The poetical works of John Hawkesworth

Table of contents

- [engravedtitlepage]

- THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN HAWKESWORTH.

- CONTENTS.

- DEDICATION. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

- PREFACE.

- THE VANITY OF FRIENDSHIP, A POEM, WRITTEN AFTER THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 1785. THE VANITY OF FRIENDSHIP, A POEM, WRITTEN AFTER THE MANNER OF SWIFT. INSCRIBED TO RICE HARRISON, ESQ.

- AN EPISTLE FROM LADY G—, TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF C—. 1785. AN EPISTLE FROM LADY G—, TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF C—.

- LAUDES DARGELLI; OR, VERSES ON THE DARGLE. LAUDES DARGELLI; OR, VERSES ON THE DARGLE.

- SWANLINBAR, A POEM. 1787. SWANLINBAR, A POEM.

- LIVING CHARACTERS; OR, ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SEVEN. LIVING CHARACTERS; OR, ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SEVEN.

- POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

- TO MR. HAYLEY.

- VERSES, WRITTEN DURING THE INDISPOSITION OF WILLIAM GRESSON, ESQ.

- INSCRIPTION FOR THE OBELISK AT THE BOYNE.

- EPITAPH ON THOMAS LELAND, D.D.S.F.T.C.D. OBIIT AUG. 22, 1785.

- EPIGRAM.

- VERSES, WRITTEN AFTER MY NARROW ESCAPE from ASSASSINATION. JUNE 21, 1787.

- VERSES TO —.

- IMITATIONS.

- ODE, UNFINISHED.

- IMITATIONS.

- TO THEIR HIGH MIGHTINESSES THE INHABITANTS OF —.

- ESSAY ON COCK-FIGHTING. ESSAY ON COCK-FIGHTING.

- APPENDIX. APPENDIX.

- A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CURATE AND A BOTTLE-SCREW.

DUBLIN: Printed by P: BYRNE. MDCCLXXXVIII.
THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN HAWKESWORTH

THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN HAWKESWORTH.

Whatever Fortune my unpolish'd Rhymes

May meet, in present or in future Times,

Let the bless'd Art my grateful Thoughts employ,

Which soothes my Sorrow and augments my Joy,

Whence lonely Peace and social Pleasure springs,

And Friendship, dearer than the Smile of Kings.

ESSAY ON EPIC POETRY.

Ye, who as literary Monarchs sit,

Waving your Sceptres o'er the Realms of Wit,

Who shew each obvious and each latent Fault,

Each venial Error, and each brilliant Thought;

Forbear! forbear! nor your dread Wrath dispense,

On this my first, and this my last Offence.

FINAL FAREWELL.

DUBLIN: PRINTED BY P. BYRNE, No. 108, GRAFTON-STREET.

M,DCC,LXXXVIII.

CONTENTS.

- VANITY of Friendship, Page 1

- Epistle from Lady G— to the Duke of C—, Page 13

- Laudes Dargelli, or Verses on the Dargle, Page 21

- Swanlinbar, a Poem, Page 27

- Living Characters, Page 37

- Poems on several Occasions, Page 47

- Verses to Mr. Hayley, Page 49

- Verses written during the Indisposition of William Gresson, Esq Page 52

- Inscription for the Obelisk at the Boyne, Page 54

- Epitaph on Dr. Thomas Leland, Page 55

- Epigram, Page 57

- Verses written after my Escape from Assassination, Page 58

- Verses to —, Page 61

- Ode unfinished, Page 63

- Verses to their High Mightinesses the Inhabitants of —, Page 66

- Essay on Cock-fighting, Page 69

- Appendix, Page 79

DEDICATION. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

SIR,

FROM your writings I received all that inexpressible Pleasure and Improvement which Erudition ever affords the Mind of the feeling Man: From your Writings I learned to form a just Character of those illustrious Worthies, your mighty Predecessors, in that Chair where you now sit.—Permit me then, great Man! as a Lover of Poesy, and Reverer of Merit, to pay you this tributary Token of Respect.

J. HAWKESWORTH.
Omagh, Jan. 1, 1788.

PREFACE.

TIRED with the Importunities of many, I at length selected the following Trifles, and presume to present them to the public eye.

HOW far "Idle Verses essayed in early Age," may meet the public Approbation, I cannot tell; but he who endeavours well, surely ought not to be censured.

JUVENILLE Compositions sometimes meet more good-natured Readers than rigid Critics: may such be the Fate of this Volume, written by an Author between his fifteenth and nineteenth Years.

SUCH Sensations as are in the Bosom of a penitent Criminal certain of immediate Death, but unknowing whither his immortal Soul may go; such strong Sensations now beat high in me, whilst with a trembling Hand I pen these Lines, fearing the fatal Consequences "of flying from the safe Scenes of Privacy to meet in giddy Haste the public Eye."

BUT as some of the Productions of my boyish Fancy had appeared in the different periodical Papers, I the more readily consented to this Publication; and the Poems (such as they are) will be here found more correct.

SOME people will perhaps accuse me of that Vanity which so powerfully predominates in the youthful Mind, for attempting to climb that Ascent down which so many have tumbled.—In what I have written I meant well; I therefore present it to the Public, not with the Arrogance of an assuming young Man, but with all the submissive Modesty of an Author.

