Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor ...

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- TO THE READER.

- A LIST OF THE SUBSCRIBERS NAMES.

- THE CONTENTS.

- DORINDA at her Glass.

- MIRA's WILL.

- The FRIEND in Disgrace. A DIALOGUE.

- An ODE on MERCY: In Imitation of Part of the 145th Psalm.

- The BEAUTIES of the SPRING.

- DAMON and STREPHON. A Pastoral Complaint.

- A SUMMER'S WISH.

- An HYMN to the MORNING.

- COLINETTA.

- The LINNET and the GOLDFINCH.

- The MONTH of AUGUST.

- An EPISTLE to a LADY.

- The Proclamation of APOLLO.

- The FALL of LUCIA.

- The CRUCIFIXION and RESURRECTION. An ODE.

- The Third Chapter of the Wisdom of SOLOMON. From the First to the Sixth Verse.

- ESSAY on HAPPINESS.

- An ESSAY on HOPE.

- The MORAL VISION.

- A PRAYER for the YEAR, 1745.

- DAVID'S Complaint, ii Samuel, chap. 1.

- ESSAY on FRIENDSHIP.

- The MISTAKEN LOVER.

- The WAY of the WORLD.

- The FOX and the HEN. A FABLE.

- The HEAD-ACH. To AURELIA.

- STEPHON to CELIA. A modern LOVE-LETTER.

- To ARTEMISIA. Dr. KING's Invitation to BELLVILL: Imitated.

- The APPARITION.

- The INSPIR'D QUILL. Occasion'd by a Present of CROW-PENS.

- The PENITENT. Occasion'd by the Author's being asked if she would take Ten Pounds for her Poems.

- SONG to CLOE, playing on her Spinet.

- To GRAMMATICUS.

- The TEN-PENNY NAIL.

- The GENIUS in DISGUISE.

- CELADON to MIRA.

- On Mr. POPE's Universal PRAYER.

- The FIELDS of MELANCHOLY and CHEARFULNESS.

- The LIBYAN HUNTER, a FABLE. Inscrib'd to the Memory of a late admir'd Author.

- The TEMPLE of LOVE.

- ADVICE to MYRTILLO.

- On DISCONTENT. To STELLA.

- The PROPOSAL.

- SOTO. A CHARACTER.

- The UNIVERSAL DREAM.

- The SOW and the PEACOCK. A FABLE.

- FLORIMELIA, the First PASTORAL.

- FLORIMELIA, the Second PASTORAL.

- CATHARINA's CAVE.

- The ENQUIRY.

- The RIVAL BROTHERS.

- The QUESTION. Occasion'd by a serious Admonition.

- The SACRIFICE. An EPISTLE to CELIA.

- The POWER of BEAUTY.

- The DEATH of ABEL.

- JOB'S CURSE, and his APPEAL. Taken out of Job, Chap. i, and xxxi.

- The TALE of CUSHI. From II. Samuel, Chap. xviii.

- PROSERPINE'S RAGOUT.

- The CHARMS of ANTHONY.

- On the Death of a justly admir'd AUTHOR.

- An EPITAPH.

- On WINTER.

- MIRA to OCTAVIA.

- The SETTING SUN. To SILVIA.

- An EPITAPH.

- On SICKNESS.

- To a Gentleman with a Manuscript Play.

- SILVIA and the BEE.

- The CRUEL PARENT. A DREAM.

- A REQUEST to the DIVINE BEING.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

FINIS.

POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

By Mrs. LEAPOR of Brackley in Northamptonshire.

LONDON, Printed: And Sold by J. Roberts in Warwick-Lane. MDCCXLVIII.

TO THE READER.

THE Author of the following Poems was taken from the World at the time when she first began to meet with Encouragement to print them, and, in Compliance with her dying Request, they are now published for the Benefit of her Father, who is desirous to make use of this Opportunity of returning his humble Thanks to the Subscribers for the Favour they have been pleased to shew him.

The short Account which has been given of Mrs. Leapor, with the Proposals for a Subscription, it is hop'd, will sufficiently apologize for the Defects that shall be found in this Collection. Had she lived to correct and finish these first Productions of a young unassisted Genius, certainly they would have been greatly improved, tho', as they now appear in their native Simplicity, they cannot surely but afford an agreeable Entertainment to the Reader, and serve as a convincing Proof of the common Aphorism, Poeta nascitur, non fit.

Mrs. Leapor from a Child delighted in reading, and particularly Poetry, but had few Opportunities of procuring any Books of that kind. The Author she most admired was Mr. Pope, whom she chiefly endeavoured to imitate; how far she succeeded in this, or any other of her Attempts, must be left to the Judgment of the Publick. And indeed if the Poems will not recommend themselves to the Reader, little Advantage is to be expected from any thing that can be said of them here; but, in Justice to the Memory of the Author, as well as for the Satisfaction of all those who have so chearfully and generously contributed to improve the best Legacy she could bequeath to her Father, we beg leave to inform them, that her Conduct and Behaviour entirely corresponded with those virtuous and pious Sentiments which are conspicuous in her Poems. She was courteous and obliging to all, chearful, good-natured, and contented in the Station of Life in which Providence had placed her. The generous and charitable Spirit that appeared in her was exerted upon all Occasions to the utmost of her Ability, and was such as would have been ornamental in a much higher Sphere, to which in all Probability, if it had pleased God to spare her Life, her own Merit would have raised her.

Some of her Papers, a little time before her Death, were communicated to several Persons of Rank and of distinguished Taste and Judgment, who were pleased to express a great Satisfaction in the View they had of promoting a Subscription for their being printed, and by that means encouraging her to proceed in a Science so agreeable to herself, and entertaining to them; but her Friends are now left to lament her Loss, and that so great a Part of a short and valuable Life was spent in Obscurity.

A LIST OF THE SUBSCRIBERS NAMES.

A

- THE Right Honourable the Earl of Arran.

- The Right Honourable the Countess of Arran.

- Mrs. Mary Adkins.

- Mrs. Addis.

- Mrs. Abram.

- Mrs. Sarah Arme.

- Miss Adams.

- Mrs. Archer.

- Miss Ackhurst.

- Mrs. Frances Ayre.

- Mr. James Affleck.

- Rever. Mr. Gilbert Affleck.

- Rever. Mr. Adams, A.M. Fellow of Lincoln-College.

- John Affleck, Esq

- Mr. Daniel Addison.

- Captain Henry Ather.

- Mr. William Adams.

- Edward Ashe, Esq

- Miss Elizabeth Ashe.

- Mr. Burrage Angier.

- Mrs. Martha Arburthnot.

- Miss Archer.

B

- His Grace the Duke of Bridgwater.

- The Right Honourable the Lady Amelia Butler.

- The Honourable Benjamin Bathurst, Esq

- Thomas Bathurst, Esq

- Mrs. Bowles.

- Mrs. Burton.

- Mr. Thomas Bowers.

- Mr. Edward Baylis.

- Mr. John Bud.

- Mrs. Salome Bull.

- Edward Bacon, Esq

- Captain Butler.

- Mr. Bowles.

- Mrs. Barker.

- Mr. Charles Butler, 2 Books

- Miss Barnadiston.

- Miss Elizabeth Barnardiston.

- Miss Blencowe.

- Mrs. Barnardiston.

- Thomas Blencowe, Esq

- Mrs. Elizabeth Barker.

- John Blencowe, Esq

- Mrs. Blencowe.

- Mr. William Boreton.

- Mr. James Bradford.

- Rever. Mr. Burrows, M.A.

- Mrs. Boothby.

- Mrs. Bainter.

- William Bridges, Esq

- Miss Elizabeth Boyce.

- Reverend Dr. Bacon.

- Miss Temperance Blencowe.

- Mr. Henry Blencowe.

- Miss Mary Blencowe.

- Miss Bellamy.

- Mr. Blake, 5 Books.

- G. Bedford, Esq

- Captain John Brownell.

- Mr. Barnaby Bland.

- William Browne, Esq

- Mr. William Briggs.

- Mr. Jeremiah Batley.

- Stukely Bayntun, Esq

- Thomas Barrington, Esq

- Lawrence Battin, Esq

- John Benson, Esq

- Mr. John Blackwell.

- William Blackburne, Esq

- Pusey Brook, Esq

- Captain John Blake, 2 Books.

- Mr. John Bleydestein.

- Mrs. Elizabeth Burton.

- Valentine Boyles, Esq

- Mr. Ebenezer Blackwell.

- William Bromley, Esq

- Mrs. Bromley, 2 Books.

- Mrs. Bowman.

- Mr. John Bromsal.

- Mr. Launcelot Burton.

- Mrs. Bertie.

- Mr. Richard Bowling.

- Henry Brounker, Esq

- Mr. William Bayntun.

- Thomas Blake, Esq 6 Books.

- David Burleigh, Esq

- Mr. James Briscoe.

- Mrs. Blencowe.

- Edward Bacon, Esq

- William Bodwell, Esq

- Miles Barnes, Esq

- — Brooksbanks, Esq

- Thomas Bridges, Esq

C

- The Right Honourable the Lady Cobham.

- The Right Honourable the Countess of Clancarty.

- The Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Campbel.

- The Lady Henrietta Conyers.

- The Lady Clark.

- The Lady Sophia Carteret.

- The Honourable Mrs. Chandler.

- William Cartwright, Esq 2 Books.

- Robert Cunningham, Esq

- Mr. Richard Cowper.

- Mrs. Clayton, 2 Books.

- Miss Clayton.

- Mrs. Chancy.

- Reverend Mr. Clark.

- Mrs. Chauncy of Edgcot.

- Miss Elizabeth Chauncy.

- Mrs. Frances Cotton.

- Charles Cotterel, Esq

- Mrs. Cotterel.

- Mr. Coysgarne.

- Mrs. Canning.

- Mrs. Ann Clark.

- Mrs. Mary Clark.

- Mrs. Clark.

- Mrs. Cotton.

- Oxwitch Cater, Esq

- Henry Cliffe, Esq

- Mrs. Charlton.

- Mrs. Cliffe.

- Mrs. Margaret Cliffe.

- Reverend Mr. Henry Coker.

- Captain Loftice Cliffe.

- Mr. Connibeere.

- Mr. Clutterbuck.

- Thomas Causton, Esq

- Mr. Joseph Cotton.

- Thomas Crispe, Esq

- Richard Chandler, Esq

- Joseph Cresswicke, Esq

- Capt. Thomas Carver.

- John Cresswicke, Esq

- Mr. Martin Chalice.

- Mr. Henry Crawley.

- Mr. Robert Carey.

- Mr. James Cunningham.

- Mr. Miles Cook.

- Hugh Cane, Esq

- Mr. John Coleby.

- Mr. Josiah Corthine.

- Mr. John Colby.

- Mr. Anthony Cox.

- Mr. Rooth Colebran.

- Thomas Coe, M.D.

- Joseph Crew, Esq 3 Books.

- Miss Mary Crewe.

- Mrs. Elizabeth Crewe.

- Miss Sarah Crewe.

- William Cowel, Esq 2 Books

- Mr. John Carrey.

- Thomas Carter, Esq

- Job Stanton Charlton, Esq 2 Books.

D

- The Right Honourable the Countess of Dysart.

- The Lady Dashwood, 2 Books.

- The Lady Delves.

- Sir John Dolben, Baronet.

- Miss Ann Dolben.

- Miss Frances Dolben.

- Reverend Mr. Daniel.

- Major John Davison.

- Henry St. George Dayrell, Esq

- Paul Dayrell, Esq

- Mrs. Dod.

- Reverend Mr. Dod.

- Dr. Delany.

- Mrs. Delany.

- Mrs. Donnilant.

- George Denton, Esq

- Mrs. Denton.

- Mr. Dobree.

- William Dolben, Esq

- Mrs. Dolben.

- Rever. Mr. Stephen Duck.

- Mr. Draper.

- Mr. William Dawson.

- Mr. Thomas Davison.

- Robert Dinwiddie, Esq

- Mrs. Merrial Dubourdieu.

- Thomas Day, Esq

- Mrs. Hannah Dewell.

- Mr. Albert Devins.

- Mr. George Dent.

- Griffith Davies, Esq

- Mr. Isaac Dagnet.

E

- John Eaton, Esq

- Mrs. Eaton.

- Mrs. Ennys.

- Reverend Mr. Ekins.

- Mr. Thomas Erith.

- Edward Emsal, Esq

- Reverend Mr. Tho. Eynon.

F

- The Right Honourable the Viscount Fitzwilliams.

- The Right Honourable the Lady Fitzwilliams.

- The Right Honourable the Lady Feversham.

- The Honourable the Lady Charlotte Finch, 2 Books.

- The Honourable Henry Finch, Esq

- Miss Ann Foley, 2 Books.

- Thomas Talbot Foley, Esq

- Reverend Mr. Fairbrothers.

- Miss Theodosia Fisher.

- Miss Floyd.

- Mr. Fanshaw.

- John Fletcher, Esq

- Dudley Foley, Esq

- Mr. Furnice.

- — Field, Esq

- Mrs. Bridget Fremantle, 2 Books.

- Mr. Robert Forster.

- Gilbert Fleming, Esq

- Thomas Fanshaw, Esq

- Mr. Samuel Freeman.

- Mr. Samuel Freeman, 5 Books

- John Fremantle, Esq 2 Books

- Jonathan Forward, Esq

- Mr. Peter Fector.

- Mr. Jenkin Ferrier.

- Miss Fuller.

- Mr. John Hardy Franklyn.

- Mr. Benjamin Forward.

- Thomas Farrington, Esq

G

- The Right Honourable the Earl of Gainsborough, 2 Books.

- The Right Honourable the Earl of Granville, 2 Books.

- The Right Reverend the Bishop of Gloucester.

- The Reverend Dr. Grey.

- Mrs. Grey.

- Mrs. Gordon.

- Mrs. Garland.

- Mrs. Gee.

- Reverend Mr. Gill.

- Mrs. Geckmore.

- Mrs. Gores.

- Mrs. Garland.

- Mrs. Gyford.

- Mrs. Gunning.

- Mr. John Gibson.

- Mrs. Margaret Gambier.

- Mr. Hugh Granger.

- Mr. John Gibbs.

- Samuel Gale, Esq

- Thomas Gee, Esq

- Thomas Gordon, Esq

- Mr. Place Green.

- Mr. Edward Goodwin,

- Christopher Gunman, Esq

H

- The Right Honourable the Lady Hertford.

- The Honourable Mrs. Hume.

- Lady Holt.

- Mr. William Halifax.

- Mrs. Halifax.

- Reverend Mr. Hawes.

- Miss Harriot.

- Miss Hiccocks.

- Mrs. Holford.

- Sir Thomas Head.

- William Holbech, Esq

- Mr. Charles Heath.

- Charles Halstead, Esq

- Rever. James Halifax, M.A.

- Mr. Hind.

- Mr. Philip Hyat.

- Mr. William Howe.

- Mr. James Hindman.

- Mr. Edmund Horrex.

- Samuel Hunton, Esq

- Mr. Edward Hyat.

- Mr. William Hawys.

- Howard Hastings, Esq 2 Books.

- Mr. Evan Hughes.

- Mr. Isaac Hunter.

- Mr. John Hudgebout.

- Mr. William Holloran.

- Mr. Roger Hog.

- William Hinton. Esq

- Mr. Harnage, 3 Books.

- Mrs. Haistwell.

- Mr. Morins Hollinberry.

- Mrs. Haistwell.

- Mr. Stephen Harvey.

- John Hill, Esq

- Mr. Hiccoeks.

- Mr. George Harris.

I

- Mrs. Jennens.

- Mr. Lawrence Jakeman.

- Miss Isaacson.

- Lascells Iremonger, Esq

- Mrs. Jeffries.

- Mrs. Edmunda Isham.

- Mrs. Jackson.

- Mr. Thomas Jakeman.

- Reverend Dr. Isham.

- Mrs. Isham.

- Mrs. Jones.

- Mrs. Jones of Ramsturg.

- Mr. William Jones.

- Nathaniel Johnson, Esq

- William Jackson, Esq

- Owen Jones, Esq

- Mr. Thomas Jones.

- Francis Jackson, Esq

- Mr. William Jorden.

- Mr. Henry Jelly.

- Richard Jordan, Esq 2 Books

- Mr. Thomas Jackson.

- Mr. William Jones.

- The Reverend Dr. Jenner.

- Mrs. Jenner.

K

- Anthony Keck, Esq

- Mrs. Keck.

- William Kinsley, Esq

- Mr. John Kirby.

- Mr. John Knowles.

- Mr. Alexander Kerr.

- Mr. Thomas Kite.

- Miss Ann Kempthorne, 2 Books.

- Miss Charlotte Kempthorne, 2 Books.

L

- His Grace the Duke of Leeds.

- Her Grace the Dutchess of Leeds.

- The Right Honourable Lord Viscount Lymington.

- Will. Loveday, Esq 2 Books.

- Mrs. Loveday, 2 Books.

- Reverend Mr. Long.

- Mr. Langley.

- Mrs. Leabon.

- William Le Grand, Esq

- Mr. Love.

- Miss Lisle.

- Colonel Littleton.

- Reverend Mr. Lye.

- Mrs. Mary Lisle.

- Mrs. Harriot Lisle.

- Mrs. Sophia Lisle.

- Mrs. Frances Lisle.

- Mr. Lancaster.

- Mrs. Ann Lynn.

- Peter Leigh, Esq Gent. Com. of C.C.C.

- Mr. William Leach.

- James Lucas, Esq

- Richard Loyd, Esq

- Mr. John Lawton.

- Miss Long.

- Mr. William Lane.

- John Law, Esq

- Mr. Lee, 2 Books.

- Matthew Lord, Esq

- William Lockwood, Esq

- Mr. Lewis Loyd.

- Captain Warren Lisle.

- William Levinz, Esq

M

- The Reverend Mr. Mabbot.

- Mrs. Morris.

- Mrs. Mandeville.

- Mrs. Moyse.

- Mr. Edward Metcalfe.

- Thomas Matthews, Esq

- Mrs. Metcalfe.

- Mrs. Mitchell.

- Master James Mitchell.

- Master Knight Mitchell.

- Mr. Joseph Martin.

- George Medcalfe, Esq

- Mr. James Mechell.

- Mr. Simons Mercer.

- Robert Man, Esq

- Mr. Matthew Mead.

- Captain Robert Martin.

- Mr. James Maillard.

- Mr. Samuel Maddock

- Mrs. Mary Merrick.

- John Manley, Esq

- Mr. Dennis Maccarty.

- William Milner, Esq

- Capt. Luke Mercer, 2 Books.

- Miss Moore.

- Mr. John Matthews.

- Mr. John Matson.

- Arthur Mears, Esq

- Mr. John Meylett.

- Miss Polly Mercer.

- Major Richard Mercer.

- Richard Middleton, Esq

- Mr. John Mason.

- Mr. Patrick Mackfarland.

N

- Miss Neve.

- Rever. Timothy Neve, A.M. Fellow of C.C.C.

- Mr. Nicholls.

- Charles Northcote, Esq

- Richard Needham, Esq

- Mrs. Nicholls.

- Reverend Mr. Nixon.

O

- Mrs. Oglethorp.

- John Oxenford, Esq

- Colonel Arthur Owen.

- William Owen, Esq

P

- Her Grace the Dutchess of Portland, 4 Books.

- The Right Honourable the Earl of Pomfret, 4 Books.

- The Right Honourable the Countess of Pomfret, 4 Books

- The Honourable Mrs. Percival.

- The Lady Probyn.

- The Lady Primrose.

- Sir Francis Pool, Baronet.

- Campbell Price, Esq

- Miss Pruce.

- John Pollard, Esq

- Robert Pearn, Esq

- Henry Purefoy, Esq

- Mrs. Purefoy.

- Miss Phillis Price, 2 Books.

- Miss Kitty Price.

- Miss Playdell.

- Reverend Mr. Pead.

- Master Pearith.

- Mrs. Powis.

- Mrs. Purcell.

- Mrs. Parsons.

- Reverend Mr. Pordage.

- Mrs. Potter.

- Thomas Pulleyn, Esq

- John Travanion Plowden, Esq

- John Parkhurst, Esq

- Rever. James Parker, M.A.

- Mrs. Parsons.

- Mr. Robert Parrot.

- Reverend Mr. Peak.

- Phil. Parsons, Esq

- J. Paterson, Esq

- William Parsons, Esq

- Robert Paul, Esq

- Mrs. Mary Page.

- Joseph Pitt, Esq

- Mr. Horatio Paul.

- Mr. Edward Parish.

- Mrs. Peyton.

- Mr. Francis Pelham.

- Rever. Mr. Thomas Powell.

- John Powell, Esq

- Miss Elizabeth Parish.

- Henry Peers. Esq

R

- Rysley Rysley, Esq

- Miss Read.

- Mrs. Rich.

- Mrs. Radcliffe.

- Miss Robson.

- Mrs. Raynsford.

- Mrs. Raynsford of Brixworth

- Reverend Mr. Rawbone.

- Mrs. Robinson.

- Hamet Richardson, Esq

- Mr. Thomas Reup.

- William Russel, Esq

- Captain Alexander Ridley.

- Mr. John Robinson, Junior.

- Mr. Charles Rayner.

- Mr. Martin Rayner.

- Miss Rickson.

S

- The Right Honourable the Countess of Sunderland.

- The Right Honourable the Dowager Countess of Shaftsbury.

- The Right Honourable the Countess of Shaftsbury.

- The Honourable the Lady Ann Scott.

- Lady Strickland.

- Lady Elizabeth Smithson.

- Sir, Thomas Samwell, Bart.

- Lady Smith.

- Mrs. Ann Smith.

- Mrs. Margaret Sherman, 2 Books.

- Robert Sharrock, Esq 2 Books

- The Honourable Mr. Shirley.

- The Honourable Mrs. Shirley.

- Mrs. Shaw.

- Walter Shirley, Esq

- Mrs. Catharine Shelly.

- Miss Penelope Shelly.

- Mr. Plowden Slaney.

- Miss Elizabeth Slaney.

- Mrs. Stanley.

- Mr. James Smith.

- Mr. Edward Short.

- Doctor Smith.

- Mrs. Smith.

- Mrs. Snape.

- Miss Spencer.

- Mr. Leonard Seely.

- Mr. Thomas Sanders.

- Thomas Salter, Esq

- Mr. Sharp.

- Edward Stanley, Esq

- Mr. Benjamin Scott.

- Mr. George Stierndall.

- Henry Saxby, Esq

- Mr. William Spearman.

- Mr. William Sarney.

- Mr. John Sturmey.

- Mr. William Spyer.

- Miss Priscilla Stert.

- Reverend Mr. Styleman.

- Mr. Thomas Sharpe.

- Henry Simons, Esq

- Mr. William Solly. 2 Books.

- Mr. Samuel Simons.

- Mr. Nicholas Stokes.

- Mr. Isaac Samson.

- Mr. James Samson.

- Mr. William Smith.

- George Smith, Esq

- Mr. Henry Sparrow.

- Mr. Richard Solly.

- Colonel William Swan.

- Captain Nathaniel Smith.

- Miss Mary Shadwell.

- Mr. Edward Sadler.

T

- The Lady Tent.

- Sir John Turner, Baronet.

- Mrs. Margaret Tufton.

- Mrs. Mary Tufton.

- Mrs. Catharine Titley.

- Mr. William Thomas.

- Reverend Mr. Troutbeck.

- Mr. Tillard.

- Mrs. Towers.

- Mrs. Tempest.

- Fiennes Trotman, Esq

- Miss Kitty Torshell.

- Mrs. Thomas.

- Mr. Henry Thornton.

- Mr. Wheatley Thompson.

- Mr. Thomas Tooley.

- Miss Turner.

- Mrs. Thornton.

- Thomas Thornton, Esq

- Rever. Mr. Trimnel, Arch-Deacon of Leicester.

- Jacob Tonson, Esq

- Richard Tonson, Esq

- Mr. Hugh Tomlins.

- Mr. Joseph Thompson.

- Mr. John Titon.

- Bryan Taylor, Esq

- Mr. Anthony Torless.

- Mr. William Thomas.

- Henry Tolcher, Esq

- Mr. Oliver Toulmin.

- Reverend Mr. Tindal.

- Edmund Taylor, Esq

- George Thornberow, Esq

- William Temple, Esq

- Thomas Thomson, M.D.

- Mr. Tristram Twell.

- Francis Thirkell, Esq

- Mr. John Taver.

- Mr. Charles Taver, 3 Books.

- John Thornhaugh, Esq

- William Thornton, Esq

- Miss Sally Towne.

V

- The Lady Vandeput.

- The Lady Vanbrugh.

- Mrs. Vernon.

- Mrs. Vernon.

- Robert Vincent, Esq 4 Books.

W

- The Lady Wills.

- The Honourable Colonel Whitworth.

- Mrs. Whitworth.

- Mrs. Ward.

- Mr. John Watts.

- Mr. Wisdom.

- Mr. Samuel Wilkins.

- Mrs. Wilmot.

- Mrs. Weston.

- Richard Willis, Esq

- Miss Watson.

- Mr. John Whitmore.

- Mr. Francis Wilkins.

- Charles Whitworth, Esq

- Rever. Dr. David Williams.

- Mr. Thomas Whatley.

- Mr. Waldoe.

- Reverend Mr. Walton.

- Mrs. Catharine Whitlock.

- Mr. William Wooton.

- William Wood, Esq

- Charles Wade, Esq

- Edward Wyat, Esq

- Mr. John Warner.

- Mr. Robert Weston.

- John Whormby, Esq

- Reverend Mr. Wyat.

- Conway Whithorne, Esq

- — Webster, Esq

- Andrew Wilkinson, Esq

- Kyffin Williams, Esq

- Mrs. Wiseman.

- Mr. Thomas Watson.

- Mr. John Watson.

- Mr. John Wharry.

Y

- Mr. Edward Yates.

- Mrs. Elizabeth Young.

- Robert Young, Esq

- Miss Sally Yeats.

THE CONTENTS.

- DORINDA at her Glass. Page 1

- Mira's Will. p. 8

- The Friend in Disgrace. A Dialogue. p. 10

- An Ode on Mercy: In Imitation of Part of the 145th Psalm. p. 12

- The Beauties of the Spring. p. 15

- Damon and Strephon. A Pastoral Complaint. p. 18

- A Summer's Wish. p. 21

- An Hymn to the Morning. p. 23

- Colinetta. p. 26

- The Linnet and the Goldfinch. p. 31

- The Month of August. Sylvanus, a Courtier, Phillis, a Country Maid. p. 34

- An Epistle to a Lady. p. 38

- The Proclamation of Apollo. p. 41

- The Fall of Lucia. p. 48

- The Crucifixion and Resurrection. An Ode. p. 50

- The Third Chapter of the Wisdom of Solomon. From the First to the Sixth Verse. p. 52

- An Essay on Happiness. p. 54

- An Essay on Hope. p. 60

- The Moral Vision. p. 65

- A Prayer for the Year 1745. p. 69

- David's Complaint, ii Samuel, chap. 1. p. 72

- An Essay on Friendship. p. 74

- The Mistaken Lover. p. 81

- The Way of the World. p. 90

- The Fox and the Hen. A Fable. p. 97

- The Head-ach. To Aurelia. p. 101

- Strephon to Celia. A modern Love-Letter. p. 104

- To Artemisia. Dr. King's Invitation to Bellvill: Imitated. p. 106

- The Apparition. p. 108

- The inspir'd Quill. Occasion'd by a present of Crow Pens. p. 111

- The Penitent. Occasion'd by the Author's being asked if she would take Ten Pounds for her Poems. p. 118

- Song to Cloe, playing on her Spinet. p. 120

- To Grammaticus. p. 122

- The Ten-Penny-Nail. p. 125

- The Genius in Disguise. p. 131

- Celadon to Mira. p. 136

- On Mr. Pope's Universal Prayer. p. 142

- The Fields of Melancholy and Chearfulness. p. 145

- The Libyan Hunter, a Fable. Inscrib'd to the Memory of a late admir'd Author. p. 153

- The Temple of Love. p. 162

- Advice to Myrtillo. p. 167

- On Discontent. To Stella. p. 170

- The Proposal. p. 173

- Soto; A Character. p. 175

- The Universal Dream. p. 177

- The Sow and the Peacock. A Fable. p. 179

- Florimelia, the First Pastoral. By Mr. Newton. p. 183

- Florimelia, the Second Pastoral. By Mr. Newton. p. 187

- Catharina's Cave. By Mr. Newton. p. 192

- The Enquiry. p. 196

- The Rival Brothers. p. 201

- The Question. Occasion'd by a serious Admonition. p. 224

- The Sacrifice. An Epistle to Celia. p. 226

- The Power of Beauty. p. 229

- The Death of Abel. p. 232

- Job's Curse, and his Appeal. Taken out of Job, Chap. i, and xxxi. p. 238

- The Tale of Cushi. From II. Samuel, Chap. xviii. p. 243

- Proserpine's Ragoût. p. 247

- The Charms of Anthony. p. 249

- On the Death of a justly admir'd Author. p. 252

- An Epitaph. p. 255

- On Winter. p. 256

- Mira to Octavia. p. 258

- The Setting Sun. p. 261

- An Epitaph. p. 263

- On Sickness. ibid.

- To a Gentleman with a Manuscript Play. p. 267

- Silvia and the Bee. p. 270

- The Cruel Parent. A Dream. p. 271

- A Request to the Divine Being. p. 278

DORINDA at her Glass.

DORINDA, once the fairest of the Train,

Toast of the Town, and Triumph of the Plain;

Whose shining Eyes a thousand Hearts alarm'd,

Whose Wit inspired, and whose Follies charm'd:

Who, with Invention, rack'd her careful Breast

To find new Graces to insult the rest,

Now sees her Temples take a swarthy Hue,

And the dark Veins resign their beauteous Blue;

While on her Cheeks the fading Roses die,

And the last Sparkles tremble in her Eye.

Bright Sol had drove the sable Clouds away,

And chear'd the Heavens with a Stream of Day,

The woodland Choir their little Throats prepare,

To chant new Carols to the Morning Air:

In Silence wrap'd, and curtain'd from the Day,

On her sad Pillow lost Dorinda lay;

To Mirth a Stranger, and the like to Ease,

No Pleasures charm her, nor no Slumbers please.

For if to close her weary Lids she tries,

Detested Wrinkles swim before her Eyes;

At length the Mourner rais'd her aking Head,

And discontented left her hated Bed.

But sighing shun'd the Relicks of her Pride,

And left the Toilet for the Chimney Side:

Her careless Locks upon her Shoulders lay

Uncurl'd, alas! because they half were Gray;

No magick Baths employ her skilful Hand,

But useless Phials on her Table stand:

She slights her Form, no more by Youth inspir'd,

And loaths that Idol which she once admir'd.

At length all trembling, of herself afraid,

To her lov'd Glass repair'd the weeping Maid,

And with a Sigh address'd the alter'd Shade.

Say, what art thou, that wear'st a gloomy Form,

With low'ring Forehead, like a northern Storm;

Cheeks pale and hollow, as the Face of Woe,

And Lips that with no gay Vermilion glow?

Where is that Form which this false Mirror told

Bloom'd like the Morn, and shou'd for Ages hold;

But now a Spectre in its room appears,

All scar'd with Furrows, and defac'd with Tears;

Say, com'st thou from the Regions of Despair,

To shake my Senses with a meagre Stare?

Some stragg'ling Horror may thy Phantom be,

But surely not the mimick Shape of me.

Ah! yes—the Shade its mourning Visage rears,

Pants when I sigh, and answers to my Tears:

Now who shall bow before this wither'd Shrine,

This Mortal Image, that was late Divine?

What Victim now will praise these faded Eyes,

Once the gay Basis for a thousand Lyes?

Deceitful Beauty—false as thou art gay,

And is it thus thy Vot'ries find their Pay;

This the Reward of many careful Years,

Of Morning Labours, and of Noon-day Fears,

The Gloves anointed, and the bathing Hour,

And soft Cosmetick's more prevailing Pow'r;

Yet to thy Worship still the fair Ones run,

And hail thy Temples with the rising Sun;

Still the brown Damsels to thy Altars pay

Sweet-scented Unguents, and the Dews of May;

Sempronia smooths her wrinkled Brows with Care,

And Isabella curls her grisled Hair:

See poor Augusta of her Glass afraid,

Who even trembles at the Name of Maid,

Spreads the fine Mechlin on her shaking Head,

While her thin Cheeks disown the mimick Red.

Soft Silvia, who no Lover's Breast alarms,

Yet simpers out the Ev'ning of her Charms,

And tho' her Cheek can boast no rosy Dye,

Her gay Brocades allure the gazing Eye.

