The beauties of English poesy: Selected by Oliver Goldsmith. In two volumes. ... [pt.1]

The Rape of the Lock.

This ſeems to be Mr. Pope's moſt finiſhed produc⯑tion, and is, perhaps, the moſt perfect in our language. It exhibits ſtronger powers of imagina⯑tion, more harmony of numbers, and a greater knowledge of the world, than any other of this poet's works: and it is probable, if our country were called upon to ſhew a ſpecimen of their ge⯑nius to foreigners, this would be the work here fixed upon.

WHAT dire offence from am'rous cauſes ſprings,

What mighty conteſts riſe from trivial things,

I ſing—This verſe to CARYL, Muſe! is due:

This, ev'n Belinda may vouchſafe to view:

Slight is the ſubject, but not ſo the praiſe,

If She inſpire, and He approve my lays.

[2]Say what ſtrange motive, Goddeſs! could compel

A well-bred Lord t'aſſault a gentle Belle?

O ſay what ſtranger cauſe, yet unexplor'd,

Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?

In taſks ſo bold, can little men engage,

And in ſoft boſoms dwells ſuch mighty rage?

Sol thro' white curtains ſhot a tim'rous ray,

And ope'd thoſe eyes that muſt eclipſe the day:

Now lap-dogs gave themſelves the rouzing ſhake,

And ſleepleſs lovers, juſt at twelve, awake:

Thrice rung the bell, the ſlipper knock'd the ground,

And the preſs'd watch return'd a ſilver ſound.

Belinda ſtill her downy pillow preſt;

Her guardian SYLPH prolong'd the balmy reſt:

'Twas He had ſummon'd to her ſilent bed

The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head.

A youth more glitt'ring than a birth-night beau,

(That ev'n in ſlumber caus'd her cheek to glow)

Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay,

And thus in whiſpers ſaid, or ſeem'd to ſay.

Faireſt of mortals, thou diſtinguiſh'd care

Of thouſand bright inhabitants of air!

If e'er one Viſion touch thy infant thought,

Of all the Nurſe and all the Prieſt have taught;

Of airy Elves by moonlight ſhadows ſeen,

The ſilver token, and the circled green,

Or virgins viſited by Angel-pow'rs,

With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs;

Hear and believe! thy own importance know,

Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.

[3]Some ſecret truths, from learned pride conceal'd,

To Maids alone and children are reveal'd:

What tho' no credit doubting Wits may give,

The Fair and Innocent ſhall ſtill believe.

Know, then, unnumbered Spirits round thee fly,

The light Militia of the lower ſky:

Theſe, tho' unſeen, are ever on the wing,

Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring.

Think what an equipage thou haſt in air,

And view with ſcorn two Pages and a Chair.

As now your own, our beings were of old,

And once inclos'd in Woman's beauteous mould;

Thence, by a ſoft tranſition, we repair

From earthly vehicles to theſe of air.

Think not, when Woman's tranſient breath is fled,

That all her vanities at once are dead;

Succeeding vanities ſhe ſtill regards,

And, tho' ſhe plays no more, o'erlooks the cards.

Her joy in gilded Chariots, when alive,

And love of Ombre, after death ſurvive.

For when the Fair in all their pride expire,

To their firſt Elements their Souls retire:

The ſprites of fiery Termagants in Flame

Mount up, and take a Salamander's name.

Soft yielding minds to Water glide away,

And ſip, with nymphs, their elemental tea.

The graver Prude ſinks downward to a Gnome,

In ſearch of miſchief ſtill on Earth to roam.

The light Coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair,

And ſport and flutter in the fields of air.

[4]Know farther yet; whoever, fair and chaſte,

Rejects mankind, is by ſome Sylph embrac'd:

For Spirits, freed from mortal laws, with eaſe

Aſſume what ſexes and what ſhapes they pleaſe.

What guards the purity of melting maids,

In courtly balls, and midnight maſquerades,

Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring ſpark,

The glance by day, the whiſper in the dark,

When kind occaſion prompts their warm deſires,

Whe muſic ſoftens, and when dancing fires?

'Tis but their Sylph, the wiſe Celeſtials know,

Tho' Honour is the word with Men below.

Some nymphs there are, too conſcious of their face,

For life predeſtin'd to the Gnomes embrace.

Theſe ſwell their proſpects and exalt their pride,

When offers are diſdain'd, and love deny'd:

Then gay ideas croud the vacant brain,

While Peers, and Dukes, and all their ſweeping train,

And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear,

And, in ſoft ſounds, Your Grace ſalutes their ear.

'Tis theſe that early taint the female ſoul,

Inſtruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll,

Teach infant cheeks a bidden bluſh to know,

And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.

Oft, when the world imagine women ſtray,

The Sylphs thro' myſtic mazes guide their way,

Thro' all the giddy circle they purſue,

And old impertinence expel by new.

What tender maid but muſt a victim fall

To one man's treat, but for another's ball?

[5]When Florio ſpeaks, what virgin could withſtand,

If gentle Damon did not ſqueeze her hand;

With varying vanities, from ev'ry part

They ſhift the moving Toy-ſhop of their heart;

Where wigs with wigs, with ſword-knots ſword-knots ſtrive,

Beaux baniſh beaux, and coaches coaches drive.

This erring mortals Levity may call,

Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.

Of theſe am I, who thy protection claim;

A watchful ſprite, and Ariel is my name.

Late, as I rang'd the cryſtal wilds of air,

In the clear Mirror of thy ruling ſtar

I ſaw, alas, ſome dread event impend,

Ere to the main this morning ſun deſcend;

But heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where:

Warn'd by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!

This to diſcloſe is all thy guardian can:

Beware of all; but, moſt, beware of Man!

He ſaid; when Shock, who thought ſhe ſlept too long,

Leap'd up, and wak'd his miſtreſs with his tongue.

'Twas then, Belinda, if report ſay true,

Thy eyes firſt open'd on a Billet-doux;

Wounds, Charms, and Ardors, were no ſooner read,

But all the Viſion vaniſh'd from thy head.

And now, unveil'd, the Toilet ſtands diſplay'd,

Each ſilver vaſe in myſtic order laid.

Firſt, rob'd in white, the Nymph intent adores,

With head uncover'd, the Coſmetic pow'rs.

[6]A heav'nly image in the glaſs appears,

To that ſhe bends, to that her eyes ſhe rears;

Th' inferior Prieſteſs, at her altar's ſide,

Trembling, begins the ſacred rites of Pride.

Unnumber'd treaſures ope at once, and here

The various off'rings of the world appear;

From each ſhe nicely culls, with curious toil,

And decks the Goddeſs with the glitt'ring ſpoil.

This caſket, India's glowing gems unlocks,

And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.

The Tortoiſe here and Elephant unite,

Transform'd to combs, the ſpeckled and the white.

Here files of pins extend their ſhining rows,

Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux.

Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;

The fair each moment riſes in her charms,

Repairs her ſmiles, awakens every grace,

And calls forth all the wonders of her face:

Sees by degrees a purer bluſh ariſe,

And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.

The buſy Sylphs ſurround their darling care,

Theſe ſet the head, and thoſe divide the hair;

Some fold the ſleeve, whilſt others plait the gown;

And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own.

Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain,

The ſun firſt riſes o'er the purpled main,

Than, iſſuing forth, the rival of his beams

Launch'd on the boſom of the ſilver'd Thames.

Fair Nymphs, and well-dreſs'd Youths, around her ſhone,

But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone.

[7]On her white breaſt a ſparkling Croſs ſhe wore,

Which Jews might kiſs, and Infidels adore.

Her lively looks a ſprightly mind diſcloſe,

Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as thoſe;

Favours to none, to all ſhe ſmiles extends;

Oft ſhe rejects, but never once offends.

Bright as the ſun, her eyes the gazers ſtrike,

And, like the ſun, they ſhine on all alike.

Yet graceful eaſe, and ſweetneſs void of pride,

Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide:

If to her ſhare ſome female errors fall,

Look on her face and you'll forget 'em all.

This nymph, to the deſtruction of mankind,

Nouriſh'd two Locks which graceful hung behind

In equal curls, and well conſpir'd to deck,

With ſhining ringlets, the ſmooth iv'ry neck.

Love in theſe labyrinths his ſlaves detains,

And mighty hearts are held in ſlender chains.

With hairy ſpringes we the birds betray,

Slight lines of hair ſurprize the finny prey,

Fair treſſes men's imperial race inſnare,

And beauty draws us with a ſingle hair.

Th' advent'rous Baron the bright locks admir'd;

He ſaw, he wiſh'd, and to the prize aſpir'd.

Reſolv'd to win, he meditates the way,

By force to raviſh, or by fraud betray;

For when ſucceſs a lover's toil attends,

Few aſk, if fraud or force attain'd his ends.

For this, 'ere Phoebus roſe, he had implor'd

Propitious heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd;

[8]But chiefly Love—to Love an Altar built,

Of twelve vaſt French Romances, neatly gilt.

There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves,

And all the trophies of his former loves.

With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,

And breathes three am'rous ſighs to raiſe the fire.

Then proſtrate falls, and begs, with ardent eyes,

Soon to obtain, and long poſſeſs the prize:

The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r,

The reſt, the winds diſpers'd in empty air.

But now ſecure the painted veſſel glides,

The ſun-beams trembling on the floating tides:

While melting muſic ſteals upon the ſky,

And ſoften'd ſounds along the waters die;

Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play,

Belinda ſmil'd, and all the world was gay.

All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts oppreſt,

Th' impending woe ſat heavy on his breaſt.

He ſummons ſtrait his Denizens of air;

The lucid ſquadrons round the ſails repair:

Soft o'er the ſhrouds aërial whiſpers breathe,

That ſeem'd but Zephyrs to the train beneath.

Some to the ſun their inſect-wings unfold,

Waft on the breeze, or ſink in clouds of gold;

Tranſparent forms, too fine for mortal ſight,

Their fluid bodies half diſſolv'd in light.

Looſe to the wind their airy garments flew,

Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew,

Dip'd in the richeſt tincture of the ſkies,

Where light diſports in ever-mingling dyes,

[9]While ev'ry beam new tranſient colours ſlings,

Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings,

Amid the circle on the gilded maſt,

Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd;

His purple pinions op'ning to the ſun,

He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun.

Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear,

Fay, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Daemons hear!

Ye know the ſpheres, and various taſks aſſign'd

By laws eternal to the aërial kind.

Some in the fields of pureſt aether play,

And baſk and whiten in the blaze of day;

Some guide the courſe of wand'ring orbs on high,

Or roll the planets thro' the boundleſs ſky.

Some, leſs refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light

Purſue the ſtars that ſhoot athwart the night,

Or ſuck the miſts in groſſer air below,

Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,

Or brew fierce tempeſts on the wintry main,

Or o'er the glebe diſtil the kindly rain.

Others on earth o'er human race preſide,

Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:

Of theſe the chief the care of Nations own,

And guard with arms divine the Britiſh throne.

Our humbler province is to tend the Fair,

Not a leſs pleaſing, tho' leſs glorious care;

To ſave the powder from too rude a gale,

Nor let th' impriſon'd eſſences exhale;

To draw freſh colours from the vernal flow'rs;

To ſteal from rainbows ere they drop in ſhow'rs,

[10]A brighter waſh; to curl their waving hairs,

Aſſiſt their bluſhes, and inſpire their airs;

Nay oft, in dreams, invention we beſtow,

To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow.

This day, black Omens threat the brighteſt Fair

That e'er deſerv'd a watchful ſpirit's care;

Some dire diſaſter, or by force, or ſlight;

But what, or where, the fates have wrap'd in night.

Whether the nymph ſhall break Diana's law,

Or ſome frail China-jar receive a flaw;

Or ſtain her honour, or her new brocade;

Forget her pray'rs, or miſs a maſquerade;

Or loſe her heart or necklace at a ball;

Or whether heav'n has doom'd that Shock muſt fall.

Haſte then, ye ſpirits! to your charge repair:

The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care;

The drops to thee, Brillante, we conſign;

And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;

Do thou, Criſpiſſa, tend her fav'rite Lock;

Ariel himſelf ſhall be the guard of Shock.

To fifty choſen Sylphs, of ſpecial note,

We truſt th' important charge, the Petticoat:

Oft have we known that ſeven-fold fence to fail,

Tho' ſtiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale;

Form a ſtrong line about the ſilver bound,

And guard the wide circumference around.

Whatever ſpirit, careleſs of his charge,

His poſt neglects, or leaves the fair at large,

Shall feel ſharp vengeance ſoon o'ertake his ſins,

Be ſtop'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins;

[11]Or plang'd in lakes of bitter waſhes lie,

Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye:

Gums and Pomatums ſhall his flight reſtrain,

While, clog'd, he beats his ſilken wings in vain;

Or Alum ſtyptics, with contracting pow'r,

Shrink his thin eſſence like a ſhrivel'd flow'r:

Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch ſhall feel

The giddy motion of the whirling mill,

In fumes of burning Chocolate ſhall glow,

And tremble at the ſea that froths below!

He ſpoke; the ſpirits from the ſails deſcend;

Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;

Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;

Some hang upon the pendants of her ear;

With beating hearts the dire event they wait,

Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate.

Cloſe by thoſe meads, forever crown'd with flow'rs,

Where Thames with pride ſurveys his riſing tow'rs,

There ſtands a ſtructure of majeſtic frame,

Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.

Here Britain's ſtateſmen oft the fall foredoom

Of foreign Tyrants, and of Nymphs at home;

Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,

Doſt ſometimes counſel take—and ſometimes tea.

Hither the heroes and the nymphs reſort,

To taſte awhile the pleaſures of a Court;

In various talk th' inſtructive hours they paſt,

Who gave the ball or paid the viſit laſt:

One ſpeaks the glory of the Britiſh Queen,

And one deſcribes a charming Indian ſcreen;

[12]A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;

At ev'ry word a reputation dies.

Snuff, or the fan, ſupply each pauſe of chat,

With ſinging, laughing, ogling, and all that.

Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day,

The ſun obliquely ſhoots his burning ray;

The hungry judges ſoon the ſentence ſign,

And wretches hang that Jurymen may dine;

The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace,

And the long labours of the toilet ceaſe.

Belinda now, whom thirſt of fame invites,

Burns to encounter two advent'rous Knights,

At Ombre ſingly to decide their doom,

And ſwells her breaſt with conqueſts yet to come.

Strait the three bands prepare in arms to join,

Each band the number of the ſacred nine.

Soon as ſhe ſpreads her hand, th' aërial guard

Deſcend, and ſit on each important card:

Firſt Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore,

Then each according to the rank he bore;

For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,

Are, as when women, wond'rous fond of place.

Behold, four Kings in majeſty rever'd,

With hoary whiſkers and a forky beard;

And four fair Queens, whoſe hands ſuſtain a flow'r,

Th' expreſſive emblem of their ſofter pow'r;

Four knaves in garbs ſuccinct, a truſty band;

Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;

And party-colour'd troops, a ſhining train,

Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain.

[13]The ſkilful nymph reviews her force with care:

Let Spades be trumps! ſhe ſaid, and trumps they were.

Now move to war her ſable Matadores,

In ſhow like leaders of the ſwarthy Moors.

Spadillio firſt, unconquerable Lord!

Led off two captive trumps, and ſwept the board.

As many more Manillio forc'd to yield,

And march'd a victor from the verdant field.

Him Baſto follow'd; but his fate, more hard,

Gain'd but one trump, and one Plebeian card.

With his broad ſabre next, a chief in years,

The hoary Majeſty of Spades appears,

Puts forth one manly leg, to ſight reveal'd,

The reſt, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd▪

The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,

Proves the juſt victim of his royal rage.

Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'erthrew,

And mow'd down armies in the fights of Lu,

Sad chance of war! now, deſtitute of aid,

Falls undiſtinguiſh'd by the victor Spade!

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;

Now to the Baron fate inclines the field.

His warlike Amazon her hoſt invades,

Th' imperial conſort of the crown of Spades.

The Club's black tyrant firſt her victim dy'd,

Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride:

What boots the regal circle on his head,

His giant limbs in ſtate unwieldy ſpread;

That long behind he trails his pompous robe,

And, of all monarchs, only graſps the globe?

[14]The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;

Th' embroider'd King who ſhews but half his face,

And his refulgent Queen, with pow'rs combin'd,

Of broken troops an eaſy conqueſt find.

Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild diſorder ſeen,

With throngs promiſcuous ſtrow the level green.

Thus, when diſpers'd, a routed army runs,

Of Aſia's troops, and Afric's ſable ſons,

With like confuſion diff'rent nations fly,

Of various habits, and of various dye,

The pierc'd battalions, diſunited, fall,

In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all.

The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,

And wins (oh ſhameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.

At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forſook,

A livid paleneſs ſpreads o'er all her look;

She ſees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,

Juſt in the jaws of ruin, and Codille.

And now (as oft in ſome diſtemper'd ſtate)

On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate.

An Ace of Hearts ſteps forth: the King, unſeen,

Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen:

He ſprings to vengeance with an eager pace,

And falls like thunder on the proſtrate Ace.

The nymph exulting fills with ſhouts the ſky;

The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.

O thoughtleſs mortals! ever blind to fate,

Too ſoon dejected, and too ſoon elate.

Sudden, theſe honours ſhall be ſnatch'd away,

And curs'd for ever this victorious day.

[15]For lo! the board with cups and ſpoons is crown'd,

The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;

On ſhining Altars of Japan they raiſe

The ſilver lamp; the fiery ſpirits blaze:

From ſilver ſpouts the grateful liquors glide,

While China's earth receives the ſmoaking tide:

At once they gratify their ſcent and taſte,

And frequent cups prolong the rich repaſt.

Strait hover round the fair her airy band;

Some, as ſhe ſipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd,

Some o'er her lap their careful plumes diſplay'd,

Trembling, and conſcious of the rich brocade.

Coffee (which makes the politician wiſe,

And ſee thro' all things with his half ſhut eyes)

Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain

New ſtratagems, the radiant Lock to gain.

Ah ceaſe, raſh youth! deſiſt ere 'tis too late,

Fear the juſt Gods, and think of Scylla's fate!

Chang'd to a bird, and ſent to flit in air,

She dearly pays for Niſus' injur'd hair!

But, when to miſchief mortals bend their will,

How ſoon they find fit inſtruments of ill?

Juſt then, Clariſſa drew, with tempting grace,

A two-edg'd weapon from her ſhining caſe:

So ladies, in Romance, aſſiſt their knight,

Preſent the ſpear, and arm him for the fight.

He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends

The little engine on his fingers ends;

This juſt behind Belinda's neck he ſpread,

As o'er the fragrant ſteams ſhe bends her head.

[16]Swift to the Lock a thouſand Sprites repair,

A thouſand wings, by turns, blow back the hair;

And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear;

Thrice ſhe look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near.

Juſt in that inſtant anxious Ariel ſought

The cloſe receſſes of the Virgin's thought;

As on the noſegay in her breaſt reclin'd,

He watch'd th' ideas riſing in her mind,

Sudden he view'd, in ſpite of all her art,

An earthly lover lurking at her heart.

Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd,

Reſign'd to fate, and with a ſigh retir'd.

The Peer now ſpreads the glitt'ring forfex wide,

T' incloſe the Lock; now joins it, to divide.

Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd,

A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd;

Fate urg'd the ſheers, and cut the Sylph in twain,

(But airy ſubſtance ſoon unites again)

The meeting points the ſacred hair diſſever

From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!

Then ſlaſh'd the living light'ning from her eyes,

And ſkreams of horror rend th' affrighted ſkies.

Not louder ſhrieks to pitying heav'n are caſt,

When huſbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their laſt;

Or when rich China veſſels, fall'n from high,

In glitt'ring duſt, and painted fragments lie!

Let wreathes of triumph now my temples, twine,

(The victor cry'd) the glorious prize is mine!

While fiſh in ſtreams, or birds delight in air,

Or in a coach and ſix the Britiſh fair,

[17]As long as Atalantis ſhall be read,

Or the ſmall pillow grace a Lady's bed,

While viſits ſhall be paid on ſolemn days,

When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze,

While nymphs take treats, or aſſignations give,

So long my honour, name, and praiſe ſhall live!

What Time would ſpare, from Steel receives its date,

And monuments, like men, ſubmit to fate!

Steel could the labour of the Gods deſtroy,

And ſtrike to duſt th' imperial tow'rs of Troy;

Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,

And hew triumphal arches to the ground.

What wonder, then, fair Nymph! thy hairs ſhould feel

The conqu'ring force of unreſiſted ſteel?

But anxious cares the penſive Nymph oppreſs'd,

And ſecret paſſions labour'd in her breaſt.

Not youthful kings in Battle ſeiz'd alive,

Not ſcornful virgins who their charms ſurvive,

Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliſs,

Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiſs,

Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,

Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry,

E'er felt ſuch rage, reſentment, and deſpair,

As thou, ſad Virgin! for thy raviſh'd Hair.

For, that ſad moment when the Sylphs withdrew,

And Ariel, weeping, from Belinda flew,

Umbriel, a duſky, melancholy ſprite,

As ever ſully'd the fair face of light,

Down to the central earth, his proper ſcene,

Repair'd, to ſearch the gloomy Cave of Spleen.

[18]Swift on his ſooty pinions flits the Gnome,

And in a vapour reach'd the diſmal dome.

No chearful breeze this ſullen region knows,

The dreaded Eaſt is all the wind that blows.

Here, in a grotto ſhelter'd cloſe from air,

And ſcreen'd in ſhades from day's deteſted glare,

She ſighs for ever on her penſive bed,

Pain at her ſide, and Megrim at her head.

Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place,

But diff'ring far in figure and in face.

Here ſtood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,

Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;

With ſtore of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons,

Her hand is fill'd! her boſom with lampoons.

There Affectation, with a ſickly mien,

Shows in her cheek the roſes of eighteen,

Practis'd to liſp, and hang the head aſide,

Faints into airs, and languiſhes with pride,

On the rich quilt ſinks with becoming woe,

Wrapt in a gown, for ſickneſs, and for ſhow.

The fair-ones feel ſuch maladies as theſe,

When each new night-dreſs gives a new diſeaſe.

A conſtant Vapour o'er the palace flies;

Strange phantoms riſing as the miſts ariſe;

Dreadful, as hermits dreams in haunted ſhades,

Or bright, as viſions of expiring maids.

Now glaring ſiends, and ſnakes on rolling ſpires,

Pale ſpectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:

Now lakes of liquid gold, Elyſian ſcenes,

And cryſtal domes, and Angels in machines.

[19]Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry ſide are ſeen,

Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen.

Here living tea-pots ſtand, one arm held out,

One bent; the handle this, and that the ſpout:

A pipkin here, like Homer's Tripod, walks;

Here ſighs a jar, and there a gooſe-pye talks;

Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works,

And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.

Safe paſs'd the Gnome thro' this fantaſtic band,

A branch of healing Spleen-wort in his hand.

Then thus addreſs'd the Pow'r—Hail wayward Queen!

Who rule the ſex to fifty from fifteen:

Parent of vapours, and of female wit,

Who give th' hyſteric, or poetic fit,

On various tempers act by various ways,

Make ſome take phyſic, others ſcribble plays;

Who cauſe the proud their viſits to delay,

And ſend the godly in a pet to pray.

A Nymph there is, that all thy pow'r diſdains,

And thouſands more in equal mirth maintains.

But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could ſpoil a grace,

Or raiſe a pimple on a beauteous face,

Like Citron-waters matrons cheeks inflame,

Or change complexions at a loſing game;

If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,

Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds;

Or caus'd ſuſpicion when no ſoul was rude,

Or diſcompos'd the head-dreſs of a Prude;

Or e'er to coſtive lap-dog gave diſeaſe,

Which not the tears of brighteſt eyes could eaſe:

[20]Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin;

That ſingle act gives half the world the ſpleen.

The Goddeſs, with a diſcontented air,

Seems to reject him, tho' ſhe grants his pray'r.

A wond'rous Bag with both her hands ſhe binds,

Like that where once Ulyſſes held the winds;

There ſhe collects the force of female lungs,

Sighs, ſobs, and paſſions, and the war of tongues.

A Vial next ſhe fills with ſainting fears,

Soft ſorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.

The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,

Spreads his black wings, and ſlowly mounts to day.

Sunk in Thaleſtris' arms the Nymph he found,

Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound.

Full o'er their heads the ſwelling bag he rent,

And all the Furies iſſu'd at the vent.

Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,

And fierce Thaleſtris fans the riſing fire.

O wretched maid! ſhe ſpread her hands and cry'd,

(While Hampton's echoes, Wretched maid! reply'd)

Was it for this you took ſuch conſtant care

The bodkin, comb, and eſſence to prepare?

For this your locks in paper durance bound,

For this with tort'ring irons writh'd around?

For this with fillets ſtrain'd your tender head,

And bravely bore the double loads of lead?

Gods! ſhall the raviſher diſplay your hair,

While the Eops envy, and the Ladies ſtare!

Honour forbid! at whoſe unrival'd ſhrine,

Eaſe, pleaſure, virtue, all our ſex reſign.

[21]Methinks already I your tears ſurvey,

Already hear the horrid things they ſay,

Already ſee you a degraded toaſt,

And all your honour in a whiſper loſt!

How ſhall I, then, your helpleſs fame defend?

'Twill, then, be infamy to ſeem your friend!

And ſhall this prize, th' ineſtimable prize,

Expos'd thro' cryſtal to the gazing eyes,

And, heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,

On that rapacious hand for ever blaze!

Sooner ſhall graſs in Hyde-park Circus grow,

And wits take lodgings in the ſound of Bow;

Sooner let earth, air, ſea, to Chaos fall,

Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, periſh all!

She ſaid! then raging to Sir Plume repairs,

And bids her beau demand the precious hairs:

Sir Plume (of amber ſnuff-box juſtly vain,

And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)

With earneſt eyes, and round unthinking face,

He firſt the ſnuff-box open'd, then the caſe,

And thus broke out—"My Lord, why, what the "devil?

"Z—ds! damn the Lock! 'fore Gad, you muſt be "civil!

"Plague on't! 'tis paſt a jeſt—nay, pr'ythee, pox,

"Give her the hair"—he ſpoke, and rapp'd his box.

It grieves me much (reply'd the Peer again)

Who ſpeaks ſo well ſhould ever ſpeak in vain.

But by this Lock, this ſacred Lock I ſwear,

(Which never more ſhall join its parted hair;

[22]Which never more its honours ſhall renew,

Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew)

That while my noſtrils draw the vital air,

This hand, which won it, ſhall for ever wear.

He ſpoke, and ſpeaking, in proud triumph ſpread

The long-contended honours of her head.

But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not ſo;

He breaks the Vial, whence the ſorrows flow.

Then ſee! the Nymph in beauteous grief appears,

Her eyes half-languiſhing, half-drown'd in tears;

On her heav'd boſom hung her drooping head,

Which, with a ſigh, ſhe rais'd; and thus ſhe ſaid:

For ever curs'd be this deteſted day,

Which ſnatch'd my beſt, my fav'rite curl away!

Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,

If Hampton-Court theſe eyes had never ſeen!

Yet am not I the firſt miſtaken maid

By love of courts to num'rous ills betray'd.

Oh had I rather unadmir'd remain'd

In ſome lone iſle, or diſtant northern land;

Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,

Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taſte Bohea!

There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,

Like roſes, that in deſerts bloom and die.

What mov'd my mind with youthful Lords to roam?

O had I ſtay'd, and ſaid my pray'rs at home!

'Twas this the morning Omens ſeem'd to tell;

Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;

The tott'ring China ſhook without a wind;

Nay, Poll ſat mute, and Shock was moſt unkind!

[23]A Sylph, too, warn'd me of the threats of Fate,

In myſtic viſions, now believ'd too late!

See the poor remnants of theſe ſlighted hairs!

My hands ſhall rend what ev'n thy rapine ſpares:

Theſe in two ſable ringlets taught to break,

Once gave new beauties to the ſnowy neck;

The ſiſter-lock now fits uncouth, alone,

And in its fellow's fate foreſees its own;

Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal ſheers demands,

And tempts, once more, thy ſacrilegious hands.

Oh hadſt thou, cruel! been content to ſeize

Hairs leſs in ſight, or any hairs but theſe!

She ſaid: the pitying audience melt in tears.

But Fate and Jove had ſtopp'd the Baron's ears.

In vain Thaleſtris with reproach aſſails!

For who can move when fair Belinda fails?

Not half ſo fix'd the Trojan could remain,

While Anna begg'd, and Dido rag'd in vain.

Then grave Clariſſa graceful wav'd her fan;

Silence enſu'd, and thus the Nymph began.

Say, why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd moſt,

The wiſe man's paſſion, and the vain man's toaſt?

Why deck'd with all that land and ſea afford,

Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd;

Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd Beaux,

Why bows the ſide-box from its inmoſt rows?

How vain are all theſe glories, all our pains,

Unleſs good ſenſe preſerve what beauty gains:

That men may ſay, when we the front-box grace,

Behold the firſt in virtue, as in face!

[24]Oh! if to dance all night, and dreſs all day,

Charm'd the ſmall-pox, or chas'd old-age away;

Who would not ſcorn what houſewife's cares produce,

Or who would learn one earthly thing of uſe?

To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint;

Nor could it, ſure, be ſuch a ſin to paint.

But ſince, alas! frail beauty muſt decay,

Curl'd or uncurl'd, ſince Locks will turn to gray;

Since painted, or not painted, all ſhall fade,

And ſhe who ſcorns a man muſt die a maid;

What, then, remains, but well our pow'r to uſe,

And keep good-humour ſtill, whate'er we loſe?

And truſt me, Dear, good-humour can prevail,

When airs, and flights, and ſcreams, and ſcolding fail.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;

Charms ſtrike the ſight, but merit wins the ſoul.

So ſpoke the Dame, but no applauſe enſu'd;

Belinda frown'd; Thaleſtris call'd her Prude.

To arms, to arms! the fierce Virago cries,

And, ſwift as lightning, to the combat flies.

All ſide in parties, and begin th' attack;

Fans clap, ſilks ruſtle, and tough whalebones crack;

Heroes and Heroines ſhouts confus'dly riſe,

And baſe and treble voices ſtrike the ſkies.

No common weapon in their hands are found;

Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.

So, when bold Homer makes the Gods engage,

And heav'nly breaſts with human paſſions rage;

'Gainſt Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;

And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:

[25]Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,

Blue Neptune ſtorms, the bellowing deeps reſound:

Earth ſhakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way,

And the pale ghoſts ſtart at the flaſh of day!

Triumphant Umbriel, on a ſconce's height,

Clapp'd his glad wings, and ſate to view the fight:

Propp'd on their bodkin ſpears, the ſprites ſurvey

The growing combat, or aſſiſt the fray.

While thro' the preſs enrag'd Thaleſtris flies,

And ſcatters death around from both her eyes,

A Beau and Witling periſh'd in the throng,

One dy'd in metaphor, and one in ſong.

"O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,"

Cry'd Dapperwit, and ſunk beſide his chair.

A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caſt,

"Thoſe eyes are made ſo killing"—was his laſt.

Thus on Maeander's flow'ry margin lies

Th' expiring Swan, and, as he ſings, he dies.

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clariſſa down,

Chloe ſtepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;

She ſmil'd to ſee the doughty hero ſlain,

But, at her ſmile, the Beau reviv'd again.

Now Jove ſuſpends his golden ſcales in air,

Weighs the men's wits againſt the Lady's hair;

The doubtful beam long nods from ſide to ſide;

At length the wits mount up, the hairs ſubſide.

See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,

With more than uſual lightning in her eyes:

Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,

Who ſought no more than on his foe to die.

[26]But this bold Lord, with manly ſtrength endu'd,

She with one finger and a thumb ſubdu'd:

Juſt where the breath of life his noſtrils drew,

A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;

The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom juſt,

The pungent grains of titillating duſt.

Sudden, with ſtarting tears each eye o'erflows,

And the high dome re-echoes to his noſe.

Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,

And drew a deadly bodkin from her ſide.

(The ſame, his ancient perſonage to deck,

Her great-great-grandſire wore about his neck,

In three ſcal-rings; which, after melted down,

Form'd a vaſt buckle for his widow's gown:

Her infant grandame's whiſtle next it grew;

The bells ſhe gingled, and the whiſtle blew;

Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,

Which long ſhe wore, and now Belinda wears.)

Boaſt not my fall (he cry'd) inſulting foe!

Thou by ſome other ſhalt be laid as low.

Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:

All that I dread is leaving you behind!

Rather than ſo, ah let me ſtill ſurvive

And burn in Cupid's flames—but burn alive.

Reſtore the Lock! ſhe cries; and all around

Reſtore the Lock! the vaulted roofs rebound.

Not fierce Othello in ſo loud a ſtrain

Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.

But ſee how oft ambitious aims are croſs'd,

And chiefs contend till all the prize is loſt!

[27]The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,

In ev'ry place is ſought, but ſought in vain:

With ſuch a prize no mortal muſt be bleſt;

So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can conteſt?

Some thought it mounted to the Lunar ſphere,

Since all things loſt on earth are treaſur'd there.

There hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vaſes,

And Beaux in ſnuff-boxes and tweezer-caſes.

There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,

And lovers hearts with ends of ribband bound,

The courtier's promiſes, and ſick man's pray'rs,

The ſmiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,

Cages for knats, and chains to yoak a flea,

Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of caſuiſtry.

But truſt the Muſe—ſhe ſaw it upward riſe,

Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:

(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,

To Proculus alone confeſs'd in view)

A ſudden Star, it ſhot thro' liquid air,

And drew behind a radiant tail of hair.

Not Berenice's Locks firſt roſe ſo bright,

The heav'ns beſpangling with diſhevel'd light.

The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,

And, pleas'd, purſue its progreſs thro' the ſkies.

This the Beau-monde ſhall from the Mall ſurvey,

And hail with muſic its propitious ray.

This the bleſt Lover ſhall for Venus take,

And ſend up vows from Roſamonda's lake.

This Partridge ſoon ſhall view in cloudleſs ſkies,

When next he looks thro' Galilaeo's eyes;

[28]And hence th' egregious wizard ſhall foredoom

The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome.

Then ceaſe, bright Nymph! to mourn thy raviſh'd hair,

Which adds new glory to the ſhining ſphere!

Not all the treſſes that fair head can boaſt,

Shall draw ſuch envy as the Lock you loſt.

For, after all the murders of your eye,

When, after millions ſlain, yourſelf ſhall die;

When thoſe fair ſuns ſhall ſet, as ſet they muſt,

And all thoſe treſſes ſhall be laid in duſt,

This Lock, the Muſe ſhall conſecrate to fame,

And 'midſt the ſtars inſcribe Belinda's name.

THE HERMIT.

[29]

This poem is held in juſt eſteem, the verſification being chaſte, and tolerably harmonious, and the ſtory told with perſpicuity and conciſeneſs. It ſeems to have coſt great labour, both to Mr. Pope, and Parnell himſelf, to bring it to this perfection. It may not be amiſs to obſerve, that the fable is taken from one of Dr. Henry Moore's Dialogues.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,

From youth to age a rev'rend Hermit grew;

The moſs his bed, the cave his humble cell,

His food the fruits, his drink the cryſtal well:

Remote from man, with God he paſs'd the days,

Pray'r all his bus'neſs, all his pleaſure, praiſe.

A life ſo ſacred, ſuch ſerene repoſe,

Seem'd heav'n itſelf, till one ſuggeſtion roſe;

That vice ſhould triumph, virtue vice obey;

This ſprung ſome doubt of providence's ſway:

His hopes no more a certain proſpect boaſt,

And all the tenour of his ſoul is loſt:

So when a ſmooth expanſe receives, impreſt,

Calm nature's image on its watry breaſt,

Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,

And ſkies beneath with anſw'ring colours glow:

[30]But if a ſtone the gentle ſea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry ſide,

And glimmering fragments of a broken ſun,

Banks, ſeas, and ſkies, in thick diſorder run.

