Pow'r shall Cloath the KING; and all his Father
Shall guide his Heart, and Sanctify his Action.
With me e'erwhile he shall in common War,
Brandish the Victor Sword; the same our Foe,
The same our Laurel, when th'embattled West
Shall Deluge Greece, with her Barbaric Sons,
The Titan Race renew'd; whose gather'd Thousands,
Shall count the driven Snow and Starry Host.
The Locrian Battlements and Delphick Tow'rs,
With the Crissean Plains, and Cities round
Mix in one rueful Groan; the Swain beholds,
His Neighbour's Harvest mounting in a Blaze.
Nor shall Report have told her dismal Tale,
Of distant Desolation, e'er themselves
Sadly Convicted view the Holy Temple
With Legions dire beset, and Hostile Squadrons.

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Around my Tripods, with unhallow'd Gleam,
Swords and high Crested Helms, and Shields of War,
Shall Throng tumultuous; but shall ill betide
Their proud Displayers, grasp'd in evil Hour.
The Great Ægyptian KING, with me Victorious;
Shall share the Spoils, bought with imperial Sweat.
Mine by allotment all the scatter'd Trophies
That Strow the Delphick Plains: To him the Nile,
Consigns the Harvest of his bloody Banks,
Bucklers and Spears, quit by expiring Warriors.
To thee, Oh! Ptolemy, I boding Speak;
And thou hereafter all thy happy Days,
Shalt Bless the unborn Prophet of the Womb.
Nor thou, Latona, grieve; there is an Island
That knows no Mansion sure, but ever restless,
Travels the Ocean, or to Winds a Sport,
Or floating Pastime of the rolling Deep.
There let us tend, there no unwelcome Guest,

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Shalt thou retreat: While thus Apollo Spake,
Back from the Voice Divine the Isles retir'd.
But thou, Asteria, Musick-loving Goddess,
Down from Eubæa camest in happy Hour
To visit the all-Beauteous Cyclades.
Let Juno, said'st thou, when thy pitying Eyes
Beheld Latona, all in Pangs unutter'd,
Let Juno, wreck her worst, her highest Threats.
I shun not, come, Latona, Mother sad,
Come lay thy Burden on my willing Lap.
Fast by Inopus' Stream, she sat her down,
Which deepest then its sable Current pours:
Observant when with fullest Tide the Nile,
Tumbles from utmost Æthiopia's Hills.
Her Zone unloos'd, back on a Friendly Palm
Reclin'd she gave up all herself to Birth,
And mighty Pangs, as when a God is Born.
And O, she said, while down her fainting Limbs,

260

Trickled the big cold Drops. Why all these Pains—
Be born my Son, and gentle be thy Birth.
Soon to the unforgiving Wife of Jove,
Sped Iris, big with the ungrateful Tale.
“Oh! Queen ador'd of Heaven, whose Female Arm
Bends the resisting Nations to thy Will,
Ee'n thee, amidst the Splendor of thy Throne,
Will Evil dare approach; thy princely Brow
Shall Frowns of Rage invade, for Maugre thee
Safe on an Isle Latona's Son is Born.
Each Land beside Obsequious to thy Will,
Abhorr'd her near Approach, but proud Asteria,
Asteria, vilest Rubbish of the Seas,
With forward unbeseeched Courtesy
Invites her, as she pass'd, to proffer'd Rest.
She said, and underneath the Golden Throne
Couch'd close, as when Diana leaves the Chase:
Tir'd at her Feet lies her Companion Dog,

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And still in list'ning Slumber pricks his Ears
To wait his Mistress' Call: In guise like this
Lay the Thaunantian Maid, nor potent Sleep
Could Bribe her faithful Vigilance to rest.
But on a Corner of the spacious Throne,
Gently her Head reclin'd, she half indulges
Doubtful repose; nor loos'd her Nightly Zone,
Nor doff'd the winged Sandals of her Feet;
Ready attir'd for Juno's High behests.
“And is it thus! Heav'ns angry Queen exclaim'd,
Ye Female Scandals of licentious Jove.
In darksome Haunts ye seek to hide your shame,
And Fenny Caverns where Sea-Monsters Whelp;
Must Nurse your Infant Brood; but well it suits
The dark and pilfer'd Contracts of your Loves.
Nor yet, Asteria, can I justly blame,
Or prosecute thy Crime with equal Vengeance:
So much I owe to thy unvanquish'd Chastity,