But hear, my Sisters—Hear an ancient Maid,

Too long by Folly, and her Arts betray'd;

From these light Trifles turn your partial Eyes,

'Tis sad Dorinda prays you to be wise;

And thou Celinda, thou must shortly feel

The sad Effect of Time's revolving Wheel;

Thy Spring is past, thy Summer Sun declin'd,

See Autumn next, and Winter stalks behind:

But let not Reason with thy Beauties fly,

Nor place thy Merit in a brilliant Eye;

'Tis thine to charm us by sublimer ways,

And make thy Temper, like thy Features, please:

And thou, Sempronia, trudge to Morning Pray'r,

Nor trim thy Eye-brows with so nice a Care;

Dear Nymph believe—'tis true, as you're alive,

Those Temples show the Marks of Fifty-five.

Let Isabel unload her aking Head

Of twisted Papers, and of binding Lead;

Let sage Augusta now, without a Frown,

Strip those gay Ribbands from her aged Crown;

Change the lac'd Slipper of delicious Hue

For a warm Stocking, and an easy Shoe;

Guard her swell'd Ancles from Rheumatick Pain,

And from her Cheek expunge the guilty Stain.

Wou'd smiling Silvia lay that Hoop aside,

'Twou'd snow her Prudence, not betray her Pride:

She, like the rest, had once her flagrant Day,

But now she twinkles in a fainter Ray.

Those youthful Airs set off their Mistress now,

Just as the Patch adorns her Autumn Brow:

In vain her Feet in sparkling Laces glow,

Since none regard her Forehead, nor her Toe.

Who would not burst with Laughter, or with Spleen,

At Prudo, once a Beauty, as I ween?

But now her Features wear a dusky Hue,

The little Loves have bid her Eyes adieu:

Yet she pursues the Pleasures of her Prime,

And vain Desires, not subdu'd by Time;

Thrusts in amongst the Frolick and the Gay,

But shuts her Daughter from the Beams of Day:

The Child, she says, is indolent and grave,

And tells the World Ophelia can't behave:

But while Ophelia is forbid the Room,

Her Mother hobbles in a Rigadoon;

Or to the Sound of melting Musick dies,

And in their Sockets rolls her blinking Eyes;

Or stuns the Audience with her hideous Squal,

While Scorn and Satire whisper through the Hall.

Hear this, ye fair Ones, that survive your Charms,

Nor reach at Folly with your aged Arms;

Thus Pope has sung, thus let Dorinda sing;

" Virtue, brave Boys,—'tis Virtue makes a King:"

Why not a Queen? fair Virtue is the same

In the rough Hero, and the smiling Dame:

Dorinda's Soul her Beauties shall pursue,

Tho' late I see her, and embrace her too:

Come, ye blest Graces, that are sure to please,

The Smile of Friendship, and the careless Ease;

The Breast of Candour, the relenting Ear,

The Hand of Bounty, and the Heart sincere:

May these the Twilight of my Days attend,

And may that Ev'ning never want a Friend

To smooth my Passage to the silent Gloom,

And give a Tear to grace the mournful Tomb.

MIRA's WILL.

IMPRIMIS—My departed Shade I trust

To Heav'n—My Body to the silent Dust;

My Name to publick Censure I submit,

To be dispos'd of as the World thinks fit;

My Vice and Folly let Oblivion close,

The World already is o'erstock'd with those;

My Wit I give, as Misers give their Store,

To those who think they had enough before.

Bestow my Patience to compose the Lives

Of slighted Virgins and neglected Wives;

To modish Lovers I resign my Truth,

My cool Reflexion to unthinking Youth;

And some Good-nature give ('tis my Desire)

To surly Husbands, as their Needs require;

And first discharge my Funeral—and then

To the small Poets I bequeath my Pen.

Let a small Sprig (true Emblem of my Rhyme)

Of blasted Laurel on my Hearse recline;

Let some grave Wight, that struggles for Renown,

By chanting Dirges through a Market-Town,

With gentle Step precede the solemn Train;

A broken Flute upon his Arm shall lean.

Six comick Poets may the Corse surround,

And All Free-holders, if they can be found:

Then follow next the melancholy Throng,

As shrewd Instructors, who themselves are wrong.

The Virtuoso, rich in Sun-dry'd Weeds,

The Politician, whom no Mortal heeds,

The silent Lawyer, chamber'd all the Day,

And the stern Soldier that receives no Pay.

But stay—the Mourners shou'd be first our Care,

Let the freed Prentice lead the Miser's Heir;

Let the young Relict wipe her mournful Eye,

And widow'd Husbands o'er their Garlick cry.

All this let my Executors fulfil,

And rest assur'd that this is Mira's Will,

Who was, when she these Legacies design'd,

In Body healthy, and compos'd in Mind.

The FRIEND in Disgrace.
A DIALOGUE.

LYCANDER.

DAMON, why so cold and serious?

Wherefore that reluctant Bow?

Why so haughty and imperious?

Say, have you forgot me now?

Tho array'd in coarse Attire,

You may read Lycander's Face;

For 'tis Him (my gentle Squire)

Justled in a homely Case.

True, no shining Slaves surround me,

And my Brows with Sorrow bend;

Fortune left me as she found me,

Yet let Damon own his Friend.

DAMON.

Sir, your Servant, and all that, Sir;

But indeed I am in haste;

Surely (pray keep on your Hat, Sir),

I have somewhere seen your Face.

LYCANDER.

Am I grown so great a Stranger?

Yet 'tis hardly half a Year,

Since you vow'd (in e'ery Danger)

Not your Life was half so dear.

Sure the Court is mighty lulling,

(Not the Streams of Lethe more)

E'en the Groom and dirty Scullion

Know not those they lov'd before.

So on that fatal Day you did

The Levee of his Grace attend;

You of your Memory was rid,

I of my Fortune and my Friend.

DAMON.

'Tis Bus'ness, Sir, that fills my Head,

Believe me now I cannot stay;

I'll order half a Pint of Red,

And if you'll drink it, Sir, you may.

An ODE on MERCY:
In Imitation of Part of the 145th Psalm.

I

'TIS Mercy calls—Awake, my grateful String;

Ye Worlds of Nature, listen while I sing;

'Tis not his dire avenging Rod,

I sing the Mercies of a God;

Hark, ye Warblers of the Sky,

Rivers glide serenely by;

Or rather in the sacred Chorus join,

Till our united Voices reach the Seats Divine.

II.

Where injur'd Saints, that us'd to mourn below,

Find their glad Breasts with Joys eternal glow;

Where thousand Tongues incessant cry,

Glory be to God on high;

Dominion, Power, Praise, and then

Mercy to the Sons of Men.

Heav'n hears delighted, and the joyful Sound

Swell'd with celestial Musick spreads the Regions round.

III.

The Lord, though seated far beyond the Sky,

Yet sees the wretched with a pitying Eye;

That Power knows our secret Fear,

The lonely Sigh, or silent Tear;

He sees the Widows streaming Eye,

And hears the hungry Orphans cry.

Depending Worlds his sacred Bounty share,

All Creatures find a Part of their Creator's Care.

IV.

His Justice next employs the heavenly String,

And hymning Angels tremble while they sing;

The Lord is just and holy, then

O weep ye thoughtless Sons of Men:

For who can from his Anger fly,

Or shun the Frown of God most high?

Yet shall the Sigh, or penitential Groan,

Mount like the Seraph's Wing, and reach the sacred Throne.

V.

Hear this, ye pious but dejected Minds,

Whom Errors darken, or whom Weakness binds;

Lift from the Dust your mournful Eye,

And know the Lord your Help is nigh;

These Sorrows from your Breasts shall roll,

And Comfort bless the humble Soul;

Let chearful Hope in ev'ry Bosom spring,

For boundless Mercy dwells with Heaven's immortal King.

VI.

Come then, ye Worlds, with mingled Voices raise

A Song of mean, but not ungrateful Praise;

Tho' the dull Numbers rudely flow,

And our cold Hearts but faintly glow,

Our Raptures own a less Degree,

Yet Cherubs sing, and so shou'd we.

The Almighty hears, and gives us leave to call

On him the Judge, the Guide and sacred Lord of All.

VII.

All you that bend beneath the Stroke of Time,

And you whose Cheeks confess their healthy Prime,

Your Maker and Preserver praise,

For early and for length of Days;

The pious and the grateful Song,

Shall lisp upon the Infant's Tongue,

While heav'nly Mercy sooths the Mourner's Care,

And bids the Innocent rejoice, the Sinner not despair.

The BEAUTIES of the SPRING.

HALL happy Shades, and hail thou chearful Plain,

Where Peace and Pleasure unmolested reign;

Where dewy Buds their blushing Bosoms show,

And the coll Rivers murmur as they flow:

See yellow Crowfoots deck the gaudy Hills,

While the faint Primrose loves the purling Rills:

Sagacious Bees their Labours now renew,

Hum round the Blossoms, and extract their Dew:

In their new Liv'ries the green Woods appear,

And smiling Nature decks the Infant Year;

See you proud Elm that shines in borrow'd Charms,

While the curl'd Woodbines deck her aged Arms.

When the streak'd East receives a lighter Gray,

And Larks prepare to meet the early Day;

Through the glad Bowers the shrill Anthems run,

While the Groves glitter to the rising Sun:

Then Phillis hastens to her darling Cow,

Whose shining Tresses wanton on her Brow,

While to her Cheek enliv'ning Colours fly,

And Health and Pleasure sparkle in her Eye.

Unspoil'd by Riches, nor with Knowledge vain,

Contented Cymon whistles o'er the Plain;

His Flock dismisses from their nightly Fold,

Observes their Health, and sees their Number told.

Pleas'd with its Being, see the nimble Fawn

Sports in the Grove, or wantons o'er the Lawn,

While the pleas'd Coursers frolick out the Day,

And the dull Ox affects unwieldy Play.

Then haste, my Friend, to yonder Sylvan Bowers,

Where Peace and Silence crown the blissful Hours;

In those still Groves no martial Clamours sound,

No streaming Purple stains the guiltless Ground;

But fairer Scenes our ravish'd Eyes employ,

Give a soft Pleasure, and a quiet Joy;

Grief flies from hence, and wasting Cares subside,

While wing'd with Mirth the laughing Minutes glide.

See, my fair Friend, the painted Shrubs are gay,

And round they Head ambrosial Odours play;

At Sight of thee the swelling Buds expand,

And op'ning Roses seem to court thy Hand;

Hark, the shrill Linnet charms the distant Plain,

And Philomel replies with softer Strain;

See those bright Lilies shine with milky Hue,

And those fair Cowslips drop with balmy Dew;

To thee, my Fair, the chearful Linnet sings,

And Philomela warbles o'er the Springs;

For thee those Lilies paint the fertile Ground,

And those fair Cowslips are with Nectar crown'd;

Here let us rest to shun the scorching Ray,

While curling Zephyrs in the Branches play.

In these calm Shades no ghastly Woe appears,

No Cries of Wretches stun our frighted Ears;

Here no gloss'd Hate, no sainted Wolves are seen,

Nor busy Faces throng the peaceful Green;

But Fear and Sorrow leave the careful Breast,

And the glad Soul sinks happily to Rest.

DAMON and STREPHON.
A Pastoral Complaint.

Damon.

SAY, why these Sighs that in thy Bosom rise?

Why from thy Cheek the wonted Crimson flies?

Why on the Ground are fix'd thy streaming Eyes?

Strephon.

Still let this Bosom swell with aking Woe,

And from my Eyes the streaming Sorrows flow.

But Oh! the Cause—(See Clouds are gath'ring round,

And Zephyrs wait to catch the mournful Sound;

The sick'ning Trees all shed their blooming Store)

Why wouldst thou hear it?—Sylvius is no more.

Damon.

Is Sylvius dead?—then Phillis rend thy Hair,

And blot those Features that were late so fair.

Thou Sun, forbear to gild this fatal Day;

Nor you my Lambkins dare to think of Play.

Strephon.

No more alas!—no more the tuneful Swain

Shall with soft Numbers charm the list'ning Plain.

No more his Flute shall greet the dawning Spring;

Nor to his Hand rebound the trembling String.

Damon.

Ah cruel Death! wou'd none but Sylvius do?

No meaner Swain amongst the worthy few?

Why didst thou take (and leave the baser Tribe)

The Flow'r of Shepherds and the Muses Pride?

Strephon.

None knew like him the heav'nly Notes to swell,

And moral Tales in pleasing Numbers tell.

While Sylvius sung, none thought the Day too long;

But all repin'd at the too hasty Song.

Damon.

Ye solemn Winds that whistle through the Glade,

Or rudely bluster in the darker Shade,

Go bear our Sorrows to the distant Shore,

And tell them Sylvius chears our Plains no more.

Strephon.

Vain are our Sighs, our Tears as vainly flow,

And each sad Bosom swells with fruitless Woe!

As northern Blasts destroy the Autumn Store,

So Sylvius fell and shall return no more.

Damon.

Enough of Sorrow—now your Garlands bring;

Crop all the Beauties of the early Spring;

Around his Tomb these willing Hands shall twine

The choicest Briers of sweet Eglantine.

Strephon.

On his cold Grave a Laurel I bestow,

Which late did in my Father's Garden grow:

This Wreath Amyntas ask'd to shade her Brow,

But to my Sylvius I resign it now.

Damon.

The pensive Swains shall strike their Bosoms there,

And soft-ey'd Virgins drop a gentle Tear:

May some good Angel guard the sacred Ground,

And Flow'rs unfading shed their Sweets around.

A SUMMER'S WISH.

MY Guardian, bear me on thy downy Wing

To some cool Shade where infant Flow'rs spring;

Where on the Trees sweet Hony-suckles blow,

And ruddy Daisies paint the Ground below:

Where the shrill Linnet charms the solemn Shade,

And Zephyrs pant along the cooler Glade,

Or shake the Bull-rush by a River Side,

While the gay Sun-beams sparkle on the Tide:

O for some Grot whose rustick Sides declare,

Ease, and not Splendor, was the Builder's Care;

Where Roses spread their unaffected Charms,

And the curl'd Vine extends her clasping Arms;

Where happy Silence lulls the quiet Soul,

And makes it calm as Summer Waters roll.

Here let me learn to check each growing Ill,

And bring to Reason disobedient Will;

To watch this incoherent Breast, and find

What fav'rite Passions rule the giddy Mind.

Here no Reproaches grate the wounded Ear;

We see delighted, and transported hear,

While the glad Warblers wanton round the Trees,

And the still Waters catch the dying Breeze,

Grief waits without, and melancholy Gloom:

Come, chearful Hope, and fill the vacant Room;

Come ev'ry Thought, which Virtue gave to please;

Come smiling Health with thy Companion Ease:

Let these, and all that Virtue's self attends,

Bless the still Hours of my gentle Friends:

Peace to my Foes, if any such there be,

And gracious Heav'n give Repose to me.

An HYMN to the MORNING.

I.

SEE the lovely Morning rise,

See her Glories paint the Skies,

Half o'er the reviving Globe

Gaily spreads her Saffron Robe:

See the Hills with Flowers crown'd,

And the Valleys laughing round.

II.

Mira to Aurora sings,

While the Lark exulting springs

High in Air—and tunes her Throat

To a soft and merry Note;

The Goldfinch and the Linnet join:

Hail Aurora, Nymph divine.

III.

See Clione's gilded Car,

See it blazes from afar;

Here the fair One bends her Way,

Balmy Zephyrs round her play;

Now she lights upon the Vale,

Fond to meet the western Gale.

IV.

May this artless Praise be thine,

Soft Clione half divine.

See her snowy Hand she waves,

Silent stand her waiting Slaves;

And while they guard the Silver Reins,

She wanders lonely o'er the Plains.

V.

See those Cheeks of beauteous Dye,

Lovely as the dawning Sky,

Innocence that ne'er beguiles

Lips that wear eternal Smiles:

Beauties to the rest unknown,

Shine in her and her alone.

VI.

Now the Rivers smoother flow,

Now the op'ning Roses glow,

The Woodbine twines her odorous Charms

Round the Oaks supporting Arms:

Lilies paint the dewy Ground,

And Ambrosia breathes around.

VII.

Come, ye Gales that fan the Spring;

Zephyr, with thy downy Wing,

Gently waft to Mira's Breast

Health, Content, and balmy Rest.

Far, O far from hence remain

Sorrow, Care, and sickly Pain.

VIII.

Thus sung Mira to her Lyre,

Till the idle Numbers tire:

Ah! Sappho sweeter sings, I cry,

And the spiteful Rocks reply,

(Responsive to the jarring Strings)

Sweeter—Sappho sweeter sings.

COLINETTA.

TWAS when the Fields had shed their golden Grain.

And burning Suns had sear'd the russet Plain;

No more the Rose nor Hyacinth were seen,

Nor yellow Cowslip on the tufted Green:

But the rude Thistle rear'd its hoary Crown,

And the ripe Nettle shew'd an irksom Brown.

In mournful Plight the tarnish'd Groves appear,

And Nature weeps for the declining Year.

The Sun too quickly reach'd the western Sky,

And rising Vapours hid his ev'ning Eye:

Autumnal Threads around the Branches flew,

While the dry Stubble drank the falling Dew.

In this sick Season, at the close of Day,

On Lydia's Lap pale Colinetta lay;

Whose sallow Cheeks had lost their rosy Dye,

The Sparkles languish'd in her closing Eye.

Parch'd were those Lips whence Musick us'd to flow,

Nor more the Flute her weary Fingers know,

Yet thrice to raise her feeble Voice she try'd,

Thrice on her Tongue the fainting Numbers dy'd;

At last reviv'd, on Lydia's Neck she hung,

And like the Swan expiring thus she sung.

Farewel, ye Forests and delightful Hills,

Ye flow'ry Meadows and ye crystal Rills,

Ye friendly Groves to whom we us'd to run,

And beg a Shelter from the burning Sun.

Those blasted Shades all mournful now I see,

Who droop their Heads as tho' they wept for me.

The pensive Linnet has forgot to sing,

The Lark is silent till returning Spring.

The Spring shall all those wonted Charms restore,

Which Colinetta must behold no more.

Farewel, ye Fields; my native Fields, adieu;

Whose fertile Lays my early Labours knew;

Where, when an Infant, I was wont to stray,

And gather King-cups at the closing Day.

How oft has Lydia told a mournful Tale,

By the clear Lake that shines in yonder Vale;

When she had done I sung a chearful Lay,

While the glad Goldfinch listen'd on the Spray:

Lur'd by my Song each jolly Swain drew near,

And rosy Virgins throng'd around to hear:

Farewel, ye Swains; ye rosy Nymphs, adieu:

Tho' I (unwilling) leave the Streams and you,

Still may soft Musick bless your happy Shore,

But, Colinetta, you must hear no more.

O Lydia, thou, (if wayward Tongues shou'd blame

My Life, and blot a harmless Maiden's Name)

Tell them if e'er I found a straggling Ewe,

Although the Owner's Name I hardly knew;

I fed it kindly with my Father's Hay,

And gave it shelter at the closing Day:

I never stole young Pigeons from their Dams,

Nor from their Pasture drove my Neighbours Lambs:

Nor set my Dog to hunt their Flocks away,

That mine might graze upon the vacant Lay.

When Phillida by dancing won the Prize,

Or Colin prais'd young Mariana's Eyes:

When Damon wedded Urs'la of the Grange,

My Cheek with Envy ne'er was seen to change:

When-e'er I saw Aminda cross the Plain,

Or walk the Forest with her darling Swain,

I never whisper'd to a Stander-by,

But hated Scandal and abhorr'd a Lye.

On Sundays I (as Sister Sue can tell)

Was always ready for the Sermon-bell:

I honour'd both the Teacher and the Day;

Nor us'd to giggle when he bid me pray:

Then sure for me there's something good in Store,

When Colinetta shall be seen no more.

When I am gone, I leave to Sister Sue

My Gown of Jersey, and my Aprons blue.

My studded Sheep-hook Phillida may take,

Likewise my Hay-fork and my Hazel Rake:

My hoarded Apples and my winter Pears

Be thine, O Lydia, to reward thy Cares.

These Nuts that late were pluck'd from yonder Tree,

And this Straw-basket, I bequeath to thee:

That Basket did these dying Fingers weave:

My boxen Flute to Corydon I leave,

So shall it charm the list'ning Nymphs around,

For none like him can make it sweetly sound.

In our Churchyard there grows a spreading Yew,

Whose dark green Leaves distil a baneful Dew:

Be those sad Branches o'er my Grave reclin'd,

And let these Words be graven on the Rind:

" Mark, gentle Reader,—Underneath this Tree,

" There sleeps a Maid, old Simon's Daughter she;

" Thou too, perhaps, ere many Weeks be o'er,

" Like Colinetta, shalt be seen no more.

Here ends the Maid—for now the Seal of Death

Clos'd her pale Lips, and stop'd her rosy Breath.

Her sinking Eye-balls took their long Adieu,

And with a Sigh her harmless Spirit flew.

The LINNET and the GOLDFINCH.

'TWAS when the Morn disclos'd her rosy Brow,

And new-wak'd Heifers in the Pastures low,

When little Songsters in the Gales respire:

To Mira's Shades repair'd the woodland Choir;

Perch'd on a Bough that shone with Morning Dew,

The Linnet thus address'd the feather'd Crew.

The LINNET.

Say, my soft Sisters; say, ye tuneful Throng;

Who now demands the Tribute of a Song?

Who call'd us here? Who gave us leave to rove

And warble in this late forbidden Grove?

Not long ago as Mira, mournful Maid,

All pensive sat beneath the dusky Shade,

Just o'er her Head I whistled on a Bough,

But Discontent sat frowning on her Brow:

Be gone thou too officious Bird, she cries;

(And turn'd on Me—on Me her angry Eyes)

Go from my Bowers, lead the tuneful Throng;

For Artemisia hears no more your Song.

These slighted Shades can please the Fair no more;

Ye Hony-suckles shed your blooming Store;

Ye spreading Trees now let your Branches die;

And ye shrill Warblers from those Branches fly:

She said:—the Blossoms fell from ev'ry Tree,

And we dejected from her Arbours flee;.

We fled all mournful to the distant Plain:

Then say who calls us to these Groves again.

The GOLDFINCH.

By Mira's Order to this Grove we came,

Mira, whose Sonnets please the rural Dame:

'Twas Yesternight she wav'd her Hand to me,

As I sat whistling on a Chesnut-tree:

Come here (she cry'd) ye soft aërial Choirs;

My Ear no more your sprightly Musick tires:

Now I can listen all the Ev'ning long,

For Artemisia will attend your Song:

She comes: Ye Trees put on your best Array,

And with fresh Odours greet the rising Day.

Breathe sweet, ye Woodbines, and with Heads reclin'd

Court the soft Whispers of the western Wind.

Ye friendly Zephyrs, dry the dewy Ground;

Shine bright, thou Sun; and laugh, ye Meads around:

Thus Mira spoke.—Once more the Blossoms glow,

And milder Breezes o'er the Mountains blow.

The smiling Grove once more renews its Charms,

And Trees embracing twist their curling Arms;

Safely to shelter the expected Fair,

From the hot Sun-beams or the northern Air:

Here we attend, and hop from Spray to Spray,

'Till the kind Fates shall bring the wish'd-for Day.

When She, of whom our Mira daily sings,

Whose Name she whispers to the list'ning Springs,

Shall bless these Shades—then, ye melodious Throng,

Let each prepare 'em for the sprightly Song.

Let the shrill Thrush begin her vary'd Strain,

And the small Wren in softer Note complain.

The piercing Linnet and the Lark agree,

Less loud the Red-breast, Nightingale and me.

Here ends the Goldfinch, and exulting springs;

Her pleas'd Companions clap their joyful Wings.

The MONTH of AUGUST.

Sylvanus, a Courtier. Phillis, a Country Maid.

SYLVANUS.

HAIL, Phillis, brighter than a Morning Sky,

Joy of my Heart, and Darling of my Eye;

See the kind Year her grateful Tribute yields,

And round-fac'd Plenty triumphs o'er the Fields.

But to yon Gardens let me lead thy Charms,

Where the curl'd Vine extends her willing Arms:

Whose purple Clusters lure the longing Eye,

And the ripe Cherries show their scarlet Dye.

PHILLIS.

Not all the Sights your boasted Gardens yield,

Are half so lovely as my Father's Field,

Where large Increase has bless'd the fruitful Plain,

And we with Joy behold the swelling Grain,

Whose heavy Ears towards the Earth reclin'd,

Wave, nod, and tremble to the whisking Wind.

SYLVANUS.

But see, to emulate those Cheeks of thine,

On yon fair Tree the blushing Nect'rins shine:

Beneath their Leaves the ruddy Peaches glow,

And the plump Figs compose a gallant Show.

With gaudy Plumbs see yonder Boughs recline,

And ruddy Pears in you Espalier twine.

There humble Dwarfs in pleasing Order stand,

Whose golden Product seems to court thy Hand.

PHILLIS.

In vain you tempt me while our Orchard bears

Long-keeping Russets, lovely Cath'rine Pears,

Pearmains and Codlings, wheaten Plumbs enough,

And the black Damsons load the bending Bough.

No Pruning-knives our fertile Branches teaze,

While yours must grow but as their Masters please.

The grateful Trees our Mercy well repay,

And rain us Bushels at the rising Day.

SYLVANUS.

Fair are my Gardens, yet you slight them all;

Then let us haste to you majestick Hall,

Where the glad Roofs shall to thy Voice resound,

Thy Voice more sweet than Musick's melting Sound:

Now Orion's Beam infests the sultry Sky,

And scorching Fevers through the Welkin fly;

But Art shall teach us to evade his Ray,

And the forc'd Fountains near the Windows play;

There choice Perfumes shall give a pleasing Gale,

And Orange-flow'rs their od'rous Breath exhale,

While on the Walls the well-wrought Paintings glow,

And dazzling Carpets deck the Floors below:

O tell me, Thou whose careless Beauties charm,

Are these not fairer than a Thresher's Barn?

PHILLIS.

Believe me, I can find no Charms at all

In your fine Carpets and your painted Hall.

'Tis true our Parlour has an earthen Floor,

The Sides of Plaster and of Elm the Door:

Yet the rub'd Chest and Table sweetly shines,

And the spread Mint along the Window climbs:

An aged Laurel keeps away the Sun,

And two cool Streams across the Garden run.

SYLVANUS.

Can Feasts or Musick win my lovely Maid?

In both those Pleasures be her Taste obey'd.

The ransack'd Earth shall all its Dainties send,

Till with its Load her plenteous Table bend.

Then to the Roofs the swelling Notes shall rise,

Pierce the glad Air and gain upon the Skies,

While Ease and Rapture spreads itself around,

And distant Hills roll back the charming Sound.

PHILLIS.

Not this will lure me, for I'd have you know

This Night to feast with Corydon I go:

To Night his Reapers bring the gather'd Grain,

Home to his Barns, and leave the naked Plain:

Then Beef and Coleworts, Beans and Bacon too,

And the Plumb-pudding of delicious Hue,

Sweet-spiced Cake, and Apple-pies good Store,

Deck the brown Board; who can desire more?

His Flute and Tabor too Amyntor brings,

And while he plays soft Amaryllis sings.

Then strive no more to win a simple Maid,

From her lov'd Cottage and her silent Shade.

Let Phillis ne'er, ah never let her rove

From her first Virtue and her humble Grove.

Go seek some Nymph that equals your Degree,

And leave Content and Corydon for me.

An EPISTLE to a LADY.

IN vain, dear Madam, yes in vain you strive;

Alas! to make your luckless Mira thrive.

For Tycho and Copernicus agree,

No golden Planet bent its Rays on me.

'Tis twenty Winters, if it is no more;

To speak the Truth it may be Twenty four.

As many Springs their 'pointed Space have run,

Since Mira's Eyes first open'd on the Sun.

'Twas when the Flocks on slabby Hillocks lye,

And the cold Fishes rule the watry Sky:

But tho' these Eyes the learned Page explore,

And turn the pond'rous Volumes o'er and o'er,

I find no Comfort from their Systems flow,

But am dejected more as more I know.

Hope shines a while, but like a Vapour flies,

(The Fate of all the Curious and the Wise)

For, Ah! cold Saturn triumph'd on that Day,

And frowning Sol deny'd his golden Ray.

You see I'm learned, and I shew't the more,

That none may wonder when they find me poor.

Yet Mira dreams, as slumbring Poets may,

And rolls in Treasures till the breaking Day:

While Books and Pictures in bright Order rise,

And painted Parlours swim before her Eyes:

Till the shrill Clock impertinently rings,

And the soft Visions move their shining Wings:

Then Mira wakes,—her Pictures are no more,

And through her Fingers slides the vanish'd Ore.

Convinc'd too soon, her Eye unwilling falls

On the blue Curtains and the dusty Walls:

She wakes, alas! to Business and to Woes,

To sweep her Kitchen, and to mend her Clothes.

But see pale Sickness with her languid Eyes,

At whose Appearance all Delusion flies:

The World recedes, its Vanities decline,

Clorinda's Features seem as faint as mine:

Gay Robes no more the aking Sight admires,

Wit grates the Ear, and melting Musick tires:

Its wonted Pleasures with each Sense decay,

Books please no more, and Paintings fade away:

The sliding Joys in misty Vapours end:

Yet let me still, Ah! let me grasp a Friend:

And when each Joy, when each lov'd Object flies,

Be you the last that leaves my closing Eyes.

But how will this dismantl'd Soul appear,

When strip'd of all it lately held so dear,

Forc'd from its Prison of expiring Clay,

Afraid and shiv'ring at the doubtful Way.

Yet did these Eyes a dying Parent see,

Loos'd from all Cares except a Thought for me,

Without a Tear resign her short'ning Breath,

And dauntless meet the ling'ring Stroke of Death.

Then at th' Almighty's Sentence shall I mourn:

" Of Dust thou art, to Dust shalt thou return."

Or shall I wish to stretch the Line of Fate,

That the dull Years may bear a longer Date,

To share the Follies of succeeding Times

With more Vexations and with deeper Crimes:

Ah no—tho' Heav'n brings near the final Day,

For such a Life I will not, dare not pray;

But let the Tear for future Mercy flow,

And fall resign'd beneath the mighty Blow.

Nor I alone—for through the spacious Ball,

With me will Numbers of all Ages fall:

And the same Day that Mira yields her Breath,

Thousands may enter through the Gates of Death.

The Proclamation of APOLLO.

MAY Artemisia hear my Strain,

I quote the Sages once again:

And shou'd you ask the Reason why,

" Old Authors fib, and so may I."

Proceed we then—Old Authors say,

Apollo once made Holiday,

And call'd the Brethren of the Quill,

To feast upon his tuneful Hill,

From ev'ry Nook and ev'ry Wind:

They came, for who wou'd stay behind?

Great was the Crowd, as may be guess'd:

Side grew to Side, and Back to Breast,

Till the Imperial Prince of Song,

Who fearing something might be wrong,

Sent forth a Troop with Caps and Spears,

Much like Parnassian Granadiers,

With surly Eyes and sour Faces,

To part the Crowd and give 'em Places.

Now I have quite forgot, I fear,

What Names the People gave 'em there

Amongst the Muses—But I trow

Men call 'em Criticks here below.

Now when at last these sage Reformers,

Had drove the Crew to Heaps and Corners,

They call'd them out by two and three,

And set 'em in a due Degree,

That each his proper Place shou'd know,

On Laurel Benches all a-row.

Now you may think they all were happy,

As Drunkard o'er his Jug of Nappy,

That ev'ry Brow was smooth and clear,

But first I beg you'd lend an Ear:

The Queen of Love to grace the Feast,

Had sent a thousand Pipes at least

Of smiling Nectar neat and fine,

To whet the Guests before they dine:

But when the Cups had walk'd about,

Some surly Bards began to pout,

And wrinkle up their tiny Faces,

And fret and fume about their Places:

Their giddy Brains began to glow,

Each thinking he was plac'd too low:

This vow'd to make all Creatures fear him,

And That cou'd bear no Creature near him.

One seem'd to talk with mighty Spirit,

Of baffl'd Worth and slighted Merit:

Another was in Passion hurl'd,

And curs'd the stupid senseless World,

Till Choler swell'd in ev'ry Vein,

And each no longer cou'd contain,

But fairly went, as I'm a Sinner,

To Loggerheads before their Dinner.

Apollo was offended quite,

And all the Muses in a Fright:

Then thunder'd out a Proclamation.

" O Ye—And all the rhiming Nation,

" Our King commands you to be still,

" And not disturb the sacred Hill.

" If some refusing to be quiet,

" Shall dare to aid this lawless Riot:

" The Statutes of Parnassian tender

" The Stocks to ev'ry such Offender.

" At this the Riot seem'd to cease,

" And with a murmur sunk in Peace:

" When all was silent to a Man,

" Again the Herald thus began.

" Directed by your Prince I bring

" This Message from the laurel'd King,

" Who long has view'd with silent Woe

" Your Quarrels in the World below,

" How moral and satirick Wits

" And jingling Pedants—Rhiming Cits,

" The gay, the empty, and the full,

" The soft, the froward, and the dull,

" Wage endless Wars with one another,

" And ev'ry Blockhead hates his Brother.