THE VANITY OF FRIENDSHIP, A POEM, WRITTEN AFTER THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 1785.
THE VANITY OF FRIENDSHIP, A POEM, WRITTEN AFTER THE MANNER OF SWIFT. INSCRIBED TO RICE HARRISON, ESQ.

Who not needs, shall never lack a friend;

But who in want, a hollow friend doth try,

Directly seasons him his enemy. SHAKESPEARE.

"'TIS true we talk of Friendship much,

"But who are they who can keep touch?"

Thus sung Hibernia's patriot Dean,

In Satire's energetic strain;

The story we have now in view,

Will prove his observations true.

Seventeen hundred pounds a year;

Made Jack to all the country dear,

Of it he was no miser, as

His starving predecessor was,

Who left behind him what he stor'd,

Of gold, the god that he ador'd:

But Jack, Sir, liv'd a diff'rent way,

He spent his time in amours gay.

He'd friends to come to him and dine,

To prodigally drink his wine,

To spend the tedious passing hours,

In costly pleasure's roseate bow'rs,

To take all from him they cou'd get,

To make him pay their tavern debt,

To give advice thro' private ends,

In short, who had so many friends?

But now, alas! the time was come,

When Jack had lost his stately home,

When he consum'd his whole estate,

That Fame might sound him goodly great,

When he had run in debt to have

Th' expensive suppers which he gave,

And now the sheriffs keepers laid

On house, 'till all the debts were paid.

"Now, let me think, (says Jack) I've gentry,

Who'll give me diet and my rent free;

There is Samuel, James, and John,

Generous Sidropel and Mun,

Whose numerous friendly actions shew'd

Their tempers hospitably good,

Whose soft benignity will grant

What my necessity may want;

With them I'll screen from Law's turmoils,

'Till Fortune more propitious smiles."

His case to Samuel then he told,

Him Samuel cordially condol'd,

But costly aid he wou'd not give,

Yet seem'd from teeth to greatly grieve.

When Jack saw his dissembling mode,

He curs'd the gifts he ill bestow'd,

And hied to James's to sojourn—

But supplication meets with scorn:

He rap'd at door, sent in his name,

The servant with this answer came:—

"His Honour says, he does not know you;

"And bid me the hall-door to show you."

Thus baffled and abus'd by two,

He went to John, and told his woe;

But John, Sir, with a bow polite,

Exclaim'd his house was robb'd last night,

And was it not for that he wou'd

Repay the compliments he ow'd.

Jack, stung with disappointment's pain,

At this unmerited disdain,

From those he almost rais'd from want,

Cry'd, "Cou'd I former deeds recant,

"I'd chuse with more judicious ken,

"My friends 'mid undesigning men."

Wrap'd in such thoughts, which woe augment,

To generous Sidropel he went;

Who said his wife was brought-to-bed;

The Doctor's fee was not yet paid;

The house-rent was a heavy debt,

And money he cou'd no where get.

Then quick to Mun he bent his way,

And told the Fates' severe decree,

Impell'd by Law's austere command,

Whose mandate poorness can't withstand,

To quit in mean Disguise's garb,

(Profusion's sure and just reward)

A patrimonial goodly seat,

His wealthy ancestor's estate;

And O! if happ'ly he wou'd glad,

A bosom miserably sad,

Ev'n with that cheering ray of hope,

Which might the present anguish stop,

He'd pray that to him shou'd be giv'n,

Transcendent joys, the gifts of Heav'n!

Then Mun, replies "my dearest Jack,

"You know the troubles on my back,

"You know, Lord Love by passion led,

"Debas'd, defil'd my nuptial bed;

But when the damages I recover

I'll pay thy friendship more than over."

Poor Jack when he had try'd each friend,

And found none who'd assistance lend,

Went home with sorrow in his heart,

Which now felt Penury's galling smart:

Scarce was he in, when noise at door

Made him his dreadful case deplore;

He thought 'twas bailiffs him to take,

But, oh, how pleasing the mistake!

'Twas letter, with the glad account,

He'd got a prize to the amount

Of twice five thousand sterling pound,

Which he might draw from lott'ry fund.

His friends came the succeeding day,

Respects and compliments to pay,

And e'en to lend the wanted cash,

(They're sorry now they were so rash)

Says Jack (who with just passion burn'd)

Avaunt! by me ye're ever scorn'd!

Ye vile dissembling hypocrites!

Ye mean deceitful parasites!

I cherished ye, far worse than fiends,

And thought ye were my dearest friends;

Too late I see my sad mistake,

Experience must true wisdom make;

'Tis it can teach to justly scan

The temper of dissembling man.

[*] I thought so num'rous were my friends,

'Twou'd Fabius tire to tell their names!

But now I plainly see, alas!

True Friendship neither is nor was.

O, HARRISON! belov'd, rever'd,

With truth by all, to all endear'd,

Whose gracefully illumin'd mind

Is with benevolence refin'd,

Who if an Hayley's pen was mine,

Should in Fame's fairest annals shine.

Who is a friend (if friend there be)

To Worth's imploring child, or me;

Whose lov'd memorial ne'er shall part,

From this disinterested heart;

Or wand'ring thro' the lonely wood,

Or strolling by the silver flood;

Or in the still attentive hour,

Of thought in Erudition's bow'r,

Wilt thou (nor dread smooth Flatt'ry's praise)

Accept the lisping Muse's lays?

