A COLLECTION of POEMS.
VOL. VI.
A COLLECTION OF POEMS IN SIX VOLUMES.
BY SEVERAL HANDS.
LONDON: Printed by J. HUGHS, For R. and J. DODSLEY, at Tully's-Head in Pall-Mall. M DCC LXIII.
HYMN TO THE NAIADS.
By Dr. AKENSIDE. MDCCXLVI.
ARGUMENT.
The Nymphs who preside over springs and rivulets are addressed at day-break in honour of their several functions, and of the relations which they bear to the natural and to the moral world. Their origin is deduced from the first allegorical deities, or powers of nature; according to the doctrine of the old mythological poets, concerning the generation of the Gods and the rise of things. They are then successively considered, as giving motion to the air and exciting summer-breezes; as nourishing and beautifying the vegetable world; as contributing to the fulness of navigable rivers, and consequently to the maintenance of commerce; and by that means, to the maritime part of military power. Next is represented their favourable influence upon health, when assisted by rural exercise: which introduces their connection with the art of physic, and the happy effects of mineral, medicinal springs. Lastly, they are celebrated for the friendship which the Muses bear them, and for the true inspiration which temperance only can receive: in opposition to the enthusiasm of the more licentious poets.
HYMN TO THE NAIADS.
O'ER yonder eastern hill the twilight throws
Her dusky mantle; and the God of day,
With bright Astraea seated by his side,
Waits yet to leave the ocean. Tarry, Nymphs,
Ye Nymphs, ye blue-ey'd progeny of Thames,
Who now the mazes of this rugged heath
Trace with your fleeting steps; who all night long
Repeat, amid the cool and tranquil air,
Your lonely murmurs, tarry: and receive
My offer'd lay. To pay you homage due,
I leave the gates of sleep; nor shall my lyre
Too far into the splendid hours of morn
Ingage your audience: my observant hand
Shall close the strain ere any sultry beam
Approach you. To your subterranean haunts
Ye then may timely steal; to pace with care
The humid sands; to loosen from the soil
The bubbling sources; to direct the rills
To meet in wider channels; or beneath
Some grotto's dripping arch, at height of noon
To slumber, shelter'd from the burning heaven.
Where shall my song begin, ye Nymphs? or end?
Wide is your praise and copious—First of things,
First of the lonely powers, ere Time arose,
Were Love and Chaos. Love, the fire of Fate;
Elder than Chaos. Born of Fate was Time,
Who many sons and many comely births
Devour'd, relentless father: till the child
Of Rhea drove him from the upper sky,
And quell'd his deadly might. Then social reign'd
The kindred powers, Tethys, and reverend Ops,
And spotless Vesta; while supreme of sway
Remain'd the cloud-compeller. From the couch
Of Tethys sprang the sedgy-crowned race,
Who from a thousand urns, o'er every clime,
Send tribute to their parent; and from them
Are ye, O Naiads: Arethusa fair,
And tuneful Aganippe; that sweet name,
Bandusia; that soft family which dwelt
With Syrian Daphne; and the honour'd tribes
Belov'd of Paeon. Listen to my strain,
Daughters of Tethys: listen to your praise.
You, Nymphs, the winged offspring, which of old
Aurora to divine Astraeus bore,
Owns; and your aid beseecheth. When the might
Of Hyperion, from his noontide throne,
Unbends their languid pinions, aid from you
They ask: Favonius and the mild South-west
From you relief implore. Your sallying streams
Fresh vigour to their weary wings impart.
Again they fly, disporting; from the mead
Half-ripen'd and the tender blades of corn,
To sweep the noxious mildew; or dispel
Contagious steams, which oft the parched earth
Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve,
Along the river and the paved brook,
Ascend the cheerful breezes: hail'd of bards
Who, fast by learned Cam, the Mantuan lyre
Sollicit; nor unwelcome to the youth
Who on the highths of Tybur, all inclin'd
O'er rushing Anio, with a pious hand
The reverend scene delineates, broken fanes,
Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp
Of ancient time; and haply, while he scans
The ruins, with a silent tear revolves
The fame and fortune of imperious Rome.
You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid
The rural powers confess; and still prepare
For you their grateful treasures. Pan commands,
Oft as the Delian king with Sirius holds
The central heavens, the father of the grove
Commands his Dryads over your abodes
To spread their deepest umbrage. well the God
Remembereth how indulgent ye supplied
Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime.
Pales, the pasture's queen, where'er ye stray,
Pursues your steps, delighted; and the path
With living verdure clothes. Around your haunts
The laughing Chloris, with profusest hand,
Throws wide her blooms, her odaurs. Still with you
Pomona seeks to dwell: and o'er the lawns,
And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thames
Ye love to wander, Amalthea pours
Well-pleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian horn,
Her dower; unmindful of the fragrant isles
Nysaean or Atlantic. Nor can'st thou,
(Albeit oft, ungrateful, thou dost mock
The beverage of the sober Naiad's urn,
O Bromius, O Lenaean) nor can'st thou
Disown the powers whose bounty, ill repaid,
With nectar feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me,
Yet, blameless Nymphs, from my delighted lyre,
Accept the rites your bounty well may claim;
Nor heed the scoffings of the Edonian band.
For better praise awaits you. Thames, your sire,
As down the verdant slope your duteous rills
Descend, the tribute stately Thames receives,
Delighted; and your piety applauds;
And bids his copious tide roll on secure,
For faithful are his daughters; and with words
Auspicious gratulates the bark which, now
His banks forsaking, her adventurous wings
Yields to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts
Extremest isles to bless. And oft at morn,
When Hermes, from Olympus bent o'er earth
To bear the words of Jove, on yonder hill
Stoops lightly-sailing; oft intent your springs
He views: and waving o'er some new-born stream
His blest pacific wand, "And yet," he cries,
"Yet," cries the son of Maia, "though recluse
"And silent be your stores, from you, fair Nymphs,
"Flows wealth and kind society to men.
"By you my function and my honour'd name
"Do I possess; while o'er the Boetic vale,
"Or through the towers of Memphis, or the palms
"By sacred Ganges water'd, I conduct
"The English merchant: with the buxom fleece
"Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe
"Sarmatian kings; or to the household Gods
"Of Syria, from the bleak Cornubian shore,
"Dispense the mineral treasure which of old
"Sidonian pilots sought, when this sair land
"Was yet unconscious of those generous arts
"Which wise Phoenicia from their native clime
"Transplanted to a more indulgent heaven."
Such are the words of Hermes: such the praise,
O Naiads, which from tongues coelestial waits
Your bounteous deeds. From bounty issueth power:
And those who, sedulous in prudent works,
Relieve the wants of nature, Jove repays
With generous wealth and his own seat on earth,
Fit judgments to pronounce, and curb the might
Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns
Not vainly to the hospitable arts
Of Hermes yield their store. For, O ye Nymphs,
Hath he not won the unconquerable queen
Of arms to court your friendship? You she owns
The fair associates who extend her sway
Wide o'er the mighty deep; and grateful things
Of you she uttereth, oft as from the shore
Of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green banks
Of Vecta, she her thundering navy leads
To Calpe's foaming channel, or the rough
Cantabrian coast; her auspices divine
Imparting to the senate and the prince
Of Albion, to dismay barbaric kings,
The Iberian, or the Celt. The pride of kings
Was ever scorn'd by Pallas: and of old
Rejoic'd the virgin, from the brazen prow
Of Athens o'er Aegina's gloomy surge,
To drive her clouds and storms; o'erwhelming all
The Persian's promis'd glory, when the realms
Of Indus and the soft Ionian clime,
When Lybia's torrid champain and the rocks
Of cold Imaüs join'd their servile bands,
To sweep the sons of liberty from earth.
In vain: Minerva on the brazen prow
Of Athens stood, and with the thunder's voice
Denounc'd her terrours on their impious heads,
And shook her burning Aegis. Xerxes saw:
From Heracleum, on the mountain's highth
Thron'd in his golden car, he knew the sign
Coelestial; felt unrighteous hope forsake
His faltering heart, and turn'd his face with shame.
Hail, ye who share the stern Minerva's power;
Who arm the hand of liberty for war:
And give, in secret, the Britannic name
To awe contending monarchs: yet benign,
Yet mild of nature: to the works of peace
More prone, and lenient of the many ills
Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid
Hygeia well can witness; she who saves,
From poisonous cates and cups of pleasing bane,
The wretch devoted to the entangling snares
Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him she leads
To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To spread the toils,
To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn
At dawn of day to summon the loud hounds,
She calls the lingering sluggard from his dreams:
And where his breast may drink the mountain-breeze,
And where the fervour of the sunny vale
May beat upon his brow, through devious paths
Beckons his rapid courser. Nor when ease,
Cool ease and welcome slumbers have becalm'd
His eager bosom, does the queen of health
Her pleasing care withold. His decent board
She guards, presiding; and the frugal powers
With joy sedate leads in: and while the brown
Ennaean dame with Pan presents her stores;
While changing still, and comely in the change,
Vertumnus and the Hours before him spread
The garden's banquet; you to crown his feast,
To crown his feast, O Naiads, you the fair
Hygeia calls: and from your shelving seats,
And groves of poplar, plenteous cups ye bring,
To slake his veins: till soon a purer tide
Flows down those loaded channels; washeth off
The dregs of luxury, the lurking seeds
Of crude disease; and through the abodes of life
Sends vigour, sends repose. Hail, Naiads: hail,
Who give, to labour, health; to stooping age,
The joys which youth had squander'd. Oft your urns
Will I invoke; and, frequent in your praise,
Abash the frantic Thyrsus with my song.
For not estrang'd from your benignant arts
Is he, the God, to whose mysterious shrine
My youth was sacred, and my votive cares
Are due; the learned Paeon. Oft when all
His cordial treasures he hath search'd in vain;
When herbs, and potent trees, and drops of balm
Rich with the genial influence of the sun,
(To rouze dark fancy from her plaintive dreams,
To brace the nerveless arm, with food to win
Sick appetite, or hush the unquiet breast
Which pines with silent passion) he in vain
Hath prov'd; to your deep mansions he descends.
Your gates of humid rock, your dim arcades,
He entereth; where impurpled veins of ore
Gleam on the roof; where through the rigid mine
Your trickling rills insinuate. There the God
From your indulgent hands the streaming bowl
Wafts to his pale-ey'd suppliants; wafts the seeds
Metallic and the elemental salts
Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink: and soon
Flies pain; flies inauspicious care: and soon
The social haunt or unfrequented shade
Hears Io, Io Paean; as of old,
When Python fell. And, O propitious Nymphs,
Oft as for hapless mortals I implore
Your salutary springs, thro' every urn
O shed selected atoms, and with all
Your healing powers inform the recent wave.
My lyre shall pay your bounty. Nor disdain
That humble tribute. Though a mortal hand
Excite the strings to utterance, yet for themes
Not unregarded of coelestial powers,
I frame their language; and the Muses deign
To guide the pious tenour of my lay.
The Muses (sacred by their gifts divine)
In early days did to my wondering sense
Their secrets oft reveal: oft my rais'd ear
In slumber felt their music: oft at noon
Or hour of sunset, by some lonely stream,
In field or shady grove, they taught me words
Of power from death and envy to preserve
The good man's name. whence yet with grateful mind,
And offerings unprofan'd by ruder eye,
My vows I send, my homage, to the seats
Of rocky Cirrha, where with you they dwell:
Where you their chaste companions they admit
Through all the hallow'd scene: where oft intent,
And leaning o'er Castalia's mossy verge,
They mark the cadence of your confluent urns,
How tunefull, yielding gratefullest repose
To their consorted measure: till again,
With emulation all the sounding choir,
And bright Apollo, leader of the song,
Their voices through the liquid air exalt,
And sweep their lofty strings: those awful strings,
That charm the mind of Gods: that fill the courts
Of wide Olympus with oblivion sweet
Of evils, with immortal rest from cares;
Assuage the terrours of the throne of Jove;
And quench the formidable thunderbolt
Of unrelenting fire. With slacken'd wings,
While now the solemn concert breathes around,
Incumbent o'er the sceptre of his lord
Sleeps the stern eagle; by the number'd notes,
Possess'd; and satiate with the melting tone:
Sovereign of birds. The furious God of war,
His darts forgetting and the rapid wheels
That bear him vengeful o'er the embattled plain,
Relents, and sooths his own fierce heart to ease,
Unwonted ease. The sire of Gods and men,
In that great moment of divine delight,
Looks down on all that live; and whatsoe'er
He loves not, o'er the peopled earth and o'er
The interminated ocean, he beholds
Curs'd with abhorrence by his doom severe,
And troubled at the sound. Ye, Naiads, ye
With ravish'd ears the melody attend
Worthy of sacred silence. But the slaves
Of Bacchus with tempestuous clamours strive
To drown the heavenly strains; of highest Jove,
Irreverent; and by mad presumption fir'd
Their own discordant raptures to advance
With hostile emulation. Down they rush
From Nysa's vine-impurpled cliff, the dames
Of Thrace, the Satyrs, and the unruly Fauns,
With old Silenus, through the midnight gloom
Tossing the torch impure, and high in air
The brandish'd Thyrsus, to the Phrygian pipe's
Shrill voice, and to the clashing cymbals, mix'd
With shrieks and frantic uproar. May the Gods
From every unpolluted ear avert
Their orgies! If within the seats of men,
Within the seats of men, the walls, the gates
Which Pallas rules, if haply there be found
Who loves to mingle with the revel-band
And hearken to their accents; who aspires
From such instructers to inform his breast
With verse; let him, fit votarist, implore
Their inspiration. He perchance the gifts
Of young Lyaeus, and the dread exploits,
May sing in aptest numbers: he the fate
Of sober Pentheus, he the Paphian rites,
And naked Mars with Cytheraea chain'd,
And strong Alcides in the spinster's robe,
May celebrate, applauded. But with you,
O Naiads, far from that unhallow'd rout,
Must dwell the man whoe'er to praised themes
Invokes the immortal Muse. the immortal Muse
To your calm habitations, to the cave
Corycian or the Delphic mount, will guide
His footsteps; and with your unsullied streams
His lips will bathe: whether the eternal lore
Of Themis, or the majesty of Jove,
To mortals he reveal; or teach his lyre
The unenvied guerdon of the patriot's toils,
In those unfading islands of the blest,
Where sacred bards abide. Hail, honour'd Nymphs;
Thrice hail, for you the Cyrenaïc shell,
Behold, I touch, revering. To my songs
Be present ye with favourable feet,
And all profaner audience far remove.
ODE To the Right Honourable FRANCIS Earl of HUNTINGDON. MDCCXLVII.
By the Same.
I. 1.
THE wife and great of every clime,
Through all thy spacious walks of Time,
Where'er the Muse her power display'd,
With joy have listen'd and obey'd.
For, taught of heaven, the sacred Nine
Persuasive numbers, forms divine,
To mortal sense impart:
They best the soul with glory fire;
They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire;
And high o'er Fortune's rage inthrone the fixed heart.
I. 2.
Nor less prevailing is their charm
The vengeful bosom to disarm;
To melt the proud with human woe,
And prompt unwilling tears to flow.
Can wealth a power like this afford?
Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's sword,
An equal empire claim?
No, HASTINGS. Thou my words wilt own:
Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known;
Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.
I. 3.
The Muse's awful art,
And the fair function of the poet's tongue,
Ne'er shalt thou blush to honour; to assert
From all that scorned vice or slavish fear hath sung.
Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings
Warbling at will in pleasure's myrtle bower;
Nor shall the baser notes to Celtic kings
By lying minstrels paid in evil hour,
Move Thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign.
A different strain,
And other themes
From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams
(Thou well can'st witness) meet the purged ear:
Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell
Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear;
To hear the sweet instructress tell
(While men and heroes throng'd around)
How life its noblest use may find,
How best for freedom be resign'd;
And how, by glory, virtue shall be crown'd.
II. 1.
Such was the
Homer.
Chian father's strain
To many a kind domestic train,
Whose pious hearth and genial bowl
Had cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul:
When, every hospitable rite
With equal bounty to requite,
He struck his magic strings;
And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth,
And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth,
And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things.
II. 2.
Now oft, where happy spirits dwell,
Where yet he tunes his charming shell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The genius of his country stands.
To listening gods he makes him known,
That man divine, by whom were sown
The seeds of Graecian fame:
Who first the race with freedom fir'd;
From whom Lycurgus Sparta's sons inspir'd;
From whom Plataean palms and Cyprian trophies came.
II. 3.
O noblest, happiest age!
When Aristides rul'd, and Cimon fought;
When all the generous fruits of Homer's page
Exulting Pindar saw to full perfection brought.
O Pindar, oft shalt thou be hail'd of me:
Not that Apollo fed thee from his shrine;
Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee;
Nor yet that, studious of thy notes divine,
Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng;
But that thy song
Was proud to unfold
What thy base rulers trembled to behold;
Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell
The deeds of Athens and the Persian shame:
Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.
But thou, O faithful to thy fame,
The Muse's law didst rightly know;
That who would animate his lays,
And other minds to virtue raise,
Must feel his own with all her spirit glow.
III. 1.
Are there, approv'd of later times,
Whose verse adorn'd a
Octavius Caesar.
tyrant's crimes?
Who saw majestic Rome betray'd,
And lent the imperial ruffian aid?
Alas! not one polluted bard,
No, not the strains that Mincius heard,
Or Tibur's hills reply'd,
Dare to the Muse's ear aspire;
Save that, instructed by the Graecian lyre,
With freedom's ancient notes their shameful task they hide.
III. 2.
Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands,
Amid the domes of modern hands:
Amid the toys of idle state,
How simply, how severely great!
Then turn, and, while each western clime
Presents her tuneful sons to Time,
So mark thou Milton's name;
And add, "Thus differs from the throng
"The spirit which inform'd thy aweful song,
"Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame."
III. 3.
Yet hence barbaric zeal
His memory with unholy rage pursues;
While from these arduous cares of public weal
She bids each bard begone, and rest him with his Muse▪
O fool! to think the man, whose ample mind
Must grasp at all that yonder stars survey;
Must join the noblest form of every kind,
The world's most perfect image to display,
Can e'er his country's majesty behold,
Unmov'd or cold!
O fool! to deem
That He, whose thought must visit every theme,
Whose heart must every strong emotion know
By nature planted, or by fortune taught;
That He, if haply some presumptuous foe,
With false ignoble science fraught,
Shall spurn at freedom's faithful band;
That He, their dear defence will shun,
Or hide their glories from the sun,
Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand!
IV. 1.
I care not that in Arno's plain,
Or on the sportive banks of Seine,
From public themes the Muse's quire
Content with polish'd ease retire.
Where priests the studious head command,
Where tyrants bow the warlike hand
To vile ambition's aim,
Say, what can public themes afford,
Save venal honours to an hateful lord,
Reserv'd for angry heaven and scorn'd of honest fame?
IV. 2.
But here, where freedom's equal throne
To all her valiant sons is known;
Where all are conscious of her cares,
And each the power, that rules him, shares;
Here let the bard, whose daftard tongue
Leaves public arguments unsung,
Bid public praise farewell:
Let him to fitter climes remove,
Far from the heroe's and the patriot's love,
And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.
IV. 3.
O HASTINGS, not to all
Can ruling heav'n the same endowments lend:
Yet still doth nature to her offspring call,
That to one general weal their different powers they bend,
Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine
Inform the bosom of the Muse's son;
Though with new honours the patrician's line
Advance from age to age; yet thus alone
They win the suffrage of impartial fame,
The poet's name
He best shall prove,
Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move.
But thee, O progeny of heroes old,
Thee to severer toils thy fate requires:
The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould,
The grateful country of thy sires,
Thee to sublimer paths demand;
Sublimer than thy sires could trace,
Or thy own EDWARD teach his race,
Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.
V. 1.
From rich domains and subject farms,
They led the rustic youth to arms;
And kings their stern atchievements fear'd;
While private strife their banners rear'd.
But loftier scenes to thee are shown,
Where empire's wide-establish'd throne
No private master fills:
Where, long foretold, The People reigns:
Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains;
And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.
V. 2.
Here be it thine to calm and guide
The swelling democratic tide;
To watch the state's uncertain frame,
And baffle faction's partial aim:
But chiefly, with determin'd zeal,
To quell that servile band, who kneel
To freedom's banish'd foes;
That monster, which is daily found
Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound;
Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.
V. 3.
'Tis highest heaven's command,
That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue;
That what ensnares the heart should curb the hand,
And virtue's worthless foes be false to glory too.
But look on freedom. see, through every age,
What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd!
What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage,
Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd!
For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains
Of happy swains,
Which now resound
Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures bound,
Bear witness. there, oft let the farmer hail
The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate,
And shew to strangers passing down the vale,
Where Candish, Booth, and Osborne fate;
When bursting from their country's chain,
Even in the midst of deadly harms,
Of papal snares and lawless arms,
They plann'd for freedom this her aweful reign.
VI. 1.
This reign, these laws, this public care,
Which Nassau gave us all to share,
Had ne'er adorn'd the English name,
Could fear have silenc'd freedom's claim.
But fear in vain attempts to bind
Those lofty efforts of the mind
Which social good inspires;
Where men, for this, assault a throne,
Each adds the common welfare to his own;
And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all acquires.
VI. 2.
Say, was it thus, when late we view'd
Our fields in civil blood imbrued?
When fortune crown'd the barbarous host,
And half the astonish'd isle was lost?
Did one of all that vaunting train,
Who dare affront a peaceful reign,
Durst one in arms appear?
Durst one in counsels pledge his life?
Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife?
Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to cheer?
VI. 3.
Yet, HASTINGS, these are they,
Who challenge to themselves thy country's love:
The true; the constant: who alone can weigh,
What glory should demand, or Liberty approve!
But let their works declare them. Thy free powers,
The generous powers of thy prevailing mind,
Not for the tasks of their confederate hours,
Lewd brawls and lurking slander, were design'd.
Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise
Oft nobly sways
Ingenuous youth:
But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth,
Praise is reproach. Eternal GOD alone
For mortals fixeth that sublime award.
He, from the faithful records of his throne,
Bids the historian and the bard
Dispose of honour and of scorn;
Discern the patriot from the slave;
And write the good, the wise, the brave,
For lessons to the multitude unborn.
ODE To the Right Reverend BENJAMIN Lord Bishop of WINCHESTER.
By the Same.
I. 1.
FOR toils which patriots have endur'd,
For treason quell'd and laws secur'd,
In every nation Time displays
The palm of honourable praise.
Envy may rail; and faction fierce
May strive: but what, alas, can Those
(Though bold, yet blind and sordid foes)
To gratitude and love oppose,
To faithful story and persuasive verse?
I. 2.
O nurse of freedom, Albion, say,
Thou tamer of despotic sway,
What man, among thy sons arround,
Thus heir to glory hast thou found?
What page, in all thy annals bright,
Hast thou with purer joy survey'd
Than that where truth, by Hoadly's aid,
Shines through the deep unhallow'd shade
Of kingly fraud and sacerdotal night?
I. 3.
To him the Teacher bless'd
Who sent religion, from the palmy field
By Jordan, like the morn to cheer the west,
And lifted up the veil which heaven from earth conceal'd▪
To Hoadly thus He utter'd his behest:
"Go thou, and rescue my dishonour'd law
"From hands rapacious and from tongues impure▪
"Let not my peaceful name be made a lure
"The snares of savage tyranny to aid:
"Let not my words be impious chains to draw
"The free-born soul, in more than brutal awe,
"To faith without assent, allegiance unrepaid."
II. 1.
No cold nor unperforming hand
Was arm'd by heaven with this command.
The world soon felt it: and, on high,
To William's ear with welcome joy
Did Locke among the blest unfold
The rising hope of Hoadly's name:
Godolphin then confirm'd the fame;
And Somers, when from earth he came,
And valiant Stanhope the fair sequel told.
Mr. Locke died in
1704,
when Mr. Hoadly was beginning to distinguish himself in the cause of civil and religious liberty: Lord Godolphin in
1712,
when the doctrines of the Jacobite faction were chiefly favour'd by those in power: Lord Somers in
1716,
amid the practices of the nonjuring clergy against the protestant establishment; and lord Stanhope in
1721,
during the controversy with the lower house of convocation.
II. 2.
Then drew the lawgivers around,
(Sires of the Grecian name renown'd)
And listening ask'd, and wondering knew,
What private force could thus subdue
The vulgar and the great combin'd;
Could war with sacred folly wage;
Could a whole nation disengage
From the dread bonds of many an age,
And to new habits mould the public mind.
II. 3.
For not a conqueror's sword,
Nor the strong powers to civil founders known,
Were his: but truth by faithful search explor'd,
And social sense, like seed, in genial plenty sown.
Wherever it took root, the soul (restor'd
To freedom) freedom too for others sought.
Not monkish craft the tyrant's claim divine,
Not regal zeal the bigot's cruel shrine
Could longer guard from reason's warfare sage;
Not the wild rabble to sedition wrought,
Nor synods by the papal Genius taught,
Nor St. John's spirit loose, nor Atterbury's rage.
III. 1.
But where shall recompence be found?
Or how such arduous merit crown'd?
For look on life's laborious scene:
What rugged spaces lie between
Adventurous virtue's early toils
And her triumphal throne! The shade
Of death, mean time, does oft invade
Her progress; nor, to us display'd,
Wears the bright heroine her expected spoils.
III. 2.
Yet born to conquer is her power:
—O Hoadly, if that favourite hour
On earth arrive, with thankful awe
We own just heaven's indulgent law,
And proudly thy success behold;
We 'attend thy reverend length of days
With benediction and with praise,
And hail Thee in our public ways
Like some great spirit fam'd in ages old.
III. 3.
While thus our vows prolong
Thy steps on earth, and when by us resign'd
Thou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throng
Who rescu'd or preserv'd the rights of human kind,
O! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue
Thee still, her friend and benefactor, name:
O! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes,
May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize,
Make public virtue, public freedom vile;
Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaim
That heritage, our noblest wealth and fame,
Which Thou hast kept intire from force and factious guile.
INSCRIPTIONS.
By the Same.
I. For a GROTTO.
TO me, whom in their lays the shepherds call
Actaea, daughter of the neighbouring stream,
This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,
Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,
Were plac'd by Glycon. He with cowslips pale,
Primrose, and purple Lychnis, deck'd the green
Before my threshold, and my shelving walls
With honeysuckle cover'd. Here at noon,
Lull'd by the murmur of my rising fount,
I slumber: here my clustering fruits I tend;
Or from the humid flowers, at break of day,
Fresh garlands weave, and chace from all my bounds
Each thing impure or noxious. Enter-in,
O stranger, undismay'd. nor bat nor toad
Here lurks: and if thy breast of blameless thoughts
Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread
My quiet mansion: chiefly, if thy name
Wise Pallas and the immortal Muses own.
II. For a Statue of CHAUCER at WOODSTOCK.
SUCH was old Chaucer. such the placid mien
Of him who first with harmony inform'd
The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt
For many a cheerful day. these ancient walls
Have often heard him, while his legends blithe
He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles
Of homely life: through each estate and age,
The fashions and the follies of the world
With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance
From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come
Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain
Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold
To him, this other heroe; who, in times
Dark and untaught, began with charming verse
To tame the rudeness of his native land.
III.
WHOE'ER thou art whose path in summer lies
Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove
Of branching oaks a rural palace old
Imbosoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord
Of all the harvest round. and onward thence
A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
Fast by a silent rivilet. Humbly walk,
O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;
And on that verdant hilloc, which thou see'st
Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand
Sprinkle fresh water from the brook and strew
Sweet-smelling flow'rs. for there doth Edmund rest,
The learned shepherd; for each rural art
Fam'd, and for songs harmonious, and the woes
Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave
In manhood's prime. But soon did righteous heaven
With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care,
Avenge her falshood. nor could all the gold
And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith
From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,
Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside
The strokes of death. Go, traveller; relate
The mournful story. haply some fair maid
May hold it in remembrance, and be taught
That riches cannot pay for truth or love.
IV.
O YOUTHS and virgins: O declining eld:
O pale misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwell
Unknown with humble quiet; ye who wait
In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings:
O sons of sport and pleasure: O thou wretch
That weep'st for jealous love, or the sore wounds
Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand
Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam
In exile; ye who through the embattled field
Seek bright renown; or who for nobler palms
Contend, the leaders of a public cause;
Approach: behold this marble. Know ye not
The features? Hath not oft his faithful tongue
Told you the fashion of your own estate,
The secrets of your bosom? Here then, round
His monument with reverence while ye stand,
Say to each other: "Thi was Shakespear's form;
"Who walk'd in every path of human life,
"Felt every passion; and to all mankind
"Doth now, will ever that experience yield
"Which his own genius only could acquire."
V.
GULIELMUS III. FORTIS, PIUS, LIBERATOR, CUM INEUNTE AETATE PATRIAE LABENTI ADFUISSET SALUS IPSE UNICA; CUM MOX ITIDEM REIPUBLICAE BRITANNICAE VINDEX RENUNCIATUS ESSET ATQUE STATOR; TUM DENIQUE AD ID SE NATUM RECOGNOVIT ET REGEM FACTUM, UT CURARET NE DOMINO IMPOTENTI CEDERENT PAX, FIDES, FORTUNA, GENERIS HUMANI. AUCTORI PUBLICAE FELICITATIS P. G. A. M. A.
VI. For a Column at RUNNYMEDE.
THOU, who the verdant plain dost traverse here,
While Thames among his willows from thy view
Retires; O stranger, stay thee, and the scene
Around contemplate well. This is the place
Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms
And stern with conquest, from their tyrant king
(Then render'd tame) did challenge and secure
The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on
Till thou have bless'd their memory, and paid
Those thanks which God appointed the reward
Of public virtue. And if chance thy home
Salute thee with a father's honour'd name,
Go, call thy sons: instruct them what a debt
They owe their ancestors; and make them swear
To pay it, by transmitting down intire
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born,
ODE.
By the Same.
I.
IF rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be six'd in love's decrees,
That beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell,
What fair can Amoret excell?
II.
Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet (she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen)
We nought but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
III.
But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolick cheer,
Add half that sunshine to the hours,
Or make life's prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by▪
IV.
Yet nor a satirist could there
Or fault or indiscretion find;
Nor any prouder sage declare
One virtue, pictur'd in his mind,
Whose form with lovelier colours glows
Than Amoret's demeanor shows.
V.
This sure is beauty's happiest part:
This gives the most unbounded sway:
This shall inchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And She be still, in spite of time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
ODE TO THE TIBER. WRITTEN ABROAD.
By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD,
Esq
On entering the CAMPANIA of ROME, at OTRICOLI, MDCCLV.
I.
HAIL sacred Stream, whose waters roll
Immortal thro' the classic page!
To Thee the Muse-devoted soul,
Tho' destin'd to a later age
And less indulgent clime, to Thee,
Nor thou disdain, in runic lays
Weak mimic of true harmony,
His grateful homage pays.
Far other strains thine elder ear
With pleas'd attention wont to hear,
When he, who strung the Latian lyre,
And he, who led th' Aonian quire
From Mantua's reedy lakes with osiers crown'd,
Taught Echo from thy banks with transport to resound.
Thy banks?—alas, is this the boasted scene,
This dreary, wide, uncultivated plain,
Where sick'ning Nature wears a fainter green,
And Desolation spreads her torpid reign?
In this the scene where Freedom breath'd,
Her copious horn where Plenty wreath'd,
And Health at opening day
Bade all her roseate breezes fly,
To wake the sons of Industry,
And make their fields more gay?
II.
Where is the villa's rural pride,
The swelling dome's imperial gleam,
Which lov'd to grace thy verdant side,
And tremble in thy golden stream?
Where are the bold, the busy throngs,
That rush'd impatient to the war,
Or tun'd to peace triumphal songs,
And hail'd the passing car?
Along the solitary
The Flaminian way.
road,
Th' eternal flint by Consuls trod,
We muse, and mark the sad decays
Of mighty works, and mighty days!
For these vile wastes, we cry, had Fate decreed
That Veii's sons should strive, for these Camillus bleed?
Did here, in after-times of Roman pride,
The musing shepherd from Soracte's height
See towns extend where'er thy waters glide,
And temples rise, and peopled farms unite?
They did. For this deserted plain
The Hero strove, nor strove in vain:
And here the shepherd saw
Unnumber'd towns and temples spread,
While Rome majestic rear'd her head,
And gave the nations law.
III.
Yes, Thou and Latium once were great.
And still, ye first of human things,
Beyond the grasp of time or fate
Her fame and thine triumphant springs.
What tho' the mould'ring columns fall,
And strow the desart earth beneath,
Tho' ivy round each nodding wall
Entwine its fatal wreath,
Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast
The numerous glories thou hast lost?
Can ev'n Euphrates' palmy shore,
Or Nile, with all his mystic lore,
Produce from old records of genuine fame
Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name?
Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;
From every ruin's formidable shade
Eternal Music breathes on Fancy's ear,
And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.
Thy Caesars, Scipios, Catos rise,
The great, the virtuous, and the wise,
In solemn state advance!
They fix the philosophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The light'ning of the lance.
IV.
But chief that humbler happier train
Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, th' historian and the bard.
By them the hero's generous rage
Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page
Thy glory still survives.
Thro' deep Savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown thro' ages past,
Beneath the sun's directer beams
What copious torrents pour their streams!
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals swell their pride, or grace their storied urn▪
Whilst Thou, with Rome's exalted genius joins,
Her spear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd,
Can'st tell the waves, can'st tell the passing wind
Thy wond'rous tale, and cheer the list'ning waste.
Tho' from his caves th' unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempests forth,
Yet still thy laurels bloom:
One deathless glory still remains,
Thy stream
has
roll'd thro' LATIAN plains,
Has
wash'd the walls of ROME.
ELEGIES.
By the Same.
ELEGY I. Written at the CONVENT of HAUT VILLERS in CHAMPAGNE, 1754.
SILENT and clear, thro' yonder peaceful vale,
While Marne's slow waters weave their mazy way,
See, to th' exulting sun, and fost'ring gale,
What boundless treasures his rich banks display!
Fast by the stream, and at the mountain's base,
The lowing herds thro' living pastures rove;
Wide-waving harvests crown the rising space;
And still superior nods the viny grove.