" But while you take a world of pains

" In pelting at each other's Brains;

" While Envy swells the little Mind,

" You ne'er consider that you find

" (To see you in the Tempest hurl'd)

" Diversion for the laughing World;

" And so you break all moral Rules

" To grow the Mocking-stock of Fools:

" But now Apollo begs you will

" Suspend your Quarrels, and be still.

" Let Wits shake Hands with one another,

" And ev'ry Dunce embrace his Brother,

" From batter'd Bards with ne'er a Shoe

" To those who strut about with two;

" From Poets doom'd to whittle Sticks,

" To Rhimers in a Coach and Six.

" Let none presume to fret and squabble,

" Nor curse the dirty rhiming Rabble:

" For see the Beams of Phoebus strike

" The Meadows, Hills, and Dales alike:

" So shines the Muse on ev'ry Creature,

" Who tags his humble Lines with Metre.

He said—The Children of the Bays

Sent up a Shout of mingled Praise,

Devoutly promising to pay

Obedience to the Prince of Day;

And now they see the Tables spread

With Dainties and Parnassian Bread,

Whose tiny Loaves were nicely white,

And no French Rolls were half so light:

The first bold Course was brought along

In Dishes made of Homer's Song.

Next Virgil on the Table shines,

And then smooth Ovid's tender Lines.

The gay Desert expos'd to view,

Of modern Authors not a few,

Heroicks in the midst preside,

With Elegy on either Side:

Here through transparent Sonnets gleam

Whip-Syllabubs and spiced Cream:

There loaded Epigrams appear,

And little Mottos close the Rear.

Now Dinner past their jolly Souls,

Cut Capers to the Nectar Bowls,

Till ev'ry Bard had drank his fill,

And then they left the tuneful Hill.

But ere they part, the laurel'd King,

Extracted from a wond'rous Spring

A magick Bath of mighty Pow'r,

Whose Virtues could in half an Hour

Make Proof against sharp Satyr's Pain,

The Fibres of a Dunce's Brain;

And give him Confidence to push

Through the broad World without a Blush.

Apollo next upon the Crew,

Bestow'd a Grey-goose Quill or two,

With Ink that into Metre runs,

And charms against the Fear of Duns.

This done dismiss'd 'em, as before,

With Sirs, your Servant, and no more.

The FALL of LUCIA.

LUCIA was fair and bright as rising Day,

Sweet as Arabia, or the Buds of May;

Fresh as the Winds that sweep the dewy Hills,

Or Beds of Roses wash'd by healthy Rills:

Whose Soul was softer than a trembling Dove,

Nor knew a Failing till she learn'd to love.

Nor Fraud nor Scandal to her Lips were known,

And thought each Bosom guiltless as her own.

Thus only arm'd with Innocence and Smiles,

She fell the Victim of a Tyrant's Wiles.

So lost from Shepherd and its mourning Dam,

Through some lone Desart roves a stragg'ling Lamb;

No Danger fears, but as he idly strays

Round ev'ry Bush the heedless Wanton plays;

Till raging Wolves the beauteous Toy surround,

Or foaming Tigers rend the mossy Ground:

Then from his Heart the guiltless Purple flows,

A grateful Morsel to his hungry Foes:

Thus wrap'd in Sorrows wretched Lucia lies,

Whose Sighs still answer to her streaming Eyes.

And Damon still—Ah! faithless Damon cries,

No more those Lips like dewy Roses glow;

Her weary Lids no peaceful Slumbers know:

But left to strike her pensive Breast in vain,

And curse the Author of her lasting Pain.

Her Soul of Ease has took its long Adieu:

Hear this, ye Nymphs; but hear and tremble too,

Ye Fair that lanch in Pleasure's tempting Sea,

Though Fortune crowns you with a calmer Day,

And Joy's soft Gale salutes your nimble Oar:

Where Lucia's Fame was shipwreck'd on the Shore,

Yet let Reflexion mark your gliding Days,

Nor drink too deeply in the Draught of Praise:

For Flatt'ry is—"So say the learned Schools,

" The Bane of Virgins and the Bait of Fools."

How happy she whose purer Spirit knows,

No Thought less harmless than a Saint's Repose,

Whose guiltless Charms pursue no greater End,

But to rejoice a Parent or a Friend:

Whose Care it is her Passions to control,

And keep the Steerage of a quiet Soul:

Then this shall grace her monumental Page,

" In Youth admir'd, and belov'd in Age."

The CRUCIFIXION and RESURRECTION.
An ODE.

I.

WHAT means the reeling Earth? O why

These Wonders in the dreadful Sky?

The frighted Sun withdraws its Beams,

Deep Groans are heard and doleful Screams.

O say, what this Convulsion means:

Afflicted Nature with a Shriek replies,

A God expires, a mighty Saviour dies.

II.

The conscious Stars their Rays deny.

The Moon receives a crimson Dye.

The Temple conscious of its Fall,

Now shakes its emblematick Wall.

The Ocean stagnates, and the Mountains bow,

And Angels weep that never wept till now.

III.

Still tremble, Earth, and still, O Sky,

Thy ever-chearing Lamps deny:

Amaz'd still let the Ocean stand,

But what remains for guilty Man?

What Groans? what Sorrows are for him decreed?

For Man whose Crimes have made Perfection bleed?

IV.

But see, O see, the Sun returns!

No more afflicted Nature mourns!

The Stars their vacant Orbs regain!

And the Moon sheds a silver Beam!

While heav'nly Voices warble in the Skies,

" Behold your Saviour from his Tomb arise.!"

V.

While Saints attend the blessed Morn,

He rose:—The God in human Form,

A Form not made of vulgar Clay:

Which, tho' it slept, cou'd not decay!

Hail, Mortals; Hail (transported Seraphs cry)

Redeem'd, and favour'd by the God most high.

VI.

In Heav'n let Joys eternal flow,

And Mercy in the Worlds below;

The Penitent shall Peace obtain,

And not a Tear shall fall in vain.

Then join, ye Worlds, in one glad Chorus sing,

Praise to Messiah, and th' Almighty King.

The Third Chapter of the Wisdom of SOLOMON.
From the First to the Sixth Verse.

THUS sung the Man, for Wisdom long renown'd,

What mean these Tears and mournful Numbers round?

Is Death the Cause? Ah! then restrain your Tears,

That stubborn Monarch nor regard nor hears,

And the blest Shades for whom you vainly mourn,

To these dim Regions wou'd no more return,

Wrap'd in bright Visions they no Ills endure,

From Sin, from Danger, and from Death secure:

'Tis past. The parting Struggles are no more,

They now are landed on the blissful Shore,

Where no pale Fears nor sullen Sorrows dwell,

But Joys beyond what mortal Tongues can tell?

Where smiling Hope for ever blooms around,

And growing Pleasures that shall know no Bound.

When thoughtless Mortals by constraint attend

On the last Moments of their parting Friend,

See the chang'd Features wear a deathful Hue,

The Temples water'd with a fainting Dew,

The Limbs that tremble with convulsive Pain:

Then stand agast the ignorant and vain,

Who shiver at the seeming stern Decree;

But look no farther than their Eyes can see,

The happy Soul glides unobserv'd away

To Worlds of Glory and eternal Day.

The Pains and Sorrows which the Virtuous know,

Which long had bid the Tears in secret flow,

Shall not be lost nor bury'd in the Ground;

But serve to brighten their immortal Crown:

From that great Being they shall find their Pay,

Who blest the rising and the closing Day.

When the pure Spirit from its Prison flies,

How joy the Seraphs in their brighter Skies:

Around their Guest the shining Guards attend,

And heav'nly Harps with heav'nly Voices blend.

ESSAY on HAPPINESS.

NOTHING, dear Madam, nothing is more true,

Than a short Maxim much approv'd by you;

The Lines are these: "We by Experience know

" Within ourselves exists our Bliss or Woe."

Tho' round our Heads the Goods of Fortune roll,

Dazzle they may, but cannot chear the Soul.

Content, the Fountain of eternal Joy,

Can Riches purchase, or can Want destroy?

No. Born of Heav'n, its Birth it will maintain,

No Slave to Power nor the Prize of Gain:

Say, who can buy what never yet was sold?

No Wealth can bribe her, nor no Bonds can hold:

Sometimes she deigns to shine in lofty Halls,

But found more frequent in a Cottage Walls;

Her Flight from thence too often is decreed,

Then Poverty is doubly curs'd indeed.

Content and Bliss, which differ but in Name,

Alike their Natures and their End the same,

Fast bound together in eternal Chains.

This as the End—The other, as the Means,

Will ne'er divide. But who enjoys the one,

Must find the other ere the setting Sun.

Then where? Ah where do these fair Sisters fly?

Beneath the northern or the southern Sky.

Courts do they love? The Senate or the Town,

Or the still Village and the healthful Down.

Say, do they like Humilo's humble Vest,

Or the gay Diamonds on Belinda's Breast.

To none of these, alas, are they confin'd,

But the still Bosom and the virtuous Mind.

See Glaro feated on his gilded Car,

Whose stubborn Passions wage continual War.

Who cannot call that ravag'd Heart his own,

Where Vice and Virtue struggle for the Throne.

See Rage appearing in that hostile Frown:

Now Fears distract him and now Pleasures drown,

Now turns to Heav'n with repentant Tears:

But the next Hour at his Chaplain sneers:

This day a Beast, the next a reas'ning Man:

Behold him right, then envy, if you can,

Pale Livia too—Who pants beneath the weight

Of irksom Jewels and afflicting State;

Whose Glass and Pillow do her Time divide,

At once oppress'd with Sickness and with Pride.

The shapely Stays her aking Ribs confine,

And in her Ears the sparkling Pendents shine.

Yet not a Joy the tortur'd Wretch can feel,

Beyond Ixion on his rolling Wheel.

See restless Cloe, fond to be admir'd,

Of Joy impatient and as quickly tir'd,

When first her Eye-lids open on the Day,

With eager haste she gobbles down her Tea,

And to the Park commands her rolling Wheels,

Yet sighs and wishes for the rural Fields:

Then back to Cards and Company she flies,

Then for the Charms of melting Musick dies.

At Eve the Play, Assembly, or the Ball:

She hates them singly, yet wou'd grasp 'em all:

With languid Spirits and appal'd Desires,

She to her Closet and her Book retires.

But Solitude offends the sprightly Fair;

Reading she loaths, and Thought she cannot bear.

Then to her Chamber and her Couch she flies,

Where gilded Chariots swim before her Eyes.

In vain for Sleep she folds her weary Arms,

Who wou'd be Cloe to enjoy her Charms?

In yonder Path Sir Thrifty we behold,

With Beaver drooping and with Garments old;

Whose dirty Linen shews no Mark of Pride,

Nor sparkling Laces deck his slender Side;

Whose heavy Soul a saucy Wit wou'd swear,

Was made exactly to his easy Chair.

Whose tasteless Senses ask for nothing new,

Whose Meals are temp'rate and whose pleasures few:

" Is this Man blest?—He may be so.—But when?

" Why, when his Thousands rise to number ten,

" From ten to twenty, and from twenty—Hold,

" To one round Million of bright Sterling Gold;"

Not there we stop, for Avarice will crave

Till it shall meet with its grand Cure, the Grave.

Lavinia's blest with all that Man desires,

With Eyes that charm and Reason that inspires;

Youth, Wealth, and Friends, to gild her shining Days,

The poor Man's Blessing and the rich Man's Praise.

With Judgment sound and touch'd by no extreme,

Speech gently flowing and a Soul serene,

For ever pleasing and for ever true,

By all admir'd, envy'd by a few:

Then she is happy, tho' beneath the Sky,

Hold, not so hasty:—Let her Husband die.

Then who are happy, 'twill be hard to say,

Since undisturb'd it seldom lasts a Day:

For who in Smiles beholds the Morning Sun,

May weed before his short-liv'd Journey's done.

All Pleasures satiate and all Objects cloy;

We crave, we grasp, but loath the tasted Joy:

Nor Wealth nor Beauty, Friend's nor Fortune's Smile,

Can bless our Moments, tho' they may beguile:

Nor Wit with Happiness can often grow,

A helpless Friend, if not an arrant Foe.

Where then? O where shall Happiness be found?

Say, shall we search the rolling World around,

On borrow'd Pinions travel through the Sky,

Or to the Centre drive our piercing Eye?

Cease, busy Fool: Is Happiness thy Care?

Pierce thy own Breast, and thou wilt find it there:

Drive thence the Passions, and the Guilt expel,

And call fair Virtue to the polish'd Cell.

Call soft Content with all her smiling Train;

Peace for thy Health, and Patience for thy Pain:

Then not till then, O Man, thy Heart shall know

Bliss so ador'd, but seldom found below.

An ESSAY on HOPE.

TO you who ne'er the willing Verse refuse,

Thus sings an humble but a grateful Muse:

Our Theme is Hope—but of a diff'rent kind,

The Bane or Blessing of the subject Mind;

This dawning Joy that to the Soul was given,

As a short Earnest of its future Heav'n:

To blame is not the Purpose of my Song,

But warn our Sisters not to place it wrong.

Shun trifling Hope, that bids your Fancy roll,

The constant Torment of a restless Soul:

For two pale Handmaids are for ever near,

Sick Disappointment and the secret Tear:

'Tis this that makes the restless Heart repine,

Beneath the Treasures of an Indian Mine

Much Fortune gives—Yet, Give us more, they cry,

And some new Prospect lures the dazzl'd Eye:

Like wanton Babes they reach at something more,

And drop the Gewgaws which they held before.

See the puff'd Tradesman strut before his Door,

Whose Birth was humble and whose Fortune poor;

Yet you may see his roving Thoughts depend

On some bold Venture or some wealthy Friend,

Till the lost Bankrupt drops into the Jaw

Of pale Discredit and voracious Law.

The grave-fac'd Student better learn'd than fed

With Store of Logick in his aking Head,

Sees pleasing Pictures in his Bosom drawn,

The Dean's soft Cushion and the Bishop's Lawn:

He dines with Lords and takes the highest Place,

And weds a Countess, Cousin to his Grace.

But soon his Heart the lost Delusion mourns:

And the proud Prelate to a Curate turns

On some dark Dome with thirty Pounds per-ann,

He sips his Liquors in a pewter Cann.

Young Seizum, fated to distract the Law,

Who talks of Men and Books he never saw,

Now struts a Counsellor, a Serjeant now,

While the quick Turns elate his scornful Brow.

Behold the Judge in that commanding Frown:

See then: just then he strok'd his Ermin'd Gown.

Cecilia soft, whose pleasing Features shine

Bright in their Wane, and beauteous in Decline,

Still to her eyes recalls the scatter'd Darts,

Still hopes the Conquest of a thousand Hearts.

Care stalks around: Vexation hovers nigh;

Her Friends bewail her, and her Children cry:

Her wounded Ears their hateful Whinings tire,

Whose Fancy dwells upon a wealthy 'Squire:

Wrap'd in soft Visions on her Couch she lies;

Knights, Peers, and Garters swim before her Eyes.

She rides in triumph through her Husband's Fields,

And hears the rattling of her Chariot Wheels,

Till her charm'd Senses will contain no more;

Then flies the Vision through its Iv'ry Door,

See Acamas with Time's sad Burden bow,

Guilt in his Breast and Wrinkles on his Brow;

Yet points out Cloe for his charming Bride,

And fain would tempt her to his frozen Side:

At Chapel where soft Grace and Virtue calls,

And pale Vice trembles at the sacred Walls;

Where Conscience warns the guilty Wretch to pray,

And beg a Blessing on his closing Day.

The Preacher reads: But Acamas the while

Grins at his Cloe with a ghastly Smile.

In their red Orbs his waiting Eye-balls roll,

And Charming Cloe rushes on his Soul:

But Death will teach the silver-bearded Fool

Some other Lesson in his gloomy School.

Blank Disappointment with its Train attends

In Delia's Heart, if Delia's Heart depends

On Silia's Tongue so aptly hung with Guile,

On Cynthio's Friendship or on Clara's Smile:

Such courtly Friends are like the show'ry Bow,

Ting'd with false Lustre by Reflexion glow:

Like its faint Rays they hardly last an Hour,

Lost in a Cloud or melted in a Show'r.

If trifling Hope has any room to plead,

'Tis that where Nature's simple Dictates lead:

So the wet Hind, who travels o'er the Plain

Through the cold Mire and afflicting Rain;

Tho' his low Roofs with trickling Show'rs run,

May hope next Morn to see the chearful Sun:

Or when keen Hunger at the ev'ning Tide

Drives home the Shepherd to his rustick Bride,

His honest Reason haply might not stray,

Tho' he should dream of Dumpling all the way.

See sad Aemilia doom'd by fatal Vows

To the harsh Usage of a Tyrant Spouse,

To see his Mistress in her Woes rejoice,

Her Fortune wasted on his guilty Choice,

To bear Reproaches doubled on her Ear,

Yet only answer with a silent Tear.

Tho' patient Wives must wait the Fate's good time;

Yet she, I think, may hope without a Crime.

But the grand Hope that yields perpetual Joy,

No trifles gave, no trifles can destroy;

With Mercy from the blest Abode it came,

Its Birth Celestial and its End the same;

That bids our Days in one smooth Tenor roll,

Its task to chear and harmonize the Soul.

On smarting Want it pours a healing Balm,

Makes Toil seem pleasant and Affliction calm.

The MORAL VISION.

TYRANNICK Winter's Iron Reign was done,

And the soft Twins receiv'd the radiant Sun;

The chearful Earth appear'd in vernal Pride,

And the clear Waves did more serenely glide:

Kind Zephyrs play'd around the waving Trees,

While op'ning Roses caught the welcome Breeze.

Amid these Scenes beneath a Maple Shade,

Sat careless Mira on her Elbow laid,

While frolick Fancy led the usual Train

Of gaudy Phantoms through her cheated Brain:

Till Slumber seiz'd upon her thoughtful Breast,

And the still Spirits sunk in balmy Rest:

But while her Eyes had bid the World farewel,

Thus Mira dream'd, and thus her Dreams we tell;

A seeming Nymph, like those of Dian's Train,

Came swiftly tripping o'er the flow'ry Plain,

Whose smiling Face was as the Morning fair,

A silver Fillet ty'd her flaxen Hair,

A golden Zone her lovely Bosom bound,

And her green Robe hung careless on the Ground.

Sleep, happy Mortal, with a Smile she cries,

And turn'd on Mira her far-beaming Eyes.

Still o'er thy own aerial Mountains stray,

And in bright Visions slumber out the Day;

With gaudy Scenes delude thy dazzl'd Mind,

Yet thou must wake and leave 'em all behind:

Yes, thou shalt drop from that enchanted Sky,

And wake to Wisdom with a weeping Eye,

While in a Mist the shining Prospects end;

Then hear, O Mira, thy immortal Friend.

Recall thy wand'ring Thoughts, and make 'em dwell

In the small Limits of their native Cell.

To thine own Heart confine thy chiefest Care,

For Mira, know, thy Joys are planted there:

And as you manage and improve the Soil,

'Twill punish your Neglect, or pay your Toil;

Here let your Views and your Ambition rest,

To reign the Queen of a well-govern'd Breast,

This Point secur'd, let Heav'n dispose the rest.

Yet you may ask for what your State requires,

But not the Gewgaws your Caprice desires:

As thus, 'O keep me from the reach of Pain,

' From meagre Famine and her mournful Train:

' Let not Reproach assault my wounded Ears,

' Nor let my Soul behold a Friend in Tears:

' Secure from Noise, let my still Moments run,

' And still be chearful as the rising Sun:

' Or if a Gloom my trembling Heart invades,

' Ah! may it vanish with the nightly Shades

' Through the craz'd Walls: O may not Reason fly?

' But if it does then let its Mansion die:

' Let not Remorse of Guilt the certain Pay,

' Blot my clea• Sun nor stain its parting Ray:

' Give me a lively but a guiltless Mind,

' A Body healthful and a Soul resign'd.

Thus far, O Mira, thou mayst ask of Heav'n,

How bless'd the Mortal to whom these are giv'n:

If such thy Lot, let Kings enjoy their Crowns,

Their pageant State and arbitrary Frowns:

Who, tho' encircl'd by their shining Slaves,

Intriguing Friends and well dissembl'd Knaves,

Are only wretched Idols plac'd on high,

To bear the Rage of a tempestuous Sky:

And while the Storms around his Temples blow,

His fawning Servants safely sneer below:

But now the Sun brings on the Noon of Day,

Rise, Mira, rise and shun the scorching Ray:

This said, no more appear'd the beauteous Maid,

And Mira waking found a lonely Shade.

A PRAYER for the YEAR, 1745.

ALMIGHTY Wisdom, at whose Nod

The Stars shall cease to shine,

Great Nature's Father, Guide, and God,

O let me call thee mine.

Yet not for me, and me alone,

Thy Mercies I implore:

No, let that Bliss to all be known,

That tremble and adore.

Now Fear, that makes the Sorrows flow

Ev'n from the Infant's Eyes,

O'er-whelms in one promiscuous Woe

The Ignorant and Wise.

Then hear, O hear, thy Servants cry,

We beg thy saving Hand:

To whom but Heav'n shou'd we apply,

To raise a drooping Land!

Be thou the Guard of helpless Age,

The wretched Orphan's Friend:

O smooth the Face of hostile Rage,

And spare its purple End.

Restrain the Hand of threat'ning Pride,

Asswage the cruel Breast:

Teach Mercy to the Victor Side,

And Patience to the rest.

And when the Sword of Conquest shall

The trembling Wretch arraign,

Let Justice guide the equal Scale,

Nor swerve the steady Beam.

Preserve the merciful and kind

From Violence and Pain:

And let the meek and gentle Mind

Rejoice, and not complain.

Nor let the barb'rous Steel invade

The Breast of hoary Age:

Nor give the unresisting Babe

A Prey to purple Rage.

Amongst un-number'd Worlds if I

Am worth my Maker's Care,

Then let me live and let me die

Unwounded by Despair.

Tho' Want or Peril, Pain or Death,

Assault this feeble Clay,

Let Hope attend my latest Breath

And chear the gloomy Way.

Preserve my Parent and my Friend

From Danger, Guilt or Shame:

In Peace their chearful Days extend

To praise thy holy Name.

Forgive the Errors of my Youth,

If in my Youth I fall:

Or teach my Age thy saving Truth,

O hear me when I call.

Thou mighty Lord of all above

And all beneath the Sun,

Thy Servant's humble Suit approve;

If not, thy Will be done.

DAVID'S Complaint, ii Samuel, chap. 1.

MOURN, Judab, mourn beneath the silent Sky,

And pierce the Deserts with thy midnight Cry.

See Zion, conscious of her failing Powers,

Heaves from her Base and shakes the nodding Bowers.

For their lost Sires orphan'd Babes complain,

And Matrons strike their widow'd Breasts in vain;

From Street to Street the howling Mourners fly,

Fear on their Brows and Horror in their Eye.

For why, her Peers are wash'd with purple Gore:

Her Princes and her Monarch is no more:

Whom not the sacred Diadem cou'd shield,

But serv'd to swell the Horrors of the Field.

But why, amongst the Heathen doom'd to fall?

Is this, alas, the End of mighty Saul?

Mourn, mourn, in Silence lest Philistia hear,

Nor let our Foes behold the streaming Tear.

But O my Friend—(Ah there my Sorrows swell)

Deny'd the Blessing of a sad Farewel?

Whose ruddy Cheeks confess'd their early Prime,

Nor his smooth Brows had felt the Stroke of Time.

He was my Soul's best Pleasure while alive,

And is he blasted?—then do I survive?

Ah no, 'tis Death and aggravated Woe.

O say, my Heart, canst thou sustain the Blow?

Ye Nations, mourn—if such a thing cou'd be,

Till Nature too shou'd learn to grieve, like me:

Ye smiling Dames, your gaudy Robes resign,

And suit your Garments and your Griefs to mine.

Go, hide your slighted Beauties from the Sun,

While down your Cheeks the streaming Sorrows run.

Still let your Eye-balls waste their humid Store,

And still repeat—Your Monarch is no more!

Be thou, Gilboä, wrap'd in endless Night,

Nor let thy Hills behold the Beams of Light.

Let the gay Sun to thee his Rays deny,

While rattling Tempests o'er thy Borders fly.

There Judah's Chief lay prostrate on the Ground,

And there my Friend receiv'd the mortal Wound.

ESSAY on FRIENDSHIP.

TO Artemisia.—'Tis to her we sing,

For her once more we touch the sounding String,

'Tis not to Cythera's Reign nor Cupid's Fires,

But sacred Friendship that our Muse inspires.

A Theme that suits Aemilia's pleasing Tongue:

So to the Fair Ones I devote my Song.

The Wise will seldom credit all they hear,

Tho' saucy Wits shou'd tell them with a Sneer,

That Womens Friendships, like a certain Fly,

Are hatch'd i'th Morning and at Ev'ning die.

'Tis true, our Sex has been from early Time

A constant Topick for Satirick Rhyme:

Nor without Reason—since we're often found,

Or lost in Passion, or in Pleasures drown'd:

And the fierce Winds that bid the Ocean roll,

Are less inconstant than a Woman's Soul:

Yet some there are who keep the mod'rate Way,

Can think an Hour, and be calm a Day:

Who ne'er were known to start into a Flame,

Turn Pale or tremble at a losing Game.

Run Chloe's Shape or Delia's Features down,

Or change Complexion at Celinda's Gown:

But still serene, compassionate and kind,

Walk through Life's Circuit with an equal Mind.

Of all Companions I would choose to shun

Such, whose blunt Truths are like a bursting Gun,

Who in a Breath count all your Follies o'er,

And close their Lectures with a mirthful Roar:

But Reason here will prove the safest Guide,

Extremes are dang'rous plac'd on either Side.

A Friend too soft will hardly prove sincere;

The Wit's inconstant, and the Learn'd severe.

Good-Breeding, Wit, and Learning, all conspire

To charm Mankind and make the World admire:

Yet in a Friend but serve an under Part,

The main Ingredient is an honest Heart:

By this can Urs'la all our Souls subdue

Which wanting, this, not Sylvia's Charms, can do.

Now let the Muse (who takes no Courtier's Fee)

Point to her Friend—and future Ages see

(If this shall live 'till future Ages be)

One Line devoted to Fidelia's Praise,

The lov'd Companion of my early Days:

Whouse harmless Thoughts are sprightly as her Eyes,

By Nature chearful, and by Nature wise.

To have them last, the social Laws decree;

We choose our Friendships in the same degree:

What mighty Pleasure, if we might presume,

To strut with Freedom in Arvida's Room,

Or share the Table what supreme Delight?

With some proud Dutchess or a scornful Knight,

To sit with formal and assenting Face?

For who shall dare to contradict her Grace?

Our free-born Nature hates to be confin'd,

Where State and Power check the speaking Mind;

Where heavy Pomp and sullen Form withholds

That chearful Ease and Sympathy of Souls.

But yet the Soul whate'er its Partner do,

Must lift its Head above the baser Crew.

Celestial Friendship with its nicer Rules,

Frequents not Dunghills nor the Clubs of Fools.

It asks, to make this Union soft and long,

A Mind susceptible, and Judgment strong;

And then a Taste: But let that Taste be giv'n

By mighty Nature and the Stamp of Heav'n:

Possest of these, the justly temper'd Flame

Will glow incessant, and be still the same:

Not mov'd by Sorrow, Sickness, or by Age

To sullen Coldness or distemper'd Rage.

The Soul unstain'd with Envy or with Pride,

Pleas'd with itself and all the World beside,

Unmov'd can see gilt Chariots whirling by,

Or view the wretched with a melting Eye,

Discern a Failing and forgive it too:

Such, Artemisia, we may find in you.

Be seldom sour, or your Friends will fly

From the hung Forehead and the scornful Eye:

Nor, like Aurelia, in the Morning kind,

And soft as Summer or the western Wind:

But round ere night her giddy Passions wheel,

She'll clap the Door against your parting Heel.

An even Temper will be sure to please,

With cool Reflexion and a chearful Ease.

But see Armida's unfrequented Rooms,

How vainly spread with Carpets and Perfumes:

All shun her like the Cocatrice's Beams,

And for no other Reason but her loath'd Extremes.

To-day more holy than a cloister'd Nun,

Almost an Atheist by to-morrow's Sun:

Now speaks to Heaven with a lifted Eye:

Now to her Footman, You're a Rogue, and lye.

O say, from what strange Principles begin

These odd Compounds of Piety and Sin?

A sickly Fair may some Excuses find,

(What grieves the Body will affect the Mind)

But not the Creatures who have learn'd to screen

Their own Ill-nature in the name of Spleen.

What the black Mists afflict the aking Skull,

The Spirits tremble and the Heart be dull:

Have you from thence a Licence to offend,

Affront a Patron or abuse a Friend?

And ape the Manners of a surly Beast,

Because 'tis cloudy and the Wind's i'th' East?

But all have Failings, not the best are free,

Or in a greater or a less Degree.

What follows then?—Forgive, or unforgiven

Expect no Passage at the Gate of Heav'n.

Kind Nature gave, in Pity to Mankind,

This social Virtue to the human Mind:

This gives our Pleasures a more easy Flow,

And helps to blunt the Edge of smarting Woe:

The Soul's Relief, with Grief or Cares opprest,

Is to disclose them to a faithful Breast;

And then how lovely in a Friend appear,

The mournful Sigh and sympathizing Tear.

When changing Fortune with propitious Ray,

Gilds the brown Ev'ning or the smiling Day;

The pleas'd Companion shares the welcome Tide,

And wrap'd in Joy the happy Minutes glide.

Grave Authors differ—Men of Sense incline

This Way or that—Opinions rarely join:

Their Thoughts will vary. Why? Because they're free,

But most in this and only this agree;

That our chief Task is seldom to offend,

And Life's great Blessing a well-chosen Friend.

The MISTAKEN LOVER.

STREPHON the sprightly and the gay,

Lov'd Celia fresh and fair as May:

None shone so brilliant in the Mall,

The Court, th' Assembly and the Ball;

None bare at Will's the laurel'd Prize,

But Celia with the killing Eyes.

'Twas at the Drawing Room or Play,

(But which our Author cannot say)

As Celia roll'd her Eyes around,

This Youth receiv'd a mortal Wound.

What shou'd he do?—"Commence the Beau,

" For Women oft are caught by Show."

The wounded Strephon now behold,

Array'd in Coat of Green and Gold,

(Of which we something might advance)

The Sleeve was a-la-mode de France.

We leave it here—and haste to tell,

How smartly round his Temples fell

The modish Wig.—Yet we presume,

More graceful was the scarlet Plume:

Tho' some rude Soldier (doom'd to bear

The Southern and the Northern Air,

And walk through ev'ry kind of Weather)

Might jeer at Strephon's scarlet Feather;

And tell us such shou'd ne'er be wore,

Unless you fought at Marston-moor.

His Person finish'd, now the Care

Is to address and gain the Fair:

He purchas'd all the Songs of Note,

And got the Lover's Cant by rote:

He brib'd her Footmen and her Maids,

And with his nightly Serenades

Her vaulted Roofs and Gardens rung:

For her he ogled, danc'd and sung;

Was often at her Toilet seen,

With Sonnets to the Paphian Queen:

Then at her Feet dejected lying,

Praying, weeping, sighing, dying.

" Was Celia kind?" It shall be known:

D'ye think our Hearts are made of Stone?

Yes, she was kind, and to proceed,

The Writings drawn and Friends agreed:

Grave Hymen's sacred Knot was ty'd,

And Celia Fair commenc'd a Bride.

But I shall pass the Wedding-day,

Nor stay to paint the Ladies gay,

Nor Splendor of the lighted Hall,

The Feast, the Fiddles, nor the Ball.

A lovely Theme!—'Tis true, but then

We'll leave it to a softer Pen:

Those transient Joys will fade too soon,

We'll therefore skip the Hony-Moon.

'Twas half a Year—It might be more,

Since Celia brought her shining Store,

Five thousand Pounds of Sterling clear,

To bless the Mansion of her Dear.

Some tell us Wives their Beauties lose,

When they have spoil'd their bridal Shoes:

Some learned Casuists make it clear,

A Wife might please for half a Year:

And others say, her Charms will hold

As long as the suspended Gold;

But that her Bloom is soon decay'd,

And wither'd when her Fortune's paid.

Now which of these was Celia's Case,

(Tho' all are common to her Race)

I shall not rack my Brains about,

But leave the Learn'd to pick it out.

This Husband, whimsical and gay,

Lov'd Musick, Masquerades, and Play,

Was one of those most happy Elves,

That dote upon their charming Selves:

Who hating dull domestick Walls,

Fly here and there as Fancy calls;

Still in pursuit of something new,

Nor even to their Vices true.

Mistaken Strephon finds no more

His Celia charming as before:

Her Eyes!—Why, they have lost their Fire:

The Roses on her Cheek expire.

Her Shape—'Tis alter'd strangely, sure;

Her Voice no Mortal can endure.

