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.7]

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- JULY. AN ODE.

- HYMN TO THE MORNING. WRITTEN-IN SUMMER.

- ON VIEWING AN EXTENSIVE PROSPECT FROM THE TOP OF ASTON HILLS IN BUCKING-HAMSHIRE, COMPOS'D ON HORSEBACK.

- A HARVEST SCENE.

- ODE TO GENIUS.

- AN ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS.

- THE FEMINEAD: OR FEMALE GENIUS. A POEM.

- AN EVENING CONTEMPLATION IN A COLLEGE.

- ODE PRESENTED TO HIS GRACE THOMAS HOLLES, DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, ON HIS AR RIVAL THERE, JUNE XIV, MDCCLIII.

- ODE TO THE HON. JOHN YORK. IMITATED FROM HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVI.

- ON MR. GARRICK.

- AN EPISTLE FROM YORK TO A FRIEND IN KENT.

- ANSWERED FROM CANTERBURY.

- PROLOGUE SPOKEN AT THE CHARTER-HOUSE, MDCCLIII.

- TO THE AUTHOR OF CLARISSA.

- VERSES ON THE CAMPAIGN OF MDCCLIX. ADDRESSED TO THE PUBLISHERS OF THE GEN TLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

- TO COLONEL CLIVE, ON HIS ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND.

- ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP THE RAMILLIES, CAPTAIN TAYLOR, FEBRU ARY MDCCLX.

- METHOD OF CHUSING A MAYOR. FROM THE LATIN OF M. HUET, AFTERWARDS BISHOP OF AVRANCHES.

- [poem]

- [original]

- M. DE VOLTAIRE A LA PRINCESSE AMELIE DE PRUSSE.

- LE RESPONSE DU ROI.

- [translation]

- VOLTAIRE TO THE PRINCESS AMELIA OF PRUSSIA. TRANSLATED BY THE SAME.

- THE KING'S ANSWER.

- A MOONLIGHT ODE.

- EVADNE TO EMMA. AN EPISTLE.

- HYMN TO RESIGNATION.

- AN IMITATION FROM PASTOR FIDO.

- IMITATED FROM METASTASIO.

- TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN.

- SONNET. FROM PETRARCH.

- SONNET. FROM THE SAME.

- SONNET OF FAUSTINA MARATTI ZAPPI. TO A LADY WITH WHOM SHE SUPPOSES HER HUSBAND TO HAVE BEEN FORMERLY IN LOVE.

- ANNINGAIT AND AJUTT: A GREENLAND TALE. TAKEN FROM THE FOURTH VOLUME OF THE RAMBLER. INSCRIBED TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, M.A.

- [inscription]

- ANNINGAIT AND AJUTT.

- A THOUGHT IN A GARDEN.

- VERSES WRITTEN BEFORE MARRIAGE.

- WRITTEN EIGHT YEARS AFTER MARRIAGE.

- L'AMOROSO. A POEM. IN IMITATION OF MILTON'S L'ALLEGRO. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVIII.

- AN ODE, WROTE A FEW DAYS BEFORE THE LONG COL LEGE-VACATION, MDCCLXIII.

- POMONA. A PASTORAL.

- THE MAN OF KENT. IN IMITATION OF POPE'S MAN OF ROSS.

- VERSES. BY THE FAMOUS EARL OF ESSEX.

- [poem]

- THE BUZZING BEE'S COMPLAINT.

- ESSEX'S LAST VOYAGE TO THE HAVEN OF HAPPINESS.

- ODE FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE IV, MDCCLXIII.

- A SONG.

- THE COMPARISON BETWEEN JOHN CHURCHILL, DUKE OF MARL BOROUGH, AND CHARLES CHURCHILL, ANTI-CALEDONIAN.

- CONTENTS.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

END OF VOL. VII.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. VII. FOR JULY.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

CONTAINING A COLLECTION Of scarce and valuable PIECES OF POETRY: With Variety of ORIGINALS AND TRANSLATIONS, BY THE MOST EMINENT HANDS.

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.

JULY. AN ODE.

THE sun comes on a-pace, and thro' the Signs

Travels unwearied; as he hotter grows,

Above, the herbage, and beneath, the mines

Own his warm influence, while his axle glows,

The flaming Lion meets him on the way,

Proud to receive the flaming god of day.

In fullest bloom the damask rose is seen,

Carnations boast their variegated die,

The fields of corn display a vivid green,

And cherries with the crimson orient vie,

The hop in blossom climbs the lofty pole,

Nor dreads the lightning, tho' the thunders roll.

The wealth of Flora like the rainbow shows,

Blending her various hues of light and shade,

How many tints would emulate the rose,

Or imitate the lilly's bright parade!

The flowers of topaz and of saphire vie

With all the richest tinctures of the sky.

Beneath the swelling udder teems the pail,

The shining scythe appears in every lawn,

With cooling beverage the swains regale

Their sun-burnt nymphs, all-sportive as the fawn,

Nor yet the orchard shows its fruit of gold,

While the wool's shorn from off the fleecy fold.

The vegetable world is all alive,

Green grows the goosberry on its bush of thorn,

The infant bees now swarm around the hive,

And the sweet bean perfumes the lap of morn,

Millions of embryos take the wing to fly,

The young inherit, as the old ones die.

'Tis summer all—convey me to the bower,

The bower of myrtle form'd by Myra's skill,

There let me waste away the noon-tide hour,

Fann'd by the breezes from yon cooling rill;

By Myra's side reclin'd, the burning ray

Shall be as grateful as the cool of day.

HYMN TO THE MORNING.
WRITTEN-IN SUMMER.

HAil! goddess of the silver star,

Whose twinkling orb gives signal of the day;

Oh! queen of light, whose virgin ray

The sun salutes in his celestial car;

Whose active heat melts every cloud

That would thy dawn of glory shroud,

And stain the lustre of thy laughing eye,

While beneath thy azure sky

Dimple-cheek'd Health with rosy feature glows,

Thro' lowing pastures on she goes,

Wearing the milkmaid's ruddy grace,

Ease in her tripping step, and pleasure in her face.

Fore-runner of the day's bright reign,

And giver of unspeakable delight!

How nature triumphs at thy sight,

And looks thanksgiving thro' her large domain!

At thy approach, the conscious trees

Bend humbly to thy tepid breeze,

And every flower a fresher brightness wears:

Labour to the field repairs,

Where buxom Ceres waits him with a smile;

Whistling he crosses every stile,

Or chants some love-lorn ditty's air,

With which he means to charm, and win his favourite fair.

Oh! sovereign of the spicy gale,

Of odours pure, and salutary dews,

Oft as thy star its beam renews,

Thy violet breath entranc'd let me inhale:

Give me to range thy wholesome hills,

Thy vallies bright with crystal rills,

And verdant lawns where many a wild-flower grows,

There, while Zephyr softly blows,

Let me indulge the heaven-devoted thought,

And render praises, as I ought,

To him, whose power and love divine

Call'd thee from total void, and bad thy beauty shine.

W.W.

ON VIEWING AN EXTENSIVE PROSPECT FROM THE TOP OF ASTON HILLS IN BUCKING-HAMSHIRE, COMPOS'D ON HORSEBACK.

BY A YOUNG LADY.

HOW wonderous are thy works, O God most high,

Maker of all above, and all beneath the sky:

In this fair scene, where-e'er I turn my view,

Beauties on beauties rise for ever new:

Yon lofty hill, crown'd with those stately trees,

That sinking valley that receives the breeze,

Yon velvet downs where sheep unnumber'd feed,

Those fields which wave with corn, that greensward mead,

Proclaim aloud the wise Creator's hand,

For chance could ne'er produce a work so grand:

All these in concert hymn their Maker's praise,

While with delight and wonder mortals gaze.

A HARVEST SCENE.

— — —BEHOLD,

The green fields yellowing into corny gold!

While o'er their ranks an old man half appears,

How hale he looks, tho' hoar'd with seventy years!

His prospect mounts, slow-pac'd he strives to climb,

And seems some antient monument of time;

Propt o'er his staff the reverend father stands,

And views heaven's blessings with uplifted hands;

Gleeful in heart computes the year's increase,

And portions out, in thought, his homely race,

His homely race before, his hopes improve,

And labour in obedience for his love;

Sweepy they cut, then bind the sheafy grain,

And bend beneath the burthen of the plain:

His cheerful eyes with silent praises crown

Their toils, and smile at vigour once his own;

'Till the mid-sun, to second nature's call,

Noon-marks the distant steeple's ivied wall,

Thence warn'd, he waves his arms, with giddy haste,

The circling summons to a cool repast.

ODE TO GENIUS.

THou child of nature, genius strong,

Thou master of the poet's song,

Before whose light, Art's dim and feeble ray

Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day:

Thou lov'st to steal along the secret shade,

Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!

Awaits thee with her thousand charms,

And revels in thy wanton arms.

She to thy bed, in days of yore,

The sweetly warbling Shakespeare bore;

Whom every muse endow'd with every skill,

And dipt him in that sacred rill,

Whose silver streams flow musical along,

Where Phoebus' hallow'd mount resounds with raptur'd song.

Forsake not thou the vocal choir,

Their breasts revisit with thy genial fire,

Else vain the studied sounds of mimic art,

Tickle the ear, but come not nigh the heart.

Vain every phrase in curious order set,

On each side leaning on the [stop-gap] epithet.

Vain the quick rhime still tinkling in the close,

While pure description shines in measur'd prose.

Thou bear'st aloof, and look'st with high disdain,

Upon the dull mechanic train;

Whose nerveless strains flag on in languid tone,

Lifeless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowzy drone.

No longer now thy altars blaze,

No poet offers up his lays;

Inspir'd with energy divine,

To worship at thy sacred shrine.

Since taste[*] with absolute domain,

Extending wide her leaden reign,

Kills with her melancholy shade,

The blooming scyons of fair fancy's tree;

Which erst full wantonly have stray'd

In many a wreath of richest poesie.

For when the oak denies her stay,

The creeping ivy winds her humble way;

No more she twists her branches round,

But drags her feeble stem along the barren ground.

Where then shall exil'd genius go?

Since only those the laurel claim,

And boast them of the poet's name,

Whose sober rhimes in even tenour flow,

Who prey on words, and all their flowrets cull,

Coldly correct, and regularly dull.

Why sleep the sons of genius now?

Why, Wartons, rests the lyre unstrung?

[*]And thou, blest bard! around whose sacred brow,

Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung:

Arise, and snatch the majesty of song

From dullness' servile tribe, and art's unhallow'd throng.

Notes

*
By Taste, is here meant the modern affectation of it.
↵

*
Dr. Akenside.
↵

AN ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS.

BY J. CUNNINGHAM.

‘Aspice murorum moles, praeruptaque saxa!’

IN the full prospect yonder hill commands

O'er forests, fields, and vernal-coated plains;

The vestige of an antient abbey stands,

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

Half buried, there, lie many a broken bust,

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

And many a cherub, here, descends in dust

From the rent roof, and portico sublime.

The rivulets, oft frighted at the sound

Of fragments tumbling from the towers on high,

Plunge to their source in secret caves profound,

Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry.

Where reverend shrines in Gothic grandeur stood,

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

And ashlings, wafted from the neighbouring wood,

Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.

There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,

Her attitude compos'd, and aspect sweet!

Sits musing on a monumental stone,

And points to the Memento at her feet.

Soon as sage evening check'd day's sunny pride,

I left the mantling shade, in moral mood;

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

Thus sigh'd, the mouldering ruins as I view'd.

Inexorably calm, with silent pace,

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

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

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

Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes

In vain; and Melody, her song sublime:

In vain, Philosophy, with maxims wise,

Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.

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

Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;

And, partly the rude ravage to repair,

The tottering towers with twisted ivy tied.

How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss,

That terminates the view yon cloister'd way!

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

Religion like, stands mouldering in decay!

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

Illum'd with mellow light that brown-brow'd isle,

Many rapt hours might Meditation pass,

Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the pile!

And Piety, with mystic-meaning beads,

Bowing to saints on every side in urn'd,

Trod oft the solitary path, that leads

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

Thro' the grey grove, between those withering trees,

'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears

A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,

Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears:

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

Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom;

Nor could maternal piety dissuade,

Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

The relicks of a mitred saint may rest,

Where; mouldering in the nich, his statue stands;

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

And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,

The bones of an illustrious chieftain lie;

As trac'd upon the time-unletter'd tomb,

The trophies of a broken fame imply.

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

His rights and rich demesnes extended wide!

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

And chivalry stood marshall'd by his side!

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

And frown'd defiance on the desperate foe;

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

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

Where the light lyre gave many a softening sound,

Ravens and rooks, the birds of discord, dwell;

And where society sat sweetly crown'd,

Eternal solitude has fix'd her cell.

The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,

Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room,

Where the sage matron and her maidens sat,

Sweet-singing at the silver-wo king loom.

The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste;

And the rude winds incessant seem to roar,

Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac'd,

Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.

His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide

To pure canals, a crystal cool supply!

In the deep dust their barren beauties hide:

Time's thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them day!

Tho' his rich hours in revelry were spent

With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew;

And the sweet brow of beauty, still unbent,

Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew:

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;

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

Nor shall a pulse, amongst that mouldering dust,

Beat wanton at the smiles of beauty more!

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

Protract, but for a day, precarious breath?

Or the tun'd follower of the sacred Nine,

Sooth, with his melody, insatiate Death?

No—tho' the palace bar her golden gate,

Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around;

Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of fate

Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!

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

The schoolman's page, or pride of beauty's bloom!

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

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

The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,

Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began,

Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,

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

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

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

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

" Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!"

So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd,

(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdued)

Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,

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

And as he rode, high in his regal car,

In all the purple pride of conquest drest;

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

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

While thus the herald cried—"This son of power,

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

" May, in the space of one revolving hour,

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

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

Where slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran;

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

Where lies the chief, and where the common man?

Vain are the pyramids, and mottoed stones,

And monumental trophies rais'd on high!

For Time confounds them with the crumbling bones,

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

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

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

Or sleeps one colder, in his close clay bed;

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

Hither let Luxury lead her loose-rob'd train;

Here flutter Pride, on purple-painted wings:

And, from the moral prospect, learn—how vain

The wish, that sighs for sublunary things!

THE FEMINEAD: OR FEMALE GENIUS.
A POEM.

BY JOHN DUNCOMBE, M.A. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCVLI.

