The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: ... by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley's collection. Written and selected by Francis Fawkes, M. A. and William Woty. In twelve volumes. [pt.2]

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- ODE TO FEBRUARY.

- STANZAS, OCCASIONED BY THE FORWARDNESS OF THE SPRING.

- SPRING. ADDRESSED TO MYRA.

- ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY. BEING THE BIRTH-DAY OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY.

- HORACE, ODE IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.

- DEITY. A POEM.

- A SOLILOQUY. WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

- THE SHEPHERD'S INVITATION. A SONG.

- THE NYMPH'S ANSWER.

- A POEM.

- IN IMITATION OF MARLOE.

- AMARYLLIS: OR THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

- THE HONEY-STEALER; OR THE XIXTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

- AGAINST LIFE. FROM THE GREEK OF POSIDIPPUS.

- FOR LIFE. FROM THE GREEK OF METRODORUS.

- A PARODY ON THE EPIGRAM OF PODISIPPUS.

- A PASSAGE FROM PETRONIUS, TRANSLATED.

- ANTIPATER'S GREEK EPIGRAM, ON THE INVENTION OF WATER-MILLS, TRANSLATED.

- LUCIAN'S GREEK EPIGRAM, INSCRIBED ON A COLUMN ERECTED IN A PIECE OF LAND, THAT HAD BEEN OFTEN BOUGHT AND SOLD; IMITATED.

- ANACREON, ODE XXVIII. IMITATED.

- ROBIN. A PASTORAL ELEGY.

- TO DAPHNE. ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

- ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE II. AND THE INAUGURATION OF HIS PRESENT MAJESTY.

- ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, MDCCLXIII.

- THE MAN OF SORROW.

- THE MAN OF PLEASURE.

- THE BACCHANALIAN.

- THE ADVENTURER AND THE TREASURE. A FABLE.

- THE CONQUEROR AND THE OLD WOMAN. A FABLE.

- PEACE. A FABLE.

- MERCURY AND THE SHADES. TO MISS M—.

- THE CONNOISSEURS. A FABLE.

- LOVE ELEGY.

- VERSES, OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MRS. OLDFIEDD.

- ON THE OLD BUST, WITH A SOUR AIR, ON MR. DRYDEN'S MONU MENT, IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

- ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE LATE STEPHEN POYNTZ, ESQ.

- CONTENTS.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

END OF VOL. II.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. II. FOR FEBRUARY.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

CONTAINING A COLLECTION Of scarce and valuable PIECES OF POETRY: With Variety of ORIGINALS AND TRANSLATIONS, BY THE MOST EMINENT HANDS. Intended as a Supplement to MR. DODSLEY'S COLLECTION.

Written and Selected By FRANCIS FAWKES, M.A. And WILLIAM WOTY.

IN TWELVE VOLUMES.

LONDON: Printed by DRYDEN LEACH; For J. COOTE, at the King's Arms, in Pater-noster-Row. MDCCLXIII.

ODE TO FEBRUARY.

WIth wreath of yellow crocus bound,

See furr-clad February creep!

His beard with snow is silver'd o'er,

Which still invests the hoary ground:

Two dolphins wait him on the deep,

And as they once Arion bore,

Invite him to serener skies,

Where the delighted spring-bird flies.

But he, intent to prune and plant,

And throw his seeds around the soil,

With decent grace the boon resigns,

Lest autumn's treasures should be scant;

Thence he renews his daily toil,

And trims with care the tender vines;

From rust he wipes his crooked knife,

And gives the infant sap new life.

Now earlier with her golden key

Aurora hastens to the east:

And later now advances night

To draw her mantle o'er the day,

Suspending the nocturnal feast:

Diana sooner hails the light;

And hark the jolly huntsman's horn

With sprightly note salutes the morn!

What are the checquer'd months to me?

Or if they lower, or if they shine,

So Myra but approves my flame:

Throb not my heart; be calm and free,

For yonder comes old Valentine!

The feather'd songsters shall proclaim

His festival with blither note,

And dress anew their bridal coat.

To Myra I enclos'd my heart,

Each letter bore an ardent vow;

St. Valentine the thought inspir'd,

And wrote the verse with Cupid's dart.

Next morning with serener brow

She own'd her melting bosom fir'd;

And gave her every charm to join

The avison of Valentine.

W.

STANZAS, OCCASIONED BY THE FORWARDNESS OF THE SPRING.

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

Bleak winter blooms lovely as spring:

Rich flowerets, how fragrant! rise wantonly round!

And summer's wing'd choristers sing!

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

The groves with gay blossoms are grac'd!

The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile,

And cowslips crowd forward in haste!

Dispatch, gentle Flora! the nymphs of your train,

Thro' woodlands to gather each sweet:

Then rob of its roses the dew-spangled plain,

And strew the gay spoils at his feet!

Two chaplets of lawrel, in verdure the same,

For George, O ye virgins, entwine!

From conquest's own temples these ever-greens came,

And those from the brows of the nine:

What glories, ye Britons, one emblem implies,

Shall to your lov'd monarch belong!

What Miltons, the other, what Drydens arise,

To make him immortal in song!

To a wreath of fresh oak, England's emblem of power,

Whose honours with time shall increase,

Add a fair olive-sprig, just unfolding its flower:

Rich token of concord and peace!

Next give him young myrtles, by beauty's brigh queen

Collected, the pride of her grove!

How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green!

Sweet promise of conjugal love!

Let Gaul's captive lillies, cropt close from the ground,

As trophies of conquest be tied:

The virgins all cry—"There's not one to be found,

" Out-bloom'd by his roses they died!"

Ye foes of old England! such fate shall ye share:

With George as our glories advance,

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

And die like the lillies of France.

SPRING. ADDRESSED TO MYRA.

AGain the circling sun in Pisces[*] rides,

And up the steep of heaven his coursers guides.

Stern winter stalks with sullen pace away,

And night resigns her empire to the day.

Now various beauty, from the teeming earth,

Awakes to life, and rises into birth.

Now floods, from frost unbound, spontaneous flow;

The scaly breed now vig'rous sport below.

New life the vernal sun diffusing wide,

New life now quickens in the glassy tide;

That life, alas! to fatal wilds a prey,

The same soft season gives and takes away.

The fishers now the specious bait apply,

And, unsuspected, glides the mimic fly;

Mean-while the passing cloud and transient shower,

Dim the clear mirror in a faithless hour;

Thro' the false medium now the fry behold,

The glittering wings mistook for native gold.

Each springs, impatient of the gawdy prize,

And each, grown wise too late, repenting dies.

Take heed, ye fair, by this example taught,

Such are the wiles by which your sex is caught;

In spring's soft season with most caution trust,

If men are faithless, to yourselves be just.

Superior beauty now adorns the skies;

Bright and more bright the vernal mornings rise;

Now Kenna's [*] love, fair Albion's silver flower,

In modest white adorns the genial hour,

The lovely leader of the flowery race,

The first in honour, and the first in place,

With these, Pomona's blooming train appear,

Sweet pledge of plenty to the closing year,

Soft Zephyr's breath, and kind prolific rains,

With various hues and fragrance fill the plains;

All, all rejoice, with nature in her prime,

And pleasure wings the feather'd feet of time.

Will gentle Myra listen while I sing,

Wishful to join the music of the spring?

By thee alone kind nature can bestow,

One heart-felt joy, that here I wish to know.

Thy smile dispenses all that spring can give;

For not to live with hope, is not to live.

Notes

*
The sign in the Zodiac, which the sun occupies in February.
↵

*
The snow-drop.—See Tickel's poem on Kensington gardens.
↵

ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY. BEING THE BIRTH-DAY OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY.

LAst of the dreary winter's train,

Hail, February, hail!

In thee the swains salute again

The habitable vale!

Call forth, amidst the leafless glades,

Thy crocuses, and [*]fairest maids,

From out thy spring-expecting bowers;

Or else (an honour more divine!)

Around thy brows my nymph shall twine

Her artificial flowers.

The smile of May, the laugh of June,

And autumn's joy full-blown,

In rapture shall thy rough blasts tune,

For Nancy was thy own:

With beauty built upon her bloom,

With sweets deriv'd from her perfume,

You brave the forward charms of spring;

Since author of so sweet a toast,

The year no brighter gem can boast

In all its circling ring.

Notes

*
Snow-drops, in Suffolk, are called fair-maids of February.
↵

HORACE, ODE IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.

NOW ice-forming winter is melted away,

And gentle Favonius refreshes the day;

Spring sweetly in dimples now smiles on the streams,

And wherries sail light on the bosom of Thames:

No longer the cattle warm cover require,

The lubber no longer hangs over the fire;

No longer in snow the green meadows are lost,

And the fields are disarm'd of their breast-plate of frost.

At noon the gay ladies, like so many graces,

In the Park, if the sun shines, display their fair faces;

But so languid a lustre the sun now supplies,

'Tis excell'd, far excell'd, by the ladies bright eyes.

With wreaths of fresh flowers let us cover our heads,

Crocus, snow-drop, and primrose, that grow in the meads;

But if in the meadows fresh flowerets are rare,

Our soldiers have plenty of laurels to spare:

St. Valentine bids us be jovial and gay,

And finish with wine, love, and friendship, the day;

Fill, fill the large bowl, and let enmity cease;

Let us drink the king's health, who has crown'd us with peace.

Life is short, and grim death alike knocks at the door

Of the monarch's proud dome, and the cot of the poor:

Let us live then, nor longer procrastinate bliss,

When we're dead we shall drink no such liquor as this.

DEITY. A POEM.

BY THE LATE MR. SAMUEL BOYSE.

FRom earth's low prospects, and deceitful aims,

From wealth's allurements, and ambition's dreams,

The lover's raptures, and the hero's views,

All the false joys mistaken man pursues,

The schemes of science, the delights of wine,

Or the more pleasing follies of the Nine!

Recall, fond bard, thy long enchanted sight,

Deluded with the visionary light!

A nobler theme demands thy sacred song,

A theme beyond or man's or angel's tongue!

A theme! that should the noblest warmth impart

To animate the soul, and warm the heart!

But oh, alas! unhallow'd and profane,

How shalt thou dare to raise the heavenly strain?

Do thou, who from the altar's living fire

Isaiah's tuneful lips didst once inspire,

Come to my aid, celestial spirit, come;

From my dark mind dispel the dubious gloom;

My passions still, my purer breast inflame,

To sing that God from whom existence came;

Till heaven and nature in the concert join,

And own the author of their birth divine.

I. ETERNITY.

Whence sprung this glorious frame, or whence arose

The various forms the universe compose?

From what almighty cause, what mystic springs

Shall we derive the origin of things?

Sing heavenly guide! whose all-efficient light

Drew dawning planets from the womb of night!

Since reason, by thy sacred dictates taught,

Adores a power beyond the reach of thought.

First cause of causes! sire supreme of birth!

Sole light of heaven! acknowledg'd life of earth!

Whose word from nothing call'd this beauteous whole,

This wide-expanded all from pole to pole!

Who shall prescribe the boundary to thee?

Or fix the aera of eternity!

Should we, deceiv'd by error's sceptic glass,

Admit the thought absurd—that nothing was!

Thence would this wild, this false conclusion flow,

That nothing rais'd this beauteous all below!

When from disclosing darkness splendor breaks,

Associate atoms move, and matter speaks!

When non-existence bursts its close disguise,

How blind are mortals?—not to own the skies!

If one vast void eternal held its place,

Whence started time? or whence expanded space!

What gave the slumbering mass to feel a change?

Or bid consenting worlds harmonious range!

Could nothing link the universal chain?

No, 'tis impossible, absurd and vain!

Here reason its eternal author finds,

The whole who regulates, unites, and binds,

Enlivens matter, and produces minds!

Inactive chaos sleeps in dull repose,

Nor knowledge thence, nor free volition flows!

A nobler source those powers etherial show,

By which we think, design, reflect, and know;

These from a cause superior date their rise,

" Abstract in essence from material tyes."

An origin immortal, as supreme,

From whose pure day, celestial rays! they came:

In whom all possible perfections shine,

Eternal, self-existent, and divine!

From this great spring of uncreated might!

This all-resplendent orb of vital light!

Whence all created beings take their rise,

Which beautify the earth, or paint the skies!

Profusely-wide the boundless blessings flow,

Which heaven enrich, and gladden worlds below!

Which are no less, when properly defin'd,

Than emanations of th' eternal mind!

Hence triumphs truth beyond objection clear

(Let unbelief attend, and shrink with fear!)

That what for ever was—must surely be

Beyond commencement, and from period free;

Drawn from himself his native excellence,

His date eternal, and his space immense!

And all of whom that man can comprehend,

Is, that he ne'er begun, nor e'er shall end.

In him from whom existence boundless flows,

Let humble faith its sacred trust repose;

Assur'd, on his eternity depend,

" Eternal father! and eternal friend!"

Within that mystic circle safety seek,

No time can weaken, and no force can break;

And, lost in adoration, breathe his praise,

High rock of ages, antient sire of days!

II. UNITY.

Thus recogniz'd, the spring of life and thought!

Eternal, self-deriv'd, and unbegot!

Approach, celestial muse! th' empyreal throne,

And awfully adore th' exalted one!

In nature pure, in place supremely free,

And happy in essential unity!

Bless'd in himself, had from his forming hand

No creatures sprung to hail his wide command;

Bless'd, had the sacred fountain ne'er run o'er,

A boundless sea of bliss, that knows no shore!

Nor sense can two bright origins conceive,

Nor reason two eternal Gods believe!

Could the wild Manichaean own that guide,

The good would triumph, and the ill subside!

Again would vanquish'd Arimanius bleed,

And darkness from prevailing light recede!

In different individuals we find,

An evident disparity of mind;

Hence ductile thought a thousand changes gains,

And actions vary as the will ordains;

But should two beings, equally supreme,

Divided power, and parted empire claim;

How soon would universal order cease!

How soon would discord harmony displace?

Eternal schemes maintain eternal fight,

Nor yield, supported by eternal might?