High on the top, as guardian of the scene,
Imperial Sylvan spreads his umbrage wide;
Nor wants there many a cot, and spire between,
Or in the vale, or on the mountain's side,
To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole,
Claims the just tribute of his culturing care,
Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of soul,
The boon which Heaven accepts, of praise and prayer.
O dire effects of war! the time has been
When Desolation vaunted here her reign;
One ravag'd desart was yon beauteous scene,
And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.
Oft at his work the toilsome day to cheat
The swain still talks of those disastrous times,
When Guise's pride, and Condé's ill-star'd heat
Taught christian zeal to authorize their crimes:
Oft to his children sportive on the grass
Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell,
Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass
Where Force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell.
O dire effects of war!—may ever more
Thro' this sweet vale the voice of discord cease!
A British bard to Gallia's fertile shore
Can wish the blessings of eternal peace.
Yet say, ye monks, (beneath whose moss-grown seat,
Within whose cloister'd cells th' indebted Muse
Awhile sojourns, for meditation meet,
And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,)
Avails it aught, that War's rude tumult spare
Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field,
If niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,
You slight the joys their copious treasures yield?
Avails it aught that Nature's liberal hand
With every blessing grateful man can know
Cloaths the rich bosom of yon smiling land,
The mountain's sloping side, or pendant brow,
If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,
If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest,
If 'midst heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak,
You shun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feast!
Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads,
Her ample volume opens on your view,
The simple-minded swain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?
Look forth, and be convinc'd. Yon prospects wide
To Reason's ear how forcibly they speak,
Compar'd with those how dull is letter'd Pride,
And Austin's babbling Eloquence how weak!
Temp'rance, not Abstinence, in every bliss
Is Man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's command.
The wretch who riots thanks his God amiss:
Who starves, rejects the bounties of his hand.
Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides,
How smooth his course, how Nature smiles around!
But should impetuous torrents swell his tides,
The fairy landskip sinks in oceans drown'd.
Nor less disastrous should his thrifty urn
Neglected leave the once well-water'd land,
To dreary wastes yon paradise would turn,
Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren sand.
ELEGY II. On
It is now a garden belonging to Marchese di Corré.
the MAUSOLEUM of AUGUSTUS. To the Right Honourable George Bussy Villiers, Viscount Villiers. Written at ROME, 1756.
AMID these mould'ring walls, this marble round,
Where slept the Heroes of the Julian name,
Say, shall we linger still in thought profound,
And meditate the mournful paths to fame?
What tho' no cypress shades, in funeral rows,
No sculptur'd urns, the last records of Fate,
O'er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs,
Or breathe in storied emblems of the great;
Yet not with heedless eye will we survey
The scene tho' chang'd, nor negligently tread;
These variegated walks, however gay,
Were once the silent mansions of the dead.
In every shrub, in every flow'ret's bloom
That paints with different hues yon smiling plain,
Some Hero's ashes issue from the tomb,
And live a vegetative life again.
For matter dies not, as the Sages say,
But shifts to other forms the pliant mass,
When the free spirit quits its cumb'rous clay,
And sees, beneath, the rolling Planets pass.
Perhaps, my Villiers, for I sing to Thee,
Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives,
In yon fair scyon of Apollo's tree
The sacred dust of young Marcellus lives.
Pluck not the leaf—'twere sacrilege to wound
Th' ideal memory of so sweet a shade;
In these sad seats an early grave he found,
And
He is said to be the first person buried in this monument.
the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.
Witness
Quantus ille virum magnum Mavortis ad urbem Campus aget gemitus!
thou Field of Mars, that oft hadst known
His youthful triumphs in the mimic war,
Thou heardst the heart-felt universal groan
When o'er thy bosom roll'd the funeral car.
Witness
—Vel quae, Tyberine, videbis
Funera, cum tumulum praeterlabere recentem.
thou Tuscan stream, where oft he glow'd
In sportive strugglings with th' opposing wave,
Fast by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd
While wept the wise, the virtuous, and the brave.
O lost too soon!—yet why lament a fate
By thousands envied, and by Heaven approv'd.
Rare is the boon to those of longer date
To live, to die, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd.
Weak are our judgments, and our passions warm,
And slowly dawns the radiant morn of truth,
Our expectations hastily we form,
And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.
Too oft we satiate on th' applause we pay
To rising Merit, and resume the Crown;
Full many a blooming genius, snatch'd away,
Has fallen lamented who had liv'd unknown.
For hard the task, O Villiers, to sustain
Th' important burthen of an early fame;
Each added day some added worth to gain,
Prevent each wish, and answer every claim.
Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days!
But O remember, whatsoe'er thou art,
The most exalted breath of human praise
To please indeed must echo from the heart.
Tho' thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wise,
By all, like him, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd,
'Tis from within alone true Fame can rise,
The only happy, is the Self-approv'd.
ELEGY III. To the Right Honourable George Simon Harcourt, Visc. Newnham. Written at ROME, 1756.
YES, noble Youth, 'tis true; the softer arts,
The sweetly-sounding string, and pencil's pow'r,
Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts,
And taught the rude to wonder, and adore.
For Beauty charms us, whether she appears
In blended colours; or to soothing sound
Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears
In yonder swelling dome's harmonious round.
All, all she charms; but not alike to all
'Tis given to revel in her blissful bower;
Coercive ties, and Reason's powerful call
Bid some but taste the sweets, which some devour.
When Nature govern'd, and when Man was young,
Perhaps at will th' untutor'd Savage rov'd,
Where waters murmur'd, and where clusters hung
He fed, and slept beneath the shade he lov'd.
But since the Sage's more sagacious mind,
By Heaven's permission, or by Heaven's command,
To polish'd states has social laws assign'd,
And general good on partial duties plann'd,
Not for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend
As heedless Chance, or wanton Choice ordain;
On various stations various tasks attend,
And Men are
born
to trifle or to reign.
As chaunts the woodman whilst the Dryads weep,
And falling forests fear th' uplifted blow,
As chaunts the shepherd, while he tends his sheep,
Or weaves to pliant forms the osier bough,
To me 'tis given, whom Fortune loves to lead
Thro' humbler toils to life's sequester'd bowers,
To me 'tis given to wake th' amusive reed,
And sooth with song the solitary hours.
But Thee superior soberer toils demand,
Severer paths are thine of patriot fame;
Thy birth, thy friends, thy king, thy native land,
Have given thee honors, and have each their claim.
Then nerve with fortitude thy feeling breast
Each, wish to combat, and each pain to bear;
Spurn with disdain th' inglorious love of rest,
Nor let the syren Ease approach thine ear.
Beneath yon cypress shade's eternal green
See prostrate Rome her wond'rous story tell,
Mark how she rose the world's imperial queen,
And tremble at the prospect how she fell!
Not that my rigid precepts would require
A painful strugling with each adverse gale,
Forbid thee listen to th' enchanting Lyre,
Or turn thy steps from Fancy's flowery vale.
Whate'er of Greece in sculptur'd brass survives,
Whate'er of Rome in mould'ring arcs remains,
Whate'er of Genius on the canvass lives,
Or flows in polish'd verse, or airy strains,
Be these thy leisure; to the chosen few,
Who dare excel, thy fost'ring aid afford;
Their arts, their magic powers with honors due
Exalt; but
be
thyself what they record.
ELEGY IV. To an OFFICER. Written at Rome, 1756.
FROM Latian fields, the mansions of Renown,
Where fix'd the Warrior God his fated seat;
Where infant Heroes learnt the martial frown,
And little hearts for genuine glory beat;
What for my friend, my soldier, shall I frame?
What nobly glowing verse that breathes of arms,
To point his radiant path to deathless fame,
By great examples, and terrific charms?
Quirinus first, with bold, collected bands,
The sinewy sons of strength, for empire strove;
Beneath his thunder bow'd th' astonish'd lands,
And temples rose to Mars, and to Feretrian Jove.
War taught contempt of death, contempt of pain,
And hence the Fabii, hence the Decii come:
War urg'd the slaughter, tho' she wept the slain,
Stern War, the rugged nurse of virtuous Rome.
But not from antique fables will I draw,
To fire thy feeling soul, a dubious aid,
Tho' now, ev'n now, they strike with rev'rent awe,
By Poets or Historians sacred made.
Nor yet to thee the babling Muse shall tell
What mighty Kings with all their legions wrought,
What cities sunk, and storied nations fell
When Caesar, Titus, or when Trajan fought,
From private worth, and Fortune's private ways
Whilst o'er yon hill th' exalted
The trophies of
Marius,
now erected before the Capitol.
Trophy shows
To what vast heights of incorrupted praise
The great, the self-ennobled Marius rose.
From steep Arpinum's rock-invested shade,
From hardy Virtue's emulative school
His daring flight th' expanding Genius made,
And by obeying nobly learnt to rule.
Abash'd, confounded, stern Iberia groan'd,
And Afric trembled to her utmost coasts;
When the proud land its destin'd Conqueror own'd
In the new Consul, and his veteran hosts.
Yet Chiefs are madmen, and Ambition weak,
And mean the joys the laurel'd harvests yield,
If Virtue fail. Let Fame, let Envy speak
Of Capfa's walls, and Sextia's watry field.
But sink for ever, in oblivion cast,
Dishonest triumphs, and ignoble spoils.
Minturnae's Marsh severely paid at last
The guilty glories gain'd in civil broils.
Nor yet his vain contempt the Muse shall praise
For scenes of polish'd life, and letter'd worth;
The steel-rib'd Warrior wants not Envy's ways
To darken theirs, or call his merits forth,
Witness yon Cimbrian Trophies!—Marius, there
Thy ample pinion found a space to fly;
As the plum'd eagle soaring sails in air,
In upper air, and scorns a middle sky.
Thence too thy country claim'd thee for her own,
And bade the Sculptor's toil thy acts adorn,
To teach in characters of living stone
Eternal lessons to the youth unborn.
For wisely Rome her warlike Sons rewards
With the sweet labours of her Artists' hands;
He wakes her Graces, who her empire guards,
And both Minervas join in willing bands.
O why, Britannia, why untrophied pass
The patriot deeds thy godlike Sons display,
Why breathes on high no monumental brass,
Why swells no Arc to grace Culloden's Day?
Wait we till faithless France submissive bow
Beneath that Hero's delegated spear,
Whose light'ning smote Rebellion's haughty brow,
And scatter'd her vile rout with horror in the rear?
O Land of Freedom, Land of Arts, assume
That graceful dignity thy merits claim;
Exalt thy Heroes like imperial Rome,
And build their virtues on their love of fame.
So shall the modest worth, which checks my friend,
Forget its blush when rous'd by Glory's charms;
From breast to breast the generous warmth descend,
And still new trophies rise, at once, to Arts, and Arms.
ELEGY V. To a FRIEND Sick. Written at Rome, 1756.
'TWAS in this
The Insula Tiberina, where there are still some small remains of the famous temple of Aesculapius.
isle, O Wright indulge my lay,
Whose naval form divides the Tuscan flood,
In the bright dawn of her illustrious day
Rome fix'd her Temple to the healing God.
Here stood his altars, here his arm he bared,
And round his mystic staff the serpent twin'd,
Through crowded portals hymns of praise were heard,
And victims bled, and sacred seers divin'd.
On every breathing wall, on every round
Of column, swelling with proportion'd grace,
Its stated seat some votive tablet found,
And storied wonders dignified the place.
Oft from the balmy blessings of repose,
And the cool stillness of the night's deep shade,
To light and health th' exulting Votarist rose,
Whilst fancy work'd with med'cine's powerful aid.
Oft in his dreams (no longer clogg'd with fears
Of some broad torrent, or some headlong steep,
With each dire form Imagination wears
When harrass'd Nature sinks in turbid sleep)
Oft in his dreams he saw diffusive day
Through bursting glooms its cheerful beams extend;
On billowy clouds saw sportive Genii play,
And bright Hygeia from her heaven descend.
What marvel then, that man's o'erflowing mind
Should wreath-bound columns raise, and altars fair,
And grateful offerings pay, to Powers so kind,
Tho' fancy-form'd, and creatures of the Air.
Who that has writh'd beneath the scourge of pain,
Or felt the burthen'd languor of disease,
But would with joy the slightest respite gain,
And idolize the hand which lent him ease?
To Thee, my friend, unwillingly to thee
For truths like these the anxious Muse appeals.
Can Memory answer from affliction free,
Or speaks the sufferer what, I fear, he feels?
No, let me hope ere this in Romely grove
Hygeia revels with the blooming Spring,
Ere this the vocal seats the Muses love
With hymns of praise, like Paeon's temple, ring.
It was not written in the book of Fate
That, wand'ring far from Albion's sea-girt plain,
Thy distant Friend should mourn thy shorter date,
And tell to alien woods and streams his pain.
It was not written. Many a year shall roll,
If aught th' inspiring Muse aright presage,
Of blameless intercourse from Soul to Soul,
And friendship well matur'd from Youth to Age.
ELEGY VI. To another FRIEND. Written at Rome, 1756.
BEHOLD, my friend, to this small
The medal of Marcus Aurelius.
orb confin'd
The genuine features of Aurelius' face;
The father, friend, and lover of his kind,
Shrunk to a narrow coin's contracted space.
Not so his fame; for erst did heaven ordain
Whilst seas should waft us, and whilst suns should warm,
On tongues of men, the friend of man should reign,
And in the arts he lov'd the patron charm.
Oft as amidst the mould'ring spoils of Age,
His moss-grown monuments my steps pursue;
Oft as my eye revolves the historic page,
Where pass his generous acts in fair review,
Imagination grasps at many things,
Which men, which angels might with rapture see;
Then turns to humbler scenes its safer wings,
And, blush not whilst I speak it, thinks on thee.
With all that firm benevolence of mind,
Which pities, whilst it blames, th' unfeeling vain,
With all that active zeal to serve mankind,
That tender suffering for another's pain,
Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd?
Did heedless Fortune slumber at thy birth,
Or on thy virtues with indulgence gaz'd,
And gave her grandeurs to her sons of earth?
Happy for thee, whose less distinguished sphere
Now cheers in private the delighted eye,
For calm Content, and smiling Ease are there,
And, Heav'n's divinest gift, sweet Liberty.
Happy for me, on life's serener flood
Who sail, by talents as by choice restrain'd,
Else had I only shar'd the general good,
And lost the friend the Universe had gain'd.
The LYRIC MUSE to Mr. MASON. On the Recovery of the Right Honourable the Earl of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illness.
By the Same.
MASON, snatch the votive Lyre,
D'Arcy lives, and I inspire.
'Tis the Muse that deigns to ask,
Can thy hand forget its task?
Or can the Lyre its strains refuse
To the Patron of the Muse?
Hark, what notes of artless love
The feather'd poets of the grove,
Grateful for the bowers they fill,
Warble wild on Sion hill;
In tuneful tribute duely paid
To the Master of the shade!
And shall the Bard sit fancy-proof
Beneath the hospitable roof,
Where every menial face affords
Raptur'd thoughts that want but words?
And the Patron's dearer part,
The gentle sharer of his heart,
Wears her wonted charms again.
Time, that felt Affliction's chain,
Learns on lighter wings to move;
And the tender pledge of love,
Sweet Amelia, now is prest
With double transport to her breast.
Sweet Amelia, thoughtless why,
Imitates the general joy;
Innocent of care or guile
See the lovely Mimic smile,
And, as the heart-felt raptures rise,
Catch them from her Mother's eyes.
Does the noisy town deny
Soothing airs, and extacy?
Sion's shades afford retreat,
Thither bend thy pilgrim feet.
There bid th' imaginary train,
Coinage of the Poet's brain,
Not only in effects appear,
But forms, and limbs, and features wear.
Let festive Mirth, with flow'rets crown'd,
Lightly tread the measur'd round;
And Peace, that seldom knows to share
The Statesman's friendly bowl, be there;
While rosy Health, superior guest,
Loose to the Zephyrs bares her breast;
And, to add a sweeter grace,
Give her soft Amelia's face.
Mason, why this dull delay?
Haste, to Sion haste away.
There the Muse again shall ask,
Nor thy hand forget its task;
Nor the Lyre its strains refuse
To the Patron of the Muse.
On the IMMORTALITY of the SOUL.
TRANSLATED From the LATIN of ISAAC HAWKINS BROWN,
Esq
By SOAME JENNYNS,
Esq
BOOK I.
TO all inferior animals 'tis giv'n
T' enjoy the state allotted them by Heaven;
No vain researches e'er disturb their rest,
No fears of dark futurity molest.
Man, only Man solicitous to know
The springs whence Nature's operations flow,
Plods through a dreary waste with toil and pain,
And reasons, hopes, and thinks, and lives in vain;
For sable Death still hov'ring o'er his head,
Cuts short his progress, with his vital thread.
Wherefore, since Nature errs not, do we find
These seeds of Science in the human mind,
If no congenial fruits are predesign'd?
For what avails to man this pow'r to roam
Thro' ages past, and ages yet to come,
T' explore new worlds o'er all th' aetherial way,
Chain'd to a spot, and living but a day?
Since all must perish in one common grave,
Nor can these long laborious searches save,
Were it not wiser far, supinely laid,
To sport with Phyllis in the noontide shade?
Or at thy jovial festivals appear,
Great Bacchus, who alone the soul can clear
From all that it has felt, and all that it can fear?
Come on then, let us feast: let Chloe sing,
And soft Neaera touch the trembling string;
Enjoy the present hour, nor seek to know
What good or ill to-morrow may bestow.
But these delights soon pall upon the taste;
Let's try then if more serious cannot last:
Wealth let us heap on wealth, or fame pursue,
Let pow'r and glory be our points in view:
In courts, in camps, in senates let us live,
Our levees crowded like the buzzing hive:
Each weak attempt the same sad lesson brings,
Alas, what vanity in human things!
What means then shall we try? where hope to find
A friendly harbour for the restless mind?
Who still, you see, impatient to obtain
Knowledge immense, (so Nature's laws ordain)
Ev'n now, tho' fetter'd in corporeal clay,
Climbs step by step the prospect to survey,
And seeks, unweary'd, Truth's eternal ray.
No fleeting joys she asks, which must depend
On the frail senses, and with them must end;
But such as suit her own immortal fame,
Free from all change, eternally the same.
Take courage then, these joys we shall attain;
Almighty Wisdom never acts in vain;
Nor shall the soul, on which it has bestow'd
Such pow'rs, e'er perish, like an earthly clod;
But purg'd at length from foul corruption's stain,
Freed from her prison, and unbound her chain,
She shall her native strength, and native skies regain:
To heav'n an old inhabitant return,
And draw nectareous streams from truth's perpetual urn.
Whilst life remains, (if life it can be call'd
T' exist in fleshly bondage thus enthrall'd)
Tir'd with the dull pursuit of worldly things,
The soul scarce wakes, or opes her gladsome wings,
Yet still the godlike exile in disgrace
Retains some marks of her celestial race;
Else whence from Mem'ry's store can she produce
Such various thoughts, or range them so for use?
Can matter these contain, dispose, apply?
Can in her cells such mighty treasures lye?
Or can her native force produce them to the eye?
Whence is this pow'r, this foundress of all arts,
Serving, adorning life, thro' all its parts,
Which names impos'd, by letters mark'd those names,
Adjusted properly by legal claims,
From woods, and wilds collected rude mankind,
And cities, laws, and governments design'd?
What can this be, but some bright ray from heaven,
Some emanation from Omniscience given?
When now the rapid stream of Eloquence
Bears all before it, passion, reason, sense,
Can its dread thunder, or its lightning's force
Derive their essence from a mortal source?
What think you of the bard's enchanting art,
Which, whether he attempts to warm the heart
With fabled scenes, or charm the ear with rhyme,
Breathes all pathetic, lovely, and sublime?
Whilst things on earth roll round from age to age,
The same dull farce repeated; on the stage
The poet gives us a creation new,
More pleasing, and more perfect than the true;
The mind, who always to perfection hastes,
Perfection, such as here she never tastes,
With gratitude accepts the kind deceit,
And thence foresees a system more compleat.
Of those what think you, who the circling race
Of suns, and their revolving planets trace,
And comets journeying thro' unbounded space?
Say, can you doubt, but that th' all-searching soul,
That now can traverse heav'n from pole to pole;
From thence descending visits but this earth,
And shall once more regain the regions of her birth?
Could she thus act, unless some Power unknown,
From matter quite distinct, and all her own,
Supported, and impell'd her? She approves
Self-conscious, and condemns, she hates, and loves,
Mourns, and rejoices, hopes, and is afraid,
Without the body's unrequested aid:
Her own internal strength her reason guides,
By this she now compares things, now divides;
Truth's scatter'd fragments piece by piece collects,
Rejoins, and thence her edifice erects;
Piles arts on arts, effects to causes ties,
And rears th' aspiring fabric to the skies:
From whence, as on a distant plain below,
She sees from causes consequences flow,
And the whole chain distinctly comprehends,
Which from th' Almighty's throne to earth descends:
And lastly, turning inwardly her eyes,
Perceives how all her own ideas rise,
Contemplates what she is, and whence she came,
And almost comprehends her own amazing frame.
Can mere machines be with such pow'rs endued,
Or conscious of those pow'rs, suppose they cou'd?
For body is but a machine alone
Mov'd by external force, and impulse not its own.
Rate not the extension of the human mind
By the plebeian standard of mankind,
But by the size of those gigantic few,
Whom
Greece
and
Rome
still offer to our view;
Or
Britain
well-deserving equal praise,
Parent of heroes too in better days.
Why should I try her num'rous sons to name
By verse, law, eloquence consign'd to fame?
Or who have forc'd fair Science into sight,
Long lost in darkness, and afraid of light.
O'er all superior, like the solar ray
First
Bacon
usher'd in the dawning day,
And drove the mists of sophistry away;
Pervaded nature with amazing force,
Following experience still throughout his course,
And finishing at length his destin'd way,
To
Newton
he bequeathed the radiant lamp of day.
Illustrious souls! if any tender cares
Affect angelic breasts for man's affairs,
If in your present happy heav'nly state,
You're not regardless quite of
Britain
's fate,
Let this degen'rate land again be blest
With that true vigour, which she once possest;
Compel us to unfold our slumb'ring eyes,
And to our ancient dignity to rise.
Such wond'rous pow'rs as these must sure be given
For most important purposes by heav'n;
Who bids these stars as bright examples shine
Besprinkled thinly by the hand divine,
To form to virtue each degenerate time,
And point out to the soul its origin sublime.
That there's a self which after death shall live,
All are concern'd about, and all believe;
That something's ours, when we from life depart,
This all conceive, all feel it at the heart;
The wise of learn'd antiquity proclaim
This truth, the public voice declares the same;
No land so rude but looks beyond the tomb
For future prospects in a world to come.
Hence, without hopes to be in life repaid,
We plant slow oaks posterity to shade;
And hence vast pyramids aspiring high
Lift their proud heads aloft, and time defy.
Hence is our love of fame, a love so strong,
We think no dangers great, or labors long,
By which we hope our beings to extend,
And to remotest times in glory to descend.
For fame the wretch beneath the gallows lyes,
Disowning every crime for which he dies;
Of life profuse, tenacious of a name,
Fearless of death, and yet afraid of shame.
Nature has wove into the human mind
This anxious care for names we leave behind,
T' extend our narrow views beyond the tomb,
And give an earnest of a life to come:
For, if when dead, we are but dust or clay,
Why think of what posterity shall say?
Her praise, or censure cannot us concern,
Nor ever penetrate the silent urn.
What mean the nodding plumes, the fun'ral train,
And marble monument that speaks in vain,
With all those cares, which ev'ry nation pays
To their unfeeling dead in diff'rent ways!
Some in the flow'r-strewn grave the corpse have lay'd,
And annual obsequies around it pay'd,
As if to please the poor departed shade;
Others on blazing piles the body burn,
And store their ashes in the faithful urn;
But all in one great principle agree
To give a fancy'd immortality.
Why should I mention those, whose ouzy soil
Is render'd fertile by th' o'erflowing
Nile,
Their dead they bury not, nor burn with fires,
No graves they dig, erect no fun'ral pires,
But, washing first th' embowel'd body clean,
Gums, spice, and melted pitch they pour within;
Then with strong fillets bind it round and round,
To make each flaccid part compact, and sound;
And lastly paint the varnish'd surface o'er
With the same features, which in life it wore:
So strong their presage of a future state,
And that our nobler part survives the body's fate.
Nations behold remote from reason's beams,
Where
Indian Ganges
rolls his sandy streams,
Of life impatient rush into the fire,
And willing victims to their Gods expire!
Persuaded the loose soul to regions flies
Blest with eternal spring, and cloudless skies.
Nor is less fam'd the oriental wife
For stedfast virtue, and contempt of life:
These heroines mourn not with loud female cries
Their husbands lost, or with o'erflowing eyes,
But, strange to tell! their funeral piles ascend,
And in the same sad flames their sorrows end;
In hopes with them beneath the shades to rove,
And there renew their interrupted love.
In climes where
Boreas
breathes eternal cold,
See numerous nations, warlike, fierce, and bold,
To battle all unanimously run,
Nor fire, nor sword, nor instant death they shun:
Whence this disdain of life in ev'ry breast,
But from a notion on their minds imprest,
That all, who for their country die, are blest.
Add too to these the once prevailing dreams,
Of sweet Elysian groves, and
Stygian
streams:
All shew with what consent mankind agree
In the firm hope of Immortality.
Grant these th' inventions of the crafty priest,
Yet such inventions never could subsist.
Unless some glimmerings of a future state
Were with the mind coaeval, and innate:
For every fiction, which can long persuade,
In truth must have its first foundations laid.
Because we are unable to conceive,
How unembody'd souls can act, and live,
The vulgar give them forms, and limbs, and faces,
And habitations in peculiar places;
Hence reasoners more refin'd, but not more wise,
Struck with the glare of such absurdities,
Their whole existence sabulous suspect,
And truth and falshood in a lump reject;
Too indolent to learn what may be known,
Or else too proud that ignorance to own.
For hard's the task the daubing to pervade
Folly and fraud on Truth's fair form have laid;
Yet let that task be ours; for great the prize;
Nor let us Truth's celestial charms despise,
Because that priests, or poets may disguise.
That there's a God from Nature's voice is clear,
And yet what errors to this truth adhere?
How have the fears and follies of mankind
Now multiply'd their Gods, and now subjoin'd
To each the frailties of the human mind?
Nay superstition spread at length so wide,
Beasts, birds, and onions too were deify'd.
Th'
Athenian
sage revolving in his mind
This weakness, blindness, madness of mankind,
Foretold, that in maturer days, tho' late,
When time should ripen the decrees of Fate,
Some God would light us, like the rising day,
Thro' error's maze, and chase these clouds away.
Long since has Time fulfill'd this great decree,
And brought us aid from this divinity.
Well worth our search discoveries may be made
By Nature, void of the celestial aid:
Let's try what her conjectures then can reach,
Nor scorn plain Reason, when she deigns to teach.
That mind and body often sympathize
Is plain; such is this union Nature ties:
But then as often too they disagree,
Which proves the soul's superior progeny.
Sometimes the body in full strength we find.
Whilst various ails debilitate the mind;
At others, whilst the mind its force retains,
The body sinks with sickness and with pains:
Now did one common fate their beings end,
Alike they'd sicken, and alike they'd mend.
But sure experience, on the slightest view,
Shews us, that the reverse of this is true;
For when the body oft expiring lies,
Its limbs quite senseless, and half clos'd its eyes,
The mind new force, and eloquence acquires,
And with prophetic voice the dying lips inspires.
Of like materials were they both compos'd,
How comes it, that the mind, when sleep has clos'd
Each avenue of sense, expatiates wide
Her liberty restor'd, her bonds unty'd?
And like some bird who from its prison flies,
Claps her exulting wings, and mounts the skies.
Grant that corporeal is the human mind,
It must have parts
in infinitum
join'd;
And each of these must will, perceive, design,
And draw confus'dly in a different line;
Which then can claim dominion o'er the rest,
Or stamp the ruling passion in the breast?
Perhaps the mind is form'd by various arts
Of modelling, and figuring these parts;
Just as if circles wiser were than squares;
But surely common sense aloud declares
That site, and figure are as foreign quite
From mental pow'rs, as colours black or white.
Allow that motion is the cause of thought,
With what strange pow'rs must motion then be fraught?
Reason, sense, science, must derive their source
From the wheel's rapid whirl, or pully's force;
Tops whip'd by school-boys sages must commence,
Their hoops, like them, be cudgel'd into sense,
And boiling pots o'erflow with eloquence.
Whence can this very motion take its birth?
Not sure from matter, from dull clods of earth;
But from a living spirit lodg'd within,
Which governs all the bodily machine:
Just as th' Almighty Universal Soul
Informs, directs, and animates the whole.
Cease then to wonder how th' immortal mind
Can live, when from the body quite disjoin'd;
But rather wonder, if she e'er cou'd die,
So fram'd, so fashion'd for eternity;
Self-mov'd, not form'd of parts together ty'd,
Which time can dissipate, and force divide;
For beings of this make can never die,
Whose pow'rs within themselves, and their own essence lie.
If to conceive how any thing can be
From shape abstracted and locality
Is hard; what think you of the Deity?
His Being not the least relation bears,
As far as to the human mind appears,
To shape, or size, similitude or place,
Cloath'd in no form, and bounded by no space.
Such then is God, a Spirit pure refin'd
From all material dross, and such the human mind.
For in what part of essence can we see
More certain marks of Immortality?
Ev'n from this dark confinement with delight
She looks abroad, and prunes herself for flight;
Like an unwilling inmate longs to roam
From this dull earth, and seek her native home.
Go then forgetful of its toil and strife,
Pursue the joys of this fallacious life;
Like some poor fly, who lives but for a day,
Sip the fresh dews, and in the sunshine play,
And into nothing then dissolve away.
Are these our great pursuits, is this to live?
These all the hopes this much-lov'd world can give!
How much more worthy envy is their fate,
Who search for truth in a superior state?
Not groping step by step, as we pursue,
And following reason's much entangled clue,
But with one great, and instantaneous view.
But how can sense remain, perhaps you'll say,
Corporeal organs if we take away!
Since it from them proceeds, and with them must decay.
Why not? or why may not the soul receive
New organs, since ev'n art can these retrieve?
The silver trumpet aids th' obstructed ear,
And optic glasses the dim eye can clear;
These in mankind new faculties create,
And lift him far above his native state;
Call down revolving planets from the sky,
Earth's secret treasures open to his eye,
The whole minute creation make his own,
With all the wonders of a world unknown.
How cou'd the mind, did she alone depend
On sense, the errors of those senses mend?
Yet oft, we see those senses she corrects,
And oft their information quite rejects.
In distances of things, their shapes and size,
Our reason judges better than our eyes.
Declares not this the soul's preheminence
Superior to, and quite distinct from sense?
For sure 'tis likely, that, since now so high
Clogg'd and unfledg'd she dares her wings to try,
Loos'd, and mature, she shall her strength display,
And soar at length to Truth's refulgent ray.
Inquire you how these pow'rs we shall attain,
'Tis not for us to know; our search is vain:
Can any now remember or relate
How he existed in the embryo state?
Or one from birth insensible of day
Conceive ideas of the solar ray?
That light's deny'd to him, which, others see,
He knows, perhaps you'll say,—and so do we.
The mind contemplative finds nothing here
On earth, that's worthy of a wish or fear:
He, whose sublime pursuit is God and truth,
Burns, like some absent and impatient youth,
To join the object of his warm desires,
Thence to sequester'd shades, and streams retires,
And there delights his passion to rehearse
In wisdom's sacred voice, or in harmonious verse.
To me most happy therefore he appears,
Who having once, unmov'd by hopes or fears,
Survey'd this sun, earth, ocean, clouds, and flame,
Well satisfy'd returns from whence he came.
Is life a hundred years, or e'er so few,
'Tis repetition all, and nothing new:
A fair, where thousands meet, but none can stay,
An inn, where travellers bait, then post away;
A sea, where man perpetually is tost,
Now plung'd in bus'ness, now in trifles lost:
Who leave it first, the peaceful port first gain;
Hold then! no farther launch into the main:
Contract your sails; life nothing can bestow
By long continuance, but continu'd woe:
The wretched privilege daily to deplore
The funerals of our friends, who go before:
Diseases, pains, anxieties, and cares,
And age surrounded with a thousand snares.
But whither hurry'd by a generous scorn
Of this vain world, ah, whither am I borne?
Let's not unbid th' Almighty's standard quit,
Howe'er severe our post, we must submit.
Cou'd I a firm persuasion once attain
That after death no being wou'd remain;
To those dark shades I'd willingly descend,
Where all must sleep, this drama at an end:
Nor life accept, altho' renew'd by Fate
Ev'n from its earliest, and its happiest state.
Might I from Fortune's bounteous hand receive
Each boon, each blessing in her pow'r to give,
Genius, and science, morals, and good-sense,
Unenvy'd honors, wit and eloquence,
A numerous offspring to the world well known
Both for paternal virtues, and their own;
Ev'n at this mighty price I'd not be bound
To tread the same dull circle round, and round;
The soul requires enjoyments more sublime,
By space unbounded, undestroy'd by time.
BOOK II.
GOD then thro' all creation gives, we find,
Sufficient marks of an indulgent mind,
Excepting in ourselves; ourselves of all
His works the chief on this terrestrial ball,
His own bright image, who alone unblest
Feel ills perpetual, happy all the rest.
But hold, presumptuous? charge not heav'n's decree
With such injustice, such partiality.
Yet true it is, survey we life around,
Whole hosts of ills on ev'ry side are found;
Who wound not here and there by chance a foe,
But at the species meditate the blow.
What millions perish by each others hands
In war's fierce rage? or by the dread commands
Of tyrants languish out their lives in chains,
Or lose them in variety of pains?
What numbers pinch'd by want and hunger die,
In spite of Nature's liberality?
(Those, still more numerous, I to name disdain,
By lewdness, and intemperance justly slain;)
What numbers, guiltless of their own disease,
Are snatch'd by sudden death, or waste by slow degreee?
Where then is Virtue's well deserv'd reward!—
Let's pay to Virtue ev'ry due regard:
That she enables man, let us confess,
To bear those evils, which she can't redress;
Gives hope, and conscious peace, and can assuage
Th' impetuous tempests both of lust, and rage;
Yet she's a guard so far from being sure,
That oft her friends peculiar ills endure:
Where Vice prevails severest is their fate,
Tyrants pursue them with a three-fold hate.
