A collection of poems in six volumes. By several hands: With notes. [pt.6]

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- HYMN TO THE NAIADS. HYMN TO THE NAIADS.

- ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS EARL OF HUNTINGDON. MDCCXLVII.

- ODE To the Right Reverend BENJAMIN, Lord Bishop of WINCHESTER.

- INSCRIPTIONS.

- I. For a GROTTO.

- II. For a Statue of CHAUCER at WOODSTOCK.

- III.

- IV.

- V.

- VI. For a Column at RUNNYMEDE.

- ODE

- ODE TO THE TIBER. WRITTEN ABROAD By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq On entering the CAMPANIA of ROME, at OTRICOLI, MDCCLV.

- ELEGIES.

- ELEGY I. Written at the CONVENT of HAUT VILLERS in CHAMPAGNE, 1754.

- ELEGY II. On the MAUSOLEUM of AUGUSTUS. To the Right Honourable GEORGE BUSSY VILLIERS, Viscount VILLIERS, Son to the Earl of JERSEY. Written at ROME, 1756.

- ELEGY III. To the Right Honourable GEORGE SIMON HARCOURT, Viscount NEWNHAM, Son to Earl HARCOURT. Written at ROME, 1756.

- ELEGY IV. To an OFFICER. Written at ROME, 1756.

- ELEGY V. To a FRIEND Sick. Written at ROME, 1756.

- ELEGY VI. To another FRIEND. Written at ROME, 1756.

- THE LYRIC MUSE TO MR. MASON. On the Recovery of the RIGHT HONOURABLE the EARL of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illness.

- ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL, TRANSLATED From the LATIN of ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, Esq

- BOOK I.

- BOOK II.

- THE ARBOUR: AN ODE TO CONTENTMENT.

- THE GROTTO: AN ODE TO SILENCE.

- THE PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF CEBES THE THEBAN. BY MR. T. SCOTT.

- The DROPSICAL MAN.

- PARADISE REGAIN'D.

- To the Right Hon. Sir ROBERT WALPOLE.

- To a LADY on a LANDSCAPE of her Drawing.

- ODE to CUPID on VALENTINE'S Day.

- To the Worthy, Humane, Generous, Reverend, and Noble, Mr. FREDERICK CORNWALLIS, now Archbishop of CANTERBURY.

- TO HIS FRIEND AND NEIGHBOUR DR. THOMAS TAYLOR. 1744.

- VACATION.

- To a LADY very handsome, but too fond of DRESS.

- ANACREON. ODE III. Translated by the Same.

- An Imitation of HORACE, Book III. Ode 2. Angustam amice, &c.

- A Reply to a Copy of Verses made in Imitation of Book III. Ode 2. of HORACE. Angustam, amice, pauperiem pati, &c. And sent by Mr. TITLEY to Dr. BENTLEY.

- INSCRIPTION on a GROTTO of Shells at CRUX-EASTON, the Work of Nine young Ladies.

- VERSES occasioned by seeing a GROTTO built by Nine Sisters.

- An Excuse for INCONSTANCY, 1737.

- To VENUS. A RANT, 1732. Set to Music by Dr. HAYES.

- The POWER OF MUSIC. A SONG. Imitated from the SPANISH.

- LETTER from SMYRNA to his Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, 1733.

- Part of a LETTER to my Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, written from CAIRO in EGYPT, August 1734.

- LETTER from MARSEILLES to my Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, May 1735.

- The HISTORY of PORSENNA, King of RUSSIA. IN TWO BOOKS.

- BOOK I.

- BOOK II.

- THE EVER-GREEN.

- ANSWER.

- CANDOUR.

- LYSANDER TO CLOE.

- CLOE TO LYSANDER.

- TO THE MEMORY OF AN AGREEABLE LADY BURYEB IN MARRIAGE TO A PERSON UNDESERVING HER.

- AN ELEGY, WRITTEN ON VALENTINE MORNING.

- THE DOWAGER.

- ODE TO THE HONOURABLE * * * *.

- To MISS ****. BY MISS ELIZA CARTER.

- LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE, TO SIR WILLIAM YONGE.

- SIR WILLIAM YONGE'S ANSWER.

- MISS SOPER's Answer to a LADY, who invited her to retire into a monastic Life at ST. CROSS, near WINCHESTER.

- REPENTANCE.

- A SONG BY T. PERCY.

- CYNTHIA, AN ELEGIAC POEM.

- DIALOGUE TO CHLORINDA.

- To CHLORINDA.

- The FABLE of IXION. To CHLORINDA.

- A TALE. To CHLORINDA.

- ODE on LYRIC POETRY.

- ARION, an ODE.

- HORACE, Book II. Ode II. Quid bellicosus Cantaber, &c. Imitated by Lord BATH.—PAUL to FAZ.

- A PANEGYRIC ON ALE.

- ODE TO THE GENIUS OF ITALY, OCCASIONED BY THE EARL OF CORKE's GOING ABROAD.

- To CHARLES PRATT, Esq NOW LORD CAMDEN. Written in 1743. By DR. DAVIES.

- EPISTLE FROM HENRY ST. JOHN LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE TO MISS LUCY ATKINS. Written when he was young.

- THE CHEAT'S APOLOGY.

- SONG.

- ANOTHER.

- TO MR. GRENVILLE, ON HIS INTENDED RESIGNATION.

- TO MR. GARRICK, On his erecting a Temple and Statue to SHAKSPEARE

- On the Birth-Day of SHAKSPEARE. A CENTO. Taken from his Works.

- An ODE to SCULPTURE.

- TRUE RESIGNATION.

- An EPISTLE from the King of PRUSSIA to Monsieur VOLTAIRE. 1757.

- Translated into English

- On seeing Archbishop WILLIAMS'S Monument in CARNARVONSHIRE.

- Extempore Verses upon a Trial of Skill between the two great Masters of Defence, Messieurs FIGG and SUTTON.

- A LETTER FROM CAMBRIDGE TO MASTER HENRY ARCHER, A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT ETON SCHOOL.

- THE INDOLENT.

- THE SONG OF SIMEON PARAPHRASED.

- ON THE INVENTION OF LETTERS.

- THE ANSWER.

- ON WIT.

- ON A SPIDER.

- THE PLAY-THING CHANGED.

- THE FABLE OF JOTHAM: TO THE BOROUGH-HUNTERS.

- AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN AN EMPTY ASSEMBLY-ROOM.

- The FAKEER: A TALE.

- To Mr. WHITEHEAD, On his being made POET LAUREAT. 1757.

- VERSES on the Prospect of planting ARTS and LEARNING in AMERICA.

- To Mr. MASON.

- ODE. To INDEPENDENCY.

- ODE. On MELANCHOLY. To a FRIEND.

- ODE.

- ODE.

- 1

- 2

- 3

- POSTSCRIPT.

- INDEX TO THE SIXTH VOLUME.

A COLLECTION of POEMS.

A NEW EDITION CORRECTED; WITH NOTES.

VOL. VI.

A COLLECTION OF POEMS IN SIX VOLUMES.

BY SEVERAL HANDS.

WITH NOTES.

LONDON: Printed for J. DODSLEY, in PALL-MALL.

MDCCLXXXII.

HYMN TO THE NAIADS.
HYMN TO THE NAIADS.

BY DR. AKENSIDE[a]. MDCCXLVI.

ARGUMENT.

The Nymphs who preside over springs and rivulets are addressed at day-break in honour of their several functions, and of the relations which they bear to the natural and to the moral world. Their origin is deduced from the first allegorical deities, or powers of nature; according to the doctrine of the old mythological poets, concerning the generation of the Gods and the rise of things. They are then successively considered, as giving motion to the air and exciting summer-breezes; as nourishing and beautifying the vegetable world; as contributing to the fulness of navigable rivers, and consequently to the main¦tenance of commerce, and by that means to the maritime part of military power. Next is represented their favourable influence upon health, when assisted by rural exercise; which introduces their connection with the art of physic, and the happy effects of mineral, medicinal springs. Lastly, they are celebrated for the friendship which the Muses bear them, and for the true inspiration which temperance only can receive; in opposition to the enthusiasm of the more licentious poets.

O'ER yonder eastern hill the twilight throws

Her dusky mantle; and the God of day,

With bright Astraea seated by his side,

Waits yet to leave the ocean. Tarry, Nymphs,

Ye Nymphs, ye blue-ey'd progeny of Thames,

Who now the mazes of this rugged heath

Trace with your fleeting steps; who all night long

Repeat, amid the cool and tranquil air,

Your lonely murmurs, tarry: and receive

My offer'd lay. To pay you homage due,

I leave the gates of sleep; nor shall my lyre

Too far into the splendid hours of morn

Ingage your audience: my observant hand

Shall close the strain ere any sultry beam

Approach you. To your subterranean haunts

Ye then may timely steal; to pace with care

The humid sands; to loosen from the soil

The bubbling sources; to direct the rills

To meet in wider channels, or beneath

Some grotto's dripping arch, at height of noon

To slumber, shelter'd from the burning heaven.

Where shall my song begin, ye Nymphs? or end?

Wide is your praise and copious—First of things,

First of the lonely powers, ere Time arose,

Were Love[a] and Chaos [b] Love, the sire of Fate[c];

Elder than Chaos. Born of Fate was Time[d],

Who many sons [e] and many comely births

Devour'd, relentless father: 'till the child

Of Rhea [f] drow him from the upper sky[g]

And quell'd his deadly might. Then social reign'd[h]

The kindred powers, Tethys, and reverend Ops,

And spotless Vesta; while supreme of sway

Remain'd the cloud-compeller. From the couch

Of Tethys sprang the sedgy-crowned race[i],

Who from a thousand urns, o'er every clime,

Send tribute to their parent; and from them

Are ye, O Naiads[k]: Arethusa fair,

And tuneful Aganippe; that sweet name,

Bandusia; that soft family which dwelt

With Syrian Daphne[l]; and the honour'd tribes

Belov'd of Paeon[m]. Listen to my strain,

Daughters of Tethys: listen to your praise.

You, Nymphs, the winged offspring[n], which of old

Aurora to divine Astraeus bore,

Owns, and your aid beseecheth. When the might

Of Hyperion[o], from his noontide throne,

Unbends their languid pinions, aid from you

They ask: Favonius and the mild South-west

From you relief implore. Your sallying streams[p]

Fresh vigour to their weary limbs impart.

Again they fly, disporting from their mead

Half-ripen'd and the tender blades of corn,

To sweep the noxious mildew; or dispel

Contagious steams, which oft the parched earth

Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve,

Along the river and the paved brook,

Ascend the cheerful breezes: hail'd of bards

Who, fast by learned Cam, the Mantuan lyre

Sollicit; nor unwelcome to the youth

Who on the heights of Tybur, all inclin'd

O'er rushing Anio, with a pious hand

The reverend scene delineates, broken fanes,

Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp

Of ancient Time; and haply, while he scans

The ruins, with a silent tear revolves

The fame and fortune of imperious Rome.

You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid

The rural powers confess; and still prepare

For you their grateful treasures. Pan commands,

Oft as the Delian king [q] with Sirius holds

The central heavens, the father of the grove

Commands his Dryads over your abodes

To spread their deepest umbrage. Well the God

Remembereth how indulgent ye supplied

Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime.

Pales, the pasture's queen, where'er ye stray,

Pursues your steps, delighted; and the path

With living verdure clothes. Around your haunts

The laughing Chloris[r], with profusest hand,

Throws wide her blooms, her odours. Still with you

Pomona seeks to dwell: and o'er the lawns,

And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thames

Ye love to wander, Amalthea [s] pours

Well-pleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian horn,

Her dower; unmindful of the fragrant isles

Nysaean or Atlantic. Nor canst thou,

(Albeit oft, ungrateful, thou dost mock

The beverage of the sober Naiad's urn,

O Bromius, O Lenaean) nor canst thou

Disown the powers whose bounty, ill repaid,

With nectar feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me,

Yet, blameless Nymphs, from my delighted lyre,

Accept the rites your bounty well may claim;

Nor heed the scoffings of the Edonian band[t].

Far better praise awaits you. Thames, your sire,

As down the verdant slope your duteous rills

Descend, the tribute stately Thames receives,

Delighted; and your piety applauds;

And bids his copious tide roll on secure,

For faithful are his daughters; and with words

Auspicious gratulates the bark which, now

His banks forsaking, her adventurous wings

Yields to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts

Extremest isles to bless. And oft at morn,

When Hermes[u], from Olympus bent o'er earth

To bear the words of Jove, on yonder hill

Stoops lightly-sailing; oft intent your springs

He views: and waving o'er some new-born stream

His blest pacific wand, "And yet," he cries,

"Yet," cries the son of Maia, "though recluse

"And silent be your stores, from you, fair Nymphs,

"Flows wealth and kind society to men.

"By you my function and my honour'd name

"Do I possess; while o'er the Boetic vale,

"Or through the towers of Memphis, or the palms

"By sacred Ganges water'd, I conduct

"The English merchant: with the buxom fleece

"Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe

"Sarmatian kings; or to the household Gods

"Of Syria, from the bleak Cornubian shore,

"Dispense the mineral treasure [x] which of old

"Sidonian pilots sought, when this fair land

"Was yet unconscious of those generous arts

"Which wise Phoenicia from their native clime

"Transplanted to a more indulgent heaven."

Such are the words of Hermes: such the praise,

O Naiads, which from tongues coelestial waits

Your bounteous deeds. From bounty issueth power:

And those who, sedulous in prudent works,

Relieve the wants of nature, Jove repays

With generous wealth and his own seat on earth,

Fit judgments to pronounce, and curb the might

Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns

Not vainly to the hospitable arts

Of Hermes yield their store. For, O ye Nymphs,

[y]Hath he not won the unconquerable queen

Of arms to court your friendship? You she owns

The fair associates who extend her sway

Wide o'er the mighty deep; and grateful things

Of you she uttereth, oft as from the shore

Of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green banks

Of Vecta, she her thundering navy leads

To Calpe's [z] foaming channel, or the rough

Cantabrian coast; her auspices divine

Imparting to the senate and the prince

Of Albion, to dismay barbaric kings,

The Iberian, or the Celt. The pride of kings

Was ever scorn'd by Pallas: and of old

Rejoic'd the virgin, from the brazen prow

Of Athens o'er [a] Aegina's gloomy surge,

To drive her clouds and storms; o'erwhelming all

The Persian's promis'd glory, when the realms

Of Indus and the soft Ionian clime,

When Libya's torrid champain and the rocks

Of cold In•aüs join'd their servile bands,

To sweep the sons of liberty from earth.

In vain: Minerva on the brazen prow

Of Athens stood, and with the thunder's voice

Denounc'd her terrours on their impious heads,

And shook her burning Aegis. Xerxes saw[b]:

From Heracleum, on the mountain's height

Thron'd in his golden car, he knew the sign

Coelestial; felt unrighteous hope forsake

His faltering heart, and turn'd his face with shame.

Hail, ye who share the stern Minerva's power;

Who arm the hand of liberty for war;

And give, in secret, the Britannic name

To awe contending monarchs: yet benign,

Yet mild of nature, to the works of peace

More prone, and lenient of the many ills

Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid

Hygeia well can witness; she who saves,

From poisonous cares and cups of pleasing bane,

The wretch devoted to the entangling snares

Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him she leads

To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To spread the toils,

To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn

At dawn of day to summon the loud hounds,

She calls the lingering sluggard from his dreams;

And where his breast may drink the mountain breeze,

And where the fervour of the sunny vale

May beat upon his brow, through devious paths

Beckons his rapid courser. Nor when ease,

Cool ease and welcome slumbers have becalm'd

His eager bosom, does the queen of health

Her pleasing care withhold. His decent board

She guards, presiding; and the frugal powers

With joy sedate leads in: and while the brown

Ennaean dame with Pan presents her stores;

While changing still, and comely in the change,

Vertumnus and the Hours before him spread

The garden's banquet; you to crown his feast,

To crown his feast, O Naiads, you the fair

Hygeia calls: and from your shelving seats,

And grove of poplar, plenteous cups ye bring,

To slake his veins: 'till soon a purer tide

Flows down those loaded channels; washeth off

The dregs of luxury, the lurking seeds

Of crude disease; and through the abodes of life

Sends vigour, sends repose. Hail, Naiads: hail,

Who give, to labour, health; to stooping age,

The joys which youth had squander'd. Oft your urns

Will I invoke; and, frequent in your praise,

Abash the frantic Thyrsus [c] with my song.

For not estrang'd from your benignant arts

Is he, the God, to whose mysterious shrine

My youth was sacred, and my votive cares

Are due; the learned Paeon. Oft when all

His cordial treasures he hath search'd in vain;

When herbs, and potent trees, and drops of balm

Rich with the genial influence of the sun,

(To rouze dark fancy from her plaintive dreams,

To brace the nerveless arm, with food to win

Sick appetite, or hush the unquiet breast

Which pines with silent passion) he in vain

Hath prov'd; to your deep mansions he descends.

Your gates of humid rock, your dim arcades,

He entereth; where impurpled veins of ore

Gleam on the roof; where through the rigid mine

Your trickling rills insinuate. There the God

From your indulgent hands the streaming bowl

Wafts to his pale-ey'd suppliants; wafts the seeds

Metallic and the elemental salts

Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink: and soon

Flies pain; flies inauspicious care: and soon

The social haunt or unfrequented shade

Hears Io, Io Paean[d]; as of old,

When Python fell. And, O propitious Nymphs,

Oft as for hapless mortals I implore

Your salutary springs, through every urn

O shed selected atoms, and with all

Your healing powers inform the recent wave.

My lyre shall pay your bounty. Nor disdain

That humble tribute. Though a mortal hand

Excite the strings to utterance, yet for themes

Not unregarded of coelestial powers,

I frame their language: and the Muses deign

To guide the pious tenour of my lay.

The Muses (sacred by their gifts divine)

In early days did to my wondering sense

Their secrets oft reveal: oft my rais'd ear

In slumber felt their music: oft at noon

Or hour of sunset, by some lonely stream,

In field or shady grove, they taught me words

Of power from death and envy to preserve

The good man's name. Whence yet with grateful mind,

And offerings unprofan'd by ruder eye,

My vows I send, my homage, to the seats

Of rocky Cirrha[e], where with you they dwell:

Where you their chafte companions they admit

Through all the hallow'd scene: where oft intent,

And leaning o'er Castalia's mossy verge,

They mark the cadence of your confluent urns,

How tuneful, yielding gratefullest repose

To their consorted measure: 'till again,

With emulation all the sounding choir,

And bright Apollo, leader of the song,

Their voices through the liquid air exalt,

And sweep their lofty strings: those aweful strings,

That charm the minds of Gods[f]: that fill the courts

Of wide Olympus with oblivion sweet

Of evils, with immortal rest from cares;

Assuage the terrours of the throne of Jove;

And quench the formidable thunderbolt

Of unrelenting fire. With slacken'd wings,

While now the solemn concert breathes around,

Incumbent o'er the sceptre of his lord,

Sleeps the stern eagle; by the number'd notes,

Posses'd; and satiate with the melting tone:

Sovereign of birds. The furious God of war,

His darts forgetting and the rapid wheels

That bear him vengeful o'er the embattled plain,

Relents, and sooths his own fierce heart to ease,

Unwonted ease. The fire of Gods and men,

In that great moment of divine delight,

Looks down on all that live; and whatsoe'er

He loves not, o'er the peopled earth, and o'er

The interminated ocean, he beholds

Curs'd with abhorrence by his doom severe,

And troubled at the sound. Ye, Naiads, ye

With ravish'd ears the melody attend

Worthy of sacred silence. But the slaves

Of Bacchus with tempestuous clamours strive

To drown the heavenly strains; of highest Jove,

Irreverent; and by mad presumption fir'd

Their own discordant raptures to advance

With hostile emulation. Down they rush

From Nysa's vine-impurpled cliff, the dames

Of Thrace, the Satyrs, and the unruly Fauns,

With old Silenus, through the midnight gloom

Tossing the torch impure, and high in air

The brandish'd Thyrsus, to the Phrygian pipe's[g]

Shrill voice, and to the clashing cymbals, mix'd

With shrieks and frantic uproar, May the Gods

From every unpolluted ear avert

Their orgies! If within the seats of men,

Within the seats of men, the walls, the gates

Which Pallas rules[h], if haply there be found

Who loves to mingle with the revel-band

And hearken to their accents; who aspires

From such instructers to inform his breast

With verse; let him, fit votarist, implore

Their inspiration. He perchance the gifts

Of young Lyaeus, and the dread exploits,

May sing in aptest numbers: he the fate

Of sober Pentheus[i], he the Paphian rites,

And naked Mars with Cytheraea chain'd,

And strong Aleides in the spinster's robe,

May celebrate, applauded. But with you,

O Naiads, far from that unhallow'd rout,

Must dwell the man whoe'er to praised themes

Invokes the immortal Muse. The immortal Muse

To your calm habitations, to the cave

Corycian [k] or the Delphic mount[l], will guide

His footsteps: and with your unsullied streams

His lips will bathe: whether the eternal lore

Of Themis, or the majesty of Jove,

To mortals he reveal; or teach his lyre

The unenvied guerdon of the patriot's toils,

In those unfading islands of the blest,

Where Sacred bards abide. Hail, honour'd Nymphs;

Thrice hail. For you the Cyrenaïc [m] shell,

Behold, I touch, revering. To my songs

Be present ye with favourable feet,

And all profaner audience far remove.

Notes

a
Dr. Mark Akenside was born on the 9th of November, 1721, at Newcastle upon Tyne. His father Mark was a butcher of the Presbyterian Sect. He received the first part of his education at the grammar school of Newcastle, and was afterwards instructed by Mr. Wilson, who kept a private academy. Being intended for the office of a Dissenting minister, he was sent at the age of eighteen years to Edinburgh; but, altering his first design, he turned his application to the study of physick, which he afterwards continued at Leyden, where he took his degree of Doctor on the 16th of May, 1744. He first practised in his profession at Northampton, from whence he removed to Hampstead, and afterwards to London. He was chosen Fellow of the Royal Society; became a physician to St. Thomas's Hospital; was admitted by mandamus to the degree of Doctor of Physic in the university of Cambridge; and was elected a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians in London. Upon the Settlement of the Queen's household he was appointed one of the physicians to her Majesty. He died of a putrid fever June 23, 1770, and was buried at the church of St. James's, Westminster.
↵

a

—Love—

Elder than Chaos.] Hesiod, in his Theogony, gives a different account, and makes Chaos the eldest of beings; though he assigns to Love neither father nor superior; which circumstance is particularly mentioned by Phaedrus, in Plato's Banquet, as being observable not only in Hesiod, but in all other writers both in verse and prose: and on the same occasion he cites a line from Parmenides, in which Love is expressly styled the eldest of all the gods. Yet Aristophanes, in The Birds, affirms, that ‘Chaos, and Night, and Erebus, and Tartarus, were first; and that Love was produced from an egg, which the sable-winged night deposited in the immense bosom of Erebus.’ But it must be observed, that the Love designed by this comic poet was always distinguished from the other, from that original and self-existent being the 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 or 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 of Plato, and meant only the 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 or second person of the old Grecian trinity; to whom is inscribed an hymn among those which pass under the name of Orpheus, where he is called Protogonos, or the first-begotten, is said to have been born of an egg, and is represented as the principal or origin of all these external appearances of nature. In the fragments of Orpheus, collected by Henry Stephens, he is named Phanes, the discoverer or discloser; who unfolded the ideas of the supreme intelligence, and exposed them to the perception of inferior beings in this visible frame of the world; as Macrobius, and Proclus, and Athenagoras, all agree to interpret the several passages of Orpheus, which they have preserved.

But the Love designed in our text is the one self-existent and infinite mind, whom if the generality of ancient mythologists have not introduced or truly described in accounting for the production of the world and its appearances; yet, to a modern poet, it can be no objection that he hath ventured to differ from them in this particular; though, in other respects, he professeth to imitate their manner and conform to their opinions. For, in these great points of natural theology, they differ no less remarkably among themselves; and are perpetually confounding the philosophical relations of things with the traditionary circumstances of mythic history; upon which very account, Calsimachus, in his Hymn to Jupiter, declareth his dissent from them concerning even an article of the national creed; adding, that the ancient bards were by no means to be depended on. And yet in the exordium of the old Argonautic poem, ascribed to Orpheus, it is said, that ‘Love, whom mortals in later times call Phanes, was the father of the eternally begotten Night;’ who is generally represented, by these mythological poets, as being herself the parent of all things; and who, in the Indigitamenta, or Orphic Hymns, is said to be the same with Cypris, or Love itself. Moreover, in the body of this Argonautic poem, where the personated Orpheus introduceth himself singing to his lyre in reply to Chiron, he celebrateth ‘the obscure memory of Chaos, and the natures which it contained within itself in a state of perpetual vicissitude; how the heaven had its boundary determined; the generation of the earth; the depth of the ocean; and also the sapient Love, the most ancient, the self-sufficient; with all the beings which he produced when he separated one thing from another’ Which noble passage is more directly to Aristotle's purpose in the first book of his metaphysics than any of those which he has there quoted, to shew that the ancient poets and mythologists agreed with Empedocles, Anaxagoras and the other more sober philosophers, in that natural anticipation and common notion of mankind concerning the necessity of mind and reason to account for the connexion, motion, and good order of the world. For, though neither this poem, nor the hymns which pass under the same name, are, it should seem, the work of the real Orpheus; yet beyond all question they are very ancient. The hymns, more particularly, are allowed to be older than the invasion of Greece by Xerxes; and were probably a felt of public and solemn forms of devotion; as appears by a passage in one of them, which Demosthenes hath almost literally cited in his first oration against Aristogiton, as the saying of Orpheus, the founder of their most holy mysteries. On this account, they are of higher authority than any other mythological work now extant, the Theogony of Hesiod himself not excepted. The poetry of them is often extremely noble; and the mysterious air which prevails in them, together with its delightful impression upon the mind, cannot be better expressed than in that remarkable description with which they inspired the German edition Eschenbach, when he accidentally met with them at Leipsic: "Thesaurum me reperisse credidi," says he, ‘& prosecto thesaurum reperi. Incredibile dictu quo me sacro horrore afflaverint indigitamenta ista deorum: nam et tempus ad illorum lectionem eligere cogebar, quod vel solum horrorem incutere animo potest, nocturnum; cum enim totam diem consumserim in contemplando urbis splendore, & in adeundis, quibus scatet urbs illa, viris doctis; sola nox restabat, quam Orpheo consecrare potui. In abyssum quendam mysteriorum venerandae antiquitatis descendere videbar, quotiescunque silente mundo, solis vigilantibus astris et luna, 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 istos hymnos ad manus sumsi:’

↵

b

Chaos.] The unformed, undigested mass of Moses and Plato; which Milton calls

"The womb of nature."

↵

c
Love, the sire of Fate.] Fate is the universal system of natural causes; the work of the Omnipotent Mind, or of Love: so Minudius Felix: ‘Quid aliud est fatum, quam quod de unoquoque nostrum deus fatus est.’ So also Cicero, in The First Book on Divination:
Fatum autem id appello, quod Graeci EIPMAPMENHN; id est, ordinem seriemque causarum, cum causa causae nexa rem ex se gignat—ex quo intelligitur, ut fatum sit non id quod superstitiose, sed id quod physice dicitur causa aeterna rerum.
To the same purpose is the doctrine of Hierocles, in that excellent fragment concerning Providence and Destiny. As to the three Fates, or Destinies of the poets, they represented that part of the general system of natural causes which relates to man, and to other mortal beings: for so we are told in the hymn addressed to them among the Orphic Indigitamenta, where they are called the daughters of Night (or Love), and, contrary to the vulgar notion, are distinguished by the epithet of gentle, and tenderhearted. According to Hesiod, Theog. ver. 904, they were the daughers of Jupiter and Themis; but in the Orphic Hymn to Venus, or Love, that Goddess is directly stiled the mother of Necessity, and is represented, immediately after, as governing the three Destinies, and conducting the whole system of natural causes.

↵

d
Born of Fate was Time.] Cronos, Saturn, or Time, was, according to Apollodorus, the son of Coelum and Tellus. But the author of the hymns gives it quite undisguised by mythological language, and calls him plainly the offspring of the earth and the starry heaven; that is, of Fate, as explained in the preceding note.
↵

e
Who many sons devour'd.] The known fable of Saturn devouring his children was certainly meant to imply the dissolution of natural bodies; which are produced and destroyed by Time.
↵

f
The child of Rea.] Jupiter, so called by Pindar.
↵

g
Drove him from the upper sky.] That Jupiter dethroned his father Saturn, is recorded by all the mythologists. Phurnutus, or Cornutus, the author of a little Greek treatise on the nature of the gods, informs us, that by Jupiter was meant the vegetable soul of the world, which restrained and prevented those uncertain alterations which Saturn, or Time, used formerly to cause in the mundane system.
↵

h
Then social reign'd.] Our mythology here supposeth, thát before the establishment of the vital, vegetative, plastic nature (represented by Jupiter), the four elements were in a variable and unsettled condition; but afterwards well-disposed and at peace among themselves. Tethys was the wife of the Ocean; Ops, or Rhea, the Earth; Vesta, the eldest daughter of Saturn, Fire; and the cloud-compeller, or
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, the Air; though he also represented the plastic principle of nature, as may be seen in the Orphic hymn inscribed to him.

↵

i
The sedgy-crowned race.] The river-gods; who, according to Hesiod's Theogony, were the sons of Oceanus and Tethys.
↵

k
From them, are ye, O Naiads.] The descent of the Naiads is less certain than most points of the Greek mythology. Homer Odyss xiii.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Virgil, in the eighth book of the Aeneid, speaks as if the Nymphs, or Naiads, were the parents of the rivers, but in this he contradicts the testimony of Hesiod, and evidently departs from the orthodox system, which representeth several nymphs as retaining to every single river. On the other hand, Calimachus, who was very learned in all the school-divinity of those times, in his hymns to Delos, maketh Peneus, the great Thessalian river-god, the father of his nymphs: and Ovid, in the fourteenth book of his Metamorphoses, mentions the Naiads of Latium as the immediate daughters of the neighbouring river gods. Accordingly, the Naiads of particular rivers are occasionally, both by Ovid and Statius, called by a patronymic, from the name of the river to which they belong.

↵

l
Syrian Daphne.] The grove of Daphne in Syria, near Antioch, was famous for its delightful fountains.
↵

m
The tribes belov'd by Paeon.] Mineral and medicinal springs. Paeon was the physician of the gods.
↵

n
The winged offspring.] The Winds; who, according to Hesiod and Apollodorus, were the sons of Astraeus and Aurora.
↵

o
Hyperion.] A son of Coelum and Tellus, and father of the Sun, who is thence called, by Pindar, Hyperionides. But Hyperíon is put by Homer in the same manner as here, for the Sun himself.
↵

p
Your sallying streams.] The state of the atmosphere with respect to rest and motion is, in several ways, affected by rivers and running streams; and that more especially in hot seasons; first, they destroy its equilibrium, by cooling those parts of it with which they are in contact; and, secondly, they communicate their own motion; and the air which is thus moved by them, being left heated, is of consequence more elastic than other parts of the atmosphere, and therefore fitter to preserve and to propagate that motion.
↵

q
Delian king.] One of the epithets of Apollo, or the Sun, in the Orphic hymn inscribed to him.
↵

r
Chloris.] The ancient Greek name for Flora.
↵

s
Amalthea.] The mother of the first Bacchus, whose birth and education was written, as Diodorus Siculus informs us, in the old Pelasgic character, by Thymoetes, grandson to Laomedon, and contemporary with Orpheus. Thymoetes had traveled over Libya to the country which borders on the western ocean; there he saw the island of Nysa, and learned from the inhabitants, that
Ammon, king of Lybia, was married in former ages to Rhea, sister of Saturn and the Titans; that he afterwards fell in love with a beautiful virgin, whose name was Amalthea; had by her a son, and gave her posession of a neighbouring tract of land, wonderfully fertile; which in shape nearly resembling the horn of an ox, was thence called the Hesperian horn, and afterwards the horn of Amalthea; that, fearing the jealousy of Rhea, he concealed the young Bacchus, with his mother, in the island of Nysa;
the beauty of which, Diodorus describes with great dignity and pomp of style. This fable is one of the noblest in all the ancient mythology, and seems to have made a particular impression on the imagination of Milton; the only modern poet (unless perhaps it be necessary to except Spenser) who, in these mysterious traditions of the poetic story, had a heart to feel, and words to express, the simple and solitary genius of antiquity. To raise the idea of his Paradise, he prefers it even to

—"that Nysean isle

"Girt by the river Triton, where old Cham

"(Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove)

"Hid Amalthea, and her florid son,

"Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye.

↵

t
Edonian band.] The priestesses and other ministers of Bacchus; so called from Edonus, a mountain of Thrace, where his rites were celebrated.
↵

u
When Hermes.] Hermes, or Mercury, was the patron of commerce; in which benevolent character he is addressed by the author of Indigitamenta, in these beautiful lines:

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉,

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

↵

x
Dispense the mineral treasure.] The merchants of Sidon and Tyre made frequent voyages to the coast of Cornwall, from whence they carried home great quantities of tin.
↵

y
Hath he not won.] Mercury the patron of commerce, being so greatly dependent on the good offices of the Naiads, in return obtains for them the friendship of Minerva, the goddess of war: for military power, at least the naval part of it, hath constantly followed the establishment of trade; which exemplifies the preceding observation, that "from bounty issueth power."
↵

z
Caipe—Cartabrian surge.] Gibraltar and the bay of Biscay.
↵

a
Aegina's gloomy surge.] Near this island, the Athenians obtained the victory of Salamis, over the Persian navy.
↵

b
Xerxes saw.] This circumstance is recorded in that passage, perhaps the most splendid among all the remains of ancient history, where Plutarch, in his "Life of Themistocles," describes the sea-fights of Artemisium and Salamis.
↵

c
Thyrsus.] A staff, or spear, wreathed round with ivy; of constant use in the bacchanalian mysteries.
↵

d
Io Paean.] An exclamation of victory and triumph derived from Apollo's encounter with Python.
↵

e
Cirrha.] One of the summits of Parnassus, and sacred to Apollo. Near it were several fountains, said to be frequented by the Muses. Nysa, the other eminence of the same mountain, was dedicated to Bacchus.
↵

f
Charm the minds of gods.] This whole passage, concerning the effects of sacred music among the gods, is taken from Pindar's first Pythian ede.
↵

g
Phrygian pipe's.] The Phrygian music was fantastic and turbulent, and fit to excite disorderly passions.
↵

h
Which Pallas rules.] It was the office of Minerva to be the guardian of walled cities; whence she was named
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
and

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

, and had her statues placed in their gates, being supposed to keep the keys; and on that account stiled
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.
↵

i
Fate of sober Pentheus.] Pentheus was torn in pieces by the bacchanalian priests and women, for despising their mysteries.
↵

k
The cave Corycian.] Of this cave Pausanias, in his Tenth Book, gives the following description:
Between Delphi and the eminences of Parnassus, is a road to the grotto of Corycium, which has its name from the nymph Corycia, and is by far the most remarkable which I have seen. One may walk a great way into it without a torch. It is of a considerable height, and hath several springs within it; and yet a much greater quantity of water distills from the shell and roof, so as to be continually dropping on the ground. The people round Parnassus hold it sacred to the Corycian nymphs and to Pan.

↵

l
Delphic mount.] Delphi, the seat and oracle of Apollo, had a mountainous and rocky situation on the skirts of Parnassus.
↵

m
Cyrenaïc.] Cyrene was the native country of Callimachus, whose hymns are the most remarkable example of that mythological passion which is assumed in the preceding poem, and have always afforded particular pleasure to the author of it, by reason of the mysterious solemnity with which they affect the mind. On this account he was induced to attempt somewhat in the same manner; solely by way of exercise: the manner itself being now almost intirely abandoned in poetry. And as the meer genealogy, or the personal adventures of heathen gods, could have been but little interesting to a modern reader; it was therefore thought proper to select some convenient part of the history of nature, and to employ these ancient divinities as it is probable they were first employed; to wit, in personifying natural causes, and in representing the mutual agreement or opposition of the corporeal and moral powers of the world: which hath been accounted the very highest office of poetry.
↵

ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS EARL OF HUNTINGDON. MDCCXLVII.

BY THE SAME.

I. 1.

THE wise and great of every clime,

Through all the spacious walks of Time,

Where'er the Muse her power display'd,

With joy have listen'd and obey'd.

For, taught of heaven, the sacred Nine

Persuasive numbers, forms divine,

To mortal sense impart:

They best the soul with glory fire;

They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire;

And high o'er Fortune's rage inthrone the fixed heart.

I. 2.

Nor less prevailing is their charm,

The vengeful bosom to disarm;

To melt the proud with human woe,

And prompt unwilling tears to flow.

Can wealth a power like this afford?

Can Cromwell's art, or Marlborough's sword,

An equal empire claim?

No, HASTINGS. Thou my words wilt own:

Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known;

Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.

I. 3.

The Muse's aweful art,

And the fair function of the poet's tongue,

Ne'er shalt thou blush to honour; to assert

From all that scorned vice or slavish fear hath sung.

Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings

Warbling at will in pleasure's myrtle bower;

Nor shall the baser notes to Celtic kings

By lying minstrels paid in evil hour;

Move Thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign.

A different strain,

And other Themes,

From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams

(Thou well canst witness) meet the purged ear:

Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell

Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear;

To hear the sweet instructress tell

(While men and heroes throng'd around)

How life its noblest use may find,

How best for freedom be resign'd;

And how, by glory, virtue shall be crown'd.

II. 1.

Such was the [a] Chian father's strain

To many a kind domestic train,

Whose pious hearth, and genial bowl,

Had cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul:

When, every hospitable rite

With equal bounty to requite,

He struck his magic strings;

And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth,

And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth,

And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things.

II. 2.

Now oft, where happy spirits dwell,

Where yet he tunes his charming shell,

Oft near him, with applauding hands,

The genius of his country stands.

To listening gods he makes him known,

That man divine, by whom were sown

The seeds of Graecian fame:

Who first the race with freedom fir'd;

From whom Lycurgus Sparta's sons inspir'd[b];

From whom Plataean palms and Cyprian trophies came.

II. 3.

O noblest, happiest age!

When Aristides rul'd, and Cimon fought;

When all the generous fruits of Homer's page

Exulting Pindar[c] saw to full perfection brought.

O Pindar, oft shalt thou be hail'd of me:

Not that Apollo fed thee from his shrine;

Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee;

Nor yet that, studious of thy notes divine,

Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng:

But that thy song

Was proud to unfold

What thy base rulers trembled to behold;

Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell

The deeds of Athens and the Persian shame:

Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.

But thou, O faithful to thy fame,

The Muse's law didst rightly know;

That who would animate his lays,

And other minds to virtue raise,

Must feel his own with all her spirit glow.

III. 1.

Are there, approv'd of later times,

Whose verse adorn'd a [d] tyrant's crimes?

Who saw majestic Rome betray'd,

And lent the imperial ruffian aid?

Alas! not one polluted bard,

No, not the strains that Mincius heard,

Or Tibur's hills reply'd,

Dare to the Muse's ear aspire;

Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre,

With freedom's ancient notes their shameful task they hide.

III. 2.

Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands,

Amid the domes of modern hands:

Amid the toys of idle state,

How simply, how severely great!

Then turn, and, while each western clime

Presents her tuneful sons to Time,

So mark thou Milton's name:

And add, "Thus differs from the throng

"The spirit which inform'd thy aweful song,

"Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame."

III. 3.

Yet hence barbaric zeal

His memory with unholy rage pursues;

While from these arduous cares of public weal

She bids each bard be gone, and rest him with his Muse.

O fool! to think the man, whose ample mind

Must grasp at all that yonder stars survey;

Must join the noblest forms of every kind,

The world's most perfect image to display,

Can e'er his country's majesty behold,

Unmov'd or cold!

O fool! to deem

That He, whose thought must visit every theme,

Whose heart must every strong emotion know

By nature planted, or by fortune taught;

That He, if haply some presumptuous foe,

With false ignoble science fraught,

Shall spurn at freedom's faithful band:

That He, their dear defence will shun,

Or hide their glories from the sun,

Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand[e]!

IV. 1.

I care not that in Arno's plain,

Or on the sportive banks of Seine,

From public themes the Muse's quire

Content with polish'd ease retire.

Where priests the studious head command,

Where tyrants bow the warlike hand

To vile ambition's aim,

Say, what can public themes afford,

Save venal honours to an hateful lord,

Reserv'd for angry heaven, and scorn'd of honest fame?

IV. 2.

But here, where freedom's equal throne

To all her valiant sons is known;

Where all are conscious of her cares,

And each the power, that rules him, shares;

Here let the bard, whose dastard tongue

Leaves public arguments unsung,

Bid public praise farewel:

Let him to fitter climes remove,

Far from the heroe's and the patriot's love,

And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.

IV. 3.

O Hastings, not to all

Can ruling heav'n the same endowments lend:

Yet still doth nature to her offspring call,

That to one general weal their different powers they bend,

Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine

Inform the bosom of the Muse's son;

Though with new honours the patrician's line

Advance from age to age; yet thus alone

They win the suffrage of impartial fame.

The poet's name

He best shall prove,

Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move.

But thee, O progeny of heroes old,

Thee to severer toils thy fate requires:

The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould,

The grateful country of thy sires,

Thee to sublimer paths demand;

Sublimer than thy sires could trace,

Or thy own EDWARD [e] teach his race,

Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.

V. 1.

From rich domains and subject farms,

They led the rustic youth to arms;

And kings their stern atchievements fear'd;

While private strife their banners rear'd.

But loftier scenes to thee are shown,

Where empire's wide-establish'd throne

No private master fills:

Where, long foretold, The People reigns:

Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains;

And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.

V. 2.

Here be it thine to calm and guide

The swelling democratic tide;

To watch the state's uncertain frame,

And baffle faction's partial aim:

But chiefly, with determin'd zeal,

To quell that servile band, who kneel

To freedom's banish'd foes;

That monster, which is daily found

Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound;

Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.

V. 3.

'Tis highest heaven's command,

That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue:

That what ensnares the heart should curb the hand,

And virtue's worthless foes be false to glory to•.

But look on freedom. See, through every age,

What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd!

What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage,

Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd!

For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains

Of happy swains,

Which now resound

Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures bound,

Bear witness. There, oft let the farmer hail

The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate,

And shew to strangers passing down the vale,

Where Candish, Booth, and Osborne sate[f];

When bursting from their country's chain,

Even in the midst of deadly harms,

Of papal snares and lawless arms,

They plann'd for freedom this her aweful reign.

VI. 1.

This reign, these laws, this publice care,

Which Nassau gave us all to share,

Had ne'er adorn'd the English name,

Could fear have silenc'd freedom's claim.

But fear in vain attempts to bind

Those lofty efforts of the mind

Which social good inspires;

Where men, for this, assault a throne,

Each adds the common welfare to his own;

And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all acquires.

VI. 2.

Say, was it thus, when late we view'd

Our fields in civil blood imbrued?

When fortune crown'd the barbarous host,

And half the astonish'd isle was lost?

Did one of all that vaunting train,

Who dare affront a peaceful reign,

Durst one in arms appear?

Durst one in counsels pledge his life?

Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife?

Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to cheer?

VI. 3.

Yet, HASTINGS, these are they,

Who challenge to themselves thy country's love:

The true; the constant: who alone can weigh

What glory should demand, or liberty approve!

But let their works declare them. Thy free powers,

The generous powers of thy prevailing mind,

Not for the tasks of their confederate hours,

Lewd brawls and lurking slander, were design'd.

Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise

Oft nobly sways

Ingenuous youth:

But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth,

Praise is reproach. Eternal GOD alone

For mortals fixeth that sublime award.

He, from the faithful records of his throne,

Bids the historian and the bard

Dispose of honour and of scorn;

Discern the patriot from the slave;

And write the good, the wise, the brave,

For lessons to the multitude unborn.

Notes

a
Homer.
↵

b
Lycurgus the Lacedaemonian law-giver brought into Greece from Asia Minor the first complete copy of Homer's works.—At Plataea was fought the decisive battle between the Persian army and the united militia of Greece under Pausanias and Aristides.—Cimon the Athenian erected a trophy in Cyprus for two great victories gained on the same day over the Persians by sea and land. Diodorus Siculus has preserved the inscription which the Athenians affixed to the consecrated spoils' after this great success; in which it is very remarkable, that the greatness of the occasion has raised the manner of expression above the usual simplicity and modesty of all other ancient inscriptions. It is this:

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

The following translation is almost literal:

Since first the sea from Asia's hostile coast

Divided Europe, and the god of war

Assail'd imperious cities; never yet,

At once among the waves and on the shore,

Hath such a labour been atchiev'd by men

Who earth inhabit. They whose arms the Medes

In Cyprus felt pernicious, they, the same,

Have won from skilful Tyre an hundred ships

Crouded with warriors. Asia groans, in both

Her hands sore smitten, by the might of war.

↵

c
Pindar was contemporary with Aristides and Cymon, in whom the glory of ancient Greece was at his height. When Xerxes invaded Greece, Pindar was true to the common interest of his country; though his fellow-citizens, the Thebans, had sold themselves to the Persian king. In one of his odes he expresses the great distress and anxiety of his mind, occasioned by the vast preparations of Xerxes against Greece. (Isthm, 8.) In another he celebrates the victories of Salamis, Plata, and Himera. (Pyth. 1.) It will be necessary to add two or three other particulars of his life, real or fabulous, in order to explain what follows in the next concerning him. First then, he was thought to be so great a favourite of Apollo, that the priests of that deity allotted him a constant share of their offerings. It was said of him, as of some other illustrious men, that at his birth a swarm of bees lighted on his lips, and fed him with their honey. It was also a tradition concerning him, that Pan was heard to recite his poetry, and seen dancing to one of his hymns on the mountains near Thebes. But a real historical fact in his life is, that the Thebans imposed a large fine upon him on account of the veneration which he expressed in his poems for that heroic spirit, shewn by the people of Athens in defence of the common liberty, which his own fellow-citizens had shamefully betrayed. And, as the argument of this ode implies, that great poetical talents, and high sentiments of liberty, do reciprocally produce and assist each other, so Pindar is perhaps the most exemplary proof of this connection, which occurs in history. The Thebans were remarkable, in general, for a slavish disposition through all the fortunes of their commonwealth; at the time of its ruin by Philip; and even in its best state, under the administration of Pelopidas and Epaminondas: and every one knows, they were no less remarkable for great dulness, and want of all genius. That Pindar should have equally distinguished himself from the rest of his fellow-citizens in both these respects seems somewhat extraordinary, and is scarce to be accounted for but by the preceding observation.
↵

d
Octavius Caesar.
↵

e
Alluding to his "Defence of the people of England" against Salmafius. See particularly the manner in which he himself speaks of that undertaking, in the introduction to his reply to Morus.
↵

e
Edward the Third; from whom descended Henry Hastings, third Earl of Huntingdon, by the daughter of the Duke of Clarence, brother to Edward the Fourth.
↵

f
At Whittington, a village on the edge of Scarsdale in Derbyshire, the Earls of Devonshire and Danby, with the Lord Delamere, privately concerted the plan of the Revolution. The house at which they met is at present a farm-house; and the country people distinguish the room where they sat by the name of "the plotting parlour."
↵

ODE To the Right Reverend BENJAMIN, Lord Bishop of WINCHESTER[a].