Where each would uncontrol'd his aim pursue,

The links dissever, or the chain renew;

Matter from motion cross impressions take,

As serv'd each power his rival's power to break,

While neutral chaos, from his deep recess,

Would view the never-ending strife increase,

And bless the contest which secur'd his peace!

Or new creations would opposing rise,

With elemental war to blot the skies!

And round wild uproar and confusion hurl'd,

Would veil the heavens, and waste the ruin'd world.

Two independent causes to admit,

Destroys religion, and debases wit;

The first by such an anarchy undone,

The last acknowledges its source but one.

As from the main the mountain rills are drawn,

That wind irriguous thro' the flowery lawn;

So, mindful of their spring, one course they keep,

Exploring, till they find their native deep!

Exalted power! invisible, supreme,

Thou sovereign sole unutterable name!

As round thy throne thy flaming seraphs stand,

And as they touch the lyre with trembling hand,

Too weak thy pure effulgence to behold,

With their rich plumes their dazzled eyes infold:

Transported with the ardors of thy praise,

The holy! holy! holy! anthem raise!

To them, responsive, let creation sing,

Thee, indivisible eternal king!

III. SPIRITUALITY.

O say, celestial muse! whose purer birth,

Disdains the low material ties of earth!

By what bright images shall be defin'd

The mystic nature of th' eternal mind?

Or how shall thought the dazzling height explore,

Where all that reason can—is to adore!

That God's an immaterial essence pure,

Whom figure can't describe, nor parts immure;

Incapable of passions, impulse, fear,

In good pre-eminent, in truth severe:

Unmix'd his nature, and sublim'd his powers,

From all the gross allay which tempers ours;

In whose clear eye the bright angelic train

Appear suffus'd with imperfection's stain!

Impervious to the man's—or seraph's eye,

Beyond the ken of each, exalted high!

Him would in vain material semblance feign,

Or figur'd shrines the boundless God contain;

Object of faith!—he shuns the view of sense,

Lost in the blaze of sightless excellence!

Most perfect, most intelligent, most wise,

In whom the sanctity of pureness lies;

In whose adjusting mind the whole is wrought,

Whose form is spirit! and whose essence, thought!

Are truths inscrib'd by wisdom's brightest ray,

In characters that gild the face of day!

Reason confess'd, (howe'er we may dispute)

Fix'd boundary! discovers man from brute;

But dim to us, exerts its fainter ray,

Depress'd in matter, and allied to clay!

In forms superior kindles less confin'd,

Whose dress is aether, and whose substance mind;

Yet all from him, supreme of causes, flow,

To him their powers and their existence owe;

From the bright cherub of the noblest birth,

To the poor reasoning glow-worm plac'd on earth;

From matter then to spirit still ascend,

Thro' spirit still refining, higher tend;

Pursue, on knowledge bent, the pathless road,

Pierce thro' infinitude in quest of God!

Still from thy search, the centre still shall fly,

Approaching still—thou never shalt come nigh!

So its bright orb, th' aspiring flame would join,

But the vast distance mocks the fond design.

If he almighty! whose decree is fate,

Could, to display his power, subvert his state;

Bid from his plastic hand a greater rise,

Produce a master! and resign his skies!

Impart his incommunicable flame,

The mystic number of th' eternal name!

Then might revolting reason's feeble ray,

Aspire to question God's all-perfect day!

Vain task! the clay in the directing hand,

The reason of its form might so demand,

As man presume to question his dispose,

From whom the power, he thus abuses, flows.

Here point, fair muse! the worship God requires,

The soul inflam'd with chaste and holy fires!

Where love celestial warms the happy breast,

Where from sincerity the thought's express'd;

Where genuine piety and truth refin'd,

Reconsecrate the temple of the mind:

With grateful flames, the living altars glow,

And God descends to visit man below.

IV. OMNIPRESENCE.

Thro' the unmeasurable tracts of space,

Go, muse divine! and present godhead trace;

See where by place, uncircumscrib'd as time,

He reigns extended, and he shines sublime!

Should'st thou above the heaven of heavens ascend,

Could'st thou below the depth of depths descend;

Could thy fond flight beyond the starry sphere,

The radiant morning's lucid pinions bear;

There should his brighter presence shine confess'd,

There his almighty arm thy course arrest:

Could'st thou the thickest veil of night assume,

Or think to hide thee in the central gloom;

Yet there, all patient to his piercing sight,

Darkness itself would kindle into light:

Not the black mansions of the silent grave,

Nor darker hell from his perception save;

What power, alas! thy footsteps can convey

Beyond the reach of omnipresent day?

In his wide grasp, and comprehensive eye,

Immediate, worlds on worlds unnumber'd lie:

Systems inclos'd in his idea roll,

Whose all-informing mind directs the whole:

Lodg'd in his view, their certain ways they know;

Plac'd in that sight from whence can nothing go.

On earth his footstool fix'd, in heaven his seat;

Enthron'd he dictates—and his word is fate.

Nor want his shining images below,

In streams that murmur, or in winds that blow;

His spirit broods along the boundless flood,

Smiles in the plain, and whispers in the wood;

Warms in the genial sun's enlivening ray,

Breathes in the air, and beautifies the day;

Steals on our footsteps wheresoe'er we go,

And yields the purest joys we taste below.

Should man his great immensity deny,

Man might as well usurp the vacant sky:

For were he limited in date, or view,

Thence were his attributes imperfect too;

His knowledge, power, his goodness, all confin'd,

And lost the notion of a ruling mind:

Feeble the trust, and comfortless the sense,

Of a defective partial providence:

Boldly might then his arm injustice brave,

Or innocence in vain his mercy crave;

Dejected virtue lift its hopeless eye,

And deep distress pour out the heartless sigh;

An absent God no abler to defend,

Protect, or punish, than an absent friend;

Distant alike our wants or griefs to know,

To ease the anguish, or prevent the blow;

If he, supreme director, were not near,

Vain were our hope, and empty were our fear;

Unpunish'd vice would o'er the world prevail,

And unrewarded virtue toil—to fail!

The moral world a second chaos turn,

And nature for her great supporter mourn!

Even the weak embryo, ere to life it breaks,

From his high power its slender texture takes;

While in his book the various parts inroll'd

Increasing, own eternal wisdom's mould.

Nor views he only the material whole,

But pierces thought, and penetrates the soul!

Ere from the lips the vocal accents part,

Or the faint purpose dawns within the heart,

His steady eye the mental birth perceives,

Ere yet to us the new idea lives:

Knows what we say—ere yet the words proceed,

And ere we form th' intention, marks the deed.

But conscience, fair vicegerent-light within,

Asserts its author, and restores the scene;

Points out the beauty of the govern'd plan,

" And vindicates the ways of God to man."

Then sacred muse, by the vast prospect fir'd,

From heaven descended, as by heaven inspir'd;

His all-enlightening omnipresence own,

Whence first thou feel'st thy dwindling presence known;

His wide omniscience, justly grateful, sing,

Whence thy weak science prunes its callow wing!

And bless th' eternal, all-informing soul,

Whose sight pervades, whose knowledge fills the whole.

V. IMMUTABILITY.

As the eternal and omniscient mind,

By laws not limited, nor bounds confin'd,

Is always independent, always free,

Hence shines confess'd immutability!

Change, whether the spontaneous child of will,

Or birth of force,—is imperfection still.

But he, all-perfect, in himself contains

Power self-deriv'd, for from himself he reigns!

If, alter'd by constraint, we could suppose,

That God his fix'd stability should lose;

How startles reason at a thought so strange!

What power can force omnipotence to change?

If from his own divine productive thought,

Were the yet stranger alteration wrought;

Could excellence supreme new rays acquire?

Or strong perfection raise its glories higher?

Absurd!—his high meridian brightness glows,

Never decreases, never overflows!

Knows no addition, yields to no decay,

The sacred blaze of inexhaustless day!

Below, thro' different forms does matter range,

And life subsists from elemental change,

Liquids condensing, shapes terrestrial wear,

Earth mounts in fire, and fire dissolves in air;

While we, enquiring phantoms of a day,

Inconstant as the shadows we survey,

With them, along time's rapid current pass,

And haste to mingle with the parent mass;

But thou, eternal Lord of life divine!

In youth immortal shalt for ever shine!

No change shall darken thy exalted name,

From everlasting ages still the same.

If God, like man, his purpose could renew,

His laws could vary, or his plans undo;

Desponding faith would droop its cheerless wing,

Religion deaden to a lifeless thing:

Where could we, rational, repose our trust,

But in a power immutable as just?

How judge of revelation's force divine,

If truth unerring gave not the design;

Where, as in nature's fair according plan,

All smiles benevolent and good to man.

Plac'd in this narrow clouded spot below,

Darkly we see around, and darkly know!

Religion lends the salutary beam,

That guides our reason thro' the dubious gleam;

Till sounds the hour!—when he who rules the skies,

Shall bid the curtain of omniscience rise!

Shall dissipate the mists that veil our sight,

And show his creatures—all his ways are right!

Then, when astonish'd nature feels its fate,

And fetter'd time shall know its latest date!

When earth shall in the mighty blaze expire,

Heaven melt with heat, and worlds dissolve in fire!

The universal system shrink away,

And ceasing orbs confess th' almighty sway:

Immortal he, amidst the wreck secure,

Shall sit exalted, permanently pure!

As in the sacred bush, shall shine the same,

And from the ruin raise a fairer frame.

VI. OMNIPOTENCE.

Far hence, ye visionary charming maids,

Ye fancied nymphs that haunt the Grecian shades;

Your birth, who from conceiving fiction drew,

Your selves producing phantoms as untrue;

But come, superior muse! divinely bright,

Daughter of heaven, whose offspring still are light;

O condescend, celestial sacred guest,

To purge my sight, and consecrate my breast;

While I presume omnipotence to trace,

And sing that power, who peopled boundless space.

Thou present wert, when forth th' Almighty rode,

While chaos trembled at the voice of God:

Thou saw'st, when o'er th' immense his line he drew,

When nothing from his word existence knew:

His word, that wak'd to life the vast profound,

While conscious light was kindled at the sound:

Creation fair surpriz'd th' angelic eyes,

And sovereign wisdom saw that all was wise:

Him, sole almighty nature's book displays,

Distinct the page, and legible the rays:

Let the wild sceptic his attention throw

To the broad horizon, or earth below;

He finds thy soft impression touch his breast,

He feels the God,—and owns him unconfess'd:

Should the stray pilgrim, tir'd of sands and skies,

In Lybia's waste behold a palace rise,

Would he believe the charm from atoms wrought?

Go, atheist, hence, and mend thy juster thought.

What hand, almighty architect! but thine,

Could give the model of this vast design?

What hand but thine adjust th' amazing whole?

And bid consenting systems beauteous roll:

What hand but thine supply the solar light?

For ever wasting, yet for ever bright:

What hand but thine the azure convex spread?

What hand but thine trace out the ocean's bed?

To the vast main the sandy barrier throw,

And with that feeble curb restrain the foe?

What hand but thine the wintry flood asswage,

Or stop the tempest in its wildest rage?

Thee infinite! what finite can explore?

Imagination sinks beneath thy power;

Thee could the ablest of thy creatures know,

Lost were thy unity, for he were Thou;

Yet present to all sense thy power remains,

Reveal'd in nature, nature's author reigns:

In vain would error from conviction fly,

Thou every where art present to the eye:

The sense how stupid, and the sight how blind,

That fails this universal truth to find?

Go!—all the sightless realms of space survey,

Returning, trace the planetary way;

The sun, that in his central glory shines,

While every planet round his orb inclines;

Then at our intermediate globe repose,

And view yon lunar satellite that glows!

Or cast along the azure vault thy eye,

When golden day enlightens all the sky;

Around behold earth's variegated scene,

The mingling prospects, and the flowery green;

The mountain's brow, the long extended wood,

Or the rude rock that threatens o'er the flood;

And say, are these the wild effects of chance?

Oh strange effect of reasoning ignorance!

Nor power alone confess'd in grandeur lies,

The glittering planet, or the painted skies;

Equal, the elephant's or emmet's dress,

The wisdom of omnipotence confess;

Equal, the cumb'rous whale's enormous mass,

With the small insect in the crouded grass;

The mite that gambols in its acid sea,

In shape a porpus, tho' a speck to thee!

Even the blue down the purple plum surrounds,

A living world, thy failing sight confounds!

To him a peopled habitation shows,

Where millions taste the bounty God bestows!

Great lord of life, whose all-controuling might

Thro' wide creation beams divinely bright;

Nor only does thy power in forming shine,

But to annihilate, dread king! is thine.

Shouldst thou withdraw thy still-supporting hand,

How languid nature would astonish'd stand!

Thy frown night's antient empire would restore,

And raise a blank—where systems smil'd before.

See in corruption, all-surprizing state,

How struggling life eludes the stroke of fate;

Shock'd at the scene, tho' sense averts its eye,

Nor stops the wonderous process to descry;

Yet juster thought the mystic change pursues,

And with delight almighty wisdom views;

The brute, the vegetable world surveys,

Sees life subsisting even from life's decays:

Mark there, self-taught, the pensile reptile come,

Spin his thin shroud, and living build his tomb!

With conscious care his former pleasures leave,

And dress him for the business of the grave:

Thence, pass'd the short-liv'd change, renew'd he springs,

Admires the skies, and tries his painted wings:

With airy flight the insect roves abroad,

And scorns the meaner earth he lately trod.

Thee, potent, let deliver'd Israel praise,

And to thy name their grateful homage raise:

Thee, potent God! let Egypt's land declare,

Which felt thy justice, awfully severe:

How did thy frown benight the shadow'd land?

Nature revers'd, how own thy high command?

When jarring elements their use forgot,

And the sun felt thy overcasting blot:

When earth produc'd the pestilential brood,

And the foul stream was crimson'd into blood:

How deep the horrors of that awful night!

How strong the terror, and how wild the fright!

When o'er the land thy sword vindictive past,

And men and infants breath'd at once their last!

How did thy arm thy favour'd tribes convey,

Thy light, conducting, point th' amazing way!

Obedient ocean to their march divide,

The watery wall distinct on either side;

While thro' the deep the long procession led,

And saw the wonders of the oozy bed!

