Poems, chiefly pastoral: By John Cunningham.

Table of contents

- [frontispiece]

- [titlepage]

- A CARD, from the AUTHOR to DAVID GARRICK, Esq

- THE SUBSCRIBERS NAMES.

- DAY: A PASTORAL.

- MORNING.

- NOON.

- EVENING.

- THE CONTEMPLATIST: A NIGHT PIECE.

- CONTENT: A PASTORAL.

- WITH A PRESENT.

- CORYDON: A PASTORAL. To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq

- The ROSE and BUTTERFLY: A FABLE.

- DAMON and PHEBE.

- A PASTORAL HYMN To JANUS. On the BIRTH of the QUEEN.

- STANZAS ON THE FORWARDNESS of SPRING.

- On the APPROACH of MAY.

- PHILLIS: A PASTORAL BALLAD.

- The VIOLET.

- The NARCISSUS.

- POMONA: A PASTORAL.

- FANCY: A SONG in a Pantomime Entertainment.

- The FOX and the CAT: A FABLE.

- The MILLER: A BALLAD.

- The LVIII. ODE of ANA CREON imitated.

- A LANDSCAPE.

- To the Hon. Master B—. Sent with a select Collection of Books.

- On seeing W. R. CHETWOOD cheerful in a Prison.

- MELODY.

- AN ELEGY ON A PILE of RUINS.

- An INSCRIPTION On the House at Mavis-bank near Edinburgh. Situated in a GROVE.

- The INSCRIPTION imitated.

- Another INSCRIPTION on the same House.

- IMITATED.

- DELIA: A PASTORAL.

- The Sheep and the Bramble-Bush: A FABLE.

- MAY-EVE: Or, KATE of ABERDEEN.

- The SYCAMORE SHADE: A BALLAD.

- The XXXIII. ODE of ANA CREON imitated. To the SWALLOW.

- LOVE and CHASTITY: A CANTATA.

- DAMON and PHILLIS: A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

- FORTUNE: An APOLOGUE. Fabula narratur.

- BALLADS, &c.

- The WARNING.

- AMPHITRION.

- KITTY FELL.

- A MAN to my MIND. (Wrote at the Request of a Lady.)

- The TOAST: A CATCH.

- THYRSIS.

- HOLYDAY GOWN.

- The HAWTHORN BOWER.

- NEWCASTLE BEER.

- An ELECTION BALLAD.

- ANOTHER.

- ANOTHER.

- STANZAS On the Death of his MAJESTY King GEORGE II.

- PROLOGUES, AND EPILOGUES, &c.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr FRODSHAM, at York, on the Opening of the Theatre after it was elegantly enlarged.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke at the opening an elegant little Theatre at Whitby.

- A PROLOGUE, On opening the Theatre at Whitby, the ensuing Season.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr BRIMYARD, in the Character of a SAILOR, on opening the New Thea tre at North-Shields.

- An EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs BROOKE, at Norwich, in the Character of Mrs DEBORAH WOOD COCK, in Love in a Village.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke at Edinburgh, on Mrs BELLAMY'S first Appearance there.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr DIGGS, on opening the Edinburgh Theatre in 1763.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr DIGGS, at Edinburgh, to the MUSE of OSSIAN, a little Piece adapted to the Stage, from the celebrated Poem of OSSIAN the Son of FINGAL.

- An EPILOGUE, To the MUSE of OSSIAN.

- An EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs BELLAMY, at Edinburgh, in Character of Lady FANCIFUL.

- An EPILOGUE, Spoke at Edinburgh, by Mrs BELLAMY, to Anthony and Cleopatra.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr DIGGS, at Edinburgh, to Rule a Wife.

- An EULOGIUM on MASONRY: Spoke by Mr DIGGS, at Edinburgh.

- An EPILOGUE, In Character of LADY TOWNLY, in the Provok'd Husband.

- An EULOGIUM on CHARITY: Spoke at Alnwick, in Northumberland, at a Charitable Benefit Play, 1765.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mrs G—, in an itinerant Company, on reviving the MERCHANT of VENICE, at the Time of the Bill pas sing for naturalizing the Jews.

- An EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs G—, at her Benefit.

- An EPILOGUE, Design'd to be spoke at Alnwick, on re signing the Playhouse to a Party de tach'd from the Edinburgh Theatre.

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

- PROLOGUE to the RECRUITING OFFICER. Spoke at Shrewsbury, where Mr FAR QUHAR is said to have wrote that Comedy.

- An EPILOGUE, Spoke by a Child of nine Years old.

- The BROKEN CHINA.

- On some BUSSES being fitted out for the HERRING FISHERY.

- The two following ODES were wrote for a select Company, in order to com memorate the particular Birth-days of the KING of PRUSSIA, and GENERAL BLAKENEY.

- ODE on the K. of PRUSSIA.

- ODE, Composed for the BIRTH-DAY of the late Gen. Lord BLAKENEY.

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

- DAPHNE: A SONG.

- A SONG.

- To CHLOE in an ill Humour.

- The DANCE. ANACREONTIC.

- To a Young WIDOW.

- FORTUNE to HARLEQUIN. In a Pantomime.

- A BIRTH-DAY ODE: Performed in DUBLIN.

- An irregular ODE on Music.

- A FRAGMENT. Part of a Poem wrote on Miss BELLAMY, when in Dublin.

- On a very young LADY.

- An INVITATION. (Including the Characters of the particu lar Company that frequented Mr Bux ton's elegant Country House, at Wes ton) The Family intending for London.

- FANNY of the DALE.

- To Mr K—.

- APOLLO, to the Company at Harrowgate.

- A SONG.

- A SONG. (Sent to CHLOE with a Rose.)

- A FRAGMENT. To Mr WOODS, Architect of the Ex change at Liverpool.

- A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr WALLACE, on opening the New Theatre at Newcastle, 1766.

- EPIGRAMS, &c.

- An EPIGRAM.

- ANOTHER.

- A POSTSCRIPT.

- A RECANTATION.

- To DELIA.

- The following ACROSTICS were wrote at the Request of the Two La dies who are the Subjects of them.

- ANOTHER.

- On Mr CHURCHILL'S death.

- APOLLO—To Mr C— F—, on his being satirized by an ignorant Person.

- On seeing J— C—ft, Esq a bused in a Newspaper.

- On hearing DAVID HUME, Esq particularly admired in a Com pany of petit Maitres.

- A CHARACTER.

- EPIGRAPH for Dean SWIFT'S Monument. Executed by Mr P. CUNNINGHAM, Statuary in Dublin.

- EPIGRAM.

- An Apology for a certain Lady.

- On GOLD.

- To CHLOE, on a Charge of Inconstancy.

- On Alderman W—. The History of his Life.

- An ELEGY on his Death.

- From the Author to a celebrated Methodist Preacher.

- THE CONTENTS.

FINIS.

Frontispiece.

POEMS, CHIEFLY PASTORAL.

BY JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

Faelix ille, quem, semotum longe e strepitu et popularibus undis, interdum molli rus accipit umbra!
RAPIN.

Silvestram tenui musam meditabor avena.

LONDON: Printed for the AUTHOR; and sold by J. DODSLEY, in Pall-Mall; J. ALMON, in Piccadilly; W. RICHARDSON and L. URQUHART, at the Royal Exchange; G. ROBINSON and J. ROBERTS, in Pater-noster-Row; W. NICOLL, in St Paul's Church-yard; and T. SLACK, in Newcastle.

M.DCC.LXVI.

A CARD, from the AUTHOR to DAVID GARRICK, Esq

REMOTENESS of situation, and some other circumstances, have hitherto deprived the Author of that happiness he might receive from seeing Mr GARRICK.

'Tis the universal regard his character commands, occasions this address.

It may be thought by many, (at a visit so abrupt as this is) that something highly complimentary should be said on the part of the intruder; but according to the ideas the Author has conceived of Mr GARRICK'S delicacy and good sense, a single period in the garb of flattery would certainly offend him.

He therefore takes his leave;—and after having stept (perhaps a little too forward) to offer his tribute of esteem, respectfully retires.

NEWCASTLE, Feb. 1766.

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This Book is entered in Stationers-Hall, according to Act of Parliament; and whoever prints the same, without the Author's Leave, will be prosecuted as the Law directs.

DAY: A PASTORAL.

‘—Carpe diem.’ HOR.

MORNING.

I.

IN the barn the tenant Cock,

Close to partlet perch'd on high,

Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!)

Jocund that the morning's nigh.

II.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow,

Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire:

And the peeping sun-beam, now,

Paints with gold the village spire.

III.

Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night;

And the Lark, to meet the morn,

Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

IV.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,

See the chatt'ring Swallow spring;

Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,

Quick she dips her dappled wing.

V.

Now the pine-tree's waving top,

Gently greets the morning gale:

Kidlings, now, begin to crop

Daisies, on the dewey dale.

VI.

From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,

(Restless till her task be done)

Now the busy Bee's employ'd

Sipping dew before the sun.

VII.

Trickling through the crevic'd rock,

Where the limpid stream distills,

Sweet refreshment waits the flock

When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

VIII.

COLIN'S for the promis'd corn

(E're the harvest hopes are ripe)

Anxious;—whilst the huntsman's horn,

Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.

IX.

Sweet,—O sweet, the warbling throng,

On the white emblossom'd spray!

Nature's universal song

Echos to the rising day.

NOON.

X.

FERVID on the glitt'ring flood,

Now the noontide radiance glows:

Drooping o'er its infant bud,

Not a dew-drop's left the rose.

XI.

By the brook the shepherd dines,

From the fierce meridian heat,

Shelter'd, by the branching pines,

Pendant o'er his grassy seat.

XII.

Now the flock forsakes the glade,

Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall;

Sure to find a pleasing shade

By the ivy'd abbey wall.

XIII.

Echo in her airy round,

O'er the river, rock and hill,

Cannot catch a single sound,

Save the clack of yonder mill.

XIV.

Cattle court the zephirs bland,

Where the streamlet wanders cool;

Or with languid silence stand

Midway in the marshy pool.

XV.

But from mountain, dell, or stream,

Not a flutt'ring zephir springs:

Fearful lest the noontide beam

Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

XVI.

Not a leaf has leave to stir,

Nature's lull'd—serene—and still!

Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,

Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

XVII.

Languid is the landscape round,

Till the fresh descending shower,

Grateful to the thirsty ground,

Raises ev'ry fainting flower.

XVIII.

Now the hill—the hedge—is green,

Now the warblers' throats in tune;

Blithsome is the verdant scene,

Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!

EVENING.

XIX.

O'ER the heath the heifer strays

Free;—(the furrow'd task is done)

Now the village windows blaze,

Burnish'd by the setting sun.

XX.

Now he sets behind the hill,

Sinking from a golden sky:

Can the pencil's mimic skill,

Copy the refulgent dye?

XXI.

Trudging as the plowmen go,

(To the smoaking hamlet bound)

Giant-like their shadows grow,

Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.

XXII.

Where the rising forest spreads,

Shelter, for the lordly dome!

To their high-built airy beds,

See the rooks returning home!

XXIII.

As the Lark with vary'd tune,

Carrols to the evening loud;

Mark the mild resplendent moon,

Breaking through a parted cloud!

XXIV.

Now the hermit Howlet peeps

From the barn, or twisted brake;

And the blue mist slowly creeps,

Curling on the silver lake.

XXV.

As the Trout in speckled pride,

Playful from its bosom springs;

To the banks, a ruffled tide

Verges in successive rings.

XXVI.

Tripping through the silken grass,

O'er the path-divided dale,

Mark the rose-complexion'd lass

With her well-pois'd milking pail.

XXVII.

Linnets with unnumber'd notes,

And the Cuckow bird with two,

Tuning sweet their mellow throats,

Bid the setting sun adieu.

THE CONTEMPLATIST: A NIGHT PIECE.

Nox erat—

Cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictaeque volucres.

I.

THE nurse of CONTEMPLATION, Night,

Begins her balmy reign;

Advancing in their varied light

Her silver-vested train.

II.

'Tis strange, the many marshall'd stars,

That ride yon sacred round,

Should keep, among their rapid cars,

A silence so profound!

III.

A kind, a philosophic calm,

The cool creation wears!

And what Day drank of dewy balm,

The gentle Night repairs.

IV.

Behind their leafy curtains hid

The feather'd race how still!

How quiet, now, the gamesome kid

That gambol'd round the hill!

V.

The sweets, that bending o'er their banks,

From sultry Day declin'd,

Revive in little velvet ranks,

And scent the western wind.

VI.

The Moon, preceded by the breeze

That bade the clouds retire,

Appears amongst the tufted trees

A Phoenix nest on fire.

VII.

But soft—the golden glow subsides!

Her chariot mounts on high!

And now, in silent pomp, she rides

Pale regent of the sky!

VIII.

Where TIME, upon the wither'd tree

Hath carv'd the moral chair,

I sit, from busy passions free,

And breathe the placid air.

IX.

The wither'd tree was once in prime;

Its branches brav'd the sky!

Thus, at the touch of ruthless TIME

Shall Youth and Vigour die.

X.

I'm lifted to the blue expanse:

It glows serenely gay!

Come SCIENCE, by my side, advance,

We'll search the Milky Way.

XI.

Let us descend—The daring flight

Fatigues my feeble mind;

And SCIENCE, in the maze of light,

Is impotent and blind.

XII.

What are those wild, those wand'ring fires,

That o'er the moorland ran?

Vapours. How like the vague desires

That cheat the heart of MAN!

XIII.

But there's a friendly guide!—a flame,

That lambent o'er its bed,

Enlivens, with a gladsome beam,

The hermit's osier shed.

XIV.

Amongst the russet shades of night,

It glances from afar!

And darts along the dusk; so bright,

It seems a silver star!

XV.

In coverts, (where the few frequent)

If VIRTUE deigns to dwell;

'Tis thus; the little lamp CONTENT,

Gives lustre to her cell.

XVI.

How smooth that rapid river slides

Progressive to the deep;

The poppies pendent o'er its sides

Have charm'd the waves to sleep.

XVII.

PLEASURE'S intoxicated sons!

Ye indolent! ye gay!

Reflect—for as the river runs,

Life wings its tractless way.

XVIII.

That branching grove of dusky green,

Conceals the azure sky;

Save, where a starry space between,

Relieves the darken'd eye.

XIX.

Old ERROR, thus, with shades impure,

Throws sacred Truth behind:

Yet sometimes, through the deep obscure,

She bursts upon the mind.

XX.

Sleep, and her sister Silence reign,

They lock the Shepherds fold!

But hark—I hear a lamb complain,

'Tis lost upon the wold!

XXI.

To savage herds, that hunt for prey,

An unresisting prize!

For having trod a devious way,

The little rambler dies.

XXII.

As luckless is the virgin's lot

Whom pleasure once misguides,

When hurried from the halcion cot

Where INNOCENCE presides—

XXIII.

The Passions, a relentless train!

To tear the victim run:

She seeks the paths of peace in vain,

Is conquer'd—and undone.

XXIV.

How bright the little insects blaze,

Where willows shade the way;

As proud as if their painted rays

Could emulate the Day!

XXV.

'Tis thus, the pygmy sons of pow'r

Advance their vain parade!

Thus, glitter in the darken'd hour,

And like the glow-worms fade!

XXVI.

The soft serenity of night,

Ungentle clouds deform!

The silver host that shone so bright,

Is hid behind a storm!

XXVII.

The angry elements engage!

An oak, (an ivied bower!)

Repels the rough winds noisy rage,

And shields me from the shower.

XXVIII.

The rancour, thus, of rushing fate,

I've learnt to render vain:

For whilst Integrity's her seat,

The soul will sit serene.

XXIX.

A raven, from some greedy vault

Amidst that cloister'd gloom,

Bids me, and 'tis a solemn thought!

Reflect upon the tomb.

XXX.

The tomb!—The consecrated dome!

The temple rais'd to PEACE!

The port, that to its friendly home,

Compels the human race!

XXXI.

Yon village, to the moral mind,

A solemn aspect wears;

Where sleep hath lull'd the labour'd hind,

And kill'd his daily cares:

XXXII.

'Tis but the church-yard of the Night;

An emblematic bed!

That offers to the mental sight,

The temporary dead.

XXXIII.

From hence, I'll penetrate, in thought,

The grave's unmeasur'd deep;

And tutor'd, hence, be timely taught,

To meet my final sleep.

XXXIV.

'Tis peace—(The little chaos past!)

The gentle moon's restor'd!

A breeze succeeds the frightful blast,

That through the forest roar'd!

XXXV.

The Nightingale, a welcome guest!

Renews her gentle strains;

And HOPE, (just wand'ring from my breast)

Her wonted seat regains.

XXXVI.

Yes—When yon lucid orb is dark,

And darting from on high;

My soul, a more celestial spark,

Shall keep her native sky.

XXXVII.

Fann'd by the light—the lenient breeze,

My limbs refreshment find;

And moral rhapsodies, like these,

Give vigour to the mind.

CONTENT: A PASTORAL.

I.

O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,

As wilder'd and weary'd I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,

And leads me—o'er lawns—to her home.

Yellow sheafs from rich CERES her cottage had crown'd,

Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement, sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,

And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

II.

We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast:

Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me the best:

While thrown from my guard by some glances she cast,

Love slily stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly reply'd,

(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)

I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd,

But take me, fond shepherd—I'm thine.

III.