How many struggling in their country's cause,
And from their country meriting applause,
Have fall'n by wretches fond to be inslav'd,
And perish'd by the hands themselves had sav'd?
Soon as superior worth appears in view,
See knaves, and fools united to pursue!
The man so form'd they all conspire to blame,
And Envy's pois'nous tooth attacks his fame;
Shou'd he at length, so truly good and great,
Prevail, and rule with honest views the state,
Then must he toil for an ungrateful race,
Submit to clamor, libels, and disgrace;
Threaten'd, oppos'd, defeated in his ends,
By foes seditious, and aspiring friends.
Hear this and tremble! all who wou'd be great,
Yet know not what attends that dang'rous wretched state.
Is private life from all these evils free?
Vice of all kinds, rage, envy there we see,
Deceit, that Friendship's mask insidious wears,
Quarrels, and feuds, and law's intangling snares.
But there are pleasures still in human life,
Domestic ease, a tender loving wife,
Children, whose dawning smiles your heart engage,
The grace, and comfort of soft-stealing age.
If happiness exists, 'tis surely here —
But are these joys exempt from care and fear?
Need I the miseries of that state declare,
When diff'rent passions draw the wedded pair?
Or say how hard those passions to discern,
Ere the die's cast, and 'tis too late to learn?
Who can insure, that what is right, and good,
These children shall pursue? or if they shou'd,
Death comes, when least you fear so black a day,
And all your blooming hopes are snatch'd away.
We say not, that these ills from Virtue flow:
Did her wise precepts rule the world, we know
The golden ages wou'd again begin,
But 'tis our lot in this to suffer, and to sin.
Observing this, some sages have decreed
That all things from two causes must proceed;
Two principles with equal pow'r endu'd,
This wholly evil, that supremely good.
From this arise the miseries we endure,
Whilst that administers a friendly cure;
Hence life is chequer'd still with bliss, and woe,
Hence tares with golden crops promiscuous grow,
And poisonous serpents make their dread repose
Beneath the covert of the fragrant rose.
Can such a system satisfy the mind,
Are both these Gods in equal pow'r conjoin'd,
Or one superior? Equal if you say,
Chaos returns, since neither will obey.
Is one superior? good, or ill must reign,
Eternal joy, or everlasting pain.
Whiche'er is conquer'd must entirely yield,
And the victorious God enjoy the field.
Hence with these fictions of the
Magi's
brain!
Hence ouzy
Nile,
with all her monstrous train!
Or comes the Stoic nearer to the right?
He holds, that whatsoever yields delight,
Wealth, fame, externals all, are useless things;
Himself half starving happier far than kings.
'Tis fine indeed to be so wond'rous wise!
By the same reas'ning too he pain denies;
Roast him▪ or flea him, break him on the wheel,
Retract he will not, tho' he can't but feel:
Pain's not an ill, he utters with a groan;
What then? an inconvenience 'tis, he'll own.
What? vigour, health, and beauty? are these good?
No: they may be accepted, not pursued:
Absurd to squabble thus about a name,
Quibbling with diff'rent words, that mean the same.
Stoic, were you not fram'd of flesh and blood,
You might be blest without external good;
But know, be self-sufficient as you can,
You are not spirit quite, but frail, and mortal man.
But since these sages, so absurdly wise,
Vainly pretend enjoyments to despise,
Because externals, and in Fortune's pow'r,
Now mine, now thine, the blessings of an hour;
Why value then, that strength of mind, they boast,
As often varying, and as quickly lost?
A head-ach hurts it, or a rainy day,
And a slow fever wipes it quite away.
See
Lord Somers.
one whose councils, one
Duke of Marlborough.
whose conqu'ring hand
Once sav'd Britannia's almost sinking land:
Examples of the mind's extensive pow'r,
Examples too how quickly fades that flow'r.
Dean Swift.
Him let me add, whom late we saw excel
In each politer kind of writing well;
Whether he strove our follies to expose
In easy verse, or droll and hum'rous prose;
Few years, alas! compel his throne to quit
This mighty monarch o'er the realms of wit,
See self-surviving he's an ideot grown!
A melancholy proof our parts are not our own.
Thy tenets, Stoic, yet we may forgive,
f in a future state we cease to live.
For here the virtuous suffer much, 'tis plain;
f pain is evil, this must God arraign;
And on this principle confess we must,
Pain can no evil be, or God must be unjust.
Blind man! whose reason such strait bounds confine,
That ere it touches truth's extremest line,
t stops amaz'd, and quits the great design.
Own you not, Stoic, God is just and true?
Dare to proceed; secure this path pursue:
Twill soon conduct you far beyond the tomb,
To future justice, and a life to come.
This path you say is hid in endless night,
Tis self-conceit alone obstructs your sight,
You stop, ere half your destin'd course is run,
And triumph, when the conquest is not won;
By this the Sophists were of old misled:
See what a monstrous race from one mistake is bred!
Hear then my argument: — confess we must,
A God there is, supremely wise and just:
If so, however things affect our sight,
As sings our bard,
whatever is, is right.
But is it right, what here so oft appears,
That vice shou'd triumph, virtue sink in tears?
The inference then, that closes this debate,
Is, that there must exist a future state.
The wise extending their enquiries wide
See how both states are by connection ty'd;
Fools view but part, and not the whole survey,
So crowd existence all into a day.
Hence are they led to hope, but hope in vain,
That Justice never will resume her reign;
On this vain hope adulterers, thieves rely,
And to this altar vile assassins fly.
"But rules not God by general laws divine?
"Man's vice, or virtues change not the design."
What laws are these? instruct us if you can: —
There's one design'd for brutes, and one for man:
Another guides inactive matter's course,
Attracting, and attracted by its force:
Hence mutual gravity subsists between
Far distant worlds, and ties the vast machine.
The laws of life why need I call to mind,
Obey'd by birds, and beasts of ev'ry kind;
By all the sandy desart's savage brood,
And all the num'rous offspring of the flood;
Of these none uncontroul'd, and lawless rove,
But to some destin'd end spontaneous move.
Led by that instinct, heav'n itself inspires,
Or so much reason, as their state requires;
See all with skill acquire their daily food,
All use those arms, which Nature has bestow'd;
Produce their tender progeny, and feed
With care parental, whilst that care they need;
n these lov'd offices compleatly blest,
No hopes beyond them, nor vain fears molest.
Man o'er a wider field extends his views;
God thro' the wonders of his works pursues,
Exploring thence his attributes, and laws,
Adores, loves, imitates th' Eternal Cause;
or sure in nothing we approach so nigh
The great example of divinity,
As in benevolence: the patriot's soul
Knows not self-center'd for itself to roll,
But warms, enlightens, animates the whole:
ts mighty orb embraces first his friends,
His country next, then man; nor here it ends,
But to the meanest animal descends.
Wise Nature has this social law confirm'd,
By forming man so helpless, and unarm'd;
His want of others' aid, and pow'r of speech
T' implore that aid, this lesson daily teach.
Mankind with other animals compare,
ingle how weak, and impotent they are!
But view them in their complicated state,
Their pow'rs how wond'rous, and their strength how great,
When social virtue individuals joins,
And in one solid mass, like gravity combines!
This then's the first great law by Nature giv'n,
Stamp'd on our souls, and ratify'd by Heav'n;
All from utility this law approve,
As ev'ry private bliss must spring from social love.
Why deviate then so many from this law?
See passions, custom, vice, and folly draw!
Survey the rolling globe from East to West,
How few, alas! how very few are blest?
Beneath the frozen poles, and burning line,
What poverty, and indolence combine,
To cloud with Error's mists the human mind?
No trace of man, but in the form we find.
And are we free from error, and distress,
Whom Heav'n with clearer light has pleas'd to bless?
Whom true Religion leads? (for she but leads
By soft persuasion, not by force proceeds;)
Behold how we avoid this radiant sun!
This proffer'd guide how obstinately shun,
And after Sophistry's vain systems run!
For these as for essentials we engage
In wars, and massacres, with holy rage;
Brothers by brothers' impious hands are slain,
Mistaken Zeal, how savage is thy reign!
Unpunish'd vices here so much abound,
All right, and wrong, all order they confound;
These are the giants, who the gods defy,
And mountains heap on mountains to the sky.
Sees this th' Almighty Judge, or seeing spares,
And deems the crimes of man beneath his cares?
He sees; and will at last rewards bestow,
And punishments, not less assur'd for being slow.
Nor doubt I, tho' this state confus'd appears,
That ev'n in this God sometimes interferes:
ometimes, lest man should quite his pow'r disown,
He makes that pow'r to trembling nations known:
t rarely this; not for each vulgar end,
s Superstition's idle tales pretend,
thinks all foes to God, who are her own,
Directs his thunder, and usurps his throne.
Nor know I not, how much a conscious mind
vails to punish, or reward mankind;
v'n in this life thou, impious wretch, must feel
he Fury's scourges, and th' infernal wheel;
om man's tribunal, tho' thou hop'st to run,
Thyself thou can'st not, nor thy conscience shun:
That must thou suffer, when each dire disease,
he progeny of Vice, thy fabric seize?
onsumption, fever, and the racking pain
f spasms, and gout, and stone, a frightful train!
Then life new tortures can alone supply,
se thy sole hope thou'lt hate, yet dread to die.
Shou'd such a wretch to num'rous years arrive,
can be little worth his while to live;
No honors, no regards his age attend,
Companions fly: he ne'er cou'd have a friend:
His flatterers leave him, and with wild affright
He looks within, and shudders at the sight:
When threatning Death uplifts his pointed dart,
With what impatience he applies to art,
Life to prolong amidst disease and pains!
Why this, if after it no sense remains?
Why shou'd he chuse these miseries to endure,
If Death cou'd grant an everlasting cure?
'Tis plain there's something whispers in his ear,
(Tho' fain he'd hide it) he has much to fear.
See the reverse! how happy those we find,
Who know by merit to engage mankind?
Prais'd by each tongue, by ev'ry heart belov'd,
For Virtues practis'd, and for Arts improv'd:
Their easy aspects shine with smiles serene,
And all is peace, and happiness within:
Their sleep is ne'er disturb'd by fears, or strife,
Nor lust, nor wine, impair the springs of life.
Him Fortune can not sink, nor much elate,
Whose views extend beyond this mortal state;
By age when summon'd to resign his breath,
Calm, and serene, he sees approaching death,
As the safe port, the peaceful silent shore,
Where he may rest, life's tedious voyage o'er:
He, and he only, is of death afraid,
Whom his own conscience has a coward made;
Whilst he, who Virtue's radiant course has run,
Descends like a serenely-setting sun:
His thoughts triumphant Heav'n alone employs,
And hope anticipates his future joys.
So good, so blest th' illustrious
Bishop of Worcester.
Hough
we find,
Whose image dwells with pleasure on my mind;
The Mitre's glory, Freedom's constant friend,
n times which ask'd a champion to defend;
Who after near a hundred virtuous years,
His senses perfect, free from pains and fears,
Replete with life, with honors, and with age,
Like an applauded actor left the stage;
Or like some victor in th' Olympic games,
Who having run his course, the crown of Glory claims.
From this just contrast plainly it appears,
How Conscience can inspire both hopes and fears;
But whence proceed these hopes, or whence this dread,
If nothing really can affect the dead?
See all things join to promise, and presage
The sure arrival of a future age!
Whate'er their lot is here, the good and wise,
Nor doat on life, nor peevishly despise.
An honest man, when Fortune's storms begin,
Has Consolation always sure within,
And, if she sends a more propitious gale,
He's pleas'd, but not forgetful it may fail.
Nor fear that he, who sits so loose to life,
Shou'd too much shun its labors, and its strife;
And scorning wealth, contented to be mean,
Shrink from the duties of this bustling scene;
Or, when his country's safety claims his aid,
Avoid the fight inglorious, and afraid:
Who scorns life most must surely be most brave,
And he, who pow'r contemns, be least a slave:
Virtue will lead him to Ambition's ends,
And prompt him to defend his country, and his friends.
But still his merit you can not regard,
Who thus pursues a posthumous reward;
His soul, you cry, is uncorrupt and great,
Who quite uninfluenc'd by a future state,
Embraces Virtue from a nobler sense
Of her abstracted, native excellence,
From the self-conscious joy her essence brings,
The beauty, fitness, harmony of things.
It may be so: yet he deserves applause,
Who follows where instructive Nature draws;
Aims at rewards by her indulgence giv'n,
And soars triumphant on her wings to heav'n.
Say what this venal virtuous man pursues,
No mean rewards, no mercenary views;
Not wealth usurious, or a num'rous train,
Not fame by fraud acquir'd, or title vain!
He follows but where Nature points the road,
Rising in Virtue's school, till he ascends to God.
But we th' inglorious common herd of man,
Sail without compass, toil without a plan;
In Fortune's varying storms for ever tost,
Shadows pursue, that in pursuit are lost;
Mere infants all, till life's extremest day,
Scrambling for toys, then tossing them away.
Who rests of Immortality assur'd
Is safe, whatever ills are here endur'd:
He hopes not vainly in a world like this,
To meet with pure uninterrupted bliss;
For good and ill, in this imperfect state,
Are ever mix'd by the decrees of Fate.
With Wisdom's richest harvest Folly grows,
And baleful hemlock mingles with the rose;
All things are blended, changeable, and vain,
No hope, no wish we perfectly obtain;
God may perhaps (might human Reason's line
Pretend to fathom infinite design)
Have thus ordain'd things, that the restless mind
No happiness compleat on earth may find;
And, by this friendly chastisement made wise,
To heav'n her safest, best retreat may rise.
Come then, since now in safety we have past
Thro' Error's rocks, and see the port at last,
Let us review, and recollect the whole.—
Thus stands my argument. —The thinking soul
Cannot terrestrial, or material be,
But claims by Nature Immortality:
God, who created it, can make it end,
We question not, but cannot apprehend
He will; because it is by him endued
With strong ideas of all perfect Good:
With wond'rous pow'rs to know, and calculate
Things too remote from this our earthly state;
With sure presages of a life to come,
All false and useless; if beyond the tomb
Our beings cease: we therefore can't believe
God either acts in vain, or can deceive.
If ev'ry rule of equity demands,
That Vice and Virtue from the Almighty's hands,
Shou'd due rewards, and punishments receive,
And this by no means happens whilst we live,
It follows, that a time must surely come,
When each shall meet their well-adjusted doom:
Then shall this scene, which now to human sight
Seems so unworthy Wisdom infinite,
A system of consummate skill appear,
And ev'ry cloud dispers'd, be beautiful and clear.
Doubt we of this! what solid proof remains,
That o'er the world a wise Disposer reigns?
Whilst all Creation speaks a pow'r divine,
Is it deficient in the main design?
Not so: the day shall come, (pretend not now
Presumptuous to enquire or when, or how)
But after death shall come th' important day,
When God to all his justice shall display;
Each action with impartial eyes regard,
And in a just proportion punish and reward.
The ARBOUR: An ODE to CONTENTMENT.
By Mr. THOMAS COLE.
TO these lone shades, where Peace delights to dwell,
May Fortune oft permit me to retreat;
Here bid the world, with all its cares, farewel,
And leave its pleasures to the rich and great.
Oft as the summer's sun shall cheer this scene,
With that mild gleam which points his parting ray,
Here let my soul enjoy each eve serene,
Here share its calm, 'till life's declining day.
No gladsome image then should 'scape my sight,
From these gay flow'rs, which border near my eye,
To yon bright cloud, that decks, with richest light,
The gilded mantle of the western sky.
With ample gaze, I'd trace that ridge remote,
Where op'ning cliffs disclose the boundless main;
With earnest ken, from each low hamlet note
The steeple's summit peeping o'er the plain.
What various works that rural landscape fill,
Where mingling hedge-rows beauteous fields inclose;
And prudent Culture, with industrious skill,
Her chequer'd scene of crops and fallows shows?
How should I love to mark that riv'let's maze,
Through which it works its untaught course along;
Whilst near its grassy banks the herd shall graze,
And blithsome milkmaid chaunt her thoughtless song?
Still would I note the shades of length'ning sheep,
As scatter'd o'er the hill's slant brow they rove;
Still note the day's last glimm'ring lustre creep
From off the verge of yonder upland grove.
Nor should my leisure seldom wait to view
The slow-wing'd rooks in homeward train succeed;
Nor yet forbear the swallow to pursue,
With quicker glance, close skimming o'er the mead.
But mostly here should I delight t' explore
The bounteous laws of Nature's mystic pow'r;
Then muse on him who blesseth all her store,
And give to solemn thoughts the sober hour.
Let Mirth unenvy'd laugh with proud disdain,
And deem it spleen one moment thus to waste;
If so she keep far hence her noisy train,
Nor interrupt those joys she cannot taste.
Far sweeter streams shall flow from Wisdom's spring,
Than she receives from Folly's costliest bowl;
And what delights can her chief dainties bring,
Like those which feast the heavenly-pensive soul?
Hail Silence then! be thou my frequent guest;
For thou art wont my gratitude to raise,
As high as wonder can the theme suggest,
Whene'er I meditate my Maker's praise.
What joy for tutor'd Piety to learn,
All that my christian solitude can teach,
Where weak-ey'd Reason's self may well discern
Each clearer truth the gospel deigns to preach?
No object here but may convince the mind,
Of more than thoughtful honesty shall need;
Nor can Suspense long question here to find
Sufficient evidence to fix its creed.
'Tis God that gives this bow'r its aweful gloom;
His arched verdure does its roof invest;
He breathes the life of fragrance on its bloom;
And with his kindness makes its owner blest.
Oh! may the guidance of thy grace attend
The use of all thy bounty shall bestow;
Lest folly should mistake its sacred end,
Or vice convert it into means of woe.
Incline and aid me still my life to steer,
As conscience dictates what to shun or chuse;
Nor let my heart feel anxious hope or fear,
For aught this world can give me or refuse.
Then shall not wealth's parade one wish excite,
For wretched state to barter peace away;
Nor vain ambition's lure my pride invite,
Beyond Contentment's humble path to stray.
What tho' thy wisdom may my lot deny,
The treasur'd plenty freely to dispense;
Yet well thy goodness can that want supply
With larger portions of benevolence.
And sure the heart that wills the gen'rous deed,
May all the joys of Charity command;
For she best loves from notice to recede,
And deals her unsought gifts with secret hand.
Then will I sometimes bid my fancy steal,
That unclaim'd wealth no property restrains;
Soothe with fictitious aid my friendly zeal,
And realize each godly act she feigns.
So shall I gain the gold without alloy;
Without oppression, toil, or treach'rous snares;
So shall I know its use, its pow'r employ,
And yet avoid its dangers and its cares.
And spite of all that boastful wealth can do,
In vain would Fortune strive the rich to bless,
Were they not flatter'd with some distant view
Of what she ne'er can give them to possess.
E'en Wisdom's high conceit great wants would feel,
If not supply'd from Fancy's boundless store;
And nought but shame makes pow'r itself conceal,
That she, to satisfy, must promise more.
But tho' experience will not fail to show,
Howe'er its truth man's weakness may upbraid,
That what he mostly values here below,
Owes half its relish to kind Fancy's aid;
Yet should not Prudence her light wing command,
She may too far extend her heedless flight;
For Pleasure soon shall quit her fairy-land
If Nature's regions are not held in sight.
From Truth's abode, in search of kind deceit,
Within due limits she may safely roam;
If roving does not make her hate retreat,
And with aversion shun her proper home.
But thanks to those, whose fond parental care
To Learning's paths my youthful steps confin'd,
I need not shun a state which lets me share
Each calm delight that soothes the studious mind.
While genius lasts,
his
fame shall ne'er decay,
Whose artful hand first caus'd its fruits to spread;
In lasting volumes stampt the printed lay,
And taught the Muses to embalm the dead.
To him I owe each fair instructive page,
Where Science tells me what her sons have known;
Collects their choicest works from ev'ry age,
And makes me wise with knowledge not my own.
Books rightly us'd may ev'ry state secure:
From fortune's evils may our peace defend;
May teach us how to shun, or to endure,
The foe malignant, and the faithless friend.
Should rigid Want withdraw all outward aid,
Kind stores of inward comfort they can bring;
Should keen Disease life's tainted stream invade,
Sweet to the soul from them pure health may spring.
Should both at once man's weakly frame infest,
Some letter'd charm may still relief supply;
'Gainst all events prepare his patient breast,
And make him quite resign'd to live, or die.
For tho' no words can time or fate restrain;
No sounds suppress the call of Nature's voice;
Tho' neither rhymes, nor spells, can conquer pain,
Nor magic's self make wretchedness our choice,
Yet reason, while it forms the subtile plan,
Some purer source of pleasure to explore,
Must deem it vain for that poor pilgrim, man,
To think of resting 'till his journey's o'er;
Must deem each fruitless toil, by heav'n design'd
To teach him where to look for real bliss;
Else why should heav'n excite the hope to find
What balk'd pursuit must here for ever miss?
The GROTTO: An ODE to SILENCE.
By the Same.
COME, musing Silence, nor refuse to shed
Thy sober influence o'er this darkling cell;
Thy desart waste and lonely plain,
Could ne'er confine thy peaceful reign;
Nor dost thou only love to dwell
Mid the dark mansions of the vaulted dead:
For still at eve's serenest hour,
All Nature owns thy soothing pow'r:
Oft hast thou deign'd with me to rove,
Beneath the calm sequester'd grove;
Oft deign'd my secret steps to lead
Along the dewy pathless mead;
Or up the dusky lawn, to spy
The last faint gleamings of the twilight sky.
Then wilt thou still thy pensive vot'ry meet,
Oft as he calls thee to this gloomy seat:
For here, with many a solemn mystic rite,
Wert thou invok'd to consecrate the ground,
Ere these rude walls were rear'd remote from sight,
Or ere with moss this shaggy roof was crown'd
Hail! blessed parent of each purer thought,
That doth at once the heart exalt and mend!
Here wilt thou never fail to find
My vacant solitude inclin'd
Thy serious lessons to attend.
For they I ween shall be with goodness fraught,
Whether thou bid me meditate
On man, in untaught nature's state;
How far this life he ought to prize;
How far its transient scenes despise:
What heights his reason may attain,
And where its proud attempts are vain:
What toils his virtue ought to brave,
For Hope's rewarding joys beyond the grave:
Or if in man redeem'd you bid me trace
Each wond'rous proof of heav'n's transcendent grace;
Then breathe some sparks of that celestial fire,
Which in the raptur'd seraph glows above,
Where sainted myriads crowd the joyful choir,
And harp their praises round the throne of love.
The trifling sons of Levity and Pride
Hence shall thy aweful seriousness exclude;
Nor shall loud Riot's thoughtless train
With frantic mirth this grott profane.
No foe to peace shall here intrude.
For thou wilt kindly bid each sound subside,
Save such as soothes the list'ning sense,
And serves to aid thy influence:
Save where, soft-breathing o'er the plain,
Mild Zephyr waves the rustling grain:
Or where some stream, from rocky source,
Slow trickles down its ceaseless course:
Or where the sea's imperfect roar
Comes gently murm'ring from the distant shore.
But most in Philomel, sweet bird of night,
In plaintive Philomel, is thy delight:
For she, or studious to prolong her grief,
Or oft to vary her exhaustless lay,
With frequent pause, from thee shall seek relief,
Nor close her strain, till dawns the noisy day.
Without thy aid, to happier tasteful art,
No deep instructive science could prevail:
For only where thou dost preside,
Can wit's inventive pow'rs be tried:
And reason's better task would fail,
Did not thy haunts the serious theme impart.
The critic, that with plodding head
Toils o'er the learning of the dead;
The cloister'd hermit that explores,
By midnight lamp, religion's stores;
Each sage that marks, with thoughtful gaze,
The lunar orb, or planet's maze;
And ev'ry bard, that strays along
The sylvan shade, intent on sacred song;
Shall all to thee those various praises give,
Which, through thy friendly aid, themselves receive:
For tho' thou mayst from glory's seats retire,
Where loud applause proclaims the honour'd name;
Yet doth thy modest wisdom still inspire
Each nobler work that swells the voice of Fame.
The PICTURE of HUMAN LIFE.
Translated from the GREEK of CEBES the THEBAN.
By Mr. T. SCOTT.
Et vitae monstrata via est.
HOR.
WHILE
Saturn
's
This temple was probably in the city of
Thebes,
fo
Cebes
was a
Theban.
fane with solemn step we trod,
And view'd the
Devout offerings, for the most part in discharge of vows.
votive honours of the God,
A pictur'd tablet, o'er the portal rais'd,
Attach'd our eye: in wonder lost, we gaz'd.
The pencil there some strange device had wrought,
And fables, all its own, disguis'd the thought.
Nor camp it seem'd, nor city: the design,
Whose moral mock'd our labour to divine,
Was a wall'd court, where rose another bound,
And, higher still, a third still less'ning ground.
The nether area open'd, at a gate
Where a vast crowd impatient seem'd to wait.
Within, a group of female figures stood,
In motley dress, a sparkling multitude.
Without, in station at the porch, was seen
A venerable form, in act and mien
Like some great teacher who with urgent tongue,
Authoritative, warn'd the rushing throng.
From doubt to doubt we wander'd; when appear'd
A sire, who thus the hard solution clear'd.
Strangers, that allegoric scene, I guess,
Conquers your skill, our home-born wits no less.
A foreigner, long since, whose nobler mind
Learning's best culture to strong genius join'd,
Here liv'd, convers'd, and shew'd th' admiring age
Another
Samian
or
Elean
sage.
He rear'd this dome to
Saturn
's aweful name,
And gave that portrait to eternal same.
He reason'd much, high argument he chose,
High as his theme his great conceptions rose.
Such wisdom flowing from a mouth but young
I heard astonish'd, and enjoy'd it long:
Him oft I heard this moral piece expound,
With nervous eloquence and sense profound.
Father, if leisure with thy will conspire,
Yield, yield that comment to our warm desire.
Free to bestow, I warn you first, beware:
Danger impends, which summons all your care.
Wise, virtuous, blest, whose heart our precepts gain,
The
Caselian
and
Salmasian
editions read
wicked, instead of
bitter.
JOHNSON.
Abandon'd, blind, and wretched, who disdain.
For know, our purpos'd theme resembles best
The fam'd
Enigma
of the
Theban
pest:
Th' interpreter a plighted crown enjoy'd,
The stupid perish'd, by the Sphinx destroy'd.
Count folly as a Sphinx to all mankind,
Her problem, How is Good and Ill defin'd?
Misjudging here, by Folly's law we die,
Not instant victims of her cruelty;
From day to day our reasoning part she wounds,
Devours its strength, its noblest pow'rs confounds:
Awakes the lash of
Vid.
v. 186.
Punishment,
and tears
The mind with pangs which guilty life prepares,
With opposite effect, where thoughtful skill
Discerns the boundaries of Good and Ill,
Folly must perish; and th' illumin'd breast
To Virtue sav'd, is like th' immortals blest.
Give audience, then, with no unheeding ear.
O haste, no heedless auditors stand here,
With strong desire, in dread suspence we wait,
So great the blessing, and the bane so great.
Instant, he rais'd his oratorial hand,
And said (our eye he guided with a wand)
Behold life's pencil'd scene, the natal gate,
The numbers thronging into mortal state.
Which danger's path, and which to safety bears,
That ancient,
Genius of mankind,
declares.
See him aloft, benevolent he bends,
One hand is pointing, one a roll extends
Reason's imperial code; by heav'n imprest
In living letters on the human breast.
Oppos'd to him,
Delusion
plies her part,
With skin of borrow'd snow, and blush of art,
With hypocritic fawn, and eyes askance
Whence soft infection steals in every glance,
Her faithless hand presents a crystal bowl,
Whose pois'nous draught intoxicates the soul.
Error and ignorance infus'd, compose
The fatal beverage which her fraud bestows.
Is that the hard condition of our birth?
Must all drink Error who appear on earth?
All; yet in some their measure drowns the mind,
Others but taste, less erring and less blind.
The first court, or the sensual life.
Th'
Opinions,
and
Desires,
and
Pleasures
rise
Behind the gate, thick-glitt'ring on our eyes;
Thick as bright atoms in the solar ray,
Diverse their drap'ry and profusely gay.
These tempting forms, each like a mistress drest,
Our early steps with powerful charms arrest:
Soon as we enter life, with various art
Of dalliance they assail th' unguarded heart.
All promise joy, we rush to their embrace;
To bliss or ruin here begins our race.
Happy, thrice happy, who intrust their youth
To
right Opinions,
and ascend to
Truth:
Whom
Wisdom
tutors, whom the
Virtues
hail,
And with their own substantial feast regale.
The rest are harlots: by their flatt'ries won,
In chase of empty sciences we run:
Or Fortune's vanities pursue, and stray
With
sensual Pleasure
in more dang'rous way.
See the mad rounds their giddy followers tread,
Delusion
's cup strong-working in their head.
Fast as one shoal of fools have delug'd thro',
Succeeding shoals the busy farce renew.
Who on that globe stands stretching to her flight?
Wild seems her aspect, and bereav'd of sight.
Fortune,
blind, frantic, deaf. With restless wings
The world she ranges, and her favours flings:
Flings and resumes, and plunders and bestows,
Caprice divides the blessings and the woes.
Her grace unstable as her tott'ring ball,
Whene'er she smiles she meditates our fall.
When most we trust her, we are cheated most,
In desolating loss we mourn our boast:
Her cruel blast invades our hasty fruit,
And withers all our glory at the root.
What mean those multitudes around her? Why
Such motley attitudes perplex our eye?
Some, in the act of wildest rapture, leap,
In agony some wring their hands, and weep.
Th' unreas'ning crowd; to passion's sequel blind,
By passion fir'd and impotent of mind:
Competitors in clamorous, suit to share
The toys she tosses with regardless air;
Trifles, for solid worth by most pursu'd,
Bright-colour'd vapours and fantastic good:
The pageantry of wealth, the blaze of fame,
Titles, an offspring to extend the name,
Huge strength, or beauty which the strong obey,
The victor's laurel, and despotic sway.
These, humour'd in their vows, with lavish praise
The glory of the gracious goddess raise:
Those other, losers in her chance full game,
Shorn of their all, or frustrate in their aim,
In murmurs of their hard mishap complain,
And curse her partial and malignant reign.
Now, further still in this low sensual ground,
Traverse yon flow'ry mount's sequester'd bound.
In the green center of those citron shades,
'Mong gardens, fountains, bow'ry walks, and glades,
Voluptuous Sin
her pow'rful spells employs,
Souls to seduce, seducing she destroys.
See!
Lewdness,
loosely zon'd, her bosom bares,
See!
Riot
her luxurious bowl prepares:
There stands
Avidity,
with ardent eye,
There dimpling
Adulation
smooths her lye.
There station'd to what end?
In watch for prey,
Fortune
's infatuate favourites of a day.
These they caress, they flatter, they entreat
To try the pleasures of their soft retreat,
Life disencumber'd, frolicksom, and free,
All ease▪ all mirth, and high felicity.
Whome'er by their inveigling arts they win
To tread that magic paradise of
Sin,
In airy dance his jocund hours skim round,
Sparkles the bowl, the festal songs resound:
His blood ferments, fir'd by the wanton glance,
And his loose soul dissolves in am'rous trance.
While circulating joys to joys succeed,
While new delights the sweet delirium feed;
The prodigal, in raptur'd fancy, roves
O'er fairy fields and thro' Elysian groves:
Sees glitt'ring visions in succession rise,
And laughs at
Socrates
the chaste and wise.
'Till, sober'd by distress, awake, confus'd,
Amaz'd, he knows himself a wretch abus'd;
A short illusion his imagin'd feast,
Himself the game, himself the slaughter'd beast.
Now, raving for his squander'd wealth in vain,
Slave to those tyrant jilts he drags their chain:
Compell'd to suffer hard and hungry need,
Compell'd to dare each foul and desp'rate deed.
Villain, or knave, he joins the sharping tribe,
Robs altars, or is perjur'd for a bribe:
Stabs for a purse, his country pawns for gold,
To every crime of blackest horror sold.
Shiftless at length, of all resource bereft,
In the dire gripe of
Punishment
he's left.
Observe this strait-mouth'd cave: th' unwilling light
Just shews the dismal deep descent to night.
In centry see these haggard crones, whose brows
Rude locks o'erhang, a frown their forehead plows:
Swarthy and foul their shrivell'd skin behold,
And flutt'ring shreds their vile defence from cold.
High-brandishing her lash, with stern regard,
Stands
Punishment,
an ever-waking ward;
While sullen
Melancholy
mopes behind,
Fix'd, with her head upon her knees reclin'd:
And, frantic with remorseful fury, there
Fierce
Anguish
stamps, and rends her shaggy hair.
Who that ill-featur'd spectre of a man,
Shiv'ring in nakedness, so spare and wan?
And she, whose eye aghast with horror stares,
Whose meagre form a sister's likeness bears?
Loud
Lamentation,
wild
Despair.
All these,
Fell vulturs, the devoted caitiff seize.
Ah dreadful durance! with these fiends to dwell!
What tongue the terrors of his soul can tell?
Worry'd by these foul fiends, the wretch begins
Sharp penance, wages of remember'd sins:
Then deeper sinks, plung'd in the pit of
Woe,
Worse suff'rings in worse hell to undergo:
Unless, rare guest,
Repentance
o'er the gloom
Diffuse her radiance, and repeal his doom.
She comes! meek-ey'd, array'd in grave attire,
See
Right Opinion,
join'd with
Good Desire,
Handmaids of
Truth:
with those, an adverse pair
(
False Wisdom
's minions, that deceiving fair)
Attend her solemn step: the furies flee.
Come forth, she calls, come forth to liberty,
Guilt-harrass'd thrall: thy future lot decide,
And, pond'ring well, elect thy future guide.
Momentous option! chusing right he'll find
A sov'reign med'cine for his ulcer'd mind;
Led to
True Wisdom,
whose cathartic bowl
Recovers and beatifies the soul.
Misguided else, a counterfeit he'll gain,
Whose art is only to amuse the brain:
From vice to studious folly now he flies,
From bliss still erring, still betray'd by lies.
O heavens! where end the risks we mortals run?