To clear this doubt, to know the world by ſight,

To find if books, or ſwains, report it right;

(For yet by ſwains alone the world he knew,

Whoſe feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew)

He quits his cell; the Pilgrim-ſtaff he bore,

And fix'd the Scallop in his hat before;

Then with the ſun a riſing journey went,

Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was waſted in the pathleſs graſs,

And long and loneſome was the wild to paſs;

But when the ſouthern ſun had warm'd the day,

A youth came poſting o'er a croſſing way;

His rayment decent, his complexion fair,

And ſoft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair.

Then, near approaching, Father, hail! he cry'd,

And hail, my Son, the rev'rend fire reply'd;

Words follow'd words, from queſtion anſwer flow'd,

And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road;

'Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part,

While in their rage they differ, join in heart:

Thus ſtands an aged elm in ivy bound;

Thus youthful ivy claſps an elm around.

Now ſunk the ſun; the cloſing hour of day

Came onward, mantled o'er with ſober grey;

Nature in ſilence bid the world repoſe;

When, near the road, a ſtately palace roſe:

[31]There, by the moon, thro' ranks of trees they paſs,

Whoſe verdure crown'd their ſloping ſides of graſs.

It chanc'd the noble maſter of the dome,

Still made his houſe the wand'ring ſtranger's home:

Yet ſtill the kindneſs, from a thirſt of praiſe,

Prov'd the vain flouriſh of expenſive eaſe.

The pair arrive: the livery'd ſervants wait;

Their lord receives them at the pompous gate,

The table groans with coſtly piles of food,

And all is more than hoſpitably good.

Then led to reſt, the day's long toil they drown,

Deep ſunk in ſleep, and ſilk, and heaps of down.

At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day,

Along the wide canals the Zephyrs play;

Freſh o'er the gay parterre the breezes creep,

And ſhake the neighb'ring wood to baniſh ſleep.

Up riſe the gueſts, obedient to the call:

An early banquet deck'd the ſplendid hall;

Rich, luſcious wine a golden goblet grac'd,

Which the kind maſter forc'd the gueſts to taſte.

Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go;

And, but the landlord, none had cauſe of woe;

His cup was vaniſh'd; for, in ſecret guiſe,

The younger gueſt purloin'd the glitt'ring prize.

As one who ſpies a ſerpent in his way,

Gliſt'ning and baſking in the ſummer ray,

Diſorder'd ſtops to ſhun the danger near,

Then walks with faintneſs on, and looks with fear:

So ſeem'd the ſire, when, far upon the road,

The ſhining ſpoil his wily partner ſhow'd.

[32]He ſtopp'd with ſilence; walk'd with trembling heart,

And much he wiſh'd, but durſt not aſk to part:

Murm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard,

That gen'rous actions meet a baſe reward.

While thus they paſs, the ſun his glory ſhrouds,

The changing ſkies hang out their ſable clouds;

A ſound in air preſag'd approaching rain,

And beaſts to covert ſcud acroſs the plain.

Warn'd by the ſigns the wand'ring pair retreat,

To ſeek for ſhelter at a neighb'ring ſeat.

'Twas built with turrets, on a riſing ground,

And ſtrong, and large, and unimprov'd around;

Its owner's temper tim'rous and ſevere,

Unkind and griping, caus'd a deſart there.

As near the miſer's heavy doors they drew,

Fierce riſing guſts with ſudden fury blew;

The nimble lightning, mix'd with ſhow'rs, began,

And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran.

Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,

Driv'n by the wind, and batter'd by the rain.

At length ſome pity warm'd the maſter's breaſt,

('Twas then his threſhold firſt receiv'd a gueſt)

Slow, creaking, turns the door, with jealous care,

And half he welcomes in the ſhiv'ring pair;

One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,

And nature's fervour thro' their limbs recalls:

Bread of the coarſeſt ſort, with eager wine,

(Each hardly granted) ſerv'd them both to dine;

And, when the tempeſt firſt appear'd to ceaſe,

A ready warning bid them part in peace.

[33]With ſtill remark the pond'ring Hermit view'd,

In one ſo rich, a life ſo poor and rude;

And why ſhould ſuch, within himſelf he cry'd,

Lock the loſt wealth a thouſand want beſide?

But what new marks of wonder ſoon took place

In ev'ry ſettling feature of his face;

When from his veſt the young companion bore

That cup, the gen'rous landlord own'd before,

And paid, profuſely, with the precious bowl,

The ſtinted kindneſs of his churliſh ſoul.

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly,

The ſun emerging opes an azure ſky;

A freſher green the ſmelling leaves diſplay,

And, glitt'ring as they tremble, chear the day:

The weather courts them from the poor retreat,

And the glad maſter bolts the wary gate.

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's boſom wrought

With all the travail of uncertain thought;

His partner's acts without their cauſe appear;

'Twas there a vice, and ſeem'd a madneſs here:

Deteſting that, and pitying this, he goes,

Loſt and confounded with the various ſhows.

Now night's dim ſhades again involve the ſky,

Again the wand'rers want a place to lie,

Again they ſearch, and find a lodging nigh.

The ſoil improv'd around, the manſion neat,

And neither poorly low, nor idly great:

It ſeem'd to ſpeak its maſter's turn of mind,

Content, and, not for praiſe, but virtue, kind.

[34]Hither the walkers turn, with weary feet,

Then bleſs the manſion, and the maſter greet:

Their greeting fair, beſtow'd with modeſt guiſe,

The courteous maſter hears, and thus replies:

Without a vain, without a grudging heart,

To him who gives us all, I yield a part;

From him you come, for him accept it here,

A frank and ſober, more than coſtly cheer.

He ſpoke, and bid the welcome table ſpread,

Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed,

When the grave houſhold round his hall repair,

Warn'd by a bell, and cloſe the hours with pray'r.

At length the world, renew'd by calm repoſe,

Was ſtrong for toil, the dappled morn aroſe;

Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept

Near the clos'd cradle, where an infant ſlept,

And writh'd his neck; the landlord's little pride,

O ſtrange return! grew black, and gaſp'd, and dy'd.

Horror of horrors! what! his only ſon!

How look'd our hermit when the fact was done;

Not hell, tho' hell's black jaws in ſunder part,

And breathe blue fire, could more aſſault his heart.

Confus'd, and ſtruck with ſilence at the deed,

He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with ſpeed.

His ſteps the youth purſues: the country lay

Perplex'd with roads, a ſervant ſhow'd the way;

A river croſs'd the path; the paſſage o'er

Was nice to find; the ſervant rode before;

Long arms of oaks an open bridge ſupply'd,

And deep the waves beneath the bending glide.

[35]The youth, who ſeem'd to watch a time to ſin,

Approach'd the careleſs guide, and thruſt him in;

Plunging, he falls, and, riſing, lifts his head,

Then, flaſhing, turns, and ſinks among the dead.

Wild, ſparkling rage, inflames the father's eyes,

He burſts the bands of fear, and madly cries,

Deteſted wretch—But ſcarce his ſpeech began,

When the ſtrange partner ſeem'd no longer man:

His youthful face grew more ſerenely ſweet;

His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet;

Fair rounds of radiant points inveſt his hair;

Celeſtial odours breathe thro' purpled air;

And wings, whoſe colours glitter'd on the day,

Wide at his back the gradual plumes diſplay.

The form etherial burſts upon his ſight,

And moves in all the majeſty of light.

Tho' loud, at firſt, the pilgrim's paſſion grew,

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

Surprize in ſecret chains his words ſuſpends,

And in a calm his ſettling temper ends.

But ſilence here the beauteous angel broke,

(The voice of muſic raviſh'd as he ſpoke.)

Thy pray'r, thy praiſe, thy life, to vice unknown,

In ſweet memorial riſe before the throne:

Theſe charms ſucceſs in our bright region find,

And force an Angel down, to calm thy mind!

For this commiſſion'd, I forſook the ſky;

Nay, ceaſe to kneel—thy fellow-ſervant I.

Then know the truth of government divine,

And let theſe ſcruples be no longer thine.

[36]The maker juſtly claims that world he made;

In this the right of providence is laid;

Its ſacred majeſty thro' all depends

On uſing ſecond means to work his ends:

'Tis thus, withdrawn in ſtate from human eye,

The Pow'r exerts his Attributes on high,

Your actions uſes, nor controuls your will,

And bids the doubting ſons of men be ſtill.

What ſtrange events can ſtrike with more ſurprize,

Than thoſe which lately ſtruck thy wond'ring eyes?

Yet, taught by theſe, confeſs th' Almighty juſt,

And, where you can't unriddle, learn to truſt!

The great, vain man, who far'd on coſtly food,

Whoſe life was too luxurious to be good;

Who made his ivory ſtands with goblets ſhine,

And forc'd his gueſts to morning draughts of wine,

Has, with the cup, the graceleſs cuſtom loſt;

And ſtill he welcomes, but with leſs of coſt.

The mean, ſuſpicious wretch, whoſe bolted door

Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wand'ring poor;

With him I left the cup, to teach his mind,

That heav'n can bleſs, if mortals will be kind.

Conſcious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,

And feels compaſſion touch his grateful ſoul.

Thus artiſts melt the ſullen oar of lead,

With heaping coals of fire upon its head;

In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,

And, looſe from droſs, the ſilver runs below.

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,

But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God;

[37](Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain,

And meaſur'd back his ſteps to earth again.

To what exceſſes had his dotage run?

But God, to ſave the father, took the ſon.

To all but thee, in fits he ſeem'd to go,

(And 'twas my miniſtry to deal the blow)

The poor fond parent, humbled in the duſt,

Now owns, in tears, the puniſhment was juſt.

But now had all his fortune felt a wreck,

Had that falſe ſervant ſped in ſafety back?

This night his treaſur'd heaps he meant to ſteal;

And what a fund of charity would fail!

Thus heav'n inſtructs thy mind: this trial o'er,

Depart in peace, reſign, and ſin no more.

On ſounding pinions here the youth withdrew,

The ſage ſtood wond'ring as the ſeraph flew.

Thus look'd Eliſha, when, to mount on high,

His maſter took the chariot of the ſky;

The fiery pomp aſcending, left the view;

The prophet gaz'd, and wiſh'd to follow too.

The bending hermit here a pray'r begun,

"Lord! as in Heav'n, on earth thy will be done."

Then, gladly turning, ſought his ancient place,

And paſs'd a life of piety and peace.

IL PENSEROSO.

[39]

I have heard a very judicious critic ſay, that he had an higher idea of Milton's ſtile in poetry, from the two following poems, than from his Paradiſe Loſt. It is certain the imagination ſhewn in them is correct and ſtrong. The introduction to both in irregular meaſure is borrowed from the Italians, and hurts an Engliſh ear.

HENCE vain deluding joys,

The brood of folly without father bred,

How little you beſted,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys?

Dwell in ſome idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy ſhapes poſſeſs,

As thick and numberleſs

As the gay motes that people the ſun-beams,

Or likeſt hovering dreams,

The fickle penſioners of Morpheus train.

But hail thou Goddeſs, ſage and holy,

Hail divineſt Melancholy,

Whoſe ſaintly viſage is too bright

To hit the ſenſe of human ſight,

And, therefore, to our weaker view,

O'er-laid with black, ſtaid wiſdom's hue;

Black, but ſuch as in eſteem

Prince Memnon's ſiſter might beſeem,

[40]Or that ſtarred Ethiop queen that ſtrove

To ſet her beauties praiſe above

The Sea-Nymphs, and their pow'rs offended:

Yet thou art higher far deſcended,

Thee bright-hair'd Veſta long of yore

To ſolitary Saturn bore;

His daughter ſhe (in Saturn's reign,

Such mixture was not held a ſtain)

Oft, in glimmering bow'rs and glades

He met her, and in ſecret ſhades

Of woody Ida's inmoſt grove,

While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Come penſive Nun, devout and pure,

Sober, ſtedfaſt, and demure,

All in a robe of darkeſt grain,

Flowing with majeſtic train,

And ſable ſtole of Cyprus lawn,

Over thy decent ſhoulders drawn.

Come, but keep thy wanted ſtate,

With even ſtep and muſing gait,

And looks commercing with the ſkies,

Thy rapt ſoul ſitting in thine eyes:

There held in holy paſſion ſtill,

Forget thyſelf to marble, till

With a ſad leaden downward caſt

Thou fix them on the earth as faſt:

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,

Spare Faſt, that oft with Gods doth diet,

And hears the Muſes in a ring,

Ay round about Jove's altar ſing:

[41]And add to theſe retired Leiſure,

That in trim gardens takes his pleaſure;

But firſt, and chiefeſt, with thee bring,

Him that yon ſoars on golden wing,

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,

The cherab Contemplation;

And the mute ſilence hiſt along,

'Leſs Philomel will deign a ſong,

In her ſweeteſt, ſaddeſt plight,

Smoothing the rugged brow of night,

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke

Gently o'er th' accuſtom'd oak;

Sweet bird, that ſhunn'ſt the noiſe of folly,

Moſt muſical, moſt melancholy!

Thee, chauntreſs, oft, the woods among,

I woo, to hear thy even-ſong;

And, miſſing thee, I walk unſeen

On the dry ſmooth-ſhaven green,

To behold the wand'ring moon,

Riding near her higheſt noon,

Like one that had been led aſtray

Through the Heav'n's wide pathleſs way,

And oft, as if her head ſhe bow'd,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of riſing ground,

I hear the far-off Curfew ſound,

Over ſome wide-water'd ſhore,

Swinging ſlow with ſullen roar;

Or, if the air will not permit,

Some ſtill removed place will fit,

[42]Where glowing embers through the room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

Far from all reſort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the bellman's drowſy charm,

To bleſs the doors from nightly harm:

Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,

Be ſeen in ſome high lonely tow'r,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,

With thrice great Hermes, or unſphere

The ſpirit of Plato, to unfold

What worlds, or what vaſt regions, hold

The immortal mind, that hath forſook

Her manſion in this fleſhly nook:

And of thoſe demons that are found

In fire, air, flood, or under-ground,

Whoſe power hath a true conſent

With planet, or with element.

Sometime let gorgeous tragedy,

In ſcepter'd pall, come ſweeping by,

Preſenting Thebes, or Pelops line,

Or the Tale of Troy divine,

Or what (though rare) of later age

Ennobled hath thy buſkin'd ſtage.

But, O ſad Virgin, that thy pow'r

Might raiſe Muſaeus from his bower,

Or bid the ſoul of Orpheus ſing

Such notes, as, warbled to the ſtring,

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,

And made Hell grant what love did ſeek.

[43]Or call up him that left half told

The ſtory of Cambuſcan bold,

Of Camball, and of Algarſife,

And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glaſs,

And of the wond'rous horſe of braſs,

On which the Tartar king did ride;

And if ought elſe great bards beſide

In ſage and ſolemn tunes have ſung,

Of tourneys and of trophies hung,

Of foreſts, and inchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear,

Thus, night, oft ſee me in thy pale career,

Till civil-ſuited morn appear,

Not trickt and frounct as ſhe was wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,

But, kercheft in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or, uſher'd with a ſhower ſtill,

When the guſt hath blown its fill,

Ending on the ruſtling leaves,

With minute drops from off the eaves.

And, when the ſun begins to fling

His flaring beams, me, Goddeſs, bring

To arched walks of twilight groves,

And ſhadows brown, that Sylvan loves,

Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude ax, with heaved ſtroke,

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.

[44]There, in cloſe covert, by ſome brook,

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from day's gariſh eye,

While the bee, with honey'd thigh,

That at her flow'ry work doth ſing,

And the waters murmuring,

With ſuch conſort as they keep,

Entice the dewy feather'd ſleep;

And let ſome ſtrange myſterious dream

Wave at his wings, in aery ſtream

Of lively portraiture diſplay'd,

Softly on my eye-lids laid:

And, as I wake, ſweet muſic breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by ſome Spirit to mortals good,

Or th' unſeen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail

To walk the ſtudious cloyſters pale,

And love the high embowed roof,

With antic pillars maſſy proof,

And ſtoried windows richly dight,

Caſting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow,

To the full voic'd quire below,

In ſervice high, and anthems clear,

As may, with ſweetneſs, through mine ear,

Diſſolve me into extaſies,

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.

And may, at laſt, my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage,

[45]The hairy grown and moſſy cell,

Where I may ſit, and rightly ſpell

Of every ſtar that Heaven doth ſhew,

And every herb that ſips the dew;

Till old experience do attain

To ſomething like prophetic ſtrain.

Theſe pleaſures, Melancholy give,

And I with thee will chooſe to live.

L'ALLEGRO.

[46]

HENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackeſt Midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongſt horrid ſhapes, and ſhrieks, and ſights un⯑holy,

Find out ſome uncouth cell,

Where brooding darkneſs ſpreads his jealous wings,

And the night raven ſings;

There, under ebon ſhades, and low-brow'd rocks,

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian deſert ever dwell.

But come, thou goddeſs fair and free,

In Heav'n yclep'd Euphroſine,

And, by men, heart-eaſing Mirth,

Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,

With two ſiſter graces more,

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;

Or whether (as ſome ſages ſing)

The frolic wind that breathes the ſpring,

Zephyr with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a maying;

There, on beds of violets blue,

And freſh blown roſes waſh'd in dew,

Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,

So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

[47]Haſte thee, nymph, and bring with thee

Jeſt, and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,

Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple ſleek;

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter, holding both his ſides.

Come, and trip it as you go,

On the light fantaſtic toe;

And, in thy right hand, lead with thee

The mountain nymph, ſweet Liberty;

And, if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleaſures free;

To hear the lark begin his flight,

And, ſinging, ſtartle the dull night

From his watch-tow'r in the ſkies,

Till the dappled dawn doth riſe;

Then to come, in ſpite of ſorrow,

And, at my window, bid good morrow,

Through the ſweet-briar, or the vine,

Or the twiſted eglantine:

While the cock, with lively din,

Scatters the rear of darkneſs thin,

And to the ſtack, or barn-door,

Stoutly ſtruts his dames before:

Oft liſt'ning how the hounds and horn

Chearly rouſe the ſlumb'ring morn,

[48]From the ſide of ſome hoar hill,

Through the high wood echoing ſhrill:

Some time walking, not unſeen,

By hedge row elms, on hillocks green,

Right againſt the eaſtern gate,

Where the great ſun begins his ſtate,

Rob'd in flames and amber light,

The clouds in thouſand liveries dight,

While the plowman, near at hand,

Whiſtles o'er the furrow'd land,

And the milk-maid ſingeth blithe,

And the mower whets his ſcythe,

And every ſhepherd tells his tale

Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Strait mine eye hath caught new pleaſures

Whilſt the landſkip round it meaſures,

Ruſſet lawns, and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do ſtray.

Mountains, on whoſe barren breaſt

The lab'ring clouds do often reſt;

Meadows, trim with daiſies pied,

Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

Towers and battlements it ſees

Boſom'd high in tufted trees,

Where, perhaps, ſome beauty lies,

The Cynoſure of neighb'ring eyes.

Hard by a cottage chimney ſmokes,

From betwixt two aged oaks,

Where Corydon and Thyrſis, met,

Are at their ſavory dinner ſet,

[49]Of herbs, and other country meſſes,

Which the neat handed Phillis dreſſes;

And then, in haſte, her bow'r ſhe leaves,

With Theſtylis to bind the ſheaves;

Or, if the earlier ſeaſon lead,

To the tann'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes, with ſecure delight,

The upland hamlets will invite,

When the merry bells ring round,

And the jocund rebecs ſound

To many a youth, and many a maid,

Dancing in the chequer'd ſhade;

And young and old come forth to play

On a ſun-ſhine holy-day,

Till the live-long day-light fail;

Then to the ſpicy nut-brown ale,

With ſtories told of many a feat,

How fairy Mab the junkets eat,

She was pincht and pull'd, ſhe ſaid,

And he by fryar's lanthorn led;

Tells how the drudging goblin ſwet

To earn his cream-bowl duly ſet,

When in one night, ere glimpſe of morn,

His ſhadowy flale had thraſh'd the corn

That ten day-lab'rers could not end;

Then lies him down the lubbard fiend,

And ſtretch'd out all the chimney's length,

Baſks at the fire his hairy ſtrength,

And, crop-full, out of doors he flings,

Ere the firſt cock his matin lings.

[50]Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,

By whiſp'ring winds ſoon lull'd aſleep.

Towered cities pleaſe us then,

And the buſy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold,

In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,

With ſtore of ladies, whoſe bright eyes,

Rain influence, and judge the prize

Of wit, or arms, while both contend

To win her grace, whom all commend.

There let Hymen oft appear

In ſaffron robe, with taper clear,

And pomp, and feaſt, and revelry,

With maſk, and antique pageantry,

Such fights as youthful poets dream

On ſummer eves, by haunted ſtream.

Then to the well-trod ſtage anon,

If Johnſon's learned ſock be on,

Or ſweeteſt Shakeſpear, Fancy's child,

Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever, againſt eating cares,

Lap me in ſoft Lydian airs,

Married to immortal verſe,

Such as the meeting ſoul may pierce,

In notes with many a winding bout

Of linked ſweetneſs, long drawn out,

With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,

The melting voice through mazes running,

Untwiſting all the chains that tye

The hidden ſoul of harmony;

[51]That Orpheus ſelf may heave his head

From golden ſlumber on a bed

Of heapt Elyſian flow'r, and hear

Such ſtrains as would have won the ear

Of Pluto, to have quite ſet free

His half regain'd Eurydice.

Theſe delights if thou can'ſt give,

Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

AN ELEGY, Written in a Country Church Yard.

[53]

This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epi⯑thet. The heroic meaſure with alternate rhime is very properly adapted to the ſolemnity of the ſub⯑ject, as it is the ſloweſt movement that our language admits of. The latter part of the poem is pa⯑thetic and intereſting.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds ſlowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkneſs and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landſcape on the ſight,

And all the air a ſolemn ſtillneſs holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,

And drouſy tinklings lull the diſtant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the Moon complain

Of ſuch, as, wand'ring near her ſecret bow'r,

Moleſt her ancient, ſolitary reign.

Beneath thoſe rugged elms, that yew-trees ſhade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet ſleep.

[54]The breezy call of incenſe-breathing morn,

The ſwallow, twitt'ring from the ſtraw-built ſhed,

The cock's ſhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more ſhall rouſe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth ſhall burn,

Or buſy houſewife ply her evening care:

Nor children run to liſp their ſire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiſs to ſhare.

Oft did the harveſt to their ſickle yield,

Their ſurrow oft the ſtubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their ſturdy ſtroke!

Let not ambition mock their uſeful toil,

Their homely joys, and deſtiny obſcure;

Nor grandeur hear with a diſdainful ſmile,

The ſhort and ſimple annals of the poor.

The boaſt of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await, alike th' inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to theſe the fault,

If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raiſe,

Where, thro' the long-drawn iſle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem ſwells the note of praiſe.

Can ſtoried urn, or animated buſt,

Back to its manſion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the ſilent duſt,

Or Flatt'ry ſoothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected ſpot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celeſtial fire:

[55]Hands, that the rod of empire might have ſway'd,

Or wak'd to extaſy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the ſpoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repreſs'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the ſoul.

Full many a gem, of pureſt ray ſerene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flow'r is born to bluſh unſeen,

And waſte its ſweetneſs on the deſert air.

Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntleſs breaſt,

The little tyrant of his fields withſtood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may reſt;

Some Cromwell guiltleſs of his country's blood.

Th' applauſe of liſt'ning ſenates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to deſpiſe,

To ſcatter plenty o'er a ſmiling land,

And read their hiſtory in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumſcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;

Forbad to wade through ſlaughter to a throne,

And ſhut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The ſtruggling pangs of conſcious truth to hide,

To quench the bluſhes of ingenuous ſhame,

Or heap the ſhrine of Luxury and Pride

With incenſe, kindled at the muſe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ſtrife,

Their ſober wiſhes never learn'd to ſtray;

Along the cool, ſequeſter'd vale of life,

They kept the noiſeleſs tenor of their way.

[56]Yet ev'n theſe bones from inſult to protect,

Some frail memorial ſtill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and ſhapeleſs ſculpture deck'd,

Implores the paſſing tribute of a ſigh.

Their name, their years, ſpelt by th' unletter'd muſe,

The place of fame and elegy ſupply:

And many a holy text around ſhe ſtrews,

That teach the ruſtic moraliſt to dye.

For who, to dumb forgetfulneſs a prey,

This pleaſing anxious being e'er reſign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,

Nor caſt one longing, ling'ring, look behind?

On ſome fond breaſt the parting ſoul relies,

Some pious drops the cloſing eye requires:

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

Ev'n in our aſhes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Doſt in theſe lines their artleſs tale relate;

If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred ſpirit ſhall inquire thy fate,

Haply ſome hoary-headed ſwain may ſay,

"Oft have we ſeen him, at the peep of dawn,

Bruſhing, with haſty ſteps, the dews away,

To meet the ſun upon the upland lawn.

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wriths its old fantaſtic roots ſo high,

His liſtleſs length at noon-tide would he ſtretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now ſmiling, as in ſcorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he wou'd rove;

[57]Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or croſs'd in hopeleſs love.

One morn I miſs'd him on the 'cuſtom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree:

Another came; nor yet beſide the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

The next, with dirges due, in ſad array,

Slow thro' the church-yard path we ſaw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou can'ſt read) the lay,

Grav'd on the ſtone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.Here reſts his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his ſoul ſincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely ſend:
He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear;
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wiſh'd) a friend.
No farther ſeek his merits to diſcloſe,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repoſe)
The boſom of his Father and his God.

[...]

LONDON. In Imitation of the Third Satire of JUVENAL.

[59]

This poem of Mr. Johnſon's is the beſt imitation of the original that has appeared in our language, being poſſeſſed of all the force and ſatyrical re⯑ſentment of Juvenal. Imitation gives us a much truer idea of the ancients than even tranſlation could do.

THO' grief and fondneſs in my breaſt rebel,

When injur'd Thales bids the town farewel,

Yet ſtill my calmer thoughts his choice commend,

I praiſe the hermit, but regret the friend;

Who now reſolves, from vice and London far,

To breathe in diſtant fields a purer air,

And, fix'd on Cambria's ſolitary ſhore,

Give to St. David one true Briton more.

For who wou'd leave, unbrib'd, Hibernia's land,

Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand?

There none are ſwept by ſudden fate away,

But all, whom hunger ſpares, with age decay:

Here malice, rapine, accident, conſpire;

And now a rabble rages, now a fire:

Their ambuſh here relentleſs ruffians lay,

And here the fell attorney prowls for prey:

[60]Here falling houſes thunder on your head,

And here a female atheiſt talks you dead.

While Thales waits the wherry that contains

Of diſſipated wealth the ſmall remains,

On Thames's bank in ſilent thought we ſtood,

Where Greenwich ſmiles upon the ſilver flood.

Struck with the ſeat that gave Eliza birth,

We kneel, and kiſs the conſecrated earth;

In pleaſing dreams the bliſsful age renew,

And call Britannia's glories back to view;

Behold her croſs triumphant on the main,

The guard of commerce and the dread of Spain.

Ere maſquerades debauch'd, exciſe oppreſs'd,

Or Engliſh honour grew a ſtanding jeſt.

A tranſient calm the happy ſcenes beſtow,

And, for a moment, lull the ſenſe of woe.

At length awaking with contemptuous frown,

Indignant Thales eyes the neighb'ring town.

Since worth, he cries, in theſe degen'rate days,

Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praiſe;

In thoſe curſt walls, devote to vice and gain,

Since unrewarded ſcience toils in vain;

Since hope but ſooths to double my diſtreſs,

And ev'ry moment leaves my little leſs;

While yet my ſteady ſteps no ſtaff ſuſtains,

And life ſtill vig'rous revels in my veins;

Grant me, kind heaven, to find ſome happier place,

Where honeſty and ſenſe are no diſgrace;

Some pleaſing bank, where verdant oſiers play,

Some peaceful vale, with nature's painting gay;

[61]Where once the harraſs'd Briton found repoſe,

And ſafe, in poverty, defy'd his foes:

Some ſecret cell, ye pow'rs indulgent, give:

Let — live here; for — has learn'd to live.

Here let thoſe reign, whom penſions can incite

To vote a patriot black, a courtier white;

Explain their country's dear-bought rights away,

And plead for pirates in the face of day;

With ſlaviſh tenets taint our poinſon'd youth,

And lend a lye the confidence of truth.

Let ſuch raiſe palaces, and manors buy,

Collect a tax, or farm a lottery,

With warbling eunuchs fill a licens'd ſtage,

And lull to ſervitude a thoughtleſs age.

Heroes proceed! what bounds your pride ſhall hold?

What check reſtrain your thirſt of pow'r and gold?

Behold rebellious virtue quite o'erthrown,

Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your own.

To ſuch, a groaning nation's ſpoils are giv'n,

When public crimes inflame the wrath of heav'n:

But what, my friend, what hope remains for me,

Who ſtart at theft, and bluſh at perjury?

Who ſcarce forbear, tho' Britain's court he ſing,

To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing;

A ſtateſman's logic unconvinc'd can hear,

And dare to ſlumber o'er the Gazetteer;

Deſpiſe a fool in half his penſion dreſs'd,

And ſtrive in vain to laugh at H—y's jeſt.

Others with ſofter ſmiles, and ſubtler art,

Can ſap the principles, or taint the heart;

[62]With more addreſs a lover's note convey,

Or bribe a virgin's innocence away.

Well may they riſe, while I, whoſe ruſtic tongue

Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varniſh wrong,

Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a ſpy,

Live unregarded, unlamented die.

For what but ſocial guilt the friend endears?

Who ſhares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune ſhares:

But thou, ſhould tempting villainy preſent,

All Marlb'rough hoarded, or all Villiers ſpent,

Turn from the glitt'ring bribe thy ſcornful eye,

Nor ſell for gold, what gold could never buy,

The peaceful ſlumber, ſelf-approving day,

Unſullied fame, and conſcience ever gay.

The cheated nation's happy fav'rites ſee;

Mark whom the great careſs, who frown on me.

London! the needy villain's gen'ral home,

The common ſewer of Paris and of Rome,

With eager thirſt, by folly or by fate,

Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted ſtate;

Forgive my tranſports on a theme like this;

I cannot bear a French metropolis.

Illuſtrious Edward! from the realms of day

The land of heroes and of ſaints ſurvey;

Nor hope the Britiſh lineaments to trace,

The ruſtic grandeur, or the ſurly grace,

But, loſt in thoughtleſs eaſe, and empty ſhow,

Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau;

Senſe, freedom, piety, refin'd away,

Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey.

[63]All that at home no more can beg or ſteal,

Or like a gibbet better than a wheel;

Hiſs'd from the ſtage, or hooted from the court,

Their air, their dreſs, their politics import;

Obſequious, artful, voluble, and gay,

On Britain's fond credulity they prey.

No gainful trade their induſtry can 'ſcape,

They ſing, they dance, clean ſhoes, or cure a clap;

All ſciences a faſting Monſieur knows,

And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.

Ah! what avails it, that, from ſlav'ry far,

I drew the breath of life in Engliſh air;

Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,

And liſp the tales of Henry's victories;

If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,

And flattery ſubdues when arms are vain?

Studious to pleaſe, and ready to ſubmit,

The ſupple Gaul was born a paraſite:

Still to his int'reſt true, where-e'er he goes,

Wit, bravery, worth, his laviſh tongue beſtows;

In ev'ry face a thouſand graces ſhine,

From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine.

Theſe arts in vain our rugged natives try,

Strain out with fault'ring diſſidence a lye,

And gain a kick for aukward flattery.

Beſides, with juſtice this diſcerning age

Admires their wond'rous talents for the ſtage:

Well may they venture on the mimic's art,

Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part;

Practis'd their maſter's notions to embrace,

Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;

[64]With ev'ry wild abſurdity comply,

And view each object with another's eye;

To ſhake with laughter ere the jeſt they hear,

To pour, at will, the counterfeited tear,

And, as their patron hints the cold or heat,

To ſhake in Dog-days, in December ſweat.

How, when competitors like theſe contend,

Can ſurly virtue hope to fix a friend?

Slaves, that with ſerious impudence beguile,

And lye without a bluſh, without a ſmile;

Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore,

Your taſte in ſnuff, your judgment in a whore;

Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and ſwear

He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.

For arts like theſe preferr'd, admir'd, careſs'd,

They firſt invade your table, then your breaſt;

Explore your ſecrets with inſidious art,

Watch the weak hour, and ranſack all the heart;

Then ſoon your ill-plac'd confidence repay,

Commence your lords, and govern or betray.

By numbers, here, from ſhame or cenſure free,

All crimes are ſafe, but hated poverty.

This, only this, the rigid law purſues;

This, only this, provokes the ſnarling muſe.

The ſober trader, at a tatter'd cloak,

Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;

With briſker air the ſilken courtiers gaze,

And turn the varied taunt a thouſand ways.

Of all the griefs that harraſs the diſtreſs'd,

Sure the moſt bitter is a ſcornful jeſt;

[65]Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,

Than when a blockhead's inſult points the dart.

Has Heaven reſerv'd, in pity to the poor,

No pathleſs waſte or undiſcover'd ſhore?

No ſecret iſland in the boundleſs main?

No peaceful deſart yet unclaim'd by Spain?

Quick let us riſe, the happy ſeats explore,

And bear oppreſſion's inſolence no more.

This mournful truth is ev'ry where confeſs'd,

SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D:

But here more ſlow, where all are ſlaves to gold,

Where looks are merchandiſe, and ſmiles are ſold;

Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd,

The groom retails the favours of his lord.

But hark, th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries

Roll through the ſtreets and thunder to the ſkies;

Rais'd from ſome pleaſing dream of wealth and power,

Some pompous palace or ſome bliſsful bow'r,

Aghaſt you ſtart, and ſcarce with aching ſight

Suſtain th' approaching fire's tremendous light;

Swift from purſuing honors take your way,

And leave your little All to flames a prey;

Then thro' the world a wretched vagrant roam;

For where can ſtarving merit find a home?

In vain your mournful narrative diſcloſe,

While all neglect, and moſt inſult your woes.

Should Heaven's juſt bolts Orgilio's wealth confound,

And ſpread his flaming palace on the ground,

Swift o'er the land the diſmal rumour flies,

And public mournings pacify the ſkies;

[66]The laureate tribe in ſervile verſe relate,

How virtue wars with perſecuting fate;

With well-feign'd gratitude the penſion'd band

Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.

See! while he builds, the gaudy vaſſals come,

And crowd with ſudden wealth the riſing dome;

The price of boroughs and of ſouls reſtore;

And raiſe his treaſures higher than before.

Now bleſs'd with all the baubles of the great,

The poliſh'd marble, and the ſhining plate,

Orgilio ſees the golden pile aſpire,

And hopes from angry Heav'n another fire.

Could'ſt thou reſign the park and play, content,

For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;

There might'ſt thou find ſome elegant retreat,

Some hireling ſenator's deſerted ſeat!

And ſtretch thy proſpects o'er the ſmiling land,

For leſs than rent the dungeons of the Strand;

There prune thy walks, ſupport thy drooping flow'rs,

Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bow'rs;

And, while thy beds a cheap repaſt afford,

Deſpiſe the dainties of a venal lord.

There ev'ry buſh with nature's muſic rings,

There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings;

On all thy hours ſecurity ſhall ſmile,

And bleſs thy evening walk and morning toil.