SHall lordly man, the theme of every lay,

Usurp the muse's tributary bay?

In kingly state on Pindus' summit sit,

Tyrant of verse, and arbiter of wit?

By Salic law the female right deny,

And view their genius with regardless eye?

Justice forbid! and every muse inspire

To sing the glories of a sister-choir!

Rise, rise, bold swain; and to the listening grove

Resound the praises of the sex you love;

Tell how, adorn'd with every charm, they shine,

In mind and person equally divine,

'Till man, no more to female merit blind,

Admire the person, but adore the mind.

To these weak strains, O thou! the sex's friend

And constant patron, [*]Richardson! attend!

Thou, who so oft with pleas'd, but anxious care,

Hast watch'd the dawning genius of the fair,

With wonted smiles wilt hear thy friend display

The various graces of the female lay;

Studious from folly's yoke their minds to free,

And aid the generous cause espous'd by thee.

Long o'er the world did Prejudice maintain,

By sounds like these, her undisputed reign:

" Woman! she cried, to thee, indulgent heaven

" Has all the charms of outward beauty given:

" Be thine the boast, unrival'd, to enslave

" The great, the wise, the witty, and the brave;

" Deck'd with the Paphian rose's damask glow,

" And the vale-lilly's vegetable snow,

" Be thine, to move majestic in the dance,

" To roll the eye, and aim the tender glance,

" Or touch the strings, and breathe the melting song,

" Content to emulate that airy throng,

" Who to the sun their painted plumes display,

" And gaily glitter on the hawthorn spray,

" Or wildly warble in the beechen grove,

" Careless of aught but music, joy, and love."

Heavens! could such artful, slavish sounds beguile

The freeborn sons of Britain's polish'd isle?

Could they, like fam'd Ulysses' dastard crew,

Attentive listen, and enamour'd view,

Nor drive the Syren to that dreary plain,

In loathsome pomp, where eastern tyrants reign;

Where each fair neck the yoke of slavery galls,

Clos'd in a proud seraglio's gloomy walls,

And taught, that levell'd with the brutal kind,

Nor sense, nor souls to women are assign'd.

Our British nymphs with happier omens rove,

At freedom's call, thro' wisdom's sacred grove,

And, as with lavish hand each sister grace

Shapes the fair form, and regulates the face,

Each sister muse, in blissful union join'd,

Adorns, improves, and beautifies the mind.

Even now fond fancy in our polish'd land

Assembled shows a blooming, studious band:

With various arts our reverence they engage,

Some turn the tuneful, some the moral page,

These, led by Contemplation, soar on high,

And range the heavens with philosophic eye;

While those, surrounded by a vocal choir,

The canvas tinge, or touch the warbling lyre.

Here, like the stars' mix'd radiance, they unite

To dazzle and perplex our wandering sight:

The muse each charmer singly shall survey,

And tune to each her tributary lay.

So when, in blended tints, with sweet surprize

Assembled beauties strike our ravish'd eyes,

Such as in Lely's melting colours shine,

Or spring, great Kneller! from a hand like thine,

On all with pleasing awe at once we gaze,

And, lost in wonder, know not which to praise,

But, singly view'd, each nymph delights us more,

Disclosing graces unperceiv'd before.

First let the muse with generous ardor try

To chase the mist from dark opinion's eye:

Nor mean we here to blame that father's care,

Who guards from learned wives his booby heir,

Since oft that heir with prudence has been known,

To dread a genius that transcends his own:

The wise themselves should with discretion chuse,

Since letter'd nymphs their knowledge may abuse,

And husbands oft experience to their cost

The prudent housewife in the scholar lost:

But those incur deserv'd contempt, who prize

Their own high talents, and their sex despise,

With haughty mien each social bliss defeat,

And fully all their learning with conceit:

Of such the parent justly warns his son,

And such the muse herself will bid him shun.

But lives there one, whose unassuming mind,

Tho' grac'd by nature, and by art refin'd,

Pleas'd with domestic excellence, can spare

Some hours from studious ease to social care,

And with her pen that time alone employs

Which others waste in visits, cards, and noise;

From affectation free, tho' deeply read,

" With witwell natur'd, and with books well bred?"

With such (and such there are) each happy day

Must fly improving, and improv'd away;

Inconstancy might fix and settle there,

And wisdom's voice approve the chosen fair.

Nor need we now from our own Britain rove,

In search of genius, to the Lesbian grove,

Tho' Sappho there her tuneful lyre has strung,

And amorous griefs in sweetest accents sung,

Since here, in Charles's days, amidst a train

Of shameless bards, licentious and profane,

The chaste [*]Orinda rose; with purer light,

Like modest Cynthia, beaming thro' the night:

Fair friendship's lustre, undisguis'd by art,

Glows in her lines, and animates her heart;

Friendship, that jewel, which, tho' all confess

Its peerless value, yet how few possess!

For her the never-dying myrtle weaves

A verdant chaplet of her odorous leaves;

If Cowley's or Roscommon's song can give

Immortal fame, her praise shall ever live.

Who can unmov'd hear [†]Winchelsea reveal

Thy horrors, spleen! which all, who paint, must feel?

My praises would but wrong her sterling wit,

Since Pope himself applauds what she has writ.

But say, what matron now walks musing forth

From the bleak mountains of her native North?

While round her brows two sisters of the Nine

Poetic wreaths with philosophic twine!

Hail, [*]Cockburne, hail! even now from Reason's bowers

Thy Locke delighted culls the choicest flowers

To deck his great, successful champion's head,

And Clarke expects thee in the laurel shade.

Tho' long to dark, oblivious want a prey,

Thy aged worth pass'd unperceiv'd away,

Yet Scotland now shall ever boast thy fame,

While England mourns thy undistinguish'd name,

And views with wonder, in a female mind,

Philosopher, divine, and poet join'd!

The modest muse a veil with pity throws

O'er vice's friends, and virtue's female foes;

Abash'd she views the bold unblushing mien

Of modern [†]Manley, Centlivre, and Behn;

And grieves to see one nobly born disgrace

Her modest sex, and her illustrious race.

Tho' harmony thro' all their numbers flow'd,

And genuine wit its every grace bestow'd,

Nor genuine wit, nor harmony, excuse

The dangerous sallies of a wanton muse:

Nor can such tuneful, but immoral, lays

Expect the tribute of impartial praise:

As soon might [*]Philips, Pilkington and V—

Deserv'd applause for spotless virtue gain.

But hark! what [†]nymph, in Frome's embroider'd vale,

With strains seraphic swells the vernal gale?

With what sweet sounds the bordering forest rings?

For sportive Echo catches, as she sings,

Each falling accent, studious to prolong

The warbled notes of Rowe's ecstatic song.

Old Avon pleas'd his reedy forehead rears,

And polish'd Orrery delighted hears.

See with what transport she resigns her breath,

Snatch'd by a sudden, but a wish'd-for death!

Releas'd from earth, with smiles she soars on high

Amidst her kindred spirits of the sky,

Where faith and love those endless joys bestow,

That warm'd her lays, and fill'd her hopes below.

Nor can her noble [*]friend escape unseen,

Or from the muse her modest virtues screen;

Here, sweetly blended, to our wondering eyes,

The peeress, poetess, and Christian rise:

And tho' the Nine her tuneful strains inspire,

We less her genius, than her heart, admire,

Pleas'd, 'midst the great, one truly good to see,

And proud to tell that Somerset is she.

By generous views one [†]peeress more demands

A grateful tribute from all female hands;

One, who to shield them from the worst of foes,

In their just cause dar'd Pope himself oppose.

Their own dark forms deceit and envy wear,

By Irwin touch'd with [12]truth's celestial spear.

By her disarm'd, ye witlings! now give o'er

Your empty sneers, and shock the sex no more.

Thus bold Camilla, when the Trojan chief

Attack'd her country, flew to its relief;

Beneath her lance the bravest warriors bled,

And fear dismay'd the host, which great Aeneas led.

But ah! why heaves my breast this pensive sigh?

Why starts this tear unbidden from my eye?

What breast from sighs, what eye from tears refrains,

When, sweetly-mournful, hapless [*]Wright complains?

And who but grieves to see her generous mind,

For nobler views and worthier guests design'd,

Admit the hateful form of black despair,

Wan with the gloom of superstitious care?

In pity-moving lays, with earnest cries,

She call'd on heaven to close her weary eyes,

And, long on earth by heart-felt woes opprest,

Was borne by friendly death to welcome rest.

In nervous strains, [†]lo! Madan's polish'd taste

Has poetry's successive progress trac'd,

From antient Greece, where first she fix'd her reign,

To Italy, and Britain's happier plain.

Praise well-bestow'd adorns her glowing lines,

And manly strength with female softness joins.

So female charms and manly virtues grace,

By her example form'd, her blooming race,

And, fram'd alike to please our ears and eyes,

There new Cornelias and new Gracchi rise.

O that you now, with genius at command,

Would snatch the pencil from my artless hand,

And give your sex's portraits, bold and true,

In colours worthy of themselves and you!

Now in ecstatic visions let me rove,

By Cynthia's beams, thro' Brackley's glimmering grove;

Where still each night, by startled shepherds seen,

Young [*]Leapor's form flies shadowy o'er the green.

Those envied honours nature lov'd to pay

The briar-bound turf, where erst her Shakespear lay,

Now on her darling Mira she bestows;

There o'er the hallow'd ground she fondly strows

The choicest fragrance of the breathing spring,

And bids each year her favourite linnet sing.

Let cloister'd pedants, in an endless round,

Tread the dull mazes of scholastic ground;

Brackley unenvying views the glittering train

Of learning's useless trappings idly vain;

For, spite of all that vaunted learning's aid,

Their fame is rivall'd by her rural maid.

So, while in our Britannia's beechen sprays

Sweet Philomela trills her mellow lays,

We to the natives of the sultry line

Their boasted race of parrots pleas'd resign:

For tho' on citron boughs they proudly glow

With all the colours of the watery bow,

Yet thro' the grove harsh discord they prolong,

Tho' rich in gaudy plumage, poor in song.

Now bear me, Clio, to that Kentish strand,

Whose rude o'erhanging cliffs and barren sand

May challenge all the myrtle-blooming bowers

Of fam'd Italia, when, at evening hours,

Thy own [*]Eliza muses on the shore,

Serene, tho' billows beat, and tempests roar.

Hail, Carter, hail! your favourite name inspires

My raptur'd breast with sympathetic fires;

Even now I see your lov'd Ilyssus lead

His mazy current thro' th' Athenian mead;

With you I pierce thro' academic shades,

And join in Attic bowers th' Aonian maids;

Beneath the spreading plane with Plato rove,

And hear his morals echo thro' the grove.

Joy sparkles in the sage's looks, to find

His genius glowing in a female mind;

Newton admiring sees your searching eye

Dart thro' his mystic page, and range the sky;

By you his colours to your sex are shown,

And Algarotti's name to Britain known.

While, undisturb'd by pride, you calmly tread

Thro' life's perplexing paths, by wisdom led;

And, taught by her, your grateful muse repays

Her heavenly teacher in nocturnal lays.

So when Prometheus from th' Almighty Sire,

As sings the fable, stole celestial fire,

Swift thro' the clay the vital current ran,

In look, in form, in speech resembling man;

But in each eye a living lustre glow'd,

That spoke the heavenly source from whence it flow'd.

" What magic powers in [*]Celia's numbers dwell,

" Which thus th' unpractis'd breast with ardor swell

" To emulate her praise, and tune that lyre,

" Which yet no bard was able to inspire!

" With tears her suffering virgin we attend,

" And sympathize with father, lover, friend!

" What sacred rapture in our bosom glows,

" When at the shrine she offers up her vows!

" Mild majesty and virtue's awful power

" Adorn her fall, and grace her latest hour."

Transport me now to those embroider'd meads,

Where the slow Ouze his lazy current leads!

There, while the stream soft-dimpling steals along,

And from the groves the green-hair'd Dryads throng,

Clio herself, or [*]Ferrar tunes a lay,

Sweet as the darkling Philomel of May.

Haste, haste, ye Nine, and hear a sister sing

The charms of Cynthia, and the joys of spring:

See! night's pale goddess with a grateful beam

Paints her lov'd image in the shadowy stream,

While, round his votary, spring profusely showers

" A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers."

O happy nymph, tho' winter o'er thy head,

Blind to that form, the snow of age shall shed;

Tho' life's short spring and beauty's blossoms fade,

Still shall thy reason flourish undecay'd;

Time, tho' he steals the roseate bloom of youth,

Shall spare the charms of virtue and of truth,

And on thy mind new charms, new bloom bestow,

Wisdom's best friend, and only beauty's foe.

Nor shall thy much-lov'd [*]Pennington remain

Unsung, unhonour'd in my votive strain.

See where the soft enchantress, wandering o'er

The fairy ground that Philips trod before,

Exalts her chymic wand, and swift behold

The basest metals ripen into gold.

Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye,

We view vile copper with pure sterling vie;

Nor shall the farthing, sung by her, forbear

To claim the praises of the smiling fair;

Till chuck and marble shall no more employ

The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.

Returning now to Thames's flowery side,

See how his waves in still attention glide!

And, hark! what songstress shakes her warbling throat?

Is it the nightingale, or [†]Delia's note?

The balmy Zephyrs, hovering o'er the fair,

On their soft wings the vocal accents bear;

Thro' Sunbury's low vale the strains rebound,

Even neighbouring Chertsey hears the cheerful sound,

And wondering sees her Cowley's laurell'd shade

Transported listen to the tuneful maid.

O may those nymphs, whose pleasing power she sings,

Still o'er their suppliant wave their fostering wings!

O long may Health and soft-eyed Peace impart

Bloom to her cheek, and rapture to her heart!

Beneath her roof the red-breast shall prolong,

Unchill'd by frosts, his tributary song;

For her the lark shall wake the dappled morn,

And linnet twitter from the blossom'd thorn.

Sing on, sweet maid! thy Spenser smiles to see

Kind fancy shed her choicest gifts on thee,

And bids his Edwards, on the laurel spray

That shades his tomb, inscribe thy rural lay.

With lovely mien [*]Eugenia now appears,

The muse's pupil from her tenderest years;

Improving tasks her peaceful hours beguile,

The sister arts on all her labours smile,

And, while the Nine their votary inspire,

" One dips the pencil, and one strings the lyre."

O may her life's clear current smoothly glide,

Unruffled by misfortune's boisterous tide!

