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.10]

FABLES FOR GROWN GENTLEMEN.

[17]

BY J.H.S. ESQ. WRITTEN IN MDCCLXI.

FABLE I. THE RIVER WITH A PETITION.ACcording to the Romiſh creed,
I ſpeak of Rome two thouſand years ago,
The life that they ſuppos'd the Gods to lead,
You would not chuſe to undergo.
Jupiter's buſineſs, day and night,
Was to attend with open ears and eyes,
And to write down, as faſt as he could write,
All the impertinence that men deviſe.
Beſides mens fopperies and ravings,
The women had ſo great a ſhare,
That their abſurdities and cravings
Omnipotence alone could bear.
And furthermore, to try his patience,
He heard the prayers and fanciful diſtreſſes
Of all his children and relations,
And of his wife and his miſ-treſſes.
[18]Once on a time, if you'll believe tradition,
A river in great tribulation,
To Jupiter preſented a petition,
With an expoſtulating exhortation;
Whereby, if the petitioner's refus'd,
He has a right to think himſelf ill-us'd;
A form of prayer contriv'd for execution,
Exactly like a double-barrell'd gun,
Which if you fire with reſolution,
You have another chance when one is done,
So far from killing two birds with one ſtone,
An art that's very little known;
All the petitioner deſir'd to do,
Was to kill one with two.
Now this petition ſhew'd how the petitioner,
For his fidelity, zeal, and devotion,
Had been appointed a commiſſioner
Of the revenues of the Ocean,
Which he collected with great pains,
And ſent in good and current caſh,
But, for his trouble and clear gains,
The Sea return'd adulterated traſh:
Wherefore he pray'd,
Exhorted and ſubmitted,
That all the ſums the Ocean paid,
Shall for the future be remitted,
And iſſued fair,
Without debaſement or impair.
[19]Ungrateful Thames! the God replied,
Without that mixture and alloy,
Which the Sea pours into thee every tide,
Thy beauty and thy ſtrength would wear away.
Without his aid thou wouldſt remain
Like Tiber, or the poor pretending Seine,
Led thro' parterres, or rolled down a caſcade,
Confin'd to vanity, and loſt to trade.
'Tis thus the Highlander complains,
'Tis thus the Union they abuſe
For binding their back-ſides in chains,
And ſhackling their feet in ſhoes:
For giving them both food and fewel,
And comfortable cloaths,
Inſtead of cruel oat-meal gruel;
Inſtead of rags and heritable blows.
Luxury every day grows ſtronger;
The Highland fair
Beholds her lover now no longer
Trotting with his buttocks bare.
Thus Doctor Brown was taken with the ſpleen,
And fancied we were all undone,
Raving about a carpet and a ſcreen,
And out of temper with the ſun:
Becauſe it is a crime,
As he ſuppoſes,
For men to run in winter time
Into the ſun to warm their noſes.
[20]'Tis an egregious want of ſenſe,
A want of taſte, and want of ſhame,
To fancy univerſal affluence
And luxury the ſame.
In ſpite of Doctor Brown's diſcerning,
The term of univerſal will agree,
As well with his benevolence and learning,
As univerſal ſuit with luxury.
He may perceive, if he be ſo inclin'd,
Like his diſcernment, luxury's confin'd.
For as the gout torments the hands and feet,
To eaſe the nobler ſtomach and the head,
So luxury, to gratify the great,
Inſults and robs the labourer of his bread.
Luxury in a ſtate is a diſeaſe,
Becauſe 'tis partial, and obſtructed wealth,
But univerſal affluence and eaſe
Is univerſal happineſs and health.

FABLE II. THE PHOENIX AND HER LOVERS.[21]THat every female's a coquette,
I could as ſafely ſwear upon a book,
As I could ſafely bet,
That every Frenchman is a cook.
A Phoenix, daughter of the Sun,
Chaſte as a Veſtal, modeſt as a Nun,
Added ſuch merit to her birth,
That not a bird, tho' of the higheſt faſhion,
No feather'd coxcomb of the earth
Ventur'd to declare his paſſion.
They all agreed
No earthly bird was worthy of her love;
None but a bird of the celeſtial breed,
An angel from above.
The Phoenix liv'd ſo long a maid,
'Till all her gaiety and bloom
Began to fade,
And ſavour of the tomb.
She mop'd, grew ſplenetic, and tir'd
Of ſo much awe and ſo much ſtate,
Se long'd like other birds to be admir'd,
Like other birds ſhe long'd to find a mate.
[22]At laſt ſhe iſſued out a proclamation
To ſummon the male birds of every nation;
Perhaps this ſummons, and this longing,
Was a political machine,
Juſt like the lovers that came thronging,
Summon'd by our virgin queen.
Now, from all quarters,
The birds appear'd in their beſt cloaths;
Nobles in ſtars and garters,
Curled and embroider'd beaux.
Some ſtately, others light and gay,
One cooed, another ſung and flatter'd,
Some, like the Magpie and the Jay,
For ever chatter'd.
About the inner ring,
Where all the birds of figure preſs,
A bat whirl'd round with leathern wing,
To ſhow his ſhape and his addreſs,
Offering his heart, his eyes and wings to boot,
At which there roſe an univerſal hoot.
The Phoenix anſwer'd in the tone,
And in the ſelf-ſame manner languiſh'd,
As queen Elizabeth, when ſhe was ſhown
A taylor by her beauty vanquiſh'd;
Take courage man, ſays ſhe,
For if I needs muſt have a taylor,
I promiſe, without failure,
To marry none but thee.
[23]And as the queen coquetted at an age
When other queens are tame,
'Till ſhe went off the ſtage,
The Phoenix did the ſame.
She died a great coquette, and, what is more,
Roſe from the grave a greater than before.
The Phoenix and ſelf-love are the ſame beaſt,
Within the human breaſt,
Which poets feign the ſpicy eaſt,
She builds her ſolitary neſt;
From whence, with every gale of wind,
The traveller may ſmell the mind.
Her lovers are our paſſions; theſe ſhe meets,
Either by appointment or by chance,
Which if ſhe can't indulge, ſhe treats
With ſmiles and complaiſance.
And as the Phoenix, from her aſhes rais'd,
Returns as blooming as a bride,
So when we think it dies, the Lord be prais'd,
Self-love ſprings up again with double pride.
'Tis a determin'd caſe,
None but ourſelves can occupy our place.
For this ſame reaſon, phyſical and clear,
Each individual of us all
Is that ſame Phoenix, without any peer,
On this terreſtrial ball.
A Lover is a mad-man, and a miſer
Not one jot wiſer.
[24]Let any try, except a lover,
Or one devoted to his pelf,
Whether in all the world they can diſcover
Another ſelf.

FABLE III. THE DUCKLINGS AND THE WISE BIRDS.A Hen, one evening to enjoy the cool,
Was walking with a brood of ducklings cal⯑low,
Juſt like a miſtreſs of a boarding-ſchool,
With miſſes green and yellow.
As ſhe was tutoring and ſchooling
This bird fot loitering, and that for fooling,
Behold a fiſh-pond ſo alluring,
That, ſpite of her remonſtrances and cackle,
They ventur'd their whole ſtock without enſuring,
Truſting to their oars and tackle.
The hen kept ſcolding like a drab,
Curſing her rebellious race;
We're not thy children, cried a pert young ſquab,
If we were chickens, we ſhould have more grace;
On Nature we depend,
Our courſe ſhe ſteers,
Nature's a ſafer guide, and better friend
Than any dotard's fears.
[25]Cloſe by the pond, an antient tower
Lifted its venerable head,
A college and ſequeſter'd bower,
Where owls for ages had been bred;
An old profeſſor, a great clerk,
Taught them their talents to diſplay,
To keep their eyes wide open in the dark,
And ſhut them in the face of day.
To think abſtractedly, to reaſon deep,
And to declaim, 'till all the world's aſleep.
Theſe ſtudents from the tower ſaw our young folks,
Our bold adventurers under ſail,
They heard their clamorous mirth and jokes,
And heard their nurſe's fruitleſs wail.
Obſerve, ſays one more learned than the reſt,
Theſe birds by inſtinct know the ſeaſon
To ſail, to eat, to go to reſt,
Juſt as we know by argument and reaſon.
We know from reaſon and experience both,
We ſee it every hour;
That governors are loth
To part with power.
Yon hen which you all hear,
In ſuch a fright,
Undoubtedly affects that fear,
To keep her pupils always in her ſight.
From the ſame principle, for the ſame end,
Our tutor keeps us all thus pen'd:
[26]Preaching that we muſt not pretend to fly,
We are too weak, it is too ſoon,
Which I'll demonſtrate to be a lye,
As clear as the ſun at noon.
Feet, ſaid the ſubtle Owl,
Are not the things,
That conſtitute the eſſence of a fowl,
So much as wings.
Whatever is eſſential to our make
We ſooneſt learn, and ſeldomeſt miſtake.
Hence that pathetic prayer, that tender call,
By which we get our wants diſpatch'd,
Is ſo eſſential above all,
That we all ſpeak the moment we are hatch'd.
Nature, benevolent and wiſe,
Opens our mouths much ſooner than our eyes.
By parity of reaſon meet,
Our wings and pinions ſhould be ready
Long time before our heads and feet
Are firm and ſteady.
Therefore 'twill follow like a chain,
That as we walk, you muſt confeſs,
With little giddineſs and pain,
If we attempt it, we muſt fly with leſs.
This reaſoning philoſophic wight
Convinc'd his brethren one and all:
With one accord they took their flight,
And fatal and untimely was their fall.
[27]None of them reaſon'd any more,
The young logicians lay like wrecks,
Drown'd in the pond, or ſcatter'd on the ſhore,
With mangled limbs, and broken necks.
Bred in a court, or ſome gay city,
The ducklings are thoſe thoughtleſs ſpritely fools,
O Cambridge is it not a pity,
Strangers to thee and to thy ſchools!

