Poems on various subjects: By William Hawkins, ...

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- ADVERTISEMENT.

- [errata]

- CONTENTS.

- ESSAY ON GENIUS. A NEW EDITION, WITH ALTERATIONS AND ADDITIONS.

- THE SONG of DEBORAH. AN ODE. JUDGES, Chap. v.

- BAALAM's PROPHECY. AN ODE. Numbers, Chap. xxiii, and xxiv.

- DEVOTION. A POEM.

- ODE FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

- HYMN TO THE SUPREME BEING. PSALM civ. &c. &c.

- A MORNING THOUGHT.

- A THOUGHT That occurred to the AUTHOR in passing through WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

- TO A WORM WHICH THE AUTHOR ACCIDENTALLY TRODE UPON.

- TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF FORTUNE, WITH AN ALMANACK.

- THE BAROMETER.

- THE LOOKING-GLASS.

- VANITY. A SATIRE.

- COXCOMBS. A SATIRE.

- STREPHON and THYRSIS A PASTORAL.

- THE PROGRESS of LOVE: IN FOUR PASTORAL BALLADS. AFTER THE MANNER OF MR. SHENSTON.

- FALLING IN LOVE. PART I.

- LOVE DISCOVERED. PART II.

- LOVE DECLARED. PART III.

- LOVE REWARDED. PART IV.

- A RHAPSODY IN PRAISE OF THE PARTICLES.

- THE EXPEDIENT. A TALE. BEING AN OLD STORY VERSIFIED.

- ON AN ILLITERATE DIVINE WHO HAD A GOOD DELIVERY.

- ON AN ARTIFICIAL BEAUTY.

- CHEATS ALL. A BALLAD.

- THE FOLLOWING BALLAD (Of which several incorrect Copies have been published) Was delivered to the DEAN of Pembroke College, Oxford, in the Common Hall, On the Fifth Day of NOVEMBER, 1741, As the AUTHOR's EXERCISE on that ANNIVERSARY. Its Date must be its Apology.

- ODE to DROLLERY. By SAMPSON FROLICK, Esq. AN ENTIRE NEW WORK. Where's the motto?

FINIS.

POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

[Price Two Shillings and Sixpence sewed.]

POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

BY WILLIAM HAWKINS, LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN OXFROD.

OXFORD, PRINTED BY W. JACKSON: Sold by J. DODSLEY, in Pall-Mall; Mess. RIVINGTONS, in St. Paul's Church-Yard; and W. OWEN, in Fleet-Street, London; J. and J. FLETCHER, and S. PARKER, in Oxford. MDCCLXXXI.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THESE Poems (some of which, it is presumed, will be found to have an original cast,) were written partly to divert the Author's mind from reflections of unpleasing tendency, and partly to relieve it under attention to matters more professional, and of much greater importance to the interest of virtue and religion. And he hopes at the same time a liberal attempt to amuse all sorts of readers but immoral ones, will not be less acceptable to the candid and the sensible, than the bulk of modern productions, which are visibly calculated to answer a mere temporary and ungenerous purpose; in the gratification of party rage, popular censoriousness, or personal disgust.

N. B. The Reader is desired for Heats, to read Heat's, p. 7, l. 5. — for honours, to read humours, p. 9, at bottom; — to erase the period at unfold, p. 17, l. 6. — to put a comma after blame, l. 7. ibid. — for how, how, to read now, now, p. 20, l. 12. — for sov'ring, to read sov'reign, p. 26, l. 9. — for might, to read might, p. 44, l. 12. — for terror to read tribute, p. 52, l 18. — for Tubal, to read Jubal, p. 65, l. 12. —to put a colon at truth, p. 130, l. 8. and to correct with his pen a few other less considerable Errata in the spelling and punctuation.

CONTENTS.

- ESSAY on GENIUS, page 1

- The SONG of DEBORAH, p. 35

- BAALAM's PROPHECY, p. 42

- DEVOTION, a Poem, p. 48

- ODE for ST. CECILIA's DAY, p. 62

- HYMN to the DEITY, p. 71

- MORNING THOUGHT, p. 81

- VERSES on going through Westminster Abbey, p. 84

- To a WORM which the Author accidentally trode upon, p. 86

- To a Young Gentleman of Fortune, with an Almanack, p. 88

- The BAROMETER, p. 91

- The LOOKING-GLASS, p. 93

- VANITY, a Satire, p. 96

- COXCOMBS, a Satire, Page 112

- STREPHON and THYRSIS, p. 134

- The PROGRESS of LOVE, in four Pastoral Ballads, p. 129

- Falling in Love. Part I. ibid.

- Love Discovered. Part II. p. 134

- Love Declared. Part III. p. 138

- Love Rewarded. Part IV. p. 142

- A RHAPSODY in Praise of the PARTICLES, p. 145

- The EXPEDIENT, a Tale, p. 149

- On an ILLITERATE DIVINE who had a good Delivery, p. 154

- On an ARTIFICIAL BEAUTY, p. 155

- CHEATS ALL, a Ballad, p. 156

- BALLAD on the 5th of NOVEMBER, p. 161

- ODE to DROLLERY. p. 166

ESSAY ON GENIUS. A NEW EDITION, WITH ALTERATIONS AND ADDITIONS.

INQUIRE, dispute, reply, and all you can,

Say, what is GENIUS but the soul of man;—

Beam of that light which animates our frame,

Alike in many, but in none the same?

'Tis with our Minds, as with our bodies, none

In essence differ, yet each knows his own.

Marks of specific character we see

That stamp on ev'ry mortal,—THIS IS HE.

Nor varies more our present outward shape

(This man half-angel, and the next half-ape)

Than do the mental powers: What odds we find

Between a —'s and a [*] Newton's mind?

Ask you the cause? First take it for a rule—

Whate'er the man, the soul is not a fool.

She came in due perfection from the skies,

And all defect in grosser body lies.

Body and soul at best but ill agree;—

'Tis spirit wedded to infirmity:

A disproportion'd match; and hence proceeds

The soul's inaction from the body's needs.

This truth once state, ev'ry soul, 'tis plain,

Much on the filmy texture of the brain;

Much on formations that escape our eyes;

On nice connexions, and coherencies;

And on corporeal organs must depend,

For her own functions, exercise, and end.

Hence then the cause of all defects is seen;

For one wrong movement spoils the whole machine.

'Tis hence the several passions take their rise,

The seeds of virtue, and the roots of vice;

Hence notes peculiar or to young, or old,

Phlegmatic, sanguine, amorous, or cold;

And hence from constitution, such or such,

Wit will take modes, and Genius op'rate much.

The youthful bard, a gentle, sighing swain,

Like Ovid warbles in a love-sick strain;

With weaker passions, but with sense more strong.

The melancholy Young pursues his song.

Mixture of humours motley Genius shews;

'Tis seen, methinks, in [*] Hervey's dancing prose.

Why wonder then to mark the sons of rhyme

Gay, serious, turgid, easy, or sublime?

The soul and body closely thus allied,

Vile is the folly as the sin of pride;

And one great truth the first of men will fit —

That nothing more precarious is than wit.

Behold yon wretch, that o'er your parish strays,

A baby-man, a driv'ler all his days!

With tongue out-lolling, and round-rolling eyes,

He grins against the sun, and catches flies: —

But for some secret flaws we cannot read,

That check her motions, and her flights impede,

His soul, perchance, enrich'd with happiest thought,

Had spoke like Tully, or like Virgil wrote.

Alas! all souls are subject to like fate,

All sympathizing with the body's state;

Let the fierce fever burn through ev'ry vein,

And drive the madding fury to the brain,

Nought can the fervour of his frenzy cool,

But Aristotle's self's a parish fool!

Nay, in proportion, lighter ails controul

The mental virtue, and infect the soul.

Ease is best convoy in our voy'ge to truth: —

What man e'er reason'd with a raging tooth?

A poet with a Genius, and without,

Are the same creatures in the pangs of gout.

Hence then we guess, nor vain is our surmise,

Why some are fools, and none are always wise;

Why Genius differs in life's every stage,

Runs wild with youth, and creeps with hobbling age,

The soul uncumber'd with the mortal clay

Knows no increase of strength, nor fears decay.

A little art this secret may unfold —

That what can never die, is never old.

By present powers perfection cease to scan,

For we may daily mourn the fall of man!

Ah! how bright wit, possest of ev'ry gift,

Dwindled to folly, and went mad in Swift.

The mighty Marlb'ro', whose great soul was prov'd

Upon the plains of Blenheim, where, unmov'd

"Amidst confusion, horrour, and despair,"

He view'd around "the dreadful scenes of war;

"In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd;

"To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid;

"Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,

"And taught the doubtful battle where to rage;"

E'en he, the springs of nature in decay,

And all his vital functions worn away,

Unable now to conquer realms, or buy,

With idiot gesture, and unmeaning eye,

Sits a spectator in the foremost row,

And gapes at heroes in a puppet-shew.

Eschew presumption ev'ry half-learn'd elf;

The noblest writer does not know himself.

Turn mighty Milton's sacred volume o'er;

'Tis strength, 'tis majesty, or something more;

His numbers like th'Almighty's thunders roll,

And strike an aweful pleasure to the soul:

We joy in ruin; and are almost pain'd

To see the (late-lost) Paradise Regain'd.

This work [*] himself judg'd best: — tell me who read,

Was not the mighty Milton blind indeed?

GENIUS again, by inf'rence apt we see,

The same in species, differs in degree;

Propensities are strong; and few men yet

But have a relish for some kind of wit.

Homer is monarch of the Epic choir;

Yet Virgil snatch'd a brand of Homer's fire;

The daring Homer's all-impetuous strain,

Like a hot courser bore him o'er the plain.

The muse of Virgil, that affected state,

Speeds not so swiftly, but she keeps her rate.

Heats oft intense in Lucan's patriot page,

And Statius' muse turns fury in her rage.

Each writer is distinguish'd in his way;

Grand Sophocles, or playful Seneca.

Bold Aeschylus a stately buskin wore,

And shook th'Athenian stage with tragic roar.

You'd swear, so soft Euripides appears,

And tender still, he dipt his quill in tears.

Droll Aristophanes in humour's school

Was bred, and we admire e'en envy's tool.

A pleasant vein through laughing Plautus ran,

And Terence words it like a gentleman.

All to their fav'rite art will lay pretence;—

'Tis inclination, or 'tis excellence;

'Midst clouds of dullness gleams of wit have shone,

Like the faint burstings of an April sun.

Some partly fail, as partly they excel —

Thus R-ch-rds-n, we know, drew nature well;

Yet should a genius toy as he has done,

And spin morality like Grandison?

Grant you what's past, and it will less perplex

To ask, why woman is the weaker sex?

Or, why th' extremes of female wits are such,

They mostly say too little, or too much?

Beauty's soft frame, for other ends design'd,

Faints under toil of body, or of mind.

Shall dimpled girls "the state's whole thunder wield,

And spinsters "shake the senate, or the field?"

Shall tender matrons with man's follies vext,

With high-strain'd treble drive a pointed text?

Shall blooming virgins wage the wordy war,

And deck with brazen fronts the noisy bar?

Let not creation's finer part repine,

Or grudge the province where they cannot shine.

Their pleasing sway a thousand ways is shewn,

And beauty has an empire of its own.

Kind Heav'n that gave them beauty, all things gave:—

The soundest scholar is a woman's slave.

Yet have we known superior nymphs that can

Assert an equal pow'r, and rival man!

Born nature's wonders, or with art to wield

The pen; or grace in arms the martial field;

To model laws; or rule a factious realm;

Witness Eliza at Britannia's helm;

Witness the great Semiramis of old,

Whose ample prowess fame has grav'd in gold;

Witness the lofty soul, the matchless worth

Of Cath'rine, recent empress of the north;

Witness th' ingenious talents of a few,

Aikin, Centlivre, Rowe, Behn, Montague;

Fine strokes in pretty Novellists are seen,

And in Macaulay sense atones for spleen!

Nay, diff'rent countries diff'rent Genius make;

Souls modes peculiar to their climate take:

B•eotia's foggy air was mark'd of old;

Athenian wits were bright, and Theban cold.

Just view near home the surface of the ball; —

In Holland, Genius is mechanical:

In France, the muses breathe a livelier strain;

In Italy, they skip; and strut in Spain.

Not but the British muse delights to shew

Exotic worth, and merit in a foe.

Tasso, Corneille, Racine adorn their age,

And much we borrow from the Gallic stage.

In equal strength, tho' diff'rent modes appear

The honours of Cervantes and Moliere.

This muse or that propitious deigns to shine

On other bards, but on Voltaire the Nine.

In England, O how manifold our rhyme,

Where Genius is uncertain as the clime.

We shew (consult the press, the stage, the schools)

All sorts of wise men, — as all sorts of fools! —

And count our numbers of illustrious name

That climb'd by different paths the steeps of fame.

Ye laurell'd bards of Britain, great in song,

O let the muse survey your tuneful throng.

Chaucer, who notes not thy facetious glee,

Thy Genius full of quaint festivity?

Who reads must see, and seeing must admire

Bright Spencer's fancy, and bold Milton's fire.

Genius was studied wit in artful Ben,

But flow'd spontaneous, Dryden, from thy pen;

'Twas thine in manly richness to excel,

With twice thy labour few write half so well.

Fletcher had copious energy of mind.

Cowley's was wit let loose, and Wycherly's confin'd.

Who but applauds soft Otway's melting lay;

The negligent Simplicity of Gay;

The genuine mirth that tickled Butler's vein;

Waller's terse sonnet, and Young's nervous strain?

Garth had a trait sarcastic, Vanburgh droll;

And Mason's drama speaks a Grecian soul.

Such various forms will Genius take to please;

In Rowe 'tis elegance; in Prior ease;

In Lee 'tis flame that lays half nature waste;

And in the courtly Addison 'tis taste.

In Thomson's muse a thousand graces shine,

And strong description animates his line.

'Tis comic grace in Steele, that shunn'd offence.

In Pope 'tis sweetness, purity, and sense.

'Tis humour in the Dean, unequall'd yet;

And, Congreve, who could stand thy two-edg'd wit?

To sev'ral bards their several beauties fall,

But to inimitable Shakespear — all!

He, nature's darling, unrestrain'd by art,

Knew ev'ry spring that moves the human heart.

Shakespear! O Phoebus, lend thy golden lyre;

Give me the beams of thy coelestial fire;

Avaunt, ye vulgar! poets listen round,

And all Parnassus thunder with the sound,

While the muse hails that great dramatic name,

And down time's rapid tide bears Shakespear's endless fame.

Thy genius, Shenstone, who shall justly treat?

'Tis something — something exquisitely neat.

Nor must the wreath of glory be denied

To solemn Gray, or florid Akinside:

Nor is it just its tribute to refuse

To Churchill's bitter, but ungen'rous muse.

In Lowth, in West, a vein Pindaric flows;

Each Warton a commanding talent shews,

And classical alike their verse and prose.

Assert we then the force of Genius lies

In verse alone? Are poets only wise?

We hinted Genius is of various kind;

And vast the province of the human mind.

Who well performs his heav'n-allotted part,

By strength of nature, or by aid of art,

Whate'er the subject of his happy skill,

The product is the work of Genius still.

That artful rhet'ric human souls can move,

Demosthenes, let thy Philippics prove.

What honied dew distill'd from Tully's tongue!

What soft persuasion on his accents hung!

So smoothly strong the sweet oration flows,

We might assert — the muses speak in prose.

Bid him write verses; — who but will agree,

Cibber could make as good an Ode as he.

'Tis nought but Genius that in all presides,

Gives word in battle, and in council guides:

Prescribes in physic, and consigns to fame

A learned Hervey's, or a Sydenham's name.

Sad woes ensu'd, where fools have squadrons led;

For what is Caesar's arm without his head?

A glorious list in British records shines

Of statesmen, wits, philosophers, divines.

Great Raleigh's death, a sacrifice to Spain,

Marks with a blot a pedant monarch's reign.

Wise Bacon saw where truth half-smother'd lay,

And from scholastic rubbish clear'd the way.

Sage Pocock, and, deep skill'd in annals old,

Usher, high places in fame's temple hold.

Long lucubrations, o'er the midnight oil,

Gave to the world a Newton and a Boyle!

Sagacious Locke discover'd, when he wrote,

Clearness of notion, and vast depth of thought.

Each Alma Mater boasts her fav'rite own,

OXFORD her Bradley, CAMBRIDGE Sanderson.

Nature still marks what mortals speak, or write,

Chatham was copious; Chesterfield polite.

Knowledge of vulgar manners all discern

In Fielding; and new pleasantry in Stern.

In Johnson's strong, but pomp-affecting prose

A mortal wit it's self-sufficience shews.

This age has seen strange pow'rs to music giv'n,

And Handel learn'd, or stole his art from heav'n.

'Tis not a puny judge can find a flaw

In Sherlock's gospel, or in Blackstone's law:

While Mansfield's elocution pure and strong,

Resistless as a torrent sweeps along.

Some to high fame by solid judgment rise,

'Tis Hurd's immortal fame to criticise.

There are who can amaze while they delight;

Bold spirit with cool judgment can unite.

Let [*] Gloster's learned works your praise engage;

And Hume's, and Robertson's historic page.

What plenteous streams of easy sense we see

In fluent Tillotson's divinity?

Yet fluent Tillotson could little say,

Had not the deep-read Barrow lead the way.

Others may fright you from the tempter's gin,

But South will make a man asham'd of sin.

Nay some we know (and knowing we must smile)

Blest with a talent, but without a style:

Hammond stands foremost of this awkward line,

A rumbling writer, but a deep divine!

Who ever knew so strange a vein as his,

Or so much learning in parenthesis?

'Twould tire the muse, and reader to proceed

From reas'ning Chillingworth to flow'ry Seed;

To cite at large the theologic band

From Jewel down to Clarke and Waterland;

The works of christian labour to explore

Of Hooker, Pearson, Mede, and numbers more

That drew their manly quills for righteous ends;

The church's champions, and religion's friends.

I grieve to think what souls may be destroy'd

By wit perverse, and Genius misemploy'd.

Nothing awakes so soon the vengeful rod,

As wisdom flying in the face of God.

The force of reason is of finite length; —

This giant that attempts beyond his strength.

Our boasted light of nature, feeble spark,

Guides for a while, but leaves us in the dark.

As glimm'ring vapours with a pallid ray

Light us to quagmires, and to gulphs betray.

How vain is mortal man above his sphere!

Poor knowing fool, just wise enough to err!

Go, span the globe; the world's strong bounds o'erleap;

Empty the yawning caverns of the deep;

Count all the fibres of that insect's thigh;

Catch me the trembling sun-beams as they fly;

Then take thy understanding's cable line,

Examine God, and measure truths divine.