So while the charmer leads her blameless days

With that content which she so well displays,

Her own Honoria we in her shall view,

And think her allegoric vision true.

Thus wandering wild among the golden grain

That fruitful floats on Bansted's airy plain,

Careless I sung, while summer's western gale

Breath'd health and fragrance thro' the dusky vale.

When from a neighbouring hawthorn, in whose shade

Conceal'd she lay, up-rose th' Aonian maid:

Pleas'd had she listen'd; and, with smiles, she cried,

" Cease, friendly swain! be this thy praise and pride,

" That thou, of all the numerous tuneful throng,

" First in our cause hast fram'd thy generous song.

" And ye, our sister choir! proceed to tread

" The flowery paths of fame, by science led!

" Employ by turns the needle and the pen,

" And in their favourite studies rival men!

" May all our sex your glorious track pursue,

" And keep your bright example still in view!

" These lasting beauties will in youth engage,

" And smooth the wrinkles of declining age,

" Secure to bloom, unconscious of decay,

" When all Corinna's roses fade away.

" For even when love's short triumph shall be o'er,

" When youth shall please, and beauty charm no "more,

" When man shall cease to flatter; when the eye

" Shall cease to sparkle, and the heart to sigh,

" In that dread hour, when parent dust shall claim

" The lifeless tribute of each kindred frame,

" Even then shall wisdom for her chosen fair

" The fragrant wreaths of virtuous fame prepare;

" Those wreaths which flourish in a happier clime,

" Beyond the reach of envy and of time;

" While here, th' immortalizing muse shall save

" Your darling names from dark Oblivion's grave;

" Those names the praise and wonder shall engage

" Of every polish'd, wise, and virtuous age;

" To latest times our annals shall adorn,

" And save from folly thousands yet unborn."

Notes

*
The author of those three celebrated works, Pamela, Clarissa, and Sir Charles Grandison.
↵

*
Mrs. Catherine Philips: she was distinguished by most of the wits of king Charles's reign, and died young. Her pieces on friendship are particularly admired.
↵

†
Anne, countess of Winchelsea, a lady of great wit and genius, wrote (among others) a poem, much admired, on the spleen, and is praised by mr. Pope, &c. under the poetical name of Ardelia.
↵

*
Mrs. Catherine Cockburne was the wife of a clergyman, lived obscurely, and died a few years ago in an advanced age in Northumberland; her works on dramatic, philosophical, and sacred subjects have been lately collected by the learned Dr. Birch, and are generally admired.
↵

†
The first of these wrote the scandalous memoirs called Atalantis, and the other two are notorious for the indecency of their plays.
↵

*
These three ladies have endeavoured to immortalize their shame by writing their own memoirs.
↵

†
The character of mrs. Rowe and her writings is too well known to be dwelt on here. It may be sufficient to say, that without any previous illness she met at last with that sudden death for which she had always wished.
↵

*
Frances, countess of Hertford, and afterwards dutchess dowager of Somerset, mrs. Rowe's illustrious friend, lamented her death in some verses prefixed to her poems, and was author of the letters in her collection signed Cleora.
↵

†
Anne, viscountess Irwin, and aunt to the present earl of Carlisle: this lady, in a poetical epistle to mr. Pope, has rescued her sex's cause from the aspersions cast on them by that satyrist in his essay on the characters of women.
↵

12
See Milton, book iv. ver. 811.
↵

*
Mrs. Wright, sister to the famous Wesleys, has published some pieces, which, tho' of a melancholy cast, are written in the genuine spirit of poetry. See Poet. Cal. for June, p. 79, &c.
↵

†
Mrs. Madan is author of a poem called the Progress of Poetry. (See Poet. Cal. for March, p. 17.) wherein the characters of the best Grecian, Roman and English poets are justly and elegantly drawn.
↵

*
Mrs. Leapor, daughter to a Northamptonshire gardener, has lately convinced the world of the force of unassisted nature, by imitating and equalling some of our most approved poets, by the strength of her parts, and the vivacity of her genius.
↵

*
Mrs. Eliza Carter of Deal, well known to the learned world for her late traslation of Epictetus, has translated, from the Italian, Algarotti's dialogues on light and colours; and lately published a small collection of elegant poems.
↵

*
We could not here, with justice, with-hold our tribute of praise from mrs. Brooke, author of the tragedy of Virginia.
↵

*
This lady has written two beautiful odes to Cynthia and the Spring.
↵

*
Mrs. Pennington has happily imitated mr. Philips's Splendid Shilling, in a burlesque poem called the Copper Farthing.
↵

†
This lady has written odes to Peace, Health, and the Robin Red-breast, which are here alluded to; and she has been celebrated in a sonnet by mr. Edwards, author of the Canons of Criticism.
↵

*
This lady has successfully applied herself to the sister arts of drawing and poetry, and has written an ingenious allegory, wherein two pilgrims, Fidelio and Honoria, after a fruitless search for the palace of Happiness, are at last conducted to the house of Content.
↵

AN EVENING CONTEMPLATION IN A COLLEGE.

BY THE SAME.

THE curfew tolls the hour of closing gates,

With jarring sound the porter turns the key,

Then in his dreary mansion slumbering waits,

And slowly, sternly quits it—tho' for me.

Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon,

And thro' the cloister peace and silence reign,

Save where some fidler scrapes a drowsy tune,

Or copious bowls inspire a jovial strain:

Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room,

Where lies a student in profound repose

Oppress'd with ale, wide-echoes thro' the gloom

The droning music of his vocal nose.

Within those walls, where, thro' the glimmering shade,

Appear the pamphlets in a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow bed till morning laid,

The peaceful fellows of the college sleep.

The tinkling bell, proclaiming early prayers,

The noisy servants, rattling o'er their head,

The calls of business and domestic cares

Ne'er rouse these sleepers from their downy bed.

No chattering females croud their social fire,

No dread have they of discord and of strife;

Unknown the names of husband and of fire,

Unfelt the plagues of matrimonial life.

Oft have they bask'd along the sunny walls,

Oft have the benches bow'd beneath their weight:

How jocund are their looks when dinner calls!

How smoke the cutlets on their crouded plate!

O let not Temperance too-disdainful hear

How long their feasts, how long their dinners last!

Nor let the fair, with a contemptuous sneer,

On these unmarried men reflections cast!

The splendid fortune and the beauteous face

(Themselves confess it and their sires bemoan)

Too soon are caught by scarlet and by lace:

These sons of science shine in black alone.

Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault,

If these no feats of gaiety display,

Where, thro' proud Ranelagh's wide-echoing vault,

Melodious Frasi trills her quavering lay.

Say, is the sword well suited to the band,

Does 'broider'd coat agree with sable gown,

Can Mechlin-laces shade a churchman's hand,

Or learning's votaries ape the beaux of town?

Perhaps in these time-tottering walls reside

Some who were once the darlings of the fair;

Some who of old could tastes and fashions guide,

Controul the manager, and awe the player.

But science now has fill'd their vacant mind

With Rome's rich spoils and truth's exalted views;

Fir'd them with transports of a nobler kind,

And bade them slight all females—but the muse.

Full many a lark, high-towering to the sky,

Unheard, unheeded, greets th' approach of light;

Full many a star, unseen by mortal eye,

With twinkling lustre glimmers thro' the night.

Some future Herring, who, with dauntless breast,

Rebellion's torrent shall, like him, oppose;

Some mute, unconscious Hardwicke here may rest,

Some Pelham, dreadful to his country's foes.

From prince and people to command applause,

'Midst ermin'd peers to guide the high debate,

To shield Britannia's and Religion's laws,

And steer with steady course the helm of state,

Fate yet forbids; nor circumscribes alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines;

Forbids in Freedom's veil t' insult the throne,

Beneath her mask to hide the worst designs,

To fill the madding crowd's perverted mind

With "pensions, taxes, marriages, and Jews;"

Or shut the gates of heaven on lost mankind,

And wrest their darling hopes, their future views.

Far from the giddy town's tumultuous strife,

Their wishes yet have never learn'd to stray;

Content and happy in a single life,

They keep the noiseless tenor of their way.

Even now their books from cobwebs to protect,

Inclos'd by doors of glass, in Doric style,

On polish'd pillars rais'd, with bronzes deckt,

They claim the passing tribute of a smile.

Oft are the authors' names, tho' richly bound,

Mis-spelt by blundering binders' want of care;

And many a catalogue is strow'd around,

To tell th' admiring guest what books are there.

For who, to thoughtless ignorance a prey,

Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book?

Who there but wishes to prolong his stay,

And on those cases casts a lingering look?

Reports attract the lawyer's parting eyes,

Novels lord Fopling and sir Plume require;

For songs and plays the voice of beauty cries,

And sense and nature Grandison desire.

For thee who, mindful of thy lov'd compeers,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,

If 'chance, with prying search, in future years,

Some antiquarian shall enquire thy fate,

Haply some friend may shake his hoary head,

And say, 'Each morn, unchill'd by frosts, he ran,

' With hose ungarter'd, o'er yon turfy bed,

' To reach the chapel ere the psalms began.

' There in the arms of that lethargic chair,

' Which rears its moth-devoured back so high,

' At noon he quaff'd three glasses to the fair,

' And por'd upon the news with curious eye.

' Now by the fire, engag'd in serious talk,

' Or mirthful converse, would he loitering stand;

' Then in the garden chose a sunny walk,

' Or launch'd the polish'd bowl with steady hand.

' One morn we miss'd him at the hour of prayer,

' Beside the fire, and on his favourite green;

' Another came, nor yet within the chair,

' Nor yet at bowls, nor chapel was he seen.

' The next we heard that in a neighbouring shire

' That day to church he led a blushing bride;

' A nymph, whose snowy vest and maiden fear

' Improv'd her beauty, while the knot was tied.

' Now, by his patron's bounteous care remov'd,

' He roves, enraptur'd, thro' the fields of Kent;

' Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov'd,

' Read here the letter which he lately sent.'

THE LETTER.

" IN rural innocence secure I dwell,

" Alike to fortune and to fame unknown;

" Approving conscience cheers my humble cell,

" And social quiet marks me for her own.

" Next to the blessings of religious truth,

" Two gifts my endless gratitude engage;

" A wife, the joy and transport of my youth,

" A son, the pride and comfort of my age.

" Seek not to draw me from this kind retreat,

" In loftier spheres unfit, untaught to move;

" Content with calm, domestic life, where meet

" The smiles of friendship and the sweets of love."

ODE PRESENTED TO HIS GRACE THOMAS HOLLES, DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, ON HIS ARRIVAL THERE, JUNE XIV, MDCCLIII.

BY THE SAME.

FRom the moss-grown coral cave

Circled by the silver wave,

Where, to thy adoring eyes,

Oft thy laurel'd sons arise,

Father Camus, haste and hear!

Haste, hither haste, and to thy favourite mead

The blithesome band of sister Naiads lead!

For see! from rural joys and public cares,

From Esher's peaceful grove,

And Claremont's proud alcove,

From Freedom's council and Britannia's king,

Once more to thy Castalian spring

The guardian of the muse repairs:

O'er yon embroider'd plain,

With patriots in his train,

Propt on thy sculptur'd urn behold him stray!

When Athens call'd, could Rome detain,

Or Tusculum delay?

Haste then, and hail the happy hour

That to thy fragrant bower,

To Granta and the Nine,

Such sons, such patriots gave, and made a Holles thine.

[*]In some sequester'd shade,

Attended by the tuneful maid,

Pleas'd let me catch the plausive song

Of all the sister arts that round him throng,

When, with a golden emblematic prize,

He decks each blushing youth,

Who conquer'd in the lists of fame,

By science favour'd, and approv'd by truth:

Since strength of genius far outvies

The body's brutal force,

Since one excursion of the mind exceeds

The swiftest sallies of victorious steeds,

Less glorious were the boughs,

Which, at the boasted Grecian games,

Adorn'd a Theron's or a Hiero's brows,

Tho' Pindar's lofty lays immortalize their names.

From thee, great friend of virtue's cause,

What various blessings flow?

To thy unwearied zeal the muses owe,

That, check'd with just controul

By salutary laws,

Youth's rapid streams serenely roll,

For Discipline resumes her wide command

And dauntless rules with unrelaxing hand.

Even now, aspiring to the sky,

A long-wish'd structure strikes my sight

With wonder and delight,

Piercing the vale of dark futurity!

For soon shall Camus' glassy stream

Reflect a rising dome,

Worthy Athens, worthy Rome,

Worthy Phoebus' blissful seat,

Worthy Pelham's lov'd retreat,

The muse's glory, and the poet's theme.

O Granta, with majestic mien

Advance, and hail the sacred scene!

Let music leave her airy tower,

And breathe the softest strains;

Let Fragrance quit her myrtle bower,

And range the flowery plains:

She shall her choicest incense shed

Round Holles' honour'd head,

While George's praises music shall proclaim,

And warble to the groves their sovereign's name.

Shall we our tributary lays deny,

When he, still mindful of the Nine,

(Who long have left their native sky,

Charm'd with the glories of the Brunswick line)

Pours forth his treasures, to complete

The grandeur of their favourite seat;

And bids their domes with Parian lustre shine?

His bright example shall their sons inspire,

The great, the wealthy fire,

And raise to loftiest heights their towering fame.

O Camus, thro' thy laurel shade,

Tho' kings and statesmen oft have stray'd;

Tho' in these groves, with patriot hand,

Sage Burleigh bore the olive wand,

And on thy borders, crown'd with bay,

Eliza heard the muse's lay;

Once more exalt thy ready brows, for see!

Tho' charg'd with Europe's fate,

The noble and the great,

The statesman, and the prince, remember thee.

Notes

*
This and the two following stanzas allude to those three signal proofs, which his Grace has given of his regard for the learning, morality, and splendor of his university. 1. By establishing annual prices. 2. By forming new regulations; and 3. By setting on foot a subscription for a new library, towards which his majesty, with his usual munificence, contributed 2000 l.
↵

ODE TO THE HON. JOHN YORK.
IMITATED FROM HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVI.

BY THE SAME.

FOR quiet, on Newmarket's plain,

The shivering curate prays in vain,

When wintery showers are falling,

And stumbling steed, and whistling wind

Quite banish from his anxious mind

The duties of his calling.

With thoughts engross'd by routs and plays,

The gallant soph for quiet prays,

Confuted and confuting;

And quiet is alike desir'd

Even by the king's professor, tir'd

With wrangling and disputing.