FABLE IV. LA NOBLESSE DE FRANCE. THE FIGHTING COCK AND THE CRAVEN.A Cock, an officer of foot,
In France retir'd into a village,
Where he did nought but crow and ſtrut,
And live by pillage.
Whene'er he had a mind
To take his paſtime with the fair,
He was not to one wife confin'd,
Nor to a pair,
But, like a lord,
Had half a dozen both at bed and board.
[28]He ſpied a barn-door fowl one day,
Cram'd from the rump up to the gullet,
In amorous dalliance and play
With a young pullet.
His robes and train, his ſenatorial cap,
His ſize almoſt the ſize of geeſe,
Show'd that he had been nurtur'd in the lap
Of peace.
Bred for the bench and preſidental chair,
He judg'd, he rooſted, and digeſted there.
The military cock took as much pleaſure
As an unlucky page,
To ſee the magiſtrate employ his leiſure
So much below his dignity and age.
He that ſhould ſet a good example!
Be virtuous and diſcreet!
To tread on modeſty, and trample
Chaſtity beneath his feet!
Fine times, ſays he, when judges run
Seducing maidens in the open ſun!
This wanton fit
Comes of intemperance and over-eating;
Which, as it ſoon will bring you to the ſpit,
Shall ſave your reverence from a beating.
To this reproof,
With a ſly ſneer, the judge replied aloof:
'Tis true, that I and all my brood,
When we have run the race aſſign'd,
[29]Shall have the honour to become the food
And comfort of mankind.
An unexpected death
Shall gently ſteal, not force away our breath.
Good colonel, you are mightily miſtaken,
It is not owing to reſpect, in deed,
That you are neither boil'd, like us, with bacon,
Roaſted nor fricaſſeed.
But tho' your fleſh be men's averſion,
Yet it contributes much to their diverſion;
They give you barley, bread, and oats,
Becauſe they take great pleaſure and delight
To ſee you fight;
To ſee you cutting one another's throats.
If you eſcape, and are not ſlain in war,
You are in a worſe plight by far.
Amongſt the hogs,
Wounded and lame, you're on a dunghill caſt,
By wanton boys and puppy dogs
Worried or teaz'd to death at laſt.
In France the land-tax is not as 'tis here,
A tax where you appeal and ſquabble;
There the nobility go free and clear,
Like the raſcality and rabble.
The ſame exemption pards and tygers own;
And the baſe polecat caught in gins:
Their fleſh and bone we let alone,
And aſk them nothing but their ſkins.

FABLE V. THE DOG AND THE CAT.[30]INtereſt faſcinates both age and youth,
And, with a glance of her bewitching eye,
Can make a miniſter ſpeak truth,
Or make a mighty monarch tell a lye.
She can ſet brothers by the ears,
And, what you'll ſcarce believe perhaps,
Make ſiſters as harmonious as the ſpheres,
And live together without pulling caps.
'Tis ſhe gives every one her place,
Oft, like a blundering marſhal at a feaſt,
Joining a ſcoundrel to his grace,
An atheiſt to a prieſt.
Intereſt well underſtood,
Made Solomon, makes Melcomb now declare
That life is only good
To eat and drink, and laugh, and baniſh care.
Cloſe by a kitchen fire, a dog and cat,
Each a famous politician,
Were meditating, as they ſat,
Plans and projects of ambition.
By the ſame fire were ſet to warm
Fragments of their maſter's dinner;
Temptations to alarm
The frailty of a ſinner.
[31]Clear prurient water ſtream'd from Pompey's jaws,
And Tabby look'd demure, and lick'd her paws;
And as two plenipos,
For fear of a ſurpriſe,
When both have ſomething to propoſe,
Examine one another's eyes;
Or like two maids, tho' ſmit by different ſwains,
In jealous conference o'er a diſh of tea,
Pompey and Tabby both, cudgell'd their brains,
Studying each other's phyſiognomy.
Pompey, endow'd with finer ſenſe,
Diſcover'd, in a caſt of Tabby's face,
A ſymptom of concupiſcence,
Which made it a clear caſe.
When, ſtrait applying to the dawning paſſion,
Pompey addreſs'd her in this faſhion:
Both you and I, with vigilance and zeal,
Becoming faithful dogs, and pious cats,
Have guarded day and night this common-weal
From robbery and rats,
All that we get for this, heaven knows,
Is a few bones and many blows.
Let us no longer fawn and whine,
Since we have talents and are able;
Let us impoſe an equitable fine
Upon our maſter's table,
[32]And, to be brief,
Let us each chuſe a ſingle diſh,
I'll be contented with roaſt beef,
Take you that turbot—you love fiſh.
Thus every dog and cat agrees,
When they can ſettle their own fees.
Thus two contending chiefs are ſeen,
To agree at laſt in every meaſure;
One takes the management of the marine,
The other of the nation's treaſure:
Thus L—g retir'd, thus even P—t
His popularity reſign'd,
For a tid-bit,
A pit-tance ſuited to the patriot's mind.

FABLE VI. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.[33]WIth malice fell
A ſpider watch'd within his cell,
Ready to ſally,
The unwary traveller to ſouſe,
Like a Jew-broker in the Alley,
Or a Dutch merchant in his counting-houſe,
Like them he correſponded far and near,
And tho' his trade was intricate and dark,
He manag'd his affairs, and kept all clear,
Without a partner or a clerk.
A petit maitre, an active buſtling fly,
Thinking to ſcamper unmoleſted,
With airy equipage as he paſs'd by,
By cruel Cacus was arreſted.
Furniſh'd with that undaunted ſenſe,
Which only courts and camps can teach,
Having no weapon or defence,
Except his inſtrument of ſpeech,
The fly, with flattering ſoporific ſtrains,
Tried to benumb the ſpider's brains:
Hearing ſuch daily praiſe beſtow'd,
Upon your elegance in weaving,
[34]I came to viſit your abode,
Which is magnificent beyond believing:
And now I am convinc'd, if you will drop
The linen trade,
And take to weaving velvets and brocade,
The ſallad-eaters ſoon muſt ſhut up ſhop,
Change but your diet, and, like their's, your taſte
Will grow refin'd, correct and chaſte.
As I have ſtudied every herb and leaf,
That's either noxious or good to eat,
Make me your caterer in chief,
And pourveyor of all your meat.
Send me this inſtant, in a trice
I'll bring you ſomething ſavoury and nice.
Seeing the ſpider ſmile and grin,
He found his plot would not ſucceed,
It was too thin,
For one of that ſagacious breed,
On which he fell a vapouring and buzzing,
Swearing the drones would take the alarm,
And come to the aſſiſtance of their couſin
With an enormous ſwarm.
The drones and I are no ſuch ſtrangers,
We know, ſaid Cacus, what we both can do,
They are too wiſe to run their heads in dangers,
For ſuch a buſy meddling fool as you:
[35]But, ſince you come to ſpoil our manufacture,
And poiſon honeſt traders,
I'll hang you like a malefactor,
To terrify invaders.
No ſooner ſaid than done,
He knock'd him down, and hung him in the ſun.
The ſpider's a negotiator,
And an enſnaring captious debater,
Obdurate, ſubtile and alert,
The fly a coxcomb and a prater,
Teazing and pert.
Tho' all ſuch characters I hate,
And from my ſoul deſpiſe,
May we have many ſpiders in the ſtate,
When we are plagued with French and Spaniſh flies.