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek!

So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!

I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,

And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,

And if, by yon prattler, the stream,

Reclin'd on her bosom, I sink into sleep,

Her image still softens my dream.

IV.

Together we range o'er the slow rising hills,

Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,

And point out new themes for my muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,

The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager, PEACE, is well known for her sire,

And shepherds have nam'd her CONTENT.

WITH A PRESENT.

I.

LET not the hand of AMITY be nice!

Nor the poor tribute from the heart disclaim;

A trifle shall become a pledge of price,

If friendship stamps it with her sacred name.

II.

The little rose that laughs upon its stem,

One of the sweets with which the gardens teem,

In value soars above an eastern gem,

If tender'd as the token of esteem.

III.

Had I vast hoards of massy wealth to send,

Such as your merits might demand—their due!

Then should the golden tribute of your friend

Rival the treasures of the rich PERU.

CORYDON: A PASTORAL. To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq

I.

COME, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse,

We'll see our lov'd CORYDON laid:

Tho' sorrow may blemish the verse,

Yet let a sad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the pride of the plain;

In sooth he was gentle and kind!

He mark'd on his elegant strain

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

II.

On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell;

He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,

But never wou'd rifle their cell.

Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,

Go bleat—and your master bemoan;

His music was artless and sweet,

His manners as mild as your own.

III.

No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear;

The sweets of the forest shall fail,

And winter discolour the year.

No birds in our hedges shall sing,

(Our hedges so vocal before)

Since he that should welcome the spring,

Can greet the gay season no more.

IV.

His PHILLIS was fond of his praise,

And poets came round in a throng;

They listen'd,—they envy'd his lays,

But which of them equal'd his song?

Ye shepherds, hence forward be mute,

For lost is the pastoral strain;

So give me my CORYDON'S flute,

And thus—let me break it in twain.

The ROSE and BUTTERFLY: A FABLE.

AT day's early dawn a gay Butterfly spied,

A budding young Rose, and he wish'd her his bride:

She blush'd when she heard him his passion declare,

And tenderly told him—he need not despair.

Their faith was soon plighted; as lovers will do,

He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.

It had not been prudent to deal with delay,

The bloom of a rose passes quickly away,

And the pride of a butterfly dies in a day.

When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies,

From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;

Nor did he revisit his bride, till the sun

Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.

The Rose thus reproach'd him—'Already so cold!

'How feign'd, O you false one, that passion you told!

''Tis an age since you left me:' (She meant a few hours;

But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers)

'I saw when you gave the base vi'let a kiss:

'How—how could you stoop to a meanness like this?

'Shall a low, little wretch, whom we roses despise,

'Find favour, O love! in my butterfly's eyes?

'On a tulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,

'Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:

'Dull daffodils too, were with ardour address'd,

'And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd.'

The coxcomb was piqu'd, and reply'd with a sneer,

'That you're first to complain, I commend you, my dear!

'But know from your conduct my maxims I drew,

'And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.

'I saw the boy Zephirus rifle your charms,

'I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;

'The honey-bee kiss'd you, you cannot disown,

'You favour'd besides—O dishonour!—a drone;

'Yet worse—'tis a crime that you must not deny,

'Your sweets were made common, false rose, to a fly.

MORAL.

This law long ago did Love's providence make,

That ev'ry coquet should be curs'd with a rake,

DAMON and PHEBE.

I.

WHen the sweet rosey morning first peep'd from the skies,

A loud singing lark bade the villagers rise,

The cowslips were lively—the primroses gay,

And shed their best perfumes to welcome the May:

The swains and their sweethearts all rang'd on the green,

Did homage to Phebe—and haild her their queen.

II.

Young Damon step'd forward: he sung in her praise,

And Phebe bestow'd him a garland of bays:

May this wreath, said the fair one, dear Lord of my rows,

A crown for true merit, bloom long on thy brows:

The swains and their sweethearts that danc'd on the green,

Approv'd the fond present of Phebe their queen.

III.

'Mong'st lords and fine ladies we shepherds are told,

The dearest affections are barter'd for gold;

That discord in wedlock is often their lot,

While Cupid and Hymen shake hands in a cot:

At the church with fair Phebe since Damon has been;

He's rich as a monarch—she's blest as a queen.

A PASTORAL HYMN To JANUS. On the BIRTH of the QUEEN.

‘Te primum pia thura rogent—te vota salutent, —te Colat omnis honas.’ MART. ad Janum.

I.

TO JANUS, gentle shepherds! raise a shrine:

His honours be divine!

And as to mighty PAN with homage bow:

To him, the virgin troop shall tribute bring;

Let him be hail'd like the green-liveried spring,

Spite of the wint'ry storms that stain his brow.

II.

The pride, the glowing pageantry of MAY,

Glides wantonly away:

But JANUARY, in his rough spun vest,

Boasts the full blessings that can never fade,

He that gave birth to the illustrious maid,

Whose beauties make the BRITISH MONARCH blest!

III.

Could the soft spring with all her sunny showers,

The frolic nurse of flowers!

Or flaunting summer, flush'd in ripen'd pride,

Could they produce a finish'd sweet so rare:

Or from his golden stores, a gift so fair,

Say, has the fertile Autumn e'er supply'd?

IV.

Hence forward let the hoary month be gay

As the white-hawthorn'd MAY!

The laughing goddess of the spring disown'd,

HER rosy wreath shall on HIS brows appear,

Old JANUS as he leads, shall fill the year,

And the less fruitful AUTUMN be dethron'd.

V.

Above the other months supremely blest,

Glad JANUS stands confest!

He can behold with retrospective face

The mighty blessings of the year gone by:

Where to connect a Monarch's nuptial tie,

Assembled ev'ry glory, ev'ry grace!

VI.

When he looks forward on the flatt'ring year,

The golden hours appear;

As in the sacred reign of Saturn, fair:

Britain shall prove from this propitious date,

Her honours perfect, victories compleat,

And boast the brightest hopes, a BRITISH HEIR. ☞

Notes

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

STANZAS ON THE FORWARDNESS of SPRING.

—tibi, flores, plenis

Ecce ferunt, nymphae, calathis.

VIR.

I.

O'ER Nature's fresh bosom, by verdure unbound,

Bleak Winter blooms lovely as Spring:

Rich flow'rets (how fragrant!) rise wantonly round,

And Summer's wing'd choristers sing!

II.

To greet the young monarch of Britain's blest isle,

The groves with gay blossoms are grac'd!

The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile,

And cowslips croud forward in haste!

III.

Dispatch, gentle Flora! the nymphs of your train

Thro' woodlands to gather each sweet:

Go—rob, of young roses, the dew-spangl'd plain,

And strew the gay spoils at his feet.

IV.

Two chaplets of laurel, in verdure the same,

For GEORGE, oh ye virgins, entwine!

From Conquest's own temples these evergreens came,

And those from the brows of the Nine!

V.

What honours, ye Britons! (one emblem implies)

What glory to GEORGE shall belong!

What Miltons, (the other) what Addisons rise

To make him immortal in song!

VI.

To a wreath of fresh Oak, England's emblem of pow'r!

Whose honours with time shall encrease!

Add a fair olive sprig just unfolding its flow'r,

Rich token of Concord and Peace!

VII.

Next give him young Myrtles, by Beauties bright queen

Collected,—the pride of the grove!

How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green!

Sweet promise of conjugal Love!

VIII.

Let Gaul's captive Lillies, cropt close to the ground,

As trophies of Conquest be ty'd:

The virgins all cry, "there's not one to be found!

"Out-bloom'd by his Roses—they dy'd."

IX.

Ye foes of Old England, such fate shall ye share;

With GEORGE, as our glories advance—

Thro' envy you'll sicken,—you'll droop,—you'll despair,

And die—like the Lillies of France. ☞

Notes

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

On the APPROACH of MAY.

I.

THE virgin, when soften'd by MAY,

Attends to the villager's vows;

The birds sweetly bill on the spray,

And poplars embrace with their boughs;

On Ida bright Venus may reign,

Ador'd for her beauty above!

We shepherds that dwell on the plain,

Hail MAY as the mother of love.

II.

From the West as it wantonly blows,

•ond zephir caresses the vine:

〈◊〉 bee steals a kiss from the rose,

••d willows and woodbines entwine:

〈◊〉 pinks by the rivulet side,

•••t border the vernal alcove,

•ownward to kiss the soft tide:

〈◊〉 MAY is the mother of love.

III.

MAY tinges the butterfly's wing,

He flutters in bridal array!

And if the wing'd foresters sing,

Their music is taught them by MAY.

The stock-dove, recluse with her mate,

Conceals her fond bliss in the grove,

And murmuring seems to repeat

That MAY is the mother of love.

IV.

The goddess will visit ye soon,

Ye virgins be sportive and gay:

Get your pipes, oh ye shepherds, in tune,

For music must welcome the MAY.

Would Damon have Phillis prove kind,

And all his keen anguish remove,

Let him tell her soft tales, and he'll find

That MAY is the mother of love.

PHILLIS: A PASTORAL BALLAD.

I.

I Said,—on the banks by the stream,

I've pip'd for the shepherds too long:

Oh grant me, ye Muses, a theme,

Where glory may brighten my song!

But PAN bade me stick to my strain,

Nor lessons too lofty rehearse;

Ambition befits not a swain,

And PHILLIS loves pastoral verse.

II.

The rose, tho' a beautiful red,

Looks faded to PHILLIS'S bloom:

And the breeze from the bean-flow'r bed

To her breath's but a feeble perfume:

The dew-drop so limpid and gay,

That loose on the violet lies,

Tho' brighten'd by PHEBUS'S ray,

Wants lustre, compar'd to her eyes.

III.

A lilly I pluck'd in full pride,

Its freshness with her's to compare;

And foolishly thought (till I try'd)

The flow'ret was equally fair.

How, CORYDON, could you mistake?

Your fault be with sorrow confest,

You said the white Swans on the lake

For softness might rival her breast.

IV.

While thus I went on in her praise,

My PHILLIS pass'd sportive along:

Ye poets I covet no bays,

She smil'd,—a reward for my song!

I find the God PAN'S in the right,

No fame's like the fair ones applause!

And CUPID must crown with delight

The shepherd that sings in his cause.

The VIOLET.

I.

SHelter'd from the blight ambition,

Fatal to the pride of rank,

See me in my low condition

Laughing on the tufted bank.

II.

On my robes (for emulation)

No variety's imprest:

Suited to an humble station,

Mine's an unembroider'd vest.

III.

Modest tho' the maids declare me,

MAY in her fantastic train,

When PASTORA deigns to wear me,

Ha'nt a flow'ret half so vain.

The NARCISSUS.

I.

AS pendent o'er the limpid stream

I bow'd my snowey pride,

And languish'd in a fruitless flame,

For what the fates deny'd;

The fair PASTORA chanc'd to pass,

With such an Angel air,

I saw her in the wat'ry glass,

And lov'd the rival fair.

II.

Ye fates, no longer let me pine

A self-admiring sweet,

Permit me by your grace divine

To kiss the fair one's feet:

That if by chance the gentle maid,

My fragrance should admire,

I may,—upon her bosom laid,

In sister sweets expire.

POMONA: A PASTORAL.

I.

FROM orchards of ample extent,

Pomona's compel'd to depart;

And thus, as in anguish she went,

The Goddess unburthen'd her heart:

II.

"To flourish where liberty reigns,

"Was all my fond wishes requir'd;

"And here I agreed with the swains,

"To live till their freedom expir'd.

III.

"Of late you have number'd my trees,

"And threaten'd to limit my store:

"Alas—from such maxims as these,

"I fear—that your freedom's no more.

IV.

"My flight will be fatal to May:

"For how can her gardens be fine?

"The blossoms are doom'd to decay,

"(The blossoms, I mean, that were mine.)

V.

"Rich Autumn remembers me well:

"My fruitage was fair to behold!

"My pears!—how I ripen'd their swell!

"My pippins!—were pippins of gold!

VI.

"Let Ceres drudge on with her ploughs!

"She droops as she furrows the soil;

"A nectar I shake from my boughs,

"A nectar that softens my toil.

VII.

"When Bacchus began to repine,

"With patience I bore his abuse;

"He said that I plunder'd the vine,

"He said that I pilfer'd his juice.

VIII.

"I know the proud drunkard denies

"That trees of my culture should grow:

"But let not the traitor advise;

"He comes from the climes of your foe.

IX.

"Alas! in your silence I read

"The sentence I'm doom'd to deplore:

"'Tis plain the great PAN has decreed,

"My orchard shall flourish no more."

X.

The Goddess flew off in despair;

As all her sweet honours declin'd:

And PLENTY and PLEASURE declare,

They'll loiter no longer behind.

FANCY: A SONG in a Pantomime Entertainment.

I.

FANCY leads the fetter'd senses

Captives to her fond controul;

Merit may have rich pretences,

But 'tis FANCY fires the soul.

II.

Far beyond the bounds of meaning

FANCY flies, a fairy queen!

FANCY, wit and worth disdaining,

Gives the prize to HARLEQUIN.

III.

If the virgin's false, forgive her,

FANCY was your only foe:

CUPID claims the dart and quiver,

But 'tis FANCY twangs the bow.

The FOX and the CAT: A FABLE.

THE Fox and the Cat, as they travel'd one day,

With moral discourses cut shorter the way:

''Tis great, says the Fox, to make justice our guide!

'How godlike is mercy, Grimalkin reply'd.'

Whilst thus they proceeded,—a Wolf from the wood,

Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood,

Rush'd forth—as he saw the dull shepherd asleep,

And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep.

In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat,

When mutton's at hand, says the wolf, I must eat.

Grimalkin's astonish'd,—The Fox stood aghast,

To see the fell beast at his bloody repast.

'What a wretch, says the cat,—'tis the vilest of brutes:

'Does he feed upon flesh, when there's herbage, —and roots?

'Cries the Fox—while our oaks give us acorns so good,

'What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent blood?'

Well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd still,

'Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill:

Sly Reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes,

And made (spite of morals) a pullet his prize.

A mouse too, that chanc'd from her covert to stray,

The greedy Grimalkin secur'd as her prey.

A Spider that sat in her web on the wall,

Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pity'd their fall;

She cry'd—of such murders how guiltless am I!

So ran to regale on a new taken fly.

MORAL.

The faults of our neighbours with freedom we blame,

But tax not ourselves, tho' we practise the same.

The MILLER: A BALLAD.

I.

IN a plain pleasant cottage, conveniently neat,

With a mill and some meadows—a freehold, estate,

A well-meaning miller by labour supplies,

Those blessings that grandeur to great ones denies:

No passions to plague him, no cares to torment,

His constant companions are health and content;

Their lordships in lace may remark if they will,

He's honest tho' daub'd with the dust of his mill.

II.

Ere the larks early carrols salute the new day

He springs from his cottage as jocund as May;

He chearfully whistles, regardless of care,

Or sings the last ballad he bought at the fair:

While courtiers are toil'd in the cobwebs of state,

Or bribing elections in hopes to be great,

No fraud, of ambition his bosom does fill,

Contented he works, if there's grist for his mill.

III.

On Sunday bedeck'd in his homespun array,

At church he's the loudest, to chaunt or to pray:

He sits to a dinner of plain English food,

Tho' simple the pudding, his appetite's good;

At night, when the priest and exciseman are gone,

He quaffs at the alehouse with Roger and John,

Then reels to his pillow, and dreams of no ill;

No monarch more blest than the man of the mill.

The LVIII. ODE of ANACREON imitated.

AS I wove with wanton care,

Fillets for a virgin's hair,

Culling for my fond design,

What the fields had fresh and fine:

CUPID,—and I mark'd him well,

Hid him in a cowslip bell;

While he plum'd a pointed dart,

Fated to inflame the heart.

Glowing with malicious joy,

Sudden I secur'd the boy;

And, regardless of his cries,

Bore the little frighted prize

Where the mighty goblet stood,

Teeming with a rosy flood.

Urchin, in my rage, I cry'd,

What avails thy saucy pride,

From thy busy vengeance free,

Triumph, now, belongs to me!

Thus—I drown thee in my cup;

Thus—in wine I drink thee up.

Fatal was the nectar'd draught

That to murder LOVE I quaff'd,

O'er my bosom's fond domains,

Now, the cruel tyrant reigns:

On my heart's most tender strings,

Striking with his wanton wings,

I'm for ever doom'd to prove

All the insolence of love.

A LANDSCAPE.

‘Rura mihi et irrigui placeant in vallibus amnes.’ VIRG.

I.

NOW that summer's ripen'd bloom

Frolicks where the winter frown'd,

Stretch'd upon these banks of broom,

We command the landscape round.

II.

Nature in the prospect yields

Humble dales, and mountains bold,

Meadows, woodlands, heaths,—and fields

Yellow'd o'er with waving gold.

III.

Goats upon that frowning steep,

Fearless, with their kidlings brouse!

Here a flock of snowy sheep!

There an herd of motly cows!

IV.

On the uplands, every glade

Brightens in the blaze of day;

O'er the vales, the sober shade

Softens to an evening grey.

V.

Where the rill by slow degrees

Swells into a crystal pool,

Shaggy rocks and shelving trees

Shoot to keep the waters cool.

VI.

Shiver'd by a thunder-stroke,

From the mountain's misty ridge,

O'er the brook a ruin'd oak,

Near the farm-house, forms a bridge.