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That fled'st to Ocean's dark Abyss for refuge,
Rather than stain the holy Bed of Juno.
She said, and now from the Mænian Stream
Pactolus, rose the ever tuneful Swans
Songsters of Phœbus, and around fair Delos
Steer'd in seven Circles their auspicious flight;
And scatter'd as they flew Celestial Notes,
Hymning their new-Born God. From these Apollo
Took the great Hint, to form the Seven string'd Lyre:
The Delian Nymphs descendants of the Flood,
Carrol'd the sacred Song to Elithya.
The vaulted Sky receiv'd the gladsome Song,
And answer'd with reeccho'd Harmony.
E'en Juno then unbidden Transports felt;
Disarm'd of Jealous Hate, she yielding own'd
The universal Joy, and smil'd consenting.
Then was it, Delos, thy Foundations wide
Stood rooted Gold, the Sea that flow'd around,

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Wash'd thy admiring Shores with foaming Gold.
With vegetable Gold the Olive bloom'd,
And Golden was Inopus' flowing Tide.
Then thou from off the Ground-extended Gold,
Didst lift the smiling Babe into thy Bosom,
And joyous said'st; see! thou all fruitful Earth,
That boasts thy many Altars, many Cities;
Thou Continent, behold, and neighb'ring Isles,
The mighty produce of the Barren Delos:
A native God, from me Derives his Name,
Apollo, Delian through the World confest.
No Land so dear to her espousing God,
Not Cenchris to her Neptune, nor Cyllene
To Mercury ador'd, nor Crete to Jove,
As Delos to Apollo; nor hereafter mock
My vagrant Soil, for he shall fix me fast,
And bid me Laugh at the eluded Tempest.

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So said'st thou, and the mighty Infant pleas'd,
Caught thy distended Paps, and with his Lips
Fix'd an eternal Mark of Holiness
On Phœbus' Foster Land: On thee Bellona,
Nor Pluto treads, nor dare the Steeds of War
Kick with insulting Hoofs thy hallow'd Champaign.
But, each revolving Year, to thee submissive
The Earth devotes from ev'ry distant Region
Her first Born Gifts, and under either Sun
Each City Honours thee in Festal Dance.
Thee too the South resounds, the hardy Race
That freeze in Northern Climes, and with strong Toil
Prolong their Lives beyond the usual Span,
Ne'er fail to Celebrate thy honour'd Name.
They first to thy respected Altars bring
The votive Corn, and consecrated Sheaf.
Which Trav'ling far from tall Dodona's Groves,
The hardy, tough Pelasgians first receive.

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Thence thro' the sacred Walls and verdant Mountains,
Of Melis on it passes, o'er Euripus,
To the fair Fields of neighb'ring Eubæa;
Whence short the Passage to thy sacred Shore.
These grateful Presents Upis first and Loxo,
And blooming in full Youth, fair Hecaerge
Brought hither from the Warlike Arimaspians,
Whose Hair, confin'd in Golden Bracelets, Glitters:
Daughters of Boreas all, the Bravest too
And fairest of fierce Arimaspia's Sons,
Low bowing to thy Altars, Delos, came,
Nor to their Native North e'er turn'd their steps,
But here were deck'd with never dying Honours.
For when the pleasing Rites of joyful Hymen
Summon the Delian Nymphs, and Swains to love,
Sacred to Boreas' beauteous Daughters fall
The first shorn Ringlets of the Maiden's Hair.
And to his Sons each Swain with Rev'rence offers

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From off his Still-smooth Chin, the Virgin down.
Divine Asteria, thee the Isles enclose,
With beauteous Circle, and surrounding Choir.
To thee nor noise of Mirth, nor happy Song,
Is ever wanting, thee the glittering Beam
Of Hesper, sees for ever Crown'd with Joy.
Some sweetly warble out the Lycian Song;
From Xanthus' Banks, by tuneful Olen brought.
Others in sprightly Dance prolong the Night,
And beat, with bounding Steps, thy hallow'd Soil;
Then frequent Chaplets load fair Venus' Statue,
Propitious ever, to the Lover's Pray'r.
Here Plac'd, in Honour of the smiling Goddess,
By Theseus, with his Band, from Crete return'd.
Who, flying from the Bull's tremendous Roar,
(Dire Offspring of Pasiphae's monstrous Love)
And the deceitful Paths, that lead around
The winding Labyrinth, nor admit Return:
Around thy Altars, Goddess, form'd the Dance.