By the Same.

I. 1.

FOR toils which patriots have endur'd,

For treason quell'd and laws secur'd,

In every nation Time displays

The palm of honourable praise.

Envy may rail; and faction fierce

May strive: but what, alas, can Those

(Though bold, yet blind and sordid foes)

To gratitude and love oppose,

To faithful story and persuasive verse?

I. 2.

O nurse of freedom, Albion, say,

Thou tamer of despotic sway,

What man, among thy sons around,

What page, in all thy annals bright,

Hast thou with purer joy survey'd

Than that where truth, by Hoadly's aid,

Shines through the deep unhallow'd shade

Of kingly fraud and sacerdotal night?

I. 3.

To him the Teacher bless'd

Who sent religion, from the palmy field

By Jordan, like the morn to cheer the west,

And lifted up the veil which heaven from earth conceal'd,

To Hoadly thus He uttter'd his behest:

"Go thou, and rescue my dishonour'd law

"From hands rapacious and from tongues impure:

"Let not my peaceful name be made a lure

"The snares of savage tyranny to aid:

"Let not my words be impious chains to draw

"The free-born soul, in more than brutal awe,

"To faith without assent, allegiance unrepaid."

II. 1.

No cold nor unperforming hand

Was arm'd by heaven with this command,

The world soon felt it: and, on high,

To William's ear with welcome joy

Did Locke among the blest unfold

The rising hope of Hoadly's name:

Godolphin then confirm'd the fame;

And Somers, when from earth he came,

And valiant Stanhope the fair sequel told[b].

II. 2.

Then drew the lawgivers around,

(Sires of the Grecian name renown'd)

And listening ask'd, and wondering knew,

What private force could thus subdue

The vulgar and the great combin'd;

Could war with sacred folly wage;

Could a whole nation disengage

From the dread bonds of many an age,

And to new habits mould the public mind.

II. 3.

For not a conqueror's sword,

Nor the strong powers to civil founders known,

Were his: but truth by faithful search explor'd,

And social sense, like seed, in genial plenty sown.

Wherever it took root, the soul (restor'd

To freedom) freedom too for others sought,

Not monkish craft the tyrant's claim divine,

Not regal zeal the bigot's cruel shrine

Could longer guard from reason's warfare sage:

Not the wild rabble to sedition wrought,

Nor synods by the papal Genius taught,

Nor St. John's [c] spirit loose, nor Atterbury's [d] rage.

III. 1.

But where shall recompence be found?

Or how such arduous merit crown'd?

For look on life's laborious scene:

What rugged spaces lie between

Adventurous virtue's early toils

And her triumphal throne! The shade

Of death, mean time, does oft invade

Her progress; nor, to us display'd,

Wears the bright heroine her expected spoils.

III. 2.

Yet born to conquer is her power:

—O Hoadly, if that favourite hour

On earth arrive, with thankful awe

We own just heaven's indulgent law,

And proudly thy success behold;

We 'attend thy reverend length of days

With benediction and with praise,

And hail Thee in our public ways

Like some great spirit fam'd in ages old.

III. 3

While thus our vows prolong

Thy steps on earth, and when by us resign'd

Thou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throng

Who rescu'd or preserv'd the rights of human kind,

O! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue

Thee, still her friend and benefactor, name:

O! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes,

May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize,

Make public virtue, public freedom vile;

Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaim

That heritage, our noblest wealth and fame,

Which Thou hast kept intire from force and factious guile.

Notes

a
Dr. Benjamin Hoadly, successively Bishop of Bangor, Hereford, Salisbury, and Winchester; a divine whose life was spent in a perpetual exertion of the noblest faculties to the noblest ends, the vindication of the religious and civil liberties of mankind in general, and of his country in particular. He was born at Westram, in Kent, Nov. 14, 1676; and died April 17, 1761.
↵

b
Mr. Locke died in 1704, when Mr. Hoadly was beginning to distinguish himself in the cause of civil and religious liberty: Lord Godolphin in 1712, when the doctrines of the Jacobite faction were chiefly favoured by those in power: Lord Somers in 1716, amid the practices of the non-juring clergy against the protestant establishment; and Lord Stanhope in 1721, during the controversy with the lower house of convocation.
↵

c
Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.
↵

d
Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester.
↵

INSCRIPTIONS.

By the Same.

I. For a GROTTO.

TO me, whom in their lays the shepherds call

Actaea, daughter of the neighbouring stream,

This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,

Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,

Were plac'd by Glycon. He with cowslips pale,

Primrose, and purple Lychnis, deck'd the green

Before my threshold, and my shelving walls

With honeysuckle cover'd. Here at noon,

Lull'd by the murmur of my rising fount,

I slumber: here my clustering fruits I tend;

Or from the humid flowers, at break of day,

Fresh garlands weave, and chace from all my bounds

Each thing impure or noxious. Enter-in,

O stranger, undismay'd. Nor bat nor toad

Here lurks: and if thy breast of blameless thoughts

Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread

My quiet mansion: chiefly, if thy name

Wise Pallas and the immortal Muses own.

II. For a Statue of CHAUCER at WOODSTOCK.

SUCH was old Chaucer. such the placid mien

Of him who first with harmony inform'd

The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt

For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls

Have often heard him, while his legends blithe

He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles

Of homely life: through each estate and age,

The fashions and the follies of the world

With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance

From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come

Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain

Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold

To him, this other heroe; who, in times

Dark and untaught, began with charming verse

To tame the rudeness of his native land.

III.

WHOE'ER thou art whose path in summer lies

Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove

Of branching oaks a rural palace old

Imbosoms: there dwells Albert, generous lord

Of all the harvest round; and onward thence

A low plain chapel fronts the morning light

Fast by a silent riv'let. Humbly walk,

O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;

And on that verdant hilloc, which thou see'st

Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand

Sprinkle fresh water from the brook, and strew

Sweet-smelling flowers: for there doth Edmund rest,

The learned shepherd; for each rural art

Fam'd, and for songs harmonious, and the woes

Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride

Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave

In manhood's prime. But soon did righteous heaven

With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care,

Avenge her falshood: nor could all the gold

And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith

From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,

Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside

The strokes of death. Go, traveller; relate

The mournful story: haply some fair maid

May hold it in remembrance, and be taught

That riches cannot pay for truth and love.

IV.

O YOUTHS and virgins: O declining eld:

O pale misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwell

Unknown with humble quiet; ye who wait

In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings:

O sons of sport and pleasure: O thou wretch

That weep'st jealous love, or the sore wounds

Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand

Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam

In exile; ye who through the embattled field

Seek bright renown; or who for nobler palms

Contend, the leaders of a public cause:

Approach: behold this marble. Know ye not

The features? Hath not oft his faithful tongue

Told you the fashion of your own estate,

The secrets of your bosom? Here then, round

His monument with reverence while ye stand,

Say to each other: "This was Shakspeare's form;

"Who walk'd in every path of human life,

"Felt every passion; and to all mankind

"Doth now, will ever that experience yield

"Which his own genius only could acquire."

V.

GULIELMUS III. FORTIS, PIUS, LIBERATOR, CUM INEUNTE AETATE PATRIAE LABENTI ADFUISSET SALUS IPSE UNICA; CUM MOX ITIDEM REIPUBLICAE BRITANNICAE VINDEX RENUNCIATUS ESSET ATQUE STATOR; TUM DENIQUE AD ID SE NATUM RECOGNOVIT ET REGEM FACTUM, UT CURARET NE DOMINO IMPOTENTI CEDERENT PAX, FIDES, FORTUNA, GENERIS HUMANI.

AUCTORI PUBLICAE FELICITATIS P.G.A.M.A.

VI. For a Column at RUNNYMEDE.

THOU, who the verdant plain dost traverse here,

While Thames among his willows from thy view

Retires; O stranger, stay thee, and the scene

Around contemplate well. This is the place

Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms

And stern with conquest, from their tyrant king

(Then render'd tame) did challenge and secure

The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on

'Till thou have bless'd their memory, and paid

Those thanks which God appointed the reward

Of public virtue: and if chance thy home

Salute thee with a father's honour'd name,

Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt

They owe their ancestors; and make them swear

To pay it, by transmitting down intire

Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.

ODE

BY THE SAME.

I.

IF rightly tuneful bards decide,

If it be fix'd in love's decrees,

That beauty ought not to be tried

But by its native power to please,

Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell,

What fair can Amoret excell?

II.

Behold that bright unsullied smile,

And wisdom speaking in her mien:

Yet (she so artless all the while,

So little studious to be seen)

We nought but instant gladness know,

Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

III.

But neither music, nor the powers

Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,

Add half that sunshine to the hours,

Or make life's prospect half so clear,

As memory brings it to the eye

From scenes where Amoret was by.

IV.

Yet not a satirist could there

Or fault or indiscretion find;

Nor any prouder sage declare

One virtue, pictur'd in his mind,

Whose form with lovelier colours glows

Than Amoret's demeanor shows.

V.

This sure is beauty's happiest part:

This gives the most unbounded sway:

This shall inchant the subject heart

When rose and lily fade away!

And She be still, in spite of time,

Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

ODE TO THE TIBER. WRITTEN ABROAD By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq On entering the CAMPANIA of ROME, at OTRICOLI, MDCCLV.

I.

HAIL, sacred Stream, whose waters roll

Immortal through the classic page!

To Thee the Muse-devoted soul,

Though destin'd to a later age

And less indulgent clime, to Thee,

Nor thou disdain, in runic lays

Weak mimic of true harmony,

His grateful homage pays.

Far other strains thine elder ear

With pleas'd attention wont to hear,

When he, who strung the Latian lyre,

And he, who led th' Aonian quire

From Mantua's reedy lakes with osiers crown'd,

Taught Echo from thy banks with transport to resound.

Thy banks?—alas! is this the boasted scene,

This dreary, wide, uncultivated plain,

Where sick'ning Nature wears a fainter green,

And Desolation spreads her torpid reign?

Is this the scene where Freedom breath'd,

Her copious horn where Plenty wreath'd,

And Health at opening day

Bade all her roseate breezes fly,

To wake the sons of Industry,

And make their fields more gay?

II.

Where is the villa's rural pride,

The swelling dome's imperial gleam,

Which lov'd to grace the verdant side,

And tremble in thy golden stream?

Where are the bold, the busy throngs,

That rush'd impatient to the war,

Or tun'd to peace triumphal songs,

And hail'd the passing car?

Along the solitary [a] road,

The eternal flint by Consuls trod,

We muse, and mark the sad decays

Of mighty works, and mighty days.

For these vile wastes, we cry, had Fate decreed

That Veii's sons should strive, for these Camillus bleed?

Did here, in after-times of Roman pride,

The musing shepherd from Soracte's height

See towns extend where'er thy waters glide,

And temples rise, and peopled farms unite?

They did. For this deserted plain

The Hero strove, nor strove in vain;

And here the shepherd saw

Unnumber'd towns and temples spread,

While Rome majestic rear'd her head,

And gave the nations law.

III.

Yes, Thou and Latium once were great.

And still, ye first of human things,

Beyond the grasp of time or fate

Her fame and thine triumphant springs.

What though the mould'ring columns fall,

And strow the desart earth beneath,

Though ivy round each nodding wall

Entwine its fatal wreath,

Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast

The numerous glories thou hast lost?

Can ev'n Euphrastes' palmy shore,

Or Nile with all his mystic lore,

Produce from old records of genuine fame

Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name?

Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;

From every ruin's formidable shade

Eternal Music breathes on Fancy's ear,

And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.

Thy Caesars, Scipios, Catos rise,

The great, the virtuous, and the wise,

In solemn state advance!

They fix the philosophic eye,

Or trail the robe, or lift on high

The lightning of the lance.

IV.

But chief that humbler happier train

Who knew those virtues to reward

Beyond the reach of chance or pain

Secure, th' historian and the bard.

By them the hero's generous rage

Still warm in youth immortal lives;

And in their adamantine page

Thy glory still survives.

Through deep Savannahs wild and vast,

Unheard, unknown through ages past,

Beneath the sun's directer beams

What copious torrents pour their streams!

No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,

No annals swell their pride, or grace their storied urn.

Whilst Thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,

Her spear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd,

Canst tell the waves, canst tell the passing wind,

Thy wond'rous tale, and cheer the list'ning waste.

Though from his caves th' unfeeling North

Pour'd all his legion'd tempests forth,

Yet still thy laurels bloom:

One deathless glory still remains,

Thy stream has roll'd through LATIAN plains,

Has wash'd the walls of ROME.

Notes

a
The Flaminian Way.
↵

ELEGIES.

BY THE SAME.

ELEGY I. Written at the CONVENT of HAUT VILLERS in CHAMPAGNE, 1754.

SILENT and clear, through yonder peaceful vale,

While Marne's slow waters weave their mazy way,

See, to th' exulting sun, and fost'ring gale,

What boundless treasures his rich banks display!

Fast by the stream, and at the mountain's base,

The lowing herds through living pastures rove:

Wide-waving harvests crown the rising space:

And still superior nods the viny grove.

High on the top, as guardian of the scene,

Imperial Sylvan spreads his umbrage wide;

Nor wants there many a cot, and spire between,

Or in the vale, or on the mountain's side,

To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole,

Claims the just tribute of his culturing care,

Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of soul,

The boon which Heaven accepts of, praise and prayer.

O dire effects of war! the time has been

When Desolation vaunted here her reign;

One ravag'd desart was yon beauteous scene,

And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.

Oft at his work, the toilsome day to cheat,

The swain still talks of those disastrous times,

When Guise's pride, and Condé's ill-starr'd heat,

Taught christian zeal to authorize their crimes:

Oft to his children sportive on the grass

Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell;

Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass,

Where force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell.

O dire effects of war!—may evermore

Through this sweet vale the voice of discord cease!

A British bard to Gallia's fertile shore

Can wish the blessings of eternal peace.

Yet say, ye monks (beneath whose mosa-grown seat,

Within whose cloister'd cells th' indebted Muse

Awhile sojourns, for meditation meet,

And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,)

Avails it aught, that War's rude tumults spare

Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field,

If, niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,

You slight the joys their copious treasures yield?

Avails it aught, that Nature's liberal hand

With every blessing grateful man can know

Cloaths the rich bosom of yon smiling land,

The mountain's sloping side, or pendant brow,

If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,

If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest,

If, 'midst heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak,

You shun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feast?

Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads,

Her ample volume opens on your view,

The simple-minded swain, who running reads,

Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?

Look forth, and be convinc'd! Yon prospects wide

To Reason's ear how forcibly they speak,

Compar'd with those how dull is letter'd Pride,

And Austin's babbling Eloquence how weak!

Temp'rance, not Abstinence, in every bliss

Is Man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's command:

The wretch who riots thanks his God amiss:

Who starves, rejects the bounties of his hand.

Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides,

How smooth his course, how Nature smiles around!

But should impetuous torrents swell his tides,

The fairy landskip sinks in oceans drown'd.

Nor less disastrous, should his thrifty urn

Neglected leave the once well-water'd land,

To dreary wastes yon paradise would turn,

Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren sand.

ELEGY II. On the MAUSOLEUM [a] of AUGUSTUS. To the Right Honourable GEORGE BUSSY VILLIERS, Viscount VILLIERS, Son to the Earl of JERSEY. Written at ROME, 1756.

AMID these mould'ring walls, this marble round,

Where slept the Heroes of the Julian name,

Say, shall we linger still in thought profound,

And meditate the mournful paths to fame?

What though no cypress shades, in funeral rows,

No sculptur'd urns, the last records of Fate,

O'er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs,

Or breathe in storied emblems of the great;

Yet not with heedless eye will we survey

The scene though chang'd, nor negligently tread;

These variegated walks, however gay,

Were once the silent mansions of the dead.

In every shrub, in every flow'ret's bloom

That paints with different hues yon smiling plain,

Some Hero's ashes issue from the tomb,

And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not as the Sages say,

But shifts to other forms the pliant mass,

When the free spirit quits its cumb'rous clay,

And sees, beneath, the rolling Planets pass.

Perhaps, my Villiers, for I sing to Thee,

Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives,

In yon fair scion of Apollo's tree

The sacred dust of young Marcellus lives.

Pluck not the leaf—'twere sacrilege to wound

Th' ideal memory of so sweet a shade;

In these sad seats an early grave he found,

And[b] the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.

Witness [c] thou Field of Mars, that oft hadst known

His youthful triumphs in the mimic war,

Thou heard'st the heart-felt universal groan

When o'er thy bosom roll'd the funeral car.

Witness [d] thou Tuscan stream, where oft he glow'd

In sportive strugglings with th' opposing wave,

Fast by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd

While wept the wise, the virtuous, and the brave.

O lost too soon!—yet why lament a fate

By thousands envied, and by Heaven approv'd?

Rare is the boon to those of longer date

To live, to die, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd.

Weak are our judgements, and our passions warm,

And slowly dawns the radiant morn of truth,

Our expectations hastily we form,

And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we satiate on th' applause we pay

To rising Merit, and resume the Crown;

Full many a blooming genius, snatch'd away,

Has fall'n lamented who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the task, O Villiers, to sustain

Th' important burthen of an early fame;

Each added day some added worth to gain,

Prevent each wish, and answer every claim.

Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days!

But O remember, whatsoe'er thou art,

The most exalted breath of human praise

To please indeed must echo from the heart.

Though thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wise,

By all, like him, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd,

'Tis from within alone true Fame can rise,

The only happy is the Self-approv'd.

ELEGY III. To the Right Honourable GEORGE SIMON HARCOURT, Viscount NEWNHAM, Son to Earl HARCOURT. Written at ROME, 1756.

YES, noble Youth, 'tis true; the softer arts,

The sweetly-sounding string, and pencil's power,

Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts,

And taught the rude to wonder, and adore.

For Beauty charms us, whether she appears

In blended colours; or to soothing sound

Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears

In yonder swelling dome's harmonious round.

All, all she charms; but not alike to all

'Tis given to revel in her blissful bower;

Coercive ties, and Reason's powerful call,

Bid some but taste the sweets, which some devour.

When Nature govern'd, and when Man was young,

Perhaps at will th' untutor'd Savage rov'd,

Where waters murmur'd, and where clusters hung

He fed, and slept beneath the shade he lov'd.

But since the Sage's more sagacious mind,

By Heaven's permission, or by Heaven's command,

To polish states his social laws assign'd,

And general good on partial duties plann'd;

Not for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend

As heedless Chance, or wanton Choice ordain;

On various stations various tasks attend,

And men are born to trifle or to reign.

As chaunts the woodman whilst the Dryads weep,

And falling forests fear th' uplifted blow,

As chaunts the shepherd, while he tends his sheep,

Or weaves to pliant forms the osier bough;

To me 'tis given, whom Fortune loves to lead

Through humbler toils to life's sequester'd bowers,

To me 'tis given to wake th' amusive reed,

And sooth with song the solitary hours.

But Thee superior soberer toils demand,

Severer paths are thine of patriot fame;

Thy birth, thy friends, thy king, thy native land,

Have given thee honours, and have each their claim.

Then nerve with fortitude thy feeling breast

Each wish to combat, and each pain to bear;

Spurn with disdain th' inglorious love of rest,

Nor let the syren Ease approach thine ear.

Beneath yon cypress shade's eternal green

See prostrate Rome her wond'rous story tell,

Mark how she rose the world's imperial queen,

And tremble at the prospect how she fell!

Not that my rigid precepts would require

A painful struggling with each adverse gale,

Forbid thee listen to th' enchanting Lyre,

Or turn thy steps from Fancy's flowery vale.

Whate'er of Greece in sculptur'd brass survives,

Whate'er of Rome in mould'ring arcs remains,

Whate'er of Genius on the canvass lives,

Or flows in polish'd verse, or airy strains,

Be these thy leisure; to the chosen few,

Who dare excel, thy fost'ring aid afford;

Their arts, their magic powers with honours due

Exalt; but be thyself what they record.

ELEGY IV. To an OFFICER. Written at ROME, 1756.

FROM Latian fields, the mansions of Renown,

Where fix'd the Warrior God his fated seat;

Where infant Heroes learnt the martial frown,

And little hearts for genuine glory beat;

What for my friend, my soldier, shall I frame?

What nobly-glowing verse that breathes of arms,

To point his radiant path to deathless fame,

By great examples, and terrific charms?

Quirinus first, with bold, collected bands,

The sinewy sons of strength, for empire strove;

Beneath his thunder bow'd th' astonish'd lands,

And temples rose to Mars, and to Feretrian Jove.

War taught contempt of death, contempt of pain,

And hence the Fabii, hence the Decii come:

War urg'd the slaughter, though she wept the slain,

Stern War, the rugged nurse of virtuous Rome.

But not from antique fables will I draw,

To fire thy feeling soul, a dubious aid,

Though now, ev'n now, they strike with rev'rent awe,

By Poets or Historians sacred made.

Nor yet to thee the babbling Muse shall tell

What mighty kings with all their legions wrought,

What cities sunk, and storied nations fell

When Caesar, Titus, or when Trajan fought.

From private worth, and Fortune's private ways

Whilst o'er yon hill th' exalted [a] Trophy shows

To what vast heights of incorrupted praise

The great, the self-ennobled Marius rose.

From steep Arpinum's rock-invested shade,

From hardy Virtue's emulative school,

His daring flight th' expanding Genius made,

And by obeying nobly learnt to rule.

Abash'd, confounded, stern Iberia groan'd,

And Afric trembled to her utmost coasts;

When the proud land its destin'd Conqueror own'd

In the new Consul, and his veteran hosts.

Yet chiefs are madmen, and Ambition weak,

And mean the joys the laurel'd harvests yield,

If Virtue fail. Let Fame, let Envy speak

Of Capsa's walls, and Sextia's wat'ry field.

But sink for ever, in oblivion cast,

Dishonest triumphs, and ignoble spoils.

Minturnae's Marsh severely paid at last

The guilty glories gain'd in civil broils.

Nor yet his vain contempt the Muse shall praise

For scenes of polish'd life, and letter'd worth;

The steel-ribb'd Warrior wants not Envy's ways

To darken theirs, or call his merits forth.

Witness yon Cimbrian Trophies!—Marius, there

Thy ample pinion found a space to fly;

As the plum'd eagle soaring sails in air,

In upper air, and scorns a middle sky.

Thence too thy country claim'd thee for her own,

And bade the Sculptor's toil thy acts adorn,

To teach in characters of living stone

Eternal lessons to the youth unborn.

For wisely Rome her warlike Sons rewards

With the sweet labours of her Artists' hands;

He wakes her Graces, who her empire guards,

And both Minervas join in willing bands.

O why, Britannia, why untrophied pass

The patriot deeds thy godlike Sons display,

Why breathes on high no monumental brass,

Why swells no Arc to grace Culloden's Day?

Wait we 'till faithless France submissive bow

Beneath that Hero's delegated spear,

Whose lightning smote Rebellion's haughty brow,

And scatter'd her vile rout with horror in the rear?

O Land of Freedom, Land of Arts, assume

That graceful dignity thy merits claim;

Exalt thy Heroes like imperial Rome,

And build their virtues on their love of fame.

So shall the modest worth, which checks my friend,

Forget its blush when rous'd by Glory's charms;

From breast to breast the generous warmth descend,

And still new trophies rise, at once, to Arts and Arms.

ELEGY V. To a FRIEND Sick. Written at ROME, 1756.

'TWAS in this [a] isle, O Wright, indulge my lay,

Whose naval form divides the Tuscan flood,

In the bright dawn of her illustrious day

Rome fix'd her Temple to the healing God.

Here stood his altars, here his arm he bar'd,

And round his mystic staff the serpent twin'd,

Through crowded portals hymns of praise were heard,

And victims bled, and sacred seers divin'd.

On every breathing wall, on every round

Of column, swelling with proportion'd grace,

Its stated seat some votive tablet found,

And storied wonders dignified the place.

Oft from the balmy blessings of repose,

And the cool stillness of the night's deep shade,

To light and health th' exulting Votarist rose,

Whilst fancy work'd with med'cine's powerful aid.

Oft in his dreams (no longer clogg'd with fears

Of some broad torrent, or some headlong steep,

With each dire form Imagination wears

When harrass'd Nature sinks in turbid sleep)

Oft in his dreams he saw diffusive day

Through bursting glooms its cheerful beams extend;

On billowy clouds saw sportive Genii play,

And bright Hygeia from her heaven descend.

What marvel then, that man's o'erflowing mind

Should wreath-bound columns raise, and altars fair,

And grateful offerings pay, to Powers so kind,

Though fancy-form'd, and creatures of the Air.

Who that has writh'd beneath the scourge of pain,

Or felt the burthen'd languor of disease,

But would with joy the slightest respite gain;

And idolize the hand which lent him ease?

To thee, my friend, unwillingly to thee,

For truths like these the anxious Muse appeals.

Can Memory answer from affliction free,

Or speaks the sufferer what, I fear, he feels?

No, let me hope ere this in Romely grove

Hygeia revels with the blooming Spring,

Ere this the vocal seats the Muses love

With hymns of praise, like Paeon's temple, ring.

It was not written in the book of Fate

That, wand'ring far from Albion's sea-girt plain,

Thy distant Friend should mourn thy shorter date,

And tell to alien woods and streams his pain.

It was not written. Many a year shall roll,

If aught th' inspiring Muse aright presage,

Of blameless intercourse from Soul to Soul,

And friendship well matur'd from Youth to Age.

ELEGY VI. To another FRIEND. Written at ROME, 1756.

BEHOLD, my friend, to this small [a] orb confin'd

The genuine features of Aurelius' face;

The father, friend, and lover of his kind,

Shrunk to a narrow coin's contracted space.

Not so his fame; for erst did heaven ordain

Whilst seas should waft us, and whilst suns should warm,

On tongues of men, the friend of man should reign,

And in the arts he lov'd the patron charm.

Oft as amidst the mould'ring spoils of Age,

His moss-grown monuments my steps pursue;

Oft as my eye revolves the historic page,

Where pass his generous acts in fair review.

Imagination grasps at many things,

Which men, which angels might with rapture see;

Then turns to humbler scenes its safer wings,

And, blush not whilst I speak it, thinks on thee.

With all that firm benevolence of mind,

Which pities, whilst it blames, th' unfeeling vain,

With all that active zeal to serve mankind,

That tender suffering for another's pain,

Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd?

Did heedless Fortune slumber at thy birth,

Or on thy virtues with indulgence gaz'd,

And gave her grandeurs to her sons of earth?

Happy for thee, whose less distinguish'd sphere

Now cheers in private the delighted eye,

For calm Content, and smiling Ease are there,

And, Heav'n's divinest gift, sweet Liberty.

Happy for me, on life's serener flood

Who sail, by talents as by choice restrain'd,

Else had I only shar'd the general good,

And lost the friend the Universe had gain'd.

Notes

a
It is now a garden belonging to Marchese di Corré.
↵

b
He is said to be the first person buried in this monument.
↵

c

Quantos ille virûm magnam Mavortis ad urbem

Campus aget gemitus!

↵

d

—Vel quae, Tyberine, videbis

Funera, cum tumulum praeterlabere recentem!

VIRG.

↵

a
The trophies of Marius, now erected before the Capitol.
↵

a
The insula Tiberina, where there are still some small remains of the famous temple of Aesculapius.
↵

a
The medal of Marcus Aurelius.
↵

THE LYRIC MUSE TO MR. MASON. On the Recovery of the RIGHT HONOURABLE the EARL of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illness.

BY THE SAME.

MASON, snatch the votive Lyre,

D'Arcy lives, and I inspire.

'Tis the Muse that deigns to ask:

Can thy hand forget its task?

Or can the Lyre its strains refuse

To the Patron of the Muse?

Hark, what notes of artless love

The feather'd poets of the grove,

Grateful for the bowers they fill,

Warble wild on Sion hill;

In tuneful tribute duly paid

To the Master of the shade!

And shall the Bard sit fancy-proof

Beneath the hospitable roof,

Where every menial face affords

Raptur'd thoughts that want but words?

And the Patron's dearer part,

The gentle sharer of his heart,

Wears her wonted charms again?

Time, that felt Affliction's chain,

Learns on lighter wings to move;

And the tender pledge of love,

Sweet Amelia, now is prest

With double transport to her breast.

Sweet Amelia, thoughtless why,

Imitates the general joy;

Innocent of care or guile

See the lovely Mimic smile,

And, as the heart-felt raptures rise,

Catch them from her Mother's eyes.

Does the noisy town deny

Soothing airs, and extasy?

Sion's shades afford retreat,

Thither bend thy pilgrim feet.

There bid th' imaginary train,

Coinage of the Poet's brain,

Not only in effects appear,

But forms, and limbs, and features wear;

Let festive Mirth, with flow'rets crown'd,

Lightly tread the measur'd round;

And Peace, that seldom knows to share

The Statesman's friendly bowl, be there;

While rosy Health, superior guest,

Loose to the Zephyrs bares her breast;

And, to add a sweeter grace,

Give her soft Amelia's face.

Mason, why this dull delay?

Haste, to Sion haste away.

There the Muse again shall ask,

Nor thy hand forget its task;

Nor the Lyre its strains refuse

To the Patron of the Muse.

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL, TRANSLATED From the LATIN of ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, Esq

BY SOAME JENNYNS, Esq

BOOK I.

TO all inferior animals 'tis given

T' enjoy the state allotted them by Heaven;

No vain researches e'er disturb their rest,

No fears of dark futurity molest.

Man, only Man, solicitous to know

The springs whence Nature's operations flow,

Plods through a dreary waste with toil and pain,

And reasons, hopes, and thinks, and lives in vain;

For sable Death still hov'ring o'er his head,

Cuts short his progress, with his vital thread.

Wherefore, since Nature errs not, do we find

These seeds of Science in the human mind,

If no congenial fruits are predesign'd?

For what avails to man this power to roam

Through ages past, and ages yet to come,

T' explore new worlds o'er all th' aetherial way,

Chain'd to a spot, and living but a day,

Since all must perish in one common grave,

Nor can these long laborious searches save?

Were it not wiser far, supinely laid,

To sport with Phyllis in the noontide shade?

Or at thy jovial festivals appear,

Great Bacchus, who alone the soul can clear

From all that it has felt, and all that it can fear?

Come on then, let us feast: let Chloe sing,

And soft Neaera touch the trembling string;

Enjoy the present hour, nor seek to know

What good or ill to-morrow may bestow.

But these delights soon pall upon the taste;

Let's try then if more serious cannot last:

Wealth let us heap on wealth, or fame pursue,

Let power and glory be our points in view;

In courts, in camps, in senates let us live,

Our levees crowded like the buzzing hive;

Each weak attempt the same sad lesson brings:

Alas, what vanity in human things!

What means then shall we try? where hope to find

A friendly harbour for the restless mind?

Who still, you see, impatient to obtain

Knowledge immense, (so Nature's laws ordain)

Ev'n now, though fetter'd in corporeal clay,

Climbs step by step the prospect to survey,

And seeks, unweary'd, Truth's eternal ray.

No fleeting joys she asks, which must depend

On the frail senses, and with them must end;

But such as suit her own immortal fame,

Free from all change, eternally the same.

Take courage then, these joys we shall attain:

Almighty Wisdom never acts in vain;

Nor shall the soul, on which it has bestow'd

Such powers, e'er perish, like an earthly clod;

But purg'd at length from soul corruption's stain,

Freed from her prison, and unbound her chain,

She shall her native strength, and native skies regain:

To heav'n an old inhabitant return,

And draw nectareous streams from truth's perpetual urn.

Whilst life remains (if life it can be call'd,

T' exist in fleshly bondage thus enthrall'd)

Tir'd with the dull pursuit of worldly things,

The soul scarce wakes, or opes her gladsome wings,

Yet still the godlike exile in disgrace

Retains some marks of her celestial race;

Else when from Mem'ry's store can she produce

Such various thoughts, or range them so for use?

Can matter these contain, dispose, apply?

Can in her cells such mighty treasures lie?

Or can her native force produce them to the eye?

Whence is this power, this foundress of all arts,

Serving, adorning life, through all its parts,

Which names impos'd, by letters mark'd those names,

Adjusted properly by legal claims,

From woods, and wilds collected rude mankind,

And cities, laws, and governments design'd?

What can this be, but some bright ray from heaven,

Some emanation from Omniscience given?

When now the rapid stream of Eloquence

Bears all before it, passion, reason, sense,

Can its dread thunder, or its lightning's force,

Derive their essence from a mortal source?

What think you of the bard's enchanting art,

Which, whether he attempts to warm the heart

With fabled scenes, or charm the ear with rhyme,

Breathes all pathetic, lovely, and sublime?

Whilst things on earth roll round from age to age,

The same dull farce repeated; on the stage

The poet gives us a creation new,

More pleasing, and more perfect than the true;

The mind, who always to perfection hastes,

Perfection, such as here she never tastes,

With gratitude accepts the kind deceit,

And thence foresees a system more compleat.

Of those what think you, who the circling race

Of suns, and their revolving planets trace,

And comets journeying through unbounded space?

Say, can you doubt, but that th' all-searching soul,

That now can traverse heaven from pole to pole,

From thence descending visits but this earth,

And shall once more regain the regions of her birth?

Could she thus act, unless some Power unknown,

From matter quite distinct, and all her own,

Supported, and impell'd her? She approves

Self-conscious, and condemns; she hates, and loves,

Mourns, and rejoices, hopes, and is afraid,

Without the body's unrequested aid:

Her own internal strength her reason guides,

By this she now compares things, now divides;

Truth's scatter'd fragments piece by piece collects,

Rejoins, and thence her edifice erects;

Piles arts on arts, effects to causes ties,

And rears th' aspiring fabric to the skies:

From whence, as on a distant plain below,

She sees from causes consequences flow,

And the whole chain distinctly comprehends,

Which from th' Almighty's throne to earth descends:

And lastly, turning inwardly her eyes,

Perceives how all her own ideas rise,

Contemplates what she is, and whence she came,

And almost comprehends her own amazing frame.

Can mere machines be with such powers endued,

Or conscious of those powers, suppose they could?

For body is but a machine alone

Mov'd by external force, and impulse not its own.

Rate not th' extension of the human mind

By the plebeian standard of mankind,

But by the size of those gigantic few,

Whom Greece and Rome still offer to our view;

Or Britain well-deserving equal praise,

Parent of heroes too in better days.

Why should I try her num'rous sons to name

By verse, law, eloquence, consign'd to fame?

Or who have forc'd fair Science into sight

Long lost in darkness, and afraid of light?

O'er all superior, like the solar ray,

First Bacon usher'd in the dawning day,

And drove the mists of sophistry away;

Pervaded nature with amazing force,

Following experience still throughout his course,

And finishing at length his destin'd way,

To Newton he bequeath'd the radiant lamp of day.

Illustrious souls! if any tender cares

Affect angelic breasts for man's affairs,

If in your present happy heav'nly state,

You're not regardless quite of Britain's fate,

Let this degen'rate land again be blest

With that true vigour, which she once possest;

Compel us to unfold our slumb'ring eyes,

And to our ancient dignity to rise.

Such wond'rous powers as these must sure be given

For most important purposes by heaven;

Who bids these stars as bright examples shine

Besprinkled thinly by the hand divine,

To form to virtue each degenerate time,

And point out to the soul its origin sublime.

That there's a self which after death shall live,

All are concern'd about, and all believe;

That something's ours, when we from life depart,

This all conceive, all feel it at the heart;

The wise of learn'd antiquity proclaim

This truth, the public voice declares the same;

No land so rude but looks beyond the tomb

For future prospects in a world to come.

Hence, without hopes to be in life repaid,

We plant slow oaks posterity to shade;

And hence vast pyramids aspiring high

Lift their proud heads aloft, and time defy.

Hence is our love or fame, a love so strong,

We think no dangers great, or labours long,

By which we hope our beings to extend,

And to remotest times in glory to descend.

For fame the wretch beneath the gallows lies,

Disowning every crime for which he dies;

Of life profuse, tenacious of a name,

Fearless of death, and yet afraid of shame.

Nature has wove into the human mind

This anxious care for names we leave behind,

T' extend our narrow views beyond the tomb,

And give an earnest of a life to come:

For, if when dead we are but dust or clay,

Why think of what posterity shall say?

Her praise or censure cannot us concern,

Nor ever penetrate the silent urn.

What mean the nodding plumes, the fun'ral train,

And marble monument that speaks in vain,

With all those cares, which every nation pays

To their unfeeling dead in diff'rent ways!

Some in the flower-strewn grave the corpse have lay'd,

And annual obsequies around it pay'd,

As if to please the poor departed shade;

Others on blazing piles the body burn,

And store their ashes in the faithful urn:

But all in one great principle agree

To give a fancy'd immortality.

Why should I mention those, whose ouzy soil

Is render'd fertile by th' o'erflowing Nile?

Their dead they bury not, nor burn with fires,

No graves they dig, erect no fun'ral pires;

But, washing first th' emboweld'd body clean,

Gums, spice, and melted pitch, they pour within

Then with strong fillets bind it round and round,

To make each flaccid part compact, and sound;

And lastly paint the varnish'd surface o'er

With the same features which in life it wore:

So strong their presage of a future state,

And that our nobler part survives the body's fate.

Nations behold remote from reason's beams,

Where Indian Ganges rolls his sandy streams,

Of life impatient, rush into the fire,

And willing victims to their Gods expire!

Persuaded the loose soul to regions flies

Blest with eternal spring, and cloudless skies.

Nor is less fam'd the oriental wife

For stedfast virtue, and contempt of life:

These heroines mourn not with loud female cries

Their husbands lost, or with o'erflowing eyes;

But, strange to tell! their funeral piles ascend,

And in the same sad flames their sorrows end;

In hopes with them beneath the shades to rove,

And there renew their interrupted love.

In climes where Boreas breathes eternal cold,

See numerous nations, warlike, fierce, and bold,

To battle all unanimously run,

Nor fire, nor sword, nor instant death they shun.

Whence this disdain of life in every breast,

But from a notion on their minds imprest,

That all, who for their country die, are blest?

Add too to these the once prevailing dreams

Of sweet Elysian groves, and Stygian streams:

All shew with what consent mankind agree

In the firm hope of Immortality.

Grant these th' inventions of the crafty priest;

Yet such inventions never could subsist,

Unless some glimmerings of a future state

Were with the mind coaeval, and innate:

For every fiction, which can long persuade,

In truth must have its first foundations laid.

Because we are unable to conceive,

How unembodied soul can act, and live,

The vulgar give them forms, and limbs, and faces,

And habitations in peculiar places;

Hence reasoners more refin'd, but not more wise,

Struck with the glare of such absurdities,

Their whole existence fabulous suspect,

And truth and falshood in a lump reject;

Too indolent to learn what may be known,

Or else too proud that ignorance to own.

For hard's the task the daubing to pervade

Folly and fraud on Truth's fair form have laid;

Yet let that task be ours; for great the prize;

Nor let us Truth's celestial charms despise,

Because that priests, or poets, may disguise.

That there's a God, from Nature's voice is clear:

And yet what errors to this truth adhere!

How have the fears and follies of mankind

Now multiply'd their Gods, and now subjoin'd

To each the frailties of the human mind!

Nay, superstition spread at length so wide,

Beasts, birds, and onions too were deify'd.

Th' Athenian sage, revolving in his mind

This weakness, blindness, madness of mankind,

Foretold, that in maturer days, though late,

When time should ripen the decrees of Fate,

Some God would light us, like the rising day,

Through error's maze, and chase these clouds away.

Long since has time fulfill'd this great decree,

And brought us aid from this Divinity.

Well worth our search discoveries may be made

By Nature, void of the celestial aid:

Let's try what her conjectures then can reach;

Nor scorn plain Reason, when she deigns to teach.

That mind and body often sympathize

Is plain; such is this union Nature ties:

But then as often too they disagree;

Which proves the soul's superior progeny.

Sometimes the body in full strength we find,

Whilst various ails debilitate the mind;

At others, whilst the mind its force retains,

The body sinks with sickness and with pains:

Now did one common fate their beings end,

Alike they'd sicken, and alike they'd mend.

But sure experience, on the slightest view,

Shews us, that the reverse of this is true;

For when the body oft expiring lies,

Its limbs quite senseless, and half clos'd its eyes,

The mind new force and eloquence acquires,

And with prophetic voice the dying lips inspires,

Of like materials were they both compos'd,

How comes it, that the mind, when sleep has clos'd

Each avenue of sense, expatiates wide,

Her liberty restor'd, her bonds unty'd?

And like some bird who from its prison flies,

Claps her exulting wings, and mounts the skies.

Grant that corporeal is the human mind,

It must have parts in infinitum join'd;

And each of these must will, perceive, design,

And draw confus'dly in a different line;

Which then can claim dominion o'er the rest,

Or stamp the ruling passion in the breast?

Perhaps the mind is form'd by various arts

Of modelling, and figuring these parts;

Just as if circles wiser were than squares;

But surely common sense aloud declares

That site and figure are as foreign quite

From mental powers, as colours black or white.

Allow that motion is the cause of thought,

With what strange powers must motion then be fraught?

Reason, sense, science, must derive their source

From the wheel's rapid whirl, or pully's force;

Tops whipp'd by school-boys sages must commence,

Their hoops, like them, be cudgel'd into sense,

And boiling pots o'erflow with eloquence.

Whence can this very motion take its birth?

Not sure from matter, from dull clods of earth;

But from a living spirit lodg'd within,

Which governs all the bodily machine:

Just as th' Almighty Universal Soul

Informs, directs, and animates the whole.

Cease then to wonder how th' immortal mind

Can live, when from the body quite disjoin'd;

But rather wonder, if she e'er could die,

So fram'd, so fashion'd for eternity;

Self-mov'd, not form'd of parts together ty'd,

Which time can dissipate, and force divide;

For beings of this make can never die,

Whose powers within themselves, and their own essence lie.

If to conceive how any thing can be

From shape abstracted and locality

Is hard; what think you of the Deity?

His Being not the least relation bears,

As far as to the human mind appears,

To shape, or size, similitude or place,

Cloath'd in no form, and bounded by no space.

Such then is God, a Spirit pure refin'd

From all material dross, and such the human mind.

For in what part of essence can we see

More certain marks of Immortality?

Ev'n from this dark confinement with delight

She looks abroad, and prunes herself for flight;

Like an unwilling inmate, longs to roam

From this dull earth, and seek her native home.

Go then, forgetful of its toil and strife,

Pursue the joys of this fallacious life;

Like some poor fly, who lives but for a day,

Sip the fresh dews, and in the sunshine play,

And into nothing then dissolve away.

Are these our great pursuits? is this to live?

These all the hopes this much-lov'd world can give?

How much more worthy envy is their fate,

Who search for truth in a superior state!

Not groping step by step, as we pursue,

And following reason's much-entangled clue,

But with one great, and instantaneous view.

But how can sense remain, perhaps you'll say,

Corporeal organs if we take away,

Since it from them proceeds, and with them must decay?

Why not? or why may not the soul receive

New organs, since ev'n art can these retrieve?

The silver trumpet aids th' obstructed ear,

And optic glasses the dim eye can clear;

These in mankind new faculties create,

And lift him far above his native state;

Call down revolving planets from the sky,

Earth's secret treasures open to his eye,

The whole minute creation make his own▪

With all the wonders of a world unknown.

How could the mind, did she alone depend

On sense, the errors of those senses mend?

Yet oft' we see those senses she corrects,

And oft' their information quite rejects.

In distances of things, their shapes and size,

Our reason judges better than our eyes.

Declares not this the soul's pre-eminence

Superior to, and quite distinct from sense?

For sure 'tis likely, that, since now so high

Clogg'd and unfledg'd she dares her wings to try,

Loos'd, and mature, she shall her strength display,

And soar at length to Truth's refulgent ray.

Inquire you how these powers we shall attain?

'Tis not for us to know; our search is vain.

Can any now remember or relate

How he existed in the embryo state?

Or one from birth insensible of day

Conceive ideas of the solar ray?

That light's deny'd to him, which others see,

He knows, perhaps you'll say—and so do we.

The mind contemplative finds nothing here

On earth, that's worthy of a wish or fear:

He, whose sublime pursuit is God and truth,

Burns, like some absent and impatient youth,

To join the object of his warm desires,

Thence to sequester'd shades and streams retires,

And there delights his passion to rehearse

In wisdom's sacred voice, or in harmonious verse.

To me most happy therefore he appears,

Who having once, unmov'd by hopes or fears,

Survey'd this sun, earth, ocean, clouds, and flame,

Well satisfy'd returns from whence he came.

Is life a hundred years, or e'er so few,

'Tis repetition all, and nothing new;

A fair, where thousands meet, but none can stay,

An inn, where travellers bait, then post away;

A sea, where man perpetually is tost,

Now plung'd in bus'ness, now in trifles lost;

Who leave it first, the peaceful port first gain;

Hold then! no farther launch into the main:

Contract your sails; life nothing can bestow

By long continuance, but continued woe,

The wretched privilege daily to deplore

The funerals of our friends, who go before;

Diseases, pains, anxieties, and cares,

And age surrounded with a thousand snares.

But whither hurry'd by a generous scorn

Of this vain world? ah! whither am I borne?

Let none unbid th' Almighty's standard quit:

Howe'er severe our post, we must submit.

Could I a firm persuasion once attain

That after death no being would remain;

To those dark shades I'd willingly descend,

Where all must sleep, this drama at an end:

Nor life accept, although renew'd by Fate

Ev'n from its earliest and its happiest state.

Might I from Fortune's bounteous hand receive

Each boon, each blessing in her power to give,

Genius, and science, morals, and good sense,

Unenvy'd honours, wit, and eloquence,

A numerous offspring to the world well known,

Both for paternal virtues and their own;

Ev'n at this mighty price I'd not be bound

To tread the same dull circle round and round;

The soul requires enjoyments more sublime,

By space unbounded, undestroy'd by time.