FABLE VII. THE WILD DUCKS AND THE WATER SPANIEL.[36]AFter a tedious flight,
Of many a ſtormy day and night;
A flock of wild ducks ſailing up and down,
Upon a lake were making merry;
Like ſailors, in a ſea-port town,
Juſt arriv'd from Pondicherry.
A ſwan too ſtately for ſport,
To ſhew herſelf was all her view,
Had undertaken to eſcort
The jovial crew.
Swelling and bridling
With all the airs of a fine dame at court;
Turning about and ſidling,
Advancing, and then ſtopping ſhort.
Diſplaying in her features
Contempt and inſolent dejection,
To ſignify that thoſe ſtrange creatures
Were forc'd upon her for protection.
I muſt confeſs, amongſt mankind
I have ſeen ſwans as fooliſhly inclin'd.
At Paris on the Seine,
[37]I've ſeen a French marquee conduct a pair
Of German barons to the fair
Of Saint Germaine,
Strutting before them, toſſing up his head,
Then looking back, and lowering his creſt,
The barons were ſo aukward, ſo ill-bred,
And ſo ill-dreſs'd.
Have you not ſeen a new-made peer
With equal pride, but greater trepidations,
Obſerving in his rear
A troop of country relations,
Run up Saint James's-ſtreet, and, at two leaps,
Take Arthur's ſteps?
Thoſe ſteps as terrible as the Tarpeian,
From whence with one black ball you're hurl'd
Into another world
Amongſt the damn'd Plebeian.
Perhaps this grave and ſolemn ſwan
Diſlik'd the company of thoſe wild-ducks,
Juſt as a prude, or ſober man,
Diſlikes the company of bucks.
For while they made more noiſe and riot
Than twenty juſtices of peace,
The ſwan was ſerious and quiet,
As captain Gander marching with his geeſe,
Marching to the field,
With gorget and a wooden ſhield.
[38]About the middle of the lake,
Upon the banks, a water-ſpaniel lay,
Looking out for duck or drake,
Or any lawful prey,
And as the captain of a privateer
Lies by,
Nor offers to bear down, nor gives a cheer,
'Till his expected prize begins to fly,
Cloſe to the ſhore the ſpaniel let them ſail,
And ruſh'd into the lake when they turn'd tail,
Snorting and ſnoring;
Purſuing them with all his force,
Swearing and roaring
'Till he was hoarſe;
He turn'd and veer'd,
Now made a ſtretch, and then a tack;
Now ſnapp'd, and now they diſappear'd,
And roſe again a long way back:
'Till the poor ſpiritleſs exhauſted brute
Was forc'd to give up the purſuit.
And as the French to Toulon ran,
And left the Spaniards in a ſcrape,
The moment that the fray began
The ſwan made her eſcape.
Quite out of reach,
A roan duck on the beach,
Under a ſhed,
Conſider'd the whole ſcene with wonder,
[39]Juſt like Caligula under the bed,
Studying the cauſe of lightning and thunder.
As the victorious crew paſs'd by in order,
He made them an oration;
The roan duck being the recorder,
Or burgomaſter of the corporation.
Leave your abandon'd lives,
Roving like pirates and Jews,
Come hither with your children and wives,
And ſettle peaceably in our mews.
We'll take you without any fuſs,
Here we have neither law nor code,
You're only tied to copy us,
And go by cuſtom and the mode;
You ſhall be faſhionably dreſs'd,
Protected, treated, and careſs'd,
A friſeur, with an inſtrument of ſteel,
Shall ſhape your wings and your toupee,
Make them ſit perfectly genteel,
Eaſy and free.
As to the reſt, you may gather from my looks
Whether the air is good,
And whether we have wholeſome food,
Or tolerable cooks.
Peace, wretch, the chieftain of the ducks replied,
Nor with thy venal breath offend the brave,
Freedom is as much our pride,
As 'tis thine to be a ſlave.
[40]We neither injure nor provoke;
We neither fear great nor ſmall,
Becauſe we ſcorn to yield to any yoke,
We are hated by them all.
From pole to pole purſued,
From pole to pole,
Our enemies have every ſoul
Been baffled and ſubdued.
Lords of three elements, we can maintain
Our freedom and poſſeſſions,
With the ſame eaſe that we diſdain
Thy offers, and inſidious profeſſions.
In our own virtue we confide,
On others how can we rely?
When fear or hope, envy or pride,
May turn a friend into a falſe ally.
Thoſe who depend on others;
Whether on males or females they depend,
Will find the ſwan has many brothers,
And ſiſters without end.

THE ADVICE OF AN OLD SPANIEL.[41]A Certain dog of middling birth,
Frolickſome and full of play:
Even in the height of all his mirth,
Delicate, as well as gay:
With far more feeling for his friend,
Than they could either taſte or comprehend.—
Being thrown into the world betimes,
Betimes diſcover'd it was all a cheat,
Yet not ſo dangerous for odious crimes,
As odious for malice and deceit,
Oft, when he meant to have amus'd
His friends with a conceit, or harmleſs jeſt,
By many he was ſnarl'd at and abus'd,
And ſlighted even by the beſt.
Oft, when half-ſtarv'd, he found a bone,
Or ſomething hid,
Inſtead of eating it alone,
As others did,
He ran to ſhare his daily bread,
Unſought;
With thoſe that were much better fed
Than taught,
His daily bread they ſeiz'd;
And drove him from their meſs,
More diſappointed and diſpleas'd
With their ingratitude than his diſtreſs.
[42]It is a maxim amongſt dogs,
When they have the addreſs and ſkill,
To ſlip their collars and their clogs,
And leave their friends that uſe them ill.
To avoid anxiety and ſtrife
Tray was reſolv'd to try a country life.
A country dog, I think,
Is exactly like a country ſquire,
They both are only fit to ſleep and ſtink
By their own fire,
And when awake are only good
To yelp and halloo in a wood.
Their joys,
And converſation are the ſame,
'Tis all a clamour and a noiſe,
And all the noiſe and clamour about game.
Three words compoſe their whole vocabulary,
A fox, a hare, and a fine ſcenting day,
Whether they are ſerious or merry,
'Tis all they have to ſay:
In ſhort they never are ſo entertaining,
As when they're faſt aſleep, or feigning.
To quit ſuch friends as theſe,
One would not grieve,
Tray parted from them with great eaſe,
Without ſo much as taking leave,
[43]Conſults his grandſire, by profeſſion,
A ſpaniel;
For judgment and diſcretion,
A perfect Daniel.
Benign and mild;
He heard his grandſon's grievances, and ſmil'd.
Grandſon, ſaid he, I do conceive,
If you had known the world, and how things go,
But half as much as you believe;
Which is twice as much as I believe you know;
You would not have complain'd,
That dogs behave to one another,
When they are unchain'd,
Like every creature to his brother.
Say, dupe of a raſh confidence and truſt,
If you lie open and unguarded,
Is it not juſt,
That vigilance ſhould be rewarded?
'Twas neither Nature's call,
Nor my inſtruction,
To truſt your friends at all;
Much leſs, to truſt them to your own deſtruction:
A painful and ſevere attention,
Is but a neceſſary fence,
To every dog of ſenſe,
Againſt deceit and circumvention,
[44]A taſk from which you hop'd to be reliev'd
By truſting to your friends:
You are deceiv'd,
Acting as much as they for your own ends,
All the world knows,
That friendſhip's a meer ſound;
A ſound that hardly can impoſe
Upon a puppy hound.
Nature is not to blame,
Flatter'd by cunning, indolence invented
That fooliſh name,
By which ſo many fools are circumvented.
Happineſs you'll ſeldom find,
Unleſs you learn
To have no weighty intereſt, or concern,
With thoſe of your own kind.
Unleſs you learn, (if it is not too late)
That they are neither worth your love nor hate,

THE COPPER FARTHING.

[48]

BY MRS. PENNINGTON.^*

HAppy the boy, who dwells remote from ſchool,
Whoſe pocket or whoſe rattling box contains
A copper farthing! he nor grieving hears
Hot cheeſe-cakes cried, nor ſavoury mutton-pies;
But with his play-mates, in the duſk of eve,
To well-known blackſmith's ſhop, or churchyard hies;
Where, mindful of the ſport that joys his heart,
Marbles or chuck, he inſtantly begins,
With undiſſembled pleaſure in his face,
To draw the circle, or to pitch the dump:
While I, confin'd within the hated walls
Of ſchool, reſounding with a clamorous din,
By ſtill more hated books environ'd, I,
With tedious leſſons and long taſk to get,
My diſmal thoughts employ; or wield my pen
To mark dire characters on paper white:
Not blunter pen or ſtranger character
Uſes the ſage, a chiromancer hight,
Sprung from Egyptian king, and ſwarthy race,
Amenophis or Ptolemy, when he,
In ſearch of ſtolen calf, or money loſt,
[49]For wondering ploughman does his art employ;
Or for the wiſh'd return of ſweet-heart dear,
Or apron fine, purloin'd from hawthorn hedge,
For country-maid conſults directing ſtars,
Gemini, Taurus, or chill Capricorn.