In crouded senate, on the chair

Of our vice-chancellor sits Care,

Undaunted by the Mace;

Care climbs the yatch, when adverse gales

Detain or tear our patron's sails,

And ruffles even his Grace.

How blest is he whose annual toil

With well-rang'd trees improves a soil

For ages yet unborn!

Such as at humble [*]Barley, plan'd

By mitred Herring's youthful hand,

The cultur'd glebe adorn.

From place to place we still pursue

Content, and hope in each to view

The visionary guest;

Vainly we fly intruding care,

Not all, like you, the joys can share

Of Wimple and of Wrest.

Then let us snatch, while in our power,

The present transitory hour,

And leave to heaven the morrow;

Youth has its griefs; a friend may die,

Or nymph deceive; for none can fly

The giant hand of sorrow.

His country's hope, and parent's pride,

In bloom of life young Blandford died:

His godlike father's eyes

Were dimm'd with age and helpless tears;

And heaven to me may grant the years,

Which it to you denies.

Your rising virtues soon will claim

A portion of your brothers' fame,

And catch congenial fire;

They shine in embassy and war,

They grace the senate and the bar,

And emulate their sire.

Invested with the sacred gown,

You soon, to rival their renown,

The glorious task shall join;

And while they guard Britannia's laws,

You, steady to Religion's cause,

Shall guard the laws divine.

Notes

*
Dr. Herring, late lord archbishop of Canterbury, was some time rector of Barley, a village near Barkway in Hertfordshire.
↵

ON MR. GARRICK.

BY THE SAME.

WHile other bards in venturous song proclaim

Culloden's triumph, and extol the name

Of Cumberland, say, unambitious muse,

Canst thou long hesitate what theme to chuse,

When Garrick, form'd by nature and by art

To please at once and to improve the heart,

Crown'd by the tragic muse with early bays,

Claims thine attention, and demands thy praise?

Great Shakespear, Otway, all the laureate throng,

Who shine immortal in dramatic song,

Have long despair'd on Britain's stage to find

Their strength of thought with strength of action

But now they view, with wonder and delight, join'd;

One born to act what they were born to write.

When Hamlet's looks declare his wild affright,

When his sire's ghost usurps the dead of night,

Or when unhappy Lear, o'erpowr'd with rage

And passion heated by perverse old age,

Too late with tears his hastiness bemoans,

Each heart with pity or with terror owns

His praise too great by words to be exprest,

And silence speaks our approbation best.

Proceed, thou glory of the British stage,

T' extort the tears of an admiring age!

Pursue the noble task; in nature read,

Still mend the heart, and still instruct the head;

Talk to the passions, reason to the mind,

Reform, improve, and humanize mankind.

Let Shakespear still with strength of fancy fire,

Or Rowe's soft strains with tender thoughts inspire;

Let Dryden with harmonious numbers move,

Or Otway sooth to pity or to love.

Still melt with sorrow, or with pleasure charm,

Let terror startle, or let fear alarm,

Dissolve with pity, or with rage inflame,

And equally, in all, our praises claim:

Britain her Booth, and Rome her Roscius lost,

No longer then shall mourn, no longer boast,

But Rome and Britain shall with wonder view

Roscius and Booth reviv'd again in you.

AN EPISTLE FROM YORK TO A FRIEND IN KENT.

BY THE SAME.

WIth wonted candor once again peruse

The hasty sallies of a distant muse,

Who thus from York in artless metre sends

Health and good wishes to her absent friends.

Tho' spacious moors diversify the scene,

And mountains rise, and rivers roll between,

Tho' here far off in northern climes remov'd

From those she valued, and from those she lov'd,

Yet still the same affection she retains

In distant regions, and on northern plains:

Hearts that are once in friendship's union tied

The fates may part, but never can divide;

For fancy, uncontroul'd by distance, leads

Th' enraptur'd mind to long-forgotten meads,

(Which in her lively colours pleas'd we view,

And almost think th' ideal landscape true)

O'er hills and streams extends her boundless power,

And joins the Trent and Humber to the Stour.

But now, my friend, to fair Augusta's walls

Lo! Pleasure points the way, and Garrick calls;

To crown her favour'd son, the tragic queen

In solemn silence hovers o'er the scene,

And owns that none deserves the laurel more,

Tho' Booth obtain'd it, and tho' Roscius wore.

Here let us oft with fix'd attention wait,

And weep at Lear's distress, or Hamlet's fate:

And oft my various travels shall beguile

The winter evening, and extort a smile

From my enquiring friend, who pleas'd shall hear

What various beauties in the North appear,

What grandeur reigns in Castle-Howard's dome,

The taste of Athens, and the pride of Rome,

(Where Lely's melting colours claim our praise,

And Cromwell's frown thy touch, Vandyke, displays:)

In Studley's groves how art with nature joins,

And that improves the plan which this designs;

How buildings, grottos, and cascades surprize,

And 'midst embowering trees rude Gothic temples rise.

Fain would my muse, tho' in unequal verse,

The rugged charms of Scarborough rehearse,

Fain would she those romantic scenes impart,

Where nature triumphs undisguis'd by art;

She tries with trembling wing, but tries in vain,

Such arduous heights of fancy to attain,

And, tir'd, desists from subjects that require

A Lambert's pencil, or a Dryden's lyre.

ANSWERED FROM CANTERBURY.

BY A FRIEND.

A Song, O Philo, from the rural shade,

Due to thy friendship, and so long unpaid,

O would the muse in lays like thine inspire,

And in my bosom wake the lingering fire,

I pray, but pray in vain, with scornful eyes

She still the tributary song denies.

O how shall I invoke a wanton maid,

Who loves to wander thro' the rural shade,

But scorns the senseless jargon of the schools,

Foe to proud science, and her frigid rules!

I whom that goddess in her chain has bound

To tread her tedious and unvaried round;

I whose dull genius is untaught to roam

Beyond the narrow limits of her home.

Thee, thee, my friend, whom happier fate conveys

To regions worthy of immortal lays,

Thee every muse with rapture shall inspire,

And kindle in thy breast the latent fire.

Where thousand venerable domes arise,

Where Verrio's breathing canvas meets thine eyes,

Where pleas'd thou view'st how Scarborough's rugged brow

Frowns horrid o'er the darken'd floods below;

So sings the lark high-towering to the skies,

And views hill, dale, and forest as she flies,

While the poor linnet, by some tyrant hind

To the close prison of the cage confin'd,

Forgets the sprightly wildness of her song,

The grove, the valley, and th' aerial throng.

The time shall come when to the shades retir'd,

With nature charm'd, and by the muse inspir'd,

Happy some little rural flock to tend,

Happy to boast that Philo is my friend,

I'll try once more my long-forgotten strain,

And in retirement court the tuneful train;

There o'er each labour shall the muses smile,

And bless my evening walk and morning toil;

Each season to my friend the song I'll give,

And he well-pleas'd each offering shall receive;

And while with smiles he reads the artless line,

His judgment shall correct, his taste refine.

Come then, my friend, together let us tread

Once more where science lifts th' aspiring head;

Dull goddess, from whose seat and barren plain

Fly all the nymphs, and all the sylvan train:

Yet, pleas'd even here, we'll own sweet friendship's power,

Smiling in converse o'er the social hour;

Here patient o'er the dreary desert toil,

Cheer'd with the prospect of a happier soil!

PROLOGUE SPOKEN AT THE CHARTER-HOUSE, MDCCLIII.

BY JOHN DUNCOMBE, M.A.

TO-night, ye Britons, let the deathless name

Of Roman Terence your attention claim!

To you undaunted he submits his cause,

And dares the test of your severest laws;

Convinc'd that scholars will with pleasure hear,

For Attic scenes must charm an Attic ear.

Those Attic scenes which once, in learning's bloom,

With Iös shook the theatres of Rome;

There Caesar oft forgot the toils of fight,

And modest Maro listen'd with delight;

Even vestals heard, unblam'd, the spotless lay,

And priests and censors went improv'd away.

O would the polish'd bards of Britain quit

The dangerous track of loose licentious wit,

Soon might our theatres, in virtue's cause,

Be deem'd a glorious supplement to laws;

No fans should skreen the blushing beauty's face,

And prelates might an English drama grace;

Such moral scenes should envy's rage disarm,

New Catos then should fire, new Bevilles charm.

Well may this sacred spot your reverence claim,

Where first their authors caught the heaven-born flame!

Methinks even now their laurell'd shades descend,

And, hovering round us, our attempts befriend:

Each bosom must th' inspiring influence feel,

Warm'd by the names of Addison and Steele.

While each fond breast this pleasing theme enjoys,

O think they once were unexperienc'd boys;

Think too that we may frame some deathless lay,

If cheer'd by you in this our first essay:

When action flattens let the sense prevail,

And language charm you where the speakers fail!

TO THE AUTHOR OF CLARISSA.

BY THE SAME.

IF, 'mid their round of pleasure, to convey

An useful lesson to the young and gay;

To swell their eyes with pearly drops, and share,

With cards and dress, the converse of the fair:

If, with the boasted bards of classic age,

Th' attention of the learned to engage,

And in the bosom of the rake to raise

A tender, social feeling—merit praise;

The gay, the fair, the learn'd, even rakes, agree

To give that praise to nature, truth, and thee.

Transported now to Harlowe-Place, we view

Thy matchless maid her godlike tasks pursue;

Visit the sick or needy, and bestow

Drugs to relieve, or words to soften woe;

Or, with the pious Lewen, hear her soar

Heights unattain'd by female minds before.

Then to her ivy-bower she pleas'd retires,

And with light touch the trembling keys inspires;

While wakeful Philomel no more complains,

But, raptur'd, listens to her sweeter strains.

Now (direful contrast!) in each gloomy shade

Behold a pitying swain, or weeping maid!

And hark! with sullen swing, the tolling bell

Proclaims that loss which language fails to tell.

In awful silence soon a sight appears,

That points their sorrows, and renews their tears:

For, lo! far-blackening all the verdant meads,

With slow parade, the funeral pomp proceeds:

Methinks even now I hear th' encumber'd ground,

And pavement, echo with a rumbling sound;

And see the servants tearful eyes declare

With speaking look, the herse, the herse, is here!

But, O thou sister of Clarissa's heart,

Can I the anguish of thy soul impart,

When, from your chariot flown with breathless haste,

Her clay-cold form, yet beauteous, you embrac'd;

And cried with heaving sobs, and broken strains,

Are these—are these—my much-lov'd friend's remains?

Then view each Harlowe-face; remorse, despair,

And self-condemning grief, are pictur'd there.

Now first the brother feels, with guilty sighs,

Fraternal passions in his bosom rise:

By shame and sorrow equally opprest,

The sister wrings her hands, and beats her breast.

With streaming eyes, too late, the mother blames

Her tame submission to the tyrant James:

Even he, the gloomy father, o'er the herse

Laments his rashness, and recalls his curse.

And thus each parent, who, with haughty sway,

Expects his child to tremble and obey;

Who hopes his power by rigour to maintain,

And meanly worships at the shrine of gain;

Shall mourn his error, and, repenting, own,

That bliss can ne'er depend on wealth alone.

Riches may charm, and pageantry invite:

But what are these, unless the minds unite?

Drive then insatiate avarice from your breast,

Nor think a Solmes can make Clarissa blest.

And you, ye fair, the wish of every heart,

Tho' grac'd by nature, and adorn'd by art,

Tho' sprightly youth its vernal bloom bestow,

And on your cheeks the blush of beauty glow,

Here see how soon those roses of a day,

Nipt by a frost, fade, wither, and decay!

Nor youth nor beauty could Clarissa save,

Snatch'd to an early, not untimely grave.

But still her own unshaken innocence,

Spotless and pure, unconscious of offence,

In the dread hour of death her bosom warm'd

With more than manly courage, and disarm'd

The griesly king: in vain the tyrant tried

His awful terrors—for she smil'd, and died.

You too, ye libertines, who idly jest

With virtue wrong'd, and innocence distrest;

Who vainly boast of what should be your shame,

And triumph in the wreck of female fame;

Be warn'd, like Belford, and behold, with dread,

The hand of vengeance hovering o'er your head!

If not, in Belton's agonies you view

What dying horrors are reserv'd for you.

In vain even Lovelace, healthy, young, and gay,

By nature form'd to please, and to betray,

Tried from himself, by change of place, to run;

For that intruder, Thought, he could not shun.

Tasteless were all the pleasures that he view'd

In foreign courts; for Conscience still pursu'd:

The lost Clarissa each succeeding night,

In starry garment, swims before his sight;

Nor ease by day her shrill complaints afford,

But far more deeply wound than Morden's sword.

O! if a sage had thus on Attic plains

Improv'd at once and charm'd the listening swains;

Had he, with matchless energy of thought,

Great truths like these in antient Athens taught;

On fam'd Ilyssus' banks in Parian stone

His breathing bust conspicuous would have shone;

Even Plato, in Lyceum's awful shade,

Th' instructive page with transport had survey'd;

And own'd its author to have well supplied

The place his laws to Homer's self denied.

VERSES ON THE CAMPAIGN OF MDCCLIX.
ADDRESSED TO THE PUBLISHERS OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

BY THE SAME.

'TIS done! unclouded sets the radiant year,

To heroes, bards, and statesmen ever dear:

A year, Sylvanus, which each future age

Shall wondering view in thy historic page;

Unmatch'd, tho' Agincourt was drench'd with gore,

And Spain's proud fleet fled vanquish'd from our shore;

And tho' (more late) in Anne's distinguish'd reign,

The Maese and Scheld ran purple to the main.

To regions parch'd by Phoebus' sultry ray,

When Keppel steer'd, Victoria led the way;

Made haughty France all Afric's wealth resign,

And cull'd fresh bays beneath the burning [*] line.

Hence, swift as thought, to India's distant coast,

The goddess flew, and freed her favourite [†] host;

While to his walls the frantic foe retires,

His "Sodom, threaten'd with vindictive [*] fires."

Then, cross th' Atlantic flood, thro' western groves,

By lapse of murmuring streams, Victoria [†] roves;

In citron-shades ambrosial odours breathes,

And decks Britannia's chiefs with plantane wreathes,

Now pleas'd she marks, on Minden's harrass'd plain,

A firm, unshaken, Macedonian [‡] train;

Sees, heaps on heaps, the hostile squadrons lie,

And bids that day in fame with Cressy vie.