Prepare for death if here at night you roam,

And ſign your will before you ſup from home.

Some fiery fop, with new commiſſion vain,

Who ſleeps on brambles till he kills his man;

[67]Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feaſt,

Provokes a broil, and ſtabs you for a jeſt.

Yet e'en theſe heroes, miſchievouſly gay,

Lords of the ſtreet, and terrors of the way;

Fluſh'd as they are with folly, youth and wine,

Their prudent inſults to the poor confine;

Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach,

And ſhun the ſhining train, and golden coach.

In vain theſe dangers paſt, your doors you cloſe,

And hope the balmy bleſſings of repoſe:

Cruel with guilt, and daring with deſpair,

The midnight murd'rer burſts the faithleſs bar;

Invades the ſacred hour of ſilent reſt,

And plants, unſeen, a dagger in your breaſt.

Scarce can our fields, ſuch crowds at Tyburn die,

With hemp the gallows and the fleet ſupply.

Propoſe your ſchemes, ye ſenatorian band,

Whoſe ways and means ſupport the ſinking land;

Leſt ropes be wanting in the tempting ſpring,

To rig another convoy for the k—g.

A ſingle jail, in Alfred's golden reign,

Could half the nation's criminals contain;

Fair juſtice, then, without conſtraint ador'd,

Held high the ſteady ſcale, but deep'd the ſword;

No ſpies were paid, no ſpecial juries known;

Bleſt age! but ah! how diff'rent from our own!

Much could I add, but ſee the boat at hand,

The tide, retiring, calls me from the land:

Farewel!—When youth, and health, and fortune ſpent,

Thou fly'ſt for refuge to the Wilds of Kent;

[68]And tir'd, like me, with follies and with crimes,

In angry numbers warn'ſt ſucceeding times;

Then ſhall thy friend; nor thou refuſe his aid,

Still foe to vice, forſake his Cambrian ſhade;

In virtue's cauſe once more exert his rage,

Thy ſatire point, and animate thy page.

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. In Imitation of SPENCER.

[69]

This poem is one of thoſe happineſſes in which a poet excels himſelf, as there is nothing in all Shenſtone which any way approaches it in merit; and, though I diſlike the imitations of our old Engliſh poets in general, yet, on this minute ſubject, the antiquity of the ſtyle produces a very ludicrous ſolemnity.

AH me! full ſorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modeſt worth neglected lies;
While partial Fame doth with her blaſts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp diſguiſe;
Deeds of ill ſort, and miſchievous emprize:
Lend me thy clarion, goddeſs! let me try
To ſound the praiſe of merit, ere it dies!
Such as I oft have chaunced to eſpy,
Loſt in the dreary ſhades of dull obſcurity.

In ev'ry village mark'd with little ſpire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly ſhed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we ſchool-miſtreſs name;
Who boaſts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven ſore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentleſs dame;
And oft-times on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or taſk unconn'd, are ſorely ſhent.

[70]And all in ſight doth riſe a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did ſtowe;
Whilom a twig of ſmall regard to ſee,
Tho' now ſo wide its waving branches flow;
And work the ſimple vaſſals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs ſhudder'd, and their pulſe beat low;
And, as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
And ſhap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.

So have I ſeen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeleſs phantom near a garden plac'd;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of ſport, of ſong, of pleaſure, of repaſt;
They ſtart, they ſtare, they wheel, they look aghaſt;
Sad ſervitude! ſuch comfortleſs annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taſte!
Ne ſuperſtition clog his dance of joy,
Ne viſion empty, vain, his native bliſs deſtroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch ſo green,
On which the tribe their gambols do diſplay;
And at the door impris'ning board is ſeen,
Leſt weakly wights of ſmaller ſize ſhould ſtray;
Eager, perdie, to baſk of ſunny day!
The noiſes intermix'd, which hence reſound,
Do learning's little tenement betray:
Where ſits the dame, diſguis'd in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

[71]Her cap, far whiter than the driven ſnow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for ſceptre, ſhe does wield
Tway birchen ſprays; with anxious fear entwin'd,
With dark diſtruſt, and ſad repentance fill'd;
And ſtedfaſt hate, and ſharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd, and chaſtiſement unkind.

Few but have ken'd, in ſemblance meet pourtray'd,
The childiſh faces of old Eol's train;
Libs, Notus, Auſter: theſe in frowns array'd,
How then would fare or earth, or ſky, or main,
Were the ſtern god to give his ſlaves the rein?
And were not ſhe rebellious breaſts to quell,
And were not ſhe her ſtatutes to maintain,
The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell,
Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell.

A ruſſet ſtole was o'er her ſhoulders thrown;
A ruſſet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
'Twas ſimple ruſſet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock ſo fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, ſooth to ſay, her pupils, rang'd around,
Thro' pious awe, did term it paſſing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think, no doubt, ſhe been the greateſt wight on ground.

[72]Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, goſſip, n'aunt, forſooth,
Or dame, the ſole additions ſhe did hear;
Yet theſe ſhe challeng'd, theſe ſhe held right dear:
Ne wou'd eſteem him act as mought behove,
Who ſhould not honour'd eld with theſe revere:
For never title yet ſo mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

One ancient hen ſhe took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the buſy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need,
Into her ſchool, begirt with chickens, came;
Such favour did her paſt deportment claim;
And, if neglect had laviſh'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, ſhe would collect the ſame;
For well ſhe knew, and quaintly cou'd expound,
What ſin it were to waſte the ſmalleſt crumb ſhe found.

Herbs too ſhe knew, and well of each could ſpeak
That in her garden ſipp'd the ſilv'ry dew;
Where no vain flow'r diſclos'd a gaudy ſtreak;
But herbs for uſe, and phyſic, not a few,
Of grey renown, within thoſe borders grew:
The tufted baſil, pun-provoking thyme,
Freſh baum, and mary-gold of chearful hue;
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;
And more I fain would ſing, diſdaining here to rhime.

[73]Yet euphraſy may not be left unſung,
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around;
And pungent radiſh, biting infant's tongue;
And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound;
And marj'ram ſweet, in ſhepherd's poſie found;
And lavender, whoſe ſpikes, of azure bloom,
Shall be, ere-while, in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amidſt the labours of her loom,
And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare perfume.

And here trim roſmarine, that whilom crown'd
The daintieſt garden of the proudeſt peer;
Ere, driven from its envied ſite, it found
A ſacred ſhelter for its branches here;
Where, edg'd with gold, its glitt'ring ſkirts appear.
O waſſel days! O cuſtoms meet and well!
Ere this was baniſh'd from its lofty ſpere:
Simplicity then ſought this humble cell,
Nor ever would ſhe more with Thane and lordling dwell.

Here oft the dame, on ſabbath's decent eve,
Hymned ſuch pſalms as Sternhold forth did mete;
If winter 'twere, ſhe to her hearth did cleave;
But in her garden found a ſummer ſeat:
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Iſrael's ſons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foe-men did a ſong intreat,
All, for the nonce, untuning ev'ry ſtring,
Up hung their uſeleſs lyres—ſmall heart had they to ſing.

[74]For ſhe was juſt, and friend to virtuous lore,
And paſs'd much time in truly virtuous deed;
And, in thoſe elfins' ears, would oft deplore
The times, when truth by popiſh rage did bleed;
And tortious death was true devotion's meed;
And ſimple faith in iron chains did mourn,
That nould on wooden image place her creed;
And lawny ſaints in ſmould'ring flames did burn:
Ah! deareſt Lord, forefend, thilk days ſhould e'er return.

In elbow chair, like that of Scottiſh ſtem
By the ſharp tooth of cank'ring eld defac'd,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our ſovereign prince and liefeſt liege is plac'd,
The matron ſate; and ſome with rank ſhe grac'd,
(The ſource of children's and of courtier's pride!)
Redreſs'd affronts, for vile affronts there paſs'd;
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well ſhe knew each temper to deſcry;
To thwart the proud, and the ſubmiſs to raiſe;
Some with vile copper prize exalt on high,
And ſome entice with pittance ſmall of praiſe;
And other ſome with baleful ſprig ſhe 'frays:
Ev'n abſent, ſhe the reins of pow'r doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd ſhe ſways;
Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold,
'Twill whiſper in her ear, and all the ſcene unfold.

[75]Lo now with ſtate ſhe utters the command!
Eftſoons the urchins to their taſks repair;
Their books, of ſtature ſmall, they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn ſecured are;
To ſave, from finger wet, the letters fair:
The work ſo gay, that on their back is ſeen,
St. George's high atchievements does declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleaſing ſight, I ween!

Ah luckleſs he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil ſtar! it irks me whilſt I write!
As erſt the bard by Mulla's ſilver ſtream,
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
Sigh'd as he ſung, and did in tears indite.
For, brandiſhing the rod, ſhe doth begin
To looſe the brogues, the ſtripling's late delight!
And down they drop; appears his dainty ſkin,
Fair as the furry coat of whiteſt ermilin.

O ruthful ſcene! when, from a nook obſcure,
His little ſiſter doth his peril ſee:
All playful as ſhe ſate, ſhe grows demure;
She finds full ſoon her wonted ſpirits flee;
She meditates a pray'r to ſet him free:
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny,
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree)
To her ſad grief that ſwells in either eye,
And wrings her ſo that all for pity ſhe could die.

[76]Nor longer can ſhe now her ſhrieks command;
And hardly ſhe forbears, thro' aweful fear,
To ruſhen forth, and, with preſumptuous hand,
To ſtay harſh juſtice in its mid career.
On thee ſhe calls, on thee her parent dear!
(Ah! too remote to ward the ſhameful blow!)
She ſees no kind domeſtic viſage near,
And ſoon a flood of tears begins to flow;
And gives a looſe, at laſt, to unavailing woe.

But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace?
Or what device his loud laments explain?
The form uncouth of his diſguiſed face?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain?
The plenteous ſhow'r that does his cheek diſtain?
When he, in abject wiſe, implores the dame,
Ne hopeth aught of ſweet reprieve to gain;
Or when from high ſhe levels well her aim,
And, thro' the thatch, his cries each falling ſtroke proclaim.

The other tribe, aghaſt, with ſore diſmay,
Attend, and conn their taſks with mickle care:
By turns, aſtony'd, every twig ſurvey,
And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware;
Knowing, I wiſt, how each the ſame may ſhare;
'Till fear has taught them a performance meet,
And to the well-known cheſt the dame repair;
Whence oft with ſugar'd cates ſhe doth 'em greet,
And gingerbread y-rare; now, certe, doubly ſweet!

[77]See to their ſeats they hye with merry glee,
And in beſeemly order ſitten there;
All but the wight of bum y-galled, he
Abhorreth bench, and ſtool, and fourm, and chair;
(This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair;)
And eke with ſnubs profound, and heaving breaſt.
Convulſions intermitting! does declare
His grievous wrong; his dame's unjuſt beheſt;
And ſcorns her offer'd love, and ſhuns to be careſs'd.

His face beſprent with liquid cryſtal ſhines,
His blooming face, that ſeems a purple flow'r,
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All ſmear'd and ſully'd by a vernal ſhow'r.
O the hard boſoms of deſpotic pow'r!
All, all, but ſhe, the author of his ſhame,
All, all, but ſhe, regret this mournful hour:
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r, ſhall claim,
If ſo I deem aright, tranſcending worth and fame.

Behind ſome door, in melancholy thought,
Mindleſs of food, he, dreary caitif, pines;
Ne for his fellow's joyaunce careth aught,
But to the wind all merriment reſigns,
And deems it ſhame, if he to peace inclines;
And many a ſullen look aſcance is ſent,
Which for his dame's annoyance he deſigns;
And ſtill the more to pleaſure him ſhe's bent,
The more doth he, perverſe, her haviour paſt reſent.

[78]Ah me! how much I fear leſt pride it be!
But if that pride it be, which thus inſpires,
Beware ye dames, with nice diſcernment ſee
Ye quench not too the ſparks of nobler fires:
Ah! better far than all the muſes' lyres,
All coward arts, is valour's gen'rous heat;
The firm fixt breaſt which fit and right requires,
Like Vernon's patriot ſoul, more juſtly great
Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry falſe deceit.

Yet nurs'd with ſkill, what dazling fruits appear!
Ev'n now ſagacious foreſight points to ſhow
A little bench of heedleſs biſhops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,
Or bard ſublime, if bard may e'er be ſo,
As Milton, Shakeſpear, names that ne'er ſhall die!
Tho' now he crawl along the ground ſo low,
Nor weeting how the muſe ſhou'd ſoar on high,
Wiſheth, poor ſtarv'ling elf! his paper-kite may fly.

And this, perhaps, who, cens'ring the deſign,
Low lays the houſe which that of cards doth build,
Shall Dennis be! if rigid fates incline,
And many an epic to his rage ſhall yield;
And many a poet quit th' Aonian field;
And, ſour'd by age, profound he ſhall appear,
As he who now with 'ſdainful fury thrill'd
Surveys mine work; and levels many a ſneer,
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, " What ſtuff is here?"

[79]But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle ſkie,
And liberty unbars her priſon-door,
And, like a ruſhing torrent, out they fly;
And now the graſſy cirque han cover'd o'er
With boiſt'rous revel-rout and wild uproar;
A thouſand ways in wanton rings they run,
Heav'n ſhield their ſhort-liv'd paſtimes, I implore!
For well may freedom, erſt ſo dearly won,
Appear to Britiſh elf more gladſome than the ſun.

Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your ſportive trade;
And chaſe gay flies, and cull the faireſt flow'rs,
For, when my bones in graſs-green ſods are laid;
For never may ye taſte more careleſs hours
In nightly caſtles, or in ladies bow'rs.
O vain to ſeek delight in earthly thing!
But moſt in courts, where proud ambition tow'rs!
Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can ſpring
Beneath the pompous dome of keſar or of king.

See in each ſprite ſome various bent appear!
Theſe rudely carol moſt incondite lay;
Thoſe ſauntering on the green, with jocund leer
Salute the ſtranger paſſing on his way;
Some builden fragile tenements of clay;
Some to the ſtanding lake their courſes bend,
With pebbles ſmooth at duck and drake to play;
Thilk to the huxter's ſav'ry cottage tend,
In paſtry kings and queens th' allotted mite to ſpend.

[80]Here, as each ſeaſon yields a diff'rent ſtore,
Each ſeaſon's ſtores in order ranged been;
Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er,
Galling full ſore th' unmoney'd wight, are ſeen;
And gooſe-b'rie clad in liv'ry red or green;
And here, of lovely dye, the cath'rine pear,
Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween:
O may no wight e'er pennyleſs come there,
Leſt, ſmit with ardent love, he pine with hopeleſs care!

See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
With thread ſo white in tempting poſies ty'd,
Scatt'ring like blooming maid their glances round,
With pamper'd look draw little eyes aſide;
And muſt be bought, though penury betide.
The plumb all azure, and the nut all brown,
And here, each ſeaſon, do thoſe cakes abide,
Whoſe honour'd names th' inventive city own,
Rend'ring thro' Britain's iſle Salopia's praiſes known.

Admir'd Salopia! that, with venial pride,
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambiant wave,
Fam'd for her loyal cares in perils try'd,
Her daughters lovely, and her ſtriplings brave:
Ah! midſt the reſt, may flow'rs adorn his grave,
Whoſe art did firſt theſe dulcet cates diſplay!
A motive fair to learning's imps he gave,
Who chearleſs o'er her darkling region ſtray;
'Till reaſon's morn ariſe and light them on their way.

COOPER's HILL.

[81]

This poem, by Denham, though it may have been exceeded by later attempts in deſcription, yet deſerves the higheſt applauſe, as it far ſurpaſſes all that went before it: the concluding part, though a little too much crowded, is very maſ⯑terly.

SURE there are poets which did never dream

Upon Parnaſſus, nor did taſte the ſtream

Of Helicon; we, therefore, may ſuppoſe

Thoſe made not poets, but the poets thoſe.

And, as courts make not kings, but kings the court,

So, where the muſes and their train reſort,

Parnaſſus ſtands; if I can be to thee

A poet, thou Parnaſſus art to me.

Nor wonder, if (advantag'd in my flight,

By taking wing from thy auſpicious height)

Through untrac'd ways and airy paths I fly,

More boundleſs in my fancy than my eye;

My eye, which, ſwift as thought, contracts the ſpace

That lies between, and firſt ſalutes the place

Crown'd with that ſacred pile, ſo vaſt, ſo high,

That, whether 'tis a part of earth, or ſky,

Uncertain ſeems, and may be thought a proud

Aſpiring mountain, or deſcending cloud;

[82]Paul's, the late theme of ſuch a ^* muſe, whoſe flight

Has bravely reach'd and ſoar'd above thy height:

Now ſhalt thou ſtand, tho' ſword, or time, or fire,

Or zeal, more fierce than they, thy fall conſpire;

Secure, whilſt thee the beſt of poets ſings,

Preſerv'd from ruin by the beſt of kings.

Under his proud ſurvey the city lies,

And, like a miſt, beneath a hill doth riſe;

Whoſe ſtate and wealth, the buſineſs and the crowd,

Seems, at this diſtance, but a darker cloud:

And is, to him who rightly things eſteems,

No other in effect than what it ſeems;

Where, with like haſte, tho' ſev'ral ways they run,

Some to undo, and ſome to be undone;

While luxury and wealth, like war and peace,

Are each the other's ruin, and increaſe;

As rivers loſt in ſeas, ſome ſecret vein

Thence reconveys, there to be loſt again.

Oh happineſs of ſweet retir'd content!

To be at once ſecure, and innocent.

Windſor the next (where Mars with Venus dwells,

Beauty with ſtrength) above the valley ſwells

Into my eye, and doth itſelf preſent

With ſuch an eaſy and unforc'd aſcent,

That no ſtupendious precipice denies

Acceſs, no horror turns away our eyes;

But ſuch a riſe, as doth at once invite

A pleaſure, and a rev'rence from the ſight.

[83]Thy mighty maſter's emblem, in whoſe face

Sate meekneſs, heighten'd with majeſtic grace;

Such ſeems thy gentle height, made only proud

To be the baſis of that pompous load,

Than which, a nobler weight no mountain bears,

But Atlas only, which ſupports the ſpheres.

When nature's hand this ground did thus advance,

'Twas guided by a wiſer power than Chance;

Mark'd out for ſuch an uſe, as if 'twere meant

T' invite the builder, and his choice prevent.

Nor can we call it choice, when, what we chuſe,

Folly or blindneſs only cou'd refuſe.

A crown of ſuch majeſtic tow'rs does grace

The gods great mother, when her heav'nly race

Do homage to her; yet ſhe cannot boaſt,

Among that num'rous and celeſtial hoſt,

More heroes than can Windſor; nor doth Fame's

Immortal book record more noble names.

Not to look back ſo far, to whom this iſle

Owes the firſt glory of ſo brave a pile,

Whether to Caeſar, Albanact, or Brute,

The Britiſh Arthur, or the Daniſh Knute,

(Tho' this, of old, no leſs conteſt did move,

Than when, for Homer's birth, ſev'n cities ſtrove)

(Like him in birth, thou ſhould'ſt be like in fame,

As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame)

But whoſoe'er it was, nature deſign'd

Firſt a brave place, and then as brave a mind.

Not to recount thoſe ſev'ral kings, to whom

It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb,

[84]But thee (great ^* Edward) and thy greater ſon,

(The lillies which his father wore he won)

And thy ^† Bellona, who the conſort came

Not only to thy bed, but to thy fame,

She to thy triumph led one captive ^‡ king,

And brought that ſon, which did the ſecond bring.

Then didſt thou found that order (whether love

Or victory thy royal thoughts did move)

Each was a noble cauſe, and nothing leſs

Than the deſign, has been the great ſucceſs:

Which foreign kings, and emperors eſteem

The ſecond honour to their diadem.

Had thy great deſtiny but giv'n thee ſkill

To know, as well as pow'r to act, her will,

That, from thoſe kings who then thy captives were,

In after-times ſhould ſpring a royal pair,

Who ſhould poſſeſs all that thy mighty pow'r,

Or thy deſires, more mighty, did devour;

To whom their better fate reſerves whate'er

The victor hopes for, or the vanquiſh'd fear;

That blood, which thou and thy great grandſire ſhed,

And all that ſince theſe ſiſter nations bled,

Had been unſpilt, had happy Edward known

That all the blood he ſpilt had been his own.

When he that patron choſe, in whom are join'd

Soldier and martyr, and his arms confin'd

Within the azure circle, he did ſeem

But to foretel, and propheſy of him,

[85]Who to his realms that azure round hath join'd,

Which nature for their bound at firſt deſign'd:

That bound, which, to the world's extremeſt ends,

Endleſs itſelf, its liquid arms extends:

Nor doth he need thoſe emblems which we paint,

But is himſelf the ſoldier and the ſaint.

Here ſhould my wonder dwell, and here my praiſe,

But my fix'd thoughts my wond'ring eye betrays

Viewing a neighb'ring hill, whoſe top of late

A chapel crown'd, 'till, in the common fate,

Th' adjoining abbey fell: (may no ſuch ſtorm

Fall on our times, where ruin muſt reform.)

Tell me, my muſe, what monſtrous dire offence,

What crime, could any Chriſtian king incenſe

To ſuch a rage? Was't luxury, or luſt?

Was he ſo temperate, ſo chaſte, to juſt?

Were theſe their crimes? They were his own much more:

But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor;

Who, having ſpent the treaſures of his crown,

Condemns their luxury to feed his own.

And yet this act, to varniſh o'er the ſhame

Of ſacrilege, muſt bear Devotion's name.

No crime ſo bold, but would be underſtood

A real, or, at leaſt, a ſeeming good.

Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the name,

And free from conſcience, is a ſlave to fame.

Thus, he the church at once protects, and ſpoils:

But princes' ſwords are ſharper than their ſtiles.

And thus to th' ages paſt he makes amends,

Their charity deſtroys, their faith defends.

[86]Then did religion, in a lazy cell,

In empty, airy contemplations dwell;

And, like the block, unmoved lay: but ours,

As much too active, like the ſtork devours.

Is there no temp'rate region can be known,

Betwixt their frigid, and our torrid, zone?

Cou'd we not wake from that lethargic dream,

But to be reſtleſs in a worſe extreme?

And, for that lethargy, was there no cure,

But to be caſt into a calenture?

Can knowledge have no bound, but muſt advance

So far, to make us wiſh for ignorance;

And rather in the dark to grope our way,

Than, led by a falſe guide, to err by day?

Who ſees theſe diſmal heaps, but would demand

What barbarous invader ſack'd the land?

But when he hears, no Goth, no Turk, did bring

This deſolation, but a Chriſtian king;

When nothing but the name of Zeal appears,

'Twixt our beſt actions, and the worſt of theirs,

What does he think our ſacrilege wou'd ſpare,

When ſuch the effects of our devotions are?

Parting from thence, 'twixt anger, ſhame, and fear,

Thoſe for what's paſt, and this for what's too near;

My eye, deſcending from the hill, ſurveys

Where Thames among the wanton vallies ſtrays.

Thames, the moſt lov'd of all the ocean's ſons

By his old ſire, to his embraces runs,

Haſting to pay his tribute to the ſea,

Like mortal life to meet eternity.

[87]Tho' with thoſe ſtreams he no reſemblance hold,

Whoſe foam is amber, and their gravel gold;

His genuine and leſs guilty wealth t'explore,

Search not his bottom, but ſurvey his ſhore;

O'er which he kindly ſpreads his ſpacious wing,

And hatches plenty for th'enſuing ſpring:

Nor then deſtroys it with too fond a ſtay,

Like mothers which their infants overlay;

Nor, with a ſudden and impetuous wave,

Like profuſe kings, reſumes the wealth he gave.

No unexpected inundations ſpoil

The mower's hopes, or mock the ploughman's toil:

But, godlike, his unwearied bounty flows;

Firſt loves to do, then loves the good he does.

Nor are his bleſſings to his banks confin'd,

But free and common as the ſea, or wind;

When he to boaſt, or to diſperſe his ſtores,

Full of the tributes of his grateful ſhores,

Viſits the world, and, in his flying towers,

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;

Finds wealth where 'tis, beſtows it where it wants,

Cities in deſarts, woods in cities plants.

So that to us no things, no place is ſtrange,

While his fair boſom is the world's exchange.

O could I flow like thee, and make thy ſtream

My great example, as it is my theme!

Tho' deep, yet clear, tho' gentle, not yet dull;

Strong, without rage, without o'erflowing, full.

Heav'n her Eridanus no more ſhall boaſt,

Whoſe fame in thine, like leſſer currents, loſt,

[88]Thy nobler ſtreams ſhall viſit Jove's abodes,

To ſhine among the ſtars, and bathe the gods:

Here nature, whether more intent to pleaſe

Us or herſelf, with ſtrange varieties,

(For things of wonder give no leſs delight

To the wiſe maker's, than beholder's ſight:

Tho' theſe delights from ſeveral cauſes move;

For ſo our children, thus our friends we love)

Wiſely ſhe knew the harmony of things,

As well as that of ſounds, from diſcord ſprings.

Such was the diſcord, which did firſt diſperſe

Form, order, beauty, through the univerſe;

While dryneſs, moiſture, coldneſs heat reſiſts,

All that we have, and that we are, ſubſiſts.

While the ſteep horrid roughneſs of the wood,

Strives with the gentle calmneſs of the flood,

Such huge extremes when nature doth unite,

Wonder from thence reſults, from thence delight.

The ſtream is to tranſparent, pure, and clear,

That, had the ſelf-enamour'd youth gaz'd here,

So fatally deceiv'd he had not been,

While he the bottom, not his face, had ſeen.

But his proud head the airy mountain hides

Among the clouds; his ſhoulders, and his ſides,

A ſhady mantle cloathes; his curled brows

Frown on the gentle ſtream, which calmly flows,

While winds and ſtorms his lofty forehead beat:

The common fate of all that's high or great.

Low at his foot a ſpacious plain is plac'd,

Between the mountain and the ſtream embrac'd:

[89]Which ſhade and ſhelter from the hill derives,

While the kind river wealth and beauty gives;

And in the mixture of all theſe appears

Variety, which all the reſt indears.

This ſcene had ſome bold Greek, or Britiſh bard,

Beheld of old, what ſtories had we heard,

Of fairies, ſatyrs, and the nymphs their dames,

Their feaſts, their revels, and their am'rous flames?

'Tis ſtill the ſame, altho' their airy ſhape

All but a quick poetic ſight eſcape.

There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their courts,

And thither all the horned hoſt reſorts,

To graze the ranker mead; that noble herd,

On whoſe ſublime and ſhady fronts is rear'd

Nature's great maſter-piece, to ſhew how ſoon

Great things are made, but ſooner are undone.

Here have I ſeen the king, when great affairs

Gave leave to ſlacken and unbend his cares,

Attended to the chaſe by all the flow'r

Of youth, whoſe hopes a noble prey devour:

Pleaſure with praiſe, and danger they would buy,

And wiſh a foe that would not only fly.

The ſtag, now conſcious of his fatal growth,

At once indulgent to his fear and ſloth,

To ſome dark covert his retreat had made,

Where nor man's eye, nor Heaven's ſhould invade

His ſoft repoſe; when th' unexpected ſound

Of dogs, and men, his wakeful ear does wound:

Rouz'd with the noiſe, he ſcarce believes his ear,

Willing to think th'illuſions of his fear

[90]Had giv'n this falſe alarm, but ſtraight his view

Confirms, that more than all he fears is true.

Betray'd in all his ſtrengths, the wood beſet,

All inſtruments, all arts of ruin met;

He calls to mind his ſtrength, and then his ſpeed,

His winged heels, and then his armed head;

With theſe t'avoid, with that his fate to meet:

But fear prevails, and bids him truſt his feet.

So faſt he flies, that his reviewing eye

Has loſt the chaſers, and his ear the cry;

Exulting, 'till he finds, their nobler ſenſe

Their diſproportion'd ſpeed does recompenſe;

Then curſes his conſpiring feet, whoſe ſcent

Betrays that ſafety which their ſwiftneſs lent.

Then tries his friends among the baſer herd,

Where he ſo lately was obey'd and fear'd,

His ſafety ſeeks: the herd, unkindly wiſe,

Or chaſes him from thence, or from him flies;

Like a declining ſtateſman, left forlorn,

To his friends pity, and purſuers ſcorn,

With ſhame remembers, while himſelf was one

Of the ſame herd, himſelf the ſame had done.

Thence to the coverts, and the conſcious groves,

The ſcenes of his paſt triumphs, and his loves;

Sadly ſurveying where he rang'd alone

Prince of the ſoil, and all the herd his own;

And, like a bold knight-errant, did proclaim

Combat to all, and bore away the dame;

And taught the woods to echo to the ſtream

His dreadful challenge, and his claſhing beam.

[91]Yet faintly now declines the fatal ſtrife;

So much his love was dearer than his life.

Now ev'ry leaf, and every moving breath,

Preſents a foe, and ev'ry foe a death.

Weary'd, forſaken, and purſu'd, at laſt,

All ſafety in deſpair of ſafety plac'd;

Courage he thence reſumes, reſolv'd to bear

All their aſſaults, ſince 'tis in vain to fear.

And now, too late, he wiſhes, for the fight,

That ſtrength he waſted in ignoble flight:

But, when he ſees the eager chace renew'd,

Himſelf by dogs, the dogs by men purſu'd,

He ſtrait revokes his bold reſolve, and more

Repents his courage, than his fear before;

Finds that uncertain ways unſafeſt are,

And doubt a greater miſchief than deſpair.

Then to the ſtream, when neither friends, nor force,

Nor ſpeed, nor art avail, he ſhapes his courſe;

Thinks not their rage ſo deſp'rate, to aſſay

An element more mercileſs than they.

But, fearleſs, they purſue, nor can the flood

Quench their dire thirſt; alas, they thirſt for blood.

So tow'rds a ſhip the oar-finn'd gallies ply,

Which wanting ſea to ride, or wind to fly,

Stands but to fall reveng'd on thoſe that dare

Tempt the laſt fury of extreme deſpair.

So fares the ſtag among th' enraged hounds,

Repels their force, and wounds returns for wounds.

And as a hero, whom his baſer foes

In troops ſurround, now theſe aſſail, now thoſe,

[92]Though prodigal of life, diſdains to die

By common hands; but, if he can deſcry

Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls,

And begs his fate, and then contented falls.

So when the king a mortal ſhaft lets fly

From his unerring hand, then, glad to die,

Proud of the wound, to it reſigns his blood,

And ſtains the cryſtal with a purple flood.

This a more innocent, and happy chaſe

Than when of old, but in the ſelf-ſame place,

Fair Liberty, purſu'd, and meant a prey

To lawleſs power, ^* here turn'd, and ſtood at bay.

When in that remedy all hope was plac'd,

Which was, or ſhould have been at leaſt, the laſt.

Here was that charter ſeal'd, wherein the crown

All marks of arbitrary pow'r lays down:

Tyrant and ſlave, thoſe names of hate and fear,

The happier ſtile of king and ſubject bear:

Happy, when both to the ſame center move,

When kings give liberty, and ſubjects love.

Therefore not long in force this charter ſtood;

Wanting that ſeal, it muſt be ſeal'd in blood.

The ſubjects arm'd, the more their princes gave,

Th' advantage only took, the more to crave:

'Till kings, by giving, give themſelves away,

And ev'n that pow'r, that ſhould deny, betray.

"Who gives conſtrain'd, but his own fear reviles,

Not thank't, but ſcorn'd; nor are they gifts, but ſpoils."

[93]Thus kings, by graſping more than they could hold,

Firſt made their ſubjects, by oppreſſion, bold:

And popular ſway, by forcing kings to give

More than was fit for ſubjects to receive,

Ran to the ſame extremes; and one exceſs

Made both, by ſtriving to be greater, l [...]ſs.

When a calm river, rais'd with ſudden rains,

Or ſnows diſſolv'd, o'erflows th' adjoining plains,

The huſbandmen with high-rais'd banks ſecure

Their greedy hopes, and this he can endure.

But if with bays and dams they ſtrive to force

His channel to a new, or narrow, courſe;

No longer, then, within his banks he dwells,

Firſt to a torrent, then a deluge, ſwells:

Stronger and fiercer by reſtraint he roars,

And knows no bound, but makes his pow'r his ſhores,

ELOISA TO ABELARD.

[95]

The harmony of numbers in this poem is very fine. It is rather drawn out to too tedious a length, altho' the paſſions vary with great judgement. It may be conſidered as ſuperior to any thing in the epiſtolary way; and the many tranſlations which have been made of it into the modern languages, are, in ſome meaſure, a proof of this.

IN theſe deep ſolitudes and awful cells,

Where heav'nly-penſive contemplation dwells,

And ever-muſing melancholy reigns;

What means this tumult in a veſtal's veins?

Why rove my thoughts beyond this laſt retreat?

Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?

Yet, yet I love!—From Abelard it came,

And Eloïſa yet muſt kiſs the name.

Dear, fatal name! reſt ever unreveal'd,

Nor paſs theſe lips in holy ſilence ſeal'd:

Hide it, my heart, within that cloſe diſguiſe,

Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:

O write it not, my hand—the name appears

Already written—waſh it out, my tears!

In vain loſt Eloïſa weeps and prays,

Her heart ſtill dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentleſs walls! whoſe darkſome round contains

Repentant ſighs, and voluntary pains:

[96]Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;

Ye grots and caverns, ſhagg'd with horrid thorn!

Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,

And pitying ſaints, whoſe ſtatues learn to weep!

Tho' cold like you, unmov'd and ſilent grown,

I have not yet forgot myſelf to ſtone.

All is not Heav'n's, while Abelard has part,

Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart;

Nor pray'rs, nor faſts, its ſtubborn pulſe reſtrain,

Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters, trembling, I uncloſe,

That well-known name awakens all my woes.

Oh name for ever ſad! for ever dear!

Still breath'd in ſighs, ſtill uſher'd with a tear.

I tremble, too, where-e'er my own I find,

Some dire misfortune follows cloſe behind.

Line after line my guſhing eyes o'erflow,

Led thro' a ſad variety of woe;

Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom,

Loſt in a convent's ſolitary gloom!

There ſtern Religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,

There dy'd the beſt of paſſions, Love and Fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join

Griefs to thy griefs, and echo ſighs to thine.

Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;

And is my Abelard leſs kind than they?

Tears ſtill are mine, and thoſe I need not ſpare,

Love but demands what elſe were ſhed in pray'r;

No happier taſk theſe faded eyes purſue;

To read and weep is all they now can do.

[97]Then ſhare thy pain, allow that ſad relief;

Ah, more than ſhare it, give me all thy grief.

Heav'n firſt taught letters for ſome wretch's aid,

Some baniſh'd lover, or ſome captive maid;

They live, they ſpeak, they breathe what love inſpires,

Warm from the ſoul, and faithful to its fires,

The virgin's wiſh without her fears impart,

Excuſe the bluſh, and pour out all the heart,

Speed the ſoft intercourſe from ſoul to ſoul,

And waft a ſigh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know'ſt how guiltleſs firſt I met thy flame,

When Love approach'd me under Friendſhip's name;

My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,

Some emanation of th' All-beauteous Mind.

Thoſe ſmiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray,

Shone ſweetly lambent with celeſtial day.

Guiltleſs I gaz'd; Heav'n liſten'd while you ſung;

And truths divine came mended from that tongue.

From lips like thoſe what precept fail'd to move?

Too ſoon they taught me 'twas no ſin to love:

Back thro' the paths of pleaſing ſenſe I ran,

Nor wiſh'd an Angel, whom I lov'd a Man.