Applauded man, my early guide,

Above the pomp of tinsel pride,

Above Malevolence's hate

Thou art distinguishably great!

Notes

*

—(Ades sunt multa loquacem)

Delassare valent Fabium—

↵

AN EPISTLE FROM LADY G—, TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF C—. 1785.
AN EPISTLE FROM LADY G—, TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF C—.

AH, dear deluder, cause of all my woe,

Who made me break the solemn nuptial vow;

Who by compulsion and enticing charms,

Seduc'd me from the tend'rest husband's arms,

Hear how too late my injur'd lord I mourn,

How eager I'd to Virtue's paths return.

Ah, vainest thought, my sacred honor's gone,

Snar'd by Persuasion's smooth ascendant tongue;

But now I grieve, abandon'd and alone,

My former frailties in Seclusion's gloom.

How mem'ry rouses, (ah! that gushing tear)

In my rack'd brain ideas sadly dear,

That rapt'rous day Imagination sees,

When I sought much lov'd C— to please,

When I receiv'd thee in a blithe alcove,

Imperial object of my guilty love!

For o'er my head the graceful smiles were seen

Of genial Venus, Beauty's peerless queen,

With fair Adonis, vot'ry to her power,

In sweet embraces in the Idalian bower;

And white plum'd Jove, dissolv'd in soft desire,

O'ercome by Laeda and the golden fire,

Myself beneath in brightest scarlet roll'd,

Sat mantled loosely with a veil of gold,

Lost in tumultuous languishments of love,

I made your heart with am'rous ardour move;

Oh! that I cou'd forget th' unhappy bliss,

But conscience stings o'ertake who did amiss.

Low thoughted Slander's quick reviling tongue

Expos'd me, Virtue's progeny among:

Unhappy me, so vilified by Fame,

That late posterity shall hate my name.

What is a woman once her virtue's gone;

She mourns the crime for which she can't atone,

Depriv'd of balmy slumbers lenient rest,

She feels recoiling torture in her breast,

Cold sweats, convulsions, agonizing pains,

Eternal throbbing through her languid veins,

Tumultuous rackings, sighs, distractions, fears,

And all th' effects of never ceasing tears;

She feels ineffable, her pain augment,

Beyond Imagination's vast extent,

My pen delineates not what she endures,

Death's raging pains are mild, compar'd to her's!

Now from society, in solitude,

My youthful passion's impulse is subdu'd,

I'll banish C— far from my thoughts,

Revere my lord, repent my former faults,

And let my soul with seriousness be given

To the indulgent Majesty of Heaven.

Misfortunes ever follow lawless loves,

This our libidinous example proves.

Illicit love's supreme destructive powers

Destroy'd Heaven-founded Phrygia's lofty towers,

Illicit love degraded Tarquin's pride,

And drove from pomp th' imperious regicide:

Illicit love, Antonius, caus'd thy doom,

And spoil'd thee of th' imperial throne of Rome:

Illicit love untimely cropt the flower,

The blooming [*] boast of Woodstock's mazy bower;

Illicit love destroy'd—but sobs and sighs,

Erase my thoughts, and tears bedew my eyes.

Notes

*
Rosamond, daughter of Lord Clifford, and the beautiful mistress of Henry the Second.
↵

LAUDES DARGELLI; OR, VERSES ON THE DARGLE.
LAUDES DARGELLI; OR, VERSES ON THE DARGLE.

WHAT Poet justly can recite,

O, Dargle, pregnant with delight!

The beauties of thy various bowers,

Where Nature sheds her kindly powers;

And gives perfections to each sense,

In pomp of rustic excellence?

Here rocks high tow'ring tow'rds the skies,

Attract the pleas'd spectator's eyes;

And here th' extending trees of Jove

Produce a cool imbowering grove,

The waters whisp'ring as they flow,

Amid the shelving rocks below,

Join concert with the mingled song,

Of the melodious feather'd throng.

May courteous Powerscourt ne'er disseize,

Eblana's sons of all these joys,

Who gaily leave the City's care,

T' imbibe the Dargle's purer air;

Where thy brisk vot'ry, loveliest queen!

Whilst roving thro' some hillocks green,

Makes known his ardent am'rous fire,

To the dear object of desire:

In some lone spot which charms adorn,

He tells the passion sadly borne;

Where each soft breeze revives th' old man,

And strengthens Life's uncertain span.

Within thy lofty whisp'ring woods,

Where Dryads sport, and Sylvan Gods,

The blush that in each virgin shews,

Compensates for the absent rose.

Here on a bank, refrigerant seat,

Screen'd from the Sun's o'ercoming heat,

Some stretch'd at ease the hours employ,

In Bacchus's unbounded joy,

And o'er each sparkling glass rejoice

To hail with loud according voice,

Thee, noble Owner, as I stood,

Thy praise resounding thro' the wood.

"O, Powerscourt, graciously benign,

Sprung from a long illustrious line,

May'st thou, who often bidd'st us rove,

Thro' this terrene Elysian grove;

Such from th' impartial dest'nies get,

Whene'er thou pay'st our common debt."

SWANLINBAR, A POEM. 1787.
SWANLINBAR, A POEM.