In Neptune's wide domain, she next, with gales

Propitious, swells her lov'd Boscawen's sails;

Once more directs his thunder, and bestows

A wreathe familiar to a Briton's brows;

While echoing shouts from Lagos' rocks rebound,

And Vincent's cape returns the welcome [§] sound.

To realms far distant, realms which winter sways,

The nymph now summons, and the muse obeys:

There cliffs, and woods, and climate, all are foes;

In vain that climate, woods, and cliffs oppose.

Tho' art and nature, strength and skill unite,

Resolv'd, yet cool, to glory's utmost height▪

A youthful hero soar'd; then, calm, his breath

Resign'd, and, like Gustavus, smil'd in death[*].

Rest, happy shade, while round thy early tomb

Kings, senates mourn, and deathless laurels bloom:

The loves, the graces, there shall vigils keep,

And there with Mars shall beauteous Venus weep.

And O! tho' storied marble must decay,

And trophies, busts, and statues melt away,

Yet shall thy deeds, like Caesar's, still survive,

And, by thyself recorded, ever live[†].

Hence, like the brave returning pair, once more

We fly, impatient, to the Gallic shore;

Where Hawke, with vengeance arm'd, serenely braves

At once the foe, the night, the winds, and waves:

By rocks and shoals, the season and the coast,

Uncheck'd, he quells the proud invaders boast;

In dark eclipse involves their spurious sun,

And does "whate'er" by mortals "can be done."

On chiefs and sages past, no more we dwell:

Blake, Raleigh, Cecil, Walsingham, farewell!

From Urban's annals distant times shall own,

Ne'er beam'd such lustre round Britannia's throne;

Ne'er did her sons such arduous heights attain,

In field, in council, as in George's reign.[‡]

Notes

*
Goree surrendered to commodore Keppel, Jan. 1.
↵

†
Siege of Madrass was raised Feb. 16.
↵

*

"It is impossible, but that the fire of the English must, sooner or later, destroy this Sodom, even tho' that from heaven should not."
M. Lally's letter.

↵

†
Guadeloupe surrendered, May 1.
↵

‡
Victory of Minden, August 1.
↵

§
Victory off Cape Lagos, August 18,
↵

*
Victory of Quebec, September 13.
↵

†
See general Wolfe's letter.
↵

‡
Admiral Saunders and General Townshend.
↵

TO COLONEL CLIVE, ON HIS ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND.

BY THE SAME.

GReat, as from Porus' conquest, Philip's son,

Glorious as Cortez from new Indies won,

'Midst trumpets loud acclaim, and cannons roar,

Wellcome, illustrious Clive, to Britain's shore.

From eastern dawning, swift as Phoebus' rays,

We now behold thy full meridian blaze.

Proud of that chief, at whose impetuous course

Old Ganges trembled to his distant source;

Who, like fam'd Warwick, master of the crown,

On loftiest Nabobs look'd superior down,

And made the fierce Mogul, with conscious fear,

Startle, and deem a second Nadir near.

To thee her safety twice Bengalia owes,

Alike from Indian, and Batavian foes;

Hence in no dungeon now her sons remain,

Nor of a new Amboyna's fate complain!

And see! with wreaths by glorious toils acquir'd,

Kind heaven rewards the genius it inspir'd;

Bestows thee all thy fondest wish could claim,

Unenvied fortune, and unspotted fame;

Thy aged fire's embrace, thy sovereign's praise,

And from a stranger-muse unpurchas'd lays.

ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP THE RAMILLIES, CAPTAIN TAYLOR, FEBRUARY MDCCLX.

BY THE SAME.

HApless Ramillia! in an early grave

Sunk and entomb'd beneath the boisterous wave.

No star shone round thee with propitious ray,

Even from thy rising to thy setting day.

At fam'd Mahon, with unavailing aid,

Byng's bloodless colours were by thee display'd,

And the proud Gaul, with joy unknown before,

At distance heard thy harmless cannons roar:

But at thy leader's fate, all wild with woe,

As if to waft him to the shades below,

We saw thee fearless brave the stormy main,

Nor strongest moorings could thy rage restrain[*].

Not even Hawke's valour could reverse thy doom,

But silent slept the thunder in thy womb,

What time the foe, from Rochfort's tottering towers,

Dismay'd, yet safe, beheld the British powers.

Succeeding summers idly pass'd away,

And still in Brest their fleets securely lay:

At length from thee his flag the hero bore;

Then, swift returning to the hostile shore,

With prosperous gales he saw his canvas swell,

And did—what Britain's annals best can tell.

With one sad sigh for thee our bosoms heave,

And with the bay we now the cypress weave.

And O! while valour, virtue we revere,

Or unsuccessful merit claims a tear,

To thy lost heroes we that tear shall give,

And gallant Taylor's name with Balchen's live.

Notes

*
The Ramillies broke from her moorings in Portsmouth Harbour, just before admiral Byng's execution.
↵

METHOD OF CHUSING A MAYOR.
FROM THE LATIN OF M. HUET, AFTERWARDS BISHOP OF AVRANCHES.

BY THE SAME.

WE came to [*]Harburg late at night,

And laughing heard an antient rite

By which the burghers, every year,

In full assembly chuse their mayor.

The bearded sires, in order sit,

Around a maple table fit,

And on the board, in grim array,

Their bushy beards, sagacious, lay:

Then in the midst, exact, they place

The filthiest of the insect race;

And he, whose savoury length of beard

The gods ordain to be preferr'd,

Excites their envy and applause,

And guards that year their sacred laws.

Notes

*
A town in the circle of Lower Saxony, on the river Libe, about six miles from Hamburgh.
↵

M. DE VOLTAIRE A LA PRINCESSE AMELIE DE PRUSSE.

SOuvent un pen de veritè

Se mele dans la plus grossiere mensonge.

Cette nuit dans l'erreur d'un songe

Au rang des rois j'etois montè;

Je vous aimois alors, et j'osois vous le dire.

Les dieux a mon reveil ne m'ont pas tout otè;

Je n'ai perdu que mon empire.

LE RESPONSE DU ROI.

OU remarque, pour l'ordinaire,

Q'un songe est analogue a nostre charactere.

Un heros peut rever qu'il passè la Rhin,

Un marchand qu'il a fait fortune,

Un chien qu'il aboye a la lune:

Mais quand Voltaire en Prusse, pour fair le faquin,

S'imagine etre roi,

Ma foi ce'st abuser d'un songe.

VOLTAIRE TO THE PRINCESS AMELIA OF PRUSSIA. TRANSLATED BY THE SAME.

SOme truth we may descry,

Even in the greatest lye.

To-night I dreamt I sat

Enthron'd in regal state:

To love you then I dar'd,

Nay, more, that love declar'd;

And when I woke, one half I still retain'd;

My kingdom vanish'd, but my love remain'd.

THE KING'S ANSWER.

DReams, commonly we see,

With characters agree.

Thus heroes pass the Rhine,

And merchants count their coin,

And mastiffs bay the moon:

But when, conceited loon!

Voltaire here dreams of empire, on my word,

Thus to abuse a dream is most absurd.

A MOONLIGHT ODE.

BY A LADY.

Nox erat, et coelo fulgebat Luna sereno.

HOR.

WIthin a lonely gallery's awful gloom,

Where pictur'd ancestors adorn the room,

And one dim taper distant gleam'd,

Veil'd by a dusky cloud, the Queen of Night

Diffus'd a pleasing melancholy light,

And faintly thro' the windows beam'd:

Within, deep silence reign'd, no mortal stirr'd,

Without, the raven croak'd, ill-omen'd bird,

And loudly blustering Boreas blew;

When thrice the gallery's length I walk'd along,

And meditated much on right and wrong,

The past, the present rushing to my view.

Thus on the couch I at my ease reclin'd,

Revolving o'er and o'er within my mind

All I had suffer'd or enjoy'd;

Pleasure remember'd, present sorrow brings,

And from past sorrow satisfaction springs!

Then my whole life my thoughts employ'd:

I view'd my failings, and my virtues too,

And doubtless gave myself all merit due,

Yet for impartial judgment strove;

From crime I clear'd my conscience, not from blame,

And dar'd my own an honest heart to name,

Dispos'd to friendship and to love.

With tender, wise, indulgent parents blest,

With many friends, and one beyond the rest,

The faithful sister of my heart;

Beneath the rich, but far above the poor,

'Tis vain, 'tis wrong, perhaps, to wish for more,

Save for the bliss I might impart.

Why then with melancholy thus opprest,

As if the deepest sorrow wrung my breast?

Of heaven I ought not to complain;

How many far more wretched do I see,

Who think me happy, and who envy me!

But who can know another's pain?

My tears proceed not from imagin'd woe,

There is a tender cause that makes them flow,

A cause I from the world conceal;

Yet here, in peaceful solitude retir'd,

I sing as by the plaintive muse inspir'd,

And all my secret grief reveal.

But, from behind the cloud, see Cynthia shine,

Come forth in all her majesty divine,

And dart direct on me her rays;

Her aspect, ever cheerful and serene,

Enlivens this too solitary scene,

And seems to chide my plaintive lays.

Justly, chaste goddess, dost thou chide my song,

I've sung in melancholy strains too long,

Too long have left thy peaceful grove;

Vouchsafe, protectress of the virgin train,

To take a wandering innocent again,

And save her from th' assaults of love.

EVADNE TO EMMA. AN EPISTLE.

BY THE SAME.

HOW mean the pride, how false the shame

That rules the human heart,

Which bids conceal the virtuous flame

Beneath the veil of art!

Nor can that art the truth disguise,

The flimsy veil too thin,

That shows the heart to curious eyes,

As gauze the polish'd skin.

No more in vain then, Emma, seek

Your sorrow to conceal,

The downcast eye, and livid cheek,

In silence will reveal.

Your generous heart, above deceit,

For spotless faith renown'd,

Is now commenc'd an aukward cheat,

Since love an entrance found.

Thro' pathless groves alone you stray,

By Cynthia's twinkling beam,

And steal from social friends away,

To haunt Sabrina's stream.

And while, with sympathizing sighs,

I ask your cause of woe,

I see your labouring bosom rise,

And grateful tears o'erflow.

I see the crimson blush declare,

The struggles of your mind,

Yet still, preserv'd with fatal care,

The secret rests behind.

Passion supprest the stronger grows;

Let friendship's voice prevail,

Within my faithful breast repose

Your melancholy tale.

Friendship shall sooth your soul to peace,

And utterance give relief,

And powerful reason, by degrees,

Will mitigate your grief.

Or yet, your timid heart to spare,

Which dreads to speak the truth,

Let me the man you love declare,

And thus describe the youth:

Adorn'd with every grace refin'd,

With every virtue bless'd,

Esteem'd, belov'd by all mankind,

By all degrees caress'd.

His matchless worth, which fix'd your love,

Will justify your flame,

And tho' you unsuccessful prove,

You sully not your fame.

Then let not melancholy's gloom

Your erring steps decoy,

To scenes where joy can never bloom,

Nor peace, nor youthful joy.

From reason's path to sad despair

Her magic wand will lead,

And frenzy's various shapes appear,

Where-e'er you chance to tread.

How hard the lot of kindred souls,

When adverse fate divides,

For wisdom Henry's heart controuls,

And every action guides!

Else had his tongue ere now reveal'd

What oft his eyes confess;

His captive passion mourns conceal'd,

Nor ever hopes success.

Let prudence then, with duty join'd,

Break haughty passion's chains,

Or resignation teach your mind

To bear what fate ordains.

Reflect how short our joy, our woe?

How short our life and love!

Souls, tho' divided here below,

May meet, refin'd, above.

HYMN TO RESIGNATION.

BY THE SAME.

FAtigued with illness, sick with pain,

By various griefs oppress'd;

Calm Resignation can sustain,

And sooth the soul to rest.

Hail Resignation! nymph divine!

Behold my aching heart,

O! grant thine influence benign,

Thy saving grace impart!

On thee attendant Hope appears,

To whom the power is given

To dissipate our gloomy fears,

And point the way to heaven.

Your smiles, like Phoebus' orient rays,

Chase superstition's night,

And all the visionary blaze

Of enthusiastic light.

Religion's daughters I adore,

And humbly prostrate bow;

And sure I feel celestial power

Thro' all my spirits glow.

Henceforth nor illness, pain, nor grief

Shall reach my guarded mind;

Religion grants a sure relief,

I hope—and am resign'd.

AN IMITATION FROM PASTOR FIDO.

BY THE SAME.

SAY, in this laughing season, fresh and fair,

When Nature's lap unfolds her blooming hoard,

Say, should no branch shoot forth, no buds appear,

Nor lofty trees their friendly shade afford,

Should cedars, oaks, and pines despoil'd be seen

Of all the leafy crowns that grace their heads,

Nor herb, nor flower revive, nor pasture green,

Then would not Silvio say, all nature fades?

To different ages different tastes belong;

With hoary years ill suits impassion'd love;

Yet he who feels no soft desires when young,

A foe to nature and to heaven must prove.

Silvio, look round, and what thou see'st allow,

That what or heaven, or earth, or sea can give

For use or pleasure, all to love we owe;

Earth, heaven, and sea, his genial power receive.

By Love inspir'd, the birds their amorous tales

Breathe thro' the air, and waft from spray to spray;

Love thro' the woods o'er savage beasts prevails,

And him th' unnumber'd shoals of fish obey.

IMITATED FROM METASTASIO.

BY THE SAME.

YOU rejoice without hope, and you hope without reason,

And you fear where no danger is nigh,

You give credit to phantoms, no faith to the truth,

And each moment produces a lye.

Meditation an hundred vain fancies presents,

And grim Death without dying is known;

A thousand dreams waking no sun-shine dispells,

Yet the martyr no torment will own.

You contemplate another, yourself you forget,

Indulging too freely a wandering mind,

Too oft, by desires pursuing, desires create,

And then terror on terror you find.

Such contention of passions you constantly feel,

Yet the deified tyrant approve;

So enchanting the mixture of pleasure and pain

In this powerful frenzy call'd Love.

If your heart did not wanton thro' pleasure's gay paths,

Quite unknown would this deity be;

Idle Fancy adorns him with arrows and bow,

And you worship at Error's decree.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN.

SONNET. FROM PETRARCH.

BY THE SAME.

ALone and pensive, thro' deserted meads,

Slowly with measur'd step I wandering go,

My eyes intent to shun each path that leads

Where printed sands the human footsteps show.