Then to the Park where Claudia rolls

Her Eyes to fish for shallow Souls:

Or at the Play he must appear,

For lovely Lindamine is there:

No mortal Bell so fair as she,

If wretched Strephon was but free.

I'th' Country he deludes the Morn

With Ringwood and the hunting Horn:

Perhaps may with his Dearest dine,

Then hey for Company and Wine;

Wine that wou'd make an Hermit gay,

With Musick intermix'd and Play.

For Tables and for Cards they call:

The Dice-box rattles in the Hall.

Now all are happy nor give o'er,

Till Watches point to Number Four:

Then see the Face of dawning Day:

Here Lucy. "Where's your Lady, pray?

" She's gone to rest.—There let her be,

" Go make the crimson Bed for me."

All this a while in Silence pass'd,

The Lady's Patience fail'd at last.

One Morning (so the Fates decree)

Alone was sitting he and she:

Not yet arriv'd the roaring Band,

Nor Rake nor Coxcomb was at hand.

This blest Occasion pleas'd the Fair,

And with a mild and chearful Air,

She thus began: "My Strephon say,

" Why this dejected Face to day?

" Why art thou always cross and dull,

" Unless the noisy Rooms are full?

" Black Discontent and Anger lies

" Close lurking in thy sullen Eyes;

" Those Eyes that I with Sorrow see

" Disgusted when they roll on me.

Here ceas'd the greatly injur'd Bride,

And Strephon with a Blush reply'd:

" Why, Madam, I must own that you,

" Have Merit, (give the De'l his due)

" And was the Pleasure of my Life,

" Before you wore the Name of Wife:

" But Ma'm, the Reason was, I find,

" That while a Lover I was blind:

" And now the Fault is not in me,

" 'Tis only this—that I can see.

I thought you once a Goddess trim,

" The Graces dwelt on ev'ry Limb:

" But, Madam, if you e'er was such,

" Methinks you're alter'd very much:

" As first (I beg your Pardon tho')

" You hold your Head extremely low:

" And tho' your Shape is not awry,

" Your Shoulders stand prodigious high:

" Your curling Hair I durst have swore,

" Was blacker than the sable Moor:

" But now I find 'tis only brown,

" A Colour common through the Town:

" 'Tis true you're mighty fair—But now

" I spy a Freckle on your Brow;

" Your Lips I own are red and thin,

" But there's a Pimple on your Chin:

" Besides your Eyes are gray.—Alack!

" 'Till now I always thought 'em black.

" Thus, Madam, I the Truth have told;

" 'Tis true, I thank you for your Gold;

" But find in searching of my Breast,

" That I cou'd part with all the rest.

He ceas'd—And both were mute a while,

'Till Celia answer'd with a Smile:

" Who would have thought, my Dear, says she,

" That Love was blind to this degree;

" But in my Turn I'll own it too,

" That I'm as much deceiv'd as you:

" From hence let our Example show

" The gay Coquette and sprightly Beau;

" That Love like theirs will never hold,

" Not tho' 'tis cemented with Gold:

" Let all the Youths to you repair,

" For Counsel—and to me the Fair.

" 'Twill help to make our Strephons wise,

" And stop the Growth of tender Lies:

" And more than Plato's moral Page

" Instruct the Celia's of the Age.

" But now, my Dearest, as you see

" In mutual Hatred we agree,

" Methinks 'tis better we retreat,

" Each Party to a distant Seat;

" And tho' we value each the other,

" Just as one Rush regards another:

" Yet let us often send to hear,

" If Health attend the absent Dear:

" And tho' each other we would shun,

" As Debtors do a hateful Dun:

" (Nor mind the crossing of a Street)

" Yet let's be civil when we meet,

" And live in short like courtly Friends:

" They part—and thus the Story ends.

The WAY of the WORLD.

SOME Herbs there are, whose deadly Juices fill

The Heart with Venom, and directly kill:

Some operate more slowly, but as sure;

The Dart less sudden, but admits no Cure.

Yet there's a Drug, nor Plain nor Mountain yields,

Not Libya's Desarts nor Britannia's Fields,

Destructive more than all the baneful kind;

'Tis Flatt'ry call'd—the Poison of the Mind.

This, soft Sir Wealthy feeds on all the Day:

This, Delia swallows with her soft Bohea,

To this we owe Sublimo's scornful Eye,

And Thalia's Cheeks that blush with borrow'd Dye.

Sublimo once cou'd like his Neighbours walk,

Bow to his Friends, or with his Tenants talk;

Nor had been seiz'd with this majestick Fit,

If subtle Florio had not prais'd his Wit.

Gray Thalia too wou'd now her Arts give o'er,

And rest those Eye-balls that must slay no more;

Nor would that Face engross her Morning's Care,

Did not Philander tell her she is fair.

Alcidas tells you with an artful Smile,

That Womens Eyes were giv'n them to beguile:

His Way is cunning and mischievous too,

He'll praise in others what he finds in you.

You hear delighted, nor perceive the Foe;

But drink in Flatt'ry ere you think 'tis so.

And when he's run the gay Description through,

The smart Conclusion is apply'd to you:

But turn your Back—Alcidas with a Grin

Will vow you're ugly as a Sooterkin.

How oft you hear from a designing Knave,

Sir, I'm your Servant, Madam, I'm your Slave;

Yet if you're blest with penetrating Eyes,

You'll in his Features read the Villain lies.

See soft Courtine, whose Hat with Silver bound,

Is so obsequious that 'twill kiss the Ground:

Whose Actions point to some unworthy End,

And ne'er was Patron, Counsellor, or Friend:

Whose narrow Views are to himself confin'd,

Yet he's the humble Slave of all Mankind.

These fawning Rogues are irksom Creatures—True,

But then a Clown is full as odious too:

The Face unpractis'd in the Arts of Guile,

Need not be stretech'd with an eternal Smile:

Nor yet affect the Cynick's awful Scowl,

Screw'd like the Visage of Minerva's Owl;

For some reject (and hold it as a Rule,)

The Crab-faced Student for the tender Fool.

The Phrase unstudied flows with graceful Ease,

And careless Gesture never fails to please:

The Heart instructs the Features and the Tongue;

Let that be right, and these will ne'er be wrong.

Ask Cynthio's Judgment in some nice Affair,

He'll praise your Conduct with a charming Air,

Extol your Sense and Prudence to the Skies:

" And sure such Merits were design'd to rise."

His candid Eyes can hidden Beauties see,

Ev'n Faults are useful, or they cease to be:

And each no-meaning Cynthio can explore;

But asks his Friendship, and he speaks no more.

But the worst Flatterer that wears a Tongue,

Is him whose Power aggravates the Wrong:

To whose grand Levee Crowds of Suppliants run,

And bow like Persians to the rising Sun:

Where starv'd Dependents linger out their Days,

Yet proud to share his Snuff-box and his Praise,

Grow stiff with Standing and with Staring thin,

To watch the Dimple on their Patron's Chin:

Who with a Nod can make the Wretch believe,

And smiles on Hunger which he'll ne'er relieve.

Surrounded thick with Bus'ness and with Gold,

Yet dress'd in Smiles Virginius you behold:

The expecting Crowd around his Table stand,

You ask a Favour and he grasps your Hand:

Another comes with an obsequious Air,

He winks and whispers.—"Leave it to my Care."

Then to the next—"Oh I'll remember you;

" Sir, trust my Honour, you shall find me true:"

Then bows a third.—"Good Sir, your Pardon."—Why?

" I saw you not.—Forgive my careless Eye.

" Next Tuesday se'en-night, let me see you pray,

" Perhaps you'll find it Hundreds in your way."

The meagre Wight departs with happier Soul,

Romantick Visions in his Bosom roll:

He fasts in Rapture, as of late in Sorrow;

For who can eat, that's to be rich to-morrow?

But Tuesday see, the joyful Day is come;

Now to his Patron.—"But he's not at home.

" Alas! But then to-morrow Morn will do,

" And I'll be early.—Gentlemen, adieu.

Next Day at Six before the Gate appears,

The Wretch divided by his Hopes and Fears.

The haughty Servants meet him with a Frown.

I'd see his Honour.—"But he's not come down;

" Your Servant, Sir—I'll stay then in the Hall:

" But he is sick and can't be spoke withal.

" I'll wait with Patience till another Day,

" And for his Honour and his Health shall pray.

At last the Knight (his Fate had order'd so)

Was seiz'd and boarded by the lurking Foe;

And wisely thinking 'twas in vain to fly,

Smooth'd up his Face and with a leering Eye

Began. "Oh Mr. What-d'ye-call, Is't you?

" I'm glad to see you: Yet I'm sorry too,

" Sure some ill Stars presided o'er your Fate,

" I cou'd have serv'd you, but you're come too late.

Yet sure, there is whose honest Soul was made

Too grand a Being for the soothing Trade;

Whose Wit can neither flatter nor offend,

A gay Companion, yet a constant Friend;

Willing to please where Honesty may win,

Averse to Slander, tho' it was no Sin.

With native Manners as with Sense endu'd;

Not soft as Cynthio, nor as Damon rude;

Not basely humble, yet a Foe to Pride:

Whose Tongue ne'er promis'd what his Heart deny'd.

Whose Satire charms, nor Mirth offends the Ear;

Tho' wife not froward, just but not severe;

Not sway'd by Int'rest, nor in Passion hurl'd:

But walks a calm Spectator through the World,

Whose Breast (where no unmanly Vapours grow)

Can feel Compassion for another's Woe;

Where Courage, Mercy, Justice, Candour lie,

That shine celestial in the speaking Eye.

This Man is great, whate'er be his Degree;

O bless him, Heav'n, if such a one there be:

May Life's best Comforts on his Days attend,

Blest in himself, and happy in his Friend:

Far from his Gate fly Poverty and Woe;

Let not a Sigh his quiet Mansion know:

But the fair Dome each roving Eye allure,

With Peace and Plenty smiling at the Door:

Let him soft Days and happy Ev'nings find,

And live still blest, and blessing all Mankind.

The FOX and the HEN.
A FABLE.

'TWAS on a fair and healthy Plain,

There liv'd a poor but honest Swain,

Had to his Lot a little Ground,

Defended by a quick-set Mound:

'Twas there he milk'd his brindled Kine,

And there he fed his harmless Swine:

His Pigeons flutter'd to and fro,

And bask'd his Poultry in a Row:

Much we might say of each of these,

As how his Pigs in Consort wheeze;

How the sweet Hay his Heifers chew,

And how the Pigeons softly coo:

But we shall wave this motley Strain,

And keep to one that's short and plain:

Nor paint the Dunghill's feather'd King,

For of the Hen we mean to sing.

A Hen there was, a strange one too,

Cou'd sing (believe me, it is true)

Or rather (as you may presume)

Wou'd prate and cackle in a Tune:

This quickly spread the Pullet's Fame,

And Birds and Beasts together came:

All mixt in one promiscuous Throng,

To visit Partlet and her Song.

It chanc'd there came amongst the Crew,

Of witty Foxes not a few:

But one more smart than all the rest,

His serious Neighbour thus addrest:

' What think you of this Partlet here?

' 'Tis true her Voice is pretty clear:

' Yet without pausing I can tell,

' In what much more she wou'd excel:

' Methinks she'd eat exceeding well.

This heard the list'ning Hen, as she

Sat perch'd upon a Maple-tree.

The shrewd Proposal gall'd her Pride,

And thus to Reynard she reply'd:

' Sir, you're extremely right I vow,

' But how will you come at me now?

' You dare not mount this lofty Tree,

' So there I'm pretty safe, you see.

' From long ago, (or Record lies)

' You Foxes have been counted wise:

' But sure this Story don't agree

' With your Device of eating me.

' For you, Dame Fortune still intends

' Some coarser Food than singing Hens:

' Besides e'er you can reach so high,

' Remember you must learn to fly.

' I own 'tis but a scurvy way,

' You have as yet to seize your Prey,

' By sculking from the Beams of Light,

' And robbing Hen-roosts in the Night:

' Yet you must keep this vulgar Trade

' Of thieving till your Wings are made.

' Had I the keeping of you tho',

' I'd make your subtle Worship know,

' We Chickens are your Betters due,

' Not fatted up for such as you:

' Shut up in Cub with rusty Chain,

' I'd make you lick your Lips in vain:

' And take a special Care, be sure,

' No Pullet shou'd come near your Door:

' But try if you cou'd feed or no,

' Upon a Kite or Carrion Crow.'

Here ceas'd the Hen. The baffl'd Beast

March'd off without his promis'd Feast.

The HEAD-ACH.
To AURELIA.

AURELIA, when your Zeal makes known

Each Woman's Failing but your own,

How charming Silvia's Teeth decay,

And Celia's Hair is turning gray:

Yet Celia gay has sparkling Eyes,

But (to your Comfort) is not wise:

Methinks you take a world of pains,

To tell us Celia has no Brains.

Now you wise Folk, who make such a pother

About the Wit of one another,

With Pleasure wou'd your Brains resign,

Did all your Noddles ach like mine.

Not Cuckolds half my Anguish know,

When budding Horns begin to grow;

Nor batter'd Skull of wrestling Dick,

Who late was drubb'd at single Stick;

Not Wretches that in Fevers fry,

Not Sappho when her Cap's awry,

E'er felt such tort'ring Pangs as I;

Nor Forehead of Sir Jeff'ry Strife,

When smiling Cynthio kiss'd his Wife.

Not love-sick Marcia's languid Eyes,

Who for her simp'ring Corin dies,

So sleepy look or dimly shine,

As these dejected Eyes of mine:

Nor Claudia's Brow such Wrinkles made

At sight of Cynthia's new Brocade.

Just so, Aurelia, you complain

Of Vapours, Rheums, and gouty Pain;

Yet I am patient, so shou'd you,

For Cramps and Head-achs are our due:

We suffer justly for our Crimes;

For Scandal you, and I for Rhymes:

Yet we (as harden'd Wretches do)

Still the enchanting Vice pursue;

Our Reformation ne'er begin,

But fondly hug the Darling Sin.

Yet there's a mighty diff'rence too,

Between the Fate of me and you;

Tho' you with tott'ring Age shall bow,

And Wrinkles scar your lovely Brow;

Your busy Tongue may still proclaim

The Faults of ev'ry sinful Dame:

You still may prattle nor give o'er,

When wretched I must sin no more.

The sprightly Nine must leave me then,

This trembling Hand resign its Pen;

No Matron ever sweetly sung,

Apollo only courts the young;

Then who wou'd not (Aurelia, pray)

Enjoy his Favours while they may?

Nor Cramps nor Head-achs shall prevail;

I'll still write on, and you shall rail.

STEPHON to CELIA.
A modern LOVE-LETTER.

MADAM,

I HOPE you'll think it's true,

I deeply am in Love with you,

When I assure you t'other Day,

As I was musing on my way,

At thought of you I tumbl'd down

Directly in a deadly Swoon:

And tho' 'tis true I'm something better,

Yet I can hardly spell my Letter:

And as the latter you may view,

I hope you'll think the former true.

You need not wonder at my Flame,

For you are not a mortal Dame:

I saw you dropping from the Skies;

And let dull Idiots swear your Eyes

With Love their glowing Breast inspire,

I tell you they are Flames of Fire,

That scortch my Forehead to a Cinder,

And burn my very Heart to Tinder.

Your Breast so mighty cold I trow,

Is made of nothing else but Snow:

Your Hands (no wonder they have Charms)

Are made of Iv'ry like your Arms.

Your Cheeks that look as if they bled,

Are nothing else but Roses red.

Your Lips are Coral very bright,

Your Teeth—tho' Numbers out of spite,

May say they're Bones—yet 'twill appear

They're Rows of Pearl exceeding dear.

Now, Madam, as the Chat goes round,

I hear you have ten thousand Pound:

But that I as a Trifle hold,

Give me your Person, dem your Gold;

Yet for your own Sake 'tis secur'd,

I hope—your Houses too ensur'd,

I'd have you take a special Care,

And of false Mortgages beware;

You've Wealth enough 'tis true, but yet

You want a Friend to manage it.

Now such a Friend you soon might have,

By fixing on your humble Slave;

Not that I mind a stately House,

Or value Mony of a Louse;

But your Five hundred Pounds a Year,

I wou'd secure it for my Dear:

Then smile upon your Slave, that lies

Half murder'd by your radiant Eyes;

Or else this very Moment dies—

Strephon.

To ARTEMISIA.
Dr. KING's Invitation to BELLVILL: Imitated.

IF Artemisia's Soul can dwell

Four Hours in a tiny Cell,

(To give that Space of Bliss to me)

I wait my Happiness at three.

Our Tommy in a Jug shall bring

Clear Nectar from the bubbling Spring:

The Cups shall on the Table stand,

The Sugar and the Spoons at hand:

A skilful Hand shall likewise spread

Soft Butter on the yielding Bread;

And (as you eat but mighty little,

And seem an arrant Foe to Vittle)

You'll cry perhaps, One Bit may do,

But I'm resolv'd it shall be two:

With you and your Amanda blest,

Care flies away from Mira's Breast;

O'er stubborn Flax no more I grieve,

But stick the Needle on my Sleeve:

For let them work on Holiday,

Who won't be idle when they may:

If I must fret and labour too,

Like Caricus and Lumberloo;

As well I might, like Simoneer,

Be plagu'd with sixty Pounds a Year.

What Nymph, that's eloquent and gay,

But owes it chiefly to her Tea?

With Satire that supplies our Tongues,

And greatly helps the failing Lungs.

By that assisted we can spy

A Fault with microscopick Eye;

Dissect a Prude with wond'rous Art,

And read the Care of Delia's Heart.

Now to the Company we fall,

'Tis Me and Mira that is all:

More wou'd you have—Dear Madam, then

Count me and Mira o'er agen.

The APPARITION.

FROM that inevitable Shore,

Wheer Styx's tremendous Waters roar,

Thus wing'd with Vengeance lo I fly,

And skim beneath the gloomy Sky.

To you O false, O faithless Fair,

(Yet tremble do—and wildly stare)

To you this angry Visit's paid,

To you once lov'd, but faithless Maid,

Perhaps (too thin for mortal Eyes)

You know me not in this Disguise;

I ne'er was number'd with your Foes,

But what I'm now, shall not disclose

My Name (esteem'd by one or two)

Was Mira—while I liv'd like you,

Till your Unkindness cut the Twine

Of Life, before its stated Time.

And shou'd you ask to know the End

Of her that once you call'd a Friend?

Whether of Pleurisies she dy'd,

Or in a parching Fever dry'd?

Or pale Consumption sure and slow?

Or Apoplexy's sudden Blow?

'Twas none of these—no common Dart,

That struck my unresisting Heart:

The dire Distemper you shall hear,

Then listen with attentive Ear.

Did you not, Ah! did you not say,

That you wou'd come the next fair Day

To Mira's Dome?—rejoic'd to see

At once the Butterflies and me?

But now, Alas! (too late, I find)

The promis'd Joys of human Kind,

Inconstant as the flitting Wind:

You came not—That I need not tell.

But then, O then your Mira fell,

That fatal Day expecting you;

I swept my House, and din'd by Two,

Took off the Night-Cap from my Brow,

(O Pride!) but I repent it now:

(Ambitious her I lov'd to please)

And, Ah! too straitly lac'd my Stays;

Then silent sate 'twixt Hopes and Fears,

With beating Heart and list'ning Ears,

Till the shrill Clock had sounded four;

Then wretched Mira was no more:

Her Cheeks put on a death-like Hue,

Her Eye-balls bid this World Adieu:

And tho' untouch'd by Cupid's Dart,

She perish'd with a broken Heart.

But I have done—Farewel, for I

From this corporeal World must fly:

So the relentless Fates decree,

Once more Farewel—Remember Me.

The INSPIR'D QUILL.
Occasion'd by a Present of CROW-PENS.

TO you, Dear Madam, I complain,

Where Wretches never sigh in vain;

But always find, if not Relief,

At least Compassion for their Grief.

But I shou'd make my Woes appear,

Before I claim a gentle Tear;

My Tale is something odd, 'tis true;

Yet sure 'twill Credit find with you.

The sage Pythagoras, you know,

Asserted many Years ago,

That when or Man or Woman dies,

The Soul to some new Mansion flies?

If so, Belinda, now so fair

May range the Woods a sullen Bear:

Likewise the courtly Bellamour,

The Lady's Darling to be sure:

Tho' he in sparkling Laces glow,

The Pattern of a perfect Beau;

When he puts off the human Shape,

May strut a Monkey or an Ape.

For me who now to you indite,

Whose Talent chiefly is to write;

What Form it was, I do not know,

I wore two thousand Years ago:

The Being that I first remember,

Was on a Morning of December;

But not December last (I ween)

No—many Years have past between;

I found myself a wealthy Squire,

And seated by a Parlour-Fire,

A fine Estate of mellow Ground,

In Cash full Thirty thousand Pound,

Two hundred Oxen in a Stall,

And ten lean Servants at my Call,

An ancient House well built but low,

Behind of Oaks an ample Row,

A Court before—without much State,

And three Gaunt Mastiffs at the Gate;

All these had I—a happy Knave

As you may think—but with your Leave

A wretched Usurer was I,

With hagard Jaws and eager Eye,

That starv'd amidst unwieldy Store,

And lost my Life in search of more,

This Pluto saw, and bid me go

Into the Carcase of a Beau,

To taste of Pleasure and of Pains,

With slender Purse and shallow Brains,

My Wig behind was smartly ty'd,

My silver Box with Snuff supply'd:

On Books I seldom lov'd to pore,

But sung and danc'd, and aptly swore;

Where-e'er I came the Ladies smil'd;

This call'd me Pug—and t'other Child:

To please and to address the Fair,

Was all my Business and my Care;

But now my Gold began to fly,

And sure Destruction hover'd nigh:

At last to Limbo was I led,

From whence the struggling Spirit fled.

Almeria's Lap-dog next I grew,

And wore a Coat of glossy Hue,

Caress'd and courted ev'ry Day,

At Ev'ning by her Side I lay:

Her Smiles were always bent on me

(The happiest Days that e'er I see)

But, Oh, as by a River-side,

I walk'd along with short-liv'd Pride,

A cruel Foot-boy threw me in,

And laugh'd as tho' it was no Sin.

Once more to gain a human Face,

I step'd into a Lawyer's Case:

This Station pleas'd me wond'rous well,

And in a trice I learn'd to spell,

Cou'd read old Coke with prying Eyes,

Explain, distinguish, and advise,

Talk Latin to a good degree;

As Admittendo Custode,

Eject, Extendi: and my Fee:

'Tis true I scorn'd to rob or kill,

But not to cheat or forge a Will:

In Jointures I cou'd split a Hair,

And make it turn against the Heir:

I spar'd no Widow for her Tears,

No Orphan for his tender Years:

My Maxim was—'Get Money, Man,

Get Money, where and how you can:

Thus through the Stage of Life I run,

(For, Ah! my Race was quickly done)

And still preserv'd my Ears and Nose,

In spite of venial Sins like those.

My next Disguise too well you know,

Degraded to a simple Crow;

Both Cold and Hunger doom'd to bear,

And hover in the limpid Air,

Till on a day a spiteful Hind,

With dreadful Arms and bloody Mind,

Vow'd quick Destruction to my Head:

And in a Moment shot me dead:

Then set my ghastly Corse on high

To fright my Fellows from his Rye.

I now grew out of Pluto's Favour,

Who grumbl'd at my late Behaviour;

And vow'd (when thus his Sentence ran)

I shou'd no more appear as Man;

But that he wou'd confine me still

Within the compass of a Quill.

My Fate is hard, as you may guess,

Yet I cou'd bear it ne'er-the-less,

Wou'd you or Fortune be so kind

To comfort an afflicted Mind,

And take me from the hated Cell,

Where Yesterday you bid me dwell:

For Oh, I guess—nay more I know it,

That my new Mistress is a Poet;

Then how shall I who still inherit,

A Tincture of the Lawyer's Spirit;

How shall I bear from time to time

To scrawl unprofitable Rhyme?

To live for Years and ne'er behold

The Presence of enchanting Gold,

Yet scribble on—Besides, alack,

I fear she'll quickly break my Back.

Then since my Pedigree you know:

(Dear Madam,) Ah some Pity show,

And recommend me to a Place;

For sure there's Mercy in your Face,

To some Attorney let me go,

For there my Talents suit (you know)

Heroicks I shall write but ill;

But I'm a Doctor at a Bill,

At Flights of Fancy very dull;

But I can form Receipts at full.

The Favour that I ask of you,

(Have pity when the Wretched sue)

Is your good Word or what is better,

A Recommandatory Letter?

And if I'm happy in your Grace,

I think I need not doubt a Place.

The PENITENT.
Occasion'd by the Author's being asked if she would take Ten Pounds for her Poems.

WHEN Parthenissa talk'd to-day

Of Profits and of Mira's Lay,

And list'ning Mira heard the Sound

Of number Ten with added Pound,

The saucy Minx betray'd her Pride,

And turn'd her scornful Head aside:

You, doubtless, Madam, wonder'd why,

And hardly could believe 'twas I:

But all have Faults, and 'twou'd be vain

To boast a Heart that's free from Stain.

This Maxim Mira prov'd was true,

No golden Apples lay in view

Across her Path—and yet she fell:

The Cause—have Patience and we'll tell,

You saw not—no, to my Surprize

It scap'd your penetrating Eyes;

The wicked Knot—'twas new to-day,

The Knot—what Colour was it, pray?

So gay, 'twou'd make a Hermit vain;

Then wonder not at Mira's Brain.

But now disrob'd—with dirty Shoes

And Apron ragged as the Muse,

In Night-cap tight and wrapping Gown,

No more is seen the haughty Frown;

The fatal Top-knot laid aside

With its destructive Daughter Pride.

The vain Chimeras all are flown,

And Reason re-assumes her Throne.

Now, could you find an honest Dealer,

(As an Attorney or a Taylor)

Who wants a Muse that's not too dear,

Send him directly you know where:

We for a Trifle shall not part,

Nor from an easy Bargain start,

And that his Purchase may'nt be hard,

I'll add of Packthread half a Yard,

To satisfy the greedy Lout,

And bind the Papers round about.

SONG to CLOE, playing on her Spinet.

WHEN Cloe strikes the trembling Strings,

Applauding Cupids round her fly;

Exulting clap their little Wings

Bask'd in the Sun-shine of her Eye.

The Graces too,

As others do,

In Raptures stand to hear,

Time stays his flagging Wings, and adds,

One Hour to the rolling Year:

Keep off, ye Beaus,

For who but knows

That Cloe's Eyes can wound?

If those you miss—yet pray avoid

The Danger of enchanting Sound.

Amphion led the ravish'd Stones

(They say)—and as he'd rise or fall,

Bricks, Pebbles, Slats, and Marrow-Bones

Wou'd form a Steeple or a Wall:

But this, you know,

Is long ago:

We fancy 'tis a Whim:

O had they charming Cloe heard,

They'd surely not have stir'd for him.

The Thracian Bard,

Whose Fate was hard,

(And Proserpine severe)

Had brought Eurydice back—alas!

But Cloe was not there.

To GRAMMATICUS.

SIR,

MIRA wou'd with Tears atone

For all the Mischief she has done;

Sincerely mourns (believe it true)

The sending of her Rhymes to you.

The Wound my Verses gave your Ear,

Was undesign'd it will appear;

Nor in the least the Fault of me,

As by this Sorrow you may see.

And cou'd I in our Meadows find,

Among the vegetable Kind,

A healing Simple, that wou'd cure

Those smarting Pangs which you endure:

Whose Juice the Matrons well esteem

For Cuts and Bruises that are green,

I'd send it with an Heart most willing,

Tho' it shou'd cost me half a Shilling:

Yet I can serve you but in Will,

For I've consulted Doctor Pill,

Who tells me that a Case like yours

Will not admit of common Cures;

For that Incisions made by Rhymes

Are worse than Ulcers fifty times:

He gives a Reason that is clear,

Because they always strike the Ear,

And give un-utterable Pain

To the small Fibres of the Brain:

Yet as the Doctor is my Friend,

His Worship order'd me to send

This grand Receipt which he has known,

To serve in Cases like your own:

Tis true, the Drug is something rare,

And yet I wou'd not quite despair;

But hope the Med'cine may be found

Within the Space of British Ground:

This Balsam then I'd have you seek,

No matter for its Name in Greek;

But sure 'tis call'd (or I am wrong)

Good-nature in the English Tongue:

The Doctor swears by all his Skill,

If this don't ease you, nothing will;

To either Ear be this apply'd,

(The better if 'tis quickly try'd)

Then fill the hollow Spaces full

With Aqua-vitoe drop'd on Wool:

And take a special Care be sure,

No Poets come about your Door:

For you might keep the Bench of Law,

Or hear the squeaking of a Saw,

More safely by a hundred times,

Than half a Page of modern Rhymes:

But when you gather Strength a little,

Can walk abroad and eat your Vittle?

As you are mighty fond of Verse,

Let some with gentle Voice rehearse:

How Corn grows now where Troy Town stood,

Or else the Children in the Wood:

These gentle Numbers will compose

Your Spirits and your Eye-lids close!

Those Slumbers will complete the Cure;

Now, Sir, your Servant, and—no more.

The TEN-PENNY NAIL.

'TWAS past the Date of sav'ry Noon,

And downwards roll'd the radiant Sun,

When all (except us rhyming Sinners)

Had rosted, boil'd, and eat their Dinners;

In my great Chair I sat to pout,

And beat my weary Brains about;

About (what did not much avail)

Amanda's Riddle of the Nail[*];

When Somnus took me by Surprise,

And put his Finger in my Eyes:

'Twas He, for Poets never nod

Without the Influence of a God:

I dream'd of what—Why, you shall hear,

Good People all, I pray draw near,

Methought there lay before my Eyes

A Nail of more than common Size;

'Twas one that nails our Garden Door,

And oft my Petticoat has tore:

When sudden (it is true, my Friend)

It rear'd itself, and stood an end,

And tho' no Mouth I cou'd descry,

It talk'd as fast as you or I:

And thus began—As I am told

' You Poets seldom deal in Gold;

' That's not the Price of empty Songs,

' But to Sir Thrifty Gripe belongs;

' Bright Silver is Sir Wary's Claim,

' And Copper for the lab'ring Dame;

' If so (that each may have their due)

' We rusty Nails belong to you;

' I therefore ask as my Desert

' (I hope you bear a grateful Heart)

' You write my Life—and be it shown

' What strange Adventures I have known.

' I must confess I was not made.

' So early quite as Adam's Spade;

' Yet many Ages I have known,

' And double with my Labours grown:

' I occupy'd, the first of all,

' A worthy Post at Gloomy-Hall,

' Where I, with seven hundred more,

' Were hammer'd in the spacious Door:

' And there had haply stuck till now,

' Had not old Simon broke his Plough;

' Who seeing none but us at hand,

' And knowing us a trusty Band,

' Me with the Pincers sore oppress'd,

' And drew me headlong from the rest:

' My lazy Life, alas! was done,

' And now I toil'd from Sun to Sun:

' None pity me, and none relieve,

' Till Fortune gave me a Reprieve:

' My Master broke his Plough again,

' And I from thence was dragg'd amain.

' To Celia's Chamber next I came,

' And bore a Glass with curious Frame;

' To whom the lovely Nymphs repair:

' There Delia spread her shining Hair;

' All smiling there was Claudia seen,

' And Thalia ty'd her Ribbands green.

' At last my Mistress drew too nigh,

' And some ill Genius standing by,

' Drove me directly in her Eye.

' Then I was banish'd from her Train,

' Hurl'd on a Dunghill with Disdain.

' But idle long I did not lie,

' For old Sir Gripus walking by,

' Who held it was a crying Sin,

' To trample o'er and slight a Pin.

' And that they well deserve a Jail,

' Who proudly scorn a rusty Nail,

' Carry'd me home, and made secure

' With me—a stately oaken Door.

' Through the strong Boards he made me go,

' To keep his Daughter from a Beau;

' But she (what is't but Love can do?)

' With Aqua-fortis eat me through:

' A Cripple now, and useless quite,

' I'm banish'd from the chearful Light:

' And all folk despise me that behold;

' At last I to a Smith was sold,

' Who had Compassion on my Pain,

' And brought me to myself again.

' To Jeff'ry Bouze I next belong,

' Where sparkling Ale was clear and strong;

' One Vault, more precious than the rest,

' Was stow'd with Hogsheads of the best:

' And having lately lost the Key,

' He fast'ned up the Door with me:

' I stood a faithful Centry there,

' To guard the choice inspiring Beer

' From thirsty Bacchanalian Rage,

' Till his Son Guzzle was of Age:

' At length the Youth an Entrance found,

' Tho' stoutly I maintain'd my Ground;

' Yet all my Strength wou'd not avail,

' For how cou'd one poor single Nail

' Maintain a dang'rous Post (you know)

' Against whole Legions of the Foe;

' Who well consid'ring Life's a Bubble,

' And drinking is the Cure of Trouble,

' And more—that he again could brew

' Before the Date of Twenty two;

' While e'er that time the present Ale

' Might happen to be flat or stale;

' He came himself with fifty more,

' And wisely drank it out before.