How dreadful this, and yet how hard to shun!
Say, father, what distinctive marks declare
That counterfeit of Wisdom?
The second court, or the studious life.
View her there.
At yonder gate, with decent port, she stands,
Her spotless form that second court commands:
Styl'd
Wisdom
by the crowd, the thinking few
Know her disguise, the phantom of the true:
Skill'd in all learning, skill'd in ev'ry art
To grace the head, not meliorate the heart.
The sav'd, who meditate their noble flight
From a bad world, to
Wisdom
's lofty height,
Just touching at this inn, for short repast,
Then speed their journey forward to its last.
This the sole path?
Another path there lies,
The plain man's path, without proud Science wise.
Who they, which traverse this deluder's bound?
A busy scene, all thought or action round.
Her lovers, whom her specious beauty warms,
Who grasp, in vision,
Truth
's immortal charms,
Vain of the glory of a false embrace:
Fierce syllogistic tribes, a wrangling race,
Bards rapt beyond the moon on Fancy's wings,
And mighty masters of the vocal strings:
Those who on labour'd speeches waste their oil,
Those who in crabbed calculations toil,
Who measure earth, who climb the starry road,
And human fates by heav'nly signs forebode,
Pleasure's philosophers,
Lyceum
's pride,
Disdainful soaring up to heights untry'd.
All who in learned trifles spin their wit,
Or comment on the works by triflers writ.
Who are yon active females, like in face
To the lewd harlots, in the nether space,
Vile agents of voluptuous Sin?
The same.
Admitted here?
Ev'n here, eternal shame!
They boast some rarer less ignoble spoils,
Art, wit, and reason, tangled in their toils.
And
Fancy,
with th'
Opinions
in her rear,
Enjoys these studious walks, no stranger here:
Where wild hypothesis, and learn'd romance
Too oft lead up the philosophic dance.
Still these ingenious heads alas! retain
Delusion's dose, still the vile dregs remain
Of ignorance with madding folly join'd,
And a foul heart pollutes th' embellish'd mind.
Nor will presumption from their souls recede,
Nor will they from one vicious plague be freed,
'Till, weary of these vanities, they've found
Th' exalted way to
Truth
's enlighten'd ground,
Quaff'd her cathartic, and all cleans'd within,
By that strong energy, from pride and sin,
Are heal'd and sav'd. But loit'ring here they spend
Life's precious hours in thinking to no end:
From science up to science let them rise,
And arrogate the swelling style of wise,
Their wisdom's folly, impotent and blind,
Which cures not one distemper of the mind.
Enough. Discover now the faithful road,
Which mounts us to the joys of Truth's abode.
Survey this solitary waste, which rears
Nor bush nor herb, nor cottage there appears.
At distance see yon strait and lonely gate
(No crowds at the forbidding entrance wait)
Its avenue a rugged rocky soil,
Travell'd with painful step and tedious toil.
Beyond the wicket, tow'ring in the skies
See Difficulty's cragged mountain rise,
Narrow and sharp th' ascent; each edge a brink,
Whence to vast depth dire precipices sink.
Is that the way to Wisdom? Dreadful way!
The landskip frowns with danger and dismay.
Yet higher still, around the mountain's brow
Winds yon huge rock, whose steep smooth sides allow
No track. Its top two sister figures grace,
Health's rosy habit glowing in their face.
With arms protended o'er the verge they lean,
The promptitude of friendship in their mien.
The pow'rs of
Continence
and
Patience,
there
Station'd by
Wisdom,
her commission bear
To rouze the spirit of her fainting son
Thus far advanc'd, and urge and urge him on.
Courage! they call, the coward's sloth disdain,
Yet, yet awhile, the noble toil sustain:
A lovely path soon opens to your sight.
But ah! how climb'd that rock's bare slipp'ry height?
These generous guides, who Virtue's course befriend,
In succour of her pilgrim, swift descend,
Draw up their trembling charge; then, smiling, greet
With kind command to rest his weary feet,
With their own force his panting breast they arm,
And with their own intrepid spirit warm:
Next, plight their guidance in his future way
To
Wisdom,
and in rapt'rous view display
The blissful road (there it invites your eyes)
How smooth and easy to the foot it lies,
Through beauteous land, from all annoyance clear,
Of thorny evil and perplexing fear.
The third court, or the virtuous life.
Yon lofty grove's delicious bow'rs to gain,
You cross th' expanse of this enamell'd plain;
A meadow with eternal beauty bright,
Beneath a purer heav'n, o'erflow'd with light.
Full in the center of the plain, behold
A court far-flaming with its wall of gold
And gate of diamond, where the righteous rest;
This clime their home, the country of the blest:
Here all the
Virtues
dwell, communion sweet!
With
Happiness,
who rules the peaceful seat.
In station at th' effulgent portal, see
A beauteous form of mildest majesty.
Her eyes how piercing! how sedate her mien!
Mature in life, her countenance serene:
Spirit and solid thought each feature shows,
And her plain robe with state unstudy'd flows.
She stands upon a cube of marble, fix'd
As the firm rock, two lovely nymphs betwixt,
Her daughters, copies of her looks and air,
Here candid
Truth,
and sweet
Persuasion
there:
She, she is
Wisdom.
In her stedfast eye
Behold th' oppressive type of certainty:
Certain her way, and permanent the deed
Of gift substantial to her friends decreed.
She gives the confidence erect and clear,
She gives magnanimous contempt of fear,
And bids th' invulnerable mind to know
Her safety from the future shafts of woe.
O treasure, richer than the sea or land!
But why without the walls her destin'd stand?
There standing, she presents her potent bowl,
Divine cathartic, which restores the soul.
This asks a comment.
In some dire disease,
Machaon
's skill first purges off the lees:
Then clear and strong the purple current flows,
And life renew'd in every member glows:
But if the patient all controul despise,
Just victim of his stubborn will he dies.
So
Wisdom,
by her rules, with healing art
Expells
Delusion
's mischiefs from the heart;
Blindness, and error, and high-boasting pride,
Intemp'rance, lust, fierce wrath's impetuous tide,
Hydropic avarice, all the plagues behind
Which in the first mad court oppress'd the mind.
Thus purg'd, her pupil thro' the gate she brings,
The
Virtues
hail their guest, the guest enraptur'd sings.
Behold the spotless band, celestial charms!
Scene that with awe chastises whom it warms:
No harlotry, no paint, no gay excess,
But beauty unaffected as their dress.
See
Knowledge
grasping a refulgent star,
See
Fortitude
in panoply of war:
Justice
her equal scale aloft displays,
And rights both human and divine she weighs.
There
Moderation,
all the pleasures bound
In brazen chains her dreaded feet surround.
There bounteous
Liberality
expands
To want, to worth, her ever-loaded hands.
The florid hue of
Temperance,
her side
Adorn'd by
Health,
a nymph in blooming pride.
Lo, soft-ey'd
Meekness
holds a curbing rein,
Anger's high-mettled spirit to restrain:
While
Moral Order
tunes her golden lyre,
And white-rob'd
Probity
compleats the choir.
O fairest of all fair! O blissful state!
What hopes sublime our ravish'd soul dilate!
Substantial hopes, if by the doctrine taught,
The fashion'd manners are to habit wrought.
Yes, 'tis resolv'd. We'll every nerve employ.
Live, then, restor'd; and reap the promis'd joy.
But whither do the Virtues lead their trust?
To
Happiness,
rewarder of the just.
Look upward to the hill beyond the grove,
A sovereign pile extends its front above:
Stately and strong, the lofty castle stands,
Its boundless prospect all the courts commands.
Within the porch, high on a jasper throne,
Th' Imperial Mother by her form is known;
Bright as the morn, when smiling on the hills
Earth, air, and sea with vernal joy she fills.
Rich without lavish cost her vest behold
In colours of the sky, and fring'd with gold:
A tiar, wreath'd with every flow'r that blows
Of liveliest tints, around her temples glows:
Eternal bloom her snowy temples binds,
Fearless of burning suns and blasting winds.
Now, with a crown of wond'rous pow'r, her hand
(Assistant, round her, all the Virtues stand)
Adorns her hero, honourable meed
Of conquests won by many a valiant deed.
What conquests?
Formidable beasts subdu'd:
Lab'ring he fought, he routed, he pursu'd.
Once, a weak prey, beneath their force he cowr'd,
O'erthrown, and worry'd, and well-nigh devour'd:
Till rouz'd from his inglorious sloth, possest
With generous ardour kindling in his breast,
Lord of himself, the victor now constrains
Those hostile monsters in his pow'rful chains.
Explain those savage beasts at war with man.
Error and Ignorance, which head the van,
Heart-gnawing Grief, and loud-lamenting Woe,
Incontinence, a wild-destroying foe,
Rapacious Avarice; cruel numbers more:
O'er all he triumphs now, their slave before.
O great atchievements! more illustrious far
These triumphs, than the bloody wreaths of war.
But, say; what salutary pow'r is shed
By the fair crown, which decks the hero's head?
Most beatific. For possessing this
He lives, rich owner of man's proper bliss:
Bliss independent or on wealth or pow'r,
Fame, birth, or beauty, or voluptuous hour.
His hope's divorc'd from all exterior things,
Within himself the fount of pleasure springs;
Springs ever in the self-approving breast,
And his own honest heart's a constant feast.
Where, next, his steps?
He measures back his way,
Conducted by the
Virtues,
to survey
His first abode. The giddy crowd, below,
Wasting their wretched span in crime, they show;
How in the whirl of passions they are tost,
And, shipwreck'd on the lurking shelves, are lost:
Here fierce
Ambition
haling in her chain
The mighty, there a despicable train
Impure in
Lust
's inglorious setter bound,
And slaves of
Avarice
rooting up the ground:
Thralls of
Vain-glory,
thralls of swelling
Pride,
Unnumber'd fools, unnumber'd plagues beside.
All-pow'rless they to burst the galling band,
To spring aloft, and reach yon happy land,
Entangled, impotent the way to find,
The clear instruction blotted from their mind
Which the
Good Genius
gave; Guilt's gloomy fears
Becloud their suns and sadden all their years.
I stand convinc'd, but yet perplex'd in thought
Why to review a well-known scene he's brought.
Scene rudely knowh. Uncertain and confus'd,
His judgment by illusions was abus'd.
His evil was not evil, nor his good
Aught else but vanity misundestood.
Confounding good and evil, like the throng,
His life, like theirs, was action always wrong.
Enlighten'd now in the true bliss of man,
He shapes his alter'd course by
Wisdom
's plan:
And, blest himself, beholds with weeping eyes
The madding world an hospital of sighs.
This retrospection ended, where succeeds
His course?
Where'er his wise volition leads.
Where'er it leads, safety attends him still:
Not safer, should he on
Apollo
's hill,
Among the Nymphs, among the vocal Pow'rs,
Dwell in the Sanctum of
Corycian
bow'rs:
Honour'd by all, the friend of human kind,
Belov'd physician of the sin-sick mind;
Not
Esculapius
more, whose pow'r to save
Redeems his patient from the yawning grave.
But never more shall his old restless foes
Awake his fears, nor trouble his repose?
Never. In righteous habitude inur'd,
From Passion's baneful anarchy secur'd,
In each enticing scene, each instant hard,
That sovereign antidote his mind will guard:
Like him, who, of some virtuous drug possest,
Grasps the fell viper coil'd within her nest,
Hears her dire hissings, sees her terrors rise,
And, unappall'd, destruction's tooth defies.
Yon troops in motion from the mount explain,
Various to view; for there a goodly train,
With garlands crown'd, advance with comely pace,
Noble their port, and in each tranquil face
Joy sparkles: others, a bare-headed throng,
Batter'd and gash'd, drag their slow steps along,
Captives of some strange female crew.
The crown'd,
Long seeking, safe arriv'd at
Wisdom
's bound,
Exult in her imparted grace.
Apostates.
The rest,
Those on whom
Wisdom,
unprevailing, prest
Her healing aid; rejected from her care,
In evil plight their wicked days they wear:
Those too, who Difficulty's hill had gain'd,
There basely stopp'd, by dastard sloth detain'd:
Apostate now, in thorny wilds they rove,
Pursuing furies scourge the caitiff drove;
Sorrows
which gnaw,
remorseful Thoughts
which tear,
Blindness of mind,
and
heart-oppressing Fear,
With all the contumelious rout of
Shame,
And every ill, and every hateful name.
Relaps'd to
Lewdness,
and her
sensual Queen,
Unblushing at themselves, but drunk with spleen,
Wisdom
's high worth their canker'd tongues dispraise,
Revile her children, and blaspheme her ways.
Deluded wretches, (thus their madness cries)
Dull mopes, weak dupes of philosophic lies,
Uncomforted, unjoyous, and unblest,
Lost from the pleasures here at large possest.
What pleasures boast they?
Pleasures of the stews,
Pleasures which
Riot
's frantic bowls infuse.
These high fruition their gross souls repute,
And man's chief good to sink into a brute.
But who that lovely bevy, blithe and gay,
So smoothly gliding down the hilly way?
The distinction between Opinion and Knowledge.
Those are th'
Opinions,
who have guided right
The unexperienc'd to the plain of light:
Returning, new adventurers to bring,
The blessings of the last-arriv'd they sing.
Why ingress yielded to their favour'd ward
Among the Virtues, to themselves debarr'd?
Opinion
's foot is never never found
Where
Knowledge
dwells, 'tis interdicted ground,
At
Wisdom
's gate th'
Opinions
must resign
Their charge, those limits their employ confine.
Thus trading barks, skill'd in the wat'ry road,
To distant climes convey their precious load,
Then turn their prow, light bounding o'er the main,
And with new traffic store their keels again.
Thus far is clear. But yet untold remains
What the Good Genius to the crowd ordains,
Just on the verge of life.
The instructions of the Genius.
He bids them hold
A spirit with erected courage bold.
Never (he calls) on
Fortune
's faith rely,
Nor grasp her dubious gifts as property.
Let not her smile transport, her frown dismay,
Nor praise, nor blame, nor wonder at her sway
Which reason never guides: 'tis fortune still,
Capricious chance and arbitrary will,
Bad bankers, vain of treasure not their own,
With foolish rapture hug the trusted loan:
Impatient, when the pow'rful bond demands
Its unremember'd cov'nant from their hands.
Unlike to such, without a sigh restore
What
Fortune
lends: anon she'll lavish more:
Repenting of her bounty snatch away,
Yea seize your patrimonial fund for prey.
Embrace her proffer'd boon, but instant rise,
Spring upward, and secure a lasting prize,
The gift which
Wisdom
to her sons divides;
Knowledge, whose beam the doubting judgment guides,
Scatters the sensual fog, and clear to view
Distinguishes false int'rest from the true.
Flee, flee to this, with unabating pace,
Nor parly for a moment at the place
Where
Pleasure
and her
Harlots
tempt, nor rest
But at
False Wisdom
's inn, a transient guest:
For short refection, at her table sit,
And taste what science may your palate hit:
Then wing your journey forward, till you reach
True
Wisdom,
aed imbibe the truths she'll teach.
Such is th' advice the friendly
Genius
gives,
He perishes who scorns, who follows lives.
And thus this moral piece instructs; if aught
Is mystic still, reveal your doubting thought.
Thanks, generous Sire; tell, then, the transient bait,
The Genius grants us at False Wisdom's gate.
Natural knowledge, how far useful, and when unprofitable and hurtful.
Whate'er in arts or sciences is found
Of solid use, in their capacious round,
These,
Plato
reasons, like a curbing rein,
Unruly youth from devious starts restrain.
Must we, solicitous our souls to save,
Assistance from these previous studies crave?
Necessity there's none. We'll not deny
Their merit in some less utility;
But they contribute, we aver, no part
To heal the manners and amend the heart.
An author's meaning, in a tongue unknown,
May glimmer thro' translation in our own:
Yet masters of his language, we might gain
Some trivial purposes by tedious pain.
So in the sciences, tho', rudely taught,
We may attain the little that we ought;
Yet, accurately known they might convey
More light not wholly useless in its way.
But Virtue may be reach'd, thro' all her rules,
Without the curious subtleties of schools.
How! not the learn'd excel the common shoal,
In pow'rful aids to meliorate the soul?
Blind as the crowd alas! to good and ill,
Intangled by the like corrupted will,
What boasts the man of letters o'er the rest?
Skill'd in all tongues, of all the arts possest,
What hinders but he sink into a sot,
A libertine, or villain in a plot,
Miser, or knave, or whatso'er you'll name
Of moral lunacy and reason's shame?
Scandals too rife!
How, then, for living right
Avail those studies, and their vaunted light
Beyond the vulgar?
Nothing. But disclose
The cause from whence this strange appearance grows.
Held by a potent charm in this retreat
They dwell, content with nearness to the seat
Of
Virtuous Wisdom.
Near, methinks, in vain:
Since numbers, oft, from out the nether plain,
'Scap'd from the snares of Lewdness and Excess,
Undevious to her lofty station press,
Yet pass these letter'd clans.
What, then, are these
In moral things, advantag'd o'er the lees
Of human race? in moral things, we find
These duller or less tractable of mind.
Decypher that.
Pride, pride averts their eyes
From offer'd light: in self-sufficience wise,
Altho' unknowing, they presume to know:
Clogg'd with that vain conceit they creep below,
Nor can mount up to yon exalted bound,
True
Wisdom
's mansion, by the humble found.
Not found by these, till the vain visions spread,
By
False Opinion,
in the learned head,
Repentance
scatter; and deceiv'd no more,
They own th' illusion which deceiv'd before,
That for
True Wisdom
they embrac'd her shade,
And hence the healing of their souls delay'd.
Strangers, these lessons, oft revolving, hold
Fast to your hearts, and into habit mould:
To this high scope life's whole attention bend,
Despise aught else as erring from your end.
Do thus, or unavailing is my care,
And all th' instruction dies away in air.
The DROPSICAL MAN.
By Mr. W. TAYLOR.
A JOLLY, brave toper, who cou'd not forbear
Tho' his life was in danger, old port and stale beer,
Gave the doctors the hearing—but still wou'd drink on,
Till the dropsy had swell'd him as big as a ton.
The more he took physic the worse still he grew,
And tapping was now the last thing he cou'd do.
Affairs at this crisis, and doctors come down,
He began to consider—so sent for his son.
Tom, see by what courses I've shorten'd my life,
I'm leaving the world ere I'm forty and five;
More than probable 'tis, that in twenty-four hours,
This manor, this house, and estate will be yours;
My early excesses may teach you this truth,
That 'tis working for death to drink hard in one's youth.
Says Tom, (who's a lad of a generous spirit,
And not like young rakes who 're in haste to inherit,)
Sir, don't be dishearten'd; altho' it be true,
Th' operation is painful, and hazardous too,
'Tis no more than what many a man has gone thro'.
And then, as for years, you may yet be call'd young,
Your life after this may be happy and long.
Don't flatter me, Tom, was the father's reply,
With a jest in his mouth and a tear in his eye;
Too well by experience, my vessels, thou know'st,
No sooner are tap'd, but they give up the ghost.
PARADISE REGAIN'D.
By H. T.
I.
SEEK not for Paradise with curious eye
In Asiatic climes, where Tigris' wave,
Mix'd with Euphrates in tumultuous joy,
Doth the broad plains of Babylonia lave.
II.
'Tis gone with all its charms; and like a dream,
Like Babylon itself, is swept away;
Bestow one tear upon the mournful theme,
But let it not thy gentle heart dismay.
III.
For know where-ever love and virtue guide,
They lead us to a state of heav'nly bliss,
Where joys unknown to guilt and shame preside,
And pleasures unalloy'd each hour increase.
IV.
Behold that grove, whose waving boughs admit,
Thro' the live colonade, the fruitful hill,
A moving prospect with fat herds replete,
Whose lowing voices all the valley fill.
V.
There, thro' the spiry grass where glides the brook,
(By yon tall poplar which erects its head
Above the verdure of the neighb'ring oak,)
And gently murmurs o'er th' adjoining mead;
VI.
Philander and Cleora, happy pair,
Taste the cool breezes of the gentle wind;
Their breasts from guilt, their looks are free from care,
Sure index of a calm contented mind.
VII.
'Tis here in virtuous lore the studious fair
Informs her babes, nor scorns herself t' improve,
While in his smile she lives, whose pleasing care
Dispenses knowledge from the lips of love.
VIII.
No wild desires can spread their poison here,
No discontent their peaceful hours attend;
False joys, nor flatt'ring hopes, nor servile fear,
Their gentle minds with jarring passions rend.
IX.
Here oft in pleasing solitude they rove,
Recounting o'er the deeds of former days;
With inward joy their well-spent time approve,
And feel a recompence beyond all praise.
X.
Or in sweet converse thro' the grove, or near
The fountain's brink, or where the arbour's shade
Beats back the heat, fair Virtue's voice they hear,
More musical by sweet digressions made.
XI.
With calm dependence ev'ry good they taste,
Yet feel their neighbours' wants with kind regret,
Nor cheer themselves alone, (a mean repast!)
But deal forth blessings round their happy seat.
XII.
'Tis to such virtue, that the pow'r supreme
The choicest of his blessings hath design'd,
And shed them plenteous over ev'ry clime,
The calm delights of an untainted mind.
XIII.
Ere yet the sad effects of foolish pride,
And mean ambition still employ'd in strife,
And luxury did o'er the world preside,
Deprav'd the taste, and pall'd the joys of life.
XIV.
For such the Spring, in richest mantle clad,
Pours forth her beauties thro' the gay parterre;
And Autumn's various bosom is o'erspread
With all the blushing fruits that crown the year.
XV.
Such Summer tempts, in golden beams array'd,
Which o'er the fields in borrow'd lustre glow,
To meditate beneath the cooling shade
Their happy state, and whence their blessings flow.
XVI.
E'en rugged Winter varies but their joy,
Painting the cheek with fresh vermilion-hue;
And those rough frosts which softer frames annoy
With vig'rous health their slack'ning nerves renew.
XVII.
From the dark bosom of the dappled Morn
To Phoebus shining with meridian light,
Or when mild Ev'ning does the sky adorn,
Or the pale moon rides thro' the spangled night.
XVIII.
The varying scenes in ev'ry virtuous soul
Each pleasing change with various pleasures bless,
Raise cheerful hopes, and anxious fears controul,
And form a Paradise of inward peace.
To the Right Hon. Sir ROBERT WALPOLE.
— Quod censet amiculus, ut si
Caecus iter monstrare velit.—
HOR.
By the Honourable Mr. D—
THO' strength of genius, by experience taught,
Gives thee to sound the depth of human thought,
To trace the various workings of the mind,
nd rule the secret springs that rule mankind;
are gift! yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend
o listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend
an aught of use impart, tho' void of skill,
nd raise attention by sincere good will:
For friendship sometimes want of parts supplies,
The heart may furnish what the head denies.
As, when the rapid Rhine o'er swelling tides,
To grace old Ocean's coast, in triumph rides,
Tho' rich in source, he drains a thousand springs,
Nor scorns the tribute each small riv'let brings:
So thou shalt hence absorb each feeble ray,
Each dawn of meaning in thy brighter day;
Shalt like, or where thou canst not like, excuse,
Since no mean interest shall prophane the Muse;
No malice wrapt in truth's disguise offend,
No flattery taint the freedom of a friend.
When first a generous mind surveys the great,
And views the crowds that on their fortune wait,
Pleas'd with the shew, (though little understood,)
He only seeks the pow'r, to do the good:
Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to dispose,
And gratitude still springs when bounty flows;
That ev'ry grant sincere affection wins,
And where our wants have end, our love begins.
But they who long the paths of state have trod,
Learn from the clamours of the murm'ring crowd,
Which cramm'd, yet craving, still their gates besiege,
'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige.
This of thy conduct seems the nicest part,
The chief perfection of the statesman's art,
To give to fair assent a fairer face,
Or soften a refusal into grace.
But few there are, that can be freely kind,
Or know to fix the favours on the mind;
Hence some whene'er they wou'd oblige, offend,
And while they make the fortune, lose the friend:
Still give unthank'd; still squander, not bestow;
For great men want not what to give, but how.
The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true,
Think all they get, and more than all, their due;
Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts,
And measure by their interest, not their parts.
From this mistake so many men we see
But ill become the thing they wish to be:
Hence discontent and fresh demands arise,
More power, more favour in the great man's eyes
All feel a want, tho' none the cause suspects,
But hate their patron for their own defects.
Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts,
And when he gives them places, gives them parts.
As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great
May sell their favours at too dear a rate.
When merit pines while clamour is prefer'd,
And long attachment waits among the herd;
When no distinction, where distinction's due,
Marks from the many the superior few;
When strong cabal constrains them to be just,
And makes them give at last, because they must;
What hopes that men of real worth should prize
What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys.
The man who justly o'er the whole presides,
His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides:
Knows when to stop with grace, and when advance,
Nor gives from importunity, or chance;
But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,
When favours are extorted, not bestow'd.
When safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd
Surround the great, importunate and loud,
Thro' such a tumult 'tis no easy task,
To drive the man of real worth to ask;
Surrounded thus, and giddy with the shew,
'Tis hard for great men rightly to bestow;
From hence so few are skill'd in either case,
To ask with dignity, or give with grace.
Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts,
Consult our genius, but neglect our hearts;
Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings,
They lift us tow'ring on the eagle's wings:
Mark out the flights by which themselves begun,
And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun,
'Till we forget the hand that makes us great,
And grow to envy, not to emulate.
To emulate a generous warmth implies,
To reach the virtues that make great men rise;
But envy wears a mean malignant face,
And aims not at their virtues, but their place.
Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence!
When ev'ry favour is a fresh offence,
By which superior power is still imply'd,
And while it helps the fortune, hurts the pride.
Slight is the hate neglect or hardships breed,
But those who hate from envy, hate indeed.
Since so perplex'd the choice, whom shall we trust?
Methinks, I hear thee cry, the brave, the just;
The man by no mean fears or hopes controul'd,
Who serves thee from affection, not for gold!
We love the honest, and esteem the brave,
Despise the coxcomb, but detest the knave.
No shew of parts the truly wise seduce,
To think that knaves can be of real use.
The man who contradicts the public voice,
And strives to dignify a worthless choice,
Attempts a task that on the choice reflects,
And lends us light to point out new defects.
One worthless man that gains what he pretends,
Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends;
And since no art can make a counter pass,
Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass,
When princes to bad ore their image join,
They more debase the stamp than raise the coin;
Be thine that care, true merit to reward,
And gain that good; nor will the task be hard.
Souls found alike so quick by nature blend,
An honest man is more than half thy friend.
Him no mere views, no haste to rise, shall sway,
Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray.
Ambition here shall at due distance stand,
Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand:
Besides, if failings at the bottom lie,
He views those failings with a lover's eye.
Tho' small his genius, let him do his best,
Our wishes and belief supply the rest:
Let others barter servile faith for gold,
His friendship is not to be bought or sold.
Fierce opposition he unmov'd shall face,
Modest in favour, daring in disgrace;
To share thy adverse fate alone pretend,
In power a servant, out of power a friend.
Here pour thy favours in an ample flood,
Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good.
Nor think that good alone to him confin'd;
Such to oblige is to oblige mankind.
If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace,
The brave to cherish, and the good to grace,
Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free,
And teach us long to love the king and thee;
Or fall a victim, dangerous to the foe,
And make him tremble when he strikes the blow;
While honour, gratitude, affection join,
To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline.
Illustrious doom! the great when thus displac'd,
With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac'd,
In aweful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall
The prey and worship of the wond'ring Gaul.
No doubt to genius some reward is due,
(Excluding that were satirizing you):
But yet believe thy undesigning friend,
When truth and genius for thy choice contend,
Tho' both have weight, when in the balance cast,
Let probity be first, and parts the last.
On these foundations if thou dar'st be great,
And check the growth of folly and deceit,
When party rage shall drop thro' length of days,
And calumny be ripen'd into praise,
Then future times shall to thy worth allow
That fame, which envy wou'd call flattery now.
Thus far my zeal, tho' for the task unfit,
Has pointed out the rocks where others split:
By that inspir'd, tho' stranger to the Nine,
And negligent of any fame but thine,
I take that friendly, but superfluous part,
That acts from nature what I teach from art.
To a LADY on a LANDSCAPE of her Drawing.
By Mr. PARRAT.
BEHOLD the magic of Theresa's hand!
A new creation blooms at her command.
Touch'd into life the vivid colours glow,
Catch the warm stream, and quicken as they flow.
The ravish'd sight the pleasing landscape fills,
Here sink the vallies, and there rise the hills.
Not with more horror nods bleak Calpe's height,
Than here the pictur'd rock astounds the sight.
Not Thames more devious-winding leaves his source,
Than here the wand'ring rivers shape their course.
Obliquely lab'ring runs the gurgling rill;
Still murm'ring runs, or seems to murmur still.
An aged oak, with hoary moss o'erspread,
Here lifts aloft its venerable head;
There overshadowing hangs a sacred wood,
And nods inverted in the neighb'ring flood.
Each tree as in its native forest shoots,
And blushing bends with Autumn's golden fruits.
Thy pencil lends the rose a lovelier hue,
And gives the lily fairer to our view.
Here fruits and flow'rs adorn the varied year,
And paradise with all its sweets is here.
There stooping to its fall a tow'r appears,
With tempests shaken, and a weight of years.
The daisied meadow, and the woodland green,
In order rise, and fill the various scene.
Some parts, in light magnificently dress'd,
Obtrusive enter, and stand all confess'd;
Whilst others decently in shades are thrown,
And by concealing make their beauties known.
Alternate thus, and mutual is their aid,
The lights owe half their lustre to the shade.
So the bright fires that light the milky way,
Lost and extinguish'd in the solar ray;
In the sun's absence pour a flood of light,
And borrow all their brightness from the night.
To cheat our eyes how well dost thou contrive!
Each object here seems real and alive.
Not more resembling life the figures stand,
Form'd by Lysippus, or by Phidias' hand.
Unnumber'd beauties in the piece unite;
Rush on the eye, and crowd upon the sight.
At once our wonder and delight you raise,
We view with pleasure, and with rapture praise.
ODE to CUPID on VALENTINE'S Day.
By the Same.
COME thou rosy-dimpled boy,
Source of ev'ry heart-felt joy,
Leave the blissful bow'rs awhile,
Paphos and the Cyprian isle:
Visit Britain's rocky shore,
Britons too thy pow'r adore.
Britons hardy, bold, and free,
Own thy laws, and yield to thee.
Source of ev'ry heart-felt joy,
Come thou rosy-dimpled boy.
Haste to Sylvia, haste away,
This is thine, and Hymen's day;
Bid her thy soft bondage wear,
Bid her for Love's rites prepare.
Let the nymphs with many a flow'r
Deck the sacred nuptial bow'r.
Thither lead the lovely fair,
And let Hymen too be there.
This is thine, and Hymen's day,
Haste to Sylvia, haste away.
Only while we love we live,
Love alone can pleasure give;
Pomp and pow'r, and tinsel state,
Those false pageants of the great,
Crowns and scepters, envied things,
And the pride of Eastern kings,
Are but childish empty toys,
When compar'd to Love's sweet joys,
Love alone can pleasure give,
Only while we love, we live.
To the Honourable and Reverend F. C.
IN frolick's hour, ere serious thought had birth,
There was a time, my dear C—s, when
The Muse would take me on her airy wing
And waft to views romantic; there present
Some motley vision, shade and sun: the cliff
O'erhanging, sparkling brooks, and ruins grey;
Bad me meanders trace, and catch the form
Of varying clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.
Sometimes ambition, brushing by, wou'd twitch
My mantle, and with winning look sublime
Allure to follow. What tho' steep the track,
Her mountain's top wou'd overpay when climb'd
The scaler's toil; her temple there was fine,
And lovely thence the prospects. She cou'd tell
Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique;
But more advis'd to shun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)
And woo some thriving art: her num'rous mines
Were open to the searcher's skill and pains.
Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring pulse
Sounded irregular marches to be gone—
What, pause a moment when Ambition calls?
No, the blood gallops to the distant goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame sit still.
When Fortune gentle, at the hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent garb, but somewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd, and what occasion ask'd,
Of climbing? She already provident
Had cater'd well, if stomach cou'd digest
Her viands, and a palate not too nice.
Unfit she said, for perilous attempt,
That manly limb requir'd, and sinews tough.
She took, and lay'd me in a vale remote,
Amid the gloomy scene of fir and yew,
On poppy beds, where Morpheus strew'd the ground:
Obscurity her curtain round me drew,
And syren Sloth a dull quietus sung.
Sithence no fairy lights, no quick'ning ray,
Nor stir of pulse, nor objects to entice
Abroad the spirits; but the cloyster'd heart
Sits squat at home, like pagod in a nitch
Obscure, or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in presence of the throne,
Turk, or Indostan.—Cities, forums, courts
And prating sanhedrims, and drumming wars,
Affect no more than stories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the sick
Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Instead of converse and variety,
The same trite round, the same stale silent scene:
Such are thy comforts, blessed Solitude!
But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,
And simple Quiet with her downy couch,
Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapse of streams,
And Saunter, with a book, and warbling Muse,
In praise of hawthorns.—Life's whole business this!
Is it to bask i' th' sun, if so, a snail
Were happy crawling on a southern wall.
Why sits Content upon a cottage-sill
At eventide, and blesseth the coarse meal
In sooty corner? why sweet slumbers wait
Th' hard pallet? not because from haunt remote
Sequester'd in a dingle's bushy lap:
'Tis labour makes the peasant's sav'ry fare,
And works out his repose: for ease must ask
The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd.
Oh! listen not to that enchantress Ease
With seeming smile, her palatable cup
By standing grows insipid; and beware
The bottom, for there's poison in the lees.
What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd?
What daily martyrs to her sluggish cause!
Less strict devoir the Russ and Persian claim
Despotic; and as subjects long inur'd
To servile burden, grow supine and tame,
So fares it with our sov'reign and her train.
What tho' with lure fallacious she pretend
From worldly bondage to set free, what gain
Her votaries? What avails from iron chains
Exempt, if rosy fetters bind as fast.
Bestir, and answer your creation's end.
Think we that man with vig'rous pow'r endow'd,
And room to stretch, was destin'd to sit still?