No other refuge left, but in despair

To shun the world's discernment I retire,

Since now in Pleasure's train no part I bear,

My outward mien betrays my inward fire.

Methinks, henceforth the mountains, groves, and plains,

And rivers know my melancholy mind,

But only these, to all beside untold;

And yet, what savage track unsought remains,

However rude, but Love my haunts will find,

And he and I alternate converse hold?

SONNET. FROM THE SAME.

BY THE SAME.

IF 'tis not Love, what passion rules my heart?

And if it is, O heaven! then what is Love?

If good, why flows such poison from the dart?

If bad, the torment why do I approve?

If with my choice I love, then why complain?

If not with choice, how fruitless to lament?

O living death! O most delightful pain!

Thy power subdues, tho' I deny consent.

Thus, like some fragile bark, by adverse winds

Expos'd to sea, when no skill'd pilot steers,

Contending passions sway my labouring soul;

It seeks for knowledge, fatal error finds,

Nor knows itself, or what it hopes or fears,

Freezes in Libya, scorches near the pole.

SONNET OF FAUSTINA MARATTI ZAPPI.
TO A LADY WITH WHOM SHE SUPPOSES HER HUSBAND TO HAVE BEEN FORMERLY IN LOVE.

BY THE SAME.

O Nymph, whose powerful charms his heart could gain,

Whom I desire with duteous love to please,

Thy praise he still resounds in every strain,

Thy hair, thy lips, thy wit, and graceful ease.

Tell me, if e'er, by thy kind voice address'd,

Silent was he, or could unmov'd appear?

Were looks perturb'd, and proud, to thee express'd?

Such looks as force from me the frequent tear?

Alas! I've heard in former times his eyes,

Kindled by thine, his ardent flame reveal'd;

And then—But thy averted face I see,

And conscious blushes on thy cheeks arise:

O speak!—Ah! no, thy lips, by silence seal'd,

Must ne'er confess his heart attach'd to thee.

ANNINGAIT AND AJUTT:
A GREENLAND TALE.
TAKEN FROM THE FOURTH VOLUME OF THE RAMBLER. INSCRIBED TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, M.A.

BY MRS. PENNY.

O Johnson! fam'd for elegance and sense,

Whose works instruction and delight dispense;

Where nice correction charms our wondering eyes,

And in whose lines embellish'd beauties rise;

Say! will you deign this humble verse to hear,

Sprung from your thoughts, and nurtur'd by your care:

A female bard, unknown to wit or fame,

To you inscribes what from your genius came.

ANNINGAIT AND AJUTT.

LOve, powerful Love, each being can controul,

Brighten the mind, and animate the soul:

Love can, with truth, the mighty magic boast,

Of sacred warmth amidst eternal frost;

Witness fair Ajutt, pride of icy plains,

Where darkness half the year triumphant reigns,

And faithful, generous Anningait, the youth,

By Love taught softness, by that softness truth:

Both flourish'd sweet on Greenland's rigid coast,

Pure as their snow, and constant as their frost;

No polish'd arts of specious vice they knew,

The youth was noble, and the maid was true;

From earliest dawn their charms no rival saw,

By nature blest beyond her usual law;

No Greenland swain like Anningait could dare,

To fix th' harpoon, or rouse the whale to war;

From his firm hand the unerring javelin flew,

His bark sure loaded by the seal he slew;

Blest in his friends, illustrious was his race,

Grac'd by his birth, his birth his actions grace.

'Twas at a solemn feast in Greenland held,

Where beauteous Ajutt every nymph excell'd,

That Anningait first saw the blooming fair,

With modest sense, and unaffected air;

He gaz'd with rapture! Ajutt did the same!

Their souls, congenial, caught the rising flame;

On her alone he fix'd his firm regard,

The choicest whale was to her board preferr'd;

A spotless ermine (emblem of her mind)

To deck her shoulders he from his resign'd;

With these a gift of greater prize bestow'd,

A heart all her's, a heart supremely good:

To sing her charms his artless voice was fir'd,

Hence flow'd the lay which love and she inspir'd.

' Ajutt, more beauteous than the willow's shade,

' Fragrant as mountain-thyme, inchanting maid,

' Whose taper fingers white and polish'd are,

' As morse's teeth, and nimble as the hare;

' Thy smiles as grateful as dissolving snow,

' When welcome sunshine bids our lakes to flow;

' Far as e'er thought can trace I'd thee pursue,

' And be thy guardian and thy lover too;

' No power shall Ajutt from her love divide,

' Nor midland cliffs, nor eastern caverns hide;

' Not the malignant genius of the rock,

' Our foe avow'd, rapacious Amarock,

' Should from my faithful arm my Ajutt tear,

' That arm unwearied should protect my fair;

' Even Haffgufa, the fear of every maid,

' I'd dauntless meet, nor once his prowess dread;

' Be kind then, Ajutt, and my passion try,

' Who lives but in thy smile, without thy smile must die;

' And may that wretch, if such a wretch there be,

' Who blasts our union, or dare envy me,

' Be in his icy bed for ever laid,

' Without his bow, nor wept by faithful maid;

' And in the laud of souls, when he arrives,

' And new to life in that dread clime revives,

' May then his scull the burning drops receive

' From starry lamps, nor other gift relieve;

' For sure, by fate, fair Ajutt must be mine,

' Pure is my passion, and my flame divine.'

Th' attentive fishers, Greenland's choicest swains,

Enraptur'd, listen and approve his strains;

The nymphs on Ajutt cast an envious eye,

And wish their fate with such a swain to try;

While she, tho' pleas'd, conceals the soft regard,

And beauty's power exerts to be the more rever'd.

But now, long absent Sol, the god of day,

Began his beams on sparkling frost to play;

The snow dissolves, long stagnant waters rise,

A new creation seems to greet their eyes;

The Greenland youths the happy omen hail,

Prepare for combat with the mighty whale;

With active ardor all renew their toil,

And count in thought the treasures of their oil;

Foremost in all see Anningait appear,

For lovely Ajutt deigns the toil to share;

Her presence animates the hero's mind,

He rush'd on danger fleeter than the wind;

With agile arm th' astonish'd sea-horse struck,

And drew him, panting, on his well-fix'd hook;

In utmost depths the diving seal pursued,

And pierc'd th' emerging whale, with sinewy strength endued;

And when, with loaded bark, to land they steer,

With active skill he caught the dappled deer;

Their glossy skins he drest to deck his bride,

But hope and anxious fear his breast divide;

For still fair Ajutt further proof demands,

Ere-nuptial rites should join their plighted hands;

To distant shores commands the youth to rove,

To find if absence could abate his love;

Bad him in search of wandering whales to roam,

To crown their board when winter call'd him home;

He must comply—implicit he obeys,

Her will his law—what more a lover sways?—

Yet, ere he went, her tent with flowers he strews,

Refresh'd with sweetest of the Iceland dews;

Balmy as Ajutt's breath, the new-born flowers

Might boast of fragrance with Arcadian bowers;

These as he strew'd, to Ajutt thus he said,

' Attend—and mark—inexorable maid:

' See in these blossoms beauty's short-liv'd power,

' Beauty as fading as the morning flower;

' This hour presents them lovely to thy view,

' Impearl'd with fragrance, deck'd in orient dew;

' Another comes, no more they cheer thine eye,

' And ere a third revolves, they droop and die;

' Such, my lov'd Ajutt, is the life we boast,

' A transient dream which ere enjoy'd is lost:

' Why wilt thou then enforce thy harsh command,

' And drive me wretched to the distant strand?

' Why wilt thou not my plighted vow receive,

' And be my partner on the boisterous wave?

' Then could I fearless every danger try,

' What danger can I dread when Ajutt's by?

' O! virgin, beauteous as the sunny beam,

' Which glittering dances on the limpid stream,

' Once more reflect—recall the sad decree,

' Be just to Ajutt, and be kind to me;

' Think, ere I go, what frosts, what fogs may rise,

' And, join'd, preclude thy presence from my eyes;

' Thou know'st, my fair, our clime, condemn'd to frost,

' Of days and nights alternate cannot boast,

' Like those gay climes by lying strangers told,

' Where houses screen them from inclement cold;

' Ere my return dread winter's bird may sing,

' And night o'ertake me with an eagle's wing;

' What then in those lone months can cheer my soul?

' Not seal, delicious, nor the flowing bowl;

' The flaming lamps without thy eyes would fade,

' Nor healing oil could cure the wound they made.'

In vain the youth his utmost art essay'd,

Persuasion mov'd not, nor soft pity sway'd,

Perversly fix'd, he found the cruel maid:

But ere he went, his last respect to show,

Seven ermine skins, that rival'd Greenland's snow,

With five fair swans, he as a tribute gave,

And seals fresh bleeding from the briny wave,

With marble lamps, and oil of curious taste,

To deck her board, and crown the rich repast:

With joy refin'd, this gift the nymph receiv'd,

As proof of love, from him in whom she liv'd;

Then trembling wish'd the parting pang was o'er,

While pitying sighs her love-lorn basom tore.

The ready boat the tardy youth upbraids,

And frequent summons from the rowing maids—

' I come, he cries—my Ajutt lov'd adieu—

' Forget me not, my fair,—be just—be true.'

The words, by grief, half frozen on his tongue,

He sigh'd—she wept—and on his bosom hung;

Then vow'd unchanging love, and fervent pray'd

The powers to guard him for his faithful maid;

And that no mermaid, syren of the deep,

Might snatch her love, or give her cause to weep;

With sorrow, tender as the constant dove,

Who mourns the tedious absence of her love,

Did Anningait his lovely Ajutt leave,

And from her wish his only joy receive:

With her's, his own he joins, and prays each power,

To guard his maid, and hasle their nuptial hour;

Then onward moves—now looks a last adieu,

While tender eloquence his cheeks bedew;

Thrice he attempts his floating bark to leave,

And swim to Ajutt o'er the dashing wave;

Like some fair image Ajutt lifeless stands,

Surveys his boat, and marks the printed sands;

Till waves and rocks her prospect intercept,

Her hut then sought, and there in private wept;

But, rous'd by hope of Anningait's return,

Each female art she tries in various turn;

One hour the greenest moss she culls with care,

And dries the grass for Anningait to wear;

Of softest skins a fishing coat she wrought,

Of curious form, like him of whom she thought;

A boat of toughest skins together sew'd,

And as she work'd each tender vow renew'd;

Then in soft numbers each good genius prays,

To guide her swain thro' Terror's pathless ways;

And that his nervous arms might stronger prove,

Than the fierce bear, nor aught annoy her love;

That his swift darts unerring he might guide,

That his tough boat might bravely stem the tide;

That the crack'd ice might ne'er his feet betray,

Nor his harpoon might ever fail the prey.

Thus in lone sadness Ajutt still remains,

Nor joins the maidens on the jocund plains;

Her locks unbraided o'er her shoulders flow,

In beauteous negligence, and pomp of woe;

Their rural sports she now no more adorns,

Nor thinks of joy till Anningait returns;

While he, by calms detain'd, or tempest tost,

Vainly attemps to reach the destin'd coast,

Banish'd from Ajutt all his joys are lost,

Sighing he stands, and views the ruffled main,

And thus to life compares the varied scene.

' O! frail, uncertain state, where shall we find

' A truer emblem of the human mind,

' Than in the floating ice, by billows tost,

' It towers on high, there sparkles and is lost;

' The sun-beams, bright, dissolve the glittering toy,

' And rocks, below, their hidden power employ;

' Each cause concurs this certain truth to prove,

' No joys are permanent but those above:

' What art thou, Pleasure! fleeting as a dream!

' Which sudden blazes like a northern gleam,

' That plays a moment on our dazled eyes,

' Then palls, and fades, and in an instant dies:

' What art thou Love! the whirlpool of our rest!

' The fatal eddy of the human breast;

' The soft sensation, that unseen obtains

' Such sovereign sway, soon absolute it reigns:

' Had not my eyes thy charms, O Ajutt! trac'd,

' The sweet expressions that thy person grac'd;

' The winning softness, and th' attracting mien,

' Which conscious spoke the Graces dwelt within,

' Then had I still with downy ease been blest,

' Slept like the careless morse in vacant rest,

' Joyous as minstrels in the starry sphere,

' Had felt no grief, a stranger still to care:

' But, if my lovely fair will true remain,

' How light each toil, and overpaid each pain;

' That sweet reflection shall my peace restore,

' She's just as fair, and we shall part no more:

' That thought, my Ajutt, shall my nerves new-brace,

' I'll hunt the raindeer to the utmost chace;

' A few weeks past, then loaded I'll return,

' And Love's pure flame for us shall grateful burn;

' Roefish and porpoise shall thy kindred feast,

' And thou shalt smile on every friendly guest;

' The fox and hare shall Ajutt's couch enfold,

' And seals tough skins shall screen thee from the cold;

' The marble lamps with sweetest oil I'll fill,

' To light thy tent, and fragrant fumes distill;

' Haste then, O time! add swiftness to thy flight,

' For, without Ajutt, horrid were the night.'

Thus was the youth alternate captive led,

By smiling Hope, Dismay, and anxious Dread;

Till rous'd by spouting whales his ardour glows,

He with new courage to the combat goes;

Ajutt, a sweet recluse from all she lov'd,

Retirement wooed, by social joys unmov'd;

True to her love as is th' attracted steel,

In thought feels every woe that he might feel.

Once as she stray'd, by gentle labour led,

Drying soft skins to deck her lover's bed;

Nornsuck, a mighty chief among their swains,

Return'd from hunting on the distant plains;

The maid he raptur'd views, with so•t surprize,

And falls a victim to her conquering eyes;

Fair without gaudy pomp, or studied art,

Her native beauty struck the hero's heart;

By Love o'er-awed, whose power he now first knew,

Speechless he gaz'd, and wist not what to do;

But ready Hope her healing succour sends,

And bids him gain the fair-one by her friends;

For much he fear'd his suit to Ajutt vain,

Yet bless'd the absence of her favour'd swain;

Revolves with joy his birth and mighty store,

For great his wealth, no Greenland swain had more;

With these resolves her parents faith to try,

And hopes their power might win her to comply;

Yet first presumes his passion to disclose,

And o'er her neck a dappled deer-skin throws;

This with disdain the faithful maid returns,

And then for Anningait a-fresh she mourns:

Her father's distant hutt he instant sought,

His worth explain'd, and every tender thought,

Which soon their sordid minds to his opinion wrought.