Thus while my lingering hours I joyleſs ſpend,
With magiſterial look, and ſolemn ſtep,
Appears my ſchoolmaſter, tremendous wight,
Dreaded by truant boys; how can I 'ſcape
Th' expected puniſhment for taſk ungot?
Aghaſt I ſtand, nor fly to covert bench,
Or corner dark, to hide my hapleſs head;
So great my terror, that it quite bereaves
My limbs the power to fly; ſlow he aſcends
Th' appointed ſeat, and on his right-hand lies
The buſhy rod, compos'd of numerous twigs,
Torn from the birchen tree, or bending willow,
Which to the fleſh of idle boys portends.
For the neglected taſk, a poignant ſmart;
And with him comes another mighty elf,
Yclep'd an uſher; ah terrific name
To leſſer wights! who, if they haply place
In ſtation wrong, pronoun or participle,
Strait, by the magic of his voice, are rais'd
In attitude above their lov'd compeers,
Where they, reluctant, various torments bear,
'Till by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the ſkies,
They draw kind Pity, moiſt-eyed Goddeſs, down,
[50]To heal, with balm of ſympathy, their woe.
Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care,
For, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways,
And in his mind revolves diſaſtrous deeds
Againſt th' unwary wretch. So ſtory tells,
That chanticleer, on dunghill's top elate,
With haughty ſtep, and watchful eye aſkance,
Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he
May find conceal'd delicious grub or worm,
To which his maw inſatiate forebodes
Certain deſtruction, while behind or buſh
Or pale, encompaſſing the farmer's yard,
Skulks Reynard, fraught with many a crafty wile
T' enſnare the feather'd race, who, if they ſtray
Beyond the precincts of their mother's ken,
He ſtrait purloins them from her careful wing,
With his ſharp teeth torments their tender frame,
And with the crimſon gore diſtains their ſides,
Relentleſs; nor can all the piercing cries
Of duckling, chick, or turkey, yet unfledg'd,
His heart obdurate move; inſtant he tears
Each trembling limb, devours the quivering fleſh,
Nor leaves a remnant of the bloody feaſt,
Save a few fluttering feathers ſcatter'd round,
(That, with their varied plumage, whilom deck'd
The ſlaughter'd prey) to tell the hapleſs tale.

[51]Thus joyleſs do I ſpend thoſe hours the ſun
Illuminates; and when the ſilver moon
Her gentle ray diſpenſes, and invites
The ſwains and maids to mix in jovial dance,
Around the towering may-poles of the green,
Where each gay ploughman does his partner chuſe
As love or ſate directs; or o'er the lawn
The needle thread, or toſs the bounding ball,
All cheerleſs I, nor dance nor pleaſing ſport,
Nor ſocial mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale,
Partake; but, on her drooping raven wing,
Sad melancholy hovers o'er my head,
Pale envy rankles deep within my breaſt,
And baneful venom ſheds. Grim horror too
Attends my thoughts, and fills my gloomy mind
With tales of gliding ſprites, in milk-white ſhrouds
Array'd, and rattling chains and yelling ghoſts
Iraſcible! or Fancy, mimic queen,
To ſwift imagination's eye preſents
A group of tiny elves, in circling dance,
Or luſcious feaſt employ'd; ſuch elves as danc'd
When Oberon did fair Titania wed;
While I, in wiſhes impotent and vain,
For liberty, dear object of my hopes,
The tedious moments ſpend; or if, perchance,
Morpheus invok'd, my heavy eyelids cloſe,
[52]Dear liberty ſtill haunts my ſleeping thoughts,
And in a ſhort-liv'd dream thoſe joys I taſte,
Which waking are denied; and beat the hoop
With dexterous hand, or run with feet as ſwift
As feather'd arrow flies from archer's bow;
'Till, from my ſlumber wak'd, too ſoon I find
It was illuſion all, and mockery vain.

Thus, comfortleſs, appall'd, forlorn, I paſs
The tardy hours, nor of thoſe viands taſte,
Which are on other boys full oft beſtow'd
In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand
Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart,
Or trembling cuſtard of delicious gout,
Or frothy ſyllabub in copious bowl:
Hard fate for me! yet harder ſtill betides
Me, hapleſs youth! my faithful top, that oft
Has cheer'd my drooping ſpirits, and reviv'd
My ſaddening thoughts, when o'er the pavement ſmooth
It ſpins, and ſleeps, and to its maſter's hand
Does ample juſtice, now, alas! become
To all the rude inclemencies of weather,
To time and deſtiny's relentleſs doom
A miſerable victim, quite decay'd
With many ſervices, and cleft throughout,
All uſeleſs lies; ah! fight of ſaddeſt woe
To wretched me, of every hope bereft,
[53]Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch;
Who near or Aetna or Veſuvius dwells,
Beholds the ſulphurous flames, the molten rocks,
And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet,
'Till, with a horrid yawn, it opens wide
Before his eyes, all glaring with affright;
Swallows his cultur'd vines, his gardens, houſe,
With all his ſoul held dear, his lovely wife,
And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come:
All, all are loſt, in ruin terrible!

NEW-MARKET. A SATIRE.

[54]

HIS country's hope, when now the blooming heir
Has left the parent's, or the guardian's care;
Fond to poſſeſs, yet eager to deſtroy,
Of each vain youth, ſay, what's the darling joy?
Of each fond frolic what the ſource and end,
His ſole and firſt ambition what?—to ſpend.

Some 'ſquires, to Gallia's cooks moſt dainty dupes,
Melt manors in ragouts, or drown in ſoups.
This coxcomb doats on fiddlers, till he ſees
His mortgag'd mountains deſtitute of trees;
Convinc'd too late, that modern ſtrains can move,
With mightier force than thoſe of Greece, the grove.
In headleſs ſtatues rich, and uſeleſs urns,
Marmoreo from the claſſic tour returns;
So poor the wretch of current coin, you'd laugh—
He cares not—if his *Caeſars be but ſafe.
Some tread the ſlippery paths of love's delights,
Theſe deal the cards, or ſhake the box at White's.
To different pleaſures different taſtes incline,
Nor the ſame ſea receives the ruſhing ſwine.
Tho' drunk alike with Circe's poiſonous bowl,
In ſeparate ſties the mimic monſters roll.

[55]But would ye learn, ye leiſure-loving 'ſquires,
How beſt ye may diſgrace your prudent ſires;
How ſooneſt ſoar to faſhionable ſhame,
Be damn'd at once to ruin—and to fame;
By hands of grooms ambitious to be crown'd,
O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!
Where fam'd New-Market ſpreads her tempting plain,
There let the choſen ſteed victorious ſtrain;
Where not * (as erſt was ſung in manly lays)
Men fly to different ends thro' different ways;
Thro' the ſame path, to the ſame gaol ye run,
And are, at once, undoing and undone.
Forfeit, forget friends, honour, and eſtate,
Loſe all at once—for what?—to win the plate:
All are betray'd, and all alike betray,
To your own beaſts, Actaeon-like, a prey.

What dreams of conqueſt fluſh'd Hilario's breaſt,
When the good knight at laſt retir'd to reſt!
Behold the youth with new-felt rapture mark
Each pleaſing proſpect of the ſpacious Park:
That Park, where beauties undiſguis'd engage,
Thoſe beauties leſs the work of art than age;
[56]In ſimple ſtate, where genuine Nature wears
Her venerable dreſs of antient years;
Where all the charms of chance with order meet,
The rude, the gay, the graceful and the great.
Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,
And form dark groves, which Druids might adore;
Pride and ſupport of Britain's conquering croſs,
Which diſtant anceſtors ſaw crown'd with moſs:
With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,
Here ſhoots the broad umbrageous avenue:
Here various trees compoſe a chequer'd ſcene,
Glowing in gay diverſities of green:
There the full ſtream, thro' intermingling glades,
Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep caſcades.
Nor wants there hazle copſe, or beechen lawn,
To cheer with ſun or ſhade the bounding fawn.

And ſee the good old feat, whoſe Gothic towers
Awful emerge from yonder tufted bowers;
Whoſe rafter'd hall the crouding tenants fed,
And dealt to Age and Want their daily bread:
Where garter'd knights, with peerleſs beauties join'd,
At high and ſolemn feſtivals have din'd;
Preſenting oft fair virtue's ſhining taſk,
In myſtic pageantries, and moral * maſque.
[57]But vain all antient praiſe, or boaſt of birth,
Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!
At once a bankrupt, and a proſperous heir,
Hilario bet▪ — Park, houſe diſſolve in air.
With antique armour hung, high trophied rooms
Deſcend to gameſters, proſtitutes, and grooms.
He ſees his ſteel-clad ſires, and mothers mild,
Who bravely ſhook the lance, or ſweetly ſmil'd,
All the fair feries of the whiſker'd race,
Whoſe pictur'd forms the ſtately gallery grace,
Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,
To deck ſome tavern vile, at auctions ſold.
The pariſh wonders at th' unopening door,
The chimnies blaze, the tables groan no more.
Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts ariſe,
And all the ſocial ſcene in ſilence lies.
Himſelf, the loſs politely to repair,
Turns atheiſt, fiddler, highwayman, or player.
At length, the ſcorn, the ſhame of Man and God,
Is deem'd to rub the ſteeds that once he rode.