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While Lyres melodious fir'd their joyous Souls,
In circling Choir, by Warlike Theseus led.
Whence, Phæbus, to thy Shrines the Sons of Cecrops,
The Sacred, undecaying Vessel sent.

Divine Asteria, to whose Honour'd Name,
Such Altars Blaze, such frequent Prayr's are Breath'd.
What Sailors traversing the wide Ægean
Ee'r pass'd unvisited thy happy Shores?
Tho' fairest Gales distend their swelling Sails,
And weightiest Business calls their utmost Speed;
At sight of thee they gather in the Shrouds,
And, gratefully retarded, drop the Anchor,
While in thy Harbours rides th'obedient Bark,
Till they in solemn, Mystic Dance Surround,
And smite thy hallow'd Shrines, and with their Teeth,
Crop the fair Branches of the spreading Olive.

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Thus Delia sporting sooth'd the Infant God.
Hail! Safest, happiest Island of the Cyclades,
Latona's other Offspring, Cynthia, Hail,
For ever hail! Apollo, God of Delos.

EUROPA, From Moschus.

Night's dark Dominion now was well nigh ceas'd,
And the young Dawn began to promise Day,
When balmy Slumbers, and refreshing Rest,
On golden Wings by smiling Venus sent,
Clos'd fair Europa's Eyes, and o'er her Limbs
Soft Indolence, and sweetest ease diffus'd.
Then crouding Dreams that fill the busy Brain,
With sure Prediction all, and Truth are Fraught.

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Europa, then in gayest Bloom of Youth,
And yet untouch'd and Chaste as Virgin Cynthia;
Seem'd, while involv'd in Sleep her Senses lay,
To see two mighty Continents in Strife,
And fierce Debate; Herself, the Prize in View.
Here Asia stood, and there opposing Lybia;
Either beneath a Woman's Form disguis'd,
Yet this, by Air and Mien, a Stranger was,
T'other a Native of the Country seem'd,
And claim'd with strongest Zeal, her beauteous Daughter,
By her brought forth, by her bred up and nourish'd.
But t'other with tough Strength, and pow'rful Force,
Drew to her Arms the unresisting Nymph.
For this, she said, by Fate's Decree Eternal,
Was due to her, from Ægis-bearing Jove.

Europa, Skipp'd affrighten'd from her Bed.
And, tho' awake, still perfect seem'd to View

270

Before her Eyes, the two contending Dames:
Then into this loud Exclamation broke.

“What Dreams are these that fill'd my sleeping Sense,
Broke my soft Slumbers, and disturb'd my Peace?
What kindly Form was that, which struck my Soul,
With sudden Love, that took me to her Arms,
And entertain'd me, with a Mothers Care?
Ye Gods, Disposers of poor Mortals Fate,
Oh! Make the Omens of the Night propitious.

She said and rose; nor fairer rose the Morn.
With Speed, she hasts to her Companion Nymphs,
Her happy equals, Beauteous all, and Young.
In sweet Society they constant tripp'd
Along the Fields, or form'd the sprightly Dance;
Or in the Fountain bath'd their polish'd Limbs,
While clearer flow'd Anaurus' happy Stream.

271

Or the fair Gardens flow'ring Honours cropt,
Lllies, and Roses, Rivals of their Charms.

Now see the happy Band together met,
In the fair Fields, fast by Old Ocean's Side,
That calm'd his Waves, and gentlest Zephyrs Breath'd,
To Fan the charming Maids: Each in her Hand,
Treas'ry of Flowers, a Neat-wrought Basket held

Europa's Self, a Golden Basket held,
Exquisite Workmanship! By Vulcan made,
And giv'n to Beauteous Lybia, Bride of Neptune.
Then near ally'd to Lybia in Blood
Telepbaessa fair the Boon receiv'd;
She to Europa next, her Virgin Daughter,
With bounteous Hand the valu'd present gave.

The Basket deck'd with curious Figures Shone.
Within was Jo rais'd in roughen'd Gold.

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An Heifer Fair, nor yet transform'd to Woman.
Wanton she seem'd to Press the billowing Waves,
For in the Basket rose the swelling Sea.
While on the Shore two Men astonish'd stood,
And with Surprize, beheld the swimming Heifer.