Nor long they march'd, till blackening in the rear,

The vengeful tyrant and his host appear;

Plunge down the deep,—the waves thy nod obey,

And whelm the threatening storm beneath the sea.

Nor yet thy power thy chosen train forsook,

When thro' Arabia's sands their way they took;

By day thy cloud was present to the sight,

Thy fiery pillar led the march by night;

Thy hand amidst the waste their table spread,

With feather'd viands, and with heavenly bread:

When the dry wilderness no streams supplied,

Gush'd from the yielding rock the vital tide:

What limits can omnipotence confine!

What obstacles restrain thy arm divine!

Since stones and waves their settled laws forego,

Since seas can harden, and since rocks can flow?

On Sinai's top the muse, with ardent wing,

The triumphs of omnipotence would sing,

When o'er its airy brow thy cloud display'd,

Involv'd the nations in its awful shade:

When gloomy darkness fill'd its midmost space,

And the rock trembled to its rooted base;

Yet there thy majesty divine appear'd,

There shone thy glory, and thy voice was heard;

Even in the blaze of that tremendous day,

Idolatry its impious rites could pay:

Oh shame to thought!—Thy sacred throne invade,

And brave the bolt that linger'd round its head.

VII. WISDOM.

O thou, who when th' Almighty form'd this all,

Upheld the scale, and weigh'd each ballanc'd ball;

And as his hand compleated each design,

Number'd the work, and fix'd the seal divine;

O wisdom infinite! creation's soul,

Whose rays diffuse new lustre o'er the whole;

What tongue shall make thy charms celestial known?

What hand, fair Goddess! paint thee but thy own?

What tho' in nature's universal store,

Appear the wonders of almighty power?

Power unattended, terror would inspire,

Aw'd must we gaze, and comfortless admire.

But when fair wisdom joins in the design,

The beauty of the whole result's divine.

Hence life acknowledges its glorious cause,

And matter owns its great disposer's laws;

Hence in a thousand different models wrought,

Now fix'd to quiet, now allied to thought;

Hence flow the forms and properties of things,

Hence rises harmony, and order springs,

Else had the mass a shapeless chaos lay,

Nor ever felt the dawn of wisdom's day.

See, how associate round their central sun,

Their faithful rings the circling planets run;

Still equi-distant, never yet too near,

Exactly tracing their appointed sphere.

Mark how the moon our flying orb pursues,

While from the sun her monthly light renews;

Breathes her wide influence on the world below,

And bids the tides alternate ebb and flow.

View how in course the constant seasons rise,

Deform the earth, or beautify the skies:

First spring advancing, with her flowery train,

Next summer's hand that spreads the sylvan scene,

Then autumn with her yellow harvests crown'd,

And trembling winter close the annual round.

The vegetable tribes observant trace,

From the tall cedar to the creeping grass:

The chain of animated beings scale,

From the small reptile to th' enormous whale;

From the strong eagle stooping from the skies,

To the low insect that escapes thy eyes:

And see, if see thou can'st, in every frame,

Eternal wisdom shine confess'd the same:

As proper organs to the least assign'd,

As proper means to propagate their kind;

As just the structure, and as wise the plan,

As in this lord of all—debating man!

Hence, reasoning creature, thy distinction find,

Nor longer to the ways of heaven be blind.

Wisdom in outward beauty strikes the mind,

But outward beauty points a charm behind.

What gives the earth, the ambient air or seas,

The plain, the river, or the wood to please?

Oh say, in whom does beauty's self reside,

The beautifier, or the beautified?

There dwells the Godhead in the bright disguise,

Beyond the ken of all created eyes:

His works our love, and our attention steal,

His works (surprizing thought!) the maker veil;

Too weak our sight to pierce the radiant cloud,

Where wisdom shines, in all her charms avow'd!

O gracious God! omnipotent and wise,

Unerring Lord, and ruler of the skies;

All condescending, to my feeble heart

One beam of thy celestial light impart;

I seek not sordid wealth, or glittering power,

O grant me wisdom—and I ask no more.

VIII. PROVIDENCE.

As from some level country's shelter'd ground,

With towns replete, with green inclosures bound,

Where the eye kept within the verdant maze,

But gets a transient vista as it strays:

The pilgrim to some rising summit tends,

Whence opens all the scene as he ascends:

So providence the friendly point supplies,

Where all the charms of Deity surprize;

Here goodness, power, and wisdom, all unite,

And dazzling glories whelm the ravish'd sight.

Almighty cause! 'tis thy preserving care,

That keeps thy works for ever fresh and fair:

The sun, from thy superior radiance bright,

Eternal sheds his delegated light,

Lends to his sister orb inferior day,

And paints the silver moon's alternate ray;

Thy hand the waste of eating time renews,

Thou shed'st the tepid morning's balmy dews;

When raging winds the blacken'd deep deform,

Thy spirit rides commission'd in the storm;

Bids at thy will the slackening tempest cease,

While the calm'd ocean smooths its ruffled face;

When lightnings thro' the air tremendous fly,

Or the blue plague is loosen'd to destroy,

Thy hand directs, or turns aside the stroke,

Thy word the fatal edict can revoke;

When subterraneous fires the surface heave,

And towns are buried in one common grave;

Thou suffer'st not the mischief to prevail,

Thy sovereign touch the recent wound can heal.

To Zembla's rocks thou send'st the cheerful gleam,

O'er Lybia's sands thou pour'st the cooling stream;

Thy watchful providence o'er all intends,

Thy works obey their great Creator's ends.

And all the ills we feel—or bliss we share,

Are tokens of a heavenly Father's care.

When man too long the paths of vice pursued,

Thy hand prepar'd the universal flood;

Gracious, to Noah gave the timely sign,

To save a remnant from the wrath divine:

One shining waste the globe terrestrial lay,

And the ark heav'd along the troubled sea;

Thou bad'st the deep his antient bed explore,

The clouds their watery deluge pour'd no more:

The skies were clear'd,—the mountain-tops were seen,

The dove pacific brought the olive green.

On Ararat the happy patriarch tost,

Found the recover'd world his hopes had lost;

There his fond eyes review'd the pleasing scene,

The earth all verdant, and the air serene:

Its precious freight the guardian ark display'd,

While Noah grateful adoration paid:

Beholding in the many-tinctur'd bow,

The promise of a safer world below.

When wild ambition rear'd its impious head,

And rising Babel heaven with pride survey'd;

Thy word the mighty labour could confound,

And leave the mass to moulder with the ground.

From the mad toil, while social order sprung

A peopled world—distinct by many a tongue.

From thee all human actions take their springs,

The rise of empires, and the fall of kings:

See the vast theatre of time display'd,

While o'er the scene succeeding heroes tread:

With pomp the shining images succeed,

What leaders triumph; and what monarchs bleed;

Perform the parts thy providence assign'd,

Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin'd:

A while they glitter in the face of day,

Then at thy nod the phantoms pass away;

No traces left of all the busy scene,

But that remembrance says,—The things have been!

While learning thro' the gloom benighted strays,

And the dim objects vanish as we gaze!

" But (questions doubt) whence sickly nature feels breast?

" The ague-fits her face so oft reveals?

" Whence earthquakes heave the earth's astonish'd

" Whence tempests rage? or yellow plagues infest?

" Whence draws rank Afric her empoison'd stores?

" Or liquid fires explosive Aetna pours?"

Go, sceptic mole! demand th' eternal cause,

The secret of his all-preserving laws?

The depths of wisdom infinite explore,

And ask thy Maker?—why thou knowst no more?

Thy error's still in mortal things as great,

As vain to cavil at the ways of fate.

To ask why prosperous vice so oft succeeds,

Why suffers innocence, or virtue bleeds!

Why monsters, nature must with blushes own,

By crimes grow powerful, and disgrace a throne!

Why saints and sages, mark'd in every age,

Perish, the victims of tyrannic rage!

Why Socrates for truth and freedom fell,

While Nero reign'd, the delegate of hell!

In vain by reason is the maze pursu'd,

Of ill triumphant, and afflicted good.

Fix'd to the hold, so might the sailor aim

To judge the pilot, and the steerage blame;

As we direct to God what should belong,

Or say that sovereign wisdom governs wrong.

Nor always vice does uncorrected go,

Nor virtue unrewarded pass below!

Oft sacred justice lifts her awful head,

And dooms the tyrant and th' usurper dead;

Oft providence, more friendly than severe,

Arrests the hero in his wild career;

Directs the fever, poinard, or the ball,

By which an Amnon, Charles, or Caesar fall:

Or when the cursed Borgias[*] brew the cup

For merit,—bids the monsters drink it up;

On violence oft retorts the cruel spear,

Or fetters cunning in its crafty snare;

Relieves the innocent, exalts the just,

And lays the proud oppressor in the dust!

But fast as time's swift pinions can convey,

Hastens the pomp of that tremendous day,

When to the view of all created eyes,

God's high tribunal shall majestic rise,

When the loud trumpet shall assemble round

The dead, reviving at the piercing sound!

Where men and angels shall to audit come,

And millions yet unborn receive their doom!

Then shall fair providence, to all display'd,

Appear divinely bright without a shade;

In light triumphant all her acts be shown,

And blushing doubt eternal wisdom own!

Mean while, thou great intelligence supreme,

Sovereign director of this mighty frame,

Whose watchful hand, and all-observing ken,

Fashions the hearts, and views the ways of men,

Whether thy hand the plenteous table spread,

Or measure sparingly the daily bread;

Whether or wealth or honours gild the scene,

Or wants deform, and wasting anguish stain;

On thee let truth and virtue firm rely,

Bless'd in the care of thy approving eye!

Know that thy providence, their constant friend,

Thro' life shall guard them, and in death attend;

With everlasting arms their cause embrace,

And crown the paths of piety with peace.

IX. GOODNESS.

Ye Seraphs who God's throne encircling still,

With holy zeal your golden censers fill;

Ye flaming ministers to distant lands

Who bear, obsequious, his divine commands;

Ye Cherubs, who compose the sacred choir,

Attuning to your voice th' angelic lyre!

Or ye, fair natives of the heavenly plain,

Who once were mortal—now a happy train!

Who spend in peaceful love your joyful hours,

In blissful meads and amaranthine bowers,

Oh lend one spark of your celestial fire!

Oh deign my glowing bosom to inspire!

And aid the muse's unexperienc'd wing,

While goodness, theme divine, she soars to sing!

Tho' all thy attributes divinely fair,

Thy full perfection, glorious God! declare;

Yet if one beam's superior to the rest,

Oh let thy goodness fairest be confess'd!

As shines the moon amidst her starry train,

As breathes the rose amongst the flowery scene,

As the mild dove her silver plumes displays,

So sheds thy mercy its distinguish'd rays.

This led, Creator mild, thy gracious hand

When formless chaos heard thy high command;

When pleas'd, thine eye thy matchless works review'd,

And goodness, placid, spoke that all was good!

Nor only does in heaven thy goodness shine,

Delighted nature feels its warmth divine;

The vital sun's illuminating beam,

The silver crescent, and the starry gleam;

As day and night alternate they command,

Proclaim this truth to every distant land.

See smiling nature, with thy treasures fair,

Confess thy bounty and parental care;

Renew'd by thee, the faithful seasons rise,

And earth with plenty all her sons supplies.

The generous lion and the brindled boar,

As nightly thro' the forest walks they roar,

From thee, Almighty Maker, seek their prey,

Nor from thy hand unfed depart away:

To thee, for meat the callow ravens cry,

Supported by thy all-preserving eye:

From thee, the feather'd natives of the plain,

Or those who range the field, or plough the main,

Receive, with constant course, th' appointed food,

And taste the cup of universal good;

Thy hand thou open'st, million'd myriads live;

Thou frown'st, they faint;—thou smilst, and they revive!

On virtue's acre, as on rapine's stores,

See heaven impartial deal the fruitful showers!

" Life's common blessings all her children share,"

Tread the same earth, and breathe a general air!

Without distinction, boundless blessings fall,

And goodness, like the sun, enlightens all!

Oh man, degenerate man! offend no more!

Go, learn of brutes thy Maker to adore!

Shall these, thro' every tribe, his bounty own,

Of all his works, ungrateful thou alone!

Deaf when the tuneful voice of mercy cries,

And blind, when sovereign goodness charms the eyes!

Mark, even the wretch his awful name blasphemes,

His pity spares,—his clemency reclaims!

Observe his patience with the guilty strive,

And bid the criminal repent and live;

Recal the fugitive with gracious eye,

Beseech the obstinate, he would not die!

Amazing tenderness—amazing most,

The soul on whom such mercy should be lost!

But would'st thou view the rays of goodness join

In one strong point of radiance all divine!

Behold, celestial muse! yon eastern light;

To Beth'lem's plain, adoring, bend thy sight!

Hear the glad message to the shepherds given,

" Good-will on earth to man, and peace in heaven."

Attend the swains, pursue the starry road,

And hail to earth the Saviour and the God!

Redemption! oh thou beauteous mystic plan!

Thou salutary source of life to man!

What tongue can speak thy comprehensive grace!

What thought thy depths unfathomable trace!

When lost in sin our ruin'd nature lay,

When awful justice claim'd her righteous pay!

See the mild Saviour bend his pitying eye,

And stop the lightning just prepar'd to fly!

(O strange effect of unexampled love!)

View him descend the heavenly throne above;

Patient, the ills of mortal life endure,

Calm, tho' revil'd, and innocent, tho' poor!

Uncertain his abode, and coarse his food,

His life one fair continued scene of good:

For us sustain the wrath to man decreed,

The victim of eternal justice bleed!

Look, to the cross the Lord of life is tied,

They pierce his hands, and wound his sacred side!

See, God expires! our forfeit to attone,

While nature trembles at his parting groan!

Advance, thou hopeless mortal, steel'd in guilt,

Behold, and if thou can'st, forbear to melt!

Shall Jesus die thy freedom to regain,

And wilt thou drag the voluntary chain?

Wilt thou refuse thy kind assent to give,

When breathless he looks down to bid thee live!