THY lawns, sweet village, and thy shady hills,

Thy stately fir groves, whose condensing leaves

Shade sultry Summer from the blooming maid;

Thy airy mountains, tow'ring towards the Heaven,

Adorned by Nature with rude majesty,

Adown whose sloping sides the bleating lamb

And skipping goat the with'ring herbage crop;

Thy prospects, beautiful and picturesque,

Invite the Muse; the willing Muse attends,

And in thy praise she strikes the warbling lyre.

Health and contentment, prime of earthly bliss,

In thee, O Village, dwell, and love to dwell.

Health in thy potent vivifying springs,

Or in thy balmy soft refreshing gales;

Content in all the blessings thou bestow'st:

Here, wither'd beauty oft reviv'd its bloom,

And age decay'd its pristine strength regain'd,

You graceful form emaciated once

By the consuming burning fever's flame,

By luxury, and ev'ry perilous pleasure,

Long courted Physic's aiding power in vain;

How oft in vain prescrib'd thy deep learn'd sons,

O, Aesculapius; in vain apply'd

Th' afflicted youth to medicinal skill:

But now he walks robust, and more robust

Each passing day, and plainly in his visage

Sits rosy health, and lo! the florid cheek

Late wan and pale, sad spectacle of woe!

He lives restor'd by thy salubrious air,

Or by thy ever efficacious spas.

But languid flows the inharmonious verse,

Till fir'd by Gresson's soft endearing smile,

The Muse inspir'd pursues the pleasing task,

And tunes to thee one tributary line;

To thee, fair blooming daughter of the day!

Who mov'st majestic, like Idalia's queen,

Attended by the dimpled smiles and loves.

Led by thy impulse, Curiosity!

To see bright Nature smiling all around

I've climb'd Binnaughlin's difficult ascent,

From whence I've often seen, and joy'd to see

Delightful Florence-Court, th' enchanting seat

Of female Beauty, and each softer grace

That e'er adorn'd the fair, endearing sex:

The seat of Virtue, heaven-descended Virtue,

In ENNISKILLEN's gentle self she lives.

Behold th' industrious cottagers around,

(My guide, informing said, and stretch'd his hand)

The children once of hapless Poverty!

By thy benevolence assisted all.

O, ENNISKILLEN, affable and good,

And stimulated by thy bright example,

They from their dormant souls shook drowsy sloth,

And while the sun illumes the golden day,

In wholesome labour are they all employ'd,

And in the evening bless thy gen'rous name.

Unnumber'd beauties strike th' admiring eye,

Binnaughlin, from thy airy eminence;

There Quilea rears its cloud cap'd head aloft;

In gloomy majesty the sides appear,

Clad with the fable horror of the heath:

From thence the noble Shannon takes its source:

Gently and soft at first it glides along,

Soon with collected strength the waters rush,

And rapid sweep the wasting banks away.

Yon ofiers bending with the western blast,

Direct the wond'ring eye to that gay vale

Where silver Arney in meanders flows;

And where Lake Erne shews its num'rous isles,[*]

Adorn'd with all the pomp of Sylvan pride,

'Mid which appears an island small and brave,

Fam'd Enniskillen, in historic page

Glory commemorates thy valiant sons,

Immortalized with martial panegyric,

They live the lustre of thy lasting name!

From mighty Quilea's bleak cerulean height,

What seem huge mountains from the plains below,

Now shew quite level with the vast expanse;

Here even the warm poetic blood is chill'd,

What colds, what killing colds! and to the west,

In horrid sterile gloominess appear

Unpleasing sight, dull Leitrim's dreary plains;

Unlike thy lawns, O Cavan, where Ceres smiles,

And at her smile comes with a copious horn,

Auspicious Plenty, round her golden head,

A wreath of peaceful olive's intertwin'd.

Ill it befits Ierne's meanest son

To soar aloft. Illustrious HAYLEY's pen,

He whose immortal character is fix'd

On the firm basis of establish'd fame,

Alone cou'd cope with this descriptive theme.

To please the ear of Beauty have I sung,

Nor vainly sung, if Margaret gives the sprig

Of odorous myrtle as the fair reward;

"Here as the light-wing'd moments glide serene,"

In sweet Seclusion's bower I woo the Muse,

Salubrious village, to resound thy praise;

May'st thou increase and ever flourish fair,

Deck'd by thy GRESSON's still improving hand.

Notes

*

It is not easy to determine whether the number of islands be greater in summer or winter: during this latter season, the water rises eight or ten feet, and thus many low islands are overflown, and new ones formed, by that element's encompassing rising grounds.

Tour through Ireland in 1779.

↵

LIVING CHARACTERS; OR, ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SEVEN.
LIVING CHARACTERS; OR, ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SEVEN.

Coelum ipsum petimus stultitia.

HORACE.

Scarce the Gods and Heavenly Climes,

Are safe from our audacious Crimes.

DRYDEN.

HOW most superb Eblana's now become!

I see in miniature imperial Rome;

Majestic piles magnificently grand,

Of late adorn the great increasing land;

How much of opulence our people learn'd,

Since patriotic Swift this isle adorn'd.

We, who for virtue were so high extoll'd,

Have now Astrea's tender heart appall'd,

How few there are who well deserve her praise,

In these flagitious and degenerate days:

Th' ideas of grandeur and preposterous arts,

Shame on our people, fill their plotting hearts.