VII.

On her breast the funny beam

Glitters in meridian pride;

Yonder as the virgin stream

Hastens to the restless tide:—

VIII.

Where the ships by wanton gales

Wafted, o'er the green waves run.

Sweet to see their swelling sails

Whiten'd by the laughing sun!

IX.

High upon the daisied hill,

Rising from the slope of trees,

How the wings of yonder mill

Labour in the busy breeze!—

X.

Cheerful as a summer's morn

(Bouncing from her loaded pad)

Where the maid presents her corn,

Smirking, to the miller's lad.

XI.

O'er the green a festal throng

Gambols, in fantastic trim!

As the full cart moves along,

Hearken—'tis their harvest hymn!

XII.

Linnets on the crowded sprays

Chorus,—and the wood-larks rise,

Soaring with a song of praise,

Till the sweet notes reach the skies.

XIII.

Torrents in extended sheets

Down the cliffs, dividing, break:

'Twixt the hills the water meets,

Settling in a silver lake!

XIV.

From his languid flocks, the swain

By the sunbeams sore opprest,

Plunging on the wat'ry plain,

Plows it with his glowing breast.

XV.

Where the mantling willows no•,

From the green bank's slopy side,

Patient, with his well-thrown rod

Many an angler breaks the tide!

XVI.

On the isles, with osiers drest

Many a fair-plum'd haloion breeds!

Many a wild bird hides her nest,

Cover'd in yon crackling reeds

XVII.

Fork-tail'd pratlers as they pass

To their nestlings in the rock,

Darting on the liquid glass,

Seem to kiss the mimick'd flock.

XVIII.

Where the stone Cross lifts its head,

Many a saint and pilgrim hoar,

Up the hills was wont to tread

Barefoot, in the days of yore.

XIX.

Guardian of a sacred well,

Arch'd beneath yon reverend shades,

Whilome, in that shatter'd cell,

Many an hermit told his beads.

XX.

Sultry mists surround the heath

Where the Gothic dome appears,

O'er the trembling groves beneath,

Tott'ring with a load of years.

XXI.

Turn to the contrasted scene,

Where, beyond these hoary piles,

Gay, upon the rising green,

Many an attic building smiles!

XXII.

Painted gardens—grots—and groves,

Intermingling shade and light!

Lengthen'd vistas, green alcoves,

Join to give the eye delight.

XXIII.

Hamlets—villages, and spires,

Scatter'd on the landscape lie,

Till the distant view retires,

Closing in an azure sky.

To the Hon. Master B—. Sent with a select Collection of Books.

THO', gentle youth, thy calm untainted mind,

Be like a morning in the spring, serene,

Time may commit the passions unconfin'd,

To the rude rigour of a noontide reign.

Then, in the morn of placid life be wise,

And travel thro' the groves of science soon,

There cull the plants of virtue that may rise,

A peaceful shelter from that sultry noon.

On seeing W. R. CHETWOOD cheerful in a Prison.

I.

SAY, lov'd Content—fair goddess, say,

Where shall I seek thy soft retreat,

How shall I find thy halcion seat,

Or trace thy secret way?

II.

Love pointed out a pleasing scene,

Where nought but beauty could be found,

With roses and with myrtles crown'd,

And nam'd thee for its queen.

III.

Delusion all!—a specious cheat!

At my approach the roses fade,

I found each fragrance quite decay'd,

And curs'd the fond deceit.

IV.

At courts I've try'd where splendor shone,

Where pomp and gilded cares reside,

'Midst endless hurry, endless pride,

But there thou wast unknown.

V.

Yet in the captive's dreary cell,

Lodg'd with a long experienc'd sage,

With the fam'd [*] CHIRON of the stage

The goddess deign'd to dwell.

VI.

Integrity, and truth serene,

Had eas'd the labours of his breast,

And lull'd his peaceful heart to rest

'Midst perfidy and pain.

VII.

A soul like his, disrob'd of guile,

With native innocence elate,

Above the keenest rage of fate

Can greet her with a smile.

Notes

*
He had been thirty years prompter at the London theatres.
↵

MELODY.

I.

LIghtsome, as convey'd by sparrows,

Love and beauty cross'd the plains,

Flights of little pointed arrows

Love dispatch'd among the swains.

But so much our shepherds dread him,

(Spoiler of their peace profound)

Swift as scudding fawns they fled him,

Frighted, tho' they felt no wound.

II.

Now the wanton God grown slier,

And for each fond mischief ripe,

Comes disguis'd in PAN'S attire,

Tuning sweet an oaten pipe.

Echo, by the winding river,

Doubles his deluding strains;

While the boy conceals his quiver,

From the slow returning swains.

III.

As Palemon, unsuspecting,

Prais'd the sly musician's art;

Love, his light disguise rejecting,

Lodg'd an arrow in his heart.

Cupid will enforce your duty,

Shepherds, and would have you taught,

Those that timid fly from BEAUTY,

May by MELODY be caught.

AN ELEGY ON A PILE of RUINS.

Aspice murorum moles, praeruptaque saxa!
JANUS VITALIS.

‘Omnia, tempus edax depascitur, omnia carpit.’ SENECA.

I.

IN the full prospect yonder hill commands,

O'er barren heaths, and cultivated plains;

The vestige of an ancient abbey stands,

Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains.

II.

Half buried, there, lie many a broken bust,

And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by TIME;

And many a cherub, there, descends in dust

From the rent roof, and portico sublime.

III.

The rivulets, oft frighted at the sound

Of fragments, tumbling from the tow'rs on high;

Plunge to their source in secret caves profound,

Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry.

IV.

Where rev'rend shrines in Gothic grandeur stood,

The nettle, or the noxious night-shade, spreads;

And ashlings, wafted from the neighb'ring wood,

Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.

V.

There Contemplation, to the croud unknown,

Her attitude compos'd, and aspect sweet!

Sits musing on a monumental stone,

And points to the MEMENTO at her feet.

VI.

Soon as sage ev'ning check'd day's sunny pride,

I left the mantling shade, in moral mood;

And seated by the maid's sequester'd side,

Sigh'd, as the mould'ring monuments I view'd.

VII.

Inexorably calm, with silent pace

Here TIME has pass'd—What ruin marks his way!

This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,

Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.

VIII.

Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes

In vain; and Melody, her song sublime:

In vain, Philosophy, with maxims wise,

Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of TIME.

IX.

Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not mov'd to spare,

Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;

And partly the rude ravage to repair,

The tott'ring tow'rs with twisted Ivy tied.

X.

How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss,

That terminates the view, yon cloister'd way!

In the crush'd wall, a time-corroded cross,

Religion like, stands mould'ring in decay!

XI.

Where the mild sun, thro' saint-encypher'd glass,

Illum'd with yellow light yon dusky isle;

Many rapt hours might Meditation pass,

Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the pile!

XII.

And Piety, with mystic-meaning beads,

Bowing to saints on ev'ry side inurn'd,

Trod oft the solitary path, that leads

Where, now, the sacred altar lies o'erturn'd!

XIII.

Thro' the grey grove, between those with'ring trees,

'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears

A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,

Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears:

XIV.

Low level'd in the dust her darling's laid!

Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom'

Nor could maternal piety dissuade,

Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

XV.

The relicks of a mitred saint may rest,

Where, mould'ring in the niche, his statue stands;

Now nameless, as the croud that kiss'd his vest,

And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

XVI.

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,

The bones of an illustrious Chieftain lie;

As trac'd amongst the fragments of his tomb,

The trophies of a broken FAME imply.

XVII.

Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain,

His rights and rich demesnes extended wide!

That honour, and her knights, compos'd his train,

And chivalry stood marshal'd by his side!

XVIII.

Tho' to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb,

And frown'd defiance on the desp'rate foe;

Tho' deem'd invincible, the conqueror, TIME,

Level'd the fabric, as the founder, low.

XIX.

Where the light lyre gave many a soft'ning sound,

Ravens and rooks, the birds of discord, dwell;

And where Society sat sweetly crown'd,

Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.

XX.

The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,

Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room,

Where the sage matron and her maidens sat,

Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom.

XXI.

The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste;

And the rude winds incessant seem to roar,

Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac'd

Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.

XXII.

His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide

To pure canals, a chrystal cool supply!

In the deep dust their barren beauties hide:

TIME'S thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them dry!

XXIII.

Tho' his rich hours in revelry were spent,

With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew;

And the sweet brow of Beauty, still unbent,

Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew:

XXIV.

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;

Not to be stay'd by masque, or midnight roar!

Nor shall a pulse amongst that mould'ring dust,

Beat wanton at the smiles of Beauty more!

XXV.

Can the deep statesman, skill'd in great design,

Protract, but for a day, precarious breath?

Or the tun'd follower of the sacred Nine,

Sooth, with his melody, insatiate Death?

XXVI.

No—Tho' the palace bar her golden gate,

Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around;

Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of fate

Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!

XXVII.

What then avails Ambition's wide stretch'd wing,

The Schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty's bloom!

The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-rob'd king

Level'd, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb.

XXVIII.

The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,

Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began,

Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,

"PHILIP! remember, thou'rt no more than man.

XXIX.

"Tho' glory spread thy name from pole to pole;

"Tho' thou art merciful, and brave, and just;

"PHILIP, reflect, thou'rt posting to the goal,

"Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!"

XXX.

So SALADIN, for arts and arms renown'd,

(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdu'd)

Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,

Sigh'd, when the perishable pomp he view'd:

XXXI.

And as he rode, high in his regal car,

In all the purple pride of conquest drest;

Conspicuous, o'er the trophies gain'd in war,

Plac'd, pendent on a spear, his burial vest:

XXXII.

While thus the herald cry'd—"This son of pow'r,

"This SALADIN, to whom the nations bow'd;

"May, in the space of one revolving hour,

"Boast of no other spoil, but yonder shroud!"

XXXIII.

Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'd;

Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran;

And say, while mem'ry weeps the blood-stain'd field,

Where lies the chief, and where the common man?

XXXIV.

Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones,

And monumental trophies rais'd on high!

For TIME confounds them with the crumbling bones,

That mix'd in hasty graves unnotic'd lie.

XXXV.

Rests not, beneath the turf, the peasant's head,

Soft as the lord's, beneath the labour'd tomb?

Or sleeps one colder, in his close clay bed;

Than t'other, in the wide vault's dreary womb?

XXXVI.

Hither, let LUXURY lead her loose-rob'd train;

Here flutter PRIDE, on purple-painted wings:

And, from the moral prospect, learn—how vain

The wish, that sighs for sublunary things!

An INSCRIPTION On the House at Mavis-bank near Edinburgh. Situated in a GROVE.

Parva domus! nemerosa quies!

Sis tu, quoque nostris

Hospitium, laribus, subsidiumque diu!

Postes tuas, Flora ornet, Pomonaque mensas!

Conferat ut variat fertilis hortus opes!

Et volucres pictae cingentes voce canora,

Retia sola canent quae sibi tendit amor!

Floriferi colles, dulces mihi soepe recessus

Dent, atque hospitibus gaudia plena meis!

Concedatque Deus nunquam, vel sero senescas,

Séroque terrenas experiare vices!

Integra reddantur quae plurima saecula rodant

Detur, et ut senio pulchrior eniteas.

The INSCRIPTION imitated.

I.

PEACE has explor'd this silvan scene,

She courts your calm retreat,

Ye groves of variegated green,

That grace my genial seat!

Here, in the lap of lenient ease,

(Remote from mad'ning noise)

Let me delude a length of days,

In dear domestic joys!

II.

Long may the parent queen of flow'rs

Her fragrance here display!

Long may she paint my mantling bow'rs,

And make my portals gay!

Nor you—my yellow gardens, fail

To swell Pomona's hoard!

So shall the plenteous, rich regale—

Replenish, long, my board!

III.

Pour through the groves your carols clear,

Ye birds, nor bondage dread:

If any toils entangle here,

'Tis those that love hath spread.

Where the green hill so gradual slants,

Or flowery glade extends,

Long may these fair, these fav'rite haunts,

Prove social to my friends!

IV.

May you preserve perpetual bloom,

My happy halcion seat!

Or if fell time denounce thy doom,

Far distant be its date!

And when he makes, with iron rage,

Thy youthful pride his prey,

Long may the honours of thy age

Be reverenc'd in decay!

Another INSCRIPTION on the same House.

Hanc in gremio resonantis silvae

Aquis, hortis, aviumque garritu

Coeterisque ruris honoribus

Undique renidentem villam

Non magnificam—non superbam,

At qualem vides,

Commodam, mundam, genialem

Naturae parem, socians artem.

Sibi, suisque

Ad vitam placide,

Et tranquille agendum

Designavit, instruxitque.

D.I.C.

IMITATED.

I.

IN the deep bosom of my grove

A sweet recess survey!

Where birds, with elegies of love,

Make vocal every spray.

A silvan spot, with woods—with waters crown'd,—

With all the rural honours blooming round!

II.

This little, but commodious seat,

(Where nature weds with art)

A'nt to the EYE superbly great,

Its beauties charm the HEART.

Here, may the happy founder and his race,

Pass their full days in harmony and peace!

DELIA: A PASTORAL.

I.

THE gentle swan with graceful pride

Her glossy plumage laves,

And sailing down the silver tide,

Divides the whisp'ring waves.

The silver tide, that wand'ring flows,

Sweet to the bird must be!

But not so sweet—blyth Cupid knows,

As DELIA is to me.

II.

A parent bird in plaintive mood,

On yonder fruit-tree sung,

And still the pendent nest she view'd,

That held her callow young:

Dear to the mother's flutt'ring heart,

The genial brood must be:

But not so dear (the thousandth part!)

As DELIA is to me.

III.

The roses that my brow surround,

Were natives of the dale:

Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,

Before their sweets grew pale!

My vital bloom would thus be froze,

If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rose,

My DELIA is to me.

IV.

Two doves I found like new-fall'n snow,

So white the beauteous pair!

The birds to DELIA I'll bestow,

They're like her bosom fair!

When, in their chaste connubial love,

My secret wish she'll see;

Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,

May DELIA share with me!

The Sheep and the Bramble-Bush: A FABLE.

A Thick-twisted brake in the time of a storm,

Seem'd kindly to cover a sheep:

So snug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm,

It quietly sooth'd him asleep.

The clouds are now scatter'd—the winds are at peace,

The sheep's to his pasture inclin'd;

But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,

Consider before you get in;

Tho' judgment and sentence are pass'd on your side,

By Jove, you'll be fleec'd to your skin.

MAY-EVE: Or, KATE of ABERDEEN.

I.

THE silver moon's enamour'd beam

Steals softly through the night,

To wanton with the winding stream,

And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep,

('Tis where you've seldom been)

May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep

With KATE of Aberdeen.

II.

Upon the green the virgins wait,

In rosy chaplets gay,

Till morn unbar her golden gate,

And give the promis'd May.

Methinks I hear the maids declare,

The promis'd May, when seen,

Not half so fragrant, half so fair,

As KATE of Aberdeen.

III.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove;

The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love:

And see—the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis KATE of Aberdeen.

IV.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

Where midnight Fairies rove,

Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,

Or tune the reed to love.

For see the rosy May draws nigh:

She claims a virgin queen;

And hark the happy shepherds cry

'Tis KATE of Aberdeen.

The SYCAMORE SHADE: A BALLAD.

I.

T'Other day as I sat in the Sycamore shade,

Young Damon came whistling along,

I trembled—I blush'd—a poor innocent maid!

And my heart caper'd up to my tongue.

Silly heart, I cry'd, fie! What a flutter is here!

Young Damon designs you no ill;

The shepherd's so civil you've nothing to fear,

Then prythee, fond urchin, lie still.

II.

Sly Damon drew near, and knelt down at my feet,

One kiss he demanded—No more!

But urg'd the soft pressure with ardour so sweet,

I could not begrudge him a score.

My lambkins I've kiss'd, and no change ever found,

Many times as we play'd on the hill:

But Damon's dear lips made my heart gallop round,

Nor would the fond urchin lie still.

III.

When the sun blazes fierce, to the Sycamore shade

For shelter, I'm sure to repair;

And, virgins, in faith I'm no longer afraid,

Altho' the dear shepherd be there.

At ev'ry fond kiss that with freedom he takes,

My heart may rebound if it will:

There's something so sweet in the bustle it makes,

I'll die 'ere I bid it lie still.

The XXXIII. ODE of ANACREON imitated. To the SWALLOW.

SOON as summer glads the sky,

Hither, gentle bird, you fly;

And with golden sunshine blest,

Build your pretty plaster'd nest.

When the seasons cease to smile,

(Wing'd for Memphis or the Nile)

Charming bird, you disappear

Till the kind succeeding year.

Like the Swallow, LOVE, depart!

Respite for a while my heart.

No, he'll never leave his nest,

Tyrant tenant of my breast!

There a thousand WISHES try

On their callow wings to fly;

There you may a thousand tell,

Pertly peeping through the shell:

In a state unfinish'd, rise

Thousands of a smaller size.

Till their noisy chirpings cease,

Never shall my heart have peace.

Feather'd ones the younglings feed,

Till mature they're fit to breed;

Then, to swell the crowded store,

They produce their thousands more:

Nor can mighty numbers count

In my breast their vast amount.

LOVE and CHASTITY: A CANTATA.

RECITATIVE.

