The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: ... by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley's collection. Written and selected by Francis Fawkes, M. A. and William Woty. In twelve volumes. [pt.1]

ADVERTISEMENT.

[]

AS none of the liberal ſciences can afford a nobler entertainment to the human mind than poetry, ſo it is preſumed, that a judicious collection of agreeable and inſtructive poems can never be unſeaſonable. Muſic raviſhes the ear, and affects the ſoul; but its ſweet enchantment is of ſhort duration: A fine piece of painting, if carefully preſerved, will mellow into perfection, and perhaps continue the admiration of mankind for ſome centuries; but the works of THE POET live for ever. We muſt, however, except thoſe pieces, which, though intrinſically of the higheſt merit, yet, being publiſhed in a looſe, careleſs, or in⯑elegant manner, muſt of courſe, in a ſhort time, periſh in the wreck of oblivion. To preſerve ſome of theſe ſpirited productions, which have been thus unfortunately neglected, is one part of the deſign of this publication. But it will be proper briefly to inform the reader of the nature of our plan. Firſt then, we propoſe once a month (for one year only) to publiſh a ſmall volume of poems, printed in an elegant manner; each of which will take its title from the month at the concluſion of which it is publiſhed, and be introduced with ſome ori⯑ginal poems, particularly deſcriptive of its proper [vi] month: afterwards will be added variety of pieces that are either amuſing or inſtructive (and at the ſame time not immoral), which, though of real merit, have paſſed through the world unnoticed:

Full many a flower is born to bluſh unſeen,

And waſte its ſweetneſs on the deſert air.

Though it muſt be confeſſed, that our plan is of an extenſive nature, yet we do not in the leaſt deſpair of bringing it to a conſiderable degree of perfection; as we have laid in a very large fund of ſcarce and valuable poems, are poſſeſſed of many original pieces, and have the promiſe of aſſiſtance from gentlemen of the moſt celebrated names, the moſt acknowledged taſte, and the moſt diſtinguiſhed genius.

FRANCIS FAWKES.
WILLIAM WOTY.

Dec. 24. 1762.

[]THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

A DESCRIPTION OF WINTER.

[7]

BY MR. AMBROSE PHILIPS. TO THE EARL OF DORSET.

Copenhagen, March 9, 1719.

FRom frozen climes, and endleſs tracks of ſnow,

From ſtreams which northern winds forbid to flow,

What preſent ſhall the muſe to Dorſet bring;

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

All pleaſing objects, which to verſe invite,

The hoary winter here conceals from ſight.

The hills, and dales, and the delightful woods,

The flowery 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 this deſert region ſing;

The ſhips, unmov'd, the boiſterous 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 valleys howl:

O'er many a ſhining league the level main

Here ſpreads itſelf into a glaſſy plain:

[8]There ſolid billows of enormous ſize,

Alps of green ice, in wild diſorder riſe.

And yet but lately have I ſeen, ev'n here,

The winter in a lovely dreſs appear.

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

Or winds began thro' hazy ſkies to blow;

At evening a keen eaſtern breeze aroſe,

And the deſcending rain unſully'd 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 every object to my eyes.

For every ſhrub, and every blade of graſs,

And every 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, which watery marſhes yield,

Seem'd 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 towering pine,

Glaz'd over, in the freezing aether ſhine:

The frighted birds the rattling branches ſhun,

Which 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.

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

And by degrees unbind the wintery 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 wandering 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.

ON CAPTAIN FORRESTER'S TRAVELLING TO THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND IN WINTER, ANNO 1727. INCOG.

[10]

O'ER Caledonia's ruder Alps,

While Forreſter purſu'd his way,

The mountains veil'd their rugged ſcalps,

And wrapt in ſnow and wonder lay!

Each ſylvan god, each rural power,

Peep'd out to ſee the raree-ſhow;

And all confeſs'd, that, till that hour,

They ne'er had ſeen ſo bright a beau.

Nay yet, and more I dare advance,

The ſtory true, as aught in print,

All nature round, in complaiſance,

And imitation, took the hint.

The fields that whilome only bore

Wild heath, or clad at beſt with oats,

Deſpis'd theſe humble weeds, and wore

Rich ſpangled doublets, and lac'd coats.

The hills were perriwigg'd with ſnow;

Pig-tails of ice hung on each tree;

The winds turn'd powder-puffs; and, lo,

On every ſhrub a ſharp toupee!

[11]With ſilver clocks the river gods

Appear'd; and ſome will take their oath,

Or lay at leaſt a thouſand odds,

The clouds ſaliving ſpit white froth.

The youth abaſh'd thus to ſurvey

So rude a ſcene himſelf outdo,

His ſprightly genius to diſplay,

Reſolv'd on ſomething odd and new:

All things he found were grown genteel,

Which made him deem it a-propo,

To be alone in diſhabile,

A Forreſter, and not a beau.

ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE.
M.D.CC.XL.

[12]

BY DR. AKENSIDE.

THE radiant ruler of the year
At length his wint'ry goal attains,
Soon to reverſe the long career,
And northward bend his golden reins.
Prone on Potoſi's haughty brow
His fiery ſtreams inceſſant flow,
Ripening the ſilver's ductile ſtores;
While, in the cavern's horrid ſhade,
The panting Indian hides his head,
And oft th' approach of eve explores.

But lo, on this deſerted coaſt
How faint the light! how thick the air!
Lo, arm'd with whirlwind, hail and froſt,
Fierce winter deſolates the year.
The fields reſign their chearful bloom;
No more the breezes waft perfume;
No more the warbling waters roll:
Deſerts of ſnow fatigue the eye,
Black ſtorms involve the louring ſky,
And gloomy damps oppreſs the ſoul.

[13]Now thro' the town promiſcuous throngs
Urge the warm bowl and ruddy fire;
Harmonious dances, feſtive ſongs,
To charm the midnight hours conſpire.
While mute and ſhrinking with her fears,
Each blaſt the cottage-matron hears,
As o'er the hearth ſhe ſits alone:
At morn her bridegroom went abroad,
The night is dark, and deep the road;
She ſighs, and wiſhes him at home.

But thou, my lyre, awake, ariſe,
And hail the ſun's remoteſt ray;
Now, now he climbs the northern ſkies,
To-morrow nearer than to-day.
Then louder howl the ſtormy waſte,
Be land and ocean worſe defac'd,
Yet brighter hours are on the wing;
And fancy thro' the wintry glooms,
All freſh with dews and opening blooms,
Already hails th' emerging ſpring.

O fountain of the golden day!
Could mortal vows but urge thy ſpeed,
How ſoon before thy vernal ray
Should each unkindly damp recede!
How ſoon each hovering tempeſt fly,
That now fermenting loads the ſky,
[14]Prompt on our heads to burſt amain,
To rend the foreſt from the ſteep,
Or thundering o'er the Baltic deep
To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain!

But let not man's unequal views
Preſume on nature and her laws;
'Tis his with grateful joy to uſe
Th' indulgence of the ſovereign cauſe;
Secure that health and beauty ſprings,
Thro' this majeſtic frame of things,
Beyond what he can reach to know,
And that heav'n's all-ſubduing will,
With good the progeny of ill,
Attempers every ſtate below.

How pleaſing wears the wint'ry night,
Spent with the old illuſtrious dead!
While, by the taper's trembling light,
I ſeem thoſe awful courts to tread
Where chiefs and legiſlators lie,
Whoſe triumphs move before my eye
With every laurel freſh diſplay'd;
While charm'd I taſte th' Ionian ſong,
Or bend to Plato's god-like tongue
Reſounding thro' the olive ſhade.

[15]But if the gay, well-natur'd friend
Bids leave the ſtudious page awhile,
Then eaſier joys the ſoul unbend,
And teach the brow a ſofter ſmile;
Then while the genial glaſs is paid
By each to her, that faireſt maid,
Whoſe radiant eyes his hopes obey,
What lucky vows his boſom warm!
While abſence heightens every charm,
And love invokes returning May.

May! thou delight of heav'n and earth,
When will thy happy morn ariſe?
When the dear place which gave her birth
Reſtore Lucinda to my eyes?
There while ſhe walks the wonted grove,
The ſeat of muſic and of love,
Bright as the one primaeval fair,
Thither, ye ſilver-ſounding lyres,
Thither, gay ſmiles and young deſires,
Chaſte hope and mutual faith repair.

And if believing love can read
The wonted ſoftneſs in her eye,
Then ſhall my fears, O charming maid,
And every pain of abſence die:
[16]Then ofter to thy name attun'd,
And riſing to diviner ſound,
I'll wake the free Horatian ſong:
Old Tyne ſhall liſten to my tale,
And echo, down the bordering vale,
The liquid melody prolong.

THE WINTER'S WALK.

[17]

BEhold, my fair, where-e'er we rove,

What dreary proſpects round us riſe,

The naked hills, the leafleſs grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning ſkies!

Nor only through the waſted plain,

Stern winter, is thy force confeſt,

Still wider ſpreads thy horrid reign,

I feel thy power uſurp my breaſt.

Enlivening hope, and fond deſire,

Reſign the heart to ſpleen and care,

Scarce frighted love maintains her fire,

And rapture ſaddens to deſpair.

In groundleſs hope, and cauſeleſs fear,

Unhappy man! behold thy doom,

Still changing with the changeful year,

The ſlave of ſunſhine, and of gloom.

Tir'd with vain joys, and falſe alarms,

With mental and corporeal ſtrife,

Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,

And ſcreen me from the ills of life.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE SPECTATOR.

[18]

BY THOMAS TICKELL, ESQUIRE.

IN courts licentious, and a ſhameleſs ſtage,

How long the war ſhall wit with virtue wage?

Inchanted by this proſtituted fair,

Our youth run headlong in the fatal ſnare;

In height of rapture claſp unheeded pains,

And ſuck pollution thro' their tingling veins.

Thy ſpotleſs thoughts unſhock'd the prieſt may hear;

And the pure veſtal in her boſom wear.

To conſcious bluſhes and diminiſh'd pride,

Thy glaſs betrays what treacherous love would hide;

Nor harſh thy precepts, but infus'd by ſtealth,

Pleaſe while they cure, and cheat us into health.

Thy works in Chloe's toilet gain a part,

And with his taylor ſhare the fopling's heart:

Laſh'd in thy ſatire, the penurious cit

Laughs at himſelf, and finds no harm in wit:

From felon gameſters the raw 'ſquire is free,

And Britain owes her reſcu'd oaks to thee.

His miſs the frolic viſcount dreads to toaſt,

Or his third cure the ſhallow templar boaſt;

[19]And the raſh fool, who ſcorn'd the beaten road,

Dares quake at thunder, and confeſs his God.

The brainleſs ſtripling, who, expell'd the town,

Damn'd the ſtiff college and pedantic gown,

Aw'd by thy name, is dumb, and thrice a week

Spells uncouth Latin, and pretends to Greek.

A ſauntring tribe! ſuch born to wide eſtates,

With yea and no in ſenates hold debates:

At length deſpis'd, each to his fields retires,

Firſt with the dogs, and king amidſt the 'ſquires;

From pert to ſtupid ſinks ſupinely down,

In youth a coxcomb, and in age a clown.

Such readers ſcorn'd, thou wing'ſt thy daring flight

Above the ſtars, and tread'ſt the fields of light;

Fame, heav'n and hell, are thy exalted theme,

And viſions ſuch as Jove himſelf might dream;

Man ſunk to ſlavery, tho' to glory born,

Heav'n's pride when upright, and deprav'd his ſcorn.

Such hints alone could Britiſh Virgil lend,

And thou alone deſerve from ſuch a friend:

A debt ſo borrow'd, is illuſtrious ſhame,

And fame when ſhar'd with him is double fame.

So fluſh'd with ſweets, by beauty's queen beſtow'd,

With more than mortal charms Aeneas glow'd.

Such generous ſtrife Eugene and Malbro' try,

And as in glory, ſo in friendſhip vie.

Permit theſe lines by thee to live—nor blame

A muſe that pants and languiſhes for fame;

[20]That fears to ſink when humbler themes ſhe ſings,

Loſt in the maſs of mean forgotten things:

Receiv'd by thee, I propheſy, my rhimes

The praiſe of virgins in ſucceeding times:

Mixt with thy works, their life no bounds ſhall ſee,

But ſtand protected, as inſpir'd, by thee.

So ſome weak ſhoot, which elſe would poorly riſe,

Jove's tree adopts, and lifts him to the ſkies;

Thro' the new pupil foſtering juices flow,

Thruſt forth the gems, and give the flowers to blow

Aloft; immortal reigns the plant unknown,

With borrow'd life, and vigour not his own.

TO MR. ADDISON, ON HIS OPERA OF ROSAMOND.

[21]

BY THE SAME.

—Ne forte pudori

Sit tibi muſa lyrae ſolers, & cantor Apollo.

THE opera firſt Italian maſters taught,

Enrich'd with ſongs, but innocent of thought;

Britannia's learned theatre diſdains

Melodious trifles, and enervate ſtrains;

And bluſhes, on her injur'd ſtage to ſee

Nonſenſe well-tun'd, and ſweet ſtupidity.

No charms are wanting to thy artful ſong,

Soft as Corelli, and as Virgil ſtrong.

From words ſo ſweet new grace the notes receive,

And muſic borrows helps, ſhe us'd to give.

Thy ſtyle has match'd what antient Romans knew,

Thy flowing numbers far excel the new.

Their cadence in ſuch eaſy ſound convey'd,

That height of thought may ſeem ſuperfluous aid;

Yet in ſuch charms the noble thoughts abound,

That needleſs ſeem the ſweets of eaſy ſound.

Landſcapes how gay the bowery grotto yields,

Which thought creates, and laviſh fancy builds!

[22]What art can trace the viſionary ſcenes,

The flowery groves, and everlaſting greens,

The babling ſounds that mimic echo plays,

The fairy ſhade, and its eternal maze?