Dim and remote the joys of ſaints I ſee;

Nor envy them that Heav'n I loſe for thee.

How oft, when preſs'd to marriage, have I ſaid,

Curſe on all laws but thoſe which love has made!

Love, free as air, at ſight of human ties,

Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,

Auguſt her deed, and ſacred be her fame;

[98]Before true paſſion all thoſe views remove,

Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love?

The jealous god, when we prophane his fires,

Thoſe reſtleſs paſſions in revenge inſpires,

And bids them make miſtaken mortals groan,

Who ſeek in love for aught but love alone.

Should at my feet the world's great maſter fall,

Himſelf, his throne, his world, I'd ſcorn 'em all;

Not Caeſar's empreſs would I deign to prove;

No, make me miſtreſs to the man I love.

If there be yet another name more free,

More fond than miſtreſs, make me that to thee!

Oh! happy ſtate, when ſouls each other draw,

When love is liberty, and nature law;

All then is full, poſſeſſing, and poſſeſs'd,

No craving void left aching in the breaſt:

Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,

And each warm wiſh ſprings mutual from the heart.

This ſure is bliſs (if bliſs on earth there be)

And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas how chang'd! what ſudden horrors riſe!

A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!

Where, where was Eloïſe? her voice, her hand,

Her ponyard had oppos'd the dire command.

Barbarian, ſtay! that bloody ſtroke reſtrain;

The crime was common, common be the pain.

I can no more; by ſhame, by rage ſuppreſs'd,

Let tears and burning bluſhes ſpeak the reſt.

Canſt thou forget that ſad, that ſolemn day,

When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?

[99]Canſt thou forget what tears that moment fell,

When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?

As, with cold lips, I kiſs'd the ſacred veil,

The ſhrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:

Heav'n ſcarce believ'd the conqueſt it ſurvey'd,

And ſaints with wonder heard the vows I made.

Yet then, to thoſe dread altars as I drew,

Not on the croſs my eyes were fix'd, but you:

Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call;

And if I loſe thy love, I loſe my all.

Come, with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;

Thoſe, ſtill, at leaſt, are left thee to beſtow.

Still on that breaſt enamour'd let me lie,

Still drink delicious poiſon from thy eye,

Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be preſs'd;

Give all thou canſt—and let me dream the reſt.

Ah no! inſtruct me other joys to prize,

With other beauties charm my partial eyes,

Full in my view ſet all the bright abode,

And make my ſoul quit Abelard for God.

Ah think, at leaſt, thy flock deſerves thy care,

Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.

From the falſe world in early youth they fled,

By thee to mountains, wilds, and deſerts led.

You rais'd theſe hallow'd walls; the deſert ſmil'd,

And paradiſe was open'd in the wild.

No weeping orphan ſaw his father's ſtores

Our ſhrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;

No ſilver ſaints, by dying miſers giv'n,

Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited Heav'n;

[100]But ſuch plain roofs as piety could raiſe,

And only vocal with the Maker's praiſe.

In theſe lone walls (their day's eternal bound)

Theſe moſs-grown domes with ſpiry turrets crown'd,

Where awful arches make a noon-day night,

And the dim windows ſhed a ſolemn light;

Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,

And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.

But now no face divine contentment wears,

'Tis all blank ſadneſs, or continual tears.

See how the force of others pray'rs I try,

(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)

But why ſhould I on other's pray'rs depend?

Come thou, my father, brother, huſband, friend!

Ah let thy handmaid, ſiſter, daughter, move,

And all thoſe tender names in one, thy love!

The darkſome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd,

Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,

The wand'ring ſtreams that ſhine between the hills,

The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,

The dying gales that pant upon the trees,

The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;

No more theſe ſcenes my meditation aid,

Or lull to reſt the viſionary maid.

But, o'er the twilight groves and duſky caves,

Long-ſounding iſles, and intermingled graves,

Black Melancholy ſits, and round her throws

A death-like ſilence, and a dread repoſe;

Her gloomy preſence ſaddens all the ſcene,

Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,

[101]Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,

And breathes a browner horror on the woods.

Yet here for ever, ever muſt I ſtay;

Sad proof how well a lover can obey!

Death, only death, can break the laſting chain;

And here, e'en then, ſhall my cold duſt remain;

Here all its frailties, all its flames reſign,

And wait 'till 'tis no ſin to mix with thine.

Ah wretch! believ'd the ſpouſe of God in vain,

Confeſs'd, within, the ſlave of love and man.

Aſſiſt me, Heav'n! but whence aroſe that pray'r?

Sprung it from piety, or from deſpair?

Ev'n here, where frozen chaſtity retires,

Love finds an altar for forbidden ſires.

I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;

I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;

I view my crime, but kindle at the view,

Repent old pleaſures, and ſolicit new;

Now, turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my paſt offence;

Now think of thee, and curſe my innocence.

Of all affliction taught a lover yet,

'Tis, ſure, the hardeſt ſcience to forget!

How ſhall I loſe the ſin, yet keep the ſenſe,

And love th'offender, yet deteſt th' offence?

How the dear object from the crime remove,

Or how diſtinguiſh penitence from love?

Unequal taſk! a paſſion to reſign,

For hearts ſo touch'd, ſo pierc'd, ſo loſt as mine!

Ere ſuch a ſoul regains its peaceful ſtate,

How often muſt it love, how often hate!

[102]How often hope, deſpair, reſent, regret,

Conceal, diſdain,—do all things but forget?

But let Heav'n ſeize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;

Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inſpir'd!

Oh come! oh teach me nature to ſubdue,

Renounce my love, my life, myſelf—and you.

Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he

Alone can rival, can ſucceed to thee.

How happy is the blameleſs veſtal's lot?

The world forgetting, by the world forgot:

Eternal ſun-ſhine of the ſpotleſs mind!

Each pray'r accepted, and each wiſh reſign'd;

Labour and reſt, that equal periods keep;

"Obedient ſlumbers, that can wake and weep;"

Deſires compos'd, affections ever ev'n;

Tears that delight, and ſighs that waft to heav'n.

Grace ſhines around her with ſereneſt beams,

And whiſp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.

For her th' unfading roſe of Eden blooms,

And wings of ſeraphs ſhed divine perfumes,

For her the ſpouſe prepares the bridal ring,

For her white virgins hymenaeals ſing,

To ſounds of heav'nly harps ſhe dies away,

And melts in viſions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring ſoul employ,

Far other raptures, of unholy joy:

When, at the cloſe of each ſad, ſorrowing day,

Fancy reſtores what vengeance ſnatch'd away,

Then conſcience ſleeps, and leaving nature free,

All my looſe ſoul unbounded ſprings to thee.

[103]O curſt, dear horrors of all-conſcious night!

How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!

Provoking daemons all reſtraint remove,

And ſtir within me ev'ry ſource of love.

I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,

And round thy phantom glue my claſping arms.

I wake:—no more I hear, no more I view,

The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.

I call aloud; it hears not what I ſay:

I ſtretch my empty arms; it glides away.

To dream once more I cloſe my willing eyes;

Ye ſoft illuſions, dear deceits, ariſe!

Alas, no more! methinks we wand'ring go

Thro' dreary waſtes, and weep each other's woe,

Where, round ſome mould'ring tow'r, pale ivy creeps,

And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.

Sudden you mount, you beckon from the ſkies;

Clouds interpoſe, waves roar, and winds ariſe.

I ſhriek, ſtart up, the ſame ſad proſpect find,

And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, ſeverely kind, ordain

A cool ſuſpence from pleaſure and from pain;

Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repoſe;

No pulſe that riots, and no blood that glows.

Still as the ſea, ere winds were taught to blow,

Or moving ſpirit bade the waters flow;

Soft as the ſlumbers of a ſaint forgiv'n,

And mild as op'ning gleams of promis'd heav'n.

Come, Abelard! for what haſt thou to dread?

The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.

[104]Nature ſtands check'd; Religion diſapproves;

Ev'n thou art cold—yet Eloïſa loves.

Ah hopeleſs, laſting flames! like thoſe that burn

To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.

What ſcenes appear where'er I turn my view?

The dear ideas, where I fly, purſue,

Riſe in the grove, before the altar riſe,

Stain all my ſoul, and wanton in my eyes.

I waſte the Matin lamp in ſighs for thee,

Thy image ſteals between my God and me,

Thy voice I ſeem in ev'ry hymn to hear,

With ev'ry bead I drop too ſoft a tear.

When from the cenſer clouds of fragrance roll,

And ſwelling organs lift the riſing ſoul,

One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,

Prieſts, tapers, temples, ſwim before my ſight:

In ſeas of flame my plunging ſoul is drown'd,

While Altars blaze, and Angels tremble round.

While proſtrate here in humble grief I lie,

Kind, virtuous drops juſt gath'ring in my eye,

While praying, trembling, in the duſt I roll,

And dawning grace is op'ning on my ſoul:

Come, if thou dar'ſt, all charming as thou art!

Oppoſe thyſelf to Heav'n; diſpute my heart;

Come, with one glance of thoſe deluding eyes

Blot out each bright idea of the ſkies;

Take back that grace, thoſe ſorrows, and thoſe tears;

Take back my fruitleſs penitence and pray'rs;

Snatch me, juſt mounting, from the bleſt abode;

Aſſiſt the fiends, and tear me from my God!

[105]No, fly me, fly me, far as Pole from Pole;

Riſe Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!

Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,

Nor ſhare one pang of all I felt for thee.

Thy oaths I quit, thy memory reſign;

Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.

Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)

Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!

O Grace ſerene! oh Virtue heav'nly fair!

Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!

Freſh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the ſky!

And Faith, our early immortality!

Enter each mild, each amicable gueſt;

Receive and wrap me in eternal reſt!

See in her cell ſad Eloïſa ſpread,

Propt on ſome tomb, a neighbour of the dead.

In each low wind methinks a Spirit calls,

And more than Echoes talk along the walls.

Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,

From yonder ſhrine I heard a hollow ſound.

"Come, ſiſter, come!" (it ſaid, or ſeem'd to ſay)

"Thy place is here, ſad ſiſter, come away!

Once, like thyſelf, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,

Love's victim then, tho' now a ſainted maid:

But all is calm in this eternal ſleep;

Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,

Ev'n ſuperſtition loſes ev'ry fear:

For God, not man, abſolves our frailties here."

I come, I come! prepare your roſeate bow'rs,

Celeſtial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.

[106]Thither, where ſinners may have reſt, I go,

Where flames refin'd in breaſts ſeraphic glow:

Thou, Abelard! the laſt ſad office pay,

And ſmooth my paſſage to the realms of day;

See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,

Suck my laſt breath, and catch my flying ſoul!

Ah no—in ſacred veſtments may'ſt thou ſtand,

The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,

Preſent the Croſs before my lifted eye,

Teach me, at once, and learn of me, to die.

Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloïſa ſee;

It will be, then, no crime to gaze on me.

See from my cheek the tranſient roſes fly!

See the laſt ſparkle languiſh in my eye!

'Till ev'ry motion, pulſe, and breath be o'er;

And e'en my Abelard be lov'd no more.

O Death all-eloquent! you only prove

What duſt we doat on, when 'tis man we love.

Then, too, when fate ſhall thy fair frame deſtroy,

(That cauſe of all my guilt, and all my joy)

In trance extatic may thy pangs be drown'd,

Bright clouds deſcend, and Angels watch thee round,

From op'ning ſkies may ſtreaming glories ſhine,

And Saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapleſs name,

And graft my love immortal on thy fame!

Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,

When this rebellious heart ſhall beat no more;

If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings

To Paraclete's white walls and ſilver ſprings,

[107]O'er the pale marble ſhall they join their heads,

And drink the falling tears each other ſheds;

Then ſadly ſay, with mutual pity mov'd,

"O may we never love as theſe have lov'd!"

From the full choir, when loud Hoſannas riſe,

And ſwell the pomp of dreadful ſacrifice,

Amid that ſcene if ſome relenting eye

Glance on the ſtone where our cold relics lie,

Devotion's ſelf ſhall ſteal a thought from Heav'n,

One human tear ſhall drop, and be forgiv'n.

And ſure, if fate ſome future bard ſhall join

In ſad ſimilitude of griefs to mine,

Condemn'd whole years in abſence to deplore,

And image charms he muſt behold no more;

Such if there be, who loves ſo long, ſo well;

Let him our ſad, our tender ſtory tell!

The well-ſung woes will ſooth my penſive ghoſt;

He beſt can paint 'em who ſhall feel 'em moſt.

AN EPISTLE, FROM Mr. PHILIPS to the Earl of DORSET.

[108]

The opening of this poem is incomparably fine.

The latter part is tedious and trifling.

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.

FROM frozen climes, and endleſs tracts of ſnow,

From ſtreams that northern winds forbid to flow;

What preſent ſhall the Muſe to Dorſet bring,

Or how, ſo near the Pole, attempt to ſing?

The hoary winter here conceals from ſight

All pleaſing objects that to verſe invite.

The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,

The flow'ry plains, and ſilver ſtreaming floods,

By ſnow diſguis'd, in bright confuſion lie,

And, with one dazzling waſte, fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the ſpring,

No birds within the deſart region ſing.

The ſhips, unmov'd, the boiſt'rous winds defy,

While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.

The vaſt Leviathan wants room to play,

And ſpout his waters in the face of day,

The ſtarving wolves along the main ſea prowl,

And to the moon in icy vallies howl.

[109]For many a ſhining league the level main

Here ſpreads itſelf into a glaſſy plain:

There ſolid billows, of enormous ſize,

Alps of green ice, in wild diſorder riſe.

And yet but lately have I ſeen, e'en here,

The winter in a lovely dreſs appear.

Ere yet the clouds let fall the treaſur'd ſnow,

Or winds begun thro' hazy ſkies to blow,

At ev'ning a keen eaſtern breeze aroſe;

And the deſcending rain unſullied froze.

Soon as the ſilent ſhades of night withdrew,

The ruddy morn diſclos'd at once to view

The face of nature in a rich diſguiſe,

And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes:

For ev'ry ſhrub, and every blade of graſs,

And ev'ry pointed thorn, ſeem'd wrought in glaſs,

In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns ſhow,

While thro' the ice the crimſon berries glow.

The thick-ſprung reeds the wat'ry marſhes yield,

Seem poliſh'd lances in a hoſtile field.

The ſtag, in limpid currents, with ſurprize,

Sees cryſtal branches on his forehead riſe.

The ſpreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,

Glaz'd over, in the freezing aether ſhine.

The frighted birds the rattling branches ſhun,

That wave and glitter in the diſtant ſun.

When, if a ſudden guſt of wind ariſe,

The brittle foreſt into atoms flies:

The crackling wood beneath the tempeſt bends,

And in a ſpangled ſhow'r the proſpect ends;

[110]Or, if a ſouthern gale the region warm,

And, by degrees, unbind the wintry charm,

The traveller a miry country ſees,

And journies ſad beneath the dropping trees.

Like ſome deluded peaſant Merlin leads

Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads;

While here enchanted gardens to him riſe,

And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,

His wondring feet the magic paths purſue;

And, while he thinks the fair illuſion true,

The trackleſs ſcenes diſperſe in fluid air,

And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:

A tedious road the weary wretch returns,

And, as he goes, the tranſient viſion mourns.

A LETTER FROM ITALY, To the Right Honourable CHARLES LORD HALIFAX. In the Year MDCCI.

[111]

Few poems have done more honour to Engliſh ge⯑nius than this. There is in it a ſtrain of po⯑litical thinking that was, at that time, new in our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to that of Pope's verſification, it would be in⯑conteſtibly the fineſt poem in our language; but there is a dryneſs in the numbers which greatly leſſens the pleaſure excited both by the poet's judgement and imagination.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural ſhades admire,

And from Britannia's public poſts retire,

Nor longer, her ungrateful ſons to pleaſe,

For their advantage ſacrifice your eaſe;

Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,

Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,

Where the ſoft ſeaſon and inviting clime

Conſpire to trouble your repoſe with rhime.

For whereſoe'er I turn my raviſh'd eyes,

Gay gilded ſcenes and ſhining proſpects riſe,

[112]Poetic fields incompaſs me around,

And ſtill I ſeem to tread on Claſſic ground;

For here the Muſe ſo oft her harp has ſtrung,

That not a mountain rears its head unſung,

Renown'd in verſe each ſhady thicket grows,

And ev'ry ſtream in heav'nly numbers flows.

How am I pleas'd to ſearch the hills and woods

For riſing ſprings and celebrated floods!

To view the Nar, tumultuous in his courſe,

And trace the ſmooth Clitumnus to his ſource;

To ſee the Mincio draw his watry ſtore

Through the long windings of a fruitful ſhore,

And hoary Albula's infected tide

O'er the warm bed of ſmoking ſulphur glide.

Fir'd with a thouſand raptures I ſurvey

Eridanus through flow'ry meadows ſtray,

The king of floods! that rolling o'er the plains

The tow'ring Alps of half their moiſture drains,

And proudly ſwoln with a whole winter's ſnows,

Diſtributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, miſguided by the tuneful throng,

I look for ſtreams immortaliz'd in ſong,

That loſt in ſilence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)

Yet run for ever by the Muſe's ſkill,

And in the ſmooth deſcription murmur ſtill.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,

And the fam'd river's empty ſhores admire,

That, deſtitute of ſtrength, derives its courſe

From thrifty urns and an unfruitful ſource;

[113]Yet ſung ſo often in poetic lays,

With ſcorn the Danube and the Nile ſurveys;

So high the deathleſs muſe exalts her theme!

Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious ſtream,

That in Hibernian vales obſcurely ſtray'd,

And, unobſerv'd, in wild meanders play'd;

'Till by your lines and Naſſau's ſword renown'd;

Its riſing billows through the world reſound,

Where'er the Hero's godlike acts can pierce,

Or where the fame of an immortal verſe.

Oh cou'd the Muſe my raviſh'd breaſt inſpire

With warmth like yours, and raiſe an equal fire,

Unnumber'd beauties in my verſe ſhould ſhine,

And Virgil's Italy ſhou'd yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me ſmile,

That ſhun the coaſt of Britain's ſtormy iſle,

Or, when tranſplanted and preſerv'd with care,

Curſe the cold clime, and ſtarve in northern air.

Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments

To nobler taſtes, and more exalted ſcents:

E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,

And trodden weeds ſend out a rich perfume.

Bear me, ſome God, to Baia's gentle ſeats,

Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;

Where weſtern gales eternally reſide,

And all the ſeaſons laviſh all their pride:

Bloſſoms, and fruits, and flow'rs together riſe,

And the whole year in gay confuſion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive,

And in my ſoul a thouſand paſſions ſtrive,

[114]When Rome's exalted beauties I deſcry,

Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.

An amphitheatre's amazing height

Here ſills my eye with terror and delight,

That on its public ſhews Unpeopled Rome,

And held Uncrowded nations in its womb:

Here pillars rough with ſculpture pierce the ſkies:

And here the proud triumphal arches riſe,

Where the old Romans deathleſs acts diſplay'd,

Their baſe degenerate progeny upbraid:

Whole rivers here forſake the fields below,

And, wond'ring at their height, through airy channels flow.

Still to new ſcenes my wand'ring Muſe retires;

And the dumb ſhow of breathing rocks admires;

Where the ſmooth chiſel all its force has ſhown,

And ſoften'd into fleſh the rugged ſtone.

In ſolemn ſilence, a majeſtic band,

Heroes, and Gods, and Roman Conſuls, ſtand,

Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,

And emperors, in Parian marble frown;

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly ſu'd,

Still ſhow the charms that their proud hearts ſubdu'd.

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearſe,

And ſhow th' immortal labours in my verſe,

Where, from the mingled ſtrength of ſhade and light,

A new creation riſes to my ſight,

Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,

So warm with life his blended colours glow,

From theme to theme with ſecret pleaſure toſt,

Amidſt the ſoft variety I'm loſt:

[115]Here pleaſing airs my raviſh'd ſoul confound

With circling notes and labyrinths of ſound:

Here domes and temples riſe in diſtant views,

And opening palaces invite my Muſe.

How has kind Heav'n adorn'd the happy land,

And ſcatter'd bleſſings with a waſteful hand!

But what avail her unexhauſted ſtores,

Her blooming mountains, and her ſunny ſhores,

With all the gifts that Heav'n and earth impart,

The ſmiles of nature, and the charms of art,

While proud Oppreſſion in her valleys reigns,

And Tyranny uſurps her happy plains?

The poor inhabitant beholds in vain

The redd'ning Orange and the ſwelling grain:

Joyleſs he ſees the growing oils and wines,

And in the Myrtle's fragrant ſhade repines:

Starves, in the midſt of nature's bounty curſt,

And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirſt.

Oh Liberty, thou goddeſs heav'nly bright,

Profuſe of bliſs, and pregnant with delight!

Eternal pleaſures in thy preſence reign,

And ſmiling Plenty leads thy wanton train;

Eas'd of her load Subjection grows more light,

And Poverty looks chearful in thy ſight;

Thou mak'ſt the gloomy face of Nature gay,

Giv'ſt beauty to the Sun, and pleaſure to the Day.

Thee, goddeſs, thee Britannia's iſle adores;

How has ſhe oft exhauſted all her ſtores,

How oft, in fields of death, thy preſence ſought,

Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!

[116]On foreign mountains may the Sun refine

The grape's ſoft juice, and mellow it to wine,

With Citron groves adorn a diſtant ſoil,

And the fat Olive ſwell with floods of oil:

We envy not the warmer clime, that lies

In ten degrees of more indulgent ſkies,

Nor at the coarſeneſs of our Heav'n repine,

Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads ſhine:

'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's iſle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains ſmile.

Others with tow'ring piles may pleaſe the ſight,

And in their proud aſpiring domes delight;

A nicer touch to the ſtretch'd canvaſs give,

Or teach their animated rocks to live:

'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,

And hold in balance each contending ſtate;

To threaten bold preſumptuous kings with war,

And anſwer her afflicted neighbour's pray'r.

The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,

Bleſs the wiſe conduct of her pious arms:

Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors ceaſe,

And all the northern world lies huſh'd in peace.

Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with ſecret dread

Her thunder aim'd at his aſpiring head,

And fain her godlike ſons wou'd diſunite

By foreign gold, or by domeſtic ſpite:

But ſtrives in vain to conquer or divide,

Whom Naſſau's arms defend and counſels guide.

Fir'd with the name, which I ſo oft have found

The diſtant climes and diff'rent tongues reſound,

[117]I bridle in my ſtruggling Muſe with pain,

That longs to launch into a bolder ſtrain.

But I've already troubled you too long,

Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous ſong.

My humble verſe demands a ſofter theme,

A painted meadow, or a purling ſtream;

Unfit for Heroes; whom immortal lays,

And lines like Virgil's, or like your's, ſhou'd praiſe.

ALEXANDER's FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. AN ODE, In Honour of St. CECILIA's Day.

[119]

This ode has been more applauded, perhaps, than it has been felt; however, it is a very fine one, and gives its beauties rather at a third, or fourth, than at a firſt, peruſal.

I.'TWAS at the royal feaſt, for Perſia won,
By Philip's warlike ſon:
Aloft, in awful ſtate,
The godlike hero ſate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roſes and with myrtles bound.
(So ſhou'd deſert in arms be crown'd:)
The lovely Thais by his ſide,
Sate like a blooming eaſtern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
[120]Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deſerve the fair.

CHORUS.Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deſerves the fair.

II.Timotheus plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes aſcend the ſky,
And heav'nly joys inſpire.
The ſong began from Jove;
Who left his bliſsful ſeats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love.)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god:
Sublime on radiant ſpires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia preſs'd:
And while he ſought her ſnowy breaſt:
Then, round her ſlender waiſt he curl'd,
And ſtamp'd an image of himſelf, a ſov'reign of the world.
The liſt'ning crowd admire the lofty ſound.
A preſent Deity they ſhout around:
A preſent Deity the vaulted roofs rebound:
[121]With raviſh'd ears
The monarch hears,
Aſſumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And ſeems to ſhake the ſpheres.

CHORUS.With raviſh'd ears
The monarch hears,
Aſſumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And ſeems to ſhake the ſpheres.

III.The praiſe of Bacchus then the ſweet muſician ſung;
Of Bacchus, ever fair, and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Fluſh'd with a purple grace,
He ſhews his honeſt face;
Now gives the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did firſt ordain:
Bacchus' bleſſings are a treaſure,
Drinking is the ſoldier's pleaſure;
Rich the treaſure,
Sweet the pleaſure;
Sweet is pleaſure after pain.

[122]CHORUS.Bacchus' bleſſings are a treaſure;
Drinking is the ſoldier's pleaſure;
Rich the treaſure,
Sweet the pleaſure;
Sweet is pleaſure after pain.

IV.Sooth'd with the ſound the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he ſlew the ſlain.
The maſter ſaw the madneſs riſe;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he Heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He choſe a mournful muſe,
Soft pity to infuſe:
He ſung Darius, great and good,
By too ſevere a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high eſtate,
And welt'ring in his blood:
Deſerted at his utmoſt need,
By thoſe his former bounty fed:
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to cloſe his eyes.
[123]With down-caſt looks the joyleſs victor ſate,
Revolving in his alter'd ſoul
The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a ſigh he ſtole;
And tears began to flow.

CHORUS.Revolving in his alter'd ſoul
The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a ſigh he ſtole;
And tears began to flow.

V.The mighty maſter ſmil'd, to ſee
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred ſound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly ſweet, in Lydian meaſures,
Soon he ſooth'd his ſoul to pleaſures.
War, he ſung, his toil and trouble;
Honour, but an empty bubble:
Never ending, ſtill beginning,
Fighting ſtill, and ſtill deſtroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying.
Lovely Thais ſits beſide thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the ſkies with loud applauſe;
So Love was crown'd, but Mu [...]ic won the cauſe.
[124]The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair
Who caus'd his care,
And ſigh'd and look'd, ſigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and ſigh'd again:
At length, with love and wine at once oppreſs'd,
The vanquiſh'd victor ſunk upon her breaſt.

CHORUS.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair
Who caus'd his care,
And ſigh'd and look'd, ſigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and ſigh'd again:
At length, with love and wine at once oppreſs'd,
The vanquiſh'd victor ſunk upon her breaſt.

VI.Now ſtrike the golden lyre again:
A louder yet, and yet a louder ſtrain.
Break his bands of ſleep aſunder,
And rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark! hark! the horrid ſound
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And, amaz'd, he ſtares around.
Revenge, Revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the furies ariſe:
See the ſnakes that they rear,
How they hiſs in their hair,
And the ſparkles that flaſh from their eyes!
[125]Behold a ghaſtly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Thoſe are Grecian ghoſts, that in battle were ſlain,
And unbury'd remain
Inglorious on the plain.
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toſs their torches on high,
How they point to the Perſian abodes,
And glitt'ring temples of their hoſtile gods!
The princes applaud, with a furious joy;
And the king ſeiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to deſtroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

CHORUS.And the king ſeiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to deſtroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

VII.Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And ſounding lyre,
Cou'd ſwell the ſoul to rage, or kindle ſoft deſire.
At laſt divine Cecilia came,
Inventreſs of the vocal frame;
[126]The ſweet enthuſiaſt, from her ſacred ſtore,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to ſolemn ſounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before,
Let old Timotheus yield the prize;
Or both divide the crown;
He rais'd a mortal to the ſkies;
She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS.At laſt divine Cecilia came,
Inventreſs of the vocal frame;
The ſweet enthuſiaſt, from her ſacred ſtore,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to ſolemn ſounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He rais'd a mortal to the ſkies;
She drew an angel down.

ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA's DAY.

[127]

This ode has by many been thought equal to the former. As it is a repetition of Dryden's man⯑ner, it is ſo far inferior to him. The whole hint of Orpheus, with many of the lines, have been taken from an obſcure Ode upon Muſic, publiſhed in Tate's Miſcellanies.

I.DESCEND, ye Nine! deſcend and ſing;
The breathing inſtruments inſpire;
Wake into voice each ſilent ſtring,
And ſweep the ſounding lyre!
In a ſadly-pleaſing ſtrain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet ſound,
'Till the roofs all around
The ſhrill echoes rebound:
While, in more lengthen'd notes, and ſlow,
The deep, majeſtic, ſolemn organs, blow.
Hark! the numbers, ſoft and clear,
Gently ſteal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder riſe,
And fill with ſpreading ſounds the ſkies;
[128]Exulting in triumph now ſwell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild muſic floats;
'Till, by degrees, remote and ſmall,
The ſtrains decay,
And melt away,
In a dying, dying fall.

II.By Muſic, minds an equal temper know,
Nor ſwell too high, nor ſink too low.
If in the breaſt tumultuous joys ariſe,
Muſic her ſoft, aſſuaſive voice applies;
Or, when the ſoul is preſs'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors ſhe fires with animated ſounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouzes from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Liſt'ning Envy drops her ſnakes;
Inteſtine war no more our paſſions wage,
And giddy factions hear away their rage.

III.But, when our country's cauſe provokes to arms,
How martial muſic ev'ry boſom warms!
So, when the firſt bold veſſel dar'd the ſeas,
High on the ſtern the Thracian rais'd his ſtrain,
While Argo ſaw her kindred trees
Deſcend from Pelion to the main.
[129]Tranſported demi-gods ſtood round,
And men grew heroes at the ſound,
Enflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his ſev'n-fold ſhield diſplay'd,
And half unſheath'd the ſhining blade:
And ſeas, and rocks, and ſkies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms!

IV.But when thro' all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegeton ſurrounds,
Love, ſtrong as Death, the Poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What ſounds were heard,
What ſcenes appear'd,
O'er all the dreary coaſts!
Dreadful gleams,
Diſmal ſcreams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,
Hollow groans,
And cries of tortur'd ghoſts!
But hark! he ſtrikes the golden lyre;
And ſee! the tortur'd ghoſts reſpire!
See, ſhady forms advance!
Thy ſtone, O Siſyphus, ſtands ſtill,
Ixion reſts upon his wheel,
And the pale ſpectres dance!
The furies ſink upon their iron beds,
And ſnakes, uncurl'd, hang liſt'ning round their heads.

[130]V.By the ſtreams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elyſian flow'rs;
By thoſe happy ſouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Aſphodel,
Or Amaranthine bowers;
By the heros' armed ſhades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,
Reſtore, reſtore Eurydice to life:
Oh take the huſband, or return the wife!

He ſung, and Hell conſented
To hear the Poet's prayer;
Stern Proſerpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus ſong could prevail
O'er death, and o'er hell,
A conqueſt how hard and how glorious?
Tho' fate had faſt bound her
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet muſic and love were victorious.

VI.But ſoon, too ſoon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again ſhe falls, again ſhe dies, ſhe dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal ſiſters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
[131]Now under hanging mountains,
Beſide the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
All alone,
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghoſt,
For ever, ever, ever loſt!
Now with furies ſurrounded,
Deſpairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidſt Rhodope's ſnows:
See, wild as the winds, o'er the deſert he flies;
Hark! Haemus reſounds with the Bacchanals cries—
Ah ſee, he dies!
Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he ſung,
Eurydice ſtill trembled on his tongue,
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

VII.Muſic the fierceſt grief can charm,
And fate's ſevereſt rage diſarm:
Muſic can ſoften pain to eaſe,
And make deſpair and madneſs pleaſe:
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliſs above.
[132]This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker's praiſe confin'd the ſound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the ſwelling notes our ſouls aſpire,
While ſolemn airs improve the ſacred fire;
And Angels lean from heav'n to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let Poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is given;
His numbers rais'd a ſhade from hell,
Her's lift the ſoul to Heav'n.

THE SHEPHERD's WEEK. IN SIX PASTORALS.

[133]

Theſe are Mr. Gay's principal performance. They were originally intended, I ſuppoſe, as a bur⯑leſque on thoſe of Philips; but, perhaps without deſigning it, he has hit the true ſpirit of paſtoral poetry. In fact, he more reſembles Theocritus than any other Engliſh paſtoral writer whatſo⯑ever. There runs through the whole a ſtrain of ruſtic pleaſantry which ſhould ever diſtinguiſh this ſpecies of compoſition; but how far the an⯑tiquated expreſſions uſed here may contribute to the humour, I will not determine; for my own part, I could wiſh the ſimplicity were preſerved, without recurring to ſuch obſolete antiquity for the manner of expreſſing it.

MONDAY; OR, THE SQUABBLE.[134]LOBBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLODDIPOLE.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
THY younglings, Cuddy, are but juſt awake,
No thruſtles ſhrill the bramble buſh forſake,
No chirping lark the welkin ſheen invokes,
No damſel yet the ſwelling udder ſtrokes;
O'er yonder hill does ſcant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott ſo rear?
CUDDY.
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is gueſt,
For, he that loves, a ſtranger is to reſt;
If ſwains belye not, thou haſt prov'd the ſmart,
And Blouzelinda's miſtreſs of thy heart.
This riſing rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Thoſe arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouzelinda ſmites, Buxoma me.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
[135]Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf:
Woe worth the tongue! may bliſters ſore it gall,
That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal.
CUDDY.
Hold, witleſs Lobbin Clout, I thee adviſe,
Leſt bliſters ſore on thy own tongue ariſe.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithſome ſwain,
The wiſeſt lout of all the neighb'ring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the ſkies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds ariſe.
He taught us erſt the heifer's tale to view;
When ſtuck aloft, that ſhow'rs would ſtrait enſue:
He firſt that uſeful ſecret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When ſwallows fleet ſoar high, and ſport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear:
Let Cloddipole, then, hear us twain rehearſe,
And praiſe his ſweetheart in alternate verſe.
I'll wager this ſame oaken ſtaff with thee,
That Cloddipole ſhall give the prize to me.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the ſkin of ſleekeſt fallow-deer.
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddeſt hue,
I'll wager, that the prize ſhall be my due.
CUDDY.
[136]Begin thy carrols, then, thou vaunting ſlouch;
Be thine the oaken ſtaff, or mine the pouch.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
My Blouzelinda is the blitheſt laſs,
Than primroſe ſweeter, or the clover-graſs.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daiſie that beſide her grows;
Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens ſweet,
Fair is the mary-gold, for pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than gilliflow'r more fair,
Than daiſie, mary-gold, or king-cup rare.
CUDDY.
My brown Buxoma is the feateſt maid,
That e'er at wake delightſome gambol play'd.
Clean as young lambkins, or the gooſe's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witleſs lamb may ſport upon the plain,
The friſking kid delight the gaping ſwain,
The wanton calf may ſkip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play defteſt feats around;
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the firſt of May.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is near;
Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year.
With her, no ſultry ſummer's heat I know;
In winter, when ſhe's nigh, with love I glow.
[137]Come, Blouzelinda, eaſe thy ſwain's deſire,
My ſummer's ſhadow, and my winter's fire!
CUDDY.
As with Buxoma, once, I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour ſeem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply, ſhe were gone,
Like worky-days, I wiſh'd would ſoon be done.
Eftſoons, O ſweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year ſhall then be holiday.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
As Blouzelinda, in a gameſome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing ſtood,
I ſlily ran, and ſnatch'd a haſty kiſs,
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiſs.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to ſay,
Her breath was ſweeter than the ripen'd hay.
CUDDY.
As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger ſtrok'd her milky care,
I queintly ſtole a kiſs; at firſt, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet, after, granted one or two.
Lobbin, I ſwear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Iriſh ſwains potatoe is the chear;
[138]Oats, for their feaſts, the Scottiſh ſhepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While ſhe loves turnips, butter I'll deſpiſe,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe prize.
CUDDY.
In good roaſt-beef my landlord ſticks his knife,
The capon fat delights his dainty wife,
Pudding our parſon eats, the 'ſquire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While ſhe loves white-pot, capon ne'er ſhall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
As once I play'd at Blindman's-buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt.
I miſs'd the ſwains and ſeiz'd on Blouzelind.
True ſpeaks that ancient proverb, 'Love is blind.'
CUDDY.
As at Hot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick roſe, and read ſoft miſchief in her eye.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
On two near elms the ſlacken'd cord I hung,
Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda ſwung.
With the rude wind her rumpled garment roſe,
And ſhow'd her taper leg, and ſcarlet hoſe.
CUDDY.
[139]Acroſs the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myſelf pois'd againſt the tott'ring maid.
High leapt the plank; adown Buxoma fell;
I ſpy'd—but faithful ſweethearts never tell.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
This riddle, Cuddy, if thou can'ſt explain;
This wily riddle puzzles every ſwain:
What * flower is that which bears the virgin's name,
The richeſt metal joined with the ſame?
CUDDY.
Anſwer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight.
What † flower is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis ſtrown on graves?
CLODDIPOLE.
Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your ſtrains,
An oaken ſtaff each merits for his pains.
But ſee the ſun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water ſtand adry;
They're weary of your ſongs—and ſo am I.