FRom the high mount[*], whence sacred groves depend,

Diana and her virgin troop descend;

And while the buskin'd maids with active care,

The business of the daily chace prepare:

A favourite nymph steps forward from the throng,

And thus, exulting, swells the jovial song.

AIR.

Jolly HEALTH springs aloft at the loud sounding horn,

Unlock'd from soft SLUMBER'S embrace;

And JOY sings an hymn to salute the sweet morn,

That smiles on the nymphs of the chace.

The rage of fell Cupid no bosom prophanes,

No rancour disturbs our delight,

All the day with fresh VIGOUR we sweep o'er the plains;

And sleep with CONTENTMENT all night.

RECIT.

Their clamour rous'd the slighted god of love:

He flies, indignant, to the sacred grove:

Immortal myrtles wreathe his golden hair,

His rosy wings perfume the wanton air;

Two quivers fill'd with darts his fell designs declare.

A crimson blush o'erspreads fair Dian's face,

A frown succeeds—She stops the springing chace,

And thus, forbids the boy the consecrated place:

AIR.

Fond disturber of the heart,

From these halcion shades depart:

Here's a blooming troop disdains

Love, and his fantastic chains.

Sisters of the silver bow,

Pure and chaste as virgin snow,

Melt not at thy feeble fires,

Wanton god of wild desires!

RECIT.

Rage and revenge divide Love's little breast,

Whilst thus the angry goddess he addrest:

AIR.

Virgin snow does oft remain

Long unmelted on the plain,

Till the glorious god of day

Smiles, and wastes its pride away.

What is Sol's meridian fire

To the darts of strong desire!

Love can light a raging flame

Hotter than his noontide beam.

RECIT.

Now, through the forest's brown-embower'd ways,

With careless steps the young Endymion strays:

His form erect!—loose flows his lovely hair,

His glowing cheek, like youthful Hebe's, fair!

His graceful limbs with ease and vigour move,

His eyes—his ev'ry feature form'd for love:

Around the list'ning woods attentive hung,

While thus, invoking sleep, the shepherd sung:

AIR.

Where the pebbled streamlet glides

Near the wood nymph's rustic grot,

If the god of Sleep resides,

Or in Pan's sequester'd cot;

Hither if he'll lightly tread,

Follow'd by a gentle dream,

We'll enjoy this grassy bed,

On the bank beside the stream.

RECIT.

As on the painted turf the shepherd lies,

Sleep's downy curtain shades his lovely eyes;

And now a sporting breeze his bosom shews

As marble smooth, and white as Alpine snows:

The Goddess gaz'd, in magic softness bound;

Her silver bow falls useless to the ground!

Love laugh'd, and, sure of conquest, wing'd a dart

Unerring, to her undefended heart.

She feels in every vein the fatal fire,

And thus persuades her virgins to retire:

AIR.

I.

Ye tender maids be timely wise;

Love's wanton fury shun!

In flight alone your safety lies,

The daring are undone!

II.

Do blue-ey'd doves, serenely mild,

With vultures fell engage!

Do lambs provoke the lion wild,

Or tempt the tyger's rage!

III.

No, no, like fawns, ye virgins fly,

To secret cells remove;

Nor dare the doubtful combat try

'Twixt CHASTITY and LOVE.

Notes

*
Mount Latmos.
↵

DAMON and PHILLIS: A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

‘Donec gratus eram, &c.’ HOR.

DAMON.

WHEN Phillis was faithful, and fond as she's fair,

I twisted young roses in wreaths for my hair:

But ah! the sad willow's a shade for my brows,

For Phillis no longer remembers her vows!

To the groves with young Collin the shepherdess flies,

While Damon disturbs the still plains with his sighs.

PHILLIS.

Bethink thee, false Damon, before you upbraid,

When Phoebe's fair lambkin had yesterday stray'd,

Thro' the woodlands you wander'd, poor Phillis forgot!

And drove the gay rambler quite home to her cot;

A swain so deceitful no damsel can prize;

'Tis Phoebe, not Phillis, lays claim to your sighs.

DAMON.

Like summer's full season young Phoebe is kind,

Her manners are graceful, untainted her mind!

The sweets of contentment her cottage adorn,

She's fair as the rose-bud, and fresh as the morn!

She smiles like Pomona.—These smiles I'd resign,

If Phillis were faithful, and deign'd to be mine.

PHILLIS.

On the tabor young Collin so prettily plays!

He sings me sweet sonnets, and writes in my praise!

He chose me his true-love last Valentine's day,

When birds sat like bridegrooms all pair'd on the spray;

Yet I'd drive the gay shepherd far, far from my mind,

If Damon, the rover, were constant and kind.

DAMON.

Fine folk, my sweet Phillis, may revel and range,

But fleeting's the pleasure that's founded on change!

In the villager's cottage such constancy springs,

That peasants with pity may look down on kings.

To the church then let's hasten, our transports to bind,

And Damon will always prove faithful and kind.

PHILLIS.

To the church then let's hasten, our transports to bind,

And Phillis will always prove faithful and kind.

FORTUNE: An APOLOGUE. Fabula narratur.

I.

JOVE and his senators, in sage debate

For Man's felicity, were settling laws,

When a rude roar that shook the sacred gate,

Turn'd their attention to enquire the cause.

II.

A long-ear'd wretch, the loudest of his race!

In the rough garniture of grief array'd,

Came brawling to the high imperial place,

Let me have justice, JUPITER!—he bray'd.

III.

"I am an ass, of innocence allow'd

"The type, yet FORTUNE persecutes me still;

"Whilst foxes, wolves, and all the murd'ring crowd,

"Beneath her patronage can rob and kill.

IV.

"The pamper'd horse, (he never toil'd so hard!)

"Favour and friendship from his owner finds:

"For endless diligence,—(a rough reward!)

"I'm cudgel'd by a race of paltry hinds.

V.

"On wretched provender compel'd to feed!

"The rugged pavements ev'ry night my bed!

"For me, dame FORTUNE never yet decreed,

"The gracious comforts of a well-thatch'd shed.

VI.

"Rough and unseemly's my irreverent hide!

"Where can I visit—thus uncouthly drest?

"That outside elegance the dame deny'd,

"For which her fav'rites are too oft caress'd.

VII.

"To suff'ring virtue, sacred JOVE, be kind!

"From FORTUNE'S Tyranny pronounce me free!

"She's a deceiver, if she says she's blind,

"She sees, propitiously sees all—but me."

VIII.

The plaintiff cou'd articulate no more:

His bosom heav'd a most tremendous groan!

The race of long-ear'd wretches join'd the roar,

Till JOVE seem'd tott'ring on his high-built throne.

IX.

The Monarch with an all-commanding Sound,

(Deepen'd like thunder through the rounds of space)

Gave order, that dame FORTUNE should be found,

To answer, as she might, the plaintiff's case.

X.

Soldiers, and citizens, a seemly train!

And lawyers and physicians, sought her cell;

With many a schoolman—But their search was vain:

Few can the residence of FORTUNE tell.

XI.

Where the wretch Avarice was wont to hide

His gold, his emeralds, and rubies rare;

'Twas rumour'd that dame FORTUNE did reside,

And JOVE'S ambassadors were posted there.

XII.

Meagre and wan, in tatter'd garments drest,

A feeble porter at the gate they found:

Doubled with wretchedness—with age distrest,

And on his wrinkled forehead Famine frown'd.

XIII.

Mortals avaunt, the trembling spectre cries,

"'Ere you invade these sacred haunts, beware!

"To guard Lord Avarice from rude surprize,

"I am the centinel—my name is Care.

XIV.

"Doubts, Disappointments, Anarchy of mind,

"These are the soldiers that surround his hall:

"And every Fury that can lash mankind,

"Rage, Rancour and Revenge attend his call.

XV.

"FORTUNE'S gone forth, you seek a wand'ring dame,

"A settled residence the harlot scorns:

"Curse on such visitants, she never came,

"But with a cruel hand she scatter'd thorns!

XVI.

"To the green vale, yon shelt'ring hills surround,

"Go forward, you'll arrive at Wisdom's cell:

"Wou'd you be taught where FORTUNE may be found,

"None can direct your anxious search so well."

XVII.

Forward they went, o'er many a dreary spot:

(Rough was the road, as if untrod before)

Till from the casement of a low-roof'd cot

Wisdom perceiv'd them, and unbarr'd her door.

XVIII.

Wisdom, (she knew of FORTUNE but the name)

Gave to their questions a serene reply:

"Hither, she said, if e'er that goddess came

"I saw her not—she pass'd unnotic'd by."

XIX.

"Abroad with Contemplation oft I roam,

"And leave to Poverty my humble cell:

"She's my domestic, never stirs from home,

"If FORTUNE has been here, 'tis she can tell.

XX.

"The Matron eyes us from yon mantling shade,

"And see her sober footsteps this way bent!

"Mark by her side, a little rose-lip'd maid,

"'Tis my young daughter, and her name's Content."

XXI.

As Poverty advanc'd with lenient grace,

"FORTUNE, she cry'd, hath never yet been here:

"But Hope, a gentle neighbour of this place,

"Tells me, her Highness may, in time, appear.

XXII.

"Felicity, no doubt, adorns their lot,

"On whom her golden bounty beams divine!

"Yet tho' she never reach our rustic cot,

"Patience will visit us—we sha'nt repine."

XXIII.

After a vast (but unavailing) round,

The messengers returning in despair;

On an high hill a fairy mansion found,

And hop'd the goddess, FORTUNE, might be there.

XXIV.

The dome, so glitt'ring, it amaz'd the sight,

('Twas adamant, with gems encrusted o'er)

Had not a casement to admit the light,

Nor could JOVE'S deputies descry the door.

XXV.

But eager to conclude a tedious chace,

And anxious to return from whence they came,

Thrice they invok'd the Genius of the place:

Thrice utter'd, awfully, JOVE'S sacred name.

XXVI.

As Echo from the hill announc'd high JOVE,

Illusion and her fairy dome withdrew:

(Like the light mist by early sunbeams drove)

And FORTUNE stood reveal'd to public view.

XXVII.

Oft for that happiness high courts deny'd,

To this receptacle dame FORTUNE ran:

When harrass'd, it was here she us'd to hide,

From the wild suits of discontented Man.

XXVIII.

Prostrate, the delegates their charge declare,

(Happy the courtier that salutes her feet!)

FORTUNE receiv'd them with a flatt'ring air,

And join'd them till they reach'd JOVE'S judgment seat.

XXIX.

Men of all ranks at that illustrious place

Were gather'd; tho' from diff'rent motives keen:

Many—to see dame FORTUNE'S radiant face,

Many—by radiant FORTUNE to be seen.

XXX.

JOVE smil'd, as on a fav'rite he esteems,

He gave her, near his own, a golden seat:

Fair FORTUNE'S an adventurer, it seems,

The deities themselves are glad to greet.

XXXI.

"Daughter, says JUPITER, you're sore accus'd!

"Clamour incessantly reviles your name!

"If, by the rancour of that wretch abus'd,

"Be confident, and vindicate your fame.

XXXII.

"Tho' pester'd daily with complaints from Man,

"Through this conviction I record them not;

"Let my kind providence do all it can,

"None of that species ever lik'd his lot.

XXXIII.

"But the poor quadrupede that now appeals!

"Can wanton cruelty the weak pursue!

"Large is the catalogue of woes he feels,

"And all his wretchedness he lays to you."

XXXIV.

"Ask him—high JUPITER—reply'd the dame,

"In what he has excell'd his long-ear'd class?

"Is FORTUNE (a divinity) to blame

"That she descends not to regard—an Ass?"

XXXV.

Fame enter'd in her rolls the sage reply;

The dame, defendant, was discharg'd with grace!

Go—(to the plaintiff, said the Sire) and try

By merit to surmount your low-born race.

XXXVI.

Learn from the Lion to be just and brave,

Take from the Elephant instruction wise;

With gracious breeding like the Horse behave,

Nor the sagacity of Hounds despise.

XXXVII.

These useful qualities with care imbibe,

For which some quadrupedes are justly priz'd:

Attain those talents that adorn each tribe,

And you'll no longer be a wretch despis'd.

BALLADS, &c.

The WARNING.

I.

YOUNG Colin once courted Myrtilla the prude,

If he sigh'd or look'd tender, she cry'd he was rude;

Tho' he beg'd, with devotion, some ease for his pain,

The shepherd got nothing but frowns and disdain.

Fatigu'd with her folly, his suit he gave o'er,

And vow'd that no female should fetter him more.

II.

He strove with all caution to 'scape from the net,

But Chloe soon caught him,—a finish'd coquet!

She glanc'd to his glances, she sigh'd to his sighs,

And flatter'd his hopes—in the language of eyes.

Alas for poor Colin! when put to the test,

Himself and his passion prov'd both but her jest.

III.

By the critical third he was fix'd in the snare;

By Fanny,—gay, young, unaffected, and fair!

When she found he had merit, and love took his part,

She dally'd no longer—but yielded her heart.

With joy they submitted to Hymen's decree,

And now are as happy—as happy can be.

IV.

As the rosebud of beauty soon sickens and fades,

The prude and coquet are two slighted old maids.

Now their sweets are all wasted,—too late they repent

For transports untasted, for moments misspent!

Ye virgins take warning, improve by my plan,

And fix the fond youth when you prudently can.

AMPHITRION.

RECITATIVE.

AMPHITRION and his bride, a godlike pair!

He brave as Mars, and she as Venus fair;

On thrones of gold in purple triumph plac'd,

With matchless splendour held the nuptial feast:

Whilst the high roof with loud applauses rung,

Enraptur'd, thus, the happy hero sung:

AIR.

Was mighty Jove descending,

In all his wrath divine,

Enrag'd at my pretending

To call this charmer mine;

His shafts of bolted thunder

With boldness I'd deride:

Not Heav'n itself can sunder

The hearts that love has ty'd.

RECIT.

The Thunderer heard,—he look'd with vengeance down,

Till beauty's glance disarm'd his awful frown.

The magic impulse of Alcmena's eyes

Compel'd the conquer'd god to quit his skies;

He feign'd the husband's form, possess'd her charms,

And punish'd HIS presumption in HER arms.

AIR.

He deserves sublimest pleasure,

Who reveals it not, when won.

Beauty's like the miser's treasure:

Boast it—and the fool's undone!

Learn by this, unguarded lover,

When your secret sighs prevail,

Not to let your tongue discover

Raptures that it shou'd conceal.

KITTY FELL.

I.

THE courtly bard, in verse sublime,

May praise the toasted Belle;

A country maid (in careless rhyme)

I sing—my Kitty Fell!

II.

When larks forsake the flow'ry plain,

And Love's sweet numbers swell,

My pipe shall join their morning strain,

In praise of Kitty Fell.

III.

Where woodbines twist their fragrant shade,

And noontide beams repel,

I'll rest me on the tufted mead,

And sing of Kitty Fell.

IV.

When moon-beams dance among the boughs

That lodge sweet Philomel,

I'll pour, with her, my tuneful vows,

And pant for Kitty Fell.

V.

The pale-faced pedant burns his books;

The sage forsakes his cell:

The soldier smooths his martial looks,

And sighs for Kitty Fell.

VI.

Were mine, ye great, your envy'd lot,

In gilded courts to dwell,

I'd leave them for a lonely cot

With Love and Kitty Fell.

A MAN to my MIND. (Wrote at the Request of a Lady.)

I.

SINCE wedlock's in vogue, and stale virgins despis'd,

To all batchelors greeting, these lines are premis'd;

I'm a maid that would marry, but where shall I find

(I wish not for fortune) a man to my mind?

II.

Not the fair-weather fop, fond of fashion and lace;

Not the 'squire, that can wake to no joys but the chace;

Not the free-thinking rake, whom no morals can bind:

Neither this—that—nor t'other's the man to my mind.

III.

Not the ruby-faced sot, that topes world without end;

Not the drone, that can't relish his bottle and friend;

Not the fool, that's too fond; nor the churl that's unkind:

Neither this—that—nor t'other's the man to my mind.

IV.

Not the wretch with full bags, without breeding or merit;

Not the Flash, that's all fury without any spirit;

Not the fine master Fribble, the scorn of mankind!

Neither this—that—nor t'other's the man to my mind.

V.

But the youth in whom merit and sense may conspire,

Whom the brave must esteem, and the fair should admire;

In whose heart love and truth are with honour combin'd:

This—this—and no other's the man to my mind.

The TOAST: A CATCH.

GIVE THE TOAST, my good fellow, be jovial and gay,

And let the brisk moments pass jocund away!

HERE'S THE KING—take your bumpers, my brave British souls,

Who guards your fair freedom should crown your full bowls.

LET HIM LIVE—long and happy, see Lewis brought down,

And taste all the comforts, no cares, of a crown.

THYRSIS.

I.

THE pendant forest seem'd to nod,

In drowsy fetters bound;

And fairy elves in circles trod

The daisy-painted ground:

When Thyrsis sought the conscious grove,

Of slighted vows to tell,

And thus (to sooth neglected love)

Invok'd sad Philomel.

II.

"The stars their silver radiance shed,

"And silence charms the plain;

"But where's my Philomela fled,

"To sing her nightly strain?

"Hither, ah gentle bird, in haste

"Direct thy hov'ring wing:

"The vernal green's a dreary waste,

"Till you vouchsafe to sing.

III.

"So thrilling sweet thy numbers flow,

"(Thy warbl••g song distrest!)