Home when the maid returns, with artful tale,

They praise young Nornsuck, hero of the vale;

His power, his wealth, they set in dazzling light,

His vast possessions for th' approaching night;

How bright his form (for true the youth was fair)

In graceful ringlets flow'd his jetty hair,

His person pleasing, and quick piercing eye,

That might for brightness with the eagle's vie;

His ardent passion crown'd the irksome tale,

But vain each art that dar'd her truth assail;

With silent scorn th' amazing change she hears,

That they forget her vow and daily tears;

At last, long urg'd, she painful silence broke,

And thus her sentiments in anguish spoke:

' Sooner shall whales their liquid world forsake,

' And seek for pastime in the half froze lake;

' Sooner shall endless night o'er Greenland reign,

' And cheering sun-shine never gild the plain,

' Than I in thought or word my love forego,

' Fix'd as my native frost, unblemish'd as my snow.'

Then swift as bounding hart away she fled,

And travers'd hill or dale as fancy led;

Firmly resolv'd the hutt to see no more,

Till Anningait arriv'd on Greenland's shore;

A willing exile from her father's board,

Her wants supplied from Nature's varied hoard;

She oft high cliffs ascends, and eager eyes

The distant main in curling billows rise;

Each time new hope her anxious bosom cheers,

Nay more than hope, for now the boat appears;

The wish'd for bark in loaded pomp returns,

Wild with the joy no longer now she mourns,

But darts with rapid ease o'er hill and dale,

Now scours the plain, or skims along the vale;

Till faint with joy she gains the pebbled shore,

And hails the bark, and hears the dashing oar;

Then with loud rapture calls her destin'd mate,

Her life, her lord, her much-lov'd Anningait;

But the glad sounds no Anningait repays,

Trembling she wonders at th' unkind delays;

Eager the cruel reason she demands,

When drop the oars from each one's nerveless hands;

Aghast they gaze, as Anningait she calls,

Nor know what fate the hapless swain befalls;

The youth impatient long before was gone,

In a swift boat unloaded and alone;

Their tedious voyage Love could not approve,

That so long kept him from expecting Love;

But how, or where he was, they knew no more,

Than she, just lifeless, on the crouded shore;

With horror struck, immoveable she stands,

And wets, with copious tears, the thirsty sands;

The virgin train in social woe attend,

And all bewail the anguish of their friend;

Her kindred round now mourn, then sooth her woes,

And from each friendly tongue persuasion-flows;

They try to win her home, and calm her mind,

But she was deaf as rocks, and heedless as the wind;

With gentle force, at last, they brought her there,

And seek each lenitive to sooth her care;

Then her soft couch with sleekest skins they spread,

And lead her gently to her long-left bed;

Then pray'd the downy god to seal her eyes,

And that sweet Peace again might with her rise;

She thankful heard, but knew their wish was vain,

From Anningait, thus torn, all life was pain;

Yet lulls her grief with sad reflection's power,

That forth unheeded in the silent hour,

When the soft deity their pillows strew'd,

And in sweet slumber every sense subdued,

She might with safety gain the late-left shore,

And for her love each terror would explore:

With double pain th' unwilling moments fly,

Till all was hush'd, and clos'd was every eye;

Then instant quits her once lov'd place of rest,

Where Peace long dwelt, tho' now no more a guest;

Softly she stole her sleeping friends to view,

And look'd, and sigh'd, a tender, last adieu;

Now filial tenderness her bosom tore,

That those dear objects she might see no more:

But what, O! Nature, are thy feebler ties?

When Love inspires, thy sweet sensation flies;—

Her fear-wing'd feet the distant shore soon gain,

Seize the first boat, then boldly plough the main;

Nor more her native Greenland ever trod—

Nor yet the youth—Some think an angry god,

The potent genius of the floods and rock,

Fierce Haffgufa, or dreaded Amarock,

Detain'd them prisoners in their coral caves,

Whose pearly pavements shine thro' lucid waves;

Others, with kinder hope, this truth declare,

That chang'd to stars they grace the hemisphere.

A THOUGHT IN A GARDEN.

REclin'd I lay, where thro' my garden glides

The smooth canal, and laves its verdant sides,

While, vex'd with secret melancholy pain,

Thus to the glittering mirror I complain:

" Why, envied stream, when you so clearly shine,

" Smiles not my bosom as serene as thine?

" O whisper, gliding to my anxious breast,

" Why sighs it thus, and wishes to be blest?"

Still pensive I complain'd; th' unanswering stream

Still tinkled on, and lull'd me to a dream:

There I beheld a beauteous nymph arise,

Smiling her looks, and languishing her eyes;

Startled I know my Parthenissa's air,

And fly enraptur'd to the promis'd fair.

So in the new-created Eden plac'd,

With all th' Almighty's lavish bounty grac'd,

God saw the solitary Adam grieve,

And want the sweet society of Eve,

A gentle slumber on his eyelids laid,

And Eve's blest image in a dream convey'd.

VERSES WRITTEN BEFORE MARRIAGE.

BY THE REV. MR. P.

HEnce, every gloomy care away!

Hence, every secret fear!

With joy I see th' approaching day

Which gives me all that's dear.

What tho' no jewels grace my bride,

(She owes no charms to them)

Yet virtue in her bosom dwells—

There glows the brightest gem.

There white-rob'd Innocence appears,

Fair Peace in smiles array'd,

And sweet Content, in humble guise,

Adorn the lovely maid.

Oh! born to bless me with thy love,

My dear, my joy, my life—

Soon will those tender names unite

In that dear name of wife.

Thee meek-eyed gentleness adorns,

With modest virtue join'd,

Thy decent form, and humble mien,

Bespeak a spotless mind;

On these I build my hopes of peace,

On these bright charms of thine;

How shall I bless that happy hour

That makes thee ever mine?

WRITTEN EIGHT YEARS AFTER MARRIAGE.

BY THE SAME.

STill shall the praise of every fair

Compose my idle verse—

And thou, my wife, remain unsung,

Nor I thy praise rehearse?

Yet wherefore should I write in rhime?

Prose can my mind impart:—

They have my trifles, and my songs,

But only thou my heart.

Amusement others may afford,

To thee for joy I come—

My idler visits others are,

But thou my dearest home.

Others poetic praise may claim;

Sincerely flows the line

Which speaks my love, which gladly sings

That thou, my wife, art mine.

With anxious hope I watch thy health,

And wish thy lengthen'd life—

Lengthen'd for me:—Ah! selfish man,

To say he loves his wife.

For both our sakes, for more than both,

The heart-felt wish I frame—

Four are the ties that bind our hearts,

And every tie's the same.

L'AMOROSO. A POEM.
IN IMITATION OF MILTON'S L'ALLEGRO. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVIII.

BY THE SAME.

HEnce! unrelenting cares,

That haunt the proud, and rend the miser's breast,

And far expel delightsome rest,

And bring disquiet, sleepless nights, and starting fears;

Hence! and that mind controul,

Where sickly Pining takes her hated seat,

With Grief and Dread; companions meet:

There, far from me, exert thine iron sway,

And every tedious night and day

Reign o'er the heart, and occupy the soul.

But come, thou goddess, fond and free,

Auspicious Love, and dwell with me,

Thou whom, with thy wreathed shell,

Old Ocean bore (as poets tell)

While round thee, beauteous, blooming maid,

Deftly the frisking dolphins play'd.

Come, and bring thy wanton boy,

Cause of fondness, source of joy,

And bid him take that golden dart,

That erst transfix'd Apollo's heart,

When, with full force and winged speed,

O'er tufted lawn, and flowery mead,

Now slow, with long toil, up some steep,

Now down precipitately deep,

Thro' many a grove, and many a glade,

The god pursued the flying maid.

Bring besides thy joyous train,

Soft supporters of thy reign,

Wanton smiles, endearments charming,

Mirth and coyness unalarming,

Whispers, kisses, sighs and fears,

Lovely looks, and trickling tears,

Joy of festive, sprightly mien,

And Innocence of look serene;

Thy smiling train can never cloy,

If led by Innocence and Joy.

Permit me, goddess, fond and free,

To join with them, and join with thee;

Ever present, ever by,

Thus let me live, thus let me die.

Rise we when the meek-eyed morn

Doth the spangled meads adorn;

When every bird, from every spray,

Tunes various his love-labour'd lay.

Lo! from yon cloud the flaming sun

'Gins his stated course to run,

Brightening rays incessant streaming,

Dew-drops sparkling, twinkling, beaming,

Refreshed Nature smiles anew,

And brings her brightest charms to view.

On Delia thinking will I stray,

Heedless, where I chuse the way,

Over distant hills and dales,

Bleating mountains, lowing vales;

By silent river, rolling flood,

Fringed meadow, waving wood,

Where Flora does her sweets dispense,

And different prospects please the sense.

While sturdy oxen, grazing nigh,

With loud lowings fill the sky;

And the swallow skims the ground,

And the lambkin bleateth round,

And many a cuckow's echoing note

Wavering to the ear doth float.

Such pleasing sounds and sights inspire

Glowing love and soft desire.

Sweet hour of pleasure! then, to chuse,

Breathe the soft strain, and court the muse,

Fairest Delia be my theme,

By some whispering, silver stream,

That thro' the painted meads doth stray,

And swiftly trickling winds away.

And when the sun, exalted high,

Fierce-glowing, measures half the sky;

Oft, oh! my Delia, will we rove

Along some close-embowred grove—

Oh! the soft joys that fill the breast!

(Joys, the sweetest and the best)

When, by all-powerful Love excited,

Each delighting, each delighted,

We sit within some thick-wove bower

Full fragrant made by many a flower!

With thrilling pleasure I the while

Eye the kind glance, or dimpling smile;

Or oft, in sweet suspension hung,

Catch the music of her tongue,

Else in sweet notes briskly moving,

Airy, fluttering, wild, and roving,

Thrice and four times, and again

Both chant to love the pleasing strain.

Or if the garden's flowery pride

Call our vagrant steps aside,

Here unnumber'd charms invite,

Roses red, and lillies white;

Here, 'mid blooming fragrance straying,

Sweetly smiling, fondly playing,

Oft my willing hands prepare

Odorous garlands for my fair,

And mix, around the charmer's head,

The lilly's white, the rose's red:

While Love inspires each warbler's throat,

Smooths the strain, or swells the note,

All around, and all above,

All is Joy, for all is Love.

But when the cooling evening breeze

Moves gently the reluctant trees,

Then will we oft-times stray unseen

By winding walks of willows green,

And there the charms of music prove,

For music is the food of Love:

Inspiring oft the warbling flute,

Now with complaining strains that suit

The vexed thoughts and barbed care

Of fixed, sullen, deep despair;

Now more luxuriant strains employ,

Quickening Love, and brightening Joy;

Such as might the soul beguile,

And make disturbed sorrow smile;

Now the music varying floats,

Then stops: anon more still the notes,

Smooth and languid, soft and low,

Tender, trilling, sweet and slow,

Keep on the long-continued sound,

And charm attention all around.

Strait my breast hath caught new pleasures,

Throbs my pulse in fluttering measures,

Grief defeated and retiring,

Joys my raptur'd heart inspiring,

While my whole soul, devoid of care,

Hangs all-enamour'd on the fair,

And she, well-pleas'd, my looks surveys,

And plays and smiles, and smiles and plays.

When night's brown shades invite to rest,

And nature sinks by sleep opprest,

Then too, oh let me fond repair

To flowery meadows with my fair,

Let mimic fancy paint her charms,

And bring my angel to my arms,

Let us together secret stray,

And all the night re-act the day.

Auspicious Goddess, fond and free,

Bestow these pleasures all on me,

(For sure these pleasures thou can'st give)

And, Love, with thee I'll chuse to live.

AN ODE, WROTE A FEW DAYS BEFORE THE LONG COLLEGE-VACATION, MDCCLXIII.

COme, thou laughter-loving power,

Goddess of the festive hour,

Blue-eyed Mirth, and bring along

Gamesome Sport, and jocund Song.

Wit with native Humour warm,

Conversation's lively charm,

And yet more, to ope the soul,

Bring, O bring the jovial bowl;

Let us lift the gladsome shout,

Let us wake the midnight rout,

Briskly let us all advance

In the sprightly-woven dance;

Every deed on every side

Let the soul of rapture guide:

Care begone! and Grief adieu!

What have ye with Joy to do?

And thou too, that lov'st to dwell

Musing in the pensive cell,

Heavenly queen of piercing eye,

Farewell, sweet Philosophy!

What if thou, with hermit-look,

From retirement's farthest nook,

Mark'st the world, in bustling show,

Struggling o'er the waves of woe,

By the wind of black Despair

Dash'd away from care to care,

Whilst thou, calm on safety's shore,

Dost but hear the tempest roar.

What if thou the flowery pride

Of the meadow's velvet side,

To the proudly-arching bower,

And the glittering court of power,

Can'st prefer; we envy not,

Holy seer, thy simple lot.

Sisters twin are Youth and Pleasure,

Meant t' enjoy the sweets of leisure,

Made for every blithsome sport,

Purpose mild, and gay resort.

Age was form'd for meditation,

Not the toys of recreation,

With the smiles of wisdom fraught,

And the glow of solemn thought;

Such is Age, Philosophy,

Such the mind that suits with thee.

But now joys of different kind

Wing the wish, and fire the mind;

Tumbling rills that warbling flow,

Yellow meads with gold that glow,

Wandering walks, and rural ease,

Such alone have power to please:

Or perchance the lucid scene,

Where the rays of beauty's mien,

Kindling every fond desire,

Set the soul of Love on fire:

Or the loudly-echoing horn,

As it cheers the slumbering morn,

Waking nature, haply may

Lure us to the chace away.

Farewell then, thou willow'd stream,

Glittering bright with wisdom's beam,

Silver Cam! whose bowers among

Inspiration leads her throng,

Clio breathes celestial fire,

Music hangs her dulcet lyre,

Yet farewell!—To brighter joys

Pleasure lifts our wandering eyes,

With her own resistless smile

She shall smooth each care awhile;

Yes, she, fair queen, shall all the mind possess,

With gladness fire it, and with rapture bless.

C. T. HARTIS.

POMONA. A PASTORAL.

BY J. CUNNINGHAM.

FRom orchards of ample extent

Pomona's compell'd to depart;

And thus, as in anguish she went,

The goddess unburthen'd her heart.