Sluggards are nature's rebels, slight her laws,
Nor live up to the terms on which they hold
Their vital lease. Laborious terms and hard,
But such the tenure of our earthly state!
Riches and fame are Industry's reward;
The nimble runner courses Fortune down,
And then he banquets, for she feeds the bold.
Think what you owe your country, what yourself.
If splendor charm not, yet avoid the scorn
That treads on lowly stations. Think of some
Assiduous booby mounting o'er your head,
And thence with saucy grandeur looking down:
Think of (Reflection's stab!) the pitying friend
With shoulder shrug'd, and sorry. Think that Time
Has golden minutes, if discreetly seiz'd:
And if some sad example, indolent,
To warn and scare be wanting—think of me.
To the Reverend T — T—, D. D.
—FRench pow'r, and weak allies, and war, and want—
No more of that, my friend; you touch a string
That hurts my ear. All politics apart,
Except a gen'rous wish, a glowing prayer
For British welfare, commerce, glory, peace.
Give party to the winds: it is a word,
A phantom sound, by which the cunning great
Whistle to their dependents: a decoy
To gull th' unwary, where the master stands
Encouraging his minions, his train'd birds,
Fed and caress'd their species to betray.
See with what hollow blandishment and art
They lead the winged captive to the snare!
Fools! that in open aether might have soar'd,
Free as the air they cut; sip'd purest rills,
Din'd with the Thames, or bath'd in crystal lakes.
We wear no badges, no dependence own:
Who truly loves thee, dearest Liberty,
A silken fetter will uneasy sit.
Heav'n knows it is not Insolence that speaks!
The tribute of respect to greatness due
Not the brib'd sycophant more willing pays.
Still, still as much of party be retain'd,
As principle requires, and sense directs:
Else our vain bark, without a rudder, floats
The scorn and pastime of each veering gale.
This gentle ev'ning let the sun descend
Untroubled, while it paints your ambient hills
With faded lustre, and a sweet farewel.
Here is our seat: that castle opposite,
Proud of its woody brow, adorns the scene,
Dictate, O vers'd in books, and just of taste,
Dictate the pleasing theme of our discourse.
Shall we trace Science from her Eastern home
Chaldaean; or the banks of Nile, where Thebes,
Nursing her daughter arts, majestic stood,
And pour'd forth knowledge from an hundred gates?
There first the marble learn'd to mimic life,
The pillar'd temple rose, and pyramids,
Whose undecaying grandeur laughs at Time;
Birth-place of letters, where the sun was shewn
His radiant way, and heav'ns were taught to roll.
There too the Muses tun'd their earliest lyre,
Warbling soft numbers to Serapis' ear;
'Till chac'd by tyrants, or a milder clime
Inviting, they remov'd with pilgrim harps,
And all their band of harmony to Greece.
As when a flock of linnets, if perchance
Deliver'd from the falcon's talon, fly
With trembling wing to cover, and renew
Their notes; tell ev'ry bush of their escape,
And thrill their merry thanks to Liberty.
The tuneful tribe, pleas'd with their new abode,
Polish'd the rude inhabitants, whence tales
Of list'ning woods, and rocks that danc'd to sound.
Hear the full chorus lifting hymns to Jove!
Linus and Orpheus catch the strain, and all
The raptur'd audience utter loud applause.
A song, believe me, was no trifle then:
Weighty the Muse's task, and wide her sway:
Her's was religion, the resounding fanes
Echo'd her language; polity was her's,
And the world bow'd to legislative verse.
As states increas'd, and governments were form'd,
Her aid less useful, she retir'd to grots
And shady bow'rs, content to teach and please▪
Under her laurel frequent bards repos'd;
Voluble Pindar troll'd his rapid song,
Or Sappho breath'd her spirited complaint:
Here the stage buskin, there the lyric choir,
And Homer's epic trumpet. Happy Greece,
Bless'd in her offspring! Seat of eloquence,
Of arts and reason; patriot-virtue's seat!
Did the sun thither dart uncommon rays!
Did some presiding genius hover o'er
That animated soil with brooding wings!
The sad reverse might start a gentle tear—
Go, search in Athens for herself, enquire
Where are her orators, her sages now:
Her arsenal overturn'd, her walls in dust,
But far less ruin'd than her soul decay'd.
The stone inscrib'd to Socrates, debas'd
To prop a reeling cot: Minerva's shrine
Possess'd by those who never heard her name.
Upon the mount where old Mùsaeus sung,
Sits the grim turban'd captain, and exacts
Harsh tribute; on the spot where Plato taught
His heav'nly strains sublime, a stupid Turk
Is preaching ignorance and Mahomet.
Turn next to Rome: is that the clime, the place,
Where once, as Fame reports, Augustus liv'd?
What magic has transform'd her, shrunk her nerves?
A wither'd laurel, and a mould'ring arch!—
Cou'd the pure crimson tide, the noblest blood
That ever flow'd, to such a puddle turn?
She ends, like her long Appian, in a marsh;
Or Jordan's river pouring his clear urn
Into the black Asphaltus' slimy lap.
Patrons of wit, and victors of mankind,
Bards, warriors, worthies (revolution strange)
Are pimps and fidlers, mountebanks and monks.
In Tully's beehive, magazine of sweets,
The lazy drones are buzzing or asleep.
But we forgive the living for the dead;
Indebted more to Rome than we can pay.
Of a long dearth prophetic, she lay'd in
A feast for ages.—O thou banquet nice,
Where the soul riots with secure excess!
What felt delight! what pleasing useful hours
Repeated owe we to her letter'd sons!
We by their favour Tiber's walks enjoy,
Their temples trace, and share their noble games;
Enter the crowded theatre at will,
Go to the forum, hear the consul plead,
Are present in the thund'ring Capitol
When Tully speaks; at softer hours attend
Harmonious Virgil to his Mantuan farm,
Or Baian; and with happy Horace talk
In myrtle groves by Teverone's cascade.
Hail, precious pages! that amuse and teach,
Exalt the genius, and improve the breast.
Ye sage historians all your stores unfold,
each your clear steady mirror—in that glass
The forms of good and ill are well portray'd.
But chiefly thou, divine Philosophy,
hed thy bless'd influence; with thy train appear
Of graces mild, far be the Stoic boast,
The Cynic's snarl, and churlish pedantry.
Bright visitant, if not too high my wish,
Come in the lovely dress you wore, a guest
At Plato's table, or at Tusculum,
The Roman feasting his selected friends.
Tamer of pride! at thy serene rebuke
ee crouching insolence, spleen, and revenge
Before thy shining taper disappear.
Tutor of human life, auspicious guide,
Whose faithful clue unravels ev'ry Muse,
Whose conduct smooths the roughest paths; whose voice
Controuls each storm, and bids the roar be still:
O condescend to gild my darksome roof:
Let me know thee — the Delphic oracle
then obey'd—and I shall know myself.
VACATION.
By —
Esq
HENCE sage, mysterious Law,
That sitt'st with rugged brow, and crabbed look
O'er thy black-letter'd book,
And the night-watching student strik'st with awe;
Away with thy dull train,
Slow-pac'd Advice, Surmise, and squint-ey'd Doubt
Dwell with the noisy rout
Of busy men, 'mid cities and throng'd halls,
Where Clamour ceaseless bawls,
And enmity and strife thy state sustain.
But on me thy blessings pour,
Sweet Vacation. Thee, of yore,
In all her youth and beauty's prime,
Summer bore to aged Time,
As he one sunny morn beheld her
Tending a field of corn: the elder
There 'mid poppies red and blue,
Unsuspected nearer drew,
And, with softly-sliding pace
Hast'ning to a stol'n embrace,
Fill'd her with thee; and joy and mirth
Hung on thy auspicious birth.
Come, sweet goddess; full of play,
Ever unconfin'd and gay,
Bring the leisure-hours with thee
Leading on the Graces three
Dancing; nor let aught detain
The Holidays, a smiling train.
Whose fair brows let Peace serene
Crown with olive-branches green.
Bring too Health with ruddy cheek,
Lively air, and count'nance sleek,
Attended, as she's wont to be,
With all her jolly company
Of exercises, chace, and flight,
Active strength, and cunning sleight,
Nimble feats, and playful bouts,
Leaps of joy, and cheerful shouts,
Tricks and pranks and sports and games
Such as youthful Fancy frames.
And, O kind goddess, add to these
Cheerful Content, and placid Ease;
Not her who fondly sitteth near,
Dull Indolence in elbow'd chair;
But Ease who aids th' harmonious Nine,
Tuning their instruments divine,
And without whom, in lofty strain,
Phoebus' client tries in vain
To raise his feeble voice above
The crowd, and catch the ear of Jove.
And do thou, Vacation, deign
To let me pass among thy train;
So may I thy vot'ry true,
All thy flow'ry paths pursue,
Pleased still with thee to meet
In some friendly rural seat;
Where I gladsome oft' survey
Nature in her best array,
Woods and lawns and lakes between,
Fields of corn and hedges green,
Fallow grounds of tawny hue,
Distant hills, and mountains blue;
On whose ridge far off appears
A wood (the growth of many years)
Of aweful oak, or gloomy pine,
Above th' horizon's level line
Rising black: such those of old
Where British druids wont to hold
Solemn assemblies, and to keep
Their rites, unfolding myst'ries deep,
Such that fam'd Dodona's grove,
Sacred to prophetic Jove.
Oft' I admire the verdant steep,
Spotted white with many a sheep,
While, in pastures rich below
Among the grazing cattle, slow
Moves the bull with heavy tread
Hanging down his lumpish head,
And the proud steed neigheth oft'
Shaking his wanton mane aloft.
Or, traversing the wood about,
The jingling packhorse-bells remote
I hear, amid the noontide stillness,
Sing thro' the air with brassy shrillness;
What time the waggon's cumbrous load
Grates along the grav'lly road:
There onward, dress'd in homely guise,
Some unregarded maiden hies,
Unless by chance a trav'lling 'squire,
Of base intent and foul desire,
Stops to insnare, with speech beguiling,
Sweet innocence and beauty smiling.
Nor fail I joyful to partake
The lively sports of country wake,
Where many a lad and many a lass
Foot it on the close-trod grass.
There nimble Marian of the green
Matchless in the jig is seen,
Allow'd beyond compare by all,
The beauty of the rustic ball:
While, the tripping damsels near,
Stands a lout with waggish leer;
He, if Marian chance to shew
Her taper leg and stocking blue,
Winks and nods and laughs aloud,
Among the merry-making crowd,
Utt'ring forth, in aukward jeer,
Words unmeet for virgin's ear.
Soon as ev'ning clouds have shed
Their wat'ry store on earth's soft bed,
And thro' their flowing mantles thin,
Clear azure spots of sky are seen,
I quit some oak's close-cover'd bow'r
To taste the boon of new-fall'n show'r,
To pace the corn-field's grassy edge
Close by a fresh-blown sweet-bri'r hedge
While at every green leaf's end
Pearly drops of rain depend,
And an earthy fragrance 'round
Rises from the moisten'd ground.
Sudden a sun-beam darting out,
Brightens the landskip all about,
With yellow light the grove o'erspreads,
And tips with gold the haycocks' heads
Then, as mine eye is eastward led,
Some fair castle rears its head,
Whose height the country round commands,
Well known mark to distant lands,
There the windows glowing bright
Blaze from afar with ruddy light
Borrow'd from clouds of scarlet dye,
Just as the sun hath left the sky.
But if chill Eurus cut the air
With keener wing, I then repair
To park or woodland, shelter meet,
Near some noble's ancient seat,
Where long winding walks are seen
Stately oaks and elms between,
Whose arms promiscuous form above
High over-arch'd a green alcove;
While the hoarse-voic'd hungry rook
Near her stick-built nest doth croak,
Waving on the topmost bough;
And the master stag below
Bellows loud with savage roar,
Stalking all his hinds before.
Thus musing, night with even pace
Steals on, o'ershad'wing nature's face;
While the bat with dusky wings
Flutters round in giddy rings,
And the buzzing chaffers come
Close by mine ear with solemn hum.
Homeward now my steps I guide
Some rising grassy bank beside,
Studded thick with sparks of light
Issuing from many a glow-worm bright;
While village-cur with minute bark
Alarms the pilf'rer in the dark,
Save what light the stars convey,
Cluster'd in the milky way,
Or scatter'd numberless on high
Twinkling all o'er the boundless sky.
Then within doors let me meet
The viol touch'd by finger neat,
Or, soft symphonies among
Wrap me in the sacred song,
Attun'd by Handel's matchless skill,
While Attention mute and still
Fixes all my soul to hear
The voice harmonious, sweet and clear.
Nor let smooth-tongu'd Converse fail,
With many a well-devised tale,
And stories link'd, to twist a chain
That may awhile old Time detain,
And make him rest upon his scythe
Pleas'd to see the hours so blithe:
While, with sweet attractive grace,
The beauteous house-wife of the place
Wins the heart of ev'ry guest
By courteous deeds, and all contest
Which shall readiest homage shew
To such sov'reign sweetness due.
These delights, Vacation, give,
And I with thee will chuse to live.
To a LADY very handsome, but too fond of DRESS.
By the Same.
PRYTHEE why so fantastick and vain!
What charms can the toilet supply?
Why so studious admirers to gain?
Need beauty lay traps for the eye?
Because that thy breast is so fair,
Must thy tucker be still setting right?
And canst thou not laughing forbear,
Because that thy teeth are so white?
Shall sovereign beauty descend
To act so ignoble a part?
Whole hours at the looking-glass spend,
A slave to the dictates of art?
And cannot thy heart be at rest
Unless thou excellest each fair
In trinkets and trumpery dress'd?
Is not that a superfluous care?
Vain, idle attempt! to pretend
The lilly with whiteness to deck!
Does the rich solitaire recommend
The delicate turn of thy neck?
The glossy bright hue of thy hair
Can powder or jewels adorn?
Can perfumes or vermilions compare
With the breath or the blush of the morn?
When, embarrass'd with baubles and toys,
Thou'rt set out so enormously fine,
Over-doing thy purpose destroys,
And to please thou hast too much design:
Little know'st thou, how beauty beguiles,
How alluring the innocent eye;
What sweetness in natural smiles,
And what charms in simplicity lye.
Thee Nature with beauty has clad,
With genuine ornaments dress'd;
Nor can Art an embellishment add
To set off what already is best:
Be it thine, self-accomplish'd to reign;
Bid the toilet be far set apart,
And dismiss with an honest disdain
That impertinent Abigail, Art.
ANACREON. ODE III.
Translated by the Same.
IN the dead of the night, when with labour oppress'd
All mortals enjoy the calm blessing of rest,
Cupid knock'd at my door, I awoke with the noise,
And "who is it (I call'd) that my sleep thus destroys?
"You need not be frighten'd, he answered mild,
"Let me in; I'm a little unfortunate child;
"'Tis a dark rainy night; and I'm wet to the skin;
"And my way I have lost; and do, pray, let me in."
I was mov'd with compassion; and striking a light,
I open'd the door; when a boy stood in sight,
Who had wings on his shoulders: the rain from him dripp'd,
With a bow and with arrows too he was equipp'd.
I stirr'd up my fire, and close by its side
I set him down by me: with napkins I dried,
I chaf'd him all over, kept out the cold air,
And I wrung with my hands the wet out of his hair.
He from wet and from cold was no sooner at ease,
But taking his bow up, he said, "If you please
"We will try it; I would by experiment know
"If the wet hath not damag'd the string of my bow."
Forthwith from his quiver an arrow he drew,
To the string he apply'd it, and twang went the yew;
The arrow was gone; in my bosom it center'd:
No sting of a hornet more sharp ever enter'd.
Away skipp'd the urchin, as brisk as a bee,
And laughing, "I wish you much joy friend, quoth he:
"My bow is undamag'd, for true went the dart;
"But you will have trouble enough with your heart."
An Imitation of HORACE, Ode II. Book III.
Angustam amice,
&c.
By Mr. TITLEY, to Dr. BENTLEY.
HE that would great in science grow,
By whom bright Virtue is ador'd,
At first must be content to know
An humble roof, an homely board.
With want, and rigid college laws
Let him inur'd betimes, comply;
Firm to religion's sacred cause,
The learned combat let him try;
Let him her envied praises tell,
And all his eloquence disclose
The fierce endeavours to repel,
And still the tumult of her foes.
Him early form'd, and season'd young
Subtle opposers soon will fear,
And tremble at his artful tongue,
Like Parthians at the Roman spear.
Grim death, th' inevitable lot
Which fools and cowards strive to fly,
Is with a noble pleasure sought
By him who dares for truth to die.
With purest lustre of her own
Exalted Virtue ever shines,
Nor as the vulgar smile or frown
Advances now and now declines.
A glorious and immortal prize,
She on her hardy son bestows,
She shews him heaven, and bids him rise,
Tho' pain, and toil, and death oppose:
With lab'ring flight he wings th' obstructed way,
Leaving both common souls and common clay.
A Reply to a Copy of Verses made in Imitation of Ode II. Book III. of HORACE.
Angustam amice pauperiem pati,
&c. And sent by Mr. TITLEY to Dr. BENTLEY.
By Dr. BENTLEY.
WHO strives to mount Parnassus' hill,
And thence poetick laurels bring,
Must first acquire due force, and skill,
Must fly with swans, or eagle's wing.
Who nature's treasures wou'd explore,
Her mysteries and arcana know,
Must high, as lofty Newton soar,
Must stoop, as delving Woodward low.
Who studies ancient laws and rites,
Tongues, arts, and arms, and history,
Must drudge like Selden days and nights,
And in the endless labour die.
Who travels in religious jars,
(Truth mixt with error, shade with rays,)
Like Whiston wanting pyx or stars,
In ocean wide or sinks or strays.
But grant our heroe's hope long toil
And comprehensive genius crown,
All sciences, all arts his spoil,
Yet what reward, or what renown?
Envy, innate in vulgar souls,
Envy steps in and stops his rise;
Envy, with poison'd tarnish fouls
His lustre, and his worth decries.
He lives inglorious, or in want,
To college and old books confin'd;
Instead of learn'd he's call'd pedant,
Dunces advanc'd, he's left behind:
Yet left content, a genuine stoic he,
Great without patron, rich without South-sea.
Inscription on a GROTTO of Shells at CRUX-EASTON, the Work of Nine young Ladies.
By Mr. POPE.
HERE shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
The glitt'ring emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;
Beauty which Nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces Art;
But Fate dispos'd them in this humble sort,
And hid in desarts what wou'd charm a court.
VERSES occasioned by seeing a GROTTO built by Nine Sisters.
SO much this building entertains my sight,
Nought but the builders can give more delight;
In them the master-piece of Nature's shown,
In this I see Art's master-piece in stone.
O! Nature, Nature, thou hast conquer'd Art;
She charms the sight alone, but you the heart.
An EXCUSE for INCONSTANCY, 1737.
By the Rev. Dr. LISLE.
WHEN Phoebus's beams are withdrawn from our sight,
We admire his fair sister, the regent of night;
Tho' languid her beauty, tho' feeble her ray,
Yet still she's akin to the God of the day.
When Susan, like Cynthia, has finish'd her reign,
Then Charlotte, like Phoebus, shall shine out again.
As Catholic bigots fall humble before
The pictures of those whom in heart they adore,
Which tho' known to be nothing but canvas and paint,
Yet are said to enliven their zeal to the saint;
So to Susan I bow, charming Charlotte, for she
Has just beauty enough to remind me of thee.
Inconstant and faithless in love's the pretence
On which you arraign me: pray hear my defence.
Such censures as these to my credit redound;
I acknowledge, and thank a good appetite for't,
When ven'son and claret are not to be found,
I can make a good meal upon mutton and port.
Tho'
The seat of the honourable R. H—t.
Highclear's so fine that a prince would not scorn it,
Tho' nature and taste have combin'd to adorn it,
Yet the artist that owns it wou'd think it severe,
Were a law made to keep him there all round the year.
How enrag'd wou'd the rector of
Wotton, the author's parish in the isle of Wight.
Boscoville look,
If the king should enjoin him to read but one book!
And how would his audience their fortune bemoan,
If he gave them no sermons but what were his own!
'Tis variety only makes appetite last,
And by changing our dishes we quicken our taste.
To VENUS. A RANT, 1732. Set to Music by Dr. HAYES,
By the same.
RECITATIVE.
O Goddess most rever'd above,
Bright parent of almighty Love,
Whose pow'r th' immortal Gods confess,
Hear and approve my fond address:
In melting softness I thy doves outvie,
Then teach me like thy swans to sing and fly;
So I thy vot'ry will for ever be;
My song, my life I'll consecrate to thee.
AIR.
Give me numbers strong and sweet,
Glowing language, pointed wit;
Words that might a Vestal move,
And melt a frozen heart to love.
Bid, bid thy blind boy
All his vigour employ;
On his wings wou'd I soar up to famc:
'Tis but just, if he scorch
My breast with his torch,
In my wit too he kindle a flame.
RECITATIVE.
Trophies to Chastity let others raise,
In notes as cold as the dull thing they praise,
To rage like mine more sprightly themes belong;
Gay youth inspires, and beauty claims my song;
Me all the little Loves and Graces own;
For I was born to worship them alone.
AIR.
Tell not me the joys that wait
On him that's rich, on him that's great:
Wealth and wisdom I despise:
Cares surround the rich and wise.
No, no,—let love, let life be mine:
Bring me women, bring me wine:
Speed the dancing hours away,
And mind not what the grave ones say;
Speed, and gild 'em as they fly
With love and freedom, wit and joy▪
Bus'ness, title, pomp, and state,
Give 'em to the fools I hate.
The POWER of MUSIC. A SONG. Imitated from the SPANISH.
By the same. Set to Music by Dr. HAYES.
I.
WHEN Orpheus went down to the regions below,
Which Men are forbidden to see,
He tun'd up his lyre, as old histories shew,
To set his Eurydice free.
II
All hell was astonish'd a person so wise
Shou'd rashly endanger his life,
And venture so far, — but how vast their surprise!
When they heard that he came for his wife.
III.
To find out a punishment due to his fault,
Old Pluto had puzzled his brain,
But hell had not torments sufficient, he thought,
—So he gave him his wife back again.
IV.
But pity succeeding found place in his heart,
And pleas'd with his playing so well,
He took her again in reward of his art;
Such merit had music in hell!
LETTER from SMYRNA to his Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, 1733.
By the Same.
THE hero who to Smyrna bay
From Easton, Hants, pursued his way,
Who travers'd seas, and hills and vales,
To fright his sisters with his tales,
Sing heavenly muse; for what befel
Thou saw'st, and only thou can'st tell.
Say first (but one thing I premise,
I'll not be chid for telling lies;
Besides, my grannum us'd to say
I always had a knack that way,
So, if the love of truth be in ye,
Read Strabo, Diodorus, Pliny—
But like some authors I could name,
Wrapt in myself I lose my theme.)
Say first, those very rocks we spy'd,
But left 'em on the starboard side,
Where Juno urg'd the Trojan's fate.
Shield us, ye Gods, from female hate!
Then how precarious was the doom
Of Caesar's line, and mighty Rome,
Snatch'd from the very jaws of ruin,
And sav'd, poor
Dido.
Die, for thy undoing,
What saw we on Sicilian ground?
(A soil in ancient verse renown'd)
The self-same spot, or Virgil ly'd,
On which the good Anchises dy'd;
The fields where Ceres' daughter sported,
And where the pretty Cyclops courted.
The nymph hard-hearted as the rocks,
Refus'd the monster, scorn'd his flocks,
And took a shepherd in his stead,
With nought but love and worth to plead:
An instance of a generous mind
That does much honour to your kind,
But in an age of fables grew,
So possibly it may'nt be true.
While on the summit Aetna glows,
His shivering sides are chill'd with snows.
Beneath, the painted landskip charms;
Here infant Spring in Winter's arms
Wantons secure; in youthful pride
Stands Summer laughing by her side;
Ev'n Autumn's yellow robes appear,
And one gay scene discloses all the year,
Hence to rude Cerigo we came,
Known once by Cytherea's name;
When Ocean first the goddess bore,
She rose on this distinguish'd shore.
Here first the happy Paris stopp'd,
When Helen from her lord elop'd.
With pleas'd reflection I survey'd
Each secret grott, each conscious shade;
Envy'd his choice, approv'd his flame,
And fondly wish'd my lot the same.
O were the cause reviv'd again!
For charming Queensbury liv'd not then,
The radiant fruit, had she been there,
Would scarce have fallen to Venus' share;
Saturnia's self had wav'd her claim,
And modest Pallas blush'd for shame;
All had been right: the Phrygian swain
Had sigh'd for her, but sigh'd in vain;
The fair Oenone joy'd to find,
The pains she felt repaid in kind;
No rape reveng'd, no room for strife,
Atrides might have kept his wife,
Old Troy in peace and plenty smil'd —
But the
Iliad.
best poem had been spoil'd.
How did my heart with joy run o'er,
When to the fam'd Cecropian shore,
Wafted by gentle breezes, we
Came gliding thro' the smooth still sea!
While backward rov'd my busy thought
On deeds in distant ages wrought;
On tyrants gloriously withstood;
On seas distain'd with Persian blood;
On trophies rais'd o'er hills of slain
In Marathon's unrival'd plain.
Then, as around I cast my eye,
And view'd the pleasing prospect nigh,
The land for arms and arts renown'd,
Where wit was honour'd, poets crown'd;
Whose manners and whose rules refin'd
Our souls, and civiliz'd mankind;
Or (yet a loftier pitch to raise
Our wonder, and compleat its praise)
The land that
Socrates.
Plato's master bore —
How did my heart with joy run o'er!
Now coasting on the eastern side,
We peep'd where Peneus rolls his tide:
Where Arethusa came t' appease
The shepherd that had lost his bees,
And led him to Cyrene's grott;
'Tis a long tale, and matters not.
Dryden will tell you all that past;
See Virgil's Georgics, book the last.
I speak on't, but to let you know
This grott still stands in statu quo;
Of which if any doubts remain,
I've proof, as follows, clear and plain.
Here, sisters, we such honours met!
Such honour I shall ne'er forget.
The Goddess (no uncommon case)
Proud, I suppose, to shew her place,
Or piqu'd perhaps at your renown,
Sent Boreas to invite us down;
And he so press'd it, that we us'd
Some pains to get ourselves excus'd.
My brother shipmates, all in haste
Declar'd, that shells were not their taste;
And I had
At Crux-Easton.
somewhere seen, you know,
A finer grott than she could shew.
Hence let the Muse to Delos roam,
Or Nio, fam'd for Homer's tomb;
To Naxos, known in ancient time
For Bacchus' love, for Theseus' crime.
Can she the Lesbian vine forget
Whence Horace reinforc'd his wit?
Where the fam'd harp Arion strung
Nor play'd more sweet than Sapho sung?
Could the old bards revive again,
How would they mourn th' inverted scene!
Scarce with the barren waste acquainted,
They once so beautifully painted.
And here, 'twixt friends, I needs must say,
But let it go no farther, pray,
These sung-up, cry'd up countries are
Displeasing, rugged, black, and bare;
And all I've yet beheld or known
Serve only to endear my own.
The matters I shall next disclose,
'Tis likely may be wrapp'd in prose;
But verse methought would suit these better,
Besides, it lengthens out my letter.
Read then, dear girls, with kind regard,
What comes so far, what comes so hard;
And to our mother too make known,
How travelling has improv'd her son.
Let not malicious critics join
Pope's homespun rhimes in rank with mine,
Form'd on that very spot of earth,
Where Homer's self receiv'd his birth;
Add, as I said, t' enhance their worth,
The pains they cost in bringing forth;
While his, as all mankind agrees,
Tho' wrote with care, are wrote with ease.
Part of a LETTER to my Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, wrote from CAIRO in EGYPT, AUGUST 1734.
By the Same.
WHILE you, my dear girls, in your paradise stray,
Diverting with innocent freedom the day,
I wander alone in a barbarous land,
Half bak'd by the sun, half blind by the sand.
Then your wood too and grotto so swim in my sight,
They give me no respite by day nor by night;
No sooner asleep but I'm dreaming of you;
I am just wak'd from one,—wou'd to God it were true.
Methought I was now a fine gentleman grown,
And had got, Lord knows how, an estate of my own.
Good-bye to plain Tom, I was rais'd a peg higher;
Some call'd me his worship, and others the squire.
'Twas a place, I remember, exactly like Easton,
A scene for an emperor's fancy to feast on.
There I built a fine house with great cost and great care,
(Your la'ships have form'd many such in the air)
Not of stucco, nor brick, but as good Portland stone
As Kent wou'd desire to be working upon.
The apartments not small, nor monstrously great,
But chiefly for use, and a little for state;
So begilt, and becarv'd, and with ornaments grac'd,
That ev'ry one said, I'd an excellent taste.
Here I liv'd like a king, never hoarded my pelf,
Kept a coach for my sisters, a nag for myself,
With something that's good when our Highclear friends come,
And, spite of 'squire Herbert, a fire in each room.
A canal made for profit as well as for pleasure,
That's about, let me see, two acres in measure;
Both the eye to delight, and the table to crown
With a jack, or a perch, when my uncles come down.
An exceeding great wood, that's been set a great while,
In length near a league, and in breadth near a mile.
There ev'ry dear girl her bright genius displays,
In a thousand fine whimsies a thousand fine ways.
O how charming the walks to my fancy appear!
What a number of temples and grottos are here!
My soul was transported to such an extreme,
That I leap'd up in raptures,—when lo! 'twas a dream;
Then vexing I chid the impertinent day
For driving so sweet a delusion away.
Thus spectres arise, as by nurse-maids we're told,
And hie to the place where they buried their gold:
There hov'ring around until morning remain;
Then sadly return to their torments again.
LETTER from MARSEILLES to my Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, MAY 1735.
By the Same.
SCENE,
the stuay at
Crux-Easton. Molly
and
Fanny
ar
sitting at work; enter to them
Harriot
in a passion.
LORD! sister, here's the butcher come,
And not one word from brother Tom;
The punctual spark, that made his boast
He'd write by ev'ry other post!
That ever I was so absurd
To take a man upon his word!
Quoth Frances, Child, I wonder much
You cou'd expect him to keep touch:
'Tis so, my dear, with all mankind;
When out of sight you're out of mind,
Think you he'd to his sisters write?
Was ever girl so unpolite!
Some fair Italian stands possess'd,
And reigns sole mistress in his breast;
To her he dedicates his time,
And fawns in prose, or sighs in rhyme.
She'll give him tokens of her love,
Perhaps not easy to remove;
Such as will make him large amends
For loss of sisters, and of friends.
Cries Harriot, when he comes to France,
I hope in God he'll learn to dance,
And leave his aukward habits there,
I'm sure he has enough to spare.
O cou'd he leave his faults, saith Fanny,
And bring the good alone, if any,
Poor brother Tom, he'd grow so light,
The wind might rob us of him quite!
Of habits he may well get clear;
Ill humours are the faults I fear,
For in my life I ne'er saw yet
A creature half so passionate,
Good heav'ns! how did he rave and tear,
On my not going you know where;
I scarcely yet have got my dread off:
I thought he'd bite my sister's head off.
'Tween him and Jenny what a clatter
About a fig, a mighty matter!
I cou'd recount a thousand more,
But scandal's what I most abhor.
Molly, who long had patient sate,
And heard in silence all their chat,
Observing how they spoke with rancour,
Took up my cause, for which I thank her.
What eloquence was then display'd,
The charming things that Molly said,
Perhaps it suits not me to tell;
But faith! she spoke extremely well.
She first, with much ado, put on
A prudish face, then thus begun.
Heyday! quoth she, you let your tongue
Run on most strangely, right or wrong.
'Tis what I never can connive at;
Besides, consider whom you drive at;
A person of establish'd credit,
Nobody better, tho' I said it.
In all that's good, so tried and known,
Why, girls, he's quite a proverb grown,
His worth no mortal dares dispute:
Then he's your brother too to boot.
At this she made a moment's pause,
Then with a sigh resum'd the cause.
Alas! my dears, you little know
A sailor's toil, a trav'ler's woe;
Perhaps this very hour he strays
A lonely wretch thro' desart ways;
Or shipwreck'd on a foreign strand,
He falls beneath some ruffian's hand:
Or on the naked rock he lies,
And pinch'd by famine wastes and dies.
Can you this hated brother see
Floating, the sport of wind and sea?
Can you his feeble accents hear,
Tho' but in thought, nor drop a tear?
He faintly strives, his hopes are fled,
The billows booming o'er his head;
He mounts upon the waves again,
He calls on us, but calls in vain;
To death preserves his friendship true,
And mutters out a kind adieu.
See now he rises to our sight,
Now sinks in everlasting night.
Here Fanny's colour rose and fell,
And Harriot's throat began to swell:
One sidled to the window quite,
Pretending some unusual sight,
The other left the room outright;
While Molly laugh'd, her ends obtain'd,
To think how artfully she feign'd.
The HISTORY of PORSENNA, King of RUSSIA IN TWO BOOKS.
By the Same.
Arva, beata
Petamus arva, divites et insulas.
HOR. Epod, 16
BOOK I.
IN Russia's frozen clime some ages since
There dwelt, historians say, a worthy prince,
Who to his people's good confin'd his care,
And fix'd the basis of his empire there;
Inlarg'd their trade, the lib'ral arts improv'd,
Made nations happy, and himself belov'd;
To all the neighb'ring states a terror grown,
The dear delight, and glory of his own.
Not like those kings who vainly seek renown
From countries ruin'd, and from battles won;
Those mighty Nimrods, who mean laws despise,
Call murder but a princely exercise,
And if one bloodless sun shou'd steal away,
Cry out with Titus, they have lost a day;
Who, to be more than men, themselves debase
Beneath the brute, their Maker's form deface,
Raising their titles by their God's disgrace.
Like fame to bold Erostratus we give,
Who scorn'd by less than sacrilege to live;
On holy ruins rais'd a lasting name,
And in the temple's fire diffus'd his shame.
Far diff'rent praises, and a brighter fame,
The virtues of the young Porsenna claim;
For by that name the Russian king was known,
And sure a nobler ne'er adorn'd the throne.
In war he knew the deathful sword to wield,
And sought the thickest dangers of the field,
A bold commander; but, the storm o'erblown,
He seem'd as he were made for peace alone;
Then was the golden age again restor'd,
Nor less his justice honour'd than his sword.