"The tear that tells the lover's woe

"Falls cold upon my breast.

"To hear sad Philomel complain,

"Will soften my despair;

"Then quickly swell the melting strain,

"And sooth a lover's care."

IV.

Give up all hopes, unhappy swain,

A list'ning sage reply'd,

For what can constancy obtain

From unrelenting pride?

The shepherd droop'd—the tyrant death

Had seiz'd his trembling frame;

He bow'd, and with departing breath,

Pronounc'd Zaphira's name.

HOLYDAY GOWN.

I.

IN holyday gown, and my newfangled hat,

Last Monday I tript to the fair:

I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what,

Brisk Roger I guess'd wou'd be there.

He woos me to marry whenever we meet,

There's honey sure dwells on his tongue!

He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet,

I'd wed—if I were not too young.

II.

Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold on the boy,

(The vixen wou'd fain be his bride)

Some token she claim'd, either ribbon or toy,

And swore that she'd not be deny'd.

A topknot he bought her, and garters of green,

Pert Susan was cruelly stung;

I hate her so much, that to kill her with spleen,

I'd wed—if I were not too young.

III.

He whisper'd such soft pretty things in mine ear!

He flatter'd, he promis'd, and swore!

Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and geer,

That trust me,—my pockets ran o'er.

Some ballads he bought me, the best he could find,

And sweetly their burthen he sung:

Good faith he's so handsome, so witty, and kind,

I'd wed—if I were not too young.

IV.

The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire;

(Our cottage was distant a mile)

I rose to be gone—Roger bow'd like a squire,

And handed me over the stile.

His arms he threw round me—love laugh'd in his eye,

He led me the meadows among,

There prest me so close, I agreed, with a sigh,

To wed—for I was not too young.

The HAWTHORN BOWER.

I.

PALEMON, in the hawthorn bower,

With fond impatience lay;

He counted every anxious hour

That stretch'd the tedious day.

The rosy dawn, Pastora nam'd,

And vow'd that she'd be kind;

But ah! the setting sun proclaim'd

That woman's vows are—wind.

II.

The fickle sex, the boy defy'd;

And swore, in terms prophane,

That Beauty in her brightest pride

Might sue to him in vain.

When Delia from the neighb'ring glade

Appear'd in all her charms,

Each angry vow Palemon made

Was lost in Delia's arms.

III.

The lovers had not long reclin'd

Before Pastora came:

Inconstancy, she cry'd, I find

In every heart's the same;

For young Alexis sigh'd and prest,

With such bewitching power,

I quite forgot the wishing guest

That waited in the bower.

NEWCASTLE BEER.

I.

WHEN Fame brought the news of Great Britain's success,

And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat;

Glad Mars sent by Mercury orders express,

To summon the deities all to a treat:

Blithe Comus was plac'd

To guide the gay feast,

And freely declar'd there was choice of good cheer;

Yet vow'd to his thinking,

For exquisite drinking,

Their Nectar was nothing to Newcastle Beer.

II.

The great God of war, to encourage the sun

And humour the taste of his whimsical guest,

Sent a message that moment to Moor's[*] for a tun

Of Stingo, the stoutest, the brightest and best:

No Gods—they all swore,

Regal'd so before,

With liquor so lively—so potent and clear:

And each deified fellow,

Got jovially mellow,

In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle Beer.

III.

Apollo perceiving his talents refine,

Repents he drank Helicon Water so long:

He bow'd, being ask'd by the musical Nine,

And gave the gay board an extempore song;

But 'ere he began,

He toss'd off his cann:

There's nought like good liquor the fancy to clear:

Then sang with great merit,

The flavour and spirit,

His godship had found in the Newcastle Beer.

IV.

'Twas Stingo like this made Alcides so bold;

It brac'd up his nerves, and enliven'd his pow'rs;

And his mystical club, that did wonders of old,

Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours.

The horrible crew

That Hercules slew,

Were Poverty—Calumny—Trouble—and Fear:

Such a club wou'd you borrow,

To drive away sorrow,

Apply for a quantum of Newcastle Beer.

V.

Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid and pale!

Whom Love, like the cholic, so rudely infests;

Take a cordial of this, 'twill probatum prevail,

And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts:

Dull whining despise,

Grow rosy and wise,

Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear;

Bid adieu to your folly,

Get drunk and be jolly,

And smoke o'er a tankard of Newcastle Beer.

VI.

Ye fanciful folk, for whom Physic prescribes,

Whom bolus and potion have harrass'd to death!

Ye wretches, whom Law and her ill-looking tribes,

Have hunted about 'till you're quite out of breath!

Here's shelter and ease,

No craving for fees,

No danger,—no doctor,—no bailiff is near!

Your spirits this raises,

It cures your diseases,

There's freedom and health in our Newcastle Beer.

An ELECTION BALLAD.

I.

NOT an hundred years since, when elections went round,

Old HONOUR and TRUTH were in Burgundy drown'd;

The sons of Great Britain, both thirsty and wise,

Wide open'd their stomachs, but clos'd up their eyes.

Derry down, &c.

II.

They were blind to true merit, let PARTY prevail,

And JUDGMENT no longer right ballanc'd her scale;

In Wine, was fair FREEDOM remember'd no more,

And CASH kick'd old LIBERTY out of the door.

Derry down, &c.

III.

When the Candidate offer'd, they snatch'd at the coin,

Nor spar'd the brown bumper, nor venal sirloin,

Eat and drank when they could, 'twas concluded, my friends,

They might fast when the candidate compass'd his ends.

Derry down; &c.

IV.

Let the case now be alter'd, let talents be try'd;

Let national virtue alone be your guide;

Let us scorn to be biass'd by party or pelf,

And vote for our country, forgetful of self.

Derry down, &c.

V.

Let honour, let honesty, stand in our view,

To freedom be constant, to liberty true;

Let me tell you, my friends, the right nail you have hit,

If you fix on the man that's a friend to old Pitt.

Derry down, &c.

VI.

Let no low-minded motives your principles shake,

But weigh the case well, for your safety's at stake:

For him that has honour and truth for his plan,

Give your voices, my boys, and 'tis S—e's the Man!

Derry down, &c.

ANOTHER.

I.

LET the half-famish'd poet find fault with good cheer,

And, forc'd to drink water, despise our brown beer;

That there's truth in full bumpers, it can't be deny'd,

Then toss off your glasses—let truth be our guide!

Derry down, &c.

II.

Poor Lewis, the little, full fatally knows,

That beef gives us courage to batter our foes;

And the sirloin (now knighted) that smokes on the board,

May in times of preferment be titled my Lord.

Derry down, &c.

III.

Let the scribblers exclaim, they're a sinical tribe!

May not we, like our betters, sometimes take a bribe?

If cash does not circulate properly—trade

Grows lazy, and lags, like a founder'd old jade.

Derry down, &c.

IV.

But to banter no longer—our candidates seem

Men of honour, of worth, and of public esteem;

It were well for dame Britain, her freedom, and laws,

If such, and such only, e'er handled her cause.

Derry down, &c.

V.

Let their free open spirits be right understood,

Their contest is meant for their countrymen's good;

When danger alarms us, or glory commands,

Our lives and our honours are safe in such hands.

Derry down, &c.

VI.

That they both have their merits it must be allow'd,

But sons of cool reason step forth from the crowd,

If weighty experience can ballance the day,

Give your voices, my boys, 'tis for S—e, huzza!

Derry down, &c.

ANOTHER.

I.

WHere the rich Wear[*], with wand'ring grace,

In gay profusion runs,

The guardian genius of the place,

Harangued his freeborn sons:

The burthen of his sacred strain

Was "Shaftoe live! live gen'rous Vane!

II.

"Where Durham lifts her sacred piles,

"Rever'd in Gothic pride,

"And Wisdom with meridian smiles

"Expands on every side:

"Distinguish'd in bright Honour's train,

"Stand Shaftoe and illustrious Vane.

III.

"The noble heart, that truth refines,

"(With conscious worth replete)

"More useful than Peruvian mines,

"Adds virtues to the state:

"Such patriot virtues as remain

"With Shaftoe and illustrious Vane.

IV.

"Confirm, my sons, confirm my choice,

"And call my fav'rites forth,

"Since fame approves the gen'ral voice,

"And merit stamps their worth:

"None can your sacred rights maintain,

"Like Shaftoe and illustrious Vane."

V.

The Genius ceas'd—from every part

Applause like lightning ran;

Conviction fir'd each glowing heart,

And catch'd from man to man.

Loud echoes fill'd the glad'ning plain,

With Shaftoe live!—live gen'rous Vane!

Notes

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

*
The river Wear that runs through the city of Durham.
↵

STANZAS On the Death of his MAJESTY King GEORGE II.

‘Pallida mors, aequo pulsat pede, pauperum tabernas Regumque turres.’ HOR.

I.

TENANTS of liberty on Britain's plain,

With flocks enrich'd, a vast unnumber'd store!

'Tis gone, the mighty GEORGE'S golden reign!

Your Pan, your great defender is no more.

II.

The nymphs that in the sacred groves preside,

Where Albion's conq'ring oaks eternal spring,

In the brown shades their secret sorrows hide,

And, silent, mourn the venerable king.

III.

Hark! how the winds, oft bounteous to his will,

That bore his conq'ring fleets to Gallia's shore,

After a pause, pathetically still,

Burst in loud peals, and thro' the forests roar.

IV.

On CONQUEST'S cheek the vernal roses fail;

Whilst laurel'd VICTORY distressful bows!

And HONOUR'S fire etherial burns but pale,

That late beam'd glorious on our GEORGE'S brows.

V.

The muses mourn—an ineffectual band!

Each sacred harp without an owner lies;

The Arts, the Sciences, dejected stand,

For ah! their patron, their protector dies.

VI.

BEAUTY no more, the toy of fashion wears,

(So late by LOVE'S designful labour drest)

But from her brow the glowing diamond tears,

And with the sable cypress veils her breast.

VII.

RELIGION lodg'd high on her pious pile,

Laments the fading state of crowns below;

Whilst MELANCHOLY fills the vaulted isle

With the slow music of a nation's woe.

VIII.

The dreary paths of unrelenting fate,

Must monarchs mix'd with common mortals try?

Is there no refuge?—are the good, the great,

The gracious, and the god-like, doom'd to die?

IX.

Must the gay court be chang'd for horror's cave;

Must mighty Kings that kept the world in awe,

Conquer'd by time, and the unpitying grave,

Submit their laurels to Death's rig'rous law?

X.

If in the tent retir'd, or battle's rage,

Britannia's sighs shall reach great Fredrick's ear,[*]

He'll drop the sword, or close the darling page,

And pensive pay the tributary tear.

XI.

Then shall the monarch weigh the moral thought,

(As he laments the parent, friend, ally)

The solemn truth by sage reflection taught,

That, spight of glory, Fred'rick's-self shall die.

XII.

The parent's face a prudent painter hides[*],

While death devours the darling of his age:

NATURE, the stroke of pencil'd ART derides,

When grief distracts with agonizing rage.

XIII.

So let the muse her sablest curtain spread,

By sorrow taught her nerveless power to know:

When nation's cry, their king, their father's dead,

The rest is dumb, unutterable woe!

XIV.

But see—a sacred radiance beams around,

And with returning hope a people cheers:

Look at yon youth, with grace imperial crown'd:

How awful! yet how lovely in his tears!

XV.

Mark how his breast expands the filial sigh,

He droops, distrest like a declining flower,

Till GLORY, from her radiant sphere on high,

Hails him, to hold the regal reins of power.

XVI.

The sainted sire to realms of bliss remov'd,

(Like the fam'd Phoenix) from his pyre shall spring

Successive Georges, gracious, and belov'd,

And good and glorious as the parent King.

Notes

*
Frederick King of Prussia.
↵

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

PROLOGUES, AND EPILOGUES, &c.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr FRODSHAM, at York, on the Opening of the Theatre after it was elegantly enlarged.

ONCE on a time, his earthly rounds patrolling,

(Your heathen gods were always fond of strolling)

Jove rambled near the cot of kind Philemon,

When night attended by a tempest came on;

And as the rain fell pattering, helter skelter,

The deity implor'd the hind for shelter.

Philemon plac'd his godship close beside him,

While goody Baucis made the fire that dry'd him;

With more benevolence than one that's richer,

He spread the board, he fill'd the friendly pitcher;

And, fond to give his guest a meal of pleasure,

Sung a rough song, in his rude country measure.

Jove was so pleas'd with these good-natur'd sallies,

Philemon's cot he conjur'd to a palace.

Taste, like great Jupiter, came here to try us,

(Oft from the boxes we perceiv'd her spy us)

Whether she lik'd us and our warm endeavours;

Whether she found that we deserv'd her favours,

I know not: But it's certain she commanded,

Our humble theatre should be expanded.

The orders she pronounc'd were scarcely ended,

But, like Philemon's house, the stage extended:

And thus the friendly goddess bids me greet ye:

'Tis in that circle [Pointing to the boxes] she designs to meet ye.

Pedants would fix her residence with heathens,

But she prefers old York to Rome or Athens.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke at the opening an elegant little Theatre at Whitby.

FROM Shakespear,—Johnson,—Congreve,— Rowe,—and others—

The lawrel'd list—the true Parnassian brothers!

Hither we're sent,—by their supreme direction,

To court your favour, and to claim protection.

Our hopes are flatter'd with the Fair's compliance;

Beauty and Wit were always in alliance!

Their mutual sway reforms the rude creation,

And TASTE'S determin'd by their approbation.

The tragic muse presents a stately mirrour,

Where Vice surveys her ugly form, with terror:

And as the fiend departs—abash'd!—discarded—

Imperial Virtue's with the palm rewarded.

The comic glass—from modern groupes collected,

Shews fops and fools of every class—dissected:

It marks the fair coquet's unfaithful dealings,

And proves that haughty prudes may have their failings.

For faults that flow from habit more than nature,

We'll blend, with honest mirth, some wholesome satire.

Now for our bark—the vessel's tight—and able!

New built!—new rigg'd!—[Pointing to the scenes] with canvass—mast—and cable!

Let her not sink,—or be unkindly stranded,

Before the moral freight be fairly landed!

For tho' with heart and hand we heave together,

'Tis your kind plaudit must command the weather:

Nor halcion seas,—nor gentle gale attend us,

Till this fair circle with their smiles befriend us.

A PROLOGUE, On opening the Theatre at Whitby, the ensuing Season.

O'ER the wild waves, unwilling more to roam,

And by his kind affections call'd for home;

When the bold youth that ev'ry climate tries

'Twixt the blue bosoms—'Twixt the seas and skies—

When he beholds his native Albion near,

And the glad gale gives wings to his career,

What glowing extasies, by Fancy drest,

What filial sentiments expand his breast!

In the full happiness he forms on shore,

Doubts—dangers—and fatigues are felt no more.

Such are the joys that in our bosoms burn!

Such the glad hopes that glow at our return!

With such warm ardours, you behold us meet,

To lay—once more—our labours at your feet.

(Not without hopes your patronage will last)

We bend with gratitude for favours past.

That our light bark defy'd the rage of winter,

Rode ev'ry gale—nor started ev'n a splinter;

We bow to Beauty—('twas those smiles secur'd her)

And thank our patrons who so kindly moor'd her.

Still—still—extend your gentle cares to save her,

That she may anchor long in Whitby's—favour.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr BRIMYARD, in the Character of a SAILOR, on opening the New Theatre at North-Shields.

Without.

HOllo! my masters, where d'ye mean to stow us?

We're come to see what pastime ye can shew us;

Sal, step aloft,—you shan't be long without me,

I'll walk their quarter deck and look about me.

Enters.

Tom and Dick Topsail are above—I hear 'em,

Tell 'em to keep a birth, and Sal—sit near 'em:

Sal's a smart lass, I'd hold a butt of stingo

In three week's time she'd learn the playhouse lingo:

She loves your plays, she understands their meaning,

She calls 'em—MORAL RULES made entertaining;

Your Shakespear books, she knows 'em to a tittle.

And I, myself (at sea) have read—a little.

At London, Sirs, when Sal and I were courting,

I tow'd her ev'ry night a playhouse sporting,

Mass! I cou'd like 'em and their whole 'PARATUS,

But for their fiddlers and their damn'd SONATAS;

Give me the merry sons of guts and rosin,

That play—God save the King and Nancy Dawson.

Looking about.

Well—tho' the frigate's not so much dedoyzen'd,

'Tis snug enough!—'Tis clever for the size on't:

And they can treat with all that's worth regarding

On board the Drury-lane or Common-Garden.

Bell rings.

Avast!—A signal for the launch, I fancy:

[*]What say you Sam, and Dick, and Doll, and Nancy,

Since they have trim'd the pleasure-barge so tightly,

Shan't you, and I, and Sal, come see them nightly!

The jolly crew will do their best endeavours,

They'll grudge no labour to deserve your favours.

A luckier fate, they swear, can ne'er behap 'em

Than to behold you pleas'd, and hear you—clap 'em.

An EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs BROOKE, at Norwich, in the Character of Mrs DEBORAH WOODCOCK, in Love in a Village.

AFTER the dangers of a long probation,

When Sybil like, she's skill'd in penetration,

When she has conquer'd each unruly passion,

And rides above the rocks that others dash on;

When deeply mellow'd in reserve and rigour;

When decent gravity adorns her figure,

Why an old maid—I wish the wise would tell us,

Should be the standing jest of flirts and fellows!