Nature and art in all their charms combin'd!

And all Elyſium to one view combin'd!

No farther could imagination roam,

Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlbro' rais'd the dome.

Ten thouſand pangs my anxious boſom tear,

When drown'd in tears I ſee th' imploring fair;

When bards leſs ſoft the moving words ſupply,

A ſeeming juſtice dooms the nymph to die;

But here ſhe begs, nor can ſhe beg in vain;

In dirges thus expiring ſwans complain;

Each verſe ſo ſwells expreſſive of her woes,

And every tear in lines ſo mournful flows;

We, ſpite of fame, her fate revers'd believe,

O'erlook her crimes, and think ſhe ought to live.

Let joy ſalute fair Roſamonda's ſhade,

And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid.

While now perhaps with Dido's ghoſt ſhe roves,

And hears and tells the ſtory of their loves,

Alike they mourn, alike they bleſs their fate,

Since love, which made 'em wretched, makes 'em great:

Nor longer that relentleſs doom bemoan,

Which gain'd a Virgil, and an Addiſon.

Accept, great monarch of the Britiſh lays,

The tribute ſong an humble ſubject pays.

[23]So tries the artleſs lark her early flight,

And ſoars, to hail the god of verſe, and light.

Unrival'd as unmatch'd be ſtill thy fame,

And thy own laurels ſhade thy envy'd name:

Thy name, the boaſt of all the tuneful quire,

Shall tremble on the ſtrings of every lyre;

Who reads thy work, ſhall own the ſweet ſurprize,

And view thy Roſamond with Henry's eyes.

TO MR. ADDISON, ON HIS TRAGEDY OF CATO.

[24]

BY THE SAME.

TOO long has love engroſs'd Britannia's ſtage,

And ſunk to ſoftneſs all our tragic rage:

By that alone did empires fall or riſe,

And fate depended on a fair one's eyes:

The ſweet infection, mixt with dangerous art,

Debas'd our manhood, while it ſooth'd the heart.

Thou ſcorn'ſt to raiſe a grief thyſelf muſt blame,

Nor from our weakneſs ſteal a vulgar fame:

A patriot's fall may juſtly melt the mind,

And tears flow nobly, ſhed for all mankind.

How do our ſouls with generous pleaſure glow!

Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,

When thy firm hero ſtands beneath the weight

Of all his ſufferings venerably great?

Rome's poor remains ſtill ſheltering by his ſide,

With conſcious virtue, and becoming pride.

The aged oak thus rears his head in air,

His ſap exhauſted, and his branches bare,

'Midſt ſtorms and earthquakes, he maintains his ſtate,

Fixt deep in earth, and faſten'd by his weight:

[25]His naked boughs ſtill lend the ſhepherds aid,

And his old trunk projects an awful ſhade.

Amidſt the joys triumphant peace beſtows,

Our patiots ſadden at his glorious woes,

A while they let the world's great buſineſs wait,

Anxious for Rome, and ſigh for Cato's fate.

Here taught how antient heroes roſe to fame,

Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,

Where ſtates and ſenates well might lend an ear,

And kings and prieſts without a bluſh appear.

France boaſts no more, but, fearful to engage,

Now firſt pays homage to her rival's ſtage,

Haſtes to learn thee, and learning ſhall ſubmit

Alike to Britiſh arms, and Britiſh wit:

No more ſhe'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,

Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight.

Thy Oxford ſmiles this glorious work to ſee,

And fondly triumphs in a ſon like thee.

The ſenates, conſuls, and the gods of Rome,

Like old acquaintance at their native home,

In thee we find: each deed, each word expreſt,

And every thought that ſwell'd a Roman breaſt,

We trace each hint that could thy ſoul inſpire

With Virgil's judgment, and with Lucan's fire;

We know thy worth, and give us leave to boaſt,

We moſt admire, becauſe we know thee moſt.

THE ROYAL PROGRESS.

[26]

BY THE SAME.

WHen Brunſwick firſt appear'd, each honeſt heart,

Intent on verſe, diſdain'd the rules of art;

For him the ſongſters, in unmeaſur'd odes,

Debas'd Alcides, and dethron'd the gods,

In golden chains the kings of India led,

Or rent the turban from the ſultan's head.

One, in old fables, and the pagan ſtrain,

With nymphs and tritons, wafts him o'er the main;

Another draws fierce Lucifer in arms,

And fills th' infernal region with alarms;

A third awakes ſome druid, to foretell

Each future triumph, from his dreary cell.

Exploded fancies! that in vain deceive,

While the mind nauſeates what ſhe can't believe.

My muſe th' expected hero ſhall purſue

From clime to clime, and keep him ſtill in view:

His ſhining march deſcribe in faithful lays,

Content to paint him, nor preſume to praiſe;

Their charms, if charms they have, the truth ſup⯑plies,

And from the theme unlabour'd beauties riſe.

By longing nations for the throne deſign'd,

And call'd to guard the rights of human-kind;

[27]With ſecret grief his godlike ſoul repines,

And Britain's crown with joyleſs luſtre ſhines,

While prayers and tears his deſtin'd progreſs ſtay,

And crowds of mourners choak their ſovereign's way.

Not ſo he march'd, when hoſtile ſquadrons ſtood

In ſcenes of death, and fir'd his generous blood;

When his hot courſer paw'd th' Hungarian plain,

And adverſe legions ſtood the ſhock in vain.

His frontiers paſt, the Belgian bounds he views,

And croſs the level fields his march purſues.

Here pleas'd the land of freedom to ſurvey,

He greatly ſcorns the thirſt of boundleſs ſway.

O'er the thin ſoil, with ſilent joy, he ſpies

Tranſplanted woods, and borrow'd verdure riſe;

Where every meadow won with toil and blood,

From haughty tyrants and the raging flood,

With fruits and flowers the careful hind ſupplies,

And cloaths the marſhes in a rich diſguiſe.

Such wealth for frugal hands doth heaven decree,

And ſuch thy gifts, celeſtial liberty!

Thro' ſtately towns, and many a fertile plain,

The pomp advances to the neighbouring main.

Whole nations croud around with joyful cries,

And view the hero with inſatiate eyes.

In Haga's towers he waits, till eaſtern gales

Propitious riſe to ſwell the Britiſh ſails.

Hither the fame of England's monarch brings

The vows and friendſhips of the neighb'ring kings;

[28]Mature in wiſdom, his extenſive mind

Takes in the blended intereſts of mankind,

The world's great patriot. Calm thy anxious breaſt,

Secure in him, O Europe, take thy reſt;

Henceforth thy kingdoms ſhall remain confin'd

By rocks or ſtreams, the mounds which heav'n de⯑ſign'd;

The Alps their new-made monarch ſhall reſtrain,

Nor ſhall thy hills, Pirene, riſe in vain.

But ſee! to Britain's iſle the ſquadrons ſtand,

And leave the ſinking towers, and leſſening land.

The royal bark bounds o'er the floating plain,

Breaks thro' the billows, and divides the main.

O'er the vaſt deep, great monarch, dart thine eyes,

A watery proſpect bounded by the ſkies:

Ten thouſand veſſels, from ten thouſand ſhores,

Bring gums and gold, and either India's ſtores:

Behold the tributes haſtening to thy throne,

And ſee the wide horizon all thy own:

Still is it thine; tho' now the chearful crew

Hail Albion's cliffs, juſt whitening to the view:

Before the wind with ſwelling ſails they ride,

Till Thames receives them in his opening tide.

The monarch hears the thundering peals around,

From trembling woods and echoing hills rebound,

Nor miſſes yet, amid the deafening train,

The roarings of the hoarſe reſounding main.

[29]As in the flood he ſails, from either ſide

He views his kingdom in its rural pride;

A various ſcene the wide ſpread landſcape yields,

O'er rich encloſures, and luxuriant fields:

A lowing herd each fertile paſture fills,

And diſtant flocks ſtray o'er a thouſand hills.

Fair Greenwich, hid in woods, with new delight,

Shade above ſhade, now riſes to the ſight:

His woods ordain'd to viſit every ſhore,

And guard the iſland which they grac'd before.

The ſun now rolling down the weſtern way,

A blaze of fires renews the fading day;

Unnumber'd barks the regal barge infold,

Brightening the twilight with its beamy gold;

Leſs thick the finny ſhoals, a countleſs fry,

Before the whale or kingly dolphin fly.

In one vaſt ſhout he ſeeks the crouded ſtrand,

And in a peal of thunder gains the land.

Welcome, great ſtranger, to our longing eyes,

Oh! king deſir'd, adopted Albion cries.

For thee the eaſt breath'd out a proſperous breeze,

Bright were the ſuns, and gently ſwell'd the ſeas.

Thy preſence did each doubtful heart compoſe,

And factions wonder'd that they once were foes.

That joyful day they loſt each hoſtile name,

The ſame their aſpect, and their voice the ſame.

So two fair twins, whoſe features were deſign'd

At one ſoft moment in the mother's mind,

[30]Show each the other with reflected grace,

And the ſame beauties bloom in either face;

The puzzled ſtrangers which is which enquire;

Deluſion grateful to the ſmiling ſire.

From that fair ^* hill, where hoary ſages boaſt

To name the ſtars, and count the heavenly hoſt,

By the next dawn doth great Auguſta riſe,

Proud town! the nobleſt ſcene beneath the ſkies.

O'er Thames her thouſand ſpires their luſtre ſhed,

And a vaſt navy hides his ample bed,

A floating foreſt. From the diſtant ſtrand

A line of golden carrs ſtrikes o'er the land:

Britannia's peers in pomp and rich array,

Before their king, triumphant, lead the way.

Far as the eye can reach, the gaudy train,

A bright proceſſion, ſhines along the plain.

So, haply, through the heaven's wide pathleſs ways

A comet draws a long extended blaze;

From eaſt to weſt burns through th' ethereal frame,

And half heaven's convex glitters with the flame.

Now to the regal towers ſecurely brought,

He plans Britannia's glories in his thought;

Reſumes the delegated power he gave,

Rewards the faithful, and reſtores the brave.

Whom ſhall the muſe from out the ſhining throng

Select, to heighten and adorn her ſong?

[31]Thee, Hallifax. To thy capacious mind,

O man approv'd, is Britain's wealth conſign'd!

Her coin, while Naſſau fought, debas'd and rude,

By thee in beauty and in truth renew'd,

An arduous work! again thy charge we ſee,

And thy own care once more returns to thee.

O! form'd in every ſcene to awe and pleaſe,

Mix wit with pomp, and dignity with eaſe:

Tho' call'd to ſhine aloft, thou wilt not ſcorn

To ſmile on arts thyſelf did once adorn:

For this thy name ſucceeding time ſhall praiſe,

And envy leſs thy garter, than thy bays.

The muſe, if fir'd with thy enlivening beams,

Perhaps ſhall aim at more exalted themes,

Record our monarch in a nobler ſtrain,

And ſing the opening wonders of his reign;

Bright Carolina's heavenly beauties trace,

Her valiant conſort, and his blooming race.

A train of kings their fruitful love ſupplies,

A glorious ſcene to Albion's raviſh'd eyes;

Who ſees by Brunſwick's hand her ſcepter ſway'd,

And through his line from age to age convey'd.

PROLOGUE, TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

[34]

BY THE SAME.

WHat kings henceforth ſhall reign, what ſtates be free,

Is fix'd at length by Anna's juſt decree:

Whoſe brows the muſe's ſacred wreath ſhall fit

Is left to you, the arbiters of wit.

With beating hearts the rival poets wait,

Till you, Athenians, ſhall decide their fate;

Secure, when to theſe learned ſeats they come,

Of equal judgment, and impartial doom.

Poor is the player's fame, whoſe whole renown

Is but the praiſe of a capricious town;

While with mock-majeſty, and fancied power,

He ſtruts in robes, the monarch of an hour.

Oft wide of nature muſt he act a part,

Make love in tropes, in bombaſt break his heart;

In turn and ſimile reſign his breath,

And rhyme and quibble in the pangs of death.

We bluſh, when plays like theſe receive applauſe;

And laugh, in ſecret, at the tears we cauſe;

With honeſt ſcorn our own ſucceſs diſdain,

A worthleſs honour, and inglorious gain.

[35]No trifling ſcenes at Oxford ſhall appear;

Well, what we bluſh to act, may you to hear.

To you our fam'd, our ſtandard plays we bring,

The work of poets, whom you taught to ſing:

Tho' crown'd with fame, they dare not think it due,

Nor take the laurel till beſtow'd by you.

Great Cato's ſelf the glory of the ſtage,

Who charms, corrects, exalts, and fires the age,

Begs here he may be tried by Roman laws;

To you, O fathers, he ſubmits his cauſe;

He reſts not in the people's general voice,

Till you, the ſenate, have confirm'd his choice.

Fine is the ſecret, delicate the art,

To wind the paſſions, and command the heart,

For fancied ills to force our tears to flow;

And make the generous ſoul in love with woe;

To raiſe the ſhades of heroes to our view;

Rebuild fallen empires, and old time renew.

How hard the taſk! how rare the godlike rage!

None ſhould preſume to dictate for the ſtage,

But ſuch as boaſt a great extenſive mind,

Enrich'd by nature, and by art refin'd;

Who from the antient ſtores their knowledge bring,

And taſted early of the muſe's ſpring.

May none pretend upon her throne to ſit,

But ſuch, as ſprung from you, are born to wit:

Choſe by the mob, their lawleſs claim we ſlight:

Your's is the old hereditary right.

THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF AN ORIGINAL PICTURE OF KING CHARLES I. TAKEN AT THE TIME OF HIS TRIAL.
INSCRIBED TO GEORGE CLARKE, ESQ.

[36]

BY THE SAME.

CAN this be he! could Charles, the good, the great,

Be ſunk by heaven to ſuch a diſmal ſtate!

How meagre, pale, neglected, worn with care!

