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THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. VIII. FOR AUGUST.

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THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

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

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

IN TWELVE VOLUMES.

THE SECOND EDITION.

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

[] THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

AUGUST. AN ODE.

THE garden blooms with vegetable gold,
And all Pomona in the orchard glows,
Her racy fruits now glory in the ſun,
The wall-enamour'd flower in ſaffron blows,
Gay annuals their ſpicy ſweets unfold;
To cooling brooks the panting cattle run:
Hope, the fore-runner of the farmer's gain,
Viſits his dreams, and multiplies the grain.
More hot it grows, ye fervors of the ſky
Attend the Virgin—lo! ſhe comes to hail
Your ſultry radiance—Now the God of day
Meets her chaſte ſtar—be preſent Zephyr's gale
To fan her boſom—let the breezes fly
On ſilver pinions to ſalute his ray;
Bride of his ſoft deſires, with comely grace
He claſps the virgin to his warm embrace.
[2]
The reapers now their ſhining ſickles bear,
A band illuſtrious, and the ſons of Health!
They bend, they toil acroſs the wide champaign,
Before them Ceres yields her flowing wealth;
The partridge-covey to the copſe repair
For ſhelter, ſated with the golden grain,
Baſk on the bank, or thro' the clover run,
Yet ſafe from ſetters, and the ſlaughtering gun.
Courtly Auguſtus, whom the bards rever'd,
Patron of ſcience, and the genial arts,
Nam'd this fair Month, which permanent ſhall live
Long as his bright idea in our hearts,
And laſting as the monument he rear'd!
Like him, ye princes, would ye long ſurvive
Thro' time's ſucceſſive aeras, thus beſtow,
Like him, thoſe bounties, whence your honours flow.
Myra and I, together in the ſhade,
Where yonder jaſmine forms a proud alcove,
Will taſte the cooling ſherbet, or regale
On juicy melons—Will my roſy love
Or there retire?—or walk this green parade,
And talk of nuptials in the cheſnut vale?
Nuptials our hearts, which ſhall for ever bind,
While the ſwain's conſtant, and the damſel kind.

ELEGY, ON DELIA'S BEING IN THE COUNTRY, WHERE HE SUPPOSES SHE STAYS TO SEE THE HARVEST.

[3]
BY THE LATE MR. HAMMOND.
NOW Delia breathes in woods the fragrant air,
Dull are the hearts that ſtill in town remain,
Venus herſelf attends on Delia there,
And Cupid ſports amid the ſylvan train.
Oh! with what joy my Delia to behold,
I'd preſs the ſpade, or wield the weighty prong,
Guide the ſlow plough-ſhare thro' the ſtubborn mold,
And patient goad the loitering ox along!
The ſcorching heats I'll careleſsly deſpiſe,
Nor heed the bliſters on my tender hand;
The great Apollo wore the ſame diſguiſe,
Like me ſubdued to Love's ſupreme command.
No healing herbs could ſooth their matter's pain,
The art of phyſic loſt and uſeleſs lay,
To Peneus' ſtream, and Tempe's ſhady plain,
He drove his herds beneath the noon-tide ray:
[4]
Oft, with a bleating lamb in either arm,
His bluſhing *ſiſter ſaw him pace along;
Oft would his voice the ſilent valley charm,
'Till lowing oxen broke the tender ſong.
Where are his triumphs? where his warlike toil?
Where by his darts the creſted Python ſlain?
Where are his Delphi? his delightful iſle?
The God himſelf is grown a cottage ſwain.
O Ceres, in your golden fields no more,
With harveſt's cheerful pomp my fair detain,—
Think what for loſt †Proſerpina you bore,
And in a mother's anguiſh feel my pain.
Our wiſer fathers left the fields unſown,
Their food was acorns, Love their ſole employ,
They met, they lik'd, they ſtay'd but till alone,
And in each valley ſnatch'd the honeſt joy:
No wakeful guard, no doors to ſtop deſire,
Thrice happy times!—but oh! I fondly rave,
Lead me to Delia—all her eyes inſpire
I'll do,—I'll plough or dig as Delia's ſlave.

THE MULBERRY GARDEN.

[5]
WHen in full pride autumnal fields appear,
And ripen'd plenty loads the ſmiling year,
With graſſy honours cloaths the verdant plain,
And golden harveſts wave their bending grain,
Lead me where trees, in lengthening ranks diſplay'd,
Pleaſe with their fruit, and ſolace with their ſhade;
Where dewy mulberries their refreſhment lend,
And thro' the grove with burthen'd boughs extend,
The ſpreading leaves with ſalutary food
Suſtain the tender ſilk-worm's toiling brood,
Whoſe labour'd webs the ſhady verdure crown,
And dreſs their ſurface with a ſhining down.
Such on Acanthus' woolly leaves are bred,
And where their ſilken groves the Seres ſpread.
Lo! on the trees that bend with cluſtering weight,
The juicy berries ſwell in purple ſtate.
Not apples that Alcinous' gardens bear,
The melting plumb, nor fam'd Cruſtumian pear;
Nor fruits of golden, or tranſparent rind,
In reliſh equal this delicious kind.
The careful dames a plenteous wine produce,
And brew with mingling ſpice the pleaſing juice.
The Rhetic grape not purer nectar yields,
Nor the proud growth of rich Falernian fields.
Let the cool draught my thirſty veins ſupply,
When ſultry Sirius taints the fervid ſky,
[6]Thy gifts, O Bacchus, more intemperate prove,
And to raſh heats th' unruly paſſions move.
By wine enflam'd young Ammon baſely ſpilt
His friend's warm gore, an unexampled guilt.
Provok'd by wine the Centaurs heated train
Preſum'd with blood the bridal board to ſtain.
Wine arm'd with rage the mad Ciconian crew,
Whoſe hands profane the ſacred Thracian flew.
Anacreon's fate its miſchiefs ſhall enroll,
And direful Circe's faſcinating bowl.
With ſofter draughts this temperate liquor ply,
Nor fear a threatening from its ſanguine die:
A borrow'd tincture, for, with native white,
The pendant berries firſt allur'd the ſight,
'Till hapleſs Pyramus, by love betray'd,
Found the torn mantle of th' expected maid:
Miſtaken omen! and, with fatal haſte,
On the drawn ſteel his blooming body caſt.
The ſnowy fruit, that there untainted grew,
Waſh'd with his gore, forſook their ſilver hue,
Their ſwelling pores receive a deepening ſtain,
And ſtill the lover's memory they retain.
For, as the circling year with fruit returns,
The pitying tree in graceful ſable mourns.
Ye fair, who oft, beneath its verdure plac'd,
In ſultry hours this cooling berry taſte;
When, with warm lips, you preſs the purple dew,
And on your ſnowy hands the print you view;
To let your generous pity more appear,
Dilute the harmleſs crimſon with a tear.

THE MONTH OF AUGUST. *A PASTORAL.

[7]
SYLVANUS, A COURTIER. PHILLIS, A COUN⯑TRY MAID.
SYLVANUS.
HAil, Phillis, brighter than a morning ſky,
Joy of my heart, and darling of my eye;
See the kind year her grateful tribute yields,
And round-fac'd Plenty triumphs o'er the fields.
But to yon gardens let me lead thy charms,
Where the curl'd vine extends her willing arms:
Whoſe purple cluſters lure the longing eye,
And the ripe cherries ſhow their ſcarlet dye.
PHILLIS.
Not all the ſights your boaſted gardens yield
Are half ſo lovely as my father's field,
Where large increaſe has bleſt the fruitful plain,
And we with joy behold the ſwelling grain,
Whoſe ears luxuriant to the earth reclin'd,
Wave, nod, and tremble to the whiſking wind.
SYLVANUS.
[8]
But ſee, to emulate thoſe cheeks of thine,
On yon fair tree the bluſhing nectarines ſhine:
Beneath their leaves the ruddy peaches glow,
And the plump figs compoſe a gallant ſhow:
With gaudy plums ſee yonder boughs recline,
And ruddy pears in yon eſpalier twine:
There humble dwarfs in pleaſing order ſtand,
Whoſe golden product ſeems to court thy hand.
PHILLIS.
In vain you tempt me while our orchard bears
Long-keeping ruſſets, lovely catherine pears,
Permains and codlins, wheaten plums enow,
And the black damſons load the bending bough.
No pruning-knives our fertile branches teaze,
While your's muſt grow but as their maſters pleaſe.
The grateful trees our mercy well repay,
And rain us buſhels at the riſing day.
SYLVANUS.
Fair are my gardens, yet you ſlight them all;
Then let us haſte to yon majeſtic hall,
Where the glad roofs ſhall to thy voice reſound,
Thy voice more ſweet than muſic's melting ſound:
Orion's beam infeſts the ſultry ſky,
And ſcorching fevers thro' the welkin fly;
[9]But art ſhall teach us to evade his ray,
And the forc'd fountains near the windows play;
There choice perfumes ſhall give a pleaſing gale,
And orange-flowers their odorous breath exhale,
While on the walls the well-wrought paintings glow,
And dazzling carpets deck the floors below:
O tell me, thou, whoſe careleſs beauties charm,
Are not theſe fairer than a threſher's barn?
PHILLIS.
Believe me, I can find no charms at all
In your fine carpets, and your painted hall.
'Tis true our parlour has an earthen floor,
The ſides of plaſter, and of elm the door:
Yet the rubb'd cheſt and table ſweetly ſhines,
And the ſpread mint along the window climbs:
An aged laurel keeps away the ſun,
And two cool ſtreams acroſs the garden run.
SYLVANUS.
Can feaſts or muſic win my lovely maid?
In both thoſe pleaſures be her taſte obey'd.
The ranſack'd earth ſhall all its dainties ſend,
'Till with its load her plenteous table bend.
Then to the roofs the ſwelling notes ſhall riſe,
Pierce the glad air, and gain upon the ſkies,
While eaſe and rapture ſpreads itſelf around,
And diſtant hills roll back the charming ſound.
PHILLIS.
[10]
Not this will lure me, for, I'd have you know,
This night to feaſt with Corydon I go:
To night his reapers bring the gather'd grain
Home to his barns, and leave the naked plain:
Then beef and coleworts, beans and bacon too,
And the plum-pudding of delicious hue,
Sweet-ſpiced cake, and apple-pies good ſtore,
Deck the brown board; and who can wiſh for more?
His flute and tabor too Amyntor brings,
And while he plays, ſoft Amaryllis ſings.
Then ſtrive no more to win a ſimple maid
From her lov'd cottage, and her ſilent ſhade.
Let Phillis ne'er, ah, never let her rove
From her firſt virtue, and her humble grove.
Go, ſeek ſome nymph that equals your degree,
And leave content and Corydon for me.
[11]

VIRTUE AND FAME. TO THE COUNTESS OF EGREMONT.

BY LORD L—N.
VIrtue and Fame, the other day,
Happen'd to croſs each other's way.
Said Virtue, "Hark ye, madam Fame,
" Your ladyſhip is much to blame:
" Jove bids you always wait on me,
" And yet your face I ſeldom ſee.
" The Paphian queen employs your trumpet,
" And bids it praiſe ſome handſome ſtrumpet;
" Or, thundering thro' the ranks of war,
" Ambition ties you to her car."
Saith Fame, "Dear madam, I proteſt,
" I never think myſelf ſo bleſt,
" As when I humbly wait behind you;
" But 'tis ſo mighty hard to find you!
" In ſuch obſcure retreats you lurk!
" To ſeek you, is an endleſs work."
" Well, anſwer'd Virtue, I allow
" Your plea. But hear, and mark me now:
" I know (without offence to others)
" I know the beſt of wives and mothers;
[12]" Who never paſs'd an uſeleſs day
" In ſcandal, goſſiping, or play;
" Whoſe modeſt wit, chaſtis'd by ſenſe,
" Is lively, cheerful innocence;
" Whoſe heart nor envy knows, nor ſpite,
" Whoſe duty is her ſole delight;
" Nor rul'd by whim, nor ſlave to faſhion,
" Her parent's joy, her huſband's paſſion."
Fame ſmil'd, and anſwer'd, "On my life,
" This is ſome country parſon's wife,
" Who never ſaw the court nor town,
" Whoſe face is homely as her gown,
" Who banquets upon eggs and bacon."—
" No, madam, no—you're much miſtaken—
" I beg you'll let me ſet you right—
" 'Tis one with every beauty bright,
" Adorn'd with every poliſh'd art
" That rank or fortune can impart;
" 'Tis the moſt celebrated toaſt
" That Britain's ſpacious iſle can boaſt;
" 'Tis princely Petworth's noble dame,
" 'Tis Egremont—Go, tell it, Fame!"

ADDITION EXTEMPORE TO THE VERSES ON LADY EGREMONT.

[13]
BY THE EARL OF H—KE.
FAme heard with pleaſure—ſtrait replied,
" Firſt on my roll ſtands Wyndham's bride,
" My trumpet oft I've rais'd to ſound
" Her modeſt praiſe the world around;
" But notes were wanting—Canſt thou find
" A muſe to ſing her face, her mind?
" Believe me, I can name but one,
" A friend of your's—'tis Lyttleton."

LORD L—'S LETTER TO THE EARL OF H—KE, OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING VERSES.

[14]
MY LORD,

"A Thouſand thanks to your lordſhip for your addition to my verſes. If you can write ſuch extempore, it is well for other poets that you chuſe to be a Lord Chancellor rather than a Laureat. They explain to me a viſion I had the night before."

MEthought I ſaw before my feet,
With countenance ſerene and ſweet,
The muſe who, in my youthful days,
Had oft inſpir'd my careleſs lays,
She ſmil'd, and ſaid, "Once more I ſee
" My fugitive returns to me,
" Long had I loſt you from my bower,
" You ſcorn'd to own my gentle power;
" With me no more your genius ſported,
" The grave Hiſtoric Muſe you courted;
" Or, rais'd from earth, with ſtraining eyes
" Purſued Urania thro' the ſkies;
[15]" But now, to my forſaken track,
" Fair Egremont has brought you back:
" Nor bluſh, by her and virtue led,
" That ſoft, that pleaſing path to tread;
" For there, beneath to-morrow's ray,
" Even Wiſdom's ſelf ſhall deign to play.
" Lo! to my flowery groves and ſprings
" Her favourite ſon the goddeſs brings,
" The council's and the ſenate's guide:
" Law's oracle, the nation's pride:
" He comes, he joys with thee to join
" In ſinging Wyndham's charms divine;
" To thine he adds his nobler lays,
" Even thee, my friend, he deigns to praiſe.
" Enjoy that praiſe, nor envy Pitt
" His fame with burgeſs or with cit;
" For ſure one line from ſuch a bard
" Virtue would think her beſt reward.

VERSES SENT BY LORD MELCOMBE TO DR. YOUNG, NOT LONG BEFORE HIS LORDSHIP'S DEATH.