The Sculpture too express'd enamour'd JOVE,
Stroaking the Beauteous Cow's smooth Polish'd Neck,
Till on the slimy Banks of Seven-mouth'd Nile,
In Woman's Charms array'd, again she stood.
In a smooth Silver Current, flow'd the Nile,
The Heifer seem'd in Polish'd Brass to Low,
And Gold declar'd the Majesty of JOVE.
Not far from him was winged Hermes plac'd,
And here stretch'd out the watchful Argus lay,
His Body cover'd o'er with sleepless Eyes;
And from his Purple Blood a Bird arose
In all the Colours of the show'ry Bow,

273

Flutt'ring his joyful Wings, that widely spread
Like some vast Sail swell'd out by prosp'rous Winds,
And round the Basket's golden Edges flow'd.

The Nymphs now to their pleasing Business bend,
And pluck the various Flow'rs that seem to smile,
Pleas'd e'en with falling by such beauteous Hands.
The sweet Narcissus, and the dusky Hyacinth
Mingled with Violets were their fragrant spoil,
The yellow Crocus some, and some the Daffodil,
And some the Lillie's spotless whiteness cropt.
Europa's Lap the blushing Rose adorn'd,
Fair, fragrant Empress of the flow'ry Mead.
Europa o'er the rest in Beauty shone,
Like Venus midst the charming Three distinguish'd.

But soon, Europa, were these sports to cease,
Soon from Diana's Train must thou be banish'd.
For thy strong Beauty soar'd beyond the Earth,

274

And wounded, e'en in Heav'n, Almighty Jove:
He, tho' by ev'ry other pow'r unvanquish'd,
Lays open to the soft Attacks of Love.

The God, of Juno's jealous Eye afraid,
And striving to deceive thy Virgin Coyness,
Descended not as Heav'ns majestick KING,
But underneath an Earthly Shape lay hid,
And a Bull's Form bely'd th'intriguing God.
But not a Bull of common Race he seem'd,
Or us'd to bend beneath th'oppressive Yoke,
Or drag the toilsome Plow, or roam along
The marshy Wilds amid the vulgar Herd.

But with a stately Pride he trod the Ground,
Sleak as the polish'd Gold his brindled sides,
And mid' his ample Forehead brightly shone,
Whiter than driven Snow, a graceful Star.
His vivid Eyes sparkled with am'rous Ray,

275

And over rose two beauteous bending Horns,
In form like silver Cynthia's growing Light.
To the fair Reapers gently he approach'd,
Nor they affrighted fled, but nearer drew,
And stroak'd with pleasing Touch the happy Bull.
But at Europa's Feet most pleas'd he stood,
And sportive wreath'd his Tall in wanton twines,
Or bent to her embrace his arching Neck;
And when the Virgin's soothing Hands he felt,
Express'd his Joy in gently murm'ring Lowings.
Then softly to the Ground he bent his Knees,
And as he spread the smoothness of his Back,
To fair Europa turn'd his suppliant Eyes.

Who smiling, thus addrest th'attending Nymphs.
“Behold, my soft Companions, Social Maids,
How pleas'd the gentle Beast admits our stroaks,
Nor turns him surly from our soothing Touch,
Sure only Voice he wants of being Human.

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See how his Back he offers, let us mount,
And round the Fields in sportive Gambols ride.

She said, and on his Back herself she plac'd,
Inviting to her side the smiling Nymphs.
Nor sooner felt the Bull the pleasing Weight
But joyful with strong Vigour up he leap'd,
And to the Sea his beauteous Burden bore.

The Nymph with sudden Fear confounded shriek'd,
And to her dear Companions, drown'd in Grief,
Stretch'd out her unavailing Hands and Voice.

He with his Load triumphant rode the Sea,
The swelling Waves obsequious gave him way;
Uprose the Nereids in Cærulean Choir,
From Ocean, to Salute th'Olympian KING.
Neptune himself attending, Homage paid,

277

And Tritons play'd around with joyful Noise,
And Hymeneals from their sounding shells.

The Virgin seated on the heav'nly Bull,
Fast in one Snowy Hand his polish'd Horn,
And in the other held her flowing Vestments,
That lightly seem'd to brush the rising Waves.
While round her Head, by gentle Zephyrs fann'd,
Flutter'd her Veil, and grateful Coolness brought.