BOOK II.

GOD then through all creation gives, we find,

Sufficient marks of an indulgent mind,

Excepting in ourselves; ourselves of all

His works the chief on this terrestrial ball,

His own bright image, who alone unblest

Feel ills perpetual, happy all the rest.

But hold, presumptuous! charge not heav'n's decree

With such injustice, such partiality.

Yet true it is, survey we life around,

Whole hosts of ills on every side are found;

Who wound not here and there by chance a foe,

But at the species meditate the blow.

What millions perish by each others hands

In war's fierce rage! or by the dread commands

Of tyrants languish out their lives in chains,

Or lose them in variety of pains!

What numbers pinch'd by want and hunger die,

In spite of Nature's liberality!

(Those, still more numerous, I to name disdain,

By lewdness and intemperance justly slain!)

What numbers, guiltless of their own disease,

Are snatch'd by sudden death, or waste by slow degrees!

Where then is Virtue's well-deserv'd reward!—

Let's pay to Virtue every due regard:

That she enables man, let us confess,

To bear those evils, which she can't redress;

Gives hope, and conscious peace, and can assuage

Th' impetuous tempests both of lust and rage;

Yet she's a guard so far from being sure,

That oft her friends peculiar ills endure:

Where Vice prevails severest is their fate,

Tyrants pursue them with a three-fold hate.

How many, struggling in their country's cause,

And from their country meriting applause,

Have fall'n by wretches fond to be inslav'd,

And perish'd by the hands themselves had sav'd!

Soon as superior worth appears in view,

See knaves and fools united to pursue!

The man so form'd they all conspire to blame,

And Envy's pois'nous tooth attacks his fame;

Should he at length, so truly good and great,

Prevail, and rule with honest views the state,

Then must he toil for an ungrateful race,

Submit to clamor, libels, and disgrace;

Threaten'd, oppos'd, defeated in his ends,

By foes seditious, and aspiring friends.

Hear this, and tremble! all who would be great,

Yet know not what attends that dang'rous wretched state.

Is private life from all these evils free?

Vice of all kinds, rage, envy, there we see,

Deceit, that Friendship's mask insidious wears,

Quarrels and feuds, and law's intangling snares.

But there are pleasures still in human life,

Domestic ease, a tender loving wife,

Children, whose dawning smiles your heart engage,

The grace and comfort of soft-stealing age.

If happiness exists, 'tis surely here—

But are these joys exempt from care and fear?

Need I the miseries of that state declare,

When different passions draw the wedded pair?

Or say how hard those passions to discern,

Ere the dye's cast, and 'tis too late to learn?

Who can insure, that what is right, and good,

These children shall pursue? or, if they shou'd,

Death comes when least you fear so black a day,

And all your blooming hopes are snatch'd away.

We say not, that these ills from virtue flow:

Did her wise precepts rule the world, we know

The golden ages would again begin,

But 'tis our lot in this to suffer, and to sin.

Observing this, some sages have decreed

That all things from two causes must proceed:

Two principles with equal power endued,

This wholly evil, that supremely good.

From this arise the miseries we endure,

Whilst that administers a friendly cure.

Hence life is chequer'd still with bliss and woe;

Hence tares with golden crops promiscuous grow;

And poisonous serpents make their dread repose

Beneath the covert of the fragrant rose.

Can such a system satisfy the mind?

Are both these Gods in equal power conjoin'd,

Or one superior? Equal if you say,

Chaos returns, since neither will obey.

Is one superior? good or ill must reign,

Eternal joy, or everlasting pain.

Whiche'er is conquer'd must entirely yield,

And the victorious God enjoy the field.

Hence with these fictions of the Magi's brain!

Hence ouzy Nile, with all her monstrous train!

Or comes the Stoic nearer to the right?

He holds, that whatsoever yields delight,

Wealth, fame, externals all, are useless things;

Himself half-starving happier far than kings.

'Tis fine indeed to be so wond'rous wise!

By the same reas'ning too he pain denies;

Roast him, or flay him, break him on the wheel,

Retract he will not, though he can't but feel▪

Pain's not an ill, he utters with a groan;

What then? an inconvenience 'tis, he'll own.

What vigour, health, and beauty? are these good?

No: they may be accepted, not pursued:

Absurd to squabble thus about a name,

Quibbling with diff'rent words that mean the same.

Stoic, were you not fram'd of flesh and blood,

You might be blest without external good;

But know, be self-sufficient as you can,

You are not spirit quite, but frail and mortal man.

But since these sages, so absurdly wise,

Vainly pretend enjoyments to despise,

Because externals, and in Fortune's power,

Now mine, now thine, the blessings of an hour;

Why value then that strength of mind, they boast

As often varying, and as quickly lost?

A head-ach hurts it, or a rainy day,

And a slow fever wipes it quite away.

See [a] one whose councils, one [b] whose conqu'ring hand

Once sav'd Britannia's almost finking land:

Examples of the mind's extensive power,

Examples too how quickly fades that flower.

[c]Him let me add, whom late we saw excel

In each politer kind of writing well;

Whether he strove our follies to expose

In easy verse, or droll and hum'rous prose;

Few years, alas! compel his throne to quit

This mighty monarch o'er the realms of wit,

See self-surviving he's an idiot grown!

A melancholy proof our parts are not our own.

Thy tenets, Stoic, yet we may forgive,

If in a future state we cease to live.

For here the virtuous suffer much, 'tis plain;

If pain is evil, this must God arraign;

And on this principle confess we must,

Pain can no evil be, or God must be unjust.

Blind man! whose reason such strait bounds confine,

That ere it touches truth's extremest line,

It stops amaz'd, and quits the great design.

Own you not, Stoic, God is just and true?

Dare to proceed; secure this path pursue:

'Twill soon conduct you far beyond the tomb,

To future justice, and a life to come.

This path, you say, is hid in endless night,

'Tis self-conceit alone obstructs your sight;

You stop, ere half your destin'd course is run,

And triumph, when the conquest is not won;

By this the Sophists were of old misled:

See what a monstrous race from one mistake is bred!

Hear then my argument:—confess we must,

A God there is, supremely wise and just:

If so, however things affect our sight,

As sings our bard[d], whatever is, is right.

But is it right, what here so oft appears,

That vice should triumph, virtue sink in tears?

The inference then, that closes this debate,

Is, that there must exist a future state.

The wise, extending their inquiries wide,

See how both states are by connection ty'd;

Fools view but part, and not the whole survey,

So crowd existence all into a day.

Hence are they led to hope, but hope in vain,

That Justice never will resume her reign;

On this vain hope adulterers, thieves rely,

And to this altar vile assassins fly.

"But rules not God by general laws divine?

"Man's vice, or virtues, change not the design."

What laws are these? instruct us if you can:—

There's one design'd for brutes, and one for man:

Another guides inactive matter's course,

Attracting, and attracted by its force:

Hence mutual gravity subsists between

Far distant worlds, and ties the vast machine.

The laws of life why need I call to mind,

Obey'd by birds, and beasts of every kind;

By all the sandy desart's savage brood,

And all the num'rous offspring of the flood;

Of these none uncontroul'd and lawless rove,

But to some destin'd end spontaneous move.

Led by that instinct, heav'n itself inspires,

Or so much reason, as their state requires;

See all with skill acquire their daily food,

All use those arms, which Nature has bestow'd;

Produce their tender progeny, and feed

With care parental, whilst that care they need!

In these lov'd offices compleatly blest,

No hopes beyond them, nor vain fears molest.

Man o'er a wider field extends his views;

God through the wonders of his works pursues;

Exploring thence his attributes and laws,

Adores, loves, imitates th' Eternal Cause;

For sure in nothing we approach so nigh

The great example of divinity,

As in benevolence: the patriot's soul

Knows not self-center'd for itself to roll,

But warms, enlightens, animates the whole:

Its mighty orb embraces first his friends,

His country next, then man; nor here it ends,

But to the meanest animal descends.

Wise Nature has this social law confirm'd,

By forming man so helpless, and unarm'd;

His want of others' aid, and power of speech

T' implore that aid, this lesson daily teach.

Mankind with other animals compare,

Single how weak and impotent they are!

But, view them in their complicated state,

Their powers how wond'rous, and their strength how great,

When social virtue individuals joins,

And in one solid mass, like gravity combines!

This then's the first great law by Nature giv'n,

Stamp'd on our souls, and ratify'd by Heav'n;

All from utility this law approve,

As every private bliss must spring from social love.

Why deviate then so many from this law?

See passions, custom, vice, and folly draw!

Survey the rolling globe from East to West,

How few, alas! how very few are blest!

Beneath the frozen poles, and burning line,

What poverty and indolence combine,

To cloud with Error's mists the human mind!

No trace of man but in the form we find.

And are we free from error, and distress,

Whom Heav'n with clearer light has pleas'd to bless?

Whom true religion leads? (for she but leads

By soft persuasion, not by force proceeds;)

Behold how we avoid this radiant sun!

This proffer'd guide how obstinately shun,

And after Sophistry's vain systems run!

For these as for essentials we engage

In wars, and massacres, with holy rage;

Brothers by brothers' impious hands are slain.

Mistaken zeal, how savage is thy reign!

Unpunish'd vices here so much abound,

All right and wrong, all order they confound:

These are the giants, who the gods defy,

And mountains heap on mountains to the sky.

Sees this th' Almighty Judge, or seeing spares,

And deems the crimes of man beneath his cares?

He sees; and will at last rewards bestow,

And punishments, not less assur'd for being slow.

Nor doubt I, though this state confus'd appears,

That ev'n in this God sometimes interferes:

Sometimes, lest man should quite his power disown,

He makes that pow'r to trembling nations known:

But rarely this; not for each vulgar end,

As Superstition's idle tales pretend,

Who thinks all foes to God, who are her own,

Directs his thunder, and usurps his throne.

Nor know I not, how much a conscious mind

Avails to punish, or reward mankind;

Ev'n in this life thou, impious wretch, must feel

The Fury's scourges, and th' infernal wheel;

From man's tribunal, though thou hop'st to run,

Thyself thou canst not, nor thy conscience shun:

What must thou suffer, when each dire disease,

The progeny of vice, thy fabric seize?

Consumption, fever, and the racking pain

Of spasms, and gout, and stone, a frightful train!

When life new tortures can alone supply,

Life thy sole hope thou'lt hate, yet dread to die.

Should such a wretch to num'rous years arrive,

It can be little worth his while to live;

No honours, no regards, his age attend,

Companions fly: he ne'er could have a friend:

His flatterers leave him, and with wild affright

He looks within, and shudders at the sight:

When threat'ning Death uplifts his pointed dart,

With what impatience he applies to art,

Life to prolong amidst disease and pains!

Why this, if after it no sense remains?

Why should he choose these miseries to endure,

If Death could grant an everlasting cure?

'Tis plain there's something whispers in his ear,

(Though fain he'd hide it) he has much to fear.

See the reverse! how happy those we find,

Who know by merit to engage mankind!

Prais'd by each tongue, by every heart belov'd,

For Virtues practis'd, and for Arts improv'd:

Their easy aspects shine with smiles serene,

And all is peace and happiness within:

Their sleep is ne'er disturb'd by fears, or strife,

Nor lust, nor wine, impair the springs of life.

Him Fortune cannot sink, nor much elate,

Whose views extend beyond this mortal state;

By age when summon'd to resign his breath,

Calm, and serene, he sees approaching death,

As the safe port, the peaceful silent shore,

Where he may rest, life's tedious voyage o'er:

He, and he only, is of death afraid,

Whom his own conscience has a coward made;

Whilst he, who Virtue's radiant course has run,

Descends like a serenely-setting sun:

His thoughts triumphant Heaven alone employs,

And hope anticipates his future joys.

So good, so blest, th' illustrious [d] Hough we find,

Whose image dwells with pleasure on my mind;

The Mitre's glory, Freedom's constant friend,

In times which ask'd a champion to defend;

Who, after near a hundred virtuous years,

His senses perfect, free from pains and fears,

Replete with life, with honours, and with age,

Like an applauded actor left the stage;

Or like some victor in th' Olympic games,

Who, having run his course, the crown of Glory claims.

From this just contrast plainly it appears,

How Conscience can inspire both hopes and fears:

But whence proceed these hopes, or whence this dread,

If nothing really can affect the dead?

See all things join to promise and presage

The sure arrival of a future age!

Whate'er their lot is here, the good and wise

Nor doat on life, nor peevishly despise.

An honest man, when Fortune's storms begin,

Has Consolation always sure within;

And, if she sends a more propitious gale,

He's pleas'd, but not forgetful it may fail.

Nor fear that he, who sits so loose to life,

Should too much shun its labours, and its strife;

And, scorning wealth, contented to be mean,

Shrink from the duties of this bustling scene;

Or, when his country's safety claims his aid,

Avoid the fight, inglorious and afraid:

Who scorns life most must surely be most brave,

And he, who power contemns, be least a slave:

Virtue will lead him to Ambition's ends,

And prompt him to defend his country, and his friends.

But still his merit you can not regard,

Who thus pursues a posthumous reward:

His soul, you cry, is uncorrupt and great,

Who, quite uninfluenc'd by a future state,

Embraces Virtue from a nobler sense

Of her abstracted, native excellence,

From the self-conscious joy her essence brings,

The beauty, fitness, harmony of things.

It may be so: yet he deserves applause,

Who follows where instructive Nature draws;

Aims at rewards by her indulgence given,

And soars triumphant on her wings to Heaven.

Say what this venal virtuous man pursues,

No mean rewards, no mercenary views;

Not wealth usurious, or a num'rous train,

Not fame by fraud acquir'd, or title vain!

He follows but where Nature points the road,

Rising in Virtue's school, till he ascends to God.

But we, th' inglorious common herd of man,

Sail without compass, toil without a plan;

In Fortune's varying storms for ever tost,

Shadows pursue, that in pursuit are lost;

Mere infants all, 'till life's extremest day,

Scrambling for toys, then tossing them away.

Who rests of Immortality assur'd

Is safe, whatever ills are here endur'd:

He hopes not vainly in a world like this

To meet with pure uninterrupted bliss;

For good and ill, in this imperfect state,

Are ever mix'd by the decrees of Fate.

With Wisdom's richest harvest Folly grows,

And baleful hemlock mingles with the rose;

All things are blended, changeable, and vain,

No hope, no wish, we perfectly obtain;

God may perhaps (might human Reason's line

Pretend to fathom infinite design)

Have thus ordain'd things, that the restless mind

No happiness compleat on earth may find;

And, by this friendly chastisement made wise,

To Heaven her safest, best retreat may rise.

Come then, since now in safety we have past

Through Error's rocks, and see the port at last,

Let us review, and recollect the whole.—

Thus stands my argument.—The thinking soul

Cannot terrestrial or material be,

But claims by Nature Immortality:

God, who created it, can make it end,

We question not, but cannot apprehend

He will; because it is by him endued

With strong ideas of all-perfect Good,

With wond'rous powers to know, and calculate

Things too remote from this our earthly state;

With sure presages of a life to come,

All false and useless, if beyond the tomb

Our beings cease: we therefore can't believe

God either acts in vain, or can deceive.

If every rule of equity demands,

That Vice and Virtue from th' Almighty's hands

Should due rewards and punishments receive,

And this by no means happens whilst we live;

It follows, that a time must surely come,

When each shall meet their well-adjusted doom:

Then shall this scene, which now to human sight

Seems so unworthy Wisdom infinite,

A system of consummate skill appear,

And, every cloud dispers'd, be beautiful and clear.

Doubt we of this! what solid proof remains,

That o'er the world a wise Disposer reigns?

Whilst all Creation speaks a power divine,

Is it deficient in the main design?

Not so: the day shall come, (pretend not now

Presumptuous to enquire or when, or how)—

But after death shall come th' important day,

When God to all his justice shall display;

Each action with impartial eyes regard,

And in a just proportion punish and reward.

Notes

a
Lord Somers.
↵

b
Duke of Marlborough▪
↵

c
Dean Swift.
↵

d
Pope.
↵

d
Bishop of Worcester. See vol. II. p. 30.
↵

THE ARBOUR: AN ODE TO CONTENTMENT.

BY MR. THOMAS COLE[a].

TO these lone shades, where Peace delights to dwell,

May Fortune oft permit me to retreat:

Here bid the world, with all its cares, farewel,

And leave its pleasures to the rich and great.

Oft as the summer's sun shall cheer this scene

With that mild gleam which points his parting ray,

Here let my soul enjoy each eve serene,

Here share its calm, 'till life's declining day.

No gladsome image then should 'scape my sight,

From these gay flowers, which border near my eye,

To yon bright cloud, that decks, with richest light,

The gilded mantle of the western sky.

With ample gaze I'd trace that ridge remote,

Where opening cliffs disclose the boundless main;

With earnest ken from each low hamlet note

The steeple's summit peeping o'er the plain.

What various works that rural landscape fill,

Where mingling hedge-rows beauteous fields inclose;

And prudent Culture, with industrious skill,

Her chequer'd scene of crops and fallows shows!

How should I love to mark that riv'let's maze,

Through which it works its untaught course along;

Whilst near its grassy banks the herd shall graze,

And blithsome milkmaid chaunt her thoughtless song!

Still would I note the shades of length'ning sheep,

As scatter'd o'er the hill's slant brow they rove;

Still note the day's last glimm'ring lustre creep

From off the verge of yonder upland grove.

Nor should my leisure seldom wait to view

The slow-wing'd rooks in homeward train succeed;

Nor yet forbear the swallow to pursue,

With quicker glance, close skimming o'er the mead.

But mostly here should I delight t' explore

The bounteous laws of Nature's mystic power;

Then muse on Him who blesseth all her store,

And give to solemn thoughts the sober hour.

Let mirth unenvy'd laugh with proud disdain,

And deem it spleen one moment thus to waste;

If so she keep far hence her noisy train,

Nor interrupt those joys she cannot taste.

Far sweeter streams shall flow from Wisdom's spring,

Than she receives from Folly's costliest bowl;

And what delights can her chief dainties bring,

Like those which feast the heavenly-pensive soul?

Hail, Silence, then! be thou my frequent guest;

For thou art wont my gratitude to raise,

As high as wonder can the theme suggest,

Whene'er I meditate my Maker's praise.

What joy for tutor'd Piety to learn

All that my Christian solitude can teach,

Where weak-ey'd Reason's self may well discern

Each clearer truth the gospel deigns to preach?

No object here but may convince the mind

Of more than thoughtful honesty shall need;

Nor can Suspense long question here to find

Sufficient evidence to fix its creed.

'Tis God that gives this bower its aweful gloom;

His arched verdure does its roof invest;

He breathes the life of fragrance on its bloom;

And with his kindness makes its owner blest.

Oh, may the guidance of thy grace attend

The use of all thy bounty shall bestow;

Lest folly should mistake its sacred end,

Or vice convert it into means of woe.

Incline and aid me still my life to steer,

As conscience dictates what to shun or chuse;

Nor let my heart feel anxious hope or fear,

For aught this world can give me or refuse.

Then shall not wealth's parade one wish excite,

For wretched state to barter peace away;

Nor vain ambition's lure my pride invite,

Beyond Contentment's humble path to stray.

What though thy wisdom may my lot deny,

The treasur'd plenty freely to dispense;

Yet well thy goodness can that want supply

With larger portions of benevolence.

And sure the heart that wills the gen'rous deed

May all the joys of Charity command;

For she best loves from notice to recede,

And deals her unsought gifts with secret hand.

Then will I sometimes bid my fancy steal

That unclaim'd wealth no property restrains;

Soothe with fictitious aid my friendly zeal,

And realize each godly act she feigns.

So shall I gain the gold without alloy;

Without oppression, toil, or treach'rous snares;

So shall I know its use, its power employ,

And yet avoid its dangers and its cares.

And, spite of all that boastful wealth can do,

In vain would Fortune strive the rich to bless,

Were they not flatter'd with some distant view

Of what she ne'er can give them to possess.

E'en Wisdom's high conceit great wants would feel,

If not supply'd from Fancy's boundless store;

And nought but shame makes power itself conceal,

That she, to satisfy, must promise more.

But though experience will not fail to show,

Howe'er its truth man's weakness may upbraid,

That what he mostly values here below,

Owes half its relish to kind Fancy's aid;

Yet should not Prudence her light wing command,

She may too far extend her heedless flight;

For Pleasure soon shall quit her fairy-land

If Nature's regions are not held in sight.

From Truth's abode, in search of kind deceit,

Within due limits she may safely roam;

If roving does not make her hate retreat,

And with aversion shun her proper home.

But thanks to those, whose fond parental care

To Learning's paths my youthful steps confin'd,

I need not shun a state which lets me share

Each calm delight that soothes the studious mind.

While genius lasts, his fame shall ne'er decay,

Whose artful hand first caus'd its fruits to spread;

In lasting volumes stampt the printed lay,

And taught the Muses to embalm the dead.

To him I owe each fair instructive page,

Where Science tells me what her sons have known;

Collects their choicest works from every age,

And makes me wise with knowledge not my own.

Books rightly us'd may every state secure,

From fortune's evils may our peace defend;

May teach us how to shun, or to endure,

The foe malignant, and the faithless friend.

Should rigid Want withdraw all outward aid,

Kind stores of inward comfort they can bring;

Should keen Disease life's tainted stream invade,

Sweet to the soul from them pure health may spring.

Should both at once man's weakly frame infest,

Some letter'd charm may still relief supply;

'Gainst all events prepare his patient breast,

And make him quite resign'd to live, or die.

For though no words can time or fate restrain;

No sounds suppress the call of Nature's voice;

Though neither rhymes, nor spells, can conquer pain,

Nor magic's self make wretchedness our choice;

Yet reason, while it forms the subtile plan,

Some purer source of pleasure to explore,

Must deem it vain for that poor pilgrim, man,

To think of resting till his journey's o'er;

Must deem each fruitless toil, by heaven design'd

To teach him where to look for real bliss;

Else why should heaven excite the hope to find

What balk'd pursuit must here for ever miss?

Notes

a
Of Queen's College, Cambridge.
↵

THE GROTTO: AN ODE TO SILENCE.

BY THE SAME.

COME, musing Silence, nor refuse to shed

Thy sober influence o'er this darkling cell:

The desart waste and lonely plain

Could ne'er confine thy peaceful reign;

Nor dost thou only love to dwell

'Mid the dark mansions of the vaulted dead:

For still at eve's serenest hour

All Nature owns thy soothing power:

Oft hast thou deign'd with me to rove,

Beneath the calm sequester'd grove;

Oft deign'd my secret steps to lead

Along the dewy pathless mead;

Or up the dusky lawn, to spy

The last faint gleamings of the twilight sky.

Then wilt thou still thy pensive vot'ry meet,

Oft as he calls thee to this gloomy seat:

For here, with solemn mystic rite,

Wert thou invok'd to consecrate the ground,

Ere these rude walls were rear'd remote from sight,

Or ere with moss this shaggy roof was crown'd.

Hail! blessed parent of each purer thought,

That doth at once the heart exalt and mend!

Here wilt thou never fail to find

My vacant solitude inclin'd

Thy serious lessons to attend.

For they I ween shall be with goodness fraught,

Whether thou bid me meditate

On man, in untaught Nature's state;

How far this life he ought to prize;

How far its transient scenes despise;

What heights his reason may attain,

And where its proud attempts are vain;

What toils his virtue ought to brave,

For Hope's rewarding joys beyond the grave:

Or if in man redeem'd you bid me trace

Each wond'rous proof of heaven's transcendent grace;

Then breathe some sparks of that celestial fire,

Which in the raptur'd seraph glows above,

Where fainted myriads crowd the joyful choir,

And harp their praises round the throne of love.

The trifling sons of Levity and Pride

Hence shall thy aweful seriousness exclude;

Nor shall loud Riot's thoughtless train

With frantic mirth this grott profane.

No foe to peace shall here intrude.

For thou wilt kindly bid each sound subside,

Save such as soothe the list'ning sense,

And serves to aid thy influence:

Save where, soft-breathing o'er the plain,

Mild Zephyr waves the rustling grain:

Or where some stream, from rocky source,

Slow trickles down its ceaseless course:

Or where the sea's imperfect roar

Comes gently murm'ring from the distant shore.

But most in Philomel, sweet bird of night,

In plaintive Philomel, is thy delight:

For she, or studious to prolong her grief,

Or oft to vary her exaustless lay,

With frequent pause, from thee shall seek relief,

Nor close her strain, till dawns the noisy day.

Without thy aid, to happier tasteful art,

No deep instructive science could prevail:

For only where thou dost preside,

Can wit's inventive powers be tried:

And reason's better task would fail,

Did not thy haunts the serious theme impart.

The critic, that with plodding head,

Toils o'er the learning of the dead;

The cloister'd hermit that explores,

By midnight lamp, religion's stores;

Each sage that marks, with thoughtful gaze,

The lunar orb, or planet's maze;

And every bard, that strays along

The sylvan shade; intent on sacred song;

Shall all to thee those various praises give,

Which, through thy friendly aid, themselves receive;

For though thou mayst from glory's seats retire,

Where loud applause proclaim the honour'd name;

Yet doth thy modest wisdom still inspire

Each nobler work that swells the voice of Fame.

THE PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF CEBES THE THEBAN. BY MR. T. SCOTT[a].

Et vitae monstrata via est.
HOR.

WHILE Saturn's [b] fane with solemn step we trod,

And view'd the [c] votive honours of the God,

A pictur'd tablet, o'er the portal rais'd,

Attach'd our eye: in wonder lost, we gaz'd.

The pencil there some strange device had wrought,

And fables, all its own, disguis'd the thought.

Nor camp it seem'd, nor city: the design,

Whose moral mock'd our labour to divine,

Was a wall'd court, where rose another bound,

And, higher still, a third still less'ning ground.

The nether area open'd at a gate

Where a vast crowd impatient seem'd to wait.

Within, a group of female figures stood,

In motley dress, a sparkling multitude.

Without, in station at the porch, was seen

A venerable form, in act and mien

Like some great teacher, who with urgent tongue,

Authoritative, warn'd the rushing throng.

From doubt to doubt we wander'd; when appear'd

A fire, who thus the hard solution clear'd:

Strangers, that allegorie scene, I guess,

Conquers your skill, your home-born wits no less.

A foreigner, long since, whose nobler mind

Learning's best culture to strong genius join'd,

Here liv'd, convers'd, and shew'd th' admiring age

Another Samian or Elean sage.

He rear'd this dome to Saturn's aweful name,

And gave that portrait to eternal fame.

He reason'd much, high argument he chose,

High as his theme his great conceptions rose.

Such wisdom flowing from a mouth but young

I heard astonish'd, and enjoy'd it long:

Him oft I heard this moral piece expound,

With nervous eloquence and sense profound.

Father, if leisure with thy will conspire,

Yield, yield that comment to our warm desire.

Free to bestow, I warn you first, beware:

Danger impends, which summons all your care.

Wise, virtuous, blest, whose heart our precepts gain;

[d]Abandon'd, blind, and wretched, who disdain.

For know, our purpos'd theme resembles best

The fam'd Enigma of the Theban pest:

Th' interpreter a plighted crown enjoy'd,

The stupid perish'd, by the Sphinx destroy'd.

Count Folly as a Sphinx to all mankind,

Her problem, How is Good and Ill defin'd?

Misjudging here, by Folly's law we die,

Not instant victims of her cruelty;

From day to day our reasoning part she wounds,

Devours its strength, its noblest powers confounds▪

Awakes the lash of [e] Punishment, and tears

The mind with pangs which guilty life prepares,

With opposite effect, where thoughtful skill

Discerns the boundaries of Good and Ill,

Folly must perish; and th' illumin'd breast

To Virtue sav'd, is like th' immortals blest.

Give audience, then, with no unheeding ear.

O haste, no heedless auditors stand here,

With strong desire, in dread suspence we wait,

So great the blessing, and the bane so great.

Instant, he rais'd his oratorial hand,

And said (our eye he guided with a wand)

Behold life's pencil'd scene, the natal gate,

The numbers thronging into mortal state.

Which danger's path, and which to safety bears,

That ancient, Genius of mankind, declares.

See him aloft, benevolent he bends,

One hand is pointing, one a roll extends

Reason's imperial code; by heav'n imprest

In living letters on the human breast.

Oppos'd to him, Delusion plies her part,

With skin of borrow'd snow, and blush of art,

With hypocritic fawn, and eyes askance

Whence soft infection steals in every glance.

Her faithless hand presents a crystal bowl,

Whose pois'nous draught intoxicates the soul.

Error and ignorance infus'd, compose

The fatal beverage which her fraud bestows.

Is that the hard condition of our birth?

Must all drink Error who appear on earth?

All; yet in some their measure drowns the mind,

Others but taste, less erring and less blind.

[f]Th' Opinions, and Desires, and Pleasures rise

Behind the gate, thick-glitt'ring on our eyes;

Thick as bright atoms in the solar ray,

Diverse their drap'ry and profusely gay.

These tempting forms, each like a mistress drest,

Our early steps with powerful charms arrest:

Soon as we enter life, with various art

Of dalliance they assail th' unguarded heart.

All promise joy, we rush to their embrace;

To bliss or ruin, here begins our race.

Happy, thrice happy, who intrust their youth

To right Opinions, and ascend to Truth:

Whom Wisdom tutors, whom the Virtues hail,

And with their own substantial feast regale,

The rest are harlots: by their flatt'ries won,

In chase of empty sciences we run:

Or Fortune's vanities pursue, and stray

With sensual Pleasure in more dangerous way.

See the mad round their giddy followers tread,

Delusion's cup strong-working in their head.

Fast as one shoal of fools have delug'd through,

Succeeding shoals the busy farce renew.

Who on that globe stands stretching to her flight?

Wild seems her aspect, and bereav'd of sight.

Fortune, blind, frantic, deaf. With restless wings

The world she ranges, and her favours flings:

Flings and resumes, and plunders and bestows,

Caprice divides the blessings and the woes.

Her grace unstable as her tott'ring ball,

Whene'er she smiles, she meditates our fall.

When most we trust her, we are cheated most,

In disolating loss we mourn our boast:

Her cruel blast invades our hasty fruit,

And withers all our glory at the root.

What mean those multitudes around her? Why

Such motley attitudes perplex our eye?

Some, in the act of wildest raptures, leap;

In agony some wring their hands, and weep.

Th' unreas'ning crowd; to passion's sequel blind,

By passion fir'd, and impotent of mind;

Competitors in clamorous suit, to share

The toys she tosses with regardless air;

Trifles, for solid worth by most pursu'd,

Bright-colour'd vapours and fantastic good:

The pageantry of wealth, the blaze of fame,

Titles, an offspring to extend the name,

Huge strength, or beauty which the strong obey,

The victor's laurel, and despotic sway.

These, humour'd in their vows, with lavish praise

The glory of the gracious goddess raise:

Those other, losers in her chance-full game,

Shorn of their all, or frustrate in their aim,

In murmurs of their hard mishap complain,

And curse her partial and malignant reign.

Now, further still in this low sensual ground,

Traverse yon flowery mount's sequester'd bound.

In the green center of those citron shades,

'Mong gardens, fountains, flowery walks, and glades,

Voluptuous Sin her powerful spells employs,

Souls to seduce, seducing she destroys.

See! Lewdness, loosely zon'd, her bosom bares,

See! Riot her luxurious bowl prepares:

There stands Avidity, with ardent eye,

There dimpling Adulation smooths her lye.

There station'd to what end?

In watch for prey,

Fortune's infatuate favourites of a day.

These they caress, they flatter, they entreat

To try the pleasures of their soft retreat,

Life disencumber'd, frolicksome, and free,

All ease, all mirth, and high felicity.

Whome'er by their inveigling arts they win,

To tread that magic paradise of Sin,

In airy dance his jocund hours skim round,

Sparkles the bowl, the festal songs resound:

His blood ferments, fir'd by the wanton glance,

And his loose soul dissolves in am'rous trance.

While circulating joys to joys succeed,

While new delights the sweet delirium feed;

The prodigal, in raptur'd fancy, roves

O'er fairy fields, and through Elysian groves:

Sees glittering visions in succession rise,

And laughs at Socrates the chaste and wise.

'Till, sober'd by distress, awake, confus'd,

Amaz'd, he knows himself a wretch abus'd;

A short illusion his imagin'd feast,

Himself the game, himself the slaughter'd beast,

Now, raving for his squander'd wealth in vain,

Slave to those tyrant jilts he drags their chain:

Compell'd to suffer hard and hungry need,

Compell'd to dare each foul and desp'rate deed.

Villain, or knave, he joins the sharping tribe,

Robs altars, or is perjur'd for a bribe:

Stabs for a purse, his country pawns for gold,

To every crime of blackest horror sold.

Shiftless at length, of all resource bereft,

In the dire gripe of Punishment he's left.

Observe this strait-mouth'd cave: th' unwilling light

Just shews the dismal deep descent to night.

In centry see these haggard crones, whose brows

Rude locks o'erhang, a frown their forehead plows:

Swarthy and foul their shrivell'd skin behold,

And flutt'ring shreds their vile defence from cold.

High-brandishing her lash, with stern regard,

Stands Punishment, an ever-waking ward;

While sullen Melancholy mopes behind,

Fix'd, with her head upon her knees reclin'd:

And, frantic, with remorseful fury, there

Fierce Anguish stamps, and rends her shaggy hair,

Who that ill-featur'd spectre of a man,

Shiv'ring in nakedness, so spare and wan?

And she, whose eye aghast with horror stares,

Whose meagre form a sister's likeness bears?

Loud Lamentation, wild Despair. All these,

Fell vultures, the devoted caitiff seize.

Ah dreadful durance! with these fiends to dwell!

What tongue the terrors of his soul can tell!

Worry'd by these fould fiends, the wretch begins

Sharp penance, wages of remember'd sins:

Then deeper sinks, plung'd in the pit of Woe,

Worse suff'rings in worse hell to undergo:

Unless, rare guest, Repentance o'er the gloom

Diffuse her radiance, and repeal his doom.

She comes! meek-ey'd, array'd in grave attire,

See Right Opinion, join'd with Good Desire,

Handmaids of Truth: with those, an adverse pair

(False Wisdom's minions, that deceiving fair)

Attend her solemn step: the furies flee.

Come forth, she calls, come forth to liberty,

Guilt-harrass'd thrall: thy future lot decide,

And, pondering well, elect thy future guide.

Momentous option! choosing right, he'll find

A sov'reign med'cine for his ulcer'd mind;

Led to True Wisdom, whose cathartic bowl

Recovers and beatifies the soul.

Misguided else, a counterfeit he'll gain,

Whose art is only to amuse the brain:

From vice to studious folly now he flies,

From bliss still erring, still betray'd by lyes.

O heavens! where end the risks we mortals run?

How dreadful this, and yet how hard to shun!

Say, father, what distinctive marks declare

That counterfeit of Wisdom?

[g]View her there.

At yonder gate, with decent port, she stands,

Her spotless form that second court commands:

Styl'd Wisdom by the crowd, the thinking few

Know her disguise, the phantom of the true:

Skill'd in all learning, skill'd in every art

To grace the head, not meliorate the heart.

The sav'd, who meditate their noble flight

From a bad world, to Wisdom's lofty height,

Just touching at this inn, for short repast,

Then speed their journey forward to its last.

This the sole path?

Another path there lies,

The plain man's path, without proud Science wise.

Who they, which traverse this deluder's bound?

A busy scene, all thought or action round.

Her lovers, whom her specious beauty warms,

Who grasp, in vision, Truth's immortal charms,

Vain of the glory of a false embrace:

Fierce syllogistic tribes, a wrangling race,

Bards rapt beyond the moon on Fancy's wings,

And mighty masters of the vocal strings:

Those who on labour'd speeches waste their oil,

Those who in crabbed calculations toil,

Who measure earth, who climb the starry road,

And human fates by heav'nly signs forebode,

Pleasure's philosophers, Lyceum's pride,

Disdainful soaring up to heights untry'd.

All who in learned trifles spin their wit,

Or comment on the works by triflers writ.

Who are yon active females, like in face

To the lewd harlots, in the nether space,

Vile agents of voluptuous, Sin?

The same.

Admitted here?

Ev'n here, eternal shame!

They boast some rarer less ignoble spoils,

Art, wit, and reason, tangled in their toils.

And Fancy, with th' Opinions in her rear,

Enjoys these studious walks, no stranger here:

Where wild hypothesis, and learn'd romance

Too oft lead up the philosophic dance.

Still these ingenious heads, alas! retain

Delusion's dose, still the vile dregs remain

Of ignorance with madding folly join'd,

And a soul heart pollutes th' embellish'd mind.

Nor will presumption from their souls recede,

Nor will they from one vicious plague be freed.

'Till, weary of these vanities, they've found

Th' exalted way to Truth's enlighten'd ground,

Quaff'd her cathartic, and all cleans'd within,

By that strong energy, from pride and sin,

Are heal'd and sav'd. But loit'ring here they spend

Life's precious hours in thinking to no end:

From science up to science let them rise,

And arrogate the swelling style of wise;

Their wisdom's folly, impotent and blind,

Which cures not one distemper of the mind.

Enough. Discover now the faithful road,

Which mounts us to the joys of Truth's abode.

Survey this solitary waste, which rears

Nor bush nor herb, nor cottage there appears.

At distance see yon strait and lonely gate

(No crowds at the forbidding entrance wait)

Its avenue a rugged rocky soil,

Travell'd with painful step and tedious toil.

Beyond the wicket, tow'ring in the skies

See Difficulty's cragged mountain rise,

Narrow and sharp th' ascent; each edge a brink,

Whence to vast depth dire precipices sink.

Is that the way to Wisdom? Dreadful way!

The landskip frowns with danger and dismay.

Yet higher still, around the mountain's brow

Winds yon huge rock, whose steep smooth sides allow

No track. Its top two sister figures grace,

Health's rosy habit glowing in their face.

With arms protended o'er the verge they lean,

The promptitude of friendship in their mien.

The powers of Continence and Patience, there

Station'd by Wisdom, her commission bear

To rouze the spirit of her fainting son

Thus far advanc'd, and urge and urge him on.

Courage! they call, the coward's sloth disdain:

Yet, yet awhile, the noble toil sustain:

A lovely path soon opens to your sight.

But ah! how climb'd that rock's bare slipp'ry height?

These generous guides, who Virtue's course befriend,

In succour of her pilgrim swift descend,

Draw up their trembling charge; then, smiling, greet

With kind command to rest his weary feet.

With their own force his panting breast they arm,

And with their own intrepid spirit warm:

Next, plight their guidance in his future way

To Wisdom, and in rapt'rous view display

The blissful road (there it invites your eyes)

How smooth and easy to the foot it lies,

Through beauteous land, from all annoyance clear,

Of thorny evil and perplexing fear.

[h]Yon lofty grove's delicious bowers to gain,

You cross th' expanse of this enamell'd plain;

A meadow with eternal beauty bright,

Beneath a purer heav'n, o'erflow'd with light.

Full in the center of the plain, behold

A court far-flaming with its wall of gold

And gate of diamond, where the righteous rest;

This clime their home, the country of the blest:

Here all the Virtues dwell, communion sweet!

With Happiness, who rules the peaceful seat.

In station at th' effulgent portal, see

A beauteous form of mildest majesty.

Her eyes how piercing! how sedate her mien!

Mature in life, her countenance serene:

Spirit and solid thought each feature shows,

And her plain robe with state unstudy'd flows.

She stands upon a cube of marble, fix'd

As the firm rock, two lovely nymphs betwixt,

Her daughters, copies of her looks and air,

Her candid Truth, and sweet Persuasion there:

She, she is Wisdom. In her stedfast eye

Behold th' expressive type of certainty:

Certain her way, and permanent the deed

Of gift substantial to her friends decreed.

She gives magnanimous contempt of fear,

She gives the confidence erect and clear,

And bids th' invulnerable mind to know

Her safety from the future shafts of woe.

O treasure, richer than the sea or land!

But why without the walls her destin'd stand?

There standing, she presents her potent bowl,

Divine cathartic, which restores the soul.

This asks a comment.

In some dire disease,

Macbaon's skill first purges off the lees:

Then clear and strong the purple current flows,

And life renew'd in every member glows:

But if the patient all controul despise,

Just victim of his stubborn will he dies.

So Wisdom, by her rules, with healing art

Expels Delusion's mischiefs from the heart;

Blindness, and error, and high-boasting pride,

Intemp'rance, lust, fierce wrath's impetuous tide,

Hydropic avarice, all the plagues behind

Which in the first mad court oppress'd the mind.

Thus purg'd, her pupil through the gate she brings,

The Virtues hail their guest, the guest enraptur'd sings.

Behold the spotless band, celestial charms!

Scene that with awe chastises whom it warms:

No harlotry, no paint, no gay excess,

But beauty unaffected as their dress.

See Knowledge grasping a refulgent star,

See Fortitude in panoply of war:

Justice her equal scale aloft displays,

And rights both human and divine she weighs.

There Moderation, all the pleasures bound

In brazen chains her dreaded feet surround.

There bounteous Liberality expands

To want, to worth, her ever-loaded hands.

The florid hue of Temperance, her side

Adorn'd by Health, a nymph in blooming pride.

Lo, soft-ey'd Meekness holds a curbing rein,

Anger's high-mettled spirit to restrain:

While Moral Order tunes her golden lyre,

And white-rob'd Probity compleats the choir.

O fairest of all fair! O blissful state!

What hopes sublime our ravish'd soul dilate!

Substantial hopes, if, by the doctrine taught,

The fashion'd manners are to habit wrought.

Yes; 'tis resolv'd. Well every nerve employ.

Live, then, restor'd; and reap the promis'd joy.

But whither do the Virtues lead their trust?

To Happiness, rewarder of the just.

Look upward to the hill beyond the grove,

A sovereign pile extends its front above:

Stately and strong, the lofty castle stands,

Its boundless prospect all the courts commands.

Within the porch, high on the jasper throne,

Th' Imperial Mother by her form is known;

Bright as the morn, when smiling on the hills,

Earth, air, and sea, with vernal joy she fills.

Rich without lavish cost her vest behold

In colours of the sky, and fring'd with gold:

A tiar, wreath'd with every flow'r that blows

Of liveliest tints, around her temples glows:

Eternal bloom her snowy temples binds,

Fearless of burning suns and blasting winds.

Now, with a crown of wond'rous power, her hand

(Assistant, round her, all the virtues stand)

Adorns her hero, honourable meed

Of conquests won by many a valiant deed.

What conquests?

Formidable beasts subdu'd:

Lab'ring he fought, he routed, he pursu'd.

Once, a weak prey, beneath their force he cowr'd,

O'erthrown, and worry'd, and well-nigh devour'd:

Till rouz'd with his inglorious sloth, possest

With generous ardour kindling in his breast,

Lord of himself, the victor now constrains

Those hostile monsters in his powerful chains.

Explain those savage beasts at war with man.

Error and Ignorance, which head the van,

Heart-gnawing Grief, and loud-lamenting Woe,

Incontinence, a wild-destroying foe,

Rapacious Avarice; cruel numbers more:

O'er all he triumphs now, their slave before.

O great atchievements! more illustrious far

These triumphs, than the bloody wreaths of war.

But, say; what salutary power is shed

By the fair crown, which decks the hero's head?

Most beatific. For possessing this

He lives, rich owner of man's proper bliss:

Bliss independent or on wealth or power,

Fame, birth, or beauty, or voluptuous hour.

His hopes divorc'd from all exterior things,

Within himself the fount of pleasure springs;

Springs ever in the self approving breast,

And his own honest heart's a constant feast.

Where, next, his steps?

He measures back his way,

Conducted by the Virtues, to survey

His first abode. The giddy crowd, below,

Wasting their wretched span in crime, they show;

How in the whirl of passions they are tost,

And, shipwreck'd on the lurking shelves, are lost;

Here fierce Ambition haling in her chain

The mighty, there a despicable train

Impure in Lusts inglorious fetter bound,

And slaves of Avarice rooting up the ground:

Thralls of Vain-glory, thralls of swelling Pride,

Unnumber'd fools, unnumber'd plagues beside.

All-powerless they to burst the galling band,

To spring aloft, and reach yon happy land,

Entangled, impotent the way to find,

The clear instruction blotted from their mind

Which the Good Genius gave; Guilt's gloomy fears

Becloud their suns and sadden all their years.

I stand convinc'd, but yet perplex'd in thought

Why to review a well-known scene he's brought.

Scene rudely known. Uncertain and confus'd,

His judgement by illusions was abus'd.

His evil was not evil, nor his good

Aught else but vanity misunderstood.

Confounding good and evil, like the throng,

His life, like theirs, was action always wrong.

Enlighten'd now in the true bliss of man,

He shapes his alter'd course by Wisdom's plan:

And, blest himself, beholds with weeping eyes

The madding world an hospital of sighs.

This retrospection ended, where succeeds

His course?

Where'er his wise volition leads.

Where'er it leads, safety attends him still:

Not safer, should he on Apollo's hill,

Among the Nymphs, among the vocal Powers,

Dwell in the Sanctum of Corycian bowers:

Honour'd by all, the friend of human-kind,

Belov'd physician of the sin-sick mind;

Not Esculapius more, whose power to save

Redeems his patient from the yawning grave.

But never more shall his old restless foes

Awake his fears, nor trouble his repose?

Never. In righteous habitude inur'd,

From Passion's baneful anarchy secur'd,

In each enticing scene, each instant hard,

That sovereign antidote his mind will guard:

Like him, who, of some virtuous drug possest,

Grasps the fell viper coil'd within her nest,

Hears her dire hissings, sees her terrors rise,

And, unappall'd, destruction's tooth defies.

Yon troops in motion from the mount explain,

Various to view; for there a goodly train,

With garlands crown'd, advance with comely pace,

Noble their port, and in each tranquil face

Joy Sparkles: others, a bare-headed throng,

Batter'd and gash'd, drag their slow steps along,

Captives of some strange female crew.

The crown'd,

Long seeking, safe arriv'd at Wisdom's bound,

Exult in her imparted grace. The rest[i],

Those on whom Wisdom, unprevailing, prest

Her healing aid; rejected from her care,

In evil plight their wicked days they wear:

Those too, who Difficulty's hill had gain'd,

There basely stopp'd, by dastard sloth detain'd:

Apostate now, in thorny wilds they rove,

Pursuing furies scourge the caitiff drove:

Sorrows which gnaw, remorseful Thoughts which tear,

Blindness of mind, and heart-oppressing Fear,

With all the contumelious rout of Shame,

And every ill, and every hateful name.