' It wou'd be tedious now to tell

' What to your humble Slave befel,

' Amongst a rude mechanick Band,

' Till Fortune gave me to your Hand:

' Now if a proper Post I knew,

' I'd gladly be of use to you;

' But you resolve to hide no Pelf,

' And choose to walk abroad yourself:

' But, Mira, these are dang'rous Times,

' I'd have you fasten up your Rhymes;

' And 'tis the best thing you can do,

' To nail up Pens and Paper too:

' Do this and get thee gone to spinning,

' Or wisely dearn your Father's Linen."

This said—a Cart with rumbling Sound

Came by, and shook the trembling Ground;

The Vision vanish'd from her Sight,

And Mira waken'd in a Fright.

Notes

*
The Question was this, Where was the first Nail struck?
↵

The GENIUS in DISGUISE.

AS I Fidelia and my Sire,

Sat musing o'er a smoky Fire,

We heard a Knocking at the Door,

Rise, something is the Matter sure.

The little Turret seem'd to quake,

The Shelves, the Chairs and Tables shake;

Fidelia cries, O, what's the Matter?

And Mira's Teeth began to chatter:

The frighted Door (as what could choose)

Flew open (pray believe the Muse)

A hollow Voice for Entrance calls,

And soon—Although the dirty Walls

Were stain'd with Ignorance and Sin,

Yet Mira's Genius ventur'd in,

Not in a Cherub's Form enshrin'd,

Nor in the shape of human kind:

But Locks and Hinges round him glow,

In Figure like a neat Buroe;

Like Brambles in a thorny Gap

Stood Mira's Hair beneath her Cap:

Her frighted Senses gone astray,

She bent her Knees in act to pray;

But the presuming Priest drew near,

As void of Piety as Fear,

And by its Side undaunted stood,

And wou'd persuade us it was Wood:

With Rev'rence then we did presume

To place him in the little Room;

The Priest excluded with the rest,

The Stranger Mira thus address'd,

(Tho' shaking with Surprise and Fear)

' O say what Power sent thee here,

' Not Fortune, for I ne'er cou'd see

' As yet her Favours bent on me:

' Nor Chance although we often find

' She governs most of human kind;

' Or can, against the Maid's Desire,

' Throw Madam's Caudle in the Fire;

' Can light a Candle, or can miss,

' She never brought a thing like this.

This said, pale Mira gazing stood,

And thus reply'd the seeming Wood;

' Canst thou behold me and not find

' The Picture of the Giver's Mind?

' Behold the Lock and shining Key,

' That ne'er its Mistress shall betray,

' Not blemish'd with a Spot of Rust,

' And always faithful to its Trust.

' The rest may be to you consign'd,

' For in this narrow Space you'll find

' No Emblem large enough to fit

' Her Bounty, Judgment, and her Wit.

' But, Mira, since I have begun,

' The Thread of my Discourse shall run,

' Explaining how I am to you

' A Monitor and Table too.

' My hollow Spaces you may fill

' With all your Verses good and ill;

' One small one for your Wit may do,

' But then your Faults will take up two.

' And from the rest I pray exclude

' One sacred Place for Gratitude:

' And what our Patron yours and mine

' Shall to my trusty Care consign,

' For those lov'd Strangers I'll secure

' The Closet with its tiny Door.

' And now I've prattl'd long, my Dear,

' Yet you are list'ning still to hear,

' Expecting that I shou'd supply

' At once Advice and Prophesy;

' But that's not right for me nor you

' To dive so deeply—tho', 'tis true,

' Without Divining I can see

' You'll ne'er deserve the Gift of me:

' More wou'd you know—why, may be then

' Within these Mornings nine or ten,

' Propitious Jet may tsudge before,

' And lead his Mistress to your Door;

' And when the Sun (whose distant Wheels

' But faintly warm the icy Fields)

' Shall gild your Cot with brighter Ray,

' I hope to see her ev'ry Day.

' But turn away thy stedfast Eyes,

' That stare so ghastly with Surprise:

' Go seek your Pillow and be still,

' And dream of me or what you will.

' This said (which Mira hop'd was true)

' The Lid shut up, and cries Adieu."

Then gave a Crack, and spoke no more,

And all was silent as before.

CELADON to MIRA.

TO thee, O Mira, I these Lines commend,

These from thy gentle and immortal Friend,

Tho' not to thee my airy Form appears,

Yet I've been oft a Witness to thy Tears,

(At Night when, lonely by the Taper's Flame,

In a still Whisper thou hast breath'd my Name)

And in thy Eyes beheld the rising Woe;

(Ah simple Sorrows when for me they flow!)

Think not, O Mira, not in me to find

A Friend like Vido, or like Rosalind,

Or like Courtine to cheat thy dazzl'a Eye,

And sooth thy Weakness with a well-bred Lye:

These are (as thou wilt by the Sequel find)

Below a Spirit of the blissful kind:

And was thy Form, as wanton Helen gay,

Or did thy Eyes outshine the Lamp of Day,

These please not me—Bright Eyes in vain may roll,

I read no Charms but in the purer Soul.

By thy chang'd Features I too often find

The wild Ideas of thy restless Mind;

All serious now abstracted from the Crew,

No prudent Stoick more serene than you,

Till in your Brain some gaudy Pictures spring,

All gay and careless, then you laugh and sing:

These vanish like a painted Cloud—and now

Pale Discontent o'er-shades thy mournful Brow:

You form dark Visions and at Phantoms start,

These Woes proceed from an ill-govern'd Heart,

From a too thoughtless or too roving Mind;

For these are Strangers to a Soul resign'd.

Canst thou presume thy little Bark may steer

From Griefs black Eddy and the Gulphs of Fear?

Or canst thou hope to scape the gloomy Land,

Where Disappointments crowd the rocky Strand?

Not so—nor let thy Vanity pretend

To hope for more than ever blest thy Friend;

In Life I shone conspicuous o'er the rest,

While the pure Beams malignant Eyes opprest;

Sound Judgment, Learning, Wisdom, too was mine,

And piercing Wit superior far to thine;

Yet gaping Rage stood ready to devour,

And Dulness rain'd on me a leaden Shower:

Now stung with Scoffs, and now with Flatt'ry tir'd,

Defam'd, applauded, envy'd, and admir'd:

This Fate was mine—to hope canst thou presume

A milder Passage and more easy Doom?

Deluded Girl! let not a Thought so vain

Elate thy Spirits, nor ascend thy Brain.

But hear, O Mira, nor too late be wise,

From painted Trifles turn thy longing Eyes;

Ask not for what will make thy Pray'r offend,

But ask Content, a Parent and a Friend;

Ask Bread and Peace, 'tis all that Nature craves,

This Kings acknowledge, when they find their Graves.

Say, why thy Features lose their healthful Dye,

And the Tears tremble in the languid Eye?

The mighty Conflict I with pity see,

When thy rude Passions struggle to be free,

And rack thy Breast—the incoherent Stage,

Where grave and comick jar like Youth and Age;

Now Death appears all horrible and grim:

But the next Moment none so fair as him,

And now you sigh—Ah, let me calmly die:

Then shrinking, trembling from the Grave you fly,

Such jarring Tumults in your Bosom roll;

(Ah, what so various as a Woman's Soul!)

But thou, beware, and if thy Fate has join'd

A sickly Body to a roving Mind;

Be calm nor mourn at the Supreme Decree,

Nor think the Mandate shall be chang'd for thee,

But meet with Patience what thou canst not flee.

Wou'dst thou repine to see thy Form decay,

When Spio's Eye-lids are forbid the Day!

Might'st thou with us unbodied Spirits fly,

From Sphere to Sphere and trace the boundless Sky?

Then wou'd the Lives of little Mortals shew,

Like empty Bubbles rais'd of Morning Dew:

All seem as Trifles, whether we behold

A Monarch banish'd, or a Sparrow sold;

A thoughtless Insect trampled in the Mire,

Or a proud Beauty in her Bloom expire.

More noble Scenes enraptur'd Spirits view,

But the grand Prospect is too large for you:

A closer Bound best suits thy narrow Mind,

A few Examples of thy fading kind.

Hast thou forgot the soft Iphenia's Name,

Whose smiling Face not Spleen itself could blame;

Scarce nineteen Years her dawning Beauties knew,

E'er the young Roses bid her Cheeks adieu;

Yet bless'd with all, cou'd please a Woman's Pride:

In this gay Bloom the bright Iphenia dy'd;

Her Sire lifts to Heav'n his mournful Eyes,

And her sad Brother fills the Air with Cries:

Her Brother Clodius, who to Grief resign'd

To fruitless Passion all his manly Mind.

What simple Sorrow to the dead you pay,

Who soon must follow the same dusky Way.

For e'er the Transport of his Grief was o'er,

Fate gave the Sign and Clodius was no more.

Still Pero liv'd a yet surviving Son,

A little Space and Pero's Race was done:

Death's icy Hand his youthful Limbs invades,

And bids him mingle with his kindred Shades.

So quickly Pero and Narcissa fell,

Scarce looking round them e'er they bid farewel:

Yet dang'rous 'tis to wander here too long;

These went more willing as they fell more young;

But Laura's Name demands thy flowing Tears,

Whose Doubts increasing with her lengthen'd Years,

Serv'd not to clear but cloud the dusky Way,

And gave new Terrors to her final Day:

The dreadful Moment wou'd have past as well,

At sixteen Years had weeping Laura fell.

Let this, O Mira, chear thy drooping Mind,

To bear the Sentence past on all Mankind:

I bore the same, whose Life was more desir'd,

More lov'd, more known, and justly more admir'd:

Yet this grand Fear is wove with Nature's Laws;

Is sometimes right, and sometimes has no Cause:

Repent and mend—these Vapours then will fly,

And the Clouds brighten to a purer Sky;

Still look to Heav'n and its Laws attend,

And next the Lines of thy aerial Friend.

On Mr. POPE's Universal PRAYER.

AH Thou! whom Nature and thy Stars design'd,

At once the Joy and Envy of Mankind,

To thy lov'd Memory this Sigh I send;

To thee a Stranger, to thy Lines a Friend:

How blest the Muse cou'd she like thine aspire,

So smooth her Accent, and sublime her Fire;

With bright Description make the Bosom glow,

Charm like thy Sense, and like thy Numbers flow:

O teach my Soul to reach the Seats divine,

And praise her Maker in a Strain like thine.

Ye careless Ones, who never thought before,

Read this grand Verse, then tremble and adore:

Let stern Enthusiasts here be taught to know,

'Tis from the Heart true Piety must flow:

Here Hope, Content, and smiling Mercy shine;

And breathe celestial through the speaking Line:

From the still Mind its guilty Passions roll,

And dawning Grace awakes the fervent Soul.

Let angry Zealots quarrel for a Name,

The good, the just, the virtuous are the same:

Grace to no Sect, nor Virtue is confin'd;

They blend with all, and spread amongst the kind;

And the pure Flame that warms the pious Breast:

Those cannot merit who condemn the rest.

To the dark Nations when Religion came,

All drest in Smiles; they saw the heav'nly Dame,

Till some stern Teachers of their Office proud,

Chose not to soften but affright the Crowd,

With gloomy Terrors fill'd the dusky Age,

And veil'd her Beauties in the mask of Rage:

Then bid the Hand-maids of Perdition rise,

Black Cruelty with fierce and flaming Eyes;

Distraction ravag'd on the publick Weal,

And Persecution wore the Robe of Zeal:

Deluded Faith espous'd the stronger Side,

And conquer'd Justice gave her Sword to Pride.

This saw the surly discontented Mind,

By Nature haughty and to Vice inclin'd:

And thence concluded all their Systems vain,

The Cant of Schools and Phrensy of the Brain:

From hence the Sect of Libertines arose,

Who scorn what Reason or the Priests impose:

Who give to Chance the World's that round us roll,

And tear from Man his ever-conscious Soul.

But thou whose Name (immortal as thy Rhymes)

Shall live and brighten through succeeding Times:

(Whose Lines can Wit and Virtue both inspire,

Whom future Ages shall like me admire)

Teach me between the two Extremes to glide,

Not brave the Stream nor swim with ev'ry Tide:

But more with Charity than Zeal possest,

Keep my own Faith, yet not condemn the rest.

The FIELDS of MELANCHOLY and CHEARFULNESS.

STILL were the Groves, and venerable Night

O'er half the Globe had cast her gloomy Veil,

When by a Taper's solitary Gleam

Sat musing Mira pensive and alone;

In her sad Breast officious Memory

Reviv'd the Pictures of departed Friends,

Whose pleasing Forms she must behold no more.

Forgotten Woe, that for a time had slept,

Rose into Life, and like a Torrent pour'd

On her faint Soul, which sunk beneath its Rage:

At length soft Slumber kindly interven'd,

And clos'd those Eye-lids that were drench'd in Tears;

But restless Fancy that was waking still,

Led my deluded Spirit on the Wing

To pictur'd Regions and imagin'd Worlds.

I seem'd transported to a gloomy Land,

Whose Fields had never known the chearful Sun:

A heavy Mist hung in the frowning Sky,

No feather'd Warblers chear'd the mourning Groves,

Nor blushing Flow'rs adorn'd the barren Ground:

I gaz'd around the solitary Coast,

When lo a Nymph with solemn Air approach'd,

Whose Dress was careless and her Features grave,

Her Voice was broken and her Hearing dull:

She spoke but seldom, yet at last she told

Me in a Whisper, that her Name was Thought;

And more, she offer'd, with a friendly Air,

To lead me safely through the dreary Gloom:

We walk'd along through rough unpleasing Paths,

O'er Beds of Night-Shade and through Groves of Yew,

Till we arriv'd within a dusky Wood,

Whose spacious Bound was fenc'd with shagged Thorn.

The Trees were baleful Cypress; and a few

Tall Pines that murmur'd to the rushing Wind:

Here dwelt the Natives, (mournful as the Place)

Or sunk in real or imagin'd Woe;

Complaining Sounds were heard on ev'ry Side,

And each bewail'd the loss of something dear:

Some mourn'd a Child that in its Bloom expir'd,

And some a Brother's or a Parent's Fate:

Lost Wealth and Honours many Tongues deplor'd,

And some were wretched, tho' they knew not why.

But as we reach'd the Centre of the Place,

Complaints were heard more piercing than before:

The gathering Fogs grew thicker o'er our Heads,

And a cold Horror thrill'd our wounded Souls,

And thus we travell'd, pensive beyond measure,

Through Paths half cover'd with perplexing Thorns;

At length we found two Rows of aged Firs,

Whose Tops were blasted by unwholsom Winds.

This solitary Vista op'ning wide,

Disclos'd the Palace of its mournful Queen:

Before the Gate was plac'd a frightful Guard,

Who serv'd as Porters to the gloomy Dome:

Here, stretch'd upon a miserable Couch,

Lay pining Sickness with continual Groans;

And by her Side, (array'd in filthy Weeds)

Sat quaking Poverty with ghastly stare:

His Presence seem'd to aggravate her Pain,

For when she cast her languid Eyes on him,

She hid her Face and rais'd a fearful Cry.

There Disappointment like a Statue stood,

With Eyes dejected and with Visage pale:

Her heaving Bosom seem'd to swell with Anguish,

And in her Hand she grasp'd a broken Reed:

Here, in the Garb of Piety, we saw

Proud Error frowning with a Look severe:

Doubt at his Elbow bore a Rod of Snakes,

And held a Cup fill'd to the Brim with Tears,

By these we pass'd into the dusky Court,

O'er-run with Hemlock and with gloomy Fern:

Perpetual Night hung o'er the dismal Walls,

And from the Ground unhealthy Vapours rose;

Through folding Doors of Ebony we came,

Into a winding Passage hung with black,

For ever dark—possest by flitting Shades,

By waking Fancies, and by frightful Dreams

This led us to a subterraneous Cell,

Where the sad Empress Melancholy reign'd;

The musing Matron sat upon a Throne

Of mould'ring Earth—her Footstool of the same;

And for her Canopy an aged Yew

Spread o'er her Head its venerable Arms:

Her careless Robe was of a sable Hue,

And on her Shoulders flow'd her slighted Hair:

Her Lips were clos'd with an eternal Silence;

Her Arms were folded and her Head reclin'd;

On either Side her pale Attendants stood,

Two mournful Maids, Dejection and Despair;

The first (attended with continual Faintings)

Seem'd on the Point to close her dying Eyes:

A constant Dew hung on her death-like Brow,

And her cold Bosom half forgot to heave.

Despair (whose Garments by herself were torn)

Was mark'd with Wounds that Time can never heal:

With desp'rate Hand she struck her bleeding Breast,

And wash'd the Ground with never-ceasing Tears;

With ghastly Figures was the Cave adorn'd,

And in the midst the Effigies of Death.

Shock'd at the Place we hasted to return,

And left the horrid Mansion far behind;

Long time we travell'd through untrodden Paths,

Where the brown Forests cast an awful Gloom:

At length the floating Clouds began to part,

And left behind them Streaks of chearful Azure;

Our Path grew smooth and widen'd to the view,

Until it open'd on a spacious Field;

A Field whose Charms no Painter e'er cou'd reach,

Though he shou'd borrow from the Poet's Heav'n;

The Clime was temp'rate and the Air was still,

The sprouting Turf was of a beauteous Green,

Speckled with Flow'rs of a delicious Dye.

Here crystal Lakes were border'd round with Trees,

Where Blossoms flourish'd in eternal Spring;

For here the Groves no blasting Tempests know,

But still are blest with Fruits that ne'er decay:

Perpetual Sun-shine crown'd the gaudy Hills,

And the fair Vallies were with Plenty gay.

A Path there was, trod o'er the spicy Field,

Which led the Wand'rer to a blissful Shade,

Whose Fence was made of balmy Eglantine;

Where the fair Plane o'erlook'd the Myrtle Shrub,

And flow'ring Orange that perfume the Air;

Here flew in Throngs the soft aerial Choir,

Whose glitt'ring Necks like polish'd Amber shone:

We pass'd delighted through ambrosial Paths,

And Bowers move with Jessamine and Rose;

Joy seiz'd the ravish'd Spirits, while we breath'd

In Gales that tasted of immortal Sweets.

At length the parting Trees broke into Form,

And with a Circle bound a charming Plain,

I'th' midst of which upon an Iv'ry Throne

Sat Chearfulness, the Genius of the Place:

Her Mien was graceful and her Features fair;

Continual Smiles dwelt on her dimpl'd Cheeks,

Her Hair was bound beneath a shining Crown,

Her Robes were Azure bright with golden Stars,

And in her Hand she held a silver Lute.

On either Side her royal Sisters sat,

Both lovely, as herself, tho' not so gay;

The eldest had a Face divinely fair;

Calm was her Look, with Lips prepar'd for smiling,

She often rais'd her thankful Eyes to Heav'n;

Her Form was easy and her Name Content:

The other (much the youngest) was array'd

In Virgin Robes white as unsully'd Snow;

Her thoughtless Smiles wou'd tame a Tiger's Rage,

A Lamb (whose Neck was circl'd with a Band

Of new blown Roses) at her Feet was laid,

A milk-white Dove upon her Hand she bore:

Thus ever blest sat Innocence the fair.

Behind these Sisters stood a shining Train,

As Maids of Honour to the Royal Fair:

Prosperity (the first) was climbing up

A stately Pyramid of painted Marble;

From whose high Top she reach'd a brilliant Crowd:

Then with an Air that spoke a joyful Heart,

Look'd down with Pleasure on the Plain below.

Gay Wealth the next, in her embroider'd Vest,

Shone like the Entrails of the eastern Mine;

Her Hair was platted thick with sparkling Gems,

And in her Hand she bore a golden Wand.

Health, like a Sylvan Huntress cloath'd in Green,

In her right Hand a dapled Palfry held,

Her Air was masculine, and swift her Motion;

A Wreath of Flow'rs just ravish'd from the Meads,

Bound up the Ringlets of her sable Hair;

Her Cheeks were ruddy; and her large black Eyes

Confess'd the Vigour of her sprightly Soul.

These were the Natives of this happy Land,

The Sight of whom so fill'd my glowing Breast

With Ecstasy that I awoke: And thus

Their Glories vanish'd, and were seen no more.

The LIBYAN HUNTER, a FABLE.
Inscrib'd to the Memory of a late admir'd Author.

WHEN Merit rises like the Prince of Day,

Pale Envy turns her aking Eyes away;

Then sallow Cheeks with Rage are taught to glow,

And narrow Souls to bloated Furies grow.

Old Story tells us, on an earthly Plain

Once Jove descended wrap'd in golden Rain:

Now Fate permits no such familiar Powers,

But Shoals of Criticks fall in leaden Showers:

These gaze at Wit, as Owls behold the Sun,

And curse the Lustre which they fain wou'd shun;

These Beasts of Prey no living worth endure,

Nor are the Regions of the Dead secure;

Yet shall the Worthy o'er their Spite prevail;

Here lies the Moral—follows next the Tale.

Once on a time on Libya's thirsty Land,

Where Showers seldom wet the burning Sand,

Liv'd happy Sylvius as the Morning gay,

A well-known Fav'rite of the Prince of Day;

Whose Hand, unerring, to the Mark in view

Sent the swift Arrow from the twanging Yew:

The trembling Panthers from his Fury fly,

When the keen Jav'lin hiss'd along the Sky;

Fierce were his Eyes, and dazzling as the Sun;

His raven Looks in mazy Ringlets run,

A well-stor'd Quiver at his Back was ty'd,

A shining Spear his better Hand supply'd:

Thus rudely charming, he was sure to please

With graceful Negligence and careless Ease:

He breath'd soft Musick from his tuneful Tongue,

And the wild Tiger listen'd to his Song:

The woodland Nymphs their dusky Shades forego,

And the blue Naiads left the Deeps below:

None guard the Flocks, nor hunt the flying Prey,

Till he had finish'd the enchanting Lay:

Then Sylvan Dames with Wreaths of Laurel bound,

His chearful Temples and with Roses crown'd.

But grudging Envy heard the just Applause,

And the pale Phantom writh'd her hagard Jaws;

Now swell'd the Bosoms of repining Swains,

And hissing Scandals flew across the Plains.

At length his Fame the wondring Sky invades,

And reach'd the Muses in their sacred Shades;

Bright Thalia view'd him with an envious Eye,

And thus address'd her Partners of the Sky:

' Ye tuneful Maids, give o'er the labour'd Song,

' Small are the Praises to our share belong;

' Look down and see on yonder sultry Plain,

' Our Voices equal'd by a Libyan Swain;

' Give o'er the Lay, ye too officious Fair,

' Lay down the Lyre and fruitless Hymns forbear,

' Nor hope to charm the partial Prince of Day,

' While heav'nly Accents breathe from mortal Clay:

' In vain we keep our radiant Seats on high,

' If rural Swains shall with our Musick vie:'

She said: And Rage possest the beauteous Ring,

Some curse the Youth and some their partial King.

The Dame who saw th' infectious Murmurs run,

Roll'd her blue Eyes, and thus afresh begun:

' No more the Bays shall to our Share belong,

' Nor charm'd Celestials shall attend our Song:

' But all to Sylvius shall their Off'rings pay;

' To Sylvius favour'd by the Prince of Day,

' Shall he exceed the Muses sacred Choir:

' Not while Revenge shall injur'd Bosoms fire.

' But see, my Sisters: On the Plains below

' Swift Cynthia's Hounds pursue the flying Doe:

' Be mine the Task to bear a fraudful Tale,

' To the swift Hunters in the Libyan Vale:

' As how her Herds in vain from Sylvius fly;

' His Darts pursue them, and the Victims die:

' So Delia's Rage shall stop his tuneful Tongue,

' And we no more shall dread the rival Song.

Here ceas'd the Dame—the smiling Sisters join:

Their loud Applauses to her sly Design.

Now had the Sun withdrawn his piercing Eye.

And Night assum'd the Empire of the Sky:

Lull'd in her Lap reposing Nature lay,

And Swains forgot the Labours of the Day:

The Winds were hush'd, the Ocean ceas'd to roar,

And softly murmur'd by the sandy Shore,

When from Parnassus flew the envious Maid,

To seek the Huntress of the lonely Shade:

The fierce Virago on a verdant Plain,

She found, encircl'd by her sleeping Train;

Where a cool River blest the fertile Ground,

Its Bank with Trees and bending Ofier's crown'd:

Beneath a Shade the lovely Dian stood

With down-cast Eyes, and view'd the rolling Flood;

Whose Waves were bright with the reflected Beams

Of her own Orb that sparkl'd on the Streams.

' Hail, Delia, Hail, (began the artful Dame)

' Lives there a Wretch who owns not Delia's Name?

' Lives there a Slave whose daring Hand defies

' The awful Empress of the nightly Skies?

' Yes, haughty Sylvius triumphs o'er the Plain,

' Tho' thy choice Herds are by his Arrows slain;

' The frighted Fauns his wanton Rage wou'd fly,

' But the keen Dart o'ertakes 'em, and they die.

' His shining Spear arrests the trembling Doe,

' And groaning Stags the deadly Weapon know:

' But if fair Delia to the Libyan Swain

' Resigns the Freedom of her sacred Plain,

' Let none dispute the Licence of her Will,

' And I retire to our tuneful Hill.'

With flushing Features and disorder'd Charms

The angry Goddess seiz'd her deathful Arms;

' Shall Man with me dispute the Plain (she cries,

While kindling Rage inflam'd her rolling Eyes)

' This Hand shall well revenge my slaughter'd Deer:

She said: And furious grasp'd the dreadful Spear,

And o'er her Shoulder flung the shining Bow,

Then breathing Vengeance sought her guiltless Foe.

The Youth beneath a dusky Shade she found,

Thoughtless of Ill and sleeping on the Ground;

A deadly Shaft deluded Cynthia drew,

And to his Heart the feather'd Vengeance flew;

The reaking Blood came bubbling through the Wound,

Pour'd o'er his Bosom and distain'd the Ground;

Then the freed Spirit took her airy Way,

To Fields of Pleasure and of endless Day.

The red-cheek'd Morning had now chas'd away

Night's sable Curtain—and the dawning Day

Call'd forth abroad the trusty Bands—Again

To chase the Tiger o'er the Desert Plain;

To search the Caves where kingly Lions roar,

And from thick Shades dislodge the bristled Boar:

Sylvius they want, for him they search, they call,

They search the Shades where crystal Waters fall,

His wonted Haunts: Then ev'ry Voice they try:

In vain they call, for none, alas! reply:

Hear, Sylvius, hear, they cry, and all around;

Hear, Sylvius, hear, the hollow Rocks resound.

At length a Crew, the basest of the Plain,

Approach'd, the Covert of the slaughter'd Swain

Glad they beheld him breathless on the Ground,

And gaz'd with Rapture on the purple Wound,

When one began—Now bless the friendly Hand,

That swept off Sylvius from the gazing Land:

Behold the Day so oft by us desir'd,

Here lies the Swain whom lately all admir'd.

This Phoebus saw, as from his blazing Wheels,

With his broad Eye he view'd the glitt'ring Fields

Behold the Youth whom he had taught to throw

The feather'd Arrow from the bounding Bow,

Beheld his Sylvius, to whose artful Tongue

He taught the Numbers of enchanting Song.

Now cold and breathless on the dewy Plain,

And his worst Foes insulting o'er the Slain:

Then rag'd the God that wears the silver Bow,

And his broad Eyes with sparkling Fury glow,

Descended Phoebus in a burning Ray,

His beamy Locks declares the Prince of Day,

And flashing Glories round his Temples play,

Each on his Face the trembling Victims fall,

Their stammering Tongues wou'd fain for Mercy call;

But as all grov'ling on the Dust they lie,

His Shafts dispatch them to the darker Sky:

Learn hence (he cry'd) ye impious Men, to know,

And dread the Pow'r that wears the mortal Bow:

For while I rule the blazing Throne of Day,

None wrong my Servants but shall find their Pay;

He said—and rais'd his Fav'rite from the Ground,

Then smil'd the Features: And the gaping Wound

Was seen no more. The glowing Cheeks revive,

Shake off the Stamp of Death, and seem alive;

Instead of Cypress and a mournful Shroud,

Apollo wrap'd him in a golden Cloud,

And bore him thence: But where, there's none can say,

Unless to his own Regions of the Day.

And from the Ground where Sylvius late was seen,

Where the warm Gore had stain'd the thirsty Green;

A pleasing Tree arose with slender Stems,

That breath'd Ambrosia from its op'ning Gems:

Those op'ning Gems the Virgins us'd to wear

On their fair Bosoms, and their shining Hair:

Now the gay Shrub each happy Climate knows,

By all admir'd, and 'tis call'd the Rose.

The TEMPLE of LOVE.

WHEN lonely Night compos'd the drowsy Mind,

And hush'd the Bosom of the weary Hind,

Pleas'd with plain Nature and with simple Life,

I read the Scenes of Shore's deluded Wife,

Till my faint Spirits sought the silent Bed,

And on its Pillow drop'd my aking Head;

Then Fancy ever to her Mira kind,

Prepar'd her Phantoms for the roving Mind.

Behold a Fabrick rising from the Ground,

To the soft Timbrel and the Cittern's Sound:

Corinthian Pillars the vast Building hold,

Of polish'd Silver and Peruvian Gold;

In four broad Arches spread the shining Doors,

The blazing Roofs enlighten all the Floors:

Beneath a sparkling Canopy that shone

With Persian Jewels, like a Morning Sun

Wrap'd in a Robe of purest Tyrian Dye,

Cythera's Image met the ravish'd Eye,

Whose glowing Features wou'd in Paint beguile:

So well the Artist drew her mimick Smile;

Her shining Eyes confess'd a sprightly Joy;

Upon her Knees reclin'd her wanton Boy;

On the bright Walls, around her and above,

Were drawn the Statutes and the Arts of Love:

These taught the silent Language of the Eye,

The broken Whisper and amusing Lye;

The careless Glance peculiar to the Fair,

And Vows for Lovers, that dissolve in Air;

The graceful Anger, and the rolling Eyes;

The practis'd Blush and counterfeit Surprise,

The Language proper for pretending Swains;

And fine Description for imagin'd Pains;

The friendly Caution and designing Ease,

And all the Arts that ruin while they please.

Now entred, follow'd by a splendid Train,

A blooming Damsel and a wealthy Swain;

The gaudy Youth in shining Robes array'd,

Behind him follow'd the unthinking Maid:

Youth in her Cheek like op'ning Roses sprung,

Her careless Tresses on her Shoulders hung.

Her Smiles were chearful as enliv'ning May;

Her Dress was careless, and her Eyes were gay;

Then to soft Voices and melodious Sound

The Board was spread, the sparkling Glasses crown'd:

The sprightly Virgin in a Moment shines

In the gay Entrails of the eastern Mines;

Then Pride comes in with Patches for the Fair,

And spicy Odours for her curling Hair:

Rude Riot in a crimson Vest array'd,

With smooth-fac'd Flatt'ry like a Chamber-maid:

Soft Pomp and Pleasure at her Elbow stand,

And Folly shakes the Rattles in her Hand.

But now her feeble Structure seem'd to shake,

Its Basis trembl'd and its Pillars quake;

Then rush'd Suspicion through the lofty Gate,

With heart-sick Loathing led by ghastly Hate;

And foaming Rage, to close the horrid Band,

With a drawn Poniard in her shaking Hand,

Now like an Earthquake shook the reeling Frame,

The Lamps extinguish in a purple Flame:

One universal Groan was heard, and then

The Cries of Women and the Voice of Men:

Some roar out Vengeance, some for Mercy call;

And Shrieks and Tumult fill the dreadful Hall.

At length the Spectres vanish'd from my Sight,

Again the Lamps resum'd a feeble Light;

But chang'd the Place: No Splendor there was shown,

But gloomy Walls that Mirth had never known;

For the gay Dome where Pleasure us'd to dwell,

Appear'd an Abbey and a doleful Cell;

And here the sad, the ruin'd Nymph was found,

Her Robe disorder'd and her Locks unbound,

While from her Eyes the pearly Drops of Woe,

Wash'd her pale Cheek where Roses us'd to blow:

Her blue and trembling Lips prepar'd to breathe

The Sighs that made her swelling Bosom heave;

Thus stupid with her Grief she sat and prest

Her lily Hands across her pensive Breast;

A Group of ghastly Phantoms stood behind,

Whose Task it is to wreck the guilty Mind:

Wide-mouth'd Reproach with Visage rude and thin,

And hissing Scandal made a hideous Din;

Remorse that darted from her deadly Wings,

Invenom'd Arrows and a thousand Stings:

Then with pale Cheeks and with a ghastly Stare,

Peep'd o'er her Shoulder hollow-ey'd Despair;

Whose Hand extended bore a bleeding Heart,

And Death behind her shook his threat'ning Dart:

These Forms with Horror fill'd my aking Breast,

And from my Eye-lids drove the Balm of Rest:

I woke and found old Night her Course had run,

And left her Empire to the rising Sun.