Grant me, kind heav'n, to see ere I explain;

Correct all false ambition of my brain;

And on my mind this maxim printed be, —

The christian virtue is Humility.

Happier the simple swain, the rustic fool.

That never took the polish of a school,

Than, swell'd with pride, a master of all arts,

With Shaftsbury's cunning, and with St. John's parts.

Much wit obscene has crept thro' ev'ry age;

But lewdness riots on the modern stage.

O shame to arts! our poets may defie

The bards of old; with Rome and Athens vie;

May boast invention, penetration, wit,

All qualities for either Drama fit;

May touch the passions with enchanting art,

And take minutest copies of the Heart:

Yet of past Dramatists be this the praise; —

They rarely stain'd with ribaldry their bays.

Genius depends then on the body's frame —

Tell me, will Genius never be the same?

Or will the diff'rence we to-day espy,

Subsist in souls to all eternity?

Such question put, if reason may be bold

In humble-wise conjecture to unfold.

She seems to dictate, and she fears not blame

That things once diff'ring never are the same.

Here or hereafter, in what light you will,

A man, you know, is soul and body still;

And still corporeal organs, and their use

Must correspondent faculties produce:

But body, in that happier state refin'd,

Shall leave its old infirmities behind

And ev'ry soul be perfect in her kind.

Consult material objects, and we see

God's pow'r display'd in sweet variety.

The diff'rent Seasons diff'rent beauties bring;

'Tis not one colour paints the jolly spring.

The sun, high-flaming, travels in his might;

The moon with placid orb adorns the night.

Each insect that eludes the nicest eye,

One of the myriads floating in the sky,

His Maker's praise proclaim as loudly can

As Ocean's tyrant king, the great Leviathan.

Look thro' all nature, the vast tracts of space,

Each being has it's proper pow'r, and place.

Th' angelic hosts that round the Godhead wait,

And issue forth his ministers of fate,

Have their respective provinces, and know

What part to act above, and what below:

Messiah's sword to Michael's might is giv'n;

And Gabriel is Ambassador of Heav'n.

Hence then, from inf'rence fairly drawn, we find

That souls will differ, and excel in kind;

But when admitted to the realms of joy,

What certain office, what precise employ

Shall exercise the sev'ral pow'rs of each,

Present conception not presumes to reach!

Enough, from gen'ral principles to shew

That one great point of bliss will be — to know;

To touch perfection in a fav'rite art,

And grieve no longer but to "know in part:"

To mark where truth in her recesses lies,

Pursue her without toil, and grasp her as she flies.

The sage Logician then shall clearly see

How all ideas differ, or agree,

And from her coverts drive sly sophistry:

No need to shift, to wrangle, and confute;

For sure the blessed reason, not dispute.

See pensive Metaphysics! science coy!

In contemplation only knowing joy!

Sober recluse, no noisy stander-by,

She speculates abstracted entity.

Purg'd of the grosser particles of clay,

And all material obstacles away,

In the full vigour of eternal youth,

How will she see, embrace, adore the truth?

Physics still fond new secrets to descry,

And look through nature with a piercing eye,

Hereafter latent causes may explore,

When all the present system is no more;

And prove, when inmate of the blest abode,

This world an atom to the works of God!

The pale Astronomer, who kens from far

The wand'ring planet, or the station'd star,

When this frail earth in ruin shall be hurl'd,

May count the lamps that light a nobler world:

And subtle G'ometry shall lend her line,

And take dimensions of the plan divine.

What sounds shall flow from Rhet'ric's silver tongue?

How sweet her eloquence, her voice how strong!

Her wond'rous talents graceful she displays,

And thunders forth the heav'nly monarch's praise.

Hark! hark! the raptur'd bard has struck his lyre;

His bosom kindles with poetic fire;

Ten thousand vast ideas swell his mind;

Imagination ranges unconfin'd;

He sings Jehovah's all-triumphant reign;

How softly trills, how loudly sounds the strain,

And music fills th' unmeasurable plain?

The winged hosts are charm'd that hover by,

And seraphs shout applause that rends the sky.

Such then the future pleasures of the mind,

So solid, manly, rational, refin'd,

Source of sublime delight, and tranquil joy,

And sure to satisfy, but not to cloy;

How vain at once are all mere earthly schemes,

The tricks of statesmen, and ambition's dreams?

Low the designs the wisest worldlings lay;

Lower the brutal pleasures of a day.

Awake, awake; — pursue your proper plan;

Virtue and knowledge only make a man.

Despise the world; a better fortune try;

And calculate for immortality.

Ideots, by nat'ral organs ill supply'd;

Untutor'd louts, whose parts were never try'd;

Hereafter hidden excellence may shew,

And rank with souls that scorn'd them here below:

But for the sot that sees, yet slights his rule,

The wilful novice, and industrious fool,

That lulls with sloth, or steeps in vice his sense,

The slave of pleasure, or of indolence,

How wretched is his fate? Fears he not pain,

The gnawing viper, and the galling chain?

Still wretched is this blockhead's fate — for why?

Eternal ignorance is misery. [*]

Who goodly talents have, should talents use

With care assiduous, but with virtuous views;

For application sometimes less pretence

To merit has than barren indolence.

Nothing fatigues our soul, or tires our brain,

Like lust of empire, or the thirst of gain:

And these o'er-ruling in an active mind,

Spoil nations, and make havock of mankind.

Ingenious tyrants only make us slaves; —

Were all men fools, sure no men would be knaves.

Sly Cromwell, once obscure unnotic'd thing,

Outwitted factions, and was more than king.

Ambition take the sceptre and the robe,

Spread thy huge greatness over half the globe;

Lo! the world bursts, 'tis nature's dying day,

The sun is dark the planets melt away: —

Now boast thy Genius, exercise thy parts,

Recount thy feats, and recognize thy arts;

Alas! thou cursest thy too pregnant brain,

And knowledge is acute to quicken pain.

The nature, the importance, and the end

Of Genius such, be wise then and attend

How we may best our nat'ral powers improve,

And qualify the soul for bliss above.

Genius lies hid, like metal in the mine,

Till searching education bids it shine.

'Tis but a glorious few of deathless name

Have found without a guide their road to fame.

Nor slight their province, if we justly rate,

Who till the mind, and Genius cultivate;

Much penetration, and no little toil

Must try the strength and temper of the soil:

Some minds rich-natur'd, like a gen'rous field,

To little culture ample harvests yield;

Others incessant labour must secure,

They owe their goodly produce to manure.

Our judgment too should mark where talent lies,

And, soon as seen, indulge propensities:

For diff'rent objects diff'rent fancies strike;

Genius, we said before, is not alike.

Pope's forward muse procur'd him early fame;

"He lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came:"

Another's unharmonious tuste is such,

Sooner than poetry he'd learn High Dutch!

Yet He peculiar talents may display,

And prove a very wonder in his way.

Why must all mortals seek the self-same praise?

Is there no garland but a wreath of bays?

To steep Parnassus' summit most sublime

'Tis not a short-breath'd Pegasus can climb.

Some seem to think that Genius may be sold,

But wit is not, like honour, bought with gold.

To foreign regions wealthy thicksculs roam;

Tho' fools of all men sure should stay at home.

Another's heir thro' Wickham's school must pass;

He goes a blockhead, and comes home an ass.

From form to form these dull indocile things

Proceed in course, as tumblers shoot thro' rings.

Yet these, tho' destitute of hopeful wit,

'Twere rashness to pronounce at once unfit

For life's first stations; oft 'mongst these we find

An able body, and an active mind;

A keen discernment; prudence; caution; care;

A hand to execute; a soul to dare.

No useful talent then should dormant lie;

— 'Tis service to the common enemy; —

And these no-scholars may or swell the sail

Of commerce, and attend the shifting gale;

Or deck with great exploits a Georgia's reign,

And humble Gallic crests, and crush the pride of Spain.

Others of lively parts, but wretched fate,

Want nothing but a fortune to be great.

Sometimes among the vulgar herd we find

Strong marks and features of a heav'nly mind:

The village swain's a wit, he knows not how,

And I have seen philosophy at plough.

How are our hopes by present chances crost?

What oafs make p-rs-ns, and what wits are lost?

When now your Genius, near to ripeness grown,

Begins to glow with raptures all its own,

Ply it with chosen books of various kinds,

For reading is the food of hungry minds:

Mod'rate and wholsom will suffice your need;

'Tis not how much, but how and what you read;

To rise with appetite is always best;

Gluttons devour much more than they digest:

'Tis vain for ever over books to pore;

Reading does much, but observation more.

Mere slavish plodding never yet prevail'd;

See yon lank student to his folio nail'd:

He reads at home, abroad, at meals, in bed,

And has five thousand volumes in his head;

Yet little to perfection has he brought,

For he has read so much, — he never thought.

The youth more sprightly, and the glowing bard,

That had as lieve go dig as study hard,

Applies by fits, and at his fancy's call;

Little he reads, but has that little all;

He sees, and he enjoys his author's worth,

Gathers his flow'rs, and culls his beauties forth.

He dwells with transport on a fav'rite part,

And clasps each striking passage to his heart.

Your models chuse from authors of first rate;

He cannot write, who dares not emulate.

To father Homer's sov'ring poetry

Rome owes her Virgil, and our Milton we.

The tow'ring muse of Pindar reach'd the sky,

And Flaccus follow'd with an eager eye.

For present times to emulate is all: —

'Tis scarce in wit to be original.

Leave books, and go to company; and then

Leave company, and go to books again.

The studious mind 'tis useful to unbend

In pleasing converse with a social friend:

For cordial juices of the purple vine

Refresh the weary, and the dull refine:

O'er flowing bowls rebounds the sparkling wit,

And sure no poet was a milksop yet.

Intemp'rate revelling alone consumes

The mental pow'rs, and clouds the brain in fumes.

Horace, best handler of the Roman lyre,

In rich Falernum quaff'd poetic fire:

A jovial bard! How pleasant are his strains!

How much good-humour in his writings reigns!

He laughs, tho' angry, and will still delight;

His verse is satire, but it is not spite.

How does his muse with free politeness rail!

While Juvenal's is threshing with a flail!

Scholars should know, all fire in motion lies. —

Whet then your parts with manly exercise.

Dulness sits slumb'ring in an elbow-chair;

But the gay Muses love to take the air. —

— The Shades of night are fled before the morn;

The mountains echo to the cheerful horn;

Men, dogs, and horses, neighings, shouts, and cries

Shake with tumultuous jollity the skies;

The chace grows hot; they pant in ev'ry vein;

Now climb the steep hill's brow, now scour along the plain.

Such sports as these enliven; they impart

Warmth to the brain, and gladness to the heart.

Yet cautious still indulge the vig'rous joy; —

It should be relaxation, not employ.

But if due aid to Genius may be lent,

Sometimes it suffers by impediment.

Unhappy is the bard that deals in rhyme

When wit is obsolete, and sense a crime:

When the weak muse, in a degen'rate age,

Crawls from the press, or lamely treads the stage;

No longer dares to noble heights advance,

But chimes in song, or trifles in romance.

How shall the genuine bard escape from fools

That judge by narrow, or by partial rules?

A thousand witlings maul his mangled name,

And yelping critics hunt him out of fame.

How strange a fate! in writing few succeed;

But ev'ry man's a critic that can read!

Chance sometimes seems to govern all; we see

Merit in vain prefer a righteous plea:

False taste, caprice, and circumstance of times

Untowardly conspire to damn our rhymes;

And censure so perversely plays her tricks,

That she will measure wit by politics!

To our eternal shame this truth be said —

That for whole Years ev'n [*] Milton was unread.

If these are plagues, still more remain behind;

Wits tell you fortune frowns upon their kind.

Alas! what sources of obstruction lie

In the great common woe of poverty!

Whose case is hardest, 'tis not quickly said,

Or theirs that work, or theirs that write for bread.

The starveling curate the fat dean supplies;

One makes divinity, and t'other buys. —

Who but must wail the state of lib'ral arts,

When scholars pawn their coats, or fell their parts?

Bards of first note are hirelings ev'ry day,

And the chaste Nine turn prostitutes for pay.

Sure of all writers poets should not lack;

'Twill spoil your Pegasus to make him hack.

The muse expands her wings before you ask. —

She loves employment, but she hates a task.

To Dryden the proud manager could say; —

On pain of thirst and hunger bring your play.

— The play appears in breach of many a rule,

And want makes Dryden sometimes half a fool.

Such from without the causes that we find

Obstruct the operations of the mind:

Within too Genius has its enemies,

And in ourselves too oft our hindrance lies:

Our passions, vices, follies, talents hide,

Intemp'rance, anger, hastiness, and pride.

We said, debauches will oblivion bring,

And mix dull Lethe with the Muses' spring.

The mind is then most vig'rous when serene;

And crude the sentiment that flows from spleen.

— What then inspires the sharp, satyric page?

Oft, fix'd ill-nature; seldom sudden rage.

Some giddy fancies ev'ry object hit

Alike; — you may be prodigal of wit.

The verse is short-liv'd that is premature;

The muse tho' never slow, should still be sure.

These are thy honours, Blackmore, this thy gain,

That nonsense came in vollies from thy brain.

Conceit with vapours puffs an empty mind,

And makes a writer to his errors blind.

'Tis the first praise to make; the next to mend;

Go, court the censure of an able friend:

Procure the sanction of a learned few;

Who knows what mortals may your works review?[*]

True modesty for wit may sometimes pass;

But ev'ry coxcomb is, as such, an ass.

The best productions some defects will stain,

And he affronts mankind who dares be vain!

O that my strains assistance could impart,

As far as nature may be help'd by art;

Nature to mend all efforts it behoves,

And what God made 'tis art alone improves.

Give me this fame, kind heav'n, and tho' my song

Ranks me the meanest of the raptur'd throng,

I reap fair fruits, and gain an honest end,

Not muse-befriended, but the muse's friend.[†]

Notes

*
In the course of this Essay, the names of many who have distinguished themselves by their ability will occur; but it will not be expected, that honour should be done to, or mention made of all the successful candidates for celebrity, in all countries and ages of the world. It will be thought sufficient, 'tis presumed, for the illustration of the subject, to have produced some of the most eminent and popular names, especially among those of our own nation.
↵

*
The author means not hereby to throw any reflection on the literary character of the late ingenious and worthy Mr. Hervey, whose MEDITATIONS have done considerable service to religion, and will rank him in the first class of elegant writers; — proper allowances made for the enthusiasm with which they are a little tinctured, and for the exuberance of a sometimes too playful imagination.
↵

*

See Fenton's Life of Milton, prefixed to his edition of Paradise Lost.

The learned Dr. Newton tells us, in his Life of Milton, that, ‘all that we can assert upon good authority is, that he could not endure to hear the Paradise Regained cried down so much as it was, in comparison with the other poem.’ But, I believe, my reader will agree with me, that such a partiality as this, will sufficiently warrant what is said in the Essay. Probably I may have more to say upon this subject in another place.

↵

*
Warburton.
↵

*
The author apprehends this sentiment to be justified by reasonable presumptions, and the sense which the following passage of S. S. will at least admit: — He that is unjust, let him be unjust still. &c. REV. ch. xx. ver. 11.
↵

*
In fact, as fair a chance for renown as literary worth will be acknowledged to have in the main, it cannot be denied that Authors before now have been less indebted to the intrinsic merit of their productions for their reputation, than to a powerful patronage, or a favourable crisis. The world is not invariably just in its decisions. I will only detain the reader with one notorious instance. Mr. Addison's Comedy of the Drummer was hardly able to wriggle itself into the world at all; while the Tragedy of Cato, by virtue principally of the popular word Liberty, recommended itself to uncommon applause, and was long time the favourite entertainment of the nation. For this performance, notwithstanding the random panegyric bestowed on it by a few [†] Gentlemen connected with its author by principle, or attached to him by friendship, is, in point merely of dramatic merit, most unquestionably far inferiour to the Comedy above-mentioned. In short, the fate of writers is too often determined by many supposable contingencies and circumstances; and literary reputation is sometimes temporary, sometimes posthumous, and always in some measure precarious.
↵

†
See GUARDIAN, Vol. I. No. 33, &c.
↵

*
In the former edition the word—review—was printed in Italics; — of which the author confesses the impropriety. — But whether the general question be pertinent or otherwise, he leaves to the determination of every candid and impartial reader.
↵

†

The reader will find in the first edition of this poem a few lines of complimental address to the university of OXFORD; (a place ever to be mentioned by the author with the utmost gratitude and respect;) and a few more relative to his own political principles, which are all here omitted as totally extraneous to his subject. But because the omission of the latter may be liable to misconstruction; or lay him open to a charge of tergiversation, and desertion of sentiment, from more quarters than one, it is thought proper to produce the passage in this place, with as much of comment on it as will, 'tis hoped, be sufficient for his vindication, and the satisfaction of the reader.— The lines are as follows:

For me, howe'er, I covet lasting fame,

And pant with longings for a poet's name,

Yet let my soul confess a nobler aim!

Give me, kind heav'n, still higher points to reach;

Give me to practice what I strive to teach;

My standing rules of daily conduct be

Faith, honour, justice, candour, charity;

Careless of false reproach, or vain applause,

Be worth my eulogy, and truth my cause.

O may I wield an independent pen,

A friend to virtue, not a tool to men;

In perseverance placing all my glory,

While TORIES, WHIGS, and all Men call me TORY!

Warm in my breast may patriot passion glow;

Righteous resentment of my country's woe:

With voice and heart for ever may I stand

'Gainst vermin that devour my native land;

And in one wish my wishes centered be —

That I may live to hail my country free!

Two of these verses are a parody on a well-known passage in Mr. Pope, and reprobate that Gentleman's there-avowed mediocrity of principle. — However let stress be laid not on names, but things. Ideas are often affixed to terms with which they are not necessarily connected, either by the indiscretion, or the violence, or the artifice of party. Men may load the word Tory with what Imputations they please; — but (to be as explicit as the occasion seems to require) if to profess himself a friend to the Constitution in Church and State; a foe alike to Mass and Meeting, as far as candour will warrant, and charity admit; if to avow himself zealous equally for the Prerogative of the Crown, the freedom and independence of Parliament, and the privileges and liberties of the People; if to hold the rights of conscience sacred and inviolable, and to desire to see every peaceable subject in full possession of his religious sentiments, but at the same time to detest those latitudinarian principles, publickly maintained and insolently disseminated, which manifestly tend to undermine the foundations of all order and ccclesiastical establishment whatsoever; if to reverence at all times a constitutional opposition to ministry, but to abhor a factious one; if to wish to find the love of our country the universal passion, and the public good the grand aim and object of all orders and degrees of men among us; —if to do and to desire all this, and all that this implies, constitutes Toryism in the whole or in part, a Tory the author has been from his youth upon the fullest conviction, and a Tory he hopes to be to the last moment of his existence.

↵

THE SONG of DEBORAH. AN ODE. JUDGES, Chap. v.