Here there are some who with alluring charms,

Entice the blooming virgins to their arms,

And after they have serv'd their lustful turn,

Forsake them, and their lamentation scorn:

And others have with costly pomp essay'd,

To join in wedlock with some wealthy maid,

Before the rites of marriage they were civil,

The dowry got they pitch'd them to the devil.

Satyric Goddess, passionate and rash,

Let not the worthy feel thy galling lash,

To latent characters direct thy storm,

And shew the rascal in his foulest form,

They who on Pomp's unworthy couch now lie,

Bring from recesses to the public eye.

See powder'd Edward with the chatt'ring tongue,

Outvie in dress th' illustrious Oberon.

His parents fam'd are all the country o'er;

For one's a rogue, t'other's a rank whore;

And tho' th' imperious puppy's void of parts,

Behold him sovereign of the female hearts.

The wealthy prizes gain'd by British arms,

When rebel nations fill'd us with alarms,

Made Edward's purse, and 'mid Arabia's scents,

And pompous finery's tawdry ornaments,

He spends the hours, Ambara's rich perfumes,

Raise grateful odours thro' his dressing rooms.

Edward, thou'lt be the virtuous boast of fame,

When scents procure Vespasian's high esteem;

Tho' female eyes, thy graceful form admire,

Sense hates thee lost to Virtue's radiant fire.

Next Robert thou—hush muse—Contention cease,

"And vile attorneys make a useless race,"

Their civil robberies, and unnumber'd crimes,

Make these Domitian, not Augustan times:

'Tis they pretend in a contentious cause,

To shew thee justice by the British laws;

"I'll serve thee, Sir;" they serve to gain their ends:

And whilst they're stripping thee they'll be thy friends.

Each Robert cries, Such stuff, zounds! who can bear it;

When the cap fits thee, Reader, thou may'st wear it.

Battus [†] long since had seventy summers seen,

And were so great a miser now in being?

Tho' two round thousand lie upon the board,

He labours still t' increase the glitt'ring hoard,

And shou'd the imploring beggar meet his eye,

There's nill for nill, he'll hastily reply.

O, squint-ey'd Vanity, to reason blind!

Grand indicator of the menial mind!

Thou sovereign ruler of the vulgar born;

Who gain'st thy followers only wisdom's scorn,

Thy hand thro' flow'ry paths has led our youth,

And brought them from the thorny ways of truth,

Prime source of foppery, if right I see,

Prim affectation nurtur'd was by thee.

Servile Bellario, see how proud he goes,

With James and Gerrard the near-sighted beaus,

How soft he lisps, and, Sir, did e'er you pass

'Till gay Bellario view'd you thro' his glass?

Th' apprentice Stultus, Lord! how great a mack;

See three enormous capes hang down his back,

The princely gait, the graceful turn of toe,

The dangling roses on the fine form'd shoe,

Make you and me, who cloth'd are in plain rags,

When e'er we meet great Stultus, leave the flags.

Rash Muse, no more our indignation move,

Die, die ye vot'ries of prepost'rous love.

O Goddess, fly the vicious motley crew,

And some immortal character now shew,

Some truly great, and nobly generous mind,

In which the feeling virtues all are join'd:

Methinks I hear thee, Goddess, loudly cry,

In the serene of fair Hibernia's sky:

"See generous Scott, who to the dungeon drear

Descended with benevolence's tear,

Th' illustrious man, whom in our blissful bow'r;

We term THE PATRON OF THE HAPLESS POOR:

The sons of misery, who in dark abodes,

Felt the hard lashes of Confinement's rods:

Bless his bright name, to life restor'd again,

Free'd from Oppression's absolute domain."

The Goddess ceas'd, swift as the light-wing'd hour,

Sublime she flew to her aetherial bower.

Notes

†
Auri sacra Fames.
↵

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

TO MR. HAYLEY.

ILLUSTRIOUS monarch of the laurell'd throng,

Illustrious subject of each tuneful tongue;

For thee, I fondly strike the sounding lyre,

For thee, whose maxims taught me to aspire.

Cou'd my faint verse like courtly Waller's move,

I'd justly draw the harmonious virgin's love,

Who by their sacred inspiration warms,

Who with such graceful elocution charms!

Not sweeter sings the man belov'd of Heav'n,

Enchanting Pope, to softest manners giv'n;

In thee we see that lustrous beaming star,

Extending Learning's bright domain afar,

Like him, majestical thou flow'st along,

Concisely clear, and prevalently strong.

My streaming eyes spontaneously o'erflow

With tender tears of sympathetic woe,

When I contemplate on, sublimest bard,

Thy filial piety and soft regard.

But where thy pen so mournfully display'd,

[*]The murder'd votary of the lovely maid,

Each pensive reader wounded, thrills with pain,

So potent Sorrow's sadly-pleasing strain.

Nor less our woe where thou, fond Bard, do'st mourn

In tend'rest accent o'er thy THORNTON's urn;

Struck at thy loss, disdainful of relief,

Thou wail'st in manly majesty of grief.

[†]Where'er Britannia may her power extend,

Eternal praise will on thy name attend;

So strong the frame thy mental labour wrought,

So potent thy magnificence of thought.

VERSES, WRITTEN DURING THE INDISPOSITION OF WILLIAM GRESSON, ESQ.

1.