To flourish where liberty reigns

Was all my fond wishes requir'd;

And here I agreed with the swains

To live, till their freedom expir'd.

Of late ye have number'd my trees,

And threaten'd to limit my store:

I fear—from such maxims as these,

I fear—that your freedom's no more.

My flight will be fatal to May;

For how can her gardens be fine?

The blossoms are doom'd to decay,

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

Rich autumn remembers me well:

My fruitage was fair to behold!

My pears! how I ripen'd their swell!

My pippins!—were pippins of gold!

Let Ceres drudge on with her ploughs!

She droops as she furrows the soil;

A nectar I shake from my boughs,

A nectar that softens my toil.

When Bacchus began to repine,

With patience I bore his abuse;

He said, that I plunder'd the vine,

He said, that I pilfer'd his juice.

I know the proud drunkard denies,

That trees of my culture should grow:

But let not the traitor advise;

He comes from the climes of your foe.

Alas! in your silence I read

The sentence I'm doom'd to deplore:

'Tis plain, the great Pan has decreed,

My orchards shall flourish no more.

The goddess flew off in despair,

As all her sweet honours declin'd:

And Plenty and Pleasure declare,

They'll loiter no longer behind.

THE MAN OF KENT.
IN IMITATION OF POPE'S MAN OF ROSS.

WHY are our thoughts on lords alone intent?

Rise honest muse! and sing The Man of Kent.

Pleas'd Medway echoes thro' her winding bounds,

While distant Tweed her hoarse applause resounds.

Who form'd the band, that late near Minden's towers

Stood first in triumph o'er proud Gallia's powers?

The Man of Kent, methinks each soldier says,

And grateful lavishes on him the praise.

No useless rule did e'er his plan degrade,

No idle motion taught for mean parade;

He practis'd still each lesson that he gave,

Wise was each lesson, pertinent and brave.

When Rochfort, menac'd by impending fate,

To British arms half op'd her trembling gate,

Who boldly then explor'd the hostile strand,

And at the council nobly urg'd to land?

The same firm purpose who at home avow'd,

The Man of Kent, let all proclaim aloud.

Behold, where Louisbourg declines her head,

The Man of Kent the way to conquest led,

First on the beach he leapt with ardent haste,

And up the rocky steep resistless pass'd;

Th' affrighted foe with grief and wonder saw,

And bow'd submissive to Britannia's law.

Is there aught else the hero's toil to crown,

To tempt ambition, or ensure renown?

There is, there is, th' enraptur'd nation cries,

And to Quebec directs her zealous eyes;

This last, best gift the Man of Kent bestow'd,

And seal'd, alas! our title with his blood.

Illustrious chief! thee British youths shall mourn,

And pay due homage to thy martial urn;

Each matron's breast in sympathy shall heave,

Yet sighing wish for such a son to grieve;

Each British maid shall weep thy hapless fair,

Her love shall pity, envy and revere;

Infants unborn shall learn to lisp thy name,

And thence shall emulate thy deathless fame.

Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue

What all so wish'd, but wanted power to do.

Say, o'er his head what circling years had roll'd?

For this, a century was scarce too old.

Merit and years in pace full rare agree,

All this did he atchieve—at thirty-three.

VERSES. BY THE FAMOUS EARL OF ESSEX.[*]

HAppy were he could finish forth his fate

In some unhaunted desert moste obscure!

From all societies, from love and hate

Of worldly folkes, then might he sleepe secure,

Then wake againe, and give God praise,

Content with hippes and hawes, and bramble berrie,

In contemplation spending all his dayes,

And change of holy thoughts to make him merrie;

Whence when he dyes his tombe may be a bush,

Where harmeles Robin dwells with gentle Thrush.

THE BUZZING BEE'S COMPLAINT.

BY THE SAME.

IT was a tyme when sillie bees could speake,

And in that tyme was I a sillie bee,

Whoe suckt on tyme, untill my harte did breake,

Yet never found that tyme would favor mee;

Of all the swarme I onely could not thrive,

Yet brought I waxe and honney to the hive.

When thus I buz'd: when tyme no sap would give,

Why then is blessed tyme to me soe drye?

Sith in this tyme the lazie droane doth live,

The waspe, the worme, the gnat, and butterflie;

Mated with greeffe, I kneeled on my knees,

And thus complain'd I to the king of bees:

My leege, God grant thy tyme may never end,

And yet vowesafe to heare my plainte of tyme,

Which every fruitles flie hath found a friend,

And I cast downe wheare attomies doe clime,

The king replyed but thus;—"peace, peaving bee,

" Thou'rt borne to serve the tyme, the tyme not thee."

The tyme not thee? this word clipt shorte my winges,

And made me worme-like creepe that once did flye;

Awfull reguard disputeth not with kings,

Receveth a repulse, not askinge why:

Then for a tyme I for a tyme withdrewe

To feede on henbane, hemlockes, nettells, rue;

But from these leaves noe dram of sweete I drayne,

Their head-stronge furie did my witts bewitch;

And thence disperst blacke blood in everie vaine,

For honney gall, for wax I gathered pitch;

My combe a hole, my hive a cave must bee,

Soe chang'd that bees scarse tooke me for a bee.

I woorke on meedes, the moone was in the waine,

Whilst all the swarme in sunshine taste the rose,

On blacke roote ferne I sit and sucke my bane,

Whilst on the eglantine the rest repose.

Havinge too much they still repine for more,

And cloy'd with fatnes surfet in the store.

Swollen fatt with feasts full merriely they pass,

In swarminge clusters falling on a tree,

Where findinge me to nyble on the grasse,

Some scorne, some muse, and some doe pitty mee,

And some envie, and whisper to the king,

Some must be still, and some must have noe stinge.

Are bees waxt waspes, or spiders to infect?

Do honney-sweete combes make the spirrit gall?

Is this the juce of flowers to stirr suspect?

Is't not enough, to tread on them that fall?

What stinge hath patience but a sighing greeffe,

That stinges naught but itself, without releefe?

True patience is the provender of fooles,

Sad patience that awaiteth at the doore,

Patience that learnes thus to conclude in schooles,

Patient I am, therefore I must be poore:

Great king of bees, that rightest everie wronge,

Listen to patience in his dyinge songe.

I cannot feede on fennell like some flies,

Nor fly to everie flower to gather gaine;

Mine appetite waytes on my prince's eies,

Contented with contempt, and eas'd with paine;

And yet expectinge one more happy hower,

When he shall say,—this bee shall sucke a flower.

Of all the greeffes that moste my patience mate,

There's one that fretteth in the highest degree

To see some caterbillers, bred of late,

Cropping the fruites that should sustaine the bee;

Yet smiled I, for that the wisest knowes,

The mothes doe fret the cloth, cancker the rose:

Once did I see, by flyinge in the feild,

Fowle beasts to browze upon the lillies faire;

Vertue and bewtie could not succor yeelde;

Alls provender for asses, but the aire:

The partiall world of this takes litell heede,

To give them flowers, that should on thistles feede.

'Tis onely I must draine the noxious flowers,

Havinge noe savor bitter supp they have,

And seeke on rotten tombes the dead mens bowers,

And byte on pathos, growinge by the grave;

If this I cannot have, as hapless bee,

Witchinge tobacco, I will flye to thee.

What tho' thou dyest my longes in deepest blacke,

A mourning habit suits a sable harte;

What tho' thy fumes found memmorie doe cracke,

Forgetfulnes is fittest for my smarte:

O vertuous fume, let it be carv'd in oake,

That wordes, hopes, witts, and all the world is smoake.

Five yeares twise told, with promises perfum'd,

My hope-stuft head was cast into a slumber,

Sweete dreames of gold! on gold I then presum'd;

Amongest the bees I thought me of the number;

Wakinge I found hive-hopes had made me vaine,

'Twas not tobacco stupefied my braine.

ESSEX'S LAST VOYAGE TO THE HAVEN OF HAPPINESS.

WElcome, sweete Death, the kindest friend I have,

This fleshly prison of my sowle unlocke,

With all the speede thou canst, provide my grave,

Gett an axe ready, and prepare the blocke;

Unto the queene I have a debt to paye,

This Febrewarye's five and twentieth day.

Come, Patience, come, and take me by the hande,

And trew Repentance, teach myne eyes to weepe;

Humyllity, in neede of thee I stande,

My sowle desires thy company to keepe;

Base worldly thoughts, vanish out of my mynde,

Leave not a spotte of you, nor yours behinde.

Unto thy glory, Lorde, I do confesse,

Vain worldly pleasures have my youth misled;

I have inclyn'd to luste and wantonnesse;

My synnes are more then haires upon my hed;

Without, within, and round on every side,

Folly, uncleanes, vanity and pride.

Forgett, forgive, lett not thy wrath incense,

Sweete Saviour Christ, my mediatour be;

O pitty, Lord, O pardon myne offence,

From throne of grace lett mercy looke on mee;

View not the evills in justice I have done,

Lay all my faultes on thy synne-salvinge son.

And, Lorde, lett my corruptions never rise

As wittnesses of horrour, wrath and feare,

Tho' synne hath suited me in hell's disguise,

Graunt me the weddinge-garment saints do weare;

Sweete Jesus, make thy bloud the only meane

To washe my stayned sowle unspotted, cleane.

Poure on my harte the sweetest streames of grace,

And feed my hungry hopes with heavenly love;

From my complaynts turn not away thy face,

Reach me thy hande to lifte my thoughts above,

That I before thy presence may appeere,

Altho' this filthy lumpe of flesh stay here.

Before I had a beeinge, life or breath,

By thy great goodness I obtain'd creation;

When I was captive in the jayle of death,

Thy mercy did redeeme me to salvation;

Thou wounded wast, to heale the woundes syn gave me,

And thou didst dye, only of love to save me.

Notes

*
Robert Devereux, earl of Essex, once the favourite of queen Elizabeth, for some time the minion of fortune, and always the darling of the people, was beheaded in the Tower on Ash-wednesday the 25th of February, in the year 1601. in the 34th year of his age. Sir Christopher Blount and Sir
〈◊〉
Danvers suffered about the same time.

↵

ODE FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE IV, MDCCLXIII.

BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.

COmmon births, like common things,

Pass unheeded, or unknown;

Time but spreads, or waves his wings,

The phantom swells, the phantom's gone!

Born for millions monarchs rise,

Heirs of infamy or fame:

When the virtuous, brave, or wise,

Demand our praise, with loud acclaim,

We twine the festive wreath, the shrines adorn,

'Tis not our king's alone, 'tis Britain's natal morn.

Bright examples, plac'd on high,

Shine with more distinguish'd blaze;

Thither nations turn their eye,

And grow virtuous as they gaze.

Thoughtless ease and sportive leisure

Dwell in life's contracted sphere,

Public is the monarch's pleasure,

Public is the monarch's care:

If Titus smiles the observant world is gay,

If Titus frowns or sighs, we sigh and lose a day!

Around their couch, around their board

A thousand ears attentive wait,

A thousand busy tongues record

The smallest whispers of the great.

Happy those whom Truth sincere

And conscious Virtue join to guide!

Can they have a foe to fear?

Can they have a thought to hide?

Nobly they soar above th' admiring throng,

Superior to the power, the will of acting wrong.

Such may Britain find her kings!—

Such the Muse of rapid wings

Wafts to some sublimer sphere:

Gods and heroes mingle there.

Fame's eternal accents breath,

Black Cocytus howls beneath:

Ev'n Malice learns to blush, and hide her stings:

—O such may Britain ever find her kings!

A SONG.

WHen a nymph at her toilet has spent the whole day,

To shine in brocade at a ball or the play,

Her rival the butterfly, vain to excess,

May be justly more proud, if there's merit in dress.

The purple and gold, in his plumage display'd,

Than velvet's more soft, and more gay than brocade.

But, with all this advantage of dress, you may see

That the butterfly still is less lov'd than the bee:

For the bee, tho' he shines with no purple and gold,

We provide a good lodging to fence from the cold;

For his honey we love him, altho' he will sting,

And despise the gay insects that flutter and sing:

And hence the coquet this plain lesson may find,

" That the useful alone are the lov'd of mankind."

Let the foolish and vain at the toilet still vie

In a fruitless endeavour to rival a fly,

Which if they could do, like the fly, for a day,

By fools they'd be play'd with, and then thrown away.

Let me like the bee every moment improve,

And merit a love which no time shall remove.

THE COMPARISON BETWEEN JOHN CHURCHILL, DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH, AND CHARLES CHURCHILL, ANTI-CALEDONIAN.

IN Anna's wars immortal Churchill rose,

And, great in arms, subdued Britannia's foes;

A greater Churchill now commands our praise,

And the Palm yields her empire to the Bays:

Tho' John fought nobly at his army's head,

And slew his thousands with the balls of lead;

Yet must the Hero to the Bard submit,

Who hurls, unmatch'd, the thunderbolts of wit.

CONTENTS.

- JUly. An ode, Page 1

- Hymn to the morning, 3

- On viewing an extensive prospect, 5

- A harvest scene, 6

- Ode to genius, 7

- Elegy on a pile of ruins, 10

- The Feminead, 17

- An evening contemplation in coll. 34

- Ode to the duke of Newcastle, 40

- Ode to the hon. James York, 44

- On mr. Garrick, 47

- Epistle from York, 49

- Answered, 51

- Prologue spoken at the Charterhouse, 53

- To the author of Clarissa, 55

- On the campaign of 1759. 59

- To colonel Clive, 62

- On the loss of the Ramillies, 63

- Method of chusing a mayor, 65

- Voltaire to the princess Amelia, &c. 67

- A moonlight ode, 68

- Evadne to Emma, 71

- Hymn to resignation, 74

- Imitation of Pastor Fido, 76

- Imitation of Metastasio, 77

- Sonnets from the Italian, 78

- Anningait and Ajutt, 81

- Thought in a garden, 96

- Verses written before marriage, 97

- Verses written eight years after, 98

- L'Amoroso, 100

- Ode wrote before college-vacation, 106

- Pomona. A pastoral, 109

- The man of Kent, 111

- Verses by the earl of Essex, 113 to 119

- Ode for his majesty's birth-day, 120

- Song, 122

- The comparison, 123

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.7]

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5365

ID [isbn10]

1106023641

ID [isbn13]

9781106023643

ID [TCP]

K113952.007

ID [BIBNO]

CW3313915607

ID [ECLL]

0579800307

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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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