Ye rival youths, your golden hopes how vain,
Your dreams of thouſands on the liſted plain!
[58]Not more fantaſtic *Sancho's airy courſe,
When madly mounted on the magic horſe,
He pierc'd heaven's opening ſpheres with dazzled eyes,
And ſeem'd to ſoar in viſionary ſkies.
Nor leſs, I ween, precarious is the meed,
Of young adventurers, on the Muſe's ſteed;
For poets have, like you, their deſtin'd round,
And ours is but a race on claſſic ground.

Long time, ſoft ſon of patrimonial eaſe,
Hippolitus had eat ſirloins in peace:
Had quaff'd ſecure, unvex'd by toils or wife,
The mild October of a rural life:
Long liv'd with calm domeſtic conqueſts crown'd,
And kill'd his game on ſafe paternal ground.
As bland he puff'd the pipe o'er weekly news,
His boſom kindles with ſublimer views.
Lo there, thy triumphs, Taaff, thy palms, Portmore,
Tempt him to rein the ſteed, and ſtake his ſtore.
Like a new bruiſer on Broughtonic ſand,
Amid the liſts our hero takes his ſtand;
Suck'd by the ſharper, to the peer a prey,
He rolls his eyes that witneſs huge diſmay;
When lo! the chance of one unlucky heat,
Strips him of game, ſtrong beer, and ſweet retreat.
How aukward now he bears diſgrace and dirt,
Nor knows the poor's laſt refuge, to be pert.—
[59]The ſhiftleſs beggar bears of ills the worſt,
At once with dullneſs, and with hunger curſt.
And feels the taſteleſs breaſt equeſtrian fires?
And dwells ſuch mighty rage in graver 'ſquires?

In all attempts, but for their country, bold,
Britain, thy conſcript counſellors behold;
(For ſome perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,
May gain a borough, by a lucky bet,)
Smit with the love of the laconic boot,
The cap and wig ſuccinct, the ſilken ſuit,
Mere modern Phaetons uſurp the reins,
And ſcour in rival race New-Market's plains.
See ſide by ſide, the Jockey and Sir John,
Diſcuſs th' important point—of ſix to one.
For oh, my Muſe, the deep-felt bliſs how dear,
How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!

See, like a routed hoſt, with headlong pace,
Thy Members pour amid the mingling race!
All aſk, what crowds the tumult could produce—
" Is Bedlam or the Commons all broke looſe?"
Such noiſe and nonſenſe, betting, damning, ſinking,
Such emphaſis of oaths, and claret-drinking!
Like ſchool-boys freed, they run as chance directs,
Proud from a well-bred thing to riſque their necks.
The warrior's ſcar not half ſo graceful ſeems,
As, at New-Market, diſlocated limbs.

Thy ſages hear, amid th' admiring crowd
Adjudge the ſtakes, moſt eloquently loud:
[60]With critic ſkill, o'er dubious bets preſide,
The low diſpute, or kindle, or decide:
All empty wiſdom, and judicious prate,
Of diſtanc'd horſes gravely fix the fate,
Guide the nice conduct of a daring match,
And o'er th' equeſtrian rights, with care paternal, watch.

Mean time, no more the mimic patriots riſe,
To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wiſe:
No more in Senates dare aſſert her laws,
Nor pour the bold debate in freedom's cauſe:
Neglect the counſels of a ſinking land,
And know no roſtrum, but New-Market's *Stand.

Are theſe the ſage directive powers deſign'd,
With the nice ſearch of a ſagacious mind,
In judgment's ſcales, the fate of realms to weigh,
Britannia's intereſt, trade, and laws ſurvey?
O ſay, when leaſt their ſapient ſchemes are croſt,
Or when a nation, or a match is loſt?
Who dams and ſires with more exactneſs trace,
Than of their country's kings the ſacred race:
Think London journies are the worſt of ills,
And ſet their hands to articles for bills:
[61]Strangers to all hiſtorians ſage relate,
Their's are the memoirs of th' equeſtrian ſtate:
Unſkill'd in Albion's paſt and preſent views,
Who *Cheny's records for Rapin peruſe.

Go on, brave youths, till, in ſome future age,
Whips ſhall become the ſenatorial badge;
Till England ſee her thronging ſenators
Meet all at Weſtminſter, in boots and ſpurs;
See the whole houſe, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad:
Of bets, for taxes, learnedly debate,
And guide, with equal reins, a Steed and State.

How would a virtuous †Houhnhym neigh diſdain,
To ſee his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
Bear ſlavery's wanton whip, or galling goad,
Smoak thro' the glebe, or trace the deſtin'd road,
And robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Suſtain each fordid toil of ſervile life.
Yet oh, what rage would touch his generous mind,
To ſee his ſons of more than mortal kind;
A kind, with each ingenuous virtue bleſt,
That fills the prudent head, or valorous breaſt,
Afford diverſion to that monſter baſe,
That meaneſt ſpawn of man's half-monkey race;
[62]In whom pride, avarice, ignorance conſpire,
That hated animal, a Yahoo-'ſquire.

How are th' adventurers of the Britiſh race
Chang'd from the choſen chiefs of antient days;
Who, warm'd with genuine glory's-honeſt thirſt,
Divinely labour'd in the Pythian duſt.
Theirs was the wreath that lifted from the throng,
Theirs was the Theban bard's recording ſong.
Mean time, to manly emulation blind,
Slaves to each vulgar vice that ſtains the mind,
Our Britiſh Therons iſſue to the race,
Of their own generous courſers the diſgrace.
What tho' the grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds,
They won no bets—but then they ſoar'd to gods;
And more an Hiero's palm, a Pindar's ode,
Than all the united plates of George beſtow'd.

Greece! how I kindle at thy magic name,
Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame,
Thy ſolemn ſcenes, and awful viſions riſe,
In antient grace, before my muſing eyes.
Here Sparta's ſons in mute attention hang,
While ſage Lycurgus pours the mild harangue;
There Xerxes' hoſts, all pale with deadly fear,
Shrink at her *fated Hero's flaſhing ſpear.
Here, hung with many a lyre of ſilver ſtring,
The laureat walks of ſweet Iliſſus ſpring:
[63]And lo where, rapt in beauty's heavenly dream,
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.—

Yet ah! no more the ſeat of art and arms
Delights with wiſdom, or with virtue warms,
Lo! the ſtern Turk, with more than Gothic rage,
Has blaſted all the bays of antient age;
No more her groves by ſacred feet are trod,
Each Attic Grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fallen is fair Greece! by luxury's pleaſing bane
Seduc'd, ſhe drags a barbarous foreign chain.

Britannia watch! O trim thy withering bays,
Remember thou haſt rivall'd Graecia's praiſe,
Great Nurſe of works divine! yet oh! beware
Leſt thou the fate of Greece, my Country, ſhare.
Recall thy wonted worth with conſcious pride,
Thou too haſt ſeen a Solon in a Hyde;
Haſt bade thine Edwards and thine Henry's rear,
With Spartan fortitude, the Britiſh ſpear;
Alike haſt ſeen thy ſons deſerve the meed,
Or of the moral, or the martial deed.

KENSINGTON GARDENS. A PASTORAL.

[69]

BY THE SAME.

WHen now the ſpring had burſt, with genial power,
Each roſy bud, and open'd every flower,
Thrown his green mantle on the fields and woods,
And bruſh'd, with balmy gales, the curling floods,
Scarce had the ſun diſpers'd, with early ray,
The ſhades of night, and ſhed the dawn of day,
Scarce had the ſlocks their dew-dipt fleeces dried,
Or ſilent anglers reach'd the glaſſy tide,
When to thoſe bowers, which oft a monarch's care
With Britain's bliſs, and Europe's ballance ſhare,
To Kenſington's fair bowers, by Love inſpir'd,
With lonely ſtep a penſive ſwain retir'd,
While the blithe bullfinch tun'd his mellow lay.
And the ſhrill blackbird whiſtled from the ſpray.

O for that Muſe which firſt, in nervous ſtrains.
Diſplay'd the ſplendor of theſe fairy plains,
Where, by the moon, the dancing Fays were ſeen,
And royal Kenna glimmer'd on the green,
Eugenia then with equal charms ſhould ſhine,
And Tickell's Kenſington ſhould yield to mine,
While, in a brake conceal'd, I now diſcloſe
What there I heard, and tell the ſhepherd's woes.