BEGIN the gladsome shout, the loud acclaim,

Begin the universal choir;

Temper in solemn tunes the sounding lyre

To great Jehovah's name;

Thrones, princedoms, pow'rs attend! Illustrious throng!

While I this glorious day

Swell to Jehovah's name the grateful song,

And tributary laud, and joyous homage pay. —

Who shall abide the dire alarms?

The God of Israel is in arms: —

From Edom's field, in pomp of matchless might

Dreadful he marches, "grasping in his hand

Ten thousand thunders," and controuls the fight: —

Who, where is he that shall withstand?

And while, sublime, the wide expanse he trode,

Big clouds discharge their watry stores;

The dun storm growls; the tempest roars;

The frighted elements gave place;

Proud Sinai trembled to his base;

And nature's melting frame confest the coming God.

II.

What time the son of Anath held command,

And justice scantly dealt throughout the land,

How wretched Israel's state?

To insult rude, and rapine fierce betray'd,

Thro' devious tracks, and desarts wild they stray'd;

No traveller the wonted path frequents;

Each village her lost habitants laments;

The region round was desolate:

While rageful war, and dire alarms

Beset the girded towns with thund'ring arms;

Nor spear, nor shield was seen midst Judah's bands,

Terror disarm'd their hearts, and hostile pow'r their hands.

In impotence of deep distress

From other gods they seek redress,

Adding, ungrateful to their weight of woes;

When I, the mother of my country, rose;

I Deborah, the scourge of Jacob's foes:

And God, all-gracious set the nations free

By delegated might, and their deliverer, me!

Princes, and chiefs that durst assay

The dangers of that direful day,

Nobly devoted to your country's cause;

Blessings inwreathe your heads, and palms of fame's applause.

III.

Ye white-rob'd ministers of judgment tell,

Rulers, and rev'rend elders say,

All, all recount that glorious day

When Israel triumph'd, and when Jabin fell —

The tumults hush'd; the terrors fled;

And peace her downy wings o'erspread;

And righteous Heav'n tranquility restor'd

By Deb'rah's counsel sage, and Barak's slaught'ring sword.

IV.

Now in the deep recesses of the vale,

(Where far in many a limpid maze

The curling streamlet sweetly strays,

At whose fair spring, or flow'r-trimm'd side,

The villagers their huts supplied

With liquid measures, daily drawn

At evening's close, or morning's dawn;)

The blithsome swains exchange a simple tale.

Whilom in dread, and wild dismay

They pass'd the cheerless, tedious day;

Sad they convers'd in whispers low;

Fancy made ev'ry shade a foe;

They shook with ev'ry wind that blew;

In ev'ry breeze an arrow flew.

Now, free from terror and annoy

They give their souls at large to joy;

Jehovah's prowess they relate;

Jehovah's acts, and Jabin's fate;

The pleasing theme enraptur'd they rehearse

With shouts of glad acclaim, or strains of rustic verse.

V.

Rise Deborah, arise; — prolong

In solemn notes thy tuneful song;

Barak, arise! Thou son of fame

Grace thy triumphal car

With a long captive train, thy slaves of war; —

Arise great offspring of Abinoam. —

Where were old Israel's sons? say, did not all

The martial summons hear?

Or basely did they shrink with fear,

Deaf to the din of arms, and glory's princely call?

Reuben no more, the brave and bold,

Attends at home his bleating fold;

And Dan and Asher's coward band,

When loud the voice of battle roars

Flie to the limits of the land,

And people wide the barren shores;

While Zebulon, and valiant Napthali,

Patriot asserters of their country's right,

Undaunted drew their slender squadrons nigh,

And fac'd the dread array, and iron front of fight.

VI.

Heirs of renown, Canaan's proud monarchs came

Unbought, and panting with the thirst of fame!

Royal confed'rates! from afar

Earth groan'd beneath their cumb'rous war:

By fair Megiddo's mossy banks they stood;

Trembled with gleams of arms the silver stood.

Now hosts with hosts engage

Impetuous; — hark! the clangs resound; —

See, see the prancing steeds up-tear the ground;

And the wild tumult glows with hotter rage.

But lo! the planets frown malign;

And ah! see where

Jehovah's seraph-legions, pois'd in air,

The furious conflict join;

The flaming squadrons urge their deathful way,

And crush the wither'd pow'rs of Sisera,

Arm'd with etherial fires, and charg'd with wrath divine.

Triumph my soul! pale fears our foes confound;

Their might I trample on the ground; —

The purple field is delug'd with the slain;

And antient Kishon's rev'rend flood

(His swelling waves distain'd with blood)

Bears in his sweepy tide whole nations to the main.

VII.

Fair Kenite, spouse of Heber, hail!

Blessings thy pious fraud shall crown,

And heart-felt joy, and high renown,

Envy of all the dames that dwell the tented vale.

Give me to drink, the toil-spent warrior cried,

The creamy bev'rage lib'ral she supplied,

And from her lordly vats his parch'd thirst gratified.

Spent with fatigue, and lost in sleep profound,

Gigantic length, he lay —

The mighty Sisera —

And while he press'd his earthy bed,

She snatch'd the nail; she pierc'd his head;

She rivetted his temples to the ground.

Extended, breathless at her feet he lay —

The mighty Sisera —

Stretch'd at her feet, the chieftain died; —

This boast of Harosheth, and Jabin's pride.

VIII.

His noble mother darts from far

Her longing eyes,

And loud, with fond impatience, cries, —

Why tarries thus his loit'ring car?

Why comes he not, she cries again,

(Preventing her attendant train)

Why comes not my victorious son?

Is not the glorious battle won?

Have not the leaders shar'd the prey? —

The captive maids with blooming charms

To bless the glowing victor's arms;

And broider'd robes, and glitt'ring spoils

Meet to reward the Soldiers toils;

And grace the neck of conq'ring Sisera?

IX.

Thus ever let indignant vengeance rise

To blast Jehovah's enemies!

But let the faithful votaries of God

Distinguish'd shine, like yon vast orb of light

As thro' the purpled east he takes his flaming road,

Array'd in splendors pure, and majesty of might.

BAALAM's PROPHECY. AN ODE. Numbers, Chap. xxiii, and xxiv.

I Burn, I burn with extasy —

I hear, I see, I feel the Deity —

Impulsive springs my pow'rs controul,

Celestial truth inspires my song,

Prophetic rapture trembles on my tongue,

And all the God comes rushing on my soul.

II.

From Aram's lofty steeps I come

Where wide their radiance bright display

The golden beams of orient day,

Prophet of Balak's fate, and Midian's doom. —

Curse this invading host; curse, ban, defie

(Astounded Balak, and his princes cry)

The might of Jacob's sons, and potent chivalry. —

On thy devoted head the bans redound: —

The chosen legions come from far

Commission'd to uproot with wasteful war,

And level thy puissance to the ground.

III.

Lo! from the rocky summits I behold

The vast, the formidable throng;

Lo! where they gleam in arms that flame with gold,

And like th' unbridled deluge sweep along.

Illustrious, dreadful day!

Lo! lo! they seize th' imperial sway; —

They grasp the sole command,

And wipe the feeble nations from the land.

Ah! see th' innumerable train

Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the vale,

Or whirling sands that mantle to the gale,

Their wide-extended tribes o'erspread the roomy plain.

IV.

List Balak! son of Zippor hear

The oracles of God! — I claim thine ear. —

Jacob, th' immutable decree

Awards the gen'ral sway to thee; —

The voice of truth celestial, name

Awful, thro' ages endless rounds the same!

The God supreme his faithful hosts inspires; —

Full in their van, insufferably bright,

His splendid presence gilds the front of fight; —

They swell with rising rage; — they glow with martial fires. —

How the din grows? What tumult's nigh?

What shouts monarchal tear the sky?

Appear, great son of Jacob, O appear —

Gay as the dapple stag, strong as the mountain steer.

All hail the favour'd band!

Led by Jehovah's lifted hand

From thraldom vile in Egypt's hated land.

V.

Avaunt ye ministers of might —

Gobbling, elf, and shad'wy sprite;

Necromancers, plotting harms;

Beldams, mutt'ring horrid charms;

Magic rite; and mystic spell;

All the potency of hell; —

Ye blasted pow'rs of darkness yield —

Behold! Jehovah takes the field!

What time the kingdoms struck with dread

Shall feel th' Almighty's vengeful rod,

Pale inquiry round shall spread —

What wond'rous acts are these?—Who is this angry God?

As some huge lion, rousing in his might,

Stalks sternly from his den in quest of food,

And springs upon his prey with fierce delight,

And gluts his rage of appetite with blood; —

So Jacob's sons, in arms renown'd,

And still with wreaths of conquest crown'd,

March furious on, and mark their way

With slaughter, and enjoy the carnage of the day.

VI.

I glow, I burn with extasy —

I hear, I see, I feel the Deity —

Impulsive springs my pow'rs controul,

Celestial truth inspires my song,

Prophetic rapture trembles on my tongue; —

Again, again the God comes rushing on my soul.

VII.

See! what fair view yon length of squadrons yields!

See! what pavilions whiten all the fields!

Tents beyond tents in goodly order stand,

And tribes on tribes bespread the conquer'd land.

As, planted by a bubbling river's side,

Some garden to the solar blaze

Its rich parterres, and flow'ry pride

In all their vernal luxury displays;

While on the daisied bank in solemn row

Nodding cedars stately grow,

And lengthen down the stream beyond the ken of sight:

So Judah's hosts, exulting in their might,

And heav'n-appointed o'er the realms to reign,

In well-form'd ranks of battle gay,

And beautiful in war's array,

Assert the sov'reign rule, and stretch of wide domain.

All hail the favour'd band!

Led by Jehovah's lifted hand

From thraldom vile in Egypt's hated land. —

They come resistless as the flood;

Their vengeance pours;

Their wrath devours;

Their shafts are drunk with blood.

VIII.

Hist! hist! methinks these direful foes

At ease within their tents repose;

As some huge lion couchant lies,

And ruminates his future prize.

Who shall upstir his slumb'ring might;

Or dare him to the field of sight?

IX.

I glow, I burn with extasy —

I hear, I see, I feel the Deity —

Impulsive springs my pow'rs controul,

Celestial truth inspires my song,

Prophetic rapture trembles on my tongue; —

New light divine irradiates all my soul.

X.

I look thro' ages; I descry

Strange fruits of times to come; —

Things buried in the womb

Of dark futurity. —

I see, I see from far

The pride of Jacob, dawning like the star

That lights the morn; I see him rise,

Joy of all hearts, and wonder of all eyes:

I see him hold supreme command;

I see him rear his sceptred hand;

In pow'r unmatch'd; benign in grace;

Israel's Messiah king, and Saviour of our race.

DEVOTION. A POEM.

OFFSPRING of Love and Reason, Eden-born,

What time mankind's progenitor beheld

New-made creation, and himself the lord,

Devotion, be my theme: — O fill my soul

With pious sentiment; abstract my thought

From things corporeal; and at once engage

And purify my verse. — Thrice blessed hour

Of unpolluted innocence, when thro'

The flow'ry groves of blooming paradise

Our gen'ral parents at sweet random stray'd;

Eternal spring breath'd fragrance round their walks,

And nature smil'd as hand in hand they took

Their unfrequented way. Grateful they pour'd

Their hearts in rapture;—grateful praise was then

Religion's better half. Faith was unborn; —

'Twas rich beatitude of sight, when God,

Descending from his throne supernal, gave

Illustrious exhibition of himself,

Exchanging conference benign with man: —

His sov'reign, and his friend! or, where was Hope

When life was bliss, and full possession crown'd

All appetite with joy? Where Charity,

Ere discord had a being; when one pair

Compos'd Society; blest pair, conjoin'd

In silken bands of union, woven by

Affection pure, and first connubial love?

But lust of science, hell-inspir'd, unhing'd

This fabric of felicity; — behold

Eden is wilderness, and man — a worm!

See! this immortal grovels in the dust —

And that devotion which was once the vow

Of cheerful worship, or the sacrifice

Of placid reverence, and filial love,

Is now the feeble effort of despair; —

The plaintive moan of guiltiness abash'd; —

The tear of anguish, and the sigh of woe.

Look, thou afflicted, up — It is thy God

Uncloth'd with terrors! mark! he utters bland

Redemption's word! With pious eagerness

Devour those healing sounds; and catch, O catch

The balmy dew of grace upon thy soul.

Now Faith unfurls her banner; at her side

Hope meekly smiling stands; while righteous souls

Burn with impatience to regain the bliss

By human folly forfeited; and pant

Like exiles, longing for their native clime.

But Reason was man's law; and on the truths

Traditions handed down from age to age

Devotion form'd her plan. — As some large stream

That issues limpid from his parent spring,

Rolls headlong on, and in his bill'wy sweep

Contracts foul tinctures from the lands he laves

In his wide-winding course; tradition thus,

Pure from it's fount, deriving in it's flow.

Collects strange tenets, and exotic whims,

(Such diabolic artifice suggests,)

Or from the plastic faculty of man,

Or from observance heedless; till at length

Error ingraff'd upon the stock of truth

Shoots his luxuriant branch. — Religion shews

Like some delightful, but uncultur'd spot,

When desolation lays his wasteful hand

Upon its vernal beauties: noisom weeds,

And brambly trash usurp the goodly soil

Where Flora gayly reign'd. — Now kingly pride,

And vulgar superstition stored the world

With spurious deities; while man transferr'd

To creatures vile the prostrate homage due

To the Supreme Creator. He, t' assert

His violated honour, and maintain

An unadulterate faith, in early days

Vouchsaf'd to Terah's offspring to impart

His name, his will, his promise. — After-times

Beheld descending Deity in clouds

Of wavy smoke, and spiry-spreading flame;

When on Mount Sinai's consecrated brow

Th' Almighty Monarch special presence gave

To Israel's trembling sons; ten thousand saints,

His high retinue, clapp'd their golden wings;

And thunders roar'd; and nimble lightnings streak'd

The gloomy cloud, while the big trumpet's voice

Proclaim'd his fiery law; haply that trump

Whose louder blast shall from earth's clayey womb

Summon all mortals in the flaming day

Of gen'ral consummation. — What should shake

Devotion's basis now? — Ev'n he, th' arch-fiend,

That, subtle, tainted pure tradition's stream,

And alienated first man's wav'ring mind

From God to idols. — In a world corrupt,

Isra'l, by bent of nature ever prone

To novelty, and smooth seductions, caught

The spirit'al contagion: while a few,

Still eminently singular, to heav'n

With pureness of affection unestrang'd

Paid adorations meet. Illustrious names!

Recorded in the sacred page of truth.

But better times succeeded. Hark! methinks

Celestial music charms my ravish'd ear!

Isra'l's "sweet singer" wakes his tuneful lyre

To sounds harmonious; in exalted hymns

He celebrates Omnipotence; he pours

Terror of pious praise; th' angelic hosts

Hear with delight, and to God's cloud-wrapt throne

Waft the melodious sacrifice. — But see!

Ah see! he drops his harp; he sweeps no more

The vocal, sprightly strings; he mourns; he droops;

He languishes in heaviness of soul. —

Yet movingly he breathes his humblest strains

Of penitential sorrow; off'ring now

Contrition's victim in a bleeding heart.

Blest minstrel, whose sweet notes shall one day join

In unison with heav'n's eternal choir,

Accept this tribute; thou, whose royal name

Shall stand conspicuous pattern thro' all time

Of deep remorse, of penitence unfeign'd,

Of holy rapture, and triumphal joy.

O! see where beauty in her unfelt snare

Holds sapience tangled. See! wise Solomon

Led by a smile, and to idol'trous rites

Decoy'd by soft allurements, and the charms

Of alien princesses. — See! Nebat's son,

In policy accurs'd, erects his calves

In Bethel and in Dan; all Isra'l pay

Devoir to these fictitious deities; —

Revolters from their king, and from their God!

And now Religion, thro' a length of times

Adult'rate, and deform, (for what avail'd

The zeal, the pious fervour of a few?)

Call'd down the vengeance of th' Almighty's arm

In visitation various; till at length

The desolating hand of merc'less war

Swept Isra'l off, and to a foreign pow'r

Captiv'd his recreant tribes. The hosts of God

Pine in Chaldea: — Yet he left not there

Omnipotence unwitness•d: O behold

Th' intrepid three, who brave defiance hurl'd

In the fierce tyrant's teeth; serene they walk

Thro' undulating flames, that round them play

Soft as the breath of spring. Lo! at their head

Smiling in dignity of conscious might,

The captain of their cause — the Son of God!

See too th' illustrious prophet, envy-doom'd,

As in a peaceful grot, by zephyrs lull'd,

Sleeps in the lions' den, that frisk, and bound

With lamb-like innocence. — Devotion still

Disarms grim terror of his properties,

And from th' insatiate maw of hungry death

Rescues her genuine sons. — Now see again

The tribes in peace restor'd; Judea smiles

Beneath the hand of culture; to the view

A second temple rises in its pride,

And blazing altars to th' eternal throne

Send clouds of fragrancy. — Jehovah reigns

Unrivall'd by Tartarean deities,

Singly confest supreme; — but taintless faith

Secures not pure Devotion. — Num'rous sects

Divide old Jacob's sons; while solemn trash

Of institutions ritual, shad'wy forms

Of ceremonious import, ill-maintain'd

By zeal for vain traditions, stood in place

Of that high moral law from Sinai's brow

In pomp of visible Divinity

Magnificiently taught. — Man worshipp'd God,

But serv'd his appetite. — In such a state

Of sanctity extern, MESSIAH came

Claiming the world's allegiance. — Hail! all hail

Our Lawgiver Divine! Thee usher'd not

Or proud imperial ensigns, or the voice

Of trumpets in loud symphony, or smoke,

Or flaming fire, or thunder's pealing roar: —

The tidings of thine advent, King of Kings,

Placid descending from the realms above,

A full-wing'd Seraph bore to simple swains

That by the paly glimpses of the moon

Tended their fleecy charge; when sudden join'd

That heav'nly harbinger an angel-choir

Hymning the great event, and making night

With lucent vision glorious. — Thee proclaim'd

In sackcloth, garb of lowly penitence,

And in the desert's solitary waste,

Thy Baptist-herald; — loud, repent, he cried,

Repent — erecting in the human heart

Thy spirit'al domain. O hail! all-hail

Thou greater Baptist! author of our bliss!

Our promis'd Legislator, Saviour, Lord! —

I see, I see thee bleeding on the cross!

Thee, universal Passover! I see

The Prince of Life expiring! — It is paid —

The debt enormous by primaeval sin

Contracted. — It is finished. — Satan falls,

Like lightning shooting from th' etherial sky. —

Look where he wallows in the fiery gulf

Of "bottomless perdition;" — how he rolls

His eye with anguish! and in deep despair

Roars like a wounded lion! Hell rebounds

Thro' all her burning caverns. — Horrid scene!