Relaps'd to Lewdness, and her sensual Queen,

Unblushing at themselves, but drunk with spleen,

Wisdom's high worth their canker'd tongues dispraise,

Revile her children, and blaspheme her ways.

Deluded wretches, (thus their madness cries)

Dull mopes, weak dupes of philosophic lyes,

Uncomforted, unjoyous, and unblest,

Lost from the pleasures here at large possest.

What pleasures boast they?

Pleasures of the stews,

Pleasures which Riot's frantic bowls infuse.

These high fruition their gross souls repute,

And man's chief good to sink into a brute.

But who that lovely bevy, blithe and gay,

So smoothly gliding down the hilly way?

[k]Those are th' Opinions, who have guided right

The unexperienc'd to the plain of light:

Returning, new adventurers to bring,

The blessings of the last-arriv'd they sing.

Why ingress yielded to their favour'd ward

Among the Virtues, to themselves debarr'd?

Opinion's foot is never never found

Where Knowledge dwells, 'tis interdicted ground,

At Wisdom's gate th' Opinions must resign

Their charge, those limits their employ confine.

Thus trading barks, skill'd in the watery road,

To distant climes convey their precious load,

Then turn their prow, light bounding o'er the main,

And with new traffic store their keels again.

Thus far is clear. But yet untold remains

What the Good Genius to the crowd ordains,

Just on the verge of life.

[l]He bids them hold

A spirit with erected courage bold.

Never (he calls) on Fortune's faith rely,

Nor grasp her dubious gifts as property.

Let not her smile transport, her frown dismay,

Nor praise nor blame, nor wonder at her sway

Which reason never guides: 'tis fortune still,

Capricious chance and arbitrary will:

Bad bankers, vain of treasure not their own,

With foolish rapture hug the trusted loan;

Impatient, when the powerful bond demands

Its unremember'd cov'nant from their hands.

Unlike to such, without a sigh restore

What Fortune lends: anon she'll lavish more:

Repenting of her bounty snatch away,

Yea seize your patrimonial fund for prey.

Embrace her proffer'd boon, but instant rise,

Spring upward, and secure a lasting prize,

The gift which Wisdom to her sons divides;

Knowledge, whose beam the doubting judgement guides,

Scatters the sensual fog, and clear to view

Distinguishes false interest from the true.

Flee, flee to this, with unabating pace,

Nor parly for a moment at the place

Where Pleasure and her Harlots tempt, nor rest,

But at False Wisdom's inn, a transient guest:

For short refection, at her table sit,

And taste what science may your palate hit:

Then wing your journey forward till you reach

True Wisdom, and imbibe the truths she'll teach.

Such is th' advice the friendly Genius gives:

He perishes who scorns; who follows, lives.

And thus this moral piece instructs; if aught

Is mystic still, reveal your doubting thought.

Thanks, generous Sire; tell, then, the transient bait,

The Genius grants us at False Wisdom's gate.

[m]Whate'er in arts or sciences is found

Of solid use, in their capacious round,

These, Plato reasons, like a curbing rein,

Unruly youth from devious starts restrain.

Must we, solicitous our souls to save,

Assistance from these previous studies crave?

Necessity there's none. We'll not deny

Their merit in some less utility;

But they contribute, we aver, no part

To heal the manners and amend the heart.

An author's meaning, in a tongue unknown,

May glimmer through translation in our own:

Yet, masters of his language, we might gain

Some trivial purposes by tedious pain.

So in the sciences, though rudely taught,

We may attain the little that we ought;

Yet, accurately known, they might convey

More light, not wholly useless in its way.

But virtue may be reach'd, through all her rules,

Without the curious subtleties of schools.

How! not the learn'd excel the common shoal,

In powerful aids to meliorate the soul?

Blind as the crowd, alas! to good and ill,

Intangled by the like corrupted will,

What boasts the man of letters o'er the rest?

Skill'd in all tongues, of all the arts possest,

What hinders but he sink into a sot,

A libertine, or villain in a plot,

Miser, or knave, or whatsoe'er you'll name

Of moral lunacy and reason's shame?

Scandals too rife!

How, then, for living right

Avail those studies, and their vaunted light

Beyond the vulgar?

Nothing, But disclose

The cause from whence this strange appearance grows.

Held by a potent charm in this retreat

They dwell, content with nearness to the seat

Of Virtuous Wisdom.

Near, methinks, in vain:

Since numbers, oft, from out the nether plain,

'Scap'd from the snares of Lewdness and Excess,

Undevious to her lofty station press,

Yet pass these letter'd clans,

What, then, are these

In moral things advantag'd o'er the lees

Of human race? in moral things, we find

These duller, or less tractable of mind.

Decypher that.

Pride, pride averts their eyes

From offer'd light: in self-sufficience wise,

Although unknowing, they presume to know:

Clogg'd with that vain conceit they creep below,

Nor can mount up to yon exalted bound,

True Wisdom's mansion, by the humble found.

Not found by these, till the vain visions spread,

By False Opinion, in the learned head,

Repentance scatter; and deceiv'd no more,

They own th' illusion which deceiv'd before,

That for True Wisdom they embrac'd her shade,

And hence the healing of their souls delay'd.

Strangers, these lessons, oft revolving, hold

Fast to your hearts, and into habit mould:

To this high scope life's whole attention bend,

Despise aught else as erring from your end.

Do thus, or unavailing is my care,

And all th' instruction dies away in air.

Notes

a
A dissenting minister at Ipswich. He was author of a paraphrase on the Book of Job and other performances; and died at Hapton, in the county of Norfolk, November 1775.
↵

b
This temple was probably in the city of Thebes, for Cebes was a Theban.
↵

c
Devoat offerings, for the most part in discharge of vows.
↵

d
The Caselian and Salmasian editions read
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
wicked, instead of

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

bitter.
↵

e
Vide ver. 186.
↵

f
The first court, or the sensual life.
↵

g
The second court, or the studious life.
↵

h
The third court, or the virtuous life.
↵

i
Apostates.
↵

k
The distinction between Opinion and Knowledge.
↵

l
The instructions of the Genius.
↵

m
Natural knowledge, how far useful, and when unprofitable and hurtful.
↵

The DROPSICAL MAN.

By Mr. TAYLOR.

A JOLLY, brave toper, who could not forbear,

Though his life was in danger, old port and stale beer,

Gave the doctors the hearing—but still would drink on,

'Till the dropsy had swell'd him as big as a ton.

The more he took physic the worse still he grew,

And tapping was now the last thing he could do.

Affairs at this crisis, and doctors come down,

He began to consider—so sent for his son.

Tom, see by what courses I've shorten'd my life,

I'm leaving the world ere I'm forty and five;

More than probable 'tis, that in twenty-four hours,

This manor, this house, and estate will be yours;

My early excesses may teach you this truth,

That 'tis working for death to drink hard in one's youth.

Says Tom (who's a lad of a generous spirit,

And not like young rakes, who're in haste to inherit):

Sir, don't be dishearten'd; although it be true,

Th' operation is painful, and hazardous too,

'Tis no more than what many a man has gone thro'.

And then, as for years, you may yet be call'd young,

Your life after this may be happy and long.

Don't flatter me, Tom, was the father's reply,

With a jest in his mouth, and a tear in his eye:

Too well by experience, my vessels, thou know'st,

No sooner are tapp'd, but they give up the ghost.

PARADISE REGAIN'D.

By H.T.

I.

SEEK not for Paradise with curious eye

In Asiatic climes, where Tigris' wave,

Mix'd with Euphrates in tumultuous joy,

Doth the broad plains of Babylonia lave.

II.

'Tis gone with all its charms; and like a dream,

Like Babylon itself, is swept away;

Bestow one tear upon the mournful theme,

But let it not the gentle heart dismay.

III.

For know where-ever love and virtue guide,

They lead us to a state of heavenly bliss,

Where joys unknown to guilt and shame preside,

And pleasures unalloy'd each hour increase.

IV.

Behold that grove, whose waving boughs admit,

Through the live colonade, the fruitful hill,

A moving prospect with fat herds replete,

Whose lowing voices all the valleys fill.

V.

There through the spiry grass where glides the brook,

(By yon tall poplar which erects its head

Above the verdure of the neighbouring oak,)

And gently murmurs o'er th' adjoining mead;

VI.

Philander and Cleora, happy pair,

Taste the cool breezes of the gentle wind;

Their breasts from guilt, their looks are free from care,

Sure index of a calm contented mind.

VII.

'Tis here in virtuous lore the studious fair

Informs her babes, nor scorns herself t' improve,

While in his smile she lives, whose pleasing care

Dispenses knowledge from the lips of love.

VIII.

No wild desires can spread their poison here,

No discontent their peaceful hours attend;

False joys, nor flatt'ring hopes, nor servile fear,

Their gentle minds with jarring passions rend.

IX.

Here oft in pleasing solitude they rove,

Recounting o'er the deeds of former days;

With inward joy their well-spent time approve,

And feel a recompence beyond all praise.

X.

Or in sweet converse through the grove, or near

The fountain's birnk, or where the arbour's shade

Beats back the heat, fair Virtue's voice they hear,

More musical by sweet digressions made.

XI.

With calm dependence every good they taste,

Yet feel their neighbours' wants with kind regret,

Nor cheer themselves alone (a mean repast!)

But deal forth blessings round their happy seat.

XII.

'Tis to such virtue, that the Power Supreme

The choicest of his blessings hath design'd,

And shed them plenteous over every clime,

The calm delights of an untainted mind.

XIII.

Ere yet the sad effects of foolish pride,

And mean ambition still employ'd in strife,

And luxury did o'er the world preside,

Deprav'd the taste, and pall'd the joys of life.

XIV.

For such the Spring, in richest mantle clad,

Pours forth her beauties through the gay parterre:

And Autumn's various bosom is o'erspread

With all the blushing fruits that crown the year.

XV.

Or Summer tempts, in golden beams array'd,

Which o'er the fields in borrow'd lustre glow,

To meditate beneath the cooling shade

Their happy state, and whence their blessings flow.

XVI.

E'en rugged Winter varies but their joy,

Painting the cheek with fresh vermilion-hue;

And those rough frosts which softer frames annoy

With vig'rous health their slack'ning nerves renew.

XVII.

From the dark bosom of the dappled Morn

To Phoebus shining with meridian light,

Or when mild Evening does the sky adorn,

Or the pale moon rides through the spangled night;

XVIII.

The varying scenes in every virtuous soul

Each pleasing change with various pleasures bless,

Raise cheerful hopes, and anxious fears controul,

And form a Paradise of inward peace.

To the Right Hon. Sir ROBERT WALPOLE.

—Quod censet amiculus, ut si

Coecus iter monstrare velit.—

HOR.

By the Hon. Mr. DODINGTON, afterwards Lord MELCOMBE.

THO' strength of genius, by experience taught,

Gives thee to sound the depth of human thought,

To trace the various workings of the mind,

And rule the secret springs that rule mankind;

Rare gift! yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend

To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend

Can aught of use impart, though void of skill,

And raise attention by sincere good will:

For friendship sometimes want of parts supplies,

The heart may furnish what the head denies.

As, when the rapid Rhine o'er swelling tides,

To grace old Ocean's coast, in triumph rides,

Though rich in source, he drains a thousand springs,

Nor scorns the tribute each small riv'let brings:

So thou shalt hence absorb each feeble ray,

Each dawn of meaning in thy brighter day;

Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse,

Since no mean interest shall prophane the Muse;

No malice wrapt in truth's disguise offend,

No flattery taint the freedom of a friend.

When first a generous mind surveys the great,

And views the crowds that on their fortune wait,

Pleas'd with the shew, (though little understood,)

He only seeks the power, to do the good:

Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to dispose,

And gratitude still springs, when bounty flows;

That every grant sincere affection wins,

And where our wants have end, our love begins.

But they who long the paths of state have trod,

Learn from the clamours of the murm'ring crowd,

Which cramm'd, yet craving, still their gates besiege,

'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige.

This of thy conduct seems the nicest part.

The chief perfection of the statesman's art,

To give to fair assent a fairer face,

Or foften a refusal into grace.

But few there are, that can be freely kind,

Or know to fix the favours on the mind;

Hence some whene'er they would oblige, offend,

And while they make the fortune lose the friend:

Still give unthank'd; still squander, not bestow;

For great men want not what to give, but how.

The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true,

Think all they get, and more than all, their due;

Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts,

And measure by their interest, not their parts.

From this mistake so many men we see

But ill become the thing they wish to be:

Hence discontent and fresh demands arise,

More power, more favour in the great man's eyes:

All feel a want, though none the cause suspects,

But hate their patron for their own defects.

Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts,

And when he gives them places, gives them parts.

As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great

May sell their favours at too dear a rate.

When merit pines while clamour is preferr'd,

And long attachment waits among the herd;

When no distinction, where distinction's due,

Marks from the many the superior few:

When strong cabal constrains them to be just,

And makes them give at last, because they must;

What hopes that men of real worth should prize

What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys?

The man who justly o'er the whole presides,

His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides;

Knows when to stop with grace, and when advance,

Nor gives from importunity, or chance:

But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,

When favours are extorted, not bestow'd.

When safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd

Surround the great, importunate and loud:

Through such a tumult 'tis no easy task

To drive the man of real worth to ask;

Surrounded thus, and giddy with the shew,

'Tis hard for great men rightly to bestow;

From hence so few are skill'd in either case,

To ask with dignity, or give with grace.

Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts,

Consult our genius, but neglect our hearts;

Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings,

They lift us tow'ring on the eagle's wings;

Mark out the flights by which themselves begun,

And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun,

Till we forget the hand that made us great,

And grow to envy, not to emulate.

To emulate a generous warmth implies,

To reach the virtues that make great men rise;

But envy wears a mean malignant face,

And aims not at their virtues, but their place.

Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence!

When every favour is a fresh offence,

By which superior power is still imply'd,

And while it helps the fortune, hurts the pride.

Slight is the hate neglect or hardships breed;

But those who hate from envy, hate indeed.

Since so perplex'd the choice, whom shall we trust?

Methinks, I hear thee cry, the brave, the just:

The man by no mean fears or hopes controul'd,

Who serves thee from affection, not for gold!

We love the honest, and esteem the brave,

Despise the coxcomb, but detest the knave.

No shew of parts the truly wise seduce,

To think that knaves can be of real use.

The man who contradicts the public voice,

And strives to dignify a worthless choice,

Attempts a task that on the choice reflects,

And lends us light to point out new defects.

One worthless man that gains what he pretends,

Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends:

And since no art can make a counter pass,

Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass,

When princes to bad ore their image join,

They more debase the stamp than raise the coin.

Be thine that care, true merit to reward,

And gain that good; nor will the task be hard.

Souls found alike so quick by nature blend,

An honest man is more than half thy friend:

Him no mere views, no haste to rise, shall sway,

Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray.

Ambition here shall at due distance stand;

Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand:

Besides, if failings at the bottom lie,

He views those failings with a lover's eye.

Though small his genius, let him do his best,

Our wishes and belief supply the rest:

Let others barter servile faith for gold,

His friendship is not to be bought or sold.

Fierce opposition he unmov'd shall face,

Modest in favour, daring in disgrace:

To share thy adverse fate alone pretend,

In power a servant, out of power a friend.

Here pour thy favours in an ample flood,

Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good.

Nor think that good alone to him confin'd;

Such to oblige is to oblige mankind.

If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace,

The brave to cherish, and the good to grace,

Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free,

And teach us long to love the king and thee;

Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe,

And make him tremble when he strikes the blow;

While honour, gratitude, affection join,

To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline.

Illustrious doom! the great when thus displac'd,

With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac'd,

In aweful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall

The prey and worship of the wond'ring Gaul.

No doubt to genius some reward is due

(Excluding that were satirizing you):

But yet believe thy undesigning friend;

When truth and genius for thy choice contend,

Though both have weight, when in the balance cast,

Let probity be first, and parts the last.

On these foundations if thou dar'st be great,

And check the growth of folly and deceit,

When party rage shall drop through length of days,

And calumny be ripen'd into praise,

Then future times shall to thy worth allow

That fame, which envy would call flattery now,

Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit,

Has pointed out the rocks where others split:

By that inspir'd, though stranger to the Nine,

And negligent of any fame but thine,

I take that friendly, but superfluous part,

That acts from nature what I teach from art.

To a LADY on a LANDSCAPE of her Drawing.

By Mr. PARROT.

BEHOLD the magic of Theresa's hand!

A new creation blooms at her command.

Touch'd into life the vivid colours glow,

Catch the warm stream, and quicken as they flow.

The ravish'd sight the pleasing landscape fills,

Here sink the valleys, and there rise the hills.

Not with more horror nods bleak Calpe's [a] height,

Than here the pictur'd rock astounds the sight.

Not Thames more devious-winding leaves his source,

Than here the wand'ring rivers shape their course.

Obliquely lab'ring runs the gurgling rill;

Still murm'ring runs, or seems to murmur still.

An aged oak, with hoary moss o'erspread,

Here lifts aloft its venerable head;

There overshadowing hangs a sacred wood,

And nods inverted in the neighb'ring flood.

Each tree as in its native forest shoots,

And blushing bends with Autumn's golden fruits.

Thy pencil lends the rose a lovelier hue,

And gives the lily fairer to our view.

Here fruits and flow'rs adorn the varied year,

And paradise with all its sweets is here.

There stooping to its fall a tow'r appears,

With tempests shaken, and a weight of years.

The daified meadow, and the woodland green,

In order rise, and fill the various scene.

Some parts, in light magnificently dress'd,

Obtrusive enter, and stand all confess'd;

Whilst others decently in shades are thrown,

And by concealing make their beauties known.

Alternate thus, and mutual is their aid,

The lights owe half their lustre to the shade.

So the bright fires that light the milky way,

Lost and extinguish'd in the solar ray;

In the sun's absence pour a flood of light,

And borrow all their brightness from the night.

To cheat our eyes, how well dost thou contrive!

Each object here seems real and alive.

Not more resembling life the figures stand,

Form'd by Lysippus, or by Phidias' hand.

Unnumber'd beauties in the piece unite,

Rush on the eye, and crowd upon the sight;

At once our wonder and delight you raise,

We view with pleasure, and with rapture praise.

Notes

a
Gibraltar.
↵

ODE to CUPID on VALENTINE'S Day.

BY THE SAME.

COME, thou rosy-dimpled boy,

Source of every heart-felt joy,

Leave the blissful bow'rs awhile,

Paphos and the Cyprian isle:

Visit Britain's rocky shore,

Britons too thy pow'r adore;

Britons hardy, bold, and free,

Own thy laws, and yield to thee.

Source of every heart-felt joy,

Come, thou rosy-dimpled boy.

Haste to Sylvia, haste away:

This is thine, and Hymen's day.

Bid her thy soft bondage wear,

Bid her for Love's rites prepare.

Let the nymphs with many a flower

Deck the sacred nuptial bower.

Thither lead the lovely fair;

And let Hymen too be there.

This is thine, and Hymen's day:

Haste to Sylvia, haste away.

Only while we love, we live;

Love alone can pleasure give.

Pomp and power, and tinsel state,

Those false pageants of the great,

Crowns and scepters, envied things,

And the pride of Eastern kings,

Are but childish empty toys,

When compar'd to Love's sweet joys.

Love alone can pleasure give:

Only while we love, we live.

To the Worthy, Humane, Generous, Reverend, and Noble, Mr. FREDERICK CORNWALLIS, now Archbishop of CANTERBURY.

By Dr. SNEYD DAVIES. Written in the Year 1743.

IN frolic's hour, ere serious thought had birth,

There was a time, my dear Cornwallis, when

Fancy would take me on her airy wing

And waft to views romantic; there display

Some motley vision, shade and sun: the cliff,

O'erhanging sparkling brooks and ruins grey,

Bade me meanders trace, and catch the form

Of varying clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.

Sometimes ambition, brushing by, would twitch

My spirits, and with winning look sublime

Allure to follow. What though steep the track,

Her mountain's top would overpay, when climb'd,

The scaler's toil; her temple there was fine,

And lovely thence the prospects. She could tell

Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique;

But more advis'd to shun the barren twig,

(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)

And woo some thriving art: her num'rous mines

Were open to the searcher's skill and pains.

Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring pulse,

Sounded irregular marches, to be gone—

What, pause a moment when Ambition calls!

No, the blood gallops to the distant goal,

And throbs to reach it. Let the lame sit still.

When Fortune gentle, at the hill's verge extreme,

Array'd in decent robe, and plain attire,

Smiling approach'd; and what occasion ask'd

Of climbing? She already provident

Had cater'd well, if stomach could digest

Her viands, and a palate not too nice.

Unfit she said, for perilous attempt,

That manly limb requir'd, and sinews tough.

She took, and lay'd me in a vale remote,

Amid the gloomy scene of fir and yew,

On apple ground; where Morpheus strew'd the bed:

Obscurity her curtain round me drew,

And syren Sloth a dull quietus sung.

Sithence no fairy sights, no quick'ning ray,

No stir of pulse, nor objects to entice

Abroad the spirits; but the cloyster'd heart

Sits squat at home, like pagod in a nitch

Demure; or grandees with nod-watching eye,

And folded arms, in presence of the throne,

Turk, or Indostan—Cities, forums, courts,

And prating sanhedrims, and drumming wars,

Affect no more than stories told to bed

Lethargic, which at intervals the sick

Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.

Instead of converse and variety,

The same trite round, the same stale silent scene:

Such are thy comforts, blessed Solitude!

But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,

And simple Quiet with her downy couch,

Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapse of streams;

And Saunter with a book; and warbling Muse,

In praise of hawthorns.—Life's whole business this!

Is it to bask i' th' sun? if so, a snail

Were happy crawling on a southern wall.

Why sits Content upon a cottage sill

At even-tide; and blesseth the coarse meal

In sooty corner? why sweet slumbers wait

Th' hard pallet? not because from haunt remote,

Sequester'd in a dingle's bushy lap:

'Tis labour makes the peasant's sav'ry fare,

And works out his repose: for ease must ask

The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd.

Oh! listen not to that enchantress Ease

With seeming smile; her palatable cup

By standing grows insipid; and beware

Perdition, for there's poison in the lees.

What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd!

What daily martyrs to her sluggish cause!

Less strict devoir the Russ and Persian claim

Despotic; and, as subjects long inur'd

To servile burden, grow supine and tame:—

So fares it with our sov'reign, and her train.

What tho' with lure fallacious she pretend

From worldly bondage to set free; what gain

Her votaries? What avails from iron chains

Exempt, if rosy fetters bind as fast?

Bestir, and answer your creation's end.

Think we that man with vig'rous pow'r endow'd,

And room to stretch, was destin'd to sit still?

Sluggards are Nature's rebels, slight her laws,

Nor live up to the terms on which they hold

Their vital lease. Laborious terms and hard!

But such the tenure of our earthly state!

Riches and fame are Industry's reward;

The nimble runner courses Fortune down,

And then he banquets, for she feeds the bold.

Think what you owe your country, what yourself.

If splendor charm not, yet avoid the scorn

That treads on lowly stations. Think of some

Affiduous booby mounting o'er your head,

And thence with saucy grandeur looking down:

Think of (Reflection's stab!) the pitying friend

With shoulder shrugg'd, and sorry. Think that Time

Has golden minutes, if discreetly seiz'd:

And if some sad example, indolent,

To warn and scare be wanting—think of me.

TO HIS FRIEND AND NEIGHBOUR DR. THOMAS TAYLOR. 1744.

BY THE SAME.

—FRench pow'r, and weak allies, and war, and want—

No more of that, my friend; you touch a string

That hurts my ear. All politics apart,

Except a gen'rous wish, a glowing pray'r

For British welfare, commerce, glory, peace.

Give party to the winds: it is a word,

A phantom sound, by which the cunning great

Whistle to their dependents: a decoy,

To gull th' unwary: where the master stands

Encouraging his minions, his train'd birds,

Fed and caress'd, their species to betray.

See, with what hollow blandishment and art

They lead the winged captives to the snare;

Fools! that in open aether might have soar'd,

Free as the air they cut; sipt purest rills;

Din'd with the Thames, or bath'd in crystal lakes.

Heav'n knows, it is not insolence that speaks!

The tribute of respect, to greatness due,

Not the brib'd sycophant more willing pays.

Still, still as much of party be retain'd,

As principle requires, and sense directs;

Else our vain bark, without a rudder, floats,

The scorn and pastime of each veering gale.

This gentle evening let the sun descend

Untroubled; while it paints your ambient hills

With faded lustre, and a sweet farewell:

Here is our seat. That [a] castle opposite,

Proud of its woody crest, adorns the scene.

Dictate, O vers'd in books, and just of taste,

Dictate the pleasing theme of our discourse.

Shall we trace science from her Eastern home

Chaldean? or the banks of Nile? where Thebes,

Nursing her daughter arts, majestic stood,

And pour'd forth knowledge from an hundred gates.

There first the marble learn'd to mimic form;

The pillar'd temple rose; and pyramids,

Whose undecaying grandeur laughs at Time.

Birth-place of letters; where the sun was shewn

His radiant way, and heavens were taught to roll.

There too the Muses tun'd their earliest lyre,

Warbling soft numbers to Serapis' ear;

'Till, chas'd by tyrants, or a milder clime

Inviting, they remov'd with pilgrim harp,

And all their band of melody to Greece.

As when a flock of linnets, if perchance

Deliver'd from the falcon's talon, fly

With trembling wing to covert, and their notes

Renew, tell every bush of their escape,

And trill their merry thanks to Liberty.

The tuneful tribe, pleas'd with their new abode,

Polish'd the rude inhabitants; whence tales

Of list'ning woods, and rocks that danc'd to sound,

Hear the full chorus lifting hymns to Jove!

Linus and Orpheus catch the strain; and all

The raptur'd audience utter loud applause!

A song, believe me, was no trifle Then:

Weighty the Muse's task, and wide her sway:

Her's was Religion; the resounding Fanes

Echo'd her language; Polity was her's;

And the world bow'd to legislative verse.

As states increas'd, and governments were form'd,

Her aid less useful, she retir'd to grots

And shady bow'rs, content to teach and please.

Under her laurel frequent bards repos'd;

Voluble Pindar troll'd his rapid song,

And Sappho breath'd her spirited complaint.

Hence sprung the tragic rage, the lyric charm,

And Homer's genuine thunder.—Happy Greece!

Bless'd in her offspring! Seat of eloquence,

Of arms and reason; patriot-virtue's seat!

Did the sun thither dart uncommon rays!

Did some presiding genius hover o'er

That animated soil with brooding wings!

The sad reverse might start a gentle tear.

Go, search for Athens; her deserted ports

Enter, a noiseless solitary shore,

Where commerce crouded the Piraean strand.

Trace her dark streets, her wall-embarrass'd shrines[b];

And pensive wonder, where her glories beam'd.

Where are her orators, her sages, now?—

Shatter'd her mould'ring arcs, her tow'rs in dust,—

But far less ruin'd, than her soul decay'd.

The stone, inscrib'd to Socrates, debas'd

To prop a reeling cot.—Minerva's dome

Possess'd by those, who never kiss'd her shield.

—Upon the mount where old Musaeus sung,

Sits the gruff turban'd captain, and exacts

Harsh tribute!—In the grove, where Plato taught

His polish'd strain sublime, a stupid Turk

Is preaching ignorance and Mahomet.

(Where He [c], whom only dauntless Philip fear'd,

Shook the astonish'd throng;— here holy Paul

Harangu'd the Pagan multitude, and brought

To staring human wisdom news from heav'n.)

Turn next to Rome:—Is that the clime, the place,

Where, on his laurel'd throne, with tuneful choirs

Of arts surrounded, great Augustus reign'd?

And (greater far) the venerable band

Of elder heroes (fame's eternal theme!)

In splendid huts, and noble poverty,

Brave for their country liv'd, and fought, and died.

Heav'n! what firm Souls! who knew not gold had price,

Nor perfidy, nor baseness knew.—They, they,

The demi-gods of Rome! whose master voice,

Whose awe-commanding eye, more terror struck,

Than rods, and lictors, and Praetorian bands.

Could the pure crimson tide, the noblest blood,

In all the world, to such pollution turn:

Like Jordan's river, pouring his clear flood

Into the black Asphaltus' slimy lake?

Patrons of wit, and victors of mankind,

Bards, warriors, worthies, (revolution strange!)

Are pimps, and fidlers, mountebanks, and monks.

In Tully's hive, rich magazine of sweets!

The lazy drones are buzzing, or asleep.

But we forgive the living for the dead;

Indebted more to Rome than we can pay:

Of a long dearth prophetic, she laid in

A feast for ages.—O thou banquet nice!

Where the soul riots with secure excess.

What heart-felt bliss! what pleasure-winged hours

Transported owe we to her-letter'd sons!—

We, by their favour, Tyber's banks enjoy,

Their temples trace, and share their noble games;

Enter the crowded theatre at will;

March to the forum; hear the consul plead;

Are present in the thund'ring Capitol

When Tully speaks.—At softer hours, attend

Harmonious Virgil to his Mantuan farm,

Or Baia's shore:—how often drink his strains,

Rural, or epic, sweet!—how often rove

With Horace, bard and moralist benign!

With happy Horace rove, in fragrant paths

Of myrtle bowers, by Tivoli's cascade.

Hail, precious pages! that amuse and teach,

Exalt the genius, and improve the breast.

Ye sage historians, all your stores unfold,

Reach your clear steady mirror;—in that glass

The forms of good and ill are well pourtray'd.

But chiefly thou, supreme Philosophy!

Shed thy blest influence; with thy train appear

Of graces mild: far be the Stoic boast,

The Cynics snarl, and churlish pedantry.

Bright visitant, if not too high my wish,

Come in the lovely dress you wore, a guest

At Plato's table; or in studious walks,

In green Frescati's academic groves,

The Roman feasting his selected friends.

Tamer of pride! at thy serene rebuke

See crouching insolence, spleen, and revenge

Before thy shining taper disappear.

Tutor of human life! auspicious guide!

Whose faithful clue unravels every maze:

Whose skill can disengage the tangled thorn,

And smooth the rock to down! whose magic powers

Controul each storm, and bid the roar be still.

Notes

a
A castle belonging to the Earl of Oxford.
↵

b
Wheeler's Travels, p. 346, 347, 380, 300.
↵

c
Demosthene
•
.

↵

VACATION.

By —, Esq.

HENCE sage, mysterious Law,

That sitt'st with rugged brow, and crabbed look

O'er thy black-letter'd book,

And the night-watching student strik'st with awe;

Away with thy dull train,

Slow-pac'd Advice, Surmise, and squint-ey'd Doubt;

Dwell with the noisy rout

Of busy men, 'mid cities and throng'd halls,

Where Clamour ceaseless bawls,

And Enmity and Strife thy state sustain.

But on me thy blessings pour,

Sweet Vacation. Thee, of yore,

In all her youth and beauty's prime,

Summer bore to aged Time,

As he one sunny morn beheld her

Tending a field of corn: the elder

There 'mid poppies red and blue,

Unsuspected nearer drew,

And, with softly-sliding pace

Hast'ning to a stol'n embrace,

Fill'd her with thee; and joy and mirth

Hung on thy auspicious birth.

Come, sweet goddess; full of play,

Ever unconfin'd and gay,

Bring the leisure Hours with thee

Leading on the Graces three

Dancing; nor let aught detain

The Holidays, a smiling train:

Whose fair brows let Peace serene

Crown with olive-branches green.

Bring too Health with ruddy cheek,

Lively air, and count'nance sleek,

Attended, as she's wont to be,

With all her jolly company

Of exercises, chace, and flight,

Active strength, and cunning sleight,

Nimble feats, and playful bouts,

Leaps of joy▪ and cheerful shouts,

Tricks and pranks, and sports and games

Such as youthful Fancy frames.

And, O kind goddess, add to these

Cheerful Content, and placid Ease;

Not her who fondly fitteth near,

Dull Indolence in elbow'd chair;

But Ease who aids th' harmonious Nine,

Tuning their instruments divine,

And without whom, in lofty strain,

Phoebus' client tries in vain

To raise the feeble voice above

The crowd, and catch the ear of Jove.

And do thou, Vacation, deign

To let me pass among thy train;

So may I, thy vot'ry true,

All thy flow'ry paths pursue,

Pleased still with thee to meet

In some friendly rural seat;

Where I gladsome oft' survey

Nature in her best array,

Woods and lawns and lakes between,

Fields of corn and hedges green,

Fallow grounds of tawny hue,

Distant hills, and mountains blue;

On whose ridge far off appears

A wood (the growth of many years)

Of aweful oak, or gloomy pine,

Above th' horizon's level line

Rising black: such those of old

Where British druids wont to hold

Solemn assemblies, and to keep

Their rites, unfolding myst'ries deep,

Such that fam'd Dodona's grove,

Sacred to prophetic Jove.

Oft I admire the verdant steep,

Spotted white with many a sheep,

While, in pastures rich below

Among the grazing cattle, slow

Moves the bull with heavy tread

Hanging down his lumpish head,

And the proud steed neigheth oft'

Shaking his wanton mane aloft.

Or, traversing the wood about,

The jingling packhorse-bells remote

I hear, amid the noontide stillness,

Sing through the air with brassy shrillness;

What time the waggon's cumbrous load

Grates along the grav'lly road:

There onward, dress'd in homely guise,

Some unregarded maiden hies.

Unless by chance a trav'lling 'squire,

Of base intent and foul desire,

Stops to insnare, with speech beguiling,

Sweet innocence and beauty smiling.

Nor fail I joyful to partake

The lively sports of country wake,

Where many a lad and many a lass

Foot it on the close-trod grass.

There nimble Marian of the green

Matchless in the jig is seen,

Allow'd beyond compare by all

The beauty of the rustic ball:

While the tripping damsels near,

Stands a lout with waggish leer;

He, if Marian chance to shew

Her taper leg and stocking blue,

Winks and nods and laughs aloud,

Among the merry-making crowd,

Utt'ring forth, in aukward jeer,

Words unmeet for virgin's ear.

Soon as ev'ning clouds have shed

Their wat'ry store on earth's soft bed,

And through their flowing mantles thin,

Clear azure spots of sky are seen,

I quit some oak's close-cover'd bow'r,

To taste the boon of new-fall'n show'r,

To pace the corn-field's grassy edge

Close by a fresh-blown sweet-briar hedge;

While at every green leaf's end

Pearly drops of rain depend,

And an earthy fragrance 'round

Rises from the moisten'd ground.

Sudden a sun-beam darting out,

Brightens the landskip all about,

With yellow light the grove o'erspreads,

And tips with gold the haycocks' heads:

Then as mine eye is eastward led,

Some fair castle rears its head,

Whose height the country round commands,

Well known mark to distant lands,

There the windows glowing bright

Blaze from afar with ruddy light,

Borrow'd from clouds of scarlet dye,

Just as the sun hath left the sky.

But if chill Eurus cut the air

With keener wing, I then repair

To park or woodland, shelter meet,

Near some noble's ancient seat,

Where long winding walks are seen

Stately oaks and elms between,

Whose arms promiscuous form above

High over-arch'd a green alcove;

While the hoarse-voic'd hungry rook

Near her stick-built nest doth croak,

Waving on the topmast bough;

And the master stag below

Bellows loud with savage roar,

Stalking all his hinds before.

Thus musing, night with even pace

Steals on, o'ershad'wing nature's face;

While the bat with dusky wings

Flutters round in giddy rings,

And the buzzing chaffers come

Close by mine ear with solemn hum.

Homeward now my steps I guide

Some rising grassy bank beside,

Studded thick with sparks of light

Issuing from many a glow-worm bright;

While village-cur with minute bark

Alarms the pilf'rer in the dark,

Save what light the stars convey,

Cluster'd in the milky way,

Or scatter'd numberless on high

Twinkling all o'er the boundless sky.

Then within doors let me meet

The viol touch'd by finger neat,

Or, soft symphonies among

Wrap me in the sacred song,

Attun'd by Handel's matchless skill,

While Attention mute and still

Fixes all my soul to hear

The voice harmonious, sweet and clear.

Nor let smooth-tongu'd Converse fail,

With many a well-devised tale,

And stories link'd, to twist a chain

That may awhile old Time detain,

And make him rest upon his scythe

Pleas'd to see the hours so blithe:

While, with sweet attractive grace,

The beauteous housewife of the place

Wins the heart of every guest

By courteous deeds, and all contest

Which shall readiest homage shew

To such sov'reign sweetness due.

These delights, Vacation, give,

And I with thee will choose to live.

To a LADY very handsome, but too fond of DRESS.

BY THE SAME.

PRYTHEE why so fantastic and vain?

What charms can the toilet supply?

Why so studious, admirers to gain?

Need beauty lay traps for the eye?

Because that thy breast is so fair,

Must thy tucker be still setting right?

And canst thou not laughing forbear,

Because that thy teeth are so white?

Shall sovereign beauty descend

To act so ignoble a part?

Whole hours at the looking-glass spend,

A slave to the dictates of art?

And cannot thy heart be at rest

Unless thou excellest each fair

In trinkets and trumpery dress'd?

Is not that a superfluous care?

Vain, idle attempt! to pretend

The lily with whiteness to deck!

Does the rich solitaire recommend

The delicate turn of thy neck?

The glossy bright hue of thy hair

Can powder or jewels adorn?

Can perfumes or vermillions compare

With the breath or the blush of the morn?

When, embarrass'd with baubles and toys,

Thou'rt set out so enormously fine,

Over-doing thy purpose destroys,

And to please thou hast too much design:

Little know'st thou, how beauty beguiles,

How alluring the innocent eye;

What sweetness in natural smiles,

And what charms in simplicity lie.

Thee Nature with beauty has clad,

With genuine ornaments dress'd;

Nor can Art an embellishment add

To set off what already is best:

Be it thine, self-accomplish'd to reign:

Bid the toilet be far set apart,

And dismiss with an honest disdain

That impertinent Abigail, Art.

ANACREON. ODE III. Translated by the Same.

IN the dead of the night, when with labour oppress'd

All mortals enjoy the calm blessing of rest,

Cupid knock'd at my door; I awoke with a noise,

And "who is it (I call'd) that my sleep thus destroys?"

"You need not be frighten'd, he answered mild,

"Let me in; I'm a little unfortunate child;

"'Tis a dark rainy night; and I'm wet to the skin;

"And my way I have lost; and do, pray, let me in."

I was mov'd with compassion; and striking a light,

I open'd the door; when a boy stood in sight,

Who had wings on his shoulders; the rain from him dripp'd;

With a bow and with arrows too he was equipp'd.

I stirr'd up my fire, and close by its side

I set him down by me: with napkins I dried,

I chaf'd him all over, kept out the cold air,

And I wrung with my hands the wet out of his hair.

He from wet and from cold was no sooner at ease,

But taking his bow up, he said, "If you please

"We will try it; I would by experiment know

"If the wet hath not damag'd the string of my bow."

Forthwith from his quiver an arrow he drew,

To the string he apply'd it, and twang went the yew;

The arrow was gone; in my bosom it center'd:

No sting of a hornet more sharp ever enter'd.

Away skipp'd the urchin, as brisk as a bee,

And laughing, "I wish you much joy, friend, quoth he:

"My bow is undamag'd, for true went the dart;

"But you will have trouble enough with your heart."

An Imitation of HORACE, Book III. Ode 2. Angustam amice, &c.

By Mr. TITLEY[a], to Dr. BENTLEY.

HE that would great in science grow,

By whom bright Virtue is ador'd,

At first must be content to know

An humble roof, an homely board.

With want and rigid college laws

Let him, inur'd betimes, comply;

Firm to religion's sacred cause,

The learned combat let him try;

Let him her envied praises tell,

And all his eloquence disclose

The fierce endeavours to repel,

And still the tumult of her foes.

Him early form'd, and season'd young,

Subtle opposers soon will fear,

And tremble at his artful tongue,

Like Parthians at the Roman spear.

Grim death, th' inevitable lot

Which fools and cowards strive to fly,

Is with a noble pleasure sought

By him who dares for truth to die.

With purest lustre of her own

Exalted Virtue ever shines,

Nor, as the vulgar smile or frown,

Advances now, and now declines.

A glorious and immortal prize,

She on her hardy son bestows,

She shews him heaven, and bids him rise,

Though pain, and toil, and death oppose:

With lab'ring flight he wings th' obstructed way,

Leaving both common souls and common clay.

Notes

a
Walter Titley, Esq afterwards resident at the court of Denmark.
↵

A Reply to a Copy of Verses made in Imitation of Book III. Ode 2. of HORACE. Angustam, amice, pauperiem pati, &c. And sent by Mr. TITLEY to Dr. BENTLEY.

By Dr. BENTLEY.

WHO strives to mount Parnassus' hill,

And thence poetic laurels bring,

Must first acquire due force, and skill,

Must fly with swan's, or eagle's wing.

Who nature's treasures would explore,

Her mysteries and arcana know,

Must high as lofty Newton soar,

Must stoop as delving Woodward [a] low.

Who studies ancient laws and rites,

Tongues, arts, and arms, and history,

Must drudge like Selden days and nights,

And in the endless labour die.

Who travels in religious jars

(Truth mixt with error, shade with rays,)

Like Whiston wanting pyx or stars,

In ocean wide or sinks or strays.

But grant our hero's hope long toil

And comprehensive genius crown,

All sciences, all arts his spoil,

Yet what reward, or what renown?

Envy, innate in vulgar souls,

Envy, steps in and stops his rise;

Envy, with poison'd tarnish fouls

His lustre, and his worth decries.

He lives inglorious, or in want,

To college and old books confin'd;

Instead of learn'd he's call'd pedant,

Dunces advanc'd he's left behind:

Yet left content, a genuine stoic he,

Great without patron, rich without South-sea.

Notes

a
Dr. John Woodward. See his Essay towards a Natural History of the Earth and terrestrial Bodies, especially Minerals; as also of the Sea, Rivers, and Springs. With an Account of the Universal Deluge, and of the Effects that it had upon the Earth. 8vo. 1695.
↵

INSCRIPTION on a GROTTO of Shells at CRUX-EASTON[a], the Work of Nine young Ladies[b].

By Mr. POPE.

HERE, shunning idleness at once and praise,

This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;

The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,

Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;

Beauty which Nature only can impart,

And such a polish as disgraces Art;

But Fate dispos'd them in his humble sort,

And hid in desarts what would charm a court.

Notes

a
In the county of Hants, the seat of Edward Lisle, Esq.
↵

b
Miss Lisles, daughters of Edward Lisle, Esq and sisters to Dr. Lisle.
↵

VERSES occasioned by seeing a GROTTO built by Nine Sisters.

By N. HERBERT, Esq.

SO much this building entertains my sight,

Nought but the builders can give more delight:

In them the master-piece of Nature's shown,

In this I see Art's master-piece in stone.

O! Nature, Nature, thou hast conquer'd Art;

She charms the sight alone, but you the heart.

An Excuse for INCONSTANCY, 1737.

By the Rev. Dr. LISLE[a].

WHEN Phoebus's beams are withdrawn from our sight,

We admire his fair sister, the regent of night;

Though languid her beauty, though feeble her ray,

Yet still she's akin to the God of the day.

When Susan, like Cynthia, has finish'd her reign,

Then Charlotte, like Phoebus, shall shine out again.

As Catholic bigots fall humble before

The pictures of those whom in heart they adore,

Which though known to be nothing but canvass and paint,

Yet are said to enliven their zeal to the saint;

So to Susan I bow, charming Charlotte, for she

Has just beauty enough to remind me of thee.

Inconstant and faithless in love's the pretence

On which you arraign me: pray hear my defence:

Such censures as these to my credit redound;

I acknowledge, and thank a good appetite for't:

When ven'son and claret are not to be found,

I can make a good meal upon mutton and port.

Tho' [b] Highclear's so fine that a prince would not scorn it,

Though nature and taste have combin'd to adorn it;

Yet the artist that owns it would think it severe,

Were a law made to keep him there all round the year.

How enrag'd would the rector of [c] Boscoville look,

If the king should enjoin him to read but one book!

And how would his audience their fortune bemoan,

If he gave them no sermons but what were his own!

'Tis variety only makes appetite last,

And by changing our dishes we quicken our taste.

Notes

a
Dr. Thomas Lisle, son of Edward Lisle, Esq of Crux-Easton, in Hampshire. He was educated at Magdalen College, Oxford, where he took the degree of M. A. June 23, 1732; B. D. November 28, 1740; and D. D. April 22, 1743. He was at the time of his death, 27th March, 1767, rector of Burclere, in the county of Hants.
↵

b
The seat of the Hon. R. Herbert.
↵

c
Wotton, the author's parish in the Isle of Wight.
↵

To VENUS. A RANT, 1732. Set to Music by Dr. HAYES.

BY THE SAME.

RECITATIVE.

O Goddess most rever'd above,

Bright parent of almighty Love,

Whose power th' immortal Gods confess,

Hear and approve my fond address:

In melting softness I thy doves outvie,

Then teach me like thy swans to sing and fly;

So I thy vot'ry will for ever be;

My song, my life I'll consecrate to thee.

AIR.

Give me numbers strong and sweet,

Glowing language, pointed wit;

Words that might a Vestal move,

And melt a frozen heart to love.

Bid, bid thy blind boy

All his vigour employ;

On his wings would I soar up to fame:

'Tis but just, if he scorch

My breast with his torch,

In my wit too he kindle a flame.

RECITATIVE.

Trophies to Chastity let others raise,

In notes as cold as the dull thing they praise:

To rage like mine more sprightly themes belong;

Gay youth inspires, and beauty claims my song;

Me all the little Loves and Graces own;

For I was born to worship them alone.

AIR.

Tell not me the joys that wait

On him that's rich, on him that's great:

Wealth and wisdom I despise;

Cares surround the rich and wise.

No, no,—let love, let life be mine;

Bring me women, bring me wine:

Speed the dancing hours away,

And mind not what the grave ones say;

Speed, and gild 'em as they fly

With love and freedom, wit and joy:

Bus'ness, title, pomp, and state,

Give 'em to the fools I hate.

The POWER OF MUSIC. A SONG. Imitated from the SPANISH.

BY THE SAME. Set to Music by Dr. HAYES.

I.

WHEN Orpheus went down to the regions below,

Which men are forbidden to see,

He tun'd up his lyre, as old histories shew,

To set his Eurydice free.

II.

All hell was astonish'd a person so wise

Should rashly endanger his life,

And venture so far,—but how vast their surprize!