TUESDAY; OR, THE DITTY.[140]MARIAN.
YOUNG Collin Clout, a lad of peerleſs meed,
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;
In ev'ry wood his carols ſweet were known,
At ev'ry wake his nimble feats were ſhown.
When in the ring the ruſtic routs he threw,
The damſels pleaſures with his conqueſts grew;
Or when, aſlant, the cudgel threats his head,
His danger ſmites the breaſt of every maid;
But chief of Marian: Marian lov'd the ſwain,
The parſon's maid, and neateſt of the plain.
Marian, that ſoft could ſtroke the udder'd cow,
Or leſſen with her ſieve the barley mow;
Marbled with ſage the harden'd cheeſe ſhe preſs'd,
And yellow butter Marian's ſkill confeſs'd;
But Marian now, devoid of country cares,
Nor yellow butter, nor ſage cheeſe, prepares:
For yearning love the witleſs maid employs,
And love, ſay ſwains, all buſie heed deſtroys.
Collin makes mock at all her piteous ſmart,
A las, that Cic'ly hight, had won his heart;
[141]Cic'ly, the weſtern laſs, that tends the kee,
The rival of the parſon's maid was ſhe.
In dreary ſhade now Marian lies along,
And, mix'd with ſighs, thus wails in plaining ſong.
Ah woful day! ah woful noon and morn!
When firſt by thee my younglings white were ſhorn,
Then, firſt, I ween, I caſt a lover's eye;
My ſheep were ſilly, but more ſilly I;
Beneath the ſhears they felt no laſting ſmart;
They loſt but fleeces, while I loſt a heart.
Ah Collin! canſt thou leave thy ſweetheart true?
What I have done for thee will Cic'ly do?
Will ſhe thy linen waſh, or hoſen darn,
And knit thee gloves made of her own-ſpun yarn?
Will ſhe with huſwife's hand provide thy meat,
And ev'ry Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait?
Which o'er thy kerſey doublet ſpreading wide,
In ſervice time drew Cic'ly's eyes aſide.
Where-e'er I gad I cannot hide my care,
My new diſaſters in my look appear.
White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown,
So thin my features that I'm hardly known;
Our neighbours tell me oft, in joking talk,
Of aſhes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,
And wiſt not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Collin Clout, untoward ſhepherd ſwain,
Walks whiſtling blithe, while pitiful I plain.
Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night;
[142]If in the ſoil you guide the crooked ſhare,
Your early breakfaſt is my conſtant care.
And when, with even hand, you ſtrow the grain,
I fright the thieviſh rooks from off the plain.
In miſling days when I my threſher heard,
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Loſt in the muſic of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the ſmoaking pail:
In harveſt, when the ſun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought ſupply;
When-e'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,
And have, full oft, been ſun-burnt for thy ſake;
When in the welkin gathering ſhow'rs were ſeen,
I lagg'd the laſt with Collin on the green;
And when, at eve, returning with thy carr,
Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far,
Strait on the fire the ſooty pot I plac'd;
To warm thy broth I burnt my hands for haſte.
When, hungry, thou ſtood'ſt ſtaring, like an oaf,
I ſlic'd the lunceon from the barley loaf,
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy meſs:
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage leſs!
Laſt Friday's eve, when, as the ſun was ſet,
I, near yon ſtile, three ſallow gypſies met.
Upon my hand they caſt a poring look,
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they ſhook;
They ſaid, that many croſſes I muſt prove,
Some in my wordly gain, but moſt in love.
Next morn I miſs'd three hens and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a ſmock.
[143]I bore theſe loſſes with a chriſtian mind,
And no miſhaps could feel, while thou wert kind.
But ſince, alas! I grew my Collin's ſcorn,
I've known no pleaſure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye gypſies, bring him home again,
And, to a conſtant laſs, give back her ſwain.
Have I not ſat with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When ev'ry creature did in ſlumbers lie,
Beſides our cat, my Collin Clout, and I?
No troublous thoughts the cat or Collin move,
While I alone am kept awake by love.
Remember, Collin, when at laſt year's wake,
I bought the coſtly preſent for thy ſake;
Couldſt thou ſpell o'er the poſie on thy knife,
And with another change thy ſtate of life?
If thou forget'ſt, I wot, I can repeat;
My memory can tell the verſe ſo ſweet.
"As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,
"So is thy image on this heart of mine."
But woe is me! Such preſents luckleſs prove;
For knives, they tell me, always ſever love.
Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimfull,
When goody Debbins brought her cow to bull.
With apron blue to dry her tears ſhe ſought,
Then ſaw the cow well ſerv'd, and took a groat.

WEDNESDAY; OR, THE DUMPS.[144]SPARABELLA.
THE wailings of a maiden I recite,
A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight.
Such ſtrains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat,
Nor the gay goldfinch chaunts ſo ſweet a note.
No magpye chatter'd, nor the painted jay,
No ox was heard to low, nor aſs to bray;
No ruſling breezes play'd the leaves among,
While thus her madrigal the damſel ſung.
Awhile, O D'Urfey, lend an ear or twain,
Nor, though in homely guiſe, my verſe diſdain;
Whether thou ſeek'ſt new kingdoms in the ſun,
Whether thy muſe does at Newmarket run,
Or does with goſſips at a feaſt regale,
And heighten her conceits with ſack and ale;
Or elſe, at wakes, with Joan and Hodge rejoice,
Where D'Urfey's lyrics ſwell in ev'ry voice;
Yet ſuffer me, thou bard of wond'rous meed,
Amid thy bays to weave this rural weed.
Now the ſun drove adown the weſtern road,
And oxen laid at reſt forget the goad;
[145]The clown fatigu'd trudg'd homeward with his ſpade,
Acroſs the meadows ſtretch'd the lengthen'd ſhade:
When Sparabella, penſive and forlorn,
Alike with yearning love and labour worn,
Lean'd on her rake, and, ſtrait, with doleful guiſe,
Did this ſad plaint in mournful notes deviſe.
Come night, as dark as pitch, ſurround my head,
From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled;
The ribbon that his val'rous cudgel won,
Laſt Sunday happier Clumſilis put on.
Sure, if he'd eyes (but love, they ſay, has none)
I whilom by that ribbon had been known.
Ah, well a-day, I'm ſhent with baneful ſmart,
For with that ribbon he beſtow'd his heart.
My plaint, ye laſſes, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard ſo true a damſel dies a maid.
Shall heavy Clumſilis with me compare?
View this, ye lovers, and like me deſpair.
Her blubber'd lip by ſmutty pipes is worn,
And in her breath tobacco whiffs are born;
The cleanly cheeſe-preſs ſhe could never turn,
Her aukward fiſt did ne'er employ the churn;
If e'er ſhe brew'd, the drink wou'd ſtrait go ſour,
Before it ever felt the thunder's power:
No huſwifry the dowdy creature knew;
To ſum up all, her tongue confeſs'd the ſhrew.
My plaint, ye laſſes, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard ſo true a damſel dies a maid.
I've often ſeen my viſage in yon lake.
Nor are my features of the homelieſt make.
[146]Though Clumſilis may boaſt a whiter dye,
Yet the black ſloe turns in my rolling eye;
And faireſt bloſſoms drop with ev'ry blaſt;
But the brown beauty will like hollies laſt.
Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek,
While Katherine pears adorn my ruddy cheek.
Yet ſhe, alas! the witleſs lout hath won;
And, by her gain, poor Sparabell's undone!
Let hares and hounds in coupling ſtraps unite,
The clocking hen make friendſhip with the kite;
Let the fox ſimply wear the nuptial nooſe,
And join in wedlock with the waddling gooſe;
For love hath brought a ſtranger thing to paſs,
The faireſt ſhepherd weds the fouleſt laſs.
My plaint, ye laſſes, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard ſo true a damſel dies a maid.
Sooner ſhall cats diſport in waters clear,
And ſpeckled mackrels graze the meadows fair,
Sooner ſhall ſcreech-owls baſk in ſunny day,
And the ſlow aſs on trees, like ſquirrels, play;
Sooner ſhall ſnails on inſect pinions rove,
Than I forget my ſhepherd's wonted love.
My plaint, ye laſſes, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard ſo true a damſel dies a maid.
Ah! didſt thou know what proffers I withſtood,
When late I met the ſquire in yonder wood!
To me he ſped, regardleſs of his game,
While all my cheek was glowing red with ſhame;
My lip he kiſs'd, and prais'd my healthful look,
Then from his purſe of ſilk a guinea took,
[147]Into my hand he forc'd the tempting gold,
While I with modeſt ſtruggling broke his hold.
He ſwore that Dick, in liv'ry ſtrip'd with lace,
Should wed me ſoon, to keep me from diſgrace;
But I nor footman priz'd, nor golden fee;
For what is lace, or gold, compar'd to thee?
My plaint, ye laſſes, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard ſo true a damſel dies a maid.
Now plain I ken whence Love his riſe begun.
Sure he was born ſome bloody butcher's ſon,
Bred up in ſhambles, where our younglings ſlain,
Erſt taught him miſchief, and to ſport with pain.
The father only ſilly ſheep annoys,
The ſon the ſillier ſhepherdeſs deſtroys.
Does ſon or father greater miſchief do?
The fire is cruel, ſo the ſon is too.
My plaint, ye laſſes, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard ſo true a damſel dies a maid.
Farewel, ye woods, ye meads, ye ſtreams that flow;
A ſudden death ſhall rid me of my woe.
This penknife, keen, my windpipe ſhall divide.
What, ſhall I fall as ſqueaking pigs have dy'd!
No—To ſome tree this carcaſe I'll ſuſpend.
But worrying curs find ſuch untimely end!
I'll ſpeed me to the pond, where the high ſtool
On the long plank hangs o'er the muddy pool,
That ſtool, the dread of every ſcolding quean;
Yet, ſure a lover ſhould not dye ſo mean?
There plac'd aloft, I'll rave and rail by fits,
Though all the pariſh ſay I've loſt my wits;
[148]And thence, if courage holds, myſelf I'll throw,
And quench my paſſion in the lake below.
Ye laſſes, eaſe your burthen, ceaſe to moan,
And, by my caſe forewarn'd, go mind your own.
The ſun was ſet; the night came on a-pace,
And falling dews bewet around the place;
The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings,
And the hoarſe owl his woeful dirges ſings;
The prudent maiden deems it now too late,
And, till to-morrow comes, defers her fate.

THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL.[149]HOBNELIA.
HOBNELIA, ſeated in a dreary vale,
In penſive mood rehears'd her piteous tale;
Her piteous tale the winds in ſighs bemoan,
And pining eccho anſwers groan for groan.
I rue the day, a rueful day I trow;
The woful day; a day, indeed, of woe!
When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove,
A maiden fine bedight he happ'd to love;
The maiden fine bedight his love retains,
And for the village he forſakes the plains.
Return, my Lubberkin, theſe ditties hear;
Spells will I try, and ſpells ſhall eaſe my care.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
When firſt the year, I heard the cuckow ſing,
And call with welcome note the budding ſpring,
I ſtraitway ſet a running with ſuch haſte,
Deb'rah, that won the ſmock, ſcarce ran ſo faſt.
'Till ſpent for lack of breath, quite weary grown,
Upon a riſing bank I ſat adown,
[150]Then doff'd my ſhoe, and, by my troth, I ſwear,
Therein I ſpy'd this yellow frizled hair,
As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue,
As if upon his comely pate it grew.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
At eve laſt midſummer no ſleep I ſought,
But to the field a bag of hemp-ſeed brought,
I ſcattered round the ſeed on every ſide,
And three times, in a trembling accent, cry'd,
"This hemp-ſeed with my virgin hand I ſow,
"Who ſhall my true-love be, the crop ſhall mow."
I ſtrait look'd back, and, if my eyes ſpeak truth,
With his keen ſcythe behind me came the youth.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Laſt Valentine, the day when birds of kind
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find;
I rearly roſe, juſt at the break of day,
Before the ſun had chas'd the ſtars away;
A-field I went, amid the morning dew,
To milk my kine (for ſo ſhould huſwives do)
Thee firſt I ſpy'd; and the firſt ſwain we ſee,
In ſpite of fortune, ſhall our true-love be;
See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take;
And canſt thou, then, thy ſweetheart dear forſake?
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Laſt May-day fair I ſearch'd to find a ſnail
That might my ſecret lover's name reveal;
[151]Upon a gooſeberry buſh a ſnail I found,
For, always, ſnails near ſweeteſt fruit abound.
I ſeiz'd the vermin, home I quickly ſped,
And on the hearth the milk-white embers ſpread.
Slow crawl'd the ſnail, and, if I right can ſpell,
In the ſoft aſhes mark'd a curious L:
Oh, may this wond'rous omen lucky prove!
For L is found in Lubberkin and Love.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Two hazle nuts I threw into the flame,
And to each nut I gave a ſweet-heart's name.
This with the loudeſt bounce me ſore amaz'd,
That in a flame of brighteſt colour blaz'd.
As blaz'd the nut ſo may thy paſſion grow;
For 'twas thy nut that did ſo brightly glow.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
As peaſcods once I pluck'd, I chanc'd to ſee
One that was cloſely fill'd with three times three,
Which when I cropp'd I ſafely home convey'd,
And o'er the door the ſpell in ſecret laid;
My wheel I turn'd, and ſung a ballad new,
While from the ſpindle I the fleeces drew;
The latch mov'd up, when who ſhould firſt come in,
But, in his proper perſon,—Lubberkin.
I broke my yarn, ſurpris'd the ſight to ſee;
Sure ſign that he would break his word with me.
Eftſoons I join'd it with my wonted ſlight;
So may again his love with mine unite!
[152]With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
This Lady-fly I take from off the graſs,
Whoſe ſpotted back might ſcarlet red ſurpaſs.
"Fly, Lady-bird, north, ſouth, or eaſt or weſt,
"Fly where the man is found that I love beſt."
He leaves my hand! ſee, to the weſt he's flown,
To call my true-love from the faithleſs town.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
I pare this pippin round and round again,
My ſhepherd's name to flouriſh on the plain.
I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Upon the graſs a perfect L is read;
Yet on my heart a fairer L is ſeen
Than what the paring marks upon the green.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
This pippin ſhall another tryal make;
See from the core two kernels brown I take;
This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn,
And Boobyclod on t'other ſide is born.
But Boobyclod ſoon drops upon the ground,
A certain token that his love's unſound,
While Lubberkin ſticks firmly to the laſt;
Oh were his lips to mine but join'd ſo faſt!
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
As Lubberkin once ſlept beneath a tree,
I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee;
[153]He wiſt not when the hempen ſtring I drew.
Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue;
Together faſt I tye the garters twain,
And, while I knit the knot, repeat the ſtrain:
"Three times a true-love's knot I tye ſecure;
"Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure."
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
As I was wont, I trudg'd laſt market-day
To town, with new-laid eggs preſerv'd in hay.
I made my market long before 'twas night;
My purſe grew heavy and my baſket light.
Strait to the 'pothecary's ſhop I went,
And in love-powder all my money ſpent;
Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers,
When to the alehouſe Lubberkin repairs,
Theſe golden flies into his mug I'll throw,
And ſoon the ſwain with fervent love ſhall glow.
With my ſharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
But hold, our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears,
O'er yonder ſtile ſee Lubberkin appears.
He comes, he comes, Hobnelia's not bewray'd,
Nor ſhall ſhe, crown'd with willow, die a maid.
He vows, he ſwears, he'll give me a green gown;
Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown;

FRIDAY; OR, THE DIRGE.[154]BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL.
BUMKINET.
WHY, Grubbinol, doſt thou ſo wiſtful ſeem?
There's ſorrow in thy look, if right I deem.
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blaſts begin to nip the year;
From the tall elm a ſhower of leaves is born,
And their loſt beauty riven beeches mourn.
Yet ev'n this ſeaſon pleaſance blith affords,
Now the ſqueez'd preſs foams with our apple hoards.
Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheary bowl,
Let cyder now waſh ſorrow from thy ſoul.
GRUBBINOL.
Ah Bumkinet! ſince thou from hence wert gone,
From theſe ſad plains all merriment is flown;
Should I reveal my grief 'twould ſpoil thy chear,
And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.
BUMKINET.
[155]Hang ſorrow! Let's to yonder hut repair,
And, with trim ſonnets, caſt away our care.
Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play;
Thou ſing'ſt, moſt ſweet, O'er hills and far away.
Of Patient Griſſel I deviſe to ſing,
And catches quaint ſhall make the vallies ring.
Come, Grubbinol, beneath this ſhelter, come,
From hence we view our flocks ſecurely roam.
GRUBBINOL.
Yes, blitheſome lad, a tale I mean to ſing,
But with my woe ſhall diſtant vallies ring,
The tale ſhall make our kidlings droop their head;
For, woe is me!—our Blouzelind is dead.
BUMKINET.
Is Blouzelinda dead? farewel my glee!
No happineſs is now reſerv'd for me.
As the wood pigeon cooes without his mate,
So ſhall my doleful dirge bewail her fate.
Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,
The peerleſs maid that did all maids excel.
Henceforth, the morn ſhall dewy ſorrow ſhed,
And ev'ning tears upon the graſs be ſpread;
The rolling ſtreams with wat'ry grief ſhall flow,
And winds ſhall moan aloud—when loud they blow.
Henceforth, as oft as autumn ſhall return,
The dropping trees, whene'er it rains, ſhall mourn;
This ſeaſon quite ſhall ſtrip the country's pride;
For 'twas in Autumn Blouzelinda dy'd
[156]Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind ſhall view,
Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our paſſion knew.
When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,
Freſh riſing ſorrow curdles in my blood.
Thither I've often been the damſel's guide.
When rotten ſticks our fuel have ſupply'd;
There I remember how her faggots large,
Were frequently theſe happy ſhoulders charge.
Sometimes this crook drew hazel boughs adown,
And ſtuff'd her apron wide with nuts ſo brown;
Or, when her feeding hogs had miſs'd their way,
Or wallowing 'mid a feaſt of acorns lay;
Th' untoward creatures to the ſtye I drove,
And whiſtled all the way—or told my love.
If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie,
I ſhall her goodly countenance eſpy;
For there her goodly countenance I've ſeen,
Set off with kerchief ſtarch'd and pinners clean.
Sometimes, like wax, ſhe rolls the butter round,
Or with the wooden lilly prints the pound.
Whilom I've ſeen her ſkim the clouted cream,
And preſs from ſpongy curds the milky ſtream.
But now, alas! theſe ears ſhall hear no more
The whining ſwine ſurround the dairy door,
No more her care ſhall fill the hollow tray,
To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey.
Lament, ye ſwine, in gruntings ſpend your grief,
For you, like me, have loſt your ſole relief.
When in the barn the ſounding flail I ply,
Where, from her ſieve, the chaff was wont to fly,
[157]The poultry there will ſeem around to ſtand,
Waiting upon her charitable hand.
No ſuccour meet the poultry now can find,
For they, like me, have loſt their Blouzelind.
Whenever by yon barley mow I paſs
Before my eyes will trip the tidy laſs.
I pitch'd the ſheaves (oh could I do ſo now)
Which ſhe in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There every deale my heart by love was gain'd,
There the ſweet kiſs my courtſhip has explain'd,
Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er ſhall ſee,
But thy memorial will revive in me.
Lament, ye fields, and rueful ſymptoms ſhow;
Henceforth, let not the ſmelling primroſe grow;
Let weeds, inſtead of butter-flowers, appear,
And meads, inſtead of daiſies, hemlock bear;
For cowſlips ſweet let dandelion ſpread,
For Blouzelinda, blithſome maid, is dead!
Lament, ye ſwains, and o'er her grave bemoan,
And ſpell ye right this verſe upon her ſtone:
"Here Blouzelinda lies—Alas, alas!
"Weep, ſhepherds,—and remember fleſh is graſs.
GRUBBINOL.
Albeit thy ſongs are ſweeter to mine ear,
Than, to the thirſty cattle, rivers clear;
Or winter porridge to the lab'ring youth,
Or buns and ſugar to the damſel's tooth;
Yet Blouzelinda's name ſhall tune my lay;
Of her I'll ſing for ever and for aye.
[158]When Blouzelind expir'd, the weather's bell
Before the drooping flock toll'd forth her knell!
The ſolemn death-watch click'd the hour ſhe dy'd,
And chilling crickets in the chimney cry'd;
The boding raven on her cottage ſate,
And, with hoarſe croaking, warn'd us of her fate;
The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
Dropp'd on the plains, that fatal inſtant, dead;
Swarm'd on a rotten ſtick the bees I ſpy'd,
Which erſt I ſaw when goody Dobſon dy'd,
How ſhall I, void of tears, her death relate,
While on her darling's bed her mother ſate;
Theſe words the dying Blouzelinda ſpoke;
And of the dead let none the will revoke.
"Mother," quoth ſhe, "let not the poultry need,
And give the gooſe wherewith to raiſe her breed;
Be theſe my ſiſter's care—and, ev'ry morn,
Amid the ducklings let her ſcatter corn;
The ſickly calf, that's hous'd, be ſure to tend,
Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.
Yet, e're I die—See, mother, yonder ſhelf,
There ſecretly I've hid my worldly pelf.
Twenty good ſhillings in a rag I laid;
Be ten the parſon's, for my ſermon, paid.
The reſt is your's—my ſpinning-wheel and rake,
Let Suſan keep for her dear ſiſter's ſake;
My new ſtraw hat, that's trimly lin'd with green,
Let Peggy wear; for ſhe's a damſel clean.
My leathern bottle, long in harveſts try'd,
Be Grubbinol's—this ſilver ring beſide:
[159]Three ſilver pennies, and a nine-pence bent,
A token kind, to Bumkinet is ſent."
Thus ſpoke the maiden, while her mother cry'd,
And peaceful, like the harmleſs lamb, ſhe dy'd.
To ſhow their love, the neibours, far and near,
Follow'd, with wiſtful look, the damſel's bier.
Sprigg'd roſemary the lads and laſſes bore,
While, diſmally, the parſon walk'd before.
Upon her grave the roſemary they threw,
The daiſie, butter-flower, and endive blue.
After the good man warn'd us from his text,
That none could tell whoſe turn would be the next;
He ſaid, that Heaven would take her ſoul, no doubt,
And ſpoke the hour-glaſs, in her praiſe—quite out.
To her ſweet mem'ry flow'ry garlands ſtrung,
O'er her now empty ſeat aloft were hung.
With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,
To ward, from man and beaſt, the hallow'd ground,
Leſt her new grave the parſon's cattle raze;
For both his horſe and cow the church-yard graze.
Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cyder mull'd, with ginger warm:
For gaffer Tread-well told us, by the by,
Exceſſive ſorrow is exceeding dry.
While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
Or laſſes with ſoft ſtroakings milk the cow;
While paddling ducks the ſtanding lake deſire,
Or batt'ning hogs roll in the ſinking mire;
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raiſe,
So long ſhall ſwains tell Blouzelinda's praiſe.
[160]Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy ſtrain,
'Till bonny Suſan ſped a-croſs the plain;
They ſeiz'd the laſs, in apron clean array'd,
And to the ale-houſe forc'd the willing maid:
In ale and kiſſes they forget their cares,
And Suſan Blouzelinda's loſs repairs.

SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS.[161]BOWZYBEUS.
SUBLIMER ſtrains, O ruſtic muſe, prepare;
Forget, a-while, the barn and dairy's care;
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raiſe;
The drunkard's flights require ſonorous lays,
With Bowzybeus ſongs exalt thy verſe,
While rocks and woods the various notes rehearſe.
'Twas in the ſeaſon when the reapers toil
Of the ripe harveſt 'gan to rid the ſoil;
Wide through the field was ſeen a goodly rout,
Clean damſels bound the gather'd ſheafs about;
The lads, with ſharpen'd hook and ſweating brow,
Cut down the labours of the winter plow.
To the near hedge young Suſan ſteps aſide,
She feign'd her coat or garter was unty'd,
Whate'er ſhe did, ſhe ſtoop'd adown unſeen,
And merry reapers, what they liſt, will ween.
Soon ſhe roſe up, and cry'd with voice ſo ſhrill,
That echo anſwer'd from the diſtant hill;
The youths and damſels ran to Suſan's aid,
Who thought ſome adder had the laſs diſmay'd.
[162]When faſt aſleep they Bowzybeus ſpy'd,
His hat and oaken ſtaff lay cloſe beſide.
That Bowzybeus who could ſweetly ſing,
Or, with the roſin'd bow, torment the ſtring:
That Bowzybeus who, with finger's ſpeed,
Could call ſoft warblings from the breathing reed;
That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue,
Ballads, and roundelays, and catches ſung.
They loudly laugh to ſee the damſel's fright,
And in diſport ſurround the drunken wight.
Ah, Bowzybee, why didſt thou ſtay ſo long?
The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous ſtrong!
Thou ſhould'ſt have left the fair before 'twas night,
But thou ſat'ſt toping till the morning light.
Cic'ly, briſk maid, ſteps forth before the rout,
And kiſs'd with ſmacking lip, the ſnoring lout;
For cuſtom ſays, "Whoe'er this venture proves,
For ſuch a kiſs demands a pair of gloves."
By her example Dorcas bolder grows,
And plays a tickling ſtraw within his noſe.
He rubs his noſtril, and, in wonted joke,
The ſneering ſwains with ſtamm'ring ſpeech beſpoke.
"To you, my lads, I'll ſing my carrols o'er;
As for the maids—I've ſomething elſe in ſtore.
No ſooner 'gan he raiſe his tuneful ſong,
But lads and laſſes round about him throng.
Not ballad-ſinger, plac'd above the crowd,
Sings with a note ſo ſhrilling ſweet and loud,
Nor pariſh-clerk, who calls the pſalm ſo clear,
Like Bowzybeus ſooths th' attentive ear.
[163]Of nature's laws his carols firſt begun,
Why the grave owl can never face the ſun.
For owls, as ſwains obſerve, deteſt the light,
And only ſing and ſeek their prey by night.
How turnips hide their ſwelling heads below,
And how the cloſing colworts upwards grow;
How Will-a-Wiſp miſleads night-faring clowns,
O'er hills, and ſinking bogs, and pathleſs downs.
Of ſtars he told, that ſhoot with ſhining trail,
And of the glow-worms light that gilds his tail.
He ſung, where wood-cocks in the ſummer feed,
And in what climates they renew their breed;
Some think to northern coaſts their flight they tend,
Or to the moon, in midnight hours, aſcend.
Where ſwallows in the winter's ſeaſon keep.
And how the drowſy bat and dormouſe ſleep.
How nature does the puppy's eyelid cloſe,
Till the bright ſun has nine times ſet and roſe;
For huntſmen, by their long experience find,
That puppies, ſtill, nine rolling ſuns are blind.
Now he goes on, and ſings of fairs and ſhows;
For ſtill new fairs before his eyes aroſe.
How pedlars ſtalls with glitt'ring toys are laid,
The various fairings of the country-maid.
Long ſilken laces hang upon the twine,
And rows of pins and amber bracelets ſhine;
How the tight laſs knives, combs, and ſciſſars ſpies,
And looks on thimbles with deſiring eyes.
Of lott'ries, next, with tuneful note, he told,
Where ſilver ſpoons are won, and rings of gold.
[164]The lads and laſſes trudge the ſtreet along,
And all the fair is crouded in his ſong.
The mountebank now treads the ſtage, and ſells
His pills, his balſams and his ague-ſpells;
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler ſprings,
And on the rope the vent'rous maiden ſwings;
Jack Pudding, in his party-colour'd jacket,
Toſſes the glove, and jokes at every packet.
Of Raree-ſhows he ſung, and Punch's feats,
Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats.
Then ſad he ſung, The Children in the Wood.
Ah barb'rous uncle, ſtain'd with infant blood;
How blackberries they pluck'd in deſarts wild,
And, fearleſs, at the glittering fauchion ſmil'd;
Their little corps the robin-red-breaſts found,
And ſtrew'd, with pious bill, the leaves around.
Ah gentle birds! if this verſe laſts ſo long,
Your names ſhall live for ever in my ſong.
For buxom Joan he ſung the doubtful ſtrife,
How the ſly ſailor made the maid a wife.
To louder ſtrains he rais'd his voice, to tell
What woeful wars in Chevy-chace befel,
When "Piercy drove the deer with hound and horn,
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!"
Ah With'rington, more years thy life had crown'd,
If thou hadſt never heard the horn or hound!
Yet ſhall the 'ſquire who fought on bloody ſtumps,
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.
All in the land of Eſſex next he chaunts,
How to ſleek mares ſtarch Quakers turn gallants:
[165]How the grave brother ſtood on bank ſo green.
Happy for him if mares had never been!
Then he was ſeiz'd with a religious qualm,
And, on a ſudden, ſung the hundredth pſalm.
He ſung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot,
Lilly-bullero, and the Iriſh Trot.
Why ſhould I tell of Bateman or of Shore,
Or Wantley's dragon ſlain by valiant Moore,
The bower of Roſamond, or Robin Hood,
And how the graſs now grows where Troy town ſtood?
His carrols ceas'd: the liſt'ning maids and ſwains
Seem ſtill to hear ſome ſoft imperfect ſtrains.
Sudden he roſe; and, as he reels along,
Swears kiſſes ſweet ſhould well reward his ſong.
The damſels laughing fly: the giddy clown
Again upon a wheatſheaf drops adown;
The pow'r that guards the drunk his ſleep attends,
Till, ruddy, like his face, the ſun deſcends.

MAC FLECKNOE.

[167]

The ſeverity of this ſatire, and the excellence of its verſification, give it a diſtinguiſhed rank in this ſpecies of compoſition. At preſent, an ordinary reader would ſcarce ſuppoſe that Shadwell, who is here meant by Mac Flecknoe, was worth being chaſtiſed, and that Dryden's deſcending to ſuch game was like an eagle's ſtooping to catch flies. The truth, however, is, Shadwell, at one time, held divided reputation with this great poet. Every age produces its faſhionable dunces, who, by following the tranſient topic, or humour, of the day, ſupply talkative ignorance with materials for converſation.

ALL human things are ſubject to decay,

And, when Fate ſummons, monarchs muſt obey.

This Flecknoe found, who, like Auguſtus, young

Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long;

In proſe and verſe was own'd, without diſpute,

Through all the realms of Nonſenſe, abſolute.

This aged prince, now flouriſhing in peace,

And bleſs'd with iſſue of a large increaſe;

Worn out with buſineſs, did, at length debate

To ſettle the ſucceſſion of the ſtate:

And pond'ring which, of all his ſons, was fit

To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit,

[168]Cry'd, 'Tis reſolv'd; for Nature pleads, that he

Should only rule, who moſt reſembles me.

Sh—, alone, my perfect image bears,

Mature in dulneſs from his tender years:

Sh—, alone, of all my ſons, was he,

Who ſtands confirm'd in full ſtupidity.

The reſt, to ſome faint meaning make pretence;

But Sh— never deviates into ſenſe.

Some beams of wit on other ſouls may fall,

Strike through, and make a lucid interval;

But Sh—'s genuine night admits no ray;

His riſing fogs prevail upon the day.

Beſides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,

And ſeems deſign'd for thoughtleſs majeſty:

Thoughtleſs as monarch oaks, that ſhade the plain,

And, ſpread in ſolemn ſtate, ſupinely reign.

Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,

Thou laſt great prophet of Tautology.

Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they,

Was ſent before but to prepare thy way;

And, coarſely clad in Norwich drugget, came

To teach the nations in thy greater name.

My warbling lute, the lute I whilom ſtrung,

When to king John of Portugal I ſung,

Was but the prelude to that glorious day,

When thou on ſilver Thames didſt cut thy way,

With well-tim'd oars, before the royal barge,

Swell'd with the pride of thy celeſtial charge;

And, big with hymn, commander of an hoſt,

The like was ne'er in Epſom blankets toſt.

[169]Methinks I ſee the new Arion ſail,

The lute ſtill trembling underneath thy nail.

At thy well-ſharpen'd thumb, from ſhore to ſhore

The trebles ſqueak for fear, the baſes roar:

Echoes from Piſſing-Alley Sh— call,

And Sh— they reſound from Aſton-Hall.

About thy boat the little fiſhes throng,

As at the morning toaſt that floats along.

Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,

Thou wield'ſt thy papers in thy threſhing hand.

St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,

Not ev'n the feet of thy own Pſyche's rhime:

Though they in number as in ſenſe excel;

So juſt, ſo like Tautology they fell,

That, pale with envy, Singleton forſwore

The lute and ſword, which he in triumph bore,

And vow'd he ne'er wou'd act Villerius more.

Here ſtopt the good old ſire, and wept for joy,

In ſilent raptures of the hopeful boy.

All arguments, but moſt his plays, perſuade,

That for anointed dulneſs he was made.

Cloſe to the walls which fair Auguſta bind,

(The fair Auguſta, much to fears inclin'd)

An antient fabric, rais'd t' inform the ſight,

There ſtood of yore, and Barbican it hight;

A watch-tow'r once; but now, ſo fate ordains,

Of all the pile an empty name remains:

From its old ruins brothel-houſes riſe,

Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,

[170]Where their vaſt courts the mother-ſtrumpets keep,

And, undiſturb'd by watch, in ſilence ſleep.

Near theſe a nurſery erects its head,

Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;

Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,

Where infant punks their tender voices try,

And little Maximins the Gods defy.

Great Fletcher never treads in buſkins here,

Nor greater Johnſon dares in ſocks appear;

But gentle Simkin juſt reception finds

Amidſt this monument of vaniſh'd minds:

Pure clinches the ſuburbian muſe affords,

And Panton waging harmleſs war with words.

Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,

Ambitiouſly deſign'd his Sh—'s throne:

For ancient Decker propheſy'd, long ſince,

That in this pile ſhould reign a mighty prince,

Born for a ſcourge of Wit, and flail of ſenſe:

To whom true dulneſs ſhould ſome Pſyche's owe,

But worlds of Miſers from his pen ſhould flow;

Humouriſts and Hypocrites it ſhould produce,

Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.

Now empreſs Fame had publiſh'd the renown

Of Sh—'s coronation through the town.

Rouz'd by report of Fame, the nations meet,

From near Bun-hill, and diſtant Watling-ſtreet.

No Perſian carpets ſpread th' imperial way,

But ſcatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:

From duſty ſhops neglected authors come,

Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.

[171]Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;

But loads of Sh— almoſt choak'd the way.

Bilk'd Stationers for yeomen ſtood prepar'd,

And H—n was captain of the guard.

The hoary prince in majeſty appear'd,

High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.