What ſteady ſadneſs, and auguſt deſpair!

In thoſe ſunk eyes the grief of years I trace,

And ſorrow ſeems acquainted with that face.

Tears, which his heart diſdain'd, from me o'erflow,

Thus to ſurvey God's ſubſtitute below,

In ſolemn anguiſh, and majeſtic woe.

When ſpoil'd of empire by unhallow'd hands,

Sold by his ſlaves, and held in impious bands;

Rent from, what oft had ſweeten'd anxious life,

His helpleſs children, and his boſom wife;

Doom'd for the faith plebeian rage to ſtand,

And fall a victim for the guilty land;

[37]Then thus was ſeen, abandon'd and forlorn,

The king, the father, and the ſaint to mourn.—

How could'ſt thou, artiſt, then thy ſkill diſplay?

Thy ſteady hands thy ſavage heart betray:

Near thy bold work the ſtun'd ſpectators faint,

Nor ſee unmov'd, what thou unmov'd could'ſt paint;

What brings to mind each various ſcene of woe,

Th' inſulting judge, the ſolemn-mocking ſhow,

The horrid ſentence, and accurſed blow.

Where then, juſt heaven, was thy unactive hand,

Thy idle thunder, and thy lingering brand!

Thy adamantine ſhield, thy angel wings,

And the great genii of anointed kings!

Treaſon and fraud ſhall thus the ſtars regard!

And injur'd virtue meet this ſad reward!

So ſad, none like can time's old records tell,

Though Pompey bled, and poor Darius fell.

All names but one too low—that one too high:

All parallels are wrongs, or blaſphemy.

O power ſupreme! how ſecret are thy ways!

Yet man, vain man, would trace the myſtic maze,

With fooliſh wiſdom, arguing, charge his God,

His ballance hold, and guide his angry rod;

New-mould the ſpheres, and mend the ſky's deſign,

And ſound th' immenſe with his ſhort ſcanty line.

Do thou, my ſoul, the deſtin'd period wait,

When God ſhall ſolve the dark decrees of fate,

[38]His now unequal diſpenſations clear,

And make all wiſe and beautiful appear;

When ſuffering ſaints aloft in beams ſhall glow,

And proſperous traitors gnaſh their teeth below.

Such boding thoughts did guilty conſcience dart,

A pledge of hell, to dying Cromwell's heart:

Then this pale image ſeem'd t' invade his room,

Gaz'd him to ſtone, and warn'd him to the tomb,

While thunders roll, and nimble lightnings play,

And the ſtorm wings his ſpotted ſoul away.

A blaſt more bounteous ne'er did heaven command

To ſcatter bleſſings o'er the Britiſh land.

Not that more kind, which daſh'd the pride of Spain,

And whirl'd her cruſh'd Armada round the main;

Not thoſe more kind, which guide our floating towers,

Waft gums and gold, and made far India ours:

That only kinder, which to Britain's ſhore

Did mitres, crowns, and Stuart's race reſtore,

Renew'd the church, revers'd the kingdom's doom,

And brought with Charles an Anna yet to come.

O Clarke, to whom a Stuart truſts her reign

O'er Albion's fleets, and delegates the main;

Dear, as the faith thy loyal heart hath ſworn,

Tranſmit this piece to ages yet unborn.

This ſight ſhall damp the raging ruſſian's breaſt,

The poiſon ſpill, and half-drawn ſword arreſt;

To ſoft compaſſion ſtubborn traitors bend,

And one deſtroy'd a thouſand kings defend.

TO APOLLO MAKING LOVE.
FROM MONSIEUR FONTENELLE.

[39]

BY THE SAME.

I Am, cried Apollo, when Daphne he woo'd,

And panting for breath, the coy virgin purſu'd,

When his wiſdom, in manner moſt ample, expreſt

The long liſt of the graces his godſhip poſſeſt:

I'm the god of ſweet ſong, and inſpirer of lays;

Nor for lays, nor ſweet ſong, the fair fugitive ſtays;

I'm the god of the harp—ſtop my faireſt—in vain;

Nor the harp, nor the harper, could fetch her again.

Every plant, every flower, and their virtues I know,

God of light I'm above, and of phyſic below:

At the dreadful word phyſic, the nymph fled more faſt;

At the fatal word phyſic, ſhe doubled her haſte.

Thou fond god of wiſdom, then alter thy phraſe,

Bid her view thy young bloom, and thy raviſhing rays,

Tell her leſs of thy knowledge, and more of thy charms,

And, my life for't, the damſel ſhall fly to thy arms.

THE FATAL CURIOSITY.

[40]

BY THE SAME.

MUch had I heard of fair Francelia's name,

The laviſh praiſes of the babler, fame;

I thought them ſuch, and went prepar'd to pry,

And trace the charmer, with a critic's eye,

Reſolv'd to find ſome fault, before unſpy'd,

And diſappointed, if but ſatisfy'd.

Love pierc'd the vaſſal heart, that durſt rebel,

And where a judge was meant, a victim fell:

On thoſe dear eyes, with ſweet perdition gay,

I gaz'd, at once, my pride and ſoul away;

All o'er I felt the luſcious poiſon run,

And, in a look, the haſty conqueſt won.

Thus the fond moth around the taper plays,

And ſports, and flutters near the treacherous blaze;

Raviſh'd with joy he wings his eager flight,

Nor dreams of ruin in ſo clear a light;

He tempts his fate, and courts a glorious doom,

A bright deſtruction, and a ſhining tomb.

TO A LADY; WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE PHOENIX.

[41]

BY THE SAME.

LAviſh of wit, and bold appear the lines,

Where Claudian's genius in the Phoenix ſhines;

A thouſand ways each brilliant point is turn'd,

And the gay poem, like its theme, adorn'd:

A tale more ſtrange ne'er grac'd the poets art,

Nor e'er did fiction play ſo wild a part.

Each fabled charm in matchleſs Caelia meets,

The heavenly colours, and ambroſial ſweets;

Her virgin boſom chaſter fires ſupplies,

And beams more piercing guard her kindred eyes.

O'erflowing wit th' imagin'd wonder drew,

But fertile fancy ne'er can reach the true.

Now buds your youth, your cheeks their bloom diſcloſe.

Th' untainted lilly, and unfolding roſe;

Eaſe in your mein, and ſweetneſs in your face,

You ſpeak a ſyren, and you move a grace;

Nor time ſhall urge theſe beauties to decay,

While virtue gives, what years ſhall ſteal away:

The fair, whoſe youth can boaſt the worth of age,

In age ſhall with the charms of youth engage;

In every change ſtill lovely, ſtill the ſame,

A fairer Phoenix in a purer flame.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE PHOENIX.
FROM CLAUDIAN.

[42]

BY THE SAME.

IN utmoſt Ocean lies a lovely iſle,

Where ſpring ſtill blooms, and greens for ever ſmile,

Which ſees the ſun put on his firſt array,

And hears his panting ſteeds bring on the day;

When, from the deep, they ruſh with rapid force,

And whirl aloft, to run their glorious courſe;

When firſt appear the ruddy ſtreaks of light,

And glimmering beams diſpel the parting night.

In theſe ſoft ſhades, unpreſt by human feet,

The happy Phoenix keeps his balmy ſeat,

Far from the world disjoin'd; he reigns alone,

Alike the empire, and its king unknown.

A godlike bird! whoſe endleſs round of years

Out-laſts the ſtars, and tires the circling ſpheres;

Not us'd, like vulgar birds, to eat his fill,

Or drink the chryſtal of the murm'ring rill;

But fed by warmth from Titan's purer ray,

And ſlak'd by ſtreams which eaſtern ſeas convey;

Still he renews his life in theſe abodes,

Contemns the power of fate, and mates the gods.

[43]His fiery eyes ſhoot forth a glittering ray,

And round his head ten thouſand glories play;

High on his creſt, a ſtar celeſtial bright

Divides the darkneſs with its piercing light;

His legs are ſtain'd with purple's lively dye,

His azure wings the fleeting winds out-fly;

Soft plumes of chearful blue his limbs infold,

Enrich'd with ſpangles, and bedropt with gold.

Begot by none himſelf, begetting none,

Sire of himſelf he is, and of himſelf the ſon;

His life in fruitful death renews its date,

And kind deſtruction but prolongs his fate:

Ev'n in the grave new ſtrength his limbs receive,

And on the funeral pile begin to live.

For when a thouſand times the ſummer ſun

His bending race has on the zodiac run,

And when as oft the vernal ſigns have roll'd,

As oft the wintery brought the numbing cold;

Then drops the bird, worn out with aged cares,

And bends beneath the mighty load of years.

So falls the ſtately pine, that proudly grew,

The ſhade, and glory of the mountain's brow.

When pierc'd by blaſts, and ſpouting clouds o'er-ſpread,

It, ſlowly ſinking, nods its tottering head,

Part dies by winds, and part by ſickly rains,

And waſting age deſtroys the poor remains.

Then, as the ſilver empreſs of the night

O'er-clouded, glimmers in a fainter light,

[44]So, froze with age, and ſhut from light's ſupplies,

In lazy rounds ſcarce roll his feeble eyes,

And thoſe fleet wings, for ſtrength and ſpeed renown'd,

Scarce rear th' unactive lumber from the ground.

Myſterious arts a ſecond time create

The bird, prophetic of approaching fate.

Pil'd on an heap Sabaean herbs he lays,

Parch'd by his ſire the ſun's intenſeſt rays;

The pile, deſign'd to form his funeral ſcene,

He wraps in covers of a fragrant green,

And bids the ſpicy heap at once become

A grave deſtructive, and a teeming womb.

On the rich bed the dying wonder lies,

Imploring Phoebus, with perſuaſive cries,

To dart upon him in collected rays,

And new-create him in a deadly blaze.

The god beholds the ſuppliant from afar,

And ſtops the progreſs of his heavenly car.

" O thou, ſays he, whom harmleſs fires ſhall burn,

" Thy age the flame to ſecond youth ſhall turn,

" An infant's cradle is thy funeral urn.

" Thou, on whom heav'n has fix'd th' ambiguous doom

" To live by ruin, and by death to bloom,

" Thy life, thy ſtrength, thy lovely form renew,

" And with freſh beauties doubly charm the view.

Thus ſpeaking, midſt the aromatic bed,

A golden beam he toſſes from his head;

[45]Swift as deſire, the ſhining ruin flies,

And ſtrait devours the willing ſacrifice;

Who haſtes to periſh in the fertile fire,

Sink into ſtrength, and into life expire.

In flames the circling odours mount on high,

Perfume the air, and glitter in the ſky,

The moon and ſtars, amaz'd, retard their flight,

And nature ſtartles at the doubtful ſight;

For whilſt the pregnant urn with fury glows,

The goddeſs labours with a mother's throes,

Yet joys to cheriſh, in the friendly flames,

The nobleſt product of the ſkill ſhe claims.

Th' enlivening duſt its head begins to rear,

And on the aſhes ſprouting plumes appear;

In the dead bird reviving vigour reigns,

And life, returning, revels in his veins:

A new-born Phoenix ſtarting from the flame,

Obtains at once a ſon's and father's name:

And the great change of double life diſplays,

In the ſhort moment of one tranſient blaze.

On his new pinions to the Nile he bends,

And to the gods his parent urn commends,

To Egypt bearing, with majeſtic pride,

The balmy neſt, where firſt he liv'd and dy'd.

Birds of all kinds admire th' unuſual ſight,

And grace the triumph of his infant flight;

In crowds unnumber'd round their chief they fly,

Oppreſs the air, and cloud the ſpacious ſky;

[46]Nor dares the fierceſt of the winged race

Obſtruct his journey thro' th' etherial ſpace;

The hawk and eagle uſeleſs wars forbear,

Forego their courage, and conſent to fear;

The feather'd nations humble homage bring,

And bleſs the gaudy flight of their ambroſial king.

Leſs glittering pomp does Parthia's monarch yield,

Commanding legions to the duſty field;

Tho' ſparkling jewels on his helm abound,

And royal gold his awful head ſurround;

Tho' rich embroidery paint his purple veſt,

And his ſteed bound in coſtly trappings dreſt,

Pleas'd in the battle's dreadful van to ride,

In graceful grandeur, and imperial pride.

Fam'd for the worſhip of the ſun, there ſtands

A ſacred fane in Egypt's fruitful lands,

Hewn from the Theban mountain's rocky womb,

An hundred columns rear the marble dome;

Hither, 'tis ſaid, he brings the precious load,

A grateful offering to the beamy god;

Upon whoſe altar's conſecrated blaze

The ſeeds and reliques of himſelf he lays,

Whence flaming incenſe makes the temple ſhine,

And the glad altars breathe perfumes divine.

The wafted ſmell to far Peluſium flies,

To chear old Ocean, and enrich the ſkies,

With nectar's ſweets to make the nations ſmile,

And ſcent the ſeven-fold channels of the Nile.

[47]Thrice happy Phoenix! heaven's peculiar care

Has made thy ſelf, thy ſelf's ſurviving heir;

By death thy deathleſs vigour is ſupply'd,

Which ſinks to ruin all the world beſide;

Thy age, not thee, aſſiſting Phoebus burns,

And vital flames light up thy funeral urns.

Whate'er events have been, thy eyes ſurvey,

And thou art fixt, while ages roll away;

Thou ſaw'ſt when raging Ocean burſt his bed,

O'ertop'd the mountains, and the earth o'erſpread;

When the raſh youth inflam'd the high abodes,

Scorch'd up the ſkies, and ſcar'd the deathleſs gods.

When nature ceaſes, thou ſhalt ſtill remain,

Nor ſecond chaos bound thy endleſs reign;

Fate's tyrant laws thy happier lot ſhall brave,

Baffle deſtruction, and elude the grave.

VERSES TO MRS. LOWTHER ON HER MARRIAGE. FROM MENAGE.

[48]

BY THE SAME.