ADVICE to MYRTILLO.

SINCE you, Myrtillo, will devote your Time

To the lean Study of delusive Rhyme:

Since you're content to slumber out your Days,

To dream of Dinners, but to feed on Praise;

Receive this Counsel, e'er your Flights begin,

From one long practis'd in the darling Sin.

Now Fame's broad Ocean lies before your Way;

Yet, Friend, be careful; 'tis a dang'rous Sea:

Where (tho' some few may reach the happy Land)

Numbers are wreck'd upon the treach'rous Sand:

Then guard your Spirits, as you prize your Ease,

Nor once indulge 'em in a thirst of Praise;

For Fame, like Fortune, (proud, yet wanton too)

Is pleas'd to fly and make the Wretch pursue;

Frowns on her Slaves, but to the careless Mind

That slights her Favours she is always kind.

Would you the Ladies shou'd approve your Song?

Paint Sylvia's Eyes, or praise Clarinda's Tongue;

Describe the Charms of Cloe's sprightly Air,

Or blooming Daphne more divinely fair;

Or Venus's Son that hurls the flaming Dart,

And tag each Stanza with a bleeding Heart:

Tell them of Rocks where Tears eternal flow,

Dissolv'd to Fountains by a Lover's Woe:

Of icy Bosoms that in Summer freeze,

And Sighs much stronger than a southern Breeze.

Perhaps the Fair, whom for a Theme you choose,

Must owe her Beauties to your skilful Muse:

Has erring Nature raiss'd her Nose too high,

Sunk down her Cheeks, or drawn her Lips awry?

No matter how the twisted Features stand,

They'll grow divine beneath a Poet's Hand:

Tho' her dim Eye-balls roll within her Head,

Like two gray Bullets in a Verge of red;

You like Promotheus must their Rays inspire,

And fill their Orbs with more than mortal Fire.

Do you the Levee of his Grace attend,

And (like most Poets) shou'd you want a Friend,

Make not his Worth the Measure of your Song;

But learn his Humour, and you can't be wrong:

Perhaps this Maxim may offend the wise;

But you must flatter, if you mean to rise:

Observe what Passions in his Bosom roll,

And watch the secret Motions of his Soul:

Mind what false Guard has left a Breach within,

For some choice Folly, or some darling Sin:

These you must hide—but draw his Virtues nigh,

Lest the rude Picture shock the gazing Eye.

The Heralds-Office you must search with Care;

And look you find no Pimps nor Taylors there:

Bring none to light but honourable Knaves;

Shut up the Peasants in their mouldy Graves:

If Knights are wanting in the dusky Breed,

Arthur's round Table will supply your Need.

No more—for I (as many Teachers do)

Shew my own Folly by instructing you;

And you perhaps disdain my wholsom Rules;

So saucy Pupils count their Masters Fools:

But shou'd your Pride the common Track refuse,

You'll find small Pensions for your haughty Muse:

Still you may scribble on; and in the End

Be just as rich as—Sir, your humble Friend.

On DISCONTENT.
To STELLA.

SAY, dearest Stella, why this pensive Air?

Tell me, O tell thy Sorrows and thy Care;

Why thy Lips tremble, and thy Cheeks are pale?

Why heaves thy Bosom with a mournful Gale?

Let not thy Eyes for distant Evils flow,

Nor rack thy Bosom with prophetick Woe:

Imagin'd Ills deceive our aking Eyes,

As lengthen'd Shades appear of monstrous Size,

When setting Phoebus gilds the Ev'ning Skies.

Tho' pictur'd Joy deludes our panting Souls,

When round the Heart its smiling Phantom rolls;

The gay Impostor mocks our reaching Arms;

Yet while it lasts, the pleasing Vision charms:

Not so Distrust, her gloomy Forehead rears;

She brings cold Anguish and a crowd of Fears:

Ah lovely Stella! as you prize your Rest,

Expel this Fury from your guiltless Breast.

The wise and mighty Guardian of Mankind,

To each Dividual has their Draught assign'd;

And tho' no Pearls shou'd in our Potion fall,

Let us be chearful while he spares the Gall:

Unmeaning Transports for a Moment please,

Yet Peace alone can bless your equal Days.

But coldly view'd or quickly thrown aside,

See cringing Merit at the Gates of Pride;

See Wit and Wisdom (that our Fathers priz'd)

In Youth neglected as in Age despis'd:

Behold (the Scorn, as late the Dread of all)

The Politician from his Glory fall:

He whose sly Genius cou'd a Kingdom rule,

Shall have his Exit hiss'd by ev'ry Fool:

With aking Bosom and a streaming Eye

The hoary Soldier sees his Honour fly;

Who in his Age must to Oppression bow,

And yield his Laurels to a younger Brow:

Those Laurels shall the proud Successor wear

A while; then strip and leave 'em to his Heir.

If these are wretched let not us repine,

Whose meaner Talents ne'er were made to shine:

Our Good and Ill, our Vice and Virtue falls

Within the compass of domestick Walls:

To those small Limits be thy Views confin'd,

And bless thy Cottage with an humble Mind.

Look not at Joys that dazzle from afar,

Nor envy Glaro on his gilded Car;

For all Degrees their Days of Anguish know,

And the most happy have a taste of Woe:

Then calmly take what Providence ordains,

He swells the Load who murmurs and complains:

For all things vary: And who sits to day

Half-drown'd in Tears; to-morrow may be gay.

The PROPOSAL.

WITH aking Fingers, twinging Nose,

And vex'd, dear Madam, we'll suppose:

(To leave yourself and Parlour-fire)

Trudg'd Mira to her own good Sire;

Beneath a cold and gloomy Sky

Walk'd cheek by jole the Muse and I:

The list'ning Gossip, tho' unseen,

Had watch'd the Talk that pass'd between

Myself and you: And much offended

(It seems) at what was there intended.

' So cries the peevish Maid, (and squinting)

' Methinks I heard you talk of Printing:

' Have I bestow'd a world of Pains,

' To spirit up your blockish Brains,

' To get from thence an idle Rhyme,

' That made me blush to call it mine?

' And shall I see the crippl'd Crew

' Discarded from their Seat and you,

' Turn'd out to skip from hand to hand

' In dirty Gazettes round the Land,

' To grace the Knee of ev'ry Sot,

' And catch the Droppings of his Pot,

' While in a Rage the drowsy Swains

' Perhaps may curse you for your Pains,

' Protesting with a Critick's Spite,

' That none since Durfey knew to write?

' But, Mira, if you want a Muse,

' To grace the Page of weekly News,

' The Task is much too low for me,

' Yet I've a Maid of less Degree,

' (With Spirit suiting to her State)

' Will serve you at an easy Rate:

' Whose Voice, tho' hoarse, is loud and strong,

' An Artist at a ranting Song,

' Can chaunt Lampoons without much straining,

' Or Epigrams with double Meaning,

' To join the Tavern-Harp or Viol:

' Now if you'll take her upon trial,

' To her Deservings suit your Pay,

' And then you take the safest way:

' Perhaps you'll prosper in the End,

' I'll say no more: But ask your Friend,

' Here ends the Muse—Dear Madam, say,

' Shall I reject her or obey?

SOTO. A CHARACTER.

IN Soto's Bosom you may find

The Glimm'ring of a worthy Mind:

Tis but a faint and feeble Ray,

Imperfect as the dawning Day;

Yet were the jarring Passions tun'd,

And the wild Branches nicely prun'd,

The Soil from Thorns and Thistles clear,

Some latent Virtues might appear:

I'th' Morning catch him, (early tho'

Your Bird will else be flown, I trow,)

E'er he has reach'd the bowzing Can,

You'll find the Stamp of reas'ning Man:

Then see the Wretch whom none can rule,

E'er Night a Mad-man and a Fool;

The witty Soto then you'll find,

Just level with the brutal Kind.

With crimson Face and winking Eyes,

That look like Woodcocks, mighty wise:

See streams a Current down his Chin,

From soft Tobacco lodg'd within;

Be pleas'd to steal a Glance or two,

But one may serve to make you—

He fain wou'd walk, but cannot stand,

And see a Palsy in his Hand;

And tho' his Throat has swallow'd down

Two Gallons of October brown,

His greedy Guts impatient roar,

And seem to call aloud for more:

More they shall have: But hark, within

Is heard a rude and lawless Din:

Wind, Ale, and Phlegm their Powers wage,

And Hickups call them to engage;

And now, Ah now! incessant flows

The frothy Tide from Mouth and Nose:

No more is seen the cover'd Ground,

But a huge River floating round:

Down drops the Youth, his giddy Head

Falls easy on the liquid Bed:

So swam Achilles fierce and brave,

On angry Xanthus's swelling Wave;

And 'scap'd with being wet to th' Skin;

For Pallas held him up by th' Chin:

So Bacchus saves, by mighty Charms,

His helpless Devotee from Harms:

And Soto sleeps till break of Day,

Then shakes his Ears and walks away.

The UNIVERSAL DREAM.

' GIVE o'er your Whims, says my considerate Friend;

' Retrieve the fleeting Hours you idly spend:

' Blind to Advice, incorrigible, vain,

' You follow Fancy and her laughing Train;

' Your thoughtless Days in swift Delusion fly:'

So let them go, says unconverted I,

Look round the Globe, my Friend, and then you'll see

The drowsy World is slumb'ring just like me.

See on soft Beds the Hero sleeps secure,

Till War comes thund'ring at his trembling Door;

In wiser Dreams the Politician prys

Through distant Kingdoms with his half-shut Eyes:

The lull'd Projector builds aerial Towers,

And rolls smooth Rivers through enchanted Bowers.

The Chymist slumbers o'er imagin'd Gold,

So Delia's Conquests in her Dreams are told.

What monstrous Phantoms in that Trance are born,

Through which Amyntor sees his sprouting Horn?

When purblind Mortals sound the Depths of Fate,

Or some lean Poet aims at an Estate;

Or when the good believing Man depends

On the slight Promise of his courtly Friends;

Shou'd those awake they to their Cost wou'd find,

These are but Shadows of a sleeping Mind.

Few real Pleasures are on Earth possest,

And Mortals only in their Dreams are blest;

Then dream no longer, my well-meaning Friend,

That Mira's Follies with her Muse shall end:

Some younger Vanity succeeds the first,

And the last Folly often proves the worst:

No: While the rest in fruitless Cares are hurl'd,

Let me enjoy my visionary World:

To this glad Bosom hug the dear Mistake,

If Dreams are Blessings, who wou'd wish to wake?

The SOW and the PEACOCK.
A FABLE.

IN Days of Yore, as Authors tell,

When Beasts and Birds cou'd read and spell,

(No matter where, in Town or City,)

There liv'd a Swine exceeding witty,

And for the Beauties of her Mind,

Excelling all her bristl'd Kind:

But yet to mortify her Pride,

She found at last her failing Side.

Philosophy she had good Store,

Had ponder'd Seneca all o'er;

Yet all Precautions useless prove

Against the Pow'r of mighty Love.

It happen'd on a sultry Day,

Upon her fav'rite Couch she lay:

'Twas a round Dunghil soft and warm,

O'er-shadow'd by a neighb'ring Barn,

When lo, her winking Eyes behold

A Creature with a Neck of Gold,

With painted Wings and gorgeous Train,

That sparkl'd like the starry Plain:

His Neck and Breast all brilliant shine

Against the Sun: The dazzl'd Swine,

Who never saw the like before,

Began to wonder and adore;

But seeing him so fair and nice,

She left her Dunghil in a trice,

And (fond to please) the grunting Elf

Began to wash and prune herself,

And from the stinking Wave she run

To dry her Carcase in the Sun:

Then rubb'd her Sides against a Tree,

And now as clean as Hogs can be,

With cautious Air and doubtful Breast,

The glitt'ring Peacock thus addrest:

' Sir; I, a homely rural Swine,

' Can boast of nothing fair nor fine,

' No Dainties in our Troughts appear,

' But as you seem a Stranger here,

' Be pleas'd to walk into my Sty,

' A little Hut as plain as I;

' Pray venture through the humble Door;

' And tho' your Entertainment's poor,

' With me you shall be sure to find

' An open Heart and honest Mind;

' And that's a Dainty seldom found

' On Cedar Flow'rs and City Ground.

Thus far the Sow had preach'd by rule,

She preach'd, alas! but to a Fool;

For this same Peacock (you must know)

Had he been Man, had been a Beau:

And had (like them) but mighty little

To say: So squirted out his Spittle.

And with an Air that testified,

He'd got at least his share of Pride,

He thus began: 'Why, truly now,

' You're very civil Mrs. Sow:

' But I am very clean, d'ye see?

' Your Sty is not a Place for me.

' Shou'd I go through that narrow Door,

' My Feathers might be soil'd or tore;

' Or scented with unsav'ry Fumes:

' And what am I without my Plumes?

The much offended Sow replies,

(And turns a-squint her narrow Eyes)

' Sir, you're incorrigibly vain,

' To value thus a shining Train;

' For when the northern Wind shall blow,

' And send us Hail, and Sleet, and Snow;

' How will you save from such keen Weathers

' Your Merit?—Sir, I mean your Feathers:

' As for myself:—to think that I

' Shou'd lead an Idiot to my Sty,

' Or strive to make an Oaf my Friend,

' It makes my Bristles stand an end:

' But for the future when I see

' A Bird that much resembles thee,

' I'll ever take it as a Rule,

' The shining Case contains a Fool.

FLORIMELIA, the First PASTORAL.

By Mr. NEWTON.

OF Florimelia and her Charms I sing,

Fair as the Blossoms of the smiling Spring;

Whose lovely Temples wore a Myrtle Wreath,

That serv'd to shade her glowing Cheeks beneath:

How wou'd that Brow, which never knew to frown,

Become the Splendor of an awful Crown;

For, by the lustre of her shining Eyes,

You'd take her for an Empress in disguise:

Those graceful Limbs tho' clad in humble Green,

Wou'd suit a Princess, nor disgrace a Queen:

Yet a plain Crook adorn'd her snowy Hands,

Fair as the Fleeces of her tender Lambs:

Her Task it was, those tender Lambs to lead,

O'er the tall Mountain on the fertile Mead:

Where the clear Fountains gently murmur by,

And sounding Grottos to her Flute reply:

Her Flute and Song delude the tedious Day,

And her soft Hours calmly glide away.

In Smiles the Fair One view'd the rising Sun,

In Smiles beheld him when his Race was done:

And when his Beams had bid the Fields adieu,

And the damp Meadows shone with pearly Dew;

Pent in their Fold she leaves her wanton Care,

And to her home returns the happy Fair:

'Twas a low Cottage, humble as their Fate,

Where an old Father met her at the Gate:

This Hind was call'd Asophus of the Plain,

A Name much valu'd by each honest Swain:

On whose grave Brow were seen the Marks of Time,

No more his Cheeks confess'd their healthy Prime:

Dim were his Eyes: Those Eye-balls that had seen

Full fourscore Springs array'd in sprightly Green:

Child of his Age was Florimel the Fair;

And she alone his Comfort and his Care.

Their little House was plac'd beneath a Hill,

Whose Verge was water'd by a streaming Rill:

The Stranger here no gilded Spires saw,

For this low Roof was thatch'd with humble Straw;

Mosaick here nor Fret-work there was none,

Nor Venice Glass to sparkle in the Sun:

Its only Window was of Osier made,

Full South it look'd and seldom knew the Shade,

Where by the Sun this careful Peasant knew,

How o'er his Head the swift-wing'd Minutes flew;

A little Orchard too was planted nigh,

And the cool River roll'd its Waters by:

In whose clear Stream the pendent Willows lave,

And the weak Bullrush trembl'd o'er the Wave:

Within the Banks soft Water-cresses spring,

Where the pleas'd Heron prunes her dabbled Wing.

Thus dwelt Asophus—happier far than he

Whose Slaves approach him with a bending Knee;

His willing Eye-lids in soft Slumbers close,

No midnight Revels break his lov'd Repose;

No dark Intrigue for open Vengeance calls,

Nor Envy dwelt within his peaceful Walls:

But his calm Days in one smooth Circle run;

He blest the rising and declining Sun,

A Stranger both to Sickness and to Sin:

'Twas Health without and Happiness within,

While by his Side his Florimelia sung,

And his fond Soul upon her Musick hung:

Like him no Parent lov'd his darling Care,

No Child like her so duteous and so fair:

Him with crumb'd Milk both Morn and Eve she fed,

And smooth'd the Pillows for his weary Head:

With her his Moments gently glide away,

Who dress'd in Smiles the Ev'ning and the Day.

Hear this, ye great Ones, whose unwieldy Store

Is still embitter'd with a Wish for more;

Who strive to climb on Fortune's slipp'ry Hill,

And swallow Ruin in a golden Pill.

But learn from hence that Happiness can dwell,

With a plain Peasant in his humble Cell:

She loves the Village and the harmless Hind,

With a clear Conscience and a chearful Mind;

And the gay Wantons vainly search around,

For Bliss which only is with Virtue found.

FLORIMELIA, the Second PASTORAL.

By Mr. NEWTON,

AS Florimelia watch'd her snowy Fold,

Soft Florimelia with her Locks of Gold,

Low in a Vale beneath a spreading Shade,

Two ruddy Youths that lov'd the beauteous Maid,

To please the Fair thus form'd the rival Song,

While the Herds listen'd to each tuneful Tongue.

PHILASTER.

This Morn I wander'd through a poplar Grove,

Where a lone Turtle mourn'd her absent Love;

With pensive Coo she well express'd her Woe,

Lull'd by her Voice the Brooks more gently flow;

When lo the Partner of her Nest drew nigh

With hov'ring Wings: And bid her Sorrows fly.

All sprightly now with brisker Note she sings,

Prunes her soft Breast, and spreads her joyful Wings.

No more the Grove is Witness to her Woe,

Such are the Joys that faithful Lovers know.

CHROMIS.

As yester'-even, while my Sheep did feed

On a soft Bank, I tun'd my Oaten Reed;

'Twas there a single Violet I spy'd,

That breath'd its Odours, droop'd its Head, and dy'd;

When from the Root a gay Companion grew,

Fair as the first and fresh as Morning Dew:

Whose fragrant Leaves perfum'd the bord'ring Plain;

Then did the first its former Beauties gain,

Pleas'd with each other side by side they grow,

Such are the Joys that faithful Lovers know.

PHILASTER.

As sweet as was the Violet is my Love.

CHROMIS.

And I as constant as the Turtle-Dove.

PHILASTER.

Soft are the Murmurs of a southern Wind,

And the Complainings of a love-sick Mind;

Soft are the Breathings of an Infant's Sleep,

But she is softer than her harmless Sheep.

CHROMIS.

Sweet are the Gales that meet the rosy Morn,

Sweet are the Flow'rs that yonder Meads adorn;

Sweet are the Banks on which my Lambkins play,

But my lov'd Nymph is sweet as early Day.

PHILASTER.

Where walks my Love—there op'ning Roses bloom,

And yellow Cowslips shed a choice Perfume;

When she is gone the op'ning Roses fade,

The Sun himself laments the absent Maid.

CHROMIS.

When smiles my Love, then smile the Groves below;

And the clear Skies with brighter Lustre glow:

But when she frowns, those Groves are glad no more,

And the Sky lowers that was bright before.

PHILASTER.

While we prefer the Spring to Winter Storms,

Or goodly Cedars to unseemly Thorns;

While Maples keep below the lofty Pine,

Shall my lov'd Nymph before her Sisters shine?

CHROMIS.

As we prefer the Peacock to the Crow,

As Maidens fairer than their Mothers show;

And as my Voice above Philaster swells,

So my lov'd Nymph each other Nymph excels.

PHILASTER.

You sung last Night with more melodious Air,

As you lay plaiting Cloe's yellow Hair;

While the shrill Pipe her slender Fingers ply'd,

The Pipe you gave her, and your Heart beside.

CHROMIS.

'Twas you I saw beneath a maple Shade;

With blubber'd Cheeks you curs'd the cruel Maid,

Who broke your Cypress Bowl on yonder Plain,

And sent the Willow to her slighted Swain.

PHILASTER.

'Tell me at midnight where do Mandrakes groan,

And Blood fall dropping from the darkned Moon:

Tell this, and I shall for thy Learning yield,

A coal-black Lamb that sports in yonder Field.

CHROMIS.

Tell me, where Oaks have tender Medlars bore,

And Shrubs yield Apples that were Crabs before;

And for thy Knowledge I shall not refuse

To give the best of all my speckled Ewes.

Thus sung the Shepherds while the list'ning Maid,

Prais'd both their Songs, and thus their Songs repaid;

Behold this lovely Pine-apple, she cry'd;

And this Twin-chesnut once my chiefest Pride,

These long were mine, and these I give to you;

To both a Prize, a Prize to both is due.

Now nightly Vapours taint the colder Air,

They part the Flocks, and to the Folds repair;

And the black Clouds forbid their longer Stay,

Their Feet unwilling tread their destin'd Way

At once: Farewel too lovely Nymphs, they cry,

And on the Virgin cast a parting Eye.

CATHARINA's CAVE.

By Mr. NEWTON.

BENEATH a Mountain's solitary Shade

Liv'd Catharina, then an ancient Maid,

An useful Dame that ev'ry Simple knew,

And from choice Herbs exhal'd a cordial Dew.

Rude was her Dome, and hid from prying Eyes,

By lofty Hills that seem'd to reach the Skies;

Deep in a Rock the winding Cavern run,

A bending Cypress skreen'd it from the Sun:

From its rude Side a Fountain us'd to flow,

That pour'd incessant on the Stones below:

This Musick lull'd the pensive Dame to Rest,

And drew soft Slumbers on her aching Breast:

No Sun was there, nor scarce a dawning Gleam,

No twinkling Stars, nor Cynthia's silver Beam.

There naked Elms and sapless Oaks appear'd,

With Age grown rotten, and by Light'ning sear'd;

There perch'd the Raven and the gray-ey'd Owl,

With his wise Visage and his serious Scowl;

No Flow'rets there bedeck the mossy Ground,

But a thick Forest spread its Shade around,

Where the smooth Box and browner Hasel grew,

The solemn Pine-tree and the baleful Yew:

Here no glad Sound was heard nor human Tongue,

Not Colin's Flute nor Blouzelinda's Song:

These gloomy Shades for Grief were only made,

And howling Wolves that scamper'd thro' the Glade.

Here Catharina spent her irksom Days,

Secluded both from Envy and from Praise.

Not so her laughing Moments us'd to run,

When her bright Eyes were like a Morning Sun:

When to her Flock repair'd the gazing Swains,

Her Flock was then the fairest of the Plains:

And she no less—with Veins of sprightly Blue,

And Cheeks like Roses wrap'd in Morning Dew,

The Loves and Graces round her Features flew.

Her Mind was chearful as the rising Day,

Mature as Summer and as April gay;

Yet Fate too soon eclips'd her early Joy,

She fell the Victim of the winged Boy,

The winged Boy that bears the fatal Darts:

Henceforth may Virgins better guard their Hearts.

'Twas Celadon, 'twas he that caus'd her Pain,

The fairest Shepherd of the rural Train;

Whose careless Beauty made her Heart his Prize,

And stole the Slumbers from her wakeful Eyes.

Long time her Pride and cooler Reason strove

Against the Power of encroaching Love,

In vain—her Cheeks and mournful Eyes declare

The smother'd Passion and the secret Care,

While the dull Youth, whom Beauty ne'er cou'd please,

Who sought no more than Indolence and Ease,

Rang'd o'er the Vallies with his darling Tray,

Or near some Fountain slumber'd out the Day:

All Nymphs he strove (but mostly her) to shun,

And to thick Shades and distant Pastures run:

There the soft Flute his nimble Fingers ply'd,

While his lov'd Dog sat list'ning by his Side.

Then wept the Fair with Grief and Rage oppress'd;

Strange Passions labour'd in her pensive Breast;

She lost her Crook—her Flocks no more were told,

And her Lambs wander'd from their nightly Fold,

Till to these Shades she took her desp'rate Way,

And vow'd no more to see the Beams of Day:

Here the gay Roses on her Cheek expir'd,

And from her Eyes the laughing Loves retir'd:

No flow'ry Wreaths her faded Temples knew,

Her Locks uncomb'd upon her Shoulders flew;

No silken Vestments on her Limbs were roll'd,

A russet Mantle sav'd her from the Cold;

A simple Cordage round her Waste she ty'd,

And a rude Staff her better Hand supply'd.

Here learn'd the Dame the Physick of the Field,

And what the Woods and what the Mountains yield

Of sov'reign Balm, to heal a rankling Wound,

Or ripen Swellings where no Sores are found;

To strengthen Sinews, and Catarrhs expel,

And none for Colicks cou'd her Art excel.

With magick Herbs she drew out fest'ring Thorns;

Her Charms cou'd banish Tooth-ach, Cramps, and Corns.

To her repair'd from all the neighb'ring Plains,

The sickly Matrons and the wounded Swains:

Nor to one Species was her Art confin'd;

Her Skill was known amongst the fleecy Kind,

Her Cordials strengthen'd the declining Ewe,

And limping Calves her healing Plaisters knew.

The ENQUIRY.

IN vain, alas! (do lazy Mortals cry)

In vain wou'd Wisdom trace the boundless Sky,

Where doubled Wonders upon Wonders rise,

And Worlds on Worlds confound our dazzl'd Eyes:

Better be still—Let Nature rest, say they,

Than err by Guess and with Opinion stray:

Then tell me, why our Eyes were made to view

Those Orbs that glister in the fluid Blue?

Why in our Sight those shining Wonders roll?

Or why to Man was giv'n a thinking Soul?

May I not ask how moves the radiant Sun?

How the bright Stars their pointed Circuits run?

What warms those Worlds that so remotely shine?

And what can temper Saturn's frozen Clime?

Who that beholds the full-orb'd Moon arise,

That chearful Empress of the nightly Skies;

Who wou'd not ask (cou'd learned Sages tell)

What kind of People on her Surface dwell?

But there we pause—Not Newton's Art can show

A Truth, perhaps, not fit for us to know.

How great the Pow'r, who gave those Worlds to roll;

The Thought strikes inward, and confounds the Soul;

Fall down, O Man—Ah fall before the Rod

Of this Almighty, All-creating God:

But hark—from Heav'n there came a chearing Sound;

Now Man revives, and smile the Worlds around:

'Tis Mercy—lo a golden Ray descends,

And Hope and Comfort in the Lustre blends.

When from the Stars we turn our aking Eyes,

To Earth we bend them where new Wonders rise;

Where Life and Death the equal Scale suspend,

New Beings rising as the former end.

Who not surpris'd can trace each just Degree

From the swift Eagle to the peevish Bee;

From the fierce Lion that will yield to none,

To the weak Mouse that hides her from the Sun!

How near one Species to the next is join'd,

The due Gradations please a thinking Mind;

And there are Creatures which no Eye can see,

That for a Moment live and breathe like me:

Whom a small Fly in bulk as far exceeds,

As you tall Cedar does the waving Reeds:

These we can reach—and may we not suppose

There still are Creatures more minute than those.

Wou'd Heav'n permit, and might our Organs bear

To pierce where Comets wave their blazing Hair:

Where other Suns alternate set and rise,

And other Moons light up the chearful Skies:

The ravish'd Soul might still her Search pursue,

Still find new Wonders op'ning on her view:

From thence to Worlds in Miniature descend,

And still press forward, but shou'd find no End:

Where little Forests on a Leaf appear,

And Drops of Dew are mighty Oceans there:

These may have Whales that in their Waters play,

And wanton out their Age of half a Day:

In those small Groves the smaller Birds may sing,

And share like us their Winter and their Spring.

Pluck off you Acorn from its Parent Bough,

Divide that Acorn in the midst—and now

In its firm Kernel a fair Oak is seen

With spreading Branches of a sprightly Green:

From this young Tree a Kernel might we rend,

There wou'd another its small Boughs extend.

All Matter lives, and shews its Maker's Power;

There's not a Seed but what contains a Flower:

Tho' unobserv'd its secret Beauty lies,

Till we are blest with Microscopick Eyes.

When for blue Plumbs our longing Palate calls,

Or scarlet Cherries that adorn the Walls;

With each plump Fruit we swallow down a Tree,

And so destroy whole Groves that else wou'd be

As large and perfect as those Shades we see.

Behold you Monster that unwieldly laves

Beneath the Surface of the briny Waves:

Still as he turns, the troubl'd Sea divides;

And rolls in Eddies from his slimy Sides.

Less huge the Dolphin to the Sun displays

His Scales, and in the smoother Ocean plays:

Still less the Herring and round Mackrel sweep

The shallow Tide, nor trust the roaring Deep:

How far by gradual numberless Degrees,

The senseless Oyster is remov'd from these.

Who follows Nature through her mazy Way,

From the mute Insect to the Fount of Day,

(Where now she rises, now her Steps decline)

Has need of Judgment better taught than mine:

But on this Subject we have talk'd too long,

Where grave-fac'd Wisdom may itself be wrong.

The RIVAL BROTHERS.

CELIA and I, to share the vernal Gales,

One Ev'ning wander'd o'er the dewy Vales;

Still was the Soul, and ev'ry Sense was pleas'd,

And the cool Heart from Care and Business eas'd:

Arm lock'd in Arm with heedless Steps we rove,

Round the fair Borders of a blooming Grove;

Reclin'd at ease within the secret Shades,

A lovely Bower held two fairer Maids,

Soft Flavia one, with Cheeks of rosy Dye,

And Sylvia famous for her star-like Eye.

Sylvia, whose Wit was vers'd in charming Wiles,

Who often varied her Discourse with Smiles:

Love-tales she told, some fictious and some true,

The Subject various and her Stories new;

Of Innocence oppress'd by mightier Wrong,

And many Proofs she drew from sacred Song:

When Flavia thus—behold the ling'ring Day

Still paints you Heavens with a silver Gray;

And slothful Night with gentler Pace comes on,

As if she listen'd to thy charming Tongue:

The Rival Brothers, let my Sylvia tell,

How cross they lov'd, and who untimely fell:

Her Friend reply'd, You shall not ask in vain,

Although the Story gives thy Sylvia Pain:

Then on her Cheek her iv'ry Hand she laid,

And with a Sigh began the lovely Maid.

Long time before our Fathers Lives began,

There liv'd an ancient and a worthy Man,

Was long the Fav'rite of indulgent Fame;

For Wretches knew and bless'd Clytiphon's Name,

Just without Pride, without Reluctance kind;

For inborn Goodness with soft Pity join'd,

To form the Basis of his godlike Mind.

His temp'rate Soul was ne'er disturb'd with Rage,

But graceful bore the rev'rend Weight of Age:

All bounteous Heav'n had to his share consign'd:

A moderate Fortune with a peaceful Mind:

His Dwelling seated on a rising Hill,

Was water'd round with many a crystal Rill:

Gardens and Groves the smother'd Buildings screen,

Which look'd the Seat of some retir'd Queen.

Cythania tost of the admiring Land,

The fairest Virgin of the shining Band,

Did to Clytiphon's Honour trust her Charms,

And gave her Beauties to his faithful Arms:

But cruel Death, whose Business is to rend

The pale-ey'd Matron from her weeping Friend,

Had torn Cythania from his widow'd Side,

And left her Spouse to wail his constant Bride:

Heav'n spar'd one Child to crown his feeble Age,

To chear his Spirits and his Grief asswage:

Sophinia precious to her Father's Mind,

To her alone was ev'ry Wish confin'd:

Nor did the Virgin less deserve his Care,

Her guiltless Soul was like her Person fair;

For Heav'n to form this matchless Beauty join'd

Her Mother's Features to her Father's Mind;

Not op'ning Roses nor the bashful Day,

Blush'd half so sweetly as Sophinia gay:

Her Eyes were dazzling and her Temples fair,

And ev'ry Feature wore a smiling Air;

For Wit and Learning she out-strip'd her Kind,

Nor cou'd her Sex debase her noble Mind;

In search of Knowledge she wou'd spend the Day,

And Judgment walk'd before her guiltless Way.

