Poems, chiefly pastoral :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems, chiefly pastoral

By John Cunningham. The second edition. With the Addition of several pastorals and other pieces

Cunningham, John (1729-1773)

[epigraph]

TheANTandCATERPILLAR:

STANZAS ON THE FORWARDNESS OF SPRING.

ON THE APPROACH OF MAY.

A PASTORAL HYMN To JANUS.

The INSCRIPTION Imitated.

Imitated.

CONTENT:

CORYDON AND PHILLIS:

AN ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS.

A SONG.

SAPHO's HYMN TO VENUS. IMITATED.

ANACREON. ODE LVIII. Imitated.

ANACREON. ODE IX. Imitated.

THE DANCE.

ANACREON. ODE XIV. Imitated.

IMITATION FROM ANACREON.

ANACREON. ODE XXXIII. Imitated.

THE PICTURE:

THE WITCH:

REPUTATION:

THE ROSE AND BUTTERFLY:

[section]

Moral.

THE SHEEP AND THE BRAMBLE-BUSH:

ANACREON. ODE XIX. Imitated.

NEWCASTLE BEER.

THE TOAST:

A Three-Part CATCH.

ON Sir W--- B---T's BIRTH-DAY.

STANZAS

THE RESPITE:

AN IRREGULAR ODE ON MUSIC.

FROM A TRUANT TO HIS FRIENDS.

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,

A BIRTH-DAY ODE:

THE BROKEN CHINA.

To Mr ---.

ON THE LATE ABSENCE OF MAY.

AN EULOGIUM ON MASONRY.

A PROLOGUE,

AN EPILOGUE,

A PROLOGUE, To the MUSE of OSSIAN.

AN EPILOGUE, To the MUSE of OSSIAN.

AN EPILOGUE,

AN EULOGIUM ON CHARITY.

AN EPILOGUE,

A PROLOGUE, To LOVE and FAME.

A PROLOGUE, To RULE A WIFE.

A PROLOGUE,

AN INTRODUCTION,

STANZAS On the Death of his late Majesty King GEORGE II

HORACE. ODE X. BOOK IV. Imitated.

Sent to Miss BELL H---, with a Pair of Buckles.

To CHLOE, on a Charge of Inconstancy.

INCANTATION.

FORTUNE TO HARLEQUIN.

ACROSTIC.

On the Death of Mrs SLEIGH, of Stockton.

ACROSTIC.

On the Death of Lord GRANBY.

On the Death of Mr ---, of Sunderland.

A PETITION

AN ODE For the Birth-Day of the KING OF PRUSSIA.

Recit.

Air.

AN ODE

On a very young LADY.

A SONNET:

ANACREON. ODE V. Imitated.

A PASTORAL.

To CHLOE, in an ill Humour.

EPIGRAMS, &c.

An EPIGRAM.

Another.

On Mr Churchill's Death.

A POSTSCRIPT.

EPIGRAPH For Dean Swift's Monument.

EPIGRAM.

Apollo—To Mr C---F---,

On seeing J. C---ft, Esq;

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

DAY:

A PASTORAL.

------ Carpe diem.
Hor.

MORNING.

I

In the barn the tenant Cock,
Close to partlet perch'd on high,
Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.

II

Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire:
And the peeping sun-beam, now,
Paints with gold the village spire.

III

Philomel forsakes the thorn,
Plaintive where she prates at night;
And the Lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

IV

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring Swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.

V

Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale:
Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daisies, in the dewey dale.

VI

From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,
(Restless 'till her task be done)
Now the busy bee's employ'd
Sipping dew before the sun.

VII

Trickling through the crevic'd rock,
Where the limpid stream distills,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

VIII

Colin, for the promis'd corn
(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)
Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn,
Boldly sounding, drown his pipe.

IX

Sweet,—O sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossom'd spray!
Nature's universal song
Echoes to the rising day.

NOON.

X

Fervid on the glitt'ring flood,
Now the noon-tide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose.

XI

By the brook the shepherd dines;
From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd, by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his grassy seat.

XII

Now the flock forsakes the glade,
Where, uncheck'd, the sun-beams fall;
Sure to find a pleasing shade
By the ivy'd abby wall.

XIII

Echo in her airy round,
O'er the river, rock and hill,
Cannot catch a single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill.

XIV

Cattle court the zephirs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.

XV

But from mountain, dell, or stream,
Not a flutt'ring zephir springs:
Fearful lest the noon-tide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

XVI

Not a leaf has leave to stir,
Nature's lull'd—serene—and still!
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

XVII

Languid is the landscape round,
'Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flower.

XVIII

Now the hill—the hedge—is green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune!
Blithsome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!

EVENING.

XIX

O'er the heath the heifer strays
Free;—(the furrow'd task is done)
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun.

XX

Now he hides behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky:
Can the pencil's mimic skill,
Copy the refulgent dye?

XXI

Trudging as the plowmen go,
(To the smoaking hamlet bound)
Giant-like their shadows grow,
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.

XXII

Where the rising forest spreads,
Shelter for the lordly dome!
To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home!

XXIII

As the Lark with vary'd tune,
Carrols to the evening loud;
Mark the mild resplendent moon,
Breaking through a parted cloud!

XXIV

Now the hermit Howlet peeps
From the barn, or twisted brake:
And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.

XXV

As the Trout in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs;
To the banks, a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.

XXVI

Tripping through the silken grass,
O'er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexion'd lass,
With her well-pois'd milking-pail.

XXVII

Linnets, with unnumber'd notes,
And the Cuckow bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,
Bid the setting sun adieu.

THE CONTEMPLATIST:

A NIGHT PIECE.

Nox erat ------
Cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictæque volucres.

I

The Queen of Contemplation, Night,
Begins her balmy reign;
Advancing in their varied light
Her silver-vested train.

II

'Tis strange, the many marshal'd stars,
That ride yon sacred round,
Should keep, among their rapid cars,
A silence so profound!

III

A kind, a philosophic calm,
The cool creation wears!
And what Day drank of dewey balm,
The gentle Night repairs.

IV

Behind their leafy curtains hid,
The feather'd race how still!
How quiet now the gamesome kid,
That gambol'd round the hill!

V

The sweets, that bending o'er their banks,
From sultry Day declin'd,
Revive in little velvet ranks,
And scent the western wind.

VI

The Moon, preceded by the breeze
That bade the clouds retire,
Appears amongst the tufted trees,
A Phœnix nest on fire.

VII

But soft—the golden glow subsides!
Her chariot mounts on high!
And now, in silver'd pomp, she rides
Pale regent of the sky!

VIII

Where Time, upon the wither'd tree
Hath carv'd the moral chair,
I sit, from busy passions free,
And breathe the placid air.

IX

The wither'd tree was once in prime;
Its branches brav'd the sky!
Thus, at the touch of ruthless Time,
Shall Youth and Vigour die.

X

I'm lifted to the blue expanse:
It glows serenely gay!
Come, Science, by my side, advance,
We'll search the Milky Way.

XI

Let us descend—The daring flight
Fatigues my feeble mind;
And Science, in the maze of light,
Is impotent and blind.

XII

What are those wild, those wand'ring fires,
That o'er the moorland ran?
Vapours.—How like the vague desires
That cheat the heart of Man!

XIII

But there's a friendly guide!—a flame,
That lambent o'er its bed,
Enlivens, with a gladsome beam,
The hermit's osier shed.

XIV

Among the russet shades of night,
It glances from afar!
And darts along the dusk; so bright,
It seems a silver star!

XV

In coverts, (where the few frequent)
If Virtue deigns to dwell,
'Tis thus, the little lamp, Content,
Gives lustre to her cell.

XVI

How smooth that rapid river slides
Progressive to the deep!
The Poppies, pendent o'er its sides,
Have charm'd the waves to sleep.

XVII

Pleasure's intoxicated sons!
Ye indolent! ye gay!
Reflect—for as the river runs,
Life wings its tractless way.

XVIII

That branching grove of dusky green
Conceals the azure sky;
Save, where a starry space between,
Relieves the darken'd eye.

XIX

Old Error, thus, with shades impure,
Throws sacred Truth behind:
Yet sometimes, through the deep obscure,
She bursts upon the mind.

XX

Sleep, and her sister Silence reign,
They lock the Shepherd's fold!
But hark—I hear a lamb complain,
'Tis lost upon the wold!

XXI

To savage herds, that hunt for prey,
An unresisting prize!
For having trod a devious way,
The little rambler dies.

XXII

As luckless is the Virgin's lot,
Whom pleasure once misguides:
When hurried from the halcion cot,
Where Innocence presides—

XXIII

The passions, a relentless train!
To tear the victim run:
She seeks the paths of peace in vain,
Is conquer'd—and undone.

XXIV

How bright the little insects blaze,
Where willows shade the way;
As proud as if their painted rays
Could emulate the Day!

XXV

'Tis thus, the pigmy sons of pow'r
Advance their vain parade!
Thus, glitter in the darken'd hour,
And like the glow-worms fade!

XXVI

The soft serenity of night,
Ungentle clouds deform!
The silver host that shone so bright,
Is hid behind a storm!

XXVII

The angry elements engage!
An oak, (an ivied bower!)
Repels the rough wind's noisy rage,
And shields me from the shower.

XXVIII

The rancour, thus, of rushing fate,
I've learnt to render vain:
For whilst Integrity's her seat,
The soul will sit serene.

XXIX

A raven, from some greedy vault,
Amidst that cloister'd gloom,
Bids me, and 'tis a solemn thought!
Reflect upon the tomb.

XXX

The tomb!—The consecrated dome!
The temple rais'd to Peace!
The port, that to its friendly home
Compels the human race!

XXXI

Yon village, to the moral mind,
A solemn aspect wears;
Where sleep hath lull'd the labour'd hind,
And kill'd his daily cares:

XXXII

'Tis but the church-yard of the Night;
An emblematic bed!
That offers to the mental sight,
The temporary dead.

XXXIII

From hence, I'll penetrate, in thought,
The grave's unmeasur'd deep;
And tutor'd, hence, be timely taught,
To meet my final sleep.

XXXIV

'Tis peace—(The little chaos past!)
The gracious moon restor'd!
A breeze succeeds the frightful blast,
That through the forest roar'd!

XXXV

The Nightingale, a welcome guest!
Renews her gentle strains;
And Hope, (just wand'ring from my breast)
Her wonted seat regains.

XXXVI

Yes—When yon lucid orb is dark,
And darting from on high;
My soul, a more celestial spark,
Shall keep her native sky.

XXXVII

Fann'd by the light—the lenient breeze,
My limbs refreshment find;
And moral rhapsodies, like these,
Give vigour to the mind.

THE THRUSH AND PYE:

A TALE.

Conceal'd within an hawthorn bush,
We're told, that an experienc'd Thrush
Instructed, in the prime of spring,
Many a neighbouring bird to sing.
She caroll'd, and her various song
Gave lessons to the list'ning throng:
But (the entangling boughs between)
'Twas her delight to teach unseen.

At length, the little wond'ring race
Would see their fav'rite face to face;
They thought it hard to be deny'd,
And begg'd that she'd no longer hide.
O'er modest, worth's peculiar fault,
Another shade the tut'ress sought;
And loth to be too much admir'd,
In secret from the bush retir'd.

An impudent, presuming Pye,
Malicious, ignorant, and sly,
Stole to the matron's vacant seat,
And in her arrogance elate,
Rush'd forward—with—“My friends, you see
“The mistress of the choir in me:
“Here, be your due devotion paid,
“I am the songstress of the shade.”

A Linnet, that sat list'ning nigh,
Made the impostor this reply:
“I fancy, friend, that vulgar throats
“Were never form'd for warbling notes:
“But if these lessons came from you,
“Repeat them in the public view;
“That your assertions may be clear,
“Let us behold as well as hear.”

The length'ning song, the soft'ning strain,
Our chatt'ring Pye attempts in vain,
For to the fool's eternal shame,
All she could compass was a scream.

The birds, enrag'd, around her fly,
Nor shelter nor defence is nigh:

The caitiff wretch, distress'd—forlorn!
On every side is peck'd and torn!
'Till for her vile, atrocious lies,
Under their angry beaks she dies.

Such be his fate, whose scoundrel claim
Obtrudes upon a neighbour's fame.

Friend E---n, the tale apply,
You are—yourself—the chatt'ring Pye:
Repent, and with a conscious blush,
Go make atonement to the Thrush.

A Y---shire Bookseller, who pirated an edition of the Pleasing Instructor.

The Compiler, and reputed Authoress of the Original Essays in that book.

PALEMON:

A PASTORAL.

Palemon, seated by his fav'rite maid,
The sylvan scenes, with extasy, survey'd;
Nothing could make the fond Alexis gay,
For Daphne had been absent half the day:
Dar'd by Palemon for a pastoral prize,
Reluctant, in his turn, Alexis tries.

Palemon.
This breeze by the river how charming and soft!
How smooth the grass carpet! how green!
Sweet, sweet sings the lark! as he carols aloft,
His music enlivens the scene!
A thousand fresh flow'rets unusually gay
The fields and the forests adorn;
I pluck'd me some roses, the children of May,
And could not find one with a thorn.

Alexis.
The skies are quite clouded, too bold is the breeze,
Dull vapours descend on the plain;
The verdure's all blasted that cover'd yon trees,
The birds cannot compass a strain:

In search for a chaplet my temples to bind,
All day as I silently rove,
I can't find a flow'ret (not one to my mind)
In meadow, in garden, or grove.

Palemon.
I ne'er saw the hedge in such excellent bloom,
The lambkins so wantonly gay;
My cows seem to breathe a more pleasing perfume,
And brighter than common the day:
If any dull shepherd should foolishly ask,
So rich why the landscapes appear?
To give a right answer, how easy my task!
Because my sweet Phillida's here.

Alexis.
The stream that so muddy moves slowly along,
Once roll'd in a beautiful tide;
It seem'd o'er the pebbles to murmur a song,
But Daphne sat then by my side.
See, see the lov'd maid, o'er the meadows she hies,
Quite alter'd already the scene!
How limpid the stream is! how gay the blue skies,
The hills and the hedges how green!

THE HAWTHORN BOWER.

I.

Palemon, in the hawthorn bower,
With fond impatience lay;
He counted every anxious hour
That stretch'd the tedious day.

The rosy dawn, Pastora nam'd,
And vow'd that she'd be kind;
But ah! the setting sun proclaim'd
That women's vows are—wind.

II.

The fickle sex, the boy defy'd;
And swore, in terms prophane,
That Beauty in her brightest pride
Might sue to him in vain.

When Delia from the neighb'ring glade
Appear'd in all her charms,
Each angry vow Palemon made
Was lost in Delia's arms.

III.

The Lovers had not long reclin'd
Before Pastora came:
Inconstancy, she cry'd, I find
In every heart's the same;

For young Alexis sigh'd and prest,
With such bewitching power,
I quite forgot the wishing guest
That waited in the bower.

TheANTandCATERPILLAR:

A FABLE.

As an Ant, of his talents superiourly vain,
Was trotting, with consequence, over the plain,
A Worm, in his progress remarkably slow,
Cry'd—“Bless your good worship wherever you go;
“I hope your great mightiness won't take it ill,
“I pay my respects with an hearty good-will.”
With a look of contempt and impertinent pride,
“Begone, you vile reptile,” his Antship replied;
“Go—go and lament your contemptible state,
“But first—look at me—see my limbs how complete;
“I guide all my motions with freedom and ease,
“Run backward and forward, and turn when I please:
“Of nature (grown weary) you shocking essay!
“I spurn you thus from me—crawl out of my way.”

The reptile insulted, and vext to the soul,
Crept onwards, and hid himself close in his hole;
But nature, determin'd to end his distress,
Soon sent him abroad in a Butterfly's dress.

Ere long the proud Ant, as repassing the road,
(Fatigu'd from the harvest, and tugging his load)
The beau on a violet bank he beheld,
Whose vesture, in glory, a monarch's excell'd;
His plumage expanded—'twas rare to behold
So lovely a mixture of purple and gold.

The Ant quite amaz'd at a figure so gay,
Bow'd low with respect, and was trudging away.
“Stop, friend,” says the Butterfly—“don't be surpriz'd,
“I once was the reptile you spurn'd and despis'd;
“But now I can mount, in the sun-beams I play,
“While you must, for ever, drudge on in your way.”

MORAL.

A wretch, though to-day he's o'er-loaded with sorrow,
May soar above those that oppress'd him—to-morrow.

PHILLIS:

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

I.

I said,—on the banks by the stream,
I've pip'd for the shepherds too long:
Oh grant me, ye Muses, a theme,
Where glory may brighten my song!

But Pan bade me stick to my strain,
Nor lessons too lofty rehearse;
Ambition befits not a swain,
And Phillis loves pastoral verse.

II.

The rose, tho' a beautiful red,
Looks faded to Phillis's bloom;
And the breeze from the bean-flower bed
To her breath's but a feeble perfume:

The dew-drop so limpid and gay,
That loose on the violet lies,
Tho' brighten'd by Phoebus's ray,
Wants lustre, compar'd to her eyes.

III.