THE greateſt ſwain that treads th' Arcadian grove,

Our ſhepherds envy, and our virgins love,

His charming nymph, his ſofter fair obtains,

The bright Diana of our flowery plains;

He, midſt the graceful, of ſuperior grace,

And ſhe the lovelieſt of the lovelieſt race.

Thy fruitful influence, guardian Juno ſhed,

And crown the pleaſures of the genial bed,

Raiſe thence, their future joy, a ſmiling heir,

Brave as the father, as the mother fair.

Well may'ſt thou ſhower thy choiceſt gifts on thoſe,

Who boldly rival thy moſt hated foes;

The vig'rous bridegroom with Alcides vies,

And the fair bride has Cytherea's eyes.

TO A LADY; WITH A PRESENT OF FLOWERS.

[49]

BY THE SAME.

Each beauteous flower—roſes and jeſſamin

Rear'd high their flouriſh'd heads.—

MILTON.

THE fragrant painting of our flowery fields,

The choiceſt ſtores that youthful ſummer yields,

Strephon to fair Eliſa hath convey'd,

The ſweeteſt garland to the ſweeteſt maid.

O! cheer the flowers, my fair, and let them reſt

On the Elyſium of thy ſnowy breaſt,

And there regale the ſmell, and charm the view,

With richer odours, and a lovelier hue.

Learn hence, nor fear a flatterer in the flower,

Thy form divine, and beauty's matchleſs power:

Faint, near thy cheeks, the bright carnation glows,

And thy ripe lips out-bluſh the opening roſe;

The lily's ſnow betrays leſs pure a light,

Loſt in thy boſom's more unſullied white;

And wreaths of jaſmine ſhed perfumes, beneath

Th' ambroſial incenſe of thy balmy breath.

Ten thouſand beauties grace the rival pair,

How fair the chaplet, and the nymph how fair!

[50]But ah! too ſoon theſe fleeting charms decay,

The fading luſtre of one haſtening day,

This night ſhall ſee the gaudy wreath decline,

The roſes wither, and the lilies pine.

The garland's fate to thine ſhall be applied,

And what advanc'd thy form, ſhall check thy pride:

Be wiſe, my fair, the preſent hour improve,

Let joy be new, and now a waſte of love;

Each drooping bloom ſhall plead thy juſt excuſe,

And that which ſhow'd thy beauty, ſhow its uſe.

ON A LADY'S PICTURE:
TO GILFRED LAWSON, ESQ.

[51]

BY THE SAME.

AS Damon Chloe's painted form ſurvey'd,

He ſigh'd, and languiſh'd for the jilting ſhade:

For Cupid taught the artiſt hand its grace,

And Venus wanton'd in the mimic face.

Now he laments a look ſo falſly fair,

And almoſt damns, what yet reſembles her;

Now he devours it with his longing eyes;

Now ſated, from the lovely phantom flies,

Yet burns to look again, yet looks again, and dies.

Her ivory neck his lips preſume to kiſs,

And his bold hands the ſwelling boſom preſs;

The ſwain drinks in deep draughts of vain deſire,

Melts without heat, and burns in fancied fire.

Strange power of paint! thou nice creator art!

What love inſpires, may life itſelf impart.

Struck with like wounds, of old, Pygmalion pray'd,

And hugg'd to life his artificial maid;

Claſp, new Pygmalion, claſp the ſeeming charms,

Perhaps even now th' enlivening image warms,

Deſtin'd to crown thy joys, and revel in thy arms:

Thy arms, which ſhall with fire ſo fierce invade,

That ſhe at once ſhall be, and ceaſe to be a maid.

PART OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF LUCAN.

[52]

BY THE SAME,

Caeſar, having reſolved to give battle to Petreius and Afranius, Pompey's lieutenants in Spain, encamped near the enemy in the ſame field. The behaviour of their ſoldiers, at their ſeeing and knowing one another, is the ſubject of the following verſes.

THeir antient friends, as now they nearer drew,

Prepar'd for fight the wondering ſoldiers knew:

Brother, with brother in unnat'ral ſtrife,

And the ſon arm'd againſt the father's life:

Curſt civil war! then conſcience firſt was felt,

And the tough veteran's heart began to melt.

Fix'd in dumb ſorrow all at once they ſtand,

Then wave, a pledge of peace, the guiltleſs hand;

For vent ten thouſand ſtruggling paſſions move,

The ſtings of nature, and the pangs of love.

All order broken, wide their arms they throw,

And run, with tranſport, to the longing foe:

Here their long-loſt acquaintance neighbours claim,

There an old friend recalls his comrade's name,

[53]Youths, who in arts beneath one tutor grew,

Rome rent in twain, and kindred hoſts they view.

Tears wet their impious arms, a fond relief,

And kiſſes, broke by ſobs, the words of grief;

Tho' yet no blood was ſpilt, each anxious mind

With horror thinks on what his rage deſign'd.

Ah! generous youths, why thus, with fruitleſs pain,

Beat ye thoſe breaſts? why guſh thoſe eyes in vain?

Why blame ye heaven, and charge your guilt on fate?

Why dread the tyrant, whom yourſelves make great?

Bids he the trumpet ſound? the trumpet ſlight—

Bids he the ſtandard move? refuſe the fight—

Your generals, left by you, will love again,

A ſon and father, when they're private men.

Kind concord, heavenly-born! whoſe bliſsful reign

Holds this vaſt globe in one ſurrounding chain,

Whoſe laws the jarring elements controul,

And knit each atom cloſe from pole to pole;

Soul of the world! and love's eternal ſpring!

This lucky hour, thy aid, fair goddeſs, bring!

This lucky hour, ere aggravated crimes

Heap guilt on guilt, and doubly ſtain the times.

No veil henceforth for ſin, for pardon none;

They know their duty, now their friends are known.

Vain wiſh! from blood ſhort muſt the reſpite be;

New crimes, by love inhanc'd, this night ſhall ſee:

Such is the will of fate, and ſuch the hard decree.

[54]'Twas peace. From either camp, now void of fear,

The ſoldiers mingling cheerful feaſts prepare:

On the green ſod the friendly bowls were crown'd

And haſty banquets pil'd upon the ground:

Around the fire they talk; one ſhows his ſcars,

One tells what chance firſt led him to the wars;

Their ſtories o'er the tedious night prevail,

And the mute circle liſtens to the tale.

They own they fought, but ſwear they ne'er could hate

Deny their guilt, and lay the blame on fate;

Their love revives, to make them guiltier grow,

A ſhort-liv'd bleſſing, but to heighten woe.

When to Petreius firſt the news was told,

The jealous general thought his legions ſold.

Swift, with the guards, his head-ſtrong fury drew,

From out his camp he drives the hoſtile crew;

Cuts claſping friends aſunder with his ſword,

And ſtains with blood each hoſpitable board.

Then thus his wrath breaks out. "Oh! loſt to fame

" Oh! falſe to Pompey, and the Roman name!

" Can ye not conquer, ye degenerate bands?

" Oh! die at leaſt 'tis all that Rome demands.

" What? will ye own, while ye can wield the ſword,

" A rebel ſtandard, and uſurping lord?

" Shall he be ſued to take you into place

" Amongſt his ſlaves, and grant you equal grace?

" What? ſhall my life be begg'd? inglorious thought!

" And life abhorr'd, on ſuch conditions bought!

[55]" The toils we bear, my friends, are not for life,

" Too mean a prize in ſuch a dreadful ſtrife;

" But peace would lead to ſervitude and ſhame,

" A fair amuſement, and a ſpecious name.

" Never had man explor'd the iron ore,

" Mark'd out the trench, or rais'd the lofty tower,

" Ne'er had the ſteed in harneſs ſought the plain,

" Or fleets encounter'd on th' unſtable main;

" Were life, were breath, with fame to be compar'd,

" Or peace to glorious liberty preferr'd.

" By guilty oaths the hoſtile army bound,

" Holds faſt its impious faith, and ſtands its ground;

" Are you perfidious, who eſpouſe the laws,

" And traytors only in a righteous cauſe?

" Oh ſhame! in vain thro' nations far and wide,

" Thou call'ſt the crowding monarchs to thy ſide,

" Fallen Pompey! while thy legions here betray

" Thy cheap bought life, and treat thy fame away."

He ended fierce. The ſoldier's rage returns,

His blood flies upward, and his boſom burns.

So, hap'ly tam'd, the tyger bears his bands,

Leſs grimly growls, and licks his keeper's hands;

But if by chance he taſtes forbidden gore,

He yells amain, and makes his dungeon roar:

He glares, he foams, he aims a deſperate bound,

And his pale maſter flies the dangerous ground.

Now deeds are done, which man might charge aright

On ſtubborn fate, or undiſcerning night,

[56]Had not their guilt the lawleſs ſoldiers known,

And made the whole malignity their own.

The beds, the plenteous tables float with gore,

And breaſts are ſtabb'd, that were embrac'd before:

Pity awhile their hands from ſlaughter kept,

Inward they groan'd, and, as they drew, they wept;

But every blow their wavering rage aſſures,

In murder hardens, and to blood inures.

Crowds charge on crowds, nor friends their friends deſcry,

But ſires by ſons, and ſons by fathers die.

Black, monſtrous rage! each, with victorious cries,

Drags his ſlain friend before the general's eyes,

Exults in guilt, that throws the only ſhame

On Pompey's cauſe, and blots the Roman name.

TO A LADY BEFORE MARRIAGE.

[57]

BY THE SAME.

OH! form'd by nature, and refin'd by art,

With charms to win, and ſenſe to fix the heart!

By thouſands ſought, Clotilda, canſt thou free

Thy crowd of captives, and deſcend to me?

Content in ſhades obſcure to waſte thy life,

A hidden beauty, and a country wife.

O! liſten while thy ſummers are my theme,

Ah! ſooth thy partner in his waking dream!

In ſome ſmall hamlet on the lonely plain,

Where Thames thro' meadows rolls his mazy train:

Or where high Windſor, thick with greens array'd,

Waves his old oaks, and ſpreads his ample ſhade,

Fancy has figur'd out our calm retreat;

Already round the viſionary ſeat.

Our limes begin to ſhoot, our flowers to ſpring,

The brooks to murmur, and the birds to ſing.

Where doſt thou lie, thou thinly-peopled green?

Thou nameleſs lawn, and village yet unſeen?

Where ſons, contented with their native ground,

Ne'er travell'd further than ten furlongs round;

And the tann'd peaſant, and his ruddy bride,

Were born together, and together died.

[58]Where early larks beſt tell the morning light,

And only Philomel diſturbs the night;

'Midſt gardens here my humble pile ſhall riſe,

With ſweets ſurrounded of ten thouſand dies;

All ſavage where th' embroider'd gardens end,

The haunt of echoes ſhall my woods aſcend;

And oh! if heaven th' ambitious thought approve,

A rill ſhall warble croſs the gloomy grove,

A little rill, o'er pebbly beds convey'd,

Guſh down the ſteep, and glitter thro' the glade.

What cheering ſcents thoſe bordering banks exhale!

How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!

That thruſh how ſhrill! his note ſo clear, ſo high,

He drowns each feather'd minſtrel of the ſky.

Here let me trace beneath the purpled morn,

The deep-mouth'd beagle, and the ſprightly horn;

Or lure the trout with well-diſſembled flies,

Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the ſkies.

Nor ſhall thy hand diſdain to crop the vine,

The downy peach, or flavour'd nectarine;

Or rob the bee-hive of its golden hoard,

And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.

Sometimes my books by day ſhall kill the hours,

While, from thy needle, riſe the ſilken flowers;

And thou, by turns, to eaſe my feeble ſight,

Reſume the volume, and deceive the night.

Oh! when I mark thy twinkling eyes oppreſt,

Soft whiſpering, let me warn my love to reſt;

[59]Then watch thee, charm'd, while ſleep locks every ſenſe,

And to ſweet heaven commend thy innocence.

Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,

Wife, hale, and honeſt, in the days of old;

Till courts aroſe, where ſubſtance pays for ſhow,

And ſpecious joys are bought with real woe.

See Flavia's pendants, large, well-ſpread, and right,

The ear that wears them hears a fool each night;

Mark how th' embroider'd col'nel ſneaks away,

To ſhun the withering dame that made him gay;

That knave, to gain a title, loſt his fame;

That rais'd his credit by a daughter's ſhame;

This coxcomb's ribband coſt him half his land;

And oaks, unnumber'd, bought that fool a wand.

Fond man, as all his ſorrows were too few,

Acquires ſtrange wants that nature never knew.

By midnight lamps he emulates the day,

And ſleeps, perverſe, the cheerful ſuns away;

From goblets high-emboſt his wine muſt glide,

Round his clos'd ſight the gorgeous curtain ſlide;

Fruits ere their time to grace his pomp muſt riſe,

And three untaſted courſes glut his eyes.

For this are nature's gentle calls withſtood,

The voice of conſcience, and the bonds of blood;

This wiſdom thy reward for every pain,

And this gay glory all thy mighty gain.

Fair phantoms woo'd and ſcorn'd from age to age,

Since bards began to laugh, or prieſts to rage.

[60]And yet, juſt curſe on man's aſpiring kind,

Prone to ambition, to example blind,

Our childrens children ſhall our ſteps purſue,

And the ſame errors be for ever new.

Mean while, in hope a guiltleſs country ſwain,

My reed with warblings cheers th' imagin'd plain:

Hail humble ſhades, where truth and ſilence dwell!

Thou noiſy town, and faithleſs court farewell!

Farewell ambition, once my darling flame!

The thirſt of lucre, and the charm of fame!

In life's by-road, that winds thro' paths unknown,

My days, tho' number'd, ſhall be all my own.

Here ſhall they end, (O! might they twice begin)

And all be white the fates intend to ſpin.

A POEM IN PRAISE OF THE HORN-BOOK.
WRITTEN UNDER A FIT OF THE GOUT.