HYGEIA, Queen of Physic's dome,

In this afflicted hour,

To sadly pensive Gresson come,

With ev'ry lenient power.

2.

Ah, Goddess! see his consort laid

On Misery's tottering chair;

Ah, see his virgin daughter shed

Soft feelings pearly tear.

3.

In dire pre-eminence of grief,

The lead-wing'd hours they pass,

Gone is sweet comforting relief,

And how can sorrow cease?

4.

If to receive fair Virtue's crown,

He goes, freed from his pain;

Ah, may he, like the setting sun,

Go beautiful, serene!

5.

Hear Friendship's ardent prayer, oh Heaven,

And grant the humble boon,

Ah, let his pristine health be giv'n,

Nor take him in his noon.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE OBELISK AT THE BOYNE.

READER, thou tread'st the memorable ground,

Where justice was with glorious laurels crown'd;

Where fire innoxious drew great WILLIAM's blood,

When bravely planning for Britannia's good;

Where valiant SCHOMBERG fell with deathless fame,

SCHOMBERG deserving of an hero's name;

Where mighty NASSAU crush'd Hibernia free'd,

And this commemorates th' immortal deed.

EPITAPH ON THOMAS LELAND, D.D.S.F.T.C.D. OBIIT AUG. 22, 1785.

THIS marble tells (what is not more than just)

That underneath lies LELAND's sacred dust:

O sweet benevolence to learning dear,

For thee the Muse in sorrow drops a tear;

O gentle shade, whose gen'rous mind was giv'n,

To soft-ey'd Charity, the child of Heav'n!

Thou who wast pure, if pure on earth cou'd be,

Must have this tribute to thy memory:

Thou whose fair ghost inspires the Muse's pen,

To tell thy upright character to men:

Thou whose great merits fill the dome of Fame,

And make Posterity revere thy name.

EPIGRAM.

NON gladium, at faciem sequitur victoria, nam{que}

Plus valet armata Pallade nuda Venus.

TRANSLATED.

CONQUEST follows not the sword,

But the Virgin's blooming charms,

Margaret naked has more power,

Than Minerva clad in arms.

VERSES, WRITTEN AFTER MY NARROW ESCAPE from ASSASSINATION. JUNE 21, 1787.

‘Hostile millions press'd me to the ground.’

1.

NOT direful Death's terrific arms,

Late pointed at my heart,

Nor all the popular alarms,

Cou'd quiv'ring fear impart.

2.

Ye savage men, hard as the steel

That drew my purer blood;

Cou'd ye not tender pity feel,

Screen'd in the lonely wood?

3.

View'd only by the eye of Heav'n,

Ye furious did engage;

To me what countless blows were given,

Fall'n object of your rage!

4.

The stroke of might, so strong, so bold!

How feeble, when repell'd,

By the impenetrable gold,

Of Innocence's shield.

5.

Th' immortal guardian of the good,

Unseen by human eye,

From blissful realms, to save my blood

With swallow wings did'st fly.

6.

Else number'd with the pallid ghosts

Of the ignobler dead,

I'd wander on the gloomy coasts,

A visionary shade.

7.

Receive, oh Heaven, my ardent vow

Of tributary thanks,

Elate with pious warmth I bow,

On Cavan's flow'ry banks,

8.

To thee, the radiant source of joy,

To thee, auspicious Lord,

To thee, whom malice can't annoy,

To thee, by all ador'd!

VERSES TO —.

SUCH feeling thoughts in thy great bosom roll,

As in Altemade's exalted soul,

Who big with pity from the certain course,

Thro' foaming billows urg'd his gen'rous horse,

Twice seven he sav'd from Boreas' deadly blast,

Then with heroic glory breath'd his last.

So thou from Death full many a wretch did'st free,

On ruinous Misery's o'erwhelming sea.

Cou'd I like Mason captivate the heart,

With all the magic of poetic art,

Then wou'd I fondly celebrate thy same,

And next to Hayley's place thy splendid name.

IMITATIONS.

— Nec jam sustineant onus,

Sylvae laborantes geluque:

Flumina constiterint acuto.

Dissolve frigus, ligna super foco,

Large reponens: atque benignius

Deprome, quadrimum Sabina,

O Thaliarche, merum diota.

Pemitte Divis caetera:—

ODE, UNFINISHED.

LO, boist'rous Winter, dull and drear,

Increasing desolation far,

Comes on apace, CRUM's shady groves,

The Summer haunts of smiling loves,

Stand wither'd o'er, and bleak its woods,

And frozen are its azure floods.

High pile the turf a glad'ning sire,

And Bacchus shall our joys inspire,

The rosy God, with gen'rous wine,

Shall us to sportive mirth incline:

And to the providence of Heaven,

Let all our worldly cares be given.

IMITATIONS.

— Nec dulces amores

Sperne puer, neque tu choreas

Donec virenti canities abest

Morosa.—

Let us while in our youthful prime,

While yet we're unimpair'd by Time,

Enjoy th' extatic sweets of Love,

And in the dance with Margaret move;

For hoary age will quickly come,

And take away our fire and bloom.

Since first Fermanagh's lawns and plains

Have shewn what gloomy season reigns,

We pass'd no happy fleeting hours,

In Crum's paradisaic bow'rs;

Ah blissful groves! ah peaceful shades!

Where late I woo'd the blue-ey'd maids!