A lilly I pluck'd in full pride,
Its freshness with her's to compare;
And foolishly thought ('till I try'd)
The flow'ret was equally fair.

How, Corydon, could you mistake?
Your fault be with sorrow confest,
You said the white swans on the lake
For softness might rival her breast.

IV.

While thus I went on in her praise,
My Phillis pass'd sportive along:
Ye poets, I covet no bays,
She smil'd,—a reward for my song!

I find the God Pan's in the right,
No fame's like the fair ones' applause!
And Cupid must crown with delight
The shepherd that sings in his cause.

The Author intends the character of Pan for the late Mr Shenstone, who favoured him with a letter or two, advising him to proceed in the Pastoral manner.

POMONA:

A PASTORAL.

(On the Cyder Bill being passed.)

I

From orchards of ample extent,
Pomona's compell'd to depart;
And thus, as in anguish she went,
The Goddess unburthen'd her heart:

II

“To flourish where Liberty reigns,
“Was all my fond wishes requir'd;
“And here I agreed with the swains
“To live 'till their freedom expir'd.

III

“Of late you have number'd my trees,
“And threaten'd to limit my store:
“Alas—from such maxims as these,
“I fear that your freedom's no more.

IV

“My flight will be fatal to May:
“For how can her gardens be fine?
“The blossoms are doom'd to decay,
“(The blossoms, I mean, that were mine.)

V

“Rich Autumn remembers me well:
“My fruitage was fair to behold!
“My pears—how I ripen'd their swell!
“My pippins!—were pippins of gold!

VI

“Let Ceres drudge on with her ploughs!
“She droops as she furrows the soil;
“A nectar I shake from my boughs,
“A nectar that softens my toil.

VII

“When Bacchus began to repine,
“With patience I bore his abuse;
“He said that I plunder'd the vine,
“He said that I pilfer'd his juice.

VIII

“I know the proud drunkard denies
“That trees of my culture should grow:
“But let not the traitor advise;
“He comes from the climes of your foe.

IX

“Alas! in your silence I read
“The sentence I'm doom'd to deplore:
“'Tis plain the great Pan has decreed,
“My orchard shall flourish no more.”

X

The Goddess flew off in despair;
As all her sweet honours declin'd:
And Plenty and Pleasure declare,
They'll loiter no longer behind.

MAY-EVE:

OR, KATE of ABERDEEN.

I

The silver moon's enamour'd beam,
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go balmy sleep,
('Tis where you've seldom been)
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

II

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
'Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

III

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love:
And see—the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green:
Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

IV

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight Fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:
For see the rosy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin Queen;
And hark, the happy shepherds cry
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

KITTY FELL.

I

The courtly bard, in verse sublime,
May praise the toasted Belle;
A country maid (in careless rhyme)
I sing—my Kitty Fell!

II

When larks forsake the flow'ry plain,
And Love's sweet numbers swell,
My pipe shall join their morning strain,
In praise of Kitty Fell.

III

Where woodbines twist their fragrant shade,
And noontide beams repel,
I'll rest me on the tufted mead,
And sing of Kitty Fell.

IV

When moon-beams dance among the boughs
That lodge sweet Philomel,
I'll pour with her my tuneful vows,
And pant for Kitty Fell.

V

The pale-faced pedant burns his books;
The sage forsakes his cell:
The soldier smooths his martial looks,
And sighs for Kitty Fell.

VI

Were mine, ye great, your envy'd lot.
In gilded courts to dwell;
I'd leave them for a lonely cot
With Love and Kitty Fell.

THYRSIS.

I

The pendent forest seem'd to nod,
In drowsy fetters bound;
And fairy elves in circles trod
The daisy-painted ground:
When Thyrsis sought the conscious grove,
Of slighted vows to tell,
And thus (to sooth neglected love)
Invok'd sad Philomel:

II

“The stars their silver radiance shed,
“And silence charms the plain;
“But where's my Philomela fled,
“To sing her love-lorn strain?
“Hither, ah, gentle bird, in haste
“Direct thy hov'ring wing:
“The vernal green's a dreary waste,
“'Till you vouchsafe to sing.

III

“So thrilling sweet thy numbers flow,
“(Thy warbling song distrest!)
“The tear that tells the lover's woe
“Falls cold upon my breast.

“To hear sad Philomel complain,
“Will soften my despair;
“Then quickly swell the melting strain,
“And sooth a lover's care.”

IV

Give up all hopes, unhappy swain,
A list'ning sage reply'd,
For what can constancy obtain,
From unrelenting pride?
The shepherd droop'd—the tyrant, death,
Had seiz'd his trembling frame;
He bow'd, and with departing breath
Pronounc'd Zaphira's name.

CLARINDA.

I

Clarinda's lips I fondly press'd,
While rapture fill'd each vein;
And as I touch'd her downy breast,
Its tenant slept serene.

II

So soft a calm, in such a part,
Betrays a peaceful mind;
Whilst my uneasy, flutt'ring heart,
Would scarcely be confin'd.

III

A stubborn oak the shepherd sees,
Unmov'd, when storms descend;
But, ah! to ev'ry sporting breeze,
The myrtle bough must bend.

FANNY OF THE DALE.

I

Let the declining damask rose
With envious grief look pale;
The summer bloom more freely glows
In Fanny of the dale.

II

Is there a sweet that decks the field,
Or scents the morning gale;
Can such a vernal fragrance yield,
As Fanny of the Dale?

III

The painted belles, at court rever'd,
Look lifeless, cold, and stale:
How faint their beauties, when compar'd
With Fanny of the dale!

IV

The willows bind Pastora's brows,
Her fond advances fail:
For Damon pays his warmest vows
To Fanny of the Dale.

V

Might honest truth, at last, succeed,
And artless love prevail;
Thrice happy cou'd he tune his reed,
With Fanny of the dale!

A SONG.

(Sent to Chloe with a Rose.)

[_]

Tune,—The Lass of Patie's Mill.

I.

Yes, every flower that blows,
I pass'd unheeded by,
'Till this enchanting Rose:
Had fix'd my wand'ring eye.

It scented every breeze,
That wanton'd o'er the stream,
Or trembled through the trees,
To meet the morning beam.

II.

To deck that beauteous maid,
Its fragrance can't excel,
From some celestial shade
The damask charmer fell:

And as her balmy sweets,
On Chloe's breast she pours,
The Queen of Beauty greets
The gentle Queen of Flowers.

STANZAS ON THE FORWARDNESS OF SPRING.

------ tibi, flores, plenis
Ecce ferunt nymphæ calathis.
Virg.

I

O'er Nature's fresh bosom, by verdure unbound,
Bleak Winter blooms lovely as Spring:
Rich flow'rets (how fragrant!) rise wantonly round,
And Summer's wing'd choristers sing!

II

To greet the young monarch of Britain's blest isle,
The groves with gay blossoms are grac'd!
The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile,
And cowslips croud forward in haste!

III

Dispatch, gentle Flora, the nymphs of your train
Thro' woodlands, to gather each sweet:
Go—rob, of young roses, the dew-spangled plain,
And strew the gay spoils at his feet.

IV

Two chaplets of laurel, in verdure the same,
For George, oh ye virgins, entwine!
From Conquest's own temples these ever-greens came,
And those from the brows of the Nine!

V

What honours, ye Britons! (one emblem implies)
What glory to George shall belong!
What Miltons, (the other) what Addisons rise,
To make him immortal in song!

VI

To a wreath of fresh Oak, England's emblem of power!
Whose honours with time shall encrease!
Add a fair Olive sprig, just unfolding its flow'r,
Rich token of Concord and Peace!

VII

Next give him young Myrtles, by Beauty's bright Queen
Collected,—the pride of the grove!
How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green!
Sweet promise of conjugal Love!

VIII

Let Gaul's captive Lillies, cropt close to the ground,
As trophies of Conquest be ty'd:
The virgins all cry, “There's not one to be found!
“Out-bloom'd by his Roses—they dy'd.”

IX

Ye foes of Old England, such fate shall ye share,
With George, as our glories advance—
Thro' envy you'll sicken,—you'll droop,—you'll despair,
And die—like the Lillies of France.

As the foregoing stanzas have appeared anonymous in some periodical papers, 'tis thought necessary to observe that they were originally inserted, with the Author's name, in an Edinburgh Magazine, 1761.

ON THE APPROACH OF MAY.

I.

The virgin, when soften'd by May,
Attends to the villager's vows;
The birds sweetly bill on the spray,
And poplars embrace with their boughs:

On Ida bright Venus may reign,
Ador'd for her beauty above!
We shepherds that dwell on the plain,
Hail May as the mother of love.

II.

From the West as it wantonly blows,
Fond Zephir caresses the vine;
The bee steals a kiss from the rose,
And willows and woodbines entwine:

The pinks by the rivulet side,
That border the vernal alcove,
Bend downward to kiss the soft tide:
For May is the mother of love.

III.

May tinges the butterfly's wing,
He flutters in bridal array!
And if the wing'd foresters sing,
Their music is taught them by May.

The stock-dove, recluse with her mate,
Conceals her fond bliss in the grove,
And murmuring seems to repeat
That May is the mother of love.

IV.

The Goddess will visit you soon,
Ye virgins be sportive and gay:
Get your pipes, oh ye shepherds in tune,
For music must welcome the May.

Would Damon have Phillis prove kind,
And all his keen anguish remove,
Let him tell her soft tales, and he'll find
That May is the mother of love.

THE VIOLET.

I

Shelter'd from the blight ambition,
Fatal to the pride of rank,
See me in my low condition,
Laughing on the tufted bank.

II

On my robes (for emulation)
No variety's imprest:
Suited to an humble station,
Mine's an unembroider'd vest.

III

Modest tho' the maids declare me,
May in her fantastic train,
When Pastora deigns to wear me,
Ha'n't a flow'ret half so vain.

THE NARCISSUS.

I.

As pendent o'er the limpid stream
I bow'd my snowey pride,
And languish'd in a fruitless flame,
For what the Fates deny'd;

The fair Pastora chanc'd to pass,
With such an angel air,
I saw her in the wat'ry glass,
And lov'd the rival fair.

II.

Ye fates, no longer let me pine,
A self-admiring sweet,
Permit me, by your grace divine,
To kiss the fair-one's feet:

That if by chance the gentle maid
My fragrance should admire,
I may,—upon her bosom laid,
In sister sweets expire.

THE MILLER:

A BALLAD.

I.

In a plain pleasant cottage, conveniently neat,
With a mill and some meadows—a freehold estate,
A well-meaning miller, by labour supplies,
Those blessings that grandeur to great ones denies:

No passions to plague him, no cares to torment,
His constant companions are Health and Content;
Their lordships in lace may remark, if they will,
He's honest, tho' daub'd with the dust of his mill.

II.

Ere the lark's early carrols salute the new day,
He springs from his cottage as jocund as May;
He chearfully whistles, regardless of care,
Or sings the last ballad he bought at the fair:

While courtiers are toil'd in the cobwebs of state,
Or bribing elections, in hopes to be great,
No fraud or ambition his bosom e'er fill,
Contented he works, if there's grift for his mill.

III.

On Sunday bedeck'd in his homespun array,
At church he's the loudest to chaunt or to pray;
He sits to a dinner of plain English food,
Tho' simple the pudding, his appetite's good.

At night, when the priest and exciseman are gone,
He quaffs at the alehouse with Roger and John,
Then reels to his pillow, and dreams of no ill;
No monarch more blest than the man of the mill.

A LANDSCAPE.

Rura mihi & irrigui placeant in vallibus amnes.
Virg.

I

Now that Summer's ripen'd bloom
Frolicks where the winter frown'd,
Stretch'd upon these banks of broom,
We command the landscape round.

II

Nature in the prospect yields
Humble dales, and mountains bold,
Meadows, woodlands, heaths,—and fields
Yellow'd o'er with waving gold.

III

Goats upon that frowning steep,
Fearless, with their kidlings brouse!
Here a flock of snowy sheep!
There an herd of motly cows!

IV

On the uplands, every glade
Brightens in the blaze of day;
O'er the vales, the sober shade
Softens to an evening grey.

V

Where the rill, by slow degrees,
Swells into a crystal pool,
Shaggy rocks and shelving trees
Shoot to keep the waters cool.

VI

Shiver'd by a thunder-stroke,
From the mountain's misty ridge,
O'er the brook a ruin'd oak,
Near the farm-house, forms a bridge.

VII

On her breast the sunny beam
Glitters in meridian pride;
Yonder as the virgin stream
Hastens to the restless tide:—

VIII

Where the ships by wanton gales
Wafted, o'er the green waves run,
Sweet to see their swelling sails
Whiten'd by the laughing sun!

IX

High upon the daisied hill,
Rising from the slope of trees,
How the wings of yonder mill
Labour in the busy breeze!—

X

Cheerful as a summer's morn,
(Bouncing from her loaded pad)
Where the maid presents her corn,
Smirking, to the miller's lad.

XI

O'er the green a festal throng
Gambols, in fantastic trim!
As the full cart moves along,
Hearken—'tis their harvest hymn!

XII

Linnets on the crouded sprays
Chorus,—and the wood-larks rise,
Soaring with a song of praise,
'Till the sweet notes reach the skies.

XIII

Torrents in extended sheets
Down the cliffs, dividing, break:
'Twixt the hills the water meets,
Settling in a silver lake!

XIV

From his languid flocks, the swain,
By the sunbeams sore opprest,
Plunging on the wat'ry plain,
Plows it with his glowing breast.

XV

Where the mantling willows nod,
From the green bank's slopy side,
Patient, with his well-thrown rod,
Many an angler breaks the tide!

XVI

On the isles, with osiers drest,
Many a fair plum'd halcion breeds!
Many a wild bird hides her nest,
Cover'd in yon crackling reeds.

XVII

Fork-tail'd pratlers as they pass
To their nestlings in the rock,
Darting on the liquid glass,
Seem to kiss the mimick'd flock.

XVIII

Where the stone Cross lifts its head,
Many a saint and pilgrim hoar,
Up the hill was wont to tread,
Barefoot, in the days of yore.

XIX

Guardian of a sacred well,
Arch'd beneath yon reverend shades,
Whilome, in that shatter'd cell,
Many an hermit told his beads.

XX

Sultry mists surround the heath
Where the gothic dome appears,
O'er the trembling groves beneath,
Tott'ring with a load of years.

XXI

Turn to the contrasted scene,
Where, beyond these hoary piles,
Gay, upon the rising green,
Many an attic building smiles!

XXII

Painted gardens—grots—and groves,
Intermingling shade and light!
Lengthen'd vistas, green alcoves,
Join to give the eye delight.

XXIII

Hamlets—villages, and spires,
Scatter'd on the landscape lie,
'Till the distant view retires,
Closing in an azure sky.

MELODY.

I.

Lightsome as convey'd by sparrows,
Love and Beauty cross'd the plains,
Flights of little pointed arrows
Love dispatch'd among the swains:

But so much our shepherds dread him,
(Spoiler of their peace profound)
Swift as scudding fawns they fled him,
Frighted, tho' they felt no wound.

II.

Now the wanton God grown slier,
And for each fond mischief ripe,
Comes disguis'd in Pan's attire,
Tuning sweet an oaten pipe:

Echo, by the winding river,
Doubles his delusive strains;
While the boy conceals his quiver,
From the slow returning swains.

III.

As Palemon, unsuspecting,
Prais'd the sly musician's art,
Love, his light disguise rejecting,
Lodg'd an arrow in his heart:

Cupid will enforce your duty,
Shepherds, and would have you taught,
Those who timid fly from Beauty,
May by Melody be caught.

DELIA:

A PASTORAL.

I.

The gentle swan with graceful pride
Her glossy plumage laves,
And sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whisp'ring waves:

The silver tide, that wand'ring flows,
Sweet to the bird must be!
But not so sweet—blyth Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

II.

A parent bird, in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,
And still the pendent nest she view'd,
That held her callow young:

Dear to the mother's flutt'ring heart
The genial brood must be;
But not so dear (the thousandth part!)
As Delia is to me.

III.

The roses that my brow surround
Were natives of the dale;
Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,
Before their sweets grew pale!

My vital bloom would thus be froze,
If luckless torn from thee;
For what the root is to the rose,
My Delia is to me.

IV.

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow,
So white the beauteous pair!
The birds to Delia I'll bestow,
They're like her bosom fair!

When, in their chaste connubial love,
My secret wish she'll see;
Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,
May Delia share with me.

THE SYCAMORE SHADE:

A BALLAD.

I.

T'other day as I sat in the Sycamore shade,
Young Damon came whistling along,
I trembled—I blush'd—a poor innocent maid!
And my heart caper'd up to my tongue:

Silly heart, I cry'd, fie! What a flutter is here!
Young Damon designs you no ill;
The shepherd's so civil, you've nothing to fear,
Then prythee, fond urchin, lie still.

II.

Sly Damon drew near, and knelt down at my feet,
One kiss he demanded—No more!
But urg'd the soft pressure with ardour so sweet,
I could not begrudge him a score:

My lambkins I've kiss'd, and no change ever found,
Many times as we play'd on the hill;
But Damon's dear lips made my heart gallop round,
Nor would the fond urchin lie still.

III.