At his right hand our young Aſcanius ſate,

Rome's other hope, and pillar of the ſtate.

His brows thick fogs, inſtead of glories, grace,

And lambent Dulneſs play'd around his face.

As Hannibal did to the altars come,

Swore by his ſire a mortal foe to Rome;

So Sh— ſwore, nor ſhould his vow be vain,

That he, till death, true dulneſs would maintain;

And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,

Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with ſenſe.

The king himſelf the ſacred unction made,

As king by office, and as prieſt by trade.

In his ſiniſter hand, inſtead of ball,

He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;

Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,

At once his ſceptre, and his rule of ſway;

Whoſe righteous lore the prince had practis'd young,

And from whoſe loins recorded Pſyche ſprung.

His temples, laſt, with poppies were o'erſpread,

That, nodding, ſeem'd to conſecrate his head.

Juſt at the point of time, if fame not lye,

On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly.

So Romulus, 'tis ſung, by Tyber's brook,

Preſage of ſway from twice ſix vultures took.

[172]Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,

And omens of his future empire take.

The ſire then ſhook the honours of his head,

And from his brows damps of oblivion ſhed

Full on the filial dullneſs: long he ſtood,

Repelling from his breaſt the raging god;

At length burſt out in this prophetic mood:

"Heav'ns bleſs my ſon, from Ireland let him reign

To far Barbadoes on the weſtern main;

Of his dominion may no end be known,

And greater than his father's be his throne;

Beyond Love's kingdom let him ſtretch his pen!"—

He paus'd, and all the people cry'd, Amen.

Then thus continu'd he: "My ſon, advance

Still in new impudence, new ignorance.

Succeſs let others teach, learn thou, from me,

Pangs without birth, and fruitleſs induſtry.

Let Virtuoſo's in five years be writ;

Yet not one thought accuſe thy toil of wit.

Let gentle George in triumph tread the ſtage,

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;

Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,

And, in their folly, ſhew the writer's wit.

Yet ſtill thy fools ſhall ſtand in thy defence,

And juſtify their author's want of ſenſe.

Let 'em be all by thy own model made

Of dulneſs, and deſire no foreign aid;

That they to future ages may be known,

Not copies drawn, but iſſue of thy own.

Nay, let thy men of wit too be the ſame,

All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.

[173]But let no alien S—dl—y interpoſe,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epſom proſe.

And, when falſe flowers of Rhetoric thou wouldſt cull,

Truſt Nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy beſt, and top; and, in each line,

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Sir Formal, tho' unſought, attends thy quill,

And does thy Northern Dedications fill.

Nor let falſe friends ſeduce thy mind to fame,

By arrogating Johnſon's hoſtile name.

Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praiſe,

And uncle Ogleby thy envy raiſe.

Thou art my blood, where Johnſon has no part:

What ſhare have we in nature or in art?

Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand,

And rail at arts he did not underſtand?

Where made he love in prince Nicander's vein,

Or ſwept the duſt in Pſyche's humble ſtrain?

Where ſold he bargains, whip-ſtitch, kiſs my arſe,

Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?

When did his muſe from Fletcher ſcenes purloin,

As thou whole Eth'ridge doſt transfuſe to thine?

But ſo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow;

His always floats above, thine ſinks below.

This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,

New humours to invent for each new play:

This is that boaſted bias of thy mind,

By which, one way, to dulneſs 'tis inclin'd:

Which makes thy writings lean on one ſide ſtill,

And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

[174]Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence

Of likeneſs; thine's a tympany of ſenſe.

A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;

But ſure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.

Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep:

Thy tragic muſe gives ſmiles, thy comic, ſleep.

With whate'er gall thou ſet'ſt thyſelf to write,

Thy inoffenſive ſatires never bite.

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,

It does but touch thy Iriſh pen, and dies.

Thy genius calls thee not to purchaſe fame

In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing plays, and chuſe for thy command

Some peaceful province in Acroſtic land.

There thou may'ſt Wings diſplay, and Altars raiſe,

And torture one poor word ten thouſand ways.

Or, if thou woud'ſt thy different talents ſuit,

Set thy own ſongs, and ſing them to thy lute."

He ſaid; but his laſt words were ſcarcely heard:

For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,

And down they ſent the yet declaiming bard.

Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind,

Borne upwards by a ſubterranean wind.

The mantle ſell to the young prophet's part,

With double portion of his father's art.

ON POETRY. A RHAPSODY.

[175]

Here follows one of the beſt verſified poems in our language, and the moſt maſterly produc⯑tion of its author. The ſeverity with which Walpole is here treated, was in conſequence of that miniſter's having refuſed to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that purpoſe in the year 1725 (if I remember right). The ſe⯑verity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneaſineſs. A man whoſe ſchemes, like this miniſter's, ſeldom extended beyond the exi⯑gency of the year, but little regarded the con⯑tempt of poſterity.

ALL human race would fain be wits,

And millions miſs for one that hits.

Young's univerſal paſſion, pride,

Was never known to ſpread ſo wide.

Say, Britain, could you ever boaſt

Three poets in an age, at moſt?

Our chilling climate hardly bears

A ſprig of bays in fifty years:

[176]While ev'ry fool his claim alledges,

As if it grew in common hedges.

What reaſon can there be aſſign'd

For this perverſeneſs in the mind?

Brutes find out where their talents lie:

A bear will not attempt to fly;

A founder'd horſe will oft debate

Before he tries a five-barr'd gate:

A dog, by inſtinct, turns aſide,

Who ſees the ditch too deep and wide.

But man we find the only creature,

Who, led by folly, combats nature;

Who, when ſhe loudly cries forbear,

With obſtinacy fixes there;

And, where his genius leaſt inclines,

Abſurdly bends his whole deſigns.

Not empire to the riſing ſun,

By valour, conduct, fortune won;

Not higheſt wiſdom in debates

For framing laws to govern ſtates;

Not ſkill in ſciences profound,

So large, to graſp the circle round;

Such heav'nly influence require,

As how to ſtrike the Muſe's lyre.

Not beggar's brat, on bulk begot;

Not baſtard of a pedlar Scot;

Not boy brought up to cleaning ſhoes,

The ſpawn of Bridewell, or the ſtews;

Not infants dropt, the ſpurious pledges

Of gipſies litt'ring under hedges,

[177]Are ſo diſqualify'd by fate

To riſe in church, or law, or ſtate,

As he whom Phoebus, in his ire,

Hath blaſted with poetic fire.

What hope of cuſtom in the fair,

While not a ſoul demands your ware?

Where you have nothing to produce

For private life, or public uſe?

Court, city, country, want you not;

You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.

For poets law makes no proviſion;

The wealthy have you in deriſion;

Of ſtate affairs you cannot ſmatter;

Are aukward, when you try to flatter;

Your portion, taking Britain round,

Was juſt one annual hundred pound;

Now not ſo much as in remainder,

Since Cibber brought in an attainder;

For ever fix'd by right divine

(A monarch's right) on Grub-ſtreet line.

Poor ſtarvling bard, how ſmall thy gains!

How unproportion'd to thy pains!

And here a ſimile comes pat in:

Though chickens take a month to fatten,

The gueſts, in leſs than half an hour,

Will more than half a ſcore devour:

So, after toiling twenty days

To earn a ſtock of pence and praiſe,

Thy labours, grown the critic's prey,

Are ſwallow'd o'er a diſh of tea:

[178]Gone, to be never heard of more;

Gone, where the chickens went before.

How ſhall a new attempter learn

Of diff'rent ſpirits to diſcern,

And how diſtinguiſh which is which,

The poet's vein, or ſcribbling itch?

Then hear an old experienc'd ſinner,

Inſtructing thus a young beginner.

Conſult yourſelf, and, if you find

A powerful impulſe, urge your mind;

Impartial judge within your breaſt

What ſubject you can manage beſt;

Whether your genius moſt inclines

To ſatyre, praiſe, or hum'rous lines;

To elegies in mournful tone,

Or prologue, ſent from hand unknown.

Then, riſing with Aurora's light,

The muſe invok'd, ſit down to write;

Blot out, correct, inſert, refine,

Enlarge, diminiſh, interline;

Be mindful, when invention fails,

To ſcratch your head, and bite your nails.

Your poem finiſh'd, next, your care

Is needful to tranſcribe it fair.

In modern wit all printed traſh is

Set off with num'rous breaks—and daſhes—

To ſtateſmen would you give a wipe,

You print it in Italic type.

When letters are in vulgar ſhapes,

'Tis ten to one the wit eſcapes;

[179]But, when in capitals expreſt,

The dulleſt reader ſmokes the jeſt;

Or elſe, perhaps, he may invent

A better than the poet meant;

As learned commentators view

In Homer more than Homer knew.

Your poem in its modiſh dreſs,

Correctly fitted for the preſs,

Convey by penny-poſt to Lintot,

But let no friend alive look into't.

If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the coſt,

You need not fear your labour loſt:

And how agreeably ſurpriz'd

Are you to ſee it advertiz'd!

The hawker ſhews you one in print,

As freſh as farthings from the mint:

The product of your toil and ſweating;

A baſtard of your own begetting.

Be ſure at Wills, the following day,

Lie ſnug, and hear what critics ſay.

And, if you find the gen'ral vogue

Pronounces you a ſtupid rogue,

Damns all your thoughts as low and little,

Sit ſtill, and ſwallow down your ſpittle

Be ſilent as a politician,

For talking may beget ſuſpicion:

Or praiſe the judgement of the town,

And help, yourſelf, to run it down.

Give up your fond, paternal pride,

Nor argue on the weaker ſide

[180]For poems read without a name

We juſtly praiſe, or juſtly blame;

And critics have no partial views,

Except they know whom they abuſe:

And, ſince you ne'er provok'd their ſpight,

Depend upon't their judgement's right.

But if you blab, you are undone:

Conſider what a riſk you run:

You loſe your credit all at once;

The town will mark you for a dunce;

The vileſt doggrel Grub-ſtreet ſends

Will paſs for your's with foes and friends;

And you muſt bear the whole diſgrace,

Till ſome freſh blockhead takes your place.

Your ſecret kept, your poem ſunk,

And ſent in quires to line a trunk,

If, ſtill, you be diſpos'd to rhime,

Go, try your hand a ſecond time.

Again you fail; yet ſafe's the word;

Take courage, and attempt a third.

But, firſt, with care employ your thoughts,

Where critics mark'd your former faults:

The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit,

The ſimilies, that nothing fit;

The cant which ev'ry fool repeats,

Town jeſts, and coffee-houſe conceits;

Deſcriptions tedious, flat, and dry,

And introduc'd the lord knows why:

Or, where we find your fury ſet

Againſt the harmleſs alphabet;

[181]On A's and B's your malice vent,

While readers wonder whom you meant;

A public or a private robber,

A ſtateſman, or a South-ſea jobber;

A prelate who no God believes;

A parliament, or den of thieves;

A pick-purſe at the bar, or bench;

A ducheſs, or a ſuburb wench:

Or oft when epithets you link

In gaping lines to fill a chink;

Like ſtepping-ſtones to ſave a ſtride

In ſtreets where kennels are too wide;

Or like a heel-piece, to ſupport

A cripple with one foot too ſhort;

Or like a bridge that joins a mariſh

To moorlands of a diff'rent pariſh.

So have I ſeen ill-coupled hounds

Drag diff'rent ways in miry grounds.

So geographers in Afric maps

With ſavage pictures fill their gaps,

And o'er unhabitable downs

Place elephants, for want of towns.

But, though you miſs your third eſſay,

You need not throw your pen away.

Lay now aſide all thoughts of fame,

To ſpring more profitable game.

From party merit ſeek ſupport;

The vileſt verſe thrives beſt at court.

A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence

Will never fail to bring in pence:

[182]Nor be concern'd about the ſale,

He pays his workmen on the nail.

A prince, the moment he is crown'd,

Inherits every virtue round,

As emblems of the ſov'reign pow'r,

Like other bawbles in the Tow'r:

Is gen'rous, valiant, juſt, and wiſe,

And ſo continues till he dies:

His humble ſenate this profeſſes

In all their ſpeeches, votes, addreſſes:

But once you fix him in a tomb,

His virtues fade, his vices bloom;

And each perfection, wrong imputed,

Is fully at his death confuted.

The loads of poems in his praiſe

Aſcending, make one funeral-blaze:

As ſoon as you can hear his knell,

This God on earth turns d—l in hell:

And lo! his miniſters of ſtate,

Transform'd to imps, his levee wait;

Where, in the ſcenes of endleſs woe,

They ply their former arts below;

And, as they ſail in Charon's boat,

Contrive to bribe the judge's vote:

To Cerberus they give a fop,

His tripple-barking mouth to ſtop;

Or, in the iv'ry gate of dreams,

Project Exciſe and South-ſea ſchemes;

Or hire their party-pamphleteers

To ſet Elyſium by the ears.

[183]Then, poet, if you mean to thrive,

Employ your muſe on kings alive;

With prudence gathering up a cluſter

Of all the virtues you can muſter;

Which, form'd into a garland ſweet,

Lay, humbly, at your monarch's feet;

Who, as the odours reach his throne,

Will ſmile, and think 'em all his own;

For law and goſpel both determine

All virtues lodge in royal ermine.

(I mean the oracles of both,

Who ſhall depoſe it upon oath.)

Your garland, in the following reign,

Change but the names, will do again.

But, if you think this trade too baſe,

(Which ſeldom is the dunce's caſe)

Put on the critic's brow, and ſit

At Will's the puny judge of wit.

A nod, a ſhrug, a ſcornful ſmile,

With caution us'd, may ſerve awhile.

Proceed no further in your part,

Before you learn the terms of art;

For you can ne'er be too far gone

In all our modern critics jargon:

Then talk, with more authentic face,

Of unities, in time and place;

Get ſcraps of Horace from your friends,

And have them at your fingers ends;

Learn Ariſtotle's rules by rote,

And, at all hazards, boldly quote;

[184]Judicious Rymer oft review,

Wiſe Dennis, and profound Boſſu.

Read all the prefaces of Dryden,

For theſe our critics much confide in,

(Though merely writ, at firſt, for filling,

To raiſe the volume's price a ſhilling).

A forward critic often dupes us

With ſham quotations, peri hupſous:

And, if we have not read Longinus,

Will magiſterially out-ſhine us.

Then, leſt with Greek he over-run ye,

Procure the book for love or money,

Tranſlated from Boileau's tranſlation,

And quote quotation on quotation.

At Will's you hear a poem read,

Where Battus, from the table-head,

Reclining on his elbow-chair,

Gives judgement with deciſive air;

To whom the tribe of circling wits,

As to an oracle, ſubmits.

He gives directions to the town

To cry it up, or run it down;

Like courtiers, when they ſend a note,

Inſtructing members how to vote.

He ſets the ſtamp of bad and good,

Though not a word be underſtood.

Your leſſon learnt, you'll be ſecure

To get the name of connoiſſeur:

And, when your merits once are known,

Procure diſciples of your own.

[185]For poets (you can never want 'em)

Spread through ^* Auguſta Trinobantum,

Computing by their pecks of coals,

Amount to juſt nine thouſand ſouls:

Theſe o'er their proper diſtricts govern,

Of wit and humour judges ſov'reign.

In ev'ry ſtreet a city-bard

Rules, like an alderman, his ward;

His indiſputed rights extend

Through all the lane, from end to end;

The neighbours round admire his ſhrewdneſs

For ſongs of loyalty and lewdneſs;

Out-done by none in rhiming well,

Although he never learnt to ſpell.

Two bordering wits contend for glory,

And one is Whig, and one is Tory:

And this for epics claims the bays,

And that for elegiac lays:

Some fam'd for numbers ſoft and ſmooth,

By lovers ſpoke in Punch's booth:

And ſome as juſtly fame extols

For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls.

Bavius in Wapping gains renown,

And Maevius reigns o'er Kentiſh-town:

Tigellius, plac'd in Phoebus' car,

From Ludgate ſhines to Temple-bar:

Harmonious Cibber entertains

The court, with annual birth-day ſtrains;

[186]Whence Gay was baniſh'd in diſgrace,

Where Pope will never ſhow his face;

Where Y—g muſt torture his invention

To flatter knaves, or loſe his penſion.

But theſe are not a thouſandth part

Of jobbers in the poet's art,

Attending each his proper ſtation,

And all in due ſubordination,

Through ev'ry alley to be found,

In garrets high, or under ground;

And when they join their pericranies,

Out ſkips a book of miſcellanies.

Hobbes clearly proves, that ev'ry creature

Lives in a ſtate of war, by nature.

The greater for the ſmalleſt watch,

But meddle ſeldom with their match.

A whale, of mod'rate ſize, will draw

A ſhoal of herrings down his maw.

A fox with geeſe his belly crams,

A wolf deſtroys a thouſand lambs.

But, ſearch among the rhiming race,

The brave are worried by the baſe.

If on Parnaſſus' top you ſit,

You rarely bite, are always bit.

Each poet of inferior ſize

On you ſhall rail and criticiſe;

And ſtrive to tear you limb from limb,

While others do as much for him.

The vermin only teaze and pinch

Their foes ſuperior by an inch.

[187]So, nat'raliſts obſerve, a flea

Hath ſmaller fleas that on him prey,

And theſe have ſmaller ſtill to bite 'em,

And ſo proceed ad infinitum.

Thus ev'ry poet, in his kind,

Is bit by him that comes behind;

Who, though too little to be ſeen,

Can teaſe, and gall, and give the ſpleen;

Call dunces fools, and ſons of whores,

Lay Grub-ſtreet at each other's doors;

Extol the Greek and Roman maſters,

And curſe our modern poetaſters.

Complain, as many an ancient bard did,

How genius is no more rewarded;

How wrong a taſte prevails among us;

How much our anceſtors out-ſung us;

Can perſonate an aukward ſcorn

For thoſe who are not poets born;

And all their brother dunces laſh,

Who croud the preſs with hourly traſh.

Oh Grub-ſtreet! how do I bemoan thee,

Whoſe graceleſs children ſcorn to own thee!

Their filial piety forgot,

Deny their country, like a Scot;

Though, by their idiom and grimace,

They ſoon betray their native place:

Yet thou haſt greater cauſe to be

Aſham'd of them, than they of thee,

Degenerate from their ancient brood,

Since firſt the court allow'd them food.

[188]Remains a difficulty ſtill,

To purchaſe fame by writing ill?

From Flecknoe down to Howard's time,

How few have reach'd the low ſublime?

For, when our high-born Howard died,

Blackmore, alone, his place ſupplied:

And leſt a chaſm ſhould intervene,

When death had finiſh'd Blackmore's reign,

The leaden crown devolv'd to thee,

Great ^* poet of the Hollow-tree.

But ah! how unſecure thy throne!

A thouſand bards thy right diſown:

They plot to turn, in factious zeal,

Duncinea to a common-weal;

And, with rebellious arms, pretend,

An equal priv'lege to deſcend.

In bulk there are not more degrees,

From elephants to mites in cheeſe,

Than what a curious eye may trace,

In creatures of the rhiming race.

From bad to worſe, and worſe they fall;

But who can reach the worſt of all?

For though, in nature, depth and height

Are equally held infinite,

In poetry the height we know;

'Tis only infinite below.

For inſtance: when you raſhly think,

No rhimer can like Welſted ſink,

[189]His merits ballanc'd, you ſhall find,

The laureate leaves him far behind.

Concannen, more aſpiring bard,

Soars downwards deeper by a yard.

Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops,

The reſt purſue as thick as hops.

With heads to points the gulph they enter,

Link'd perpendicular to the center;

And, as their heels elated riſe,

Their heads attempt the nether ſkies.

O, what indignity and ſhame,

To proſtitute the Muſe's name!

By flatt'ring —, whom Heav'n deſign'd

The plagues and ſcourges of mankind;

Bred up in ignorance and ſloth,

And ev'ry vice that nurſes both.

Fair Britain, in thy monarch bleſt,

Whoſe virtues bear the ſtricteſt teſt;

Whom never faction could beſpatter,

Nor miniſter nor poet flatter.

What juſtice in rewarding merit!

What magnanimity of ſpirit!

What lineaments divine we trace

Through all his figure, mien, and face!

Though peace with olive bind his hands,

Confeſt the conq'ring hero ſtands.

Hydaſpes, Indus, and the Ganges,

Dread from his hand impending changes.

From him the Tartar, and Chineſe,

Short by the knees, intreat for peace.

[190]The conſort of his throne and bed

A perfect goddeſs born and bred,

Appointed ſov'reign judge to ſit

On learning, eloquence, and wit.

Our eldeſt hope, divine Iülus,

(Late, very late, O, may he rule us!)

What early manhood has he ſhown,

Before his downy beard was grown!

Then think what wonders will be done

By going on as he begun,

An heir for Britain to ſecure

As long as ſun and moon endure.

The remnant of the royal blood

Comes pouring on me like a flood.

Bright goddeſſes, in number five;

Duke William, ſweeteſt prince alive.

Now ſing the Miniſter of ſtate,

Who ſhines alone without a mate.

Obſerve with what majeſtic port

This atlas ſtands, to prop the court:

Intent the public debts to pay

Like prudent Fabius, by delay.

Thou great vicegerent of the king,

Thy praiſes ev'ry muſe ſhall ſing!

In all affairs thou ſole director,

Of wit and learning chief protector;

Though ſmall the time thou haſt to ſpare,

The church is thy peculiar care.

Of pious prelates what a ſtock

You chuſe to rule the ſable flock?

[191]You raiſe the honour of the peerage,

Proud to attend you at the ſteerage.

You dignify the noble race,

Content yourſelf with humbler place.

Now learning, valour, virtue, ſenſe,

To titles give the ſole pretence.

St. George beheld thee, with delight,

Vouchſafe to be an azure knight,

When on thy breaſt and ſides herculean

He fixt the ſtar and ſtring cerulean.

Say, poet, in what other nation

Shone ever ſuch a conſtellation!

Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays,

And tune your harps, and ſtrow your bays:

Your panegyrics here provide:

You cannot err on Flattery's ſide.

Above the ſtars exalt your ſtyle,

You ſtill are low ten thouſand mile.

On Lewis all his bards beſtow'd,

Of incenſe, many a thouſand load;

But Europe mortify'd his pride,

And ſwore the fawning raſcals ly'd.

Yet what the world refus'd to Lewis,

Applied to George, exactly true is.

Exactly true! invidious poet!

'Tis fifty thouſand times below it.

Tranſlate me now ſome lines, if you can,

From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan.

They could all pow'r in Heav'n divide,

And do no wrong to either ſide:

[192]They teach you how to ſplit a hair,

Give — and Jove an equal ſhare.

Yet, why ſhould we be lac'd ſo ſtrait?

I'll give my — butter-weight.

And reaſon good; for many a year

Jove never intermeddled here:

Nor, though his prieſts be duly paid,

Did ever we deſire his aid:

We now can better do without him,

Since Woolſton gave us arms to rout him.

* * * * * Caetera deſiderantur. * * * * *

OF THE USE OF RICHES.

[193]

This poem, as Mr. Pope tells us himſelf, coſt much attention and labour; and, from the eaſineſs that appears in it, one would be apt to think as much.

P. WHO ſhall decide, when Doctors diſagree,
And ſoundeſt Caſuiſts doubt, like you and me?
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus giv'n,
That man was made the ſtanding jeſt of Heav'n;
And gold but ſent to keep the fools in play,
For ſome to heap, and ſome to throw away.
But I, who think more highly of our kind,
(And, ſurely, Heav'n and I are of a mind)
Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound,
Deep hid the ſhining miſchief under ground:
But when, by man's audacious labour, won,
Flam'd forth this rival to its Sire, the Sun,
Then careful Heav'n ſupply'd two ſorts of Men;
To ſquander Theſe, and Thoſe, to hide agen.
Like doctors, thus, when much diſpute has paſs'd,
We find our tenets juſt the ſame at laſt.
Both fairly owning, Riches, in effect,
No grace of Heav'n, or token of th' Elect;
[194]Giv'n to the Fool, the Mad, the Vain, the Evil,
To Ward*, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil.
[195]B. What Nature wants commodious Gold beſtows;
'Tis thus we eat the bread another ſows.
[196]P. But how unequal it beſtows, obſerve;
'Tis thus we riot, while, who ſow it, ſtarve:
What Nature wants (a phraſe I much diſtruſt)
Extends to Luxury, extends to Luſt:
Uſeful, I grant, it ſerves what life requires,
But dreadful, too, the dark aſſaſſin hires.
B. Trade it may help, ſociety extend:
P. But lures the Pyrate, and corrupts the Friend.
B. It raiſes armies in a Nation's aid:
P. But bribes a Senate, and the Land's betray'd.
[197]In vain may Heroes fight, and Patriots rave;
If ſecret gold ſap on from knave to knave.
Once, we confeſs, beneath the Patriot's cloak,
From the crack'd bag the dropping Guinea ſpoke*,
And jingling down the back-ſtairs, told the crew,
"Old Cato is as great a rogue as you."
Bleſt paper-credit! laſt and beſt ſupply!
That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly!
Gold, imp'd by thee, can compaſs hardeſt things,
Can pocket States, can fetch or carry Kings†;
A ſingle leaf ſhall waft an army o'er,
Or ſhip off Senates to ſome diſtant ſhore‖;
A leaf, like Sibyl's, ſcatter to and fro
Our fates and fortunes, as the wind ſhall blow:
[198]Pregnant with thouſands flits the ſcrap unſeen,
And, ſilent, ſells a King, or buys a Queen.
Oh! that ſuch bulky bribes as all might ſee,
Still, as of old, incumber'd Villainy!
Could France or Rome divert our brave deſigns,
With all their brandies, or with all their wines?
What could they more than Knights and 'Squires confound,
Or water all the Quorum ten miles round?
A ſtateſman's ſlumbers how this ſpeech would ſpoil!
"Sir, Spain has ſent a thouſand jars of oil;
"Huge bales of Britiſh cloth blockade the door;
"A hundred oxen at your levee roar."
Poor Avarice one torment more would find;
Nor could Profuſion ſquander all in kind.
Aſtride his cheeſe Sir Morgan might we meet;
And Worldly * crying coals from ſtreet to ſtreet,
Whom with a wig ſo wild, and mien ſo maz'd,
Pity miſtakes for ſome poor tradeſman craz'd.
Had † Colepeper's whole wealth been hops and hogs,
Could he himſelf have ſent it to the dogs?
[199]His Grace will game: to White's a Bull be led,
With ſpurning heels, and with a butting head.
To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games,
Fair Courſers, Vaſes, and alluring Dames.
Shall, then, Uxorio, if the ſtakes he ſweep,
Bear home ſix Whores, and make his Lady weep?
Or ſoft Adonis, ſo perfum'd and fine,
Drive to St. James's a whole herd of ſwine?
Oh filthy check on all induſtrious ſkill,
To ſpoil the nation's laſt great trade, Quadrille!
Since, then, my Lord, on ſuch a World we fall,
What ſay you? B. Say? Why take it, Gold and all.
P. What Riches give us, let us, then, enquire:
Meat, Fire, and Cloaths. B. What more? P. Meat, Cloaths, and Fire.
Is this too little? would you more than live?
Alas! 'tis more than * Turner finds they give.
[200]Alas! 'tis more than (all his viſions paſt)
Unhappy † Wharton, waking, found at laſt!
What can they give? to dying * Hopkins, Heirs;
To Chartres, Vigour; * Japhet, Noſe and Ears?
Can they, in gems, bid pallid Hippia glow;
In Fulvia's buckle eaſe the throbs below:
[201]Or heal, old Narſes, thy obſcener ail,
With all th' imbroid'ry plaiſter'd at thy tail?
They might (were Harpax not too wiſe to ſpend)
Give Harpax ſelf the bleſſing of a friend;
Or find ſome Doctor that would ſave the life
Of wretched Shylock, ſpite of Shylock's Wife:
But thouſands die, without or this or that,
Die, and endow a College, or a Cat*.
To ſome, indeed, Heav'n grants the happier fate,
T' enrich a baſtard, or a ſon they hate.
Perhaps you think the poor might have their part.
Bond damns the poor†, and hates them from his heart:
The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule,
That every man in want is knave or fool:
[202]"God cannot love (ſays Blunt, with tearleſs eyes)
"The wretch he ſtarves"—and piouſly denies:
But the good Biſhop, with a meeker air,
Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.
Yet, to be juſt to theſe poor men of pelf,
Each does but hate his neighbour as himſelf:
Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides
The Slave that digs it, and the Slave that hides.
B. Who ſuffer thus, mere Charity ſhould own,
Muſt act on motives powerful, tho' unknown.
P. Some War, ſome Plague, or Famine they foreſee,
Some Revelation hid from you and me.
Why Shylock wants a meal the cauſe is found,
He thinks a loaf will riſe to fifty pound.
What made Directors cheat in South-ſea year?
To live on * Ven'ſon when it ſold ſo dear.
Aſk you why † Phryne the whole Auction buys?
Phryne foreſees a general Exciſe.
Why ſhe and Sappho raiſe that monſtrous ſum?
Alas! they fear a man will coſt a plum.
Wiſe ‖ Peter ſees the world's reſpect for Gold,
And, therefore, hopes this nation may be ſold:
[203]Glorious Ambition! Peter, ſwell thy ſtore,
And be what Rome's great * Didius was before.
The crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To juſt three millions ſtinted modeſt ‖ Gage.
But nobler ſcenes Maria's dreams unfold,
Hereditary Realms, and worlds of Gold.
Congenial ſouls! whoſe life one Av'rice joins,
And one fate buries in th' Aſturian Mines.
Much injur'd ‡ Blunt! why bears he Britain's hate?
A wizard told him in theſe words our fate:
[204]"At length, Corruption, like a gen'ral flood,
(So long by watchful miniſters withſtood)
Shall deluge all; and Av'rice creeping on,
Spread like a low-born miſt, and blot the Sun;
Stateſman and Patriot ply alike the Stocks,
Peereſs and Butler ſhare alike the Box,
And Judges job, and Biſhops bite the town,
And mighty Dukes pack cards for half a crown.
See Britain ſunk in lucre's ſordid charms,
And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's arms!"
'Twas no court-badge, great Scriv'ner, fir'd thy brain,
Nor lordly Luxury, nor City Gain:
No, 'twas thy righteous end, aſham'd to ſee
Senates degen'rate, Patriots diſagree,
And nobly wiſhing Party-rage to ceaſe,
To buy both ſides, and give thy country peace.
"All this is madneſs," cries a ſober ſage:
But who, my friend, has reaſon in his rage?
[205]"The ruling paſſion, be it what it will,
The ruling paſſion conquers Reaſon ſtill."
Leſs mad, the wildeſt whimſey we can frame,
Than ev'n that paſſion, if it has no Aim;
For tho' ſuch motives Folly you may call,
The Folly's greater to have none at all.
Hear, then, the truth: "'Tis Heav'n each paſſion ſends,
And diff'rent men directs to diff'rent ends.
Extremes in Nature equal good produce,
Extremes in Man concur to gen'ral uſe."
Aſk we what makes one keep, and one beſtow?
That Pow'r who bids the ocean ebb and flow;
Bids ſeed-time, harveſt, equal courſe maintain,
Thro' reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain,
Builds Life on Death, on Change Duration founds,
And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds.
Riches, like inſects, when conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and, in their ſeaſon, fly.
Who ſees pale Mammon pine amidſt his ſtore,
Sees but a backward ſteward for the Poor;
This year a Reſervoir, to keep and ſpare;
The next, a Fountain, ſpouting thro' his Heir,
In laviſh ſtreams to quench a Country's thirſt,
And men and dogs ſhall drink him till they burſt.
Old Cotta ſham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What tho' (the uſe of barb'rous ſpits forgot)
His kitchen vy'd, in coolneſs, with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with creſſes ſtor'd,
With ſoups unbought, and ſallads, bleſs'd his board?
[206]If Cotta liv'd on pulſe, it was no more
Than Bramins, Saints, and Sages did before;
To cram the Rich was prodigal expence;
And who would take the Poor from Providence?
Like ſome lone Chartreux ſtands the good old Hall,
Silence without, and faſts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor ſound,
No noontide bell invites the country round;
Tenants with ſighs the ſmoakleſs tow'rs ſurvey,
And turn th' unwilling ſteeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the foreſt o'er,
Curſe the ſav'd candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt maſtiff growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not ſo his Son; he mark'd this overſight,
And then miſtook reverſe of wrong for right.
(For what to ſhun will no great knowledge need,
But what to follow, is a taſk indeed.)
Yet ſure, of qualities deſerving praiſe,
More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raiſe.
What ſlaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine!
Yet no mean motives this profuſion draws,
His oxen periſh in his country's cauſe;
'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup,
And zeal for that great Houſe which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked ſeat;
The Sylvans groan—no matter—for the Fleet:
Next goes his wool—to clothe our valiant bands;
Laſt, for his Country's Love, he ſells his Lands.
[207]To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold Train-bands, and burns a Pope.
And ſhall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her Patriots with her Spoils?
In vain at Court the Bankrupt pleads his cauſe,
His thankleſs Country leaves him to her laws.
The Senſe to value Riches, with the Art
T' enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiouſly purſu'd,
Not ſunk by ſloth, not rais'd by ſervitude;
To balance Fortune by a juſt expence,
Join with Oeconomy, Magnificence;
With Splendor, Charity; with Plenty, Health;
Oh teach us, Bathurſt! yet unſpoil'd by wealth!
That ſecret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.
B. To Worth or Want well weigh'd, be Bounty giv'n,
And eaſe, or emulate, the care of Heav'n;
(Whoſe meaſure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend Fortune's fault, and juſtify her grace.
Wealth in the groſs is death; but life diffus'd;
As poiſon heals, in juſt proportion us'd:
In heaps, like Ambergriſe, a ſtink it lies,
But well diſpers'd, is incenſe to the Skies.
P. Who ſtarves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats?
The Wretch that truſts them, and the Rogue that cheats.
Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon
Without a Fiddler, Flatt'rer, or Buffoon?
Whoſe table, Wit, or modeſt Merit ſhare,
Un-elbow'd by a Gameſter, Pimp, or Play'r?
[208]Who copies Your's, or * Oxford's better part,
To eaſe th' oppreſs'd, and raiſe the ſinking heart?
Where-e'er he ſhines, oh Fortune, gild the ſcene,
And Angels guard him in the golden Mean!
There, Engliſh bounty yet a-while may ſtand,
And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praiſes why ſhould Lords engroſs?
Riſe, honeſt Muſe! and ſing † The Man of Roſs:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarſe applauſe reſounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's ſultry brow?
From the dry rock who bad the waters flow?
Not to the ſkies in uſeleſs columns toſt,
Or in proud falls magnificently loſt;
But, clear and artleſs, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the ſick, and ſolace to the ſwain.
Whoſe Cauſe-way parts the vale with ſhady rows?
Whoſe Seats the weary Traveller repoſe?
Who taught that Heav'n-directed ſpire to riſe?
"The Man of Roſs," each liſping babe replies.
[209]Behold the Market-place with poor o'er-ſpread!
The Man of Roſs divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon Alms-houſe, neat, but void of ſtate,
Where Age and Want ſit ſmiling at the gate;
Him portion'd Maids, apprentic'd Orphans bleſt,
The young who labour, and the old who reſt.
Is any ſick? The Man of Roſs relieves,
Preſcribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Baulk'd are the Courts, and conteſt is no more.
Deſpairing Quacks with curſes fled the place,
And vile Attorneys, now an uſeleſs race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to purſue
What all ſo wiſh, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh ſay, what ſums that gen'rous hand ſupply?
What mines to ſwell that boundleſs charity?
P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children, clear,
This man poſſeſs'd—five hundred pounds a year.
Bluſh, Grandeur, bluſh! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!
Ye little Stars! hide your diminiſh'd rays.
B. And what? no monument, inſcription, ſtone?
His race, his form, his name almoſt unknown?
P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, ſearch it there†, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the hiſtory;
[210]Enough, that Virtue fill'd the ſpace between;
Prov'd, by the ends of being, to have been.
When Hopkins dies, a thouſand lights attend
The wretch, who, living, ſav'd a candle's end;
Should'ring God's altar a vile image ſtands,
Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;
That live-long wig which Gorgon's ſelf might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian ſtone*.
Behold what bleſſings Wealth to life can lend!
And ſee, what comfort it affords our end.
In the worſt inn's worſt room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaiſter, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with ſtraw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow ſtrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies †—alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleaſure, and that ſoul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewſbury and love;
Or juſt as gay, at Council, in a ring
Of mimick'd Stateſmen, and their merry King.
No Wit to flatter, left of all his ſtore!
No fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more.
[211]There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame; this lord of uſeleſs thouſands ends.
His Grace's fate ſage Cutler could foreſee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like me."
As well his Grace reply'd, "Like you, Sir John?
That I can do when all I have is gone."
Reſolve me, Reaſon, which of theſe is worſe,
Want with a full, or with an empty purſe?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confeſs'd,
Ariſe, and tell me, was thy death more bleſs'd?
Cutler ſaw tenants break, and houſes fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a ſtranger's pow'r,
For very want; he could not pay a dow'r.
A few grey hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd,
'Twas very want that ſold them for two pound.
What ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,
Baniſh'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you, perhaps, think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,
"Virtue, and Wealth, what are ye, but a name!"
Say, for ſuch worth are other worlds prepar'd?
Or are they both, in this, their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd—I'll tell a tale—B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column †, pointing at the ſkies,
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;
[212]There dwelt a Citizen of ſober fame,
A plain, good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and ſo forth;
His word would paſs for more than he was worth.
One ſolid diſh his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding ſolemniz'd the Lord's:
Conſtant at Church, and Change; his gains were ſure,
His givings rare, ſave farthings to the poor.
The Dev'l was piqu'd ſuch ſaintſhip to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old:
But Satan, now, is wiſer than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds ſweep
The ſurge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full againſt his Corniſh lands they roar,
And two rich ſhipwrecks bleſs the lucky ſhore.
Sir Balaam, now, he lives like other folks;
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:
"Live like yourſelf," was ſoon my Lady's word;
And lo! two puddings ſmoak'd upon the board.
Aſleep and naked as an Indian lay,
An honeſt factor ſtole a Gem away:
He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit,
So kept the Di'mond, and the rogue was bit.
Some ſcruple roſe, but thus he eas'd his thought,
"I'll now give ſixpence where I gave a groat;
[213]Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice—
"And am ſo clear too of all other vice."
The Tempter ſaw his time; the work he ply'd;
Stocks and Subſcriptions pour on ev'ry ſide,
'Till all the Daemon makes his full deſcent
In one abundant ſhow'r of Cent. per Cent.
Sinks deep within him, and poſſeſſes whole,
Then dubs Director, and ſecures his ſoul.
Behold Sir Balaam now a man of ſpirit,
Aſcribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a bleſſing, now was Wit,
And God's good Prov [...]dence, a lucky Hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn:
His Compting-houſe employ'd the Sunday-morn:
Seldom at Church ('twas ſuch a buſy life)
But duly ſent his family and wife.
There (ſo the Dev'l ordain'd) one Chriſtmas-tide,
My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.
A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight;
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to pleaſe the Fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air:
Firſt, for his Son a gay Commiſſion buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies:
His daughter flaunts a Viſcount's tawdry wife;
She bears a Coronet and P—x for life.
In Britain's Senate he a ſeat obtains,
And one more Penſioner St. Stephen gains*.
[214]My lady falls to play; ſo bad her chance,
He muſt repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The Houſe impeach him; Coningſby harangues;
The Court forſake him, and Sir Balaam hangs:
Wife, ſon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown;
The Devil and the King divide the prize,
And ſad Sir Balaam curſes God and dies.