O let me turn, and, blithsome, lift my soul

Upon the steady wing of soaring faith

To happier regions; those delightful seats

(Our blest Redeemer's purchase) where heav'n's saints,

Array'd in robes whiter than maiden snow,

And crown'd with crowns of gold, joying delights

Beyond conception's grasp, to the great Sire

Of beings with exalted voices sing

Eternal Hallelujahs! — Faith has now

A firm foundation — Hope an anchor sure —

Devotion a new theme. — Like that above,

The Christian worship should be uniform,

Grave, solemn, fervent, spirit'al, divine!

Thou holy Mother Church, to whom I owe

True love, and filial rev'rence, let thy son,

Duteous, tho' mean, pay to thine excellence

His pious mite of praise. — Light of the world,

And Reformation's boast! — Envy of Rome!

And pillar of the Faith! Thee nobly mark

Thy doctrines sound; thy worship manly, pure;

Thy customs primitive; thy sober rites

Significantly decent. — Is there aught

Beneath the sacred minstrelsy of heav'n

To cheer, to warm, to elevate the soul,

Like the religious harmony of choirs

Within some temple's venerable pile

On festivals assemb'ed? — With full tone

"The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow;"

Or sweetly modulate their varying notes

To voices well-attun'd; now melody

Alternate Strikes our ear; now jointly swells

The universal chorus, storming heav'n

With holy violence. — Or, if we breathe

Devotion's earnest strains in humbler mode,

And unadorn'd simplicity of pray'r,

This, this is sacrifice that burns as bright,

And, tow'ring, mounts as h•gh. — The soul that sends

Her full affections forth in privacy,

Shall reap her harvest of eternal joy

In light of worlds. — Ejaculations launch'd

By pious zeal amidst a thousand dins

Of war and tumult, shall assert their way

To the celestial throne. — What mortal knows

The mental flights that meditation takes,

When, from life's cares retiring, she enjoys

Her closet-musings? — Sometimes lone she strays

Along the rocky beach at dead of night,

By the moon's silver lamp, nor heeds the winds

That whistle round, nor notes the sullen surge

That beats the pebbled shore. Or, silent, roves

Down the sequestred dale where Philomel

With melancholy music holds night's ear

Attentive to her plaint. Or, takes her stand

With folded arms, and moveless eye, beneath

Some ivy-mantled battlement, once seat

Of a great lord, but now reputed haunt

Of fays, and sprites nocturnal. — Yet her thoughts,

Which shun man's note, to knowledge infinite

Are visible as characters inscrib'd

On monumental brass, or works perform'd

With ostentatious shew to publick view

In the broad eye of day. — Such various forms

Assuming, true devotion is the same,

Vocal or intellectual. — Ah! how low,

How wild, or how jejune the substitutes

Of rational Religion, which the zeal

Of superstitious folly has devis'd,

Or pious frenzy rais'd? — Glitt'ring parade,

Or affectation of austerity,

Is Roman godliness; denoted now

By cowls, and beads, and lifted crucifix,

Penance, and fast, and cloister'd solitude; —

And now exhibited in grand display

Of superficial pomp. — O what avails

This lavishment of splendor? Will a God

Of purity immaculate accept

The lifeless off'rings of a carnal heart?

Or periodic public abstinence

Atone for stolen luxury? — Nor more

Of reason, or devotion hath the pride

Of zealots that in mad fanatic rage

Disclaim all government; order renounce;

And vent the product of a sickly brain

For spirit'al effusions: with wan looks,

And gesture wild, and horrible grimace,

And clamours strain'd, amidst a staring crowd

Dealing damnation. — Keep me, pow'r supreme,

Alike from idle faith in fooleries,

And from imagination's tenet dire

(Child of despair, or pride) that circumscribes

Infinity, and with a word [*] dethrones

Thee from thy MERCY-SEAT. — Give me a faith

Stedfast in him that bled! a lively hope!

An humble confidence! an ardent love;

And cordial charity that knows no bounds!

Let virtue be my rule, but not my boast: —

And death my expectation, not my fear.

Give me to live in peace; cheerful to wait

My hour of dissolution; take my leave

Of this vain world in smiles; look up to thee;

And in an act of piety expire.

Notes

*
Predestination.
↵

ODE FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

HARK! hark! what harsh and horrid crash I hear?

What jarring discords burst upon mine ear?

'Tis chaos audible; — and more and more

Loud the tumbling waters roar:

Anarch tumultuous holds his dreary reign,

And o'er the future globe

Darkness throws her sablest robe. —

But, hark again!

Hark to a sweetly-solemn strain,

That sooths my aching bosom's pain;

The strain that companies the voice of GOD:

And, as he bids the jarring discords cease,

And speaks confusion into peace,

Calms the gath'ring deeps around

With harmony of noblest sound;

While light, swift-gushing in etherial streams

That from the throne eternal flow'd,

Silvers the vast obscure with virgin beams:

And bands of rich-plum'd angels in full quire,

Sonorous sweeping each his golden lyre,

Their purple banners wide unfurl'd,

Salute with hymns of joy the birth-day of the world!

CHORUS.

Musick, essence holy, high,

Purest heav'n is thy abode,

Thou, coeternal with the Deity

And daughter of the voice of GOD:

II.

Musick, to various ends by wisdom giv'n,

Bounty of indulgent heav'n

Thro' nature sways without controul;

Rouses the passions slumb'ring in the soul,

Or stills the mental storms that in the bosom roll.

Tuneful measures sweetly move

Pleasing throbs of glowing love;

Sadly-pining griefs asswage;

Lull the pains of drooping age;

Smooth the brow of anxious care;

Drive the cloud that wraps despair;

Feelings touch with nicest art,

And heave with pity's pants the ruthless heart.

Musick, essence holy, high, &c.

III.

But when loud clangours sound alarms,

And manly musick fires the soul to arms;

When the shrill trumpet's brazen breath

Sends thro' the walks of war the blasts of death;

The lofty strain all fear dispels;

Each breast with martial emulation swells;

The troops are eager to engage;

The leaders kindle into rage;

And, warm with longings for a warriour's name,

Already see their valiant deeds enroll'd

In deathless characters of gold,

And wear the palm of fame.

Or if pealing organs blow

Majestically slow

In well-fill'd quires;

Or the tall roof with hallelujahs rings

From dulcet voices to the King of Kings,

The sacred melody inspires

Meek raptures, sober joys, and pure desires:

The soul refin'd,

And on devotion's wing born high,

Asserts her native sky,

And soars thro' boundless space, and leaves the world behind.

Musick, essence holy, high, &c.

IV.

Hail, princely Tubal! son of Lamech, deign

To smile upon my grateful strain!

Father of earthly musick! sire renown'd!

Thee, still with rev'rence let me name,

That didst invent the deep-ton'd organ's frame;

And teach the vocal strings to greet

The list'ning ear with warblings sweet,

And charm th' astonish'd world with cheerful sound.

Musick, essence holy, high, &c.

V.

Say, Muse, who next thy verse shall grace?

Or he, the fabled bard of Thrace,

Whose liquid notes allur'd the woods,

And check'd the speed of rapid floods,

And tam'd the fierceness of the savage beast,

And hush'd the growling tempest into rest,

And all th' infernal woes beguil'd; —

The furies dropt their snakes, and hell's grim tyrant smil'd:

Or he whose lute's attractive call

Rais'd the stately Theban wall:

Or he, musician sweet,

That, "at the royal feast for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son,"

From his exalted seat

With wond'rous art, by all confess'd,

Led the obsequious passions round

With magic melody of sound,

And moulded at his will the yielding monarch's breast:

Or, rather, he who reign'd

Vice-gerent of the highest, Israel's king,

(Assure no sweeter muse hath story feign'd,)

David, immortal minstrel, skill'd to sing

Jehovah's might omnipotent, and raise

To him enthron'd on high

In cloud-environ'd majesty

Songs sublime, and joyous praise.

O with how delicate a touch

He wak'd the soft-ton'd lyre

That, warbling, heal'd Saul's wounded breast,

And laid his frantic ire. —

Let the great master 'gin to play,

And the foul fiend is seiz'd with deep dismay,

Owns the commanding sounds, and quits the realms of day.

Musick, essence holy, high, &c.

VI.

Cease, cease hereafter ev'ry strain

That breathes an air profane,

Loosely gay, and lightly vain;

That may to virtue treach'rous prove,

And carnal thoughts with luscious food supply,

And aid the board of sumptuous luxury;

Unnerve the soul, and melt to sensual love.

Strike me such pow'rful notes as fell

From Miriam's sacred shell,

When at the head of Israel's female throng

She led the dance, she tun'd the song,

While the great Law-giver stood by,

And Jacob's hosts exulting, late

Victorious over Egypt's fate,

Shook heav'n's blue vault with melody;

Or such as hail'd, after the battle won,

The might of Jesse's son,

Wreath'd with unfading laurels from the blow

That laid the proud Philistine low:

Or cheer me with that loftiness of sound

Which brazen cymbals dealt around,

When hills and woods, and vallies rung,

And psalt'ries play'd, and Levites sung,

And on their shoulders bore their hallow'd load,

The ARK OF GOD:

Or lift me into extasy

With strains of sacred harmony,

Such as when Solomon the wise

Bade Jehovah's temple rise,

Charm'd the spheres, and storm'd the skies:

'Twas tributary praise; — a nation's sacrifice;

Voices sweet-attun'd combin'd,

One universal chorus join'd

With psalt'ries, and harps, and trumpets loud;

What time, descending in a golden cloud,

Glory divine

Took possession of the shrine:

The priests with awe retiring far away,

Impatient of the blaze of that transcendent day.

Musick, essence holy, high, &c.

VII.

O, when the final trumpet's sound

Shall shake the frame of nature round;

When that tremendous blast shall spread; —

The musick which shall wake the dead —

May I be number'd with the sons of grace

That manfully have run their Christian race;

So shall Cecilia, sweet harmonious maid,

In robe of speckless white array'd,

Smiling, take me by the hand,

And place me in her tuneful band

That shall triumphant mount the starry sky

With shouts of joy, and songs of melody;

And fill'd with gladness, peace, and love▪

Join the celestial choir that ceaseless hymns above.

CHORUS.

Musick, essence holy, high,

Purest heav'n is thy abode,

Thou, coeternal with the Deity,

And daughter of the voice of GOD!

HYMN TO THE SUPREME BEING. PSALM civ. &c. &c.

LAUD to the Highest! laud to him enthron'd

In dignity supreme; array'd

In uncreated light, as with a robe

Flowing redundant: — look th' Almighty's hand

Wide throws the bursting clouds,

That, curtain-like, heav'n's pure expanse

Veil'd from all sight; and to a thousand worlds

Unfolds at large

His pomp, and blaze of Majesty Divine.

II.

Deep beneath Ocean's vast abyss,

Profound unmeasurable, lies

The base of God's unshaken throne!

Behold! he lifts him in his might, and now

Ascends the golden clouds, up-born sublime

In his etherial chariot; now

Descends, and on the rapid pinions of the wind

Walks in imperial state.

III.

Myriads of tribes angelic, countless hosts

Of spirits, fiery natures, watch

Thy high behests, Creator; thee

Thy flaming legions, train august,

Tended with wond'ring eye, what time thou bad'st,

The pillars of this ample universe

Rise from dark chaos; all was wat'ry waste,

And wild confusion, and rude din,

'Till thy commanding voice,

Thy thunder's roar, rebuk'd

That elemental war: — th' affrighted floods

Flew to their channels; earth appear'd

Cloth'd in her mantle green; and at thy word

Order came graceful forth, and infant Beauty smil'd.

IV.

Thy pow'r omnipotent that wak'd

Insensate nature into birth

Can with a breathe dissolve it; — when man's guilt

Clamour'd for vengeance, thou didst ope

Heav'n's windows, and the flood-gates of the deep

Uplifting, let Destruction forth

To ravage all abroad. Deluge involv'd

Creation's noble work. Death had not known

Repast so rich before. Or, if thou lift'st

Thine arm in local wrath,

Fell Desolation in an instant flies

Thy dread commission to fulfil,

Wrapt in celestial flame, and sheets of fire. —

Gomorrah smokes to heav'n!

V.

O thou preserver of that world which grew

Beneath thy plastic hand,

Guardian of Isra'ls sons,

Terror of Jacob's foes,

My glowing bosom throbs with strong desire

To celebrate thy name; —

Thy prowess to deliver down

In monumental verse to future times. —

How marvellous was thy puissant arm

In Memphian ruins? — Now, on eastern blasts

Born high, vast clouds of locusts sweep

Thro' air, eclipsing day. Spring mourns

His plunder'd fruitage. Now, proud Nile,

Rolling his crimson waves, laments

His scaly sons expiring. Now

Dire Hail, down-pour'd in clutt'ring cataracts,

And Fire, his ruddy mate, devour

All summer's pride. Now Ocean wraps

The flow'r of Egypt in his wave,

Ingulfing thousands; while thy hosts

Their harness'd squadrons moving on with pace

Solemn and slow,

In firm array

March'd 'twixt the crystal battlements,

Their banners gayly waving to the sun,

Hymning all-joyful to thy praise,

Jehovah, — victor Lord — glory's triumphant King.

VI.

How did paternal Providence sustain

A nation in the wilderness

With bread mirac'lous — nourishment of Gods

And Spirits incorporeal. — Down

In heaps on heaps descending fell

The feather'd food,

Diurnal sustenance, that strew'd the camp

Plenteous as Lybian dust, or sands

That line the shelvy beach. — When drought

Choak'd the parch'd soil, the smitten rock

In copious streams discharg'd

His liquid treasures, and a thousand rills

Purl'd thro' the burning plain. The year reviv'd,

And all was sprighly joy, and all was laughing spring.

VII.

But Nature in her constant course proclaims

Her origin divine.

The sun, bright ruler of the day; —

The moon, fair regent of the night; —

The stars, heav'n's host innumerable, roll

Their glitt'ring orbs in revolutions true,

From century to century, and shall,

'Till he, that lighted first, shall quench their fires.

Spring heads the seasons, leading in his hand

His lusty children; Health that hails the morn

With roseate cheek; and Strength that stalks

With giant strides, and brow erect;

And Beauty, queen of May; while Flora strews

His verdant path with violets;

And the wing'd habitants of air

Greet him with matin song. — Next Summer shews

His sun-burnt countenance; with genial heat

Warming the vegetable world.

Thunder, lightning, sable storm

Wait on his pleasure; armies that defend

His sultry reign from pestilence

That still annoys his borders. — Now

Autumn, great lord of harvest, sends

His swarthy labour'rs to collect

The various tribute of the year.

He stores his granaries with golden grain;

And in possession of earth's riches, smiles

At Winter's stern approach; tho' Winter's self,

Arm'd as he is with sharp-fang'd frost,

And barbed hail, and smoth'ring snow,

Locks weary nature up in sleep

Profound with friendly hand,

In vigour fresh

To be re-wak'd by Spring. — Thou Nature's Lord

Benign, as mighty; good, as great;

How does this wonderful vicissitude

Lift thy all-glorious name!

VIII.

What language shall recite

Thy wonders, or thy mercies, in

The navigable deeps,

Where active Commerce spreads her daring wing,

Visiting round the globe. Behold!

How swift yon vessel speeds it's course,

And skims along the level of the main. —

But sudden winds unseen

Creep from their caverns dark,

Whistling insidious. Now they swell

With rougher blast; and now

Bellow with hideous voice, and dreadful roar.

Quick flit the fleecy clouds; the wat'ry South

Conducts the gloomy storm; deep thunders roll

With angry rumblings; lightning shoots

His vivid flash, streaking the floods

With gleams of fire. — The winds the helpless bark

Toss like a feather; now she rides

Upon the surge to heav'n; now down she drops

To earth's deep centre. — Who shall still this rage?

Thou that didst silence chaos. — At thy beck

Tumult and uproar cease; the winds

Forget to blow; the sea his waves

Smooths to a plain; and Phoebus spreads around

The comfortable blaze of cloudless day.

IX.

O thou, preserver of whatever breathes

The common vital air,

Man, beast, fowl, fish, or reptile — all

Thy providence munificent confess. —

Thou dealest plenty with a lib'ral hand; —

The feather'd songsters grateful chaunt

Thy praises, pouring liquid melody

From their aerial seats.

The beasts that slake their eager thirst

At many at stream, that winds

His silver current thro' the vale,

Know their preserver. Loud

The lion's princely youngling roars,

Seeking his food from thee. When slumber seals

Man's eye, and night imbrowns the world

With dreary gloom,

The forest sends his savage natives forth

Roaming for prey. They know their hour

Pre-destin'd; and when morning marks

The welkin with her blush, conscious retire

At once, resigning day.

Nor less their bounteous Maker own

The finny multitudes, that dwell

The wat'ry regions; from the smallest fry

That writhe, like infects, their exiguous forms

To huge leviathan,

Lord of the floods, that rolls his stately bulk

Sporting in Ocean! Let not man be last

In grateful homage, whose distinguish'd race

Stands first in favour. 'Tis for him

Nature abounds with wealth. For him

Earth, air, and sea are peopled. 'Tis for him

The sun impregns the glebe; the cloud distils

The fatness, and the joyful valley sings.

For him the ground, rewarding culture's toil,

Abundant yields the wheaten grain,

Strengthner of human hearts.

For him the grape swells with nectareous juice,

Cordial of life, that sooths

Our nat'ral griefs, and gladdens worldly care. —

Laud then to him Most High! And while

Creation joins in gen'ral chorus, thou,

O thou, praise God my soul.

A MORNING THOUGHT.

NIGHT in her fablest mantle had close wrapt

The peaceful world; and, o'er the lid of toil

His heavy mace slow-waving, down-rob'd sleep

Held mortals bound in his oblivious chain;

When chanticleer, first herald that proclaims

Returning day, soon as the grey-ey'd dawn

Sprinkles with scanty beams the mountain's brow,

Pour'd thro' his out-stretched neck his shrilling notes,

Startling the reign of silence. I awoke,

And gave my still attention to the call

Of this quotidian monitor. Methought

His summons typified those final sounds

That shall hereafter from death's leaden sleep

Arouse all nations; when the trump of God

Shall vent it's blast sonorous, louder than

The brazen voice of clarions when they blow

Prologue to battle; or the rattling roar

Of twice ten thousand thunders; while big shouts

Of angels, and arch-angels rend the frame

Of universal nature. — How my soul

Hangs hov'ring o'er the thought! — And now the sun

Threw wide the windows of the blushing east,

And led the new-born day. Delighted Spring

Look'd cheerfully, and welcom'd his fair orb

With all her fragrance; whilst the feather'd tribes

In various strains, and warblings sweetly wild,

Hail'd his enliv'ning splendor. — Glorious scene!