When the sun blazes fierce, to the Sycamore shade
For shelter, I'm sure to repair;
And, virgins, in faith I'm no longer afraid,
Altho' the dear shepherd be there:

At ev'ry fond kiss that with freedom he takes,
My heart may rebound if it will;
There's something so sweet in the bustle it makes,
I'll die ere I bid it lie still.

DAMON AND PHILLIS:

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

Donec gratus eram, &c.
Hor.

Damon.
When Phillis was faithful, and fond as she's fair,
I twisted young roses in wreaths for my hair;
But ah! the sad willow's a shade for my brows,
For Phillis no longer remembers her vows!
To the groves with young Collin the shepherdess flies,
While Damon disturbs the still plains with his sighs.

Phillis.
Bethink you, false Damon, before you upbraid,
When Phœbe's fair lamkbin had yesterday stray'd,

Thro' the woodlands you wander'd, poor Phillis forgot!
And drove the gay rambler quite home to her cot;
A swain so deceitful no damsel can prize;
'Tis Phœbe, not Phillis, lays claim to your sighs.

Damon.
Like summer's full season young Phœbe is kind,
Her manners are graceful, untainted her mind!
The sweets of contentment her cottage adorn,
She's fair as the rose-bud, and fresh as the morn!
She smiles like Pomona—These smiles I'd resign,
If Phillis were faithful, and deign'd to be mine.

Phillis.
On the tabor young Collin so prettily plays,
He sings me sweet sonnets, and writes in my praise!
He chose me his true-love last Valentine day,
When birds sat like bridegrooms all pair'd on the spray;
Yet I'd drive the gay shepherd far, far from my mind,
If Damon, the rover, were constant and kind.

Damon.
Fine folks, my sweet Phillis, may revel and range,
But fleeting's the pleasure that's founded on change!

In the villager's cottage such constancy springs,
That peasants with pity may look down on kings.
To the church then let's hasten, our transports to bind,
And Damon will always prove faithful and kind.

Phillis.
To the church then let's hasten, our transports to bind,
And Phillis will always prove faithful and kind.

THE WARNING.

I

Young Colin once courted Myrtilla the prude,
If he sigh'd or look'd tender, she cry'd he was rude;
Tho' he begg'd with devotion, some ease for his pain,
The shepherd got nothing but frowns and disdain.
Fatigu'd with her folly, his suit he gave o'er,
And vow'd that no female should fetter him more.

II

He strove with all caution to 'scape from the net,
But Chloe soon caught him,—a finish'd coquet!
She glanc'd to his glances, she sigh'd to his sighs,
And flatter'd his hopes—in the language of eyes.
Alas for poor Colin! when put to the test,
Himself and his passion prov'd both but her jest.

III

By the critical third he was fix'd in the snare;
By Fanny—gay, young, unaffected, and fair;
When she found he had merit, and love took his part,
She dally'd no longer—but yielded her heart.
With joy they submitted to Hymen's decree,
And now are as happy—as happy can be.

IV

As the rosebud of beauty soon sickens and fades,
The prude and coquet are two slighted old maids;
Now their sweets are all wasted,—too late they repent,
For transports untasted, for moments misspent!
Ye virgins take warning, improve by my plan,
And fix the fond youth when you prudently can.

HOLIDAY GOWN.

I.

In holiday gown, and my newfangled hat,
Last Monday I tript to the fair;
I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what,
Brisk Roger I guess'd wou'd be there:

He woos me to marry whenever we meet,
There's honey sure dwells on his tongue!
He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet,
I'd wed—if I were not too young.

II.

Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold on the boy,
(The vixen wou'd fain be his bride)
Some token she claim'd, either ribbon or toy,
And swore that she'd not be deny'd:

A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green,
Pert Susan was cruelly stung;
I hate her so much, that, to kill her with spleen,
I'd wed—if I were not too young.

III.

He whisper'd such soft pretty things in mine ear!
He flatter'd, he promis'd, and swore!
Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and geer,
That trust me,—my pockets ran o'er:

Some ballads he bought me, the best he cou'd find,
And sweetly their burthen he sung;
Good faith he's so handsome, so witty, and kind,
I'd wed—if I were not too young.

IV.

The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire,
(Our cottage was distant a mile)
I rose to be gone—Roger bow'd like a squire,
And handed me over the stile:

His arms he threw round me—love laugh'd in his eye,
He led me the meadows among,
There prest me so close, I agreed, with a sigh,
To wed—for I was not too young.

DAPHNE:

A SONG.

I.

No longer, Daphne, I admire
The graces in thine eyes;
Continu'd coyness kills desire,
And famish'd passion dies.

Three tedious years I've sigh'd in vain,
Nor could my vows prevail;
With all the rigours of disdain,
You scorn'd my amorous tale.

II.

When Celia cry'd, how senseless she,
That has such vows refus'd;
Had Damon giv'n his heart to me,
It had been kinder us'd.

The man's a fool that pines and dies;
Because a woman's coy,
The gentle bliss that one denies,
A thousand will enjoy.

Such charming words, so void of art,
Surprising rapture gave;
And tho' the maid subdu'd my heart,
It ceas'd to be a slave:

A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove;
While blest without restraint,
In the sweet calendar of love
My Celia stands—a saint.

CORYDON:

A PASTORAL.

To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq;

I.

Come, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse,
We'll see our lov'd Corydon laid:
Tho' sorrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let a sad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In sooth he was gentle and kind!
He mark'd on his elegant strain
The graces that glow'd in his mind.

II.

On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never wou'd rifle their cell.

Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat—and your master bemoan;
His music was artless and sweet,
His manners as mild as your own.

III.

No verdure shall cover the vale,
No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter discolour the year.

No birds in our hedges shall sing,
(Our hedges so vocal before)
Since he that should welcome the spring,
Salutes the gay season no more.

IV.

His Phillis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd—they envy'd his lays,
But which of them equal'd his song?

Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus—let me break it in twain.

DAMON AND PHOEBE.

I

When the sweet rosey morning first peep'd from the skies,
A loud singing lark bade the villagers rise;
The cowslips were lively—the primroses gay,
And shed their best perfumes to welcome the May:
The swains and their sweethearts all rang'd on the green,
Did homage to Phœbe—and hail'd her their Queen.

II

Young Damon step'd forward: he sung in her praise,
And Phœbe bestow'd him a garland of bays:
May this wreathe, said the fair one, dear Lord of my vows,
A crown for true merit, bloom long on thy brows:
The swains and their sweethearts that danc'd on the green,
Approv'd the fond present of Phœbe their Queen.

III

'Mongst lords and fine ladies, we shepherds are told,
The dearest affections are barter'd for gold;
That discord in wedlock is often their lot,
While Cupid and Hymen shake hands in a cot:
At the church with fair Phœbe since Damon has been,
He's rich as a Monarch—she's blest as a Queen.

A PASTORAL HYMN To JANUS.

On the Birth of the Queen.

Te primum pia thura rogent—te vota salutent,
------ te colat omnis honos.
Mart. ad Janum.

I

To Janus, gentle shepherds! raise a shrine:
His honours be divine!
And as to mighty Pan with homage bow:
To him, the virgin troop shall tribute bring;
Let him be hail'd like the green-liveried spring,
Spite of the wint'ry storms that stain his brow.

II

The pride, the glowing pageantry of May,
Glides wantonly away:
But January, in his rough-spun vest,
Boasts the full blessings that can never fade,
He that gave birth to the illustrious maid,
Whose beauties make the British Monarch blest!

III

Could the soft Spring with all her sunny showers,
The frolic nurse of flowers!
Or flaunting Summer, flush'd in ripen'd pride,
Could they produce a finish'd sweet so rare:
Or from his golden stores, a gift so fair,
Say, has the fertile Autumn e'er supply'd?

IV

Henceforward let the hoary month be gay
As the white-hawthorn'd May!
The laughing goddess of the Spring disown'd,
Her rosy wreath shall on His brows appear,
Old Janus as he leads, shall fill the year,
And the less fruitful Autumn be dethron'd.

V

Above the other months supremely blest,
Glad Janus stands confest!
He can behold with retrospective face
The mighty blessings of the year gone by:
Where, to connect a Monarch's nuptial tie,
Assembled ev'ry glory, ev'ry grace!

VI

When he looks forward on the flatt'ring year,
The golden hours appear:
As in the sacred reign of Saturn, fair:
Britain shall prove from this propitious date,
Her honours perfect, victories complete,
And boast the brightest hopes, a British Heir.

The above little poem was written on supposition that her Majesty's birth-day was really in the month of January.

The INSCRIPTION Imitated.

I.

Peace has explor'd this silvan scene,
She courts your calm retreat,
Ye groves of variegated green,
That grace my genial seat!

Here, in the lap of lenient ease,
(Remote from mad'ning noise)
Let me delude a length of days,
In dear domestic joys!

II.

Long may the parent Queen of Flow'rs
Her fragrance here display!
Long may she paint my mantling bow'rs,
And make my portals gay!

Nor you—my yellow gardens, fail
To swell Pomona's hoard!
So shall the plenteous, rich regale—
Replenish, long, my board!

III.

Pour through the groves your carols clear,
Ye birds, nor bondage dread:
If any toils entangle here,
'Tis those which Love hath spread.

Where the green hill so gradual slants,
Or flowery glade extends,
Long may these fair, these fav'rite haunts
Prove social to my friends!

IV.

May you preserve perpetual bloom,
My happy halcion seat!
Or if fell time denounce thy doom,
Far distant be its date!

And when he makes, with iron rage,
Thy youthful pride his prey,
Long may the honours of thy age
Be reverenc'd in decay!

Imitated.

I

In the deep bosom of my grove
A sweet recess survey!
Where birds, with elegies of love,
Make vocal every spray.
A sylvan spot, with woods—with waters crown'd,
With all the rural honours blooming round!

II

This little, but commodious seat
(Where nature weds with art)
A'nt to the eye superbly great,
Its beauties charm the heart.
Here, may the happy founder and his race
Pass their full days in harmony and peace!

CONTENT:

A PASTORAL.

I

O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,
As wilder'd and weary'd I roam,
A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me—o'er lawns—to her home:
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,
Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,
Her casement, sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,
And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

II

We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast:
Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me the best.
While thrown from my guard by some glances she cast,
Love slily stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly reply'd,
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)
I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd,
But take me, fond shepherd—I'm thine.

III

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek!
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclin'd on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

IV

Together we range o'er the slow rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,
Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;
The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have nam'd her Content.

CORYDON AND PHILLIS:

A PASTORAL.

I

Her sheep had in clusters crept close by the grove,
To hide from the rigours of day;
And Phillis herself, in a woodbine alcove,
Among the fresh violets lay:
A youngling, it seems had been stole from its dam,
('Twixt Cupid and Hymen a plot)
That Corydon might, as he search'd for his lamb,
Arrive at this critical spot.

II

As through the gay hedge for his lambkin he peeps,
He saw the sweet maid with surprize;
“Ye Gods, if so killing,” he cry'd, “when she sleeps,
“I'm lost when she opens her eyes!

“To tarry much longer would hazard my heart,
“I'll onwards, my lambkin to trace:”
In vain honest Corydon strove to depart,
For love had him nail'd to the place.

III

“Hush, hush'd be these birds, what a bawling they keep!”
He cry'd, “you're too loud on the spray,
“Don't you see, foolish lark, that the charmer's asleep;
“You'll wake her as sure as 'tis day:
“How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet maid!
“Her cheek he mistakes for the rose;
“I'd pat him to death, if I was not afraid,
“My boldness would break her repose.”

IV

Young Phillis look'd up with a languishing smile,
“Kind shepherd,” she said, “you mistake;
“I laid myself down just to rest me a while,
“But trust me, have still been awake:”
The shepherd took courage, advanc'd with a bow,
He plac'd himself close by her side,
And manag'd the matter, I cannot tell how,
But yesterday made her his bride.

AN ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS.

Aspice murorum moles, præruptaque saxa!
Janus Vitalis.

Omnia, tempus edax depascitur, omnia carpit.
Seneca.

I

In the full prospect yonder hill commands,
O'er barren heaths, and cultivated plains;
The vestige of an ancient abbey stands,
Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains.

II

Half buried, there, lie many a broken bust,
And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time;
And many a cherub, there, descends in dust
From the rent roof, and portico sublime.

III

The rivulets, oft frighted at the sound
Of fragments, tumbling from the tow'rs on high,
Plunge to their source in secret caves profound,
Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry.

IV

Where rev'rend shrines in gothic grandeur stood,
The nettle, or the noxious night-shade spreads;
And ashlings, wafted from the neighb'ring wood,
Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.

V

There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,
Her attitude compos'd, and aspect sweet!
Sits musing on a monumental stone,
And points to the Memento at her feet.

VI

Soon as sage ev'ning check'd day's sunny pride,
I left the mantling shade in moral mood;
And seated by the maid's sequester'd side,
Sigh'd, as the mould'ring monuments I view'd.

VII

Inexorably calm, with silent pace
Here Time has pass'd—What ruin marks his way!
This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,
Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.

VIII

Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes
In vain; and Melody her song sublime:
In vain, Philosophy, with maxims wise,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.

IX

Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not mov'd to spare,
Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;
And partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tott'ring tow'rs with twisted ivy ty'd.

X

How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss,
That terminates the view, yon cloister'd way!
In the crush'd wall, a time-corroded cross,
Religion like, stands mould'ring in decay!

XI

Where the mild sun, thro' saint-encypher'd glass,
Illum'd with mellow light yon dusky isle,
Many rapt hours might Meditation pass,
Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the pile!

XII

And Piety, with mystic-meaning beads,
Bowing to saints on every side inurn'd,
Trod oft the solitary path that leads
Where now the sacred altar lies o'erturn'd!

XIII

Thro' the grey grove, between those with'ring trees,
'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears
A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,
Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears:

XIV

Low levell'd in the dust her darling's laid!
Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom;
Nor could maternal piety dissuade,
Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

XV

The relics of a mitred saint may rest,
Where, mould'ring in the niche, his statue stands;
Now nameless as the croud that kiss'd his vest,
And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

XVI

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illustrious Chieftain lie;
As trac'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.

XVII

Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain,
His rights and rich demesnes extended wide!
That honour and her knights compos'd his train,
And chivalry stood marshal'd by his side!

XVIII

Tho' to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb,
And frown'd defiance on the desperate foe;
Tho' deem'd invincible, the conqueror, Time,
Level'd the fabric, as the founder, low.

XIX

Where the light lyre gave many a soft'ning sound,
Ravens and rooks, the birds of discord, dwell;
And where Society sat sweetly crown'd,
Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.

XX

The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,
Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room,
Where the sage matron and her maidens sat,
Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom.

XXI

The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste;
And the rude winds incessant seem to roar,
Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac'd,
Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.

XXII

His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide
To pure canals, a chrystal cool supply!
In the deep dust their barren beauties hide:
Time's thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them dry!

XXIII

Tho' his rich hours in revelry were spent,
With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew;
And the sweet brow of beauty still unbent,
Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew:

XXIV

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;
Not to be stay'd by masque or midnight roar!
Nor shall a pulse among that mould'ring dust
Beat wanton at the smiles of Beauty more!

XXV

Can the deep statesman, skill'd in great design,
Protract, but for a day, precarious breath?
Or the tun'd follower of the sacred Nine
Sooth, with his melody, insatiate death!

XXVI

No—Tho' the palace bar her golden gate,
Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around;
Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!

XXVII

What then avails Ambition's wide stretch'd wing,
The Schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty's bloom!
The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-rob'd king,
Level'd, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb.

XXVIII

The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,
Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began,
Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,
“Philip! remember, thou'rt no more than man.

XXIX

“Tho' glory spread thy name from pole to pole:
“Tho' thou art merciful, and brave, and just;
“Philip, reflect, thou'rt posting to the goal,
“Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!”

XXX

So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd,
(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdu'd)
Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd, when the perishable pomp he view'd:

XXXI

And as he rode, high in his regal car,
In all the purple pride of conquest drest;
Conspicuous, o'er the trophies gain'd in war,
Plac'd, pendent on a spear, his burial vest:

XXXII

While thus the herald cry'd—“This son of pow'r,
“This Saladin, to whom the nations bow'd,
“May, in the space of one revolving hour,
“Boast of no other spoil but yonder shroud!”

XXXIII

Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'd,
Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran;
And say, while memory weeps the blood-stain'd field,
Where lies the chief, and where the common man?

XXXIV

Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones,
And monumental trophies rais'd on high!
For Time confounds them with the crumbling bones,
That mix'd in hasty graves unnotic'd lie.

XXXV

Rests not beneath the turf the peasant's head,
Soft as the lord's, beneath the labour'd tomb?
Or sleeps one colder, in his close clay bed,
Than t'other in the wide vault's dreary womb?

XXXVI

Hither, let Luxury lead her loose-rob'd train;
Here flutter Pride, on purple-painted wings:
And from the moral prospect learn—how vain
The wish, that sighs for sublunary things!

A SONG.

[He that Love hath never try'd]

I

He that Love hath never try'd,
Nor had Cupid for his guide,
Cannot hit the passage right
To the palace of delight.

II

What are honours, regal wealth,
Florid youth, and rosy health?
Without Love his tribute brings,
Impotent, unmeaning things!