[16]
KInd companion of my youth,
Lov'd for genius, worth and truth!
Take what friendſhip can impart,
Tribute of a feeling heart;
Take the muſe's lateſt ſpark,
Ere we drop into the dark.
He, who parts and virtue gave,
Bad thee look beyond the grave:
Genius ſoars, and virtue guides,
Where the love of God preſides.
There's a gulph 'twixt us and God;
Let the gloomy path be trod:
Why ſtand ſhivering on the ſhore?
Why not boldly venture o'er?
Where unerring Virtue guides
Let us brave the winds and tides:
Safe, thro' ſeas of doubts and fears,
Rides the bark which Virtue ſteers.

THE MUSES, MERCURY, AND FAME. ON OCCASION OF SIR WILLIAM IRBY'S BEING CREATED LORD BOSTON.

[17]
THE Muſes were on Pindus met,
When Hermes brought a coronet,
And ſaid,—his brow let this entwine
In whom the faireſt virtues ſhine.
He, whoſe benevolence of ſoul
No ſelfiſh impulſe can controul;
In whom politeneſs is combin'd
With ſylvan probity of mind:
Who candid, generous, and juſt,
We ſafely to his word may truſt:
Who, view'd in each domeſtic light,
Huſband, or father, glads the ſight:
Whoſe offspring form his darling care,
And thence each wiſh'd perfection ſhare:
Whoſe firm fidelity, long tried,
Like gold, will every teſt abide:
Whoſe ceaſeleſs ſervices muſt claim,
'Mongſt courtiers, ſome diſtinguiſh'd name:
[18]Who, to his ſovereign's intereſt true,
Has Britain's weal in ſtedfaſt view.
When Fame, who liſten'd all the while,
Stept in, and ſpake thus with a ſmile.
Muſes!—If you would juſtice ſhow,
Let me the radiant gift beſtow.
Her airy pinions then ſhe ſpread,
And plac'd it on lov'd Irby's head.

WROTE BY A LADY ON A GLASS, UNDER HER NAME.

FRail glaſs, thou bear'ſt my name as well as I,
And who can tell in which it firſt ſhall die?

ODE TO SOLITUDE.

[19]
HAil, penſive virgin! ever hail!
Oft have I met thee in the vale,
And oft inſcrib'd a ſong to thee,
When muſing near yon aged tree:
Nor ſerious, ſilent Solitude,
Didſt thou deſpiſe my numbers rude.
Remote from man, in ſhady dell,
Thou hears the loud funereal bell,
Or from the thronged city far,
At evening counts each little ſtar;
Or by the pale moon's ſilver light,
O'er hill and foreſt takes thy flight.
Sweet nun, who haunts the lonely lane,
Teach me that life is ſhort and vain,
That grandeur, pageantry, and power,
Will vaniſh all at death's dread hour,
That beauty's roſes ſoon decay,
Like odoriferous flowers in May.
Teach me to weep for others woe,
O cauſe the tender tear to flow!
Fair woodland nymph! when all is ſtill,
Thou climbs the high adjacent hill,
And oft, by Thames's ruſhy ſide,
Delights to hear the ſmooth wave glide;
Siſter of peace and piety,
Sweet nun, I long to viſit thee.

FOUR ELEGIES.

[20]
BY MR. STEPHEN PANTING.

ELEGY I. MORNING.

Sweet is the breath of Morn, her riſing ſweet,
With charm of earlieſt birds; pleaſant the ſun
When firſt on this delightful land he ſpreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Gliſtering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After ſoft ſhowers; and ſweet the coming on
Of grateful Evening mild; then ſmiling Night.
MILTON.
THE opening eaſt now ſtreaks a ruddy ray,
The morn far-ſtreaming ſhakes the realms of night,
Aurora pours the bright reſplendent day,
And drowſy darkneſs wings her heavy flight.
The eve-born fogs in vagrant vapours riſe,
And ſhade the earth with clouds of murky hue,
'Till Phoebus, chaſing Chaos from the ſkies,
Bedecks th' enlighten'd ſcene with radiant dew.
Nature, awak'd from ſweet refreſhing reſt,
Infuſes vigour thro' Creation's reign,
Gay pleaſures dawn, and gladden every breaſt,
While Joy inſpires one univerſal ſtrain.
[21]
In greener verdure ſhines each tree array'd,
A brighter bloſſom buds the leafy ſpray,
The ſwarming ſongſters, thro' the ſylvan ſhade,
On every buſh blythe-warbling pour the lay.
To ſhun the loath'd embrace of meagre want,
The early threſhers whirl aloft the flail;
And luſty woodmen, at the lark's firſt chant,
The foreſt-echo with their axes hail.
Now whiſtling hinds prepare the toilful plow,
Or drive o'er flowery lawns the friſking flock,
Now ſhepherds climb the ſummit's craggy brow,
And goats high-pendent browſe the buſhy rock.
The big-ſwoln udder prompts the lowing train
The balmy tribute to their lord to pay,
The merry milkmaid and the jocund ſwain
Now carol wild a ruſtic roundelay.
The jolly hunter winds his bugle-horn,
And cheerful notes rend wide the welkin round,
Shrill echo wakes the ſlowly-riſing morn,
And every glowing boſom feels the ſound.
In civil life, where various arts abound,
That give or eaſe or dignity to man,
The dawning light and buſy ſcene around
Diſplay the thoughtful brow, and toilful clan.
[22]
Now, lightly tripping o'er the breezy green,
The bright Hygeia leads her feſtive train,
Now young-eyed Pleaſure's laughing troop is ſeen
To tread in mazy dance the pearly plain.
Whilſt, on the yielding pillow's downy folds,
In ſleepy ſtate nods Sloth's deſtructive power,
A ſtupid doſe her drowſy votaries holds,
And man beguiles of life's moſt precious hour.
Around her couch ſits ſpirit-waſting ſpleen,
The hollow eye that looks heart-gnawing care,
The aſthma, pallid form, and ſickneſs green,
While phyſic's ſolemn ſons ſmile dreadful near.
The crew, who, late ſo barbarouſly gay,
Swell'd the loud riot o'er the midnight bowl,
In Morpheus' cave unſeemly ſnore the day,
Void of each manly nobleneſs of ſoul.
The upland walks more ſapient ſpirits ſeek,
Where eaſe and health, and ſweet content agree,
Where roſy redneſs ſtreaks the blooming cheek,
Where pompous doctor never palm'd a fee.
As Nature's variegated beauties riſe,
How ſwells the growing landſcape on the eye!
From the fine blendure of ten thouſand dyes,
The viſual ſoul is loſt in grand variety.
[23]
Now gay imagination boldly roves,
Excurſive thro' creation's ample ſcene,
O'er the bare deſert, thro' the ſpicy groves,
The dank wave's depth, and ether's blue ſerene.
Oft too inſpir'd at morning's early dawn
The bard high wrapt in ſweet poetic dream,
Or ſlowly wanders o'er the dewy lawn,
Or on the daiſied marge of murmuring ſtream.
There as Aurora ſhed ambroſial light,
Erſt to her Shakeſpear's lov'd embrace ſhe flew,
There ſwell'd his ſoul with rapturous delight,
As Nature's genuine charms her pencil drew.
Oft Spencer too, Eliza's blitheſt ſwain,
With her in dalliance has the hours beguil'd,
From oaten reed oft pip'd the artleſs ſtrain
To moral fiction, Fancy's lovelieſt child.
O power, that giv'ſt the energy of ſong,
Without whoſe aid the labour'd volume's nought,
O ſnatch a votary from the lifeleſs throng,
Inſpire each line, and animate each thought!
Thy genial impulſe warms the bard to ſing,
In every different clime and rolling age,
And erſt beſide thy fairy-grot did ſpring
Each Attic wreath, that crowns the tuneful ſage.

ELEGY II. NOON.

[24]
HIgh in the zenith of his wide domain
Flames the bright power, that rules the noon⯑tide ray,
O'er the fierce ſteeds looſe ſhakes the golden rein,
And darts around intolerable day.
Beſide his chariot, born with rapid ſpeed,
Enfeebling Sweats and paly Languors ride,
Wan Sickneſs, mounted on a ſun-beam ſteed,
Flaſhes her peſtilential falchion wide.
The vermeil verdure of th' enamell'd mead,
The flocks, the herds, all feel the ſultry power,
Scorch'd nature fainting droops her languid head,
And all creation mourns the fervent hour.
By gelid founts, and rills that purl the glade,
Where Dian's ſylvan train at noon reſort,
The Dryad Coolneſs ſeeks the ſheltering ſhade,
While round her moſs-bed balmy breezes ſport.
Oft now ſequeſter'd in the lonely dale,
Where nought obtruding may their joys prevent,
The happy lover ſighs the tender tale,
While glowing bluſhes ſpeak the ſoft conſent.
[25]
Around the turf ten thouſand Cupids play,
Or ſweetly prattling liſp th' extatic bliſs,
Short-breathing wiſhes throng, and romping May,
The ruffling dalliance, and the kindling kiſs.
With pureſt truth here artleſs paſſion charms,
No fraud nor ſordid thoughts love's ſhrine invade,
An equal flame each beating boſom warms,
No airs diſtract the ſwain, nor falſhood mourns the maid.
In flowery ſcenes, where waves the leafy ſhade,
Where woodbine's bloom, and thymy verdure ſpring,
In vacant mood is learned Leiſure laid,
And to blithe echo ſweeps the vocal ſtring.
Or ſmit with ſacred love of antient ſong,
Where art and genius rule with mingled rage,
He rolls the raptures of the tuneful throng,
That drew with claſſic ſkill fair virtue's page.
Now where Auguſta lifts her head ſublime,
And wealthy Commerce holds her honour'd ſtand,
The ſons of induſtry from every clime
With Albion's chiefs appear, a motley band.
Beneath th' auſpicious beamings of her ſmile
Britannia ſees her real glories riſe,
Calm peace and cheerful plenty crown her iſle,
To hoſtile ſhores while want and terror flies.
[26]
And long, lov'd iſle, may bounteous heaven pour
Theſe gracious bleſſings on thy favour'd land,
And as thou ſtand'ſt the firſt in regal power,
In virtue may'ſt thou too the foremoſt ſtand!
Now Hoſpitality, a matron hoar,
Whoſe ſtep on piteous charity attends,
With liberal hand unfolds her genial ſtore,
His dreary path where penſive Penury bends.
Her generous ſmiles ſad Sorrow's tumults calm,
And glad the meagre ſons of needy Care,
O'er wounded minds free pours the healing balm,
That ſooths each woe-ſprung thought and gloomy fear.
Erſt was ſhe frequent in Britannia ſeen,
The warm inſpirer of each noble breaſt,
But rarely now ſhe treads this earthly ſcene,
To heaven is flown each heaven-deſcended gueſt.
For ſee, where-e'er the gilded turrets riſe
And modern Grandeur holds her pompous ſeat,
From coſtly cates where fragrant fumes ariſe,
There laviſh Luxury leads the princely treat.
The daedal arches flowery wreaths entwine,
And joyous muſic ſwells the feſtive ſtrain,
The bowls high foam with wit-inſpiring wine,
And laughing Comus leads his jovial train.
[27]
T'arreſt the pleaſures of the thoughtleſs band,
See every dire diſeaſe in troops appear,
A death-dart arms each ſpectre's meagre hand,
And Want exulting ſwells the ghaſtly rear.
Far other ſcenes the decent dome diſplays,
Where modeſt Temperance holds her artleſs reign,
There gaudy Greatneſs pours no idle blaze,
Nor wanton Folly leads her revel train.
Content is there, and Innocence, and Health,
The breaſt humane that feels another's woe,
Virtues that yield ſuch happineſs, as Wealth
With all her pageant pomp can ne'er beſtow.
Hail bliſsful ſtate! where beams the eye ſerene,
The manly heart, and brow unknown to care,
Where bright-eyed Hope illumes each darkling ſcene,
Averting every ſhaft of fell deſpair.

ELEGY III. EVENING.

[28]
THE broad ſun verging on the cloſe of day,
A fuller red beams o'er th' etherial plain,
The ſtreaky clouds attend his laſt bright ray,
And ſilver Veſper leads his ſtarry train.
Dim fades each lovely variegated ſcene,
That ſwell'd to extaſy the viſual ſoul,
As miſt-clad Evening treads the breezy green,
And wakes the buzzing bat and mopeing owl.
O'er Vegetation's numerous tribes ſhe pours
The dews refreſhing, as their ſweets exhale;
While from the odorous ſhrubs and breathing flowers
A balmy fragrance ſwells the pregnant gale.
Now labour reſts, and to the ſons of toil
Sweet relaxation gives the vacant hour,
While eaſe, or ſports, or ſocial ſcenes beguile,
As fancy prompts, mankind's directive power.
By courage fir'd to many a hardy game,
To the throng'd ring the village youths repair,
Where young ambition pants for generous fame,
And victory's wreath oft wins the ſcornful fair,
[29]
Or with the bright maid join'd, whoſe mutual glance
Holds in love's ſilken bonds the feeling heart,
On the gay green they tread the mazy dance,
Whilſt ſweet-tongued Phoebe plays the minſtrel's part.
The ſons of genius, forc'd by heat extreme,
Waſte in the cooling ſhade the tedious day,
Now ſetting Phoebus pours the milder gleam
Thro' the thruſh-haunted copſe, or upland ſtray.
Where, to chant forth their evening hymn of praiſe,
Full frequent perch'd on many a verdant ſpray,
Their warblings wild the feather'd ſongſters raiſe,
By far more ſweet than art's moſt labour'd lay.
Whilſt blithſome milkmaids in the neighbouring mead,
The rural ditty tune in cheerful ſtrain,
The weary woodman ſeeks his lowly ſhed,
And thoughtleſs plow-boy whiſtles o'er the plain.
How ſweet the pleaſure at mild evening's hour
When gentle breezes fan the ſultry air,
To ſeek Reflection in her lonely bower,
Or drown in generous wine intruding care.
Or where meandring Iſis' waters ſtray,
And woo with many a kiſs Oxonia's plain,
In ſharp-prow'd boat to cut the liquid way,
And at the bending oar with pleaſure ſtrain.
[30]
And ſee how generous emulation fires
The youths that in the neighbouring wherry ride,
While hope of victory this and that inſpires,
Tho' equal ſkill and ſtrength retains them ſide by ſide.
But now ſome deep-ſtruck oar the weeds detain,
The rivals ſhoot with rapid ſpeed a-head,
Succeſs ſtrings every nerve, warms every vein,
While gloomy grief is o'er the vanquiſh'd ſpread.
Juſt emblem this of man's uncertain ſtate!
For when long plodding ſome ambitious ſcheme,
Ready to reach the top, ſome ſhaft of fate
Arreſts him vainly wiſe, and ends his pleaſing dream.