When they heard that he came for his wife.

III.

To find out a punishment due to his fault,

Old Pluto had puzzled his brain;

But hell had not torments sufficient, he thought,

—So he gave him his wife back again.

IV.

But pity succeeding found place in his heart,

And, pleas'd with his playing so well,

He took her again in reward of his art;

Such merit had music in hell!

LETTER from SMYRNA to his Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, 1733.

BY THE SAME.

THE hero who to Smyrna bay

From Easton, Hants, pursu'd his way,

Who travers'd seas, and hills and vales,

To fright his sisters with his tales,

Sing, heavenly muse; for what befel

Thou saw'st, and only thou canst tell.

Say first (but one thing I premise,

I'll not be chid for telling lyes;

Besides, my grannum us'd to say

I always had a knack that way;

So, if the love of truth be in ye,

Read Strabo, Diodorus, Pliny—

But like some authors I could name,

Wrapt in myself I lose my theme.)

Say first, those very rocks we spy'd,

But left 'em on the starboard side,

Where Juno urg'd the Trojan's fate:

Shield us, ye Gods! from female hate!

Then how precarious was the doom

Of Caesar's line, and mighty Rome,

Snatch'd from the very jaws of ruin,

And sav'd, poor [a] Die, for thy undoing.

What saw we on Sicilian ground?

(A soil in ancient verse renown'd.)

The self-same spot, or Virgil ly'd,

On which the good Anchises dy'd:

The fields where Ceres' daughter sported,

And where the pretty Cyclops courted.

The nymph, hard-hearted as the rocks,

Refus'd the monster, scorn'd his flocks,

And took a shepherd in his stead,

With nought but love and mirth to plead;

An instance of a generous mind

That does much honour to your kind,

But in an age of fables grew,

So possibly it mayn't be true.

While on the summit Aetna glows,

His shivering sides are chill'd with snows.

Beneath, the painted landskip charms;

Here infant Spring in Winter's arms

Wantons secure: in youthful pride

Stands Summer laughing by her side;

Ev'n Autumn's yellow robes appear,

And one gay scene discloses all the year.

Hence to rude Cerigo we came,

Known once by Cytherea's name;

When Ocean first the goddess bore,

She ro•e on this distinguish'd shore.

Here first the happy Paris stopp'd,

When Helen from her lord elop'd.

With pleas'd reflection I survey'd

Each secret grott, each conscious shade;

Envy'd his choice, approv'd his flame,

And fondly wish'd my lot the same.

O were the cause reviv'd again!

For charming Queensbury liv'd not then,

The radiant fruit, had she been there,

Would scarce have fall'n to Venus' share;

Saturnia's sel• had wav'd her claim,

And modest Pallas blush'd for shame;

All had been right: the Phrygian swain

Had sigh'd for her, but figh'd in vain;

The fair Oenone joy'd to find

The pains she felt repaid in kind;

No rape reveng'd, no room for strife,

Atrides might have kept his wife,

Old Troy in peace and plenty smil'd—

But the [b] best poem had been spoil'd.

How did my heart with joy run o'er,

When to the fam'd Cecropian shore,

Wafted by gentle breezes, we

Came gliding through the smooth still sea!

While backward rov'd my busy thought

On deeds in distant ages wrought;

On tyrants gloriously withstood;

On seas distain'd with Persian blood;

On trophies rais'd o'er hills of stain

In Marathon's unrival'd plain.

Then, as around I cast my eye,

And view'd the pleasing prospect nigh,

The land for arms and arts renown'd,

Where wit was honour'd, poets crown'd;

Whose manners and whose rules refin'd

Our souls, and civiliz'd mankind;

Or (yet a loftier pitch to raise

Our wonder, and complete its praise)

The land that [c] Plato's master bore—

How did my heart with joy run o'er!

Now coasting on the eastern side,

We peep'd where Peneus rolls his tide:

Where Arethusa came t' appease

The shepherd that had lost his bees,

And led him to Cyrene's grott;

'Tis a long tale, and matters not.

Dryden will tell you all that past;

See Virgil's Georgics, book the last.

I speak on't, but to let you know

This grott still stands in statu quo;

Of which, if any doubt remain,

I've proof, as follows, clear and plain.

Here, sisters, we such honours met!

Such honours I shall ne'er forget.

The Goddess (no uncommon case),

Proud, I suppose, to shew her place,

Or piqu'd perhaps at your renown,

Sent Boreas to invite us down;

And he so press'd it, that we us'd

Some pains to get ourselves excus'd.

My brother shipmates, all in haste,

Declar'd, that shells were not their taste;

And I had [d] somewhere seen, you know,

A finer grott than she could shew.

Hence let the Muse to Delos roam,

Or Nio, fam'd for Homer's tomb;

To Naxos, known in ancient time

For Bacchus' love, for Theseus' crime.

Can she the Lesbian vine forget

Whence Horace reinforc'd his wit?

Where the fam'd harp Arion strung,

Nor play'd more sweet than Sappho sung?

Could the old bards revive again,

How would they mourn th' inverted scene!

Scarce with the barren waste acquainted,

They once so beautifully painted.

And here, 'twixt friends, I needs must say,

But let it go no farther, pray,

These sung-up, cry'd-up countries are

Displeasing, rugged, black, and bare▪

And all I've yet beheld or known

Serve only to endear my own.

The matters I shall next disclose,

'Tis likely, may be wrapp'd in prose;

But verse methought would suit these better,

Besides, it lengthens out my letter.

Read then, dear girls, with kind regard,

What comes so far, what comes so hard;

And to our mother too make known,

How travelling has improv'd her son.

Let not malicious critics join

Pope's homespun rhymes in rank with mine,

Form'd on that very spot of earth,

Where Homer's self receiv'd his birth;

Add, as I said, t' enhance their worth,

The pains they cost in bringing forth;

While his, as all mankind agrees,

Though wrote with care, are wrote with ease.

Notes

a
Dido.
↵

b
Iliad.
↵

c
Socrates.
↵

d
At Crux-Easton.
↵

Part of a LETTER to my Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, written from CAIRO in EGYPT, August 1734.

BY THE SAME.

WHILE you, my dear girls, in your paradise stray,

Diverting with innocent freedom the day,

I wander alone in a barbarous land,

Half bak'd by the sun, half blind by the sand.

Then your wood too and grotto so swim in my sight,

They give me no respite by day nor by night;

No sooner asleep but I'm dreaming of you;

I am just wak'd from one,—would to God it were true.

Methought I was now a fine gentleman grown,

And had got, Lord knows how, an estate of my own.

Good-bye to plain Tom, I was rais'd a peg higher;

Some call'd me his worship, and others the squire.

'Twas a place, I remember, exactly like Easton,

A scene for an emperor's fancy to feast on.

There I built a fine house with great cost and great care,

(Your la'ships have form'd many such in the air)

Not of stucco, nor brick, but as good Portland stone

As Kent [a] would desire to be working upon.

The apartments not small, nor monstrously great,

But chiefly for use, and a little for state;

So begilt, and becarv'd, and with ornaments grac'd,

That every one said, I'd an excellent taste.

Here I liv'd like a king, never hoarded my pelf,

Kept a coach for my sisters, a nag for myself,

With something that's good when our Highclear friends come,

And, spite of 'squire Herbert, a fire in each room.

A canal made for profit as well as for pleasure,

That's about, let me see, two acres in measure;

Both the eye to delight, and the table to crown,

With a jack, or a perch, when my uncles come down.

An exceeding great wood, that's been set a great while,

In length near a league, and in breadth near a mile.

There every dear girl her bright genius displays,

In a thousand fine whimsies a thousand fine ways.

O how charming the walks to my fancy appear!

What a number of temples and grottos are here!

My soul was transported to such an extreme,

That I leap'd up in raptures,—when lo! 'twas a dream.

Then vexing I chid the impertinent day

For driving so sweet a delusion away.

Thus spectres arise, as by nurse-maids we're told,

And hie to the place where they buried their gold:

There hov'ring around until morning remain;

Then sadly return to their torments again.

Notes

a
The painter and architect.
↵

LETTER from MARSEILLES to my Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, May 1735.

BY THE SAME.

SCENE, the Study at Crux-Easton. Molly and Fanny are sitting at work; enter to them Harriot in a passion.

HARRIOT.

LORD! sister, here's the butcher come,

And not one word from brother Tom;

The punctual spark, that made his boast

He'd write by every other post!

That ever I was so absurd▪

To take a man upon his word!

Quoth Frances, Child, I wonder much

You could expect him to keep touch:

'Tis so, my dear, with all mankind;

When out of sight you're out of mind.

Think you he'd to his sisters write?

Was ever girl so unpolite!

Some fair Italian stands possess'd,

And reigns sole mistress in his breast;

To her he dedicates his time,

And fawns in prose, or sighs in rhyme.

She'll give him tokens of her love,

Perhaps not easy to remove;

Such as will make him large amends

For loss of sisters, and of friends.

Cries Harriot, When he comes to France,

I hope in God he'll learn to dance,

And leave his aukward habits there,

I'm sure he has enough to spare.

O could he leave his faults, saith Fanny,

And bring the good alone, if any,

Poor brother Tom! he'd grow so light,

The wind might rob us of him quite!

Of habits he may well get clear;

Ill humours are the faults I fear,

For in my life I ne'er saw yet

A creature half so passionate.

Good heav'ns! how did he rave and tear,

On my not going you know where;

I scarcely yet have got my dread off:

I thought he'd bite my sister's head off.

'Tween him and Jenny what a clatter

About a fig, a mighty matter!

I could recount a thousand more,

But scandal's what I most abhor.

Molly, who long had patient sat,

And heard in silence all their chat,

Observing how they spoke with rancour,

Took up my cause, for which I thank her.

What eloquence was then display'd!

The charming things that Molly said,

Perhaps it suits not me to tell;

But faith! she spoke extremely well.

She first, with much ado, put on

A prudish face, then thus begun.

Heyday! quoth she, you let your tongue

Run on most strangely, right or wrong.

'Tis what I never can connive at;

Besides, consider whom you drive at;

A person of establish'd credit,

Nobody better, though I say it.

In all that's good, so tried and known,

Why, girls, he's quite a proverb grown,

His worth no mortal dares dispute:

Then he's your brother too to boot.

At this she made a moment's pause,

Then with a sigh resum'd the cause.

Alas! my dears, you little know

A sailor's toil, a trav'ler's woe;

Perhaps this very hour he strays

A lonely wretch through desart ways;

Or shipwreck'd on a foreign strand,

He falls beneath some ruffian's hand:

Or on the naked rock he lies,

And pinch'd by famine wastes and dies.

Can you this hated brother see

Floating, the sport of wind and sea?

Can you his feeble accents hear,

Though but in thought, nor drop a tear?

He faintly strives, his hopes are fled,

The billows booming o'er his head;

He mounts upon the waves again,

He calls on us, but calls in vain;

To death preserves his friendship true,

And mutters out a kind adieu.

See now he rises to our sight,

Now sinks in everlasting night.

Here Fanny's colour rose and fell,

And Harriot's throat began to swell:

One sidled to the window quite,

Pretending some unusual sight,

The other left the room outright;

While Molly laugh'd, her ends obtain'd,

To think how artfully she feign'd.

The HISTORY of PORSENNA, King of RUSSIA. IN TWO BOOKS.

BY THE SAME.

Arva, beata

Petamus arma, divites et insulas.

HOR. Epod. 16.

BOOK I.

IN Russia's frozen clime some ages since

There dwelt, historians say, a worthy prince,

Who to his people's good confin'd his care,

And fix'd the basis of his empire there;

Inlarg'd their trade, the lib'ral arts improv'd,

Made nations happy, and himself belov'd;

To all the neighb'ring states a terror grown,

The dear delight, and glory of his own.

Not like those kings, who vainly seek renown,

From countries ruin'd, and from battles won;

Those mighty Nimrods, who mean laws despise,

Call murder but a princely exercise,

And, if one bloodless sun should steal away,

Cry out with Titus, they have lost a day;

Who, to be more than men, themselves debase

Beneath the brute, their Maker's form deface,

Raising their titles by their God's disgrace.

Like fame to bold Erostratus we give,

Who scorn'd by less than sacrilege to live;

On holy ruins rais'd a lasting name,

And in the temple's fire diffus'd his shame.

Far diff'rent praises, and a brighter fame,

The virtues of the young Porsenna claim;

For by that name the Russian king was known,

And sure a nobler ne'er adorn'd the throne.

In war he knew the deathful sword to wield,

And sought the thickest dangers of the field,

A bold commander; but, the storm o'erblown,

He seem'd as he were made for peace alone;

Then was the golden age again restor'd,

Nor less his justice honour'd than his sword.

All needless pomp, and outward grandeur spar'd,

The deeds that grac'd him were his only guard;

No private views beneath a borrow'd name;

His and the public interest were the same.

In wealth and pleasure let the subject live,

But virtue is the king's prerogative;

Porsenna there without a rival stood,

And would maintain his right of doing good.

Nor did his person less attraction wear,

Such majesty and sweetness mingled there;

Heav'n with uncommon art the clay refin'd,

A proper mansion for so fair a mind;

Each look, each action bore peculiar grace,

And love itself was painted on his face.

In peaceful time he suffer'd not his mind

To rust in sloth, though much to peace inclin'd;

Nor wanton in the lap of pleasure lay,

And, lost to glory, loiter'd life away:

But active rising ere the prime of day,

Through woods and lonely desarts lov'd to stray;

With hounds and horns to wake the furious bear,

Or rouze the tawny lion from his laire;

To rid the forest of the savage brood,

And whet his courage for his country's good.

One day, as he pursued the dang'rous sport,

Attended by the nobles of his court,

It chanc'd a beast of more than common speed

Sprang from the brake, and through the desart fled.

The ardent prince, impetuous as the wind,

Rush'd on, and left his lagging train behind.

Fir'd with the chace, and full of youthful blood,

O'er plains, and vales, and woodland wilds he rode,

Urging his courser's speed, nor thought the day

How wasted, nor how intricate the way;

Nor, 'till the night in dusky clouds came on,

Restrain'd his pace, or found himself alone.

Missing his train, he strove to measure back

The road he came, but could not find the track;

Still turning to the place he left before,

And only lab'ring to be lost the more.

The bugle horn, which o'er his shoulders hung,

So loud he winded, that the forest rung;

In vain, no voice but Echo from the ground,

And vocal woods make mock'ry of the sound.

And now the gath'ring clouds began to spread

O'er the dun face of night a deeper shade;

And the hoarse thunder, growling from afar,

With herald voice proclaim'd th' approaching war;

Silence awhile ensu'd,—then by degrees

A hollow wind came mutt'ring through the trees.

Sudden the full-fraught sky discharg'd its store,

Of rain and rattling hail a mingled shower;

The active lightning ran along the ground;

The fiery bolts by fits were hurl'd around,

And the wide forests trembled at the sound.

Amazement seiz'd the prince;—where could he fly?

No guide to lead, no friendly cottage nigh.

Pensive and unresolv'd awhile he stood,

Beneath the scanty covert of the wood;

But drove from thence soon sallied forth again,

As chance directed, on the dreary plain;

Constrain'd his melancholy way to take

Through many a loathsome bog, and thorny brake,

Caught in the thicket, flound'ring in the lake.

Wet with the storm, and wearied with the way,

By hunger pinch'd, himself to beasts a prey;

Nor wine to cheer his heart, nor fire to burn,

Nor place to rest, nor prospect to return.

Drooping and spiritless, at life's despair,

He bade it pass, not worth his farther care;

When suddenly he spied a distant light,

That faintly twinkled through the gloom of night,

And his heart leap'd for joy, and bless'd the welcome sight.

Oft-times he doubted, it appear'd so far,

And hung so high, 'twas nothing but a star,

Or kindled vapour wand'ring through the sky,

But still press'd on his steed, still kept it in his eye;

'Till, much fatigue and many dangers past,

At a huge mountain he arriv'd at last.

There, lighting from his horse, on hands and knees

Grop'd out the darksome road by slow degrees,

Crawling or clamb'ring o'er the rugged way;

The thunder rolls above, the flames around him play.

Joyful at length he gain'd the steepy height,

And found the rift whence sprang the friendly light.

And here he stopp'd to rest his wearied feet,

And weigh the perils he had still to meet;

Unsheath'd his trusty sword, and dealt his eyes

With caution round him to prevent surprize;

Then summon'd all the forces of his mind,

And ent'ring boldly cast his fears behind,

Resolv'd to push his way, whate'er withstood,

Or perish bravely, as a monarch should.

While he the wonders of the place survey'd,

And through the various cells at random stray'd,

In a dark corner of the cave he view'd

Somewhat, that in the shape of woman stood;

But more deform'd than dreams can represent

The midnight hag, or poet's fancy paint

The Lapland witch, when she her broom bestrides,

And scatters storms and tempests as she rides.

She look'd as nature made her to disgrace

Her kind, and cast a blot on all the race;

Her shrivel'd skin, with yellow spots besmear'd,

Like mouldy records seem'd; her eyes were blear'd;

Her feeble limbs with age and palsy shook;

Bent was her body, haggard was her look.

From the dark nook outcrept the filthy crone,

And propp'd upon her crutch came tott'ring on.

The prince in civil guise approach'd the dame,

Told her his piteous case, and whence he came,

And 'till Aurora should the shades expel,

Implor'd a lodging in her friendly cell.

Mortal, whoe'er thou art, the fiend began,

And, as she spake, a deadly horror ran

Through all his frame: his cheeks the blood forsook,

Chatter'd his teeth, his knees together struck.

Whoe'er thou art, that with presumption rude

Dar'st on our sacred privacy intrude,

And without licence in our court appear,

Know, thou'rt the first that ever enter'd here.

But since thou plead'st excuse, thou'rt hither brought

More by thy fortune than thy own default,

Thy crime, though great, an easy pardon finds,

For mercy ever dwells in royal minds;

And would you learn from whose indulgent hand

You live, and in whose aweful presence stand,

Know farther, through yon wide extended plains

Great Eolus the king of tempeus reigns,

And in this lofty palace makes abode,

Well suited to his state, and worthy of the God.

The various elements his empire own,

And pay their humble homage at his throne;

And hither all the storms and clouds resort,

Proud to increase the splendor of his court.

His queen am I, from whom the beauteous race

Of winds arose, sweet fruit of our embrace!

She scarce had ended, when, with wild uproar

And horrid din, her sons impetuous pour

Around the cave; came rushing in amain

Lybs, Eurus, Boreas, all the boist'rous train;

And close behind them on a whirlwind rode

In clouded majesty the blust'ring God.

Their locks a thousand ways were blown about;

Their cheeks like full-blown bladders strutted out;

Their boasting talk was of the feats th' had done,

Of trees uprooted, and of towns o'erthrown;

And, when they kindly turn'd them to accost

The prince, they almost pierc'd him with their frost.

The gaping hag in fix'd attention stood,

And at the close of every tale cried—'Good!'

Blessing with outstretch'd arms each darling son,

In due proportion to the mischief done.

And where, said she, does little Zephyr stray?

Know ye, my sons, your brother's rout to-day?

In what bold deeds does he his hours employ?

Grant heav'n no evil has befall'n my boy!

Ne'er was he known to linger thus before.

Scarce had she spoke, when at the cavern door

Came lightly tripping in a form more fair

Than the young poet's fond ideas are,

When fir'd with love he tries his utmost art

To paint the beauteous tyrant of his heart.

A satin vest his slender shape confin'd,

Embroider'd o'er with flowers of every kind,

Flora's own work, when first the goddess strove

To win the little wanderer to her love.

Of burnish'd silver were his sandals made,

Silver his buskins, and with gems o'erlaid;

A saffron-colour'd robe behind him flow'd,

And added grace and grandeur as he trod.

His wings, than lilies whiter to behold,

Sprinkled with azure spots, and streak'd with gold;

So thin their form, and of so light a kind,

That they for ever danc'd, and flutter'd in the wind.

Around his temples, with becoming air,

In wanton ringlets curl'd his auburn hair,

And o'er his shoulders negligently spread;

A wreath of fragrant roses crown'd his head.

Such his attire, but O! no pen can trace,

No words can shew the beauties of his face;

So kind! so winning! so divinely fair!

Eternal youth and pleasure flourish there;

There all the little Loves and Graces meet,

And every thing that's soft, and every thing that's sweet.

Thou vagrant, cried the dame in angry tone,

Where could'st thou loiter thus so long alone?

Little thou car'st what anxious thoughts molest,

What pangs are lab'ring in a mother's breast.

Well do you shew your duty by your haste,

For thou of all my sons art always last;

A child less fondled would have fled more fast.

Sure 'tis a curse on mothers, doom'd to mourn,

Where best they love, the least and worst return.

My dear mama, the gentle youth replied,

And made a low obeisance, cease to chide,

Nor wound me with your words, for well you know

Your Zephyr bears a part in all your woe;

How great must be his sorrow then to learn

That he himself's the cause of your concern!

Nor had I loiter'd thus had I been free,

But the fair princess of Felicity

Intreated me to make some short delay.

And, ask'd by her, who could refuse to stay?

Surrounded by the damsels of her court,

She sought the shady grove, her lov'd resort;

Fresh rose the grass, the flowers were mix'd between,

Like rich embroid'ry on a ground of green,

And in the midst, protected by the shade,

A crystal stream in wild meanders play'd;

While in its banks, the trembling leaves among,

A thousand little birds in concert sung.

Close by a mount with fragrant shrubs o'ergrown,

On a cool mossy couch she laid her down;

Her air, her posture, all conspir'd to please;

Her head, upon her snowy arm at ease

Reclin'd, a studied carelessness express'd;

Loose lay her robe, and naked heav'd her breast.

Eager I slew to that delightful place,

And pour'd a shower of kisses on her face;

Now hover'd o'er her neck, her breast, her arms,

Like bees o'er flowers, and tasted all her charms;

And then her lips, and then her cheeks I tried,

And fann'd, and wanton'd round on every side.

O Zephyr, cried the fair, thou charming boy,

Thy presence only can create me joy;

To me thou art beyond expression dear,

Nor can I quit the place while thou art here.

Excuse my weakness, madam, when I swear

Such gentle words, join'd with so soft an air,

Pronounc'd so sweetly from a mouth so fair,

Quite ravish'd all my sense, nor did I know,

How long I staid; or when, or where to go.

Meanwhile the damsels, debonnair and gay,

Prattled around, and laugh'd the time away:

These in soft notes address'd the ravish'd ear,

And warbled out so sweet, 'twas heav'n to hear;

And those in rings, beneath the greenwood shade,

Danc'd to the melody their fellows made.

Some, studious of themselves, employ'd their care

In weaving flowery wreaths to deck their hair;

While others to some fav'rite plant convey'd

Refreshing showers, and cheer'd its drooping head.

A joy so general spread through all the place,

Such satisfaction dwelt on every face,

The nymphs so kind, so lovely look'd the queen,

That never eye beheld a sweeter scene.

Porsenna like a statue fix'd appear'd,

And, wrapp'd in silent wonder, gaz'd and heard;

Much he admir'd the speech, the speaker more,

And dwelt on every word, and griev'd to find it o'er.

O gentle youth, he cried, proceed to tell,

In what fair country does this princess dwell;

What regions unexplor'd, what hidden coast

Can so much goodness, so much beauty boast?

To whom the winged god with gracious look,

Numberless sweets diffusing while he spoke,

Thus answer'd kind—These happy gardens lie

Far hence remov'd, beneath a milder sky;

Their name—The kingdom of Felicity.

Sweet scenes of endless bliss, enchanted ground,

A soil for ever sought, but seldom found;

Though in the search all human kind in vain

Weary their wits, and waste their lives in pain.

In diff'rent parties, diff'rent paths they tread,

As reason guides them, or as follies lead;

These wrangling for the place they ne'er shall see,

Debating those, if such a place there be;

But not the wisest, nor the best, can say

Where lies the point, or mark the certain way.

Some few, by Fortune favour'd for her sport,

Have sail'd in sight of this delightful port;

In thought already seiz'd the bless'd abodes,

And in their fond delirium rank'd with gods.

Fruitless attempt! all avenues are kept

By dreadful foes, sentry that never slept.

Here fell Detraction darts her pois'nous breath

Fraught with a thousand stings, and scatters death;

Sharp-sighted Envy there maintains her post,

And shakes her flaming brand, and stalks around the coast.

These on the helpless bark their fury pour,

Plunge in the waves, or dash against the shore;

Teach wretched mortals they were doom'd to mourn,

And ne'er must rest but in the silent urn.

But say, young monarch, for what name you bear

Your mien, your dress, your person, all declare;

And though I seldom fan the frozen north,

Yet I have heard of brave Porsenna's worth.

My brother Boreas through the world has flown,

Swelling his breath to spread forth your renown;

Say, would you choose to visit this retreat,

And view the world where all these wonders meet?

Wish you some friend o'er that tempestuous sea

To bear you safe! behold that friend in me.

My active wings shall all their force employ,

And nimbly waft you to the realms of joy;

As once, to gratify the god of Love,

I bore fair Psyche to the Cyprian grove;

Or as Jove's bird, descending from on high,

Snatch'd the young Trojan trembling to the sky.

There perfect bliss thou may'st for ever share,

'Scap'd from the busy world, and all its care;

There in the lovely princess thou shalt find

A mistress ever blooming, ever kind.

All ecstacy on air Porsenna trod,

And to his bosom strain'd the little god;

With grateful sentiments his heart o'erflow'd,

And in the warmest words millions of thanks bestow'd.

When Eolus in surly humour broke

Their strict embrace, and thus abruptly spoke.

Enough of compliment; I hate the sport

Of meanless words; this is no human court,

Where plain and honest are discarded quite,

For the more modish title of polite;

Where in soft speeches hypocrites impart

The venom'd ills that lurk beneath the heart;

In friendship's holy guise their guilt improve,

And kindly kill with specious shew of love.

For us,—my subjects are not us'd to wait,

And waste their hours to hear a mortal prate;

They must abroad before the rising sun,

And hie 'em to the seas: there's mischief to be done.

Excuse my plainness, Sir, but business stands,

And we have storms and shipwrecks on our hands.

He ended frowning, and the noisy rout

Each to his several cell went puffing out.

But Zephyr, far more courteous than the rest,

To his own bower convey'd the royal guest;

There on a bed of roses neatly laid,

Beneath the fragrance of a myrtle shade,

His limbs to needful rest the prince applied,

His sweet companion slumb'ring by his side.

BOOK II.

NO sooner in her silver chariot rose

The ruddy morn, than, sated with repose,

The prince address'd his host; the God awoke,

And leaping from his couch, thus kindly spoke:

This early call, my lord, that chides my stay,

Requires my thanks, and I with joy obey.

Like you I long to reach the blissful coast,

Hate the slow night, and mourn the moments lost.

The bright Rosinda, loveliest of the fair

That crowd the princess' court, demands my care;

Ev'n now with fears and jealousies o'erborn

Upbraids, and calls me cruel and forsworn.

What sweet rewards on all my toils attend,

Serving at once my mistress and my friend!

Just to my love and to my duty too,

Well paid in her, well pleas'd in pleasing you.

This said, he led him to the cavern gate,

And clasp'd him in his arms, and pois'd his weight;

Then, balancing his body here and there,

Stretch'd forth his agile wings, and launch'd in air;

Swift as the fiery meteor from on high

Shoots to its goal, and gleams athwart the sky.

Here with quick fan his lab'ring pinions play;

There glide at ease along the liquid way;

Now lightly skim the plain with even flight;

Now proudly soar above the mountain's height.

Spiteful Detraction, whose envenom'd hate

Sports with the suff'rings of the good and great,

Spares not our prince, but with opprobrious sneer

Arraigns him of the heinous sin of fear;

That he, so tried in arms, whose very name

Infus'd a secret panic where it came,

Ev'n he, as high above the clouds he flew,

And spied the mountains less'ning to the view,

Nought round him but the wide expanded air,

Helpless, abandon'd to a stripling's care,

Struck with the rapid whirl, and dreadful height,

Confess'd some faint alarm, some little fright.

The friendly God, who instantly divin'd

The terrors that possess'd his fellow's mind,

To calm his troubled thoughts, and cheat the way,

Describ'd the nations that beneath them lay,

The name, the climate, and the soil's increase,

Their arms in war, their government in peace;

Shew'd their domestic arts, their foreign trade,

What int'rest they pursued, what leagues they made.

The sweet discourse so charm'd Porsenna's ear,

That lost in joy he had no time for fear.

From Scandinavia's cold inclement waste

O'er wide Germania's various realms they past,

And now on Albion's fields suspend their toil,

And hover for a while, and bless the soil.

O'er the gay scene the prince delighted hung,

And gaz'd in rapture, and forgot his tongue;

'Till bursting forth at length, Behold, cried he,

The promis'd isle, the land I long'd to see;

Those plains, those vales, and fruitful hills declare

My queen, my charmer must inhabit there.

Thus rav'd the monarch, and the gentle guide,

Pleas'd with his error, thus in smiles replied.

I must applaud, my lord, the lucky thought;

Ev'n I, who know th'original, am caught,

And doubt my senses, when I view the draught.

The slow-ascending hill, the lofty wood

That mantles o'er its brow, the silver flood

Wand'ring in mazes through the flow'ry mead,

The herd that in the plenteous pastures feed,

And every object, every scene excites

Fresh wonder in my soul, and fills with new delights:

Dwells cheerful Plenty there, and learned Ease,

And Art with Nature seems at strife to please.

There Liberty, delightful goddess, reigns,

Gladdens each heart, and gilds the fertile plains;

There firmly seated may she ever smile,

And show'r her blessings o'er her fav'rite isle!

But see, the rising sun reproves our stay.

He said, and to the ocean wing'd his way,

Stretching his course to climates then unknown,

Nations that swelter in the burning zone.

There in Peruvian vales a moment staid,

And smooth'd his wings beneath the citron shade;

Then swift his oary pinions plied again,

Cross'd the new world, and sought the Southern main;

Where many a wet and weary league o'erpast,

The wish'd-for paradise appear'd at last.

With force abated now they gently sweep

O'er the smooth surface of the shining deep;

The Dryads hail'd them from the distant shore,

The Nereids play'd around, the Tritons swam before,

While soft Favonius their arrival greets,

And breathes his welcome in a thousand sweets.

Nor pale disease, nor health-consuming care,

Nor wrath, nor foul revenge, can enter there;

No vapour'd foggy gloom imbrowns the sky;

No tempests rage, no angry lightnings fly;

But dews, and soft refreshing airs are found,

And pure aetherial azure shines around.

Whate'er the sweet Sabaean soil can boast,

Or Mecca's plains, or India's spicy coast;

What Hybla's hills, or rich Oebalia's fields,

Or flow'ry vale of fam'd Hymettus yields;

Or what of old th' Hesperian orchard grac'd;

All that was e'er delicious to the taste,

Sweet to the smell, or lovely to the view,

Collected there with added beauty grew.

High-tow'ring to the Heavens the trees are seen.

Their bulk immense, their leaf for ever green;

So closely interwove, the tell-tale sun

Can ne'er descry the deeds beneath them done,

But where by sits the sportive gales divide

Their tender tops, and fan the leaves aside.

Like a smooth carpet at their feet lies spread

The matted grass, by bubbling fountains fed;

And on each bough the feather'd choir employ

Their melting notes, and nought is heard but joy.

The painted flowers exhale a rich perfume,

The fruits are mingled with eternal bloom,

And Spring and Autumn hand in hand appear,

Lead on the merry months, and join to cloath the year.

Here, o'er the mountain's shaggy summit pour'd,

From rock to rock the tumbling torrent roar'd,

While beauteons Iris in the vale below

Paints on the rising fumes her radiant bow.

Now through the meads the mazy current stray'd,

Now hid its wand'rings in the myrtle shade;

Or in a thousand veins divides its store,

Visits each plant, refreshes every flower;

O'er gems and golden sands ha murmurs flows,

And sweetly soothes the soul, and lulls to soft repose.

If hunger call, no sooner can the mind

Express her will to needful food inclin'd,

But in some cool recess, or op'ning glade,

The seats are plac'd; the tables neatly laid,

And instantly convey'd by magic hand

In comely rows the costly dishes stand;

Meats of all kinds that nature can impart,

Prepar'd in all the nicest forms of art.

A troop of sprightly nymphs array'd in green,

With flow'ry chaplets crown'd, come scudding in;

With fragrant blossoms these adorn the feast,

Those with officious zeal attend the guest;

Beneath his feet the silken carpet spread,

Or sprinkle liquid odours o'er his head.

Others in ruby cups with roses bound,

Delightful! deal the sparkling nectar round;

Or weave the dance, or tune the vocal lay;

The lyres resound, the merry minstrels play;

Gay health, and youthful joys o'erspread the place,

And swell each heart, and triumph in each face.

So, when embolden'd by the vernal air,

The busy bees to blooming fields repair;

For various use employ their chymic pow'r;

One culls the snowy pounce, one sucks the flow'r;

Again to diff'rent works returning home,

Some [a] steeve the honey, some erect the comb;

All for the general good in concert strive,

And ever soul's in motion, every limb's alive.

And now descending from his flight, the God

On the green turf releas'd his precious load;

There, after mutual salutations past,

And endless friendship vow'd, they part in haste;

Zephyr impatient to behold his love,

The prince in raptures wand'ring through the grove,

Now skipping on, and singing as he went,

Now stopping short to give his transports vent;

With sudden gusts of happiness oppress'd,

Or stands entranc'd, or raves like one possess'd;

His mind afloat, his wand'ring senses quite

O'ercome with charms, and frantic with delight;

From scene to scene by random steps convey'd,

Admires the distant views, explores the secret shade,

Dwells on each spot, with eager eye devours

The woods, the lawns, the buildings, and the bowers;

New sweets, new joys at every glance arise,

And every turn creates a fresh surprize.

Close by the borders of a rising wood,

In a green vale a crystal grotto stood;

And o'er its side, beneath a beechen shade,

In broken falls a silver fountain play'd.

Hither, attracted by the murm'ring stream,

And cool recess, the pleas'd Porsenna came,

And on the tender grass reclining chose

To wave his joys awhile, and take a short repose.

The scene invites him, and the wanton breeze

That whispers through the vale, the dancing trees,

The warbling birds, and rills that gently creep,

All join their music to prolong his sleep.

The princess for her morning walk prepar'd;

The female troops attend, a beauteous guard.

Array'd in all her charms appear'd the fair;

Tall was her stature, unconfin'd her air;

Proportion deck'd her limbs, and in her face

Lay love inshrin'd, lay sweet attractive grace

Temp'ring the aweful beams her eyes convey'd,

And like a lambent flame around her play'd.

No foreign aids, by mortal ladies worn,

From shells and rocks her artless charms adorn;

For grant that beauty were by gems increas'd,

'Tis render'd more suspected at the least;

And foul defects, that would escape the sight,

Start from the piece, and take a stronger light.

Her chesnut hair in careless rings around

Her temples wav'd, with pinks and jes'mine crown'd,

And, gather'd in a silken cord behind,

Curl'd to the waist, and floated in the wind;

O'er these a veil of yellow gauze she wore,

With amaranths and gold embroider'd o'er.

Her snowy neck half naked to the view

Gracefully fell; a robe of purple hue

Hung loosely o'er her slender shape, and tried

To shade those beauties, that it could not hide.

The damsels of her train with mirth and song

Frolic behind, and laugh and sport along.

The birds proclaim their queen from every tree;

The beasts run frisking through the groves to see;

The Loves, the Pleasures, and the Graces meet

In antic rounds, and dance before her feet.

By whate'er fancy led, it chanc'd that day

They through the secret valley took their way,

And to the crystal grot advancing spied

The prince extended by the fountain's side.

He look'd as, by some skilful hand express'd,

Apollo's youthful form retir'd to rest;

When with the chace fatigued he quits the wood

For Pindus' vale, and Aganippe's flood;

There sleeps secure, his careless limbs display'd

At ease, encircled by the laurel shade;

Beneath his head his sheaf of arrows lie,

His bow unbent hangs negligently by.

The slumb'ring prince might boast an equal grace,

So turn'd his limbs, so beautiful his face.

Waking he started from the ground in haste,

And saw the beauteous choir around him plac'd;

Then, summoning his senses, ran to meet

The queen, and laid him humbly at her feet:

Deign, lovely princess, to behold, said he,

One, who has travers'd all the world to see

Those charms, and worship thy divinity:

Accept thy slave, and with a gracious smile

Excuse his rashness, and reward his toil.

Stood motionless the fair with mute surprize,

And read him over with admiring eyes;

And while she stedfast gaz'd, a pleasing smart

Ran thrilling through her veins, and reach'd her heart.

Each limb she scann'd, consider'd every grace,

And sagely judg'd him of the phoenix race.

An animal like this she ne'er had known,

And thence concluded there could be but one;

The creature too had all the phoenix air;

None but the phoenix could appear so fair.

The more she look'd, the more she thought it true,

And call'd him by that name, to shew she knew.

O handsome phoenix, for that such you are

We know: your beauty does your breed declare;

And I with sorrow own through all my coast

No other bird can such perfection boast;

For Nature form'd you single and alone:

Alas! what pity 'tis there is but one!

Were there a queen so fortunate to shew

An aviary of charming birds like you,

What envy would her happiness create

In all, who saw the glories of her state!

The prince laugh'd inwardly, surpriz'd to find

So strange a speech, so innocent a mind.

The compliment indeed did some offence

To reason, and a little wrong'd her sense;

He could not let it pass, but told his name,

And what he was, and whence, and why he came;

And hinted other things of high concern

For him to mention, and for her to learn;

And she 'ad a piercing wit, of wond'rous reach

To comprehend whatever he could teach.

Thus hand in hand they to the palace walk,

Pleas'd and instructed with each other's talk.

Here should I tell the furniture's expence,

And all the structure's vast magnificence,

Describe the walls of shining sapphire made,

With emerald and pearl the floors inlaid,

And how the vaulted canopies unfold

A mimic heav'n, and flame with gems and gold;

Or how Felicity regales her guest,

The wit, the mirth, the music, and the feast;

And on each part bestow the praises due,

'Twould tire the writer, and the render too.

My amorous tale a softer path pursues:

Love and the happy pair demand my Muse.

O could her art in equal terms express

The lives they lead, the pleasures they possess!

Fortune had ne'er so plenteously before

Bestow'd her gifts, nor can she lavish more.

'Tis heaven itself, 'tis ecstacy of bliss,

Uninterrupted joy, untir'd excess;

Mirth following mirth the moments dance away;

Love claims the night, and friendship rules the day.

Their tender care no cold indiff'rence knows;

No jealousies disturb their sweet repose;

No sickness, no decay; but youthful grace,

And constant beauty shines in either face.

Benumming age may mortal charms invade,

Flowers of a day that do but bloom and fade;

Far diff'rent here, on them it only blows

The lily's white, and spreads the blushing rose;

No conquest o'er those radiant eyes can boast;

They like the stars shine brighter in its frost;

Nor fear its rigour, nor its rule obey;

All seasons are the same, and every month is May.

Alas! how vain is happiness below!

Man soon or late must have his share of woe:

Slight are his joys, and fleeting as the wind;

His griefs wound home, and leave a sting behind.

His lot distinguish'd from the brute appears

Less certain by his laughter than his tears;

For ignorance too oft our pleasure breeds,

But sorrow from the reas'ning soul proceeds.

If man on earth in endless bliss could be,

The boon, young prince, had been bestow'd on thee.

Bright shone thy stars, thy Fortune flourish'd fair,

And seem'd secure beyond the reach of care,

And so might still have been, but anxious thought

Has dash'd thy cup, and thou must taste the draught.

It so befel: as on a certain day

This happy couple toy'd their time away,

He ask'd how many charming hours were flown,

Since on her slave her heav'n of beauty shone.

Should I consult my heart, cried he, the rate

Were small, a week would be the utmost date:

But when my mind reflects on actions past,

And counts its joys, time must have fled more fast.

Perhaps I might have said, three months are gone,

Three months! replied the fair, three months alone!

Know that three hundred years have roll'd away,

Since at my feet the lovely phoenix lay.

Three hundred years! re-echoed back the prince,

A whole three hundred years compleated since

I landed here! O! whither then are flown

My dearest friends, my subjects, and my throne?

How strange, alas! how alter'd shall I find

Each earthly thing, each scene I left behind!

Who knows me now! on whom shall I depend

To gain my rights! where shall I find a friend!

My crown perhaps may grace a foreign line,

A race of kings, that know not me nor mine;

Who reigns may wish my death; his subjects treat

My claim with scorn, and call their prince a cheat.

Oh had my life been ended as begun!

My destin'd stage, my race of glory run,

I should have died well pleas'd; my honour'd name

Had liv'd, had flourish'd in the list of fame;

Reflecting now my mind with horror sees

The sad survey, a scene of shameful ease,

The odious blot, the scandal of my race,

Scarce known, and only mention'd with disgrace.

The fair beheld him with impatient eye,

And red with anger made this warm reply:

Ungrateful man! is this the kind return

My love deserves? and can you thus with scorn

Reject what once you priz'd, what once you swore

Surpass'd all charms, and made ev'n glory poor?

What gifts have I bestow'd, what favours shewn!

Made you partaker of my bed and throne;

Three centuries preserv'd in youthful prime,

Safe from the rage of death, and injuries of time.

Weak arguments! for glory reigns above

The feeble ties of gratitude and love.

I urge them not, nor would request your stay;

The phantom glory calls, and I obey;

All other virtues are regardless quite,

Sunk and absorb'd in that superior light.

Go then, barbarian, to thy realms return,

And shew thyself unworthy my concern;

Go, tell the world, your tender heart could give

Death to the princess, by whose care you live.

At this a deadly pale her cheeks o'erspread,

Cold trembling seiz'd her limbs, her spirits fled;

She sunk into his arms: the prince was mov'd,

Felt all her griefs, for still he greatly lov'd.

He sigh'd, he wish'd he could forget his throne,

Confine his thoughts, and live for her alone;

But glory shot him deep, the venom'd dart

Was fix'd within, and rankled at his heart;

He could not hide its wounds, but pin'd away

Like a sick flower, and languish'd in decay.

An age no longer like a month appears,

But every month becomes a hundred years.

Felicity was griev'd, and could not bear

A scene so chang'd, a sight of so much care.

She told him with a look of cold disdain,

And seeming ease, as women well can feign,

He might depart at will; a milder air

Would mend his health; he was no pris'ner there;

She kept him not, and wish'd he ne'er might find

Cause to regret the place he left behind,

Which once he lov'd, and where he still must own

He had at least some little pleasure known.

If these prophetic words awhile destroy

His peace, the former balance it in joy.

He thank'd her for her kind concern, but chose

To quit the place, the rest let heav'n dispose.

For Fate, on mischiefs bent, perverts the will,

And first infatuates whom it means to kill.

Aurora now, not, as she wont to rise,

In gay attire ting'd with a thousand dyes,

But sober-sad in solemn state appears,

Clad in a dusky veil bedew'd with tears.

Thick mantling clouds beneath her chariot spread,

A faded wreath hangs drooping from her head.

The sick'ning sun emits a feeble ray,

Half drown'd in fogs, and struggling into day.

Some black event the threat'ning skies foretel.

Porsenna rose to take his last farewel.

A curious vest the mournful princess brought,

And armour by the Lemnian artist wrought,

A shining lance with secret virtue stor'd,

And of resistless force a magic sword,

Caparisons and gems of wond'rous price,

And loaded him with gifts and good advice;

But chief she gave, and what he most would need,

The fleetest of her stud, a flying steed.

The swift Grisippo, said th' afflicted fair,

(Such was the courser's name) with speed shall bear,

And place you safely in your native air;

Assist against the foe, with matchless might

Ravage the field, and turn the doubtful fight;

With care protect you till the danger cease,

Your trust in war, your ornament in peace.

But this, I warn, beware; whate'er shall lay

To intercept your course, or tempt your stay,

Quit not your saddle, nor your speed abate,

'Till safely landed at your palace gate.

On this alone depends your weal or woe;

Such is the will of Fate, and so the Gods foreshew.

He in the softest terms repaid her love,

And vow'd, nor age, nor absence, should remove

His constant faith, and sure she could not blame

A short divorce due to his injur'd fame.

The debt discharg'd, then should her soldier come

Gay from the field, and, flush'd with conquest, home;

With equal ardour her affection meet,

And lay his laurels at his mistress' feet.

He ceas'd, and sighing took a kind adieu;

Then urg'd his steed; the fierce Grisippo flew;

With rapid force outstripp'd the lagging wind,

And left the blissful shores, and weeping fair behind;

Now o'er the seas pursu'd his airy flight,

Now scower'd the plains, and climb'd the mountain's height.

Thus driving on at speed the prince had run

Near half his course, when, with the setting sun,

As through a lonely lane he chanc'd to ride,

With rocks and bushes fenc'd on either side,

He spied a waggon full of wings, that lay

Broke and o'erturn'd across the narrow way.

The helpless driver on the dirty road

Lay struggling, crush'd beneath th' incumbent load.

Never in human shape was seen before

A wight so pale, so feeble, and so poor.

Comparisons of age would do him wrong,

For Nestor's self, if plac'd by him, were young.

His limbs were naked all, and worn so thin,

The bones seem'd starting through the parchment skin,

His eyes half drown'd in rheum, his accents weak,

Bald was his head, and furrow'd was his cheek.

The conscious steed stopp'd short in deadly fright.

And back recoiling stretch'd his wings for flight,

When thus the wretch with supplicating tone,

And rueful face, began his piteous moan,

And, as he spake, the tears ran trickling down.

O gentle youth, if pity e'er inclin'd

Thy soul to gen'rous deeds, if e'er thy mind

Was touch'd with soft distress, extend thy care

To save an old man's life, and ease the load I bear.

So may propitious heaven your journey speed,

Prolong your days, and all your vows succeed.

Mov'd with the prayer the kind Porsenna staid,

Too nobly-minded to refuse his aid,

And, prudence yielding to superior grief,

Leap'd from his steed, and ran to his relief;

Remov'd the weight, and gave the pris'ner breath,

Just choak'd, and gasping on the verge of death;

Then reach'd his hand, when lightly with a bound

The grizly spectre, vaulting from the ground,

Seiz'd him with sudden gripe, th' astonish'd prince

Stood horror-struck, and thoughtless of defence.

O king of Russia, with a thund'ring sound

Bellow'd the ghastly fiend, at length thou'rt found.

Receive the ruler of mankind, and know,

My name is Time, thy ever-dreaded foe.