III

Gentle shepherds, persevere,
Still be tender, still sincere;
Love and Time, united, do
Wonders, if the heart be true.

SAPHO's HYMN TO VENUS. IMITATED.

I

Hail! (with eternal beauty blest!
O'er heav'n and earth ador'd!)
Hail, Venus! 'Tis thy slave's request,
Her peace may be restor'd:
Break the fond bonds, remove the rankling smart,
And bid thy tyrant son from Sapho's soul depart.

II

Once you descended, Queen of Love,
At Sapho's bold desire,
From the high roofs of sacred Jove,
Thy ever glorious sire!
I saw thy dusky pinion'd sparrows bear
Thy chariot, rolling, light, thro' the rejoicing air.

III

No transient visit you design'd,
Your wanton birds depart;
And with a look, divinely kind,
That sooth'd my flutt'ring heart:
“Sapho, say you, What sorrow breaks thy rest?
“How can I give relief to thy conflicting breast?

IV

“Is there a youth severely coy,
“My fav'rite would subdue?
“Or has she lost some wand'ring boy,
“To plighted vows untrue?
“Spread thy soft nets, the rambler shall return,
“And with new lighted flames, more fond, more fiercely burn.

V

“Thy profer'd gifts tho' he deride,
“And scorn thy glowing charms,
“Soon shall his every art be try'd
“To win thee to his arms:
“Tho' he be now as cold as virgin snow,
“The victim, in his turn, shall like rous'd Ætna glow.”

VI

Thee, Goddess, I again invoke,
These mad desires remove!
Again I've felt the furious stroke
Of irresistless Love:
Bid gentle peace to Sapho's breast return,
Or make the youth she loves with mutual ardour burn.

100

ANACREON. ODE LVIII. Imitated.

As I wove with wanton care,
Fillets for a virgin's hair,
Culling for my fond design,
What the fields had fresh and fine:
Cupid,—and I mark'd him well,
Hid him in a cowslip bell;
While he plum'd a pointed dart,
Fated to inflame the heart.

Glowing with malicious joy,
Sudden I secur'd the boy;
And, regardless of his cries,
Bore the little frighted prize
Where the mighty goblet stood,
Teeming with a rosy flood.

Urchin, in my rage I cry'd,
What avails thy saucy pride?
From thy busy vengeance free,
Triumph now belongs to me!

101

Thus—I drown thee in my cup;
Thus—in wine I drink thee up.

Fatal was the nectar'd draught
That to murder Love I quaff'd,
O'er my bosom's fond domains,
Now the cruel tyrant reigns:
On my heart's most tender strings,
Striking with his wanton wings,
I'm for ever doom'd to prove
All the insolence of love.

102

ANACREON. ODE IX. Imitated.

THE DOVE.

Tell me, said I, my beauteous Dove,
(If an ambassadress from Love)
Tell me, on what soft errand sent,
Thy gentle flight is this way bent?

Ambrosial sweets thy pinions shed
As in the quivering breeze they spread!

A message, says the bird, I bear
From fond Anacreon to the fair;
A virgin of celestial grace!
The Venus of the human race!

103

Me, for an hymn, or amorous ode,
The Paphean Venus once bestowd
To the sweet bard; for whom I'd fly
Unwearied to the farthest sky.

Thro' the soft air he bade me glide,
(See, to my wing his billet's ty'd)
And told me, 'twas his kind decree,
When I return'd, to set me free.

'Twould prove me but a simple bird
To take Anacreon at his word:
Why should I hide me in the wood,
Or search for my precarious food,
When I've my master's leave to stand
Cooing upon his friendly hand;
When I can be profusely fed
With crumbs of his ambrosial bread,
And welcom'd to his nectar bowl,
Sip the rich drops that fire the soul;
'Till in fantastic rounds I spread
My fluttering pinions o'er his head:

Or if he strike the trembling wire,
I perch upon my fav'rite lyre;
'Till lull'd into luxuriant rest,
Sleep steals upon my raptur'd breast.

104

Go, stranger—to your business—go,
I've told you all you wish'd to know:
Go, stranger,—and I think you'll say,
This prattling Dove's an arrant Jay.

105

THE DANCE.

Anacreontic.

Hark! the speaking strings invite,
Music calls us to delight:
See the maids in measures move,
Winding like the maze of love.
As they mingle, madly gay,
Sporting Hebe leads the way.

On each glowing cheek is spread,
Rosy Cupid's native red;
And from ev'ry sparkling eye,
Pointed darts at random fly.
Love, and active Youth, advance
Foremost in the sprightly dance.

As the magic numbers rise,
Through my veins the poison flies;
Raptures, not to be exprest,
Revel in my throbbing breast.

106

Jocund as we beat the ground,
Love and Harmony go round.

Every maid (to crown his bliss)
Gives her youth a rosy kiss;
Such a kiss as might inspire
Thrilling raptures—soft desire:
Such Adonis might receive,
Such the Queen of Beauty gave,
When the conquer'd Goddess strove
(In the conscious myrtle grove)
To inflame the boy with love.

Let not Pride our sports restrain,
Banish hence the Prude, Disdain!
Think—ye virgins, if you're coy,
Think—ye rob yourselves of joy;
Every moment you refuse,
So much extasy you lose:
Think—how fast these moments fly:
If you should too long deny,
Love and Beauty both will die.

107

ANACREON. ODE XIV. Imitated.

Why did I with Love engage!
Why provoke his mighty rage!

True it is the wand'ring child,
Met me with an aspect mild,
And besought me like a friend,
At his gentle shrine to bend.
True, from my mistaken pride,
Due devotion was deny'd,
'Till (because I would not yield)
Cupid dar'd me to the field.

Now I'm in my armour clasp'd,
Now the mighty lance is grasp'd,
But an Achileian spear
Would be ineffectual here,
While the poison'd arrows fly
Hot, as lightning from the sky.

108

Wounded, thro' the woods I run,
Follow'd still by Beauty's son,
Arrows in malignant showers,
Still the angry urchin pours;
'Till exhausting all his store,
(When the quiver yields no more)
See the God—a living dart,
Shoots himself into my heart.

Freedom I must, now, resign,
Victory, oh Love, is thine!
What can outward actions win
When the battle burns within!

109

IMITATION FROM ANACREON.

Fill me that capacious cup,
Fill it, to the margin up;
From my veins the thirsty day
Quaffs the vital strength away.

Let a wreath my temples shield,
Fresh from the enamell'd field;
These declining roses bow,
Blasted by my sultry brow.

Flowrets, by their friendly aid,
From the Sunbeams form a shade:
Let me from my heart require,
(Glowing with intense desire)

Is there, in the deepest grove,
Shelter from the Beams of Love?

110

ANACREON. ODE XXXIII. Imitated.

TO THE SWALLOW.

Soon as summer glads the sky,
Hither, gentle bird, you fly;
And with golden sunshine blest,
Build your pretty plaster'd nest.

When the seasons cease to smile,
(Wing'd for Memphis or the Nile)
Charming bird, you disappear
'Till the kind succeeding year.

Like the Swallow, Love, depart!
Respite for a while my heart.

111

No, he'll never leave his nest,
Tyrant tenant of my breast!
There a thousand Wishes try
On their callow wings to fly;
There you may a thousand tell,
Pertly peeping thro' the shell:
In a state unfinish'd, rise
Thousands of a smaller size.

'Till their noisy chirpings cease,
Never shall my heart have peace.

Feather'd ones the younglings feed,
'Till mature they're fit to breed;
Then, to swell the crowded store,
They produce their thousands more:
Nor can mighty numbers count
In my breast their vast amount.

112

THE PICTURE:

A TALE.

A portrait, at my Lord's command,
Compleated by a curious hand:
For dabblers in the nice Vertû
His Lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their Connoisseurships tell,
Whether the work was finish'd well.
Why—says the loudest, on my word,
'Tis not a Likeness, good my Lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just.
Another effort streight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought,
Each to deliver what he thought.
Worse than the first—the critics bawl;
O what a mouth! how monstrous small!
Look at the cheeks—how lank and thin!
See, what a most prepost'rous chin!

113

After remonstrance made in vain,
I'll, says the painter, once again,
(If my good Lord vouchsafes to sit)
Try for a more successful hit:
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to please you all.
To-morrow comes—a picture's plac'd
Before those spurious sons of taste—
In their opinions all agree,
This is the vilest of the three.
“Know—to confute your envious pride,
(His Lordship from the canvas cry'd)
“Know—that it is my real face,
“Where you could no resemblance trace:
“I've try'd you by a lucky trick,
“And prov'd your Genius to the quick.
“Void of all judgement—justice—sense,
“Out—ye pretending varlets—hence.”

The Connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despis'd—detected—and disgrac'd.

114

THE WITCH:

A TALE.

A witch, that from her ebon chair,
Could hurl destruction thro' the air,
Or, at her all commanding will,
Make the tumultuous ocean still:
Once, by an incantation fell,
(As the recording Druids tell)
Pluck'd the round moon, whose radiant light
Silver'd the sober noon of night,
From the domain she held above,
Down to a dark, infernal grove.

Give me, the Goddess cry'd, a cause,
Why you disturb my sacred laws?
Look at my train,—yon wand'ring host!
See how the trembling stars are lost!
Thro' the celestial regions wide,
Why do they range without a guide!
Chaos, from our confusion, may
Hope for his old detested sway.

115

I'm, says the Witch, severely crost,
Know that my fav'rite Squirrel's lost:
Search—for I'll have creation torn,
If he's not found before the morn.

Soon as the impious charge was giv'n—
From the tremendous stores of heaven,
Jove with a bolt—revengeful!—red!
Struck the detested monster dead.

If there are slaves to pity blind,
With power enough to plague mankind,
That for their own nefarious ends,
Tread upon Freedom and her Friends,
Let 'em beware the Witch's fate!
When their presumption's at the height,
Jove will his angry powers assume,
And the curs'd miscreants meet their doom.

116

REPUTATION:

An ALLEGORY.

To travel far as the wide world extends,
Seeking for objects that deserv'd their care,
Virtue set forth, with two selected friends,
Talent refin'd, and Reputation fair.

As they went on, in their intended round,
Talent first spoke, “My gentle comrades, say,
“Where each of you may probably be found,
“Should Accident divide us on the way.

“If torn (she added) from my lov'd allies,
“A friendly patronage I hope to find,
“Where the fine arts from cultivation rise,
“And the sweet muse hath harmoniz'd mankind.”

Says Virtue, “Did Sincerity appear,
“Or meek-ey'd Charity among the great;
“Could I find courtiers from corruption clear,
“'Tis among these I'd seek for my retreat.

117

“Could I find patriots, for the public weal
“Assiduous, and without their selfish views;
“Could I find priests of undissembled zeal,
“'Tis among those my residence I'd chuse.

“In glitt'ring domes let Luxury reside;
“I must be found in some sequester'd cell,
“Far from the paths of avarice or pride,
“Where home-bred happiness delights to dwell.”

“Ye may be trac'd, my gentle friends, 'tis true,
“But who (says Reputation) can explore
“My slipp'ry steps?—Keep, keep me in your view,
“If I'm once lost, you'll never find me more.”

118

THE ROSE AND BUTTERFLY:

A FABLE.

At day's early dawn a gay Butterfly spied
A budding young Rose, and he wish'd her his bride:
She blush'd when she heard him his passion declare,
And tenderly told him—he need not despair.

Their faith was soon plighted, as lovers will do,
He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.

It had not been prudent to deal with delay,
The bloom of a rose passes quickly away,
And the pride of a butterfly dies in a day.

When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies,
From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;
Nor did he revisit his bride, 'till the sun
Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.

119

The Rose thus reproach'd him—‘Already so cold!
‘How feign'd, O you false one, the passion you told!
‘'Tis an age since you left me:” She meant a few hours;
But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers:
‘I saw when you gave the base violet a kiss:
‘How—how could you stoop to a meanness like this?
‘Shall a low, little wretch, whom we Roses despise,
‘Find favour, O love! in my Butterfly's eyes?
‘On a tulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,
‘Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:
‘Dull daffodils too, were with ardour address'd,
‘And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd.”

The coxcomb was piqu'd, and reply'd with a sneer,
‘That you're first to complain, I commend you, my dear!
‘But know, from your conduct my maxims I drew,
‘And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.

‘I saw the boy Zephirus rifle your charms,
‘I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;

120

‘The honey-bee kiss'd you, you cannot disown,
‘You favour'd besides—O dishonour!—a drone;
‘Yet worse—'tis a crime that you must not deny,
‘Your sweets were made common, false Rose, to a fly.”

Moral.

This law, long ago, did Love's Providence make,
That ev'ry Coquet should be curs'd with a Rake.

121

THE SHEEP AND THE BRAMBLE-BUSH:

A FABLE.

A thick-twisted brake, in the time of a storm,
Seem'd kindly to cover a sheep:
So snug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm,
It quietly sooth'd him asleep.

The clouds are now scatter'd—the winds are at peace;
The sheep to his pasture inclin'd:
But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,
His coat is left forfeit behind.

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,
Consider before you get in;
Tho' judgement and sentence are pass'd on your side,
By Jove, you'll be fleec'd to the skin.

122

THE FOX AND THE CAT.

A FABLE.

The Fox and the Cat, as they travell'd one day,
With moral discourses cut shorter the way:
‘'Tis great (says the Fox) to make justice our guide!’
‘How godlike is mercy!’ Grimalkin reply'd.

Whilst thus they proceeded,—a Wolf from the wood,
Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood,
Rush'd forth—as he saw the dull shepherd asleep,
And seiz'd for his supper an innocent Sheep.

123

‘In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat,
‘When mutton's at hand, (says the Wolf) I must eat.’
Grimalkin's astonish'd,—the Fox stood aghast,
To see the fell beast at his bloody repast.
‘What a wretch, (says the Cat)—'tis the vilest of brutes:
‘Does he feed upon flesh, when there's herbage,—and roots?’
Cries the Fox—‘While our oaks give us acorns so good,
‘What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent blood?’

Well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd still,
'Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill;
Sly Reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes,
And made (spite of morals) a pullet his prize.

A Mouse too, that chanc'd from her covert to stray,
The greedy Grimalkin secur'd as her prey.

A Spider that sat in her web on the wall,
Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pity'd their fall;

124

She cry'd—‘Of such murders how guiltless am I!’
So ran to regale on a new taken fly.

Moral.

The faults of our neighbours with freedom we blame,
But tax not ourselves, tho' we practise the same.

125

HYMEN.

When Chloe, with a blush comply'd,
To be the fond Nicander's bride,
His wild imagination ran
On raptures never known by man.
How high the tides of fancy swell,
Expression must despair to tell.

A painter call'd,—Nicander cries,
“Descending from the radiant skies,
“Draw me a bright, a beauteous boy,
“The herald of connubial joy!
“Draw him with all peculiar care,
“Make him beyond Adonis fair;

126

“Give to his cheeks a roseate hue,
“Let him have eyes of heav'nly blue,
“Lips soft'ning in nectarious dew;
“A lustre o'er his charms display,
“More glorious than the beams of day.
“Expect, Sir, if you can succeed,
“A premium for a Prince indeed.”

His talents streight the painter try'd,
And ere the nuptial knot was ty'd,
A picture in the noblest taste
Before the fond Nicander plac'd.

The lover thus arraign'd his skill,
“Your execution's monst'rous ill!
“A different form my fancy made;
“You're quite a bungler at the trade.
“Where is the robe's luxuriant flow?
“Where is the cheek's cgælestial glow?
“Where are the looks so fond and free?
“'Tis not an Hymen, Sir, for me.”

The painter bow'd—with this reply,
“My colours an't, your Honour, dry;
“When time has mellow'd ev'ry tint,
“'Twill please you—or the deuce is in't:
“I'll watch the happy change, and then
“Attend you with my piece again.”

127

In a few months the painter came
With a performance—(still the same:)

“Take it away,”—the husband cry'd,
“I have repeated cause to chide:
“Sir, you should all excesses shun;
“This is a picture overdone!
“There's too much ardour in that eye,
“The tincture on the cheeks too high!
“The robes have a lascivious play,
“The attitude's too loosely gay.
“Friend, on the whole, this piece, for me,
“Is too luxuriant—far too free.”

The painter thus—“The faults you find
“Are form'd in your capricious mind;
“To passion a devoted slave,
“The first directions, Sir, you gave;
“Possession has repell'd the flame,
“Nor left a sentiment the same.

“My picture is design'd to prove
“The changes of precarious love.

“On the next stair-case rais'd on high,
“Regard it with a curious eye;
“As to the first steps you proceed,
“'Tis an accomplish'd piece indeed!

128

“But as you mount some paces higher,
“Is there a grace that don't expire?

So various is the human mind,
Such are the frailties of mankind,
What at a distance charm'd our eyes,
After attainment—droops—and dies.

129

FORTUNE:

AN APOLOGUE.

Fabula narratur.

I

Jove and his senators, in sage debate
For Man's felicity, were settling laws,
When a rude roar that shook the sacred gate,
Turn'd their attention to enquire the cause.