ELEGY IV. MIDNIGHT.

[31]
SOL rolls no more his beamy car on high,
No more benignly pours the radiant ray,
Sad ſable darkneſs wide obſcures the ſky,
And gloomy night uſurps the realms of day.
Gay Pleaſure treads no more the gloſſy green,
Loſt are the beauties of the verdant plain,
Creation droops thro' Nature's ample ſcene,
And Chaos re-aſſumes his dreary reign.
Soft warbling thro' the ſilent ether's ſpace,
No eaſy notes now ſtrike the liſtening ear,
But owls and bats, deep night's ill-omen'd race,
Appal the timid ſoul with wild diſtracting fear.
Horror too, clad in terrible array
Of phantom beings, leads his bug-bear train,
From opening graves now ſolemn ſounds diſmay,
And ghoſts dire yelling ſtalk the dreary plain.
O'er ſheeted lakes, and heaths of miſty hue,
Where fancy forms the fairy's magic court,
By the pale moon, or vapours glimmering blue,
Th' ideal elves of night their gambols ſport.
[32]
Now where devotion holds her high abode,
And vivid tapers gloom the ſacred iſle,
To ſound the praiſes of th' eternal God,
The loud-peal'd organ ſhakes the holy pile.
Hail midnight, hail, and thou the ſolemn ſcene,
The ſadly-ſerious melancholy's cell,
Where nought of Folly's ſavage train is ſeen,
But where the ſons of thought delight to dwell.
Let artful ſtateſmen ſcheme the awful hour,
Let empire wake ambition's daring train,
To rouſe rebellion's fell deſtructive power,
And give dire diſcord o'er mankind to reign.
Let avarice gore the wretched miſer's breaſt,
To watch with vulture care his art-rais'd mine;
Let fierce deſire diſtract the lover's reſt
To ſigh ſad plaints at cruel Sylvia's ſhrine.
Or where the Bacchanalians hold their reign,
And riot rules with wild deſpotic ſway,
Let laviſh ſpendthrifts ſwell the beſtial train,
And thoughtleſs in life's fatal follies ſtray.
Far other bliſs, far other joys be mine,
O thought-befriending Contemplation ſweet!
To where the midnight tapers dimly ſhine,
Conduct, benign, a ſtudious votary's feet.
[33]
Give me in Learning's ample field to ſtray,
Its ſacred tomes of treaſur'd ſenſe unfold,
With ſteady ſtep to trace the devious way,
Where ſleep the latent mines of claſſic gold.
Or 'midſt the ſolemn ſtillneſs of the grove,
Where Philomela warbles wood-notes wild:
With me, O Contemplation, deign to rove,
The ſacred ſcene inviting muſings mild.
There, till gay Phoebus gilds another ſky,
With thee I'll waſte the ſweetly-ſerious hour,
From life's low ſcenes, and fatal follies fly,
And woo ſage wiſdom in her cavern'd bower.
Theſe ſounds while fancy's plaſtic power expreſt,
As thro' the ſolitary wilds I ſtray'd;
Majeſtic, like a Roman matron dreſt,
Imagination ſaw the heavenly maid.
Around a ſudden gleam illum'd the place,
The path with eaſy elegance ſhe trod,
When thus—ſoft-ſmiling with angelic grace,
" Here Contemplation holds her ſtill abode:
" Here oft my Milton, in the midnight gloom,
" Has caught the lofty ſentiment refin'd,
" Here oft ſought ſcience in her cloiſter'd dome,
" Hence fill'd the mighty volume of his mind:
[34]
" Here learnt above the duller ſons of earth
" In all the dignity of thought to riſe,
" Here plann'd the work, that told creation's birth,
" Hence gain'd his native palace in the ſkies.
" But rais'd to join the aerial choir on high,
" That chant harmonious at th' Almighty's throne,
" Mov'd at the penſive world's complaintive ſigh,
" I to direct them ſent this ſecond ſon."
When, leading in her hand a reverend ſage,
Her heavenly accents thus my ears addreſt,
" Receive the inſtructor of a darkened age,
" Religion's friend, and Piety's high-prieſt."
She ceas'd, and to my fancy's longing ſight
No more was given the glorious form to ſee,
She fled along the thickening ſhades of night,
And left the world to Darkneſs, Young, and Me.

WINE. A POEM.

[35]
BY THE LATE MR. GAY.
Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina poſſunt,
Quae ſcribuntur aquae potoribus.
HOR.
OF happineſs terreſtrial, and the ſource
Whence human pleaſures flow, ſing heavenly muſe,
Of ſparkling juices, of the enlivening grape,
Whoſe quickening taſte adds vigour to the ſoul,
Whoſe ſovereign power revives decaying nature,
And thaws the frozen blood of hoary age,
A kindly warmth diffuſing; youthful fires
Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue
His wrizzled viſage, ghaſtly wan before:
Cordial reſtorative to mortal man,
With copious hand by bounteous Gods beſtow'd.
Bacchus divine, aid my adventurous ſong,
That with no middle flight intends to ſoar:
Inſpir'd, ſublime on Pegaſean wing,
By thee upborn, I draw Miltonic air.
When fumy vapours clog our loaded brows
With furrow'd frowns, when ſtupid downcaſt eyes,
Th' external ſymptoms of remorſe within,
Our grief expreſs, or when in ſullen dumps,
With head incumbent on expanded palm,
[36]Moaping we ſit, in ſilent ſorrow drown'd:
Whether inveigling Hymen has trapann'd
Th' unwary youth, and tied the Gordian knot
Of jangling wedlock indiſſoluble;
Worried all day by loud Xantippe's din,
Who fails not to exalt him to the ſtars,
And fix him there among the branched crew,
(Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,)
The greateſt monſters of the Zodiac:
Or for the loſs of anxious worldly pelf,
Or Celia's ſcornful ſlights, and cold diſdain
Had check'd his amorous flame with coy repulſe,
The worſt events that mortals can befal;
By cares depreſs'd, in penſive hyppiſh mood,
With ſloweſt pace the tedious minutes roll.
Thy charming ſight, but much more charming guſt,
New life incites, and warms our chilly blood,
Strait with pert looks, we raiſe our drooping fronts,
And pour in cryſtal pure, thy purer juice,
With cheerful countenance and ſteady hand
Raiſe it lip-high, then fix the ſpacious rim
To th' expecting mouth; and now, with grateful taſte,
The ebbing wine glides ſwiftly o'er the tongue,
The circling blood with quicker motion flies;
Such is thy powerful influence, thou ſtrait
Diſpell'ſt thoſe clouds, that lowering, dark eclips'd
The whilom glories of our gladſome face;
And dimpled cheeks, and ſparkling rolling eyes,
[37]Thy cheering virtues, and thy worth proclaim.
So miſts and exhalations that ariſe
From hills or ſteamy lake, duſky or grey,
Prevail, till Phoebus ſheds Titanian rays,
And paints their fleecy ſkirts with ſhining gold,
Unable to reſiſt, the foggy damps,
That veil'd the ſurface of the verdant fields,
At the god's penetrating beams, diſperſe:
The earth again in former beauty ſmiles,
In gaudieſt livery dreſt, all gay and clear.
When diſappointed Strephon meets repulſe,
Scoff'd at, deſpis'd, in melancholic mood,
Joyleſs he waſtes in ſighs the lazy hours,
Till, reinforc'd by thy almighty aid,
He ſtorms the breach, and wins the beauteous fort.
To pay thee homage, and receive thy bleſſings,
The Britiſh mariner quits his native ſhore,
And ventures thro' the trackleſs vaſt abyſs,
Plowing the ocean, while the upheav'd oak,
With beaked prow, rides tilting o'er the waves:
Shock'd by tempeſtuous jarring winds ſhe rolls
In dangers imminent, till ſhe arrives
At thoſe bleſt climes thou favour'ſt with thy preſence.
Whether at Luſitania's ſultry coaſts,
Or lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro,
Provence, or at the Celtiberian ſhores:
With gazing pleaſure and aſtoniſhment
At Paradiſe (ſeat of our antient ſire)
[38]He thinks himſelf arriv'd, the purple grapes,
In largeſt cluſters pendent, grace the vines
Innumerous; in fields grotteſque and wild
They with implicit curls the oak entwine,
And load with fruit divine her ſpreading boughs;
Sight moſt delicious! not an irkſome thought,
Or of left native iſle, or abſent friends,
Or deareſt wife, or tender ſucking babe,
His kindly-treacherous memory now preſents;
The jovial God has left no room for cares.
Celeſtial liquor, thou that didſt inſpire
Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian bard,
With lofty numbers, and heroic ſtrains
Unparallel'd, with eloquence profound,
And arguments convincive, didſt enforce
Fam'd Tully, and Demoſthenes renown'd:
Ennius, firſt fam'd in Latin ſong, in vain
Drew Heliconian ſtreams, ungrateful whet
To jaded muſe, and oft, with vain attempt,
Heroic acts, in flagging numbers dull,
With pains eſſay'd; but, abject ſtill and low,
His unrecruited muſe could never reach
The mighty theme, till, from the purple font
Of bright Lenaean ſire, her barren drought
He quench'd, and, with inſpiring nectarous juice.
Her drooping ſpirits cheer'd, aloft ſhe towers
Born on ſtiff pennons, and of war's alarms,
And trophies won, in loftieſt numbers ſings:
'Tis thou the hero's breaſt to martial acts,
[39]And reſolution bold, and ardour brave,
Excit'ſt; thou check'ſt inglorious lolling eaſe,
And ſluggiſh minds with generous fires inflam'ſt.
O thou, that firſt my quickened ſoul engag'd,
Still with thy aid aſſiſt me, what is dark
Illumine, what is low raiſe and ſupport,
That to the height of this great argument,
Thy univerſal ſway o'er all the world,
In everlaſting numbers, like the theme,
I may record, and ſing thy matchleſs worth.
Had the Oxonian bard thy praiſe rehears'd,
His muſe had yet retain'd her wonted height;
Such as of late o'er Blenheim's field ſhe ſoar'd
Aerial, now in Ariconian bogs
She lies inglorious floundering, like her theme
Languid and faint, and on damp wing, immerg'd
In acid juice, in vain attempts to riſe.
With what ſublimeſt joy from noiſy town,
At rural ſeat, Lucretelus retir'd;
Flaccus, untainted by perplexing cares,
Where the white poplar, and the lofty pine,
Join neighbouring boughs, ſweet hoſpitable ſhade
Creating, from Phoebean rays ſecure,
A cool retreat, with few well-choſen friends
On flowery mead recumbent, ſpent the hours
In mirth innocuous, and alternate verſe!
With roſes interwoven, poplar wreaths
Their temples bind, dreſs of ſylveſtrian gods!
[40]Choiceſt nectarian juice crown'd largeſt bowls,
And overlook'd the lid, alluring ſight,
Of fragrant ſcent, attractive, taſte divine!
Whether from Formain grape depreſs'd, Falern,
Or Setin, Maſſic, Gauran or Sabine,
Leſbian or Caecuban, the cheering bowl
Mov'd briſkly round, and ſpurr'd their heighten'd wit
To ſing Mecaenas' praiſe, their patron kind.
But we, not as our priſtine ſires repair
T'umbrageous grot or vale, but when the ſun
Faintly from weſtern ſkies his rays oblique
Darts ſloping, and to Thetis' watery lap
Haſtens in prone career, with friends ſelect
Swiftly we hie to Devil, Young or Old,
Jocund and boon, where at the entrance ſtands
A ſtripling, who, with ſcrapes and humil cringe,
Greets us in winning ſpeech, and accent bland;
With lighteſt bound, and ſafe unerring ſtep
He ſkips before, and nimbly climbs the ſtairs:
Melampus thus, panting with lolling tongue,
And wagging tail, gambols, and friſks before
His ſequel lord from penſive walk return'd,
Whether in ſhady wood, or paſture green,
And waits his coming at the well known gate.
Nigh to the ſtairs aſcent, in regal port,
Sits a majeſtic dame, whoſe looks denounce
Command and ſov'reignty, with haughty air,
And ſtudied mien, in ſemicircular throne
Enclos'd, ſhe deals around her dread commands;
[41]Behind her (dazzling ſight) in order rang'd,
Pile above pile cryſtalline veſſels ſhine;
Attendant ſlaves with eager ſtride advance,
And, after homage paid, baul out aloud
Words unintelligible, noiſe confus'd:
She knows the jargon ſounds, and ſtrait deſcribes,
In characters myſterious, words obſcure;
More legible are algebraic ſigns,
Or myſtic figures by magicians drawn,
When they invoke aid diabolical.
Drive hence the rude and barbarous diſſonance
Of ſavage Thracians, and Croatian boors;
The loud Centaurean broils with Lapithae
Sound harſh, and grating to Lenaean god;
Chaſe brutal feuds of Baelian ſkippers hence,
(Amid their cups, whoſe innate tempers ſhown)
In clumſy fiſt wielding ſcymetrian knife,
Who ſlaſh each other's eyes, and blubber'd face,
Prophaning Bacchanalian ſolemn rites:
Muſic's harmonious numbers better ſuit
His feſtivals, from inſtrument or voice,
Or Gaſperim's hand the trembling ſtring
Should touch, or from the Tuſcan dames,
Or warbling Toft's far more melodious tongue,
Sweet ſymphonies ſhould flow, the Delian god
For airy Bacchus is aſſociate meet.
The ſtairs aſcent now gain'd, our guide unbars
The door of ſpacious room, and creaking chairs
(To ear offenſive) round the table ſets,
[42]We ſit, when thus his florid ſpeech begins:
" Name, ſirs, the wine that moſt invites you, taſte
" Champaign or Burgundy, or Florence pure,
" Or Hock antique, or Liſbon new or old,
" Bourdeaux, or neat French white, or Alicant:"
For Bourdeaux we with voice unanimous
Declare, (ſuch ſympathy's in boon compeers.)
He quits the room alert, but ſoon returns,
One hand capacious gliſtering veſſels bore
Reſplendent, th' other, with a graſp ſecure,
A bottle (mighty charge) upſtaid, full fraught
With goodly wine, he, with extended hand
Rais'd high, pours forth the ſanguine frothy juice,
O'erſpread with bubbles, diſſipated ſoon:
We ſtrait to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs;
Now glaſſes claſh with glaſſes, (charming ſound!)
And glorious Anna's health, the firſt, the beſt,
Crowns the full glaſs; at her inſpiring name
The ſprightly wine reſults, and ſeems to ſmile;
With hearty zeal, and wiſh unanimous,
The health we drink, and in her health our own.
A pauſe enſues; and now with grateful chat
W' improve the interval, and joyous mirth
Engages our rais'd ſouls, pat repartee,
Or witty joke, our airy ſenſes move
To pleaſant laughter, ſtrait the echoing room
With univerſal peals and ſhouts reſounds.
The royal Dane, bleſt conſort of the queen,
Next crowns the rubied nectar, all whoſe bliſs
[43]In Anna's plac'd with ſympathetic flame,
And mutual endearments, all her joys,
Like the kind turtle's pure untainted love,
Centre in him, who ſhares the grateful hearts
Of loyal ſubjects, with his ſovereign queen;
For, by his prudent care, united ſhores
Were ſav'd from hoſtile fleets invaſion dire.
The hero Malbro' next, whoſe vaſt exploits
Fame's clarion ſounds, freſh laurels, triumphs new
We wiſh, like thoſe he won at Hockſtet's field.
Next Devonſhire illuſtrious, who from race
Of nobleſt patriots ſprung, whoſe ſoul's endow'd,
And is with every virtuous gift adorn'd
That ſhone in his moſt worthy anceſtors,
For then diſtinct in ſeparate breaſts were ſeen
Virtues diſtinct, but all in him unite.
Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal
Frugal, but free and generous of his own,
Next crowns the bowl, with faithful Sunderland,
And Halifax, the muſes darling ſon,
In whom conſpicuous, with full luſtre ſhine
The ſureſt judgment, and the brighteſt wit,
Himſelf Mecaenas and a Flaccus too,
And all the worthies of the Britiſh realm
In order rang'd ſucceeded, healths that ting'd
The dulcet wine with a more charming guſt.
Now each their miſtreſs, by whoſe ſcorching eyes
Fir'd, toaſt; Coſmelia fair, or Dulcibella,
Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes
[44]Piercing, or airy Celia, ſprightly maid!
Inſenſibly thus flow unnumber'd hours;
Glaſs ſucceeds glaſs, till the Dircean God
Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays
Enlightens our glad looks with lovely die;
All blithe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights,
Of rotund table, fam'd in priſtine records,
Now moſt we ſeem'd—ſuch is the power of wine!
Thus we the winged hours in harmleſs mirth
And joys unſullied paſs, till humid night
Has half her race perform'd, now all abroad
Is huſh'd and ſilent, nor the rumbling noiſe
Of coach or cart, or ſmoaky link-boy's call
Is heard, but univerſal ſilence reigns:
When we in merry plight, airy and gay,
Surpriz'd to find the hours ſo ſwiftly fly,
With haſty knock, or twang of pendent cord,
Alarm the drowzy youth from ſlumbering nod;
Startled he flies, and ſtumbles o'er the ſtairs
Erroneous, and with buſy knuckles plies
His yet clung eyelids, and with ſtaggering reel
Enters confus'd, and muttering aſks our wills;
When we with liberal hand the ſcore diſcharge,
And homeward each his courſe with ſteady ſtep
Unnerring ſteers, of cares and coin bereft.