In maxims sage! in eloquence how clever!

Without a subject she can talk—for ever!

Rich in old saws, can bring a sentence pat in,

And quote upon occasion, lawyer's Latin.

Set up that toast, that culprit, nobus corum,

'Tis done—and she's demolish'd in turrorum.

If an old maid's a dragoness on duty,

To guard the golden fruit of rip'ning beauty;

'Tis right, for fear the giddy sex should wander,

To keep them in restraint by decent—slander:

When slips are made, 'tis easy sure to find 'em;

We can detect before the fair design'd 'em.

As for the men, whose satire oft hath stung us,

Many there are that may be rank'd among us.

LAW, with long suits and busy mischiefs laden,

In rancour far exceeds the ancient maiden.

'Tis undeny'd, and the assertions common,

That modern PHYSIC is a mere old woman.

The puny fop that simpers o'er his tea dish,

And cries—indeed—Miss Deb'rah's—quite old maidish!

Of doubtful sex, of undetermin'd nature,

In all respects is but a virgin cretur.

Jesting apart, and moral truths adjusting!

There's nothing in the state itself disgusting;

Old maids, as well as matrons, bound in marriage,

Are valu'd from propriety of carriage;

If gentle sense, if sweet discretion guide 'em,

It matters not tho' coxcombs may deride 'em;

And virtue's virtue, be she maid or wedded,

A certain truth! say—Deb'rah Woodcock said it.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke at Edinburgh, on Mrs BELLAMY'S first Appearance there.

IN early days, when error sway'd mankind,

The scene was censur'd, and the stage confin'd;

As the fine arts a nobler taste supply'd,

Old prejudice grew fainter—droop'd—and dy'd.

Merit from sanction must deduce her date,

If she'd arrive at a meridian height;

From sanction is the English stage become

Equal to Athens, and above old Rome.

If from that stage, an actress fill'd with fears,

New to this northern scene, to-night appears,

Intent—howe'er unequal to the flight,

To hit—what criticks call—the happy right:

She builds not on your sister's[†] fond applause,

But timidly to you submits her cause.

For taste refin'd may as judicial sit

Here—as she found her, in an English pit.

Your plaudit must remove the stranger's fear;

The sons of genius are the least severe:

Some favour, from the fair, she's sure to find,

So sweet a circle cannot but be kind;

Then to your candid patronage she'll trust,

And hopes you gracious—as we know you just.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr DIGGS, on opening the Edinburgh Theatre in 1763.

TO rectify some errors, that of late

Had crept into the bosom of our state;

To court PROPRIETY, a matron chaste!

To make strong leagues 'twixt NOVELTY and TASTE;

To alter—to adapt—to plan—revive,

To spare no pains to make the drama thrive:

These are the labours that to-night commence,

By BEAUTY[*] sanction'd, and approv'd by SENSE‖.

Suppose some Corydon—some country swain,

Enamour'd of some Phillis of the plain,

At early dawn should seek the dappled glade,

To form a nosegay for the fav'rite maid:

When he had cropt the beauties of the banks,

And cull'd the fairest from the flowery ranks,

He'd range in order every blooming sweet,

And lay the little chaplet at her feet.

So the fair fields of fancy we'll explore,

And search the gardens of dramatic lore,

Of choicest fragrance, and of various hue,

To form those chaplets we compose for you.

Now to attack you in a martial strain!

We hope to gather laurels this campaign;

And that our plan of action may succeed,

Have march•d fresh forces from beyond the Tweed.

Yet, as young soldiers may be damp'd by fear,

(Tho' universal patronage be here)

Let me bespeak, before the curtain rise,

Some kind impressions for our new supplies.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr DIGGS, at Edinburgh, to the MUSE of OSSIAN, a little Piece adapted to the Stage, from the celebrated Poem of OSSIAN the Son of FINGAL.

TO form a little work of nervous merit,

To give the sleepy stage a nobler spirit;

To touch a sacred muse, and not defile her,

This was the plan propos'd by our compiler.

Tho' caution told him—the presumption's glaring!

Dauntless, he cry'd—"It is but nobly daring!

"Can we peruse a pathos more than Attic,

"Nor wish the golden treasure stamp'd dramatic!

"Here are no lines—in measur'd pace, that trip it,

"No modern scenes—so lifeless!—so insipid!

"Wrought by a muse—(no sacred fire debarr'd her)

"'Tis nervous!—noble!—'tis true northern ardour!

"Methinks I hear the Grecian bards exclaiming,

"(The Grecian bards no longer worth the naming)

"In song, the northern tribes so far surpass us,

"One of their highland hills they'll call Parnassus;

"And from the sacred mount, decrees shall follow,

"That Ossian was himself—the true Apollo."

Spite of this flash—This high poetic fury,

He trembles for the verdict of his jury:

As from his text he ne'er presum'd to wander,

But gives the native Ossian to your candour:

To an impartial judgment we submit him,

Condemn—or rather (if you can) acquit him.

An EPILOGUE, To the MUSE of OSSIAN.

IN fond romance let fancy reign creative!

Valour amongst the northern hills is native;

The northern hills, 'tis prov'd by Ossian's story,

Gave early birth to Caledonian glory;

Nor cou'd the stormy clime with all its rigour,

Repel, in love or war, the hero's vigour.

When honour call'd, the youth disdain'd to ponder,

And as he fought the fav'rite maid grew fonder.

The brave, by beauty were rejected never,

For girls are gracious when the lads are clever.

If the bold youth was in the field vindictive,

The bard, at home, had ev'ry power descriptive;

He swell'd the sacred song—enhanc'd the story,

And rais'd the warrior to the skies of glory.

That northern lads are still unconquer'd fellows,

The foes of Britain to their cost can tell us;

The sway of northern beauty, if disputed,

Look round, ye infidels, and stand confuted:

And for your bards, the letter'd world have known 'em,

They're such—The sacred Ossian can't disown 'em.

To prove a partial judgment does not wrong you,

And that your usual candour reigns among you,

Look with indulgence on this crude endeavour,

And stamp it with the sanction of your favour.

An EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs BELLAMY, at Edinburgh, in Character of Lady FANCIFUL.

FANCY, we're told, of parentage Italic,

And Folly, whose original is Gallic,

Set up to sale their vain misshapen daughter,

And Britain, by a large subscription, bought her.

The fertile soil grew fond of this exotic,

And nurs'd her, till her pow'r became despotic;

Till ev'ry wou'd-be beauty in the nation,

Did homage at the shrine of AFFECTATION.

But Common Sense will certainly dethrone her,

And (like the fair ones of this place) disown her.

If she attempts the dimpled smile, delightful!

The dimpled smile of Affectation's frightful:

Mark but her bagatelles—her whine—her whimper—

Her loll—her lisp—her saunter—stare—her simper;

All, outres all—no native charm about her,

And Ridicule wou'd soon expire without her.

Look for a grace, and Affectation hides it;

If beauty aims an arrow, she misguides it:

So awkwardly she mends unmeaning faces,

To insipidity she gives—grimaces.

Without her dear coquetish arts to aid 'em,

Fine ladies might be just as—nature made 'em,

Such sensible—sincere—domestic creatures,

The jest of modern belles, and petit maitres!

Safe with good sense, this circle's not in danger,

But as the foreign phantom's—here a stranger;

I gave her portrait, that the fair may know her,

And if they meet, be ready to forego her;

For trust me, ladies, she'd deform your faces,

And with a single glance destroy the graces.

An EPILOGUE, Spoke at Edinburgh, by Mrs BELLAMY, to Anthony and Cleopatra.

THE flame our hero felt for his Egyptian,

Is finely drawn; it glows in the description!

But modern love can ne'er maintain its station,

So many differents gouts divide the nation.

The man of sense disdains the soft'ning passion;

The coxcomb is enamour'd of—the fashion;

The bon vivant prefers the feast convival;

And Phillis in a turtle finds a rival:

Besides the gentle race—the petit maitres!

The set insensible, of happy creturs;

So coy—so cold—that beauty ne'er can warm 'em;

So nice, that nothing but themselves can charm 'em.

But hold—I run too fast without refle•tion,

(Each general rule admits of some exce•••on)

Here[*], 'tis allow'd, imperial beauty 〈◊〉,

And there[†], the conquer'd sex adore 〈…〉 sovereigns.

Let me—to wave this bagatelle!—declare,

The grateful homage of an heart sincere,

I feel your favours with refin'd delight,

And glory in my patrons of to-night.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr DIGGS, at Edinburgh, to Rule a Wife.

'TIS an odd portrait that the poet drew!

A strange irregular he sets in view!

'Mongst us—thank heaven—the character's unknown,

Bards have creative faculties we own;

And this appears a picture from his brain,

Till we reflect the lady liv'd in Spain.

Should we the portrait with the sex compare,

'Twould add new honours to the northern fair;

Their merit, by the foil, conspicuous made,

And they'd seem brighter from contrasting shade.

Rude were the rules our fathers form'd of old,

Nor should such antiquated maxims hold;

Shall subject man assert superior sway,

And dare to bid the angel sex obey!

Or if permitted to partake the throne,

Despotic, call the reigns of power his own!

F•••id it all that's gracious—that's polite!

(The fair to liberty have equal right)

Non urge the tenet, tho' from Fletcher's school,

That every husband has a right to rule.

A matrimonial medium may be hit,

Where neither governs, but where both submit.

The nuptial torch with decent brightness burns,

Where male and female condescend by turns;

Change then the phrase—the horrid text amend,

And let the word obey, be—condescend.

An EULOGIUM on MASONRY: Spoke by Mr DIGGS, at Edinburgh.

HAIL sacred Masonry, of source divine,

Unerring mistress of the faultless line,

Whose plumb of truth, with never-failing sway,

Makes the join'd parts of symmetry obey!

Hail to the craft, at whose serene command

The gentle arts in glad obedience stand;

Whose magic stroke bids fell confusion cease,

And to the finish'd orders yield its place;

Who calls creation from the womb of earth,

And gives imperial cities glorious birth.

To works of art her merit's not confin'd!

She regulates the morals, squares the mind;

Corrects with care the tempest-working soul,

And points the tide of passions where to roll;

On virtue's tablets marks each sacred rule,

And forms her lodge an universal school;

Where nature's mystic laws unfolded stand,

And sense, and science, join'd, go hand in hand.

O! may her social rules instructive spread,

Till truth erect her long neglected head!

Till, through deceitful night, she dart her •ay,

And beam, full glorious, in the blaze of day!

Till man by virtuous maxims learn to move;

Till all the peopled world her laws approve,

And the whole human race be bound in brother's love.

An EPILOGUE, In Character of LADY TOWNLY, in the Provok'd Husband.

AT lady—let me recollect—whose night is't!

No matter—at a circle the politest;

Taste summons all the satire she is able,

And canvasses my conduct to the table.

"A wife reclaim'd, and by an husband's rigour!

"A wife with all her appetites in vigour!

"Lard!—she must make a lamentable figure.

"Where was her pride! Of ev'ry spark divested!

"To mend, because a prudish husband press'd it!

"What—to prefer his dull domestic quiet,

"To the dear scenes of hurricane and riot!

"Parties disclaim'd—the happy rout rejected!

"Because at ten she's by her spouse expected!

"Oh hideous!—how immensely out of nature!

"Don't ye, my dears, despise the servile creature?

Prudence, altho' the company be good,

Is often heard, and sometimes understood,

Suppose—to justify my reformation,

She'd give the circle this concise oration.

"Ye giddy groupe of fashionable wives,

"That in continued riot waste your lives;

"Did ye but see the demons that ascend;

"The cares convulsive that on cards attend;

"The midnight spectres that surround your chairs,

"(Rage reddens here—there avarice despairs)

"You'd rush for shelter where contentment lies,

"To the domestic blessings you despise.

"Or if you've no regard to moral duty,

"('Tis trite, but true) quadrille will murder beauty."

Taste is abash'd (the culprit,) I'm acquitted,

They praise the character they lately pity'd;

They promise to reform—relinquish play,

So break the tables up at—break of day.

An EULOGIUM on CHARITY: Spoke at Alnwick, in Northumberland, at a Charitable Benefit Play, 1765.

TO bid the rancour of ill-fortune cease,

To tell anxiety—I give thee peace,

To quell adversity—or turn her darts,

To stamp fraternity on gen'rous hearts:

For these high motives—these illustrious ends,

Celestial Charity to-night descends.

Soft are the graces that adorn the maid!

Softer than dew-drops to the sunburnt glade!

She's gracious as an unpoluted stream,

And tender as a fond young lover's dream!

Pity and Peace precede her as she flies,

And Mercy beams benignant in her eyes!

From her high residence, from realms above,

She comes, sweet harbinger of heavenly love!

[*]Her sister's charms are more than doubly bright,

From the kind cause that call'd her here to-night.

An artless grace the conscious heart bestows

And on the generous cheek a tincture glows,

More lovely than the bloom that paints the vernal rose.

The lofty pyramid shall cease to live!

Fleeting the praise such monuments can give!

But Charity, by tyrant time rever'd,

Sweet Charity amidst his ruins spar'd,

Secures her votaries unblasted fame,

And in celestial annals saves their name.

A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mrs G—, in an itinerant Company, on reviving the MERCHANT of VENICE, at the Time of the Bill passing for naturalizing the Jews.

'TWIXT the sons of the stage, without pensions or places,

And the vagabond Jews, are some similar cases;

Since time out of mind, or they're wrong'd much by slander,

Both lawless, alike, have been sentenc'd to wander;

Then faith 'tis full time we appeal to the nation,

To be join'd in this bill for na-tu-ra-li-za-ti-on;

Lard, that word's so uncouth!—'tis so irksome to speak it!

But 'tis Hebrew, I believe, and that's taste, as I take it.

Well—now to the point—I'm sent here with commission,

To present this fair circle our humble petition:

But conscious what hopes we should have of succeeding,

Without (as they phrase it) sufficiently bleeding;

And convinc'd we've no funds, nor old gold we can rake up,

Like our good brothers—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob;

We must frankly confess we have nought to present ye,

But Shakespear's old sterling—pray let it content ye.

Old Shylock, the Jew, whom we mean to restore ye,

Was naturaliz'd oft by your fathers before ye;

Then take him to-night to your kindest compassion,

For to countenance Jews is the pink of the fashion.

An EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs G—, at her Benefit.

UNtaught to tread the Muses various maze,

And quite unpractis'd in poetic lays,

I'll tell my simple tale in plain familiar phrase.

In farmer's yard I've seen a housewife stand,

Peace in her looks, and plenty in her hand,

Dealing her friendly favours on the ground,

Whilst all the neighb'ring poultry gathers round.

Bold Chanticleer, in shining plumage gay,

Struts on before, and leads the well-known way;

His consort next, she guides her chatt'ring train,

Impatient to devour the golden grain;

Next stalks the turkey-cock, above the rest,

With rosy gills and elevated chest;

The screaming goose, and wadling duck come last:

Alike partakers of the free repast!

The breakfast done, behold each thankless guest,

(Some birds, like men, make gratitude a jest)

With insolence, and pamper'd pride elate,

Presumes his merit shou'd provide him meat,

And thinks the hostess thank'd, that be vouchsaf'd to eat.

A linnet, perching on a neighb'ring tree,

The well-provided banquet chanc'd to see;

She lights, and mingling with the motley crew,

Feasted, as most at free expence will do;

Then singling from the mercenary throng,

Repay'd the generous donor with a song.

Could well wrought numbers with my wish agree,

The grateful linnet you'd behold in me;

But doom'd to silence, from my want of skill,

Accept, kind patrons! of a warm good will.

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

TO Alnwick's lofty seat, a silvan scene!

To rising hills from distance doubly green,

Go—says the god of wit, my standard beat,

These are the mansions of the great[*] and fair,

'Tis my Olympus now, go spread my banners there,

Led by fond hope, the pointed path we trace,

And thank'd our patron for the flowery place;

Here—we behold a gently waving wood!

There—we can gaze upon a wand'ring flood!

The landscape smiles!—the fields gay fragrance wear!

Soft scenes are all around—refreshful air!

Slender repast indeed, and but cameleon fare!

A troop, at certain times, compel'd to shift,

And from their northern mountains turn'd adrift;

By tyrant managers a while consign'd,

To fatten on what forage they can find;

With lawless force our liberty invades,

And fain would thrust us from these fav'rite shades;

But we (since prejudice erects her scale,

And puffs and petty artifice prevail)

To stronger holds with cool discretion run,

And leave the conquerors to be—undone.

With gratitude, still we'll acknowledge the favours

So kindly indulg'd to our simple endeavours;

To the great and the fair we rest thankfully debtors,

And wish we cou'd say, we gave place to our betters.

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

IN days of yore, when round the jovial board,

With harmless mirth, and social plenty stor'd,

Our parent Britons quaff'd their nut-brown ale,

And carols sung, or told the Christmas tale;

In struts St George, old England's champion knight,

With hasty steps, impatient to recite

"How he had kill'd the dragon, once in fight."

From ev'ry side—from Troy—from ancient Greece,

Princes pour in to swell the motley piece;

And while their deeds of prowess they rehearse,

The flowing bowl rewards their hobbling verse.

Intent to raise this evening's cordial mirth,

Like theirs, our simple stage play comes to birth.