130

II

A long-ear'd wretch, the loudest of his race,
In the rough garniture of grief array'd,
Came brawling to the high imperial place,
“Let me have justice, Jupiter!”—he bray'd.

III

“I am an Ass, of innocence allow'd
“The type, yet Fortune persecutes me still;
“While foxes, wolves, and all the murd'ring crowd,
“Beneath her patronage can rob and kill.

IV

“The pamper'd horse (he never toil'd so hard!)
“Favour and friendship from his owner finds;
“For endless diligence,—(a rough reward!)
“I'm cudgel'd by a race of paltry hinds.

V

“On wretched provender compell'd to feed!
“The rugged pavement ev'ry night my bed?
“For me, dame Fortune never yet decreed
“The gracious comforts of a well-thatch'd shed.

VI

“Rough and unseemly's my irreverent hide!
“Where can I visit, thus uncouthly drest?
“That outside elegance the dame deny'd,
“For which her fav'rites are too oft caress'd.

131

VII

“To suff'ring virtue, sacred Jove, be kind!
“From Fortune's tyranny pronounce me free!
“She's a deceiver if she says she's blind,
“She sees, propitiously sees all—but me.”

VIII

The plaintiff could articulate no more:
His bosom heav'd a most tremendous groan!
The race of long ear'd wretches join'd the roar,
'Till Jove seem'd tott'ring on his high-built throne.

IX

The Monarch, with an all-commanding sound,
(Deepen'd like thunder thro' the rounds of space)
Gave order,—That dame Fortune should be found,
To answer, as she might, the plaintiff's case.

X

Soldiers and citizens, a seemly train!
And lawyers and physicians, sought her cell;
With many a schoolman—But their search was vain:
Few can the residence of Fortune tell.

132

XI

Where the wretch Avarice was wont to hide
His gold, his emeralds, and rubies rare;
'Twas rumour'd that dame Fortune did reside,
And Jove's ambassadors were posted there.

XII

Meagre and wan, in tatter'd garments drest,
A feeble porter at the gate they found:
Doubled with wretchedness—with age distrest,
And on his wrinkled forehead Famine frown'd.

XIII

“Mortals avaunt, (the trembling spectre cries)
“Ere you invade those sacred haunts, beware!
“To guard Lord Avarice, from rude surprize,
“I am the centinel—my name is Care.

XIV

“Doubts, Disappointments, Anarchy of mind,
“These are the soldiers that surround his hall:
“And ev'ry Fury that can lash mankind,
“Rage, Rancour, and Revenge attend his call.

XV

“Fortune's gone forth, you seek a wand'ring dame,
“A settled residence the harlot scorns:
“Curse on such visitants, she never came,
“But with a cruel hand she scatter'd thorns!

133

XVI

“To the green vale, yon shelt'ring hills surround,
“Go forward, you'll arrive at Wisdom's cell:
“Would you be taught where Fortune may be found,
“None can direct your anxious search so well.”

XVII

Forward they went, o'er many a dreary spot:
(Rough was the road, as if untrod before)
'Till from the casement of a low-roof'd cot
Wisdom perceiv'd them, and unbarr'd her door.

XVIII

Wisdom, (she knew of Fortune but the name)
Gave to their questions a serene reply:
“Hither, (she said) if e'er that Goddess came,
“I saw her not—she pass'd unnotic'd by.

XIX

“Abroad with Contemplation oft I roam,
“And leave to Poverty my humble cell:
“She's my domestic, never stirs from home,
“If Fortune has been here, 'tis she can tell.

XX

“The matron eyes us from yon mantling shade,
“And see her sober footsteps this way bent!
“Mark by her side a little rose-lipp'd maid,
“'Tis my young daughter, and her name's Content.”

134

XXI

As Poverty advanc'd with lenient grace,
“Fortune (she cry'd) hath never yet been here:
“But Hope, a gentle neighbour of this place,
“Tells me, her highness may, in time, appear.

XXII

“Felicity, no doubt, adorns their lot,
“On whom her golden bounty beams divine!
“Yet tho' she never reach our rustic cot,
“Patience will visit us—we sha'n't repine.”

XXIII

After a vast (but unavailing) round,
The messengers returning in despair,
On an high hill a fairy mansion found,
And hop'd the Goddess, Fortune, might be there.

XXIV

The dome, so glitt'ring, it amaz'd the sight,
('Twas adamant, with gems encrusted o'er)
Had not a casement to admit the light,
Nor could Jove's deputies descry the door.

XXV

But eager to conclude a tedious chace,
And anxious to return from whence they came,
Thrice they invok'd the Genius of the place,
Thrice utter'd, awfully, Jove's sacred name.

135

XXVI

As Echo from the hill announc'd high Jove,
Illusion and her fairy dome withdrew:
(Like the light mists by early sunbeams drove)
And Fortune stood reveal'd to public view.

XXVII

Oft for that happiness high courts deny'd,
To this receptacle dame Fortune ran:
When harrass'd, it was here she us'd to hide,
From the wild suits of discontented Man.

XXVIII

Prostrate, the delegates their charge declare,
(Happy the courtier that salutes her feet!)
Fortune receiv'd them with a flatt'ring air,
And join'd them 'till they reach'd Jove's judgement seat.

XXIX

Men of all ranks at that illustrious place
Were gather'd; tho' from diff'rent motives keen:
Many—to see dame Fortune's radiant face,
Many—by radiant Fortune to be seen.

XXX

Jove smil'd, as on a fav'rite he esteems,
He gave her, near his own, a golden seat:
Fair Fortune's an adventurer, it seems,
The deities themselves are glad to greet.

136

XXXI

“Daughter, (says Jupiter) you're sore accus'd!
“Clamour incessantly reviles your name!
“If by the rancour of that wretch abus'd,
“Be confident, and vindicate your fame.

XXXII

“Tho' pester'd daily with complaints from Man,
“Through this conviction I record them not—
“Let my kind providence do all it can,
“None of that species ever lik'd his lot.

XXXIII

“But the poor quadrupede that now appeals!
“Can wanton cruelty the weak pursue!
“Large is the catalogue of woes he feels,
“And all his wretchedness he lays to you.”

XXXIV

“Ask him, high Jupiter—(reply'd the dame)
“In what he has excell'd his long-ear'd class!
“Is Fortune (a divinity) to blame
“That she descends not to regard—an Ass?”

XXXV

Fame enter'd in her rolls the sage reply;
The dame, defendant, was discharg'd with grace!
“Go—(to the plaintiff, said the Sire) and try
“By merit to surmount your low-born race.

137

XXXVI

“Learn from the Lion to be just and brave,
“Take from the Elephant instruction wise;
“With gracious breeding like the Horse behave,
“Nor the sagacity of Hounds despise.

XXXVII

“These useful qualities with care imbibe,
“For which some quadrupedes are justly priz'd:
“Attain those talents that adorn each tribe,
“And you'll no longer be a wretch despis'd.”

138

A MAN TO MY MIND.

(Wrote at the Request of a Lady.)

I

Since wedlock's in vogue, and stale virgins despis'd,
To all batchelors greeting, these lines are premis'd;
I'm a maid that would marry, but where shall I find
(I wish not for fortune) a man to mind?

II

Not the fair-weather fop, fond of fashion and lace;
Not the 'squire, that can wake to no joys but the chace;
Not the free-thinking rake, whom no morals can bind:
Neither this—that—nor t'other's the man to my mind.

139

III

Not the ruby-fac'd sot, that topes world without end;
Not the drone, who can't relish his bottle and friend;
Not the fool, that's too fond; nor the churl that's unkind:
Neither this—that—nor t'other's the man to my mind.

IV

Not the wretch with full bags, without breeding or merit;
Not the Flash, that's all fury without any spirit;
Not the fine master Fribble, the scorn of mankind:
Neither this—that—nor t'other's the man to my mind.

V

But the youth in whom merit and sense may conspire,
Whom the brave must esteem, and the fair should admire;
In whose heart love and truth are with honour combin'd:
This—this—and no other's the man to my mind.

140

WITH A PRESENT.

I

Let not the hand of Amity be nice!
Nor the poor tribute from the heart disclaim;
A trifle shall become a pledge of price,
If friendship stamps it with her sacred name.

II

The little rose that laughs upon its stem,
One of the sweets with which the gardens teem,
In value soars above an eastern gem,
If tender'd as the token of esteem.

III

Had I vast hoards of massy wealth to send,
Such as your merits might demand—their due!
Then should the golden tribute of your friend
Rival the treasures of the rich Peru.

141

FANCY:

A SONG in a Pantomime Entertainment.

I

Fancy leads the fetter'd senses
Captives to her fond controul;
Merit may have rich pretences,
But 'tis Fancy fires the soul.

II

Far beyond the bounds of meaning
Fancy flies, a fairy Queen!
Fancy, wit and worth disdaining,
Gives the prize to Harlequin.

III

If the virgin's false, forgive her,
Fancy was your only foe:
Cupid claims the dart and quiver,
But 'tis Fancy twangs the bow.

142

LOVE AND CHASTITY:

A CANTATA.

Recitative.

From the high mount , whence sacred groves depend,
Diana and her virgin troop descend;
And while the buskin'd maids with active care,
The business of the daily chace prepare,
A favourite nymph steps forward from the throng,
And thus, exulting, swells the jovial song.

Air.

Jolly Health springs aloft at the loud sounding horn,
Unlock'd from soft slumber's embrace;
And Joy sings an hymn to salute the sweet morn,
That smiles on the nymphs of the chace:
The rage of fell Cupid no bosom prophanes,
No rancour disturbs our delight,

143

All the day with fresh vigour we sweep o'er the plains,
And sleep with contentment all night.

Recit.

Their clamour rous'd the slighted God of Love:
He flies, indignant, to the sacred grove:
Immortal myrtles wreath his golden hair,
His rosy wings perfume the wanton air;
Two quivers fill'd with darts his fell designs declare.
A crimsom blush o'erspread Diana's face,
A frown succeeds—She stops the springing chace,
And thus, forbids the boy the consecrated place.

Air.

Fond disturber of the heart,
From these sacred shades depart:
Here's a blooming troop disdains
Love, and his fantastic chains.
Sisters of the silver bow,
Pure and chaste as virgin snow,
Melt not at thy feeble fires,
Wanton God of wild desires!

144

Recit.

Rage and revenge divide Love's little breast,
Whilst thus the angry Goddess he addrest:

Air.

Virgin snow does oft remain
Long unmelted on the plain,
'Till the glorious God of day
Smiles, and wastes its pride away.

What is Sol's meridian fire
To the darts of strong desire!
Love can light a raging flame
Hotter than his noontide beam.

Recit.

Now, through the forest's brown embower'd ways,
With careless steps the young Endymion strays:
His form erect!—loose flows his lovely hair,
His glowing cheeks like youthful Hebe's fair!
His graceful limbs with ease and vigour move,
His eyes—his ev'ry feature form'd for love:
Around the list'ning woods attentive hung,
Whilst thus, invoking sleep, the shepherd sung:

145

Air.

Where the pebbled streamlet glides
Near the wood nymph's rustic grot.
If the God of Sleep resides,
Or in Pan's sequester'd cot:
Hither if he'll lightly tread,
Follow'd by a gentle dream,
We'll enjoy this grassy bed,
On the bank beside the stream.

Recit.

As on the painted turf the shepherd lies,
Sleep's downy curtain shades his lovely eyes;
And now a sporting breeze his bosom shews,
As marble smooth, and white as Alpine snows:
The Goddess gaz'd, in magic softness bound;
Her silver bow falls useless to the ground?
Love laugh'd, and, sure of conquest, wing'd a dart
Unerring, to her undefended heart.
She feels in ev'ry vein the fatal fire,
And thus persuades her virgins to retire:

Air.

I

Ye tender maids be timely wise!
Love's wanton fury shun!
In flight alone your safety lies,
The daring are undone!

146

II

Do blue-ey'd doves, serenely mild,
With vultures, fell, engage!
Do lambs provoke the lion wild,
Or tempt the tyger's rage!

III

No, no, like fawns, ye virgins fly,
To secret cells remove;
Nor dare the doubtful combat try
'Twixt Chastity and Love.

Mount Latmos.

147

AMPHITRION.

Recitative.

Amphitrion and his bride, a godlike pair!
He brave as Mars, and she as Venus fair;
On thrones of gold in purple triumph plac'd,
With matchless splendour held the nuptial feast:
Whilst the high roof with loud applauses rung,
Enraptur'd, thus, the happy hero sung:

Air.

Was mighty Jove descending,
In all his wrath divine,
Enrag'd at my pretending
To call this charmer mine:
His shafts of bolted thunder
With boldness I'd deride;
Not Heav'n itself can sunder
The hearts that love has ty'd.

148

Recit.

The Thunderer heard,—he look'd with vengeance down,
'Till beauty's glance disarm'd his awful frown.
The magic impulse of Alcmena's eyes
Compell'd the conquer'd God to quit his skies;
He feign'd the husband's form, possess'd her charms,
And punish'd his presumption in her arms.

Air.

He deserves sublimest pleasure,
Who reveals it not, when won:
Beauty's like the miser's treasure;
Boast it—and the fool's undone!

Learn by this, unguarded lover,
When your secret sighs prevail,
Not to let your tongue discover
Raptures that you should conceal.

149

ANACREON. ODE XIX. Imitated.

Old Earth, when in a tipling vein,
Drinks torrents of ambrosial rain,
Which the tall trees, by heat opprest,
Drink from her kind maternal breast:

Lest angry Ocean should be dry,
The river Gods their stores supply:
The Monarch of the glowing day
Drinks large potations from the sea:

And the pale Empress of the night
Drinks from his orb propitious light:
All—all things drink—abstemious sage!
Why should not we our thirst assuage?

150

NEWCASTLE BEER.

I

When Fame brought the news of Great-Britain's success,
And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat;
Glad Mars sent by Mercury orders express,
To summon the Deities all to a treat:
Blithe Comus was plac'd
To guide the gay feast,
And freely declar'd there was choice of good cheer;
Yet vow'd to his thinking,
For exquisite drinking,
Their Nectar was nothing to Newcastle Beer.

151

II

The great God of war, to encourage the fun,
And humour the taste of his whimsical guest,
Sent a message that moment to Moor's for a tun
Of Stingo, the stoutest, the brightest, and best:
No Gods—they all swore,
Regal'd so before,
With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear:
And each deified fellow
Got jovially mellow,
In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle Beer.

III

Apollo perceiving his talents refine,
Repents he drank Helicon water so long:
He bow'd, being ask'd by the musical Nine,
And gave the gay board an extempore song:
But ere he began,
He toss'd off his cann:
There's nought like good liquor the fancy to clear:
Then sang with great merit,
The flavour and spirit,
His Godship had found in our Newcastle Beer.

152

IV

'Twas Stingo like this made Alcides so bold,
It brac'd up his nerves, and enliven'd his pow'rs;
And his mystical club, that did wonders of old,
Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours.
The horrible crew
That Hercules slew,
Were Poverty—Calumny—Trouble—and Fear:
Such a club would you borrow,
To drive away sorrow,
Apply for a Jorum of Newcastle Beer.

V

Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid and pale,
Whom love, like the cholic, so rudely infests;
Take a cordial of this, 'twill probatum prevail,
And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts:
Dull whining despise,
Grow rosy and wise,
Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear;
Bid adieu to your folly,
Get drunk and be jolly,
And smoke o'er a tankard of Newcastle Beer.

153

VI

Ye fanciful folk, for whom physic prescribes,
Whom bolus and potion have harass'd to death!
Ye wretches, whom law and her ill-looking tribes,
Have hunted about 'till you're quite out of breath!
Here's shelter and ease,
No craving for fees,
No danger,—no doctor,—no bailiff is near!
Your spirits this raises,
It cures your diseases,
There's freedom and health in our Newcastle Beer.

Moor's, at the sign of the Sun, Newcastle.

154

THE TOAST:

A CATCH.

Give the toast—my good fellow, be jovial and gay,
And let the brisk moments pass jocund away!
Here's the King—take your bumpers, my brave British souls,
Who guards your fair freedom should crown your full bowls,
Let him live—long and happy, see Lewis brought down,
And taste all the comforts, no cares of a crown.

155

A Three-Part CATCH.

'Tis in view—(the rich blessing kind nature bestow'd,
To conquer our sorrows, or lighten the load)
A full Flask!—the rich nectar this bottle contains
In a flood of fresh rapture shall roll through our veins.
Let it bleed—and carousing this liquor divine,
Sing an hymn to the God that first cultur'd the vine.

156

ON Sir W--- B---T's BIRTH-DAY.

Does true felicity on grandeur wait?
Delights she in the pageantry of shew?
Say, can the glitt'ring gew gaws of the great
An hour of inborn happiness bestow?

He that is just, benevolent, humane,
In conscious rectitude supremely blest,
O'er the glad hearts of multitudes shall reign,
Tho' the gay star ne'er blaz'd upon his breast.

Ye happy children of the hoary North,
Hail the glad day that saw your patron born;
Whose private virtues and whose public worth,
Might the rich seats of Royalty adorn.

157

STANZAS

Spoken at a Play at the Theatre in Sunderland, for the Benefit of the Corsicans.