THE GYMNASIAD. AN EPIC POEM.

[45]
BY MR. P.W.

BOOK I.

ARGUMENT.

The invocation, the propoſition, the night before the battle deſcribed; the morning opens, and diſcovers the multitude haſting to the place of action; their various profeſſions, dignities, &c. illuſtrated; the ſpectators being ſeated, the youth⯑ful combatants are firſt introduced, their manner of fighting diſplay'd; to theſe ſucceed the champions of a higher degree, their ſuperior abilities marked, ſome of the moſt eminent par⯑ticularly celebrated; mean-while, the principal heroes are repreſented ſitting, and ruminating on the approaching combat, when the herald ſum⯑mons them to the liſts.

SIng, ſing, O muſe, the dire conteſted fray,
And bloody honours of that dreadful day,
When Phaeton's * bold ſon (tremendous name)
Dar'd Neptune's † Offspring to the liſts of fame,
[46]What fury fraught thee with ambition's fire,
Ambition, equal foe to ſon and ſire?
One, hapleſs fell by Jove's etherial arms,
And one, the Triton's mighty power diſarms.
Now all lay huſh'd within the folds of night,
And ſaw in painted dreams th' important fight;
While hopes and fears alternate turn the ſcales,
And now this hero, and now that prevails;
Blows and imaginary blood ſurvey,
Then, waking, watch the ſlow approach of day.
When, lo! Aurora in her ſaffron veſt,
Darts a glad ray, and gilds the ruddy eaſt.
Forth iſſuing now all ardent ſeek the place,
Sacred to fame, and the athletic race;
As from their hive the cluſtering ſquadrons pour,
O'er fragrant meads to ſip the vernal flower;
So from each Inn, the theatre to fill,
Haſte banded ſeers, and pupils of the quill.
Senates and ſhambles pour forth all their ſtore,
Mindful of mutton, and of laws no more;
Even money bills, uncourtly, now muſt wait,
And the fat lamb has one more day to bleat.
The highway knight now draws his piſtol's load,
Reſts his faint ſteed, and this day franks the road.
Bailiffs, in crowds, neglect the dormant writ,
And give another Sunday to the wit;
He too would hie, but, ah! his fortunes frown,
Alas! the fatal paſſport's—half a crown.
[47]Shoals preſs on ſhoals, from palace and from cell,
Lords yield the Court, and butchers Clerkenwell.
St. Giles's natives, never known to fail,
All who have haply ſcap'd th' obdurate jail;
There many a martial ſon of Tottenham lies,
Bound in Deveilian bands, a ſacrifice
To angry juſtice, nor muſt view the prize.
Aſſembled myriads croud the circling ſeats,
High for the combat every boſom beats,
Each boſom partial for its hero bold,
Partial thro' friendſhip,—or depending gold.
But firſt, the *infant progeny of Mars
Join in the liſts, and wage their pigmy wars;
Train'd to the manual fight, and bruiſeful toil,
The ſtop defenſive, and gymnaſtic foil;
With nimble fiſts their early proweſs ſnow,
And mark the future hero in each blow.
To theſe, the hardy iron-race ſucceed,
All ſons of †Hockley and fierce Brickſtreet breed;
[48]Mature in valour, and inur'd to blood,
Dauntleſs each foe in form terrific ſtood;
Their callous bodies frequent in the fray,
Mock'd the fell ſtroke, nor to its force gave way.
'Mongſt theſe Gloverius, not the laſt in fame,
And he whoſe clog delights the beauteous dame,
Nor leaſt thy praiſe whoſe artificial light
In Dian's abſence gilds the clouds of night.
While theſe the combat's direful arts diſplay,
And ſhare the bloody fortunes of the day,
Each hero ſat, revolving in his ſoul
The various means that might his foe controul;
Conqueſt and glory each proud boſom warms,
When, lo! the herald ſummons them to arms.

BOOK II.

[49]
ARGUMENT.

Stephenſon enters the liſts; a deſcription of his figure; an encomium on his abilities, with re⯑ſpect to the character of coachman. Broughton advances; his reverend form deſcribed; his ſu⯑perior ſkill in the management of the lighter and wherry diſplayed; his triumph of the badge celebrated; his ſpeech; his former victories re⯑counted; the preparation for the combat, and the horror of the ſpectators.

FIrſt, to the fight, advanc'd the charioteer,
High hopes of glory on his brow appear;
Terror vindictive flaſhes from his eye;
(To one the fates the viſual ray deny)
Fierce glow'd his looks, which ſpoke his inward rage,
*He leaps the bar, and bounds upon the ſtage.
The roofs re-echo with exulting cries,
And all behold him with admiring eyes.
[50]Ill-fated youth, what raſh deſires could warm
Thy manly heart to dare the Triton's arm?
Ah! too unequal to theſe martial deeds,
Tho' none more ſkill'd to rule the foaming ſteeds.
The courſers ſtill obedient to thy rein,
Now urge their flight, or now their flight reſtrain.
Had mighty Diomed provok'd the race,
Thou far had'ſt left the Grecian in diſgrace,
Where'er you drove, each inn confeſs'd your ſway,
Maids brought the dram, and oſtlers flew with hay.
But know, tho' ſkill'd to guide the rapid car,
None wages like thy foe the manual war.
Now Neptune's offspring, dreadfully ſerene,
Of ſize gigantic, and tremendous mien,
Steps forth, and 'midſt the fated liſts appears,
Reverend his form, but yet not worn with years.
To him none equal in his youthful day,
With feather'd oar to ſkim the liquid way;
Or thro' thoſe ſtreights whoſe waters ſtun the ear,
The loaded lighter's bulky weight to ſteer.
Soon as the ring their antient warrior view'd,
Joy fill'd their hearts, and thundering ſhouts enſued;
Loud as when o'er Thameſis' gentle ſtood,
Superior with the Triton youths he row'd,
While far a-head his winged wherry ſlew,
Touch'd the glad ſhore, and claim'd the badge its due.
Then thus indignant he accoſts the foe,
(While high diſdain ſat prideful on his brow.)
[51]Long has the laurel wreath victorious ſpread
Its ſacred honours round this hoary head;
The prize of conqueſt in each doubtful fray,
And dear reward of many a dire-fought day.
Now youth's cold wane the vigorous pulſe has chas'd,
*Froze all my blood, and every nerve unbrac'd,
Now, from theſe temples ſhall the ſpoils be torn,
In ſcornful triumph by my foe be worn?
What then avails my various deeds in arms,
If this proud creſt thy feeble force diſarms.
Loſt be my glories to recording fame,
When foil'd by thee, the coward blaſts my name,
I, who ere manhood my young joints had knit,
Firſt taught the fierce Grettonius to ſubmit;
While, drench'd in blood, he proſtrate preſs'd the floor,
And inly groan'd the fatal words—'no more.'
Allenius too, who every heart diſmay'd,
†Whoſe blows, like hail, flew rattling round the head;
Him oft the ring beheld, with weeping eyes,
Stretch'd on the ground, reluctant yield the prize.
Then fell the Swain, with whom none e'er could vie,
Where Harrow's ſteeple darts into the ſky.
[52]Next the bold youth a bleeding victim lay,
Whoſe waving curls the barber's art diſplay.
You too this arm's tremendous proweſs know,
Raſh man, to make this arm again thy foe.
*This ſaid—the heroes for the fight prepare,
Brace their big limbs, and brawny bodies bare.
The ſturdy ſinews all aghaſt behold,
And ample ſhoulders of Atlean mould;
Like Titan's offspring who 'gainſt heaven ſtrove,
So each, tho' mortal, ſeem'd a match for Jove.
Now round the ring a ſilent horror reigns,
Speechleſs each tongue, and bloodleſs all their veins.
When lo! the champions give the dreadful ſign,
And hand in hand in friendly token join;
Thoſe iron hands, which ſoon upon the foe,
With giant force, muſt deal the deathful blow.

BOOK III.

[53]
ARGUMENT.

A deſcription of the battle; Stephenſon is van⯑quiſhed; the manner of his body being carried off by his friends; Broughton claims the prize, and takes his final leave of the ſtage.

FUll in the centre now they fix in form,
Eye meeting eye, and arm oppos'd to arm;
With wily feints each other now provoke,
And cautious meditate th' impending ſtroke.
Th' impatient youth, inſpir'd by hopes of fame,
Firſt ſped his arm, unfaithful to its aim;
The wary warrior, *watchful of his foe,
Bends back, and 'ſcapes the death-deſigning blow;
With erring glance it ſounded by his ear,
And whizzing ſpent †its idle force in air.
Then, quick advancing, on th' unguarded head
A dreadful ſhower of thunderbolts he ſhed;
[54]As when a whirlwind, from ſome cavern broke,
With furious blaſts aſſaults the monarch oak,
This way and that its lofty top it bends,
And the fierce ſtorm the crackling branches rends.
So wav'd the head, and now to left and right,
Rebounding flies, and craſh'd beneath the weight.
Like the young lion wounded by a dart,
Whoſe fury kindles at the galling ſmart;
The hero rouzes with redoubled rage,
Flies on his foe, and foams upon the ſtage.
Now grapling, both in cloſe contention join,
Legs lock in legs, and *arms in arms entwine;
They ſweat, they heave, each tugging nerve they ſtrain,
Both fix'd as oaks, their ſturdy trunks ſuſtain.
At length the chief his wily art diſplay'd,
Poiz'd on his hip the hapleſs youth he laid;
Aloft in air his quivering limbs he throw'd,
Then on the ground down daſh'd the ponderous load,
So ſome vaſt ruin on a mountain's brow,
Which tottering hangs, and dreadful nods below,
When the fierce tempeſt the foundation rends,
Whirl'd thro' the air with horrid cruſh deſcends.
[55] *Bold and undaunted up the hero roſe,
Fiercer his boſom for the combat glows,
Shame ſtung his manly heart, and fiery rage
New ſteel'd each nerve, redoubled war to wage.
Swift to revenge the dire diſgrace he flies,
Again ſuſpended on the hip he lies;
Daſh'd on the ground, again had fatal fell,
Haply the barrier caught his flying heel;
There faſt it hung, th' impriſon'd head gave way,
And the ſtrong arm defrauded of its prey.
Vain ſtrove the chief to whirl the mountain o'er,
It ſlipt—he headlong rattles on the floor.
Around the ring loud peals of thunder riſe,
And ſhouts exultant †echo to the ſkies.
Uplifted now inanimate he ſeems,
Forth from his noſtrils guſh the purple ſtreams;
Gaſping for breath, and impotent of hand,
The youth beheld his rival ſtaggering ſtand.
But he alas! had felt th' unnerving blow,
And gaz'd unable to aſſault the foe.
[56]As when two monarchs of the brindled breed
Diſpute the proud dominion of the mead,
They fight, they foam, then, wearied in the fray,
Aloof retreat, and lowering ſtand at bay.
So ſtood the heroes, and indignant glar'd,
While grim with blood their rueful fronts were ſmear'd,
Till with returning ſtrength new rage returns,
Again their arms are ſteel'd, again each boſom burns.
*Inceſſant now their hollow ſides they pound,
Loud on each breaſt the bounding bangs reſound,
Their ſlying fiſts around the temples glow,
And the jaws crackle with the maſſy blow.
The raging combat every eye appals,
Strokes following ſtrokes, and falls ſucceeding falls.
Now droop'd the youth, yet, urging all his might,
With feeble arm ſtill vindicates the fight.
Till, on the part where heav'd the panting breath,
A fatal blow impreſs'd the ſeal of death.
Down dropt the hero, weltering in his gore,
And his ſtretch'd limbs lay quivering on the floor.
So when a falcon ſkims the airy way,
Stoops from the clouds, and pounces on his prey;
[57]Daſh'd on the earth the feather'd victim lies,
Expands its feeble wings, and, fluttering, dies.
*His faithful friends their dying hero rear'd,
O'er his broad ſhoulders dangling hung his head;
Dragging its limbs, they bear the body forth,
Maſh'd teeth and clotted blood came iſſuing from his mouth.
Thus then the victor—O celeſtial power!
Who gave this arm to boaſt one triumph more,
Now, grey in glory, let my labours ceaſe,
My blood-ſtain'd laurel wed the branch of peace,
Lur'd by the luſtre of the golden prize,
†No more in combat this proud creſt ſhall riſe;
To future heroes future deeds belong,
Be mine the theme of ſome immortal ſong.
This ſaid—he ſeiz'd the prize, while round the ring
High ſoar'd Applauſe on Acclamation's wing.