Not many Furlongs from those blissful Plains,

Where good Clytiphon rul'd the happy Swains,

There liv'd a wealthy and a worthy Peer,

Lov'd by his Friends and to his Country dear;

Laon the great in Valour justly fam'd,

His Sons Lycander and Polyphon nam'd,

Both noble Youths and by their Friends admir'd,

And Thirst of Glory both their Hearts inspir'd:

Lycander's Form was fairer than his Mind;

His Shape was faultless and his Brow sublime,

His jetty Locks in mazy Ringlets run,

And his bright Eyes were like a Morning Sun:

Rays quick and fierce their subtle Light'nings fling,

His Cheeks were fresher than the dawning Spring;

But then as Tempests o'er the Ocean roll,

Continual Passion tore his boiling Soul;

Disdainful, proud, with an imperious Will,

Headlong he rush'd on unsuspected Ill:

Reason in vain oppos'd her sacred Shield,

And Virtue's self must to the Whirlwind yield:

Polyphon's Soul was of a gentler Kind,

No rugged Storms cou'd shake his easy Mind,

Still calm and pleasant as the Ev'ning Skies:

When not a Breeze through the still Region flies,

No gloomy Frowns a sullen Heart betray,

His Brow was thoughtless and his Air was gay:

These to Clytiphon's did their Sire attend,

The pleasing Mansion of their Father's Friend,

With Lovers Eyes they both Sophinia view,

As with her Years her rising Beauty grew,

With airy Hopes they nurs'd the rival Flame,

And sought with Gifts to win the smiling Dame;

But she too cautious to be soon betray'd,

Their Merit balanc'd, and their Tempers weigh'd:

Lycander's Fortune pleas'd the lovely Dame,

His Power, Titles and his rising Fame;

And the gay Maid beheld with early Pride,

Laon's bright Heir attending at her Side:

That way wou'd oft her Vanity incline,

But then her Reason fear'd his base Design:

Still at her Heart the sullen Doubt remains,

And put a Period to the golden Dreams:

Polyphon's Image on her Fancy stole

With thousand Beauties in his taintless Soul;

Clear as his Face and sprightly as his Mien;

Soft as his Voice, and like his Brow serene.

Polyphon now the wavering Nymph admires,

Nor thinks of Castles, Towns, and shining Spires;

Her changing Thoughts prefer an easy Home,

And dwell with Patience on a younger Son.

Lycander once her Fav'rite was, but now

He meets Resentment and a frozen Brow:

In vain to move the scornful Nymph he tries,

With sprightly Oaths and well dissembl'd Lies:

His Form no more can please Sophinia's Eyes.

Without Concern he met the Fair's Disdain,

Nor cou'd her Frown disturb the haughty Swain:

Conscious of Merit he pursu'd her still,

And only thought her Tongue bely'd her Will:

For Impudence, to Vice a trusty Squire,

Who bears her Arms and fans her purple Fire,

Had taught Lycander, that Affairs of Love

Are not regarded in the Realms above;

That Oaths are licens'd to address th' Fair,

And Vows to Virgins but the Sport of Air;

That Maids are Merchandise, and may be sold

For charming Eloquence and mighty Gold.

II.

A Grove there was, a venerable Shade,

No hostile Iron durst her Boughs invade,

Whose lofty Pines for sev'ral Ages grew,

And rev'rend Oaks a hundred Winters knew:

A crystal River wander'd half-way round,

The rest defended with a hasel Mound;

'Twas here to shun Lycander's jealous Eye,

When Sol departed to the western Sky;

The sly Sophinia us'd to leave her Maids,

And meet Polyphon in the balmy Shades;

While the proud Youth who found himself despis'd,

His Person slighted and Polyphon priz'd;

Grew wild with Love and desp'rate with Despair,

And vow'd Destruction to the gentle Pair:

No quiet Hour his surly Spirit knows,

Nor Rest by Day-light or at Night Repose:

Cold to his Friends, and if they ask his Care,

He only answers with a fullen Glare.

One Ev'ning when the sparkling Sun withdrew,

And thirsty Flowers sip'd the grateful Dew;

When this fair Grove had put on all her Charms,

And Zephyrs play'd amidst her curling Arms;

Sophinia weary of the sultry Day,

To the cool Forest took her lonely Way,

Attentive only to the Linnets Song,

No ill she thought of, and she fear'd no Wrong:

Pleas'd with the Glories of the smiling Year,

For guilty Minds are only taught to fear.

The well-known Path her willing Feet pursue

Through the brown Shade, where in the Centre grew

A Row of Laurels crown'd with lasting Green,

And softer Beech and flow'ring Rose between:

Here in a fatal Hour Sophinia came;

For proud Lycander watch'd the lovely Dame:

Revenge and Love at once his Bosom fire;

His broad Eyes flash with more than mortal Fire:

Then to his Friends the raging Hero flew,

His Friends a thoughtless and a wanton Crew,

Whose slothful Hands were backward, as their Will,

In Virtue's Cause, but resolute in Ill:

To these the Youth disclos'd his rash Design,

His glad Companions in th' Adventure join,

That some well practis'd in the Ruffians Trade

Shou'd bear Sophinia from the silent Shade:

The Mischief pleas'd, yet none propos'd the Way,

Tho' short the Time and dang'rous the Delay:

In still suspense the list'ning Heroes stand,

Till with rude Voice Miranthus thus began:

' A Castle has for many Centries stood,

' Within the Confines of the neigh'bring Wood,

' Whose gloomy Arches seem dispos'd to hide

' Offended Subjects from a Tyrant's Pride.

' And often she has lent her hostile Towers,

' The guilty Refuge of rebellious Powers:

' Here let your Friends this peevish Girl convey,

' And keep her secret from the Face of Day.

' Those Doors with iron Eloquence shall plead

' Your mighty Passion to the scornful Maid:

' You have what my unready Thought design'd,

' The hasty Dictates of a rustick Mind,

' A Mind inur'd to Wars and rude Alarms,

' Unskill'd in Love and Beauty's softer Charms:

He ceas'd—Applause was seen in ev'ry Eye,

And Peals of Laughter rent the troubl'd Sky;

Two fav'rite Heroes singl'd from the Crew,

With hostile Feet that sacred Path pursue;

Whose winding Maze betray'd the smiling Bower,

That held Sophinia in a baneful Hour:

The heedless Virgin on a Bank they found,

Where the faint Primrose spreads her Odours round,

And nodding Poppies seem'd to kiss the Ground.

With frighted Eyes the trembling fair One sees

Their surly Figures through the parting Trees;

But yet she rose collected in her Fear,

'Twas vain to call and no Assistance near:

Then from the Ground she rais'd her beauteous Eyes,

And weeping turn'd them on the pitying Skies:

Assist me Heaven and heavenly Pow'r, she cries.

You Saints that hover round celestial Springs:

O take and wrap me in your sacred Wings,

I see black Violence come frowning on;

But may Lycander mourn the dear-bought Wrong;

Ah hear, Sophinia, in this fearful Hour;

And save, O save me from a Villain's Pow'r.

But now a Slave whom Beauty ne'er cou'd charm,

Drew nigh and seiz'd her by the ivory Arm:

Through untrod Paths they bore the struggling Maid

To those rude Towers where Lycander stay'd,

A dismal Dwelling hid by waving Trees;

So thick they scarce admit the healthy Breeze,

On whose black Walls condensing Vapours hung,

Whose lofty Spires hardly knew the Sun:

His Beams ne'er enter'd here, but in the Room

Perpetual Coldness and eternal Gloom:

Here the pleas'd Youth his charming Prey secures,

And round his Pris'ner shut the plated Doors;

Then left the Virgin to herself, nor stay'd

To bear Reproaches from the injur'd Maid:

Fierce as he was he, like a Coward, flies

The Rage that sparkl'd in her glowing Eyes;

But when he thought the dang'rous Storm was o'er,

Again he sought those Eyes he fled before,

Like some pale Wretch impatient for his Doom,

His fearful Steps approach'd the hallow'd Room:

For rising Conscience now her Task began,

And guilty Blushes through his Features ran:

Unusual Horrors o'er his Passage hung,

At ev'ry Step the sounding Portals rung:

Before the Door he took a silent Stand,

And the pale Taper trembl'd in his Hand:

A hollow Voice Lycander seem'd to call,

And Shadows danc'd along the gloomy Wall:

His haughty Spirit was at this dismay'd,

Lycander trembl'd, and was once afraid:

Why beats my Heart, my coward Heart, he cries;

And why this Mist before my dazzl'd Eyes?

Sophinia's mine, and I will seize my Store,

If thousand Spectres guard the awful Door:

Then rushing in, the lovely Dame he found

In fullen Posture and in Thought profound;

The wonted Roses from her Cheeks were fled,

On her fair Hand reclin'd her beauteous Head:

With Flatt'ry first he tip'd his artful Tongue,

And strove to palliate and excuse the Wrong:

Let not Sophinia, with a Smile he cries,

Think we have seiz'd her as a hostile Prize;

The Fault we owe to this unconquer'd Flame,

Love was the Aggressor and be his the blame:

Trust not thy Reason to a haughty Guide,

Nor call that Honour which is only Pride:

Honour a pageant Mistress of the vain,

The Virgin's Tyrant and the Hero's Chain;

If sparkling Wealth can please thy brighter Eyes,

The Mines of Persia at thy Feet shall rise;

And when thy Chariot marks the dusty Fields,

Full thirty Slaves shall grace the shining Wheels:

For thee the East shall yield her spicy Bowers,

And sweeter Baths distil from weeping Flowers;

Then smile my fair One and be timely wise;

The Maid reply'd, and roll'd her scornful Eyes.

Hence, fawning Traitor, why wouldst thou be told,

How much I hate thy Person and thy Gold?

Mistaken Nature with too nice a Care,

In vain has shap'd thee in a Mold so fair:

Vice will be Vice howe'er 'tis polish'd o'er,

Thou Villain, dare to meet my Eyes no more.

Those gloomy Birds that love the midnight Air,

And hover round the Mansions of Despair;

When to their Shrieks the hollow Roofs rebound,

And the hoarse Raven aids the dreadful Sound;

Tho' howling Wolves shou'd with their Voices join,

Are less offensive to my Ears than thine:

Beyond my Hate, if yet a Thought remain,

To make thy Spirit curse the galling Chain;

If with those Thorns that Love's soft Empire bounds,

Successful Rivals give the deepest Wounds:

I love thy Brother, and, if that can be,

With Passion equal to my Hate for thee.

She said—And Rage possest Lycander's Soul,

His pale Lips tremble and his Eye-balls roll:

Three times he rais'd a Dagger to her Breast,

But mighty Love his daring Hand suppress'd;

And now shrill Cries invade his wond'ring Ears,

The noise of Battle and the clash of Spears;

Starting he turn'd, nor staid to make reply,

Tho' Fury sparkl'd in his threat'ning Eye:

To Arms his Friends in mingled Voices call,

And Danger hover'd o'er the frowning Wall.

III.

In that sad Hour, when the frighted Maid

Was drawn by Villains from the mourning Shade,

Polyphon to th' appointed Forest came;

He reach'd the Bower, but he miss'd the Dame;

Through balmy Paths with infant Roses bound,

Where blushing Daisies strew the painted Ground;

He rov'd, impatient of the Nymph's Delay,

And often doubted to return or stay:

By chance he turn'd his mournful Eye, and sees

His Friend Acanthus through the parting Trees:

The Youth drew nearer with an eager Pace

Amazement hover'd on his boding Face;

And thus impatient to Polyphon said,

Where is Sophinia, where thy darling Maid,

This Ev'ning restless, tho' I know not why,

When setting Phoebus stain'd the western Sky:

To these sweet Shades I took my heedless Way,

To share the Fragrance of declining Day:

Alone and pensive as I wander'd here,

A Woman's Voice surpris'd my list'ning Ear;

To yon rude Tow'rs I trac'd the sinking Sound,

Till the still'd Out-cries were in distance drown'd:

What think you now? I fear some threat'ning Ill

From headstrong Passion and imperious Will:

I fear Sophinia and yourself betray'd,

I know your Brother loves the beauteous Maid;

Then hear my Vow, the frantick Lover cries,

And turn'd his Eye-balls on the glimm'ring Skies:

Hear me, ye Pow'rs whose sacred Hands sustain

These Worlds of Nature in a mighty Chain;

If my fierce Brother has presum'd to bear,

And from her Bowers force my injur'd Fair,

These wakeful Eye-lids shall no more be clos'd:

This Spirit rested, nor these Limbs repos'd;

This vengeful Rapier shall be sheath'd no more,

Till the rude Traitor shall his Prize restore:

He said, and raging left the gloomy Shade,

Full of Resentment for his injur'd Maid:

Acanthus summon'd to a neighb'ring Plain

Their Friends a little, but a martial Train:

Twice twenty Youths their Gen'ral's Voice attend,

And share the Quarrel of their injur'd Friend.

Polyphon pleas'd to see the assembl'd Pow'rs,

Led his small Squadron to the hostile Towers:

The frowning Portals well secur'd they found,

The gloomy Court with Centries guarded round;

Who spite of Reason and their Country's Laws,

Were drawn to combat in a guilty Cause:

The first of these Cyrenus, fair and young,

Whose curling Locks below his Shoulders hung,

Too rashly bold encounter'd hand to hand,

Fierce Polyarchus of Polyphon's Band:

The pointed Jav'lin sped beneath his Chin,

And streaming Purple stain'd his beauteous Skin:

His very Cheeks are wash'd with deeper Dyes,

And lasting Slumber seals his swimming Eyes:

This piteous Sight enrag'd the vicious Train,

But mostly Iphis Brother of the slain;

Revenge, he cry'd, and hurl'd his deathful Dart:

It hiss'd along, but miss'd the Hero's Heart,

Despairing, raging, on the Youth he flew,

While down his Forehead roll'd the sultry Dew:

Blows answer Blows, and round their Temples sing

The glancing Weapons, and the Bucklers ring:

Aloof they fight, or now in Circles wheel'd,

Each thought to conquer; both disdain to yield,

Till Polyarchus with a side-way Blow

Transpierc'd the Liver of his heedless Foe:

He drew the Weapon from his tortur'd Side,

The gaping Wound disgorg'd a purple Tide:

His Eyes turn'd upward with a ghastly Roll,

Headlong he fell and sob'd away his Soul:

Now Joy transported the victorious Throng,

With Polyarchus all the Welkin rung:

Applause and Clamour shook the trembling Ground,

Lycander heard and curs'd the hated Sound:

Griev'd for his Friend he with the foremost press'd,

And all their Lances glitter round his Breast:

But the strong Shield their Points at distance holds,

Where two fair Eagles spread their Wings in Gold;

A weighty Spear his better Hand supplies,

And livid Light'nings sparkle in his Eyes.

Vinario first sustain'd the Warrior's Rage,

The beauteous Darling of his Father's Age;

His tender Arm the deadly Spear arrests,

And tore his Shoulder from his ivory Breast:

Too late his Friends to his Assistance run,

For his black Eyes no more behold the Sun.

Miranthus next did his bright Lance extend,

A blust'ring Soldier and Lycander's Friend:

Him Merias met, old Meriander's Heir,

The youthful Husband of Lycosia fair:

Now born untimely from his Father's Side,

His smiling Fortunes and his lovely Bride:

Just at his Hip the Steel an Entrance found,

And tore his Bowels with a ghastly Wound:

Back fell the Youth, his tinkling Arms reply;

Loud Shrieks and Clamours rend the frighted Sky:

Polyphon now with deadly Anguish stung,

His ready Jav'lin at the Victor flung:

The erring Weapon with a whistling Sound

Flew o'er his Head, and plough'd the distant Ground:

Enrag'd to see the bloodless Point descend,

And miss the Vengeance for his bleeding Friend;

His shining Eyes that did with Fury glow,

He turn'd, and thus defy'd the stronger Foe:

Hope not for Conquest, mighty Clown, he cries,

From thy stern Visage and gigantick Size:

A little Arm, if Heav'n direct the Blow,

May send thee howling to the Shades below:

Slave, cries Miranthus with a stormy Glare,

Go, wash thy Face, and curl thy waving Hair,

Thy coward Heart belies thy daring Tongue;

He spoke and drove his weighty Spear along,

The failing Mischief on the Buckler sung:

Not so Polyphon sent his faithful Dart,

The speedy Vengeance reach'd the Hero's Heart;

Down fell the Knight, his clanging Arms rebound,

And his proud Soul came rushing thro' the Wound.

Lycander saw, but turn'd his Eyes away,

Where in the Dust the mighty Soldier lay;

Then like a Whirlwind rush'd the Youth along,

And sought his Brother in the hostile Throng:

Polyphon's Spear his frantick Hand arrests,

And hurl'd the Weapon at its Owner's Breast;

The missive Death deceiv'd his bloody Hand,

Its thirsty Point lay shiver'd in the Sand:

Suspence and Horror held the martial Crew,

And the sick Moon receiv'd a paler Hue:

The Stars retir'd from the hated Sight,

And wrap'd their Glories in the Clouds of Night.

Polyphon cry'd, O stay thy hostile Arm,

The Name of Brother wears a potent Charm:

Our Mother did in Youth's fair Bloom expire,

And left us Infants to our tender Sire;

And till Sophinia blew this deadly Flame,

Our Fears were equal and our Hopes the same;

The same our Pleasures and the like our Woes;

We slept together and as fondly rose,

Then let, O let not murd'rous Rage divide

Our Hearts, but lay those threat'ning Arms aside:

Let ranc'rous Hate possess our Souls no more,

Thou to her Friends the beauteous Maid restore;

Then let her Voice our rival Cause decide,

And him she favours wed the smiling Bride:

He said; but Rage had stop'd Lycander's Ears;

Base Slave, he cry'd, thou Child of puny Fears,

Not Laon's Son thy Soul disclaim her Race,

My Mother ne'er produc'd a Thing so base,

Some fairy Elf or treach'rous Nurse beguil'd

My sleeping Parents of their lawful Child:

Then in his Place her dunghil Offspring laid,

And my young Brother to her Hut convey'd:

This was thy Mother coarser than her Fate,

And thou the Son of her plebeian Mate:

Here ceas'd the Youth;—for Actions spoke the rest,

And hurl'd a Jav'lin at Polyphon's Breast:

His Shield receiv'd it with a smart Rebound,

The missive Weapon trembl'd on the Ground;

Now hand to hand the rival Youths engage,

Lycander burn'd with more than mortal Rage:

Black Fury roll'd in each relentless Eye,

Both fought to conquer or resolv'd to die;

But now Lycander, tho' with Hate inspir'd,

By fits was fainting and by fits respir'd;

Polyphon's Sword a fatal Passage found,

Beneath his Arm a deep and ghastly Wound;

Stagg'ring he drop'd and grasp'd the bloody Ground.

Yet as he liv'd, without a Groan he fell,

Nor drew a Sigh, but only cry'd, 'Tis well;

'Tis well, my Fury with my Life shall end:

Farewel, my Brother and at last my Friend;

By our dear Parent see me quickly laid,

Be thine the Conquest, thine the beauteous Maid;

He paus'd, and then with feebler Accent cries,

My Friends, Farewel, and clos'd his swimming Eyes:

The mourning Victor bending o'er the slain,

Essay'd to raise him, but essay'd in vain:

His failing Arms resign'd their feeble Hold,

And Drops of Horror from his Temples roll'd:

From each cold Cheek the blushing Beauty flies,

And the Ground danc'd before his dazzl'd Eyes;

The weeping Youth, with friendly Force, divide

The gentle Mourner from his Brother's Side;

Then Friends and Foes united gather round,

And lift the bleeding Body from the Ground;

Some raise the drooping Head, and others press'd

Their careful Arms around his manly Breast;

Tho' with black Dust and hostile Crimson stain'd,

Its native Fierceness still the Face retain'd;

Back on his Shoulders fell his graceful Hair,

And the grand Features wore a scornful Air.

Now all too late the rash Adventure blame,

Pale Conquest sigh'd and loath'd her hated Name;

From the black Tow'rs their solemn Steps return,

And both the Victors and the Vanquish'd mourn.

The QUESTION.
Occasion'd by a serious Admonition.

IS Mirth a Crime? Instruct me you that know;

Or shou'd these Eyes with Tears eternal flow:

No (let ye Powers) let this Bosom find,

Life's one grand Comfort a contented Mind:

Preserve this Heart, and may it find no room

For pale Despondence or unpleasing Gloom:

Too well the Mischief and the Pangs we know

Of doubtful Musing and prophetick Woe.

But now these Evils for a Moment rest,

And brighter Visions please the quiet Breast,

Where sprightly Health its blessed Cordial pours,

And chearful Thought deceives the gliding Hours:

Then let me smile, and trifle while I may,

Yet not from Virtue nor from Reason stray:

From hated Slander I wou'd keep my Tongue;

My Heart from Envy, and from Guilt my Song:

Nature's large Volume with Attention read,

Its God acknowledge, and believe my Creed:

Through Weakness, not Impiety, offend;

But love my Parent, and esteem my Friend.

If (like the most) my undistinguish'd Days

Deserve not much of Censure or of Praise:

If my still Life, like subterraneous Streams,

Glides unobserv'd, nor tainted by Extremes,

Nor dreadful Crime has stain'd its early Page,

To hoard up Terrors for reflecting Age;

Let me enjoy the sweet Suspence of Woe,

When Heav'n strikes me, I shall own the Blow:

Till then let me indulge one simple Hour,

Like the pleas'd Infant o'er a painted Flow'r:

Idly 'tis true: But guiltlesly the Time

Is spent in trifling with a harmless Rhyme.

Heroick Virtue asks a noble Mind,

A Judgment strong, and Passions well refin'd:

But if that Virtue's measur'd by the Will,

'Tis surely something to abstain from Ill.

The SACRIFICE.
An EPISTLE to CELIA.

IF you, dear Celia, cannot bear,

The low Delights that others share:

If nothing will your Palate fit

But Learning, Eloquence, and Wit,

Why, you may sit alone (I ween)

'Till you're devour'd with the Spleen:

But if Variety can please

With humble Scenes and careless Ease;

If Smiles can banish Melancholy,

Or Whimsy with its Parent Folly;

If any Joy in these there be,

I dare invite you down to me.

You know these little Roofs of mine

Are always sacred to the Nine;

This Day we make a Sacrifice

To the Parnassian Deities,

Which I am order'd by Apollo,

To shew you in the Words that follow.

As first we purge the hallow'd Room,

With soft Utensil call'd a Broom;

And next for you a Throne prepare,

Which vulgar Mortals call a Chair,

While Zephyrs from an Engine blow,

And bid the sparkling Cinders glow;

Then gather round the mounting Flames,

The Priestess and assembl'd Dames,

While some inferior Maid shall bring

Clear Water from the bubbling Spring:

Shut up in Vase of sable Dye,

Secure from each unhallow'd Eye,

Fine wheaten Bread you next behold,

Like that which Homer sings of old,

And by some unpolluted Fair

It must be scorch'd with wond'rous Care:

So far 'tis done: And now behold

The sacred Vessels—not of Gold:

Of polish'd Earth must they be form'd,

With Painting curiously adorn'd,

These Rites are past: And now must follow

The grand Libation to Apollo,

Of Juices drawn from magick Weeds,

And Pith of certain Indian Reeds.

For Flow'r of Milk the Priestess calls,

Her Voice re-echoes from the Walls;

With hers the sister Voices blend,

And with the od'rous Steam ascend:

Each fair One now a Sibyl grows,

And ev'ry Cheek with Ardour glows,

And (tho' not quite beside their Wits)

Are seiz'd with deep prophetick Fits,

Some by mysterious Figures show

That Celia loves a shallow Beau;

And some by Signs and Hints declare,

That Damon will not wed Ziphair:

Their Neighbours Fortunes each can tell,

So potent is the mighty Spell.

This is the Feast and this, my Friend,

Are you commanded to attend:

Yes at your Peril: But adieu,

I've tir'd both myself and you.

The POWER of BEAUTY.

O GODDESS of eternal Smiles,

Bright Cythera the fair,

Who taught Sabina's pleasing Wiles,

By which she won Bellair.

Bellair, the witty and the vain,

Who laugh'd at Beauty's Pow'r;

But now the conquer'd humble Swain

Adores a painted Flow'r.

With Delia's Art my Song inspire,

Whose Lips of rosy Hue

Can ne'er the partial Audience tire,

Tho' wiser Claudia's do.

Tho' Claudia's Wit and Sense refin'd,

Flows easy from her Tongue;

Her Soul but coarsly is enshrin'd,

So Claudia's in the wrong.

Hark, Delia speaks—that blooming Fair,

See Crowds are gathering round

With open Mouths: and wildly stare

To catch the empty Sound.

See Lelia with a Judgment clear,

With manly Wisdom blest;

Wit, Learning, Prudence, all appear

In that unruffled Breast.

But yet no Beau for Lelia dies,

No Sonnets pave her way;

Say, Muse, from whence these Evils rise,

Why Lelia's Teeth decay.

Then, why do rev'rend Sages rail

At Woman's wanton Pride?

If Wisdom, Wit, and Prudence fail,

Let meaner Arts be try'd.

Those Arts to please are only meant;

But with an angry Frown,

The Queen of Wisdom lately sent

This Proclamation down:

Minerva, with the azure Eyes,

And thus the Statute runs,

If you wou'd have your Daughters wise,

Take care to mend your Sons.

The DEATH of ABEL.

WHEN from the Shade of Eden's blissful Bow'rs,

Its Fruit ambrosial and immortal Flow'rs,

Our gen'ral Mother (who too soon rebell'd,)

Was, with the Partner of her Crime, expell'd

To Fields less fruitful—where the rugged Soil

With Thorns and Thistles often paid their Toil;

Where the pale Flow'rs soon lost their chearful Hue,

And rushing Tempests o'er the Mountains flew:

Two Sons the Matron in her Exile bore,

Unlike in Feature but their Natures more;

The eldest Youth for Husbandry renown'd,

Tore up the Surface of the steril Ground;

His nervous Arms for rugged Tasks were form'd;

His Cheek but seldom with a Smile adorn'd;

Drops rais'd by Labour down his Temples run,

His Temples tarnish'd by the mid-day Sun,

Robust of Body, and of Soul severe,

Unknown to Pity, and the like to Fear.

Not so his Brother, cast in fairer Mold

Was he—and softer than his fleecy Fold;

Fair were his Cheeks that blush'd with rosy Dye,

Peace dwelt for ever in his chearful Eye,

Nor Guilt, nor Rage his gentle Spirit knew;

Sweet were his Slumbers, for his Cares were few;

Those were to feed and watch the tender Lamb,

And seek fresh Pasture for its bleating Dam,

From burning Suns his thirsty Flocks to hide,

And seek the Vales where limpid Rivers glide.

'Twas ere rude Hands had reap'd the waving Grain,

When Plenty triumph'd on the fertile Plain,

That to the Centre of a pleasant Down,

Where half was Pasture, half a plenteous Brown:

These Youths repair'd both emulous of Fame,

And rais'd an Altar to Jehovah's Name,

With Heart elate and self-presuming Eye,

First to the Pile unhappy Cain drew nigh.

Choice was his Off'ring, yet no Sign appear'd,

No Flame was seen, nor Voice celestial heard:

Astonish'd stood the late presumptuous Man,

Then came his Brother with a trembling Lamb;

His God accepts the Sacrifice sincere;

The Flames propitious round the Slain appear;

The curling Smoke ascended to the Skies:

This Cain beheld, and roll'd his glowing Eyes.

Stung to the Soul, he with his frantick Hand

A Stone up-rooted from the yielding Sand,

Nor spoke—for Rage had stop'd his failing Tongue;

The heavy Death impetuous whirl'd along:

This Abel met—his Heart receiv'd the Wound;

Amaz'd he fell, and grasp'd the bloody Ground.

The gentle Spirit sprung to endless Day,

And left behind her Case of beauteous Clay;

Pale stood the Brother—to a Statue chill'd,

A conscious Horror through his Bosom thrill'd:

His frighted Eyes abhorr'd the Beams of Light,

And long'd to find a never-ceasing Night.

Shock'd at the Sight of Murder first begun,

Down the steep Heavens roll'd the radiant Sun,

Old Night assuming her appointed Sway,

Stretch'd her black Mantle o'er the Face of Day:

Now for their Leader mourn'd the bleating Lambs,

That rov'd neglected by their pensive Dams;

The careful Parents search the Fields around;

They call—the Woods roll back an empty Sound.

Within a Forest's solitary Gloom,

Slept gentle Abel in a secret Tomb,

And there (beneath a Cypress Shade reclin'd)

Cain breath'd his Sorrows to the rushing Wind:

That in the Branches made a doleful Sound;

'Twas Silence else, and horrid Darkness round,

When lo! a sudden and a piercing Ray

O'er-spread the Forest with a Blaze of Day,

And then descended on the hallow'd Ground,

A Seraph with empyreal Glory crown'd:

Afflicted Cain (that knew not where to fly)

Gaz'd on the Vision with distracted Eye:

When thus the Angel—Why these mournful Cries,

These loud Complaints that pierce the nightly Skies.

Lye not to Heaven, but directly say,

Where roves thy Brother, where does Abel stray.

He said—and thus the guilty Wretch return'd;

O sacred Guardian, I for Abel mourn'd:

I ne'er beheld him since the Day began,—

But why this Visit to a simple Man?

Thus the Celestial—Wretch, canst thou presume,

Thy Brother's Blood may slumber in its Tomb:

Or thou may'st ward off Vengeance with a Lye,

And dare attempt deceiving God most high;

But now thy Doom, O wretched Mortal hear;

The fleeting Hours nor the rolling Year,

To thee nor Joy, nor chearful Ease shall bring:

Alike to thee the Winter and the Spring,

Still vex'd with Woe, thy heavy Days shall fly

Beneath a radiant or a gloomy Sky:

Curs'd shalt thou be amidst thy vagrant Band,

And curs'd the Labours of thy guilty Hand:

He ceas'd—But Cain all prostrate on the Ground,

Still in his Ears retain'd the dreadful Sound:

At length he rose, and trembling thus began;

This is too much—too much for mortal Man:

The mighty Debt, O let me quickly pay,

And sweep me instant from the Beams of Day:

The yet unborn, that I am curs'd, shall know,

And all shall hate me to augment the Blow:

Ev'n my own Sons, if such are giv'n to be

The Death of Abel, shall revenge on me:

Thus he to change the dreadful Sentence try'd,

Thus the seraphick Messenger reply'd;

This Mark, O Cain, I fix upon thy Brow:

And thus by Heav'n's mighty Monarch vow,

Who sheds thy Blood, that Criminal shall be

Curs'd—Sev'n times curs'd, and wretched more than thee.

Thus be that Mortal who shall tear the Rod

Of scorching Vengeance from the Hand of God;

That Man may learn to fear the King of Kings:

He said—and waving his immortal Wings,

That instant mingled with the starry Train,

And Darkness wrap'd the silent Shades again.

JOB'S CURSE, and his APPEAL.
Taken out of Job, Chap. i, and xxxi.

LET not that Day in circling Moments run,

When first these Eyes beheld th' odious Sun:

Let his gay Beams forsake the mourning Fields,

And starting backward roll his flaming Wheels;

Let sulphurous Hail descend in baneful Show'rs,

And horrid Darkness mix the jumbling Hours;

Let trembling Mortals gaze in vain for Light,

Curs'd be the Day and doubly curs'd the Night:

Thou my great Judge these Imprecations hear,

And rend her Minutes from the rolling Year;

To the sad Skies be every Star deny'd;

While scorching Plagues on quivering Meteors ride,

Let the black Air no melting Musick know,

But ring with Horror and Complaints of Woe:

Through the grim Shade let grisly Terrors run,

And weeping Sorrows that abhor the Sun:

Let pale-ey'd Spectres burst their yawning Tombs,

And dreadful Echos shake th' hideous Gloom;

The low'ring East pour down a lashing Storm;

Nor through her Gates admit th' struggling Morn:

Let the dark Hours no lively breaking see,

Because they gave these ceaseless Tears to me.

As others have, alas! why could not I

Yield my short Being, and an Infant die?

Why was a Mother's Care indulg'd to me?

And why supported on her friendly Knee?

Why did I in her tender Bosom grow,

A foster'd Subject of impending Woe?

Did friendly Death my marble Limbs enchain,

This bleeding Heart would know no smarting Pain;

Then lasting Sleep would seal my shaded Eyes,

Where frozen Pride and conquer'd Vengeance lies;

There weary Slaves forgotten Rest may find,

And injur'd Orphans leave their Tears behind;

Tyrannick Rage must in the Grave subside,

Where starving Wretches find their Wants supplyd,

Thrice happy Rest, O why to me deny'd!

Life still will hover round despairing Slaves,

Who slight her Favours, and would court their Graves;

Death gliding by us, shews his grizly Charms;

But the coy Phantom mocks our reaching Arms:

He flies the Dungeons of intreating Woe,

And strikes the Prosp'rous with unwelcome Blow:

To blooming Youth his partial Arrows fly,

O'er wither'd Mendicants, that vainly try

To meet the fatal Shaft, and only wish to die.

When Darkness sits as Regent of the Skies,

And round my Bed redoubled Horrors rise,

Till Night grows hideous with my constant Cries:

My tortur'd Limbs with ceaseless Pangs are torn,

But yet I live to see returning Morn:

The piercing Sun thrusts in a spiteful Ray,

To wound my Eyelids with unwelcome Day.

Tyrannick Death, whom trembling Mortals flee,

The Prince of Ills to ev'ry Wretch but me,

Plays with the Torments of my struggling Heart,

And o'er my Bosom shakes his ling'ring Dart.

O! sacred Judge, when will thy Wrath be done?

Why do I live to scare the wond'ring Sun?

Let not thy Mercy spare my wounded Clay,

But strike and sweep me from offensive Day.