Perverse, wilt thou reject the proffer'd good

Bought with his life, and streaming in his blood!

Whose virtue can thy deepest crimes efface,

Reheal thy nature, and confirm thy peace!

Can all the errors of thy life attone,

And raise thee from a rebel—to a son!

O blest Redeemer, from thy sacred throne,

Where saints and angels sing thy triumphs won!

When, from the grave thou rais'd thy glorious head,

(Chain'd to thy car the powers infernal led)

From that exalted height of bliss supreme,

Look down on those who bear thy sacred name;

Restore their ways, inspire them by thy grace

Thy laws to follow, and thy steps to trace;

Thy bright example to thy doctrine join,

And by their morals prove their faith divine.

Nor only to thy church confine thy ray,

O'er the glad world thy healing light display;

Fair sun of righteousness! in beauty rise,

And clear the mists that cloud the heathen skies!

To Judah's remnant, now a scatter'd train,

Thou great Messiah! show thy promis'd reign;

O'er earth as wide, thy saving warmth diffuse,

As spreads the ambient air, or falling dews,

And haste the time when, vanquish'd by thy power,

Death shall expire, and sin defile no more!

X. RECTITUDE.

Hence distant far, ye sons of earth profane,

The loose, ambitious, covetous, or vain;

Ye worms of power! ye minion'd slaves of state,

The giddy vulgar, and the sordid great!

But come ye purer souls from dross refin'd,

The blameless heart and uncorrupted mind!

Let your chaste hands the holy altars raise,

Fresh incense bring, and light the glowing blaze;

Your grateful voices aid the muse to sing,

The spotless justice of th' almighty king!

As only rectitude divine he knows,

As truth and sanctity his thought compose;

So these the dictates which th' eternal mind,

To reasonable beings has assign'd;

These has his care on every mind impress'd;

The conscious seals the hand of heaven attest!

When man perverse, for wrong forsakes the right,

He still attentive keeps the fault in sight;

Demands that strict atonement should be made,

And claims the forfeit on th' offender's head!

But Doubt demands,—"why man dispos'd this way?

" Why left the dangerous choice to go astray?

" If heaven that made him did the fault foresee,

" Thence follows, heaven is more to blame than he."

No:—had to good the heart alone inclin'd,

What toil, what prize had virtue been assign'd?

From obstacles her noblest triumphs flow,

Her spirits languish, when she finds no foe!

Man might perhaps have been so happy still,

Happy, without the privilege of will,

And just because his hands were tied from ill!

O wonderous scheme to mend th' almighty plan,

By sinking all the dignity of man!

Yet turn thine eyes, vain sceptic, own thy pride,

And view thy happiness and choice allied;

See virtue from herself her bliss derive,

A bliss, beyond the power of thrones to give;

See vice of empire and of wealth possess'd,

Pine at the heart, and feel herself unbless'd.

And say, were yet no farther marks assign'd,

Is man ungrateful? or is heaven unkind?

" Yes, all the woes from heaven permissive fall,

" The wretch adopts,—the wretch improves them all."

From his wild lust, or his oppressive deed,

Rapes, battles, murders, sacrilege proceed;

His wild ambition thins the peopled earth,

Or from his avarice famine takes her birth;

Had nature given the hero wings to fly,

His pride would lead him to attempt the sky!

To angels make the pigmy's folly known,

And draw ev'n pity from th' eternal throne.

Yet while on earth triumphant vice prevails,

Celestial justice balances her scales;

With eye unbiass'd all the scene surveys,

With hand impartial every crime she weighs;

Oft, close pursuing at his trembling heels,

The man of blood her awful presence feels;

Oft, from her arm, amidst the blaze of state,

The regal tyrant, with success elate,

Is forc'd to leap the precipice of fate!

Or, if the villain pass unpunish'd here,

'Tis but to make the future stroke severe;

For soon or late, eternal justice pays

Mankind the just desert of all their ways.

'Tis in that awful all-disclosing day,

When high omniscience shall her books display;

When justice shall present her strict account,

While conscience shall attest the due amount;

That all who feel, condemn'd, the dreadful rod,

Shall own, that righteous are the ways of God!

Oh then, while penitence can fate disarm,

While lingering justice yet with-holds its arm,

While heavenly patience grants the precious time,

Let the lost sinner recollect his crime!

Immediate to the seat of mercy fly,

Nor wait to-morrow—lest to-night he die!

But tremble, all ye sons of blackest birth,

Ye giants that deform the face of earth;

Tremble ye sons of aggravated guilt,

And, ere too late, let sorrow learn to melt;

Remorseless Murder! drop thy hand severe,

And bathe thy bloody weapon with a tear;

Go, Lust impure! converse with friendly light,

And quit the mansions of defiling night;

Drop, dark Hypocrisy, thy thin disguise,

Nor think to cheat the notice of the skies!

Unsocial Avarice, thy grasp forego,

And bid the useful treasure learn to flow;

Restore, Injustice, the defrauded gain!

Oppression, bend to ease the captive's chain,

Ere awful justice strike the fatal blow,

And drive you to the realms of night below!

But Doubt resumes, " If justice has decreed

" The punishment proportion'd to the deed;

" Eternal misery seems too severe,

" Too dread a weight for wretched man to bear!

" Too harsh!—that endless torments should repay

" The crimes of life,—the errors of a day!"

In vain our reason would presumptuous pry;

God's counsels are beyond conception high:

In vain would thought his measur'd justice scan;

His ways! how different from the ways of man!

Too deep for thee his secrets are to know,

Enquire not, but more wisely shun the woe;

Warn'd by his threatenings, to his laws attend,

And learn to make omnipotence thy friend!

Our weaker laws, to gain the purpos'd ends,

Oft pass the bounds the law-giver intends:

Oft partial power, to serve its own design,

Warps from the text, exceeding reason's line;

Strikes, biass'd, at the person, not the deed,

And sees the guiltless unprotected bleed!

But God alone, with unimpassion'd sight,

Surveys the nice barrier of wrong and right;

And while, subservient, as his will ordains,

Obedient nature yields the present means;

While neither force nor passions guide his views,

Ev'n evil works the purpose he pursues!

That bitter spring, the source of human pain,

Heal'd by his touch does mineral health contain;

And dark affliction quits its fearsome shrowd

At his command, and brightens into good.

Thus human justice—(far as man can go)

For private safety strikes the dubious blow;

But rectitude divine, with nobler soul,

Consults each individual in the whole!

Directs the issues of the mortal strife,

And sees creation struggle into life!

And you, ye happier souls! who in his ways

Observant walk, and sing his daily praise!

Ye righteous few! whole calm unruffled breasts,

No fears can darken, and no guilt infests;

To whom his gracious promises extend,

In whom they centre, and in whom shall end,

Which (blest on that foundation sure who build)

Shall with eternal justice be fulfill'd:

Ye sons of life, to whose glad hope is given

The bright reversion of approaching heaven,

With grateful hearts his glorious praise recite,

Whose love from darkness call'd you out to light;

So let your piety reflective shine,

As men may thence confess his truth divine!

And when this mortal veil, as soon it must,

Shall drop, returning to its native dust;

The work of life, with approbation done,

Receive from God your bright immortal crown!

IX. GLORY.

But, oh adventerous muse, restrain thy flight,

Dare not the blaze of uncreated light!

His praise proclaim, ye monsters of the deep,

Who in the vast abyss your revels keep!

Before whose glorious throne, with dread surprize,

Th' adoring seraph veils his dazzled eyes;

Whose pure effulgence, radiant to excess,

No colours can describe, or words express!

All the fair beauties, all the lucid stores,

Which o'er thy works thine hand resplendent pours;

Feeble thy brighter glories to display,

Pale as the moon before the solar ray!

See on his throne the Hebrew monarch plac'd,

In all the pomp of the luxuriant east!

While mingling gems a borrow'd day unfold,

And the rich purple waves, emboss'd with gold;

Yet mark this scene of painted grandeur yield

To the fair lilly that adorns the field!

Obscur'd, behold that fainter lilly lies,

By the rich bird's[*] inimitable dies;

Yet these survey, confounded and undone

By the superior lustre of the sun;

That sun himself withdraws his lessen'd beam

From thee, the glorious author of his frame!

Transcendent power! sole arbiter of fate!

How great thy glory! and thy bliss how great!

To view from thine exalted throne above,

(Eternal source of light, and life, and love!)

Unnumber'd creatures draw their smiling birth,

To bless the heavens, or beautify the earth;

While systems roll, obedient to thy view,

And worlds rejoice—which Newton never knew!

Then raise the song, the general anthem raise,

And swell the concert of eternal praise!

Assist ye orbs that form this boundless whole,

Which in the womb of space unnumber'd roll;

Ye planets, who compose our lesser scheme,

And bend, concertive, round the solar frame;

Thou eye of nature, whose extensive ray,

With endless charms adorns the face of day!

Consenting raise th' harmonious joyful sound,

And bear his praises thro' the vast profound:

His praise, ye winds, that fan the cheerful air,

Swift as ye pass along your pinions bear!

His praise let ocean thro' her realms display,

Far as her circling billows can convey!

His praise, ye misty vapours, wide diffuse,

In rains descending, or in milder dews!

His praises whisper, ye majestic trees,

As your tops rustle to the vocal breeze!

His praise around, ye flowery tribes exhale,

Far as your sweets embalm the spicy gale!

His praise, ye dimpled streams, to earth reveal,

As pleas'd ye murmur thro' the flowery vale!

His praise, ye feather'd choirs, distinguish'd sing,

As to your notes the tuneful forests ring!

Or ye, fair natives of our earthly scene,

Who range the wilds, or haunt the pasture green!

Nor thou, vain lord of earth, with careless ear,

The universal hymn of worship hear!

But ardent, in the sacred chorus join,

Thy soul transported with the talk divine!

While by his works th' almighty is confess'd,

Supremely glorious, and supremely bless'd!

Great lord of life! from whom this humble frame

Derives the power to sing thy holy name,

Forgive the lowly muse, whose artless lay,

Has dar'd thy sacred attributes survey!

Delighted oft thro' nature's beauteous field

Has she ador'd thy wisdom bright reveal'd;

Oft have her wishes aim'd the secret song,

But awful reverence still with-held her tongue:

Yet as thy bounty lent the reasoning beam,

As feels my conscious breast thy vital flame;

So, blest Creator, let thy servant pay

His mite of gratitude this feeble way,

Thy goodness own, thy providence adore!

He yields thee only—what was thine before.

Notes

*
Pope Alexander VI. and his son, Caesar Borgia. See Mr. Gordon's History.
↵

*
The Bird of Paradise, seen in the Spice Islands.
↵

A SOLILOQUY. WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

BY THE REV. MR. MOORE, OF CORNWALL.

STruck with religious awe, and solemn dread,

I view these gloomy mansions of the dead;

Around me tombs in mix'd disorder rise,

And in mute language teach me to be wise.

Time was, these ashes liv'd—a time must be

When others thus shall stand—and look at me;

Alarming thought! no wonder 'tis we dread

O'er these uncomfortable vaults to tread;

Where blended lie the aged and the young,

The rich and poor, an undistinguish'd throng:

Death conquers all, and time's subduing hand

Nor tombs, nor marble-statues can withstand.

Mark yonder ashes in confusion spread!

Compare earth's living tenants with her dead!

How striking the resemblance, yet how just!

Once life and soul informed this mass of dust;

Around these bones, now broken and decay'd,

The streams of life in various channels play'd:

Perhaps that skull, so horrible to view!

Was some fair maid's, ye belles, as fair as you;

These hollow sockets two bright orbs contain'd,

Where the loves sported, and in triumph reign'd;

Here glow'd the lips; there white, as Parian stone,

The teeth dispos'd in beauteous order shone.

This is life's goal—no farther can we view,

Beyond it, all is wonderful and new:

O deign, some courteous ghost! to let us know

What we must shortly be, and you are now!

Sometimes you warn us of approaching fate;

Why hide the knowledge of your present state?

With joy behold us tremblingly explore

Th' unknown gulph, that you can fear no more?

The grave has eloquence—its lectures teach

In silence, louder than divines can preach;

Hear what it says—ye sons of folly hear!

It speaks to you—O give it then your ear!

It bids you lay all vanity aside,

O what a lecture this for human pride!

The clock strikes twelve—how solemn is the sound!

Hark, how the strokes from hollow vaults rebound!

They bid us hasten to be wise, and show,

How rapid in their course the minutes flow.

See yonder yew—how high it lifts its head!

Around, the gloomy shade their branches spread!

Old and decay'd it still retains a grace,

And adds more solemn horror to the place.

Whose tomb is this? it says, 'tis Myra's tomb,

Pluck'd from the world in beauty's fairest bloom,

Attend ye fair! ye thoughtless, and ye gay!

For Myra dy'd upon her nuptial day!

The grave, cold bridegroom! clasp'd her in its arms,

And the worm rioted upon her charms.

In yonder tomb the old Avaro lies;

Once he was rich—the world esteemed him wise:

Schemes unaccomplish'd labour'd in his mind,

And all his thoughts were to the world confin'd;

Death came unlook'd for—from his grasping hands

Down dropt his bags, and mortgages of lands.

Beneath that sculptur'd pompous marble-stone,

Lies youthful Florio, aged twenty-one;

Cropt like a flower, he wither'd in his bloom,

Tho' flatt'ring life had promis'd years to come:

Ye silken sons! ye Florios of the age,

Who tread in giddy maze life's flowery stage!

Mark here the end of man, in Florio see

What you, and all the sons of earth shall be!

There low in dust the vain Hortensio lies,

Whose splendour once we view'd with envious eyes:

Titles and arms his pompous marble grace,

With a long history of his noble race:

Still after death his vanity survives,

And on his tomb all of Hortensio lives.

Around me as I turn my wandering eyes,

Unnumber'd graves in awful prospect rise,

Whose stones say only when their owners dy'd,

If young, or aged, and to whom ally'd.

On others pompous epitaphs are spread

In memory of the virtues of the dead:

Vain waste of praise! since, flattering or sincere,

The judgment-day alone will make appear.