TO A REDBREAST.

[58]
BY MR. LANGHORNE.
LIttle bird with boſom red,
Welcome to my humble ſhed;
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee and me.
Pride and pleaſure's fickle throng
Nothing mind an idle ſong.
Daily near my table ſteal,
While I pick my ſcanty meal.
Doubt not, little tho' there be,
But I'll caſt a crumb to thee;
Well rewarded, if I ſpy
Pleaſure in thy glancing eye;
See thee, when thou'ſt eat thy fill,
Plume thy breaſt, and wipe thy bill.
Come, my feather'd friend, again!
Well thou know'ſt the broken pane;
Aſk of me thy daily ſtore,
Go not near Avaro's door;
Once within his iron hall
Woeful end ſhall thee befall.
Savage! he would ſoon diveſt
Of its roſy plumes thy breaſt,
Then, with ſolitary joy,
Eat thee bones and all, my boy!

ODE ON THE BIRTH OF MISS E.W.

[59]
THE ſtars obſcur'd from view retire,
And ſilver Cynthia frighted flies:
The glorious ſun again reſtores
His genial light to mortal eyes,
And, ſwiftly born by flaming ſteeds,
In radiant majeſty proceeds.
But why, in ſuch unuſual notes,
Hails the ſweet lark the opening dawn?
Why does the thruſh ſo ſweetly pour
His grateful anthems to the morn?
Why does the linnet's mellow ſtrain
So early charm the liſtening plain?
Nor thus the roſe was wont to glow,
Soft blooming in her verdant bed;
Nor e'er the lilly's ſnowy pride,
So ſweetly hung the penſive head,
Some glorious victory ſure is won
By noble Rutland's nobler ſon.
[60]
Dull bard (methinks my Clio cries)
And little ſkill'd in nature's lore;
Canſt thou this ſweet effect aſcribe
To ſuch a horrid cauſe as war.
The god of war in whirlwinds rides,
And o'er the rapid ſtorm preſides.
What tho' on Weſer's goary banks
The Britiſh thunders fainter roll;
What tho' each blaſt that wings the ſky
Bears their loud cries from pole to pole,
Returning conqueſt thou ſhalt ſee,
And Granby's arm thy country free.
Sublime, o'er all the powers of heaven,
Venus triumphant ſits to-day;
Swift, thro' the trackleſs void of air,
I ſaw her wing her rapid way.
She flew to Norfolk's humble plains,
With mirth to glad the jocund ſwains.
On Idus' top young Cupid ſtands,
High o'er his head, with joyful air,
He waves his bow, and golden dart,
And ſmiling cries, ye ſwains beware,
A nymph is born that ſhall ſuſtain
The honour of my myſtic reign.
[61]
Behold, in Sylvia's infant eyes,
Bright beams with mildeſt luſtre play,
'Till years and growing ſtrength ſhall wake
Their glories into perfect day.
'Till then ye ſwains your hearts are free,
But then ye muſt ſubmit to me.
Her, in her tender years, will I
From every early harm defend;
And, as ſhe grows in ſtrength and age,
Still ſhall I prove her conſtant friend,
Her beauties guard from timeleſs death,
And blaſting ſickneſs' poiſonous breath.
And when three luſtres ſhall be flown,
And ſhe in growing charms ſhall riſe;
Damon do thou prepare to ſing,
The daily conqueſts of her eyes;
Thus ſhalt thou gain thy verdant lays,
And happy wear it all thy days.

ON THE DEATH OF MISS W.

[62]
DArk was the night, and dreary was the cell,
And Boreas howl'd amid the leafleſs trees,
When penſive Thyrſis took a ſad farewell
Of worldly happineſs and mental peace.
One trembling lamp the abſent day ſupplied,
Low on the ground Lucinda's corpſe was laid,
On the green moſs extended by his ſide,
And decent cover'd with a linen ſhade.
The mournful youth, upon his hand reclin'd,
On the pale damſel caſt a gloomy look;
His eyes betray'd the horrors of his mind,
When thus low bending o'er the corpſe he ſpoke:
" Yield every paſſion! yield to mighty woe!
" Let clouds of grief my mournful ſoul o'erſpread,
" My ready tears in rapid torrents flow,
" The laſt poor tribute that awaits the dead.
" Fair as the morn, and conſtant as the dove,
" True as the hermit to the plighted vow,
" All this thou wert, ſweet object of my love;
" A gelid corpſe; a bieathleſs carcas now.
[63]
" But ah! what hopes thy beauteous boſom ſwell'd,
" Vain hopes! cut off by death's untimely blow;
" The fates, alas! thy promis'd bliſs with-held,
" Ah! too forgetful of th' approaching foe.
" I thought to bear thee croſs the watery plain,
" Thy ſmiling brow had calm'd the roaring waves,
" And love, ſoft power that ſmooths the angry main,
" Had chain'd the winds in ſubterraneous caves.
" I thought to bear thee to my native land,
" Where purer wheat the crouded granaries fills,
" Where purling rivulets roll o'er golden ſand,
" And ſoftly tumble from a thouſand hills.
" Alas! poor wandering, melancholy ghoſt!
" Nor joy haſt thou to know, nor land to ſee;
" But plaintive glid'ſt along the dreary coaſt,
" Forgetful of the world, and love, and me.
" Is this my joy? is this the promis'd reſt?
" Ah no! the fates have ſtopp'd thy labouring breath;
" Thou lieſt not in my fond embraces preſt,
" But in the cold, the icy arms of death.
" Was it for this, alas! with ardent fire
" From her lov'd home, I bore the beauteous maid,
" Stole the lov'd offspring from her weeping ſire,
" And urg'd by love o'er northern hills convey'd.
[64]
" Why did, alas! the hoary ſage's voice
" Pronounce us bleſt, or tie the ſacred knot,
" So ſoon to be diſſolv'd? or why my joys
" So ſoon commence, ſo ſoon to be forgot?
" Forgot? ah no! not till the purple blood,
" Flows languid on, or fails in every vein,
" 'Till with my fair I croſs the Stygian flood,
" So long the pleaſing anguiſh ſhall remain.
" O horrid, lonely, melancholy grove!
" No joys (as once) in you can Thyrſis ſee!
" But whither would my thoughts unweeting rove,
" Or why reflects my ſoul on aught but thee.
" But ſee, the ſun advances in the eaſt,
" (And early ſongſters hail th'approach of morn)
" Briſk he returns from Thetis' downy breaſt,
" But not to me my uſual joys return.
" Watch then, ye ſwains, the foe perhaps is near:
" But why on foreign ſubjects do I dwell?
" Take thy laſt look, O Thyrſis, of thy fair,
" Farewell! ſweet nymph! eternally farewell."
He ſaid; his ready tears obedient flow,
While o'er the pallid corſe he ceaſeleſs mourn'd,
He rav'd, he groan'd, and with wild acts of woe,
All ſad and penſive to his cot return'd.

BARREAUX'S CELEBRATED SONNET, GRAND DIEU! TES JUGEMENS, &c. TRANSLATED.

[65]
GReat God! thy judgments are ſupremely right,
And in thy creatures bliſs is thy delight;
But I have ſinn'd beyond the reach of grace,
Nor can thy mercy yield thy juſtice place.
So bright, my God, my crimſon vices ſhine,
That only choice of puniſhment is thine.
Thy eſſence pure abhors my ſinful ſtate,
And even thy clemency confirms my fate.
Be thy will done! let, let thy wrath deſcend,
While tears like mine from guilty eyes offend.
Dart thy red bolts, tho' in the dreadful ſtroke
My ſoul ſhall bleſs the Being I provoke.
Yet where! O where, can even thy thunders fall?
Chriſt's blood o'erſpreads and ſhields me from them all.

ON A QUIET CONSCIENCE.

[66]
BY KING CHARLES I.
CLoſe thine eyes, and ſleep ſecure;
Thy ſoul is ſafe, thy body ſure:
He that guards thee, he that keeps,
Never ſlumbers, never ſleeps.
A quiet conſcience in the breaſt
Has only peace, has only reſt:
The muſic and the mirth of kings
Are out of tune, unleſs ſhe ſings:
Then cloſe thine eyes in peace, and ſleep ſecure,
No ſleep ſo ſweet as thine, no reſt ſo ſure.

A SONNET, UPON OCCASION OF THE PLAGUE IN LONDON, LATELY FOUND ON A GLASS WINDOW AT CHALFONT, IN BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, WHERE MILTON RESIDED DURING THE CONTINUANCE OF THAT CALAMITY.

[67]
FAir mirror of foul times; whoſe fragile ſheen
Shall, as it blazeth, break; while providence
(Aye watching o'er his faints with eye unſeen)
Spreads the red rod of angry peſtilence,
To ſweep the wicked and their counſels hence;
Yea, all to break the pride of luſtful kings,
Who heaven's lore reject for brutiſh ſenſe;
As erſt he ſcourg'd Jeſſides' ſin of yore,
For the fair Hittite, when, on ſeraph's wings,
He ſent him war, or plague, or famine ſore.

A FRAGMENT OF MILTON. FROM THE ITALIAN*.

[68]
WHen, in your language, I unſkill'd addreſs
The ſhort-pac'd efforts of a tramell'd muſe;
Soft Italy's fair critics round me preſs,
And my miſtaking paſſion thus accuſe:
Why, to our tongue's diſgrace, does thy dumb love
Strive, in rough ſound, ſoft meaning to impart?
He muſt ſelect his words who ſpeaks to move,
And point his purpoſe at the hearer's heart.
Then laughing they repeat my languid lays—
Nymphs of thy native clime, perhaps—they cry,
For whom thou haſt a tongue, may feel thy praiſe;
But we muſt underſtand e'er we comply!
Do thou, my ſoul's ſoft hope, theſe triflers awe!
Tell them, 'tis nothing, how, or what I writ;
Since Love from ſilent looks can language draw,
And ſcorns the lame impertinence of wit.

TO MR. JOHN MILTON, ON HIS POEM ENTITLED PARADISE LOST.

[69]
O thou! the wonder of the preſent age!
An age immerſt in luxury and vice;
A race of triflers; who can reliſh naught,
But the gay iſſue of an idle brain:
How could'ſt thou hope to pleaſe this tinſel race?
Tho' blind, yet with the penetrating eye
Of intellectual light thou doſt ſurvey
The labyrinth perplex'd of heaven's decrees;
And with a quill, pluck'd from an angel's wing,
Dipt in the fount that laves th' eternal throne,
Trace the dark paths of providence divine,
" And juſtify the ways of God to Man."
F.C. 1680.

ON BENTLEY'S EMENDATIONS OF MILTON.

[70]
WHen Milton's forfeit life was in debate,
Some urg'd his crime, and ſome th' unſettled ſtate;
*Hyde paus'd:—now keen reſentment fill'd his breaſt,
Now ſoftneſs ſooth'd, while genius ſhone confeſt:
At length the lingering ſtateſman thus his thoughts expreſt:
When I conſider, with impartial view,
The crimes he wrought, the good he yet may do;
His violated faith, and fictions dire,
His towering genius, and poetic fire;
I blame the rebel, but the bard admire.
Mercy unmerited his muſe may raiſe,
To ſound his Monarch's, or his Maker's praiſe.
Yet come it will, the day decreed by fate;—
By Bentley's pen reduc'd to woeful ſtate,
Far more thou'lt dread his friendſhip than our hate.
Procruſtes like, he'll ever find pretence
To ſtrain, or pare thee to his wretched ſenſe:
Rack'd, ſcrew'd, enerv'd by emendation ſad,
The hangman had not us'd thee half ſo bad.

ON THE PEACE CONCLUDED BETWIXT OLIVER CROMWELL, AND THE STATES OF HOLLAND, IN MDCLIV.

[71]
BY THE CELEBRATED MR. LOCKE.
IF Greece with ſo much mirth did entertain
Her Argo coming laden home again;
With what loud mirth and triumph ſhall we greet
The wiſh'd approaches of our wellcome fleet?
When of that prize our ſhips do us poſſeſs,
Whereof their fleece was but an emblem, Peace:
Whoſe wellcome voice ſounds ſweeter in our ears,
Than the loud muſic of the warbling ſpheres.
And raviſhing more than thoſe, doth plainly ſhow,
That ſweeteſt harmony we to diſcord owe.
Each ſeaman's voice pronouncing peace doth charm,
And ſeems a ſyren's, but it has leſs harm
And danger in't, and yet like theirs doth pleaſe
Above all other, and make us love the ſeas.
W' have heaven in this peace, like ſouls above,
W' have nought to do now but admire and love.
Glory of war is victory, but here
Both glorious be, 'cauſe neither's conqueror.
'Thad been leſs honour, if it might be ſaid,
They fought with thoſe that could be conquered.
[72]Our re-united ſeas, like ſtreams that grow
Into one river, do the ſmoother flow:
Where ſhips no longer grapple, but, like thoſe,
The loving ſeamen in embraces cloſe.
We need no fire-ſhips now, a nobler flame
Of love doth us protect, whereby our name
Shall ſhine more glorious, a flame as pure
As thoſe of heaven, and ſhall as long endure:
This ſhall direct our ſhips, and he that ſteers
Shall not conſult heaven's fires, but thoſe he bears
In his own breaſt: let Lilly threaten wars:
While this conjunction laſts we'll fear no ſtars.
Our ſhips are now moſt beneficial grown,
Since they bring home no ſpoils but what's their own.
Unto whoſe branchleſs pines our forward ſpring
Owes better fruit, than autumn's wont to bring:
Which give not only gems and Indian ore,
But add at once whole nations to our ſtore:
Nay, if to make a world's but to compoſe
The difference of things, and make them cloſe
In mutual amity, and cauſe peace to creep
Out of the jarring chaos of the deep:
Our ſhips do this, ſo that, while others take
Their courſe about the world, ours a world make.
[73]

TO OLIVER CROMWELL. ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

BY THE SAME.
PAX regit Auguſti, quem vicit Julius, orbem:
Ille ſago factus clarior, ille togâ.
Hos ſua Roma vocat Magnos, et numina credit;
Hic quod ſit mundi Victor, et ille Quies.
Tu bellum ut pacem populis das, unus utriſ (que)
Major es: ipſe orbem vincis, et ipſe regis.
Nos hominem e coelo miſſum te credimus; unus
Sic poteras binos qui ſuperare deos!
TRANSLATED BY THE SAME.
A Peaceful ſway the great Auguſtus bore,
O'er what great Julius gain'd by arms before:
Julius was all with martial trophies crown'd;
Auguſtus for his peaceful arts renown'd.
Rome calls them Great, and makes them Deities;
That, for his valour; This, his policies.
You, mighty prince, than both are greater far,
Who rule in peace that world you gain'd by war:
You, ſure, from heaven a finiſh'd hero fell,
Who thus alone two Pagan Gods excell.