All needless pomp, and outward grandeur spar'd,
The deeds that grac'd him were his only guard;
No private views beneath a borrow'd name;
His and the publick interest were the same.
In wealth and pleasure let the subject live,
But virtue is the king's prerogative;
Porsenna there without a rival stood,
And wou'd maintain his right of doing good.
Nor did his person less attraction wear,
Such majesty and sweetness mingled there;
Heav'n with uncommon art the clay refin'd,
A proper mansion for so fair a mind;
Each look, each action bore peculiar grace,
And love itself was painted on his face.
In peaceful time he suffer'd not his mind
To rust in sloth, tho' much to peace inclin'd;
Nor wanton in the lap of pleasure lay,
And lost to glory loiter'd life away;
But active rising ere the prime of day,
Thro' woods and lonely desarts lov'd to stray;
With hounds and horns to wake the furious bear,
Or rouze the tawny lion from his laire;
To rid the forest of the savage brood,
And whet his courage for his country's good.
One day, as he pursued the dang'rous sport,
Attended by the nobles of his court,
It chanced a beast of more than common speed
Sprang from the brake, and thro' the desart fled.
The ardent prince impetuous as the wind
Rush'd on, and left his lagging train behind.
Fir'd with the chace, and full of youthful blood,
O'er plains, and vales, and woodland wilds he rode,
Urging his courser's speed, nor thought the day
How wasted, nor how intricate the way;
Nor, till the night in dusky clouds came on,
Restrain'd his pace, or found himself alone.
Missing his train, he strove to measure back
The road he came, but cou'd not find the track;
Still turning to the place he left before,
And only lab'ring to be lost the more.
The bugle horn, which o'er his shoulders hung,
So loud he winded, that the forest rung;
In vain, no voice but Echo from the ground,
And vocal woods, made mock'ry of the sound.
And now the gath'ring clouds began to spread
O'er the dun face of night a deeper shade;
And the hoarse thunder growling from afar,
With herald voice proclaim'd th' approaching war;
Silence awhile ensued,—then by degrees
A hollow wind came mutt'ring thro' the trees.
Sudden the full-fraught sky discharg'd its store,
Of rain and rattling hail a mingled show'r;
The active lightning ran along the ground;
The fiery bolts by fits were hurl'd around,
And the wide forests trembled at the sound.
Amazement seiz'd the prince;—where cou'd he fly?
No guide to lead, no friendly cottage nigh.
Pensive and unresolv'd awhile he stood,
Beneath the scanty covert of the wood;
But drove from thence soon sallied forth again,
As chance directed, on the dreary plain;
Constrain'd his melancholy way to take
Thro' many a loathsome bog, and thorny brake,
Caught in the thicket, flound'ring in the lake.
Wet with the storm, and wearied with the way,
By hunger pinch'd, himself to beasts a prey;
Nor wine to cheer his heart, nor fire to burn,
Nor place to rest, nor prospect to return.
Drooping and spiritless, at life's despair,
He bade it pass, not worth his farther care;
When suddenly he spied a distant light,
That faintly twinkled thro' the gloom of night,
And his heart leap'd for joy, and bless'd the welcome sight▪
Oft-times he doubted, it appear'd so far,
And hung so high, 'twas nothing but a star,
Or kindled vapour wand'ring thro' the sky,
But still press'd on his steed, still kept it in his eye;
Till, much fatigue, and many dangers past,
At a huge mountain he arriv'd at last.
There lighting from his horse, on hands and knees
Grop'd out the darksome road, by slow degrees,
Crawling or clamb'ring o'er the rugged way;
The thunder rolls above, the flames around him play.
Joyful at length he gain'd the steepy height,
And found the rift whence sprang the friendly light.
And here he stopp'd to rest his wearied feet,
And weigh the perils he had still to meet;
Unsheath'd his trusty sword, and dealt his eyes
With caution round him to prevent surprize;
Then summon'd all the forces of his mind,
And ent'ring boldly cast his fears behind:
Resolv'd to push his way, whate'er withstood,
Or perish bravely as a monarch shou'd.
While he the wonders of the place survey'd,
And thro' the various cells at random stray'd,
In a dark corner of the cave he view'd
Somewhat, that in the shape of woman stood;
But more deform'd than dreams can represent
The midnight hag, or poet's fancy paint
The Lapland witch, when she her broom bestrides,
And scatters storms and tempests as she rides.
She look'd as nature made her to disgrace
Her kind, and cast a blot on all the race;
Her shrivel'd skin with yellow spots besmear'd
Like mouldy records seem'd; her eyes were blear'd;
Her feeble limbs with age and palsy shook;
Bent was her body, haggard was her look.
From the dark nook outcrept the filthy crone,
And propp'd upon her crutch came tott'ring on.
The prince in civil guise approach'd the dame,
Told her his piteous case, and whence he came,
And till Aurora shou'd the shades expel,
Implor'd a lodging in her friendly cell.
Mortal, whoe'er thou art, the fiend began,
And as she spake a deadly horror ran
Thro' all his frame; his cheeks the blood forsook,
Chatter'd his teeth, his knees together struck.
Whoe'er thou art, that with presumption rude
Dar'st on her sacred privacy intrude,
And without licence in our court appear,
Know, thou'rt the first that ever enter'd here.
But since thou plead'st excuse, thou'rt hither brought
More by thy fortune than thy own default,
Thy crime, tho' great, an easy pardon finds,
For mercy ever dwells in royal minds;
And wou'd you learn from whose indulgent hand
You live, and in whose aweful presence stand,
Know farther, thro' yon wide extended plains
Great Eolus the king of tempests reigns,
And in this lofty palace makes abode,
Well suited to his state, and worthy of the God.
The various elements his empire own,
And pay their humble homage at his throne;
And hither all the storms and clouds resort,
Proud to increase the splendor of his court.
His queen am I, from whom the beauteous race
Of winds arose, sweet fruit of our embrace!
She scarce had ended, when, with wild uproar,
And horrid din, her sons impetuous pour
Around the cave; came rushing in amain
Lybs, Eurus, Boreas, all the boist'rous train;
And close behind them on a whirlwind rode
In clouded majesty the blust'ring God.
Their locks a thousand ways were blown about;
Their cheeks like full-blown bladders strutted out;
Their boasting talk was of the feats th' had done,
Of trees uprooted, and of towns o'erthrown;
And when they kindly turn'd them to accost
The prince, they almost pierc'd him with their frost.
The gaping hag in fix'd attention stood,
And at the close of ev'ry tale cried—good,
Blessing with outstretch'd arms each darling son,
In due proportion to the mischief done.
And where, said she, does little Zephyr stray?
Know ye, my sons, your brother's rout to-day?
In what bold deeds does he his hours employ?
Grant heav'n no evil has befall'n my boy!
Ne'er was he known to linger thus before.
Scarce had she spoke, when at the cavern door
Came lightly tripping in a form more fair
Than the young poet's fond ideas are,
When fir'd with love, he tries his utmost art
To paint the beauteous tyrant of his heart.
A satin vest his slender shape confin'd,
Embroider'd o'er with flow'rs of ev'ry kind,
Flora's own work, when first the goddess strove
To win the little wanderer to her love.
Of burnish'd silver were his sandals made,
Silver his buskins, and with gems o'erlaid;
A saffron-colour'd robe behind him flow'd,
And added grace and grandeur as he trod.
His wings than lillies whiter to behold,
Sprinkled with azure spots, and streak'd with gold;
So thin their form, and of so light a kind,
That they for ever danc'd, and flutter'd in the wind.
Around his temples with becoming air,
In wanton ringlets curl'd his auburn hair,
And o'er his shoulders negligently spread;
A wreath of fragrant roses crown'd his head.
Such his attire, but O! no pen can trace,
No words can shew the beauties of his face;
So kind! so winning! so divinely fair!
Eternal youth and pleasure flourish there;
There all the little loves and graces meet,
And ev'ry thing that's soft, and ev'ry thing that's sweet.
Thou vagrant, cried the dame in angry tone,
Where could'st thou loiter thus so long alone?
Little thou car'st what anxious thoughts molest,
What pangs are lab'ring in a mother's breast.
Well do you shew your duty by your haste,
For thou of all my sons are always last;
A child less fondled wou'd have fled more fast.
Sure 'tis a curse on mothers, doom'd to mourn,
Where best they love, the least and worst return.
My dear mamma, the gentle youth replied,
And made a low obeisance, cease to chide,
Nor wound me with your words, for well you know,
Your Zephyr bears a part in all your woe;
How great must be his sorrow then to learn
That he himself's the cause of your concern!
Nor had I loiter'd thus had I been free,
But the fair princess of Felicity,
Intreated me to make some short delay,
And ask'd by her who cou'd refuse to stay?
Surrounded by the damsels of her court
She sought the shady grove, her lov'd resort;
Fresh rose the grass, the flow'rs were mix'd between,
Like rich embroid'ry on a ground of green,
And in the midst, protected by the shade,
A crystal stream in wild meanders play'd;
While in its banks, the trembling leaves among,
A thousand little birds in concert sung.
Close by a mount with fragrant shrubs o'ergrown,
On a cool mossy couch she laid her down;
Her air, her posture, all conspir'd to please;
Her head, upon her snowy arm at ease
Reclin'd, a studied carelessness express'd;
Loose lay her robe, and naked heav'd her breast.
Eager I flew to that delightful place,
And pour'd a show'r of kisses on her face;
Now hover'd o'er her neck, her breast, her arms,
Like bees o'er flow'rs, and tasted all her charms;
And then her lips, and then her cheeks I tried,
And fann'd, and wanton'd round on ev'ry side.
O Zephyr, cried the fair, thou charming boy,
Thy presence only can create me joy;
To me thou art beyond expression dear,
Nor can I quit the place while thou art here.
Excuse my weakness, madam, when I swear
Such gentle words join'd with so soft an air,
Pronounc'd so sweetly from a mouth so fair,
Quite ravish'd all my sense, nor did I know
How long I staid; or when, or where to go.
Mean while the damsels debonnair and gay,
Prattled around, and laugh'd the time away:
These in soft notes address'd the ravish'd ear,
And warbled out so sweet, 'twas heav'n to hear;
And those in rings, beneath the greenwood shade,
Danc'd to the melody their fellows made.
Some studious of themselves, employ'd their care
In weaving flow'ry wreaths to deck their hair;
While others to some fav'rite plant convey'd
Refreshing show'rs, and cheer'd its drooping head.
A joy so general spread thro' all the place,
Such satisfaction dwelt on ev'ry face,
The nymphs so kind, so lovely look'd the queen,
That never eye beheld a sweeter scene.
Porsenna, like a statue fix'd appear'd,
And, wrapp'd in silent wonder, gaz'd and heard;
Much he admir'd the speech, the speaker more,
And dwelt on ev'ry word, and griev'd to find it o'er.
O gentle youth, he cried, proceed to tell,
In what fair country does this princess dwell;
What regions unexplor'd, what hidden coast
Can so much goodness, so much beauty boast?
To whom the winged god with gracious look,
Numberless sweets diffusing while he spoke,
Thus answer'd kind—These happy gardens lie
Far hence remov'd, beneath a milder sky;
Their name—The kingdom of Felicity.
Sweet scenes of endless bliss, enchanted ground,
A soil for ever sought, but seldom found;
Tho' in the search all human kind in vain
Weary their wits, and waste their lives in pain.
In diff'rent parties, diff'rent paths they tread,
As reason guides them, or as follies lead;
These wrangling for the place they ne'er shall see,
Debating those, if such a place there be;
But not the wisest, nor the best can say
Where lies the point, or mark the certain way.
Some few, by Fortune favour'd for her sport,
Have sail'd in sight of this delightful port;
In thought already seiz'd the bless'd abodes,
And in their fond delirium rank'd with gods.
Fruitless attempt! all avenues are kept
By dreadful foes, sentry that never slept.
Here fell Detraction darts her pois'nous breath
Fraught with a thousand stings, and scatters death;
Sharp-sighted Envy there maintains her post,
And shakes her flaming brand, and stalks around the coast.
These on the helpless bark their fury pour,
Plunge in the waves, or dash against the shore;
Teach wretched mortals they were doom'd to mourn,
And ne'er must rest but in the silent urn.
But say, young monarch, for what name you bear
Your mien, your dress, your person, all declare;
And tho' I seldom fan the frozen north,
Yet I have heard of brave Porsenna's worth.
My brother Boreas thro' the world has flown,
Swelling his breath to spread forth your renown;
Say, wou'd you choose to visit this retreat,
And view the world where all these wonders meet?
Wish you some friend o'er that tempestuous sea
To bear you safe! behold that friend in me.
My active wings shall all their force employ,
And nimbly waft you to the realms of joy;
As once, to gratify the god of Love,
I bore fair Psyche to the Cyprian grove;
Or as Jove's bird, descending from on high,
Snatch'd the young Trojan trembling to the sky.
There perfect bliss thou may'st for ever share,
'Scap'd from the busy world, and all its care;
There in the lovely princess shalt thou find
A mistress ever blooming, ever kind.
All ecstacy on air Porsenna trod,
And to his bosom strain'd the little god;
With grateful sentiments his heart o'erflow'd,
And in the warmest words millions of thanks bestow'd.
When Aeolus in surly humour broke
Their strict embrace, and thus abruptly spoke.
Enough of compliment; I hate the sport
Of meanless words; this is no human court;
Where plain and honest are discarded quite,
For the more modish title of polite;
Where in soft speeches hypocrites impart
The venom'd ills that lurk beneath the heart;
In friendship's holy guise their guilt improve,
And kindly kill with specious shew of love.
For us,— may subjects are not us'd to wait,
And waste their hours to hear a mortal prate;
They must abroad before the rising sun,
And hie 'em to the seas: there's mischief to be done.
Excuse my plainness, Sir, but business stands,
And we have storms and shipwrecks on our hands.
He ended frowning, and the noisy rout,
Each to his several cell went puffing out.
But Zephyr, far more courteous than the rest,
To his own bow'r convey'd the royal guest;
There on a bed of roses neatly laid,
Beneath the fragrance of a myrtle shade,
His limbs to needful rest the prince applied,
His sweet companion slumb'ring by his side.
BOOK II.
NO sooner in her silver chariot rose
The ruddy morn, than sated with repose
The prince address'd his host; the God awoke,
And leaping from his couch, thus kindly spoke.
This early call, my lord, that chides my stay,
Requires my thanks, and I with joy obey.
Like you I long to reach the blissful coast,
Hate the slow night, and mourn the moments lost.
The bright Rosinda, loveliest of the fair
That crowd the princess' court, demands my care;
Ev'n now with fears and jealousies o'erborn
Upbraids, and calls me cruel and forsworn.
What sweet rewards on all my toils attend,
Serving at once my mistress and my friend;
Just to my love and to my duty too,
Well paid in her, well pleas'd in pleasing you.
This said, he led him to the cavern gate,
And clasp'd him in his arms, and pois'd his weight;
Then ballancing his body here and there,
Stretch'd forth his agile wings, and launch'd in air;
Swift as the fiery meteor from on high
Shoots to its goal, and gleams athwart the sky.
Here with quick fan his lab'ring pinions play;
There glide at ease along the liquid way;
Now lightly skim the plain with even flight;
Now proudly soar above the mountain's height.
Spiteful Detraction, whose envenom'd hate
Sports with the suff'rings of the good and great,
Spares not our prince, but with opprobrious sneer
Arraigns him of the heinous sin of fear;
That he, so tried in arms, whose very name
Infus'd a secret panic where it came,
Ev'n he, as high above the clouds he flew,
And spied the mountains less'ning to the view,
Nought round him but the wide expanded air,
Helpless, abandon'd to a stripling's care,
Struck with the rapid whirl, and dreadful height,
Confess'd some faint alarm, some little fright.
The friendly God, who instantly divin'd
The terrors that possess'd his fellow's mind,
To calm his troubled thoughts, and cheat the way,
Describ'd the nations that beneath them lay,
The name, the climate, and the soil's increase,
Their arms in war, their government in peace;
Shew'd their domestic arts, their foreign trade,
What int'rest they pursued, what leagues they made.
The sweet discourse so charm'd Porsenna's ear,
That lost in joy he had no time for fear.
From Scandinavia's cold inclement waste
O'er wide Germania's various realms they past,
And now on Albion's fields suspend their toil,
And hover for awhile, and bless the soil.
O'er the gay scene the prince delighted hung,
And gaz'd in rapture, and forgot his tongue;
Till bursting forth at length. Behold, cried he,
The promis'd isle, the land I long'd to see;
Those plains, those vales, and fruitful hills declare
My queen, my charmer must inhabit there.
Thus rav'd the monarch, and the gentle guide,
Pleas'd with his error, thus in smiles replied.
I must applaud, my lord, the lucky thought;
Ev'n I, who know th' original, am caught,
And doubt my senses, when I view the draught,
The slow-ascending hill, the lofty wood
That mantles o'er its brow, the silver flood
Wand'ring in mazes thro' the flow'ry mead,
The herd that in the plenteous pastures feed,
And ev'ry object, every scene excites
Fresh wonder in my soul, and fills with new delights:
Dwells cheerful Plenty there, and learned Ease,
And Art with Nature seems at strife to please.
There Liberty, delightful goddess, reigns,
Gladdens each heart, and gilds the fertile plains;
There firmly seated may she ever smile,
And show'r her blessings o'er her fav'rite isle!
But see, the rising sun reproves our stay.
He said, and to the ocean wing'd his way,
Stretching his course to climates then unknown,
Nations that swelter in the burning zone.
There in Peruvian vales a moment staid,
And smooth'd his wings beneath the citron shade;
Then swift his oary pinions plied again,
Cross'd the new world, and sought the Southern main;
Where many a wet and weary league o'erpast,
The wish'd for paradise appear'd at last.
With force abated now they gently sweep
O'er the smooth surface of the shining deep;
The Dryads hail'd them from the distant shore,
The Nereids play'd around, the Tritons swam before,
While soft Favonius their arrival greets,
And breathes his welcome in a thousand sweets.
Nor pale disease, nor health-consuming care,
Nor wrath, nor foul revenge can enter there;
No vapour's foggy gloom imbrowns the sky;
No tempests rage, no angry lightnings fly;
But dews, and soft-refreshing airs are found,
And pure aetherial azure shines around.
Whate'er the sweet Sabaean soil can boast,
Or Mecca's plains, or India's spicy coast;
What Hybla's hills, or rich Oebalia's fields,
Or flow'ry vale of fam'd Hymettus yields;
Or what of old th' Hesperian orchard grac'd;
All that was e'er delicious to the taste,
Sweet to the smell, or lovely to the view,
Collected there with added beauty grew.
High-tow'ring to the heav'ns the trees are seen,
Their bulk immense, their leaf for ever green;
So closely interwove, the tell-tale sun
Can ne'er descry the deeds beneath them done,
But where by fits the sportive gales divide
Their tender tops, and fan the leaves aside.
Like a smooth carpet at their feet lies spread
The matted grass, by bubbling fountains fed;
And on each bough the feather'd choir employ
Their melting notes, and nought is heard but joy▪
The painted flow'rs exhale a rich perfume,
The fruits are mingled with eternal bloom,
And Spring and Autumn hand in hand appear,
Lead on the merry months, and join to cloath the year.
Here, o'er the mountain's shaggy summit pour'd,
From rock to rock the tumbling torrent roar'd,
While beauteous Iris in the vale below
Paints on the rising fumes her radiant bow.
Now through the meads the mazy current stray'd,
Now hid its wand'rings in the myrtle shade;
Or in a thousand veins divides its store,
Visits each plant, refreshes ev'ry flow'r;
O'er gems and golden sands in murmurs flows,
And sweetly soothes the soul, and lulls to soft repose.
If hunger call, no sooner can the mind
Express her will to needful food inclin'd,
But in some cool recess, or op'ning glade,
The seats are plac'd, the tables neatly laid,
And instantly convey'd by magic hand
In comely rows the costly dishes stand;
Meats of all kinds that nature can impart,
Prepar'd in all the nicest forms of art.
A troop of sprightly nymphs array'd in green,
With flow'ry chaplets crown'd, come scudding in;
With fragrant blossoms these adorn the feast,
Those with officious zeal attend the guest;
Beneath his feet the silken carpet spread,
Or sprinkle liquid odours o'er his head.
Others in ruby cups with roses bound
Delightful! deal the sparkling nectar round;
Or weave the dance, or tune the vocal lay;
The lyres resound, the merry minstrels play,
Gay health, and youthful joys o'erspread the place,
And swell each heart, and triumph in each face.
So when embolden'd by the vernal air,
The busy bees to blooming fields repair;
For various use employ their chymic pow'r;
One culls the snowy pounce, one sucks the flow'r;
Again to diff'rent works returning home,
Some
Or stive, stipant.
steeve the honey, some erect the comb;
All for the general good in concert strive,
And ev'ry soul's in motion, ev'ry limb's alive.
And now descending from his flight, the God
On the green turf releas'd his precious load;
There, after mutual salutations past,
And endless friendship vow'd, they part in haste;
Zephyr impatient to behold his love,
The prince in raptures wand'ring thro' the grove;
Now skipping on, and singing as he went,
Now stopping short to give his transports vent;
With sudden gusts of happiness oppress'd,
Or stands entranc'd, or raves like one possess'd;
His mind afloat, his wand'ring senses quite
O'ercome with charms, and frantic with delight;
From scene to scene by random steps conveyed,
Admires the distant views, explores the secret shade,
Dwells on each spot, with eager eye devours
The woods, the lawns, the buildings, and the bow'rs;
New sweets, new joys at every glance arise,
And ev'ry turn creates a fresh surprize.
Close by the borders of a rising wood,
In a green vale a crystal grotto stood;
And o'er its side, beneath a beechen shade,
In broken falls a silver fountain play'd.
Hither, attracted by the murm'ring stream,
And cool recess, the pleas'd Porsenna came,
And on the tender grass reclining chose
To wave his joys awhile, and take a short repose.
The scene invites him, and the wanton breeze
That whispers thro' the vale, the dancing trees,
The warbling birds, and rills that gently creep,
All join their music to prolong his sleep.
The princess for her morning walk prepar'd;
The female troops attend, a beauteous guard.
Array'd in all her charms appear'd the fair;
Tall was her stature, unconfin'd her air;
Proportion deck'd her limbs, and in her face
Lay love inshrin'd, lay sweet attractive grace
Temp'ring the aweful beams her eyes convey'd,
And like a lambent flame around her play'd.
No foreign aids, by mortal ladies worn,
From shells and rocks her artless charms adorn;
For grant that beauty were by gems increas'd,
'Tis render'd more suspected at the least;
And foul defects, that wou'd escape the sight,
Start from the piece, and take a stronger light.
Her chesnut hair in careless rings around
Her temples wav'd, with pinks and jes'mine crown'd,
And, gather'd in a silken cord behind,
Curl'd to the waist, and floated in the wind;
O'er these a veil of yellow gause she wore,
With amaranths and gold embroider'd o'er.
Her snowy neck half naked to the view
Gracefully fell; a robe of purple hue
Hung loosely o'er her slender shape, and tried
To shade those beauties, that it cou'd not hide.
The damsels of her train with mirth and song
Frolick behind, and laugh and sport along.
The birds proclaim their queen from ev'ry tree;
The beasts run frisking thro' the groves to see;
The Loves, the Pleasures, and the Graces meet
In antic rounds, and dance before her feet.
By whate'er fancy led, it chanc'd that day
They thro' the secret valley took their way,
And to the crystal grot advancing spied
The prince extended by the fountain's side.
He look'd as, by some skilful hand express'd,
Apollo's youthful form retir'd to rest;
When with the chace fatigued he quits the wood
For Pindus' vale, and Aganippe's flood;
There sleeps secure, his careless limbs display'd
At ease, encircled by the laurel shade;
Beneath his head his sheaf of arrows lie,
His bow unbent hangs negligently by.
The slumb'ring prince might boast an equal grace,
So turn'd his limbs, so beautiful his face.
Waking he started from the ground in haste,
And saw the beauteous choir around him plac'd;
Then, summoning his senses, ran to meet
The queen, and laid him humbly at her feet.
Deign, lovely princess, to behold, said he,
One, who has travers'd all the world to see
Those charms, and worship thy divinity:
Accept thy slave, and with a gracious smile
Excuse his rashness, and reward his toil.
Stood motionless the fair with mute surprize,
And read him over with admiring eyes;
And while she stedfast gaz'd, a pleasing smart
Ran thrilling thro' her veins, and reach'd her heart.
Each limb she scann'd, consider'd ev'ry grace,
And sagely judg'd him of the phoenix' race.
An animal like this she ne'er had known,
And thence concluded there could be but one;
The creature too had all the phoenix' air;
None but the phoenix cou'd appear so fair.
The more she look'd, the more she thought it true,
And call'd him by that name, to shew she knew.
O handsome phoenix, for that such you are
We know; your beauty does your breed declare;
And I with sorrow own thro' all my coast
No other bird can such perfection boast;
For Nature form'd you single and alone:
Alas! what pity 'tis there is but one!
Were there a queen so fortunate to shew
An aviary of charming birds like you,
What envy wou'd her happiness create
In all, who saw the glories of her state!
The prince laugh'd inwardly, surpriz'd to find
So strange a speech, so innocent a mind.
The compliment indeed did some offence
To reason, and a little wrong'd her sense;
He cou'd not let it pass, but told his name,
And what he was, and whence, and why he came;
And hinted other things of high concern
For him to mention, and for her to learn;
And she 'ad a piercing wit, of wond'rous reach
To comprehend whatever he cou'd teach.
Thus hand in hand they to the palace walk,
Pleas'd and instructed with each other's talk.
Here, shou'd I tell the furniture's expence,
And all the structure's vast magnificence,
Describe the walls of shining saphire made,
With emerald and pearl the floors inlaid,
And how the vaulted canopies unfold
A mimic heav'n, and flame with gems and gold;
Or how Felicity regales her guest,
The wit, the mirth, the music, and the feast;
And on each part bestow the praises due,
'Twould tire the writer, and the reader too.
My amorous tale a softer path pursues:
Love and the happy pair demand my Muse.
O cou'd her art in equal terms express
The lives they lead, the pleasures they possess!
Fortune had ne'er so plenteously before
Bestow'd her gifts, nor can she lavish more.
'Tis heav'n itself, 'tis ecstacy of bliss,
Uninterrupted joy, untir'd excess;
Mirth following mirth the moments dance away;
Love claims the night, and friendship rules the day.
Their tender care no cold indiff'rence knows;
No jealousies disturb their sweet repose;
No sickness, no decay; but youthful grace,
And constant beauty shines in either face.
Benumming age may mortal charms invade,
Flow'rs of a day that do but bloom and fade;
Far diff'rent here, on them it only blows
The lilly's white, and spreads the blushing rose;
No conquest o'er those radiant eyes can boast;
They like the stars shine brighter in its frost;
Nor fear its rigour, nor its rule obey;
All seasons are the fame, and ev'ry month is May.
Alas! how vain is happiness below!
Man soon or late must have his share of woe;
Slight are his joys, and fleeting as the wind;
His griefs wound home, and leave a sting behind.
His lot distinguish'd from the brute appears
Less certain by his laughter than his tears;
For ignorance too oft our pleasure breeds,
But sorrow from the reas'ning soul proceeds.
If man on earth in endless bliss cou'd be,
The boon, young prince, had been bestow'd on thee.
Bright shone thy stars, thy Fortune flourish'd fair,
And seem'd secure beyond the reach of care,
And so might still have been, but anxious thought
Has dash'd thy cup, and thou must taste the draught.
It so befel, as on a certain day
This happy couple toy'd their time away,
He ask'd how many charming hours were flown,
Since on her slave her heav'n of beauty shone.
Should I consult my heart, cried he, the rate
Were small, a week wou'd be the utmost date:
But when my mind reflects on actions past,
And counts its joys, time must have fled more fast.
Perhaps I might have said, three months are gone.
Three months! replied the fair, three months alone!
Know that three hundred years have roll'd away,
Since at my feet the lovely phoenix lay.
Three hundred years! re-echo'd back the prince,
A whole three hundred years compleated since
I landed here! O! whither then are flown
My dearest friends, my subjects, and my throne?
How strange, alas! how alter'd shall I find
Each earthly thing, each scene I left behind!
Who knows me now? on whom shall I depend
To gain my rights? where shall I find a friend?
My crown perhaps may grace a foreign line,
A race of kings, that know not me nor mine;
Who reigns may wish my death, his subjects treat
My claim with scorn, and call their prince a cheat.
Oh had my life been ended as begun!
My destin'd stage, my race of glory run,
I shou'd have died well pleas'd; my honour'd name
Had liv'd, had flourish'd in the list of fame;
Reflecting now my mind with horror sees
The sad survey, a scene of shameful ease,
The odious blot, the scandal of my race,
Scarce known, and only mention'd with disgrace.
The fair beheld him with impatient eye,
And red with anger made this warm reply.
Ungrateful man! is this the kind return
My love deserves; and can you thus with scorn
Reject what once you priz'd, what once you swore
Surpass'd all charms, and made ev'n glory poor?
What gifts have I bestow'd, what favours shewn!
Made you partaker of my bed and throne;
Three centuries preserv'd in youthful prime,
Safe from the rage of death, and injuries of time,
Weak arguments! for glory reigns above
The feeble ties of gratitude and love,
I urge them not, nor wou'd request your stay;
The phantom glory calls, and I obey;
All other virtues are regardless quite,
Sunk and absorb'd in that superior light.
Go then, barbarian, to thy realms return,
And shew thyself unworthy my concern;
Go, tell the world, your tender heart cou'd give
Death to the princess, by whose care you live.
At this a deadly pale her cheeks o'erspread,
Cold trembling seiz'd her limbs, her spirits fled;
She sunk into his arms: the prince was mov'd,
Felt all her griefs, for still he greatly lov'd.
He sigh'd, he wish'd he could forget his throne;
Confine his thoughts, and live for her alone;
But glory shot him deep, the venom'd dart
Was fix'd within, and rankled at his heart;
He cou'd not hide its wounds, but pin'd away
Like a sick flow'r, and languish'd in decay.
An age no longer like a month appears,
But ev'ry month becomes a hundred years.
Felicity was griev'd, and cou'd not bear
A scene so chang'd, a sight of so much care.
She told him with a look of cold disdain,
And seeming ease, as women well can feign,
He might depart at will; a milder air
Wou'd mend his health; he was no pris'ner there;
She kept him not, and wish'd he ne'er might find
Cause to regret the place he left behind;
Which once he lov'd, and where he still must own,
He had at least some little pleasure known.
If these prophetic words awhile destroy
His peace, the former ballance it in joy.
He thank'd her for her kind concern, but chose
To quit the place, the rest let heav'n dispose.
For Fate, on mischiefs bent, perverts the will,
And first infatuates whom it means to kill.
Aurora now, not, as she wont to rise,
In gay attire ting'd with a thousand dies,
But sober-sad in solemn state appears,
Clad in a dusky veil bedew'd with tears.
Thick mantling clouds beneath her chariot spread,
A faded wreath hangs drooping from her head.
The sick'ning sun emits a feeble ray,
Half drown'd in fogs, and struggling into day.
Some black event the threat'ning skies foretel.
Porsenna rose to take his last farewel.
A curious vest the mournful princess brought,
And armour by the Lemnian artist wrought;
A shining lance with secret virtue stor'd,
And of resistless force a magic sword;
Caparisons and gems of wond'rous price,
And loaded him with gifts and good advice;
But chief she gave, and what he most wou'd need,
The fleetest of her stud, a flying steed.
The swift Grifippo, said th' afflicted fair,
(Such was the courser's name) with speed shall bear,
And place you safely in your native air;
Assist against the foe, with matchless might
Ravage the field, and turn the doubtful fight;
With care protect you till the danger cease,
Your trust in war, your ornament in peace.
But this, I warn, beware; whate'er shall lay
To intercept your course, or tempt your stay,
Quit not your saddle, nor your speed abate,
Till safely landed at your palace gate.
On this alone depends your weal or woe;
Such is the will of Fate, and so the Gods foreshew.
He in the softest terms repaid her love,
And vow'd, nor age, nor absence shou'd remove
His constant faith, and sure she cou'd not blame
A short divorce due to his injur'd fame.
The debt discharg'd, then shou'd her soldier come
Gay from the field, and flush'd with conquest, home;
With equal ardour her affection meet,
And lay his laurels at his mistress' feet.
He ceas'd, and sighing took a kind adieu;
Then urg'd his steed; the fierce Grifippo flew;
With rapid force outstripp'd the lagging wind,
And left the blissful shores, and weeping fair behind;
Now o'er the seas pursued his airy flight,
Now scower'd the plains, and climb'd the mountain's height.
Thus driving on at speed the prince had run
Near half his course, when, with the setting sun,
As thro' a lonely lane he chanc'd to ride,
With rocks and bushes fenc'd on either side,
He spied a waggon full of wings, that lay
Broke and o'erturn'd across the narrow way.
The helpless driver on the dirty road
Lay struggling, crush'd beneath th' incumbent load.
Never in human shape was seen before
A wight so pale, so feeble, and so poor.
Comparisons of age would do him wrong,
For Nestor's self, if plac'd by him, were young.
His limbs were naked all, and worn so thin,
The bones seem'd starting thro' the parchment skin,
His eyes half drown'd in rheum, his accents weak,
Bald was his head; and furrow'd was his cheek.
The conscious steed stopp'd short in deadly fright,
And back recoiling stretch'd his wings for flight.
When thus the wretch with supplicating tone,
And rueful face, began his piteous moan,
And, as he spake, the tears ran trickling down.
O gentle youth, if pity e'er inclin'd
Thy soul to gen'rous deeds, if e'er thy mind
Was touch'd with soft distress, extend thy care
To save an old man's life, and ease the load I bear.
So may propitious heav'n your journey speed,
Prolong your days, and all your vows succeed.
Mov'd with the pray'r the kind Porsenna staid,
Too nobly-minded to refuse his aid,
And, prudence yielding to superior grief,
Leap'd from his steed, and ran to his relief;
Remov'd the weight, and gave the pris'ner breath,
Just choak'd, and gasping on the verge of death.