I

Who can behold with an unpitying eye
The glorious few (with patriotic fire)
Distrest—invaded—and resolv'd to die,
Or keep their independant rights entire?
Shackled themselves, the servile Gauls would bind,
In their ignoble fetters, half mankind.

II

The gentle homage that, to-night, you've paid
To Freedom, and her ever sacred laws,
The humble off'ring at her altar made,
Prove that your hearts beat nobly in her cause.
All-gracious Freedom, O vouchsafe to smile,
Thro' future ages, on this favourite isle!

158

III

Far may the boughs of Liberty expand,
For ever cultur'd by the Brave and Free!
For ever blasted be that impious hand,
That lops one branch from this illustrious tree!
Britons!—'tis yours to make her verdure thrive,
And keep the roots of Liberty alive.

IV

O, may her rich, her ripening fruits of gold,
Britannia! bloom perpetually for thee!
May you ne'er want a Dragon, as we're told
Defended, once, the fam'd Hesperian tree!
A Dragon fix'd, for your imperial sake,
With anxious eyes, eternally awake.

159

THE RESPITE:

A PASTORAL.

I

Ah, what is't to me that the Grashopper sings!
Or what, that the meadows are fair!
That (like little flow'rets, if mounted on wings)
The Butterflies flaunt it in air!
Ye birds, I'll no longer attend to a lay;
Your haunts in the forest resign?
Shall you, with your true loves, be happy all day,
Whilst I am divided from mine?

II

Where woodbines and willows inclin'd to unite,
We twisted a blooming alcove;
And oft has my Damon, with smiles of delight,
Declar'd it the Mantle of Love.

160

The roses that crept to our mutual recess,
And rested among the sweet boughs,
Are faded—they droop—and they cannot do less,
For Damon is false to his vows.

III

This oak has for ages the tempest defy'd,
We call it—the King of the grove;
He swore, a light breeze should its centre divide,
When he was not true to his love:
Come, come, gentle zephyr, in justice descend,
His falsehood you're bound to display;
This oak and its honours you'll easily rend,
For Damon has left me—a day.

IV

The shepherd rush'd forth from behind the thick tree,
Prepar'd to make Phillida blest,
And clasping the maid, from an heart full of glee,
The cause of his absence confest:
High raptures, 'twas told him by masters in love,
Too often repeated, would cloy;
And Respites—he found were the means to improve,
And lengthen the moments of joy.

161

AN IRREGULAR ODE ON MUSIC.

I.

Cease, gentle sounds, nor kill me quite,
With such excess of sweet delight!
Each trembling note invades my heart,
And thrills through ev'ry vital part;
A soft—a pleasing pain
Pursues my heated blood thro' ev'ry vein;
What—what does the enchantment mean?
Ah! give the charming magic o'er,
My beating heart can bear no more.

162

II.

Now wild with fierce desire,
My breast is all on fire!
In soften'd raptures, now, I die!
Can empty sound such joys impart!
Can music thus transport the heart,
With melting extasy!
O art divine! exalted blessing!
Each celestial charm expressing!
Kindest gift the Gods bestow!
Sweetest good that mortals know!

III.

When seated in a verdant shade
(Like tuneful Thyrsis) Orpheus play'd;
The distant trees forsake the wood,
The list'ning beasts neglect their food,
To hear the heav'nly sound;
The Dryads leave the mountains,
The Naiades quit the fountains,
And in a sprightly chorus dance around.

IV.

To raise the stately walls of ancient Troy,
Sweet Phœbus did his tuneful harp employ;

163

See what soft harmony can do!
The moving rocks the sound pursue,
'Till in a large collected mass they grew:
Had Thyrsis liv'd in these remoter days,
His were the chaplet of immortal bays!
Apollo's harp unknown!
The shepherd had remain'd of song
The Deity alone.

164

FROM A TRUANT TO HIS FRIENDS.

'Tis not in cells, or a sequester'd cot,
The mind and morals properly expand;
Let youth step forward to a busier spot,
Led by Discretion's cool, conducting hand.

To learn some lessons from the schools of man,
(Forgive me!) I forsook my darling home;
Not from a light, an undigested plan,
Nor from a youthful appetite to roam.

In your affections—(let resentment fly!)
Restore me to my long-accustom'd place;
Receive me with a kind, forgiving eye,
And press me in the parent's fond embrace.

165

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,

Written by NOBODY.

Advance to Fame—advance reveal'd!
Let conscious worth be bold:
Why have you lain so long conceal'd,
And hid Peruvian gold?

Dan Phoebus did with joy discern
Your Genius brought to light:
And many a Somebody should learn,
From Nobody to write.

166

A BIRTH-DAY ODE:

Performed at the Castle of Dublin.

Recitative.

Hark—how the soul of music reigns,
As when the first great birth of nature sprung,
When chaos burst his massy chains,
'Twas thus the Cherubs sung:

Air.

Hail—hail, from this auspicious morn
Shall British glories rise!
Now are the mighty treasures born,
That shall Britannia's fame adorn,
And lift her to the skies.

167

Recit.

Let George's mighty banners spread,
His lofty clarions roar;
'Till warlike echo fills with dread
The hostile Gallic shore.

Air.

Mark—how his name with terror fills!
The magic sound rebellion kills,
And brightens all the northern hills,
Where pallid treasons dwell;
The monster shall no more arise,
Upon the ground she panting lies!
Beneath his William's foot she dies,
And now, she sinks to hell.

Recit.

Haste—let Jerne's harp be newly strung,
And after mighty George be William sung.

Air.

Talk no more of Grecian glory,
William stands the first in story:

168

He, with British ardour glows!
See—the pride of Gallia fading!
See—the youthful warrior leading
Britons, vengeful, to their foes!

Recit.

Fair is the olive branch Hibernia boasts,
Nor shall the din of war disturb her coasts;
While Stanhope smiles, her sons are blest,
In native loyalty confest!

Air.

See—O see, thrice happy isle!
See what gracious George bestow'd;
Twice have you seen a Stanhope smile,
These are gifts become a God!

How the grateful island glows!
Stanhope's name shall be rever'd;
Whilst by subjects, and by foes,
Sacred George is lov'd and fear'd.

169

Chorus.

Like Persians to the rising sun,
Respectful homage pay;
At George's birth our joys begun:
Salute the glorious day!

Earl of Chesterfield, and Earl of Harrington, both successively Lords Lieutenants of Ireland.

170

THE BROKEN CHINA.

I

Soon as the sun began to peep,
And gild the morning skies,
Young Chloe from disorder'd sleep
Unveil'd her radiant eyes.

II

A guardian Sylph, the wanton sprite
That waited on her still,
Had teiz'd her all the tedious night
With visionary ill.

III

Some shock of fate is surely nigh,
Exclaim'd the tim'rous maid:
What do these horrid dreams imply!
My Cupid can't be dead!

171

IV

She call'd her Cupid by his name,
In dread of some mishap;
Wagging his tail, her Cupid came,
And jump'd into her lap.

V

And now the best of brittle ware,
Her sumptuous table grac'd:
The gentle emblems of the fair,
In beauteous order plac'd!

VI

The kettle boil'd, and all prepar'd:
To give the morning treat,
When Dick, the country beau appear'd,
And bowing, took his seat.

VII

Well—chatting on, of that and this,
The maid revers'd her cup;
And tempted by the forfeit kiss,
The bumpkin turn'd it up.

VIII

With transport he demands the prize;
Right fairly it was won!
With many a frown the fair denies:
Fond baits to draw him on!

172

IX

A man must prove himself polite,
In such a case as this;
So Richard strives with all his might
To force the forfeit kiss.

X

But as he strove—O dire to tell!
(And yet with grief I must)
The table turn'd—the china fell,
A heap of painted dust!

XI

O fatal purport of my dream!
The fair afflicted, cry'd,
Occasion'd (I confess my shame)
By childishness and pride!

XII

For in a kiss, or two, or three,
No mischief could be found!
Then had I been more frank and free,
My china had been sound.

173

To Mr ---.

I.

Yes, Colin, 'tis granted, you flutter in lace,
You whisper and dance with the fair;
But Merit advances, 'tis yours to give place;
Stand off, and at distance revere:

Nor teize the sweet maid with your jargon of chat,
By her side as you saunter along;
Your taste—your complexion—your this—and your that,
Nor lisp out the end of your song.

II.

For folly and fashion you barter good sense,
(If sense ever fell to your share)

174

'Tis enough you could pert petit maitre commence,
Laugh—loiter—and lie with an air.

No end you can answer, affections you've none,
Made only for prattle and play;
Like a butterfly, bask'd for a while in the sun,
You'll die undistinguish'd away.

175

ON THE LATE ABSENCE OF MAY.

(Written in the Year 1771.)

I.

The rooks in the neighbouring grove
For shelter cry all the long day;
Their huts in the branches above
Are cover'd no longer by May:

The birds, that so chearfully sung,
Are silent, or plaintive each tone!
And, as they chirp, low, to their young,
The want of their Goddess bemoan.

II.

No daisies, on carpets of green,
O'er Nature's cold bosom are spread!
Not a sweet-briar sprig can be seen,
To finish this wreath for my head:

176

Some flow'rets, indeed may be found,
But these neither blooming nor gay;
The fairest still sleep in the ground,
And wait for the coming of May.

III.

December, perhaps, has purloin'd
Her rich, tho' fantastical geer;
With envy the Months may have join'd,
And jostled her out of the Year:

Some shepherds, 'tis true, may repine,
To see their lov'd gardens undrest,
But I—whilst my Phillida's mine,
Shall always have May in my breast.

177

AN EULOGIUM ON MASONRY.

Spoke by Mr Diggs, at Edinburgh.

Say, can the garter, or the star of state,
That on the vain, or on the vicious wait,
Such emblems, with such emphasis impart,
As an insignium near the Mason's heart?

Hail sacred Masonry, of source divine,
Unerring mistress of the faultless line,
Whose plumb of Truth, with never-failing sway,
Makes the join'd parts of Symmetry obey!

Hail to the Craft, at whose serene command
The gentle Arts in glad obedience stand;
Whose magic stroke bids fell confusion cease,
And to the finish'd Orders yield its place;
Who calls Creation from the womb of earth,
And gives imperial cities glorious birth.

178

To works of art her merit's not confin'd,
She regulates the morals, squares the mind;
Corrects with care the tempest-working soul,
And points the tide of passions where to roll;
On Virtue's tablets marks each sacred rule,
And forms her Lodge an universal school;
Where nature's mystic laws unfolded stand,
And Sense and Science, join'd, go hand in hand.

O! may her social rules instructive spread,
'Till Truth erect her long-neglected head;
'Till, through deceitful Night she dart her ray,
And beam, full glorious, in the blaze of Day!
'Till man by virtuous maxims learn to move;
'Till all the peopled world her laws approve,
And the whole human race be bound in Brother's Love.

179

A PROLOGUE,

Spoke at the Opening of the Theatre at York, after it was elegantly enlarged.

Once on a time his earthly rounds patrolling,
(Your heathen gods were always fond of strolling)
Jove rambled near the cot of kind Philemon,
When night, attended by a tempest, came on;
And as the rain fell pattering, helter skelter,
The deity implor'd the hind for shelter.

Philemon plac'd his godship close beside him,
While goody Baucis made the fire that dry'd him;
With more benevolence than one that's richer,
He spread the board, he fill'd the friendly pitcher;
And, fond to give his guest a meal of pleasure,
Sung a rough song, in his rude country measure.

Jove was so pleas'd with these good-natur'd sallies,
Philemon's cot he conjur'd to a palace.

180

Taste, like great Jupiter, came here to try us,
(Oft from the boxes we perceiv'd her spy us)
Whether she lik'd us and our warm endeavours,
Whether she found that we deserv'd her favours,
I know not: But 'tis certain she commanded
Our humble theatre should be expanded.

The orders she pronounc'd were scarcely ended,
But, like Philemon's house, the stage extended:
And thus the friendly goddess bids me greet ye;
'Tis in that circle [pointing to the boxes]
she designs to meet ye:
Pedants would fix her residence with heathens,
But she prefers old York to Rome or Athens.

181

A PROLOGUE,

Spoke at the opening an elegant little Theatre at Whitby.

From Shakespeare—Johnson,—Congreve—Rowe—and others—
The lawrel'd list, the true Parnassian brothers!
Hither we're sent, by their supreme direction,
To court your favour, and to claim protection.

Our hopes are flatter'd with the Fair's compliance;
Beauty and Wit were always in alliance!
Their mutual sway reforms the rude creation,
And Taste's determin'd by their approbation.

The tragic Muse presents a stately mirrour,
Where Vice surveys her ugly form with terror:
And as the fiend departs—abash'd—discarded—
Imperial Virtue's with the palm rewarded.
The comic glass, from modern groupes collected,
Shews fops and fools of every class—dissected:

182

It marks the fair coquet's unfaithful dealings,
And proves that haughty prudes may have their failings.
For faults that flow from habit more than nature,
We'll blend, with honest mirth, some wholesome satire.

Now for our bark—the vessel's tight and able!
New built!—new rigg'd! [Pointing to the scenes]
with canvas—mast—and cable!
Let her not sink,—or be unkindly stranded,
Before the moral freight be fairly landed!
For tho' with heart and hand we heave together,
'Tis your kind plaudit must command the weather:
Nor halcion seas,—nor gentle gales attend us,
'Till this fair circle with their smiles befriend us.

183

A PROLOGUE,

On opening the Theatre at Whitby the ensuing Season.

O'er the wild waves, unwilling more to roam,
And by his kind affections call'd for home;
When the bold youth that ev'ry climate tries
'Twixt the blue bosoms—'Twixt the seas and skies—
When he beholds his native Albion near,
And the glad gale gives wings to his career,
What glowing extasies, by Fancy drest,
What filial sentiments expand his breast!
In the full happiness he forms on shore,
Doubts—dangers—and fatigues are felt no more.

Such are the joys that in our bosoms burn!
Such the glad hopes that glow at our return!
With such warm ardours you behold us meet,
To lay, once more, our labours at your feet.

184

(Not without hopes your patronage will last)
We bend with gratitude for favours past.
That our light bark defy'd the rage of winter,
Rode ev'ry gale—nor started ev'n a splinter;
We bow to Beauty—('twas those smiles secur'd her)
And thank our patrons who so kindly moor'd her,
Still—still—extend your gentle cares to save her,
That she may anchor long in Whitby's—favour.

185

A PROLOGUE,

Spoke in the Character of a Sailor, on opening the New Theatre at North-Shields.

[Without.

Hollo! my masters, where d'ye mean to stow us?
We're come to see what pastime ye can shew us;
Sal, step aloft—you shan't be long without me,
I'll walk their quarter deck and look about me.

[Enters.

Tom and Dick Topsail are above—I hear 'em,
Tell 'em to keep a birth, and Sal—sit near 'em:
Sal's a smart lass—I'd hold a but of stingo
In three weeks' time she'd learn the playhouse lingo:

186

She loves your plays, she understands their meaning,
She calls 'em—Moral Rules made entertaining:
Your Shakespeare books, she knows 'em to a tittle;
And I, myself (at sea) have read—a little.

At London, Sirs, when Sal and I were courting,
I tow'd her ev'ry night a playhouse sporting:
Mass! I could like 'em and their whole 'Paratus,
But for their fidlers and their damn'd Sonatas;
Give me the merry sons of guts and rosin,
That play—God save the King, and Nancy Dawson.

[Looking about.

Well—tho' the frigate's not so much bedoyzen'd,
'Tis snug enough!—'Tis clever for the size on't:
And they can treat with all that's worth regarding
On board the Drury-lane or Common-Garden.

[Bell rings.

Avast!—A signal for the launch, I fancy:
What say you Sam, and Dick, and Doll, and Nancy,

187

Since they have trimm'd the pleasure-barge so tightly,
Shan't you, and I, and Sal, come see them nightly!
The jolly crew will do their best endeavours,
They'll grudge no labour to deserve your favours.
A luckier fate they swear can ne'er behap 'em
Than to behold you pleas'd, and hear you—clap 'em.

To the Gallery.

188

AN EPILOGUE,

Spoke at Norwich, in the Character of Mrs Deborah Woodcock, in Love in a Village.

After the dangers of a long probation,
When Sybil like, she's skill'd in penetration;
When she has conquer'd each unruly passion,
And rides above the rocks that others dash on;
When deeply mellow'd with reserve and rigour;
When decent gravity adorns her figure,
Why an old maid, I wish the wise would tell us,
Should be the standing jest of flirts and fellows!

In maxims sage! in eloquence how clever!
Without a subject she can talk—for ever!

189

Rich in old saws, can bring a sentence pat in,
And quote upon occasion, lawyer's latin.

Set up that toast, that culprit, nobus corum,
'Tis done—and she's demolish'd in turrorum.

If an old maid's a dragoness on duty,
To guard the golden fruit of rip'ning beauty;
'Tis right, for fear the giddy sex should wander,
To keep them in restraint by decent slander.
When slips are made, 'tis easy sure to find 'em;
We can detect before the fair design'd them.