My Heart is vexed with consuming Fears,

And nourish'd only with continual Tears;

Close at my Heels pursue a meagre Train

Of pining Sickness and distorting Pain,

Pale-ey'd Confusion with dishivel'd Hair,

And wild Impatience leading on Despair.

Did I with Crimes profane my Days of Rest?

Did e'er Presumption swell my rising Breast?

Did guilty Flame my tainted Soul surprise?

Or Snares of Beauty catch my wand'ring Eyes?

If e'er Injustice swell'd my spreading Lands,

If e'er Oppression stain'd my guiltless Hands;

Then let my God his flaming Vengeance throw,

Renew my Plagues, and double every Woe.

Did e'er my Servants of their Lord complain?

Did humble Rhetorick ever plead in vain?

In vain to me did helpless Widows cry?

Or at my Gate neglected Orphans lie?

No; their glad Eyes my plenteous Table knew,

And with my own the foster'd Infants grew.

Was e'er my Portals barr'd against the Poor?

Did not the Stranger bless my friendly Door?

Tho' cold and hungry in my Courts he mourn'd,

Joyful and full the smiling Wretch return'd.

When every Good obey'd my lordly Will,

Did I by Fraud my glitt'ring Coffers fill?

Did I by Fraud increase the tempting Store?

Or dote too fondly on the shining Ore?

Did restless Envy in my Bosom roll?

Or lurking Malice blot my tainted Soul?

No—this fond Heart has bled for distant Woe,

And learn'd Compassion for a sinking Foe.

Did e'er my Soul from its Creator run

To painted Idols, or the beaming Sun?

Or to the Moon my wav'ring Senses yield,

When her pale Rays adorn'd the glist'ring Field?

Yet stay, presumptuous Wretch, nor urge too far

Thy doubtful Sentence at the dreadful Bar:

What melting Rhet'rick, or what potent Friend,

At Heav'n's Tribunal shall thy Cause defend?

Where smother'd Evils, hid from mortal Eye,

Mature and open to Omniscience lie.

The TALE of CUSHI.
From II. Samuel, Chap. xviii.

HOW fares my Son? the trembling Monarch cry'd,

Why wouldst thou ask? afflicted Cush reply'd;

A Fate like his may all that hate thee feel,

Whose Blood, alas! has stain'd the guilty Steel.

He fell beneath the Hand of David's Friend,

But to my Story let my Lord attend.

When the pale Morning shew'd her languid Face,

And the dim Sun began his usual Race;

Whose sullen Orb receiv'd a crimson Dye,

And Tempests hover'd in the frowning Sky,

As tho' the Heavens wept a Mortal's Fate,

And Nature trembl'd at domestick Hate;

Within the Shade of Ephraim's dusky Wood,

In just Array the meeting Armies stood;

The frowning Hosts with equal Fury glow,

And each to Death defy'd his meeting Foe;

All tender Thoughts were lost in horrid Rage,

And with a Shout the charging Hosts engage:

Then Clouds of Arrows hide the darken'd Sky,

And hissing Lances lighten as they fly:

Dreadful the Sight and horrid was the Cry.

Here groan'd a Steed that felt its smarting Wound,

And there a Soldier pinion'd to the Ground:

At length, proud Israel began to fail,

Our juster Cause cou'd o'er their Strength prevail;

The vanquish'd Army rais'd a fearful Cry,

And thro' the Wood their mighty Numbers fly;

There horrid Brambles tore their Wounds anew,

And thousand Deaths their flying Heels pursue:

Then rag'd our Gen'ral thro' the dreadful Gloom,

Pale Terror hover'd on his waving Plume;

From his known Spear the shrieking Numbers run,

And from his Fury fled your conquer'd Son;

Grim Danger urg'd him on with fatal Speed,

And thro' black Shades he lash'd the weary Steed:

In the dark Center of this Forest stood

A lofty Oak, which overlook'd the Wood.

Thro' its thick Arms he ventur'd careless in,

They springing caught him by the beauteous Chin;

His curling Locks among the Branches flew;

His Spirit fails him, and his Foes pursue;

Around in vain he cast a mournful Eye,

And wish'd a Friend; for none, alas! was nigh:

But hostile Shouts invade his frighted Ears,

And soon beneath him shone a Grove of Spears:

Now, Traitor, fall—our mighty Leader cries:

(While glowing Vengeance sparkl'd in his Eyes)

Then step'd a Captain of the loyal Band,

And vainly strove to stay his fatal Hand.

That cruel Arm impell'd the flying Dart,

And the keen Weapon sunk within his Heart:

Then those fair Cheeks resign'd their rosy Dye,

Yet Life a Moment struggl'd in his Eye;

As from so fair a Mansion loth to fly,

Till the red Torrent stain'd his throbbing Tide;

Then with a Groan the beauteous Rebel dy'd.

Hold,—"stop thy Story,"—cries the weeping King,

Thy horrid Tale has left a mortal Sting;

My Soul tho' practis'd in the Paths of Woe,

Grows sick and staggers at this mighty Blow:

From its cold Fountain Life forgets to run;

Oh Absalom—Oh Absalom, my Son,

Eternal Shade has seal'd thy chearful Eyes;

And on the Ground thy breathless Beauty lies:

Curst be the Hand that all my Hopes beguil'd,

And left a Parent to lament his Child:

Without a Tear let none his Story tell,

But curse the Forest where my Darling fell:

While these wan Eyes with lasting Sorrows run,

Lost to the World, and Strangers to the Sun;

Let milder Songs attend his noon-tide Ray,

For mine will best become the closing Day,

While round my Lyre afflicted Fathers throng,

And Orphans listen to the mournful Song.

PROSERPINE'S RAGOUT.

AS once grave Pluto drove his royal Wheels,

O'er the large Confines of the Stygian Fields:

With kingly Port he sat, and by his Side,

Rode his fair Captive, now his awful Bride;

But from the Lakes a sulph'rous Mist invades,

And strikes the fainting Empress of the Shades.

The trembling Queen is seiz'd with sickly Yawns,

With griping Colicks and with feverish Qualms.

Back to the Palace was the general Cry,

Before the Lash her sable Coursers fly:

There rests the Dame, and sought her Royal Bed,

Where the soft Pillows rais'd her drooping Head:

Restoring Lenitives were sought in vain,

To cool her Vitals and asswage her Pain.

On nothing would the peevish Matron feed;

Then useful Mercury was call'd with speed,

And sent on Earth some curious Dish to frame,

Of light Digestion for the sickly Dame.

To Earth he posted where he quickly found,

Proper Ingredients on our fertile Ground;

Here first he seiz'd as nonsubstantial Foods,

The Courtiers Friendship and the Zeal of Prudes;

The Sighs of Widowers, and blends with those

The Vows of Lovers and the Brains of Beaux;

The Miser's Charity, the Drunkard's Cares;

The Wealth of Poets, and the Tears of Heirs;

Philander's Patience, when his Lord denies

The Frowns of Celia, when her Heart complies:

Then with a Breath along the Air he drives

The Love of Husbands, and the Charms of Wives;

Where Trifles dwell sagacious Hermes knew,

The winged Youth to lordly Senates flew;

From thence Debates and long Harangues to cull,

And steep'd them softly in a Statesman's Skull.

And now the frothy Dish began to seem,

A proper Viand for his sickly Queen:

To crown the rest, he met by lucky Chance

The Wit of England, and the Truth of France.

The CHARMS of ANTHONY.

YE Swains, attend; let ev'ry Nymph be near;

Be still, ye Rivers, that the Swains may hear:

Ye Winds, be calm, and brush with softer Wing;

We mean the Charms of Anthony to sing;

See all around the list'ning Shepherds throng;

O help, ye Sisters of immortal Song.

LUCY.

Sing, Phebe, sing what Shepherd rules the Plain,

Young Colin's Envy, and Aminda's Pain:

Whom none can rival when he mows the Field,

And to whose Flute the Nightingale must yield.

PHEBE.

'Tis Anthony—'tis he deserves the Lay,

As mild as Ev'ning, and as Morning gay;

Not the fresh Blooms on yonder Codling-tree,

Nor the white Hawthorn half so fair as he;

Nor the young Daisy dress'd in Morning Dew;

Nor the Pea Blossom wears a brighter Hue.

LUCY.

None knows like him to strew the wheaten Grain,

Or drive the Plough-share o'er the fertile Plain;

To raise the Sheaves, or reap the waving Corn,

Or mow brown Stubble in the early Morn.

PHEBE.

How mild the Youth, when on a sultry Day

In yonder Vale we turn'd the fragrant Hay:

How on his Voice the list'ning Shepherds hung,

Not tuneful Stella half so sweetly sung.

LUCY.

Whether he binds the Sheaf in twisted Band,

Or turns the Pitch-fork on his nimble Hand;

He's sure to win a Glance from ev'ry Eye,

While clumsy Colin stands neglected by.

PHEBE.

His curling Locks by far more lovely shew,

Than the white Wig on Squire Fopling's Brow;

And when the Shepherd on a rainy Day,

Weaves for his Hat a Wisp of flow'ry Hay,

The scarlet Feather not so gay appears,

Which on his Crown Sir Ambrose Fino wears.

LUCY.

For Anthony Meriah leaves her Cow,

And stands to gape at him upon the Mow:

While he (for who but must that Wench despise?)

Throws Straws and Cobwebs on her staring Eyes.

PHEBE.

To the Back-door I saw proud Lydia hie,

To see the Team with Anthony go by;

He slily laugh'd, and turn'd him from the Door,

I thought the Damsel would have spoke no more.

LUCY.

Me once he met, 'twas when from yonder Vale,

Each Morn I brought the heavy milking Pail:

He took it from my Head, and with a Smile

Reach'd out his Hand, and help'd me o'er the Stile.

PHEBE.

As I was dancing late amongst the Crew,

A yellow Pippin o'er my Head he threw:

Sue bit her Lips, and Barbaretta frown'd;

And Phillis look'd as tho' she wou'd have swoon'd.

Thus sung the Maids till Colinet came by,

And Rodrigo from weeding of the Rye;

Each took his Lass, and sped 'em to the Town,

To drink cool Cider at the Hare and Hound:

The Damsels simper like the sparkling Beer,

And Colin shines till Anthony is near.

On the Death of a justly admir'd AUTHOR.

WHEN pale-ey'd Winter rules the mourning Fields,

And shiv'ring Nature to his Sceptre yields,

Dejected Earth is strip'd of all her Pride,

And sculking Flowers in her Bosom hide;

Through naked Groves afflicted Warblers fly,

And Storms of Hail come rattling through the Sky:

But when soft April lifts her downy Wing,

And calls the blushing Infants of the Spring,

The verdant Groves their wonted Charms regain,

And laughing Nature paints the gaudy Plain;

Sweet-scented Vi'lets take their usual Blue,

And the fair Primrose drinks the Morning Dew;

Again revive their Beauty and their Smell,

But Man once blasted takes a long Farewel.

Ah silly Muse! thy fond Complaints give o'er,

Departed Sylvius shall return no more:

No Charms of Verse can win the heav'nly Mind,

Back to the slighted Case she left behind;

Not tho' each Line shou'd make our Bosoms glow,

Like his grand Numbers, and as sweetly flow.

His Name shall last to warm a distant Age,

Nor want th' Assistance of a Title-page;

For his bright Lines are by their Lustre known,

Ev'n Homer shines with Beauties not his own:

Unpolish'd Souls, like Codrus or like mine,

Fill'd with Ideas that but dimly shine,

Read o'er the Charms of his instructive Pen,

And taste of Raptures never known till then.

Ill-nature listen'd, and approv'd the Song;

And blushing Envy check'd her burning Tongue:

Happy are those, tho' Grief their Hours attend,

Whom once he honour'd with the Name of Friend;

Whose pleasing Thoughts at least may ponder o'er

The smiling Days, that shall return no more:

Ev'n we condemn'd at distance to admire,

Bewail the Hopes that with our Guide expire:

Ah! who shall now our rustick Thoughts refine,

And to grave Sense and solid Learning join

Wit ever sparkling, and the Sweets of Rhyme?

Farewel, ye Themes, which none but he can sing,

And sylvan Scenes that wear eternal Spring;

Fair Nymphs, that in his fairer Paintings glow,

And ye smooth Lines that Sylvius taught to flow:

But hush, sad Muse, thy dull Complaint give o'er:

Hence sigh in secret, and his Loss deplore,

Who ne'er, O ne'er, shall grace our Regious more.

An EPITAPH.

NOW triumph, Death, for here lies slain

More worth than Crowns can buy:

Celestial Zephyrs, waft her Soul

Back to its native Sky.

Who now shall charm, where Flavia once

Her chearful Smiles bestow'd?

When pleasing Candor swell'd her Breast,

And in her Aspect glow'd:

Now to that Heav'n, where Virtue shines

With an eternal Blaze,

Her lofty Soul has wing'd its Flight,

And left this earthly Maze.

So from the smiling Infant's Hand

We force the costly Gem,

Which he, not knowing how to prize,

Might to the Dust condemn.

On WINTER.

WHAT Pictures now shall wanton Fancy bring?

Or how the Muse to Artemisia sing?

Now shiv'ring Nature mourns her ravish'd Charms,

And sinks supine in Winter's frozen Arms.

No gaudy Banks delight the ravish'd Eye,

But northern Breezes whistle thro' the Sky.

No joyful Choirs hail the rising Day,

But the froze Crystal wraps the leafless Spray:

Brown look the Meadows, that were late so fine,

And cap'd with Ice the distant Mountains shine;

The silent Linnet views the gloomy Sky,

Sculks to his Hawthorn, nor attempts to fly:

Then heavy Clouds send down the feather'd Snow;

Through naked Trees the hollow Tempests blow;

The Shepherd sighs, but not his Sighs prevail;

To the soft Snow succeeds the rushing Hail;

And these white Prospects soon resign their room

To melting Showers or unpleasing Gloom;

The Nymphs and Swains their aking Fingers blow,

Shun the cold Rains and bless the kinder Snow;

While the faint Travellers around them see,

Here Seas of Mud and there a leafless Tree:

No budding Leaves nor Honeysuckles gay,

No yellow Crow-foots paint the dirty Way;

The Lark sits mournful as afraid to rise,

And the sad Finch his softer Song denies.

Poor daggled Urs'la stalks from Cow to Cow,

Who to her Sighs return a mournful Low;

While their full Udders her broad Hands assail,

And her sharp Nose hangs dropping o'er the Pail.

With Garments trickling like a shallow Spring,

And his wet Locks all twisted in a String,

Afflicted Cymon waddles through the Mire,

And rails at Win'fred creeping o'er the Fire.

Say gentle Muses, say, is this a Time

To sport with Poesy and laugh in Rhyme;

While the chill'd Blood, that hath forgot to glide,

Steals through its Channels in a lazy Tide:

And how can Phoebus, who the Muse refines,

Smooth the dull Numbers when he seldom shines.

MIRA to OCTAVIA.

FAIR One, to you this Monitor I send;

Octavia, pardon your officious Friend:

You think your Conduct merits only Praise,

But out-law'd Poets censure whom they please:

Thus we begin—your Servant has been told,

That you, (despising Settlements and Gold)

Determine Florio witty, young and gay,

To have and hold for ever and for ay;

And view that Person as your mortal Foe,

Who dares object against your charming Beau;

But now to furnish Metre for my Song,

Let us suppose Octavia may be wrong:

'Tis true, you're lovely; yet the learn'd aver,

That even Beauties like the rest may err.

I know, to shun, you hold it as a Rule,

The arrant Coxcomb and the stupid Fool:

No such is Florio, he has Wit—'tis true,

Enough, Octavia, to impose on you:

Yet such a Wit you'll, by Experience, find

Worse than a Fool that's complaisant and kind:

It only serves to gild his Vices o'er,

And teach his Malice how to wound the more.

I need not tell you, most ingenious Fair,

That hungry Mortals are not fed with Air,

But solid Food: And this voracious Clay

Asks Drink and Victuals more than once a Day:

Now cou'd your Florio by his Wit inspire

The chilly Hearth, to blaze with lasting Fire:

Or when his Children round the Table throng,

By an Allusion or a sprightly Song,

Adorn the Board, i'th' twinkling of an Eye,

With a hot Pasty or a Warden Pye,

There might be Reason on Octavia's Side,

And not a Sage cou'd blame the prudent Bride.

Yet (or some Authors often deal in Lies)

Lovers may live on Nuts and Blackberries;

For roving Knights bewilder'd in their way,

Who in black Forests half a Season stray;

Unless they find Provision on the Trees,

Must sup on Grass and breakfast on the Breeze.

But as you've long been us'd to nicer Fare,

Your Constitution wou'd but hardly bear

Such Food as this: And therefore I advise

That you'd consider (for you're mighty wise)

If sober Dusterandus wou'd not make

A better Husband than your darling Rake,

Grave Dusterandus: He whose stedfast Mind

Is yet untainted, tho' not much refin'd;

Whose Soul ne'er roves beyond his native Fields;

Nor asks for Joys but what his Pasture yields;

On Life's dull Cares with Patience can attend,

A gentle Master and a constant Friend;

Who in soft Quiet spends the guiltless Days,

His Servants blessing and his Neighbours praise:

Say, would you, in his happy Mansion, reign,

Toast of the Village and the rural Plain?

With honest Friends your chearful Days beguile,

While Peace and Plenty on your Table smile:

Or cold and hungry writhe your tired Jaws,

And dine with Florio upon Hips and Haws,

In troth I think there's little room to pause.

In spite of all romantick Poets sing;

This Gold, my Dearest, is an useful thing:

Not that I'd have you hoard the precious Store,

For not a Wretch is like the Miser poor:

Enjoy your Fortune with a chearful Mind,

And let the Blessing spread amongst the Kind:

But if there's none but Florio that will do,

Write Ballads both, and you may thrive—Adieu.

The SETTING SUN.
To SILVIA.

SEE, Silvia, see the sparkling Lamp of Day;

From our fond Eyes he draws the trembling Ray:

The curling Clouds pursue his short'ning Beams,

And catch new Colours from the parting Gleams:

From marshy Vales unhealthy Fogs arise,

And gloomy Vapours fill the mourning Skies.

A creeping Mist o'erspreads the silent Field,

And drooping Flow'rs their Ev'ning Incense yield.

On ev'ry Leaf the pearly Drops appear,

And Nature weeps an universal Tear.

So will it be when those fair Suns of thine,

By Fate eclips'd, their chearful Beams resign:

When the just Heav'ns remand their beauteous Store,

And Silvia's Eyes must chear the World no more:

Death may forbid those dazzling Orbs to roll,

But cannot strip the Radiance from thy Soul.

Amid the Stars, in spite of Fate or Time,

The Charms of Silvia shall eternal shine.

An EPITAPH.

A Heart to Mercy as to Zeal inclin'd,

As well a gentle as a prudent Mind;

Still free to pardon, cautious to offend

A tender Parent and a faithful Friend.

All Parts perform'd, she willingly withdrew,

Turn'd from the World, and bid her Friends adieu.

Ah thou! (if Spirits or regard or know

The Sigh of Friendship or a Daughter's Woe)

Mix'd with those Tears that wash the sacred Shrine,

Accept the Tribute of a grateful Line.

On SICKNESS.

WHEN Heav'n's almighty King prepares,

The angry Shaft to throw;

Ev'n Fortitude itself despairs

To bear the deadly Blow.

Cold Tremors shake each fainting Limb,

That weeps a sickly Dew;

The Features, chang'd to pale and dim,

Resign their chearful Hue.

No more soft Eloquence shall flow,

Nor dress the silent Tongue;

But the dull Heart refuse to glow,

Tho' charm'd by melting Song.

Those laughing Eyes, that lately shone

So sprightly and so gay,

Sunk down with Sickness, faint and wan,

Decline the piercing Day.

And scarcely bear a chearful Beam,

To light the drooping Soul;

While round the weak afflicted Brain

Romantick Vapours roll.

Deceitful Earth and all its Joys

Elude our grasping Hands:

Tho' Nature all her Skill employs,

To bind the failing Bands.

Death drives us to the horrid Steep;

And while we vainly mourn,

He pointing shews th'unmeasur'd Deep,

From whence we ne'er return.

There the grim Spectre, with a Smile,

His panting Victim sees:

Who fain wou'd linger here a while,

To swallow nauseous Lees.

Who Death's great Empire wou'd dispute,

And hugs the gilded Pill,

Not knowing That his faithful Mute,

Whose Business is to kill.

The lost, the slipp'ry Hold to save,

To lenient Arts we run;

They cast us headlong on the Wave,

And we are twice undone.

The Pow'r who stamp'd the reas'ning Mind,

Its Partner can restore;

There we a lasting Cordial find,

And learn to sigh no more.

But if the slow-consuming Ill

Shou'd lead us to the Grave,

Our Faith persuades us that he will

The trembling Spirit save.

O thou, whose Bounty all things taste,

Whose Anger none can bear;

Revive the melancholy Breast,

Nor let the Wretch despair.

To a Gentleman with a Manuscript Play.

AS some grave Matron bred on rural Downs,

Who at the mention of a Top-knot frowns,

And the proud Minxes of the Market-Towns;

Whose humble Senses are not much refin'd,

But us'd to Labour with a chearful Mind;

Clad in plain Coifs and Gown of russet Hue,

With home-spun Aprons of a decent Blue;

From the white Curds extracts the greener Whey,

Nor dreams of Fashion, Poetry, or Play;

From wicked Verse she turns her cautious Eyes,

And wonders People can delight in Lies:

At length her Landlord, the right noble Squire,

Takes her young Daughter at her own Desire;

Prefers the Damsel to attend his Spouse,

And she with Joy resigns her brindl'd Cows:

For London now prepares the smiling Dame,

While her sad Mother trembles at the Name:

But O! what Griefs attend the parting Leave,

No Muse can paint 'em, nor no Heart conceive:

In vain her Spouse or friendly Neighbour tries,

To quell the Sorrows in her streaming Eyes:

Rossell she fears will slight her Jersey Gown,

And wear white Aprons in the sinful Town;

On the pure Ghost of Win'fred then she calls,

To guard her Child within its guilty Walls.

So this rude Babe I to your Mercy yield,

Rough as the Soil of some untillag'd Field:

Can Nature please?—Not 'till she's well refin'd,

Reforming Art shou'd follow close behind;

But that proud Dame with me disdains to dwell,

And far she flies—Ah far from Mira's Cell.

What then remains? What Hope for me or mine,

But the kind Silence of forgetful Time?

To save us from the sly buffooning Leer,

The spiteful Grimace, and the scornful Sneer;

The threat'ning Critic with his dreadful Rules,

The Wit's keen Satire and the Burst of Fools.

The wretched Villain pinion'd up on high,

Two Hours pendent 'twixt the Earth and Sky,

With Eggs and Turnips whirling round his Pate,

Is but an Emblem of an Author's Fate.

A dread Example to the rhyming Fry,

So Poets tell me, but I hope they lye:

The World's good-natur'd, if it is not cross'd,

But Wits are often saucy to their Cost.

Tho' unassur'd, yet not in deep Despair,

I trust this Infant to its Patron's Care:

Ah let your Roofs the simple Vagrants shield,

I ask no more than Charity may yield,

Some little Corner in the friendly Dome,

(Lest the loose Varlet be induc'd to roam)

Where the cold Storms may hover round in vain,

The chilling Snow or penetrating Rain;

Where the fierce Rat (all dreadful) never climbs,

Nor the sleek Mouse sad Foe to Mira's Rhymes.

But I have done—for who implores a Friend

With long Petitions, justly may offend:

To no strait Bounds Good-nature is confin'd;

And who shall dictate to a gen'rous Mind?

Which not content in narrow Space to roll,

Like the broad Ocean spreads from Pole to Pole:

While the glad Nations bless the ample Tide,

And wafted Treasures o'er its Surface glide:

That still waves on, regardless of their Praise,

As you perhaps of Mira's idle Lays.

SILVIA and the BEE.

AS Silvia in her Garden stray'd,

Where each officious Rose,

To welcome the approaching Maid,

With fairer Beauty glows.

Transported from their dewy Beds,

The new blown Lilies rise:

Gay Tulips wave their shining Heads,

To please her brighter Eyes.

A Bee that sought the sweetest Flow'r,

To this fair Quarter came:

Soft humming round the fatal Bow'r,

That held the smiling Dame.

He search'd the op'ning Buds with Care,

And flew from Tree to Tree:

But Silvia (finding none so fair)

Unwisely fix'd on thee.

Her Hand obedient to her Thought,

The River did destroy;

And the slain Insect dearly bought

Its momentary Joy.

But now too rash unthinking Maid,

Consider what you've done;

Perhaps you in the Dust have laid

A fair and hopeful Son.

Or from his Friends and Senate wise

Have swept a valu'd Peer;

Whose life, that you so lightly prize,

Was to his Country dear,

Then, Silvia, cease your Anger now,

To this your guiltless Foe;

And smooth again that gentle Brow,

Where lasting Lilies blow.

Soft Cynthio vows when you depart,

The Sun withdraws its Ray,

That Nature trembles like his Heart,

And Storms eclipse the Day.

Amintor swears a Morning Sun's

Less brilliant than your Eyes;

And tho' his Tongue at random runs,

You seldom think he lyes.

They tell you, those soft Lips may vie

With Pinks at op'ning Day;

And yet you slew a simple Fly,

For proving what they say.

Believe me, not a Bud like thee

In this fair Garden blows;

Then blame no more the erring Bee,

Who took you for the Rose.

The CRUEL PARENT.
A DREAM.

'TWAS when the Sun had his swift Progress made,

And left his Empire to the Queen of Shade;

Bright Cynthia too, with her refulgent Train,

Shot their pale Lustre o'er the dewy Plain:

Sat lonely Mira with her Head reclin'd,

And mourn'd the Sorrows of her helpless Kind:

Then to her Fancy Celia's Woes appear,

The Nymph, whose Tale deserves a pitying Tear;

Whose early Beauties met a swift Decay;

A Rose that faded at the rising Day,

While Grief and Shame oppress'd her tender Age,

Pursu'd by Famine and a Father's Rage;

Till too much Thought the aking Heart oppress'd.

And Mira's Eye-lids clos'd in silent Rest:

Then active Fancy, with her airy Train,

Compos'd the Substance of the ensuing Dream.

In a black Shade my wand'ring Self I found,

A Wood encircl'd by a thorny Bound;

Where Oaks up-rais'd their kingly Heads on high,

And the pleas'd Linnets thro' the Branches fly:

There lofty Elms the wond'ring Skies invade,

And the dark Cypress cast a browner Shade:

Grave Laurels there the humbler Shrubs o'erlook;

There the pale Ash, and there the Poplar shook;

Here pliant Elder whom her Fruits adorn,

And the brown Hasel wove with shagged Thorn:

Rude Briers there their clasping Tendrels twine,

Whose rugged Arms with useless Roses shine.

Beyond the Confines of the dusky Brake,

A Plain was bounded with a putrid Lake,

Where Planks of Timber stretch'd on mould'ring Beams,

Form'd a weak Passage o'er the standing Streams,

Whose slimy Waters to its Arches clung,

Where wrap'd in Weeds the clodded Vermin hung,

On this brown Plain surrounded by the Wood,

And the green Lake—an aged Castle stood;

Whose iron Gates were strictly shut to all,

And frowning Roofs hung o'er the crumbling Wall:

Here perch'd Revenge and ever-wasting Care,

And Melancholy with dishivel'd Hair.

Before the Portals wait a grisly Band,

Fraud with a Pencil in her shaking Hand:

Long Scrolls of Parchment at her Feet were laid,

Behind her Shoulder stood her ghastly Maid:

Oppreffion nam'd—and stretch'd her filthy Claw,

And next pale Av'rice with insatiate Maw;

Two cumbrous Bags his twining Arms infold,

Of canker'd Silver and of useless Gold:

Grimly he stands, and by his Side appears

Fierce Cruelty, all drench'd in Orphans Tears;

Within (attended by relentless Hate)

Suspicion squinted through the barbarous Grate:

To these rude Doors approach'd with bashful Mien,

Soft Celia once the brightest of the Plain,

But now the Roses from her Cheeks were flown,

Nor cou'd the Fair One by her Charms be known;

Those Charms are now in sable Weeds array'd,

Her Arm supported by a mournful Maid:

From her wan Eyes the Tears incessant flow,

And all her Form was Penitence and Woe.

But see Lysegus, her relentless Sire,

Whose Eye-balls sparkl'd with disdainful Ire;

His potent Hand the sounding Locks obey,

With grating Noise the horrid Gates gave way:

Then prostrate at his Feet the Damsel lay.

Three times to speak the lovely Mourner try'd;

Thrice on her Lips the fainting Murmurs dy'd;

Sigh follows Sigh, and Tear succeeds to Tear:

At length she cry'd—Ah! may Lysegus hear;

If Nature or if Penitence may sue,

Ah! let my Sorrows find Relief from you;

The nightly Stars my constant Wailings know,

The rising Sun is Witness to my Woe:

But who shall paint what wretched Celia feels,

While Shame and Famine hunt her flying Heels:

The Fools deride me, and the virtuous shun,

Then to the Fields and lonely Shades I run;

Yet find no Comfort from the lonely Shade,

At my Approach the Blossoms seem to fade:

I fly to Wilds unknown to human Kind,

But cannot leave my hated Self behind;

And am—Oh am I—by my Parent curs'd;

Of all my Woes the deepest and the worst:

She said—Lysegus answer'd in a Rage,

Hence vile Disturber of my luckless Age:

Think not by Tears this stubborn Heart to win,

Nor jar my Senses with thy hateful Din:

Go learn of Vagrants (fit Companions) go,

Their Arts of Stealing and their Whine of Woe.

Yet when before the Gate of Pride you stand,

And crave your Morsel at the Porter's Hand;

May some stern Slave prevent the coming Prize,

Thrown to the Dogs before thy longing Eyes:

He ceas'd—but Celia views no more the Sun,

For now her Sorrow with her Life was done:

Her Eyes no more afford their lucid Streams,

Nor the Pulse struggles in her quiet Veins.

The Tyrant view'd her with a ghastly Look,

His Heart beat heavy, and his Sinews shook;

When lo a Spectre horrible to view,

Rose quick as Vapours of a Morning Dew;

Whose Presence cast unpleasing Darkness round,

A Cypress Wreath his faded Temples crown'd:

Strange Forms were painted on his sable Robe,

One Hand extended bore a crystal Globe;

Where the pale Sinner might his Picture find,

Yet not his Features, but his darker Mind:

In vain to shun the faithful Glass he tries,

It plays unask'd before his aking Eyes:

His quick left Hand with this perform'd its Part,

His Right was dreadful with a poison'd Dart:

Then with a loud and horrid Voice he cry'd,

Lysegus, mourn thy Cruelty and Pride:

From the fair Court of Equity I came,

Call'd by thy Sins, and Conscience is my Name:

This venom'd Dart shall now thy Entrails tear,

And teach thy Eyes to know the melting Tear:

Prepare thy Spirits for their Weight of Woe,

With Celia's Name I arm the dreadful Blow:

He said and struck—the visionary Dart

Sought the dark Bottom of Lysegus' Heart:

He fell—and falling rais'd a fearful Cry;

Then Mira 'woke, and found the Morning Sky.

A REQUEST to the DIVINE BEING.

I.

THOU great and sacred Lord of all,

Of Life the only Spring,

Creator of nunumber'd Worlds,

Immensely glorious King.

II.

Whose Image shakes the stagg'ring Mind,

Beyond Conception high;

Crown'd with Omnipotence, and veil'd

With dark Eternity.

III.

Drive from the Confines of my Heart,

Impenitence and Pride:

Nor let me in erroneous Paths

With thoughtless Idiots glide.

IV.

Whate'er thy all-discerning Eye

Sees for thy Creature fit,

I'll bless the Good, and to the Ill

Contentedly submit.

V.

With humane Pleasure let me view

The prosp'rous and the great;

Malignant Envy let me fly

With odious Self-conceit.

VI.

Let not Despair nor curs'd Revenge

Be to my Bosom known;

Oh give me Tears for others Woe,

And Patience for my own.

VII.

Feed me with necessary Food,

I ask not Wealth nor Fame:

But give me Eyes to view thy Works,

And Sense to praise thy Name.

VIII.

And when thy Wisdom thinks it sit,

To shake my troubled Mind;

Preserve my Reason with my Griefs,

And let me not repine.

IX.

May my still Days obscurely pass,

Without Remorse or Care;

And let me for the parting Hour,

My trembling Ghost prepare.

Information about this book

Title statement

Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor ...

Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5125

ID [isbn10]

110602124X

ID [isbn13]

9781106021243

ID [TCP]

K101776.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310271895

ID [ECLL]

0157500400

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Source

— Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor ..., Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746.. 15,[5],282p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed: and sold by J. Roberts,. 1748.. [Edited by Isaac Hawkins Browne.] [A second volume was published in 1751.] [With a list of subscribers.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, p.413] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT127827.] [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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