Yet, what is this to that transcendent blaze,

That lustre pure, refin'd, ineffable,

Which shall invest the Sun of righteousness

At his last awful advent? — What is this? —

'Tis dusk, 'tis cloud, 'tis shade, 'tis pitchy night! —

Now opes the scene of immortality, —

Prospect stupendous! — Nature's dying-day

Is birth-day to a life unknowing end! —

Inquire then, O my soul, where, where is now

The pageantry of pow'r, the vaunt of pride

And high ambition grasping at the globe?

Where now the fame of Caesar? — Where the flow'rs

That laughing pleasure so profusely strew'd

Before youth's roving eye? — Or, where the wealth

That swell'd the bags of av'rice? — Where the cares

That harass'd manhood, and o'erloaded age?

The film which Zephyr sweeps from yonder bud

Hath substance more compact. — Come then, my soul,

Heiress of bliss, survivor of the worlds,

Prepare thee for thine audit. — Stretch thy view

Beyond this span of being, into lengths

Illimitable; — from heav'n's wardrobe take

The garments of salvation, wear the robe

Of righteousness, begird thyself with truth,

Put on array more billiant than e'er deck'd

Bridegroom apparell'd for his nuptial hour,

And DRESS this morning for eternity.

A THOUGHT That occurred to the AUTHOR in passing through WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

THESE solemn scenes all lighter thoughts controul—

They are an entertainment for the soul!

Awe corrects pleasure. — Round I throw my eyes,

And ages past to recollection rise.

Kings, patriots, sages, heroes, bards appear —

Sure all that's great and good was buried here! —

If tombstones tell us truth, that prose, those rhymes

Are strong reproaches on the present times. —

But if they lie — the fulsom'st thing that's said

To sooth the living; but insults the dead. —

I feel emotions warm my bosom raise

At this profusion of licentious praise. —

Is there a God above who does not know

Our virtues, 'till they're sculptur'd here below?

The best with labour earn immortal bliss —

Look here — and not a creature does amiss.

When these bold Gothic buildings shall decay,

And monuments themselves shall mould away;

When time resistless shall destroy our bust,

And blot the verse that dignifies our dust;

When marble records shall no more declare

That Newton, Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, were; —

Then virtue clear'd, and vice abash'd, shall prove

Our characters are drawn, at their full-length, above.

TO A WORM WHICH THE AUTHOR ACCIDENTALLY TRODE UPON.

METHINKS thou writhest as in rage; —

But, dying reptile, know,

Thou ow'st to chance thy death! — I scorn

To crush my meanest foe.

Anger, 'tis true, and justice stern

Might fairly here have place. —

Are not thy subterraneous tribes

Devourers of our race?

On princes they have richly fed,

When their vast work was done;

And monarchs have regal'd vile worms,

Who first the world had won.

Let vengeance then thine exit cheer,

Nor at thy fate repine:

Legions of worms (who knows how soon?)

Shall feast on me, and mine.

TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF FORTUNE, WITH AN ALMANACK.

YOUNG friend of twenty, ent'ring fresh

A world of care and strife;

Read in the circle of the year

A lecture upon life.

Thou think'st Time halts on leaden feet,

Tho' Time is on the wing;

Nor seest a Winter to thy days,

Because 'tis yet but Spring.

Now dimpled pleasure to thy view

Presents scenes bright and gay; —

But thorns invest the sweetest flow'rs

That paint the bloomy May.

Ambition will thy manly prime

Allure with many a call;

As Summers cherish golden fruits

That ripen but to fall.

Wealth to thy waning age, belike,

Shall glitt'ring hoards display: —

But Autumn's still, tho' plenty crown'd,

The season of decay.

Old Age is Winter; — Winter brings

Indeed a cheerless hour:

Where now is vernal beauty? — Where

Is pleasure, pomp, or pow'r?

The Seasons then may teach thy youth

To form the prudent plan. —

An Almanack will serve to shew

The chequer'd state of man.

Look down the margent of each month; —

Observe the weather's train; —

Now calm, and clear, attract your eye,

Now cloud, and wind, and rain.

So joys and cares thro' various life

Altern emotions raise; —

'Twere folly to expect to bask

In sunshine all your days. —

'Tis worth your pains to mark (for sure

'Twill rouse an honest pride)

That regal list; — you'll see what kings

Were born, and reign'd, and died.

Here's all th' account of what they did,

Or worthy, or amiss: —

Dear youth, secure a fairer page

Of History than this.

May no dishonest, paltry deed

Obstruct thy road to fame;

No baseness visibly eclipse

The splendor of thy name.

So shalt thou flourish in renown

Amongst the good, and great;

So reap eternal bliss, when time

Itself is out of date.

THE BAROMETER.

IN things quite out of common guess

Strong emblems oft you'll find:

The atmosphere, for instance, shews

The race of womankind.

Sallies of rage, and passion's gusts

Some female breasts deform;

And these are well denoted by

Much tempest and loud storm.

By vapours press'd, with clouded brow,

And still in weeping vein,

Your tender, melting things, methinks,

Are typified by rain.

Most of the sex inconstant are;

Fickle from high to low; —

As weather in this clime too oft

Is changeable you know.

If smiles give life to beauty's cheek

All gay and debonair,

'Tis like the face of nature, when

The glass is up at fair.

But when Religion womanhood

Adorns with graces rare;

Good-humour has a basis sure;

And then 'tis — settled fair.

THE LOOKING-GLASS.

SYLVIA, so pleas'd thy time to pass

Before thy faithful looking glass;

Happy that figure to survey;

That graceful mien; that aspect gay;

And ruby lip, and speaking eye;

For which so many lovers die:

And studious, what Dame Nature lent

To aid with art and ornament;

Say, should small-pox (you've known the case)

Make depredations on thy face;

Or sanguine pimples flush thy cheek

So fair, so bloomy, and so sleek;

Or casualties, or nat'ral harms

Despoil thy all-triumphant charms;

Shouldst thou not droop, and pout, and fret,

A victim to continual pet,

With aching heart the loss deplore,

And loath the glass you now adore.

O then, since doubtless soon or late

Decay is transient beauty's fate,

Sylvia, think that instruction kind

That cautions thee to deck thy mind,

And graces cultivate with care

Time may improve, but can't impair.

'Tis universally confest

There is a mirror in the breast,

Which what we say, or think, or do,

Exhibits in reflection true. —

'Twere prudent to look into this,

To know what's right, and what's amiss.

If virtue, innocence, and truth,

(Habits which best become our youth)

Should strike at once your searching sight,

Tongue can't describe your pure delight.

If flushes of unchaste desire,

Paleness of envy, passion's fire,

Swellings of vanity and pride,

Or moral blemishes beside,

Appear; — O Sylvia, thou wilt see

With grief thy soul's deformity. —

But still remember, art and care,

Which never can a face repair,

Will for these sports sure washes find:—

There are cosmetics for the mind. —

Ah! then regard a friend sincere;

Bestow your first attention here:

In this wise search your mornings pass,

And Conscience be — your Looking-glass.

VANITY. A SATIRE.

O For the manly wrath, the noble rage

That pointed ev'ry verse in ev'ry page

Of angry Juvenal; — or the keen stroke

Of Horace, whose severity of joke

Laid folly low, and knav'ry brought to shame;

Or the satiric Muse of equal name

That fir'd immortal Pope's prolific brain,

Young's nervous line, and Dryden's cutting strain:

Our age is mark'd with fool'ries that would call

For the best wit, or blackest spleen of all!

'Tis Vanity that all the world can draw;

It hath the force of Gospel, and of law.

Amongst old Adam's offspring there's no strife

Like that of shining in this mortal life.

It is the thought, the plan, the dream, the whole

Wish, and ambition of the worldling's soul:

This one grand aim we steadily pursue,

As inclination points, and — whimsey too. —

Some hope respect, or envy to engage

With novelty, or glare of equipage.

Time was, precursors could our worth proclaim,

And running-footmen tript us into fame.

Now with parade more solemn we approach,

And servants hang in clusters to the coach.

One keeps smart grooms, fine steeds, and coursers able:—

The temple of his fame is his own stable!

Another nobly lives, with splendor treats,

And man becomes immortal — as he eats!

These Taste in lofty palaces display,

And we have Babels building ev'ry day.

Who but his daring fancy must approve

That without faith whole mountains can remove? —

Or bids new streams in unknown channels go,

And teaches wand'ring rivers where to flow?

Nature subdued to skilful labour yields,

And barren heaths commence Elysian fields.

"How, Sir! all state, all art, all works deride?"

Mistake not — 'tis not use I blame — but pride.

The things heav'n sends us are commodious things;

And princes born should live like sons of kings.

Steeds, chariots, villas, suit the man of sense;

They are his comforts; not his excellence.

Life should be decent; grand, as means afford; —

What is so little as a little Lord?

A noble spirit marks the great and wise:

But Monarchs self-sufficient I despise.

Nay, fruits of bold design just praise command

When Genius takes Convenience by the hand,

And what is undertook is understood.

The true projector is a publick good. —

Bridgewater's name shall glide thro' ev'ry age;

And makes a glorious botch in Satire's page.

Look round the surface of the globe, you'll see

Nought more contagious is than Vanity.

All pant with longings to be rich and great,

And emulate their betters — in estate.

Pomp is our idol; we indulge in show;

Appearance is the only thing below.

For this we toil, watch, cozen, forge, swear, lie. —

There is no sin on earth but poverty.

Nay more, we yield to be distress'd for this;

Make our own troubles; and in seeming bliss

Labour with grievance real. Crispus clear

Hath less than twice two hundred pounds a year.

Yet, little as such substance will afford,

He eats, drinks, whores, and gambles with my lord:

Among the foremost shines at balls or play,

For ever anxious, and for ever gay.

And now he riggles 'neath the gripe of law;

And mortgage on his lands lays iron paw:

Ills upon ills beset his harass'd life;

He hears in tortures a complaining wife;

He storms; he curses; throws the blame on fate;

While duns incessant thunder at his gate;

His folly is reflection's endless theme;

Care haunts his walk; and horror rides his dream;

'Till at the last all his misfortunes meet

In one, and Crispus figures — in the Fleet.

Few see the sorrows that with splendors mix,

Can man be wretched with a coach and six?

Such sentiment the worldly fool reveals

Who thinks there is no woe but that he feels.

At least to keep a carriage and a pair

Is requisite for decency, — and air.

Borne thro' some country town, th' admiring throng

Believe us great ones as we whirl along.

All eyes behold us when we gaily roam;

But we can keep our miseries at home. —

Pride, how prepost'rous is thy burning itch?

Sure people should have riches to be rich!

'Tis not in common language to express

The pleasure or the privilege of dress!

It is the most commodious thing on earth; —

It covers exigence; supposes birth;

Supplies defect of dignity, or grace;

And gives to impudence itself a face!

Mortals of lofty spirits, when unknown,

Command attention from their garb alone;

And ere to-day, by virtue of fine cloaths,

Tailors have danc'd, and barbers rank'd with beaus.

You'll scarce discern, as cases may be laid,

Between a countess and a chamber-maid.

Both seem alike well-drest, alike well-bred,

And painted streamers wave from either head.

Some taste and judgment must detect a cheat—

The silks of Ludgate-Hill and Monmouth-Street

Glow with an equal tint to vulgar eyes:

And often our best ornaments are lies.

Sometimes (as soon a story shall explain)

Just disappointment mortifies the vain.

A lawyer's dapper clerk of slender skill

(Who brandish'd with reluctant hand the quill)

Was pert, and proud; talk'd much, but little meant: —

In short, his coat—was his accomplishment. —

I mean his first, for he could sing, and dance,

Take snuff, read novels, and discourse of France

With fluency — of insignificance.

Full oft he past, in splendor of attire,

For what he pleas'd; — lord, baronet, or 'squire; —

A man of taste, and elegance refin'd;

One that had studied life, and knew mankind. —

It happen'd once, as anecdotes declare,

(What boots it, my good reader, when or where?)

Our hero inn'd in a snug country-town. —

(The house, for rhyme-sake, we will call the Crown;)

"What noise was that?" "Th' assembly's held to night."

His car devours the tidings with delight? —

Suppose we now all previous matters set

In order, and this belle assembly met.

Our stranger spruce, and trim, and debonair,

Attracts respect; — the chief male figure there.

Among the females with superior grace

Of person, and soft symmetry of face,

Vanessa shone — the swain that sees her dies; —

Nothing her dress outsparkles — but her eyes:

Her lovely head a load of plumage bore;

Such as we read old Homer's heroes wore:

Sweetly she prattled, while attention hung

Upon the pretty lispings of her tongue. —

All-conscious of commanding charms she moves,

And round her skipt a train of little loves.

Our spark, who ever thought it bounden duty

To prostrate to pre-eminence of beauty,

And in this fair-one could distinctly see

Virtue, wit, breeding, fortune, family,

Humbly the favour of her hand implores

To join the dance, — enjoys it, and adores!

Now in her ear he labours to impart

His fervent love, and throbbings of his heart:

In whispers owns her beauty's sov'reign pow'r;

Like a bee buzzing round some maiden flow'r!

Hops, smiles, sighs, ogles, moans, yet joys his pains;

Like a tame monkey frisking in his chains!

Full he appears to all her slave confest,

And envy tortures ev'ry female breast.

Well-pleas'd Vanessa hails this happy night;

Her bosom flutters with the dear delight;

And to herself, in native pride, says she,

This is indeed a conquest worthy me!

The bell beats twelve; the hour of parting's come;

And now the universal word is — home. —

(For country-girls are not like city-jades

That waste the live-long night at masquerades.)

Our 'squire officious will conduct his fair

To her nigh-neighb'ring mansion — his fond care

Reluctant she declines — he still insists —

In forms a lover does the thing he lists. —

O! mark how soon realities destroy

The neatest fabric of ideal joy. —

Soon as they reach'd her father's clumsy doors,

The surly guardian of his leather stores,

With barkings loud assails our wooers ear;

Above in painted rows boots, shoes appear;

He smokes his fair plebeian; "pretty dear,

"Remember me to Crispin." — rude he cries,

And, scornful, from his pouting charmer flies. —

Yet, justly neither party could complain; —

No lady, she; and he, no gentle swain.

Time was (will such a time be known again?)

When only gentry liv'd like gentlemen: —

When people dress'd, and fed like what they were;

And income was the rule of daily fare:

When housewifery the decent pantry stor'd,

And prudence order'd the convivial board;

Most tables were supplied with ease — for why?

Pudding, and beef, and beer, was luxury! —

Each social dinner now must be a treat: —

And there are thousands study — what to eat!

Lo! Vanity her various charms displays —

How rich, how beautiful your side-board's blaze! —

Promise of high repast! Th' expectants feel

Complacence, and premeditate the meal.

Now sav'ry viands well-arrang'd appear;

The sight an alderman himself might cheer;

In turns the bounties of the season smoke;

And costly wines fresh appetite provoke.

The guests profusely in your praise descant: —

This, how superb! and that, how elegant!

The point is gain'd; you reach the wish'd-for fame;

And all — but creditors applaud your name.

There are those half-bred dames whose mode is such,

They plague by being civil overmuch.

Simp'ring they do the honours of the feast. —

"Sir, can you make a dinner? — I protest

There's nothing to be got. — You'll sadly fare. —

Pray, taste the pheasant; — will you try the hare?"

We sooth our vanity a hundred ways: —

Unjust abuse is the high road to praise.

But such impertinence is strangely vain,

And tho' no vice will teaze us more than ten.

Facts are sure vouchers; else you'd swear I dream.—

'Tis wonderful what folks will do to seem.

One cornice will a ream of paper waste;

And brilliant di'monds are compos'd of paste:

Glass stands for china; and the massy weight

Of burnish'd candlesticks is — pure French plate.

Some entertain you by mere dint of force; —

And will almost create a second course.

With a few dishes they their friends regale,

But they are twenty if you go by tale.

Here couch'd in salt four eggs attract your eye;

And there a leash of swarthy walnuts lie;

Here shreds of butter neatly shav'd appear;

And half a dozen olives justle there.

Nay, at some tables of the great, we know,

Provisions enter less for use than shew.

Day after day the formal board they grace:

You might suppose each viand knew its place: —

They are the standing dishes of the year;

Not part of, but th' appendix to your cheer:

Nothings are potted! nought's beneath that lid; —

The whole is handsome, but one half forbid.

My Lady these by law of usage gives; —

They are not eatables, but expletives.

I've heard of dainties (if truth some aver)

Which he who carves must be a carpenter; —

Viz. — fowls, tongues, sundry articles of wood,

Perpetual representatives of food!

'Tis lofty precedent that makes us fools,

And thro' the world fantastic fashion rules:

We set no limits to our vain desires;

'Squires rival lords, and yeomen rival 'squires.

Is it in Christian patience to endure

High-life burlesqu'd, and state in miniature?

Some domes are neat, and some excel in glory;

Bur ev'ry bandbox has its attic story.

A rambler oft in his excursions sees

Two crooked sticks form a chevaux de frife.

Meandring streamlets are from ditches made;

And spouts low-bending dribble a cascade!

Pebbles, and moss, and beads together got

Are Merlin's cavern, or Calypso's grot.

Sometimes a pasteboard bridge displays it's show,

O'er the dull muddy brook that creeps below.

'Tis foolery too gross to be deny'd,

When Avarice goes hand in hand with Pride:

Then hoarded gold is rather squeez'd than spent;

We are half-mean, and half magnificent.

Missello's seat to common view will shew

Like Wilton's splendour, or the pomp of Stowe.

There niggard Vanity has play'd his part,

And awkard Labour sav'd the costs of Art.

Grim Tritons there in empty basons play,

And Neptune scorches in the noon-tide ray.

A meek-ey'd Pallas grasps her harmless spear,

And ghastly Cupids like young imps appear.

Diana looks most smirking, and most civil,

And Venus is as ugly as the d—l.

A shatter'd green-house feebly lengthens there,

Tott'ring with age, and groaning for repair:

There broken slates, and many a crazy pane

With hospitable gap invite the rain:

While sick exotics shake as Eurus blows,

And myrtles droop beneath oppressive snows.

Here pictures bought at auctions boast no names,

But strike th' admiring eye with — tawdry frames.

Fine drawings are expensive, useless stuff;

The rooms are fitted up — and that's enough.

Or thick-daub'd portraits which your sight abhors

Will pass extremely well for ancestors!

Yet may one plea Misello's fame secure; —

He is a chapman, not a connoiseur,

And understands not taste in furniture.

Look round about, and thousands you will see

Vain of a little spriggy pedigree. —

In Wales high birth is ev'ry native's claim,

And num'rous tribes exult in Tudor's name. —

Dick lets us know with triumph of delight

His grandsire's second cousin was a knight,

An alderman, a sheriff, and lord mayor; —

Elate with this connection, Dick will stare,

Strut, cock his hat, affect the man of note,

And now his honour pawn, and now — his coat.