These feet are founder'd, and the wings you see

Worn to the pinions in pursuit of thee;

Through all the world in vain for ages sought,

But Fate has doom'd thee now, and thou art caught.

Then round his neck his arms he nimbly cast,

And seiz'd him by the throat, and grasp'd him fast;

Till forc'd at length the soul forsook its seat,

And the pale breathless corse fell bleeding at his feet.

Scarce had the cursed spoiler left his prey,

When, so it chanc'd, young Zephyr pass'd that way;

Too late his presence to assist his friend,

A sad, but helpless witness of his end.

He chafes, and fans, and strives in vain to cure

His streaming wounds; the work was done too sure.

Now lightly with a soft embrace uprears

The lifeless load, and bathes it in his tears;

Then to the blissful seats with speed conveys,

And graceful on the mossy carpet lays

With decent care, close by the fountain's side,

Where first the princess had her phoenix spied.

There with sweet flowers his lovely limbs he strew'd,

And gave a parting kiss, and sighs and tears bestow'd.

To that sad solitude the weeping dame,

Wild with her loss, and swoln with sorrow, came.

There was she wont to vent her griefs, and mourn

Those dear delights that must no more return.

Thither that morn with more than usual care

She sped, but oh what joy to find him there!

As just arriv'd, and weary with the way,

Retir'd to soft repose her hero lay.

Now near approaching she began to creep

With careful steps, loth to disturb his sleep;

'Till quite o'ercome with tenderness she flew,

And round his neck her arms in transport threw.

But, when she found him dead, no tongue can tell

The pangs she felt; she shriek'd, and swooning fell.

Waking, with loud laments she pierc'd the skies,

And fill'd th' affrighted forest with her cries.

That fatal hour the palace gate she barr'd,

And fix'd around the coast a stronger guard;

Now rare appearing, and at distance seen,

With crowds of black misfortunes plac'd between;

Mischiefs of every kind, corroding care,

And fears, and jealousies, and dark despair.

And since that day (the wretched world must own

These mournful truths by sad experience known)

No mortal e'er enjoy'd that happy clime,

And every thing on earth submits to Time.

Notes

a
Or stive, stipant.
↵

THE EVER-GREEN.

BY WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq.

WHEN tepid breezes fann'd the air,

And violets perfum'd the glade,

Pensive and grave my charming fair

Beneath yon shady lime was laid.

Flourish, said I, those favour'd boughs,

And ever sooth the purest flames;

Witness to none but faithful vows!

Wounded by none but faithful names!

Yield every tree that crowns the grove

To this which pleas'd my wandering dear!

Range where you will, ye bands of love,

Ye still shall seem to revel here.

Lavinia smil'd—and whilst her arm

Her fair reclining head sustain'd,

Betray'd she felt some fresh alarm;

And thus the meaning smile explain'd.

When summer suns shine forth no more,

Will then this lime its shelter yield?

Protect us when the tempests roar,

And winter drives us from the field?

Yet faithful then the fir shall last—

I smile, she cry'd, but ah! I tremble,

To think, when my fair season's past,

Which Damon then will most resemble.

ANSWER.

BY THE SAME.

TOO tim'rous maid, can time or chance

A pure ingenuous flame controul?

O lay aside that tender glance,

That melts my frame, that kills my soul.

Were but thy outward charms admir'd,

Frail origin of female sway!

My flame, like other flames inspir'd,

Might then like other flames decay:

But whilst thy mind shall seem thus fair,

Thy soul's unfading charms be seen,

Thou may'st resign that shape and air,

Yet find thy swain—an ever-green.

CANDOUR.

BY THE SAME.

THE warmest friend, I ever prov'd,

My bitterest foe I see:

The kindest maid I ever lov'd,

Is false to love and me.

But shall I make the angry vow,

Which tempts my wavering mind?

Shall dark suspicion cloud my brow,

And bid me shun mankind?

Avaunt, thou hell-born fiend! no more

Pretend my steps to guide;

Let me be cheated o'er and o'er,

But let me still confide.

If this be folly, all my claim

To wisdom I resign;

But let no sage presume to name

His happiness with mine.

LYSANDER TO CLOE.

BY THE SAME.

'TIS true, my wish will never find

Another nymph so fair, so true;

Since all that's bright, and all that's kind,

In those expressive eyes I view.

And I with grateful zeal could haste

To China for the merest toy,

Could scorch on Libya's barren waste,

To give my dear a moment's joy.

But, fickle as the wave or wind,

I once may slight those lovely arms;

Pardon a free ingenuous mind,

I do not half deserve thy charms.

If I in any praise excel,

'Tis in soft themes to paint my flame;

But Chloe's sweetness bids me tell,

I shall not long remain the same.

I know its season will expire,

Replac'd by cool esteem alone;

Nor more thy matchless breast admire,

Than I detest and scorn my own.

This interval my fate allows,

And friendship dictates all I say;

O shun to hear my future vows,

When giddy love resumes the lay.

So some poor maniac can foresee

The random hours of madness nigh;

He mourns the fates' severe decree,

And cautions whom he loves to fly.

CLOE TO LYSANDER.

BY THE SAME.

OF vagrant loves, and fickle flames

Lysander's Muse may tell,

And sure such artless freedom claims

His Cloe's best farewel.

Whene'er his heart becomes the theme

We see his fancy shine;

But let not vain Lysander dream

That e'er that heart was mine.

Can he that fondly hopes to move,

With caution chill his lay?

Can he who feels the power of love,

Foretel that love's decay?

Why teize believing nymphs in vain?

Go seek some pathless vale,

And listen to thy vocal strain

Soft echoing down the dale.

While artless Cloe, hence retir'd,

Shall this sad maxim prove;

No bosom, once with love inspir'd,

Could ever cease to love.

TO THE MEMORY OF AN AGREEABLE LADY BURYEB IN MARRIAGE TO A PERSON UNDESERVING HER.

'TWAS always held, and ever will,

By sage mankind, discreeter

T' anticipate a lesser ill

Than undergo a greater.

When mortals dread diseases, pain,

And languishing conditions;

Who don't the lesser ills sustain

Of physic and physicians?

Rather than lose his whole estate,

He that but little wise is,

Full gladly pays four parts in eight

To taxes and excises.

With numerous ills in single life

The batchelor's attended;

Such to avoid, he takes a wife—

And much the case is mended.

Poor Gratia, in her twentieth year,

Foreseeing future woe,

Chose to attend a monkey here,

Before an ape below.

AN ELEGY, WRITTEN ON VALENTINE MORNING.

BY * * * *

HARK, through the sacred silence of the night,

Loud Chanticleer doth sound his clarion shrill,

Hailing with song the first pale gleam of light,

That floats the dark brow of yon eastern hill.

Bright star of morn, oh! leave not yet the wave,

To deck the dewy frontlet of the day,

Nor thou, Aurora, quit Tithonus' cave,

Nor drive retiring darkness yet away,

Ere these my rustic hands a garland twine,

Ere yet my tongue indite a simple song,

For her I mean to hail my Valentine,

Sweet maiden, fairest of the virgin throng.

Sweet is the morn, and sweet the gentle breeze

That fans the fragrant bosom of the spring,

Sweet chirps the lark, and sweeter far than these

The gentle love-song gurgling turtles sing.

Oh let the flowers be fragrant as the morn,

And as the turtle's song my ditty sweet:

Those flowers my woven chaplet must adorn,

That ditty must my waking charmer greet.

And thou, blest saint, whom choral creatures join

In one enlivening symphony to hail,

Oh be propitious, gentle Valentine,

And let each holy tender sigh prevail.

Oh give me to approach my sleeping love,

And strew her pillow with the freshest flowers,

No figh unhallow'd shall my bosom move,

Nor step prophane pollute my true-love's bowers.

At sacred distance only will I gaze,

Nor bid my unreproved eye refrain,

Mean while my tongue shall chaunt her beauty's praise,

And hail her sleeping with the gentlest strain.

"Awake my fair, awake, for it is time;

Hark, thousand songsters rise from yonder grove,

And rising carol this sweet hour of prime,

Each to his mate, a roundelay of love.

All nature sings the hymeneal song,

All nature follows, where the spring invites;

Come forth, my love, to us these joys belong,

Ours is the spring, and all her young delights.

For us she throws profusely forth her flowers,

Which in fresh chaplets joyful I will twine;

Come forth, my fair, oh do not lose these hours,

But wake, and be my faithful Valentine.

Full many an hour, all lonely have I sigh'd,

Nor dared the secret of my love reveal,

Full many a fond expedient have I tried

My warmest wish in silence to conceal.

And oft to far retired solitude

All mournfully my slow step have I bent,

Luxurious there indulg'd my musing mood,

And there alone have given my sorrows vent.

This day resolv'd I dare to plight my vow,

This day, long since the feast of love decreed,

Embolden'd will I speak my flame, nor thou

Refuse to hear how sore my heart does bleed.

Yet if I should behold my love awake,

Ah, frail resolves, ah whither will ye fly?

Full well I know I shall not silence break,

But struck with awe almost for fear shall die.

Oh no, I will not trust a fault'ring speech

In broken phrase an aukward tale to tell

A tale, whose tenderness no tongue can reach,

Nor softest melody can utter well.

But my meek eye, best herald to my heart,

I will compose to soft and downcast look,

And at one humble glance it shall impart

My love, nor fear the language be mistook.

For she shall read (apt scholar at this lore)

With what fond passion my true bosom glows,

How hopeless of return I still adore,

Nor dare the boldness of my wish disclose.

Should she then smile,—yet ah! she smiles on all,

Her gentle temper pities all distress;

On every hill, each vale, the sun-beams fall,

Each herb, and flower, each tree, and shrub they bless.

Alike all nature grateful owns the boon,

The universal ray to all is free;

Like fond Endymion should I hope the moon,

Because among the rest she shines on me?

Hope, vain presumer, keep, oh keep away:

Ev'n if my woe her gentle bosom move,

Pity some look of kindness may display;

But each soft glance is not a look of love.

Yet, heav'nly visitant, thou dost not quit

Those bow'rs where angels sweet division sing,

Nor deignest thou on mortal shrine to sit

Alone, for round thee ever on the wing,

Glad choirs of love, attend, and hov'ring wait

Thy mild command; of these thy blooming train

Oh bid some sylph in morning dreams relate,

Ere yet my love awake, my secret pain.

THE DOWAGER.

BY THE SAME.

WHERE aged elms, in many a goodly row,

Give yearly shelter to the constant crow,

A mansion stands:—long since the pile was rais'd,

Whose Gothic grandeur the rude hind amaz'd.

For the rich ornament on every part

Confess'd the founder's wealth, and workman's art:

Though as the range of the wide court we tread,

The broken arch now totters o'er the head;

And where of old rose high the social smoke,

Now swallows build, and lonely ravens croak.

Though Time, whose touch each beauty can deface,

Has torn from every tow'r the sculptur'd grace;

Though round each stone the sluggard ivy crawls;

Yet ancient state sits hov'ring on the walls.

Where wont the festal chorus to resound,

And jocund dancing frequent beat the ground,

Now silence spreads around her gloomy reign,

Save when the mastiff clanks his iron chain,

Save when his hoarse bark echoes dire alarm,

Fierce to protect the place from midnight harm,

Its only guard; no revel sounding late

Drives the night villain from the lonely gate.

An hallow'd matron and her simple train

These solemn battlements alone contain;

An hoary dowager, whose placid face

Old age has deck'd with lovely aweful grace;

With almost vernal bloom her cheek still strow'd,

As beauty ling'ring left her lov'd abode;

That lov'd abode, where join'd with truth and sense

She form'd the features to mute eloquence,

And bade them charm the still attentive throng,

Who watch'd the sacred lessons of her tongue.

For not through life the dame had liv'd retir'd,

But once had shone, e'en midst a court admir'd:

What time the lov'd possessor of her charms

Returning from the war in victor arms,

Call'd from his monarch's tongue the plausive praise,

While honour wreath'd him with unfading bays.

She, happy partner of each joyful hour,

Then walk'd serene amid the pomp of pow'r:

While all confess'd no warrior's wish could move

For fairer prize than such accomplished love:

Nor to that love could aught more transport yield,

Than graceful valour from the victor field.

Thus flourish'd once the beauteous and the brave;

But mortal bliss meets the untimely grave:

Aurelius died—his relict's pious tear

O'er his lov'd ashes frequent flow'd sincere,

Each decent rite with due observance paid,

Each solemn requiem offered to his shade,

Plac'd 'mid the brave his urn in holy ground,

And bade his hallow'd banners wave around.

Then left the gaudy scenes of pomp and power,

While prudence beckon'd to that ancient bower,

And those paternal fields, the sole remains

Of ample woods and far-extended plains,

Which tyrant custom rudely tore away,

To distant heirship an expected prey.

Serene she sought the far retired grove,

Once the bless'd mansion of her happy love,

Pleas'd with the thought, that memory oft would raise

A solemn prospect of those blooming days

Aurelius gave; her pious purpose now

To keep still constant to her sacred vow,

In lonely luxury her sorrows feed,

And pass her life in widow's decent weed.

One pledge of love her comfort still remain'd,

Whom in this solitude she careful train'd

To virtuous lore; and while as year by year

New graces made Aurelia still more dear;

Full many an hour unheeded she would trace

The father's semblance in the daughter's face;

While tender sighs oft heav'd her faithful breast,

And sudden tears her lasting love exprest.

Thus long she dwelt in innate virtues great,

Amid the villages in sacred state:

For every grace to which submission bows,

The pow'r which conscious dignity bestows,

She felt superior; for from ancient race

She gloried her long ancestry to trace;

And ever bade Aurelia's thought aspire

To every grace, each ray of sacred fire,

That full of heav'n-born dignity informs

The mortal breast which ardent virtue warms;

Then led her to the venerable hall

Where her successive fires adorn'd the wall,

And arched windows with their blazon bright

Shed through the herald glow a solemn light;

There clad in rough habiliments of war

Full many a hero bore a glorious scar;

There in the civic fur the sons of peace,

Whose counsels bade their country's tumults cease;

While by their side, gracing the ancient scene,

Hung gentle ladies of most comely mien.

Then eager through the well-known tale she run,

In what fair cause each honour had been won,

What female grace each virgin had possess'd

To charm to gentle love the manly breast;

Pleas'd to observe how long her gen'rous blood

Through fair and brave had pass'd a spotless flood.

Mean while the young Aurelia's bosom fir'd

With emulation by each tale inspir'd,

In eager transport frequent breath'd her prayer

The graces of her ancestry to share:

Nor breath'd in vain, her fond maternal guide

Cherish'd with care each spark of virtuous pride;

And ever as she gave a lesson new,

Would point some old example to her view:

Inflam'd by this, her mind was quickly fraught

With each sage precept, that her mother taught.

The goodly dame, thus bless'd in her employ,

Felt each soft transport of parental joy,

And liv'd content, her utmost wish fulfill'd

In the fair prospect of a virtuous child:

Resign'd she waited now the aweful hour

When death should raise her to that heav'nly bow'r,

Where with her lov'd Aurelius she might share

The pleasing task, to watch with guardian care

Their offspring's steps, and hov'ring o'er her head,

The gracious dew of heavenly peace to shed;

Nor fear'd her decency of life would prove

An added bliss to all the joys above.

ODE TO THE HONOURABLE * * * *.

BY MR. F. COVENTRY.

NOW Britain's senate, far renown'd,

Assembles full an aweful band!

Now Majesty, with golden circle crown'd,

Mounts her bright throne, and waves her gracious hand.

"Ye chiefs of Albion with attention hear,

"Guard well your liberties, review your laws,

"Begin, begin th' important year,

"And boldly speak in Freedom's cause."

Then starting from her summer's rest

Glad Eloquence unbinds her tongue.

She feels rekindling raptures wake her breast,

And pours the sacred energy along.

'Twas here great Hampden's patriot voice was heard,

Here Pym, Kimbolton fir'd the British soul,

When Pow'r her arm despotic rear'd

But felt a senate's great controul.

'Twas here the pond'ring worthies sat,

Who fix'd the crown on William's head,

When awe-struck Tyranny renounc'd the state,

And bigot JAMES his injur'd kingdoms fled.

Thee, generous youth, whom nature, birth adorn,

The Muse selects from yon assembled throng;

O thou to serve thy country born,

Tell me, young hero of my song,

Thy genius now in fairest bloom,

And warm with fancy's brightest rays,

Why sleeps thy soul unconscious of its doom?

Why idly fleet thy unapplauded days?

Thy country beckons thee with lifted hand,

Arise, she calls, awake thy latent flame,

Arise, 'tis England's high command,

And snatch the ready wreaths of fame.

Be this thy passion; greatly dare

A people's jarring wills to sway,

With curst Corruption wage eternal war,

That where thou goest, applauding crowds may say,

"Lo, that is he, whose spirit-ruling voice

"From her wild heights can call Ambition down,

"Can still Sedition's brutal noise,

"Or shake a tyrant's purple throne:"

Then chiefs, and sages yet unborn

Shall boast thy thoughts in distant days,

With thee fair History her leaves adorn,

And laurell'd bards proclaim thy lasting praise.

To MISS ****. BY MISS ELIZA CARTER.

I.

THE midnight moon serenely smiles

O'er nature's soft repose,

No lowring cloud obscures the skies,

Nor ruffling tempest blows.

II.

Now every passion sinks to rest,

The throbbing heart lies still,

And varying schemes of life no more

Distract the labouring will.

III.

In silence hush'd, to reason's voice

Attends each mental power;

Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy

Reflection's favourite hour.

IV.

Come: while this peaceful scene invites,

Let's search this ample round;

Where shall the lovely fleeting form

Of Happiness be found?

V.

Does it amidst the frolic mirth

Of gay assemblies dwell?

Or hide beneath the solemn gloom

That shades the hermit's cell?

VI.

How oft the laughing brow of joy

A sick'ning heart conceals,

And through the cloister's deep recess

Invading sorrow steals.

VII.

In vain through beauty, fortune, wit,

The fugitive we trace!

It dwells not in the faithless smile

That brightens Clodio's face.

VIII.

Perhaps the joy to these deny'd,

The heart in friendship finds:

Ah! dear delusion! gay conceit

Of visionary minds!

IX.

Howe'er our varying notions rove,

All yet agree, in one,

To place its being in some state

At distance from our own.

X.

O blind to each indulgent aim

Of power, supremely wise,

Who fancy happiness in aught

The hand of Heav'n denies.

XI.

Vain is alike the joy we seek,

And vain what we possess,

Unless harmonious reason tunes

The passions into peace.

XII.

To temper'd wishes, just desires,

Is happiness confin'd,

And deaf to folly's call attends

The music of the mind.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE, TO SIR WILLIAM YONGE[a].

I.

DEAR Colin, prevent my warm blushes,

Since how can I speak without pain?

My eyes have oft told you their wishes,

Ah! can't you their meaning explain?

My passion would lose by expression,

And you too might cruelly blame:

Then don't you expect a confession

Of what is too tender to name.

II.

Since yours is the province of speaking,

Why should you expect it of me?

Our wishes should be in our keeping,

'Till you tell us what they should be.

Then quickly why don't you discover?

Did your breast feel tortures like mine,

Eyes need not tell over and over

What I in my bosom confine.

Notes

a
Sir William Yonge of Escot, in the County of Devon, Bart. a gentleman who made a distinguished figure in the political world during the reign of King George the Second. He was uniformly attached to the measures of Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Lord Orford, and generally in possession of some lucrative post under government. On reviving the order of the Bath in 1725, he had the honour to be named one of the Knights Companions. His death happened on August 10, 1755.
↵

SIR WILLIAM YONGE'S ANSWER.

I.

GOOD madam, when ladies are willing,

A man must needs look like a fool;

For me, I would not give a shilling

For one that is kind out of rule.

At least you might stay for my offer,

Not snatch like old maids in despair,

If you've liv'd to these years without proffer,

Your sighs are now lost in the air.

II.

You might leave me to guess by your blushing,

And not speak the matter so plain;

'Tis ours to pursue and be pushing,

'Tis yours to affect a disdain.

That you're in a pitiful taking,

By all your sweet ogles I see;

But the fruit that will fall without shaking

Indeed is too mellow for me.

MISS SOPER's Answer to a LADY, who invited her to retire into a monastic Life at ST. CROSS, near WINCHESTER.

I.

IN vain, mistaken maid, you'd fly

To defart and to shade;

But since you call, for once I'll try

How well your vows are made.

II.

To noise and cares let's bid adieu,

And solitude commend.

But how the world will envy you,

And pity me your friend!

III.

You, like rich metal hid in earth,

Each swain will dig to find;

But I expect no second birth,

For dross is left behind.

REPENTANCE.

BY THE SAME.

I.

ALL attendants apart,

I examin'd my heart,

Last night when I lay'd me to rest;

And methinks I'm inclin'd

To a change of my mind,

For, you know, second thoughts are the best.

II.

To retire from the crowd,

And make ourselves good,

By avoiding of every temptation,

Is in truth to reveal

What we'd better conceal,

That our passions want some regulation.

III.

It will much more redound

To our praise to be found,

In a world so abounding with evil,

Unspotted and pure;

Though not so demure,

As to wage open war with the devil.

IV.

Then bidding farewell

To the thoughts of a cell,

I'll prepare for a militant life;

And if brought to distress▪

Why then—I'll confess,

And do penance in shape of a wift.

A SONG BY T. PERCY[a].

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town:

Can silent glens have charms for thee,

The lowly cot and russet gown?

No longer dress'd in silken sheen,

No longer deck'd with jewels rare,

Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?

Say, canst thou face the parching ray,

Nor shrink before the wintry wind?

O can that soft and gentle mien

Extremes of hardship learn to bear,

Nor sad regret each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen with me to go,

Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of woe?

Say, should disease or pain befal,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,

Nor wistful those gay scenes recall

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath?

Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And chear with smiles the bed of death?

And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay

Strew flow'rs, and drop the tender tear,

Nor then regret those scenes so gay,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

Notes

a
Thomas Percy, D. D. now Dean of Carlisle.
↵

CYNTHIA, AN ELEGIAC POEM.

BY THE SAME.

— Libeat tibi Cynthia mecum

Roscida muscofis antra tenere jugis.

PROPERT.

BENEATH an aged oak's embow'ring shade,

Whose spreading arms with gray moss fringed were,

Around whose trunk the clasping ivy stray'd;

A love-lorn youth oft pensive would repair.

Fast by, a Naïd taught her stream to glide,

Which through the dale a winding channel wore:

The silver willow deck'd its verdant side,

The whisp'ring sedges wav'd along the shore.

Here oft, when Morn peep'd o'er the dusky hill;

Here oft when Eve bedew'd the misty vale;

Careless he laid him all beside the rill,

And pour'd in strains like these his artless tale.

Ah! would he say—and then a sigh would heave:

Ah, Cynthia! sweeter than the breath of morn,

Soft as the gentle breath that fans at eve,

Of thee bereft, how shall I live forlorn?

Ah! what avails this sweetly solemn bow'r,

That silent stream where dimpling eddies play;

Yon thymy bank bedeck'd with many a flow'r,

Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day?

Robb'd of my love, for how can these delight,

Though lavish Spring her smiles around has cast!

Despair, alas! that whelms the soul in night,

Dims the sad eye and deadens every taste.

As droops the lily at the blighting gale;

Or [a] crimson-spotted cowslip of the mead,

Whose tender stalk (alas! their stalk so frail)

Some hasty foot hath bruis'd with heedless tread:

As droops the woodbine, when some village hind

Hath fell'd the sapling elm it fondly bound;

No more it gadding dances in the wind,

But trails its fading beauties on the ground:

So droops my soul, dear maid, downcast, and sad,

For ever! ah! for ever torn from thee;

Bereft of each sweet hope, which once it had,

When love, when treacherous love first smil'd on me.

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Return, blest days, return, ye laughing hours,

Which led me up the roseat steep of youth;

Which strew'd my simple path with vernal flow'rs,

And bade me court chaste Science and fair Truth.

Ye know, the curling breeze, or gilded fly

That idly wantons in the noon-tide air,

Was not so free, was not so gay as I,

For ah! I knew not then or love, or care.

Witness, ye winged daughters of the year,

If e'er a sigh had learnt to heave my breast!

If e'er my cheek was conscious of a tear,

'Till Cynthia came and robb'd my soul of rest!

O have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew,

The budding rose its infant bloom display;

When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks and scarcely trusts the blaze of day?

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,

Youth's-damask glow just dawning on her cheek:

I gaz'd, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame,

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion, weak.

Yet not unpitied was my pain the while;

For oft beside yon sweet-briar in the dale,

With many a blush, with many a melting smile,

She sate and listen'd to the plaintive tale.

Ah me! I fondly dreamt of pleasures rare,

Nor deem'd so sweet a face with scorn could glow;

How could you cruel then pronounce despair,

Chill the warm hope, and plant the thorn of woe?

What though no treasure canker in my chest,

Nor crowds of suppliant vassals hail me lord!

What though my roof can boast no princely guest,

Nor surfeits lurk beneath my frugal board!

Yet should Content, that shuns the gilded bed,

With smiling Peace, and Virtue there forgot,

And rose-lip'd Health, which haunts the straw-built shed,

With cherub Joy, frequent my little cot:

Led by chaste Love, the decent band should come,

O charmer would'st thou deign my roof to share!

Nor should the Muses scorn our simple dome,

Or knit in mystic dance the Graces fair.

The wood-land nymphs, and gentle fays, at eve

Forth from the dripping cave and mossy dell,

Should round our hearth fantastic measures weave,

And shield from mischief by their guardian spell.

Come then, bright maid, and quit the city throng;

Have rural joys no charm to win the soul?

— She proud, alas! derides my lowly song,

Scorns the fond vow, and spurns the rus•et stole.

Then, Love, begone, thy thriftless empire yield,

In youthful toils I'll lose th' unmanly pain:

With echoing horns I'll rouse the jocund field,

Urge the keen chace, and sweep along the plain.

Or all in some lone moss-grown tow'r sublime

With midnight lamp I'll watch pale Cynthia round,

Explore the choicest rolls of ancient Time,

And heal with Wisdom's balm my hapless wound.

Or else I'll roam—Ah no! that sigh profound

Tells me that stubborn love disdains to yield;

Nor flight, nor Wisdom's balm can heal the wound,

Nor pain forsake me in the jocund field.

Notes

a

— On her left breast

A mole cinque-spotted: like the crimson drops

I' th' bottom of a cowslip.

Shakspeare's Cymbeline, Act 3.

↵

DIALOGUE TO CHLORINDA.

BY MR. ALSOP[a].

S.

CEASE, Chlorinda, cease to chide me,

When my passion I relate;

Why should kindness be denied me?

Why should love be paid with hate?

If the fruit of all my wishes

Must be, to be treated so;

What could you do more than this is

To your most outrageous foe?

C.

Simple Strephon, cease complaining,

Talk no more of foolish love;

Think not e'er my heart to reign in,

Think not all you say can move.

Did I take delight to fetter

Thrice ten thousand slaves a day,

Thrice ten thousand times your betters

Gladly would my rule obey.

S.

Strive not, fairest, to unbind me;

Let me keep my pleasing chain:

Charms that first to love inclin'd me,

Will for ever love maintain.

Would you send my heart a roving?

First to love I must forbear.

Would you have me cease from loving?

You must cease from being fair.

C.

Strephon, leave to talk thus idly;

Let me hear of love no more:

You mistake Chlorinda widely,

Thus to teize her o'er and o'er.

Seek not her who still forbids you;

To some other tell your moan:

Choose where'er your fancy leads you,

Let Chlorinda but alone.

S.

If Chlorinda still denies me

That which none but she can give,

Let the whole wide world despise me,

'Tis for her alone I live.

Grant me yet this one poor favour,

With this one request comply;

Let us each go on for ever,

I to ask, and you deny.

C.

Since, my Strephon, you so kind are,

All pretensions to resign;

Trust Chlorinda,—You may find her

Less severe than you divine.

Strephon struck with joy beholds her,

Would have spoke, but knew not how;

But he look'd such things as told her

More than all his speech could do.

Notes

a
Anthony Alsop, the author of this dialogue and of the three subsequent poems, was educated in Westminster college, and from thence elected to Christ Church in Oxford, where he took the degrees of M. A. March 23, 1696, and of B. D. Dec. 12, 1706. On his coming to the university he was very soon distinguished by Dean Aldrich. He passed through the usual offices in his college to that of Censor with considerable reputation, and for some years had the principal noblemen and gentlemen belonging to the society committed to his care. In this useful employment he continued until his merits recommended him to Sir Jonathan Trelawny, Bishop of Winchester, who appointed him his chaplain, and soon after gave him a prebend in his own Cathedral, together with the rectory of Brightwell, in the county of Berks, which afforded him ample provision for a learned retirement, in which he remained to the end of his days; and so well satisfied was he with a recluse life, that he could not be drawn from it by the repeated solicitations of those who thought him qualified for a more public character and a higher station. His death, which happened June 10, 1726, was occasioned by his falling into a ditch that led to his garden door, the path being narrow, and part of it giving way under his feet.
↵

To CHLORINDA.

BY THE SAME.

SEE, Strephon, what unhappy fate

Does on thy fruitless passion wait,

Adding to flame fresh fuel:

Rather than thou should'st favour find,

The kindest soul on earth's unkind,

And the best nature cruel.

The goodness, which Chlorinda shews,

From mildness and good breeding flows,

But must not love be styl'd:

Or else 'tis such as mothers try,

When, wearied with incessant cry,

They still a froward child:

She with a graceful mien and air,

Genteely civil, yet severe,

Bids thee all hopes give o'er.

Friendship she offers, pure and free;

And who, with such a friend as she,

Could want, or wish for more?

The cur that swam along the flood,

His mouth well fill'd with morsel good,

(Too good for common cur!)

By visionary hopes betray'd,

Gaping to catch a fleeting shade,

Lost what he held before.

Mark, Strephon, and apply this tale,

Lest love and friendship both should fail;

Where then would be thy hope?

Of hope, quoth Strephon, talk not, friend;

And for applying—know, the end

Of every cur's a rope.

The FABLE of IXION. To CHLORINDA.

BY THE SAME.

IXION, as the poets tell us,

Was one of those pragmatic fellows,

Who claim a right to kiss the hand

Of the best lady in the land;

Demonstrating, by dint of reason,

That impudence in love's no treason.

He let his fancy soar much higher;

And ventur'd boldly to aspire

To Juno's high and mighty grace,

And woo'd the goddess face to face.

What mortal e'er had whims so odd,

To think of cuckolding a God?

For she was both Jove's wife and sister,

And yet the rascal would have kiss'd her.

How he got up to heaven's high palace,

Not one of all the poets tell us;

It must be therefore understood,

That he got up which way he could.

Nor is it, that I know, recorded,

How bows were made, and speeches worded;

So, leaving this to each one's guess,

I'll only tell you the success.

But first I stop awhile to shew

What happen'd lately here below.

Chlorinda, who beyond compare

Of all the fair-ones is most fair;

Chlorinda, by the Gods design'd

To be the pattern of her kind,

With every charm of face and mind;

Glanc'd light'ning from her eyes so blue,

And shot poor Strephon through and through.

He, over head and ears her lover,

Try'd all the ways he could to move her;

He sigh'd, and vow'd, and pray'd, and cry'd,

And did a thousand things beside:

She let him sigh, and pray, and cry on—

But now hear more about Ixion.

The Goddess, proud (as folks report her),

Disdain'd that mortal wight should court her,

And yet she chose the fool to flatter,

To make him fancy some great matter,

And hope in time he might get at her;

Grac'd him with now and then a smile,

But inly scorn'd him all the while;

Resolv'd at last a trick to shew him,

Seeming to yield, and so undo him.

Now which way, do you think, she took?

(For do't she would by hook or crook):

Why, thus I find it in my book.

She call'd a pretty painted cloud,

The brightest of the wand'ring crowd;

For she, you know, is queen o'th' air,

And all the clouds and vapours there

Governs at will, by nod or summons,

As Walpole does the house of commons.

This cloud, which came to her stark-naked,

She dress'd as fine as hands could make it.

For her own wardrobe out she brought

Whate'er was dainty, wove or wrought;

A smock which Pallas spun and gave her,

Once on a time to gain her favour;

A gown that ha'n't on earth its fellow,

Of finest blue, and lin'd with yellow,

Fit for a goddess to appear in,

And not a pin the worse for wearing;

A quilted petticoat beside,

With whalebone hoop six fathom wide;

With these she deck'd the cloud, d'ye see?

As like herself, as like could be:

So like, that could not I or you know

Which was the cloud, and which was Juno.

Thus dress'd she sent it to the villain,

To let him act his wicked will on:

Then laugh'd at the poor fool aloud,

Who for a goddess grasp'd a cloud.

This, you will say, was well done on her

T' expose the tempter of her honour—

But more of him you need not hear;

Only to Strephon lend an ear.

He never entertain'd one thought

With which a goddess could find fault;

His spotless love might be forgiven

By every saint in earth and heaven.

Juno herself, though nice and haughty,

Would not have judg'd his passion naughty.

All this Chlorinda's self confess'd,

And own'd his flame was pure and chaste,

Read what his teeming Muse brought forth,

And prais'd it far beyond its worth:

Mildly receiv'd his fond address,

And only blam'd his love's excess:

Yet she, so good, so sweet, so smiling,

So full of truth, so unbeguiling,

One way or other still devis'd

To let him see he was despis'd:

And when he plum'd, and grew most proud,

All was a vapour, all a cloud.

A TALE. To CHLORINDA.

BY THE SAME.

DAME Venus, a daughter of Jove's,

And amongst all his daughters most fair,

Lost, it seems, to'ther day the two doves,

That wafted her car through the air.

The dame made a heavy sad rout,

Ran about heav'n and earth to condole 'em;

And sought high and low to find out,

Where the biddyes were stray'd, or who stole 'em.

To the god, who the stragglers should meet,

She promis'd most tempting fine pay,

Six kisses than honey more sweet,

And a seventh far sweeter than they.

The proposal no sooner was made,

But it put all the Gods in a flame;

For who would not give all he had

To be kiss'd by so dainty a dame?

To Cyprus, to Paphos, they run,

Where the Goddess oft us'd to retire;

Some rode round the world with the sun,

And search'd every country and shire.

But with all their hard running and riding,

Not a God of 'em claim'd the reward;

For no one could tell tale or tiding,

If the doves were alive or were starv'd.

At last the sly shooter of men,

Young Cupid (I beg the God's pardon),

Mamma, your blue birds I have seen

In a certain terrestrial garden.

Where, where, my dear child, quickly shew,

Quoth the dame, almost out of her wits:

Do but go to Chlorinda's, says Cu,

And you'll find 'em in shape of pewits.

Is it she that hath done me this wrong?

Full well I know her, and her arts;

She has follow'd the thieving trade long,

But I thought she dealt only in hearts.

I shall soon make her know, so I shall—

And with that to Jove's palace she run,

And began like a bedlam to bawl,

I am cheated, I am robb'd, I'm undone.

Chlorinda, whom none can appproach

Without losing his heart or his senses,

Has stol'n the two doves from my coach,

And now flaunts it at Venus' expences.

She has chang'd the poor things to pewits,

And keeps 'em like ord'nary fowls:

So, when she robs men of their wits,

She turns 'em to asses or owls.

I could tell you of many a hundred

Of figure, high station, and means,

Whom she without mercy has plunder'd,

Ever since she came into her teens.

But her thefts upon earth I'd have borne,

Or have let 'em all pass for mere fable;

But nothing will now serve her turn,

But the doves out of Venus's stable.

Is it fit, let your mightyship say,

That I, like some pityful flirt,

Should tarry within doors all day,

Or else trudge it afoot in the dirt?

Is it fit that a mortal should trample

On me, who am styl•d queen of beauty?

O make her, great Jove, an example,

And teach Nimble-fingers her duty.

Sir Jove, when he heard her thus rage,

For all his great gravity, smil'd;

And then, like a judge wise and sage,

He began in terms sober and mild.

Learn, daughter, to bridle your tongue,

Forbear to traduce with your prattle

The fair, who has done you no wrong,

And scorns to purloin goods and chattel.

She needs neither gewgaw, nor trinket,

To carry the world all before her;

Her deserts, I would have you to think it,

Are enough to make all men adore her.

Your doves are elop'd, I confess,

And chuse with Chlorinda to dwell;

But blame not the lady for this;

For sure 'tis no crime to excel.

As for them, I applaud their high aims;

Having serv'd from the time of their birth

The fairest of heavenly dames,

They would now serve the fairest on earth.

ODE on LYRIC POETRY.

By Dr. MARRIOT.

I. 1.

INMATE of smoaking cots, whose rustic shed,

Within this humble bed,

Her twittering progeny contains,

The swallow sweeps the plains,

Or lightly skims from level lakes the dew.

The ringdove ever true

In plaintive accents tells of unrelenting fate,

Far from the raven's croak, and bird of night,

That shrieking wings her flight

When, at his mutter'd rite,

Hid in the dusky desart vale,

With starting eye, and visage pale,

The grimly wizard sees the spectres rise unholy;

But haunts the woods that held her beauteous mate,

And wooes the Echo soft with murmurs melancholy.

I. 2.

Sublime alone the feather'd monarch flies,

His nest dark mists upon the mountains shrowd;

In vain the howling storms arise,

When borne on outstretch'd plume aloft he springs,

Dashing with many a stroke the parting cloud,

Or to the buoyant air commits his wings

Floating with even sail adown the liquid skies:

Then darting upward, swift his wings aspire,

Where thunders keep their gloomy seat,

And lightnings arm'd with heaven's avenging ire.

None can the dread artillery meet,

Or through the airy region rove,

But he who guards the throne of Jove,

And grasps the flaming bolt of sacred fire.

I. 3.

Know, with young Ambition bold,

In vain, my Muse, thy dazzled eyes explore

Distant aims, where wont to soar,

Their burning way the kindling spirits hold.

Heights too arduous wisely shun;

Humbler flights thy wings attend;

For heaven-taught Genius can alone ascend

Back to her native sky,

And with directed eagle eye

Pervade the lofty spheres, and view the blazing sun.

II. 1.

But hark! o'er all the flower-enamel'd ground

What music breathes around!

I see, I see the virgin train

Unlock their streams again,

Rolling to many a vale their liquid lapse along,

While at the warbled song

Which holds entranc'd Attention's wakeful ear,

Broke are the magic bands of iron sleep.

Love, wayward child, oft wont to weep,

In tears his robe to steep

Forgets; and Care that counts his store,

Now thinks each mighty business o'er;

While sits on ruin'd cities, war's wide-wasting glory,

Ambition, ceasing the proud pile to rear,

And sighs; unfinish'd leaving half her ample story.

II. 2.

Then once more, sweet enthusiast, happy lyre,

Thy soothing solace deign awhile to bring.

I strive to catch the sacred fire,

And wake thee emulous on Granta's plain,

Where all the Muses haunt his hallow'd spring,

And where the Graces shun the sordid train,

Scornful of heaven-born arts which thee and peace inspire:

On life's sequester'd scenes they silent wait,

Nor heed the baseless pomp of power,

Nor shining dreams that crowd at Fortune's gate;

But smooth th' inevitable hour

Of pain, which man is doom'd to know,

And teach the mortal mind to glow

With pleasures plac'd beyond the shaft of Fate.

II. 3.

But, alas! th' amusive reed

Ill suits the lyre that asks a master's hand,

And fond fancies vainly feed

A breast that life's more active scenes demand.

Sloth ignoble to disclaim

'Tis enough: the lyre unstring.

At other feet the victor palm I fling

In Granta's glorious shrine;

Where crown'd with radiance divine

Her smiles shall nurse the Muse; the Muse shall lift her fame.

ARION, an ODE.

BY THE SAME.

I.

QUEEN of each sacred sound, sweet child of air,

Who sitting thron'd upon the vaulted sky,

Dost catch the notes which undulating fly,

Oft wafted up to thy exalted sphere,

On the soft bosom of each rolling cloud,

Charming thy list'ning ear

With strains that bid the panting lover die:

Or laughing mirth, or tender grief inspire,

Or with full chorus loud

Which lift our holy hope, or fan the hero's fire:

Enchanting Harmony, 'tis thine to cheer

The soul by woe which sinks opprest,

From sorrow's eye to wipe the tear,

And on the bleeding wound to pour the balmy rest.

II.

'Twas when the winds were roaring loud,

And Ocean swell'd his billows high,

By savage hands condemn'd to die,

Rais'd on the stem the trembling Lesbian stood;

All pale he heard the tempest blow,

As on the watery grave below

He fix'd his weeping eye.

Ah! hateful lust of impious gold,

What can thy mighty rage withhold,

Deaf to the melting powers of Harmony!

But ere the bard unpitied dies,

Again his soothing art he tries,

Again he sweeps the strings,

Slowly sad the notes arise,

While thus in plaintive sounds the sweet musician sings.

III.

From beneath the coral cave

Circled with the silver wave,

Where with wreaths of emerald crown'd

Ye lead the festive dance around,

Daughters of Venus, hear, and save.

Ye Tritons, hear, whose blast can swell

With mighty sounds the twisted shell;

And you, ye sister Syrens, hear,

Ever beauteous, ever sweet,

Who lull the list'ning pilot's ear

With magic song, and softly breath'd deceit.

By all the Gods who subject roll

From gushing urns their tribute to the main,

By him who bids the winds to roar,

By him whose trident shakes the shore,

If e'er for you I raise the sacred strain

When pious mariners your power adore,

Daughters of Nereus, hear and save.

IV.

He sung, and from the coral cave,

Circled with the silver wave,

With pitying ear

The Nereids hear.

Gently the waters flowing,

The winds now ceas'd their blowing,

In silence listening to his tuneful lay.

Around the bark's sea-beaten side,

The sacred dolphin play'd,

And sportive dash'd the briny tide:

The joyous omen soon the bard survey'd,

Nor fear'd with bolder leap to try the watery way.

On his scaly back now riding,

O'er the curling billow gliding,

Again with bold triumphant hand

He bade the notes aspire,

Again to joy attun'd the lyre,

Forgot each danger past, and reach'd secure the land.

HORACE, Book II. Ode II. Quid bellicosus Cantaber, &c. Imitated by Lord BATH[a].—PAUL [b] to FAZ.

I.

NEVER, dear Faz, torment thy brain

With idle fears of France and Spain,

Or any thing that's foreign:

What can Bavaria do to us,

What Prussia's monarch, or the Russ,

Or e'en prince Charles of Lorrain?

II.

Let us be cheerful whilst we can,

And legthen out the short-liv'd span,

Enjoying every hour.

The moon itself we see decay,

Beauty's the worse for every day,

And so's the sweetest flower.

III.

How oft, dear Faz, have we been told,

That Paul and Faz are both grown old,

By young and wanton lasses?

Then, since our time is now so short,

Let us enjoy the only sport

Of tossing off our glasses.

IV.

From White's we'll move th' expensive scene,

And steal away to Richmond Green;

There free from noise and riot,

Polly each morn shall fill our tea,

Spread bread and butter—and then we

Each night get drunk in quiet.

V.

Unless perchance earl Leicester comes,

As noisy as a dozen drums,

And makes an horrid pother;

Else might we quiet sit and quaff,

And gently chat, and gayly laugh

At this and that and t'other.

VI.

Br— shall settle what's to pay,

Adjust accompts by algebra;

I'll always order dinner—

Br—, though solemn, yet is sly,

And leers at Poll with roguish eye

To make the girl a sinner.

VII.

Powell, d'ye hear, let's have the ham,

Some chickens and a chine of lamb—

And what else?—let's see—look ye—

Br— must have his damn'd bouillie,

B— fattens on his fricassee,

I'll have my water-suchy.

VIII.

When dinner comes, we'll drink about,

No matter who is in, or out,

'Till wine, or sleep, o'ertake us;

Each man may nod, or nap, or wink,

And when it is our turn to drink,

Our neighbour then shall wake us.

IX.

Thus let us live in soft retreat,

Nor envy, nor despise the great,

Submit to pay our taxes;

With peace or war be well content,

'Till eas'd by a good parliament,

'Till Scroop his hand relaxes.

X.

Never enquire about the Rhine;

But fill your glass, and drink your wine;

Hope things may mend in Flanders;

The Dutch we know are good allies,

So are they all with subsidies,

And we have choice commanders.

XI.

Then here's the King, God bless his grace!

Though neither you nor I have place,

He hath many a sage adviser;

And yet no treason sure's in this,

Let who will take the prayer amiss,

God send 'em all much wiser!

Notes

a
William Pulteney, Esq afterwards the celebrated Earl of Bath, was born March 22, 1683-4. He very early was introduced into the House of Commons, and distinguished himself in opposition to the last ministry of Queen Anne. On the accession of King George the First he was appointed Secretary at War, and afterwards Cofferer of the Houshold. In 1725 he detached himself from his connexions at court, and entered so warmly into opposition to the measures of the Crown, that on July 1, 1731, he was struck out of the list of Privy Counsellors with the King's own hand, and at the same time ordered to be put out of every commission of the peace. He succeeded at length in his contest with the minister Sir Robert Walpole, who in 1741 resigned his employments; and Mr. Pulteney was again sworn of the Pr
•
vy Council, and created Baron of Heydon, Viscount Pulteney, and Earl of Bath. From this period he lost his popularity; and during the remainder of George the Second's reign passed his life with little notice or respect from the world. At the beginning of the present reign he was much in his Majesty's confidence, but enjoyed that honour a very short time. He died July 7, 1764, at the age of 81, and thereupon his titles became extinct.

↵

b
Paul Foley, Esq to — Fazakerly, Esq. These gentlemen were members of the old club at White's. Mr. Fazakerly had made a great fortune in the East Indies.
↵

A PANEGYRIC ON ALE.

—Mea nec Falernae

Temperant vites, neque Formiani

Pocula colles.

HOR.

BY T. WARTON.

BALM of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,

Hail, juice benignant! o'er the costly cups

Of riot-stirring wine, unwholsome draught,

Let pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night:

My sober evening let the tankard bless,

With toast imbrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,

While the rich draught, with oft repeated whiffs,

Tobacco mild improves: divine repast!

Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys

Of lawless Bacchus reign: but o'er my soul

A calm Lethean creeps: in drowsy trance

Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps

My peaceful brain, as if the magic rod

Of leaden Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed

Its opiate influence. What though sore ills

Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals,

Or cheerful candle, save the makeweight's gleam

Hap'ly remaining; heart-rejoicing ale

Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.