How silent is this little spot of ground!

How melancholy looks each object round!

Here man dissolv'd in shatter'd ruin lies

So fast asleep—as if no more to rise;

'Tis strange to think how these dead bones can live,

Leap into form, and with new heat revive!

Or how this trodden earth to life shall wake,

Know its own place, its former figure take!

But whence these fears? when the last trumpet sounds

Thro' heaven's expanse to earth's remotest bounds,

The dead shall quit these tenements of clay,

And view again the long extinguish'd day:

It must be so—the same Almighty power

From dust who form'd us, can from dust restore.

Cheer'd with this pleasing hope, I safely trust

Jehovah's power to raise me from the dust,

On his unfailing promises rely,

And all the horrors of the grave defy.

THE SHEPHERD'S INVITATION. A SONG.

BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOE.

COme live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That valleys, groves, or hill, or field,

Or wood, or steepy mountain yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,

And see the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses,

With a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown, made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull,

Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,

With coral clasps, and amber studs;

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat,

As precious as the gods do eat,

Shall, on an ivory table, be

Prepar'd each day for thee and me.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

THE NYMPH'S ANSWER.

BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

IF all the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd's tongue,

These pretty pleasures might me move

To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold

When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,

And Philomel becometh dumb,

The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers that bloom in wanton field

To wayward winter reckoning yield;

A honey-tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,

In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,

Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,

All these in me no mind can move

To come to thee, and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties then,

Of better meat than's fit for men?

These are but vain; that's only good

Which God hath blest, and sent for food.

But could youth last, and love still breed,

Had joy no date, and age no need,

Then these delights my mind might move

To live with thee, and be thy love.

A POEM.

BY SIR W. RALEIGH.

SHall I, like an hermit, dwell

On a rock, or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part

That is missing of my heart,

To bestow it, where I may

Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalues me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel gold;

If a stranger may be bold,

Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a brayde,

And, with little more a-do,

Work them into bracelets too;

If the mine be grown so free,

What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize

As her hairs, or precious eyes;

If she lay them out to take

Kisses for good-manners sake;

And let every lover skip

From her hand unto her lip;

If she seem not chaste to me,

What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow,

In effect as well as show,

Warming but as snow-balls do,

Not like fire by burning too;

But when she, by change, hath got

To her heart a second lot;

Then, if others share with me,

Farewell her, whate'er she be.

IN IMITATION OF MARLOE.

COme live with me, and be my dear,

And we will revel all the year,

In plains and groves, on hills and dales,

Where fragrant air breeds sweetest gales.

There shall you have the beauteous pine,

The cedar, and the spreading vine,

And all the woods to be a screen,

Lest Phoebus kiss my summer's green.

The seat of your disport shall be

Over some river in a tree,

Where silver sands and pebbles sing

Eternal ditties to the spring.

There shall you see the Nymphs at play,

And how the Satyrs spend the day;

The fishes gliding on the sands,

Offering their bellies to your hands.

The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats,

Possess wood's echo with sweet notes,

Which to your senses will impart

A music to enflame the heart.

Upon the bare and leafless oak,

The ring-dove's wooings will provoke

A colder blood than you possess

To play with me, and do no less.

In bowers of laurel, trimly dight,

We will outwear the silent night,

While Flora busy is to spread

Her richest treasure on our bed.

Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,

And all their sparkling lights shall spend;

All to adorn and beautify

Your lodging with more majesty.

Then in my arms will I enclose

Lillies fair mixture with the rose;

Whose nice perfections in Love's play

Shall tune me to the highest key.

Thus as we pass the welcome night,

In sportful pleasure and delight,

The nimble Fairies on the grounds

Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.

If these may serve for to entice

Your presence to Love's Paradise,

Then come with me, and be my dear,

And we will strait begin the year.

AMARYLLIS: OR THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

TRANSLATED BY F.F.

TO Amaryllis, lovely nymph, I speed,

Mean-while my goats along the mountain feed:

O Tityrus, tend them with assiduous care,

Lead them to crystal springs, and pastures fair,

And of the ridgil's butting horns beware.

Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgot

Our secret pleasures in the conscious grot?

Where in my folding arms you lay reclin'd;

Blest was the shepherd, for the nymph was kind.

I whom you call'd your Dear, your Love so late,

Say, am I now the object of your hate?

Say, is my form displeasing to your sight?—

This cruel love will surely kill me quite.

Lo! ten large apples, tempting to the view,

Pluck'd from your favourite tree, where late they grew.

Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store;

To-morrow will produce as many more.

Mean-while these heart-consuming pains remove,

And give me gentle pity for my love.

Oh was I made, by some transforming power,

A bee to buzz in your sequester'd bower!

To pierce your ivy shade with murmuring sound,

And the light leaves that compass you around.

I know thee, Love, and to my sorrow find,

A god thou art, but of the savage kind;

A lioness sure suckled the fell child,

And with his brother-whelps maintain'd him in the wild;

On me his scorching flames incessant prey,

Glow in my bones, and melt my soul away.

Ah nymph! whose eyes destructive glances dart,

Fair is your face, but flinty is your heart:

With kisses kind this rage of love appease!

For me, fond swain! even empty kisses please.

Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear

The flowery crown I wove for you to wear,

Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath,

And fragrant herbs ambrosial odours breathe.

Ah me! what pangs I feel! and yet the fair

Nor sees my sorrows, nor will hear my prayer.

I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die,

And from yon rock, that points its summit high,

Where patient Olpis snares the finny fry,

I'll leap; and tho' perchance I rise again,

You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main.

By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found

Your chang'd affection, for it gave no sound,

Tho' in my hand struck hollow as it lay,

But quickly wither'd, like your love, away.

An old witch brought sad tidings to my ears,

She who tells fortunes with the sieve and sheers;

For, leasing barley in my fields of late,

She told me, I should love, and you should hate!

For you my care a milk-white goat supplied,

Two wanton kids run frisking at her side;

Which oft the nut-brown maid, Erithacis,

Has begg'd, and paid before-hand with a kiss;

And since you thus my ardent passion slight,

Her's they shall be before to-morrow night.

My right eye itches; may it lucky prove,

Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love;

Beneath yon pine I'll sing distinct and clear,

Perhaps the fair my tender notes may hear;

Perhaps may pity my melodious moan—

She is not metamorphos'd into stone.

Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife,

To win a mistress, or to lose his life,

Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way,

The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay;

She look'd, she languish'd, all her soul took fire,

She plung'd into the gulph of deep desire.

To Pyle from Othrys sage Melampus came,

He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame;

Fair Pero blest his brother Bias' arms,

And in a virtuous race diffus'd her charms.

Adonis fed his cattle on the plain,

Yet sea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain;

She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chace,

Nor dead dismiss'd him from her warm embrace.

Tho' young Endymion was by Cynthia blest,

I envy nothing but his lasting rest.

Iasion slumbering on the Cretan plain

Ceres once saw, and blest the happy swain

With pleasures too divine for ears profane.

My head grows giddy, love affects me sore;

Yet you regard not; so I'll sing no more—

Here will I put a period to my care—

Adieu, false nymph, adieu, ungrateful fair:

Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last,

My corse will give the wolves a rich repast,

As sweet to them, as honey to your taste.

THE HONEY-STEALER; OR THE XIXTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

TRANSLATED BY F.F.

AS Cupid, the slyest young wanton alive,

Of its hoard of sweet honey was robbing a hive,

The sentinel bee buzz'd with anger and grief,

And darted his sting in the hand of the thief.

He sobb'd, blew his fingers, stamp'd hard on the ground,

And leaping in anguish show'd Venus the wound;

Then began in a sorrowful tone to complain,

That an insect so little should cause so great pain.

Venus smiling, her son in such taking to see,

Said, "Cupid, you put me in mind of a bee;

" You're just such a busy, diminutive thing,

" Yet you make woeful wounds with a desperate sting."

AGAINST LIFE.
FROM THE GREEK OF POSIDIPPUS.

WHat tranquil road, unvex'd by strife,

Can mortals chuse thro' human life?

Attend the courts, attend the bar—

There discord reigns, and endless jar:

At home the weary wretches find

Severe disquietude of mind;

To till the fields, gives toil and pain;

Eternal terrors sweep the main:

If rich, we fear to lose our store,

Need and distress await the poor:

Sad cares the bands of hymen give;

Friendless, forlorn, th' unmarried live:

Are children born? we anxious groan;

Childless, our lack of heirs we moan:

Wild, giddy schemes our youth engage;

Weakness and wants depress old age.

Would fate then with my wish comply,

I'd never live, or quickly die.

F.F.

FOR LIFE.
FROM THE GREEK OF METRODORUS.

MAnkind may rove, unvex'd by strife,

Thro' every road of human life.

Fair wisdom regulates the bar,

And peace concludes the wordy war:

At home auspicious mortals find

Serene tranquillity of mind;

All-beauteous nature decks the plain,

And merchants plough for gold the main:

Respect arises from our store,

Security from being poor:

More joys the bands of hymen give;

Th' unmarried with more freedom live:

If parents, our blest lot we own;

Childless, we have no cause to moan:

Firm vigour crowns our youthful stage,

And venerable hairs old-age.

Since all is good, then who would cry,

" I'd never live, or quickly die?"

F.F.

A PARODY ON THE EPIGRAM OF PODISIPPUS.

BY FRANCIS, LORD VERULAM.

THE world's a bubble, and the life of man

Less than a span;

In his conception wretched, from the womb,

So to the tomb:

Curs'd from the cradle, and brought up to years

With cares and fears:

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,

But limns the water, or but writes in dust.

Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest,

What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools

To dandle fools:

The rural parts are turn'd into a den

Of savage men;

And where's a city from all vice so free,

But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,

Or pains his head:

Those who live single take it for a curse,

Or do things worse.

Some would have children, those that have them, none,

Or wish them gone.

What is it then to have, or have no wife,

But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please

Is a disease;

To cross the sea to any foreign soil,

Perils and toil;

Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease,

We're worse in peace.

What then remains, but that we still should cry,

Not to be born, or being born, to die?

A PASSAGE FROM PETRONIUS, TRANSLATED.

FAllen are thy locks! for woeful winter hoar

Has stolen thy bloom, and beauty is no more!

Thy temples mourn their shady honours shorn,

Parch'd like the fallow destitute of corn.

Fallacious gods! whose blessings thus betray;

What first ye give us, first ye take away.

Thou, late exulting in thy golden hair,

As bright as Phoebus, or as Cynthia fair,

Now view'st, alas! thy forehead smooth and plain

As the round fungus, daughter of the rain;

Smooth as the surface of well-polish'd brass,

And fly'st with fear each laughter-loving lass:

Death hastes amain—thy wretched fate deplore—

Fallen are thy locks, and beauty is no more.

F.F.

ANTIPATER'S GREEK EPIGRAM, ON THE INVENTION OF WATER-MILLS, TRANSLATED.

YE female artizans, who grind the corn,

Indulge your slumbers all the live-long morn;

And let the cock, with impotent essay,

Recite his usual prologue to the day;

For Ceres now herself assistance lends,

And to the mills the green-hair'd naiads sends.

See! on the summit buxomly they bound,

And, with their gambols, work the axle round.

True to th' impulsive waters winds the wheel,

While four huge mill-stones crush the mouldering meal.

All-bounteous Ceres, as in [*] days of yore,

Your toil remits, yet still affords her store.

C.S.

Notes

*
Alluding to the golden age, when the earth was supposed to yield corn spontaneously. In this epigram the naiads, or water-nymphs, are beautifully said to be substituted by Ceres in the room of the women, who formerly worked their mills with their hands and feet.
↵

LUCIAN'S GREEK EPIGRAM, INSCRIBED ON A COLUMN ERECTED IN A PIECE OF LAND, THAT HAD BEEN OFTEN BOUGHT AND SOLD; IMITATED.

I Whom thou see'st begirt with towering oaks,

Was once the property of John o' Nokes;

On him prosperity no longer smiles,

And now I feed the flocks of John o' Stiles.

My former master call'd me by his name;

My present owner fondly does the same:

While I, alike unworthy of their cares,

Quick pass to captors, purchasers, or heirs.

Let no one henceforth take me for his own,

For, Fortune! Fortune! I am thine alone.

C.S.

ANACREON, ODE XXVIII. IMITATED.

BEst of painters, show thy art,

Draw the charmer of my heart;

Draw her as she shines away,

At the rout, or at the play:

Carefully each mode express,

Woman's better part is dress.

Let her cap be mighty small,

Bigger just than none at all,

Pretty, like her sense, and little,

Like her beauty, frail and brittle.

Be her shining locks confin'd

In a threefold braid behind;

Let an artificial flower

Set the fissure off before;

Here and there weave ribbon pat in,

Ribbon of the finest sattin.

Circling round her ivory neck

Frizzle out the smart Vandyke;

Like the ruff that heretofore

Good queen Bess's maidens wore;

Happy maidens, as we read,

Maids of honour, maids indeed.

Let her breast look rich and bold

With a stomacher of gold;

Let it keep her bosom warm,

Amply stretch'd from arm to arm;

Whimsically travers'd o'er,

Here a knot, and there a flower,

Like her little heart that dances,

Full of maggots, full of fancies.

Flowing loosely down her back

Draw with art the graceful sack;

Ornament it well with gimping,

Flounses, surbeloes, and crimping.

Let of ruffles many a row

Guard her elbows, white as snow;

Knots below, and knots above,

Emblems of the ties of love.

Let her hoop, extended wide,

Show what petticoats should hide,

Garters of the softest silk,

Stockings whiter than the milk;

Charming part of female dress,

Did it show us more or less.

Let a pair of velvet shoes

Gently press her petty-toes,

Gently press, and softly squeeze,

Tottering like the fair Chinese,

Mounted high, and buckled low,

Tottering every step they go.

Take these hints, and do thy duty,

Fashions are the tests of beauty;

Features vary and perplex,

Mode's the woman, and the sex.

ROBIN. A PASTORAL ELEGY.

BY CAPTAIN JOHN DOBSON.