But from her native Soil when far remov'd,
Nor Sandy Shore, nor verdant Hill she saw,
But the wide Sea alone, and pathless Air;
By Tears thus interrupted flow'd her Words.
“Oh! whither wou'd'st thou bear a wretched Maid,
Or who, or whence, or of what kind art thou?
How dar'st thou venture o'er the boist'rous Seas,
Huge wat'ry Realms, by Ships alone pass'd o'er,

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Thy race with Justice seek the verdant Meads,
And fly with horror from the roaring Main.
But if Inhabitant of Heav'n thou art,
Why act'st thou inconsistent with a God?
The finny Dolphins never walk the Earth,
Nor lowing Herds attempt to tread the Seas;
But thou alike, or walk'st the solid Ground,
Or boldly passest o'er th'extended Deep,
Nor want'st the help of Oars or spreading Sails.
Nay, peradventure, thro' the trackless Air,
E're long uprising thou may'st wing thy Flight.
Wretched Europa, from thy native Land
And fond distracted Parents born away,
O'er distant Seas, a Bull thy only guide.

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O thou, great Ocean's over-ruling Lord,
Neptune, propitious smile upon my Voyage,
For, not despairing yet, I hope to see
The God that smooths the Billows as I pass.
For, not unaided by some Guardian God,
O'er the fierce boundless Deep secure I pass.
She said, and thus reply'd the Olympian Bull.

“Europa, scorn to Fear, tho' Billows break,
And foaming Oceans roar beneath thy Feet,
Thy guide is Jupiter, beneath this Form
Disguis'd, (who unconfin'd takes ev'ry shape.)
Thy Beauties urg'd me, charming Nymph, to leave
My Realms divine, and in a Brutal form
To cross the Seas, with such a Burden blest,
More than when round me Pow'r almighty shines.

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Thee Crete's fair shores shall instantly receive,
Crete, fairest of the Isles, and Nurse of Jove,
Thee shall Heav'n's KING his charming Bride declare,
And from thy Bed shall potent Monarchs spring,
To rule with delegated Sway the Earth:

He spoke, and Crete's white Rocks arose to view,
In his own Form resum'd the Godhead shone,
Saluting eagerly his beauteous Bride,
He loos'd the modest Girdle from her Waste,
And the fair Hours prepar'd the Nuptial Bed.

281

KEW Gardens.

When absent Phœbus from our Sky retires,
And lends to other Worlds his chearing Fires,
Not sadly wrapt we live in total Night,
But feel a sweet vicissitude of Light;
Cynthia with Pride asserts her borrow'd Reign,
Queen of the starry Host, and Empress of the Main.

Thus while our Realm illustrious Brunswick leaves,
And Blessings to his distant Kingdoms gives,
His Royal Consort stops our flowing Tears,
Supplies his absence, and our Loss repairs:
O'er fair Britannia spreads her milder ray,
And cheers the Isle with delegated Sway.

282

Her Royal Virtues, and her Guardian Care
The Nation feels, nor need a Muse declare.

To the tall Palaces, or noisy Court
The modest Nymphs of Pindus ne'er resort,
To shady Woods and silent Groves they fly,
On verdant Banks, or mossy Mountains lie;
Midst purling Streams and and springing Flow'rs they roam,
Where Tempe's Fields or Richmond's Valleys bloom.
Here, Here, ye tuneful Nine, for ever stray,
While Royal Caroline asserts your Sway.
See charming Scenes arising round to view,
That Pindus never own'd, nor Tempé knew
Extended Lawns here fill the thirsty Sight,
And there the rising Avenues delight,
All Nature's Charms the various Walks disclose,
Perfect as when she first in Eden rose.

283

Here from the rising Terrace' level Brow,
We see the Thames's Silver Current flow.
Here Sion's lofty Turrets call our Eyes,
Or Villages in rustick Order rise.
Here splendid Pomp the Nobles Pride maintains,
There Industry sits smiling o'er the Plains,
The Rich in State their Wealth enjoy, the Poor
In Peace and Liberty their little Store.

How lost in sweet Variety we roam
From Thames's Banks, and Richmond's lofty Dome!
With growing Joy, and ever new Delight,
Till Kew's fair Gardens greet our ravish'd Sight:
Each Step we tread, each Moment we advance,
Some unseen Beauty strikes our wond'ring Sense.
Here stretching Vistas burst upon our Eyes.
Here swelling Hills, with kind Obstruction, rise;
With friendly intercourse decrease the Day,
Relieve th'extended Nerves, and weaken'd Ray.