As for the men, whose satire oft hath stung us,
Many there are that may be rank'd among us.
Law, with long suits and busy mischiefs laden,
In rancour far exceeds the ancient maiden.
'Tis undeny'd, and the assertion's common,
That modern Physic is a mere old woman.
The puny fop that simpers o'er his tea dish,
And cries—indeed—Miss Deb'rah's—quite old maidish!
Of doubtful sex, of undetermin'd nature,
In all respects is but a virgin cretur.

Jesting apart, and moral truths adjusting!
There's nothing in the state itself disgusting;
Old maids, as well as matrons, bound in marriage,
Are valu'd from propriety of carriage:

190

If gentle sense, if sweet discretion guide 'em,
It matters not tho' coxcombs may deride 'em;
And virtue's virtue, be she maid or wedded,
A certain truth! say—Deb'rah Woodcock said it.

191

A PROLOGUE, To the MUSE of OSSIAN.

A little Piece adapted to the Stage, from the celebrated Poem of Ossian, the Son of Fingal.

To form a little work of nervous merit,
To give the sleepy stage a nobler spirit;
To touch a sacred muse, and not defile her,
This was the plan propos'd by our compiler.

Tho' caution told him—the presumption's glaring!
Dauntless, he cry'd, “It is but nobly daring!
Can we peruse a pathos more than Attic,
Nor wish the golden measure stamp'd dramatic!
Here are no lines—in measur'd pace that trip it,
No modern scenes—so lifeless! so insipid!
Wrought by a muse—(no sacred fire debarr'd her)
'Tis nervous! noble! 'tis true northern ardour!

192

“Methinks I hear the Grecian bards exclaiming,
(The Grecian bards no longer worth the naming)
In song, the northern tribes so far surpass us,
One of their Highland hills they'll call Parnassus;
And from the sacred mount decrees should follow,
That Ossian was himself—the true Apollo.”

Spite of this flash—this high poetic fury,
He trembles for the verdict of his jury:
As from his text he ne'er presum'd to wander,
But gives the native Ossian to your candour,
To an impartial judgement we submit him,
Condemn—or rather (if you can) acquit him.

193

AN EPILOGUE, To the MUSE of OSSIAN.

In fond romance let fancy reign creative!
Valour among the northern hills is native;
The northern hills, 'tis prov'd by Ossian's story,
Gave early birth to Caledonian glory;
Nor could the stormy clime, with all its rigour
Repel, in love or war, the hero's vigour.

When honour call'd, the youth disdain'd to ponder,
And as he fought, the fav'rite maid grew fonder.
The brave, by beauty were rejected never,
For girls are gracious when the lads are clever.

If the bold youth was in the field vindictive,
The bard, at home, had ev'ry power descriptive;
He swell'd the sacred song, enhanc'd the story,
And rais'd the warrior to the skies of glory.

194

That northern lads are still unconquer'd fellows,
The foes of Britain to their cost can tell us;
The sway of northern beauty, if disputed,
Look round, ye infidels, and stand confuted:
And for your bards, the letter'd world have known 'em,
They're such—The sacred Ossian can't disown 'em.

To prove a partial judgement does not wrong you,
And that your usual candour reigns among you,
Look with indulgence on this crude endeavour,
And stamp it with the sanction of your favour.

195

AN EPILOGUE,

Spoke in the Character of Lady Townly, in the Provok'd Husband.

At lady—let me recollect—whose night is't?
No matter—at a circle the politest;
Taste summons all the satire she is able,
And canvasses my conduct to the table.

“A wife reclaim'd, and by an husband's rigour!
A wife with all her appetites in vigour!
Lard! she must make a lamentable figure!

“Where was her pride! Of ev'ry spark divested!
To mend, because a prudish husband press'd it!
What! to prefer his dull domestic quiet,
To the dear scenes of hurricane and riot!

196

Parties disclaim'd, the happy rout rejected!
Because at ten she's by her spouse expected!
Oh hideous! how immensely out of nature!
Don't you, my dears, despise the servile creature?

Prudence, altho' the company be good,
Is often heard, and sometimes understood.
Suppose, to justify my reformation,
She'd give the circle this concise oration.

“Ye giddy groupe of fashionable wives,
That in continued riot waste your lives;
Did ye but see the demons that descend,
The cares convulsive that on card, attend;
The midnight spectres that surround your chairs,
(Rage reddens here—there Avarice despairs)
You'd rush for shelter where contentment lies,
To the domestic blessings you despise.

“Or if you've no regard to moral duty,
('Tis trite but true)—Quadrille will murder beauty.”

Taste is abash'd, (the culprit) I'm acquitted,
They praise the character they lately pity'd;
They promise to reform—relinquish play,
So break the tables up at—break of day.

197

AN EPILOGUE,

Spoke at Edinburgh, in the Character of Lady Fanciful.

Fancy, we're told, of parentage Italic,
And Folly, whose original is Gallic,
Set up to sale their vast mishapen daughter,
And Britain, by a large subscription, bought her.

The fertile soil grew fond of this exotic,
And nurs'd her, till her pow'r became despotic;
'Till ev'ry would-be beauty in the nation
Did homage at the shrine of Affectation.
But Common Sense will certainly dethrone her,
And (like the fair ones of this place) disown her.
If she attempts the dimpled smile, delightful!
The dimpled smile of Affectation's frightful:
Mark but her bagatelles,—her whine—her whimper—
Her loll—her lisp—her saunter, stare—her simper;

198

All outres, all—no native charm about her,
And Ridicule would soon expire without her.

Look for a grace, and Affectation hides it;
If Beauty aims an arrow, she misguides it:
So aukwardly she mends unmeaning faces,
To Insipidity she gives—grimaces.

Without her dear coquetish arts to aid 'em,
Fine ladies would be just as—nature made 'em,
Such sensible—sincere—domestic creatures,
The jest of modern belles, and petit maitres.

Safe with good sense, this circle's not in danger,
But as the foreign phantom's—here a stranger,
I gave her portrait, that the fair may know her,
And if they meet, be ready to forego her;
For trust me, ladies, she'd deform your faces,
And with a single glance destroy the graces.

199

AN EULOGIUM ON CHARITY.

Spoke at Alnwick, in Northumberland, at a charitable Benefit Play, 1765.

To bid the rancour of Ill-fortune cease,
To tell Anxiety—I give thee peace,
To quell Adversity—or turn her darts,
To stamp Fraternity on gen'rous hearts:
For these high motives—these illustrious ends,
Celestial Charity to-night descends.

Soft are the graces that adorn the maid,
Softer than dew-drops to the sun-burnt glade!
She's gracious as an unpolluted stream,
And tender as a fond young lover's dream!
Pity and Peace precede her as she flies,
And Mercy beams benignant in her eyes!
From her high residence, from realms above,
She comes, sweet harbinger of heavenly love!

200

Her sister's charms are more than doubly bright,
From the kind cause that call'd her here to-night.
An artless grace the conscious heart bestows
And on the generous cheek a tincture glows,
More lovely than the bloom that paints the vernal rose.

The lofty pyramid shall cease to live!
Fleeting the praise such monuments can give!
But Charity, by tyrant time rever'd,
Sweet Charity, amidst his ruins spar'd,
Secures her votaries unblasted fame,
And in celestial annals saves their name.

The Countess of Northumberland, who honoured the charity with her presence.

201

AN EPILOGUE,

Design'd to be spoke at Alnwick, on resigning the Playhouse to a Party detach'd from the Edinburgh Theatre.

To Alnwick's lofty seat, a silvan scene!
To rising hills from distance doubly green,
Go—says the God of Wit, my standard bear,
These are the mansions of the great and fair,
'Tis my Olympus now, go spread my banners there.

Led by fond hope, the pointed path we trace,
And thank'd our patron for the flowers place;
Here—we behold a gently waving wood!
There—we can gaze upon a wand'ring flood!

202

The landscape smiles!—the fields gay fragrance wear!
Soft scenes are all around—refreshful air!
Slender repast indeed, and but cameleon fare!

A troop, at certain times compell'd to shift,
And from their northern mountains turn'd adrift;
By tyrant managers a while consign'd,
To fatten on what forage they can find;
With lawless force our liberty invades,
And fain would thrust us from these fav'rite shades;
But we (since prejudice erects her scale,
And puffs and petty artifice prevail)
To stronger holds with cool discretion run,
And leave the conquerors to be—undone.

With gratitude, still we'll acknowledge the favours
So kindly indulg'd to our simple endeavours;
To the great and the fair we rest thankfully debtors,
And wish we could say, we gave place to our betters.

The Earl and Countess of Northumberland, Lord and Lady Warkworth, &c.

203

A PROLOGUE, To LOVE and FAME.

Spoke at Scarborough.

Entering.

Where is this author?—Bid the wretch appear,
Let him come in, and wait for judgement—Here.
This awful jury, all impatient, wait;
Let him come in, I say, and meet his fate!
Strange, very strange, if such a piece succeeds!
(Punish the culprit for his vile misdeeds)
Know ye to-night, that his presumptuous works,
Have turn'd good Christians into—Heathen Turks?
And if the genius an't corrected soon,
In his next Trip, he'll mount us to the Moon.

Methinks I hear him say—“For mercy's sake
Hold your rash tongue—my Love and Fame's at stake;

204

When you behold me—diffident—distrest!
'Tis cruelty to make my woes a jest:
Well—if you will—but why should I distrust?
My judges are as merciful as just;
I know them well, have oft their friendship try'd,
And their protection is my boast—my pride.”

Hoping to please, he form'd this bustling plan;
Hoping to please! 'tis all the moderns can:
Faith! let him 'scape, let Love and Fame survive,
With your kind sanction keep his scenes alive;
Try to approve (applaud we will exempt)
Nor crush the bardling in this hard attempt.
Could he write up to an illustrious theme,
There's mark'd upon the register of Fame
A subject—but beyond the warmest lays!
Wonder must paint, when 'tis a G**nby's praise.

205

A PROLOGUE, To RULE A WIFE.

Spoken at Edinburgh.

'Tis an odd portrait that the poet drew!
A strange irregular he sets in view!
'Mongst us—thank heaven—the character's unknown,
(Bards have creative faculties we own)
And this appears a picture from his brain,
'Till we reflect the lady liv'd in Spain.

Should we the portrait with the sex compare,
'Twould add new honours to the northern fair;
Their merit, by the foil, conspicuous made,
And they seem'd brighter from contrasting shade.

Rude were the rules our fathers form'd of old,
Nor should such antiquated maxims hold;
Shall subject man assert superior sway,
And dare to bid the angel sex obey!

206

Or if permitted to partake the throne,
Despotic, call the reigns of power his own!
Forbid it, all that's gracious—that's polite!
(The fair to liberty have equal right)
Nor urge the tenet, tho' from Fletcher's school,
That every husband has a right to rule.

A matrimonial medium may be hit,
Where neither governs, but where both submit.

The nuptial torch with decent brightness burns,
Where male and female condescend by turns;
Change then the phrase, the horrid text amend,
And let the word obey,—be condescend.

207

A PROLOGUE,

On reviving the Merchant of Venice, at the Time the Bill had passed for naturalizing the Jews.

'Twixt the sons of the stage, without pensions or places,
And the vagabond Jews, are some similar cases;
Since time out of mind, or they're wrong'd much by slander,
Both lawless, alike, have been sentenc'd to wander;
Then faith 'tis full time we appeal to the nation,
To be join'd in this bill for na-tu-ra-li-za-ti-on;
Lard, that word's so uncouth!—'tis so irksome to speak it!
But 'tis Hebrew, I believe, and that's taste, as I take it.

208

Well—now to the point—I'm sent here with commission,
To present this fair circle our humble petition:
But conscious what hopes we should have of succeeding,
Without (as they phrase it) sufficiently bleeding;
And convinc'd we've no funds, nor old gold we can rake up,
Like our good fathers—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob:
We must frankly confess we have nought to present ye,
But Shakespeare's old sterling—pray let it content ye.

This Shylock, the Jew, whom we mean to restore ye,
Was naturaliz'd oft by your fathers before ye;
Then take him to-night to your kindest compassion,
For to countenance Jews is the pink of the fashion.

209

A PROLOGUE,

For some Country Lads, performing the Devil of a Wife, in the Christmas Holidays.

In days of yore, when round the jovial board,
With harmless mirth, and social plenty stor'd,
Our parent Britons quaff'd their nut-brown ale,
And carols sung, or told the Christmas tale;
In struts St George, Old England's champion knight,
With hasty steps, impatient to recite
“How he had kill'd the dragon, once in fight.”

From ev'ry side—from Troy—from antient Greece,
Princes pour in to swell the motly piece;
And while their deeds of prowess they rehearse,
The flowing bowl rewards their hobbling verse.
Intent to raise this evening's cordial mirth,
Like theirs, our simple stage play comes to birth.

210

Our want of art we candidly confess,
But give you nature in her homespun dress;
No heroes here—no martial men of might!
A cobler is the champion of to-night;
His strap, more fam'd than George's lance of old,
For it can tame that dragoness, a scold:
Indulgent, then, support the cobler's cause,
And tho' he may'nt deserve it, smile applause.

211

A PROLOGUE,

On opening the New Theatre in Newcastle, 1766.

If to correct the follies of mankind,
To mend the morals—to enlarge the mind,
To strip the self-deceiving passions bare,
With honest mirth to kill an evening's care;
If these kind motives can command applause,
For these the motly stage her curtain draws.

Does not the poet, that exists by praise,
Like to be told that he has reach'd the bays?
Is not the wretch (still trembling for his store)
Pleas'd when he grasps a glitt'ring thousand more?
Cheers not the mariner propitious seas?
Likes not the lawyer to be handling fees?
Lives not the lover but in hopes of bliss?
To ev'ry question we'll reply with—yes.

Suppose them gratified—their full delight
Falls short of ours on this auspicious night;

212

When rich in happiness—in hopes elate,
Taste has receiv'd us to our fav'rite seat.

O that the soul of action were but ours,
And the vast energy of vocal powers!
That we might make a grateful off'ring, fit
For these kind judges that in candour sit.

Before such judges, we confess, with dread,
These new dominions we presume to tread;
Yet if you smile, we'll boldly do our best,
And leave your favours to supply the rest.

213

AN INTRODUCTION,

Spoke at the Theatre in Sunderland, to a Play performed there for the Benefit of the Widows and Orphans of that Place.

On Widows—Orphans—left, alas! forlorn,
(From the rack'd heart its every comfort torn)
Humanity, to-night, confers relief,
And softens, tho' she can't remove their grief:
Blasted her hopes, her expectations kill'd,
The sons of Sympathy (with sorrow chill'd)
Behold the wretched Matron—madly weep,
And hear her cry—“My joys are in the deep!”
To the tremendous Power that rules mankind,
Lord of the seas—the calm and boist'rous wind,
We bow, obedient, and with awe resign'd.

214

His ways, inscrutable, we can't explore,
No—wemay wonder, but we must adore.
Happy, for ever, be the generous breast,
That feels compassion for the Poor distrest;
Happy the hand that stops the sufferer's tear!
Such hands there are, and Such we find, are Here.

215

STANZAS On the Death of his late Majesty King GEORGE II

Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres.
Hor.

I

Tenants of liberty on Britain's plain,
With flock's enrich'd, a vast unnumber'd store!
'Tis gone, the mighty George's golden reign!
Your Pan, your great defender, is no more.

216

II

The nymphs that in the sacred groves preside,
Where Albion's conq'ring oaks eternal spring,
In the brown shades their secret sorrows hide,
And, silent, mourn the venerable King.

III

Hark! how the winds, oft bounteous to his will,
That bore his conq'ring fleets to Gallia's shore,
After a pause, pathetically still,
Burst in loud peals, and thro' the forests roar.

IV

On Conquest's cheek the vernal roses fail,
Whilst laurel'd Victory distressful bows!
And Honour's fire etherial burns but pale,
That late beam'd glorious on our George's brows.

V

The Muses mourn—an ineffectual band!
Each sacred harp without an owner lies;
The Arts, the Sciences, dejected stand,
For, ah! their patron, their protector dies.

VI

Beauty no more the toy of fashion wears,
(So late by Love's designful labour drest)
But from her brow the glowing diamond tears,
And with the sable cypress veils her brest.

217

VII

Religion lodg'd high on her pious pile,
Laments the fading state of crowns below;
Whilst Melancholy fills the vaulted isle
With the slow music of a nation's woe.

VIII

The dreary paths of unrelenting fate,
Must monarchs mix'd with common mortals try?
Is there no refuge?—are the good, the great,
The gracious, and the god-like, doom'd to die?

IX

Must the gay court be chang'd for horror's cave;
Must mighty Kings that kept the world in awe,
Conquer'd by time, and the unpitying grave,
Submit their laurels to Death's rig'rous law?

X

If in the tent retir'd, or battle's rage,
Britannia's sighs shall reach great Fred'rick's ear,
He'll drop the sword, or close the darling page,
And pensive pay the tributary tear.

XI

Then shall the monarch weigh the moral thought,
(As he laments the parent, friend, ally)
The solemn truth by sage reflection taught,
That, spight of glory, Fred'rick's self shall die.

218

XII

The parent's face a prudent painter hides,
While death devours the darling of his age:
Nature the stroke of pencil'd art derides,
When grief distracts with agonizing rage.