DOwn by the brook which glides thro' yonder vale,

His hair all matted, and his cheeks all pale,

Robin, sad swain, by love and sorrow pain'd,

Of slighted vows, and Susan, thus complain'd:

Hear me, ye groves, who saw me blest so late;

Echo, ye hills, my sad reverse of fate:

Ye winds, that bear my sighs, soft murmurs send;

Come pay me back, ye streams, the drops I lend.

And you, sweet Susan, source of all my smart,

Bestow some pity on a broken heart.

Happy the times, by painful memory blest,

When you possessing, Robin all possess'd!

Pass'd by your side, each day brought new delight,

And one sweet slumber shorten'd every night.

My play your service, for no toil seem'd hard,

When your kind favour was the hop'd reward.

I rose to milking, tho' 'twas ne'er so cool;

I call'd the cows up; I kept off the bull:

Home on my head I bore the pail upright;

The pail was heavy, but love made it light:

And when you spilt the milk, and 'gan to cry,

I took the blame, and simply said—'twas I.

When by the haycock's side you sleeping lay,

Sent by good angels, there I chanc'd to stray,

Just as a loathsome adder rear'd his crest,

To dart his poison in your lilly breast,

Strait with a stone I crush'd the monster's head;

You wak'd, and fainted, tho' you found him dead;

Then, from the pond, I water brought a-pace,

My hat brimful, and dash'd it in your face:

Still, blue as bilberry, your cold lips did quake,

Till my warm kisses call'd the cherry back.

When, looking thro' his worship's garden gate,

Ripe peaches tempted, and you long'd to eat;

Tho' the grim mastiff growl'd, and sternly stalk'd,

Tho' guns were loaded, and old Madam walk'd;

Nor dogs, nor darkness, guns, or ghosts, could fright,

When Robin ventur'd for his Sue's delight:

Joyful of midnight quick I post away,

Leap the high wall, and fearless pluck the prey;

Down in your lap a plenteous shower they fall;

Glad you receiv'd them, and you eat them all.

When fair-day came, I donn'd my sunday suit,

Brush'd the best pillion clean, and saddled Cutt.

Then up we got; you clung about my waist;

Pleas'd to be hugg'd, I charg'd you clip me fast:

And when you loos'd your hold, and backward slipp'd,

I held your petticoats, and never peep'd.

The posied garters, and the top-knot fine,

The golden ginger-bread, and all was mine:

I paid the puppet-show, the cakes, the sack;

And, fraught with fairings, brought you laughing back.

Susan but spoke, and each gay flower was there,

To dress her bough-pot, or adorn her hair:

For her the choicest of the woods I cull,

Sloes, hips, and strawberries, her belly full:

My hoard of apples I to her confest;

My heart was hers, well might she have the rest.

And Susan well approv'd her Robin's care,

Yes, you was pleas'd; at least you said you were.

In love's soft fire you seem'd like me to burn,

And sooth'd my fondness with a kind return.

At our long table, when we sat to dine,

You stretch'd your knees, and mingled feet with mine;

With fattest bacon you my trencher plied,

And slic'd my pudding from the plumby side:

And well I wot, when our small-beer was stale,

You stole into the barn, and brought me ale.

But oh, the soldier, blaster of my hopes!

(Curse on pretending kings, and papish popes)

He came from Flanders with the red-coat crew,

To fight with rebels, and he conquer'd you.

His doulas ruffles, and his copper lace,

His brickdust stockings, and his brazen face,

These are the charms for which you slight my youth;

Charms much too potent for a maiden's truth!

Soon on the feather'd fool you turn'd your eyes;

Eager you listen'd to the braggard's lyes;

And, scorning me, your heart to him resign,

Your faithless heart, by vows and service, mine.

True, he is gone, by our brave duke's command,

To humble Britain's foes in foreign land:

Ah, what is that? the spoiler bears away

The only thing for which 'twas worth to stay.

But sorrow's dry;—I'll slake it in the brook;

O well-a-day! how frightful pale I look!

Care's a consumer (so the saying speaks)

The saying's true, I read it in my cheeks.

Fie! I'll be cheerful, 'tis a fancied pain;

A flame so constant cannot meet disdain:

I'll wash my face, and shake off foul despair,

My love is kind; alas! I would she were.

Well says our parson; and our parson said,

" True love and tithes should ever well be paid."

Susan, from you my heart shall never roam,

If your's be wandering, quickly call it home.

TO DAPHNE[*]. ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

BY WILLIAM DUNCOMBE, ESQUIRE.

SEE! Daphne, see! the sun, with purer light,

Now gilds the morn, and chaces gloomy night;

Advancing each return with brighter beams,

He spreads his glories o'er the fields and streams.

The snow dissolves before the western gale,

And vernal flowers adorn the smiling vale.

To life renew'd the budding trees awake,

And from the stem the roseate blossoms break;

The Cyprian queen, o'er every grove and plain,

O'er beasts and birds resumes her welcome reign;

The birds are pair'd, and warble thro' the grove,

And beasts obey the genial call of love.

Hence first the venerable rite begun,

For ages past convey'd from sire to son,

For every swain, on this auspicious day,

To chuse some maid the coming year to sway;

To crop the violet, and primrose fair,

And deck with decent wreaths her glossy hair.

For me, content with what wise heaven ordains,

This chequer'd scene, alternate joys and pains,

For me, the spring of life shall bloom no more;

Nor summer shine, nor autumn swell her store;

Winter alone, with cheerless hand, will shed,

Henceforth, the snow of age around my head.

But, tho' this clay-built tenement decline,

Still may th' immortal guest unclouded shine;

And, if Euterpe not disdain to smile,

Your bard from Helicon, with pleasing toil,

Will, with fresh flowers, unfading garlands twine,

To crown his sweetly-warbling Valentine.

Notes

*
Miss M—o.
↵

ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE II. AND THE INAUGURATION OF HIS PRESENT MAJESTY.

BY THOMAS WARTON, M.A. POETRY-PROFESSOR AT OXFORD. TO MR. SECRETARY PITT.

SO stream the sorrows that embalm the brave,

The tears that science sheds on glory's grave!

So pure the vows, which classic duty pays

To bless another Brunswic's rising rays!—

O Pitt, if chosen strains have power to steal

Thy watchful breast a-while from Britain's weal;

If votive verse, from sacred Isis sent,

May hope to charm thy manly mind, intent

On patriot plans which antient freedom drew,

A-while with fond attention deign to view

This ample wreath, which all th' assembled Nine,

With skill united, have conspir'd to twine.

Yes, guide and guardian of thy country's cause!

Thy conscious heart shall hail with just applause

The duteous muse, whose haste officious brings

Her blameless offering to the shrine of kings:

Thy tongue, well tutor'd in historic lore,

Can speak her office, and her use of yore:

For such the tribute of ingenuous praise

Her harp dispens'd in Grecia's golden days;

Such were the palms, in isles of old renown,

She cull'd to deck the guiltless monarch's crown;

When virtuous Pindar told, with Tuscan gore

How scepter'd Hiero stain'd Sicilia's shore,

Or to mild Theron's raptur'd eye disclos'd

Bright vales where spirits of the brave repos'd:

Yet still beneath the throne, unbrib'd, she sate,

The decent hand-maid, not the slave, of state;

Pleas'd, in the radiance of the regal name,

To blend the lustre of her country's fame:

For, taught like ours, she dar'd, with prudent pride,

Obedience from dependence to divide:

Tho' princes claim'd her tributary lays,

With truth severe she temper'd partial praise;

Conscious she kept her native dignity,

Bold as her flights, and as her numbers free.

And sure if e'er the muse indulg'd her strains,

With just regard, to grace heroic reigns,

Where could her glance a theme of triumph own

So dear to fame, as George's trophied throne?

At whose firm base, thy stedfast soul aspires

To wake a mighty nation's antient fires:

Aspires to baffle faction's specious claim,

Rouse England's rage, and give her thunder aim:

Once more the main her conquering banners sweep,

Again her commerce darkens all the deep.

Thy fix'd resolve renews each fair decree

That made, that kept of yore, thy country free.

Call'd by thy voice, nor deaf to war's alarms,

Its willing youth the rural empire arms:

Again the lords of Albion's cultur'd plains

March the firm leaders of their faithful swains;

As erst stout archers, from the farm or fold,

Flam'd in the van of many a baron bold.

Nor thine the pomp of indolent debate,

The war of words, the sophistries of state:

Nor frigid caution checks thy free design,

Nor stops thy stream of eloquence divine:

For thine the privilege, on few bestow'd,

To feel, to think, to speak for public good.

In vain corruption calls her venal tribes,

One common cause one common end prescribes:

Nor fear nor fraud or spares or screens the foe,

But spirit prompts, and valour strikes the blow.

O Pitt, while honour points thy liberal plan,

And o'er the minister exalts the man,

Isis cogenial greets thy faithful sway,

Nor scorns to bid a statesman grace her lay;

For science still is justly fond to blend,

With thine, her practice, principles, and end.

'Tis not for her, by false connections drawn,

At splendid slavery's fordid shrine to fawn;

Each native effort of the feeling breast

To friends, to foes, in servile fear, supprest:

'Tis not for her to purchase, or pursue

The phantom favours of the cringing crew:

More useful toils her studious hours engage,

And fairer lessons fill her spotless page:

Beneath ambition, but above disgrace,

With nobler arts she forms the rising race:

With happier tasks, and less refin'd pretence,

In elder times, she woo'd munificence

To rear her arched roofs in regal guise,

And lift her temples nearer to the skies;

Princes and prelates stretch'd the social hand,

To form, diffuse, and fix her high command:

From kings she claim'd, yet scorn'd to seek, the prize,

From kings, like George, benignant, just, and wise.

Lo, this her genuine lore!—Nor thou refuse

This humble present of no partial muse

From that calm bower, which nurs'd thy thoughtful youth

In the pure precepts of Athenian truth:

Where first the form of British liberty

Beam'd in full radiance on thy musing eye;

That form, whose mien sublime, with equal awe,

In the same shade unblemish'd Somers saw:

Where once (for well she lov'd the friendly grove,

Which every classic grace had learn'd to rove)

Her whispers wak'd sage Harrington to feign

The blessings of her visionary reign;

That reign, which now no more, an empty theme,

Adorns philosophy's ideal dream,

But crowns at last, beneath a George's smile,

In full reality this favour'd isle.

ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR,
MDCCLXIII.

BY W. WHITEHEAD, ESQ. POET LAUREAT.

AT length th' imperious lord of war

Yields to the fates their ebon car,

And frowning quits his toil:

Dash'd from his hand the bleeding spear

Now deigns a happier form to wear,

And peaceful turns the soil.

Th' insatiate furies of his train,

Revenge, and hate, and fell disdain,

With heart of steel, and eyes of fire,

Who stain the sword which honour draws,

Who sully virtue's sacred cause,

To Stygian depths retire.

Unholy shapes, and shadows drear,

The pallid family of fear,

And rapine, still by shrieks pursued,

And meagre famine's squalid brood,

Close the dire crew.—Ye eternal gates, display

Your adamantine folds, and shut them from the day.

For lo, in yonder pregnant skies,

On billowy clouds the goddess lies,

Whose presence breathes delight!

Whose power th' obsequious seasons own,

And winter loses half his frown,

And half her shades the night;

Soft-smiling Peace, whom Venus bore,

When, tutor'd by th' enchanting lore

Of Maia's blooming son,

She sooth'd the synod of the gods,

Drove discord from the blest abodes,

And Jove resum'd his throne;

Th' attendant graces gird her round,

And sportive Ease, with locks unbound,

And every muse to leisure born,

And Plenty with her twisted horn.

While changeful Commerce spreads her loosen'd sails,

Blow, as ye list, ye winds, the reign of Peace prevails.

And see, to grace that milder reign,

Sweet Innocence adorns the train,

And deigns a human frame to wear,

In form and features Albion's heir,

A future George!—Propitious powers,

Ye delegates of heaven's high king,

Who guide the years, the days, the hours,

That float on time's progressive wing,

Exert your influence, bid us know

From parent worth what virtues flow!

Be to less happy realms resign'd

The warrior's unrelenting rage,

We ask not kings of hero-kind,

The storms, and earthquakes of their age,

To us be nobler blessings given:

O teach us, delegates of heaven,

What mightier bliss from union springs!

Future subjects, future kings,

Shall bless the fair example shown,

And from our character transcribe their own,

A people, zealous to obey

A monarch, whose parental sway

Despises regal art,

His shield, the laws which guard the land,

His sword, each Briton's eager hand,

His throne, each Briton's heart.

THE MAN OF SORROW.

AH! what avails the lengthening mead,

By nature's kindest bounty spread

Along the vale of flowers!

Ah! what avails the darkening grove,

Or Philomel's melodious love,

That glads the midnight hours!

For me (alas!) the god of day

Ne'er glitters on the hawthorn spray,

Nor night her comfort brings.

I have no pleasure in the rose:

For me no vernal beauty blows,

Nor Philomela sings.

See, how the sturdy peasants stride

Adown yon hillock's verdant side,

In cheerful ignorance blest!

Alike to them the rose or thorn,

Alike arises every morn,

By gay contentment drest.

Content, fair daughter of the skies,

Or gives spontaneous, or denies,

Her choice divinely free,

She visits oft the hamlet-cot,

When want and sorrow are the lot

Of avarice and me.

But see—or i• it fancy's dream?

Methought a bright celestial gleam

Shot sudden thro' the groves.

Behold, behold, in loose array,

Euphrosyne more bright than day,

More mild than Paphian doves!

Welcome, oh! welcome, pleasure's queen!

And see, along the velvet green,

The jocund train advance:

With scatter'd flowers they fill the air,

The wood-nymph's dew-bespangled hair

Plays in the sportive dance.

Ah! baneful grant of angry heaven,

When to the feeling wretch is given

A soul alive to joy!

Joys fly with every hour away,

And leave th' unguarded heart a prey

To cares, that peace destroy.

And see, with visionary haste,

(Too soon the gay delusion past)

Reality remains!

Despair has seiz'd my captive soul,

And horror drives without controul,

And slackens still the reins.