Our want of art we candidly confess,

But give you nature in her homespun dress;

No heroes here—no martial men of might!

A cobler is the champion of to-night;

His straps, more fam'd than George's lance of old,

For it can tame that dragoness, a scold;

Indulgent, then, support the cobler's cause,

And tho' he mayn't deserve it, smile applause.

PROLOGUE to the RECRUITING OFFICER. Spoke at Shrewsbury, where Mr FARQUHAR is said to have wrote that Comedy.

FROM the fair mansions of illustrious shades,

From groves of bliss, poetic painted meads,

Should Farquhar, deck'd with deathless lawrels come,

Obedient to his own recruiting drum;

Conscious, to-night, of the superior grace,

The nobler beauties that adorn this place;

Here would he fix—enraptur'd, here abide,

And change Elysium for the Severn's side.

Let boasting Rome of one Maecenas tell,

Countless are those that by the Severn dwell.

Parnassus mount let future bards disclaim,

Hark, how the Rekin's[†] hospitable name,

Swells in the voice of Farquhar, and of fame. [*]

Sabrina [*], softest nymph that glides along,

Winding and various as her Farquhar's song,

Indulgent smil'd, to bless the poet's toil,

And streight his bays bloom'd fresh, and own'd the gen'rous soil.

Here—beauty beams, with social sweetness mix'd!

Here—true politeness has her standard fix'd!

Here—let the muse her sacred numbers swell,

And, here let sportive wit and gay drest humour dwell!

O may our secondary labours find

The brave propitious, and the beauteous kind!

So may Salopian plains, that bloom so gay,

Ne'er know a blast, but wear perpetual May.

An EPILOGUE, Spoke by a Child of nine Years old.

AS the wise ones, within, have assur'd me it's common,

For chits of my age to be aping the woman,

To prove that I've talents as well as another,

Good folks—I ran forward—in spight of my mother;

Don't tell me, says I—they shall know how the case is,

I'm not to be check'd in my airs and my graces;

I was born a coquet—and by goles I'm not idle,

I can ogle already—look peevish and bridle,

And I'll practise new gestures each night and each morning,

'Gainst I reach to my teens,—so I give ye fair warning.

Tho' I move ye, at present, with nothing but laughter,

Look well to your hearts, beaux!—I'll swinge ye hereafter;

Have patience, then, pray, and by practice grown bolder,

I'll promise to please, if I live to grow older.

Notes

*
To the Gallery.
↵

†
London.
↵

*
The Boxes.
↵

‖
The Pit.
↵

*
Boxes.
↵

†
Pit.
↵

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

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

†
Round the Rekin, a remarkable mountain in that neighbourhood.
↵

*
Mr Farquhar dedicated the Recruiting Officer to his Friends.
↵

*
The poetical name for the river Severn.
↵

The BROKEN CHINA.

I.

SOON as the sun began to peep,

And gild the morning skies,

Young Chloe from disorder'd sleep

Unveil'd her radiant eyes.

II.

A guardian Sylph, the wanton sprite

That waited on her still,

Had teiz'd her all the tedious night

With visionary ill.

III.

Some shock of fate is surely nigh,

Exclaim'd the tim'rous maid:

What do these horrid dreams imply!

My Cupid can't be dead!

IV.

She call'd her Cupid by his name,

In dread of some mishap;

Wagging his tail, her Cupid came,

And jump'd into her lap.

V.

And now the best of brittle ware,

Her sumptuous table grac'd:

The polish'd emblems of the fair,

In beauteous order plac'd!

VI.

The kettle boil'd, and all prepar'd

To give the morning treat;

When Dick, the country beau, appear'd;

And bowing, took his seat.

VII.

Well—chatting on of that and this,

The maid revers'd her cup;

And, tempted by the forfeit 〈◊〉

The humpkin turn'd it 〈◊〉

VIII.

With transport he demands the prize;

Right fairly it was won!

With many a frown the fair denies:

Fond baits to draw him on!

IX.

A man must prove himself polite,

In such a case as this;

So Richard strives with all his might

To force the forfeit kiss.

X.

But as he strove—Oh, dire to tell!

(And yet with grief I must)

The table turn'd—the china fell,

A heap of painted dust!

XI.

O fatal purport of my dream!

The fair afflicted cry'd,

Occasion'd (I confess my shame)

By childishness and pride!

XII.

For in a kiss, or two, or three,

No mischief could be found!

Then had I been more frank and free,

My china had been sound.

On some BUSSES being fitted out for the HERRING FISHERY.

O'ER the green waves, where Britain boasts her sway,

Round the wide waste of our long slighted sea;

Let the glad tale in sacred accents swell,

Let babbling Tritons to the sea gods tell:

"Britain's at last grown conscious of her shame,

"Britain awakes her ravish'd rights to claim,

"Britain—see pale Batavians trembling at the name."

Abash'd—confounded—let the dull mynheer,

No more between our sacred banks appear!

Shall the dull Dutch exult in our disgrace,

Rifle our wedded waves before our face!

Feast on the joys of our luxuriant spouse,

And plant upon old Albion's chalky brows!

No, Britons, no—George, and your genius smile,

And new-born beauties rise propitious to your isle!

The two following ODES were wrote for a select Company, in order to commemorate the particular Birth-days of the KING of PRUSSIA, and GENERAL BLAKENEY.

ODE on the K. of PRUSSIA.

RECIT.

MORE glorious than the comet's blaze,

That through the starry region strays:

From Zembla to the Torrid Zone,

The mighty name of Prussia's known.

AIR.

I.

Be banish'd from the books of fame,

Ye deeds in distant ages done;

Lost and inglorious is the name

Of Hanibal, or Philip's son:

Cou'd Greece, or conquering Carthage sing

A hero great as Prussia's king!

II.

Where restless Envy can't explore,

Or flatter'd Hope presume to fly;

Fate bade victorious Fred'ric soar,

For laurels that can never die.

Could Greece, &c.

III.

His rapid bolts tremendous break,

Thro' nations arm'd in dread array,

Swift as the furious blasts that shake

The bosom of the frighted sea.

Could Greece, &c.

IV.

In vain, to shake the throne of Jove

With impious rage, the giants try'd;

'Gainst Fred'rick's force the nations strove

In vain—their haughty legions dy'd.

Could Greece, &c.

V

While Prudence guides his chariot wheels,

Thro' Virtue's sacred paths they roll;

Immortal Truth his bosom steels,

And guards him glorious to the goal.

Could Greece, &c.

VI.

The vengeful lance Britannia weilds,

In consort with her brave ally,

Saves her fair roses in the fields,

Where Gaul's detested lillies die.

Wreaths of eternal friendship spring,

'Twixt mighty George, and Prussia's King.

VII.

The jocund bowl let Britons raise,

And crown the jovial board with mirth;

Fill—to great Fred'rick's length of days,

And hail the hero's glorious birth—

Could Greece, or conq'ring Carthage sing,

A chieftain fam'd like Prussia's King?

ODE, Composed for the BIRTH-DAY of the late Gen. Lord BLAKENEY.

I.

THE muses harps, by Concord strung!

Loud let them strike the festal lay,

Wak'd by Britannia's grateful tongue,

To hail her hero's natal day.

Arise, paternal glory rise,

And lift your Blakeney to the skies!

II.

Behold his warlike banners wave!

Like Britain's oak the hero stands:

The shield—the shelter of the brave!

The guardian o'er the British bands!

Arise, paternal, &c.

III.

He wrests the wreath from Richlieu's[*] brows,

Which Fraud or Faction planted there;

France to the gallant hero bows,

And Europe's chiefs his name revere.

Arise, paternal, &c.

IV.

With partial conquest on their side!

The sons of Gaul—a pageant crew!

Rank, but inglorious in their pride,

To Blakeney, and his vanquish'd few.

Arise, paternal, &c.

V.

Hibernia[†], with maternal care,

His labour'd statue lifts on high:

Be partial, Time!—the trophy spare,

That Blakeney's name may never die!

Arise, paternal glory, rise!

And lift your Blakeney to the skies.

Notes

*
Richlieu, commander of the expedition against Port-Mahon.
↵

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

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

HAPPY trifles, can ye bear

Sighs of fondness to the fair?

If your pointed tongues can tell,

How I love my charming Bell:

Fondly take a lover's part;

Plead the anguish of my heart.

Go—ye trifles—gladly fly,

(Graci us in my fair one's eye)

Fly—your envy'd bliss to meet;

Fly, and kiss the charmer's feet.

Happy there, with waggish play,

Tho' you revel day by day,

Like the donor, every night,

(Robb'd of his supreme delight)

To subdue your wanton pride,

Useless, you'll be thrown aside.

DAPHNE: A SONG.

I.

NO longer, Daphne, I admire

The graces in thine eyes;

Continu'd coyness kills desire,

And famish'd passion dies.

Three tedious years I've sigh'd in vain,

Nor could my vows prevail;

With all the rigours of disdain,

You scorn'd my amorous tale.

II.

When Celia cry'd, how senseless she,

That has such vows refus'd;

Had Damon giv'n his heart to me,

It had been kinder us'd.

The man's a fool that pines and dies,

Because a woman's coy:

The gentle bliss, that one denies,

A thousand will enjoy.

III.

Such charming words, so void of art,

Surprizing rapture gave;

And tho' the maid subdu'd my heart,

It ceas'd to be a slave.

A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove;

While blest without restraint,

In the sweet calendar of love

My Celia stands—a saint.

A SONG.

I.

CLARINDA's lips I fondly prest,

While rapture fill'd each vein;

And as I touch'd her downy breast,

Its tenant slept serene.

II.

So soft a calm, in such a part,

Betrays a peaceful mind;

Whilst my uneasy flutt'ring heart,

Would scarcely be confin'd.

III.

A stubborn oak the shepherd sees,

Unmov'd, when storms descend;

But ah! to ev'ry sporting breeze,

The myrtle bough must bend.

To CHLOE in an ill Humour.

I.

CONSIDER, sweet maid, and endeavour

To conquer that pride in thy breast;

It is not an haughty behaviour

Will set off thy charms to the best.

II.

The ocean, when calm, may delight you;

But should a loud tempest arise,

The billows enrag'd wou'd affright you:

Loud objects of awful surprize!

II.

'Tis thus, when good humour diffuses

Its beams o'er the face of a fair;

With rapture his heart a man loses,

While frowns turn love to despair.

The DANCE. ANACREONTIC.

HARK! the speaking strings invite,

Music calls us to delight:

See the maids in measures move,

Winding like the maze of love.

As they mingle, madly gay

Sporting Hebe leads the way.

On each glowing cheek is spread

Rosy Cupid's native red;

And from ev'ry sparkling eye,

Pointed darts at random fly.

LOVE, and active YOUTH, advance

Foremost in the sprightly dance.

As the magic numbers rise,

Through my veins the poison flies;

Raptures, not to be exprest,

Revel in my throbbing breast.

Jocund as we beat the ground,

LOVE and HARMONY go round.

Every maid (to crown his bliss)

Gives her youth a rosy kiss;

Such a kiss as might inspire

Thrilling raptures,—soft desire:

Such Adonis might receive,

Such the queen of Beauty gave,

When the conquer'd goddess strove

(In the conscious myrtle grove)

To inflame the boy with love.

Let not Pride our sports restrain,

Banish hence, the Prude, DISDAIN!

Think—ye virgins, if you're coy,

Think—ye rob yourselves of joy;

Every moment you refuse,

So much extasy you lose:

Think—how fast these moments fly:

If you should too long deny

Love and Beauty both will die.

To a Young WIDOW.

LET bashful virgins, nicely coy,

Exalted rapture lose,

And timid at untasted joy,

Through fearfulness refuse.

Will you—the pleasing conflict try'd,

Tho' sure to conquer—fly?

In you—the sacred zone unty'd!

'Tis peevish to deny.

But if, my fair, the widow's name

Hold gracious with you still,

The god of Love has form'd a scheme

Obsequious to your will.

Take, take me to thy twining arms,

(Opprest with warm desire;)

Where, conquer'd by such mighty charms,

A monarch might expire.

Thou'lt be a widow every night,

(Thy wond'rous pow'r confest!)

And as I die in dear delight,

My tomb shall be thy breast.

FORTUNE to HARLEQUIN. In a Pantomime.

I.

FROM my favour, sense rejected,

Fools by Fortune are protected:

Fortune, Harlequin hath found you,

Happiness will, hence, surround you.

II.

Should a thousand ills enclose you,

Quick contrivance, this[*] bestows you:

Valour makes the fair adore you;

This[†] shall drive your foes before you.

III.

Gold's the mighty source of pleasure!

Take this purse of magic treasure;

Go—for while my gifts befriend you,

Joy and jollity attend you.

Notes

*
A Hat.
↵

†
A Sword.
↵

A BIRTH-DAY ODE: Performed in DUBLIN.

RECIT.

HARK—how the soul of music reigns,

As when the first great birth of nature sprung,

When chaos burst his massy chains,

'Twas thus the Cherubs sung:

AIR.

Hail—hail, from this auspicious morn

Shall British glories rise!

Now are the mighty treasures born,

That shall Britannia's fame adorn,

And lift her to the skies.

RECIT.

Let George's mighty banners spread,

His lofty clarions roar;

Till warlike echo fills with dread

The hostile Gallic shore.

AIR.

Mark—how his name with terror fills!

The magic sound rebellion kills,

And brightens all the northern hills,

Where pallid treasons dwell;

The monster shall no more arise,

Upon the ground she panting lies!

Beneath his William's foot she dies,

And now, she sinks to hell.

RECIT.

Haste—let Jerne's harp be newly strung,

And after mighty George be William sung.

AIR.

Talk no more of Grecian glory,

William stands the first in story:

He, with British ardour glows!

See—the pride of Gallia fading!

See—the youthful warrior leading

Britons, vengeful, to their foes!

RECIT.

Fair is the olive branch Hibernia boasts,

Nor shall the din of war disturb her coasts;

While Stanhope smiles, her sons are blest,

In native loyalty confest!

AIR.

See—O see, thrice happy isle!

See what gracious George bestow'd;

Twice[*] you've seen a Stanhope smile,

These are gifts become a god!

How the grateful island glows!

Stanhope's name shall be rever'd;

Whilst by subjects, and by foes,

Sacred George is lov'd and fear'd.

CHORUS.

Like Persians to the rising sun,

Respectful homage pay;

At George's birth our joys begun:

Salute the glorious day!

Notes

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

An irregular ODE on Music.

I.

CEASE, gentle sounds, nor kill me quite,

With such excess of sweet delight!

Each trembling note invades my heart,

And thrills through ev'ry vital part;

A soft—a pleasing pain

Pursues my heated blood thro' ev'ry vein;

What—what does the enchantment mean?

Ah! give the charming magic o'er,

My beating heart can bear no more.

II.

Now wild with fierce desire,

My breast is all on fire!

In soften'd raptures, now, I die!

Can empty sound such joys impart;

Can music thus transport the heart,

With melting extasy!

O art divine! exalted blessing!

Each celestial charm expressing!

Kindest gift the gods bestow!

Sweetest good that mortals know!

III.

When seated in a verdant shade

(Like tuneful Thyrsis) Orpheus play'd;

The distant trees forsake the wood;

The list'ning beasts neglect their food

To hear the heav'nly sound;

The Dryads leave the mountains,

The Naiades quit the fountains,

And in a sprightly chorus dance around.

IV.

To raise the stately walls of ancient Troy,

Sweet Phoebus did his tuneful harp employ;

See what soft harmony can do!

The moving rocks the sound pursue,

Till in a large collected mass they grew:

Had Thyrsis liv'd in these remoter days,

His were the chaplet of immortal bays!

Apollo's harp unknown!

The shepherd had remain'd of song

The Deity alone.

A FRAGMENT. Part of a Poem wrote on Miss BELLAMY, when in Dublin.

FROM slavish rules, mechanic forms unty'd,

She soars with sacred nature for her guide:

The smile of peace—the wildness of despair—

The soft'ning sigh—the soul dissolving tear;

Each magic charm the boasted Oldfield knew,

Inchanting Bellamy revives in you.

'Tis thine, resistless, the superior art,

To search the soul, and trace the various heart;

With native force, with unaffected ease,

To form the yielding passions as you please!

Oldmixon's[†] charms, by melody imprest,

May gently touch the song-enamour'd breast;

But transient raptures must attend the wound,

Where the light arrow is convey'd by sound!

Or should Mechel[‡], all languishing advance,

Her limbs display'd in ev'ry maze of dance,

(The soul untouch'd) she captivates the sight;

But breathing wit, with judgment must unite,

To give the man of reason unconfin'd delight.

Notes

†
A Lady celebrated for singing.
↵

‡
A Dancer then in Smock-Alley Theatre.
↵

On a very young LADY.

SEE how the buds and blossoms shoot:

How sweet will be the summer fruit!

Let us behold the infant rose;

How fragrant when its beauty blows!

The morning smiles, serenely gay:

How bright will be the promis'd day!

Contemplate next the charming maid,

In early innocence array'd!

If, in the morning of her years,

A lustre so intense appears,

When time shall point her noontide rays,

When her meridian charms shall blaze,

None but the eagle-ey'd must gaze.

An INVITATION. (Including the Characters of the particular Company that frequented Mr Buxton's elegant Country House, at Weston) The Family intending for London.