[61]

BY THE SAME.

Magni magna patrant, nos non niſi ludicra—

—Podagra haec otia fecit.

HAil! antient book, moſt venerable code!

Learning's firſt cradle, and its laſt abode!

The huge unnumber'd volumes which we ſee,

By lazy plagiaries are ſtolen from thee.

Yet future times, to thy ſufficient ſtore,

Shall ne'er preſume to add one letter more.

Thee will I ſing in comely wainſcot bound,

And golden verge encloſing thee around;

The faithful horn before, from age to age,

Preſerving thy invaluable page;

Behind, thy patron ſaint in armour ſhines,

With ſword and lance, to guard thy ſacred lines:

Beneath his courſer's feet the dragon lies

Transfix'd; his blood thy ſcarlet cover dies;

Th' inſtructive handle's at the bottom fix'd,

Leſt wrangling critics ſhould pervert the text.

Or if to ginger-bread thou ſhalt deſcend,

And liquoriſh learning to thy babes extend;

[62]Or ſugar'd plain, o'erſpread with beaten gold,

Does the ſweet treaſure of thy letters hold;

Thou ſtill ſhall be my ſong—Apollo's choir

I ſcorn t' invoke; Cadmus my verſe inſpire:

'Twas Cadmus who the firſt materials brought

Of all the learning which has ſince been taught;

Soon made complete! for mortals ne'er ſhall know

More than contain'd of old the chriſt-croſs row;

What maſters dictate, or what doctors preach,

Wiſe matrons hence, ev'n to our children teach,

But as the name of every plant and flower,

(So common that each peaſant knows its power)

Phyſicians in myſterious cant expreſs,

T' amuſe the patient, and inhance their fees;

So from the letters of our native tongue,

Put in Greek ſcrauls, a myſtery too is ſprung;

Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made,

And artful men ſtrike out a gainful trade,

Strange characters adorn the learned gate,

And heedleſs youth catch at the ſhining bait.

The pregnant boys the noiſy charms declare,

And ^* Tau's, and Delta's, make their mothers ſtare;

Th' uncommon ſounds amaze the vulgar ear,

And what's uncommon never coſts too dear.

Yet in all tongues the Horn-book is the ſame,

Taught by the Grecian ſage, or Engliſh dame.

[63]But how ſhall I thy endleſs virtues tell,

In which thou doſt all other books excel?

No greaſy thumb thy ſpotleſs leaf can foil,

Nor crooked dog-ears thy ſmooth corners ſpoil;

In idle pages no errata ſtand,

To tell the blunders of the printer's hand:

No fulſome dedication here is writ,

Nor flattering verſe to praiſe the author's wit:

The margin with no tedious notes is vex'd,

No various readings to confound the text:

All parties in thy literal ſenſe agree,

Thou perfect centre of concordancy!

Search we the records of an antient date,

Or read what modern hiſtories relate,

They all proclaim what wonders have been done

By the plain letters taken as they run.

" ^* Too high the floods of paſſion us'd to roll,

" And rend the Roman youth's impatient ſoul;

" His haſty anger furniſh'd ſcenes of blood,

" And frequent deaths of worthy men enſued:

[64]" In vain were all the weaker methods tried,

" None could ſuffice to ſtem the furious tide;

" Thy ſacred lines he did but once repeat,

" And laid the ſtorm, and cool'd the raging heat."

Thy heavenly notes, like angels muſic, cheer

Departing ſouls, and ſooth the dying ear.

An aged peaſant, on his lateſt bed,

Wiſh'd for a friend ſome godly book to read;

The pious grandſon thy known handle takes,

And (eyes lift up) this ſav'ry lecture makes:

Great A, he gravely read; th' important ſound

The empty walls, and hollow roof rebound:

Th' expiring antient rear'd his drooping head,

And thank'd his ſtars that Hodge had learn'd to read.

Great B, the younker bawls! O heavenly breath!

What ghoſtly comforts in the hour of death!

What hopes I feel! great C, pronounc'd the boy;

The grandſire dies with extaſy of joy.

Yet in ſome lands ſuch ignorance abounds,

Whole pariſhes ſcarce know thy uſeful ſounds.

Of Eſſex hundreds fame gives this report,

But fame, I ween, ſays many things in ſport.

Scarce lives the man to whom thou'rt quite unknown,

Tho' few th' extent of thy vaſt empire own.

Whatever wonders magic ſpells can do

On earth, in air, in ſea, in ſhades below;

What words profound and dark wiſe Mah'met ſpoke,

When his old cow an angel's figure took;

[65]What ſtrong enchantments ſage Canidia knew,

Or Horace ſung, fierce monſters to ſubdue,

O mighty book, are all contain'd in you!

All human arts, and every ſcience meet,

Within the limits of thy ſingle ſheet:

From thy vaſt root all learning's branches grow,

And all her ſtreams from thy deep fountain flow.

And lo! while thus thy wonders I indite,

Inſpir'd I feel the power of which I write;

The gentler gout his former rage forgets,

Leſs frequent now, and leſs ſevere the fits:

Looſe grow the chains, which bound my uſeleſs feet;

Stiffneſs and pain from every joint retreat;

Surprizing ſtrength comes every moment on,

I ſtand, I ſtep, I walk, and now I run.

Here let me ceaſe, my hobbling numbers ſtop,

And at ^* thy handle hang my crutches up.

^*EUPOLIS' HYMN TO THE CREATOR.
FROM THE GREEK.

[66]

AUthor of being, ſource of light,

With unfading beauties bright,

Fulneſs, goodneſs, rolling round

Thy own fair orb without a bound:

Whether thee thy ſuppliants call

Truth, or good, or one, or all,

^† Ei or Iao; Thee we hail,

Eſſence that can never fail,

Grecian or barbaric name,

Thy ſtedfaſt being ſtill the ſame.

Thee, when morning greets the ſkies

With roſy cheeks and humid eyes;

Thee, when ſweet declining day

Sinks in purple waves away;

Thee will I ſing, O parent Jove,

And teach the world to praiſe and love.

Yonder azure vault on high,

Yonder blue, low, liquid ſky,

Earth on its firm baſis plac'd,

And with circling waves embrac'd,

[67]All creating power confeſs,

All their mighty maker bleſs.

Thou ſhak'ſt all nature with thy nod,

Sea, earth, and air, confeſs the God:

Yet does thy powerful hand ſuſtain

Both earth and heaven, both firm and main.

Scarce can our daring thoughts ariſe

To thy pavilion in the ſkies;

Nor can Plato's ſelf declare

The bliſs, the joy, the rapture there.

Barren above thou doſt not reign,

But circled with a glorious train,

The ſons of God, the ſons of light,

Ever joying in thy ſight:

(For thee their ſilver harps are ſtrung,)

Ever beauteous, ever young;

Angelic forms their voices raiſe,

And thro' heaven's arch reſound thy praiſe.

The feather'd fowls that ſwim the air,

And bathe in liquid ether there.

The lark, ſweet herald of their choir,

Leading them higher ſtill and higher,

Liſten and learn; th' angelic notes

Repeating in their warbling throats:

And ere to ſoft repoſe they go,

Teach them to their lords below:

On the green turf, their moſſy neſt,

The evening anthem ſwells their breaſt.

[68]Thus, like thy ^* golden chain on high,

Thy praiſe unites the earth and ſky.

Source of light, thou bidſt the ſun

On his burning axle run;

The ſtars like duſt around him fly,

And ſhow the area of the ſky.

He drives ſo ſwift his race above,

Mortals can't perceive him move;

So ſmooth his courſe, oblique or ſtrait,

Olympus ſhakes not with his weight.

As the queen of ſolemn night

Fills at his vaſe her orb of light,

Imparted luſtre; thus we ſee

The ſolar virtue ſhines by thee.

^†Eireſione we'll no more,

Imaginary power, adore;

Since oil, and wool, and cheering wine,

And life-ſuſtaining bread are thine.

Thy herbage, O great Pan, ſuſtains

The flocks that graze our Attic plains;

The olive, with freſh verdure crown'd,

Riſes pregnant from the ground;

[69]At thy command it ſhoots and ſprings,

And a thouſand bleſſings brings.

Minerva only is thy mind,

Wiſdom and bounty to mankind.

The fragrant thyme, the bloomy roſe,

Herb, and flower, and ſhrub that grows

On Theſſalian Tempe's plain,

Or where the rich Sabeans reign,

That treat the taſte, or ſmell, or ſight,

For food, for med'cine, or delight:

Planted by thy parent care,

Spring, and ſmile, and flouriſh there.

O ye nurſes of ſoft dreams,

Reedy brooks, and winding ſtreams,

Or murmuring o'er the pebbles ſheen,

Or ſliding thro' the meadows green,

Or where thro' matted ſedge you creep,

Travelling to your parent deep:

Sound his praiſe, by whom you roſe,

That ſea, which neither ebbs nor flows.

O ye immortal woods and groves,

Which th' enamour'd ſtudent loves;

Beneath whoſe venerable ſhade,

For thought and friendly converſe made,

Fam'd ^*Hecadem, old hero, lies,

Whoſe ſhrine is ſhaded from the ſkies,

[70]And thro' the gloom of ſilent night

Projects from far its trembling light;

You, whoſe roots deſcend as low,

As high in air your branches grow;

Your leafy arms to heaven extend,

Bend your heads, in homage bend:

Cedars and pines that wave above,

And mighty oaks belov'd of Jove;

Omen, monſter, prodigy,

Or nothing are, or Jove from thee!

Whether various nature play,

Or reinvers'd thy will obey,

And to rebel man declare

Famine, plague, or waſteful war.

Laugh, ye profane, who dare deſpiſe

The threatening vengeance of the ſkies,

Whilſt the pious, on his guard,

Undiſmay'd is ſtill prepar'd:

Life or death, his mind's at reſt,

Since what thou ſend'ſt muſt needs be beſt.

No evil can from thee proceed:

'Tis only ſuffer'd, not decreed.

Darkneſs is not from the ſun,

Nor mount the ſhades till he is gone:

Then does night obſcene ariſe

From Erebus, and fill the ſkies,

Fantaſtic forms the air invade,

Daughters of nothing, and of ſhade.

[71]Can we forget thy guardian care,

Slow to puniſh, prone to ſpare!

Thou break'ſt the haughty Perſian's pride,

That dar'd old Ocean's power deride;

Their ſhipwrecks ſtrew'd th' Eubean wave,

At Marathon they found a grave.

O ye bleſt Greeks who there expir'd,

For Greece with pious ardor fir'd,

What ſhrines or altars ſhall we raiſe

To ſecure your endleſs praiſe?

Or need we monuments ſupply,

To reſcue what can never die?

And yet ^* a greater hero far

(Unleſs great Socrates could err)

Shall riſe to bleſs ſome future day,

And teach to live, and teach to pray.

Come, unknown inſtructor, come!

Our leaping hearts ſhall make thee room:

Thou with Jove our vows ſhall ſhare,

Of Jove and thee we are the care.

O father, king, whoſe heavenly face

Shines ſerene on all thy race,

We thy magnificence adore,

And thy well-known aid implore:

Nor vainly for thy help we call;

Nor can we want: for thou art all!

THE HYMN OF ^*CLEANTHES, TO THE SUPREME GOD.

[72]

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK, BY DR. BOWDEN.

GReat father of the ſkies, whoſe boundleſs ſway,

Both gods above, and worlds below obey.

Thy laws ſuſtain the univerſal frame,

Various thy titles, but thy power the ſame.

Hail, ſovereign Jove! all nations ſhall addreſs

Their ſongs to thee, who gave them tongues to bleſs.

Behold thy image groveling on the earth,

Faint echoes of thy voice, which gave us birth:

Then back will I reflect thy praiſes ſtill,

And ſing the wonders of almighty ſkill.

The wide expanſe of yon etherial plain,

And all below, is ſubject to thy reign.

[73]The forked lightenings, which, with double glare,

Sublimely wave, and linger in the air,

From thy dread arm with pointed fury fly,

And, ting'd with ruddy vengeance, ſweep the ſky.

The ray divine, o'er all the frame preſides,

Glows in the ſun, and in the ocean glides.

From thee each atom of creation ſprings;

Hail! great ſupport of all inferior things!

The orbs above, and floating ſeas below,

Move by thy laws, and by thy influence flow:

All, rang'd in order, know their deſtin'd place,

All but the mad, degenerate human race:

But thou canſt order from confuſion bring,

Bid peace from diſcord, good from evil ſpring:

And when all nature frowns, and nations jar,

Set calms in ſtorms, and harmony in war.

Great Jove ſo juſtly fram'd the earthly ball,

That univerſal good reſults from all;

While common ſenſe ſtill ſhines with certain ray,

And thro' the ſeeming maze points out the way;

Yet thoughtleſs men, to this bleſt convoy blind,

Court the wild dictates of a reſtleſs mind;

Perverſely fly the univerſal light,

And the ſweet voice of heavenly reaſon ſlight.

Unhappy men! who toil and hunt for bliſs,

But the plain road of ſacred wiſdom miſs:

Led by this conſtant, this unerring guide,

Thro' flowery paths, man's life would ſmoothly glide:

[74]But urg'd by paſſion, heedleſs we purſue

The firſt mad pleaſures that invite the view.

Some avarice and ſordid taſte inſpire,

Ambition ſome, and fame's ungovern'd fire;

Soft luxury ſome, and Cyprian charms delight,

While all ruſh forward to the heaven in ſight.

But thou, who thundereſt in the vault above,

Correct theſe vain deſires, O bounteous Jove!

Let god-like reaſon in our boſoms dwell,

And from weak minds this lunacy expel;

A ray of wiſdom on our ſouls beſtow,

By which thou rul'ſt all nature's ſcene below:

Then with devotion fir'd, we'll hail thee king,

And in eternal ſongs, thy wonders ſing.

No greater good can men or gods attend,

Than at thy throne with proſtrate hearts to bend.