[70]" Ah! what avails it me that Nature ſpreads
" Ambroſial fragrance o'er the verdant meads,
" That from each buſh melodious murmurs fly,
" And ſoft aerial muſic fills the ſky!
" Nature, in vain your fragrant flowers you ſpread,
" In vain your ſongſters warble o'er my head,
" Nor flowers my eye, nor muſic charms my ear,
" Not Eden's ſelf can pleaſe 'till Eve appear.

" Bleſt with Eugenia, were I doom'd to ſeek
" The barren hills of Scotland or the Peak,
" By Fortune's frown to dreary deſerts ſent,
" The Fells of Weſtmorland, or Wealds of Kent,
" Even Fortune's frown her preſence would beguile,
" And make bleak hills and dreary deſerts ſmile,
" Inveſt each barren plain with bloomy pride,
" And give thoſe charms which Nature has denied.

" But far from her I ſeek theſe lonely bowers,
" And ſooth with rural taſks the tedious hours;
" Pluck the pale primroſe from its velvet bed,
" Or ſtray where cowſlips hang the dewy head,
" And, penſive, liſten to the ruſtic lay
" Of jocund mowers chanting o'er their hay:
" Now, wrapt in thought, and loſt in devious ſhades,
" With tuneful bards I court th' inſpiring Maids;
" With Thomſon thro' each varying ſeaſon rove,
" Or mourn with Lyttelton in Hagley's grove;
" Yet even their numbers my diſtreſs renew,
" In Lucy my Eugenia's mind I view,
[71]" Or in Lavinia's bluſhing beauties trace
" The glowing charms that deck her poliſh'd face,
" And muſt theſe glowing charms, I ſighing cry,
" Still be reveal'd alone to fancy's eye?

" Now, pleas'd, I liſten to the feather'd throng,
" While Love inſpires, and Nature tunes the ſong:
" The lark, ſweet leader of the gloſſy train,
" Tells his ſhrill tale of love, nor tells in vain;
" Hoarſe thro' the wood the turtle ſtrains her throat,
" And cooes reſponſive to the ring-dove's note;
" While the blithe linnet, in yon hawthorn-ſpray,
" Delighted twitters her ecſtatic lay:
" To this ſoft theme each riſing morn attends,
" And evening hears it when her dew deſcends:
" And can Eugenia, whom all charms adorn,
" As evening mild, unclouded as the morn,
" Sweet as the lark, high-pois'd in early air,
" And as the linnet's downy plumage fair,
" Can ſhe her lover ſtill regardleſs view,
" Nor crown a paſſion like the turtle's true?
" Oft to theſe plains enamour'd I retire,
" Where thy proud turrets, Holland-Houſe, aſpire,
" Where Addiſon, with courtly Warwick, ſtray'd,
" Or with his Tickell moraliz'd the ſhade:
" Here, on the proſpect gazing with delight,
" Hills, woods, and vallies, ſtrain my wondering ſight;
" Here, tipt with gold, the glittering villas riſe,
" There, loſt in ſmoke, they mingle with the ſkies:
[72]" But ſhort the pleaſure which theſe plains attends,
" Vain the delight which even this proſpect lends;
" Birth, riches, grandeur, with contempt I view,
" And wiſdom, goodneſs, truth alone purſue;
" I boaſt a love whoſe flame theſe objects guide,
" Nor envy Addiſon his titled bride;
" And undelighted all this landſcape ſee,
" While every thought, Eugenia, turns on thee,
" And no kind viſta points the fair retreat,
" Where all theſe virtues now have fix'd their ſeat.

" But ſee! the lightning's momentary gleam
" Darts thro' the trees, and glimmers on the ſtream,
" And diſtant thunders, with an ample growl,
" From themes of love and ſorrow rouze my ſoul.
" Then ceaſe, fond ſwain! for hark! even now above
" Heard is your ſorrow, and approv'd your love;
" The ſympathiſing clouds condole your pain,
" With you they murmur, and with you complain;
" The ſoothing breezes to your ſighs reply,
" And pitying drops ſoft trickle from the ſky.
" Then fly, fond ſhepherd, from this gloomy grove,
" And ſeek the covert of yon cloſe alcove;
" There, from all ſtorms, a ſhelter you may find,
" But Love, that raging tempeſt of the mind."

[81]

HORACE, SAT. VII. BOOK II. IMITATED.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET AND HIS SERVANT.BY THE LATE MR. CHRIST. PITT.
To enter into the beauties of this ſatire, it muſt be remembered, that ſlaves, among the Romans, during the feaſts of Saturn, wore their maſters habits, and were allowed to ſay what they pleaſed.
SERVANT.
SIR,—I've long waited in my turn to have
A word with you—but I'm your humble ſlave.
P.
What knave is that? my raſcal!
S.
Sir, 'tis I,
No knave, nor raſcal, but your truſty Guy.
P.
Well, as your wages ſtill are due, I'll bear
Your rude impertinence this time of year.
S.
Some folks are drunk one day, and ſome forever,
And ſome, like Wharton, but twelve years together.
Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt,
Would change his living oftener than his ſhirt;
Roar with the rakes of ſtate a month; and come
To ſtarve another in his hole at home.
[82]So rov'd wild Buckingham, the public jeſt,
Now ſome Innholder's, now a monarch's gueſt;
His life and politics of every ſhape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.
The gout in every limb from every vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever; and their ſins on thoſe,
By cuſtom, ſit as eaſy as their cloaths.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the devil:
For they—
P.
To what will theſe vile maxims tend?
And where, ſweet ſir, will your reflections end?
S.
In you.
P.
In me, you knave? make out your charge.
S.
You praiſe low-living, but you live at large.
Perhaps you ſcarce believe the rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practiſe what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle journey down,
But, without buſineſs, you're again in town.
If none invite you, ſir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord, what pleaſure 'tis to read at home!
And ſip your two half-pints, with great delight,
Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night.
From *Encombe, John comes thundering at the door,
With "Sir, my maſter begs you to come o'er,
[83]" To paſs theſe tedious hours, theſe winter nights,
" Not that he dreads invaſions, rogues, or ſprites."
Strait for your two beſt wigs aloud you call,
This ſtiff in buckle, that not curl'd at all.
" And where, you raſcal, are the ſpurs," you cry;
" And O! what blockhead laid the buſkins by?"
On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none)
Splaſh, plunge, and ſtumble, as you ſcour the heath,
All ſwear at Morden 'tis on life or death:
Wildly thro' Wareham ſtreets you ſcamper on,
Raiſe all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for ſix long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingſton gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high reſpect, it ſeems, and eager love:
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shafteſbury, Dodington may ſend in vain.
Before you go, we curſe the noiſe you make,
And bleſs the moment that you turn your back.
As for myſelf, I own it to your face,
I love good eating, and I take my glaſs:
But ſure 'tis ſtrange, dear ſir, that this ſhould be
In you amuſement, but a fault in me.
All this is bare refining on a name,
To make a difference where the fault's the ſame.
My father ſold me to your ſervice here,
For this ſine livery, and four pounds a year.
[84]A livery you ſhould wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove—but lay your cudgel by.
You ſerve your paſſions—Thus, without a jeſt,
Both are but fellow-ſervants at the beſt.
Yourſelf, good ſir, are play'd by your deſires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.
P.
Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S.
The brave, wiſe, honeſt man, and only he:
All elſe are ſlaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, ſir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater ſtill) is maſter of himſelf:
Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But looſe to all the intereſts of the world:
And while that world turns round, entire and whole
He keeps the ſacred tenor of his ſoul;
In every turn of fortune ſtill the ſame,
As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himſelf, with godlike pride,
He ſees the darts of envy glance aſide;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempeſts blow,
Smiles at the idle ſtorms that roar below.
One ſuch you know, a layman, to your ſhame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name.
If you can ſuch a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your ſlave again.
But when in Hemſkirk's pictures you delight,
More than myſelf, to ſee two drunkards fight;
[85]" Fool, rogue, ſot, blockhead," or ſuch names are mine:
" Your's are "a Connoiſſeur," or "Deep Divine."
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,
The ſacred prize of learning, worth and wit:
And yet ſome ſell their lands theſe bits to buy;
Then, pray, who ſuffers moſt from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I ſeal no bonds, I mortgage no eſtate.
Beſides, high living, ſir, muſt wear you out
With ſurfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By ſome new pleaſures are you ſtill engroſs'd,
And when you ſave an hour, you think it loſt.
To ſports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, ſleep, or (idler ſtill) you rhyme:
Why?—but to baniſh thought, and murder time.
And yet that thought, which you diſcharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.
P.
Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a ſtone,—
S.
For what?
P.
A ſword, a piſtol, or a gun:
I'll ſhoot the dog.
S.
Lord! who would be a wit?
He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.
P.
Fly, fly, you raſcal, for your ſpade and fork;
For once I'll ſet your lazy bones to work.
Fly, or I'll ſend you back, without a groat,
To the bleak mountains where you firſt were caught.

HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO JOHN PITT, ESQ.[86]BY THE SAME HAND.
DEAR SIR,
—To all my trifles you attend,
But drop the critic to indulge the friend;
And with moſt Chriſtian patience loſe your time,
To hear me preach, or peſter you with rhyme.
Here with my books or friends I ſpend the day,
But how at Kingſton paſs your hours away?
Say, ſhall we ſee ſome plan with raviſh'd eyes,
Some future pile in miniature ariſe?
(A model to excel, in every part,
Judicious Jones, or great Palladio's art;)
Or ſome new bill, that, when the houſe is met,
Shall claim their thanks, and pay the nation's debt?
Or do you ſtudy, in the ſilent wood,
The ſacred duties of the wiſe and good?
Nature, who form'd you, nobly crown'd the whole
With a ſtrong body, and as firm a ſoul:
The praiſe is your's to finiſh every part
With all th' embelliſhments of taſte and art.
Some ſee, in canker'd heaps, their riches roll'd,
Your bounty gives new ſplendor to your gold.
[87]Could your dead father hope a greater bliſs,
Or your ſurviving parent more than this?
Than ſuch a ſon—a lover of the laws,
And ever true to honour's glorious cauſe;
Who ſcorns all parties, tho' by parties ſought;
Who greatly thinks, and truly ſpeaks his thought,
With all the chaſte ſeverity of ſenſe,
Truth, judgment, wit, and manly eloquence.
So, in his youth, great Cato was rever'd,
By Pompey courted, and by Caeſar fear'd;
Both he diſdain'd alike with godlike pride;
For Rome and Liberty he liv'd—and died!
In each perfection as you riſe ſo faſt,
Well may you think each day may be your laſt:
Uncommon worth is ſtill with fate at ſtrife,
Still inconſiſtent with a length of life.
The future time is never in your power,
Then 'tis clear gain to ſeize the preſent hour:
Break from your ſerious thoughts, and laugh away,
In Pimpern walls, one idle eaſy day.
You'll find your rhyming kinſman well in caſe,
For ever fix'd to this delicious place;
Tho' not like Lynch with corpulence o'ergrown;
For he has twenty cures— and I but one.

HOR. EPIST. XVIII. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO MR. SPENCE, WHEN TUTOR TO THE EARL OF MIDDLESEX.

[88]

BY THE SAME HAND.

SPence, with a friend you paſs the hours away
In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay:
You ever differ'd from a flatterer more
Than a chaſte lady from a flaunting whore.

'Tis true, you raillied every fault you found,
But gently tickled, while you heal'd the wound:
Unlike the paltry poets of the town,
Rogues, who expoſe themſelves for half a crown;
And ſtill obtrude on every ſoul they meet
Rudeneſs for ſenſe, and ribaldry for wit:
Who, tho' half-ſtarv'd, in ſpite of time and place,
Repeat their rhymes, tho' dinner ſtays for grace;
And, as their poverty their dreſſes fit,
They think of courſe a ſloven is a wit:
But ſenſe (a truth theſe coxcombs ne'er ſuſpect)
Lies juſt 'twixt affectation and neglect.

One ſtep ſtill lower, if you can, deſcend
To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend;
That moving ſhade, that pendant at his ear,
That two-legg'd dog, ſtill pawing on the Peer:
[89]Studying his looks, and, watching at the board,
He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord;
And, tickled to the ſoul at every joke,
Like a preſs'd watch repeats what t'other ſpoke:
Echo to nonſenſe! ſuch a ſcene to hear!
'Tis juſt like Punch and his interpreter.

On trifles ſome are earneſtly abſurd;
You'll think the world depends on every word.
" What! is not every mortal free to ſpeak?
" I'll give my reaſons, tho' I break my neck."
And what's the queſtion? if it ſhines or rains,
Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen miles to Stains?

The wretch, reduc'd to rags by every vice,
Pride, projects, races, miſtreſſes, and dice,
The rich rogue ſhuns, tho' full as bad as he,
And knows a quarrel is good huſbandry.
" 'Tis ſtrange, cries Peter, you are out of pelf;
" I'm ſure, I thought you wiſer than myſelf:"
Yet gives him nothing—but advice too late;
" Retrench, or rather mortgage your eſtate:
" I can advance the ſum—'tis beſt for both—
" But henceforth cut your coat to match your cloth."

A miniſter, in mere revenge and ſport,
Will give his foe a paltry place at court:
The dupe, for every royal birth-day, buys
New horſes, coaches, cloaths, and liveries;
Plies at the levee; and, diſtinguiſh'd there,
Lives on the royal whiſper for a year.
[90]His miſtreſs ſhines in Bruſſels and brocade;
And now the wretch, ridiculouſly mad,
Draws on his banker, mortgages, and fails,
Then to the country runs away from jails.
There, ruin'd by the court, he ſells a vote
To the next burgeſs, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the ſteeds, which once his chariot bore,
Or ſweeps the borough, which he ſerv'd before.

But, by this roving meteor led, I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend:
Then take advice; and preach not out of time,
When good lord Middleſex is bent on rhyme.

Their humour check'd, or inclination croſt,
Sometimes the friendſhip of the great is loſt:
With innocent amuſements ſtill comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:
For your reward you gain his love, and dine
On the beſt veniſon, and the beſt French wine.

Never in wine, or wrath, betray your truſt;
Be ſilent ſtill, and obſtinately juſt:
Explore no ſecrets, draw no characters;
For echo will repeat, and walls have ears:
Nor let a buſy fool a ſecret know;
A ſecret gripes him 'till he lets it go:
Words are like bullets, and we wiſh in vain,
When once diſcharg'd, to call them back again.

Defend, dear Spence, the honeſt and the civil,
But to cry up a raſcal—that's the devil.
[91]Who guards a good man's character, 'tis known,
At the ſame time protects and guards his own:
For as with houſes ſo it fares with names,
A ſhed may ſet a palace all on flames:
The fire neglected on the cottage preys,
And mounts at laſt into a general blaze.
'Tis a fine thing, ſome think, a lord to know;
I wiſh his tradeſmen could but think ſo too.
He gives his word—then all your hopes are gone:
He gives his honour—then you're quite undone.

Moſt folks ſo partial to themſelves are grown,
They hate a temper differing from their own.
The grave abhor the gay, the gay the ſad,
And formaliſts pronounce the witty mad:
The ſot, who drinks ſix bottles in a place,
Swears at the flinchers who refuſe their glaſs.
Would you not paſs for an ill-natur'd man,
Comply with every humour that you can.

Pope will inſtruct you how to paſs away
Your time like him, and never loſe a day;
From hopes or fears your quiet to defend,
To all mankind, as to yourſelf, a friend;
And ſacred from the world, retir'd, unknown,
To lead a life with morals like his own.

When to delicious Pimpern I retire,
What greater bliſs, my Spence, can I deſire?
Contented there my eaſy hours I ſpend
With maps, globes, books, my bottle, and a friend.
[92]There I can live upon my income ſtill,
Even tho' the houſe ſhould paſs the Quaker's bill:
Yet to my ſhare ſhould ſome good prebend fall,
I think myſelf of ſize to fill a ſtall:
For life, or health, let heaven my lot aſſign,
A firm and even ſoul ſhall ſtill be mine.

HOR. EPIST. XIX. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO MR. LOWTH.

BY THE SAME HAND.

'TIS ſaid, dear ſir, no poets pleaſe the town,
Who drink mere water, tho' from Helicon:
For in cold blood they ſeldom boldly think;
Their rhymes are more inſipid than their drink.
Not great Apollo could the train inſpire,
'Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire:
Warm'd by two gods at once, they drink and write,
Rhyme all the day, and tipple all the night.

Homer, ſays Horace, nods in many a place,
But hints he nodded oftner o'er the glaſs.
Inſpir'd with wine old Ennius ſung and thought
With the ſame ſpirit that his heroes fought:
And we from Johnſon's tavern-laws divine,
That Bard was no great enemy to wine.
[93]'Twas from the bottle King deriv'd his wit,
Drank 'till he could not talk, and then he writ.

Let no coif'd ſerjeant touch the ſacred juice,
But leave it to the bards for better uſe:
Let the grave judges too the glaſs forbear,
Who never ſing, and dance but once a year.
This truth once known, the poets take the hint,
Get drunk or mad, and then get into print:
To raiſe their flames indulge the mellow fit,
And loſe their ſenſes in the ſearch of wit:
And when, with claret fir'd, they take the pen,
Swear they can write, becauſe they drink like Ben.
Such mimic Swift or Prior to their coſt,
For, in the raſh attempt, the fools are loſt.
When once a genius breaks thro' common rules,
He leads a herd of imitating fools.
If Pope, the prince of poets, fick a-bed,
O'er ſteaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools, in public, o'er the fragrant draught,
Incline thoſe heads that never ach'd or thought;
This muſt provoke his mirth or his diſdain,
Cure his complaint—or make him ſick again.