Ten thousand beauties round me throng,

What beauties, say, ye nymphs, belong

To the distemper'd soul?

I see the lawn of hideous dye,

The towering elm nods misery,

With groans the waters roll.

Ye gilded roofs, Palladian domes,

Ye vivid tints of Persia's looms,

Ye were for misery made—

'Twas thus the man of sorrow spoke,

His wayward step then pensive took

Along th' unhallow'd shade.

THE MAN OF PLEASURE.

YES, to the sages be it told,

However great, or wise, or old,—

Fair pleasure's my pursuit;

For her I breathe the joyful day,

For her thro' nature's wilds I stray,

And cull the flowers and fruit.

Sweep, sweep the lute's enchanting string,

And all thy sweets lov'd luxury bring!

" To enjoy is to obey;"

The heavenly mandate still prevail,

And let each unwise wretch bewail

The dire, neglected day.

Ah! graceless wretch! to disobey,

And devious quit the flowery way,

And slight the gods decree!

Still, still, ye gods, the blessings send!

If e'er my guilty hands offend,

Indeed my heart is free.

In pleasure's ray see nature shine,

How dull, alas! at wisdom's shrine!

" 'Tis folly to be wise;"

Collusive term, poor vain pretence,

Enjoyment sure is real sense

In philosophic eyes.

I love the carol of the hound,

Enraptur'd on the living ground

In dashing ecstacy;

I love the aukward courser's stride,

The courser that has been well-tried,

And with him eager fly.

And yes, I love, ye sneering wise!—

Fair honour, spurning still at lies,

As courting liberty;

Still hand in hand great nature goes,

With joys to honour never foes,

And all those joys are free.

And welcome thrice to British land,

From Italy's voluptuous strand,

Ye destin'd men of art;

Breathe on the thrilling meaning sound,

Each grace shall still be faithful found,

At your admirer's heart.

Avert, ye gods! that curse of fools,

The pride of theoretic rules;

That dupery of sense:

I ne'er refuse the proffer'd joy,

With every good—that can annoy—

Most easily dispense.

I catch each rapture as it flies,

Each happy loss a gain supplies,

And boon still follows boon:

The smile of beauty gilds my day,

Regardless of her frowns I stray;—

Thus thro' my hours I run!

But let me not for idle rhime,

Neglect, ungrateful, good old time:

Dear watch! thou art obey'd—

'Twas thus the man of pleasure spoke,

His jovial step then careless took

To Celia—or her maid.

THE BACCHANALIAN.

YE sordid wretches! chain'd to rules,

As asses dull, and obstinate as mules;

Whose minds ne'er knew one liberal thought,

Back to your sneaking miserable cells!

Where narrowness of thinking dwells,

With not one social sense of feeling fraught.

There free from tumult, free from strife,

In silence doze, nor snuff the wick of life:

But slowly let it waste away,

While cunning prudence plauds the saving scheme,

Nor let its flame so much as seem

To cast a glimpse of one eccentric ray.

Give me the man of blither soul,

Whose spirits thro' an ampler channel roll!

Who, spite of method's drowsy plan,

Will plunge alert into a sea of joy,

And float on active fancy's buoy,

And snatch at fleeting pleasure, whilst he can.

See yonder festive, jocund band!

A nectar'd goblet gracing every hand:

Mirth opes the storehouse of the soul,

And on ill-nature turns her polish'd key;

Sullen the Demon limps away,

Nor dares exert the function of controul.

Thither let me bend in haste,

And embrace the bottle's waist,

Charms Anacreontic prove,

Quaffing to the God of love.

Brighter blushes paint his face,

And he looks a fresher grace,

When with Bacchus he reclines,

Underneath his purple vines.

How the jolly, hunting song,

Emblematic, loud, and strong,

On attention's organ dwells,

And the force of care dispells,

'Till the full-voic'd bursting chorus

Sets the fox and hounds before us.

Sons of sorrow! quit your beds,

Seek the path which Bacchus treads:

Drown your avaricious notions

In the claret's lively potions:

Mind not what the miser says;

Folly 'tis to earn his praise:

Or his constitution fails,

Or his avarice prevails,

Else he'd laugh, and drink, and be

Airy, tipsy, gay as we.

W.W.

THE ADVENTURER AND THE TREASURE.
A FABLE.

BY MR. CHARLES DENIS.

A Knight, we read (tho' authors clash)

Once sallied forth adventures to explore;

Not as knight-errants did, in days of yore,

With one squire only, and no cash!

Our hero, so my author sings,

Was taught to lay down this position,

That men and money were the things,

On which depends an expedition.

He therefore took of both, 'tis said,

And as along he chas'd for prey,

To succour dames, and giants slay,

These words upon a rock engrav'd he read:

" Deep in the earth a treasure lies,

" Hid from the light of day;

" Whoe'er would gain the glorious prize,

" Thro' me must hew his way."

Away to work they go

With pick-axe and with crow:

What will not constancy atchieve?

It softens damsels hearts more hard by far

Than marble, flint, or diamonds are;

Tho' 'tis what some folks can't conceive.

And now the rock is pierc'd quite thro',

But yet the treasure's not the nearer;

Knight-errants pay for things much dearer.

For lo! a precipice appears in view,

Where 'twas inscrib'd upon a post;

" The money lies on th' other coast;

" Which no adventurer can obtain,

" 'Till this gulph's levell'd to a plain."

After much labour, and much cost,

The gulph is fill'd, the plain is crost.

'Twas time the adventures now were ended;

For all the money was expended:

But still new obstacles arise;

A dragon guards the glorious prize,

Which by the knight must be surmounted

Before the treasure could be counted.

I'll try, quoth he, what I can do;

My purse is empty—that's too true:

But I have all my courage left;

Of that no knight can be bereft:

When honour calls, I am the man:'

He spoke, and on the dragon ran.

To paint each blow, and streaming-gash,

From nose and mouth the streams that flash,

Demands the pen that did indite

The actions of la Mancha's knight:

We'll say then, after many a slash,

The dragon lay, as 'twas but meet,

A breathless carcase at his feet.

Not that our hero came off clear;

The victory cost him very dear:

And many a wound left many a scar,

The marks of honour, and th' effects of war.

At length the treasure's found—they count it o'er;

And what d'ye think was in the purse?

Penny for penny, less nor more,

The very sum it had before;

And well it was no worse:

For when contending princes fight,

For private pique, or public right;

Armies are rais'd, the fleets are mann'd—

They combat both by sea and land.

When, after many battles past,

Both tir'd with blows make peace at last.

What is it, after all, each nation gets?

Why—widows, taxes, wooden-legs, and debts.

THE CONQUEROR AND THE OLD WOMAN.
A FABLE.

BY THE SAME.

A Persian monarch, one of those,

Whose great ambition knew no bound;

Some Cyrus, or Darius, we'll suppose,

In whom no other vice was found,

If we dare name ambition so,

For some doubt whether it be vice or no.

I have not time at present to confute,

So grant the question rather than dispute.

This Sophi far and wide his conquests spread;

Full thirty crowns, or more,

Were pil'd on his anointed head;

And yet with ease the weight he bore;

For 'twas his great, and chief delight,

To break the yoke his vanquish'd subjects wore,

And make their burden light.

Attentive to the voice of the distress'd,

Justice and virtue flourish'd in his reign:

When, from the confines of his vast domain,

A good old woman, who had been oppress'd,

Came to the footstool of his throne,

To have her grievances redress'd;

And thus in piteous tragic tone,

His majesty address'd:

" Encourag'd by your fame, I come from far;

" Sir, you're our king by right of war;

" By right of subject I for justice sue:

" I claim it; and you'll grant it; 'tis my due.

" My daughter ravish'd, and my house destroy'd

" And all by one whom you employ'd

" To act the king, in place of you."

" I doubt not but all this is true,

The conscious prince replied,

" But so far off, what can I do?

" To make my people happy, is my price;

" And yet I cannot every-where reside.

" The sun, which all the world surrounds,

" Shines and enlivens but to certain bounds;

" The rest are dark and cold."

" That's argued ill, if I may be so bold,

Return'd the matron to the sovereign,

" 'Twas weak to grasp at what you cannot hold,

" And conquer more than you can govern."

While o'er the sea of life we take our trip,

Kings are by heaven commission'd to command;

Captains, not owners of the ship,

'Tis theirs to steer the people safe to land:

And when the bark with prudence they convey,

We row with pleasure, and with pride obey.

PEACE. A FABLE.

BY THE SAME.

AMongst the gods a contest rose,

Which put Olympus in uproar;

(Just so it happen'd once before,

When on the banks where Simois flows,

As Homer sings in times of yore,

From words their godships came to blows)

When Jupiter aloud exclaim'd,

" Where's Peace? are ye not all asham'd,

" Thus to expose yourselves again,

" And be the laughing-stock of men?"

Then sternly look'd the heavens around;

But Peace was no-where to be found.

" Haste, Mercury, thy wings prepare,

" Fly down to earth, and seek her there."

The god his father's summons quick obeys,

Arrives: and first the court surveys.

" Politeness lives among the great,

" And Peace, no doubt, has there a seat:

" Such complaisance smiles in each face,

" Peace needs must bask in every heart."

But here the god mistook the case;

The mask remov'd, 'twas fraud, 'twas art:

All ready to receive commands,

Embracing, feigning, squeezing hands;

As fair, and yet as foul as sin,

All peace without, all war within.

He next to Themis' bench his steps inclin'd;

Not that he thought within the hall,

Amidst the lawyer's brawl,

The heaven-born fair to find:

He turn'd his eyes to that tremendous seat,

Where justice sits with awful air,

In stern majestic state:

But Peace in vain he look'd for there.

Not even great Hardwick, he whose guardian cares

Protect the orphan from the harpy's claws,

Whose heart, as well as hand, the ballance bears,

Can quell the clamorous jarring of the laws.

For law, like Janus, has a double face,

And either shows, according to the case:

For, as you find it suits you better,

You take the sense, and leave the letter;

Or, vice versa, with as good pretence,

The letter take, and leave the sense:

The God was glad to get from hence.

And to the temples now he goes,

Where, far from all the busy cares of life,

The holy priests should taste repose,

Free from ambition, noise, and strife.

But lo! instead of harmony divine,

Beneath religion's sacred veil,

'Twas interest, guilt, mistaken zeal;

All side in parties, and in sects combine,

Some for their idol, others for their shrine;

And curse, and damn, and plunge in brother's blood,

For what perhaps few understood.

And now Jove's messenger directs his way

To those fam'd domes close by where Isis glides,

Where Alma Mater bears the sway,

And all the muses sport and play,

And little do besides:

Peace might with learning dwell, tho' not with wit;

But here again the god was bit.

Pride, faction, jealousy, and spite,

Were centred there as in a fort;

Not for each other to support,

But what is strange! to fight.

Hence pamphleteers, and daily writers,

Some bare-fac'd liars, some back-biters,

And all the mercenary set,

That write to live on what they get.

Not that I say there's any shame

To write for bread, as well as fame:

But oh! beware, nor prostitute an art,

Design'd to mend, and not corrupt the heart.

Now into private life the god descends;

And first he views the marriage state,

Alas! where seldom Peace attends;

For two that love there's ten that hate:

Here husbands nominal, there maiden wives,

Who sue for a divorce,

Of course;

And some who plague each other all their lives.

Relations more or less divided,

According as by interest guided.

Ungrateful children, parents too severe—

In short, 'twas discord every-where.

" I've made, quoth Mercury, a fine look out;

" To father Jove▪ what message shall I bring?"

So said, he turn'd about,

And back to heaven prepar'd to wing.

When, as he cast his eyes around,

Close by a hermit's cell, he spied

The beauteous fugitive, with olive crown'd,

And Contemplation by her side.

" Oh! oh! fair maid, at last you're found:"—

" Yes, Peace replied, 'tis here I dwell,

" Within this hermit's tranquil cell."

For gods, as well as men, must own

Who'd quiet live, must live alone;

Nor happy then, unless he find

Within himself sweet Peace of mind.

MERCURY AND THE SHADES.
TO MISS M—.

BY THE SAME.

CHarming Annetta, but that I'm forbid,

Fain would I grace these fables with your name;

But in each praise I sure may echo fame,

And then you're finely hid.

Yet hold: nor let the blushes rise,

Nor anger sparkle in those eyes

Where Love has fixt his throne.

But wherefore do I pardon ask?

Remember you impos'd the task;

This fable is your own.

The messenger of Jove, as 'twas his post,

Led to the Stygian coast,

Four shades departed from this life;

A maiden fair, just going to be married;

A good man torn from children, and from wife,

A general that ne'er in fight miscarried;

And, to complete the motly crew,

A poet, who had bid the stage adieu.

Alas! the virgin shade then cry'd,

Where is, ah where! my lover now?

I'm sure with me he would have died,

Had he but known the manner how:

For when alive, on love relying,

He clasp'd me to his tender breast,

And talk'd of nothing else but dying;

Now I am gone, where can he rest?

If death flies not to his relief,

'Tis plain one cannot die of grief.

And next the married man

His piteous tale began:

Ah me!

Said he,

What sighs are fetch'd! what tears are shed!

Since I am number'd with the dead;

Oh did they but regret me less!

My loving and beloved wife,

My children dearer far than life,

My only sorrow, I confess,

Is to reflect on their distress.

What signifies your petty private smart?

Then spoke the hero with a frown;

The public feels my loss in every heart,

And with their tears write my renown,

Each in the general woe assumes a part;

Whilst Roubillac employs his art

To raise himself, and to transmit me down.

With weak materials, said the bard,

You build your future fame:

No doubt but bronze is very hard,

And marble much the same.

Yet marble moulders, brass decays;

There's nothing but the poet's lays

Can fix the hero's name.

Had Homer never wrote,

Achilles never had been known;

And as our brother Voltaire says,

Marlbro' will live in Addison,

When Blenheim and the pillar's gone.

I don't presume myself to quote;

Tho' to be sure most folks must own,

Amongst the best I was of note.

The god could not forbear to smile,

To hear their conscious prate,

And so indulg'd them for a while,

Each in his fond conceit.