A SACRED LYRIC.
ON BEING WAKED IN THE NIGHT, BY A VIOLENT STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTENING.

[76]

LOck'd in the arms of balmy ſleep,

From every care of day,

As ſilent as the folded ſheep,

And as ſecure I lay.

Sudden, tremendous thunders roll;

Quick lightenings round me glare;

The ſolemn ſcene alarms my ſoul,

And wakes the heart to prayer.

Whate'er, O Lord, at this ſtill hour,

Theſe awful ſounds portend,

Whether ſole enſigns of thy power,

Or groans for nature's end;

Grant me to bear with equal mind,

Theſe terrors of the ſky;

For ever, as thou wilt, reſign'd,

Alike to live or die.

If, wak'd by thy vindictive hand,

This mighty tempeſt ſtirs

That peal, the voice of thy command,

Theſe flames thy meſſengers:

[77]Welcome the bolt, where'er it fall

Beneath the paſſing ſun;

Thy righteous will determines all,

And let that will be done.

But if, as nature's laws ordain,

Nor deſtin'd by thy will,

Each bolt exerts its wide domain,

Self-authoriz'd to kill,

Quick interpoſe, all-gracious Lord,

In this remorſeleſs night;

Ariſe, and be alike ador'd

For mercy, as for might.

Vouchſafe, amidſt this time of dread,

Thy ſuppliant's voice to hear:

O ſhield from harm each friendly head,

And all my ſoul holds dear.

Let it not kill where riot foul,

Pours forth the drunken jeſt:

Nor where the guilt-envenom'd ſoul

Starts wild from troubled reſt.

A while O ſpare thoſe ſinful breaſts,

Whoſe deeds the night deform,

Nor ſtrike where ſmiling virtue reſts,

Unconſcious of the ſtorm.

Succour the couch where beauty lies,

All pale with tender fear;

Where ſickneſs lifts its languid eyes;

O pour thy comforts there!

[78]Nor uſeleſs waſte this moral night,

Like common hours, away;

But glow with wiſdom's ſacred light,

More fair than orient day.

Warn'd by each flaſh, may virtue riſe,

And with its glories ſpread,

While every blaſted bud of vice

Shrinks in new terrors dead.

So on that awful judgment day,

Whoſe image ſhakes the ſoul,

Tho' keeneſt lightenings ſhoot their ray,

And loudeſt thunders roll;

Well pleas'd, O Lord, each eye ſhall ſee

Thoſe final thunders hurl'd,

And mark with joy, for love of thee,

That flaſh which melts the world.

TRUST IN GOD. A POEM.

[81]

BY PETER PINNELL, M.A.

Why art thou ſo full of heavineſs, O my ſoul, and why art thou diſquieted within me.—

—PUT THY TRUST IN GOD.

Pſ. XLII. 6, 7.

WHY droops the head, why languiſhes the eye?

What mean the flowing tear, and frequent ſigh?

Where are the lenient med'cines to impart

Their balmy virtue to a bleeding heart?

Fruitleſs are all attempts for kind relief

To mix her cordial, and allay my grief;

So ſtrong my anguiſh, ſo ſevere my pain,

Weak is philoſophy, and reaſon vain:

Such rules, like fuel, make my paſſion glow,

Quicken each pang, and point the ſting of woe:

Imagination labours but in vain,

While darkening clouds intoxicate the brain:

Fancy no ſweet ideas can ſuggeſt,

To lull the raging tumult in my breaſt;

In vain or mirth invites, or friendſhip calls,

Wit dies a jeſt, and converſation palls;

Nature and art ſupply freſh ſprings of care,

And each obtruding thought creates deſpair;

[82]No ſcenes amuſe me, that amus'd before,

And what delighted once, delights no more:

Tho' all creation beautiful appears,

And nature's aſpect a rich verdure wears;

Yet ſtill her bloom with ſickening eyes I ſee,

And all her luxury is loſt on me:

The budding plants of variegated hue,

The bloſſoms opening with the morning dew;

The vernal breeze that gently fans the bowers,

The laughing meadows, and enlivening ſhowers,

Th' enamell'd garden, where the works of art

Give ſtrength to nature, and freſh charms impart;

Where gaudy pinks, and bluſhing roſes bloom,

Rich in array, and pregnant with perfume;

Where Flora, ſmiling, ſees her offspring vie

To ſpread their beauties, and regale the eye:

All, all, in vain, with charms united glow

To deck the ſcene, or gild the face of woe:

So when the morning lark aſcending ſings,

While joy attunes his voice, and mounts his wings;

Tho' to his cheerful notes the hills reply,

And warbling muſic gladdens all the ſky;

Still in his ſtrains no pleaſing charms I find,

No ſweet enchantment to compoſe my mind.

In vain the ſun his gaudy pride diſplays,

No genial warmth attends his brighteſt rays;

And when his abſent light the moon ſupplies,

Or planets glitter to enrich the ſkies,

[83]No gleam of comfort from their luſtre flows,

No harbinger of peace, or calm repoſe:

But gloomy vapours o'er the night prevail,

And peſtilence is ſpread in every gale:

Thus weaken'd by a gradual decay,

Life's bitter cup I drink without allay,

Nor taſte the bleſſing of one cheerful day.

Come then, kind death, thy ſharpeſt ſteel prepare,

Here point the dart, and ſnatch me from deſpair!

But ſtop, O man, thy plaintive ſtrains ſuppreſs,

With Chriſtian patience learn to acquieſce!

Th' inſtructive voice of reaſon calmly hear,

And let religion check the flowing tear:

Whate'er the will of providence aſſigns,

'Tis Infidelity alone repines;

But thoſe who truſt in God diſdain to grieve,

And what our father ſends, with joy receive;

Whoſe ſharp corrections teſtify his love,

And certain bleſſings in the end will prove;

Who ſees how man would err without controul,

Afflicts the body, to improve the ſoul,

And by chaſtizing part, preſerves the whole.

Hence, tho' dark-lowering ſkies, and angry gales,

Conſpire to raiſe the ſtorm, and rend the ſails;

Yet, if calm reaſon at the helm preſide,

My little bark will ſtem both wind and tide;

And adverſe currents ſhall at laſt convey,

The ſhatter'd veſſel to the realms of day!

[84]Thus taught by Faith, how raſh it is and vain

For man, mere duſt and aſhes, to complain!

My ſoul, with ſad diſquietude oppreſt,

Directs her flight to heaven in ſearch of reſt;

And refuge takes (which "peace at laſt will bring")

Beneath the ſhadow of th' Almighty's wing;

On him I fix my mind, and place my truſt,

A Being infinitely wiſe and juſt!

And ſhould his providence new beams create,

To brighten the complexion of my fate,

A cheerful tribute to his throne I'll raiſe,

And ſtamp my ſong with gratitude and praiſe.

But ſhould indulgence ſuit not his deſigns,

Who evil into happineſs refines;

Let due ſubmiſſion make my burden light,

And may I think—Whatever is, is right!

Then "be not thou diſquieted my ſoul,"

Have lively faith—and "faith will make thee whole."

When heaven inflicts, with calmneſs bear the ſtroke,

Since to repine is only to provoke;

Learn to adore the juſtice of thy God,

And kiſs the ſacred hand that holds the rod;

That ſacred hand, which firſt the heart explores,

Probes every wound, and ſearches all the ſores;

Then the right med'cine properly applies,

To cleanſe the part where all th' infection lies.

Hear this, thou coward man, nor dread the ſmart,

Which, tho' it ſtings, will purify the heart;

[85]For reſignation will promote the cure,

And, tho' the means are ſharp, the end is ſure.

Since then afflictions are thro' mercy ſent,

To be of good the happy inſtrument;

Since for the nobleſt ends they are deſign'd,

To form the judgment, to improve the mind,

To curb our paſſions, to direct our love,

To awe mankind, and ſpeak a God above;

O may I view them with religion's eye,

Nor loſe the guard of virtue till I die!

Hence ſhall I taſte the ſweets that evils bring,

And ſuck the honey, while I feel the ſting;

Hence ſhall I learn the bitter cup to bleſs,

And drink it as a draught of happineſs;

A wholeſome potion, which, tho' mix'd with gall,

May ſtill preſerve my life, my ſoul, my all!

Thus fix'd my heart; tho' fruit ſhould fail the vine,

The fig-tree ſicken, and its bloom decline;

The labour of the olive be in vain,

And flocks infected, periſh on the plain;

Tho' corn, and oil, and wine at once decreaſe,

The fields grow barren, and the harveſt ceaſe;

Tho baffled hinds their fruitleſs toil deplore,

And vales uncheerful laugh and ſing no more;

Yet ſtill with gladneſs would I ſerve the Lord,

Adore his wiſdom, and obey his word—

Hear then, O God, regard a ſuppliant's prayer;

Sooth all my pangs, and ſave me from deſpair:

[86]Illuminate my ſoul with gladſome rays,

And tune my voice to thy eternal praiſe;

Diſpel the clouds of darkneſs from my eyes,

And make me know that to be good is wiſe:

Let chriſtian precepts all my ſoul employ,

And be not more my duty, than my joy:

Let conſcience, void of art, and free from guile,

Still in my boſom innocently ſmile;

Her cheerful beams will gild the gloom of fate,

And make me happy in whatever ſtate.

Hence ſhall I learn my talent to improve,

If poor by patience, and if rich by love;

If fortune ſmiles, let me be virtue's friend,

And where I go, let charity attend:

Within my boſom let compaſſion dwell,

To ſoften all the woes which others feel;

T' aſſwage by kind relief affliction's ſighs,

And wipe the falling tear from widows eyes;

To feed the hungry, the diſtreſs'd to cheer,

The needy ſuccour, and the feeble rear:

Hence ſhall my mind, inflam'd with public good,

Unſhaken ſtand in midſt of plenty's flood;

Hence ſhall I ſcorn temptation's gilded bait,

Look with diſdain on all the pomp of ſtate,

And by humility be truly great.

But ſhould it be thy bleſſed will to ſpread

Clouds of thick darkneſs lowering o'er my head;

Let me have grace to know they are deſign'd,

To check my follies, and correct my mind;

[87]Let me have grace to know in my diſtreſs,

I ſtill to thee may have a free acceſs;

And be an heir (tho' all the world ſhould frown)

Of heavenly glory, and a future crown!

From theſe reflections true contentment flows,

Contentment—ſuch as grandeur ſeldom knows;

Hence in the lowly cot a reliſh ſprings,

Above the taſte of courts, and pride of kings.

Thus in the flood of wealth be thou my guide,

And ſteer my courſe 'twixt avarice and pride;

Or, in the ebb of fortune, teach my mind

To know its duty, and to be reſign'd;

Prepare me to receive or good or ill,

As the reſult of thy almighty will;

Thy will, whoſe chief deſign and general plan

Tend to promote the happineſs of man:

Be every ſenſual appetite ſuppreſs'd,

Nor the leaſt taint lie lurking in my breaſt:

Let ſteady reaſon my affections guide,

And calm content ſit ſmiling by my ſide;

Teach me with ſcorn to view the things below,

As gaudy phantoms, and an empty ſhow;

But guide my wiſhes to the things above,

As the ſole object of a chriſtian's love;

Make me reflect on my eternal home,

A dying Saviour, and a life to come;

Direct me virtue's happy courſe to run,

And let me, as inſtructed by thy ſon,

In every ſtation ſay, Thy will be done.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY SHAW.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLI.

[88]

BY THE SAME.

Oſtendunt terris hanc tantum fata, neque ultra

Eſſe ſinunt.—

VIRG.

THus death, the king of terrors, ſpoke:—

" Be ſure the aim, and home the ſtroke;

" My will deſpotic has decreed

" The faireſt ſacrifice ſhall bleed;

" To gratify my wanton pride.

" Where do the graces all reſide?

" Where ſhall the pointed arrow fly,

" That each may ſicken, pine, and die?

" Where can the ſtroke be ſo ſevere,

" To make all nature drop a tear?

" Soon as among the fair I ſee

" Perfection's bright epitome,

" I'll vent my fury, fix her doom,

" And in its verdure nip the bloom;

" Tho' all the various charms combin'd,

" Of perſon, intellect, and mind;

" Still unſucceſsful they ſhould plead,

" To ſtop my dart, or check its ſpeed:

[89]" No ſoft-endearing ſmiles of youth,

" Good-nature, innocence, or truth,

" Shall change my purpoſe to aſſault

" The firſt I meet without a fault:

" Nor univerſal prayers ſhall ſave

" Th' unſpotted victim from the grave;

" But fall ſhe muſt—tho' good and wiſe,—

" And all the world ſhall ſympathize."

Thus having ſpoke—the tyrant ſaw

An object free from every flaw,

Then bent his bow—and aim'd at Shaw.

A SICK MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS CANDLE.

[90]

BY THE SAME.

THY ſize, bright taper, does ſo quickly waſte,

It bids me think the preſent day my laſt!

Tho' narrow limits thy ſhort date confine,

Compar'd to infinite—what more is mine?

This day muſt end thy being, and before

To-morrow's dawn myſelf may be no more!

Both in life's morn with gayeſt luſtre ſhine,

And, as the night advances, both decline;

Both by one common fate ſeem cloſely link'd,

And after one ſhort blaze ſhall be extinct;

Our lives the ſame, our periods both agree;

So where's the difference 'twixt you and me!

ADVICE TO A YOUNG LADY, ON SEEING HER DANCE.

[91]

BY THE SAME.

O! may you walk, as years advance,

Smooth and erect, as now you dance;

May you on each important ſtage,

From bloom of youth to wither'd age,

Aſſert your claim to merit's prize,

And, as at preſent, charm our eyes;

Obſervant of decorum's laws,

And moving with the ſame applauſe,

May you, thro' life's perplexing maze,

Direct your ſteps with equal praiſe;

Its intricate meanders trace

With regularity and grace;

From the true figure never ſwerve,

And time in every ſtep obſerve;

Give ear to harmony and reaſon,

Nor make one motion out of ſeaſon!