Then reach'd his hand, when lightly with a bound
The grizly spectre vaulting from the ground,
Seiz'd him with sudden gripe, th' astonish'd prince
Stood horror-struck, and thoughtless of defence.
O king of Russia, with a thund'ring sound
Bellow'd the ghastly fiend, at length thou'rt found.
Receive the ruler of mankind, and know,
My name is Time, thy ever-dreaded foe.
These feet are founder'd, and the wings you see
Worn to the pinions in pursuit of thee;
Thro' all the world in vain for ages sought,
But Fate has doom'd thee now; and thou art caught.
Then round his neck his arms he nimbly cast,
And seiz'd him by the throat, and grasp'd him fast;
Till forc'd at length the soul forsook its seat,
And the pale breathless corse fell bleeding at his feet.
Scarce had the cursed spoiler left his prey,
When, so it chanc'd, young Zephyr pass'd that way;
Too late his presence to assist his friend,
A sad, but helpless witness of his end.
He chases, and fans, and strives in vain to cure
His streaming wounds; the work was done too sure.
Now lightly with a soft embrace uprears
The lifeless load, and bathes it in his tears;
Then to the blissful seats with speed conveys,
And graceful on the mossy carpet lays
With decent care, close by the fountain's side,
Where first the princess had her phoenix spied.
There with sweet flow'rs his lovely limbs he strew'd,
And gave a parting kiss, and sighs and tears bestow'd.
To that sad solitude the weeping dame,
Wild with her loss, and swoln with sorrow, came.
There was she wont to vent her griefs, and mourn
Those dear delights that must no more return.
Thither that morn with more than usual care
She sped, but O what joy to find him there!
As just arriv'd, and weary with the way,
Retir'd to soft repose her hero lay.
Now near approaching she began to creep
With careful steps, loth to disturb his sleep;
Till quite o'ercome with tenderness she flew,
And round his neck her arms in transport threw.
But, when she found him dead, no tongue can tell
The pangs she felt; she shriek'd, and swooning fell.
Waking, with loud laments she pierc'd the skies,
And fill'd th' affrighted forest with her cries.
That fatal hour the palace gates she barr'd,
And fix'd around the coast a stronger guard;
Now rare appearing, and at distance seen,
With crowds of black misfortunes plac'd between;
Mischiefs of ev'ry kind, corroding care,
And fears, and jealousies, and dark despair.
And since that day (the wretched world must own
These mournful truths by sad experience known)
No mortal e'er enjoy'd that happy clime,
And ev'ry thing on earth submits to Time.
The EVER-GREEN.
WHEN tepid breezes fann'd the air,
And violets perfum'd the glade,
Pensive and grave my charming fair
Beneath yon shady lime was laid.
Flourish, said I, those favour'd boughs,
And ever sooth the purest flames!
Witness to none but faithful vows!
Wounded by none but faithful names!
Yield every tree that crowns the grove
To this which pleas'd my wandering dear!
Range where you will, ye bands of love,
Ye still shall
seem
to revel here.
Lavinia smil'd—and whilst her arm
Her fair reclining head sustain'd,
Betray'd she felt some fresh alarm;
And thus the meaning smile explain'd.
When summer suns shine forth no more,
Will then this lime its shelter yield?
Protect us when the tempests roar,
And winter drives us from the field?
Yet faithful then the fir shall last—
I smile, she cry'd, but ah! I tremble,
To think when my fair season's past,
Which Damon then will most resemble.
ANSWER.
TOO timorous maid! can time or chance
A pure ingenuous flame controul?
O lay aside that tender glance,
That melts my frame, that kills my soul!
Were but thy outward charms admir'd,
Frail origin of female sway!
My flame like other flames inspir'd,
Might then like other flames decay:
But whilst thy mind shall seem thus fair,
Thy soul's unfading charms be seen;
Thou may'st resign that shape and air,
Yet find thy swain—an ever-green.
CANDOUR.
THE warmest friend, I ever prov'd,
My bitterest foe I see:
The kindest maid I ever lov'd,
Is false to love and me.
But shall I make the angry vow,
Which tempts my wavering mind?
Shall dark suspicion cloud my brow,
And bid me shun mankind?
Avaunt, thou hell-born fiend! no more
Pretend my steps to guide;
Let me be cheated o'er and o'er,
But let me still confide.
If this be folly, all my claim
To wisdom I resign;
But let no sage presume to name
His
happiness
with mine.
LYSANDER to CLOE.
'TIS true, my wish will never find
Another nymph so fair, so true;
Since all that's bright, and all that's kind,
In those expressive eyes I view.
And I with grateful zeal could haste
To China for the merest toy;
Could scorch on Lybia's barren waste,
To give my dear a moment's joy.
But fickle as the wave or wind,
I once may flight those lovely arms;
Pardon a free ingenuous mind,
I do not half deserve thy charms.
If I in any praise excel,
'Tis in soft themes to paint my flame;
But Cloe's sweetness bids me tell,
I shall not long remain the same.
I know its season will expire,
Replac'd by cool esteem alone;
Nor more thy matchless breast admire
Than I detest and scorn my own.
This interval my fate allows,
And friendship dictates all I say;
O shun to hear my future vows,
When giddy love resumes the lay.
So some poor maniac can foresee
The random hours of madness nigh;
He mourns the fates' severe decree,
And cautions whom he loves to fly.
CLOE to LYSANDER.
OF vagrant loves, and fickle flames
Lysander's Muse may tell,
And sure such artless freedom claims
His Cloe's best farewel.
Whene'er his heart becomes the theme
We see his fancy shine;
But let not vain Lysander dream
That e'er that heart was mine.
Can he that fondly hopes to move,
With caution chill his lay?
Can he who feels the power of love,
Foretel that love's decay?
Why teize believing nymphs in vain?
Go seek some pathless vale,
And listen to thy vocal strain
Soft echoing down the dale.
While artless Cloe hence retir'd,
Shall this sad maxim prove;
No bosom, once with love inspir'd,
Could ever cease to love.
To the Memory of an agreeable LADY bury'd in Marriage to a Person undeserving her.
'TWAS always held, and ever will,
By sage mankind, discreeter
T' anticipate a lesser ill
Than undergo a greater,
When mortals dread diseases, pain,
And languishing conditions;
Who don't the lesser ills sustain
Of physic and physicians?
Rather than lose his whole estate,
He that but little wise is,
Full gladly pays four parts in eight
To taxes and excises.
With numerous ills in single life
The batchelor's attended;
Such to avoid, he takes a wife—
And much the case is mended.
Poor Gratia, in her twentieth year,
Foreseeing future woe,
Chose to attend a
monkey
here,
Before an
ape
below.
An ELEGY, written on VALENTINE Morning.
By * * * *
HARK, thro' the sacred silence of the night.
Loud Chanticleer doth sound his clarion shrill,
Hailing with song the first pale gleam of light,
That floats the dark brow of yon eastern hill.
Bright star of morn, oh! leave not yet the wave,
To deck the dewy frontlet of the day,
Nor thou, Aurora, quit Tithonus' cave,
Nor drive retiring darkness yet away,
Ere these my rustic hands a garland twine,
Ere yet my tongue indite a simple song,
For her I mean to hail my Valentine,
Sweet maiden, fairest of the virgin throng.
Sweet is the morn, and sweet the gentle breeze
That fans the fragrant bosom of the spring,
Sweet chirps the lark, and sweeter far than these
The gentle love-song gurgling turtles sing.
Oh let the flowers be fragrant as the morn,
And as the turtle's song my ditty sweet:
Those flowers my woven chaplet must adorn,
That ditty must my waking charmer greet.
And thou, blest saint, whom choral creatures join
In one enlivening symphony to hail,
Oh be propitious, gentle Valentine,
And let each holy tender sigh prevail.
Oh give me to approach my sleeping love,
And strew her pillow with the freshest flowers,
No sigh unhallow'd shall my bosom move,
Nor step prophame polluto my true-love's bowers.
At sacred distance only will I gaze,
Nor bid my unreproved eye refrain,
Mean while my tongue shall chaunt her beauty's praise,
And hail her sleeping with the gentlest strain.
"Awake my fair, awake, for it is time;
Hark, thousand songsters rise from yonder grove,
And rising carol this sweet hour of prime,
Each to his mate, a roundelay of love.
All nature sings the hymeneal song.
All nature follows, where the spring invites;
Come forth my love, to us these joys belong,
Ours is the spring, and all her young delights.
For us she throws profusely forth her flowers,
Which in fresh chaplets joyful I will twine;
Come forth my fair, oh do not lose these hours,
But wake, and be my faithful Valentine.
Full many an hour, all lonely have I sigh'd,
Nor dared the secret of my love reveal,
Full many a fond expedient have I tried
My warmest wish in silence to conceal.
And oft to far retired solitude
All mournfully my slow step have I bent,
Luxurious there indulg'd my musing mood,
And there alone have given my sorrows vent.
This day resolv'd I dare to plight my vow,
This day, long since the feast of love decreed,
Embolden'd will I speak my flame, nor thou
Refuse to hear how sore my heart does bleed."
Yet if I should behold my love awake,
Ah frail resolves, ah whither will ye fly?
Full well I know I shall not silence break,
But struck with awe almost for fear shall die.
Oh no, I will not trust a fault'ring speech
In broken phrase an aukward tale to tell,
A tale, whose tenderness no tongue can reach,
Nor softest melody can utter well.
But my meek eye, best herald to my heart,
I will compose to soft and downcast look,
And at one humble glance it shall impart
My love, nor fear the language be mistook.
For she shall read (apt scholar at this lore)
With what fond passion my true bosom glows,
How hopeless of return I still adore,
Nor dare the boldness of my wish disclose.
Should she then smile,—yet ah! she smiles on all,
Her gentle temper pities all distress;
On every hill, each vale, the sun-beams fall,
Each herb, and flow'r, each tree, and shrub they bless.
Alike all nature grateful owns the boon,
The universal ray to all is free;
Like fond Endymion should I hope the moon,
Because among the rest she shines on me?
Hope, vain presumer, keep, oh keep away:
Ev'n if my woe her gentle bosom move,
Pity some look of kindness may display;
But each soft glance is not a look of love.
Yet heav'nly visitant, thou dost not quit
Those bow'rs where angels sweet division sing,
Nor deignest thou on mortal shrine to sit
Alone, for round thee ever on the wing,
Glad choirs of loves attend, and hov'ring wait
Thy mild command; of these thy blooming train
Oh bid some sylph in morning dreams relate,
Ere yet my love awake, my secret pain.
The DOWAGER.
By the Same.
WHERE aged elms in many a goodly row
Give yearly shelter to the constant crow,
A mansion stands:—long since the pile was rais'd,
Whose Gothic grandeur the rude hind amaz'd.
For the rich ornament on ev'ry part,
Confess'd the founder's wealth, and workman's art:
Tho' as the range of the wide court we tread,
The broken arch now totters o'er the head;
And where of old rose high the social smoke,
Now swallows build, and lonely ravens croak.
Tho' Time, whose touch each beauty can deface,
Has torn from ev'ry tow'r the sculptur'd grace;
Tho' round each stone the sluggard ivy crawls,
Yet ancient state sits hov'ring on the walls.
Where wont the festal chorus to resound,
And jocund dancing frequent beat the ground,
Now Silence spreads around her gloomy reign,
Save when the mastiff clanks his iron chain,
Save when his hoarse bark echoes dire alarm,
Fierce to protect the place from midnight harm,
Its only guard; no revel sounding late
Drives the night villain from the lonely gate.
An hallow'd matron and her simple train
These solemn battlements alone contain;
An hoary dowager, whose placid face
Old age has deck'd with lovely aweful grace;
With almost vernal bloom her cheek still strow'd,
As beauty ling'ring left her lov'd abode;
That lov'd abode, where join'd with truth and sense
She form'd the features to mute eloquence,
And bade them charm the still attentive throng,
Who watch'd the sacred lessons of her tongue.
For not thro' life the dame had liv'd retir'd,
But once had shone, e'en 'midst a court admir'd:
What time the lov'd possessor of her charms
Returning from the war in victor arms,
Call'd from his monarch's tongue the plausive praise,
While honour wreath'd him with unfading bays.
She, happy partner of each joyful hour,
Then walk'd serene amid the pomp of pow'r:
While all confess'd no warrior's wish could move
For fairer prize, than such accomplish'd love:
Nor to that love could aught more transport yield,
Than graceful valour from the victor field.
Thus flourish'd once the beauteous and the brave;
But mortal bliss meets still th' untimely grave:
Aurelius died—his relict's pious tear
O'er his lov'd ashes frequent flow'd sincere,
Each decent rite with due observance paid,
Each solemn requiem offer'd to his shade,
Plac'd 'mid the brave his urn in holy ground,
And bade his hallow'd banners wave around.
Then left the gaudy scenes of pomp and power,
While prudence beckon'd to that ancient bower,
And those paternal fields, the sole remains
Of ample woods and far-extended plains,
Which tyrant custom rudely tore away
To distant heirship an expected prey.
Serene she sought the far-retired grove,
Once the bless'd mansion of her happy love,
Pleas'd with the thought, that memory oft would raise
A solemn prospect of those blooming days
Aurelius gave: her pious purpose now
To keep still constant to her sacred vow;
In lonely luxury her sorrows feed,
And pass her life in widow's decent weed.
One pledge of love her comfort still remain'd,
Whom in this solitude she careful train'd
To virtuous lore; and while as year by year
New graces made Aurelia still more dear;
Full many an hour unheeded she would trace
The father's semblance in the daughter's face;
While tender sighs oft heav'd her faithful breast,
And sudden tears her lasting love exprest.
Thus long she dwelt in innate virtues great,
Amid the villagers in sacred state:
For ev'ry grace to which submission bows,
The pow'r which conscious dignity bestows,
She felt superior; for from ancient race
She gloried her long ancestry to trace;
And ever bade Aurelia's thought aspire
To every grace, each ray of sacred fire,
That full of heav'n-born dignity informs
The mortal breast which ardent virtue warms;
Then led her to the venerable hall
Where her successive sires adorn'd the wall,
And arched windows with their blazon bright
Shed thro' the herald glow a solemn light:
There clad in rough habiliments of war
Full many a hero bore a glorious scar;
There in the civic fur the sons of peace,
Whose counsels bade their country's tumults cease;
While by their side, gracing the ancient scene,
Hung gentle ladies of most comely mien.
Then eager thro' the well-known tale she run,
In what fair cause each honour had been won,
What female grace each virgin had possess'd
To charm to gentle love the manly breast;
Pleas'd to observe how long her gen'rous blood
Thro' sair and brave had pass'd a spotless flood.
Mean while the young Aurelia's bosom sir'd
With emulation by each tale inspir'd,
In eager transport frequent breath'd her prayer
The graces of her ancestry to share:
Nor breath'd in vain, her fond maternal guide
Cherish'd with care each spark of virtuous pride;
And ever as she gave a lesson new,
Would point some old example to her view:
nflam'd by this, her mind was quickly fraught
With each sage precept, that her mother taught.
The goodly dame thus bless'd in her employ,
lt each soft transport of parental joy,
And liv'd content, her utmost wish fulfill'd
n the fair prospect of a virtuous child:
esign'd she waited now the aweful hour
Then death should raise her to that heav'nly bow'r,
There with her lov'd Aurelius she might share
The pleasing task, to watch with guardian care
Their offspring's steps, and hov'ring o'er her head,
The gracious dew of heavenly peace to shed;
or fear'd her decency of life would prove
n added bliss to all the joys above.
ODE to the Honourable ****
By the late Mr. F. COVENTRY.
NOW Britain's senate, far renown'd,
Assembles full an aweful band!
Now Majesty with golden circle crown'd,
Mounts her bright throne, and waves her gracious hand.
"Ye chiefs of Albion with attention hear,
"Guard well your liberties, review your laws,
"Begin, begin th' important year,
"And boldly speak in Freedom's cause."
Then starting from her summer's rest
Glad Eloquence unbinds her tongue.
She feels rekindling raptures wake her breast,
And pours the sacred energy along.
'Twas here great Hampden's patriot voice was heard,
Here Pym, Kimbolton fir'd the British soul,
When Pow'r her arm despotic rear'd
But felt a senate's great controul.
'Twas here the pond'ring worthies sat,
Who fix'd the crown on William's head,
When awe-struck tyranny renounc'd the state,
And bigot JAMES his injur'd kingdoms fled.
Thee, generous youth, whom nature, birth adorn,
The Muse selects from yon assembled throng:
O thou to serve thy country born,
Tell me, young hero of my song,
Thy genius now in fairest bloom,
And warm with fancy's brightest rays,
Why sleeps thy soul unconscious of its doom?
Why idly fleet thy unapplauded days?
Thy country beckons thee with lifted hand,
Arise, she calls, awake thy latent flame,
Arise, 'tis England's high command,
And snatch the ready wreaths of fame.
Be this thy passion; greatly dare
A people's jarring wills to sway,
With curst Corruption wage eternal war,
That where thou goe'st, applauding crowds may say,
L
, that is he, whose spirit-ruling voice
From her wild heights can call Ambition down,
"Can still Sedition's brutal noise,
"Or shake a tyrant's purple throne:"
Then chiefs, and sages yet unborn
Shall boast thy thoughts in distant days,
ith thee fair History her leaves adorn,
nd laurell'd bards proclaim thy lasting praise.
To Miss ****. By Miss ELISA CARTER.
I.
THE midnight moon serenely smiles
O'er nature's soft repose,
No lowring cloud obscures the skies,
Nor ruffling tempest blows.
II.
Now every passion sinks to rest,
The throbbing heart lies still,
And varying schemes of life no more
Distract the labouring will.
III.
In silence hush'd, to reason's voice
Attends each mental power;
Come dear Amanda, and enjoy
Reflection's favourite hour.
IV.
Come, while this peaceful scene invites,
Let's search this ample round;
Where shall the lovely fleeting form
Of Happiness be found?
V.
Does it amidst the frolic mirth
Of gay assemblies dwell?
Or hide beneath the solemn gloom
That shades the hermit's cell?
VI.
How oft the laughing brow of joy
A sick'ning heart conceals,
And thro' the cloister's deep recess
Invading sorrow steals.
VII.
In vain thro' beauty, fortune, wit,
The fugitive we trace!
It dwells not in the faithless smile
That brightens Clodio's face.
VIII.
Howe'er our varying notions rove,
All yet agree, in one,
To place its being in some state,
At distance from
our own.
IX.
O blind to each indulgent gift
Of power, supremely wise,
Who fancy happiness in aught
That Providence denies.
X.
Vain is alike the joy we seek,
And vain what we possess,
Unless harmonious reason tunes
The passions into peace.
XI.
To temp'rate bounds, to few desires,
Is happiness confin'd,
And deaf to folly's noise attends
The music of the mind.
Lady MARY W***, to Sir W*** Y***
I.
DEAR Colin, prevent my warm blushes,
Since how can I speak without pain?
My eyes have oft told you their wishes,
Ah! can't you their meaning explain?
My passion wou'd lose by expression,
And you too might cruelly blame:
Then don't you expect a confession
Of what is too tender to name.
II.
Since yours is the province of speaking,
Why shou'd you expect it of me?
Our wishes shou'd be in our keeping,
'Till you tell us what they shou'd be.
Then quickly why don't you discover?
Did your breast feel tortures like mine,
Eyes need not tell over and over
What I in my bosom consine.
Sir W***** Y*****'s Answer.
I.
GOOD madam, when ladies are willing,
A man must needs look like a fool;
For me I wou'd not give a shilling
For one that is kind out of rule.
At least you might stay for my offer,
Not snatch like old maids in despair,
If you've liv'd to these years without proffer,
Your sighs are now lost in the air.
II.
You might leave me to guess by your blushing,
And not speak the matter so plain;
'Tis ours to pursue and be pushing,
'Tis yours to affect a disdain.
That you're in a pitiful taking,
By all your sweet ogles I see;
But the fruit that will fall without shaking
Indeed is too mellow for me.
Miss SOPER'S Answer to a Lady, who invited her to retire into a monastic Life at St. CROSS, near WINCHESTER.
I.
IN vain, mistaken maid, you'd fly
To desart and to shade;
But since you call, for once I'll try
How well your vows are made.
II.
To noise and cares let's bid adieu,
And solitude commend.
But how the world will envy you,
And pity me your friend!
III.
You, like rich metal hid in earth,
Each swain will dig to find;
But I expect no second birth,
For dross is left behind.
REPENTANCE.
By the Same.
I.
ALL attendants apart
I examin'd my heart,
Last night when I lay'd me to rest;
And methinks I'm inclin'd
To a change of my mind,
For, you know, second thoughts are the best,
II.
To retire from the crowd
And make ourselves good,
By avoiding of every temptation,
Is in truth to reveal
What we'd better conceal,
That our passions want some regulation.
III.
It will much more redound
To our praise to be found,
In a world so abounding with evil,
Unspotted and pure;
Tho' not so demure,
As to wage open war with the devil,
IV.
Then bidding farewell
To the thoughts of a cell,
I'll prepare for a militant life;
And if brought to distress,
Why then—I'll confess,
And do penance in shape of a
wife.
A SONG.
By T. P***CY.
O Nancy, wilt thou go with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town:
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer dress'd in silken sheen,
No longer deck'd with jewels rare,
Say can'st thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?
Say canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind?
O can that soft and gentle mien
Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor sad regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nancy! can'st thou love so true,
Thro' perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang of woe?
Say should disease or pain befal,
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And clear with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flow'rs, and drop the tender tear,
Nor
then
regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
CYNTHIA, an Elegiac POEM.
By the Same.
—Libeat tibi Cynthia mecum
Roscida muscosis antra tenere jugis.
PROPERT.
BENEATH an aged oak's embow'ring shade,
Whose spreading arms with gray moss fringed were,
Around whose trunk the clasping ivy stray'd;
A love-lorn youth oft pensive wou'd repair.
Fast by, a Naïd taught her stream to glide,
Which thro' the dale a winding channel wore;
The silver willow deck'd its verdant side,
The whisp'ring sedges wav'd along the shore.
Here oft, when Morn peep'd o'er the dusky hill;
Here oft when Eve bedew'd the misty vale;
Careless he laid him all beside the rill,
And pour'd in strains like these his artless tale.
Ah! would he say—and then a sigh would heave:
Ah Cynthia! sweeter than the breath of morn,
Soft as the gentle breath that fans at eve,
Of thee bereft how shall I live forlorn?
Ah! what avails this sweetly solemn bow'r
That silent stream where dimpling eddies play;
Yon thy my bank bedeck'd with many a flow'r,
Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day.
Robb'd of my love, for how can these delight,
Tho' lavish Spring her smiles around has cast!
Despair, alas! that whelms the soul in night,
Dims the sad eye and deadens every taste.
As droops the lilly at the blighting gale;
Or
— On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted: like the crimson drops
I' th' bottom of a cowslip.
Shakespear's Cymbeline, Act 3.
crimson-spotted cowslip of the mead,
Whose tender stalk (alas! their stalk so frail)
Some hasty foot hath bruis'd with heedless tread:
As droops the woodbine, when some village hind
Hath fell'd the sapling elm it fondly bound;
No more it gadding dances in the wind,
But trails its fading beauties on the ground:
So droops my soul, dear maid, downcast and sad,
For ever! ah! for ever torn from thee;
Bereft of each sweet hope, which once it had,
When love, when treacherous love first smil'd on me.
Return blest days, return ye laughing hours,
Which led me up the roseat steep of youth;
Which strew'd my simple path with vernal flow'rs,
And bade me court chaste Science and fair Truth.
Ye know, the curling breeze, or gilded fly
That idly wantons in the noon-tide air,
Was not so free, was not so gay as I,
For ah! I knew not then or love, or care.
Witness ye winged daughters of the year,
If e'er a sigh had learnt to heave my breast
If e'er my cheek was conscious of a tear,
'Till Cynthia came and rob'd my soul of rest!
O have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew,
The budding rose its infant bloom display;
When first its virgin tints unfold to view,
It shrinks and scarcely trusts the blaze of day.
So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,
Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek:
I gaz'd, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame,
Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion, weak.
Yet not unpitied was my pain the while;
For oft beside yon sweet-briar in the dale,
With many a blush, with many a melting smile,
She sate and listen'd to the plaintive tale.
Ah me! I fondly dreamt of pleasures rare,
Nor deem'd so sweet a face with scorn cou'd glow;
How could you cruel then pronounce despair,
Chill the warm hope, and plant the thorn of woe?
What tho' no treasures canker in my chest,
Nor crowds of suppliant vassals hail me lord!
What tho' my roof can boast no princely guest,
Nor surfeits lurk beneath my frugal board!
Yet should Content, that shuns the gilded bed,
With smiling Peace, and Virtue there forgot,
And rose-lip'd Health, which haunts the straw-built shed,
With cherub Joy, frequent my little cot:
Led by chaste Love, the decent band should come,
O charmer would'st thou deign my roof to share?
Nor should the Muses scorn our simple dome,
Or knit in mystic dance, the Graces fair.
The wood-land nymphs, and gentle fays, at eve
Forth from the dripping cave and mossy dell,
Should round our hearth fantastic measures weave,
And shield from mischief by their guardian spell.
Come then bright maid, and quit the city throng,
Have rural joys no charm to win the soul?
— She proud, alas! derides my lowly song,
Scorns the fond vow, and spurns the russet stole.
Then Love begone, thy thriftless empire yield,
In youthful toils I'll lose the unmanly pain:
With echoing horns I'll rouse the jocund field,
Urge the keen chace, and sweep along the plain.
Or all in some lone moss-grown tow'r sublime
With midnight lamp I'll watch pale Cynthia round,
Explore the choicest rolls of ancient Time,
And heal with Wisdom's balm my hapless wound.
Or else I'll roam—Ah no! that sigh profound,
Tells me that stubborn love disdains to yield;
Nor flight, nor Wisdom's balm can heal the wound,
Nor pain forsake me in the jocund field.
DIALOGUE to CHLORINDA.
By Mr. ALSOP.
CEASE, Chlorinda, cease to chide me,
When my passion I relate:
Why shou'd kindness be denied me?
Why shou'd love be pay'd with hate?
If the fruit of all my wishes
Must be, to be treated so;
What cou'd you do more than this is
To your most outrageous foe?
Simple Strephon, cease complaining,
Talk no more of foolish love;
Think not e'er my heart to reign in,
Think not all you say can move.
Did I take delight to fetter
Thrice ten thousand slaves a day,
Thrice ten thousand times your betters
Gladly would my rule obey.
Strive not, fairest, to unbind me;
Let me keep my pleasing chain:
Charms that first to love inclin'd me,
Will for ever love maintain.
Wou'd you send my heart a roving?
First to love I must forbear.
Wou'd you have me cease from loving?
You must cease from being fair.
Strephon, leave to talk thus idly;
Let me hear of love no more:
You mistake Chlorinda widely,
Thus to teize her o'er and o'er.
Seek not her who still forbids you;
To some other tell your moan:
Chuse where'er your fancy leads you,
Let Chlorinda but alone.
If Chlorinda still denies me
That which none but she can give,
Let the whole wide world despise me,
'Tis for her alone I live.
Grant me yet this one poor favour,
With this one request comply;
Let us each go on for ever,
I to ask, and you deny.
Since, my Strephon, you so kind are,
All pretensions to resign;
Trust Chlorinda.—You may find her
Less severe than you divine.
Strephon struck with joy beholds her,
Wou'd have spoke but knew not how;
But he look'd such things as told her
More than all his speech cou'd do.
To CHLORINDA.
By the Same.
SEE, Strephon, what unhappy fate
Does on thy fruitless passion wait,
Adding to flame fresh fuel:
Rather than thou should'st favour find;
The kindest soul on earth's unkind,
And the best nature cruel.
The goodness, which Chlorinda shews,
From mildness and good breeding flows,
But must not love be stil'd:
Or else 'tis such as mothers try,
When wearied with incessant cry,
They still a froward child.
She with a graceful mien and air,
Genteely civil, yet severe,
Bids thee all hopes give o'er.
Friendship she offers, pure and free;
And who, with such a friend as she,
Cou'd want, or wish for more?
The cur that swam along the flood,
His mouth well fill'd with morsel good,
(Too good for common cur!)
By visionary hopes betray'd,
Gaping to catch a fleeting shade,
Lost what he held before.
Mark, Strephon, and apply this tale,
Lest love and friendship both should fail;
Where then wou'd be thy hope?
Of hope, quoth Strephon, talk not, friend;
And for applying—know, the end
Of ev'ry cur's a rope.
The Fable of IXION. To CHLORINDA.
By the Same.
IXION, as the poets tell us,
Was one of those pragmatic fellows,
Who claim a right to kiss the hand
Of the best lady in the land;
Demonstrating by dint of reason,
That impudence in love's no treason.
He let his fancy soar much higher;
And ventur'd boldly to aspire
To Juno's high and mighty grace,
And woo'd the goddess face to face.
What mortal e'er had whims so odd,
To think of cuckolding a God?
For she was both Jove's wife and sister,
And yet the rascal wou'd have kiss'd her.
How he got up to heav'n's high palace,
Not one of all the poets tell us;
It must be therefore understood,
That he got up which way he cou'd.
Nor is it, that I know, recorded,
How bows were made, and speeches worded;
So, leaving this to each one's guess,
I'll only tell you the success.
But first I stop awhile to shew
What happen'd lately here below.
Chlorinda, who beyond compare
Of all the fair ones is most fair;
Chlorinda, by the Gods design'd
To be the pattern of her kind,
With every charm of face and mind;
Glanc'd light'ning from her eyes so blue,
And shot poor Strephon through and through.
He, over head and ears her lover,
Try'd all the ways he cou'd to move her;
He sigh'd, and vow'd, and pray'd, and cry'd,
And did a thousand things beside:
She let him sigh, and pray, and cry on —
But now hear more about Ixion.
The Goddess, proud, (as folks report her)
Disdain'd that mortal wight shou'd court her,
And yet she chose the fool to flatter,
To make him fancy some great matter,
And hope in time he might get at her;
Grac'd him with now and then a smile,
But inly scorn'd him all the while;
Resolv'd at last a trick to shew him,
Seeming to yield and so undo him.
Now which way, do you think, she took?
(For do't she wou'd by hook or crook)
Why, thus I find it in my book.
She call'd a pretty painted cloud,
The brightest of the wand'ring crowd,
For she you know is queen o' th' air,
And all the clouds and vapours there
Governs at will, by nod or summons,
As Walpole does the house of commons.
This cloud which came to her stark naked,
She dress'd as fine as hands could make it.
From her own wardrobe out she brought
Whate'er was dainty, wove or wrought.
A smock which Pallas spun and gave her
Once on a time to gain her favour;
A gown that ha'n't on earth its fellow,
Of finest blue and lined with yellow,
Fit for a Goddess to appear in,
And not a pin the worse for wearing.
A quilted petticoat beside,
With whalebone hoop six fathom wide.
With these she deck'd the cloud, d'ye see?
As like herself, as like cou'd be:
So like, that cou'd not I or you know
Which was the cloud, and which was Juno.
Thus dress'd she sent it to the villain,
To let him act his wicked will on:
Then laugh'd at the poor fool aloud,
Who for a Goddess grasp'd a cloud.
This you will say was well done on her
T' expose the tempter of her honour—
But more of him you need not hear;
Only to Strephon lend an ear.
He never entertain'd one thought
With which a Goddess could find fault;
His spotless love might be forgiven
By ev'ry saint in earth and heav'n.
Juno herself, though nice and haughty,
Wou'd not have judg'd his passion naughty.
All this Chlorinda's self confess'd,
And own'd his flame was pure and chaste,
Read what his teeming Muse brought forth,
And prais'd it far beyond its worth:
Mildly receiv'd his fond address,
And only blam'd his love's excess:
Yet she, so good, so sweet, so smiling,
So full of truth, so unbeguiling,
One way or other still devis'd
To let him see he was despis'd:
And when he plum'd, and grew most proud,
All was a vapour, all a cloud.
A TALE. To CHLORINDA.
By the Same.
DAME Venus, a daughter of Jove's,
And amongst all his daughters most fair,
Lost, it seems, t' other day the two doves,
That wafted her car thro' the air.
The dame made a heavy sad rout,
Ran about heav'n and earth to condole 'em;
And sought high and low to find out,
Where the biddyes were stray'd, or who stole 'em.
To the God, who the stragglers shou'd meet,
She promis'd most tempting fine pay,
Six kisses than honey more sweet,
And a seventh far sweeter than they.
The proposal no sooner was made,
But it put all the Gods in a flame;
For who would not give all he had
To be kiss'd by so dainty a dame?
To Cyprus, to Paphos they run,
Where the Goddess oft us'd to retire;
Some rode round the world with the sun,
And search'd every country and shire.
But with all their hard running and riding,
Not a God of 'em claim'd the reward;
For no one could tell tale or tiding,
If the doves were alive or were starv'd.
At last the sly shooter of men
Young Cupid, (I beg the God's pardon)
Mamma, your blue birds I have seen
In a certain terrestrial garden.
Where, where, my dear child, quickly shew,
Quoth the dame, almost out of her wits:
Do but go to Chlorinda's, says Cu,
And you'll find 'em in shape of pewits.
Is it she that hath done me this wrong?
Full well I know her, and her arts;
She has follow'd the thieving trade long,
But I thought she dealt only in hearts.
I shall soon make her know, so I shall —
And with that to Jove's palace she run,
And began like a bedlam to bawl,
I am cheated, I'm robb'd, I'm undone.
Chlorinda, whom none can approach
Without losing his heart or his senses,
Has stol'n the two doves from my coach,
And now flaunts it at Venus' expences.
She has chang'd the poor things to pewits,
And keeps 'em like ord'nary fowls:
So when she robs men of their wits,
She turns 'em to asses or owls.
I cou'd tell you of many a hundred
Of figure, high station, and means,
Whom she without mercy has plunder'd,
Ever since she came into her teens.
But her thefts upon earth I'd have borne,
Or have let 'em all pass for mere fable;
But nothing will now serve her turn,
But the doves out of Venus's stable.
Is it fit, let your mighty ship say,
That I, like some pitiful flirt,
Shou'd tarry within doors all day,
Or else trudge it afoot in the dirt?
Is it fit that a mortal shou'd trample
On me, who am styl'd queen of beauty?