ON A FAN.

[74]
BY BISHOP ATTERBURY.
FLavia the leaſt and ſlighteſt toy
Can with reſiſtleſs art employ.
This fan in meaner hands would prove
An engine of ſmall force in love:
Yet ſhe, with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told, or ſafely ſeen,
Directs its wanton motion ſo,
That it wounds more than Cupid's bow,
Gives coolneſs to the matchleſs dame,
To every other breaſt a flame.

THE NINTH ODE OF HORACE, BOOK III. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORACE AND LYDIA.

[75]
TRANSLATED BY THE SAME.
HORACE.
WHile I was fond, and you were kind,
Nor any dearer youth, reclin'd
On your ſoft boſom, ſought to reſt,
Not Perſia's monarch was ſo bleſt.
LYDIA.
While you ador'd no other face,
Nor lov'd me in the ſecond place,
Your Lydia's celebrated fame
Outſhone the Roman Ilia's name.
HORACE.
Me, Chloe now poſſeſſes whole;
Her voice and lyre command my ſoul:
Nor would I death itſelf decline,
Could I redeem her life with mine.
LYDIA.
For me young lovely Calais burns,
And warmth for warmth my heart returns:
[76]Twice would I life for him reſign,
Could his be ranſom'd thus with mine.
HORACE.
What if the God, whoſe bands we broke,
Again ſhould tame us to the yoke;
What if my Chloe ceaſe to reign,
And Lydia her loſt power regain!
LYDIA.
Tho' Phoſphor be leſs fair than he;
Thou wilder than the raging ſea;
Lighter than down; yet gladly I
With thee would live, with thee would die.

THE THIRD ODE OF HORACE, BOOK IV. TO HIS MUSE.

BY THE SAME.
HE, on whoſe birth the Lyric Queen
Of numbers ſmil'd, ſhall never grace
The Iſthmian gauntlet, or be ſeen
Firſt in the fam'd Olympic race.
[77]
He ſhall not, after toils of war,
And humbling haughty monarchs pride,
With laurell'd brows conſpicuous far,
To Jove's Tarpeian temple ride.
But him the ſtreams, that warbling flow
Rich Tiber's fertile meads along,
And ſhady groves, his haunts ſhall know
The maſter of th' Aeolian ſong.
The ſons of Rome, majeſtic Rome!
Have fix'd me in the poet's choir,
And Envy now, or dead, or dumb,
Forbears to blame what they admire.
Goddeſs of the ſweet-ſounding lute,
Which thy harmonious touch obeys,
Who can'ſt the finny race, tho' mute,
To cygnets dying accents raiſe;
Thy gift it is, that all with eaſe
My new unrivall'd honours own;
That ſtill I live, and living pleaſe,
O Goddeſs, is thy gift alone!
[78]

IN HIS BANISHMENT.

BY THE SAME.
—Thus on the banks of Seine,
Far from my native home, I paſs my hours,
Broken with years and pain; yet my firm heart
Regards my friends, and country, even in death.
BY THE SAME.
THus, where the Seine thro' realms of ſlavery ſtrays,
With ſportive verſe I ſing my tedious days;
Far from Britannia's happy climate torn,
Bow'd down with age, and with diſeaſes worn:
Yet even in death I act a ſteady part,
And ſtill my friends and country ſhare my heart.

AN EPIGRAM, ON REFUSING BISHOP ATTERBURY A PUBLIC FUNERAL.

[79]
HIS foes, when dead great Atterbury lay,
Shrunk at his name, and trembled at his clay:
Ten thouſand dangers to their eyes appear,
Great as their guilt, and certain as their fear;
T'inſult a deathleſs corſe, alas! is vain:
Well for themſelves, and well employ'd their pain,
Could they ſecure him—not to riſe again.

THE FORCE OF LOVE.

[80]
BY MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY. PRESERV'D FORM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT.
THrow an apple up a hill,
Down the apple tumbles ſtill,
Roll it down, it never ſtops,
'Till within the vale it drops;
So are all things prone to love,
All below, and all above.
Down the mountain flows the ſtream,
Up aſcends the lambent flame,
Smoke and vapour mount the ſkies,
All preſerve their unities,
Nought below, and nought above,
Seems averſe, but prone to love.
Stop the meteor in its flight,
Or the orient rays of light,
Bid Dan Phoebus not to ſhine,
Bid the planets not incline,
'Tis as vain below, above,
To impede the courſe of love.
[81]
Salamanders live in fire,
Eagles to the ſkies aſpire,
Diamonds in their quarries lie,
Rivers do the ſea ſupply:
Thus appears, below, above,
A propenſity to love.
Metals grow within the mine,
Luſcious grapes upon the vine,
Still the needle marks the pole,
Parts are equal to the whole,
'Tis a truth as clear, that Love
Quickens all below, above.
Man is born to live and die,
Snakes to creep, and birds to fly,
Fiſhes in the waters ſwim,
Doves are mild, and lions grim,
Nature thus below, above,
Puſhes all things on to Love.
Does the cedar love the mountain?
Or the thirſty deer the fountain?
Does the ſhepherd love his crook?
Or the willow court the brook?
Thus by Nature all things move,
Like a running ſtream, to love.
[82]
Is the valiant hero bold?
Does the miſer doat on gold?
Seek the birds in ſpring to pair?
Breathes the roſe-bud ſcented air?
Should you this deny, you'll prove
Nature is averſe to love.
As the wencher loves a laſs,
As the toper loves his glaſs,
As the friar loves his cowl,
Or the miller loves the toll,
So do all, below, above,
Fly precipitate to Love.
When young maidens courtſhip ſhun,
When the moon outſhines the ſun,
When the tygers lambs beget,
When the ſnow is black as jet,
When the planets ceaſe to move,
Then ſhall Nature ceaſe to love.
[83]

IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS.

BY THE LATE MR. JAMES HERVEY.
WHen ſnows deſcend, and robe the fields
In winter's bright array;
Touch'd by the ſun, the luſtre fades,
And weeps itſelf away:
When ſpring appears, when violets blow,
And ſhed a rich perfume;
How ſoon the fragrance breathes its laſt!
How ſhort-liv'd is the bloom!
Freſh in the morn, the ſummer-roſe
Hangs withering ere 'tis noon;
We ſcarce enjoy the balmy gift,
But mourn the pleaſure gone.
With gliding fire, an evening ſtar
Streaks the autumnal ſkies;
Shook from the ſphere, it darts away.
And, in an inſtant, dies.
Such are the charms that fluſh the cheeks,
And ſparkle in the eye:
So, from the lovely finiſh'd form
The tranſient graces fly;
[84]
To this the ſeaſons, as they roll,
Their atteſtation bring:
They warn the fair; their every round
Confirms the truth I ſing.

IMITATED FROM CASIMIR.

BY THE SAME.
CHild of the ſummer, charming roſe,
No longer in confinement lie;
Ariſe to light, thy form diſcloſe;
Rival the ſpangles of the ſky:
The rains are gone; the ſtorms are o'er;
Winter retires to make thee way;
Come then, thou ſweetly-bluſhing flower;
Come, lovely ſtranger, come away.
The ſun is dreſs'd in beaming ſmiles,
To give thy beauties to the day;
Young zephyrs wait, with gentleſt gales,
To fan thy boſom, as they play.

JUVENAL IMITATED.

[85]
BY THE SAME.
SInce all the downward tracts of time
God's watchful eye ſurveys;
O! who ſo wiſe to chuſe our lot,
And regulate our ways?
Since none can doubt his equal love,
Unmeaſurably kind;
To his unerring, gracious will,
Be every wiſh reſign'd.
Good when he gives, ſupremely good;
Nor leſs, when he denies;
Even croſſes, from his ſovereign hand,
Are bleſſings in diſguiſe.
[86]

DR. WYNTER TO DR. CHEYNE.

TEll me from whom, fat-headed Scot,
Thou didſt thy ſyſtem learn;
From Hippocrate thou hadſt it not,
Nor Celſus, nor Pitcairn.
Suppoſe we own that milk is good,
And ſay the ſame of graſs;
The one for babes is only food,
The other for an aſs.
Doctor, one new preſcription try,
A friend's advice forgive;
Eat graſs, reduce thyſelf, and die,
Thy patients then may live.

DR. CHEYNE TO DR. WYNTER.

[87]
MY ſyſtem, doctor, is my own,
No tutor I pretend;
My blunders hurt myſelf alone,
But yours your deareſt friend.
Were you to milk and ſtraw confin'd,
Thrice happy might you be;
Perhaps you might regain your mind,
And from your wit get free.
I can't your kind preſcription try,
But heartily forgive;
'Tis natural you ſhould bid me die,
That you yourſelf may live.

AN ELEGY, WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF A NOBLEMAN'S SEAT IN CORNWALL.

[88]
BY MR. MOORE.
AMidſt theſe venerable drear remains
Of antient grandeur, muſing ſad I ſtray;
Around a melancholy ſilence reigns,
That prompts me to indulge the plaintive lay.
Here liv'd Eugenio, born of noble race,
Aloft his manſion roſe; around were ſeen
Extenſive gardens deck'd with every grace,
Ponds, walks, and groves thro' all the ſeaſons green.
Ah, where is now its boaſted beauty fled!
Proud turrets that once glitter'd in the ſky,
And broken columns in confuſion ſpread,
A rude misſhapen heap of ruins lie.
Of ſplendid rooms no traces here are found:
How are theſe tottering walls by time defac'd!
Shagg'd with vile thorn, with twining ivy bound,
Once hung with tapeſtry, with paintings grac'd!
[89]
In antient times, perhaps, where now I tread,
Licentious Riot crown'd the midnight-bowl,
Her dainties Luxury pour'd, and Beauty ſpread
Her artful ſnares to captivate the ſoul.
Or here, attended by a choſen train
Of innocent delight, true Grandeur dwelt,
Diffuſing bleſſings o'er the diſtant plain,
Health, joy, and happineſs by thouſands felt.
Around now Solitude unjoyous reigns,
No gay-gilt chariot hither marks the way,
No more with cheerful hopes the needy ſwains
At the once-bounteous gate their viſits pay.
Where too is now the garden's beauty fled,
Which every clime was ranſack'd to ſupply?
O'er the drear ſpot ſee deſolation ſpread,
And the diſmantled walls in ruins lie!
Dead are the trees that once with niceſt care
Arrang'd, from opening bloſſoms ſhed perfume,
And thick with fruitage ſtood, the pendent pear,
The ruddy-colour'd peach, and gloſſy plumb.
Extinct is all the family of flowers:
In vain I ſeek the arbour's cool retreat,
Where antient friends in converſe paſs'd the hours,
Defended from the raging dog-ſtar's heat.
[90]
Along the terraſs-walks are ſtraggling ſeen
The prickly bramble, and the noiſome weed,
Beneath whoſe covert crawls the toad obſcene,
And ſnakes and adders unmoleſted breed.
The groves, where Pleaſure walk'd her rounds, decay,
The mead untill'd a barren aſpect wears;
And where the ſprightly fawn was wont to play,
O'ergrown with heath, a dreary waſte appears.
In yonder wide-extended vale below,
Where oſiers ſpread, a pond capacious ſtood;
From far, by art the ſtream was taught to flow,
Whoſe liquid ſtores ſupplied th' unfailing flood.
Oft here the ſilent angler took his place,
Intent to captivate the ſcaly fry—
But periſh'd now are all the numerous race,
Dumb is the fountain, and the channel dry.
Here then, ye Great! behold th' uncertain ſtate
Of earthly grandeur—beauty, ſtrength, and power,
Alike are ſubject to the ſtroke of fate,
And flouriſh but the glory of an hour.
Virtue alone no diſſolution fears,
Still permanent, tho' ages roll away;
Who builds on her immortal baſis, rears
A ſuperſtructure time can ne'er decay.

T.H. TO SIR HANS SLOANE.

[91]
SInce you, dear doctor, ſav'd my life,
By turns to bleſs and curſe my wife;
In conſcience I'm oblig'd to do,
What your commands enjoin'd me to:
According then to your command,
That I ſhould ſearch the weſtern land,
And ſend you all that I can find
Of curious things of every kind;
I've ravag'd air, earth, ſea, and caverns,
Wine, women, children, tombs and taverns;
And greater rarities can ſhew
Than Greſham's children ever knew;
Which carrier Dick ſhall bring you down,
Next time the waggon comes to town.
Firſt, I have drops of the ſame ſhower
Which Jove in Danae's lap did pour;
From Carthage brought, the ſword I'll ſend
That help'd queen Dido to her end:
The ſnake-ſkin, which, you may believe,
The ſerpent caſt who tempted Eve;
A fig-leaf apron, 'tis the ſame
Which Adam wore to hide his ſhame;
But now wants darning; ſir, beſide,
The jaw by which poor Abel died;
[92]A whetſtone worn exceeding ſmall,
Which Time hath whet his teeth withal.
The pigeon ſtuft, which Noah ſent
To tell which way the waters went—
A ring I've got of Sampſon's hair,
The ſame which Dalilah did wear.
St. Dunſtan's tongs, as ſtory goes,
That pinch'd the Devil by the noſe.
The very ſhaft, as all may ſee,
Which Cupid ſhot at Anthony:
And, what beyond them all I prize,
A glance of Cleopatra's eyes.
Some ſtrains of eloquence which hung,
In Roman times, on Tully's tongue;
Which long conceal'd and loſt had lain,
'Till Cowper found them out again!
Then I've (moſt curious to be ſeen)
A ſcorpion's bite, to cure the ſpleen.
As Moore cures worms in ſtomach bred,
I've pills cure maggots in the head;
With the receipt how you may make 'em,
To you I leave the time to take 'em.
I've got a ray of Phoebus' ſhine,
Found in the bottom of a mine;
A lawyer's conſcience, large and clear,
Fit for a judge himſelf to wear.
I've choice of noſtrums how to make
An oath which churchmen will not take.
[93]In a thumb-vial you ſhall ſee,
Cloſe-ſtopt, ſome drops of honeſty:
Which, after ſearching kingdoms round,
At laſt was in a cottage found.
I ha'n't collected any care,
Of that there's plenty every-where:
But, after wondrous labour ſpent,
I've got three grains of rich content.
It is my wiſh, it is my glory,
To furniſh your nicknackatory:
I only beg, that when you ſhow 'em,
You'll fairly tell to whom you owe 'em;
Which will your future patients teach
To do, as has done, your's
T.H.