'Tis ſtrange the Miſer ſhould his Cares employ
To gain thoſe riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it leſs ſtrange, the Prodigal ſhould waſte
His wealth, to purchaſe what he ne'er can taſte?
Not for himſelf he ſees, or hears, or eats;
Artiſts muſt chuſe his Pictures, Muſic, Meats;
He buys, for * Topham, Drawings and Deſigns;
For Pembroke Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare monkiſh Manuſcripts for Hearne alone,
And Books for ‖ Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all theſe are for himſelf? no more
Than his fine Wife, alas! or finer Whore.
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to ſhew, how many taſtes he wanted.
[215]What brought Sir Viſto's ill-got wealth to waſte?
Some Daemon whiſper'd, "Viſto! have a Taſte."
Heav'n viſits with a Taſte the wealthy fool,
And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule.
See! ſportive Fate, to puniſh aukward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and ſends him ſuch a Guide:
A ſtanding ſermon, at each year's expence,
That never Coxcomb reach'd Magnificence!
You ſhow us, ‡ Rome was glorious, not profuſe,
And pompous buildings once were things of Uſe.
Yet ſhall, my Lord, your juſt, your noble rules,
Fill half the land with Imitating-Fools?
Who random drawings from your ſheets ſhall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load ſome vain Church with old Theatric ſtate,
Turn Arcs of Triumph to a Garden-gate;
Reverſe your ornaments, and hang them all
On ſome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four ſlices of pilaſter on't.
That, lac'd with bits of ruſtic, makes a Front.
Shall call the wind thro' long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door‖;
Conſcious they act a true Palladian part,
And, if they ſtarve, they ſtarve by rules of art.
[216]Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
Something there is more needful than Expence,
And ſomething previous e'en to Taſte—'tis Senſe:
Good Senſe, which only is the gift of Heav'n,
And, tho' no Science, fairly worth the ſeven:
A Light, which in yourſelf you muſt perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give‡.
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,
To ſwell the Terras, or to ſink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddeſs like a modeſt fair,
Nor over-dreſs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be ſpy'd,
Where half the ſkill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleaſingly confounds,
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.
Conſult the Genius of the Place in all;
That tells the Waters or to riſe, or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious Hill the Heav'ns to ſcale,
Or ſcoops in circling theatres the Vale;
Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies ſhades from ſhades;
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, deſigns.
[217]Still follow Senſe, of ev'ry Art the Soul,
Parts anſwering parts ſhall ſlide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, ſtrike from Chance;
Nature ſhall join you; Time ſhall make it grow
A Work to wonder at—perhaps a STOW‖.
Without it, proud Verſailles! thy glory falls;
And Nero's Terraces deſert their walls:
The vaſt Parterres a thouſand hands ſhall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a Lake:
Or cut wide views through mountains to the Plain‡,
You'll wiſh your hill or ſhelter'd ſeat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an Hermitage ſet Dr. Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years toil complete;
His Quincunx darkens, his Eſpaliers meet;
The Wood ſupports the Plain, the parts unite,
And ſtrength of Shade contends with ſtrength of Light;
A waving Glow the bloomy beds diſplay,
Bluſhing in bright diverſities of day,
With ſilver quiv'ring rills maeander'd o'er—
Enjoy them, you; Villario can no more;
[218]Tir'd of the ſcene Parterres and Fountains yield,
He finds, at laſt, he better likes a field.
Thro' his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus ſtray'd,
Or ſat delighted in the thick'ning ſhade,
With annual joy the red'ning ſhoots to greet,
Or ſee the ſtretching branches long to meet!
His ſon's fine Taſte an op'ner Viſta loves,
Foe to the Dryads of his Father's groves;
One boundleſs green§, or flouriſh'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of Yews‡;
The thriving plants ignoble broomſticks made,
Now ſweep thoſe Alleys they were born to ſhade.
At Timon's Villa let us paſs a day,
Where all cry out, "What ſums are thrown away!"
So proud, ſo grand; of that ſtupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatneſs, with Timon, dwells in ſuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
[219]To compaſs this, his Building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a Down:
Who but muſt laugh the maſter when he ſees,
A puny inſect, ſhiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleneſs around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground.
Two Cupids ſquirt before: a Lake behind
Improves the keenneſs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On ev'ry ſide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleaſing Intricacies intervene,
No artful wildneſs to perplex the ſcene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform juſt reflects the other.
The ſuffering eye inverted Nature ſees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a Summer-houſe, that knows no ſhade;
Here Amphitrite ſails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There § Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd, ſee the drooping ſea-horſe mourn,
And ſwallows rooſt in Nilus' duſty Urn.
My Lord advances with majeſtic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleaſure to be ſeen;
But ſoft—by regular approach—not yet—
Firſt thro' the length of yon hot terrace ſweat;
[220]And when up ten ſteep ſlopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Juſt at his Study-door he'll bleſs your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it ſtor'd?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord:
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
Theſe Aldus printed, thoſe Du Sueïl has bound.
Lo ſome are Vellom, and the reſt as good
For all his Lordſhip knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
Theſe Shelves admit not any modern book.
And now the Chapel's ſilver bell you hear,
That ſummons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light quirks of Muſic, broken and uneven,
Make the ſoul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n.
On painted Ceilings you devoutly ſtare,
Where ſprawl the Saints of § Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expanſion lie,
And bring all Paradiſe before your eye.
To reſt, the Cuſhion and ſoft Dean invite,
Who never mentions ‖ Hell to ears polite.
But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footſteps ſcrape the marble Hall:
[221]The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons ſpew to waſh your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room*?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A ſolemn Sacrifice, perform'd in ſtate,
You drink by meaſure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying courſe, you'd ſwear
Sancho's † dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each Act the trembling ſalvers ring,
From ſoup to ſweet-wine, and God bleſs the King.
In plenty ſtarving, tantaliz'd in ſtate,
And complaiſantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, careſs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curſe ſuch laviſh coſt, and little ſkill,
And ſwear no day was ever paſt ſo ill.
Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed;
Health to himſelf, and to his infants bread
The Lab'rer bears: what his hard heart denies,
His charitable Vanity ſupplies.
Another age ſhall ſee the golden Ear
Imbrown the ſlope, and nod on the Parterre,
Deep harveſts bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-aſſume the land.
[222]Who, then, ſhall grace, or who improve the Soil?
Who plants like Bathurſt, or who builds like Boyle?
'Tis uſe, alone, that ſanctifies Expence,
And Splendor borrows all her rays from Senſe.
His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he encreaſe:
Whoſe chearful Tenants bleſs their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the ſoil;
Whoſe ample lawns are not aſham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deſerving ſteed;
Whoſe riſing foreſts, nor for pride or ſhow,
But future Building, future Navies, grow:
Let his plantations ſtretch from down to down,
Firſt ſhade a Country, and then raiſe a Town.
You too proceed! make falling Arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themſelves reſtore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till Kings call forth th' ideas of your mind‡,
(Proud to accompliſh what ſuch hands deſign'd)
[223]Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend,
Bid Temples, worthier of the God, aſcend;
Bid the broad Arch the dang'rous Flood contain,
The Mole projected break the roaring Main;
Back to his bounds their ſubject ſea command,
And roll obedient Rivers thro' the Land:
Theſe Honours, Peace to happy Britain brings,
Theſe are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.

FROM THE DISPENSARY. CANTO VI.

[225]

This ſixth canto of the Diſpenſary, by Dr. Garth, has more merit than the whole preceding part of the poem, and, as I am told, in the firſt edition of this work it is more correct than as here ex⯑hibited; but that edition I have not been able to find. The praiſes beſtowed, on this poem are more than have been given to any other; but our approbation, at preſent, is cooler, for it owed part of its fame to party.

AND now the Delegate prepares to go

And view the wonders of the realms below.

Thrice did the goddeſs, with her ſacred wand,

The pavement ſtrike; and ſtrait, at her command,

The willing ſurface opens, and deſcries

A deep deſcent, that leads to nether ſkies.

Hygeia to the ſilent region tends;

And, with his heav'nly guide; the Charge deſcends.

Thus Numa, when to hallow'd caves retir'd,

Was by Aegeria guarded and inſpir'd.

Within the chambers of the globe they ſpy

The beds where ſleeping vegetables lie,

Till the glad ſummons of a genial ray

Unbinds the glebe, and calls them out to day.

[226]Hence Pancies trick themſelves in various hue,

And hence Junquils derive their fragrant dew;

Hence the Carnation, and the baſhful Roſe,

Their virgin bluſhes to the morn diſcloſe.

Hence the chaſte Lilly riſes to the light,

Unveils her ſnowy breaſts and charms the ſight.

Hence arbours are with twining greens array'd,

T'oblige complaining lovers with their ſhade:

And hence on Daphne's laurel'd forehead grow

Immortal wreaths for Phoebus and Naſſau.

The inſects here their ling'ring trance ſurvive:

Benumb'd they ſeem, and doubtful if alive.

From Winter's fury hither they repair,

And ſtay for milder ſkies and ſofter air.

Down to theſe cells obſcener reptiles creep;

Where hateful Nutes and painted Lizzards ſleep.

Where ſhiv'ring Snakes the ſummer Solſtice wait,

Unfurl their painted folds, and ſlide in ſtate.

Here their new form the numb'd Erucae hide,

Their num'rous feet in ſlender bandage ty'd;

Soon as the kindling year begins to riſe,

This upſtart race their native clod deſpiſe,

And, proud of painted wings, attempt the ſkies.

Now thoſe profounder regions they explore,

Where metals ripen in vaſt cakes of oar.

Here, ſullen to the ſight, at large is ſpread,

The dull unwieldy maſs of lumpiſh Lead.

There, glimm'ring in their dawning beds, are ſeen

The aſpiring ſeeds of ſprightly Tin.

The Copper ſparkles next in ruddy ſtreaks;

And in the gloom betrays its glowing cheeks,

[227]The Silver, then, with bright and burniſh'd grace,

Youth, and a blooming luſtre in its face,

To th' arms of thoſe more yielding metals flies,

And in the folds of their embraces lies:

So cloſe they cling, ſo ſtubbornly retire,

Their love's more vi'lent than the chymiſt's fire.

Near theſe the Delegate, with wonder, ſpies

Where floods of living ſilver ſerpentize:

Where richeſt metals their bright looks put on,

And golden ſtreams through amber channels run.

Where Light's gay God deſcends to ripen gems,

And lend a luſtre brighter than his beams.

Here he obſerves the ſubterranean cells,

Where wanton nature ſports in idle ſhells.

Some helicoeids, ſome conical appear;

Theſe mitres emulate, thoſe turbans are.

Here marcaſites in various figure wait,

To ripen to a true metallic ſtate:

Till drops, that from impending rocks deſcend,

Their ſubſtance petrify, and progreſs end.

Nigh, livid ſeas of kindled ſulphur flow,

And whilſt, enraged, their fiery ſurges glow,

Convulſions in the lab'ring mountains riſe,

And hurl their melted vitals to the ſkies.

He views, with horror, next, the noiſy cave,

Where, with hoarſe dinns, impriſon'd tempeſts rave;

Where clam'rous hurricanes attempt their, flight,

Or, whirling in tumultuous eddies, fight.

The warring winds, unmov'd, Hygeia heard,

Brav'd their loud jars, but much for Celſus fear'd.

[228]Andromeda, ſo, whilſt her hero fought,

Shook for his danger, but her own forgot.

And now the goddeſs, with her charge, deſcends

Where ſcarce one chearful glimpſe their ſteps be-friends.

Here his forſaken ſeat old Chaos keeps,

And, undiſturb'd by Form, in ſilence ſleeps.

A griſly wight, and hideous to the eye;

An aukward lump of ſhapeleſs anarchy.

With ſordid age his features are defac'd;

His lands unpeopled, and his countries waſte.

To theſe dark realms much learned lumber creeps;

There copious M— ſafe in ſilence ſleeps.

Where muſhroom libels in oblivion lie,

And, ſoon as born, like other monſters, die.

Upon a couch of jett, in theſe abodes,

Dull Night, his melancholy conſort, nods.

No ways and means their cabinet employ;

But their dark hours they waſte in barren joy.

Nigh this receſs, with terror, they ſurvey

Where Death maintains his dread tyrannic ſway:

In the cloſe covert of a cypreſs grove,

Where goblins friſk and airy ſpectres rove,

Yawns a dark cave, with awful horror, wide;

And there the monarch's triumphs are deſcry'd.

Confus'd, and wildly huddled, to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie.

Dim lamps with ſickly rays ſcarce ſeem to glow;

Sighs heave in mournful moans, and tears o'erflow.

Reſtleſs Anxiety, forlorn Deſpair,

And all the faded family of Care;

[229]Old mould'ring urns, racks, daggers, and diſtreſs,

Make up the frightful horror o' the place.

Within its dreadful jaws thoſe furies wait,

Which execute the harſh decrees of Fate.

Febris is firſt: the hag relentleſs hears

The virgin's ſighs, and ſees the infant's tears;

In her parch'd eye-balls fiery meteors reign;

And reſtleſs ferments revel in each vein.

Then hydrops next appears amongſt the throng;

Bloated, and big, ſhe ſlowly ſails along.

But, like a miſer, in exceſs ſhe's poor,

And pines for thirſt amidſt her watry ſtore.

Now loathſome Lepra, that offenſive ſpright,

With foul eruptions ſtain'd, offends the ſight;

Still deaf to beauty's ſoft perſuading pow'r:

Nor can bright Hebe's charms her bloom ſecure.

Whilſt meager Pthiſis gives a ſilent blow;

Her ſtrokes are ſure, but her advances ſlow.

No loud alarms, or fierce aſſaults, are ſhown:

She ſtarves the fortreſs firſt, then takes the town.

Behind ſtood crowds of much inferior name;

Too numerous to repeat, too foul to name;

The vaſſals of their monarch's tyranny,

Who, at his nod, on fatal errands fly.

Now Celſus, with his glorious guide, invades

The ſilent region of the fleeting ſhades:

Where rocks and ruful deſarts are deſcry'd;

And ſullen Styx rolls down his lazy tide.

Then ſhews the ferry-man the plant he bore,

And claims his paſſage to the further ſhore.

[230]To whom the Stygian pilot, ſmiling, ſaid,

You need no paſſport to demand our aid.

Phyſicians never linger on this ſtrand:

Old Charon's preſent ſtill at their command.

Our awful monarch, and his conſort, owe

To them the peopling of their realms below.

Then in his ſwarthy hand he graſp'd the oar,

Receiv'd his gueſts aboard, and ſhov'd from ſhore,

Now, as the goddeſs and her charge prepare

To breathe the ſweets of ſoft Elyſian air,

Upon the left they ſpy a penſive ſhade,

Who on his bended arm had rais'd his head;

Pale Grief ſate heavy on his mournful look:

To whom, not unconcern'd, thus Celſus ſpoke:

Tell me, thou much afflicted ſhade, why ſighs

Burſt from your breaſt, and torrents from your eyes;

And who thoſe mangled manes are, which ſhow

A ſullen ſatisfaction at your woe?

Since, ſaid the ghoſt, with pity you'll attend,

Know, I'm Guâicum, once your firmeſt friend.

And on this barren beach, in diſcontent,

Am doom'd to ſtay, 'till th' angry powers relent.

Thoſe ſpectres, ſeam'd with ſcars, that threaten there,

The victims of my late ill conduct are.

They vex, with endleſs clamours, my repoſe:

This wants his palate, that demands his noſe:

And here they execute ſtern Pluto's will,

And ply me ev'ry moment with a pill.

Then Celſus thus, O much-lamented ſtate!

How rigid is the ſentence you relate?

[231]Methinks I recollect your former air;

But ah, how much you're chang'd from what you were!

Inſipid as your late ptiſans you lie,

That, once, were ſprightlier far than Mercury.

At the ſad tale you tell the poppies weep,

And mourn their vegetable ſouls aſleep.

The unctuous Larix, and the healing Pine,

Lament your fate in tears of Turpentine;

But ſtill the offspring of your brain ſhall prove

The grocer's care, and brave the rage of Jove.

When bonfires blaze your vagrant works ſhall riſe

In rockets, till they reach the wond'ring ſkies.

If mortals e'er the Stygian pow'rs could bend,

Entreaties to their awful ſeats I'd ſend:

But, ſince no human arts the Fates diſſuade,

Direct me how to find bleſs'd Hervey's ſhade.

In vain th' unhappy ghoſt ſtill urg'd his ſtay:

Then, riſing from the ground, he ſhew'd the way.

Nigh the dull ſhore a ſhapeleſs mountain ſtood,

That, with a dreadful frown, ſurvey'd the flood

Its fearful brow no lively greens put on;

No friſking goats bound o'er the ridgy ſtone.

To gain the ſummit the bright goddeſs try'd,

And Celſus, follow'd, by degrees, his guide.

Th' aſcent thus conquer'd, now they towre on high,

And taſte th' indulgence of a milder ſky.

Looſe breezes on their airy pinions play,

Soft infant bloſſoms their chaſte odours pay,

And roſes bluſh their fragrant lives away.

Cool ſtreams thro' flow'ry meadows gently glide;

And, as they paſs, their painted banks they chide.

[232]Theſe bliſsful plains no blights, nor mildews fear,

The flow'rs ne'er fade, and ſhrubs are myrtles here.

The morn awakes the tulip from her bed;

E'er noon, in painted pride ſhe decks her head:

Rob'd in rich dye, ſhe triumphs on the green,

And ev'ry flow'r does homage to their queen.

So, when bright Venus riſes from the flood,

Around, in throngs, the wond'ring Nereids crowd;

The Tritons gaze, and tune each vocal ſhell,

And ev'ry grace unſung the waves conceal.

The Delegate obſerves, with wond'ring eyes,

Ambroſial dews deſcend, and incenſe riſe.

Then haſtens onward to the penſive grove,

The ſilent manſion of diſaſtrous love.

Here Jealouſy with jaundice looks appears,

And broken ſlumbers, and fantaſtic fears.

The widow'd Turtle hangs her moulting wings,

And to the woods, in mournful murmurs, ſings.

No winds but ſighs there are, no floods but tears.

Each conſcious tree a tragic ſignal bears.

Their wounded bark records ſome broken vow,

And willow garlands hang on ev'ry bough.

Olivia, here, in ſolitude he found,

Her downcaſt eyes fix'd on the ſilent ground:

Her dreſs neglected, and unbound her hair,

She ſeem'd the dying image of deſpair.

How lately did this celebrated thing

Blaze in the box, and ſparkle in the ring!

Till the Green-ſickneſs, and Love's force, betray'd

To Death's remorſeleſs arms th' unhappy maid.

[233]All o'er confus'd the guilty lover ſtood,

The light forſook his eyes, his cheeks the blood;

An icy horror ſhiver'd in his look,

As to the cold-complexion'd nymph he ſpoke:

"Tell me, dear ſhade, from whence ſuch anxious care;

Your looks diſorder'd, and your boſom bare?

Why thus you languiſh, like a drooping flow'r,

Cruſh'd by the weight of ſome relentleſs ſhow'r?

Your languid looks your late ill-conduct tell;

O that, inſtead of traſh, you'd taken ſteel!"

Stabb'd with th' unkind reproach, the conſcious maid

Thus, to her late inſulting lover ſaid:

"When ladies liſten not to looſe deſire,

You ſtile our modeſty our want of fire.

Smile or forbid, encourage or reprove,

You ſtill find reaſons to believe we love:

Vainly you think a liking we betray,

And never mean the peeviſh things we ſay.

Few are the fair ones of Rufilla's make;

Unaſk'd ſhe grants, uninjur'd ſhe'll forſake:

But ſev'ral Caelia's ſev'ral ages boaſt,

That like where Reaſon recommends the moſt.

Where heav'nly truth and tenderneſs conſpire,

Chaſte paſſion may perſwade us to deſire."

"Your ſex (he cry'd) as cuſtom bids, behaves;

In forms the tyrant tyes ſuch haughty ſlaves.

To do nice Conduct right, you Nature wrong;

Impulſes are but weak, where Reaſon's ſtrong.

[234]Some want the courage; but how few the flame!

They like the thing, that ſtartle at the name.

The lonely Phoenix, tho' profeſs'd a nun,

Warms into love, and kindles at the ſun.

Thoſe tales of ſpicy urns, and fragrant fires,

Are but the emblems of her ſcorch'd deſires."

Then, as he ſtrove to claſp the fleeting fair,

His empty arms confeſs'd th' impaſſive air.

From his embrace th'unbody'd ſpectre flies;

And, as ſhe mov'd, ſhe chid him with her eyes.

They haſten now to that delightful plain,

Where the glad manes of the bleſs'd remain:

Where Hervey gathers ſimples, to beſtow

Immortal youth on heroes ſhades below.

Soon as the bright Hygeia was in view,

The venerable ſage her preſence knew:

Thus he—

Hail, blooming goddeſs! thou propitious pow'r,

Whoſe bleſſings mortals more than life implore,

With ſo much luſtre your bright looks endear,

That cottages are courts where thoſe appear.

Mankind, as you vouchſafe to ſmile or frown,

Finds eaſe in chains, or anguiſh in a crown.

With juſt reſentments and contempt you ſee

The foul diſſentions of the Faculty;

How your ſad ſick'ning art now hangs her head;

And, once a ſcience, is become a trade.

Her ſons ne'er rifle her myſterious ſtore,

But ſtudy Nature leſs, and lucre more.

Not ſo, when Rome to th' Epidaurian rais'd

A temple, where devoted incenſe blaz'd.

[235]Oft father Tyber views the lofty fire,

As the learn'd ſon is worſhipp'd like the fire;

The ſage with Romulus like honours claim;

The gift of life and laws were then the ſame.

I ſhow'd, of old, how vital currents glide,

And the meanders of their refluent tide.

Then, Willis, why ſpontaneous actions here,

And whence involuntary motions there:

And how the ſpirits, by mechanic laws,

In wild careers tumultuous riots cauſe.

Nor wou'd our Wharton, Bates, and Gliſſon lie

In the abyſs of blind Obſcurity.

But, now, ſuch wond'rous ſearches are forborne,

And Paean's art is by diviſions torn.

Then let your Charge attend, and I'll explain

How her loſt health your ſcience may regain.

Haſte, and the matchleſs Atticus addreſs;

From Heav'n and great Naſſau he has the mace.

Th' oppreſs'd to his aſylum ſtill repair;

Arts he ſupports, and Learning is his care.

He ſoftens the harſh rigour of the laws,

Blunts their keen edge, and grinds their harpy claws;

And, graciouſly, he caſts a pitying eye

On the ſad ſtate of virtuous poverty.

When e'er he ſpeaks, Heav'ns! how the liſt'ning throng

Dwells on the melting muſic of his tongue!

His arguments are emblems of his mien,

Mild, but not faint; and forcing, tho' ſerene;

And, when the pow'r of eloquence he'd try,

Here, light'ning ſtrikes you; there, ſoft breezes ſigh.

[236]To him you muſt your ſickly ſtate refer;

Your charter claims him as your Viſiter.

Your wounds he'll cloſe, and ſov'reignly reſtore

Your ſcience to the height it had before.

Then Naſſau's health ſhall be your glorious aim,

His life ſhould be as laſting as his fame.

Some princes claims from devaſtations ſpring,

He condeſcends, in pity, to be king:

And when, amidſt his olives plac'd, he ſtands,

And governs more by candour than commands,

Ev'n then not leſs a hero he appears,

Than when a Laurel diadem he wears.

Wou'd Phoebus, or his G—le, but inſpire

Their ſacred veh'mence of poetic ſire;

To celebrate in ſong that godlike pow'r,

Which did the lab'ring univerſe reſtore:

Fair Albion's cliffs would echo to the ſtrain,

And praiſe the arm that conquer'd, to regain

The earth's repoſe, and empire o'er the main.

Still may th' immortal man his cares repeat,

To make his bleſſings endleſs as they're great:

Whilſt Malice and Ingratitude confeſs

They've ſtrove for ruin long, without ſucceſs.

When, late, Jove's eagle from the pyle ſhall riſe,

To bear the victor to the boundleſs ſkies,

Awhile the God puts off paternal care,

Neglects the earth to give the Heav'ns a ſtar.

Near thee, Alcides, ſhall the hero ſhine;

His rays reſembling, as his labours, thine.

Had ſome fam'd patriot, of the Latin blood,

Like Julius great, and like Octavius good,

[237]But thus preſerv'd the Latin liberties,

Aſpiring columns ſoon had reach'd the ſkies:

Loud Io's the proud capitol had ſhook,

And all the ſtatues of the gods had ſpoke.

No more the ſage his raptures could purſue:

He paus'd; and Celſus, with his guide, withdrew.

ECLOGUE I. SELIM: OR THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. SCENE, A VALLEY NEAR BAGDAT. TIME, THE MORNING.

[239]

The following eclogues, written by Mr. Collins, are very pretty: the images, it muſt be owned, are not very local; for the paſtoral ſubject could not well admit of it. The deſcription of Aſiatic mag⯑nificence, and manners, is a ſubject as yet unat⯑tempted amongſt us, and, I believe, capable of furniſhing a great variety of poetical imagery.

YE Perſian maids, attend your poet's lays,

And hear how ſhepherds paſs their golden days.

Not all are bleſt, whom Fortune's hand ſuſtains

With wealth, in courts, nor all that haunt the plains:

Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell;

'Tis virtue makes the bliſs, where'er we dwell.

Thus Selim ſung, by ſacred Truth inſpir'd;

Nor praiſe, but ſuch as Truth beſtow'd, deſir'd:

[240]Wiſe in himſelf, his meaning ſongs convey'd

Informing morals to the ſhepherd maid;

Or taught the ſwains that ſureſt bliſs to find,

What groves nor ſtreams beſtow, a virtuous mind.

When, ſweet, and bluſhing like a virgin bride,

The radiant morn reſum'd her orient pride;

When wanton gales along the valleys play,

Breathe on each flower, and bear their ſweets away;

By Tigris' wandering waves he ſat, and ſung

This uſeful leſſon for the fair and young.

Ye Perſian dames, he ſaid, to you belong,

Well may they pleaſe, the morals of my ſong:

No fairer maids, I truſt, than you are found,

Grac'd with ſoft arts, the peopled world around!

The morn that lights you, to your loves ſupplies

Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:

For you thoſe flowers her fragrant hands beſtow,

And yours the love that kings delight to know.

Yet think not theſe, all-beauteous as they are,

The beſt kind bleſſings Heaven can grant the fair!

Who truſt alone in beauty's feeble ray,

Boaſt but the worth Baſſora's pearls diſplay;

Drawn from the deep we own their ſurface bright,

But, dark within, they drink no luſtrous light:

Such are the maids, and ſuch the charms they boaſt,

By ſenſe unaided, or to virtue loſt.

Self-flattering ſex! your hearts believe in vain

That love ſhall blind, whence once he fires the ſwain;

Or hope a lover by your faults to win,

As ſpots on ermin beautify the ſkin:

[241]Who ſeeks ſecure to rule, be firſt her care

Each ſofter virtue that adorns the fair;

Each tender paſſion man delights to find,

The lov'd perfections of a female mind!

Bleſt were the days, when Wiſdom held her reign,

And ſhepherds ſought her on the ſilent plain;

With Truth ſhe wedded in the ſecret grove,

Immortal Truth; and daughters bleſs'd their love.

O haſte, fair maids! ye Virtues come away;

Sweet Seace and Plenty lead you on your way!

The balmy ſhrub for you ſhall love our ſhore,

By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more.

Loſt to our fields, for ſo the fates ordain,

The dear deſerters ſhall return again.

Come thou, whoſe thoughts as limpid ſprings are clear,

To lead the train, ſweet Modeſty, appear:

Here make thy court, amidſt our rural ſcene,

And ſhepherd-girls ſhall own thee for their queen.

With thee be Chaſtity, of all afraid,

Diſtruſting all; a wiſe, ſuſpicious maid:

But man the moſt—not more the mountain doe

Holds the ſwift falcon for her deadly foe.

Cold is her breaſt, like flowers that drink the dew;

A ſilken veil conceals her from the view.

No wild deſires amidſt thy train be known,

But Faith, whoſe heart is fix'd on one alone;

Deſponding Meekneſs, with her downcaſt eyes,

And friendly Pity, full of tender ſighs;

[242]And Love the laſt: by theſe your hearts approve;

Theſe are the virtues that muſt lead to love.

Thus ſung the ſwain; and antient legends ſay,

The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:

Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along;

The ſhepherds lov'd, and Selim bleſs'd his ſong.

ECLOGUE II. HASSAN: OR THE CAMEL-DRIVER. SCENE, THE DESERT. TIME, MID-DAY.

[242]

IN ſilent horror, o'er the boundleſs waſte

The driver, Haſſan, with his camels paſt;

One cruiſe of water on his back he bore,

And his light ſcrip contain'd a ſcanty ſtore;

A fan of painted feathers in his hand,

To guard his ſhaded face from ſcorching ſand.

The ſultry ſun had gain'd the middle ſky,

And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;

The beaſts, with pain, their duſty way purſue,

Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!

With deſperate ſorrow wild, th' affrighted man

Thrice ſigh'd, thrice ſtruck his breaſt, and thus began:

"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,

When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

Ah! little thought I of the blaſting wind,

The thirſt, or pinching hunger that I find!

[244]Bethink thee, Haſſan, where ſhall Thirſt aſſwage,

When fails this cruiſe, his unrelenting rage?

Soon ſhall this ſcrip its precious load reſign;

Then what but tears and hunger ſhall be thine?

Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear,

In all my griefs, a more than equal ſhare!

Here, where no ſprings in murmurs break away,

Or moſs-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,

In vain ye hope the green delights to know,

Which plains more bleſt, or verdant vales, beſtow:

Here rocks alone, and taſteleſs ſands, are found,

And faint and ſickly winds for ever howl around.

"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,

When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

Curſt be the gold and ſilver, which perſuade

Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade!

The lilly peace outſhines the ſilver ſtore,

And life is dearer than the golden ore:

Yet money tempts us o'er the deſert brown,

To every diſtant mart and wealthy town.

Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the ſea:

And are we only yet repair'd by thee?

Ah! why was ruin ſo attractive made,

Or why fond man ſo eaſily betray'd?

Why heed we not, while, mad, we haſte along,

The gentle voice of Peace, or Pleaſure's ſong?

Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's ſide,

The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride;

Why think we theſe leſs pleaſing to behold,

Than dreary deſerts, if they lead to gold?

[245]"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,

When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

O ceaſe, my fears!—all frantic as I go,

When thought creates unnumber'd ſcenes of woe:

What if the lion in his rage I meet!—

Oft, in the duſt, I view his printed feet:

And, fearful! oft, when day's declining light

Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,

By hunger rous'd, he ſcours the groaning plain,

Gaunt wolves and ſullen tygers in his train:

Before them death with ſhrieks directs their way,

Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.

"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,

When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

At that dead hour the ſilent aſp ſhall creep,

If aught of reſt I find, upon my ſleep:

Or ſome ſwol'n ſerpent twiſt his ſcales around,

And wake to anguiſh with a burning wound.

Thrice happy they, the wiſe, contented poor,

From luſt of wealth, and dread of death, ſecure!

They tempt no deſerts, and no griefs they find;

Peace rules the day, where Reaſon rules the mind.

"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,

When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

O hapleſs youth! for ſhe thy love hath won,

The tender Zara, will be moſt undone;

Big ſwell'd my heart, and own'd the powerful maid,

When faſt ſhe dropt her tears, as thus ſhe ſaid:

"Farewell the youth whom ſighs could not detain,

Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain!