COME, Daphne, as the widow'd turtle true,

Foremost in grief, conduct the mournful crew;

Come, Delia, beauteous as the new-born spring,

With song more soft than raptur'd angels sing;

Let Thyrsis, in the bloom of summer's pride,

With folded arms, walk pensive by her side;

Clarinda, come, like rosy morning fair,

Thy form as beauteous as thy heart's sincere;

On her shall Cimon gaze with rude delight,

Till polish'd by her charms he grows polite:

Dorinda next—her gay, good humour fled!

With silent steps, and grief-dejected head!

Palemon! see, his tuneless harp unstrung,

Is on the willow boughs neglected hung!

Come Coelia, sigh'd for by unnumber'd swains!

Rosetta, pride of the extended plains!

With Phillis, whose unripen'd charms display

A dawn, that promises the future day.

With cypress crown'd, to Weston's groves repair;

The conscious shades shall witness our despair:

To vales, and lawns, and woodlands, late so gay,

Where in sweet converse we were wont to stray:

The joys we've lost, in plaintive numbers tell,

And bid the social seat a long farewel.

FANNY of the DALE.

I.

LET the declining damask rose,

With envious grief look pale;

The summer bloom more freely glows

In Fanny of the dale.

II.

Is there a sweet that decks the field,

Or scents the morning gale;

Can such a vernal fragrance yield,

As Fanny of the dale?

III.

The painted belles, at court rever'd.

Look lifeless, cold, and stale:

How faint their beauties, when compar'd

With Fanny of the dale!

IV.

The willow binds Pastora's brows,

Her fond advances fail:

For Damon pours his warmest vows

To Fanny of the dale.

V.

Might honest truth, at last, succeed,

And artless love prevail;

Thrice happy cou'd he tune his reed,

With Fanny of the dale!

To Mr K—.

I.

YES, Colin, 'tis granted, you flutter in lace,

You whisper and dance with the fair:

But Merit advances, 'tis yours to give place;

Stand off, and at distance revere;

Nor teize the sweet maid with your jargon of chat,

By her side as you saunter along;

Your taste—your complexion—your this—and your that,

Nor lisp out the end of your song.

II.

For folly, and fashion, you barter good sense,

(If sense ever fell to your share)

'Tis enough you could pert petit maitre commence,

Laugh—loiter—and lie with an air.

No end you can answer, affections you've none,

Made only for prattle and play,

Like a butterfly, bask'd for a while in the sun,

You'll die undistinguish'd away.

APOLLO, to the Company at Harrowgate.

FRom my critical court, at a quarterly meeting,

To my Harrowgate subjects this embassy greeting:

Whereas from the veteran poets complaint is,

Their works are no longer consider'd as dainties,

And Shakespear, and Congreve, and Farquhar and others,

The tragical—comical—farcical brothers,

Petition us oft for some gents and some ladies;

(Our subjects, no doubt, since dramatic their trade is.)

We govern their stational stage by direction,

And send 'em to you for your friendly protection;

'Tis Apollo invites, with some ladies, (the muses)

We denounce him immensely ill-bred that refuses.

Be it known by the bye, from our helicon fountain,

Enrich'd by the soil of Parnassus's mountain,

Your Harrowgate water directly proceeding,

Produces fine sense, with true taste, and good breeding.

Talk of taste—none but heathens would call it in question:

Yet some insolent wits might advance a suggestion!

While our deputies daily invite all the neighbours,

But find no Maecenas to smile on their labours.

Thus far we've proceeded your favour to curry,

And could tell ye much more,—but we write in a hurry.

A SONG.

I.

HE that Love hath never try'd,

Nor had Cupid for his guide,

Cannot hit the passage right

To the palace of delight.

II.

What are honours, regal wealth,

Florid youth, and rosy health?

Without Love, his tribute brings

Impotent, unmeaning things!

III.

Gentle shepherds, persevere,

Still be tender, still sincere;

Love, and Time united, do

Wonders, if the heart be true.

A SONG. (Sent to CHLOE with a Rose.)

Tune,—The Lass of Patie's Mill.

I.

YES, every flower that blows

I pass'd unheeded bye,

Till this enchanting rose

Had fix'd my wand'ring eye;

It scented every breeze,

That wanton'd o'er the stream,

Or trembled through the trees,

To meet the morning beam.

II.

To deck that beauteous maid,

Its fragrance can't excel,

From some celestial shade

The damask charmer fell;

And as her balmy sweets,

On Chloe's breast she pours,

The queen of Beauty greets

The gentle queen of Flowers.

A FRAGMENT. To Mr WOODS, Architect of the Exchange at Liverpool.

WHERE Mersey[*] rolls her wealth-bestowing waves,

And the wide sandy beech triumphant laves;

Where naval store in harbour'd safety rides,

Unmov'd by storms, unhurt by threat'ning tides;

Commerce—(paternal goddess!) sits serene,

Commandant of the tributes of the main.

But yet no temple lifts its high-top'd spire,

Simple her seat—and artless her attire!

Around attendant priests, in order wait,

Guiltless of pomp, and ignorant of state;

The Godhead's power, tho' unadorn'd, they own,

And bend with incense—at her low-built throne.

Pallas beheld—she quits the ambient skies,

And thus the blue-ey'd maid indignant cries:

"Is it for thee—my Woods!—to sit supine;

"(Thy genius fraught with ev'ry grace of mine)

"Is it for thee—to whose mysterious hand,

"Science—and sister Arts, obsequious stand,

"Inglorious thus, to let a goddess pine?

"No throne!—no temple—no superior shrine!

"Haste, haste! command the well wrought columns rise,

"And lift my favourite, Commerce, to the skies."

* * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * *

Notes

*
The river Mersey, at Liverpool.
↵

A PROLOGUE, Spoke by Mr WALLACE, on opening the New Theatre at Newcastle, 1766.

IF to correct the follies of mankind,

To mend the morals—to enlarge the mind,

To strip the self-deceiving passions bare,

With honest mirth, to kill an evening's care;

If these kind motives can command applause,

For these, the motly stage her curtain draws.

Does not the poet, that exists by praise,

Like to be told that he has reach'd the bays?

Is not the wretch (still trembling for his store)

Pleas'd when he grasps a glitt'ring thousand more?

Cheers not the mariner, propitious seas?

Likes not the lawyer to be handling fees?

Lives not the lover, but in hopes of bliss?

To ev'ry question we'll reply with—yes.

Suppose them gratified—their full delight,

Falls short of ours on this auspicious night;

When rich in happiness—in hopes elate,

Taste has receiv'd us to her fav'rite seat.

O that the soul of Action were but ours,

And the vast energy of vocal powers!

That we might make a grateful off'ring, fit

For these kind judges that in candour sit.

Before such judges, we confess, with dread,

These new dominions we presume to tread;

Yet if you smile, we'll boldly do our best,

And leave your favour to supply the rest.

EPIGRAMS, &c.

An EPIGRAM.

A Member of the modern great

Pass'd Sawney with his budget,

The Peer was in a car of state,

The tinker forc'd to trudge it.

But Sawney shall receive the praise

His Lordship would parade for:

One's debtor for his dapple greys,

And t'other's shoes are paid for.

ANOTHER.

TO Wasteall, whose eyes were just closing in death,

Doll counted the chalks on the door;

In peace, cry'd the wretch, let me give up my breath,

And Fate will soon rub out my score.

Come, bailiffs, cries Doll, (how I'll hamper this cheat!)

Let the law be no longer delay'd,

I never once heard of that fellow call'd Fate,

And by G—d he sha'nt die till I'm paid.

A POSTSCRIPT.

WOULD honest Tom G—d[*] get rid of a scold,

The torture, the plague of his life!

Pray tell him to take down his lion of gold,

And hang up his brazen-fac'd wife.

A RECANTATION.

OF spleen so dormant, indolence so great,

I've thoughtless flatter'd, what in truth I hate.

To DELIA.

SAY, my charmer, right or wrong,

Say it from your heart or tongue:

Be sincere, or else deceive,

Say you love—and I shall believe.

The following ACROSTICS were wrote at the Request of the Two Ladies who are the Subjects of them.

PRAY tell me, says Venus, one day to the Graces,

(On a visit they came, and had just ta'en their places)

Let me know why of late I can ne'er see your faces:

Ladies, nothing, I hope, happen'd here to affright ye:

You've had compliment cards every day to invite ye.

Says Cupid, who guess'd their rebellious proceeding,

"Underhand, dear mamma, there's some mischief a-breeding:

"There's a fair one at Lincoln, so finish'd a beauty,

"That your loves and your graces all swerve from "their duty."

On my life, says dame Venus, I'll not be thus put on,

Now I think on't, last night, some one call'd me Miss Sutton.

ANOTHER.

WHERE no ripen'd summer glows,

In the lap of northern snows;

Desarts gloomy, cold, and drear,

(Only let the nymph be there)

Wreaths of budding sweets would wear.

MAY would every fragrance bring,

All the vernal bloom of spring:

Dryads, deck'd with myrtles green,

Dancing, would attnd their queen:

Every flower that nature spreads,

Rising where the charmer treads!

On Mr CHURCHILL'S death.

SAYS Tom to Richard, Churchill's dead;

Says Richard, Tom, you lie,

Old Rancour the report hath spread,

But Genius cannot die.

APOLLO—To Mr C— F—, on his being satirized by an ignorant Person.

WHether he's worth your spleen or not,

You've ask'd me to determine;

I wish, my friend, a nobler lot,

Than that of trampling vermin.

A blockhead can't be worth our care,

Unless that we'd befriend him:

As you've some common sense to spare,

I'll pay you what you lend him.

APOLLO.

On seeing J— C—ft, Esq abused in a Newspaper.

WHEN a wretch to public notice,

Would a man of worth defame;

Wit, as threadbare as his coat is,

Only shews his want of shame.

Busy, pert, unmeaning parrot!

Vilest of the venal crews!

Go—and in your Grubstreet garret,

Hang yourself and paltry muse.

Pity too the meddling sinner,

Should for hunger hang or drown;

F—x, (he must not want a dinner)

Send the scribbler half a crown.

On hearing DAVID HUME, Esq particularly admired in a Company of petit Maitres.

DID rocks and trees in ancient days

Round tuneful Orpheus throng,

Mov'd by the bard's enliv'ning lays,

And sensible of song!

When the bold Orpheus of our age,

With true pathetic fire,

Unfolds the philosophic page,

The very beaux admire.

A CHARACTER.

THE muse of a soldier so whimsical sings,

He's captain at once to four different kings;

And tho' in their battles he boldly behaves,

To their queen's he's a cull, and a dupe to their knaves;

Whilst others are cheerfully join'd in the chace,

Young Hobbinol's hunting the critical ace:

On feasts or on fasts, tho' the parson exclaim,

Under hedges or haycocks he'll stick to his game.

Yet the priest cannot say he's quite out of his fold,

For he's always at church—when a tythe's to be sold.

EPIGRAPH for Dean SWIFT'S Monument. Executed by Mr P. CUNNINGHAM, Statuary in Dublin.

SAY to the Drapier's vast unbounded fame,

What added honours can the sculptor give?

None—'tis a sanction from the Drapier's name,

Must bid the sculptor and his marble live.

EPIGRAM.

COULD Kate for Dick compose the gordian string,

The Tyburn knot how near the nuptial ring!

A loving wife, obedient to her vows,

Is bound in duty to exalt her spouse.

An Apology for a certain Lady.

TO an old dotard's wretched arms betray'd,

The wife (miscall'd) is but a widow'd maid;

Young, and impatient at her wayward lot,

If the dull rules of duty are forgot;

Whatever ills from her defection rise,

The parent's guilty who compell'd the ties.

On GOLD.

BEAUTY's a bawble, a trifle in price!

'Tis glass, or 'tis something as glaring;

But set it in gold—'tis so wonderful nice,

That a prince shall be proud in the wearing.

How feeble the transport when passion is gone,

How pall'd when the honey-moon's over!

When kissing—and cooing—and toying are done,

'Tis gold must enliven the lover.

To CHLOE, on a Charge of Inconstancy.

HOW can Chloe think it strange,

Time should make a lover change?

Time brings all things to an end,

Courage can't the blow defend.

See the proud aspiring oak,

Falls beneath the fatal stroke:

If on Beauty's cheek he preys,

Straight the rosy bloom decays:

Joy puts out his lambent fires,

And at Time's approach—expires.

How can Chloe think it strange,

Time should make a lover change?

On Alderman W—. The History of his Life.

THAT he was born, it cannot be deny'd,

He eat, drank, slept, talk'd politics, and dy'd.

An ELEGY on his Death.

THAT Fate would not grant a reprieve,

'Tis true, we have cause to lament;

Yet faith 'tis a folly to grieve,

So e'en let us all be content.

On the stone that was plac'd o'er his head,

(When he mingled with shadows so grim)

These words may be ev'ry day read,

"Here lies the late Alderman WHIM."

From the Author to a celebrated Methodist Preacher.

I.

HYPOCRISY's son!

No more of your fun,

A truce with fanatical raving:

Why censure the stage?

'Tis known to the age,

That both of us thrive by—deceiving.

II.

'Tis frequently said,

That two of a trade

Will boldly each other bespatter:

But trust me they're fools

Who play with edg'd tools;

So let's have no more of the matter.

Notes

*
Landlord of the Golden Lion, at an inn in Yorkshire.
↵

THE CONTENTS.

- DAY, a Pastoral Page 1

- The Contemplatist 10

- Content, a Pastoral 20

- Sent with a Present 23

- Corydon, a Pastoral 24

- The Rose and Butterfly 26

- Damon and Phoebe 29

- A Pastoral Hymn to Janus 30

- On the Forwardness of Spring 33

- May the Mother of Love 36

- Phillis, a Pastoral 38

- The Violet 40

- The Narcissus 41

- Pomona, a Pastoral 42

- Fancy 45

- The Fox and the Cat 46

- The Miller 48

- The 58th Ode of Anacreon imitated 50

- A Landscape 52

- To the Hon. Master B—, with select Books 58

- On seeing W. R. Chetwood cheerful in a Prison 59

- Melody 61

- An Elegy on a Pile of Ruins 63

- A Latin Inscription 73

- — Imitated 74

- Another Inscription 76

- — Imitated 77

- Delia, a Pastoral 78

- The Sheep and Bramble Bush 80

- May Eve, or Kate of Aberdeen 81

- The Sycamore Shade 83

- The 33d Ode of Anacreon imitated 85

- Love and Chastity, a Cantata 87

- Damon and Phillis, a Pastoral Dialogue 92

- Fortune, an Apologue 95

- The Warning, a Ballad 106

- Amphitrion, a Cantata 108

- New Kitty Fell 110

- A Man to my Mind 112

- The Toast, a Catch 114

- Thyrsis, a Pastoral 115

- Holiday-gown 117

- The Hawthorn Bower 119

- Newcastle Beer 120

- An Election Ballad 123

- Another 126

- Another 128

- Stanzas on the Death of his Majesty K. G. II. 130

- A Prologue, on opening the York Theatre 135

- Another, on opening the Theatre at Whitby 137

- A Prologue, on opening the same Theatre the ensuing Season 139

- Another, on opening a New Theatre at North-Shields 141

- Epilogue, in Character of Mrs Deborah Woodcock 143

- A Prologue, spoke at Edinburgh 145

- Another, on opening the Theatre there 147

- Another, to the Muse of Ossian 149

- Epilogue to the same 151

- Epilogue on Affectation 153

- Another, to Anthony and Cleopatra 155

- A Prologue to Rule a Wife 157

- Eulogium on Masonry 159

- An Epilogue, in Character of Lady Townly 161

- Eulogium on Charity 163

- Prologue to the Jew of Venice 165

- An Epilogue 167

- Another 169

- A Prologue to the Devil of a Wife 171

- Another, to the Recruiting Officer 173

- An Epilogue 175

- The Broken China 177

- On some Busses fitted out 181

- Ode on the King of Prussia 183

- Ode on General Blakeney 187

- Sent with a Pair of Buckles 188

- Daphne, a Song 189

- A Song 191

- To Chloe, in an ill Humour 192

- The Dance, Anacreontic 193

- To a young Widow 195

- Fortune to Harlequin 197

- A Birth-day Ode 199

- An irregular Ode on Music 203

- A Fragment 205

- On a very young Lady 207

- An Invitation 208

- Fanny of the Dale 210

- To Mr K— 212

- Apollo to the Company at Harrowgate 214

- A Song 216

- Another, sent with a Rose 217

- A Fragment, to Mr Woods 219

- A Prologue, spoke at Newcastle 221

- Epigrams, &c. from p. 223, to. 235

Information about this book

Title statement

Poems, chiefly pastoral: By John Cunningham.

Cunningham, John, 1729-1773.

Publication

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5003

ID [isbn10]

1106020022

ID [isbn13]

9781106020024

ID [TCP]

K093533.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310502728

ID [ECLL]

0188100200

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— Poems, chiefly pastoral: By John Cunningham., Cunningham, John, 1729-1773.. xvi,240p.,plate ; 8⁰. London :: printed for the author; and sold by J. Dodsley; J. Almon; W. Richardson and L. Urquhart; G. Robinson and J. Roberts; W. Nicoll; and T. Slack, in Newcastle,. 1766.. [With a list of subscribers.] [A reissue of the 1766 Newcastle edition, with a new titlepage.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Roscoe, J139] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT116781.] [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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