Thus will life's current gently flow,

And pour forth every bliſs below;

Till nature failing, ebb ſhall bring

Death with his dart—but not his ſting!

TO A LADY, ON ASKING MY OPINION OF FRIENDSHIP.

[92]

BY THE SAME.

WOuld Chloe know the higheſt bliſs,

That friendſhip boaſts—it muſt be this;—

When Hymen crowns what Love begun,

And two fond hearts unite in one;

When each, as to delight or pain,

Is bound in ſympathetic chain,

And both reciprocally borrow,

To heighten joy, or ſweeten ſorrow.

This is the higheſt bliſs below,

This friendſhip only can beſtow;

And may propitious heaven deſign,

That ſuch a friendſhip ſhall be mine,

And ſince this wiſh relates to two,

O! may that friendſhip be with you!

TO SYLVIA.
PRESENTED WITH A RING, BEARING A HEART, WITH THIS MOTTO,—STOP THIEF.

[93]

SOon as I ſaw thoſe beauteous eyes,

You play'd a roguiſh part;

You firſt enthrall'd me by ſurprize,

Then robb'd me of my heart.

Since thus you now may boaſt of two,

Diſputing is in vain:

Render to me your own in lieu,

Or give me mine again.

If not, tho' you're by all confeſt

The maſter-piece of nature;

I'll paint you to the world at beſt

A double-hearted creature.

TO A LADY. WITH A BOOK OF MORALITY, ENTITLED "VISIONS."

[94]

" SO ſtrong the paſſions of the human mind,

" To truth reluctant, and to reaſon blind;

" Theſe rules, compar'd with real life, muſt ſeem

" All airy viſions, and an empty dream:

" For when a plan of conduct we would draw,

" That dares the critic's eye to ſhow a flaw,

" Fancy may wiſh its antitype to ſee,

" And feaſt upon its charms in theory;

" Yet ſtill in practice all our hopes are vain,

" To realize this image of the brain."

Thus, foe to nature, ſpoke the gloomy ſage;

But let his labour'd lines inform the page;

Let him exhauſt his genius to diſplay,

Truth's pleaſant path, and virtue's peaceful way:

Each moral rule with energy diſpenſe,

That forms the conduct, or improves the ſenſe:

Still muſt philoſophy renounce the prize,

Still nature muſt to art ſuperior riſe;

For nature now triumphantly can ſhow

A living inſtance of thoſe rules in you.

ORIGINAL FABLES.
IMITATED FROM A FRENCH MANUSCRIPT OF MR. CAZOTTE.

[97]

BY MR. CHARLES DENIS.

FABLE I. THE DISTRIBUTION OF GIFTS.JOve once, 'tis ſaid, was angry grown
With all mankind; and we muſt own
With reaſon too: th' ungrateful race
Dar'd even to their maker's face,
Unthinking, inſolent and vain,
Preſume of hardſhips to complain.
Say, did not I (thus ſpoke the god)
Create at will that human clod?
Endow it with a ſoul divine,
That attribute a ſpark of mine?
Did I not place him on yon ball,
That earth, and make him lord of all?
Did I not give him full command
O'er every creature in the land?
O'er all that in the waters ſwim,
O'er all that thro' light ether ſkim?
[98]Nay more: I gave a loving wife,
To be the ſolace of his life;
A fair one too. (Jove ſwears and vows
He'd gladly club for ſuch a ſpouſe:
For Jove we know would now and then,
By way of frolick, act like men)
The very being of a ſtate
Conſiſts of ſmall, as well as great;
From firſt to laſt there muſt be ranks;
Man's bleſt in all, yet gives no thanks:
To every one Jove's bounty flows;
To theſe bright honours, wealth to thoſe:
And they who dwell in humble cot
May boaſt indeed the happieſt lot:
Inſtead of grandeur, pomp, and wealth,
I give them mirth, content, and health:
Nay ſome have ſtill a luckier hit,
As country ſquire, and London cit,
Great appetites, and little wit.
What would ungrateful mortals have?
How dare they ſay, Jove nothing gave?
To pleaſe mankind's no eaſy taſk;
Give e'er ſo much, they've more to aſk.

FABLE II. ALEXANDER'S STICK.[99]GOD Alexander, it was ſaid,
Like mortal man, lay ſick in bed:
Without—'tis ſaid, without—we hear,
How can a fabuliſt appear?
Once on a day—once on a night—
Time out of mind—are ours of right.
So far digreſt, let's retrograde,
Like others of the rhyming trade,
And tell our ſtory as we can—
This ſon of Jove was but a man:
In bed we left him, and no doubt,
You long to know his ail:—the gout.
The gout! are kings tormented thus?
Have they infirmities like us?
Why not? one clay makes up our frame;
And kings and ſubjects are the ſame.
It happen'd, where our god was ſick,
That on the carpet lay a ſtick;
Yes, a crabſtick by chance lay there,
No matter how, or whence, or where.
The wanted ſtick was valued much,
And ſoon was faſhion'd into crutch.
[100]And now the monarch's dear ſupport,
He thinks himſelf, like ſome at court,
Of ſuch importance to the ſtate,
All muſt on him obſequious wait.
Such merit never can be ſlighted;
And to be ſure he will be knighted.
And then aloud how fame will blab,
That he is dubb'd Sir Broomſtick Crab!
Favour at court, I've often read,
Intoxicates the wiſeſt head:
If ſo, ye courtiers, by your leave,
How muſt a ſimpleton behave?
Sir Crab now hopes to be his grace,
Since he ſupplies the ſceptre's place;
For if a ſceptre's really good,
Be it of ſilver, gold, or wood,
'Tis not the matter which we prize,
In merit all the difference lies.
Merit I have no doubt, or why
Should this great king on me rely?
Laſt night, his generals around him
Had left him all juſt as they found him;
But with my help the god-like man
Of future conqueſts form'd the plan;
Trac'd in the ſand, in caſe of need,
How to fall back, and when proceed;
Here we make war; there peace proclaim;
With us great folks 'tis all the ſame.
[101]Yet we'll purſue an honeſt plan,
And fix the limits—if we can.
But who ſhall check our bold career?
Ambition knows of no barrier:
Not rapid Ganges, deep and wide,
Its bordering kingdoms can divide:
If ſo, theſe kingdoms all ſhall prove,
What 'tis t' oppoſe the ſon of Jove.
Thus, whilſt our new-made courtier fed
The wild chimera in his head,
Some reſt the gouty hero gains;
He finds a reſpite from his pains;
And growing better every day,
The uſeleſs ſtick is thrown away.
By this example warning take,
Ye courtiers! ye who dream awake:
Court-favours are precarious things;
The wind will change—and ſo may kings.

FABLE III. JUPITER AND THE POET.[102]IN angry mood Jove once, they ſay,
(That god comes often in my way)
Vow'd he'd chaſtiſe a certain bard,
For want of reverence and regard:
What! Jupiter have paſſions then?
Read Homer, and your gods are men.
A thing call'd poet (what his name,
Or who he is, or whence he came,
It matters not) would have his joke,
Of gods irreverently ſpoke;
And to enhance his fund of ſin,
With Jove himſelf muſt needs begin.
Haſte, Vulcan, to thy forge; and fetch
That bolt doom'd for the greateſt wretch.
But ſtay—bring with thee great and ſmall;
In one dread heap I'll lanch them all.
A dire example he ſhall prove
To all ſuch bards as ſneer at Jove.
Vulcan his orders ſtrait obey'd—
The whole creation ſhakes diſmay'd;
Redoubl'd thunder roars aloud,
And from the thick collected cloud
[103]Keen lightnings, darting thro' the ſky,
In ſerpentine meanders fly.
Earth dreads, leſt from her axis whirl'd,
She be again to chaos hurl'd.
And where's the poet all this while?
Aſleep: and ſleeping ſeems to ſmile:
Ah! ſoon he'll feel the vengeful blaſt,—
That ſleep will ſurely be his laſt.
No: he awakes calm and ſerene,
Unconſcious of the diſmal ſcene:
He to Jove's wrath his ſafety owes:
The dart muſt err which paſſion throws.
For all theſe bolts together tumbled,
In wild confuſion, only rumbled;
Thro' vacant ſkies are vainly toſt,
And all the expedition's loſt.
Some few, tho' guiltleſs, bore the ſhock,
And here an oak, and there a rock
Torn up, o'erthrown in woeful plight,
Proclaim'd the horrors of the night.
Now had this wrath-enkindled god
Seiz'd a ſtout broomſtick, or a rod,
Inſtead of all this mighty din—
A mercy on the poet's ſkin!

FABLE IV. THE FROG AND THE RAT.[104]ONce on a time a fooliſh frog,
Vain, proud, and ſtupid as a log,
(For 'tis an axiom of the ſchool,
Who argues proud concludes a fool)
Tir'd with the marſh, her native home,
Imprudently abroad would roam,
And fix her habitation where
She'd breathe at leaſt a purer air.
She was reſolv'd to change, that's poſs;
Could ſhe be worſe than where ſhe was?
Away the ſilly creature leaps:
A rat, who ſaw her lab'ring ſteps,
Cry'd out, where in this hurry pray?
You certainly will go aſtray.
Ne'er fear, I quit that filthy bog,
Where I ſo long have croak'd incog:
People of talents ſure ſhould thrive,
And not be buried thus alive.
But pray, for I'm extremely dry,
Know you of any water nigh?
None, ſaid the rat, you'll reach to day,
As you ſo ſlowly make your way.
[105]Believe a friend, and take my word,
This jaunt of yours is quite abſurd.
Go to your froggery again;
In your own element remain.
No: on the journey ſhe was bent;
Her thirſt increaſing as ſhe went,
For want of drink ſhe ſcarce can hop,
And yet deſpairing of a drop,
Too late ſhe moans her folly paſt:
She faints, ſhe ſinks, ſhe breathes her laſt.
Frogs, in your marſhes be content;
Dry land for you was never meant.
Some breathe in dry, ſome in moiſt air,
But all ſhould live within their ſphere.

THE YOUNG WIDOW. A FABLE.

[106]

BY MR. C. DENIS.

HUlſe ſhook his head—poor Damon lay a dying;

And cloſe by his bed-ſide his wife ſat crying:

O ſtay, ſhe ſaid; and muſt we part?

My ſoul, like thine, is on the wing;

Methinks I feel death's iron dart;

But oh! 'tis that which wounds thy heart,

That bears to mine the ſting.

Her grief was great, ſo was her moan:

And much to die ſhe ſeem'd inclin'd;

Howe'er, ſhe let him go alone,

And prudently remain'd behind.

A week, or ſo, was paſt and gone,

Still ſhe continued weeping on,

When to her houſe her father came,

And thus addreſs'd the mournful dame:

My child, ſaid he, enough of tears you've ſhed;

Think of the living, and forget the dead.

Another ſpouſe—don't ſtartle at the word,

'Tis but a ſecond, you may have a third.

As ſoon as decency permits,

I have a huſband to propoſe;

Young, handſome, rich, juſt one of thoſe

That's form'd to cure a widow's fits.

[107]Ah, ſir! is this a father's part

To wound afreſh a bleeding heart?

Shall I another huſband wed?

Oh no: my only love is dead;

Nor will I other wedding have,

'Till I am bedded in his grave.

The father left her to digeſt

The wiſe and prudent things he ſaid;

He put the huſband in her head,

And time he knew would do the reſt.

The cares of mourning next took place;

To dreſs her grief, and ſuit her face:

'Twas Cupid's thought; for what exceeds

A pretty widow in her weeds?

And now each looking-glaſs could tell

That black became her vaſtly well.

The ſmiles and graces, that were ſcar'd away,

With all the band of little loves,

And Cytherea's doves,

Came dropping in each day.

The father, if report ſays true,

Another viſit made, ere mourning over;

I'm glad, my dear, ſaid he, ſo well to find you;

But mention'd not a word of the new lover:

At which ſhe bluſh'd—muſt I then, ſir, remind you?

The thing's too ſerious to be made a joke of;

Where is the huſband, pray, that once you ſpoke of?

[108]Wide is the difference, as you ſee it here,

'Twixt widow of a day, and widow of a year.

All lenient time expands his wings,

Away he flies with human cares;

Then back, full fraught with joy, repairs,

And every balmy comfort brings.

Time checks the mourning huſband's ſighs;

'Tis he congeals the falling tear,

To form the lovely lucid leer,

Which ſparkles in a widow's eyes.

ON THE ROYAL NUPTIALS.
TO THE QUEEN.

[109]

BY MRS. P—

WHen every tongue great George's praiſe recites,

And heart-felt gratitude the verſe indites;

May I my wiſhes for his weal impart,

In words that ſpeak the language of the heart:

May I, the humbleſt of the muſes train,

Preſume to join them in the lofty ſtrain;

Yes, yes, the inſpiring muſe now darts her ray,

And bids to Charlotte thus devote the lay.

Deign then, O queen! to view this humble wreath,

And on the flowery band acceptance breathe:

Myrtles as fragrant as thy George's name,

Whoſe incenſe riſes on the wings of fame,

Freſh have I cull'd from Pindus' ſacred ſhade,

With blooming flowerets that can never fade;

Emblems of virtues that thy George adorn,

Foretelling bleſſings to an age unborn;

Laurels unchanging join the myſtic band,

Which ſpeak the glories of this conquering land:

Theſe, royal Charlotte, by the muſe conſign'd,

Trembling I weave, thy ſacred brow to bind.