[246]Yet, as thou go'ſt, may ev'ry blaſt ariſe

Weak and unfelt as theſe rejected ſighs!

Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'ſt thou ſee,

No griefs endure, nor weep, falſe youth, like me."

O let me ſafely to the fair return,

Say, with a kiſs, ſhe muſt not, ſhall not mourn;

O! let me teach my heart to loſe its fears,

Recall'd by Wiſdom's voice, and Zara's tears.

He ſaid, and call'd on Heav'n to bleſs the day,

When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.

ECLOGUE III. ABRA: OR THE GEORGIAN SULTANA. SCENE, A FOREST. TIME, THE EVENING.

[247]

IN Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are ſeen,

In diſtant view along the level green,

While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,

And the tall foreſts caſt a longer ſhade,

What time 'tis ſweet o'er fields of rice to ſtray,

Or ſcent the breathing maize at ſetting day;

Amidſt the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,

Emyra ſung the pleaſing cares of love.

Of Abra, firſt, began the tender ſtrain,

Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain:

At morn ſhe came thoſe willing flocks to lead,

Where lillies rear them in the watery mead;

From early dawn the live-long hours ſhe told,

Till, late at ſilent eve, ſhe penn'd the fold.

Deep in the grove, beneath the ſecret ſhade,

A various wreath of odorous flowers ſhe made:

[248] ^*Gay-motley'd pinks, and ſweet jonquils, ſhe choſe,

The violet blue that on the moſs-bank grows:

All ſweet to ſenſe, the flaunting roſe was there:

The finiſh'd chaplet well adorn'd her hair.

Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to ſtray,

By love conducted from the chace away;

Among the vocal vales he heard her ſong,

And ſought the vales and echoing groves among:

At length he found, and woo'd the rural maid;

She knew the monarch, and, with fear, obey'd.

"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!

The royal lover bore her from the plain;

Yet ſtill her crook and bleating flock remain:

Oft, as ſhe went, ſhe backward turn'd her view,

And bad that crook and bleating flock adieu.

Fair happy maid! to other ſcenes remove,

To richer ſcenes of golden power and love!

Go, leave the ſimple pipe, and ſhepherd's ſtrain:

With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign.

"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

And ev'ry Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

Yet, midſt the blaze of courts, ſhe fix'd her love

On the cool fountain, or the ſhady grove;

Still, with the ſhepherd's innocence, her mind

To the ſweet vale, and flowery mead, inclin'd:

And, oft as ſpring renew'd the plains with flowers,

Breath'd his ſoft gales, and led the fragrant hours,

[249]With ſure return ſhe ſought the ſylvan ſcene,

The breezy mountains, and the foreſts green.

Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band!

Each bore a crook, all-rural, in her hand:

Some ſimple lay, of flocks and herds, they ſung;

With joy the mountain and the foreſt rung.

"Be ev'ry youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

And oft the royal lover left the care

And thorns of ſtate, attendant on the fair;

Oft to the ſhades and low-roof'd cots retir'd,

Or ſought the vale where firſt his heart was fir'd;

A ruſſet mantle, like a ſwain, he wore,

And thought of crowns and buſy courts no more.

"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

Bleſt was the life that royal Abbas led:

Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed.

What if in wealth the noble maid excel;

The ſimple ſhepherd girl can love as well.

Let thoſe who rule on Perſia's jewell'd throne

Be fam'd for love, and gentleſt love alone;

Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,

The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.

O happy days! the maids around her ſay;

O haſte, profuſe of bleſſings, haſte away!

"Be ev'ry youth, like royal Abbas, mov'd;

And every Georgian maid, like Abra, lov'd!"

ECLOGUE IV. AGIB AND SECANDER: OR, THE FUGITIVES. SCENE, A MOUNTAIN IN CIRCASSIA. TIME, MIDNIGHT.

[250]

IN fair Circaſſia, where, to love inclin'd,

Each ſwain was bleſs'd, for ev'ry maid was kind;

At that ſtill hour when awful midnight reigns,

And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains;

What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,

And paſt, in radiance, thro' the cloudleſs ſky;

Sad o'er the dews two brother ſhepherds fled,

Where wildering fear and deſperate ſorrow led:

Faſt as they preſs'd their flight, behind them lay

Wide ravag'd plains, and vallies ſtole away.

Along the mountain's bending ſides they ran,

Till faint and weak Secander thus began:

SECANDER.

O ſtay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,

No longer friendly to my life, to fly.

[251]Friend of my heart, O turn thee, and ſurvey,

Trace our ſad ſlight, thro' all its length of way!

And, firſt, review that long-extended plain,

And yon wide groves, already paſt with pain!

Yon ragged cliff, whoſe dangerous path we try'd!

And, laſt, this lofty mountain's weary ſide!

AGIB.

Weak as thou art, yet, hapleſs, muſt thou know

The toils of flight, or ſome ſeverer woe!

Still as I haſte the Tartar ſhouts behind,

And ſhrieks and ſorrows load the ſaddening wind:

In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,

He blaſts our harveſts, and deforms our land.

Yon citron grove, whence firſt in fear we came,

Droops its fair honours to the conquering flame:

Far fly the ſwains, like us, in deep deſpair,

And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.

SECANDER.

Unhappy land, whoſe bleſſings tempt the ſword.

In vain, unheard, thou call'ſt thy Perſian lord!

In vain thou court'ſt him, helpleſs, to thine aid,

To ſhield the ſhepherd, and protect the maid!

Far off, in thoughtleſs indolence reſign'd,

Soft dreams of love and pleaſure ſoothe his mind:

'Midſt fair ſultanas loſt in idle joy;

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

AGIB.

[252]

Yet theſe green hills, in ſummer's ſultry heat,

Have lent the monarch, oft, a cool retreat.

Sweet to the ſight is Zabran's flowery plain,

And once by maids and ſhepherds lov'd in vain!

No more the virgins ſhall delight to rove

By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's ſhady grove;

On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,

Or breathe the ſweets of Aly's flowery vale:

Fair ſcenes! but, ah! no more with peace poſſeſt,

With eaſe alluring, and with plenty bleſt.

No more the ſhepherds' whitening tents appear,

Nor the kind produces of a bounteous year;

No more the date with ſnowy bloſſoms crown'd!

But Ruin ſpreads her baleful fires around.

SECANDER.

In vain Circaſſia boaſts her ſpicy groves,

For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves:

In vain ſhe boaſts her faireſt of the fair,

Their eye's blue languiſh, and their golden hair!

Thoſe eyes in tears their fruitleſs grief muſt ſend;

Thoſe hairs the Tartar's cruel hand ſhall rend.

AGIB.

Ye Georgian ſwains, that, piteous, learn from far
Circaſſia's ruin, and the waſte of war;
Some weightier arms than crooks and ſtaffs prepare,
To ſhield your harveſts, and defend your fair;
The Turk and Tartar like deſigns purſue,
Fix'd to deſtroy, and ſtedfaſt to undo.
[253]Wild as his land, in native deſerts bred,
By luſt incited, or by malice led,
The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,
Oft marks with blood and waſting flames the way;
Yet none ſo cruel as the Tartar foe,
To death inur'd, and nurſt in ſcenes of woe.

He ſaid, when loud along the vale was heard
A ſhriller ſhriek, and nearer fires appear'd:
The frighted ſhepherds, thro' the dews of night,
Wide o'er the moonlight hills renew'd their flight.

THE SPLENDID SHILLING. BY MR. J. PHILIPS.

[255]

This is reckoned the beſt parody of Milton in our language: it has been an hundred times imitated, without ſucceſs. The truth is, the firſt thing in this way muſt preclude all future attempts; for nothing is ſo eaſy as to burleſque any man's man⯑ner, when we are once ſhewed the way.

HAPPY the man, who, void of cares and ſtrife,

In ſilken, or in leathern, purſe, retains

A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain

New oyſters cry'd, nor ſighs for chearful ale;

But, with his friends, when nightly miſts ariſe,

To Juniper's Magpye, or Town-Hall ^* repairs:

Where, mindful of the nymph whoſe wanton eye

Transfix'd his ſoul, and kindled amorous flames,

Cloe, or Philips; he each circling glaſs

Wiſheth her health, and joy, and equal love.

Mean while, he ſmokes, and laughs at merry tale,

Or Pun ambiguous, or Conundrum quaint.

But I, whom griping penury ſurrounds,

[256]And hunger, ſure attendant upon want,

With ſcanty offals, and ſmall acid tiff,

(Wretched repaſt!) my meagre corps ſuſtain:

Then ſolitary walk, or doze at home

In garret vile, and with a warming puff

Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black

As winter chimney, or well-poliſh'd jet,

Exhale Mundungus, ill-perfuming ſcent:

Not blacker tube, nor of a ſhorter ſize

Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree,

Sprung from Cadwalador and Arthur, kings

Full famous in romantic tale) when he

O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff,

Upon a cargo of fam'd Ceſtrian cheeſe,

High over-ſhadowing rides, with a deſign

To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart,

Or Maridunum, or the antient town

Yclip'd Brechinia; or where Vaga's ſtream

Encircles Ariconium, fruitful ſoil!

Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie

With Maſſic, Setin, or renown'd Falern.

Thus, while my joyleſs minutes tedious flow,

With looks demure, and ſilent pace, a Dun,

Horrible monſter! hated by gods and men,

To my aërial citadel aſcends,

With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate,

With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know

The voice ill-boding, and the ſolemn ſound.

What ſhould I do? or whither turn? amaz'd,

Confounded, to the dark receſs I fly

[257]Of woodhole; ſtrait my briſtling hairs erect

Thro' ſudden fear; a chilly ſweat bedews

My ſhudd'ring limbs, and (wonderful to tell!)

My tongue forgets her faculty of ſpeech;

So horrible he ſeems! his faded brow

Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard,

And ſpreading band, admir'd by modern ſaints,

Diſaſtrous acts forebode; in his right hand

Long ſcrolls of paper ſolemnly he waves,

With characters and figures dire inſcrib'd,

Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods, avert

Such plagues from righteous men) behind him ſtalks

Another monſter not unlike himſelf,

Sullen of aſpect, by the vulgar call'd

A Catchpole; whoſe polluted hands the Gods

With force incredible, and magic charms,

Firſt have endu'd, if he his ample palm

Should, haply, on ill-fated ſhoulder lay

Of debtor, ſtrait his body, to the touch

Obſequious, (as whilom knights were wont)

To ſome inchanted caſtle is convey'd,

Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains

In durance ſtrict detain him, till, in form

Of money, Pallas ſets the captive free.

Beware, ye debtors, when ye walk, beware,

Be circumſpect; oft, with inſiduous ken,

This caitiff eyes your ſteps aloof, and oft

Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,

Prompt to inchant ſome inadvertent wretch

With his unhallow'd touch. So (poets ſing)

[258]Grimalkin, to domeſtic vermin ſworn

An everlaſting foe, with watchful eye

Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,

Protending her fell claws, to thoughtleſs mice

Sure ruin. So, her diſembowell'd web,

Arachne, in a hall, or kitchen, ſpreads,

Obvious to vagrant flies: ſhe ſecret ſtands

Within her woven cell; the humming prey,

Regardleſs of their fate, ruſh on the toils

Inextricable, nor will aught avail

Their arts, or arms, or ſhapes of lovely hue;

The waſp inſiduous, and the buzzing drone,

And butterfly, proud of expanded wings

Diſtinct with gold, entangled in her ſnares,

Uſeleſs reſiſtance make: with eager ſtrides,

She tow'ring flies to her expected ſpoils;

Then, with envenom'd jaws, the vital blood

Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave

Their bulky carcaſes triumphant drags.

So paſs my days. But when nocturnal ſhades

This world invelop, and th' inclement air

Perſuades men to repel benumbing froſts

With pleaſant wines, and crackling blaze of wood;

Me, lonely ſitting, nor the glimmering light

Of makeweight candle, nor the joyous talk

Of loving friend delights; diſtreſs'd, forlorn,

Amidſt the horrors of the tedious night,

Darkling I ſigh, and feed with diſmal thoughts

My anxious mind, or, ſometimes, mournful verſe

Indite, and ſing of groves and myrtle ſhades,

[259]Or deſp'rate lady near a purling ſtream,

Or lover pendent on a willow-tree.

Mean while I labour with eternal drought,

And, reſtleſs, wiſh, and rave, my parched throat

Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repoſe:

But if a ſlumber haply does invade

My weary limbs, my fancy's ſtill awake,

Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,

Tipples imaginary pots of ale,

In vain; awake I find the ſettled thirſt

Still gnawing, and the pleaſant fantom curſe.

Thus do I live, from pleaſure quite debarr'd.

Nor taſte the fruits that the ſun's genial rays

Mature, John-Apple, nor the downy Peach,

Nor Walnut in rough-furrow'd coat ſecure;

Nor Medlar fruit, delicious in decay:

Afflictions great! yet greater ſtill remain:

My Galligaſkins, that have long withſtood

The winter's fury, and encroaching froſts,

By Time ſubdu'd (what will not Time ſubdue!)

An horrid chaſm diſclos'd with orifice

Wide, diſcontinuous; at which the winds

Eurus and Auſter, and the dreadful force

Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronean waves,

Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blaſts,

Portending agues. Thus, a well fraught ſhip

Long ſail'd ſecure, or thro' th' Aegean deep,

Or th' Ionean, till cruiſing near

The Lilybean ſhore, with hideous cruſh,

On Scylla, or Charybdis (dang'rous rocks!)

[260]She ſtrikes rebounding, whence the ſhatter'd oak,

So fierce a ſhock unable to withſtand,

Admits the ſea; in at the gaping ſide

The crowding waves guſh with impetuous rage,

Reſiſtleſs, overwhelming; horrors ſeize

The mariners, death in their eyes appear,

They ſtare, they lave, they pump, they ſwear, they pray:

(Vain efforts!) Still the batt'ring waves ruſh in,

Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam,

The ſhip ſinks found'ring in the vaſt abyſs.

A PIPE OF TOBACCO: IN IMITATION OF SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS.

[261]

Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of theſe, as I am told, had no good original manner of his own, yet we ſee how well he ſucceeds when he turns an imitator; for the following are rather imitations, than ridiculous parodies.

IMITATION I. A NEW-YEAR's ODE.

RECITATIVE.OLD battle-array, big with horror, is fled,
And olive rob'd Peace again lifts up her head.
Sing, ye Muſes, Tobacco, the bleſſing of peace;
Was ever a nation ſo bleſſed as this?

AIR.When ſummer ſuns grow red with heat,
Tobacco tempers Phoebus' ire;
When wintry ſtorms around us beat,
Tobacco chears with gentle fire.
[262]Yellow Autumn, youthful Spring,
In thy praiſes jointly ſing.

RECITATIVE.Like Neptune, Caeſar guards Virginian fleets,
Fraught with Tobacco's balmy ſweets;
Old Ocean trembles at Britannia's pow'r,
And Boreas is afraid to roar.

AIR.Happy mortal, he! who knows
Pleaſure which a Pipe beſtows;
Curling eddies climb the room,
Wafting round a mild perfume.

RECITATIVE.Let foreign climes the vine and orange boaſt,
While waſtes of war deform the teeming coaſt;
Britannia, diſtant from each hoſtile ſound,
Enjoys a Pipe, with caſe and freedom crown'd:
E'en reſtleſs Faction finds itſelf moſt free;
Or, if a ſlave, a ſlave to Liberty.

AIR.Smiling years, that gayly run
Round the zodiac, with the ſun,
Tell, if ever you have ſeen
Realms ſo quiet and ſerene.
Britiſh ſons no longer, now,
Hurl the bar, or twang the bow;
[263]Nor of crimſon combat think,
But ſecurely ſmoke and drink.

CHORUS.Smiling years, that gayly run
Round the zodiac, with the ſun,
Tell, if ever you have ſeen
Realms ſo quiet and ſerene.

IMITATION II.[264]LITTLE tube, of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm deſire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire:
And thy ſnowy, taper waiſt,
With my finger gently brac'd;
And thy pretty ſwelling creſt,
With my little ſtopper preſt,
And the ſweeteſt bliſs of bliſſes
Breathing from thy balmy kiſſes.
Happy thrice and thrice agen,
Happieſt he of happy men,
Who, when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns;
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket, full of play)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleaſure for a noſe divine,
Incenſe of the god of wine.
Happy thrice and thrice agen,
Happieſt he of happy men.

IMITATION III.[165]O THOU, matur'd by glad Heſperian ſuns,
Tobacco! fountain pure of limpid truth,
That looks the very ſoul; whence pouring thought
Swarms all the mind; abſorpt is yellow care;
And at each puff imagination burns.
Flaſh on thy bard, and, with exalting fires,
Touch the myſterious lip that chaunts thy praiſe,
In ſtrains to mortal ſons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tauny mines
Of ductile clay, with plaſtic virtue form'd,
And glaz'd magnific o'er, I graſp, I fill.
From Paetotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum'd,
Itſelf one tortoiſe all, where ſhines imbib'd
Each parent ray; then rudely ram'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling ſheet,
Mark'd with Gibſonian lore; forth iſſue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirſt-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires: I all the while,
Lolling at eaſe, inhale the breezy balm.
But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join,
In genial ſtrife and orthodoxal ale,
Stream life and  [...] into the Muſes' bowl.
O be thou ſtill my  [...]eat inſpirer, thou
My Muſe; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle ſhrin'd,
Burſt forth all oracle and myſtic ſong.

IMITATION IV.[166]CRITICS avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;
Tremble like hornets at the blaſting ſteam.
And you, court-inſects, flutter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within the ſcorching ſphere.
Pollio, with flame like thine my verſe inſpire,
So ſhall the Muſe from ſmoke elicit ſire.
Coxcombs prefer the tickling ſting of ſnuff;
Yet all their claim to wiſdom is—a puff:
Lord  [...]oplin ſmokes not—for his teeth afraid:
Sir Tawdry ſmokes not—for he wears brocade.
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to ſwoon;
They love no ſmoke, except the ſmoke of town:
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe—no matter,
Strange, if they love the breath that cannot flatter!
Its foes but ſhew their ignorance; can he
Who ſcorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet)
Rails at Tobacco, tho' it makes him—ſpit.
Citronia vows it has an odious ſtink;
She will not ſmoke (ye gods!)—but ſhe will drink.
And chaſte Prudella (blame her if you can)
Says, Pipes are us'd by that vile creature Man:
Yet crowds remain, who ſtill its worth proclaim,
While ſome for pleaſure ſmoke, and ſome for fame:
Fame, of our actions univerſal ſpring,
For which we drink, eat, ſleep, ſmoke,—ev'ry thing.

IMITATION V.[167]BLEST leaf! whoſe aromatic gales diſpenſe
To Templars modeſty, to Parſons ſenſe:
So raptur'd prieſts, at fam'd Dodona's ſhrine,
Drank inſpiration from the ſteam divine.
Poiſon that cures, a vapour that affords
Content more ſolid than the ſmile of lords:
Reſt to the weary, to the hungry food,
The laſt kind refuge of the wiſe and good:
Inſpir'd by thee, dull cits adjuſt the ſcale
Of Europe's peace, when other ſtateſmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy ſiſter, Beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor leſs the critic owns thy genial aid,
While ſupperleſs he plies the piddling trade.
What tho' to love and ſoft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet ſocial freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taſte thee unexcis'd by kings.

IMITATION VI.

[168]

BOY! bring an ounce of Freeman's beſt,
And bid the vicar be my gueſt:
Let all be plac'd in manner due;
A pot wherein to ſpit, or ſpue,
And London Journal, and Free-Briton,
Of uſe to light a pipe, or * *
* * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
This village, unmoleſted yet
By troopers, ſhall be my retreat:
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write, or vote for *.
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whoſe vapour bland
In ſweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all, which at Vienna paſſes,
As ignorant as * * Braſs is:
And ſcorning raſcals to careſs,
Extol the days of good queen Beſs,
When firſt Tobacco bleſt our iſle,
Then think of other queens—and ſmile.

Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry, and ſong;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes ſweet in City hall;
[169]The parſon's pun, the ſmutty tale
Of country juſtice o'er his ale.
I aſk not what the French are doing,
Or Spain to compaſs Britain's ruin:
Britons, if undone, can go,
Where Tobacco loves to grow.

Notes

Mr. Waller.

Edward III. and the Black Prince.

†

Queen Philip.

‡

The kings of France and Scotland.

Runnimede; where that great charter was firſt ſealed.

Marygold.

†

Roſemary.

The ancient name of London.

Lord Grimſtone, author of a play called Love in an Hollow Tree.

John Ward, of Hackney, Eſq. member of parliament, being proſecuted by the dutcheſs of Buckingham, and convicted of forgery, was firſt expelled the houſe, and then ſtood in the pillory on the 17th of March 1727. He was ſuſpected of joining in a conveyance with Sir John Blunt, to ſe⯑crete 50,000l. of that director's eſtate, forfeited to the South-Sea company by act of parliament. The company recovered the 50,000 l. againſt Ward; but he ſet up prior conveyances of his real eſtate to his brother and ſon, and concealed all his perſonal, which was computed to be 150,000 l. Theſe con⯑veyances being alſo ſet aſide by a bill in Chancery, Ward was impriſoned, and hazarded the forfeiture of his life by not giving in his effects till the laſt day, which was that of his examination. During his confinement, his amuſement was to give poiſon to dogs and cats, and ſee them expire by flower or quicker torments. To ſum up the worth of this gentleman at the ſeveral aera's of his life; at his ſtanding in the pillory he was worth above 200,000 l. at his commitment to priſon he was worth 150,000 l. but has ſince been ſo far diminiſhed in his reputa⯑tion, as to be thought a worſe man by 50 or 60,000 l.

Fr. Chartres, a man infamous for all manner of vice. When he was an enſign in the army, he was drummed out of the regiment for a cheat: he was next baniſhed Bruſſels, and drummed out of Ghent on the ſame account. After a hundred tricks at the gaming tables, he took to lending of money at exorbitant intereſt, and on great penalties, accu⯑mulating praemium, intereſt, and capital, into a new capital, and ſeizing, to a minute, when the payments became due. In a word, by a conſtant attention to the vices, wants, and follies of man⯑kind, he acquired an immenſe fortune. His houſe was a perpetual bawdy-houſe. He was twice con⯑demned for rapes, and pardoned; but, the laſt time, not without impriſonment in Newgate, and large confiſcations. He died in Scotland in 1731, aged 62. The populace, at his funeral, raiſed a great riot, almoſt tore the body out of the coffin, and caſt dead dogs, &c. into the grave along with it. The following epitaph contains his character, very juſtly drawn, by Dr. Arbuthnot.

HERE continueth to rot
The body of FRANCIS CHARTRES,
Who, with an INFLEXIBLE CONSTANCY, and
INIMITABLE UNIFORMITY of life,
PERSISTED,
In ſpite of AGE and INFIRMITIES,
In the practice of EVERY HUMAN VICE;
Excepting PRODIGALITY and HYPOCRISY:
His inſatiable AVARICE exempted him from the firſt,
His matchleſs IMPUDENCE from the laſt.

Nor was he more ſingular in the undeviating pravity
Of his manners, than ſucceſsful in
Accumulating WEALTH;
For, without TRADE or PROFESSION,
Without TRUST of PUBLIC MONEY,
And without BRIBE WORTHY ſervice,
He acquired, or, more properly, created
A MINISTERIAL ESTATE.

He was the only perſon of his time,
Who could CHEAT without the maſk of HONESTY,
Retain his primaeval MEANNESS when poſſeſs'd of
TEN THOUSAND a year,
And having daily deſerv'd the GIBBET for what he did,
Was at laſt condemned to it for what he could not do.

Oh indignant reader!
Think not his life uſeleſs to mankind!
PROVIDENCE conniv'd at his execrable deſigns,
To give to after-ages a conſpicuous
PROOF, and EXAMPLE,
Of how ſmall eſtimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH
In the ſight of GOD, by his beſtowing it on
The moſt UNWORTHY of ALL MORTALS.

This gentleman was worth 7000 l. a year eſtate in land, and about 100,000 l. in money.

Mr. Waters, the third of theſe worthies, was a man no way reſembling the former in his military, but extremely ſo in his civil capacity; his great fortune having been raiſed by the like diligent at⯑tendance on the neceſſities of others. But this gentleman's hiſtory muſt be deferred till his death, when his worth may be known more certainly.

This is a true ſtory, which happened in the reign of king William III. to an unſuſpected old patriot, who coming out at the back-door from hav⯑ing been cloſeted by the king, where he had re⯑ceived a large bag of guineas, the burſting of the bag diſcovered his buſineſs there.

†

In our author's time, many princes had been ſent about the world, and great changes of kings projected in Europe. The Partition-treaty had diſ⯑poſed of Spain; France had ſet up a king for Eng⯑land, who was ſent to Scotland, and back again; king Staniſlaus was ſent to Poland and back again; the duke of Anjou was ſent to Spain, and don Carlos to Italy.

‖

This alludes to ſeveral miniſters, counſellors, and patriots baniſhed in our times to Siberia, and to that more glorious fate of the Parliament of Paris, baniſhed to Pontoiſe in the year 1720.

Some miſers of great wealth, proprietors of the coal-mines, had entered, at this time, into an aſſo⯑ciation to keep up coals to an extravagant price, whereby the poor were reduced almoſt to ſtarve; till one of them taking the advantage of underſelling the reſt, defeated the deſign. One of theſe miſers was worth 10,000 l. another 7000 l. a year.

†

Sir William Colepeper, Bart. a perſon of an ancient family and ample fortune, without any other quality of a gentleman; who, after ruining himſelf at the gaming-table, paſſed the reſt of his days in ſitting there to ſee the ruin of others; preferring to ſubſiſt upon borrowing and begging, rather than to enter into any reputable method of life, and re⯑fuſing a poſt in the army which was offered him.

One who, being poſſeſſed of 300,000 l. laid down his coach becauſe intereſt was reduced from 5 to 4 per cent. and then put 70,000 l. into the Charitable Corporation, for better intereſt: which ſum having loſt, he took it ſo much to heart, that he kept his chamber ever after. It is thought he would not have out-lived it, but that he was heir to an⯑other conſiderable eſtate, which he daily expected; and that, by this courſe of life, he ſaved both clothes and all other expences.

†

A nobleman of great qualities; but as un⯑fortunate in the application of them, as if they had been vices and follies.

A citizen whoſe rapacity obtained him the name of Vulture Hopkins. He lived worthleſs, but died worth 300,000 l. which he would give to no perſon living, but left it ſo as not to be inherited till after the ſecond generation. His council repreſenting to him how many years it muſt be before this could take effect, and that his money could only lie at in⯑tereſt all that time, he expreſſed great joy thereat, and ſaid, "They would then be as long in ſpend⯑ing, as he had been in getting it." But the Chan⯑cery afterwards ſet aſide the will, and gave it to the heir at law.

Japhet Crook, alias Sir Peter Stranger, was puniſhed with the loſs of thoſe parts, for having forged a conveyance of an eſtate to himſelf, upon which he took up ſeveral thouſand pounds. He was at the ſame time ſued in Chancery, for having frau⯑dulently obtained a will, by which he poſſeſſed an⯑o [...]her conſiderable eſtate, in wrong of the brother of the deceaſed. By theſe means he was worth a great ſum, which (in reward for the ſmall loſs of his ears) he enjoyed in priſon till his death, and quietly left to his executor.

A famous dutcheſs of Richmond, in her laſt will, left conſiderable legacies and annuities to her cats.

†

In the year 1730, a corporation was eſtabliſhed to lend money to the poor upon pledges, by the name of the Charitable Corporation. It was under the direction of the Right Honourable Sir R. S. Sir Arch. Grant, Mr. Dennis Bond, Mr. Burroughs, &c. But the whole was turned only to an iniquitous method of enriching particular people, to the ruin of ſuch numbers, that it became a parliamentary concern to endeavour the relief of thoſe unhappy ſufferers; and three of the managers, who were members of the houſe, were expelled. That "God hates the poor," and, "That every man in want is knave or fool, &c." were the genuine apothegms of ſome of the perſons here mentioned.

In the extravagance and luxury of the South-Sea year, the price of a haunch of veniſon was from three to five pounds.

†

Many people, about the year 1733, had a con⯑ceit that ſuch a thing was intended; of which, 'tis not improbable, this lady might have ſome intimation.

‖

Peter Walter, a perſon not only eminent in the wiſdom of his profeſſion, as a dextrous attorney, but allowed to be a good, if not a ſafe convey⯑ancer; extremely reſpected by the nobility of this land, though free from all manner of luxury and oſ⯑tentation: his wealth was never ſeen, and his bounty never heard of; except to his own ſon, for whom he procured an employment of conſiderable profit, of which he gave him as much as was NECESSARY. Therefore, the taxing this gentleman with any Am⯑bition, is, certainly, a great wrong to him.

A Roman lawyer, ſo rich as to purchaſe the empire, when it was ſet to ſale upon the death of Pertinax.

‖

The two perſons here mentioned were of qua⯑lity, each of whom, in the time of the Miſſiſippi, deſpiſed to realize above 300,000l. The gentleman, with a view to the purchaſe of the crown of Poland; the lady, on a viſion of the like royal nature. They ſince retired into Spain, where they are ſtill in ſearch of gold in the mines of the Aſturies.

‡

Sir John Blunt, originally a ſcrivener, was one of the firſt projectors of the South-Sea company, and afterwards one of the directors and chief managers of the famous ſcheme in 1720. H [...] was alſo one of thoſe who ſuffered moſt ſeverely by the bill of pains and penalties on the ſaid directors. He was a diſ⯑ſenter of a moſt religious deportment, and profeſſed to be a great believer. Whether he did really credit the prophecy here mentioned, is not certain; but it was conſtantly in this very ſtyle he declaimed againſt the corruption and luxury of the age, the partiality of parliaments, and the miſery of party-ſpirit. He was particularly eloquent againſt avarice in great and noble perſons, of which he had, in⯑deed, lived to ſee many miſerable examples. He died in the year 1732.

Edward Harley earl of Oxford, the ſon of Robert, created earl of Oxford, and earl Mortimer, by queen Anne.

†

The perſon here celebrated, who, with a ſmall eſtate, actually performed all theſe good works, and whoſe true name was almoſt loſt (partly by the title of The Man of Roſs, given him by way of emi⯑nence, and partly by being buried without ſo much as an inſcription) was called Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Roſs in Hereford⯑ſhire.

†

The pariſh regiſter.

Ridicules the wretched taſte of carving large perriwigs on buſto's; of which there are ſeveral vile examples among the tombs at Weſtminſter, and elſewhere.

†

George Villers, duke of Buckingham, who died in this manner.

†

The Monument, built in memory of the fire of London, with an inſcription importing that city to have been burnt by the papiſts.

‘—atque unum civem donare Sybillae. ’ JUV.

A gentleman famous for a judicious collection of drawings.

‖

Two eminent phyſicians; the one had an ex⯑cellent library; the other the fineſt collection, in Europe, of natural curioſities: both men of great learning and humanity.

‡

The earl of Burlington was then publiſhing deſigns of Inigo Jones; and the antiquities of Rome, by Palladio.

‖

A door, or window, ſo called from being much practiſed at Venice, by Palladio and others.

‡

Inigo Jones, the celebrated architect; and M. Le Nôtre, the deſigner of the beſt gardens of France.

‖

The ſeat and gardens of the lord viſcount Cob⯑ham, in Buckinghamſhire.

‡

This was done in Hertfordſhire by a wealthy citizen, at the expence of above 5000 l. by which means, (merely to overlook a dead plain) he let in the North wind upon his houſe and parterre, which were, before, adorned and defended with beautiful woods.

The two extremes in parterre, which are equally faulty; a boundleſs green, large and naked as a field; or as a flouriſhed carpet, where the greatneſs and nobleneſs of the piece is leſſened by being di⯑vided into too many parts, with ſcrolled works and beds; of which the examples are frequent.

‡

Touches upon the ill taſte of thoſe who are ſo fond of evergreens, (particularly yews, which are the moſt tonſile) as to deſtroy the nobler foreſt trees, to make way for ſuch little ornaments as pyramids of dark green, continually repeated; not unlike a funeral proceſſion.

The two ſtatues of the Gladiator Pugnans, and Gladiator Moriens.

Verrio (Antonio) painted many cielings, &c. at Windſor, Hampton-court, &c. and Laguerre, at Blenheim-caſtle, and other places.

‖

This is a fact; a reverend dean preaching at court, threatened the ſinner with puniſhment, "in a place which he thought it not decent to name be⯑fore ſo polite an aſſembly."

The proud feſtivals of ſome men are here ſet forth to ridicule, where the pride deſtroys the eaſe, and the formal regularity all the pleaſurable enjoy⯑ment of the entertainment.

†

See Don Quixote, vol. iv. chap. 6.

‡

The poet, after having touched upon the pro⯑per objects of magnificence and expence in the private works of great men, comes to thoſe great and public works which become a prince. This poem was publiſhed at the time when ſome of the new churches, built by the act of queen Anne, were ready to fall, being founded on boggy land; and others vilely executed, through fraudulent cabals between undertakers, officers, &c. when Dagenham-breach had done very great miſchiefs; when the propoſal of building a bridge at Weſtminſter had been petitioned againſt, and rejected; when many of the highways throughout England were hardly paſſable, and moſt of thoſe which were repaired by turnpikes made jobbs for private lucre, and infa⯑mouſly executed, even to the entrances of London itſelf. At this time there had been an uninterrupted peace in Europe for above twenty years.

That theſe flowers are found in very great abundance in ſome of the provinces of Perſia; ſee the Modern Hiſtory of Mr. Salmon.

Two noted alehouſes in Oxford, 1700.

PREFACE.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

[]THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POESY.

The Rape of the Lock.

THE HERMIT.

IL PENSEROSO.

L'ALLEGRO.

AN ELEGY, Written in a Country Church Yard.

LONDON. In Imitation of the Third Satire of JUVENAL.

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. In Imitation of SPENCER.

COOPER's HILL.

ELOISA TO ABELARD.

AN EPISTLE, FROM Mr. PHILIPS to the Earl of DORSET.

A LETTER FROM ITALY, To the Right Honourable CHARLES LORD HALIFAX. In the Year MDCCI.

ALEXANDER's FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. AN ODE, In Honour of St. CECILIA's Day.

ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA's DAY.

THE SHEPHERD's WEEK. IN SIX PASTORALS.

MONDAY; OR, THE SQUABBLE.

TUESDAY; OR, THE DITTY.

WEDNESDAY; OR, THE DUMPS.

THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL.

FRIDAY; OR, THE DIRGE.

SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS.

MAC FLECKNOE.

ON POETRY. A RHAPSODY.

OF THE USE OF RICHES.

FROM THE DISPENSARY. CANTO VI.

ECLOGUE I. SELIM: OR THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. SCENE, A VALLEY NEAR BAGDAT. TIME, THE MORNING.

ECLOGUE II. HASSAN: OR THE CAMEL-DRIVER. SCENE, THE DESERT. TIME, MID-DAY.

ECLOGUE III. ABRA: OR THE GEORGIAN SULTANA. SCENE, A FOREST. TIME, THE EVENING.

ECLOGUE IV. AGIB AND SECANDER: OR, THE FUGITIVES. SCENE, A MOUNTAIN IN CIRCASSIA. TIME, MIDNIGHT.

THE SPLENDID SHILLING. BY MR. J. PHILIPS.

A PIPE OF TOBACCO: IN IMITATION OF SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS.

IMITATION I. A NEW-YEAR's ODE.

IMITATION II.

IMITATION III.

IMITATION IV.

IMITATION V.

IMITATION VI.