J. BRAMSTON TO CAPTAIN HINTON.

[94]
HInton, old friend, accept from me
The following rules without a fee:
An aſthma is your caſe I think,
So you muſt neither eat nor drink;
I mean, of meats preſerv'd in ſalt,
Nor any liquor made of malt;
From ſeaſon'd ſauce avert your eyes,
From hams, and tongues, and pigeon-pies;
If veniſon-paſty's ſet before you,
Each bit you eat—memento mori.
Your ſuppers, nothing, if you pleaſe,
But, above all, no toaſted cheeſe.
And now, perhaps, you may obſerve,
What I preſcribe will make you ſtarve:
No—I allow you at a meal
A leg, a loin, or neck of veal;
Young turkies—I allow you four,
Partridge and pullets half a ſcore;
Of houſe-lamb boil'd eat quarters two;
The devil's in't if this wont do.—
Now, as to liquor—why indeed,
What I preſcribe, I ſend you—Mead;
Glaſſes of wine (t'extinguiſh drought)
Take three with water, three without.
[95]Let conſtant exerciſe be tried,
And ſometimes walk, and ſometimes ride;
Health oftner comes from Blackdownhill,
Than from th' apothecary's bill.
Some, if they are not cur'd at once,
Proclaim their doctor for a dunce:
Reſtleſs from quack to quack they range,
When 'tis themſelves they ought to change.
Rules and reſtraints you muſt endure,
What comes by time, 'tis time muſt cure.
The uſe of vegetables try,
And prize Pomona in a pie:
Young Bacchus' rites you muſt avoid,
And Venus muſt go unenjoy'd:
Whate'er you take, put ſomething good in,
And worſhip Ceres in a pudding.
For breakfaſt, it is my advice,
Eat ſago, gruel, barley, rice;
Take burdock roots, and, by my troth,
I'd mingle daizes in my broth.
Thus may you draw with eaſe your breath,
Deluding, what you dread not, death;
Thus may you laugh, look clear, and thrive,
Enrich'd by thoſe whom you ſurvive.
May dying friends, with one accord,
Worth and Sincerity reward.

A THOUGHT FROM MARCUS ANTONINUS.

[96]
WHat! ſhall the cauſeleſs curſe of fools controul
Thy wavering virtue, and debaſe thy ſoul!
Reproach'd or cenſur'd as an uſeleſs thing,
Still pure and conſtant flows the healing ſpring,
Still pours its bounty with a ſweet exceſs,
Th' invidious tongue with cooling draughts to bleſs;
Should thankleſs hands with clay pollute the tide,
Will the ſtain'd waters ſtagnant ceaſe to glide?
No, ſtill they flow, by flowing ſtill refine,
Diffuſe new bleſſings, with new luſtre ſhine.
Taught by the ſpring, then bounteous be thy mind,
By thanks unpaid, be generouſly kind.
The ſtreams of charity no taint can know
'Till ſtopp'd, refining ever as they flow.

GARDEN INSCRIPTIONS.

[97]
BY WILLIAM THOMPSON, M.A. LATE FELLOW OF QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXON.

I. *IN IL SPENSEROSO. ON SPENSER'S FAERIE QUEENE.

LO! here the place for contemplation made,
For ſacred muſing and for ſolemn ſong!—
—Hence, ye profane! nor violate the ſhade:
—Come, Spenſer's awful genius, come along,
Mix with the muſic of th' aerial throng!
Oh! breathe a penſive ſtillneſs thro' my breaſt,
While balmy breezes pant the leaves among,
And ſweetly ſooth my paſſions into reſt.
Hint pureſt thoughts, in pureſt colours dreſt,
Even ſuch as angels prompt, in golden dreams,
To holy hermit, high in raptures bleſt,
His boſom burning with celeſtial beams:
Ne leſs the raptures of my ſummer day,
If Spenſer deign with me to moralize the lay.

II. IN THE SAME. ON SPENSER'S SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR.

[98]
AT large beneath this floating foliage laid
Of circling green, the cryſtal running by,
(How ſoft the murmur, and how cool the ſhade!)
While gentle-whiſpering winds their breath apply
To 'ſwage the fever of the ſultry ſky;
Smit with the ſweet *Sicilian's ſimple ſtrain,
I try the rural reed, but fondly try
To match his paſtoral airs, and happy vein:
Next I aſſay the quill of †Mantua's ſwain
Of bolder note, and of more courtly grace:
Ah, fooliſh emulation!—They diſdain
My awkward ſkill, and puſh me from the place.
Yet boaſt not, thou of Greece, nor thou of Rome,
My ſweeter ‡Colin Clout outpipes you both at home.

III. IN SHAKESPEAR'S WALK.

[99]
BY yon hills, with morning ſpread,
Lifting up the tufted head,
By thoſe golden waves of corn,
Which the laughing fields adorn,
By the fragrant breath of flowers,
Stealing from the woodbin-bowers,
By this thought-inſpiring ſhade,
By the gleamings of the glade,
By the babbling of the brook,
Winding ſlow in many a crook,
By the ruſtling of the trees,
By the humming of the bees,
By the woodlark, by the thruſh,
Wildly warbling from the buſh,
By the fairy's ſhadowy tread
O'er the cowſlip's dewy head,
Father, monarch of the ſtage,
Glory of Eliza's age,
Shakeſpear! deign to lend thy face,
This romantic nook to grace,
Where untaught Nature ſports alone,
Since thou and Nature are but one.

IV. IN MILTON'S ALCOVE.

[100]
HEre, mighty Milton! in the blaze of noon,
Amid the broad effulgence, here I fix
Thy radiant tabernacle. Nought is dark
In thee, thou bright companion of the ſun!
Thus thy own Uriel in its centre ſtands
Illuſtrious, waving glory round him! he
Faireſt archangel of all ſpirits in heaven,
As, of the ſons of men, the greateſt thou.

V. IN THE SAME. A TRANSLATION.

HIC media te luce loco, mediiſ (que) diei
Stas circumfuſus flammis: tentoria figo
Haec radiata tibi, Milton! quia nubila ſacro
Carmine nulla tuo, comes illuſtriſſime ſolis!
Sic medio ſtans ſole tuus nitet Uriel, aureum
Diffundit (que) jubar, ſplendens, et lucida tela:
Celeſtes inter coetus pulcherrimus ille,
Mortales inter veluti tu maximus omnes.

VI. ON LAUREL HILL, AT THE END OF THE GARDEN. TO MR. POPE.

[101]
O ſkill'd thy every reader's breaſt to warm,
To lull with harmony, with ſenſe to charm,
To call the glowing ſoul into the ear,
(And now we live, and now we die to hear,
Born on the waves of melody along
Exulting ſhout, and triumph in thy ſong!)
O Pope! the ſweeteſt of the tuneful race,
This votive tablet, grateful, here I place;
Here, where the Graces ſport on Laurel Hill,
Faſt by the muſic of the murmuring rill;
From hence the blueiſh Barkſhire hills ſurvey,
Which oft have echoed to thy ſylvan lay;
When, young, in Windſor's bliſsful fields you ſtray'd,
Immortal by your deathleſs labours made!
There the firſt muſic trembled from thy tongue,
And *Binfield ſwains on every accent hung:
The larks the ſweetneſs of thy notes confeſt,
And, dumb with envy, ſunk into their neſt;
[102]While, In ſoft ſilence, *Loddon ſtole along,
And, liſtening, wonder'd at thy ſofter ſong.
Nor ſcorn the proſpects which Oxonia yields,
Her hills as verdant, and as fair her fields,
As rich her vallies, and her ſtreams as clear,
And Phoebus haunts, and—thou haſt charm'd us †here.
For other buſts a ſingle wreath I wove,
But dedicate to thine my ‡Laurel Grove.

VII. IN CHAUCER'S BOURE.

[103]
WHO is this thilke old bard which wonneth here?
This thilke old bard, ſirs, is Dan Chaucer:
Full gentle knight was he, in very ſooth,
Albee a little japepiſh in his youth.
He karoll'd deftly to his new pſautry,
And eke couth tellen tales of jollity,
And ſangs of ſolace, all the livelong day,
Soote as the ouzle or throſtell in May.
Withouten words mo, a merie maker he,
Ne hopen I his permagall to ſee.
Ne Johnny Gay, perdie, ne Matthew Prior,
In diting tales of pleaſaunce couth go higher,
Here in this gardyn full of flowers gend,
Betwixt this elder-tree, and freſh woodbend,
He hearkeneth the foules' aſſemblie,
That fro' the twigs maken their melodie.
Ye pied daiſies, ſpring neath his feet,
Who ſong ſo ſootly, "The daiſy is ſo ſweet:"
And whileſt, "benedicite," he ſings,
Ryn, little beck, in ſilver murmurings.
O pleaſaunt poete, thyſelven ſolace here,
And merie be thy heart, old Dan Chaucer.

VIII. AT THE END OF THE CANAL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GARDEN.

[104]
SAlve, mi hortule, gratiora Tempe,
O ridentis ocelle laete ruris,
Meae deliciae, mei receſſus!
Hic gratas Charites agunt choreas,
Dum tangunt citharas novem Sorores;
Hic Pomona rubet, Lyaeus uvis
Cingit tempora pampino (que) honeſta,
Gaudens verſicolore Flora veſte
Et luſus varium trahit per annum.
Vos mitis Zephyri leves ſuſurri,
Et lenes ſtrepitus loquacis undae,
Vos ſuaves avium modi canentum,
Et florum aſſyrii recentum odores,
O vos purpurei mei ſodales,
O vos dulciloqui mei ſodales,
Vobis perpetuam damus ſalutem!
Salve, mi hortule, gratiora Tempe,
O ridentis ocelle laete ruris,
Meae deliciae, mei receſſus!

IX. IN THE SAME. A TRANSLATION.

[105]
HAil, happy garden, happy groves,
Whom your happieſt maſter loves!
Here the Graces weave the ring,
While the Muſes touch the ſtring,
There Pomona bluſhes, there
Plump Lyaeus braids his hair,
Braids with tendrils of the vine,
" Dropping odours, dropping wine,"
And gay Flora frolics, dreſt
In her many-colour'd veſt.
O the waving of the trees!
And the fanning of the breeze!
O the prattling of the rill,
Still ſupplied and prattling ſtill!
O the Zephyrs ſweetly playing,
As when firſt they go a Maying!
O the birds, for ever ſinging,
And the flowers, for ever ſpringing!
Hail, happy garden, happy groves,
Whom your happieſt maſter loves!

X. IN THE SAME.

[106]
FRom buſy ſcenes, with Peace alone retir'd,
And the warm ray of gratitude inſpir'd,
For bleſſings paſt, and mercies yet to come,
Here let me praiſe my God, and fix my home!
With *Iſaac, in the fields, for Grace implore,
With Moſes, in each beamy buſh, adore!
His providence for all my wants provides,
His arm upholds me, and his right-hand guides.
His breezes fan me in the noontide hours,
Where Coolneſs walks amid my ſhades and bowers:
His bounty in the ſilver current flows,
Smiles in the bloſſoms, in the fruitage glows:
Bright with †pomaceous ſtores, his gift, behold
Th' eſpaliers bend with balls of blooming gold!
His radiant ſinger gilds the vernal flowers,
Fed with his balm, and water'd with his ſhowers:
He bids the roſe its crimſon folds unlooſe,
And bluſh, reſulgent, in the purple dews:
[107]The lilly he arrays with ſpotleſs white,
Rich in its mantle of inwoven light;
(Go, Solomon, and caſt thy gems aſide,
Nor glory in thy poverty of pride!)
The painted tribes their ſunny robes diſplay,
And lend a lucid ſoftneſs to the day.
Grateful, each flower to heaven its incenſe pays,
And breathes its fragrant ſoul away in praiſe.
Oh, thither may they teach my ſoul to ſoar,
Confeſs our Maker, and his ſteps adore!
Contented let me live, ſubmiſſive die,
And hope a fairer Paradiſe on high!

XI. IN *GOLDEN GROVE.

[108]
WHat pleaſing form commands the lifted eye,
O ſay, what younger brother of the ſky?
I know my Taylor's mild auſpicious grace,
And †more than human ſweetneſs in his face.
The light of Faith around his eyeballs plays,
And Hope and Charity unite their rays.
What ‡Canaan honey trickles from his tongue,
And manna, ſweeter than the muſes ſong!
Or, copious, thro' his ſhining pages roll'd,
The guſhing torrent of celeſtial gold!
[109]O (whether ſome refulgent throne be thine,
Or with the white-rob'd band of ſaints you join,
Or 'midſt the flames of hailing ſeraphs glow)
Still may *thy works enrich our world below!
Still may thy glorious works expanded lie,
And teach us how to live, and how to die,
Pour heavenly day on each benighted mind,
And, next the Sacred Scriptures, bleſs mankind.

XII. IN COWLEY'S SHADE.

[110]
Ingenioſiſſimo Poetarum
Couleijo!
Qui flores, qui plantas, qui arbores,
Tam felici curâ coluit,
Et cultu cecinit,
Non umbram, non unum nemus,
Sed hortum
D.D.
SHall poets dignify my walks and bowers,
Cowley forgot? forbid it, rural powers!
Ye rural powers, your choiceſt treaſures ſhed,
To form a garland for your Cowley's head:
Collect the radiance of the ſhowery bow,
The roſe's ſcarlet, and the lilly's ſnow,
To emulate his works, confus'dly bright,
Where glories riſe on glories, light on light,
The priſm of wit! Apollo, once before,
So gilded Donn, but ſo could gild no more.
Our moderns flow, 'tis true, in eaſy rhimes;
But will our moderns flow thro' future times?
Warm diſtant ages with their glorious fire,
Inſpir'd themſelves, and potent to inſpire?
Cowley, this praiſe is thine!—an age is paſt,
Yet ſtill you charm the preſent as the laſt:
[111]Your thoughts, your verſe, their priſtine luſtre hold,
Like rows of jewels rang'd on cloth of gold:
Aeneas' paſſport thus, the golden bough,
Solid and bright at once, reſembles you;
Like that, you lead us to Elyſium too.
No muddy ſtreams of dull pollution run
In your chaſte lines; each wanton hint you ſhun,
Save when a tranſient Venus blots the ſun.
You ſung each flower that ſpreads the vivid hue,
Each healing plant that ſips the ſilver dew,
Each tree that decks the garden, or the grove;
You ſung, but never felt, the fires of Love:
For Love too witty, and from paſſion free,
You had your miſtreſs, but no lover, ſhe:
Goaded with points, Love never wept ſo ſore,
Tho' wounded by a Muſe's bee before.
O maſter of the many-chorded lyre,
Whom all the Nine, with all their gifts, inſpire!
Next Spenſer's bower, accept this humble ſhed,
He charm'd you living, and you join him dead.
But far I place thee from coy Daphne's tree;
The tree that hates Apollo, loves not thee:
Yet had Apollo ſung ſo well, the maid
Had yielded, nor been turn'd into a ſhade.