[110]The wreath thus form'd, receive it, gracious queen,

And mark the virtues that in George are ſeen:

His name, by generous deeds illuſtrious grown,

Now ſhines the brighteſt jewel in his crown;

Fair honour ſits enthron'd upon his brow,

Where youth and beauty like theſe flowerets grow;

Virtue and truth his ſteady footſteps wait,

And mercy, ſmiling cherub, opes his gate:

At his example vice aſtoniſh'd falls,

And dreads an exile from our happy walls:

Religion now freſh beams her cheering ray,

And heaven's vicegerent gladly owns the ſway:

True filial piety his boſom warms,

And ſocial fondneſs in the monarch charms:

From his bright pattern every bleſſing ſprings,

The beſt of ſons, of brothers, and of kings.

What more remain'd to form the god-like youth?

Paternal fondneſs, and connubial truth.

Lo! now approving angels gracious bring

A conſort worthy Albion's virtuous king:

Graces celeſtial to her mind belong,

Humble tho' great, and ſagely wiſe tho' young.

England's old genius like himſelf appears,

And points exulting to the coming years;

With joy paternal bids obedient fame

To trembling nations Britiſh George proclaim:

Long may he reign, encircled with renown,

Fair as his virtues, mighty as his crown:

[111]May ſweet domeſtic bliſs, unmix'd with care,

And ſoft content your riſing hours prepare:

May each ſucceeding year new tranſport bring,

And truth and wiſdom bloom perpetual ſpring:

Long may the people and the king conteſt,

Who moſt revere, who love each other beſt:

May his dread ſceptre horrid war bid ceaſe,

And awe perfidious nations into peace:

May home-felt bliſs the cares of ſtate beguile,

The parent's rapture at the cherub-ſmile;

The joys refin'd to rear the budding flower,

And taſte its ſweetneſs in the vernal hour;

Joys! ſuch as lov'd, lamented Frederick knew,

Beneath whoſe care his infant virtues grew:

Like good Auguſta be great Charlotte ſeen,

Nor loſe the mother in the mighty queen:

And late, oh late, may heaven's dread mandate come,

Which calls the mortal to his native home:

Then may ſome radiant ſpirit guide your way,

To the bleſs'd regions of eternal day;

There, brighter crown'd, amidſt the ſacred throng.

In ſtrains celeſtial join the ſeraph's ſong.

ON OCCASION OF THE PEACE. A POEM.

[112]

BY F. F—.

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extends,

And white-rob'd innocence from heaven deſcends.

POPE.

A Dieu the horrors of deſtructive war,

And mad Bellona in her iron car!

But welcome to our ſmiling fields again,

Sweet peace! attended with thy jocund train,

Truth, virtue, freedom, that can never cloy,

And all the pleaſing family of joy.

Thoſe ſchemes purſued, which Pitt ſo wiſely plan'd,

Conqueſt has ſhower'd her bleſſings on the land;

And Britain's ſons more laurels have obtain'd,

Than all her Henries, or her Edwards gain'd:

George ſaw with joy the peaceful period given,

And bow'd obedient to the will of heaven:

Awful he roſe to bid diſſention ceaſe,

And all the warring world was calm'd to peace;

" Thus did the roaring waves their rage compoſe,

" When the great father of the floods aroſe."

Then came Aſtrea mild, our iſle to bleſs,

Fair queen of virtue, and of happineſs!

Then came our troops in fighting fields renown'd,

And mark'd with many an honourable wound.

[113]The tender fair one, long by fears oppreſt,

Now feels ſoft raptures riſing in her breaſt,

The blooming hero of her heart to view,

And hear him bid the dangerous camp adieu.

The widow'd bride, that long on grief had fed,

And bath'd with weeping the deſerted bed,

Glad that the tumults of the war are o'er,

That terror, rage, and rapine are no more,

Greets her rough lord, ſecure from hoſtile harms,

And hopes an age of pleaſure in his arms:

While he, with pompous eloquence, recites

Dire ſcenes of caſtles ſtorm'd, and deſperate ſights;

Or tells how Wolfe the free-born Britons led,

How Granby conquer'd, and the Houſehold fled;

She, to the pleaſing dreadful tale intent,

Now ſmiles, now trembles, for the great event.

O curſt ambition, foe to human good,

Pregnant with woe, and prodigal of blood!

Thou fruitful ſource, whence ſtreams of ſorrow flow,

What devaſtations to thy guilt we owe!

Where-e'er thy fury riots, all around

Confuſion, havoc, and dread deaths abound:

Where Ceres flouriſh'd, and gay Flora ſmil'd,

Behold a barren, ſolitary wild!

To ſtately cedars thorns and briars ſucceed,

And in the garden ſpreads the noxious weed;

Where cattle paſtured late, the purple plain,

Sad ſcene of horror! teems with heroes ſlain;

[114]Where the proud palace rear'd its haughty head,

Deep in the duſt, ſee! crumbling columns ſpread;

See gallant Britons in the field expire,

Towns turn'd to aſhes, fanes involv'd in fire!

Theſe deeds the guilt of raſh ambition tell,

And bloody diſcord, furious fiend of hell!

Ye baneful ſiſters, with your frantic crew,

Hence ſpeed your flight, and take your laſt adieu,

Eternal wars in barbarous worlds to wage;

There vent your inextinguiſhable rage.

But come, fair Peace, and be the nation's bride,

And let thy ſiſter Plenty grace thy ſide,

O come! and with thy placid preſence cheer

Our drooping hearts, and ſtay for ever here.

Now be the ſhrill, ſtrife-ſtirring trumpet mute;

Now let us liſten to the ſofter lute:

The ſhepherd now his numerous flocks ſhall feed,

Where war relentleſs doom'd the brave to bleed;

On ruin'd ramparts ſhall the hawthorn flower,

And mantling ivy claſp the nodding tower,

Unuſual harveſts wave along the dale,

And the bent ſickle o'er the ſword prevail.

No more ſhall ſtates with rival rage contend,

But arts their empire o'er the world extend;

Ingenuous arts, that humanize the mind,

And give the brighteſt poliſh to mankind!

Then ſhall our chiefs in breathing marble ſtand,

And life ſeem ſtarting from the ſculptor's hand;

[115]Then lovely nymphs in living picture riſe,

The faireſt faces, and the brighteſt eyes:

There ^* poliſh'd Lane no loſs of beauty fears;

Her charms, ſtill mellowing with revolving years,

Shall, ev'n on canvas, youthful hearts engage,

And warm the cold indifference of age:

Then the firm arch ſhall ſtem the roaring tide,

And join thoſe countries which the ſtreams divide;

Then villas riſe of true palladian proof,

And the proud palace rear its ample roof;

Then ſtatelier temples to the ſkies aſcend,

Where mix'd with nobles mighty kings may bend,

Where poverty may ſend her ſighs to heaven,

And guilt return, repent, and be forgiven.

Such are the fruits which ſacred peace imparts,

Sweet nurſe of liberty and learned arts!

Theſe ſhe reſtores—O! that ſhe could reſtore

Life to thoſe Britons who now breathe no more,

Who in th' embattled field undaunted ſtood,

And greatly periſh'd in their country's good;

Or who, by rage of angry tempeſts toſt,

In whirlpools of the whelming main were loſt.

Ye honour'd ſhades of chiefs untimely ſlain!

Whoſe bones lie ſcatter'd on ſome foreign plain;

[116]That now perchance by lonely hind are ſeen

In glittering armour gliding o'er the green;

Ye! that beneath the cold cerulean wave

Have made the watery element your grave,

Whoſe wandering ſpirits haunt the winding ſhore,

Or ride on whirlwinds while the billows roar,

With kind protection ſtill our iſle defend,

(If ſouls unbodied can protection lend)

Still o'er the king your ſhadowy pinions ſpread,

And in the day of danger ſhield his head;

Your bright examples ſhall our pattern be

To make us valiant, and to keep us free.

Dec. 1762.

ODE ON DARKNESS.

[117]

'TIS now the dreary hour of night,

When darkneſs ſhuts the ſenſe of ſight:

Where ſparkles now that florid grace,

That ſat enthron'd on nature's face?

That golden flood of glory where,

That ſtream'd its luſtre thro' the air?

That private, zephyr-quivering ſhade,

Where Thyrſis woo'd his lovely maid?

Alas! the ſun, alas! the ſhade,

Where Thyrſis woo'd his lovely maid,

Are vaniſh'd, and the watery dyke,

And flowery bank have charms alike.

The velvet lawn, the tree-topt hill,

The fertile mead, the neighb'ring rill,

And all, that lately pleas'd my eye,

In undiſtinguiſh'd darkneſs lie.

Oh, darkneſs! each extreme degree

Is reconcil'd alone by thee.

What now avail Lucinda's eyes,

That wont to dazzle and ſurprize?

Or what the captivating charms

Of Stella's lilly-colour'd arms?

Since none the difference can ſee

'Twixt beauty and deformity.

[118]Involv'd in terror, on his bed

The wretch of guilt reclines his head,

Reclines, and wiſhes for repoſe,

That friendly balm of human woes.

In vain, for gentle ſleep denies

With magic wand to cloſe his eyes;

And ſhould he nod, he dreams deſpair,

And wakens to redoubled care.

Then ſpectred forms before him ſweep,

Imaginary foes to ſleep,

Whilſt every whiſtling breath of wind

Adds deeper horror to his mind.

He ſweats in tremor, ſinks his head,

To every ſenſe of comfort dead:

With pain reflects, attempts to pray,

And yearns to ſee the glimpſe of day.

Not ſo, the ſteady, tranquil man,

Who acts by reaſon's virtuous plan;

No wild fantaſtic thoughts controul

The ſettled firmneſs of his ſoul.

For, thro' the gloomy veil of night,

He ſees a conſtant, ſacred light,

That beams its unremitting ray,

And changes darkneſs into day.

W.W.

ADVERTISEMENT.

CONTENTS.

[]THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

ODE TO JANUARY.

WINTER. AN ODE.

WINTER. A PASTORAL BALLAD.

A DESCRIPTION OF WINTER.

ON CAPTAIN FORRESTER'S TRAVELLING TO THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND IN WINTER, ANNO 1727. INCOG.

ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE.M.D.CC.XL.

THE WINTER'S WALK.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE SPECTATOR.

TO MR. ADDISON, ON HIS OPERA OF ROSAMOND.

TO MR. ADDISON, ON HIS TRAGEDY OF CATO.

THE ROYAL PROGRESS.

AN ODE, OCCASIONED BY HIS EXCELLENCY THE EARL OF STANHOPE'S VOYAGE TO FRANCE.

PROLOGUE, TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF AN ORIGINAL PICTURE OF KING CHARLES I. TAKEN AT THE TIME OF HIS TRIAL.INSCRIBED TO GEORGE CLARKE, ESQ.

TO APOLLO MAKING LOVE.FROM MONSIEUR FONTENELLE.

THE FATAL CURIOSITY.

TO A LADY; WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE PHOENIX.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE PHOENIX.FROM CLAUDIAN.

VERSES TO MRS. LOWTHER ON HER MARRIAGE. FROM MENAGE.

TO A LADY; WITH A PRESENT OF FLOWERS.

ON A LADY'S PICTURE:TO GILFRED LAWSON, ESQ.

PART OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF LUCAN.

TO A LADY BEFORE MARRIAGE.

A POEM IN PRAISE OF THE HORN-BOOK.WRITTEN UNDER A FIT OF THE GOUT.

*EUPOLIS' HYMN TO THE CREATOR.FROM THE GREEK.

THE HYMN OF *CLEANTHES, TO THE SUPREME GOD.

AN HYMN TO THE CREATOR.

A SACRED LYRIC.ON BEING WAKED IN THE NIGHT, BY A VIOLENT STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTENING.

A HYMN, OCCASIONED BY THE SIXTY-FIFTH PSALM.

HYMN. FROM PSALM VIII.

TRUST IN GOD. A POEM.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY SHAW.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLI.

A SICK MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS CANDLE.

ADVICE TO A YOUNG LADY, ON SEEING HER DANCE.

TO A LADY, ON ASKING MY OPINION OF FRIENDSHIP.

TO SYLVIA.PRESENTED WITH A RING, BEARING A HEART, WITH THIS MOTTO,—STOP THIEF.

TO A LADY. WITH A BOOK OF MORALITY, ENTITLED "VISIONS."

A SUPPLICATION.

ANOTHER.

ORIGINAL FABLES.IMITATED FROM A FRENCH MANUSCRIPT OF MR. CAZOTTE.

FABLE I. THE DISTRIBUTION OF GIFTS.

FABLE II. ALEXANDER'S STICK.

FABLE III. JUPITER AND THE POET.

FABLE IV. THE FROG AND THE RAT.

THE YOUNG WIDOW. A FABLE.

ON THE ROYAL NUPTIALS.TO THE QUEEN.

ON OCCASION OF THE PEACE. A POEM.

ODE ON DARKNESS.

JANUARY. AN ODE.

ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE.
M.D.CC.XL.

THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF AN ORIGINAL PICTURE OF KING CHARLES I. TAKEN AT THE TIME OF HIS TRIAL.
INSCRIBED TO GEORGE CLARKE, ESQ.

TO APOLLO MAKING LOVE.
FROM MONSIEUR FONTENELLE.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE PHOENIX.
FROM CLAUDIAN.

ON A LADY'S PICTURE:
TO GILFRED LAWSON, ESQ.

A POEM IN PRAISE OF THE HORN-BOOK.
WRITTEN UNDER A FIT OF THE GOUT.

^*EUPOLIS' HYMN TO THE CREATOR.
FROM THE GREEK.

THE HYMN OF ^*CLEANTHES, TO THE SUPREME GOD.

A SACRED LYRIC.
ON BEING WAKED IN THE NIGHT, BY A VIOLENT STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTENING.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY SHAW.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLI.

TO SYLVIA.
PRESENTED WITH A RING, BEARING A HEART, WITH THIS MOTTO,—STOP THIEF.

ORIGINAL FABLES.
IMITATED FROM A FRENCH MANUSCRIPT OF MR. CAZOTTE.

ON THE ROYAL NUPTIALS.
TO THE QUEEN.