284

Lo! while thro' bounded Walks our steps we bend,
And lofty Elms on either Side ascend,
While in the pleasing Path we seem confin'd,
And various Thoughts employ our musing Mind:
Sudden with op'ning view extends the Green,
As if some Magick chang'd the shifting Scene;
From the nice Path, and regulated Shade,
Surpriz'd we view the spreading rural Glade.
See where the Scythe the lusty Mower wields,
And bending Harvests smile along the Fields.
Delighted e'rst we prais'd the force of Art,
But Nature's stronger Charms now vanquish all our Heart.

Such are the Seats where Britain's Queen retires,
When England's weal no more her Care requires,
When the Court's Pomp, and Council's Business past,
E'en Sceptred Monarchs may securely rest,

285

Monarchs whose Souls no wild Ambition moves,
Whom Walpole serves, and happy Britain loves.

Let Eastern KINGS their surly Pride maintain,
And from their Subjects far sequester'd Reign,
A pompous Slav'ry in Seraglios bear,
(While crouding Guards proclaim their Master's fear.)
And all the Joys their Royalty can give,
From guilty State, and splendid Vice receive.

Far diff'rent Pleasures, and sublimer Joy,
The Guardians of Britannia's Rights enjoy.
Thro' the blest Isle unguarded they might rove
Their strongest, best Defence, their People's Love.
Their truly Royal Souls no Vice can please,
To Virtue's Laws they consecate their Ease.

What tho' along fair Kew's extended Green
With Nature mixt, no sumptuous Art is seen?

286

What tho' no Marble Grottos fill the Eyes,
Nor in proud length luxurious Baths arise?
Such as with Pride the Persian's softness own,
To falling Rome, and guilty Caprea known.

Far more inviting is the blest Retreat,
With simple Grandeur deck'd, and plainnest State.
Nature with Joy asserts her verdant Reign,
O'er the smooth Theatre's extended Plain.
Ascending Oaks their branching Honours spread,
And taught by Nature only form the Shade.
A pleasing Wildness next invites our Eye,
That seems uncultivate and rude to lie;
Amidst the mossy Shrubs and rustick Green
A Hermit's solitary Cell is seen.
Its humble Walls compos'd of rugged Stone,
With fertile Weeds, and spreading Thorns o'er-grown:
Like some remote Arabian's studious Seat,
For silent musing Contemplation fit.

287

Nor this from Fancy's Light Caprice arose,
Nor undesigning Vanity it shows.
Sacred it stands, and safe preserves the Fame
Of Britain's wisest Sons exalted Name:
Here still preserv'd by Caroline from Death,
Her great Philosophers in Marble Breath.
What earnest Thought, and deep enquiring Zeal,
Seems on the Brow of learned Clarke to dwell?
While from the vilest Weed, or smallest Grain,
That fills the Garden, or adorns the Plain,
Th'unbroken Chain of Reas'ning he pursues
Extends his Thought, and high exalts his views,
Till mounting up to Heav'ns supreme abode,
The cause of all he finds, one Everlasting God.

The Rays that faintly beam'd on Plato's Breast,
And dawning Light in Tully's Soul exprest,

286

All shone on Clarke with full Meridian Day,
Fair Truth reveal'd, and chas'd the Clouds away.

Here too we see Locke's penetrating Eye,
And e'en in Stone his piercing Thoughts descry,
That boldly rov'd thro' Nature's ev'ry part,
And trac'd the Windings of the human Heart,
Show'd ev'ry Spring from whence the Passions flow,
And truly taught Mankind, Themselves to know.

Here too thy Form, great Woollaston, appears,
Thy thoughtful Mien the Marble next declares.
The Charms of Virtue taught by Thee we learn,
From Immortality with Horror turn.
Direct our Lives by Nature's potent Law,
And precepts from her purest Fountain draw.
And find her truest School with Rules is fraught,
Beyond what Rome e'er knew, or Athens taught.

287

To Newton next we turn our wond'ring Eyes,
Behold a Mortal's Reason, with surprize;
Trav'ling where Stars are fix'd, and Planets croud the Skies.
The vast Ideas fill our lab'ring Brain,
Scarce can our weaker Sense his Thought contain.
Wrapt in Amaze, we praise the glorious Name,
And by a wond'ring Silence tell his Fame.
As from the Sun we turn our dazled Sight,
His Influence bless, but scarce can bear his Light.

FINIS.