I too, like them, the poet's path purſue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;
But in a diſtant view—yet what I write,
In theſe looſe ſheets, muſt never ſee the light;
[94]Epiſtles, odes, and twenty trifles more,
Things that are born, and die in half an hour.
" What! you muſt dedicate," ſays ſneering Spence,
" This year, ſome new performance to the prince:
" Tho' money is your ſcorn, no doubt, in time,
" You hope to gain ſome vacant ſtall by rhyme;
" Like other poets, were the truth but known,
" You too admire whatever is your own."

Theſe wiſe remarks my modeſty confound,
While the laugh riſes, and the mirth goes round;
Vex'd at the jeſt, yet glad to ſhun a fray,
I whiſk into a coach, and drive away.

AN EPISTLE TO MR. SPENCE, IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. X. BOOK I.[95]BY THE SAME.
HEalth from the bard who loves the rural ſport,
To the more noble bard that haunts the court:
In every other point of life we chime,
Like two ſoft lines when coupled into rhyme.
I praiſe a ſpacious villa to the ſky,
You a cloſe garret full five ſtories high;
I revel here in Nature's varied ſweets,
You in the nobler ſcents of London ſtreets.
I left the court, and here, at eaſe reclin'd,
Am happier than the king who ſtay'd behind:
Twelve ſtifling diſhes I could ſcarce live o'er,
At home I dine with luxury on four.
Where would a man of judgment chuſe a ſeat,
But in a wholeſome, rural, ſoft retreat?
Where hills adorn the manſion they defend?
Where could he better anſwer Nature's end?
Here from the ſea the melting breezes riſe,
Unbind the ſnow, and warm the wintry ſkies:
Here gentle gales the dog-ſtar's heat allay,
And ſoftly breathing cool the ſultry day.
[96]How free from cares, from dangers and affright,
In pleaſing dreams I paſs the ſilent night!
Does not the variegated marble yield
To the gay colours of the flowery field?
Can the New-River's artificial ſtreams,
Or the thick waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding ruſty pipe convey'd,
Or daſh'd and broken down a deep caſcade,
With our clear ſilver ſtreams in ſweetneſs vie,
That in eternal rills run bubbling by;
In dimples o'er the poliſh'd pebbles paſs,
Glide o'er the ſands, or glitter thro' the graſs?
And yet in town the country proſpects pleaſe,
Where ſtately colonnades are flank'd with trees:
On a whole country looks the maſter down
With pride, where ſcarce five acres are his own.
Yet Nature, tho' repell'd, maintains her part,
And, in her turn, ſhe triumphs over art;
The hand-maid now may prejudice our taſte,
But the fair miſtreſs will prevail at laſt.
That man muſt ſmart, at length, whoſe puzzled ſight
Miſtakes in life falſe colours for the right;
As the poor dupe is ſure his loſs to rue,
Who takes a Pinchbeck guinea for a true.
The wretch, whoſe frantic pride kind fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the goddeſs frowns;
As he, who riſes when his head turns round,
Muſt tumble twice as heavy to the ground.
[97]Then love not grandeur, 'tis a ſplendid curſe;
The more the love, the harder the divorce.
We live far happier by theſe gurgling ſprings,
Than ſtateſmen, courtiers, counſellors, or kings.
The ſtag expell'd the courſer from the plain;—
What can he do?—he begs the aid of man;
He takes the bit, and proudly bears away
His new ally,—he fights, and wins the day:
But, ruin'd by ſucceſs, he ſtrives in vain
To quit his maſter, and the curb again.
So from the fear of want moſt wretches fly,
But loſe their nobleſt wealth, their liberty;
To their imperious paſſions they ſubmit,
Who mount, ride, ſpur, but never draw the bit.
'Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your ſhoe,
A large may wrench, a ſmall one wring your toe:
Then bear your fortune in the golden mean—
Not every man is born to be a Dean;
I'll bear your jeers if ever I am known
To ſeek two cures, when ſcarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, ſome ſervice may afford,
But oftner play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Money I ſcorn, but keep a little ſtill,
To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill.
From Encombe's ſoft romantic ſcenes I write,
Deep ſunk in eaſe, in pleaſure, and delight:
Yet, tho' her generous lord himſelf is here,
'Twould be one pleaſure more, could you appear.

[]THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

OCTOBER. AN ODE.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

THE DECLINE OF AUTUMN.

A FAREWELL TO SUMMER. AN ELEGY.

A FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY.WRITTEN THE MIDDLE OF OCTOBER.

ON SEEING A ROSE IN OCTOBER.

ON THE DEATH OF DR. PARNE, FELLOW OF TRIN. COL. CAM.

FABLES FOR GROWN GENTLEMEN.

FABLE I. THE RIVER WITH A PETITION.

FABLE II. THE PHOENIX AND HER LOVERS.

FABLE III. THE DUCKLINGS AND THE WISE BIRDS.

FABLE V. THE DOG AND THE CAT.

FABLE VI. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

FABLE VII. THE WILD DUCKS AND THE WATER SPANIEL.

THE ADVICE OF AN OLD SPANIEL.

A PRESENT TO A YOUNG LADY WITH A PAIR OF STOCKINGS.

THE COPPER FARTHING.

NEW-MARKET. A SATIRE.

A REFLECTION ON SEEING THAT EXCELLENT PICTURE OF BE⯑LISARIUS, DRAWN BY VANDYKE.

THE HERTFORDSHIRE GROVE.

THE MIDDLESEX GARDEN.TO MISS H—. IN KENT.

KENSINGTON GARDENS. A PASTORAL.

FAREWELL TO HOPE. AN ODE.

ON A LADY'S SENDING THE AUTHOR A RIBBON FOR HIS WATCH.

ON SEEING CAPT. CORNWALL'S MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

PROLOGUE TO AMALASONT, QUEEN OF THE GOTHS.A MS. TRAGEDY BY MR. HUGHES.

EPIGRAMS.

ON A LADY'S HURTING HER HAND WITH THE AUTHOR'S SWORD.

ON THE TWO NAVAL VICTORIES OF MDCCLIX.

HORACE, SAT. VII. BOOK II. IMITATED.A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET AND HIS SERVANT.

HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.TO JOHN PITT, ESQ.

HOR. EPIST. XVIII. BOOK I. IMITATED.TO MR. SPENCE, WHEN TUTOR TO THE EARL OF MIDDLESEX.

HOR. EPIST. XIX. BOOK I. IMITATED.TO MR. LOWTH.

AN EPISTLE TO MR. SPENCE, IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. X. BOOK I.

THE INVITATION, AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND AT COURT.

ODE TO JOHN PITT, ESQ. ADVISING HIM TO BUILD A BANQUETING-HOUSE ON A HILL THAT OVERLOOKS THE SEA.

TO THE SAME, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

ON MRS. WALKER'S POEMS, PARTICULARLY THAT ON THE AUTHOR.

VERSES ON A FLOWERED CARPET, WORKED BY THE YOUNG LADIES AT KINGSTON.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

ON THE ART OF PREACHING. A FRAGMENT. IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S ART OF POETRY.

AN EPITAPH INSCRIBED ON A STONE, THAT COVERS HIS FATHER, MOTHER, AND BROTHER.

EPITAPH ON DR. KEIL, THE LATE FAMOUS ASTROLOGER.

PART OF SAT. VI. BOOK II. OF HORACE, TRANSLATED.BEGINNING AT, PERDITUR HAEC INTER MISERO LUX, NON SINE VOTIS, &c.

A PARODY ON THE CITY AND COUN⯑TRY MOUSE.

HORACE, EPIST. V. BOOK I. IMITATED.TO JOHN H—H, ESQ.

SALT WATER.

Appendix A CONTENTS.

A FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY.
WRITTEN THE MIDDLE OF OCTOBER.

THE MIDDLESEX GARDEN.
TO MISS H—. IN KENT.

PROLOGUE TO AMALASONT, QUEEN OF THE GOTHS.
A MS. TRAGEDY BY MR. HUGHES.

HORACE, SAT. VII. BOOK II. IMITATED.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET AND HIS SERVANT.

HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO JOHN PITT, ESQ.

HOR. EPIST. XVIII. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO MR. SPENCE, WHEN TUTOR TO THE EARL OF MIDDLESEX.

HOR. EPIST. XIX. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO MR. LOWTH.

PART OF SAT. VI. BOOK II. OF HORACE, TRANSLATED.
BEGINNING AT, PERDITUR HAEC INTER MISERO LUX, NON SINE VOTIS, &c.

HORACE, EPIST. V. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO JOHN H—H, ESQ.