TO THEIR HIGH MIGHTINESSES THE INHABITANTS OF —.

SPRUNG from the meanest of the rabble,

Some rise to pomp and splendor,

Who think that wealth shou'd domineer,

And modest worth keep under.

Ah! truly mean ungen'rous thought,

Bred in a servile mind;

But distant very, very far,

From ev'ry soul refin'd.

The spacious field of verdant grass,

When Rosinant will shun it;

Or when Snap leaves a stinking bone,

Or when he leaves his vomit:

Then will ye leave your inborn dirt,

Ye foul mouth'd sons of meanness!

Then will ye rev'rence from your souls,

The blue-ey'd maid and Venus.

Oft have I known a scoundrel rap,

Sprung up from dung and —

Strud proudly wrap'd in pomp of dress

Like Juno's haughty bird.

So your imperial mightinesses

Were very screech-owls born,

Tho' now the peacock's gaudy plumes

Your swollen sides adorn.

Notes

*
Chatterton.
↵

†

Quaque patet domites Romana potentia terris.

OVID.

↵

ESSAY ON COCK-FIGHTING.
ESSAY ON COCK-FIGHTING.

Homo sum—et nihil humanum à me alienum.

TERENCE.

I am a Man, and bless'd with manly Feeling.

I WAS brought the other day by some of my juvenile acquaintance, into a cock-pit, and there heard the most gentle reproof that the tender lips of parental love could utter. Johannes, a sage gentleman, whom curiosity led to the pit, chanced to see his son Gallus at the opposite side, holding wagers; when the battle was terminated, Johannes asked Gallus did he lose. "No," replied he, with the quick voice of joy, "I have won a crown." "I'm sorry for it," returned Johannes." Then after shaking his head and making a long pause, he continued— ‘I hope that crown may not cost you five hundred pounds.’

These few words made so deep an impression on my mind that I instantly left the pit, and vowed never to enter one again. When I had got home, reflection and sober reason made me plainly see the barbarity of that, which is termed an amusement only by the unfeeling, inconsiderate, and mean.

Those people who are termed Cockers, are in general ignorant, avaricious, indolent, fond of inebriety, and fond of accumulating money 'in an easy way,' as they express themselves; without once considering it is also an easy way of losing it. What but a sordid desire of lucre makes a man go to such an opprobrious place! Youth should beware how they enter a cock-pit: if they win, they bet on expecting to win more; if they lose, Hope, which is so predominant in the human mind, stimulates them to bet on, with the desire of recovering their own. Turn your steps far from this seat of immorality and corruption, where the discordant voices of the blasphemers perpetually prophane that awful name, at the sound of which Virtue shudders with a religious fear.

How many illustrious personages have fallen unhappy victims to their insatiable passion for cock-fighting, and involved their rising families 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 in ruin! that fortune which should be theirs by hereditary right, the hand of Imprudence has squandered, by discharging the honourable debts at the sod.

The barbarity of this epidemic pastime no less affects the heart with sensations of pity, than the sight of men, who stake one half of their fortunes on a black-breasted duck-wing, of yellow pile affects the mind with wonder. A thousand pounds lost in a few minutes! such, in the course of years, must exhaust a man's pecuniary resources, were he master even of the riches of Chili and Peru. What do cockers or gamblers of any denomination depend on? Chance, blind chance. The unpropitious termination of a single battle may perhaps hurl them headlong from the glittering pinnacles of magnificence, to the vast profundity of poverty, and from thence to the low gloomy mansions of confinement, where they may pass away their dark days till death transports them from the miseries of life.

The pathetic Pope strongly inveighs against the cruelty practised by man to inferior creatures; and the unmanly diversions of cock-fighting and throwing at cocks, have been reprobated by him, and many of his cotemporaries. I knew a gentleman who tortured every creature, that his visitors might compare him to Domitian, because that monster once filled the powerful chair of dominion. I have seen him put two flies on a needle, one at the eye, the other at the point, and while they in agonies would pull against each other, he'd cry—"Behold Domitian."

I shall conclude this paper with the story of Zai, which I recollect to have heard in the happy days of boyish innocence: Zai was the only son of Amazar the wealthy, who had amassed immense riches by bringing merchandize from Egypt, and selling it again at considerable profit. Amazar, at the age of twenty-nine, met with an irreparable loss, which drove him to the height of melancholy: this was the death of the beautiful Hasora, to whom he had been eight years joined in all the endearing bands of wedlock.— The only consolation the disconsolate Amazar had, was in the glooms of retirement, caressing little smiling Zai, the sole pledge of that pure love he had borne the amiable Hasora.

Zai had now seen seven summers, his lovely visage and engaging ways made him the delight of every who frequented his father's house. But let us now reverse the leaf. Behold the youth (when the cold hand of Death consigned the tender parent to the grave) possessed of those riches which the hand of Frugality had gathered, to keep him independent of mankind. The promising hope of the respected—Amazar now spends his whole time in the company of Ismaen, the gambler. See! see! how quickly he empties the foaming goblet of intoxication. Are those pale lips the once rosy ones of Zai, which were so often wont to kiss the cooling cup of lime-juice and water?—Yes, Heaven, they are!—But what a metamorphosis!

Zai's constitution was soon broke, his money as soon spent. What could he do? He ran in debt to support nature, and his merciless creditor thrust him in the dismal confines of a prison, where he expired a victim to his inordinate desires.