Meantime not mindless of the daily task

Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves

Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate;

While ale inspires, and lends her kindred aid

The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,

Sweet Helicon of logic!—But if friends

Congenial call me from the toilsome page,

To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,

〈◊〉, Ale, thy votaries in full resort

Ho••• rites nocturnal. In capacious chair

Or monumental oak, and antique mould,

That long has stood the rage of conquering Time

Inviolate, (not in more ample •eat

Smokes rosy Justice, when th' important cause,

Whether of hen-roost or of mirthful rape,

In all the majesty of paunch, he tries,)

Studious of ease, and provident I place

My gladsome limbs, while in repeated round

Returns replenish'd the successive cup,

And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy.

Nor seldom to relieve the ling'ring hours

In innocent delight, amusive putt,

On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play,

The vain vissitudes of fortune shews.

Nor reck'ning, name tremendous, me disturbs,

Nor, call'd-for, chills my breast with sudden sear,

While on the wonted door (expressive mark!)

The frequent penny stands describ'd to view

In snowy characters, a graceful row.

Hail, Ticking! surest guardian of distress,

Beneath thy shelter pennyless I quaff

The cheering cup: though much the poet's friend,

Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain,

Accept this humble tribute of my praise.

Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms

Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof

Of pot-house snug to visit: wiser he

The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house

Of James or Juggins, where the grateful breath

Of mild Tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;

But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,

While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl,

Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler Ale:

In vain—the proctor's voice alarms their joy:

Just fate of wanton pride, and vain excess!

Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,

Heart-easing Ale, whose sorrow-soothing sweets

Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,

When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand

Not unexperienc'd, while the tedious toil

Slides unreguarded. Let the tender swain

Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,

Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:

Be mine each morn with eager appetite

And hunger undissembled, to repair

To friendly butt'ry, there on smoaking crust

And foaming Ale to banquet unrestrain'd,

Material breakfast! Thus in ancient times

Our ancestors robust with liberal cups

Usher'd the morn, unlike the languid sons

Of modern days; nor ever had the might

Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed,

With English Ale improving English worth.

With Ale irriguous, undismay'd I hear

The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome

Importunate: whether the plaintive voice

Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear,

Or taylor with obsequious bow advance;

Or groom invade me with defying look

And fierce demeanor, whose emaciate steeds

Had panted oft beneath my goring steel:

In vain they plead or threat; all-powerful Ale

Excuses new supplies, and each descends

With joyless pace and debt-despairing looks.

E'en Sp—y with indignant bow retires,

Sternest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.

Why did the gods such various blessings pour

On helpless mortals, from their grateful hands

So soon the short-lived bounty to recall?

Thus while, improvident of future ill,

I quaff the luscious tank••d unrestrain'd,

And thoughtless riot in ambrosial bliss,

Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)

Th' unpitying bursar's cross-affixing hand

Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.

Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields

A sure retreat when ev'ning shades the skies,

Nor [a] Sheppard, ruthless widow, now vouchsafes

The wonted trust, and [a] Winter ticks no more.

Thus Adam exil'd from the blissful scenes

Of Eden griev'd, no more in hallow'd bow'r

On nect•rine fruits to feast, fresh shade or vale

No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;

But all forlorn the naked wilderness,

And unrejoicing solitudes to trace.

Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds

The Splendid Shilling's praise, in nightly gloom

Of lonesome garret pin'd for cheerful Ale:

Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,

Mean follower! like him with honest love

Of Ale divine inspir'd, and love of song.

But long may bounteous Heav'n with watchful care,

Avert his hapless fate! enough for me,

That, burning with congenial flame, I dar'd

His guiding steps at distance to pursue,

And sing his fav'rite theme in kindred strains.

Notes

a
Noted alehouses in Oxford.
↵

a
Noted alehouses in Oxford.
↵

ODE TO THE GENIUS OF ITALY, OCCASIONED BY THE EARL OF CORKE's GOING ABROAD.

BY MR. J. DUNCOMBE.

O THOU that, on a pointless spear reclin'd,

In dusk of eve oft tak'st thy lonely way

Where Tyber's slow, neglected waters stray,

And pour'st thy fruitless sorrows to the wind,

Grieving to see his shore no more the seat

Of arts and arms, and liberty's retreat.

Italia's Genius, rear thy drooping head,

Shake off thy trance, and weave an olive crown,

For see! a noble guest appears, well known

To all thy worthies, though in Britain bred;

Guard well thy charge, for know, our polish'd isle

Reluctant spares thee such a son as BOYLE.

There, while their sweets thy myrtle groves dispense,

Lead to the Sabine or the Tuscan plain,

Where playful Horace tun'd his amorous strain,

And Tully pour'd the stream of eloquence;

Nor fail to crown him with that ivy bloom,

Which graceful mantles o'er thy Maro's tomb.

At that blest spot, from vulgar cares refin'd,

In some soft vision or indulgent dream

Inspire his fancy with glorious theme,

And point new subjects to his generous mind,

At once to charm his country, and improve

The last, the youngest object of his love.

But O! mark well his transports in that shade,

Where, circled by the bay's unfading green,

Amidst a rural and sequestered scene

His much-lov'd Pliny rests his honour'd head;

There, rapt in silence, will he gaze around,

And strew with sweetest flow'rs the hallow'd ground.

But see! the sage, to mortal view confest,

Thrice waves the hand, and says, or seems to say,

"The debt I owe thee how shall I repay?

"Welcome to Latium's shore, illustrious guest!

"Long may'st thou live to grace thy native isle,

"Humane in thought, and elegant in style!

"While on thy consort I with rapture gaze,

"My own Calphurnia rises to my view:

"That bliss unknown but to the virtuous few,

"Briton! is thine; charm'd with domestic praise,

"Thine are those heart-felt joys that sweeten life,

"The son, the friend, the daughter, and the wife."

Content with such approof, when genial Spring

Bids the shrill blackbird whistle in the vale,

Home may he hasten with a prosperous gale,

And Health protect him with her fost'ring wing;

So shall Britannia to the wind and sea

Entrust no more her fav'rite ORRERY.

To CHARLES PRATT, Esq NOW LORD CAMDEN. Written in 1743. By DR. DAVIES.

FROM friendship's cradle up the verdant paths

Of youth, life's jolly spring; and now sublim'd

To its full manhood and meridian strength,

Her latest stage, (for friendship ever hale

Knows not old age, diseases, and decay,

But burning keeps her sacred fire, 'till death's

Cold hand extinguish) —At this spot, this point,

Here, PRATT, we social meet, and gaze about,

And look back to the scenes our pastime trod

In nature's morning, when the gamesome hours

Had sliding feet, and laugh'd themselves away.

Luxurious season! vital prime! where Thames

Flows by Etona's walls, and cheerful sees

Her sons wide swarming; and where sedgy Cam

Bathes with slow pace his academic grove,

Pierian walks!—O never hope again,

(Impossible! untenable!) to grasp

Those joys again; to feel alike the pulse

Dancing, and fiery spirits boiling high:

Or see the pleasure that with careless wing

Swept on, and flow'ry garlands toss'd around

Disporting! Try to call her back—as well

Bid yesterday return, arrest the flight

Of Time; or, musing by a river's brink,

Say to the wave that huddles swiftly by

For ever, "from thy fountain roll anew."

The merriment, the tale, and heartfelt laugh

That echo'd round the table, idle guests,

Must rise, and serious inmates take their place;

Reflection's daughters sad, and world-born thoughts

Dislodging Fancy's empire—Yet who knows

Exact the balance of our loss and gain?

Who knows how far a rattle may outweigh

The mace or sceptre? But as boys resign

The play-thing, bauble of their infancy,

So fares it with maturer years: they, sage,

Imagination's airy regions quit,

And under Reason's banner take the field;

With Resolution face the cloud or storm,

While all their former rainbows die away.

Some to the palace with regardful step,

And courtly blandishment resort, and there

Advance obsequious; in the sunshine bask

Of princely grace, catch the creating eye,

Parent of honours:—in the senate some

Harangue the full-bench'd auditory, and wield

Their list'ning passions (such the power, the sway

Of Reason's eloquence!)—or at the bar,

Where Cowper, Talbot, Somers, Yorke[a], before

Pleaded their way to glory's chair supreme,

And worthy fill'd it. Let not these great names

Damp, but incite: nor Murray's [b] praise obscure

The younger merit. Know, these lights, ere yet

To noon-day lustre kindled, had their dawn.

Proceed familiar to the gate of Fame,

Nor think the task severe, the prize too high

Of toil and honour, for thy Father's son.

Notes

a
Lord high Chancellor of England.
↵

b
Now Earl of Mansfield.
↵

EPISTLE FROM HENRY ST. JOHN LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE TO MISS LUCY ATKINS[a]. Written when he was young.

DEAR thoughtless CLARA, to my verse attend,

Believe for once thy lover and thy friend;

Heaven to each sex has various gifts assign'd,

And shewn an equal care of human-kind;

Strength does to man's imperial race belong,

To yours that beauty which subdues the strong;

But as our strength, when misapply'd, is lost,

And what should save, urges our ruin most;

Just so, when beauty prostituted lies,

Of bawds the prey, of rakes th' abandon'd prize,

Women no more their empire can maintain,

Nor hope, vile slaves of lust, by love to reign.

Superior charms but make their case the worse,

And what should be their blessing, proves their curse.

O nymph! that might, reclin'd on Cupid's breast,

Like Psyche, sooth the God of love to rest;

Or, if ambition mov'd thee, Jove enthral,

Brandish his thunder, and direct its fall;

Survey thyself, contemplate every grace

Of that sweet form, of that angelic face;

Then, CLARA, say, were those delicious charms

Meant for lewd brothels, and rude russians arms?

No, CLARA, no! that person, and that mind,

Were form'd by nature, and by heaven design'd

For nobler ends; to these return, though late,

Return to these, and so avert thy fate.

Think, CLARA, think, (nor will that thought be vain)

Thy slave, thy HARRY, doom'd to drag his chain

Of love, ill-treated and abus'd, that he

From more inglorious chains might rescue thee.

Thy drooping health restor'd; by his fond care,

Once more thy beauty its full lustre wear;

Mov'd by his love, by his example taught,

Soon shall thy soul, once more with virtue fraught,

With kind and gen'rous truth thy bosom warm,

And thy fair mind, like thy fair person, charm.

To virtue thus, and to thyself restor'd,

By all admir'd, by one alone ador'd,

Be to thy HARRY ever kind and true,

And live for him, who more than dies for you.

Notes

a
An orange girl.
↵

THE CHEAT'S APOLOGY.

BY MR. ELLIS.

'Tis my vocation, Hal!
SHAKSPEARE.

LOOK round the wide world, each profession, you'll find,

Hath something dishonest, which myst'ry they call;

Each knave points another, at home is stark-blind;

Except but his own, there's a cheat in them all:

When tax'd with imposture, the charge he'll evade,

And like Falstaff pretend he but lives by his trade.

The hero ambitious (like Philip's great son,

Who wept when he found no more mischief to do)

Ne'er scruples a neighbouring realm to o'er-run,

While slaughters and carnage his sabre imbrue.

Of rapine and murder the charge he'll evade,

For conquest is glorious, and fighting his trade.

The statesman, who steers by wise Machiavel's rules,

Is ne'er to be known by his tongue or his face;

They're traps by him us'd to catch credulous fools,

And breach of his promise he counts no disgrace;

But policy calls it, reproach to evade,

For flatt'ry's his province, cajoling his trade.

The priest will instruct you this world to despise,

With all its vain pomp, for a kingdom on high;

While earthly preferments are chiefly his prize,

And all his pursuits give his doctrine the lye;

He'll plead you the gospel, your charge to evade:

The lab'rer's entitled to live by his trade.

The lawyer, as oft on the wrong side as right,

Who tortures for fee the true sense of the laws,

While black he by sophistry proves to be white,

And falsehood and perjury lists in his cause,

With steady assurance all crime will evade:

His client's his care, and he follows his trade.

The sons of Machaon, who thirsty for gold

The patient past cure visit thrice in a day,

Write largely the Pharmacop league to uphold,

While poverty's left to diseases a prey,

Are held in repute for their glitt'ring parade:

Their practice is great, and they shine in their trade.

Since then in all stations imposture is found,

No one of another can justly complain;

The coin he receives will pass current around,

And where he is cousen'd he cousens again:

But I, who for cheats this apology made,

Cheat myself by my rhyming, and starve by my trade.

SONG.

BY THE SAME.

AS Chloe ply'd her needle's art,

A purple drop the spear

Made from her heedless finger start,

And from her eyes a tear.

Ah! might but Chloe by her smart

Be taught for mine to feel;

Mine caus'd by Cupid's piercing dart,

More sharp than pointed steel!

Then I her needle would adore,

Love's arrow it should be,

Indu'd with such a subtle pow'r

To reach her heart for me.

ANOTHER.

BY THE SAME.

SUE venal Belinda to grant you the blessing

As Jove courted Danae, or vain's your addressing;

For love, she asserts, all that's gen'rous inspires,

And therefore rich tokens of love she requires.

Such suitors as nothing but ardours are boasting,

Will ne'er reach Elysium, but ever be coasting.

Like pennyless ghosts, deny'd passage by Charon,

They'll find, without fee, unrelenting the fair-one.

But give me the nymph not ungrateful to wooing,

Who love pays with love, and caresses with cooing,

By whom a true heart is accepted as sterling,

And Cupid alone makes her lover her darling.

TO MR. GRENVILLE, ON HIS INTENDED RESIGNATION.

BY RICHARD BERENGER, Esq

A Wretch, tir'd out with Fortune's blows,

Resolv'd at once to end his woes;

And, like a thoughtless silly elf,

In the next pond to drown himself.

'Tis fit, quoth he, my life should end,

The cruel world is not my friend;

I have nor meat, nor drink, nor cloaths,

But want each joy that wealth bestows;

Besides, I hold my life my own,

And when I please may lay it down;

A wretched hopeless thing am I,

Forgetting, as forgot, I'll die.

Not so, said one who stood behind,

And heard him thus disclose his mind;

Consider well, pray, what you do,

And think what numbers live in you:

If you go drown, your woes to ease,

Pray, who will keep your lice and fleas?

On you alone their lives depend,

With you they live, with you must end.

On great folks thus the little live,

And in their sunshine bask and thrive:

But when those suns no longer shine,

The helpless insects droop and pine.

Oh, GRENVILLE, then this tale apply,

Nor drown yourself left I should die:

Compassionate your louse's case,

And keep your own to save his place.

TO MR. GARRICK, On his erecting a Temple and Statue to SHAKSPEARE[a]

BY THE SAME.

—Viridi in campo signum de marmore ponam

Propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat

Th•••sis, et muliâ praetexit arundine ripas;

In med•o mihi SHAKSPEARE erit, templumque tenebit.

VIRGIL.

WHERE yonder trees rise high in cheerful air,

Where yonder banks eternal verdure wear,

And opening flow'rs diffusing sweets around

Paint with their vivid hues the happy ground;

While Thames majestic rolls the meads between,

And with his silver current crowns the scene:

There GARRICK, satiate of well-earn'd applause,

From crowds and shouting theatres withdraws;

There courts the Muse, turns o'er th' instructive page,

And meditates new triumphs for the stage.

Thine, SHAKSPEARE, chief—for thou must ever shine

His pride, his boast, unequall'd and divine.

There too thy vot'ry, to thy merit just,

Hath rais'd the dome, and plac'd thy honour'd bust,

Bidding the pile to future times proclaim

His veneration for thy mighty name.

A place more fit his zeal could never find

Than this fair spot, an emblem of the mind—

As hill and dale there charm the wond'ring eye,

Such sweet variety thy scenes supply—

Like the tall trees sublime thy genius tow'rs,

Sprightly thy fancy, as the opening flow'rs;

While, copious as the tide Thames pours along,

Flow the sweet numbers of thy heav'nly song,

Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong—

Look down, great shade, with pride this tribute see,

The hand that pays it makes it worthy thee—

As fam'd Apelles was allow'd alone

To paint the form august of Philip's son,

None but a GARRICK can, O bard divine!

Lay a fit offering on thy hallow'd shrine.

To speak thy worth is his peculiar boast,

He best can tell it, for he feels it most.

Blest bard! thy fame through every age shall grow.

Till Nature cease to charm, or Thames to flow.

Thou too, with him, whose fame thy talents raise,

Shalt share our wonder, and divide our praise;

Blended with this thy merits rise to view,

And half thy SHAKSPEARE'S fame to thee is due:

Unless the actor with the bard conspire,

How impotent his strength, how faint his fire!

One boasts the mine, one brings the gold to light,

And the Muse triumphs in the Actor's might;

Too weak to give her own conceptions birth,

Till all-expressive Action call them forth.

Thus the sweet pipe, mute in itself, no sound

Sends forth, nor breathes its pleasing notes around;

But if some swain, with happy skill endu'd,

Inspire with animating breath the wood,

Wak'd into voice, it pours its tuneful strains,

The harmony divine enchants the plains.

Quod spiro, et placeo, si placeo, tuum est—
HOR.

Notes

a
In his garden, by the Thames side, at Hampton.
↵

On the Birth-Day of SHAKSPEARE. A CENTO. Taken from his Works.

BY THE SAME.

‘Naturâ ipsâ valere, et mentis viribus excitari, et quasi quodam divino spiritu afflari.’

—PEACE to this meeting!

Joy and fair time, health and good wishes!

Now, worthy friends, the cause why we are met

Is in celebration of the day that gave

Immortal Shakspeare to this favour'd isle,

The most replenished sweet work of nature,

Which from the prime creation e'er she fram'd.

O thou divinest Nature! how thyself thou blazon'st

In this thy son! form'd in thy prodigality,

To hold thy mirror up, and give the time

Its very form and pressure! When he speaks

Each aged ear plays truant at his tales,

And younger hearings are quite ravished,

So voluble is his discourse—Gentle

As Zephyr blowing underneath the violet,

Not wagging its sweet head—yet as rough,

(His noble blood enchaff'd) as the rude wind,

That by the top doth take the mountain pine,

And make him stoop to th' vale.—'Tis wonderful

That an invisible instinct should frame him

To loyalty, unlearn'd: honour untaught;

Civility not seen in other; knowledge

That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop

As if it had been sown. What a piece of work!

How noble in faculty! infinite in reason!

A combination and a form indeed,

Where every God did seem to set his seal!

Heav'n has him now—yet let our idolatrous fancy

Still sanctify his relicks; and this day

Stand aye distinguish'd in the kalendar

To the last syllable of recorded time:

For, if we take him but for all in all,

We ne'er shall look upon his like again.

An ODE to SCULPTURE.

By JAMES SCOT, D. D.

LED by the Muse, my step pervades

The sacred haunts, the peaceful shades

Where Art and Sculpture reign:

I see, I see, at their command,

The living stones in order stand,

And marble breathe through every vein!

Time breaks his hostile scythe; he sighs

To find his pow'r malignant fled;

"And what avails my dart, he cries,

"Since these can animate the dead?

"Since wak'd to mimic life again in stone

"The patriot seems to speak, the hero frown."

There Virtue's silent train are seen,

Fast fix'd their looks, erect their mien,

Lo! while with more than stoic soul,

The [a] Attic sage exhausts the bowl,

A pale suffusion shades his eyes,

'Till by degrees the marble dies!

See there the injur'd [b] poet bleed!

Ah! see he droops his languid head!

What starting nerves, what dying pain,

What horror freezes every vein!

These are thy works, O Sculpture! thine to shew

In rugged rock a feeling sense of woe.

Yet not alone such themes demand

The Phydian stroke, the Daedal hand;

I view with melting eyes

A softer scene of grief display'd,

While from her breast the duteous maid

Her infant sire with food supplies.

In pitying stone she weeps, to see

His squalid hair, and galling chains:

And trembling, on her bended knee,

His hoary head her hand sustains;

While every look and sorrowing feature prove

How soft her breast, how great her filial love.

Lo! there the wild [c] Assyrian queen,

With threat'ning brow, and frantic mien!

Revenge! revenge! the marble cries,

While fury sparkles in her eyes.

Thus was her aweful form beheld,

When Babylon's proud sons rebell'd;

She left the woman's vainer care,

And flew with loose dishevell'd hair;

She stretch'd her hand, imbru'd in blood,

While pale Sedition trembling stood;

In sudden silence, the mad crowd obey'd

Her aweful voice, and Stygian Discord fled!

With hope, or fear, or love, by turns,

The marble leaps, or shrinks, or burns,

As Sculpture waves her hand;

The varying passions of the mind

Her faithful handmaids are assign'd,

And rise and fall by her command.

When now life's wasted lamps expire,

When sinks to dust this mortal frame,

She, like Prometheus, grasps the fire;

Her touch revives the lambent flame;

While, phoenix-like, the statesman, bard, or sage,

Spring fresh to life, and breathe through every age,

Hence, where the organ full and clear,

With loud hosannas charms the ear,

Behold (a prism within his hands)

Absorb'd in thought, great [d] Newton stands;

Such was his solemn wonted state,

His serious brow, and musing gait,

When, taught on eagle-wings to fly,

He trac'd the wonders of the sky;

The chambers of the sun explor'd,

Where tints of thousand hues are stor'd;

Whence every flower in painted robes is drest,

And varying Iris steals her gaudy vest.

Here, as Devotion, heavenly queen,

Conducts her best, her fav'rite train,

At Newton's shrine they bow!

And, while with raptur'd eyes they gaze,

With Virtue's purest vestal rays,

Behold their ardent bosoms glow!

Hail, mighty Mind! hail, aweful name!

I feel inspir'd my lab'ring breast;

And lo! I pant, I burn for fame!

Come, Science, bright etherial guest,

Oh come, and lead thy meanest, humblest son,

Through Wisdom's arduous paths to fair renown.

Could I to one saint ray aspire,

One spark of that celestial fire,

The leading cynosure, that glow'd

While Smith explor'd the dark abode,

Where Wisdom sate on Nature's shrine,

How great my boast! what praise were mine!

Illustrious sage! who first could'st tell

Wherein the powers of Music dwell;

And every magic chain untie,

That binds the soul of Harmony!

To thee, when mould'ring in the dust,

To thee shall swell the breathing bust:

Shall here (for this reward thy merits claim)

"Stand next to place in Newton, as in fame."

Notes

a
Socrates, who was condemned to die by poison.
↵

b
Seneca, born at Corduba, who, according to Pliny, was orator, poet, and philosopher. He bled to death in the bath.
↵

c
Semiramis, cum ci circa cultum capitis sui occupatae nunciatum esset Babylonem defecisse; alterâ parte crinium adhuc solutâ protinus ad eam expugnandam cucurrit: nee prius decorem capillorum in ordinem quam tantam urbem in potestatem suam redegit: quocircà statua ejus Babylone posita est, &c.

Val. Max. de Ira.

↵

d
A noble statue of Sir Isaac Newton, erected in Trinity-College chapel by Dr. Smith.
↵

TRUE RESIGNATION.

Aequam memento rebus in arduis

Servare mentem.

HORAT.

By Mr. HYLTON.

WHEN Colin's good dame, who long held him a tug,

And defeated his hopes by the help of the jug,

Had taken too freely the cheeruping cup,

And repeated the dose 'till it laid her quite up;

Colin sent for the doctor: with sorrowful face

He gave him his fee, and he told him her case.

Quoth Galen, I'll do what I can for your wife;

But indeed she's so bad, that I fear for her life.

In counsel there's safety—e'n send for another;

For if she should die, folks will make a strange pother,

And say that I lost her for want of good skill—

Or of better advice—or, in short, what they will.

Says Colin, your judgment there's none can dispute;

And if physic can cure her—I know yours will do't.

But if, after all, she should happen to die,

And they say that you kill'd her—I'll swear 'tis a lye:

'Tis the husband's chief business, whatever ensue;

And whoever finds fault—I'll be shot —if I do.

An EPISTLE from the King of PRUSSIA to Monsieur VOLTAIRE. 1757.

CROYEZ que si j'etois, Voltaire,

Particulier aujourdhui,

Me contentant du necessaire,

Je verrois envoler la Fortune legere,

Et m'en mocquerois comme lui.

Je connois l' ennui des grandeurs,

Le fardeau des devoirs, le jargon des flateurs,

Et tout l' amas des petitesses,

Et leurs genres et leurs especes,

Dont il faut s' occuper dans le sein des honneurs.

Je meprise la vaine glorie,

Quoique Poëte et Sonverain,

Quand du ciseau fatal retranchant mon d•sti••

Atropos m' aura vu plonge dans la nuit noire,

Que m' importe l' honneur incertain

De vivre apres ma mort au temple de Memoire:

Un instant de bonheur vaut mille ans dans I'histoire.

Nos destins sont ils donc si beaux?

Le doux Plaisir et la Mollesse,

La vive et naïve Allegresse

Ont toujours fui des grands, la pompe, et les faisceaux,

Nes pour la liberté leurs troupes enchantresses

Preferent l' aimable paresse

Aux austeres devoirs guides de nos travaux.

Aussi la Fortune volage

N' a jamais cause mes ennuis,

Soit qu' elle m' agaçe, ou qu' elle m' outrage.

Je dormirai toutes les nuits

En lui refusant mon hommage.

Mais notre etat nous fait loi,

Il nous oblige, il nous engage

A mesurer notre courage,

Sur ce qu' exige notre emploi.

Voltaire dans son hermitage,

Dans un païs dont l' heritage

Est son antique bonne foi,

Peut s' addonner en paix a la vertu du sage

Dont Platon nous marque la loi.

Pour moi menacé du naufrage,

Je dois, en affrontant l' orage,

Penser, vivre, et mourir en Roi.

Translated into English

By JOHN GILBERT COOPER, Esq.

VOLTAIRE, believe me, were I now

In private life's calm station plac'd,

Let Heav'n for nature's wants allow,

With cold indiff'rence would I view

Changing Fortune's winged haste,

And laugh at her caprice like you.

Th' insipid farce of tedious state,

Imperial duty's real weight,

The faithless courtier's supple bow,

The fickle multitude's caress,

And the great Vulgar's Littleness,

By long experience well I know:

And, though a Prince and Poet born,

Vain blandishments of glory scorn.

For when the ruthless shears of Fate

Have cut my life's precarious thread,

And rank'd me with th' unconscious dead,

What will't avail that I was great,

Or that th' uncertain tongue of Fame

In Mem'ry's temple chaunts my name?

One blissful moment whilst we live

Weighs more than ages of renown;

What then do Potentates receive

Of good, peculiarly their own?

Sweet Ease and unaffected Joy,

Domestic Peace, and sportive Pleasure,

The regal throne and palace fly,

And, born for liberty, prefer

Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure,

To, what we Monarchs buy so dear,

The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.

My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend

On fickle Fortune' casual flight,

For, whether she's my foe or friend,

In calm repose I'll pass the night;

And ne'er by watchful homage own

I court her smile, or fear her frown.

But from our stations we derive

Unerring precepts how to live,

And certain deeds each rank calls forth,

By which is measur'd human worth.

Voltaire, within his private cell,

In realms where ancient honesty

Is patrimonial property,

And sacred Freedom loves to dwell,

May give up all his peaceful mind,

Guided by Plato's deathless page,

In silent solitude resign'd

To the mild virtues of a Sage;

But I, 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage

Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,

Must be, to face the tempest's rage,

In thought, in life, in death a king.

On seeing [a] Archbishop WILLIAMS'S Monument in CARNARVONSHIRE.

By Dr. DAVIES.

IN that remote and solitary place,

Which the seas wash, and circling hills embrace,

Where those lone walls amid the groves arise,

All that remains of thee, fam'd Williams, lies.

Thither, sequester'd shade, creation's nook,

The wand'ring Muse her pensive journey took,

Curious to trace the statesman to his home,

And moralize at leisure o'er his tomb:

She came not, with the pilgrim, tears to shed,

Mutter a vow, or trifle with a bead,

But such a sadness did her thoughts employ,

As lives within the neighbourhood of joy.

Reflecting much upon the mighty shade,

His glories, and his miseries, she said:

"How poor the lot of the once-honour'd dead!

Perhaps the dust is Williams, that we tread.

The learn'd, ambitious, politic, and great,

Statesman, and prelate, this, alas! thy fate.

Could not thy Lincoln yield her pastor room?

Could not thy York supply thee with a tomb?

Was it for this thy lofty genius soar'd,

Caress'd by monarchs and by crowds ador'd?

For this, thy hand o'er rivals could prevail,

Grasping by turns the crosier and the [b] seal?

Who dar'd on Laud's meridian pow'r to frown,

And on aspiring Buckingham look down.

This thy gay morn,—but ere the day decline

Clouds gather, and adversity is thine.

Doom'd to behold thy country's fierce alarms,

What had thy trembling age to do with arms?

Thy lands dragoon'd, thy palaces in dust,

Why was thy life protracted to be curst?

The king in chains,—thyself by lawless might

Stript of all pow'r, and exil'd from thy right.

Awhile the venerable hero stood,

And stemm'd with quiv'ring limbs the boist'rous flood;

At length, o'ermatch'd by injuries and time,

Stole from the world, and sought his native clime.

Cambria for him with moans her region fills:

She wept his downfall from a thousand hills:

Tender embrac'd her prelate though undone,

Stretch'd out her mother-rocks to hide her son:

Search'd, while alive, each vale for his repast,

And, when he died, receiv'd him in her breast.

Envied Ambition! what are all thy schemes,

But waking misery, or pleasing dreams,

Sliding and tottering on the heights of state!

The subject of this verse declares thy fate.

Great as he was, you see how small the gain,

A burial so obscure, a Muse so mean."

Notes

a
John Williams was consecrated bishop of Lincoln, Nov. 11, 1621; was translated to York, Dec. 4, 1641; died March 25, 1649; and was buried at Landegay, near Bangor.
↵

b
He was made lord keeper of the great seal July 20, 1621.
↵

Extempore Verses upon a Trial of Skill between the two great Masters of Defence, Messieurs FIGG and SUTTON.

By Dr. BYROM[a].

I.

LONG was the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains,

Sole monarch acknowledg'd of Marybone plains:

To the towns, far and near, did his valour extend,

And swam down the river from Thame to Gravesend;

Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, pipemaker by trade,

Who hearing that Figg was thought such a stout blade,

Resolv'd to put in for a share of his fame,

And so sent to challenge the champion of Thame.

II.

With alternate advantage two trials had past,

When they fought out the rubbers on Wednesday last.

To see such a contest the house was so full,

There hardly was room left to thrust in your skull.

With a prelude of cudgels we first were saluted,

And two or three shoulders most handsomely fluted;

'Till weary at last with inferior disasters,

All the company cry'd, Come, the masters, the masters.

III.

Whereupon the bold Sutton first mounted the stage,

Made his honours as usual, and yearn'd to engage;

Then Figg, with a visage so fierce, yet sedate,

Came and enter'd the lists with his fresh-shaven pate;

Their arms were encircled with armigers too,

With a red ribbon Sutton's, and Figg's with a blue.

Thus adorn'd the two heroes, 'twixt shoulder and elbow,

Shook hands, and went to't, and the word it was Bilboe.

IV.

Sure such a concern in the eyes of spectators

Was never yet seen in our amphi-theatres,

Our commons and peers from their several places,

To half an inch distance all pointed their faces;

While the rays of old Phoebus that shot thro' the sky-light.

Seem'd to make on the stage a new kind of twilight;

And the Gods, without doubt, if one could but have seen 'em,

Were peeping there through, to do justice between 'em.

V.

Figg struck the first stroke, and with such a vast fury,

That he broke his huge weapon in twain, I assure you;

And if his brave rival this blow had not warded,

His head from his shoulders had quite been discarded.

Figg arm'd him again, and they took t' other tilt,

And then Sutton's blade ran away from its hilt;

The weapons were frighted, but as for the men,

In truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.

VI.

Such a force in their blows, you'd have thought it a wonder

Every stroke they receiv'd did not cleave 'em asunder.

Yet so great was their courage, so equal their skill,

That they both seem'd as safe as a thief in a mill;

While in doubtful attention dame Victory stood,

And which side to take could not tell for her blood,

But remain'd like the ass, 'twixt the bundles of hay,

Without ever stirring an inch either way.

VII.

'Till Jove to the Gods signified his intention

In a speech that he made 'em too tedious to mention;

But the upshot on't was, that at that very bout

From a wound in Figg's side the hot blood spouted out;

Her ladyship then seem'd to think the case plain,

But Figg stepping forth with a sullen disdain,

Shew'd the gash, and appeal'd to the company round,

If his own broken sword had not given him the wound.

VIII.

That bruises and wounds a man's spirit should touch,

With danger so little, with honour so much!

Well, they both took a dram, and return'd to the battle,

And with a fresh fury they made the swords rattle;

While Sutton's right arm was observed to bleed,

By a touch from his rival, so Jove had decreed;

Just enough for to shew that his blood was not ichor.

But made up, like Figg's, of the common red-liquor.

IX.

Again they both rush'd with as equal a fire on,

Till the company cry'd, Hold, enough of cold iron,

To the quarter-staff now, lads. So first having dram'd it,

They took to their wood, and i'faith never shamm'd it.

The first bout they had was so fair, and so handsome,

That to make a fair bargain, was worth a king's ransom;

And Sutton such bangs on his neighbour imparted,

Would have made any fibres but Figg's to have smarted.

X.

Then after that bout they went on to another—

But the matter must end on some fashion, or other;

So Jove told the Gods he had made a decree,

That Figg should hit Sutton a stroke on the knee.

Though Sutton disabled as soon as he hit him

Would still have fought on, but Jove would not permit him;

'Twas his fate, not his fault, that constrain'd him to yield,

And thus the great Figg became lord of the field.

Notes

a
Dr. John Byrom was a younger son of Mr. Edward Byrom, of Kersal, in the county of Lancaster, linen-draper. He received his education at Merchant Taylor's School, from whence he went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he became a pensioner, July 6, 1708. Having taken his degrees in arts, he was chosen fellow of his college in 1714; but not inclining to enter into holy orders, he was obliged to quit his place in 1716, and soon afterwards married his cousin Miss Elizabeth Byrom. This union involved him in more expence than he was able to support, and he was compelled to have recourse to teaching short-hand for the maintenance of his family. After some years his elder brother died, and the family estate devolved to him. This occas
•••
ed him first to relax his attention to business, and then to relinquish

〈…〉

. He died at Manchester September 26, 1763.
↵

A LETTER FROM CAMBRIDGE TO MASTER HENRY ARCHER, A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT ETON SCHOOL.

BY DR. LITTLETON[a].

THOUGH plagu'd with algebraic lectures,

And astronomical conjectures,

Wean'd from the sweets of poetry

To scraps of dry philosophy,

You see, dear Hal, I've found a time

T' express my thoughts to you in rhyme.

For why, my friend, should distant parts,

Or time, disjoin united hearts;

Since, though by intervening space

Depriv'd of speaking face to face,

By faithful emissary letter

We may converse as well, or better?

And, not to stretch a narrow fancy,

To shew what pretty things I can say,

(As some will strain at simile,

First work it fine, and then apply;

Add Butler's rhymes to Prior's thoughts,

And choose to mimic all their faults,

By head and shoulders bring in a stick,

To shew their knack at hudibrastic,)

I'll tell you, as a friend and irony,

How here I spend my time, and money;

For time and money go together

As sure as weathercock and weather;

And thrifty guardians all allow

This grave reflection to be true,

That whilst we pay so dear for learning

Those weighty truths we've no concern in,

The spark who squanders time away

In vain pursuits, and fruitless play,

Not only proves an arrant blockhead,

But, what's much worse, as out of pocket.

Whether my conduct bad, or good is,

Judge from the nature of my studies.

No more majestic Virgil's heights,

Nor tow'ring Milton's loftier flights,

Nor courtly Horace's rebukes,

Who banters vice with friendly jokes,

Nor Congreve's life, nor Cowley's fire,

Nor all the beauties that conspire

To place the greenest bays upon

Th' immortal brows of Addison;

Prior's inimitable ease,

Nor Pope's harmonious numbers please;

How can poetic flow'rs abound,

How spring in philosophic ground?

Homer indeed (if I would shew it)

Was both philosopher and poet,

But tedious philosophic chapters

Quite stifle my poetic raptures,

And I to Phoebus bade adieu

When first I took my leave of you.

Now algebra, geometry,

Arithmetic, astronomy,

Optics, chronology, and statics,

All tiresome points of mathematics;

With twenty harder names than these,

Disturb my brains, and break my peace.

All seeming inconsistencies

Are nicely solv'd by a's, and b's;

Our senses are disprov'd by prisms,

Our arguments by syllogisms.

If I should confidently write

This ink is black, this paper white,

Or, to express myself yet fuller,

Should say that black, or white's a colour;

They'd contradict it, and perplex one

With motion, light, and its reflection,

And solve th' apparent falsehood by

The curious texture of the eye.

Should I the poker want, and take it,

When't looks as hot, as fire can make it,

And burn my finger, and my coat,

They'd flatly tell me, 'tis not hot;

The fire, say they, has in't, 'tis true,

The pow'r of causing heat in you;

But no more heat's in fire that heats you,

Than there is pain in stick that beats you.

Thus too philosophers expound

The names of odour, taste, and sound;

The salts and juices in all meat

Affect the tongues of them that eat,

And by some secret poignant power

Give them the taste of sweet, and sour.

Carnations, violets, and roses

Cause a sensation in our noses;

But then there's none of us can tell

The things themselves have taste, or smell.

So when melodious Mason sings,

Or Gething tunes the trembling strings,

Or when the trumpet's brisk alarms

Call forth the cheerful youth to arms,

Convey'd through undulating air

The music's only in the air.

We're told how planets roll on high,

How large their orbits, and how nigh;

I hope in little time to know

Whether the moon's a cheese, or no;

Whether the man in't, as some tell ye,

With beef and carrots fills his belly;

Why like a lunatic confin'd

He lives at distance from mankind;

When he at one good hearty shake

Might whirl his prison off his back;

Or like a maggot in a nut

Full bravely eat his passage out.

Who knows what vast discoveries

From such inquiries might arise?

But feuds, and tumults in the nation

Disturb such curious speculation.

Cambridge from furious broils of state,

Foresees her near-approaching fate;

Her surest patrons are remov'd,

And her triumphant foes approv'd.

No more! this due to friendship take,

Not idly writ for writing's sake;

No longer question my respect,

Nor call this short delay neglect;

At least excuse it, when you see

This pledge of my sincerity;

For one who rhymes to make you easy,

And his invention strains to please you,

To shew his friendship cracks his brains,

Sure is a mad-man if he feigns.

Notes

a
Dr. Edward Littleton was educated upon the Royal foundation at Eton School, from whence he was transplanted to King's College, Cambridge, in the year 1716. After four years residence at the University, he was recalled to Eton as an assistant in the school, where he so greatly acquired the respect of the provost and fellows, that in 1727 they elected him into their society, and presented him to the living of Maple Derham, in Oxfordshire. On June the 9th, 1730, he was appointed chaplain in ordinary to their Majesties, and in the same year took his Doctor of Laws degree at Cambridge. He died of a fever in the year 1734, and was buried in his own parish church of Maple Derham.
↵

THE INDOLENT.

WHAT self-sufficiency and false content

Denumb the senses of the indolent!

Dead to all purposes of good, or ill,

Alive alone in an unactive will.

His only vice in no good action lies,

And his sole virtue is his want of vice.

Business he deems too hard, trifles too easy,

And doing nothing finds himself too busy.

Silence he cannot bear, noise is distraction,

Noise kills with bustle, silence with reflection;

No want he feels,—what has he to pursue?

To him 'tis less suffer, than to do.

The busy world's a fool, the learn'd a sot,

And his sole hope to be by all forgot:

Wealth is procur'd with toil, and kept with fear,

Knowledge by labour purchas'd costs too dear;

Friendship's a clog, and family a jest,

A wife but a bad bargain at the best;

Honour a bubble, subject to a breath,

And all engagements vain since null'd by death;

Thus all the wise esteem, he can despise,

And caring not, 'tis he alone is wise:

Yet, all his wish possessing, finds no rest,

And only lives to know, he never can be blest.

THE SONG OF SIMEON PARAPHRASED.

BY MR. MERRICK.

'TIS enough—the hour is come.

Now within the silent tomb

Let this mortal frame decay,

Mingled with its kindred clay;

Since thy mercies, oft of old

By thy chosen seers foretold,

Faithful now and stedfast prove,

God of truth and God of love!

Since at length my aged eye

Sees the day-spring from on high.

Son of Righteousness, to thee

Lo! the nations bow the knee,

And the realms of distant kings

Own the healing of thy wings.

Those whom death had overspread

With his dark and dreary shade,

Lift their eyes, and from afar

Hail the light of Jacob's star;

Waiting till the promis'd ray

Turn their darkness into day.

See the beams intensely shed

Shine o'er Sion's favour'd head.

Never may they hence remove,

God of truth and God of love!

ON THE INVENTION OF LETTERS.

TELL me what Genius did the art invent,

The lively image of the voice to paint;

Who first the secret how to colour sound,

And to give shape to reason, wisely found;

With bodies how to cloath ideas, taught;

And how to draw the picture of a thought:

Who taught the hand to speak, the eye to hear

A silent language roving far and near;

Whose softest noise outstrips loud thunder's sound,

And spreads her accents through the world's vast round;

A voice heard by the deaf, spoke by the dumb,

Whose echo reaches long, long time to come;

Which dead men speak as well as those alive—

Tell me what Genius did this art contrive.

THE ANSWER.

THE noble art to Cadmus owes its rise

Of painting words, and speaking to the eyes;

He first in wond'rous magic fetters bound

The airy voice, and stopp'd the flying sound;

The various figures, by his pencil wrought,

Gave colour, form, and body to the thought.

ON WIT.

TRUE wit is like the brilliant stone

Dug from the Indian mine;

Which boasts two various powers in one,

To cut as well as shine.

Genius, like that, if polish'd right,

With the same gifts abounds;

Appears at once both keen and bright,

And sparkles while it wounds.

ON A SPIDER.

BY DR. LITTLETON.

ARTIST, who underneath my table

Thy curious texture hast display'd!

Who, if we may believe the fable,

Wert once a lovely blooming maid!

Insidious, restless, watchful spider,

Fear no officious damsel's broom;

Extend thy artful fabric wider,

And spread thy banners round my room.

Swept from the rich man's costly cieling,

Thou'rt welcome to my homely roof;

Here may'st thou find a peaceful dwelling,

And undisturb'd attend thy woof.

Whilst I thy wond'rous fabric stare at,

And think on hapless poet's fate;

Like thee confin'd to lonely garret,

And rudely banish'd rooms of state.

And as from out thy tortur'd body

Thou draw'st thy slender string with pain;

So does he labour, like a noddy,

To spin materials from his brain.

He for some fluttering tawdry creature,

That spreads her charms before his eye;

And that's a conquest little better

Than thine o'er captive butterfly.

Thus far 'tis plain we both agree,

Perhaps our deaths may better shew it;

'Tis ten to one but penury

Ends both the spider and the poet.

THE PLAY-THING CHANGED.

KITTY's charming voice and face,

Syren-like, first caught my fancy;

Wit and humour next take place,

And now I doat on sprightly Nancy.

Kitty tunes her pipe in vain,

With airs most languishing and dying;

Calls me false ungrateful swain,

And tries in vain to shoot me flying.

Nancy with resistless art,

Always humorous, gay, and witty,

Has talk'd herself into my heart,

And quite excluded tuneful Kitty.

Ah, Kitty! Love, a wanton boy,

Now pleas'd with song, and now with prattle,

Still longing for the newest toy,

Has chang'd his whistle for a rattle.

THE FABLE OF JOTHAM: TO THE BOROUGH-HUNTERS.

By RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, Esq

Jotham's fable of the trees is the oldest that is extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made since that time.
ADDISON.

JUDGES, Chap. ix. ver. 8.

OLD Plumb, who, though blest in his Kentish retreat,

Still thrives by his oil-shop in Leadenhall-street,

With a Portugal merchant, a knight by creation,

From a borough in Cornwall received invitation.

Well-assur'd of each vote, well equipt from the alley,

In quest of election-adventures they sally.

Though much they discours'd, the long way to beguile,

Of the earthquakes, the Jews, and the change of the style,

Of the Irish, the stocks, and the lott'ry committee,

They came silent and tir'd into Exeter city.

"Some books, prithee landlord, to pass a dull hour;

"No nonsense of parsons, or methodists sour,

"No poetical stuff, a damn'd jingle of rhymes,

"But some pamphlet that's new, and a touch on the times."

"O Lord! says mine host, you may hunt the town round,

"I question if any such thing can be found:

"I never was ask'd for a book by a guest;

"And I am sure I have all the great folk in the West.

"None of these, to my knowledge, e'er call'd for a book;

"But see, Sir, the woman with fish, and the cook:

"Here's the fattest of carp; shall we dress you a brace?

"Would you have any soals, or a mullet, or place?"

"A place, quoth the knight, we must have to be sure,

"But first let us see that our Borough's secure;

"We'll talk of the place when we've settled the poll:

"They may dress us for supper the mullet and soal.

"But do you, my good landlord, look over your shelves,

"For a book we must have, we're so tired of ourselves."

"In troth, Sir, I ne'er had a book in my life,

"But the prayer-book and bible I bought for my wife."

"Well! the bible must do; but why don't you take in

"Some monthly collection, the new magazine?"

The bible was brought, and laid out on the table,

And open'd at Jotham's most apposite fable.

Sir Freeport began with this verse, though no rhyme—

"The trees of the forest went forth on a time,

(To what purpose our candidates scarce could expect,

For it was not, they found, to transplant—but ELECT)

"To the olive and fig-tree their deputies came,

"But by both were refus'd, and their answer the same:

"Quoth the olive, Shall I leave my fatness and oil

"For an unthankful office, a dignify'd toil?

"Shall I leave, quoth the fig-tree, my sweetness and fruit,

"To be envy'd or slav'd in so vain a pursuit?

"Thus rebuff'd and surpriz'd they apply'd to the vine:

"He answer'd; Shall I leave my grapes and my wine,

"(Wine the sovereign cordial of god and of man)

"To be made or the tool or head of a clan?

"At last, as it always falls out in a scramble,

"The mob gave the cry for a bramble! a bramble!

"A bramble for ever! O! chance unexpected!

"But bramble prevail'd, and was duly elected."

"O! ho! quoth the knight with a look most profound,

"Now I see there's some good in good books to be found.

"I wish I had read this same bible before:

"Of long miles at the least 'twould have sav'd us fourscore.

"You, Plumb, with your olives and oil might have staid,

"And myself might have tarried my wines to unlade.