As big as Nobles look, most folks agree

A little blood may serve a family:

As a few sanguine drops the tide will stain,

And roll a tinctur'd current to the main.

There are, experience shews, who cannot trace

One ancestor to dignify their race,

Nor yet have worth, or spirit to make known

A gallant deed, or virtue of their own.

No creatures so deserving are of scorn,

Except the sc—ndr—ls that are highly born,

Who basely to all sense of honour lost,

Disgrace their birth, and blot the line they boast.

Were we to judge by practice, sure some hold

That merit is transferrable like gold;

That virtue thro' all progeny will run,

And fame, like land, descend from son to son.

Nay, stranger still, where vice and folly reign,

Monstrous effect! — the wicked will be vain!

Let bold corruption once invert all rules

The best, are madmen; and the wisest, fools.

'Mongst libertines, that systems can unmake,

Men will be vile — for reputation's sake!

Have we not liv'd flagitious feats to see

Vaunted by coxcombs in iniquity?

Have we not mark'd in this licentious town

Rakes in esteem, and r—sc—ls of renown?

O come Religion, thy soft balm impart,

To melt into remorse each harden'd heart!

Religion come, and with thy strong controul

Allay this raging fever of the soul!

Present to Faith's weak sight, and guilt-dimm'd eye

An awful picture of the God most high!

Present him great, and good, and wise, and just,

'Till mortals humble carnal pride in dust; —

Renounce false pleasure; — sensual joys forego;

And tremble at the gulf that yawns below!

Come Reason, come, and with thy sober ray

Enlighten minds by fopp'ry led astray; —

Teach us to form each scheme by judgment's plan,

Assert ourselves, and live the life of man:

Teach us to rise, or sink in our desires,

As station warrants, or as need requires.

Affecting to be great, we laughter move; —

Aspiring to be good, we challenge love; —

Virtue can never low, or mean appear,

And ev'ry peasant may adorn his sphere.

The souls of honest men with scorn look down

On uncarn'd greatness, and a tarnish'd crown.

At that perhaps advancing dreadful day,

When wealth shall melt, and grandeur mould away,

Who's good — who's bad — Omniscience shall enquire,

And all distinctions but that one expire. —

E'en Reason dictates this — the doctrine's plain —

Mark, think, reflect, and, if thou canst — be vain.

COXCOMBS. A SATIRE.

'TIS foolish from propriety to swerve. —

The maxim most admit, but few observe.

All censure when absurdities are big;

You'd laugh to see a Bishop dance a jig:

And yet time is, a curious eye might see

Something almost as wrong in you or me.

For more or less, throughout, from great to small,

There is an affectation in us all.

Our neighbours inconsistencies are shewn

In glaring light; but self-love hides our own;

Or kindly from our conduct takes all blame; —

Fools call that credit, which the wise call shame.

"Well, all extremes are wrong." 'Tis granted, brother;

And therefore one's as blameful as another.

Do but survey him, and from top to too

You'll find Will Tinsel an accomplish'd beau!

A simple, plain-clad man would ne'er divine

How much it is Will's glory to be fine;

He studies neatness daily, early, late,

And in his dress is most immaculate. —

O touch him not — for pity come not nigh

For he will crumble like a butterfly!

He trembles if a breeze just stirs a feather,

And dares not wag an inch in rainy weather.

He shrinks from cold, or heat; by both undone;

As tulips must be skreen'd from wind and sun.

He scents the atmosphere, and all he meets

Poisons with fragrancy; — he stinks of sweets!

Whene'er this fribbler comes across your sight,

You term him Coxcomb, and you term him right.

But some there are who as absurdly shew,

The very contrast to this brittle beau;

And they are Coxcombs too, I'd have you know.

Dick Loutly so neglectful is of dress

He will torment your eye with nastiness: —

His hands are dirty; greasy are his chops;

His beard's a bramble; and his wig a copse;

Your house-maid frets whene'er she sees him come;

He's worse than twenty spaniels in a room.

Elab'rate spruceness gives a man the spleen;

Yet we were all created to be seen!

In short, the Muses no extremes will spare —

We loath alike a monkey and a bear:

Let medium be the rule; I would not stop

Or at a dunghill, or perfumer's shop;

There's odds (for illustrations offer pat)

Betwixt rank Reynard and a Civet-cat.

By usage we deem coxcomb, fop, or beau,

While ev'ry man that's singular is so.

Would you be sure your conduct shall not err —

The point is still to act in character.

Ambition should be taught to reason well; —

For some have fail'd by meaning to excel.

Charles of the North (a memorable name)

Wish'd to surpass the Macedonian's fame;

The Greek luxurious quaff'd wines strong and rich;

The Swede would guzzle water from a ditch;

That in gay Persian robes attracted note;

This was distinguish'd by a thread-bare coat;

One dallying soft with wanton whores was seen;

'Tother would turn his back upon a queen.

For want of understanding one plain rule

This royal, sober sloven, was a fool.

Some from propriety affect to stray,

And long to be immortal the wrong way!

A frantic wretch Diana's Temple fir'd: —

Pray, is his name detested or admir'd?

Stern Nero had a view to strange renown

When in a frolic he consum'd the town.

Th' Imperial Fiddler with pleas'd eye survey'd

The spreading flames; Rome burnt; the Monarch play'd;

Loathsome to all his memory remains,

And he is curst for ever for his pains.

Then call not Coxcomb only him, or him;

The term belongs to villainy; and whim;

To ev'ry single soul throughout the nation

That's mark'd by any kind of affectation.

Tom Snarlwell is a Coxcomb, tho' no beau;

He is an oracle to all the row:

Statesman, at club or coffee-house, most able,

He lays down politics for all the table:

In truth, tho' silent you'd believe him wise,

He looks so very knowing with his eyes!

With patriotic zeal he shews his hate

To ev'ry blund'ring Minister of State;

Like a true Briton, without fear or doubt,

Censures all in, and magnifies all out:

Now fixes ev'ry measure to his test;

And now demonstrates —'s system best.

He knows the Constitution to a T,

And is impertinent — because he's free.

Numbers extol Tom's fluent eloquence;

His strong sagacity his manly sense;

Yet, so perversely have the fates decreed,

Tom can scarce write a line that you can read.

Flirtilla, lively, beautiful, and young,

Has a perpetual motion in her tongue;

Her lungs, not wit, most folks with wonder strike;

She talks of all things, and of all alike:

And, while discoursing, ev'ry heart beguiles

With piercing glances, and coquetish smiles.

The ceaseless prattle charm'd her audience hears,

The nonsense sounds so sweetly in their ears. —

Music for want of sense atonement brings. —

We rail not at the bird that always sings.

The grave Prudissa with a face as fair

Sits serious as a quaker in her chair;

'Tis with reluctance she can silence break;

She holds it is immodesty to speak;

Her looks precise all am'rous hopes destroy; —

You'd think she bore antipathy to joy. —

That prattles ever, this will nothing say;

But both are pretty Coxcombs in their way.

We love romantic tales; tho' by the bye

It will require some parts — to tell a lie.

There must be happy manner, air, and grace,

And calm stagnation of protesting face.

Think not without a talent to deceive;

Readiest believers don't all folks believe.

'Tis strange what lengths adepts in falsehood try

To cram you with impossibility!

Were but a tenth of what's reported, done;

'Twould be a full reply to M—ddl—t—n.

Enlarge at will, ye travellers that roam;

But why so many miracles at home?

The formal Pedant better taught than bred,

With a fine group of classicks in his head,

Plagues you with Learning; ever out of place

He darts a Latin sentence in your face.

He cannot speak ten words without quotation,

And lards your meal with piebald conversation.

The Ladies laugh; the Captain shakes his head

At something which he thinks the Doctor said.

Whate'er the wit, or sense, such prigs advance —

I'm better pleas'd with cheerful ignorance. —

Shall we proceed? — O what extremes we see

In "civil leer," and rough rusticity!

One cringes, bows, and springs to your embrace;

Another gapes, or hiccups in your face.

Manners uncouth 'gainst decency transgress;

And complaisance is painful in excess.

Tom Brazenface assumes a thousand airs

In terms that shock you, when he speaks, he swears;

Deals wantonly in imprecations vain,

And is, for horrid humour's sake, profane:

Or vents vile thoughts in language gross and mean,

Loose without sense, and without wit obscene:

In wounding the chaste ear he has an end;

For 'tis his sole ambition — to offend.

And yet, if we reverse this odious case,

What more disgusts us than affected grace?

No colours can th' abandon'd sinner paint

But such as could describe an outside saint,

Whose meagre countenance, and solemn mien,

Is sanctity that labours to be seen;

Who under pious speech, and eye demure,

Forms knavish plans, or harbours thoughts impure;

The world with gross hypocrisy beguiles,

And righteous is — because he never smiles!

Whose godliness is shew, and virtue art,

Saint in his face, and villain at his heart.

The ground of these strange whims 'twere vain to hide;

'Tis emulation, or mistaken pride.

An ancient proverb, and as good as any,

Assures us in plain terms — one fool makes many.

Nor can Example's infl'ence be denied —

'Tis almost ev'ry hour exemplified.

Most serious truth, which ever should have weight

With all, but to a scruple with the great.

Our imitation is our daily strife,

And nothing is more catching than high life.

One trifling Lord that's delicate, or vain,

Shall have a thousand foplings in his train.

Our habits, customs, manners, vices, sports,

Savour of greatness, and derive from courts.

When crook-back'd Richard rear'd his sceptre high,

'Tis said that ev'ry Courtier went awry.

When great Eliza sat at Britain's helm,

No female neck was seen throughout the realm.

In Charles's days all lewdness was approv'd;

"All by the King's example liv'd and lov'd." —

Yet highest patterns now won't set us right—

We are not good enough — to be polite.

O monstrous proof of Vice's boundless swing —

John W—lk—s shall make more converts than the K—g.

Some folks are studious to find grounds for strife,

And to be thought well-bred ill-treat a wife:

Rail at the nuptial yoke in words of course,

And sigh for cash to purchase a divorce.

While haply this same consort is discreet,

Fair, virtuous, decent, elegantly neat. —

But joys are fled, when liberty is flown;

And 'tis such low-life to be tied to one. —

Blest with snug means, and competent estate,

These blockheads might be happier than the great.

But Coxcombs reigning vices fain would try,

And are rank rascals tho' they scarce know why.

I knew a wretch (record him, O my rhymes)

That strove to ape the manners of the times.

High precedent he made his conduct's rule,

And had just sense enough — to be a fool!

By nature dull, a finish'd rake he'd be,

Yet was at best an aukward debauchee.

No age has witness'd to so strange a case;

He could not serve the d—v—l with a grace!

Of horses he had studs in various places; —

He had a passion for Newmarket races.

He could a double character assume,

Of gentleman, and jockey, 'squire, and groom; —

Vain without taste, expensive without art,

He was an arrant miser in his heart.

His thousands he has squander'd, but ne'er spent

In common life a shilling with content.

Proud without spirit, active without fire,

Gay without joy, and lewd without desire.

A Libertine profest would blush to name

His brutish deeds, and yet he look'd so tame,

You'd think him innocent for very fear: —

He was a villain with a booby's leer.

He pouted, slouch'd like one dispos'd to sleep. —

His betters have been hang'd for stealing sheep.

Of ladies fair he kept a buxom brace,

But hardly ever look'd them in the face.

These fleec'd his substance, in one plan combin'd,

Who wou'd not give a groat to save mankind!

The paltry character has held me long; —

It finishes my theme; it crowns my song.

The race of Coxcombs is a num'rous tribe. —

Heav'n give myself to shun what I describe:

Give me to act a plain, consistent part,

From affectation free, and void of art;

With caution to eschew each mode that draws

On conduct just reproach, or false applause;

To seek no road by odd fantastic ways

To fame, but look into myself for praise,

Or censure; to myself attention lend,

My little good improve, my follies mend.

STREPHON and THYRSIS A PASTORAL.

NOW had bright Phoebus clos'd a gaudy day,

And sober Ev'ning wore her robe of gray;

Hush'd were the winds; no sound but from the rill

That pour'd its limpid murmurs down the hill;

Or from the bleatings of the num'rous flocks

That playful echo bandy'd round the rocks;

The winged songsters ceas'd; the bird of night

Thro' the brown vale slow took his solemn flight:

Strephon and Thyrsis met upon the plain,

And simply thus began th' alternate strain.

THYRSIS.

Why homeward hastens Strephon so cast down?

Is there such mischief in a wench's frown?

Would thou wert blest like me; the birds that fly

So brisk, so blithe, are scarce so blest as I.

STREPHON.

Ah! Thyrsis, thou art happy, far above

The neighb'ring shepherds all, in Chloe's love;

But Phyllida is cold to all I say,

Cold as a blast that nips the buds in May.

THYRSIS.

How many a yeoman in Great Britain's isle

Would give his team to purchase Chloe's smile!

But love makes trifles bounties; see, look here,

These apples are a present to my dear.

STREPHON.

'Twas but this morning, purblind Cupid knows,

I tender'd to my lass a damask rose; —

With scorn so lady-like away 'twas thrown; —

Yet, Thyrsis, by my troth, 'twas newly blown.

THYRSIS.

My love and I together still are seen

At market, in the fold, or on the green;

My crook she plays with; prattles by my side;

And all the parish sees she'll be my bride.

STREPHON.

My damsel's proud to let the village know

Her preference for Lubbinol, my foe:

Yet to my eye he is the ugliest swain

That ever tended sheep upon the plain.

THYRSIS.

When 'neath the branching oak in yonder mead

At even-tide I tune my slender reed,

The sprightly notes delight the list'ning swains,

And Chloe's pleas'd, and thanks me for my pains.

STREPHON.

Once at our wake, with my best skill and air,

I sung the ballad which I bought at fair;

Pert Phylly cry'd, we'll hear the squall no more,

And, snatching from my hand, the ballad tore.

THYRSIS.

Oft, as in turn the jovial seasons come,

Gay shearing-time or jolly harvest-home,

Chloe and I regale; we laugh, we sing;

Time merry glides; and all the year is Spring.

STREPHON.

To me, alas! alike each morning low'rs; —

In vain soft April sheds her silver show'rs:

Nor can I joy, despair so wounds my breast,

Or peace on work-days, or on Sundays rest.

THYRSIS.

My love is cheerful or at work or play;

Smiling she binds the sheaf, she teds the hay;

Nought o'er her easy temper can prevail:

She'll sing beneath the largest milking-pail.

STREPHON.

Still Phyllis pays my wooings with a frown;

She tosses up her head; she calls me clown;

Nought but high airs, and sour disdain I see;

She never smiles, or never smiles on me.

THYRSIS.

The sun shall stop, the wind forget to blow,

The stars to twinkle, and the stream to flow,

The lamb to bleat, the busy bee to rove,

Ere Cloe's false, or Thyrsis cease to love.

STREPHON.

Would I could rid me of this cruel fair; —

Would I could break the bond I groan to bear: —

I'll try my best; resolve to be a man;

And learn to hate this vixen — if I can.

The night drew on apace; the shepherds part;

That whistling as he tript, this with a heavy heart.

THE PROGRESS of LOVE: IN FOUR PASTORAL BALLADS. AFTER THE MANNER OF MR. SHENSTON.

FALLING IN LOVE. PART I.

YE Swains that confess the sweet sway

Of Cupid, that pow'r so divine,

And offerings cheerfully pay

At Beauty's all-powerful shrine;

That know what it is to endure,

But know not what 'tis to complain,

Nor wish for your anguish a cure,

And cherish the strong-throbbing pain:

II.

Ye Nymphs who disclaim prudish arts,

Whose bosoms can hold a warm sigh,

Who kindly discover your hearts

By softness that melts in your eye;

That brighten with smiles your fair brows,

When gracefully prest by some youth

Whose countenance warrants his vows

Pour'd all from a fountain of truth.

III.

All lovers attend to my verse,

For lovers my verse will approve,

And smile on the lays that rehearse

The delicate progress of Love.

But hence ye unfeeling begone,

Still bent private ends to pursue;

Ye wordlings will frown on my song;

The subject's too tender for you.

IV.

The zephyrs 'gan softly to blow;

The wood's feather'd warblers to sing;

The meads made a beautiful show,

And gay were the daughters of Spring;

When lone thro' the thick-daified vale

With freedom of fancy I stray'd;

And there (Muse record the fond tale)

There first I beheld the dear maid.

V.

A bevy of damsels so neat

Hard by me came tripping to fair; —

You'd have thought they had wings on their feet —

But O! what a damsel was there!

They tell us of Graces of yore,

And they talk of a Paphian Queen;

But never, believe me, before

So peerless a beauty was seen.

VI.

No painter with pencil could trace,

Tho' dipt in the richest of dies,

The sweetness that dwelt in that face,

The brightness that beam'd from those eyes,

No poet, tho' poets they say

Of all your fine writers are best,

Could tell my heart's feeling that day,

Unless he could read in my breast.

VII.

I shall not attempt to recite

The raptures that glow'd in my mind; —

She flew like a bird out of sight,

But left her fair image behind.

My thought was employ'd all the day,

Those charms the delectable theme,

And when on my pillow I lay,

They pleasingly furnish'd my dream.

VIII.

I rose with the larks of the dale,

Indulging my soft-growing care;

I meant not to go to the vale; —

But wander'd — and found myself there!

I travers'd the lawn to and fro,

I loaded the welkin with sighs;

And this you'll call folly: — but, know,

I wish not again to be wise.

IX.

My love had bewilder'd me quite; —

I met an acquaintance of mine, —

He ask'd me the time of the night, —

I told him — the Nymph was divine.

Engagements I made without end,

And broke 'em, tho' ever so new;

For he may be false to his friend,

Who most to his passion is true.

X.

At length to myself thus I said, —

As pensive I rambled one morn,

Oh, could I address the dear maid!

An angel's a stranger to scorn.

My secret I burn to reveal

In language untutor'd by art; —

She'll pity at least what I feel:

I long to unburthen my heart.

LOVE DISCOVERED. PART II.

ONE, eve of the sweet-breathing May

I first became known to my dear; —

Ye Muses, remember the day,

And name it the prime of the year.

The moments were socially spent;

The time with discourse was beguil'd:

She look'd with a look of content,

And O! how she look'd when she smil'd.

II.

She mark'd my respectful distress;

She construed my half-smother'd sighs: —

The belov'd have a wonderful guess,

And lovers can speak with their eyes.

Methought too she joy'd that sweet night; —

That thought gave anxiety ease;

'Twas transport to yield her delight;

An exquisite pleasure to please.

III.

Acquaintance augmented the fire

That strong in my bosom was blown:

And soon to my eager desire

I met my fair maiden alone.

The birds cheer'd the woodlands with song;

The lilies enamell'd the grove;

The brook softly murmur'd along;

And sure 'twas a season for love.