XIII. ON THE MOUNT UNDER MR. ADDISON'S PICTURE.

[112]
JUſt to thy genius, to thy virtues juſt,
Next Virgil's, Addiſon, I place thy buſt;
Such finiſh'd graces ſhine in every page,
Correctly bold, and ſober in your rage;
So elegant with eaſe, ſo juſtly warm,
Both raiſe with rapture, both with fancy charm.
Your muſe (no ſybil with diſtortion wild)
Serene in majeſty, in glory mild;
Your manly thoughts, in manly robes array'd,
(No tinſel-glitter, and no painted ſhade)
Command our wonder, while you march along,
Conſummate maſters of immortal ſong!
And hark! what notes are ſtealing on my ear,
Which dying ſaints might breathe, or angels hear;
As incenſe grateful to th' eternal king,
And ſuch as Addiſon alone could ſing!
Bluſh, Vice, if Vice can bluſh, and hide thy face;
A wicked wit is Nature's laſt diſgrace:
Let Virgil, Addiſon, your patterns ſhine,
Diſdain pollution, and commence divine.
Hail, both! unenvied, and unequall'd pair!
Your happily divided honours ſhare!
And thou, my mount, on Pindus' top look down,
Grac'd with a Virgil, and an Addiſon.

XIV. ANOTHER, UNDERNEATH.

[113]
THE bliſsful ſcenes, which Virgil's pencil drew,
Unfolding all Elyſium to the view;
The rural ſcenes which Addiſon diſplay'd
In beauteous Roſamonda's mazy ſhade;
Here, realiz'd, in verdant charms appear,
And Woodſtock and Elyſium flouriſh here.

XV. ON A MOUNT. VIRGIL'S PICTURE, ABOVE AN HIVE, IN MINIA⯑TURE, IN THE MIDDLE OF A WOODBINE-BUSH.

HIC Apis Mantuae
Mella legit.
Tu autem, lector, ſi ſapis,
Hujus mella legas:
Muſarum perpetua mella,
Et Charitum Halitus,
Celeſtis ingenii nectar, beatos rores!
Illo nectare gratiora, ſuaviora,
Quo apes, Muſarum volucres,
Jovem pavere olim
Dictaeo ſub antro:
[114]Et qualis ſummus Jupiter,
Inter Gentiles Deos,
Talis eminet inter caeteros Poetas
Publius Virgilius Maro.

XVI. UNDER HIS ECLOGUES AND GEOR⯑GICS, BY THE CASCADE.

HEre Maro reſts beneath the fragrant ſhade,
Lull'd by the murmurs of the ſoft caſcade:
Ye ſhepherds, carol here your lays of love,
While paſtoral muſic dies along the grove:
Ye ſwains, inſtructed by his grateful theme,
His praiſes whiſtle to the tinkling ſtream:
Ye bees, around your tuneful maſter throng,
And, humming in delight, his dreams prolong.
But hence the trumpet's clang, the din of war;
The thunder of the battle hence be far:
His bees, ſwains, ſhepherds more contentment yield,
Than heroes blazing in the tented field.
" *Arms and the man I ſing" let others chuſe,
Give me the products of his rural muſe.

XVII. BENEATH A VINE, UNDER A PIC⯑TURE OF HORACE.

[115]
BRing hither, friend, O hither bring
The lyre, and let us ſit and ſing:
Wake into life the dying flute,
The Thracian harp, or Lydian lute:
Horace commands; O quickly bring the lyre
For Horace, maſter of the Roman choir.
*With roſebuds grace the poet's brow,
With odours bid his ringlets flow;
Theſe lillies crop and ſtrew the ground;
And let my temples too be crown'd.
O fill the bowl beneath this mantling vine,
For Horace, arbiter of verſe and wine!
With ſocial joys we raiſe the hour,
But baniſh Cupid from the bower:
[116] *Seven luſtres paſt, ah! why ſhould I,
And why ſhould Horace pine and ſigh?
No more he beckons Pyrrha to the grot,
His Lydia, my Ianthe, both forgot.
True; Lydia revell'd in his veins,
And ſweet Ianthe warm'd my ſtrains:
But age ſhould youthful follies ſhun,
Nor back the flowery mazes run.
Let wit, to wiſdom, love, to friendſhip riſe,
And learn, at laſt, from Horace to grow wiſe.

XVIII. OVER THOMSON'S SEASONS.

[117]
LO! Thomſon deigns to grace the bower I made,
And dwell a tuneful tenant of my ſhade!
Hail, Nature's poet! whom ſhe taught alone
To ſing her works in number's like her own,
Sweet as the Thruſh, that warbles in the vale,
And ſoft as Philomela's tender tale;
She lent her pencil too, of wondrous power,
To catch the rainbow, or to form the flower
Of many-mingling hues; and ſmiling ſaid,
(But firſt with laurel crown'd her favourite's head)
" Theſe beauteous children, tho' ſo fair they ſhine,
" Fade in my Seaſons, let them live in thine:
" And live they ſhall, the charm of every eye,
" 'Till Nature ſickens, and the Seaſons die."

XIX. IN THE MIDST OF AN APPLE-TREE, OVER MR. PHILIPS'S CYDER.

[118]
IF he, who firſt the apple ſung, "the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whoſe mortal taſte
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,"
Unfading laurels won; a branch awaits,
Philips, thy youthful brow: who apples ſung
Innocuous, and with freedom bad us quaff
Their generous nectar, 'neath their parent ſhade,
Adventrous; nor in leſs inferior ſtrains.
Like Milton too, you taught Britannia's ſong
To ſhake the ſhackles off of tinkling rhime,
Emaſculate, unnervous; female verſe.
Since modeſty (ſtill modeſty attends
On worth like thine) forbids thee to accept
The parted wreath, let Milton's be the firſt,
Unrivall'd; be the ſecond honours thine.
And now (for Leo, from his flaming mane,
Shakes fultry rays intenſe, provoking thirſt)
O Philips, while my well-glaz'd tube exhales
Nicotian fragrance, and my rummer ſhines
With cyder ſparkling high, partake my ſhade,
Pleas'd with Pomona's haunts, and cool receſs,
Her purple-breathing births ſweet-ſmiling round.

XX. OVER YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS.

[119]
BEneath an awful gloom, a night of ſhade,
By ſilent darkneſs more majeſtic made,
I place thy volume, Young! with reverence place;
Thy volume worthy of a ſaint's embrace!
What goſpel-truths thy heavenly lines convey,
And ſteal us from mortality away!
Full on the ſoul thy tides of rapture flow,
Kindling we hear, and while we read we glow!
Exalted by thy theme, we mount on high,
We ſpurn at earth, we claim our native ſky.
Now let th' unletter'd, or the letter'd man,
Deny the ſoul immortal, if he can:
A ſoul immortal in thy works we ſee;
Can duſt and aſhes think and write like thee?
Yes, fools! the ſoul ſhall live, for God is juſt;
Ye atheiſts, ye old ſerpents, lick the duſt.
Thro' depths of ether now his eagle flies,
Gains on the ſun, and traverſes the ſkies,
Where ſtars on ſtars, on planets planets roll,
Imbibes their ſplendors, and commands the pole.
Onward he bears, and, burning, ſoars away
(Nor flag his pinions) to myſterious day:
O Newton, far beyond thy higheſt ſphere;
Purſue, my ſoul, no further.—Heaven is here:
Oppreſs'd with glory, all my ſenſes fade,
I faint—O ſoftly lay me in his ſhade.
[120]

INSCRIPTION IN A SUMMER-HOUSE BELONGING TO THE LATE GILBERT WEST, ESQ. AT WICKHAM IN KENT.

HAEC mihi nec procul urbe ſita eſt, nec prorſus ad urbem,
Ne patiar turbas, utque bonis potiar;
Et quoties mutare locum faſtigia cogunt,
Tranſeo, et alternis rure vel urbe fruar.
AUSON. AD VILLAM.
TRANSLATED BY MR. WEST.
NOT wrapt in ſmoky London's ſulphurous clouds,
And not far diſtant ſtands my rural cot:
Neither obnoxious to intruding crouds,
Nor for the good and friendly too remote.
And when too much repoſe brings on the ſpleen,
Or the gay city's idle pleaſures cloy;
Swift as my changing wiſh I ſhift the ſcene,
And now the country, now the town enjoy.

AN EPITAPH IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD IN KENT.

[121]
BY THE CELEBRATED MR. G—.
LO! where this ſilent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother, ſleeps,
A heart, within whoſe ſacred cell
The peaceful virtues lov'd to dwell:
Affection warm, and faith ſincere,
And ſoft humanity were there.
In agony, in death, reſign'd,
She felt the wound ſhe left behind:
Her infant image, here below,
Sits ſmiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while thus he ſtrays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to ſecret ſorrow dear,
A ſigh, an unavailing tear,
'Till time ſhall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

EPITAPH ON GENERAL WOLFE, IN THE CHURCH OF WESTERHAM IN KENT.

[122]
James,
Son of colonel Edward Wolfe, and
Henrietta his wife,
Was born in this pariſh, January 2, 1727.
And died in America, Sep. 13, 1759.
Conqueror of Quebec.
WHile George, in ſorrow, bows his laurell'd head,
And bids the artiſt grace the ſoldier dead;
We raiſe no ſculptur'd trophy to thy name,
Brave youth! the faireſt in the liſts of fame:
Proud of thy birth, we boaſt th' auſpicious year;
Struck with thy fall, we ſhed the general tear;
With humble grief inſcribe one artleſs ſtone,
And from thy matchleſs honours date our own.

Appendix A CONTENTS.

[]
END OF VOL. VIII.
Notes
*
The goddeſs Diana.
†
The daughter of Ceres, taken fr [...]m her by Pluto.
*
This poem was wrote by mrs. Leapor. See her cha⯑racter in the Poet. Cal. for July, p, 26.
*
Stephenſon.
†
Broughton.
*
Infant progeny of Mars] Our author in this deſcription alludes to the Luſus Trojae of Virgil,
Incedunt pueri—
—Trojae juventus
—Pugnaeque ciunt ſimulachra ſub armis.
†
Hockley and fierce Brickſtreet breed] Two famous athletic ſeminaries.
*
He leaps the bar, &c.] See the deſcription of Dares in Virgil.
Nee mora, continuo vaſtis cum viribus effert
Ora Dares, magnoque virûm ſe murmure tollit.
*
Froze all my blood] See Virgil.
—Sed enim gelidus tardante ſenectâ
Sanguis hebet, frigentque effoetae in corpore vires,
†
Whoſe blows like hail, &c.] Virgil.
—quam multa grandine nimbi
Culminibus crepitant.—
*
This ſaid, &c.] Virgil.
Haec fatus, duplicem ex humeris rejecit amictum;
Et magnos membrorum artus, magna oſſa lacertoſque
Exuit.
*
Watchful of his foe, &c.] Virgil.
—ille ictum venientem a vertice velox
Praevidit, celerique elapſus corpore ceſſit.
†
Its idle force in air] Idem.
—vires in ventum effudit.—
*
Arms in arms entwine] Virgil.
Immiſcentque manus manibus, pugnamque laceſſunt.
*
Bold and undaunted, &c.] Virgil.
At non tardatus caſu, neque territus heros,
Acrior ad pugnam redit, ac vim ſuſcitat irâ,
Tum pudor incendit vires—
†
Echo to the ſkies, &c.] Virgil.
It clamor coelo—
*
Inceſſant now, &c.] Virgil.
Multa viri nequicquam inter ſe vulnere jactant:
Multa cavo lateri ingeminant; & pectore vaſtos
Dant ſonitus, erratque aures & tempora circum
Crebra manus: duro crepitant ſub vulnere malae.
*
His faithful friends] Virgil.
Aſt illum fidi aequales, genua aegra trahentem,
Jactantemque utroque caput, craſſumque cruorem
Ore ejectantem, mixtoſque in ſanguine dentes,
Ducunt ad naves—
†
No more in combat, &c.] Idem.
—hic victor caeſtus, artemque repono.
*
When Milton in his youth was at Florence, he fell in love with a young lady; and, as ſhe underſtood no Engliſh, he writ ſome verſes to her in Italian; of which the above is the ſenſe.
*
Lord Clarendon.
*
The two firſt inſcriptions are in the meaſure of Spenſer's ſonnets.
*
Theocritus.
†
Virgil.
‡
Spenſer.
*
Mr. Pope lived at Binfield in Windſor Foreſt, Barkſhire, where he wrote the moſt poetical of all his admirable works.
*
A river, celebrated in Pope's Windſor Foreſt.
†
Mr. Pope uſed frequently to viſit Oxford: he likewiſe tranſlated part of Homer at Stanton Harcourt in this County, as appears from an inſcription in one of the windows there.
‡
I would not have it imagined by theſe lines, that I equalled Pope to the great triumvirate, Spenſer, Shakeſpear, and Milton, who will reign a triumvirate for ever: it is ho⯑nour enough to the greateſt poets, even to mr. Pope, to be placed next to them.
*
‘Gen. ch. 24. v. 63. "And Iſaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide."’
†
—While Engliſh plains
Bluſh with pomaceous harveſts.
PHILIPS.
*
The arbour is called Golden Grove, becauſe biſhop Tay⯑lor wrote ſeveral of his moſt excellent and pious works at Golden Crove in Wales, the ſeat of his great patron the earl of Carbery. He has, on that account, a book of devotions called Golden Grove.
†
Biſhop Taylor was ſo extremely handſome and beautiful in his youth, that archbiſhop Laud thought him almoſt an angel from heaven when he firſt ſaw and heard him in the pulpit. See biſhop Ruſt's ſermon preached at biſhop Taylor's funeral.
‡
His excellent treatiſes are highly valued for the exact⯑neſs of wit, profoundneſs of judgment, richneſs of fancy, copiouſneſs of invention, and general uſefulneſs to all the purpoſes of a Chriſtian. After the reſtoration, he was made biſhop of Down and Connor; where he further diſ⯑played his mighty talents, and ſhewed, with an unbounded imagination, all the eloquence of orators, all the flights of poetry, together with all the ſtrictneſs and regularity of the deepeſt caſuiſts. Echard's Hiſt. of England.
*
His works are ſometimes printed in four, ſometimes in ſix volumes in folio, beſides ſix or ſeven volumes of devotions, &c. in octavo and duodecimo.
*
Arms and the man I ſing] Meaning the Aeneid.
*
Cum flore, Maecenas, roſarum
Preſſa tuis balanus capillis,
HOR.
Non deſint epulis roſae
Neu breve lilium.
HOR.
*
Cujus octavum trepidavit aetas
Claudere luſtrum.
HOR.
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