But being near th' infernal gate,

He wav'd his wand aloft in air,

And first bespoke the maiden fair.

For you, sweet shade, that think your lover dying,

Already in his arms another is complying.

And thou, poor soul, uxorious ghost,

What hast thou to regret or boast?

Thy wife and heirs are gone to law,

For in thy will was found a flaw;

Intent on nothing but thy store,

They count, recount it o'er and o'er,

And curse thee for not leaving more.

And you, my noble man of might,

So fam'd for spoils, so great in fight,

Once gone, you are of no import;

Another has your place at court,

Much greater far than all that went before.

You was, as one may say,

Like him the hero of a day,

Like you when snatch'd away,

His feats and name will be no more.

You, master poet, thank the doctor's pill,

That sav'd you from the public scoff:

You was a going fast down hill;

'Twas high time to leave off.

All think themselves of more importance far,

Than really what they are.

We every day experience what we dread;

Forgot when absent, as forgot when dead.

None thought of us before that we had breath,

And few will be remember'd after death;

Except those few who live to fame,

Death and oblivion are the same.

THE CONNOISSEURS. A FABLE.

BY THE SAME. TO MR. HAYMAN.

POets and painters flock together,

In fancy's flight, birds of a feather.

Then tell me, Hayman, brother in Apollo,

That god of whim, whom you and I both follow;

Is not our case, who paint or write,

In all respects the same?

Arraign'd by ignorance, and judg'd by spite,

Dubious of praise, but sure of blame.

In every other science, great or small,

A jury's call'd of the same art and knowledge;

The surgeon is examin'd at the hall,

The doctor at the college;

But those who use the pencil, and the pen,

Submit their works to all degrees of men.

The scrivener's clerk, the boy who sweeps the shop,

The squeamish beau, the mawkish fop,

And thousands more beside,

Of equal judgment, sense, and spirit,

Condemn, approve, decide,

And fix the standard of our merit.

But if my friend will listen to the tale,

He'll find their sentence not without appeal.

A famous painter, one of those,

Whose pencil was to nature true,

A Hogarth you'll suppose,

But I suppose 'tis you;

No matter which—one of the two

A portrait undertook to draw:

Three sittings o'er,

Perhaps some more;

Genius as yet is not confin'd by law.

'Tis done; the picture is expos'd to view.

Friends come to judge, as usual, in such case:

What! don't you know the face?

Not I indeed; do you?

'Tis mine, replied the man who sat:

Impossible! here's neither grace nor air,

Why this is brown, and you are fair;

I never saw a piece so flat.

Besides the mouth is all askew:

And then such shades! and then such light!

Pray wipe it out, begin a-new;

For as it stands 'tis quite a fright.

Our artist pleads his cause in vain—

He needs must paint it o'er again.

And now they cry out ten times more,

Why this is worse than that before:

If you would have your portraits take,

Give us resemblances that strike;

That seem to think, and want to speak;

A Rubens, Titian, or Vandyke;

But as for this, there's not one feature like.

The Virtuosi gone, the painter said,

I have a thought, that's just come in my head,

T' expose these learned friends of yours;

Who, under name of connoisseurs,

Of strokes and touches, stile and manner, chatter:

But be so kind to join with me,

And you to-morrow morn shall see,

How much they know about the matter.

Next day the picture was set forth to sight,

At proper distance, and in proper light;

Just as between them 'twas agreed.

And now the learned meet to speak their mind;

But still, they can't the least resemblance find;

'Twas not their friend—not him indeed—

" That's very strange, the portrait made reply,

" Why, gentlemen! 'tis I myself, 'tis I."

For in the cloth a hole was cut,

Thro' which our man his real face had put,

To give these connoisseurs the lie.

Then are there none, whose judgment fix the test?

With taste and true discernment blest,

Whose very praise rewards the artist's toil?

O yes, no doubt there are:

Sometimes, tho' very rare,

You'll find a Chesterfield, or meet a Boyle.

LOVE ELEGY.

Nec lacrymis crudelis amor, nec gramina rivis,

Nec cytiso saturantur apes, nec fronde capellae.

VIRG.

THE dewy morn her saffron mantle spreads

High o'er the brow of yonder eastern hill;

Each blooming shrub a roseate fragrance sheds,

While the brisk sky-lark sings his carol shrill.

Now, where the willows to the rivulet bend,

That winds its channel thro' the verdant mead,

I'll o'er the turf my waining form extend,

And rest on sedges dank my anxious head.

Not all the sweets that scent the morning air,

Not all the flowers that paint the vernal year,

Can ease my bosom of its weighty care,

Or teach my eyes to stop the falling tear.

In vain the stream o'er pebbles glides along,

And murmurs, sweetly-lulling, as it flows;

In vain the stock-dove chants the gurgling song,

Inviting slumbers soft, and kind repose.

The cruel pangs of fierce desire I prove,

And think with transport on my absent fair;

Ah! mournful state, to scorch in flames of love,

Amidst the chilling frosts of sad despair.

'Tis not my Delia's scorn, my Delia's pride,

That sinks my hopes in everlasting night;

No charms to her the lavish gods denied,

Who form'd her perfect, as they form'd her bright.

But, ah! the influence of some baneful star,

Which frown'd malignant on my hapless birth,

Has to my wishes plac'd an envious bar,

Superior to the strongest power on earth.

If crouding myriads, arm'd for deadly war,

Held from my longing eyes my bosom's queen;

And kept her deep in gloomy caves afar,

While mountains rose, and oceans flow'd between;

I might not force thro' spears and swords my way,

I might not reach secure the distant shore;

Yet, urg'd by Venus, I'd provoke the fray,

Or perish bravely in the tumult's roar.

When fell ambition drives us to the plain,

Dismay'd by fear the doubting squadrons move;

But I alike should certain pleasure gain,

To fall, or conquer for the maid I love.

Curs'd be the wretch, who first, with impious hand,

Taught fervile error o'er the world to roll;

This chases freedom from each groaning land,

This warps (ah, fad effect!) my Delia's soul.

But say, shall love, which, boundless as the wind,

On youthful pinions every region tries,

And mocks even virtue's dictates, be confin'd

By superstition's ever-galling ties?

Ye fairy forms of gay delusion, hence!

Your flattering visions but increase my smart;

I'll hear the sacred voice of manly sense,

And quell my passion, tho' I break my heart.

How frail my vows! my fix'd resolves how vain!

No daring arm the power of love can brave,

One thought of Delia wounds my peace again,

Renews my woes, and binds me more her slave.

VERSES, OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MRS. OLDFIEDD.

WHen greatness claims, or merit gives

A more distinguish'd tomb,

St. Peter's shrine the corse receives

Beneath its awful dome.

There kings in stately marble sleep,

And into dust return,

While emblematic virtues weep

Around the lofty urn.

Profusive of expence and art,

Their labour might be sav'd:

Useful for them, if on their heart

These virtues were engrav'd.

Lo! there inscrib'd the warrior's praise,

The fife and laurel-wreath!

While Death, more justly crown'd with bays,

Grins horribly beneath.

There statesmen lie, emblazon'd forth

With virtues, not their own;

And, Walpole, there perhaps thy worth

May posthumous be known.

In vain, secure of deathless praise,

There poets ashes come,

Since obsolete grows Chaucer's phrase,

And moulders with his tomb.

Lest too in death thy pleasant vein,

And humour should be lost,

O Rare Ben Johnson, there is seen

Thy tragi-comic bust.

Let Dryden's statue, there enshrin'd,

Of purest marble stand;

Whose wit, to virtue if confin'd,

Might one of gold demand:

There Congreve too, consign'd to fame,

With envied lustre shine;

Yet who the Fair's respect can blame

To muse as chaste as thine?

In vain the monuments we raise

To future ages live,

Nor fond respect, nor venal praise,

Can conscious virtue give.

When God our scatter'd dust shall call,

And rescue us from death,

Will virtue then or stand or fall,

On fame, or vulgar breath?

Tho', Oldfield, even in death thy fate

Continue still the scene,

Lest thou shouldst seem to mimic death,

And act, not be a queen,

Pageants, and borrow'd pomp, display

(Where Albion's monarchs lie)

Thy fancied worth; till the last day

Thy real merit try.

For acting of another's part

Thy praise may now be known;

But then more comfort 'twill impart

T' have acted well thy own.

ON THE OLD BUST, WITH A SOUR AIR, ON MR. DRYDEN'S MONUMENT, IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

AT Dryden's tomb, inscrib'd with Sh—d's name,

That mite, slow offer'd to establish'd fame!

Fill'd with raw wonder, Tyro stopt to gaze;

And bless'd his bounteous Grace, in kind amaze:

The guardian genius, from the sacred dust,

Re-kindling upwards, wak'd the quickening bust,

Glowing from every awful feature—broke

Disdainful life—and thus the marble spoke:

" Teach thy blind love of honesty to see,—

" 'Tis not my monument,—tho' built on me.

" Great peers, 'tis known, can in oblivion lie;

" But no great poet has the power to die.

" At cheap expence, behold engrafted fame!

" The tack'd associate of a buoyant name.

" The pompous craft one lucky lord shall save;

" And Sh—d borrow life from Dryden's grave."

'Twas said—and, ere the short sensation died,

The stiffening marble writh'd its form aside:

Back from the titled waste of mouldering state

He turn'd—neglectful of the court, too late!

And, sadly conscious of mispointed praise,

Frowns thro' the stone, and shrinks beneath his bays.

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE LATE STEPHEN POYNTZ, ESQ.

WRITTEN BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHEN AT SCHOOL.

FRiend to my life, and parent of my youth,

Accept with kindness, what I give with truth,

Accept! and know it undisguis'd by art,

Th' o'erflowing fullness of a grateful heart.

While joy returns with this returning morn,

And thousands bless the day that Poyntz was born,

Shall I alone no pious wishes send,

Forget the patron, and neglect the friend?

No;—tho' my mind no costly present prove,

Exalt my joy, and dignify my love,

Yet cheerful truth shall aid the muse to pay

The silent tribute of an humble lay;

Yet gratitude, that heaven-directed fire,

That muse shall raise, that humble lay inspire,

Glow in each thought, inspirit every line,

And, while it warms my breast, enliven thine.

Say, Poyntz, when, smiling on thy natal hour,

Friend, neighbour, child, their various blessings pour;

When love, unvex'd by troubles, or by cares,

Hails thy fair series of revolving years,

Does not more real bliss thy thoughts employ?

Does not thy swelling heart dilate with joy?

Superior joy, to know those years were spent,

With ease and virtue, affluence and content?

Yes, conscious honour, with true greatness join'd,

Smiles in thy face, and glows within thy mind:

In vain, unmov'd by false deluding pride,

The modest breast would its own merits hide;

Still, gloriously conceal'd, true worth we see

Take double lustre from obscurity.

O! could I live like thee, with equal fate,

Politely good, and innocently great.

Each noble act, each generous thought, is thine;

Those acts, those thoughts, to imitate be mine.

Come thou, my guide, philosopher, and friend,

Conduct, improve, protect me, and defend;

Teach me, like thee, low fortune to despise,

Like thee, by virtue dignified, to rise;

Thro' life's calm voyage happily to steer,

Gay, not presuming, grave, yet not severe.

Together let us view the classic page,

The sophist's moral, and the poet's rage,

Pursue the calm advice, th' inspiring flame,

Compare, and know their generous end the same.

O! did my humble artless breast but know

The piercing judgment, or the active flow;

Sublime the muse should mount with stronger wing,

Thy peaceful worth, thy glorious toils to sing:

To thee, in loftier strains, the song should raise,

And with the friend's unite the patriot's praise.

Even now, whilst grateful truths my breast inflame,

I dare to celebrate the glorious theme,

And bold, the wilds of poetry explore

Thro' devious tracts, and paths unknown before.

CONTENTS.

- ODE to February, Page 1

- Stanzas, occasioned by the forwardness of the spring, 3

- Spring. Addressed to Myra, 5

- On the first of February, 7

- Horace, ode IV. book i. imitated, 8

- Deity. A poem, 9

- A soliloquy in a country church-yard, 49

- The shepherd's invitation, 53

- The nymph's answer, 55

- A poem. By Sir W. Raleigh, 57

- Imitation of Marloe, 59

- The third idyllium of Theocritus, translated, 61

- The nineteenth idyllium of Theocritus, translated, 65

- Against life. From the Greek of Podisippus, 66

- For life. From the Greek of Metrodorus, 67

- A parody on the epigram of Podisippus, 68

- A passage from Petronius, translated, 70

- Antipater's Greek epigram, on water-mills, translated, 71

- Lucian's epigram, inscribed on a column, imitated, 72

- Anacreon, ode XXVIII. imitated, 73

- Robin. A pastoral elegy, 75

- On Valentine's day, 79

- On the death of king George II. 81

- Ode for the new year, 86

- The man of sorrow, 89

- The man of pleasure, 92

- The Bacchanalian, 95

- The adventurer and the treasure, 97

- The conqueror and the old woman, 100

- Peace, 102

- Mercury and the shades, 106

- The connoisseurs, 110

- Love elegy, Page 113

- Verses, occasioned by the death of mrs. Oldfield, 116

- On the old bust, on mr. Dryden's monument, in Westminster-Abbey, 119

- On the birth-day of the late Stephen Poyntz, esq. 120

Information about this book

Title statement

The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: ... by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley's collection. Written and selected by Francis Fawkes, M. A. and William Woty. In twelve volumes. [pt.2]

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5360

ID [isbn10]

1106023595

ID [isbn13]

9781106023599

ID [TCP]

K113952.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3313694181

ID [ECLL]

0579800302

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Source

— The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: ... by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley's collection. Written and selected by Francis Fawkes, M. A. and William Woty. In twelve volumes., Fawkes, Francis, 1720-1777., Woty, William, 1731?-1791.. The second edition.. 12v. ; 8⁰. London :: printed by Dryden Leach; for J. Coote,. 1763-64.. [The half-title to each volume bears the volume number and the commemorated month.] [Vol.3 is dated 1764, vols.4-5 and 8-9 are dated 1763.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT146609.] [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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