APPENDIX.
APPENDIX.

IN the north of Ireland I met with a gentleman to whose good nature I am indebted for a copy of the following Poem; it is the production of the late Rev. William Pilkington, Curate of Omagh, capital of the county of Tyrone. This genius is reputed to have been a son of Dean Swift's, by the celebrated Mrs. Laetitia Pilkinton. I am told he was the exact image of Swift, and a man whose abilities were universally acknowledged; his satiric talent, which was very great, procured him high disrespect from the brethren of the gown: he was a graceful and eloquent preacher, but not a very rigid observer of the doctrine he preached. The burden of a large family, with the attendant anxieties and cares, extremely depressed the generous spirit of this pleasing companion. Thinking to drown the memory of his afflictions, he frequented Bacchanalian societies, and latterly drank strong liquors when alone; this, at length, put a period to his existence: he expired, in a manner truly pitiable, a deplorable spectacle of ungovernable passion.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CURATE AND A BOTTLE-SCREW.

— ridentem dicere verum,

Quid vetat.

HORACE.

SCREW.

I WONDER, Sir, for what intent,

My master me a present sent;

To one whom he assur'dly knew

Had neither call for cork or screw,

Whose pittance scarce three times a year,

Affords small brewings of bad beer;

For which, so rare, you bottles ask,

'Tis well it settles in the cask;

The present sure betrays a jibe

To you, and all your beggar tribe?

My former master, rest his soul!

Lov'd well his bottle and his bowl;

A splendid sideboard still I grac'd,

My subjects in due order plac'd,

Bottles and glasses still were clinking,

My sphere is fellowship and drinking;

When I appear'd the wretch cou'd smile,

I op'd the spring cou'd cares beguile;

Not Lethe's draught wou'd make a set

So soon their cares or debts forget.

CURATE.

If you in fact, good Screw, possess

Such pow'r to make affliction less,

No person stands in greater need,

Of all thy friendship, help, or aid;

But why did you so long conceal

Specifics, which can sorrow heal?

Or yet perhaps, you may contrive

Some means to keep a wretch alive.

SCREW.

Keep you alive? No! you deserve,

Like all your sort, to preach and starve.

Favours from me? Behold my hue!

Am I not quite an alter'd screw?

With rust defil'd, all canker'd o'er,

My former beauties I deplore;

My outside which, like mirror shone,

Is now as rusty as your own,

Then judge since you have us'd me so,

What compliment to you I owe.

CURATE.

Why I must own, since you were mine

You seldom dip'd your nib in wine,

My scanty pittance can't afford,

The sparkling glass or splendid board;

Yet you from harm I'd still protect,

Nor ever meant you disrespect,

Nor have you met with aught abuse,

But what arose from want of use;

Why then this rage? Let's state the case,

And talk the matters face to face,

Let's calmly every point discuss;

Then shew me why you use me thus.

SCREW.

Agreed, nor shall I mince the matter,

Against St. Paul, if he drank water.

And doubt not but I shall convince,

At least all men of common sense;

Proctors I mean, who're men of merit,

Ye Curates want soul, sense, and spirit;

For 'gainst the rosy God we've reason,

T' accuse your Reverences of treason;

First I detest your smoaky cot,

Where all things rust with damps and rot;

No elegance your chambers grace,

But horror reigns in ev'ry place.

Your frugal table next I hate,

No sideboard, glasses, wine, or plate;

But if a paltry dish you raise,

Your unambitious soul's at ease.

That element I next despise,

Which seldom makes mens spirits rise,

'Tis needless farther to explain—

You know the rot-gut stuff I mean.

With such a cellar, sideboard, table,

No well-bred screw to bear is able,

So all I ask you, as a boon,

Is that you may dismiss me soon.

CURATE.

Alas! how learn'dly you declaim

'Gainst points in which I'm not to blame,

'Tis my misfortune, not my fault,

To meet coarse fare and taplash malt;

Nor yet more culpable to dwell

In cottage worse than hermit's cell:

Yet if a course of toils and cares,

For more than twelve long tedious years,

If strict attention night and day,

Some to exhort, o'er some to pray,

Cou'd my poor labours recommend,

I might have made my Lord a friend:

And tho' no hope of help appears,

In this poor vale of grief and tears,

Yet in due time I know that he

Who's Lord of him, will think on me;

'Tis needless therefore to repine,

His gracious will be always mine.

SCREW.

Weak man! you might, six years ago,

Have found such conduct wou'd not do,

Is this an age that worth requites,

Who rise but pimps and parasites?

The fawning sycophant who struts

With empty heads and pamper'd guts,

The scum of learning, shame to sense,

Who can with all that's low dispense;

Nay rascals dubb'd with Scotch degree,

Will rise in preference to thee.

Then act the man, nor starve on hope

Sell me, and buy thyself a rope.

FINIS.

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The poetical works of John Hawkesworth

Hawkesworth, John, fl. 1782-1778.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4611

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1106016106

ID [isbn13]

9781106016102

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K063254.000

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CW3311251440

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— The poetical works of John Hawkesworth, Hawkesworth, John, fl. 1782-1778.. [2],vii,[1],90p. ; 8⁰. Dublin :: printed by P. Byrne,. 1788.. [With an additional titlepage, engraved.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT75334.] [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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