IV.

This, this was the much-sigh'd for hour

My passion at large to display;

Yet now it was full in my pow'r,

In vain I strove something to say.

Of matters insipid I talk'd,

As tho' we'd no business together;

And thrice I observ'd as we walk'd —

"Indeed 'tis most excellent weather!"

V.

Doubts, fears, and an aukward restraint,

Which best our sincerity prove,

Prevented my tender complaint: —

There's not such a coward as love.

Complacent she seem'd all this while;

Myself seem'd like one that was chid:

As tho' there were pride in a smile,

Or sweetness itself cou'd forbid!

VI.

I thought I'd take courage next day; —

I met her again in the grove:

But Strephon was now in the way —

A witness is hateful to love.

He was dress'd in his holiday clothes,

Trick'd out like a finical ass: —

I never could bear your trim beaus

That make themselves fine in a glass.

VII.

He gave himself many an air

As great as a lord of the land;

Could prattle, and ogle, and swear —

And once he kiss'd Phyllida's hand. —

I saw saucy hope in his eye;

I saw no disdain in her look; —

If Phyllida had not been by,

I'd plung'd his curl'd locks in the brook.

VIII.

The day I began with delight

I clos'd with a sorrowful breast;

I wish'd from my soul for the night; —

Tho' night could afford me no rest.

Ye mock at such sighs and such groans,

Who never felt Jealousy's smart;

There's not a true lover but owns

No place is so sore as the heart.

IX.

All night I lay tossing, perplext

With cares which uncertainties bring;

Now hopeless, now mad to be vext

By such a light fluttering thing.

But Reason in vain lends her aid

Such feelings as these to remove:

Fond lovers are always afraid;

And trifles are torments in love.

LOVE DECLARED. PART III.

THE, morn spread her blush o'er the plain,

Serene was the region above;

I wil••lly nourish'd my pain;

I sigh'd, and I stray'd to the grove.

But never let lovers despair,

'Cause sometimes things happen amiss —

For whom should I meet but my fair, —

And O! what a meeting was this.

II.

Her eye such a softness possest,

Her air was so placidly gay,

It scatter'd the cloud from my breast,

As sun-shine enlivens the day.

Reviv'd, I determin'd at last

To act if I could like a man; —

My bosom I felt beating fast; —

I faulter'd, — but thus I began.

III.

Dear Phyllida, list to the strain

Humility pours in your ear: —

Ah! do not despise a poor swain

Who shews you his faith in his fear.

Can we hide, if we would, from the fair

The conquests they make with their eyes? —

Then let me my passion declare,

Who cannot my passion disguise.

IV.

'Tis bold an attempting to move

A damsel so matchless as you: —

It may be a folly to love;

It is not a crime to be true.

What tho' with the spruce-powder'd cit

Your Corydon pass for a clown; —

There's much of assurance, and wit,

But little of truth in the town.

V.

My cattle's a plentiful stock;

My barns are well loaded with grain;

And healthy my numerous flock

That white with their fleeces the plain.

But hope I to win thee with these,

Or goods of much value beside?

Ah! no — I've ambition to please,

And only my love is my pride.

VI.

I could live with content in a cot

With Phyllida, eas'd of all care;

And bless the contemptible lot

That happily settled us there.

Soft lodg'd in my Phyllida's arms,

My bliss would admit no increase;

Parade for the wise has no charms,

And Plenty is nothing to Peace.

VII.

In Phyllida's hand is my fate;

In Phyllida's smile is my joy:

O do not destroy me with hate; —

Such sweetness can never destroy.

Forgive, if you cannot be kind,

And constant for ever I'll be;

If I'm not the man to your mind,

The world has no woman for me.

VIII.

I paus'd, and I bow'd most profound; —

Her soft hand I tremblingly prest; —

She cast her fair eyes on the ground;

A sigh seem'd to 'scape from her breast.

Then, blushing, she midly replied,

Here Corydon cease the fond strain,

By Strephon thy truth I have tried; —

To-morrow I'll meet you again.

LOVE REWARDED. PART IV.

WHAT tongue can the pleasure express,

The transport expanding the mind,

When lovers foresee their success,

And nymphs grow insensibly kind?

Embolden'd my joys to pursue,

My courtship I daily renew'd;

And oh! how delightsom to woo,

When Phyllida wish'd to be woo'd!

II.

Come — say, can you faithfully count

The waves that incessantly roar:

Or tell me precise the amount

Of pebbles that garnish the shore?

O then you'll exactly recite

The raptures fond Gratitude shews,

When, blest in his mistress's sight,

The heart of a swain overflows.

III.

The linnets have tunable throats;

And larks that soar over the hill;

And sweetly the nightingale's notes

The meadows with melody fill:

But vain are these voices to cheer,

And pow'rless that music to move,

To the sound that enchanted my ear —

When Phyllida whisper'd — I love.

IV.

One favour I yet had to seek,

And that was to make her my brides; —

I ask'd, — and the blush in her cheek

With softness bewitching comply'd.

My heart had no more to pursue;

Love's task became innocent play;

And Corydon nought had to do

But wish a long fortnight away.

V.

At length came the morning so bright,

Sure never a brighter could shine,

Which gave me my soul's first delight,

And made my dear Phyllida mine. —

May time to our mutual content

The blessings of wedlock improve;

And friendship the union cement

We sweetly contracted in love.

A RHAPSODY IN PRAISE OF THE PARTICLES.

WHAT! shall a thousand little arguments

Be playthings for the Muse? Shall frogs, and gnats,

Ladles, and locks of hair, pattens, and fans,

And nothing be the boasted theme of verse?

And shall the PARTICLES remain unsung?

Phoebus forbid. Dan Swift to public view

Displays the merit of the Alphabet,

When ev'ry letter his pretension puffs

To constitute a part of Durfey's name:

And Steele, Spectator gen'ral of the land,

Deign'd to receive petition in behalf

Of two insulted Pronouns, — who and which:

And Brown, call'd Tom, of Garreteers the chief,

Rang'd his illustrious Adverbs in a string

Of florid declamation; yet forgot

Conjunctions, Prepositions, Interjec-

Tions, in blameful negligence. — Ah! how

Could such a lofty genius these decline?

Ye needful Parts of Speech, be it my praise

To rescue from oblivion's vasty gulf

Your num'rous tribes.—Pronouns, and Nouns, and Verbs

Of Active import, Passive too and tame,

And Participles eke that proudly vaunt

Your double nature, like the two-fold bat,

What are ye all with all your energy,

Without the friendly aid of Particles,

But wind articulate, and senseless sound?

Homer's immortal Epic; Virgil's plan

With solid judgment laid; bold Milton's thought

Of most sublime excursion; Spenser's flights

Thro' Fancy's trackless regions; Mansfield's flow

Of eloquence; Butler's original wit;

Newton's philosophy; and Blackstone's law;

All that has figured yet in prose or rhyme;

Unparticled is jargon: — e'en thy page,

O Jacob Behmen, is more nonsense still.

So from some huge machine, egregious work

Of a mechanic genius, great as thine,

O C—x, of brilliant mem'ry, but extract

A few small pins, in rattling ruins down

It sinks at once, and of ingenious art

Leaves not a trace behind. — O Parts of Speech

Declinable, ye are precarious all!

Perplexing apprehension with the force

Of terminations various — es, or ed,

Or hissing double ss, or ish, or ing;

While the firm Particles, unapt to change

From the first page to distant Finis, stand

Inflexibly the same. — What tho' pert Nouns,

E'en Adjectives, dependent as they are,

And in themselves unmeaning; and proud Verbs

Boast their sonorous tone, and rumblings rough,

Cracking pronouncer's teeth; the stamm'rer's curse!

Or sometimes, Vowel-aided, smoothly glide

Into a liquid train of Syllables;

The Particles have their importance too;

Their smoothness; and significance of sound;

Their strength; their force; and oft themselves contain

Much pithy sense. — Let a selected few

Be vouchers to my Muse. — Videlicet. —

(Itself emphatic here) indeed — that seals

A verbal promise, or a truth; — alack —

Of lamentable import, tho' concise; —

And — how — or angry, or inquisitive;

And sad — heigh-ho! — denoting heavy heart;

And formal peradventure; and whereas, —

That stately takes the lead in legal acts,

And Proclamations royal; — ha! — that starts

At shade, or wonder; — by — that foreruns oaths

Express'd, or understood; — contemptuous pshaw! —

And quaint albeit; — and peremptory sure —

Modest perhaps; — the quaker's solemn yea, —

That in grave courts of justice weighs as much

As carnal Christian's oath; — decisive no; —

Stern negative, that lays an interdict

Upon the suit of cringing poverty,

And the lean lover's wish; — and if; — that heads

Hypothesis of various sort, to sooth

Ambition's appetite, or Wisdom's pride. —

But hold — the task is done — my rambling strain

One Adverb shall conclude, and that's enough.

THE EXPEDIENT. A TALE. BEING AN OLD STORY VERSIFIED.

I HATE a theoretic point; —

It puts Good-nature out of joint;

And for whole months and sometimes years,

Sets folks together by the ears: —

That truth is to my humour fitted;

Which, when once mention'd, is admitted: —

For instance — 'tis a wretched life

'Twixt disagreeing man and wife.

Who this denies in any station,

Must be a foe to affirmation;

And may fate link him to a shrew,

That he may feel th' assertion true.

But if this thesis none deny; —

The question is — what remedy?

My tale shall prove to all your faces

The use of cunning in such cases.

Roger and Nell (Euterpe finds)

Tho' but one flesh were of two minds.

Their life of jars, and brawls, and care

Was worse than Prior's — as it were;

Neither was open to conviction;

'Twas all determin'd contradiction.

For want of topics, when together

They would dispute about the weather. —

Quoth Hodge, — the Sun's descending ray

Is earnest of a glorious day.

Quoth Nell, — I'll swear those clouds are warning

'Twill rain before to-morrow morning.

Judge then how well they must agree

In matters of oeconomy.

In short, they still each other rated, —

Scolded, — complain'd, — recriminated, —

Nay, sometimes cuff'd: — how many times,

I say not, — for I can't in rhymes.

Hodge, who had art, as well as spleen,

(Which in the sequel will be seen)

With sighs and groans that he could sham,

One ev'ning thus address'd his dame. —

We have been coupled, Nell, he says,

Six years, nine months, and thirteen days:

Joys in unheeded circles flow,

But Nature items ev'ry woe;

No mortals ever toil'd for riches

As we have struggl'd for the breeches. —

O 'tis too much; the conflict's past;

Thy prowess I must own at last,

And, spent with matrimonial strife,

Confess, I'm weary of my life.

Kind heav'n in such a case as mine is

Must needs approve what my design is. —

My breath I'll render to the giver,

And plunge this instant in the river.

For once oblige me, Nell, and be

Witness to my catastrophe!

A wife, says Nell, must not gainsay —

You know, you'd always have your way.

Our couple now jog on with speed: —

'Twas the first time they had agreed;

And in an hour, or less, I think,

They reach the fatal river's brink.

A poet that delights to wield

His pen in fair description's field,

Might here enrich his copious theme

With all the beauties of the stream.

Recount the Nereids that each day

Upon the gliding mirror play;

The flow'rs that deck its gaudy side

With full display of summer's pride;

Comparing its delightful flow

With British Thames, or Latian Po.

But 'twill suffice in humble song

T' aver the stream was deep and strong;

And, only granting it no sin,

Proper to drown a Christian in.

Hodge hem'd a pray'r, and hum'd a psalm; —

Then, feigning well a sudden qualm,

Cries, wife, there's some impediment

Betwixt this act and my intent;

As little as I deal in fear,

I find a slight misgiving here;

And, tho' determin'd on my ruin,

Methinks this work of my undoing

I should pursue with zeal more hearty,

If you would kindly be a party;

That I may one day fairly plead

'Twas not entire my act and deed. —

Step back as far as yonder bush,

And drive me headlong with a push. —

The dame, whose conscience was not nice,

Accedes to this same compromise;

And, pleas'd his orders to fulfil,

Springs from her post with right good will;

When, whimsical enough to tell ye,

Hodge slipt aside, and — in popt Nelly.

ON AN ILLITERATE DIVINE WHO HAD A GOOD DELIVERY.

WITH cassock of rich silk, and hair well drest,

One Sunday, Parson —, the priggish priest,

Mounted the pulpit at St. J—'s; there

With voice of mellow tone, and pompous air,

Utter'd fine sounding words that nothing meant,

And vented florid phrase for argument.

The bulk he pleas'd; but at the sermon's end,

A critic arch thus whisper'd to his friend; —

This preacher, the most envious must agree,

Happy deliv'ry has, and — so have we!

ON AN ARTIFICIAL BEAUTY.

CELIA to night in splendor deck'd,

And pride of rich array,

With artificial charms would steal

The toughest heart away.

No lilies in their fragrant bed

Such stainless white disclose; —

The blush that kindles on her cheek

Outvies the new-blown rose.

But if to-morrow to your view

The genuine maid be shewn: —

She who with borrow'd face could kill,

Will cure you with her own.

CHEATS ALL. A BALLAD.

To the Tune of— I am a jolly Beggar, &c.

YE mortals that are habitants

Of this vile earthly ball,

Attend the Muse; — the Muse shall shew

We are rank cheaters all.

And a cheating, &c.

The Gambler, eldest son of fraud,

Will chowse you in a trice;

And all your satisfaction is —

The D—l's in the dice.

The Farmer, clad in rusty coat,

Whose mode is to complain,

In plenty lives, yet swears he starves;

For he's a rogue in grain.

The Tradesman puffs his damag'd wares

With snug address and skill

To bilk his Lord—p; — but my L—d

Forgets to pay the bill.

The Captain struts, looks big, and boasts

Of many a bloody fray;

Castles he storms; and duels fights;

And sometimes — runs away.

Newmarket knowing ones, who try

Their wits on great and small,

Had best pull in, ere Satan gets

The whip-hand of them all.

'Tis mock'ry vile, and pert grimace

Midst Foplings, Belles, and Beaus;

And he that takes the C—rt—r right,

Must take him by the nose.

From clime to clime in quest of wealth

Our greedy Merchants roam: —

East-Idia Nabobs rob abroad,

And Highwaymen at home.

The Trav'ller lards his tale with lies;

The Cit plain-dealing scorns;

Widows are happy in their weeds;

And Cuckholds hide their horns.

Miss Dainty, with a look demure,

Whose virtue was her boast,

Last week miscarried, and reviv'd

The play — Love's Labour Lost.

Young Damon rich Clarinda plies

With courtship's melting art; —

Vows, swears, protests; — for sure he loves —

Her fortune at his heart.

The Lawyer with his querks, and pleas,

Your bags and pockets drains;

And when you're pennyless, you'll get —

A verdict for your pains.

The Doctor with his solemn phiz,

Train'd up in Galen's School,

Bleeds, physics, sweats, and blisters you —

And so you die by rule.

In Church, or State, if merit thrive,

'Tis matter of surprize; —

The Patron sells his benefice;

The Prelate stoops to rise!

The Vicar's cribb'd Divinity

You hear with one accord;

'Tis Rogers, Wake, or Tillotson,

And sometimes — Sharp's the word!

The starch Fanatick trumpeter,

In righteous soul so vext,

Whines, cants, and raves to mend the age,

But only mars a text.

The Statesman that thro' life has toil'd

To save his country dear,

Has nothing for his labour but —

Three thousand pounds a year!

The Patriot loud avows himself

Fair Freedom's champion stout;

But words are wind; — and who'll believe

The wisest, when they're out?

Then what conclude we from my song,

Since Frauds in all we meet? —

Why — take your bumper; — for in that

You'll find there's no deceit.

And a cheating, &c.

THE FOLLOWING BALLAD (Of which several incorrect Copies have been published) Was delivered to the DEAN of Pembroke College, Oxford, in the Common Hall, On the Fifth Day of NOVEMBER, 1741, As the AUTHOR's EXERCISE on that ANNIVERSARY. Its Date must be its Apology.

I.

I'LL sing you what past

In the century last

When the Pope went to visit the D-v-l: —

And if you'll attend,

You'll find to a friend

Old Nick can behave very civil.

II.

How dost do? quoth the Seer,

What a plague brought you here?

To be sure 'twas a whimsical maggot: —

Come, draw tow'rd the fire;

Nay, prithee sit nigher;

Here, sirrah, lay on t'other faggot.

III.

You're welcome to hell;

I hope friends are well

At Paris, Madrid, and at Rome;

But now you elope,

I suppose, my friend Pope,

The Conclave will hang out a broom.

IV.

Then his Holiness cry'd,

All jesting aside,

Give the Pope and the D-v-l their dues; —

Take my word for't, old lad,

I'll make your heart glad,

For faith I have brought you rare news.

V.

There's a fine plot in hand

To ruin the land

Call'd Britain, that obstinate nation,

Which so slily behav'd

In hopes to be sav'd

By the help of a d-mn'd Reformation!

VI.

We shall never have done

If we burn one by one,

Nor destroy the whole heretic race:

From that Hydra for ever

A head you may sever,

And a new will spring up in its place.

VII.

Believe me, old Nick

We'll now play a trick,

A trick that shall serve for the nonce; —

This day before dinner,

Or else I'm a sinner,

We'll smash all the rascals at once.

VIII.

While the Parliament fits,

And all try their wits,

Consulting about musty papers,

A gunpowder greeting

Shall break up their meeting,

And shew who can cut the best capers.

IX.[*]

How the rabble will stare

When they see in the air

Such a medley half burnt to a cinder?

Look parch'd will each phiz,

And whiskers will whiz;

Lawn sleeves will make excellent tinder!

X.

When the King and his son,

And the Parliament's gone,

And the people are left in the lurch,

Things shall take their old station,

And you d-mn the nation; —

And I'll be the head of the Church!

XI.

These words were scarce said

When in popt the head

Of an old Jesuitical Wight,

Who cry'd, you're mistaken,

They've all saved their bacon,

But Jemmy still stinks with the fright!

XII.

Then Satan was struck,

And cry'd, 'tis ill luck,

But both for your pains shall be thanked: —

So he call'd at the door

Six d-v-ls or more,

And they tost Pope and Priest in a blanket.

Notes

*
This Stanza is new.
↵

ODE to DROLLERY. By SAMPSON FROLICK, Esq. AN ENTIRE NEW WORK. Where's the motto?

YE bonny Songsters Nine

That, in a summer's eve, drink tea upon

The flow'r-enamell'd brow of Helicon;

(There, there's a line!)

Or with Apollo frisk a top of Pindus;

Who tell us tales so fine

Of those bucks of renown

That took Troy town,

And at 12 o'Clock at night broke honest peoples windows:

I'm not afraid

To ask your aid; —

I know you'll fire me,

And inspire me

At all times

With jingling rhymes: —

So sacred my eccentric lay shall be

To thee,

Terrestrial goddess, Drollery.