XIII

So let the Muse her sablest curtain spread,
By sorrow taught her nerveless power to know:
When nations cry, their king, their father's dead,
The rest is dumb, unutterable woe!

XIV

But see—a sacred radiance beams around,
And with returning hope a people cheers:
Look at yon youth, with grace imperial crown'd:
How awful! yet how lovely in his tears!

XV

Mark how his breast expands the filial sigh,
He droops, distrest, like a declining flower,
'Till Glory, from her radiant sphere on high,
Hails him, to hold the regal reins of power.

219

XVI

The sainted sire to realms of bliss remov'd,
(Like the fam'd phœnix) from his pyre shall spring
Successive Georges, gracious, and belov'd,
And good and glorious as the parent King.

Frederick King of Prussia.

In a picture representing the sacrifice of Iphigenia, Apelles, despairing to represent the natural distraction of a parent on so affecting an occasion, drew the figure of Agamemnon with a veil thrown over his face.

220

HORACE. ODE X. BOOK IV. Imitated.

Chloe, my most tender care,
Always coy, and always fair,
Should unwish'd for languor spread
O'er that beauteous white and red;
Should these locks that sweetly play
Down these shoulders, fall away,
And that lovely bloom that glows,
Fairer than the fairest rose;
Should it fade and, leave thy face
Spoil'd of every killing grace;
Should your glass the charge betray,
Thus, my fair, you'd weeping say,
‘Cruel Gods! does beauty fade?
‘Now warm desires my breast invade;
‘And why, while blooming youth did glow,
‘Was this heart as cold as snow?’

221

Sent to Miss BELL H---, with a Pair of Buckles.

Happy trifles, can ye bear
Sighs of fondness to the fair;
If your pointed tongues can tell,
How I love my charming Bell:
Fondly take a lover's part,
Plead the anguish of my heart.

Go—ye trifles—gladly fly,
(Gracious in my fair one's eye)
Fly—your envy'd bliss to meet;
Fly, and kiss the charmer's feet.

Happy there, with waggish play,
Tho' you revel day by day,
Like the donor, ev'ry night,
(Robb'd of his supreme delight)
To subdue your wanton pride,
Useless, you'll be thrown aside.

222

To CHLOE, on a Charge of Inconstancy.

How can Chloe think it strange,
Time should make a lover change?

Time brings all things to an end,
Courage can't the blow defend.
See, the proud aspiring oak
Falls beneath the fatal stroke:
If on Beauty's cheek he preys,
Straight the rosy bloom decays:
Joy puts out his lambent fires,
And at Time's approach—expires.

How can Chloe think it strange,
Time should make a lover change?

223

INCANTATION.

Performed at the Theatre in Sunderland, in a new Pantomime.

Recitative.

HECATE.
From the dark, tremendous cell,
Where the fiends of magic dwell,
Now the Sun hath left the skies,
Daughters of inchantment, rise.

Air.

[The Witches appear.

Welcome from the shades beneath!
Welcome to the blasted heath!
Where the spectre and the sprite
Glide along the glooms of night.

224

Beldams!—with attention keen,
Wait the wish of Harlequin:
Many a wonder must be done
For my first, my fav'rite son.

Chorus of Witches.
Many a wonder shall be done,
Hecate, for your fav'rite son.

225

FORTUNE TO HARLEQUIN.

In a Pantomime.

I

From my favour, sense rejected,
Fools by Fortune are protected:
Fortune, Harlequin, hath found you,
Happiness will hence surround you.

II

Should a thousand ills enclose you,
Quick contrivance this bestows you!
Valour makes the fair adore you;
This shall drive your foes before you.

III

Gold's the mighty source of pleasure!
Take this purse of magic treasure;
Go—for while my gifts befriend you,
Joy and jollity attend you.

A Hat.

A Sword.

226

ACROSTIC.

P-ray tell me, says Venus, one day to the Graces,
(O-n a visit they came, and had just ta'en their places)
L-et me know why of late I can ne'er see your faces:
L-adies, nothing, I hope, happen'd here to affright ye:
Y-ou've had compliment cards ev'ry day to invite ye.

S-ays Cupid, who guess'd their rebellious proceeding,
U-nderhand, dear mamma, there's some mischief a-breeding:
T-here's a fair one at Lincoln, so finish'd a beauty,
T-hat your loves and your graces all swerve from their duty.
O-n my life, says dame Venus, I'll not be thus put on,
N-ow I think on't, last night, some one call'd me Miss Sutton.

227

On the Death of Mrs SLEIGH, of Stockton.

Much lov'd, much honour'd, much lamented Sleigh!
The kindred Virtues had expir'd with thee,
Were it ordain'd the daughters of the sky,
Like the frail offspring of the earth, could die;
Trembling they stand at thy too early doom,
And mingling tears to consecrate thy tomb.

228

ACROSTIC.

W-here no ripen'd summer glows,
I-n the lap of northern snows;
D-esarts gloomy, cold, and drear,
(O-nly let the nymph be there)
W-reaths of budding sweets would wear.

M-ay would every fragrance bring,
A-ll the vernal bloom of spring:
D-ryads, deck'd with myrtles green,
D-ancing, would attend their Queen:
E-very flower that nature spreads,
R-ising where the charmer treads!

229

On the Death of Lord GRANBY.

For private loss the lenient tear may flow,
And give a short, (perhaps) a quick relief;
While the full heart, o'ercharg'd with public woe,
Must labour thro' a long, protracted grief.

This sudden stroke ('twas like the lightning's blast)
The sons of Albion can't enough deplore;
Think, Britons, think on all his triumphs past,
And weep—your Warrior is—alas! no more.

Blight, we are told, respects the Conq'ror's tree,
And thro' the Laurel grove with caution flies:
Vague—and how vain must that assertion be,
Cover'd with Laurels when a Granby dies!

230

On the Death of Mr ---, of Sunderland.

Go, breath of Sorrow,—go attending sighs,
Acquaint the natives of the northern shore,
The man they lov'd, the man they honour'd, dies,
And Charity's first steward—is no more.

Where shall the poor a friendly patron find?
Who shall relieve them from their loads of pain?
Say, has he left a feeling heart behind,
So gracious—good—so tenderly humane?

Yes—there survives his darling offspring—young,
Yet in the paths of Virtue, steady—sure!
'Twas the last lesson from his parent's tongue,
‘Think, (O remember) think upon my Poor.’

231

A PETITION

To the Worshipful Free Masons, delivered from the Stage, by a Lady, at a Comedy countenanced by that Fraternity.

Brothers!—'tis bold to interrupt your meeting,
But from the female world I wait you—greeting:

[Curtsies.

The ladies can advance a thousand reasons,
That make them hope to be received as Masons:
To keep a secret,—not one hint expressing,
To rein the tongue—O husbands, there's a blessing!
As Virtue seems the Mason's sole foundation,
Why should the Fair be barr'd from—Installation?

232

If you suppose us weak, indeed you wrong us;
Historians, Saphos too, you'll find among us;
Think—Brothers—think, and graciously admit us;
Doubt it not, Sirs, we'll gloriously acquit us:
How to be wiser, and more cautious, teach us,
Indeed 'tis time that your instructions reach us:
The faults of late, and every soul miscarriage,
Committed in the sphere of modern marriage,
Were caus'd (If I've a grain of penetration)
From each great Lady's not being made a Mason.
Accept us then, to Brotherhood receive us,
And Virtue, we're convinc'd, will never leave us.

233

AN ODE For the Birth-Day of the KING OF PRUSSIA.

Arma, Virumque cano. Virg.

Recit.

More glorious than the comet's blaze,
That through the starry region strays:
From Zembla to the Torrid Zone,
The mighty name of Prussia's known.

234

Air.

I.

Be banish'd from the books of fame,
Ye deeds in distant ages done;
Lost and inglorious is the name
Of Hannibal, or Philip's son:

Could Greece, or conquering Carthage sing
A hero great as Prussia's King!

II.

Where restless Envy can't explore,
Or flatter'd Hope presume to fly;
Fate bade victorious Fred'ric soar,
For laurels that can never die.

Could Greece, &c.

III.

His rapid bolts tremendous break,
Through nations arm'd in dread array,
Swift as the furious blasts that shake
The bosom of the frighted sea.

Could Greece, &c.

235

IV.

In vain, to shake the throne of Jove,
With impious rage, the giants try'd;
'Gainst Fred'rick's force the nations strove
In vain—their haughty legions dy'd.

Could Greece, &c.

V.

While Prudence guides his chariot wheels,
Thro' Virtue's sacred paths they roll;
Immortal Truth his bosom steels,
And guards him glorious to the goal.

Could Greece, &c.

VI.

The vengeful lance Britannia weilds,
In comfort with her brave ally,
Saves her fair roses in the fields,
Where Gaul's detested lillies die.

Wreaths of eternal friendship spring,
'Twixt mighty George and Prussia's King.

236

VII.

The jocund bowl let Britons raise,
And crown the jovial board with mirth;
Fill—to great Frederick's length of days,
And hail the hero's glorious birth—

Could Greece, or conquering Carthage sing
A chieftain fam'd like Prussia's King!

237

AN ODE

Composed for the Birth-Day of the late Gen. Lord BLAKENEY.

I.

The Muses harps, by Concord strung!
Loud let them strike the festal lay,
Wak'd by Britannia's grateful tongue,
To hail her hero's natal day.

Arise, paternal glory rise,
And lift your Blakeney to the skies!

238

II.

Behold his warlike banners wave!
Like Britain's oak the hero stands:
The shield—the shelter of the brave!
The guardian o'er the British bands!

Arise, paternal, &c.

III.

He wrests the wreath from Richlieu's brows,
Which Fraud or Faction planted there;
France to the gallant hero bows,
And Europe's chiefs his name revere.

Arise, paternal, &c.

IV.

With partial conquest on their side!
The sons of Gaul—a pageant crew!
Rank, but inglorious in their pride,
To Blakeney, and his vanquish'd few.

Arise, paternal, &c.

239

V.

Hibernia , with maternal care,
His labour'd statue lifts on high:
impartial, Time!—the trophy spare,
That Blakeney's name may never die!

Arise, paternal glory, rise!
And lift your Blakeney to the skies.

Richlieu, commander of the expedition against Port-Mahon.

A statue was erected in Dublin to the memory of Blakeney, who was a native of Ireland.

240

On a very young LADY.

See how the buds and blossoms shoot:
How sweet will be the summer fruit!
Let us behold the infant rose;
How fragrant when its beauty blows!
The morning smiles, serenely gay;
How bright will be the promis'd day!
Contemplate next the charming maid,
In early innocence array'd!
If, in the morning of her years,
A lustre so intense appears,
When time shall point her noon-tide rays,
When her meridian charms shall blaze,
None but the eagle-ey'd must gaze.

241

A SONNET:

Addressed to Miss S---.

I

When Flora decks the mantling bowers,
In elegant array,
And scatters all her opening flowers,
A compliment to May!

II

With glowing joy my bosom beats;
I gaze delighted round,
And wish to see the various sweets
In one rich nosegay bound.

242

III

'Tis granted—and their bloom display'd,
To bless my wond'ring view;
I see them all—my beauteous maid,
I see them all in—You.

243

ANACREON. ODE V. Imitated.

THE ROSE.

Shed Roses in the sprightly juice,
Prepar'd for every social use!
So shall the earthly nectar prove
A draught for All-Imperial Jove.

Ourselves, with rosey chaplets bound,
Shall sing, and set the goblet round.

Thee, ever gentle Rose, we greet,
We worship thee, delicious sweet!
For tho' by mighty Gods caress'd,
You deign to make us mortals blest.

244

The Cupids, and the Graces fair,
With myrtle sprigs adorn their hair;
And nimbly strike cœlestial ground,
Eternal Roses blooming round.

Bring us more sweets, 'ere these expire,
And reach me that harmonious lyre:
Gay Bacchus, Jove's convivial son,
Shall lead us to his fav'rite ton:
Among the sporting youths and maids,
Beneath the vine's auspicious shades,
For ever young—for ever gay,
We'll dance the jovial hours away.

247

A PASTORAL.

[Where the fond zephir thro' the woodbine plays]

[_]

MOSCHUS. IDYLLIUM VII. TO THE EVENING STAR.

(As translated by Dr Broome.)

Hail, Golden Star, of ray serene!
Thou fav'rite of the Cyprian Queen!
O Hesper! glory of the night,
Diffusing thro' the gloom, delight!
Whose beams, all other stars outshine,
As much as silver Cynthia, thine:
O guide me, speeding o'er the plain,
To him I love, my shepherd swain;
He keeps the mirthful feast, and soon
Dark shades will cloud the splendid moon.
Of lambs I never robb'd the fold,
Nor the lone traveller of gold:
Love is my crime: O! lend thy ray
To guide a lover on her way.
May the bright star of Venus prove
The gentle harbinger of Love!

[_]

To this Idyllium (translated by Dr Broome) the Author owns himself indebted for a hint, from which the following Pastoral proceeds.

I

Where the fond zephir thro' the woodbine plays,
And wakes sweet fragrance in the mantling bow'r,
Near to that grove my lovely bridegroom stays
Impatient,—for 'tis past—the promis'd hour!

II

Lend me thy light, O ever-sparkling star!
Bright Hesper! in thy glowing pomp array'd,
Look down, look down, from thy all-glorious car,
And beam protection on a wand'ring maid.

248

III

'Tis to escape the penetrating spy,
And pass, unnotic'd, from malignant sight,
This dreary waste, full resolute, I try,
And trust my footsteps to the shades of night.

IV

The Moon has slipp'd behind an envious cloud,
Her smiles, so gracious, I no longer view;
Let her remain behind that envious shroud,
My hopes, bright Hesperus, depend on you.

V

No rancour ever reach'd my harmless breast;
I hurt no birds, nor rob the bustling bee:
Hear, then, what Love and Innocence request,
And shed your kindest influence on me.

VI

Thee—Venus loves—First twinkler of the sky,
Thou art her star—in golden radiance gay!
On my distresses cast a pitying eye,
Assist me—for, alas! I've lost my way.

249

VII

I see the darling of my soul—my Love!
Expression can't the mighty rapture tell:
He leads me to the bosom of the grove:
Thanks, gentle star—kind Hesperus, farewell!

250

To CHLOE, in an ill Humour.

I

Consider, sweet maid, and endeavour
To conquer that pride in thy breast;
It is not an haughty behaviour
Will set off thy charms to the best.

II

The ocean, when calm, may delight you,
But should a bold tempest arise,
The billows enrag'd would affright you:
Loud objects of awful surprize!

III

'Tis thus, when good humour diffuses
Its beams o'er the face of a fair;
With rapture his heart a man loses,
While frowns turn love to despair.

251

EPIGRAMS, &c.

An EPIGRAM.

[A member of the modern great]

A member of the modern great
Pass'd Sawney with his budget,
The Peer was in a car of state,
The tinker forc'd to trudge it.

But Sawney shall receive the praise
His Lordship would parade for;
One's debtor for his dapple greys,
And t'other's shoes are paid for.

252

Another.

To Wasteall, whose eyes were just closing in death,
Doll counted the chalks on the door;
In peace, cry'd the wretch, let me give up my breath,
And Fate will soon rub out my score.

Come, bailiffs, cries Doll, (how I'll hamper this cheat!)
Let the law be no longer delay'd,
I never once heard of that fellow call'd Fate,
And by G---d he shan't die 'till I'm paid.

253

On Mr Churchill's Death.

Says Tom to Richard, Churchill's dead;
Says Richard, Tom, you lie,
Old Rancour the report hath spread,
But Genius cannot die.

A POSTSCRIPT.

Would honest Tom G---d get rid of a scold,
The torture, the plague of his life!
Pray tell him to take down his lion of gold,
And hang up his brazen-fac'd wife.

Landlord of the Golden Lion, an inn in Yorkshire.

254

EPIGRAPH For Dean Swift's Monument.

Executed by Mr P. Cunningham, Statuary in Dublin.

Say, to the Drapier's vast unbounded fame,
What added honours can the sculptor give?
None—'tis sanction from the Drapier's name
Must bid the sculptor and his marble live.

EPIGRAM.

[Could Kate for Dick compose the gordian string]

Could Kate for Dick compose the gordian string,
The Tyburn knot how near the nuptial ring!
A loving wife, obedient to her vows,
Is bound in duty to exalt her spouse.

255

Apollo—To Mr C---F---,

on his being satirized by an ignorant Person.

Whether he's worth your spleen or not,
You've ask'd me to determine:
I wish my friend a nobler lot
Than that of trampling vermin.
A blockhead can't be worth our care,
Unless that we'd befriend him:
As you've some common sense to spare,
I'll pay what you may lend him.

256

On seeing J. C---ft, Esq;

abused in a Newspaper.

When a wretch to public notice,
Would a man of worth defame;
Wit, as threadbare as his coat is,
Only shews his want of shame.

Busy, pert, unmeaning parrot!
Vilest of the venal crews!
Go—and in your Grubstreet garret,
Hang yourself and paltry muse.

Pity too the meddling sinner
Should for hunger hang or drown:
F---x, (he must not want a dinner)
Send the scribbler half a crown.

FINIS.