"What have merchants to do from their business to ramble!

"Your electioneer-errant should still be a bramble."

Thus ended at once the wise comment on Jotham,

And our citizens' jaunt to the borough of Gotham.

AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN AN EMPTY ASSEMBLY-ROOM.

BY THE SAME.

— Semperque relinque

Sola sibi —

VIRG.

ADVERTISEMENT. This poem being a parody on the most remarkable passages in the well-known epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, it was thought unnecessary to transcribe any lines from that poem, which is in the hands of all, and in the memory of most readers.

IN scenes where HALLET'S [a] genius has combin'd

With BROMWICH to amuse and cheer the mind;

Amid this pomp of cost, this pride of art,

What mean these sorrows in a female heart?

Ye crowded walls, whose well-enlighten'd round

With lovers sighs and protestations sound;

Ye pictures, flatter'd by the learn'd and wise,

Ye glasses, ogled by the brightest eyes;

Ye cards, which beauties by their touch have blest,

Ye chairs, which peers and ministers have prest;

How are ye chang'd! like you my fate I moan;

Like you, alas! neglected and alone—

For ah! to me alone no card is come,

I must not go abroad—and cannot be at home.

Blest be that social pow'r, the first who pair'd

The erring footman with th' unerring card!

'Twas VENUS sure; for by their faithful aid

The whisp'ring lover meets the blushing maid;

From solitude they give the cheerful call

To the choice supper, or the sprightly ball:

Speed the soft summons of the gay and fair,

From distant Bloomsbury to Grosvenor's square;

And bring the colonel to the tender hour,

From the parade, the senate, or the Tower!

Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!

Our daily lesson, and our nightly guide!

Where'er ye stand, dispos'd in proud array,

The vapours vanish, and the heart is gay;

But when no cards the chimney-glass adorn,

The dismal void with heart-felt shame we mourn;

Conscious neglect inspires a sullen gloom,

And brooding sadness fills the slighted room.

If but some happier female's card I've seen,

I swell with rage, or sicken with the spleen;

While artful pride conceals the bursting tear,

With some forc'd banter or affected sneer:

But now, grown desp'rate and beyond all hope,

I curse the ball, the dutchess, and the pope.

And, as the loads of borrow'd plate go by,

Tax it! ye greedy ministers, I cry.

How shall I feel, when Sol resigns his light

To this proud splendid goddess of the night!

Then when her aukward guests in measure beat

The crowded floors, which groan beneath their feet;

What thoughts in solitude shall then possess

My tortur'd mind, or soften my distress!

Not all that envious malice can suggest

Will sooth the tumults of my raging breast.

(For envy's lost amid the numerous train,

And hisses with her hundred snakes in vain)

Though with contempt each despicable soul

Singly I view,—I must revere the whole.

The Methodist in her peculiar lot,

The world forgetting, by the world forgot,

Though single happy, though alone is proud,

She thinks of heav'n (she thinks not of a crowd);

And if she ever feels a vap'rish qualm,

Some [b] drop of honey, or some holy balm,

The pious prophet of her sect distils,

And her pure soul seraphic rapture fills;

Grace shines around her with serenest beams,

And whisp'ring WHITEFIELD prompts her golden dreams.

Far other dreams my sensual soul employ,

While conscious nature tastes unholy joy:

I view the traces of experienc'd charms,

And clasp the regimentals in my arms.

To dream last night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;

Ye soft allusions, dear deceits, arise;

Alas! no more. Methinks I wand'ring go

To distant quarters 'midst the Highland snow;

To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,

Where in smoak'd tap'stry faded DIDO mourns;

To some assembly in a country town,

And meet the colonel—in a parson's gown—

I start—I shriek—

O! could I on my waking brain impose,

Or but forget at least my present woes!

Forget 'em!—how!—each rattling coach suggests

The loath'd ideas of the crowding guests.

To visit—were to publish my disgrace;

To meet the spleen in every other place;

To join old maids and dowagers forlorn;

And be at once their comfort and their scorn!

For once, to read with this distemper'd brain,

Ev'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.

My MANDOLINE—what place can music find

Amid the discord of my restless mind?

How shall I waste this time which slowly flies!

How lull to slumber my reluctant eyes!

This night the happy and th' unhappy keep

Vigils alik,—NORFOLK has murder'd sleep.

Notes

a
Hallet and Bromwich were two eminent upholsterers. The former purchased the celebrated seat of the duke of Chandos at Cannons, near Edgware, on the site of which he built himself a house on his retiring from business.
↵

b
The title of a book of modern devotion.
↵

The FAKEER: A TALE.

BY THE SAME.

A FAKEER (a religious well known in the East,

Not much like a parson, still less like a priest)

With no canting, no sly jesuitical arts,

Field-preaching, hypocrisy, learning, or parts,

By a happy refinement in mortification,

Grew the oracle, saint, and the pope of his nation.

But what did he do this esteem to acquire?

Did he torture his head or his bosom with fire?

Was his neck in a portable pillory cas'd?

Did he fasten a chain to his leg or his waist?

No. His holiness rose to his sovereign pitch

By the merit of running long nails in his breech.

A wealthy young Indian, approaching the shrine,

Thus in banter accosts the prophetic divine:

This tribute accept for your int'rest with FO,

Whom with torture you serve, and whose will you must know:

To your suppliant disclose his immortal decree;

Tell me which of the heav'ns is allotted for me.

FAKEER.

Let me first know your merits.

INDIAN.

I strive to be just:

To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my trust:

In religion I duly observe every form:

With a heart to my country devoted and warm:

I give to the poor, and I lend to the rich—

FAKEER.

But how many nails do you run in your breech?

INDIAN.

With submission I speak to your rev'rence's tail;

But mine has no taste for a tenpenny nail.

FAKEER.

Well! I'll pray to our prophet, and get you preferr'd;

Though no farther expect than to heaven the third.

With me in the thirtieth your seat to obtain,

You must qualify duly with hunger and pain.

INDIAN.

With you in the thirtieth! you impudent rogue!

Can such wretches as you give to madness a vogue!

Though the priesthood of FO on the vulgar impose,

By squinting whole years at the end of their nose,

Though with cruel devices of mortification

They adore a vain idol of modern creation,

Does the God of the heav'ns such a service direct?

Can his mercy approve a self-punishing sect?

Will his wisdom be worship'd with chains and with nails?

Or e'er look for his rites in your noses and tails?

Come along to my house, and these penances leave,

Give your belly a feast, and your breech a reprieve.

This reasoning unhing'd each fanatical notion;

And stagger'd our saint in his chair of promotion.

At length with reluctance he rose from his seat;

And resigning his nails and his fame for retreat,

Two weeks his new life he admir'd and enjoy'd:

The third he with plenty and quiet was cloy'd.

To live undistinguish'd to him was the pain,

An existence unnotic'd he could not sustain.

In retirement he sigh'd for the fame-giving chair,

For the crowd to admire him, to rev'rence and stare:

No endearments of pleasure and ease could prevail;

He the saintship resum'd, and new larded his tail.

Our FAKEER represents all the vot'ries of fame;

Their ideas, their means, and their end is the same:

The sportsman, the buck; all the heroes of vice,

With their gallantry, lewdness, the bottle and dice;

The poets, the critics, the metaphysicians,

The courtier, the patriot, all politicians;

The statesman begirt with th' importunate ring,

(I had almost compleated my list with the king);

All labour alike to illustrate my tale;

All tortur'd by choice with th' invisible nail.

To Mr. WHITEHEAD, On his being made POET LAUREAT. 1757.

BY THE SAME.

'TIS so—though we're surpris'd to hear it:

The laurel is bestow'd on merit.

How hush'd is every envious voice!

Confounded by so just a choice,

Though by prescriptive right prepar'd

To libel the selected bard.

But as you see the statesman's fate

In this our democratic state,

Whom virtue strives in vain to guard

From the rude pamphlet and the card;

You'll find the demagogues of Pindus

In envy not a jot behind us:

For each Aonian politician

(Whose element is opposition),

Will shew how greatly they surpass us

In gall and wormwood at Parnassus.

Thus as the same detracting spirit

Attends on all distinguish'd merit,

When 'tis your turn, observe, the quarrel

Is not with you, but with the laurel.

Suppose that laurel on your brow,

For cypress chang'd, funereal bough!

See all things take a diff'rent turn!

The very critics sweetly mourn,

And leave their satire's pois'nous sting

In plaintive elegies to sing:

With solemn threnody and dirge

Conduct you to Elysium's verge.

At Westminster the surplic'd dean

The sad but honourable scene

Prepares. The well-attended herse

Bears you amid the kings of verse.

Each rite observ'd, each duty paid,

Your fame on marble is display'd,

With symbols which your genius suit,

The mask, the buskin, and the flute;

The laurel crown aloft is hung;

And o'er the sculptur'd lyre unstrung

Sad allegoric figures leaning—

(How folks will gape to find their meaning!)

And a long epitaph is spread,

Which happy You will never read.

But hold—The change is so inviting

I own, I tremble while I'm writing.

Yet, WHITEHEAD, 'tis too soon to lose you:

Let critics flatter or abuse you,

O! teach us, ere you change the scene

To Stygian banks from Hippocrene,

How free-born bards should strike the strings,

And how a Briton write to kings.

VERSES on the Prospect of planting ARTS and LEARNING in AMERICA.

BY Dr. BERKELEY, Bishop of CLOYNE[a].

THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime,

Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time,

Producing subjects worthy fame:

In happy climes, where from the genial sun

And virgin earth such scenes ensue,

The force of art by nature seems outdone,

And fancied beauties by the true:

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,

Where nature guides and virtue rules,

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense

The pedantry of courts and schools:

There shall be sung another golden age,

The rise of empire and of arts,

The good and great inspiring epic rage,

The wisest heads, and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;

Such as she bred when fresh and young,

When heav'nly flame did animate her clay,

By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;

The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;

Time's noblest offspring is the last.

Notes

a
Written about the year 1728, when the author had in view the scheme of founding a college at Bermudas, which failed of success in the attempt.
↵

To Mr. MASON.

By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq

I.

BELIEVE me, MASON, 'tis in vain

Thy fortitude the torrent braves;

Thou too must bear th' inglorious chain;

The world, the world will have its slaves.

The chosen friend, for converse sweet,

The small, yet elegant retreat,

Are peaceful unambitious views

Which early fancy loves to form,

When, aided by the ingenuous Muse,

She turns the philosophic page,

And sees the wise of every age

With Nature's dictates warm.

II.

But ah! to few has Fortune given

The choice, to take or to refuse;

To fewer still indulgent Heaven

Allots the very will to chuse.

And why are varying schemes preferr'd?

Man mixes with the common herd,

By custom guided to pursue

Or wealth, or honors, fame, or ease;

What others wish he wishes too,

Nor, from his own peculiar choice,

'Till strengthen'd by the public voice,

His very pleasures please.

III.

How oft, beneath some hoary shade

Where Cam glides indolently slow,

Hast thou, as indolently laid,

Preferr'd to Heav'n thy fav'rite vow;

"Here, here for ever let me stay,

"Here calmly loiter life away,

"Nor all those vain connections know

"Which fetter down the free-born mind

"The slave of interest, or of shew;

"Whilst yon gay tenant of the grove,

"The happier heir of Nature's love,

"Can warble unconfin'd."

IV.

Yet sure, my friend, th' eternal plan

By Truth unerring was design'd;

Inferior parts were made for man,

But man himself for all mankind.

Then by th' apparent judge th' unseen;

Behold how rolls this vast machine

To one great end, howe'er withstood,

Directing its impartial course,

All labour for the general good.

Some stem the wave, some till the soil,

By choice the bold, th' ambitious toil,

The indolent by force.

V.

That bird, thy fancy frees from care,

With many a fear unknown to thee,

Must rove to glean his scanty fare

From field to field, from tree to tree:

His lot, united with his kind,

Has all his little joys confin'd;

The Lover's and the Parent's ties

Alarm by turns his anxious breast;

Yet, bound by fate, by instinct wise,

He hails with songs the rising morn,

And pleas'd at evening's cool return

He sings himself to rest.

VI.

And tell me, has not Nature made

Some stated void for thee to fill,

Some spring, some wheel, which asks thy aid

To move, regardless of thy will?

Go then, go feel with glad surprise

New bliss from new connections rise;

'Till, happier in thy wider sphere,

Thou quit thy darling schemes of ease;

Nay, glowing in the full career

Ev'n wish thy virtuous labours more;

Nor 'till the toilsome day is o'er

Expect the night of peace.

ODE. To INDEPENDENCY.

By Mr. MASON.

I.

HERE, on my native shore reclin'd,

While Silence rules the midnight hour,

I woo thee, GODDESS. On my musing mind

Descend, propitious Power!

And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside:

Bid my calm'd soul with all thy influence shine;

As yon chaste Orb along this ample tide

Draws the long lustre of her silver line,

While the hush'd breeze its last weak whisper blows,

And lulls old HUMBER to his deep repose.

II.

Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent prayer,

In all thy graceful plainness drest;

No knot confines thy waving hair,

No zone thy floating vest.

Unsullied Honor decks thine open brow;

And Candor brightens in thy modest eye:

Thy blush is warm Content's aetherial glow,

Thy smile is Peace; thy step is Liberty:

Thou scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand,

As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.

III.

As now o'er this lone beach I stray;

Thy [a] fav'rite Swain oft stole along,

And artless wove his Doric lay,

Far from the busy throng.

Thou heard'st him, Goddess, strike the tender string,

And bad'st his soul with bolder passions move:

Strait these responsive shores forgot to ring

With Beauty's praise, or plaint of slighted Love:

To loftier flights his daring Genius rose,

And led the war 'gainst thine and Freedom's foes.

IV.

Pointed with Satire's keenest steel,

The shafts of Wit he darts around:

Ev'n [b] mitred Dulness learns to feel,

And shrinks beneath the wound.

In awful poverty his honest Muse

Walks forth vindictive through a venal land:

In vain Corruption sheds her golden dews,

In vain Oppression lifts her iron hand:

He scorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone,

Bids Lust and Folly tremble on the throne.

V.

Behold, like him, immortal Maid,

The Muses vestal fires I bring:

Here at thy feet the sparks I spread;

Propitious wave thy wing,

And fan them to that dazzling blaze of Song,

That glares tremendous on the Sons of Pride.

But, hark, methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue!

In distant trills it echoes o'er the tide;

Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free,

As swells the lark's meridian ecstacy.

VI.

"Fond Youth! to MARVELL'S patriot fame,

"Thy humble breast must ne'er aspire.

"Yet nourish still the lambent flame;

"Still strike thy blameless lyre;

"Led by the moral Muse securely rove;

"And all the vernal sweets thy vacant Youth

"Can cull from busy Fancy's fairy grove,

"O hang their foliage round the fane of Truth:

"To arts like these devote thy tuneful toil,

"And meet its fair reward in D'ARCY'S smile."

VII.

"'Tis he, my Son, alone shall cheer

"Thy sick'ning soul; at that sad hour.

"When o'er a much-lov'd Parent's bier

"Thy duteous Sorrows shower:

"At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline;

"When pining Care leads on her pallid train,

"And sees thee, like the weak and widow'd Vine,

"Winding thy blasted tendrils o'er the plain.

"At that sad hour shall D'ARCY lend his aid,

"And raise with Friendship's arm thy drooping head.

VIII.

"This fragrant wreath, the Muses meed,

"That bloom'd those vocal shades among,

"Where never Flatt'ry dared to tread,

"Or Interest's servile throng;

"Receive, my favour'd Son, at my command,

"And keep, with sacred care, for D'ARCY'S brow

"Tell him, twas wove by my immortal hand,

"I breath'd on every flower a purer glow;

"Say, for thy sake, I send the gift divine

"To him, who calls thee HIS, yet makes thee MINE."

Notes

a
Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston upon Hull in the year 1620.
↵

b
Parker, bishop of Oxford.
↵

ODE. On MELANCHOLY. To a FRIEND.

BY THE SAME.

I.

AH! cease this kind persuasive strain,

Which, when it flows from friendship's tongue.

However weak, however vain,

O'erpowers beyond the Siren's song:

Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,

And let me muse upon my woe.

Why lure me from these pale retreats?

Why rob me of these pensive sweets?

Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,

Can Painting's glowing hand, supply

A charm so suited to my mind,

As blows this hollow gust of wind,

As drops this little weeping rill

Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill,

Whilst through the west, where sinks the crimson Day,

Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey?

II.

Say, from Affliction's various source

Do none but turbid waters flow?

And cannot Fancy clear their course?

For Fancy is the friend of Woe.

Say, 'mid that grove, in love-lorn state,

When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,

Is all, that meets the shepherd's ear,

Inspir'd by anguish, and despair?

Ah no, fair Fancy rules the song:

She swells her throat; she guides her tongue;

She bids the waving Aspin spray

Quiver in cadence to her lay;

She bids the fringed Osiers bow,

And rustle round the lake below,

To suit the tenor of her gurgling sighs,

And sooth her throbbing breast with solemn sympathies.

III.

To thee, whose young and polish'd brow

The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares;

Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know

No channel for the tide of tears;

To thee yon Abbey, dank and lone,

Where Ivy chains each mould'ring stone

That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,

May cast a formidable gloom.

Yet some there are, who, free from fear,

Could wander through the cloysters drear,

Could rove each desolated Isle,

Though midnight thunders shook the pile;

And dauntless view, or seem to view,

(As faintly flash the lightnings blue)

Thin shiv'ring Ghosts from yawning charnels throng,

And glance with silent sweep the shaggy vaults along.

IV.

But such terrific charms as these,

I ask not yet: My sober mind

The fainter forms of Sadness please;

My sorrows are of softer kind.

Through this still valley let me stray,

Wrapt in some strain of pensive GRAY:

Whose lofty Genius bears along

The conscious dignity of Song;

And, scorning from the sacred store

To waste a note on Pride, or Power,

Roves, when the glimmering twilight glooms,

And warbles 'mid the rustic tombs:

He too perchance (for well I know,

His heart would melt with friendly woe)

He too perchance, when these poor limbs are laid,

Will heave one tuneful sigh, and sooth my hov'ring shade.

ODE.

By Mr. GRAY.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉—
PINDAR, Olymp. II.

I. 1.

AWAKE, Aeolian lyre, awake[a],

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.

From Helicon's harmonious springs[b]

A thousand rills their mazy progress take:

The laughing flowers, that round them blow,

Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich stream of music winds along

Deep, majestic, smooth and strong,

Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:

Now rolling down the steep amain,

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I. 2.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul[c],

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,

Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares,

And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul.

On Thracia's hills the Lord of War

Has curb'd the fury of his car,

And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.

[d]Perching on the scepter'd hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king

With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:

Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

I. 3.

[e]Thee the voice, the dance, obey,

Temper'd to thy warbled lay.

O'er Idalia's velvet-green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen

On Cytherea's day,

With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,

Frisking light in frolic measures;

Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet:

To brisk notes in cadence beating

[f]Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow [g] melting strains their Queen's approach declare:

Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.

With arms sublime, that float upon the air,

In gliding state she wins her easy way:

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move

[h]The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love.

II. 1

[i]Man's feeble race what Ills await,

Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!

The fond complaint, my Song, disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heav'nly Muse?

Night, and all her sickly dews,

Her Spectres wan, and Birds of boding cry,

He gives to range the dreary sky:

[k]'Till down the eastern cliffs afar

Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

II. 2.

[l]In climes beyond the solar road,

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,

The Muse has broke the twilight gloom

To cheer the shiv'ring Native's dull abode.

And oft, beneath the od'rous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage Youth repeat,

In loose numbers wildly sweet,

Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky Loves.

Her tract, where'er the Goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and generous Shame,

Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II. 3.

[m]Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,

Isles, that crown the Egaean deep,

Fields, that cool Illissus laves,

Or where Maeander's amber waves

In lingering Lab'rinths creep,

How do your tuneful Echo's languish,

Mute, but to the voice of Anguish!

Where each old poetic Mountain

Inspiration breath'd around;

Every shade and hallow'd Fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:

'Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.

Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III. 1.

[n]Far from the sun and summer-gale,

In thy green lap was Nature's Darling [o] laid,

What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To Him the mighty mother did unveil

Her aweful face: The dauntless Child

Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.

This pencil take (she said) whose colours dear

Richly paint the vernal year:

Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!

This can unlock the gates of Joy;

Or Horrour that, and thrilling Fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.

III. 2.

Nor second He[p], that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy,

The secrets of th' Abyss to spy.

[q]He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:

[r]The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,

Where Angels tremble while they gaze,

He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,

[s]Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of etherial race,

[t]With neck• in thunder cloath'd, and long-resounding pace.

III. 3.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er

Scatters from her pictur'd urn

[u]Thoughts, that breathe, and words, that burn

[x]But ah! 'tis heard no more—

Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit

Wakes thee now? though he inherit

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,

[y]That the Theban Eagle bear

Sailing with supreme dominion

Through the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run

Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray

With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the Good how far,—but far above the Great.

Notes

a
IMITATION.
Awake my glory: awake, lute and harp.
David's Psalms.

VARIATION.

In Mr. Gray's manuscript it originally stood,

Awake, my lyre: my glory wake.

M.

↵

b
The subject and simile, as usual with Pindar, are united. The various sources of poetry, which gives life and lustre to all it touches, are here described; its quiet majestic progress enriching every subject (otherwise dry and barren) with a pomp of diction and luxuriant harmony of numbers; and its more rapid and irresistible course, when swoln and hurried away by the conflict of tumultuous passions. G.
↵

c
Power of harmony to calm the turbulent sallies of the soul. The thoughts are borrowed from the first Pythian of Pindar. G.
↵

d

This description of the Bird of Jupiter Mr. Gray, in his own edition, modestly calls ‘a weak imitation of some incomparable lines in the first Pythian of Pindar;’ but, if they are compared with Mr. Gilbert West's translation of the above lines (though far from a bad one), their superior energy to his version will appear very conspicuous.

Perch'd on the sceptre of th' Olympian king,

The thrilling darts of harmony he feels;

And indolently hangs his rapid wing,

While gentle sleep his closing eyelid seals,

And o'er his heaving limbs in loose array

To every balmy gale the ruffling feathers play.

Here, if we except the second line, we find no imagery or expression of the lyrical cast. The rest are loaded with unnecessary epithets, and would better suit the tamers tones of elegy. M.

↵

e
Power of harmony to produce all the graces of motion in the body. G.
↵

f
IMITATION.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
Homer's Od. Θ. G.

↵

g
This and the five following lines which follow are sweetly introduced by the short and unequal measures that precede them: the whole stanza is indeed a masterpiece of rhythm, and charms the ear by its well-varied cadence, as much as the imagery which it contains ravishes the fancy.
There is (says our author in one of his manuscript papers) a toute ensemble of sound, as well as of sense, in poetical composition, always necessary to its perfection. What is gone before still dwells upon the ear, and insensibly harmonizes with the present line, as in that succession of fleeting notes which is called melody.
Nothing "can better exemplify the truth of this fine observation than his own poetry. M.

↵

h
IMITATION.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

Phryniebus apud Athenaeum.

↵

i
To compensate the real and imaginary ills of life, the Muse was given to mankind by the same Providence that sends the day by its chearful presence to dispel the gloom and terrors of the night. G.
↵

k
IMITATION.

Or seen the morning's well-appointed star,

Come marching up the eastern hills afar.

Cowley.

↵

l
Extensive influence of poetic genius over the remotest and most uncivilized nations: its connection with liberty, and the virtues that naturally attend on it. (See the Erse, Norwegian, and Welch Fragments, the Lapland and American Songs.) G. IMITATION.
Extra anni solisque vias—
Virgil.

Tutta lontana dal carmin del sole.
Petrarch Canzon ii.

↵

m
Progress of poetry from Greece to Italy, and from Italy to England. Chaucer was not unacquainted with the writings of Dante or of Petrarch. The Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt had travelled in Italy, and formed their taste there; Spenser imitated the Italian writers; Milton improved on them: but this school expired soon after the Restoration, and a new one arose on the French model, which has subsisted ever since. G.
↵

n
An ingenious person, who sent Mr. Gray his remarks anonymously on this and the following ode soon after they were published, gives this stanza and the following a very just and well-expressed eulogy:
A poet is perhaps never more conciliating than when he praises favourite predecessors in his art. Milton is not more the pride than Shakspeare the love of their country: it is therefore equally judicious to diffuse a tenderness and a grace through the praise of Shakspeare, as to extol in a strain more elevated and sonorous the boundless soarings of Milton's epic imagination.
The critic has here well noted the beauty of contrast which results from the two descriptions; yet it is further to be observed, to the honor of our poet's judgment, that the tenderness and grace in the former does not prevent it from strongly characterizing the three capital persections of Shakspeare's genius; and when he describes his power of exciting terror (a species of the sublime he ceases to be diffuse, and becomes, as he ought to be, concise and energetical. M.

↵

o
Shakspeare. G.
↵

p
Milton. G.
↵

q
IMITATION.
—Flammantia moenia mundi.
Lucretius.

↵

r
IMITATION.
For the spirit of the living creature was in the wheels, and above the firmament that was over their heads, was the likeness of a throne, as the appearance of a sapphire-stone—this was the appearance of the glory of the Lord.
Ezekiel i. 20.26.28.

↵

s
IMITATION.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
Homer Od. G.

This has been condemned as a false thought, and more worthy of an Italian poet than of Mr. Gray. Count Algarotti, we have found in his letter to Mr. How, praises it highly; but as he was an Italian critic, his judgment, in this point, will not, perhaps by many, be thought to overbalance the objection. The truth is, that this fiction of the cause of Milton's blindness is not beyond the bounds of poetical credibility, any more than the fiction which precedes it concerning the birth of Shakspeare; and therefore would be equally admissible, had it not the peculiar misfortune to encounter a fact too well known: on this account the judgment revolts against it. Milton himself has told us, in a strain of heart-felt exultation, (see his Sonnet to Cyriac Skynner) that he lost his eye-sight,

—overply'd

IN LIBERTY'S DEFENCE, his noble task;

Whereof all Europe rings from side to side;

And, when we know this to have been the true cause, we cannot admit a fictitious one, however sublimely conceived, or happily expressed. If therefore so lofty and unrivalled a description will not atone for this acknowledged defect, in relation to matter of fact, all that the impartial critic can do, is to point out the reason, and to apologize for the poet, who was necessitated by his subject to consider Milton only in his poetical capacity.

Since the above note was published, Mr. Brand, of East-Dearham, in Norfolk, has favoured me with a letter, in which he informs me of a very similar hyperbole extant in a MS. commentary upon Plato's Phaedon, written by Hermias, a christian philosopher, of the second century, and which is printed in Bayle's Dictionary (Art. Achilles.) It contains the following anecdote of Homer:—‘That keeping some sheep near the tomb of Achilles, he obtained, by his offerings and supplications, a sight of that hero; who appeared to him surrounded with so much glory that Homer could not bear the splendor of it, and that he was not only dazzled, but blinded by the sight.’ The ingenious gentleman makes no doubt but Mr. Gray took his thought from this passage, and applauds him for the manner in which he has improved upon it: he also thinks in general ‘that a deviation from historical truth, though it may cast a shade over the middling beauties of poetry, produces no bad effect where the magnificence and brilliancy of the images entirely fill the imagination;’ and with regard to this passage in prticular, he intimates, ‘that as the cause of Milton's blindness is not so well known as the thing itself, the licence of poetical invention may allow him to assign a cause different from the real fact.’ However this may be, the very exact resemblance, which the two thoughts bear to one another, will, I hope, vindicate Mr. Gray's from being a modern concetto in the taste of the Italian school, as it has been deemed to be by some critics. But this resemblance will do more (and it is on this account chiefly that I produce, and thank the gentleman for communicating it); it will prove the extreme uncertainty of dec•ding upon poetical imitations; for I am fully persuaded that Mr. Gray had never seen, or at least attended to, this Greek fragment. How scrupul•us he was in borrowing even an epithet from another poet, many of his notes on this very ode fully prove. And as to the passage in question, he would certainly have cited it, for the sake of vindicating his own taste by classical authority, especially when the thought had been so much controverted.

↵

t
IMITATION.
Ha! thou cloathed his neck with thunder?
Job.

This verse and the foreg

••

ng are meant to express the stately march and sounding energy of Dryden's rhymes. G.
↵

u
IMITATION.
Words that weep, and tears that speak.
Cowley.

↵

x

We have had in our language no other odes of the sublime kind than that of Dryden on St. Cecilia's Day: for Cowley (who had his merit) yet wanted judgment, style, and harmony for such a task. That of Pope is not worthy of so great a man. Mr. Mason indeed of late days has touched the true chords, and with a masterly hand, in some of his choruses—above all in the last of Caractacus.

Hark! heard ye not yon footstep dread! G.

↵

y

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
Olymp. ii.

Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his enemies to ravers, that croak and clamour in vain, while it pursues its flight, regardless of their noise. G.

↵

ODE.

BY THE SAME.

The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that EDWARD the First, when he compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death.

I. 1.

'[a]RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!

'Confusion on thy banners wait,

'Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing

'[b]They mock the air with idle state.

'Helm, nor Hauberk's [c] twisted mail,

'Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail

'To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,

'From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'

[d]Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,

As down the steep of Snowdon's [e] shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array.

Stout Gloster [f] stood aghast in speechless trance:

To arms! cried Mortimer[g], and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

I. 2.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the Poet stood;

[h](Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)

And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

'Hark, how each giant-oak, and desart cave,

'Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!

'O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,

'Revenge on thee in hoarser numbers breathe;

'Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

'To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

I. 3.

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

'That hush'd the stormy main:

'Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

'Mountains, ye mourn in vain

'Modred, whose magic song

'Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.

'[i]On dreary Arvon's coast they lie,

'Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:

'Far, for aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;

'[k]The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.

'Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

'[l]Dear, as the light, that visits these sad eyes,

'Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

'Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—

'[m]No more I weep. They do not sleep.

'On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,

'I see them sit, they linger yet,

'Avengers of their native land:

'With me in dreadful harmony they join,

'And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line,

II. 1.

"[n]Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

"The winding-sheet of Edward's race,

"Give ample room, and verge enough,

"The characters of hell to trace.

"Mark the year, and mark the night,

"[o]When Severn shall re-echo with affright

"The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roofs that ring,

"Shrieks of an agonizing King!

"[p]She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

"That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,

"[q]From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

"The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait!

"Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd,

"And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II. 2.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

"[r]Low on his funeral couch he lies!

"No pitying heart, no eye afford

"A tear to grace his obsequies.

"[s]Is the sable Warriour fled?

"Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.

"The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born,

"Gone to salute the rising Morn.

"[t]Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,

"While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

"In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;

"Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;

"Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,

"That, hush'd in trim repose, expects his evening-prey.

II. 3.

"[u] Fill high the sparkling bowl,

"The rich repast prepare,

"Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:

"Close by the regal chair

"Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

"A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest.

"[x]Hear ye the din of battle bray,

"Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

"Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course,

"And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.

"[y]Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,

"With many a foul and midnight murther fed,

"[z]Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's [a] fame,

"And spare the meek Usurper's [b] holy head.

"Above, below, the rose [c] of snow,

"Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:

"[d]The bristled Boar in infant-gore

"Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

"Now Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,

"Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III. 1.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate

"(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)

"[e]Half of thy heart we consecrate.

"(The web is wove. The work is done.")

'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

'Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn;

'In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,

'They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

'But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

'Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?

'Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,

'Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul:

'[f]No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail,

'All-hail[g], ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail!

III. 2.

'[h]Girt with many a Baron bold,

'Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

'And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old

'In bearded majesty, appear.

'In the midst a form divine!

'Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;

'[i]Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,

'Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

'What strings symphonious tremble in the air!

'What strains of vocal transport round her play!

'Hear from the grave, great Taliessin[k], hear:

'They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

'Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,

'Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

III. 3.

'The verse adorn again

'[l]Fierce War, and faithful Love,

'And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

'[m]In buskin'd measures move

'Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

'With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.

'[n]A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,

'Gales from blooming Eden bear;

'[o]And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

'That lost in long feturity expire.

'Fond impious Man, think'st [p] thou, yon sanguine cloud,

'Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?

'To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

'And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

'Enough for me: With joy I see

'The different doom our Fates assign.

'Be thine Despair, and scepter'd Care;

'To triumph, and to die, are mine.'

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height

Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

Notes

a
On this noble exordium the anonymous critic, before-mentioned, thus eloquently expresses his admiration:
This abrupt execration plunges the reader into that sudden fearful perplexity which is designed to predominate through the whole. The irresistible violence of the prophet's passions bears him away, who, as he is unprepared by a formal ushering in of the speaker, is unfortified against the impressions of his poetical phrenzy, and overpowered by them, as sudden thunders strike the deepest.
All readers of taste, I fancy, have felt this effect from the passage; they will be well pleased however to see their own feelings so well expressed as they are in this note.

↵

b
IMITATION.
Mocking the air with colours idly spread.
Shakspeare's King John.

↵

c
The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that sate close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion. G.
↵

d
IMITATION.
The crested adder's pride.
Dryden's Indian Queen.

↵

e
Snowdon was a name given to that mountainous tract, which the Welch themselves call Craigian-cryri: it included all the highlands of Caernarvonshire and Merionethshire as far east as the river Conway. R. Hygden, speaking of the Castle of Conway, built by king Edward the first, says, "Ad ortum amnis Conway ad clivum montis Erery;" and Matthew of Westminster (ad ann. 1283) ‘Apud Aberconway ad pedes montis Snowdoniae fecit erigi castrum forte.’ G.
↵

f
Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edward. G.
↵

g

Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore.

They both were Lords Marchers, whose lands lay on the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the king in this expedition. G.

↵

h

The image was taken from a well-known picture of Raphael, representing the Supreme Being in the vision of Ezekiel: there are two of these paintings, both believed to be originals, one at Florence, the other in the Duke of Orlean's collection at Paris. G.

Mr. Gray never saw the large Cartoon, done by the same divine hand, in the possession of the Duke of Montagu, at his seat at Boughton in Northamptonshire, else I am persuaded he would have mentioned it in his note. The two finished pictures abroad (which I believe are closet-pieces) can hardly have so much spirit in them as this wonderful drawing; it gave me the sublimest idea I ever received from painting. Moses breaking the tables of the law, by Parmegiano, was a figure which Mr. Gray used to say came still nearer to his meaning than the picture of Raphael. M.

↵

i
The shores of Caernarvonshire, opposite to the Isle of Anglesey. G.
↵

k
Camden and others observe, that eagles used annually to build their aerie among the rocks of Snowdon, which have from thence (as some think) been named by the Welch Craigian-cryri, or the crags of the eagles. At this day (I am told) the highest point of Snowdon is called the eagle's nest. That bird is certainly no stranger to this island, as the Scots, and the people of Cumberland, Westmoreland, &c. can testify: it even has built its nest in the Peak of Derbyshire. (See Willoughby's Ornithol. published by Ray). G.
↵

l
IMITATION.

As dear to me as the ruddy drops

That visit my sad heart.

Shaksp. Julius Caesar. G.

↵

m
Here, says the anonymous Critic, a vision of triumphant revenge is judiciously made to ensue, after the pathetic lamentation which precedes it. Breaks—double rhymes—an appropriated cadence— and an exalted ferocity of language, forcibly picture to us the uncontroulable tumultuous workings of the prophet's stimulated bosom. M.
↵

n
Can there be an image more just, apposite, and nobly imagined than this tremendous tragical winding-sheet? In the rest of this stanza the wildness of thought, expression, and cadence, are admirably adapted to the character and situation of the speaker, and of the bloody spectres his assistants. It is not indeed peculiar to it alone, but a beauty that runs throughout the whole composition, that the historical events are briefly sketched out by a few striking circumstances, in which the poet's office of rather exciting and directing, than satisfying the reader's imagination, is perfectly observed. Such abrupt hints, resembling the several fragments of a vast ruin, suffer not the mind to be raised to the utmost pitch, by one image of horror, but that instantaneously a second and a third are presented to it, and the affection is still uniformly supported. Anon. Critic. M.
↵

o
Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berkley-Castle. G.
↵

p
Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous Queen. G.
↵

q
Triumphs of Edward the Third in France. G.
↵

r
Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers and his mistress. G.
↵

s
Edward, the Black Prince, dead some time befere his father. G.
↵

t

Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign. See Froissart and other contemporary writers. It is always entertaining, and sometimes useful, to be informed how a writer frequently improves on his original thoughts; on this account I have occasionally set down the few variations which Mr. Gray made in his lyrical composition. The six lines before us convey, perhaps, the most beautiful piece of imagery in the whole Ode, and were a wonderful improvement on those which he first wrote; which, though they would appear fine in an inferior poet, are infinitely below those which supplanted them. I find them in one of his corrected manuscripts as follow: VARIATION.

Mirrors of Saxon truth and loyalty,

Your helpless old expiring Master view!

They hear not: scarce Religion dares supply

Her mutter'd Requiems, and her holy dew.

Yet thou, proud boy, from Pomfret's walls shall send

A sigh, and envy oft thy happy grandfire's end.

M.

↵

u

Richard the Second (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop, Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older Writers) was starved to death. The story of his assassination, by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date. G.

This stanza (as an ingenious friend remarks) has exceeding merit. It breathes in a lesser compass, what the Ode breathes at large, the high spirit of lyric Enthusiasm. The Transitions are sudden, and imperuous; the language full of fire and force; and the Imagery carried, without impropriety, to the most daring height. The manner of Richard's death by famine exhibits such beauties of Personification, as only the richest and most vivid imagination could supply. From thence we are hurried, with the wildest rapidity, into the midst of battle; and the epithet kindred places at once before our eyes all the peculiar horrors of civil war. Immediately, by a transition most striking and unexpected, the Poet falls into a tender and pathetic address; which, from the sentiments and also from the numbers, has all the melancholy flow, and breathes all the plaintive softness, of Elegy. Again the Scene changes; again the Bard rises into an allegorical description of Carnage, to which the metre is admirably adapted: and the concluding sentence of personal punishment on Edward is denounced with a solemnity, that chills and terrifies. M.

↵

x
Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. M.
↵

y
Henry the VI. George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c. believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Caesar. G.
↵

z
Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroick spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her crown. G.
↵

a
Henry the Fifth. G.
↵

b
Henry the Sixth very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown. G.
↵

c
The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster. G.
↵

d
The silver boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of the Boar. G.
↵

e
Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection to her Lord is well known. The monuments of his regret, and sorrow for the loss of her, are still to be seen in several parts of England G.
↵

f
VARIATION.

From Cambria's thousand hills a thousand strains

Triumphant tell aloud, another Arthur reigns.

It was the common belief of the Welch nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairy land, and should return again to reign over Britain. G.

↵

g
Both Merlin and Talieffin had prophesied that the Welch should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the House of Tudor. G.
↵

h
VARIATION.

Youthful Knights and Barons bold,

With dazling helm and horrent spear.

↵

i
Speed relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinski ambassador of Poland, says,
And thus she lion-like rising daunted the malapert orator no less with her stately port and majestical deporture, than with the tartnesse of her princelie checkes.
G.

↵

k
Taliessin, Chief of the Bards, flourished in the VIth Century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen. G.
↵

l
IMITATION.
Fierce wars and faithful loves shall moralize my song.
Spenser's Proeme to the Fairy Queen.

↵

m
Shakspeare. G.
↵

n
Milton. G.
↵

o
The succesion of poets after Milton's time. G.
↵

p
The same turn of thought occurs in an old play called Fuimus Trees, 1633.

—Think ye the smoaky mist

Of sun-boil'd seas can stop the eagle's eye?

Dodsley's Collection of Old Plays, vol. VII. p. 448. edit. 1780.

↵

POSTSCRIPT.

〈1 page duplicate〉

〈1 page duplicate〉

HAVING now, by the advice and assistance of my friends, brought this Collection of POEMS to a competent size, it has been thought proper that the farther progress of its growth should here be stopp'd. From the loose and fugitive pieces, some printed, others in manuscript, which for forty or fifty years past have been thrown into the world, and carelessly left to perish; I have here, according to the most judicious opinions I could obtain in distinguishing their merits, endeavour'd to select and preserve the best. The favourable reception which the former volumes have met with, demands my warmest acknowledgments, and calls for all my care in compleating the Collection; and in this respect, if it appear that I have not been altogether negligent, I shall hope to be allowed the merit, which is all I claim, of having furnished to the Public an elegant and polite Amusement. Little more need be added, than to return my thanks to several ingenious friends, who have obligingly contributed to this Entertainment. If the reader should happen to find, what I hope he seldom will, any pieces which he may think unworthy of having been inserte; as it would ill become me to attribute his dislike of them to his own want of Taste, so I am too conscious of my own deficiencies not to allow him to impute the insertion of them to mine.

R. DODSLEY.

INDEX TO THE SIXTH VOLUME.

- HYMN to the Naiads, 1746 Page 1

- Ode to the Right Hon. Francis Earl of Huntingdon, 1747 Page 25

- Ode to the Right Rev. Benjamin Lord Bishop of Winchester Page 38

- Inscriptions, 43

- 1. For a Grotto ib.

- 2. For a Statue of Chaucer at Woodstock Page 44

- 3. ib.

- 4. Page 46

- 5. Page 47

- 6. For a Column at Runnymede ib.

- Ode Page 48

- Ode to the Tiber Page 50

- Elegies, 54

- 1. Written at the Covent of Haut Villers in Champagne, 1754 ib.

- 2. On the Mausoleum of Augustus. To the Right Hon. George Bussy Villiers, Viscount Villiers, written at Rome, 1756 Page 57

- 3. To the Right Hon. George Simon Harcourt, Viscount Newnham, written at Rome 1756 Page 60

- 4. To an Officer, written at Rome, 1756 Page 63

- 5. To a Friend sick, written at Rome, 1756 Page 67

- 6. To another Friend, written at Rome, 1756 Page 69

- The Lyric Muse to Mr. Mason Page 71

- On the Immortality of the Soul, in two Books 60. Page 74

- The Arbour: An Ode to Contentment Page 105

- The Grotto: An Ode to Silence Page 111

- The Picture of Human Life Page 114

- The Dropsical Man Page 139

- Paradise regained Page 140

- To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole Page 143

- To a Lady on a Landscape of her Drawing Page 149

- Ode to Cupid on Valentine's Day Page 151

- To the Hon. and Rev. Frederick Cornwallia Page 153

- To the Rev. Thomas Taylor, D. D. Page 157

- Vacation Page 163

- To a Lady very handsome, but too fond of Dress Page 170

- Anacreon. Ode III. Page 172

- An Imitation of Horace, Book III. Ode 2. Page 173

- A Reply to a Copy of Verses made in Imitation of Book III. Ode 2. of Horace Page 175

- Inscription on a Grotto of Shells at Crux-Easton, the Work of Nine young Ladies Page 177

- Verses occasioned by seeing a Grotto built by Nine Sisters ib.

- An Excuse for Inconstancy, 1737 Page 178

- To Venus A Rant, 1732 Page 179

- The Power of Music. A Song. Imitated from the Spanish Page 181

- Letter from Smyrna to his Sisters at Crux-Easton 1733 Page 182

- Part of a Letter to my Sisters at Crux-Easton, written from Cairo in Egypt, August, 1734 Page 188

- Letter from Marseilles to my Sisters at Crux-Easton, May, 1735 Page 190

- The History of Porsenna, King of Russia, in two Books Page 194

- The Ever-Green Page 227

- Answer Page 228

- Candour Page 229

- Lysander to Chloe Page 230

- Chloe to Lysander Page 231

- To the Memory of an agreeable Lady buried in Marriage to a Person undeserving her Page 232

- An Elegy, written on Valentine Morning Page 233

- The Dowager Page 237

- Ode to the Hon, **** Page 242

- To Miss **** Page 244

- Lady Mary Wortley Montague, to Sir William Yonge Page 246

- Sir William Yonge's Answer Page 247

- Miss Soper's Answer to a Lady, who invited her to retire into a monastic Life at St. Cross, near Winchester Page 248

- Repentance Page 249

- A Song Page 250

- Cynthia, an Elegiac Poem Page 252

- Dialogue to Chlorinda Page 256

- To Chlorinda Page 259

- The Fable of Ixion. To Chlorinda Page 261

- A Tale. To Chlorinda Page 265

- Ode on Lyric Poetry Page 269

- Arion, an Ode Page 272

- Horace, Book II. Ode 2. Page 275

- A Panegyric on Ale Page 279

- Ode to the Genius of Italy, occasioned by the Earl of Corke's going Abroad Page 284

- To Charles Pratt, Esq Page 286

- Epistle from the late Lord Viscount Bolingbroke to Miss Lucy Atkins Page 289

- The Cheat's Apology Page 291

- Song Page 293

- Another Page 294

- To Mr. Grenville on his intended Risignation ib.

- To Mr. Garrick, on his erecting a Temple and Statue to Shakespear Page 296

- On the Birth-Day of Shakespear. A Cento. Taken from his Works Page 298

- An Ode to Sculpture Page 300

- True Resignation Page 304

- Epistle from the king of Prussia to M. Voltaire Page 305

- Translated into English Page 307

- On seeing Archbishop William's Monument in Carnarvonshire Page 309

- Extempore Verses upon a Trial of Skill between the two great Masters of Defence, Messieurs Figg and Sutton Page 312

- A Letter from Cambridge to a Young Gentleman at Eaton Page 316

- The Indolent Page 321

- The Song of Simeon paraphrased Page 322

- On the Invention of Letters Page 323

- The Answer ib.

- On Wit Page 324

- On a Spider ib.

- The Play-Thing chang'd Page 326

- The Fable of Jotham: To the Borough-Hunters Page 327

- An Elegy written in an empty Assembly-Room Page 330

- The Fakeer: A Tale Page 334

- To Mr. Whitehead, on his being made Poet Laureat Page 337

- Verses on the Prospect of planting Arts and Learning in America Page 339

- To Mr. Mason Page 341

- Ode. To Independency Page 344

- Ode. On Melancholy. To a Friend Page 348

- Ode Page 351

- Ode Page 363

- Postscript Page 376

THE END.

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Title statement

A collection of poems in six volumes. By several hands: With notes. [pt.6]

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4993

ID [isbn10]

110601992X

ID [isbn13]

9781106019929

ID [TCP]

K093080.006

ID [BIBNO]

CW3312608205

ID [ECLL]

0394600106

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— A collection of poems in six volumes. By several hands: With notes., Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764.. [A new edition corrected].. 6v.,plate : engr.music ; 8⁰. London :: printed for J. Dodsley,. 1782.. [Edited by Robert Dodsley.] [Edition statement and vol. numbers from half-titles.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT116246.] [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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