CHORUS.[*]

From Drollery, from Drollery

All fun

Begun.

II.

Fidlers, avaunt! I never knew

So vile a crew!

Bass-viols, and haut-boys, and French-horns be mute;

And harpsichord too

With all thou canst do;

And eke thou softly-breathing flute.

Know, the terrestrial goddess Drollery

Kicks, fumes, and frets, and snuffs, at sounds of harmony.

Hither, sons of discord, hither come — come —

The rough hurdy-gurdy thrum;

Jarring keys and platters bring;

The crack'd crowd with shrilling string;

Broken trumpet's harsh-ton'd strain;

Catcall, bard dramatic's bane;

Clanging pan, and hollow tub,

Drum-minor, beating dub a dub;

Grunting cowlstaff, mock-bassoon;

Fourscore voices out of tune;

Screams, and hoots outdoing quite

The owl, ear-piercing bird of night;

Rattling salt-box; bastards squalling;

Fifty thousand brickbats falling;

And ten cats a caterwauling: —

All sounds grating, sharp, and queer: —

See! the goddess pricks her ear!

Comical goddess, deign to hear: —

For thy delight is tuneless noise,

Clamour loud, and midnight joys,

Jocund sport, and wakeful glee,

And overlasting ha, ha, ha, ha, he!

From Drollery, &c.

III.

Goddess, I look before, I look behind me —

Where, goddess, shall a merry mortal find thee?

O thou dost rule the roast,

Hic et ubique, like old Hamlet's Ghost.

From age to age,

And thro' life's ev'ry stage,

Thou dost possess the jovial of all nations;

The jesters, and the punsters of all stations;

Rich, poor, wise, weak, fat, bony, short, and tall;

And art the quintessence of fun, and oddity in all.

Bards, and wits pagan have some whimsies taught us —

For this one sees

In Aristopha-nes,

And mirthful Lucian, and old Plautus.

Oft hast thou sat astride a modern poet's brain: —

And then 'tis all fantastic —

And then 'tis Hudibrastic —

Then Chaucer tells a story

Full worthy of me-mory;

And Butler, so well known, sir,

Who had a Muse of his own, sir,

Mauls your sham-saints and godly,

And makes them look most oddly;

And lends them a sound thump, sir,

That they are sore in the rump, sir;

Then Prior sings his Ladle —

(You know who 'twas that pray'd ill;)

And others with strange qualms

Burlesque the book of Psalms: —

Fie Sternhold! Hopkins, fie

Upon your melo-dy! —

Then Pope, with fools half mad,

In his Dunci-ad

Batters the Bards that write from street call'd Grub,

And gives them such a rub!

And then — O let me fetch a rhyme for brain —

Jack Falstaff blows, and puffs, and lies in many a hum'rous vein.

From Drollery, &c.

IV.

Sometimes thou twitchest by the nose

(Of which the muscles are at thy dispose)

The laughing votarists of prose:

And then all language scant is,

And, were a man ever so able,

It is almost impracti-cable

To recount

The full amount

Of the jeers,

And the sneers,

And the witticism,

And the criticism,

And the working,

And the jerking,

And the matter

Stuff'd with satire

Of waggish Swift, and roguish Stern, and the thrice-fam'd Cervantes.

From Drollery, &c.

V.

Among the dealers droll in prose and verse

May I, my goddess, name philoso-phers?

They say — "You can't endure us."

But 'tis a lie. —

I'll tell you why —

There's not a queerer dog than Master Epicurus:

For he

And some few dozens,

All cater-cousins,

And all possest by thee,

Superfine fellows,

Frankly tells us

That, this world was made by a company of atoms at a certain rout,

Which met by no appointment, and did not know what they were about. —

Hence the smooth flow of tuneful numbers, hence —

For here you have no pretence: —

My verses must now run rumbling,

In spite of any body's grumbling; —

(And sure there is not half the sport in walking that there is in tumbling;)

Does not Alexander Pope say,

(And now you shall have an Alexandrine

Which I think tolerably fine)

The sound upon all occasions should be an echo to the sense?

Now, Sir, a parcel of these atoms or particles

(He that argues which

Is a sceptical son of a b—;

'Tis rather a free expression —

But all's one in a digression;)

In a frolick,

Or having something like a fit of the cholick,

Jumbled all together,

(I should think, in bad weather,)

Some short, and some long,

Pell-mell, ding-dong,

Helter,

To which you may add, skelter; —

Some of them square, and some round,

Some rotten, and a few of them sound;

Some tender, and some plaugy tough;

Some smooth, and some confoundedly rough;

Some cold, and a good many hot;

Some dry, and some moist; and what not?

Some (I must make a word) in jangles,

And nine or ten dozen in right angles;

Arid atoms all smashing,

Wat'ry ones for a very good reason splashing,

And all together in hurly-burly crashing:

(O that an honest man could have been there!

It must have been a jovial day — it was chaos fair!)

And so, Sir, here being no creation,

(For that these Gentlemen say would have been a work of pains and molestation,)

From this rude orig'nal dance,

And from all these comical jars,

In about a fortnight's time out-jumped the sun and the moon,

(How they must shake their ears

When they first mounted their spheres?)

Attended with a pretty little train of I can't tell you how many stars. —

Now, look back till you come to the word—dance—

Your most obedient servant, madam chance!

So (not my aim to frustrate,

For want of a simile this matter to illustrate;

A simile which shall be half-like, and half not,

As that in composition is never reckon'd a blot;)

Our cook, fat greasy Nan,

Takes a large bowl, or perhaps an earthen pan,

Full of ingredients various,

And, I will be bold to say, precarious,

And thrusts a long spoon of wood in;

There's flour, there's milk, there's eggs, there's sugar, there's raisins, there's currants, there's nutmeg, there's mace:

And these she stirs, and stirs about

With all her might and main,

Again, and again,

And makes a wond'rous rout;

And from this odd confusion,

And manifold contusion,

In a few hours space

Upon the table smokes a fine, large, round plumb pudding▪

From Drollery, &c.

VI.

Come, put about the bottle —

Let's drink a health to ev'ry man of mirth

In ev'ry corner of the earth —

And then, O Drollery,

Another votary

Shall enter on our stage, — grave Aris-totle;

A man of passing parts,

And the first that took the degree of M. A. or in rhyme, and plain English, Master of Arts;

And at his heels, Frommenius;

A dry, outlandish genius;

And these in half a minute

(Why, there is nothing in it)

Shall cure the hyp, and grubs, and gripes, and ptisic,

With a good quan. suff. dose of Meta-physic.

O there is no specific like a queer hum —

Take a drachm of formality,

And an ounce of quiddity and quality,

And tincture of personality,

And some grains of individuality,

And elixir of transcendentality;

(Do you know Norris? I've heard him say

This is a sov'reign med'cine for the quinsy;)

And next it follows in naturâ rerum

That, tho' the D—l's a liar, yet omne ens est verum.

A RAPTURE.

I catch the mental flame; — my wits are blown

By fancy's blast, that sweeps thro' boundless space

To intellectual regions all unknown,

Where concretes gross, and matter vile ne'er held their cumbrous place;

Where simple truths, and axioms sure,

Ideas chaste, and abstracts pure,

And forms, unconscious of corporeal dress,

Float in the vasty void of ample emptiness. —

Earth, air, fire, water — what are these?

Hail! mighty world of essences!

Sublimities refin'd my pow'rs employ,

And I disdain terrestrial joy. —

Now, now exalted 'bove the starry sky,

Where mortal poet never yet had handle,

All ocean seems a puddle to my eye,

And yonder twinkling sun a farthing candle.

Higher, yet higher would I soar —

But ah! I feel, I can no more —

I flag, I faint, I droop, I doubt[*]—

See! my rapture is out. —

HERE ENDETH THE RAPTURE.

From Drollery, &c.

VII.

Descend, my Muse, descend, I beg,

And humbly take a lower peg;

Come down, I say, come down my rhymes

To matters known, and later times;

For Drollery has got possession

In ev'ry calling and profession. —

Like Proteus still she varies shapes; —

She's archer than a thousand apes. —

Why — you asserted this before. —

Now then, we'll prove it — and that's more. —

— Pray, leave your liquor;

And step to church, and hear the Vicar.

I speak with rev'rence for the gown —

He preaches of his kind the best in town;

And boasts a Sunday's congregation,

The quietest in all the nation:

For then with hum-drum sounds in drawling tone express'd,

He lulls his calm parishioners to rest.

You say — the Doctor's dull —

Sir, I pronounce him droll. —

But my dear son of Alma Mater,

You shall have — aliter probatur. —

For mark a contrast now of Mirth's own handy-making!

That bawling fellow on the stool

Will hold all mortals waking;

He's a fanatic,

Who with extatic

Gesture, and aukward motion,

(Current for good devotion,)

And whining and canting,

And wailing and ranting.

And bell'wings loud,

And screw'd-up face,

Humbugs the gaping crowd,

And this is saving grace! —

You've seen Physicians holding consultation

In deep speculation,

With canes at their noses;

(For that our suppose is;)

What grimaces!

What wry faces!

While cooly they're retiring,

The patient lies expiring

In doleful plight; —

'Twould soften quite

The heart of any Turk: —

But they have only done their work. —

Had you never a call

To Westminster-Hall?

There's noble haranguing

And thorough tongue-banging;

And laying down law

Without crack or flaw:

Prating,

Rating,

Billings-gating;

There's running of rigs,

And tossing of wigs;

And quibblings, and querkings,

And under-hand workings;

There's a number of cases,

And solemn old faces;

And a million of gim-cracks, and fancies:

Demurrers, pleas, recogni-zances;

And a set of reports

That have run through all courts;

There's Plaintiff and Defendant;

(By my troth there's no end on't;)

Lessor and Lessee, and poor Spinster: —

O rare West-minster! —

'Tis a troublesome day,

But the Client's to pay. —

For [*] they wrangle, and they jangle,

And yet they all agree;

And the tenor of the law runs merrily.

From Drollery, &c.

VIII.

Don't stare,

But I'm going to swear

By all the gods, and all the goddesses

In Homer's Iliads, and his Odysseys,

And by Momus, the droll of the skies;

Supposing you're quaffing,

I'll set you a laughing,

Till the liquor flows out at your eyes.

Only take a short jaunt,

And I'll shew you my aunt: —

There she sits by the fire

In ancient attire;

She's queer, and she's quaint,

Like a Methodist saint;

At the sins of the age

She bursts in a rage;

If you tell but two lies

She turns up her eyes;

If you mention a male,

Her cheek will turn pale;

She hates the young jades

That haunt masquerades;—

The name of such creatures

Sets at work all her features;

She turns her about,

She wriggles her snout: —

She's faddle and fiddle,

And a sort of a riddle.

She knows all diseases;

And cures whom she pleases;

She's a gen'ral physician:

And a staunch politician;

She hopes reformation,

And mends the whole nation;

She loves party scuffles;

She thumb-plaits her ruffles;

She wears taudry silks;

Her toast is Jack W-lk-s:

She's this, and she's that;

And she keeps an old cat,

A parrot and dog;

(Mog, Mog, Mog, come Mog, poor Mog;) —

She's too old to have fits;

But she's out of her wits. —

Upon my soul

My aunt's a droll!

From Drollery, &c.

IX.

You need not long in London range —

There's Drollery enough on 'Change,

Where busy folk of all sorts meet;

French, Spanish, Dutch, Italians, Prussians,

Venetians, Swedes, and Danes, and Russians; —

All nations trade, — and sometimes cheat. —

What a hurry, and fuss!

What a stir, and what buz!

'Tis the whole world in coalition,

Or Babel in a new edition. —

Hey! for the regions of con-sol,

The jobber's clime and broker's;

Throughout the alley you shall find

Dry fellows, though dull jokers;

In bond, and transfer, par, and cent.

Sure there can be no sin-a:

One rule will serve for monied men —

And that is — laugh and win-a.

And now look in (I'll pawn my word

'Twill pay you well for peeping,)

Upon that ghastly, sallow tribe

Of Jews, high-sabbath keeping: —

Believe me, Sir, I scorn to treat

Pagans, or any men ill; —

But they resemble puppies much

Howling about a kennel.

From Drollery, &c.

X.

Tell me, ye lads of Mirth, can Droll'ry shew

A gayer group, or a more joyous scene

Than a Lord Mayor, and Aldermen,

And Livery men al-so,

Sitting at dinner in a row? —

The very mention of the matter

May make my Reader's mouth to water.

Happy thrice, thrice happy guest

At a genial city feast! —

They tuck the napkin to their rosy jowls,

And for the meal prepare — with all their souls. —

The word is given — they begin —

They slash through thick and thin;

"Through rills of fat, and deluges of lean,

"With knives as razors keen."

Flesh, fish, and fowl nice appetites regale,

And viands rich ambrosial steams exhale;

And weighty slivers from delicious haunches

Distend to their full size enormous paunches. —

O nameless transport of a feasting hour!

Mutton men eat, but turtle they devour. —

Now, now for a whet, boys; — then to it again;

Bring, waiter, Madeira, or lively Champaigne;

Behold them now again their knives applying;

Stomachs vast with stomachs vying!

Now with fat custards, and high jellies,

They cram the corners of their bellies.

See! see! how Sir Coddlehead swallows that tart —

Ye gods! — Is it eating, or filling a cart?

Give, give them elbow-room — they have a call

One and all;

Let none the licens'd luxury gainsay;

For guttling is the business of the day.

Happy thrice, thrice happy guest

At a genial city feast! —

From Drollery, &c.

XI.

Now thrum the hurdy-gurdy, thrum again

A droller yet, and yet a droller strain;

Split [*] our very sides asunder

With laughter, loud as rattling peals of thunder.

O lend me fifty tongues,

And Mr. Stentor's leather lungs,

And I'll strive to recite

The joyous delight,

And the noise, and the crash, and the glee

Of a jovial set,

Together met,

At the gay noon of night; —

Season of joke profuse, and careless jollity.

O what calling,

And what bawling,

And what singing,

And what ringing,

And what roaring,

And what snoring,

And what swagg'ring,

And what stagg'ring; —

Here one mumbles;

Here one tumbles;

Here Dick rattl'ing;

There Sam prattling;

Some wild-staring;

Some loud-swearing;

These rebuking,

And those puking;

Bottles filling;

Glasses spilling;

Veins strong-burning;

Heads round-turning;

Wine high-flavour'd;

No one favour'd;

Bowls rich-flowing; —

No one going.

Shouts, clamours, tumults reign beyond resistance —

The world is theirs,

And sober cares

Are kick'd down stairs,

And the dull fool that sleeps must keep his distance. —

But hark! the Toast-master to order calls!

Silence your jokes, or brawls!

This fire-ey'd monarch of the social hour

Rules with licentious swing of arbitrary pow'r. —

The sons of riot

Themselves are quiet;

Each strokes his beard;

No sound is heard

Save that of hiccups check'd, that die along the walls. —

Miss Clio never slow is

To celebrate such prowess. —

Hail! thou of jolly fellows sole commander!

Successor of Alexander!

Great, [*]

As was that drunken potentate,

Thyself dost stand, or try to stand,

With a pint-bumper sparkling in thy hand. —

Thou giv'st thy toast;

Thy joy, thy boast;

The toast goes round;

Three cheers rebound;

The table shakes with universal roar,

And many a gallant gentleman lies sprawling on the floor.[†]

From Drollery, &c.

XII.

The goddess ever shifts her mode —

Now she appears in Cibber's Ode;

In Hogarth's print; — in Garrick's Brute; —

In Zany's [*] lecture; or — the mimick'ry of Foote. —

Would you have proofs from low life? — Yes,[*]

A few. — Then mark these instances. —

An undertaker's mute in chief

Upon a stair-case shamming grief. —

A bear and monkey shewing tricks. —

A barber talking politics. —

'Tis the sonorous shout or ra'llery [†]

Of gods theatric in the gallery:

And the dumb terror, or the rage

Of clowns in farces on the stage. —

'Tis a great booby in fine clothes. —

A sniv'ling lover forging oaths. —

Two tailors on a Sunday greeting. —

On the same day a quaker's meeting.

Two ballad-singers you may meet

(Or you've no luck) in any street,

That, with alternate bawlings, try

To stun folks with mock-melody. —

'Tis a quack-doctor vainly boasting;

And Merry-andrew doctor-roasting. —

A rascal in the pill'ry standing;

Our sov'reign lord the mob commanding. —

In short, in fine, and in a word,

Sir, Ma'am, your Honour, or my Lord,

Not to enlarge our catalogue

With ev'ry oddity in vogue,

'Tis what some sing, and what some say: —

So read at length &c.

From Drollery, &c.

XIII.

Hold! what's o'clock? 'Tis rather late;

And time for Pegasus to bait: —

'Twould not be kind

To ride him out of wind. —

O Drollery, dismiss me now; —

I have been long possest, I trow. —

Besides, my reader may be weary; —

How fares it, honest friead? — How cheer ye?

Well — let's part friends — for if my ode

Delights thee not, — thou'rt a sad toad —

A rat—or shake — or pois'nous viper —

Or, what's still worse, a critic-hyper: —

So, hoping you as well as myself are at this moment laughing outright,

I heartily wish you a good morning;

Or, if you are reading by a candle,

Why, I wish you a good night.

Notes

*

IMITATIONS.

From harmony, from harmony

This universal frame began.

Dryden's worst Ode.

↵

*

IMITATIONS.

I droop, I doubt,

See my courage is out.

Macheath. in the Beggar's Opera.

↵

*

IMITATIONS.

For thee wrangle and they jangle,

And they never can agree,

And the tenor of the song goes merrily.

Chorus of an Old Ballad. Auct. Incert.

↵

*

IMITATIONS.

Now strike the golden lyre again,

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain;

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.

Dryden's best Ode.

↵

*

IMITATIONS.

Great as the Persian God ourself shall stand, &c.

Lee's Alexander.

↵

†

And many a gallant gentleman

Lay gasping on the ground.

Chevey Chace.

↵

*
Alexander Stevens.
↵

*
Alexander Stevens.
↵

†
Note an Ellipsis here.
↵

Information about this book

Title statement

Poems on various subjects: By William Hawkins, ...

Hawkins, W. (William), 18th cent.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3473

ID [isbn10]

1106004728

ID [isbn13]

9781106004727

ID [TCP]

K012309.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3316261565

ID [ECLL]

1108400300

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— Poems on various subjects: By William Hawkins, ..., Hawkins, W. (William), 18th cent.. viii,192p. ; 8⁰. Oxford :: printed by W. Jackson: sold by J. Dodsley; Mess. Rivingtons; and W. Owen, London; J. and J. Fletcher, and S. Parker, in Oxford,. 1781.. [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the Bodleian Library (Oxford).] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN20994.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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