O make her, great Jove, an example,
And teach Nimble-fingers her duty.
Sir Jove when he heard her thus rage,
For all his great gravity, smil'd;
And then, like a judge wise and sage,
He began in terms sober and mild.
Learn, daughter, to bridle your tongue,
Forbear to traduce with your prattle
The fair, who has done you no wrong,
And scorns to purloin goods and chattel.
She needs neither gewgaw nor trinket,
To carry the world all before her;
Her deserts, I wou'd have you to think it,
Are enough to make all men adore her.
Your doves are elop'd, I confess,
And chuse with Chlorinda to dwell;
But blame not the lady for this;
For sure 'tis no crime to excel.
As for them, I applaud their high aims;
Having serv'd from the time of their birth
The fairest of heavenly dames,
They would now serve the fairest on earth.
ODE on Lyric POETRY.
By Mr. MARRIOT.
I. 1.
INMATE of smoaking cots, whose rustic shed,
Within its humble bed,
Her twittering progeny contains,
The swallow sweeps the plains,
Or lightly skims from level lakes the dew.
The ringdove ever true
In plaintive accents tells of unrelenting fate,
Far from the raven's croak, and bird of night,
That shrieking wings her flight
When, at his mutter'd rite,
Hid in the dusky desart vale,
With starting eye, and visage pale
The grimly wizard sees the spectres rise unholy;
But haunts the woods that held her beauteous mate,
And wooes the Echo soft with murmurs melancholy.
I. 2.
Sublime alone the feather'd monarch flies,
His nest dark mists upon the mountains shrowd;
In vain the howling storms arise,
When borne on outstretch'd plume aloft he springs,
Dashing with many a stroke the parting cloud,
Or to the buoyant air commits his wings
Floating with even sail adown the liquid skies;
Then darting upward, swift his wings aspire,
Where thunders keep their gloomy seat,
And lightnings arm'd with heaven's avenging ire.
None can the dread artillery meet,
Or thro' the airy region rove,
But he who guards the throne of Jove,
And grasps the flaming bolt of sacred fire.
I. 3.
Know, with young Ambition bold,
In vain, my Muse, thy dazled eyes explore
Distant aims, where wont to soar,
Their burning way the kindling spirits hold.
Heights too arduous wisely shun;
Humbler flights thy wings attend;
For heaven-taught Genius can alone ascend
Back to her native sky,
And with directed eagle eye
Pervade the lofty spheres, and view the blazing sun.
II. 1.
But hark! o'er all the flower-enamell'd ground
What music breathes around!
I see, I see the virgin train
Unlock their streams again,
Rolling to many a vale their liquid lapse along,
While at the warbled song
Which holds entranc'd Attention's wakeful ear,
Broke are the magic bands of iron sleep.
Love, wayward child, oft wont to weep,
In tears his robe to steep
Forgets; and Care that counts his store,
Now thinks each mighty business o'er;
While sits on ruin'd cities, war's wide-wasting glory,
Ambition, ceasing the proud pile to rear,
And sighs; unfinish'd leaving half her ample story.
II. 2.
Then once more, sweet enthusiast, happy lyre,
Thy soothing solace deign awhile to bring.
I strive to catch the sacred fire,
And wake thee emulous on Granta's plain,
Where all the Muses haunt his hallow'd spring,
And where the Graces shun the sordid train
Scornful of heaven-born arts which thee and peace inspire:
On life's sequester'd scenes they silent wait,
Nor heed the baseless pomp of power,
Nor shining dreams that crowd at Fortune's gate;
But smooth th' inevitable hour
Of pain, which man is doom'd to know,
And teach the mortal mind to glow
With pleasures plac'd beyond the shaft of Fate.
II. 3.
But, alas! th' amusive reed
Ill suits the lyre that asks a master's hand,
And fond fancies vainly feed
A breast that life's more active scenes demand.
Sloth ignoble to disclaim
'Tis enough: the lyre unstring.
At other feet the victor palm I fling
In Granta's glorious shrine;
Where crown'd with radiance divine
Her smiles shall nurse the Muse; the Muse shall list her fame
ARION, an ODE.
By the Same.
I.
QUEEN of each sacred sound, sweet child of air,
Who sitting thron'd upon the vaulted sky,
Dost catch the notes which undulating fly,
Oft wafted up to thy exalted sphere,
On the soft bosom of each rolling cloud,
Charming thy list'ning ear
With strains that bid the panting lover die:
Or laughing mirth, or tender grief inspire,
Or with full chorus loud
Which lift our holy hope, or fan the hero's sire:
Enchanting Harmony, 'tis thine to cheer
The soul by woe which sinks opprest,
From sorrow's eye to wipe the tear,
And on the bleeding wound to pour the balmy rest.
II.
'Twas when the winds were roaring loud,
And Ocean swell'd his billows high,
By savage hands condemn'd to die,
Rais'd on the stem the trembling Lesbian stood;
All pale he heard the tempest blow,
As on the watry grave below
He fix'd his weeping eye.
Ah! hateful lust of impious gold,
What can thy mighty rage with-hold,
Deaf to the melting powers of Harmony!
But ere the bard unpitied dies,
Again his soothing art he tries,
Again he sweeps the strings,
Slowly sad the notes arise,
While thus in plaintive sounds the sweet musician sings.
III.
From beneath the coral cave
Circled with the silver wave,
Where with wreaths of emerald crown'd
Ye lead the festive dance around,
Daughters of Venus, hear, and save.
Ye Tritons, hear, whose blast can swell
With mighty sounds the twisted shell;
And you, ye sister Syrens, hear,
Ever beauteous, ever sweet,
Who lull the list'ning pilot's ear
With magic song, and softly breath'd deceit.
By all the Gods who subject roll
From gushing urns their tribute to the main,
By him who bids the winds to roar,
By him whose trident shakes the shore,
If e'er for you I raise the sacred strain
When pious mariners your power adore,
Daughters of Nereus, hear and save.
IV.
He sung, and from the coral cave,
Circled with the silver wave,
With pitying ear
The Nereids hear.
Gently the waters flowing,
The winds now ceas'd their blowing,
In silence listening to his tuneful lay.
Around the bark's sea-beaten side,
The sacred dolphin play'd,
And sportive dash'd the briny tide:
The joyous omen soon the bard survey'd,
Nor fear'd with bolder leap to try the watry way.
On his scaly back now riding,
O'er the curling billow gliding,
Again with bold triumphant hand
He bade the notes aspire,
Again to joy attun'd the lyre,
Forgot each danger past, and reach'd secure the land.
HORACE, Book II. Ode II.
Quid bellicosus Cantaber,
&c. Imitated by Lord B—H.—PAUL to FAZ.
I.
NEVER, dear Faz, torment thy brain
With idle fears of France or Spain,
Or any thing that's foreign:
What can Bavaria do to us,
What Prussia's monarch, or the Russ,
Or e'en prince Charles of Lorrain?
II.
Let us be cheerful whilst we can,
And lengthen out the short-liv'd span,
Enjoying every hour,
The moon itself we see decay,
Beauty's the worse for-every day,
And so's the sweetest flower.
III.
How oft, dear Faz, have we been told,
That Paul and Faz are both grown old,
By young and wanton lasses?
Then, since our time is now so short,
Let us enjoy the only sport
Of tossing off our glasses.
IV.
From White's we'll move th' expensive scene,
And steal away to Richmond Green;
There free from noise and riot,
Polly each morn shall fill our tea,
Spead bread and butter—and then we
Each night get drunk in quiet.
V.
Unless perchance earl L— comes,
As noisy as a dozen drums,
And makes an horrid pother;
Else might we quiet sit and quaff,
And gently chat, and gayly laugh
At this and that and t'other.
VI.
Br— shall settle what's to pay,
Adjust accompts by algebra;
I'll always order dinner —
Br— tho' solemn, yet is sly,
And leers at Poll with roguish eye
To make the girl a sinner.
VII.
Powell, d'ye hear, let's have the ham,
Some chickens and a chine of lamb —
And what else?—let's see—look ye—
Br — must have his damn'd boullie,
B — fattens on his fricassee
I'll have my water-suchy.
VIII,
When dinner comes we'll drink about,
No matter who is in, or out,
'Till wine or sleep o'ertake us;
Each man may nod, or nap, or wink,
And when it is our turn to drink,
Our neighbour then shall wake us.
IX.
Thus let us live in soft retreat,
Nor envy, nor despise the great,
Submit to pay our taxes;
With peace or war be well content,
'Till eas'd by a good parliament,
'Till Scroop his hand relaxes.
X.
Never enquire about the Rhine;
But fill your glass, and drink your wine;
Hope things may mend in Flanders:
The Dutch we know are good allies,
So are they all with subsidies,
And we have choice commanders.
XI.
Then here's the King, God bless his grace,
Tho' neither you nor I have place,
He hath many a sage adviser;
And yet no treason's sure in this,
Let who will take the pray'r amiss,
God send 'em all much wiser.
A PANEGYRIC on ALE.
—Mea nec Falernae
Temperant vites, neque Formiani
Pocula colles.
HOR.
By T. W *****
BALM of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,
Hail, juice benignant! o'er the costly cups
Of riot-stirring wine, unwholsome draught,
Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night:
My sober ev'ning let the tankard bless,
With toast imbrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,
While the rich draught with oft repeated whiffs
Tobacco mild improves: divine repast!
Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys
Of lawless Bacchus reign: but o'er my soul
A calm Lethean creeps: in drowsy trance
Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the magic rod
Of leaden Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed
Its opiate influence. What tho' sore ills
Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals,
Or cheerful candle, save the makeweight's gleam
Hap'ly remaining; heart-rejoicing ale
Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.
Meantime not mindless of the daily task
Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate;
While ale inspires, and lends her kindred aid
The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,
Sweet Helicon of logic! — But if friends
Congenial call me from the toilsome page,
To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,
Where, Ale, thy votaries in full resort
Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair
Of monumental oak, and antique mould,
That long has stood the rage of conquering Time
Inviolate, (not in more ample seat
Smokes rosy justice, when th' important cause,
Whether of henroost or of mirthful rape,
In all the majesty of paunch, he tries:)
Studious of ease, and provident I place
My gladsome limbs, while in repeated round
Returns replenish'd the successive cup,
And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy.
Nor seldom to relieve the ling'ring hours
In innocent delight, amusive putt
On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play
The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.
Nor reck'ning, name tremendous, me disturbs,
Nor, call'd-for, chills my breast with sudden fear,
While on the wonted door (expressive mark!)
The frequent penny stands describ'd to view
In snowy characters, a graceful row.
Hail Ticking! surest guardian of distress,
Beneath thy shelter pennyless I quaff
The cheering cup: tho' much the poet's friend
Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain,
Accept this humble tribute of my praise.
Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms
Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof
Of pot-house snug to visit: wiser he
The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house
Of James or Juggins, where the grateful breath
Of mild tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;
But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,
While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl
Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler Ale:
In vain—the proctor's voice alarms their joy;
Just fate os wanton pride, and vain excess!
Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,
Heart-easing Ale, whose sorrow-soothing sweets
Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,
When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand
Not unexperienc'd, while the tedious toil
Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain
Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,
Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:
Be mine each morn with eager appetite
And hunger undissembled, to repair
To friendly butt'ry, there on smoaking crust
And foaming Ale to banquet unrestrain'd,
Material breakfast! Thus in ancient times
Our ancestors robust with liberal cups
Usher'd the morn, unlike the languid sons
Of modern days; nor ever had the might
Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed,
With English Ale improving English worth.
With Ale irriguous, undismay'd I har
The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome
mportunate: whether the plaintive voice
Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear,
Or taylor with obsequious bow advance;
Or groom invade me with defying look
And fierce demeanor, whose emaciate steeds
Had panted oft beneath my goring steel;
n vain they plead or threat; all-powerful Ale
Excuses new supplies, and each descends
With joyless pace and debt-despairing looks.
E'en Sp—y with indignant bow retires,
Sternest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.
Why did the gods such various blessings pour
On helpless mortals, from their grateful hands
So soon the short-liv'd bounty to recal?
Thus while, improvident of future ill,
I quaff the luscious tankard unrestrain'd,
And thoughtless riot in ambrosial bliss,
Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)
Th' unpitying bursar's cross affixing hand
Blast all my joys, and stops my glad career.
Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields
A sure retreat when ev'ning shades the skies,
Nor
Noted alehouses in Oxford.
Sheppard, rushless widow, now vouchsafes
The wonted trust, and
Noted alehouses in Oxford.
Winter ticks no more.
Thus Adam exil'd from the blissful scenes
Of Eden griev'd, no more in hallow'd bow'r
On nect'rine fruits to feast, fresh shade or vale
No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;
But all forlorn the naked wilderness,
And unrejoicing solitudes to trace.
Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds
The Splendid Shilling's praise, in nightly gloom
Of lonesome garret pin'd for cheerful Ale:
Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,
Mean follower! like him with honest love
Of Ale divine inspir'd, and love of song.
But long may bounteous Heav'n with watchful care
Avert his hapless fate! enough for me,
That burning with congenial flame I dar'd
His guiding steps at distance to pursue,
And sing his fav'rite theme in kindred strains.
ODE to the Genius of ITALY, occasioned by the Earl of CORKE'S going Abroad.
By Mr. J. DUNCOMBE.
O THOU that, on a pointless spear reclin'd,
In dusk of eve oft tak'st thy lonely way
Where Tyber's slow, neglected waters stray,
And pour'st thy fruitless sorrows to the wind,
Grieving to see his shore no more the seat
Of arts and arms, and liberty's retreat,
Italia's Genius, rear thy drooping head,
Shake off thy trance, and weave an olive crown,
For see! a noble guest appears, well known
To all thy worthies, tho' in Britain bred;
Guard well thy charge, for know, our polish'd isle
Reluctant spares thee such a son as BOYLE.
There, while their sweets thy myrtle groves dispense,
Lead to the Sabine or the Tuscan plain,
Where playful Horace tun'd his amorous strain,
And Tully pour'd the stream of eloquence;
Nor fail to crown him with that ivy bloom,
Which graceful mantles o'er thy Maro's tomb,
At that blest spot, from vulgar cares refin'd,
In some soft vision or indulgent dream
Inspire his fancy with a glorious theme,
And point new subjects to his generous mind,
At once to charm his country, and improve
The last, the youngest object of his love.
But O! mark well his transports in that shade,
Where circled by the bay's unfading green,
Amidst a rural and sequester'd scene
His much-lov'd Pliny rests his honour'd head:
There, rapt in silence, will he gaze around,
And strew with sweetest flowers the hallow'd grown.
But see! the sage, to mortal view confest,
Thrice waves the hand, and says, or seems to say,
"The debt I owe thee how shall I repay?
"Welcome to Latium's shore, illustrious guest!
"Long may'st thou live to grace thy native isle,
"Humane in thought and elegant in style!
"While on thy consort I with rapture gaze
"My own Calphurnia rises to my view:
"That bliss unknown but to the virtuous few,
"Briton! is thine; charm'd with domestic praise
"Thine are those heart-felt joys that sweeten life,
"The son, the friend, the daughter and the wife."
Content with such approof, when genial Spring
Bids the shrill black-bird whistle in the vale,
Home may he hasten with a prosperous gale,
And Health protect him with her fost'ring wing;
So shall Britannia to the wind and sea
Entrust no more her fav'rite ORRERY.
To C*** P****,
Esq
FROM friendship's cradle up the verdant paths
Of youth, life's jolly spring; and now sublim'd
To its full manhood and meridian strength,
Her latest stage, (for friendship ever hale
Knows not old age, diseases, and decay,
But burning keeps her sacred fire, 'till death's
Cold hand extinguish) at this spot, this point,
Here P***, we social meet, and gaze about,
And look back to the scenes our pastime trod
In nature's morning, when the gamesome hours
Had sliding feet, and laugh'd themselves away.
Luxurious season! vital prime! where Thames
Flows by Etona's walls, and cheerful sees
Her sons wide swarming; or where sedgy Cam
Bathes with slow pace his academic grove,
Pierian walks! — O never hope again,
(Impossible! untenable!) to grasp
Those joys again; to feel alike the pulse
Dancing, and fiery spirits boiling high:
Or see the pleasure that with careless wing
Swept on, and flow'ry garlands toss'd around
Disporting! Try to call her back — as well
Bid yesterday return, arrest the flight
Of Time; or musing by a river's brink,
Say to the wave that huddles swiftly by
For ever, from thy fountain roll anew.
The merriment, the tale, and heartfelt laugh
That echo'd round the table, idle guests,
Must rise, and serious inmates take their place.
Reflection's daughters, sad and world-worn thoughts
Dislodging Fancy's empire—Yet who knows
Exact the balance of our loss and gain?
Who knows how far a rattle may outweigh
The mace or scepter? But as boys resign
The play-thing, bauble of their infancy,
So fares it with maturer years: they sage,
Imagination's airy regions quit,
And under Reason's banner take the field,
With resolution face the cloud or storm,
While all their former rainbows die away.
Some to the palace with regardful step,
And courtly blandishment resort, and there
Advance obsequious; in the sunshine bask
Of princely grace, catch the creating eye,
Parent of honours: — in the senate some
Harangue the full-bench'd auditory, and wield
Their list'ning passion (such the pow'r, the sway
Of Reason's eloquence!) — or at the bar,
Where Cowper, Talbot, Somers, Yorke before
Pleaded their way to glory's chair supreme,
And worthy fill'd it. Let not these great names
Damp, but incite: nor Murray's praise obscure
Thy younger merit. Know, these lights▪ ere yet
To noon-day lustre kindled, had their dawn.
Proceed familiar to the gate of Fame,
Nor think the task severe, the prize too high
Of toil and honour, for thy father's son.
Epistle from the late Lord Viscount B—GB—KE to Miss LUCY A—K—NS.
DEAR thoughtless CLARA to my verse attend,
Believe for once thy lover and thy friend;
Heaven to each sex has various gifts assign'd,
And shewn an equal care of human-kind;
Strength does to man's imperial race belong,
To yours that beauty which subdues the strong;
But as our strength when misapply'd, is lost,
And what should save, urges our ruin most;
Just so, when beauty prostituted lies,
Of bawds the prey, of rakes th' abandon'd prize,
Women no more their empire can maintain,
Nor hope, vile slaves of lust, by love to reign.
Superior charms but make their case the worse,
And what should be their blessing, proves their curse.
Oh nymph! that might, reclin'd on Cupid's breast,
Like Psyche, sooth the God of love to rest;
Or, if ambition mov'd thee, Jove enthral,
Brandish his thunder, and direct its fall;
Survey thyself, contemplate ev'ry grace
Of that sweet form, of that angelic face,
Then CLARA say, were those delicious charms
Meant for lewd brothels, and rude ruffians arms?
No CLARA, no! that person, and that mind,
Were form'd by nature, and by heaven design'd
For nobler ends; to these return, tho' late,
Return to these, and so avert thy fate.
Think CLARA, think, (nor will that thought be vain)
Thy slave, thy HARRY, doom'd to drag his chain
Of love, ill-treated and abus'd, that he
From more inglorious chains might rescue thee.
Thy drooping health restor'd; by his fond care,
Once more thy beauty its full lustre wear;
Mov'd by his love, by his example taught,
Soon shall thy soul, once more with virtue fraught,
With kind and gen'rous truth thy bosom warm,
And thy fair mind, like thy fair person, charm.
To virtue thus, and to thyself restor'd,
By all admir'd, by one alone ador'd,
Be to thy HARRY ever kind and true,
And live for him, who more than dies for you.
The CHEAT's APOLOGY.
By Mr. ELLIS.
'Tis my vocation, Hal!
SHAKESPEAR.
LOOK round the wide world each profession, you'll find,
Hath something dishonest, which myst'ry they call;
Each knave points another, at home is stark blind,
Except but his own, there's a cheat in them all:
When tax'd with imposture the charge he'll evade,
And like Falstaff pretend he but lives by his trade.
The hero ambitious (like Philip's great son,
Who wept when he found no more mischief to do)
Ne'er scruples a neighbouring realm to o'er-run,
While slaughters and carnage his sabre imbrue.
Of rapine and murder the charge he'll evade,
For conquest is glorious, and fighting his trade.
The statesman, who steers by wise Machiavel's rules,
Is ne'er to be known by his tongue or his face;
They're traps by him us'd to catch credulous fools,
And breach of his promise he counts no disgrace;
But policy calls it, reproach to evade,
For flatt'ry's his province, cajoling his trade.
The priest will instruct you this world to despise,
With all its vain pomp, for a kingdom on high;
While earthly preferments are chiefly his prize,
And all his pursuits give his doctrine the lye;
He'll plead you the gospel, your charge to evade:
The lab'rer's entititled to live by his trade.
The lawyer, as oft on the wrong side as right,
Who tortures for fee the true sense of the laws,
While black he by sophistry proves to be white,
And falshood and perjury lists in his cause;
With steady assurance all crime will evade:
His client's his care, and he follows his trade.
The sons of Machaon, who thirsty for gold
The patient past cure visit thrice in a day,
Write largely the Pharmacop league to uphold,
While poverty's left to diseases a prey;
Are held in repute for their glitt'ring parade:
Their practice is great, and they shine in their trade.
Since then in all stations imposture is found,
No one of another can justly complain;
The coin he receives will pass current around,
And where he is cousen'd he cousens again:
But I, who for cheats this apology made,
Cheat myself by my rhyming, and starve by my trade.
SONG.
By the Same.
AS Chloe ply'd her needle's art,
A purple drop the spear
Made from her heedless finger start,
And from her eyes a tear.
Ah! might but Chloe by her smart
Be taught for mine to feel;
Mine caus'd by Cupid's piercing dart,
More sharp than pointed steel!
Then I her needle would adore,
Love's arrow it should be,
Indu'd with such a subtle pow'r
To reach her heart for me.
Another.
By the Same.
SUE venal Belinda to grant you the blessing
As Jove courted Danae, or vain's your addressing;
For love, she asserts, all that's generous inspires,
And therefore rich tokens of love she requires.
Such suitors as nothing but ardours are boasting,
Will ne'er reach Elysium, but ever be coasting,
Like pennyless ghosts deny'd passage by Charon,
They'll find, without fee, unrelenting the fair one.
But give me the nymph not ungrateful to wooing,
Who love pays with love, and caresses with cooing,
By whom a true heart is accepted as sterling,
And Cupid alone makes her lover her darling.
To Mr. GRENVILLE on his intended Resignation.
By RICHARD BERENGER,
Esq
A Wretch tir'd out with Fortune's blows,
Resolv'd at once to end his woes;
And like a thoughtless silly elf,
In the next pond to drown himself.
'Tis fit, quoth he, my life should end,
The cruel world is not my friend;
I have nor meat, nor drink, nor cloaths,
But want each joy that wealth bestows;
Besides, I hold my life my own,
And when I please may lay it down;
A wretched hopeless thing am I,
Forgetting, as forgot, I'll die.
Not so, said one who stood behind,
And heard him thus disclose his mind;
Consider well pray what you do,
And think what numbers live in you:
If you go drown, your woes to ease,
Pray who will keep your lice and fleas?
On yours alone their lives depend,
With you they live, with you must end.
On great folks thus the little live,
And in their sunshine bask and thrive:
But when those suns no longer shine,
The hapless insects droop and pine.
Oh GRENVILLE then this tale apply,
Nor drown yourself lest I should die:
Compassionate your louse's case,
And keep your own to save his place.
To Mr. GARRICK, on his erecting a Temple and Statue to SHAKESPEAR.
By the Same.
—Viridi in campo signum de marmore ponant
Propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat
Thamesis; et multâ praetexit arundine ripas;
In medio mihi
SHAKESPEAR
erit, templumque tenebit.
VIRGIL.
WHERE yonder trees rise high in cheerful air,
Where yonder banks eternal verdure wear,
And opening flow'rs diffusing sweets around
Paint with their vivid hues the happy ground;
While Thames majestic rolls the meads between,
And with his silver current crowns the scene;
There
GARRICK, satiate of well-earn'd applause,
From crowds, and shouting theatres withdraws:
There
courts the Muse, turns o'er th' instructive page,
And meditates new triumphs for the stage.
Thine, SHAKESPEAR, chief—for thou must ever shine
His pride, his boast, unequal'd and divine.
There
too thy vot'ry to thy merit just,
Hath rais'd the dome, and plac'd the honour'd bust,
Bidding the pile to future times proclaim
His veneration for thy mighty name.
A place more fit his zeal could never find
Than this fair spot, an emblem of thy mind—
As
hill
and
dale there
charm the wond'ring eye,
Such sweet variety thy
scenes
supply—
Like the tall trees sublime thy genius tow'rs,
Sprightly thy fancy, as the opening flow'rs,
While copious as the tide Thames pours along,
Flow the sweet numbers of thy heav'nly song,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong—
Look down, great shade, with pride this tribute see,
The hand that pays it makes it worthy thee—
As fam'd Apelles was allow'd alone
To paint the form august of Philip's son,
None but a GARRICK can, O bard divine!
Lay a
fit
offering on thy hallow'd shrine.
To speak thy worth is his peculiar boast,
He best can tell it, for he feels it most.
Blest bard! thy fame thro' ev'ry age shall grow,
Till
nature
cease to charm, or Thames to flow.
Thou too, with him, whose fame thy talents raise,
Shalt share our wonder, and divide our praise;
Blended with his thy merits rise to view,
And half thy SHAKESPEAR'S fame to thee is due:
Unless the actor with the bard conspire,
How impotent his strength, how faint his fire!
One boasts the
mine,
one brings the gold to
light,
And the muse triumphs in the actor's
might;
Too weak to give her own conceptions birth,
Till all-expressive
action
call them forth.
Thus the sweet pipe, mute in itself, no sound
Sends forth, nor breathes its pleasing notes around;
But if some swain with happy skill endu'd,
Inspire with animating breath the wood,
Wak'd into voice, it pours its tuneful strains,
And harmony divine enchants the plains.
Quod spiro, et placeo, si placeo tuum est—
HOR.
On the Birth-Day of SHAKESPEAR. A CENTO. Taken from his Works.
By the Same.
Naturâ ipsâ valere, et mentis viribus excitari, et quasi quodam divino spiritu afflari.
CICERO.
—PEACE to this meeting,
Joy and fair time, health and good wishes!
Now, worthy friends, the cause why we are met,
Is in celebration of the day that gave
Immortal
Shakespear
to this favour'd isle,
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
Which from the prime creation e'er she fram'd.
O thou divinest nature! how thyself thou blazon'st
In this thy son! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time,
Its very form and pressure! When he speaks
Each aged ear plays truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So voluble is his discourse—Gentle
As Zephyr blowing underneath the violet,
Not wagging its sweet head—yet as rough,
(His noble blood enchaff'd) as the rude wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to th' vale.—'Tis wonderful
That an invisible instinct should frame him
To Royalty, unlearn'd; honour untaught;
Civility not seen in other; knowledge
That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop
As if it had been sown. What a piece of work!
How noble in faculty! infinite in reason!
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every God did seem to set his seal.
Heav'n has him now — yet let our idolatrous fancy
Still sanctify his relicts; and this day
Stand aye distinguish'd in the kalendar
To the last syllable of recorded time:
For if we take him but for all in all
We ne'er shall look upon his like again.
An ODE to SCULPTURE.
LED by the Muse, my step pervades
The sacred haunts, the peaceful shades,
Where
Art
and
Sculpture
reign:
I see, I see, at their command,
The living stones in order stand,
And marble breathe through ev'ry vein!
Time
breaks his hostile scythe; he sighs
To find his pow'r malignant fled;
"And what avails my dart, he cried,
"Since these can animate the dead?
"Since wak'd to mimic life, again in stone
"The patriot seems to speak, the heroe frown?"
There
Virtue
's silent train are seen,
Fast fix'd their looks, erect their mien.
Lo! while, with more than stoic soul,
The
Socrates, who was condemned to die by poison.
Attic sage
exhausts the bowl,
A pale suffusion shades his eyes,
Till by degrees the marble dies!
See there the injur'd
Seneca, born at Corduba, who, according to Pliny, was orator, poet, and philosopher. He bled to death in the bath.
poet
bleed!
Ah! see he droops his languid head!
What starting nerves, what dying pain,
What horror freezes ev'ry vein!
These are thy works,
O Sculpture!
thine to shew
In rugged rock a feeling sense of woe.
Yet not alone such themes demand
The
Phydian
stroke, the
Daedal
hand;
I view with melting eyes
A softer scene of grief display'd,
While from her breast the duteous maid
Her
infant sire
with food supplies.
In pitying stone she weeps, to see
His squalid hair, and galling chains:
And trembling, on her bended knee,
His hoary head her hand sustains;
While ev'ry look, and sorrowing feature prove,
How soft her breast, how great her filial love.
Lo! there the wild
Semiramis, cum ei circa cultum capitis sui occupatae nunciatum esset Babylonem defecisse; alterâ parte crinium adhuc solutâ protinus ad eam expugnandum cucurrit: nec prius de corum capillorum in ordinem quam tantam urbem in potestatem suam redegit: quocircà statua ejus Babylone posita est
&c.
Val. Max. de Ira
Assyrian queen,
With threat'ning brow, and frantic mien!
Revenge! revenge! the marble cries,
While fury sparkles in her eyes.
Thus was her aweful form beheld,
When
Babylon
's proud sons rebell'd;
She left the woman's vainer care,
And flew with loose dishevell'd hair;
She stretch'd her hand, imbru'd in blood,
While pale Sedition trembling stood;
In sudden silence, the mad crowd obey'd
Her aweful voice, and Stygian Discord fled!
With hope, or fear, or love, by turns,
The marble leaps, or shrinks, or burns,
As
Sculpture
waves her hand;
The varying passions of the mind
Her faithful handmaids are assign'd,
And rise and fall by her command.
When now life's wasted lamps expire,
When sinks to dust this mortal frame,
She, like Prometheus, grasps the fire;
Her touch revives the lambent flame;
While phoenix-like, the statesman, bard, or sage,
Spring fresh to life, and breathe through every age.
Hence, where the organ full and clear,
With loud hosannas charms the ear,
Behold (a prism within his hands)
Absorb'd in thought, great
A noble statue of Sir Isaac Newton, erected in Trinity College chapel, by Dr. Smith.
Newton
stands;
Such was his solemn wonted state,
His serious brow, and musing gait,
When, taught on eagles-wings to fly,
He trac'd the wonders of the sky;
The chambers of the sun explor'd,
Where tints of thousand hues are stor'd;
Whence every flower in painted robes is drest,
And varying
Iris
steals her gaudy vest.
Here, as
Devotion,
heavenly queen,
Conducts her best, her fav'rite train,
At
Newton
's shrine they bow!
And while with raptur'd eyes they gaze,
With
Virtue
's purest vestal rays,
Behold their ardent bosoms glow!
Hail, mighty mind! hail, aweful name!
I feel inspir'd my lab'ring breast;
And lo! I pant, I burn for fame!
Come, Science, bright etherial guest,
Oh come, and lead thy meanest, humblest son,
Through
Wisdom
's arduous paths to fair renown.
Could I to one faint ray aspire,
One spark of that celestial fire,
The leading cynosure, that glow'd
While
Smith
explor'd the dark abode,
Where
Wisdom
sate on
Nature
's shrine,
How great my boast! what praise were mine!
Illustrious sage! who first could'st tell
Wherein the power of
Music
dwell;
And ev'ry magic chain untie,
That binds the soul of
Harmony!
To
thee,
when mould'ring in the dust,
To
thee
shall swell the breathing bust:
Shall here (for this reward thy merits claim)
"Stand next in place to
Newton,
as in fame."
True RESIGNATION.
Aequam memento rebus in arduis
Servare mentem.
HORAT.
By Mr. H * * * *
WHEN Colin's good dame, who long held him a tug,
And defeated his hopes by the help of the jug,
Had taken too
freely
the cheeruping cup,
And
repeated
the dose till it laid her quite up;
Colin sent for the doctor: with sorrowful face
He gave him his fee, and he told him her case.
Quoth Galen, I'll do what I can for your wife;
But indeed she's so bad, that I fear, for her life.
In counsel there's safety—e'en send for another;
For if she shou'd die, folks will make a strange pother,
And say that I lost her for want of good skill—
Or of better advice—or, in short, what they will.
Says Colin, your judgment there's none can dispute;
And if physic
can
cure her—I know
yours
will do't.
But if, after all, she
shou'd
happen to die,
And they say that
you kill'd
her—I'll swear 'tis a lye:
'Tis the
husband
's chief business, whatever ensue;
And
whoever
finds fault—I'll be shot — if
I
do.
An EPISTLE from the King of PRUSSIA, to Monsieur VOLTAIRE. 1757.
CROYEZ que si j' etois, Voltaire,
Particulier aujourdhui,
Me contentant du necessaire,
Je verrois envoler la Fortune legere,
Et m' en mocquerois comme lui.
Je connois l' ennui des grandeurs,
Le fardeau des devoirs, le jargon des flateurs,
Et tout l' amas des petitesses,
Et leurs genres et leurs especes,
Dont il faut s' occuper dans le sein des honneurs.
Je meprise la vaine gloire,
Quoique Poëte et Souverain,
Quand du ciseau fatal retranchant mon destin
Atropos m' aura vu plongé dans la nuit noire,
Que m' importe l' honneur incertain
De vivre apres ma mort au temple de Memoire:
Un instant de bonheur vaut mille ans dans l' histoire.
Nos destins sont ils donc si beaux?
Le doux Plaisir et la Mollesse,
La vive et naïve Allegresse
Ont toujours fui des grands, la pompe, et les faisceaux,
Nes pour la liberté leurs troupes enchantresses
Preferent l' aimable paresse
Aux austeres devoirs guides de nos travaux.
Aussi la Fortune volage
N' a jamais causé mes ennuis,
Soit qu' elle m' agaçe, ou qu' elle m' outrage,
Je dormirai toutes les nuits
En lui refusant mon hommage.
Mais notre etat nous fait loi,
Il nous oblige, il nous engage
A mesurer notre courage,
Sur ce qu' exige notre emploi.
Voltaire dans sons hermitage,
Dans un païs dont l' heritage
Est son antique bonne foi,
Peut s' addonner an paix a la vertu du sage
Dont Platon nous marque la loi.
Pour moi menacé du naufrage,
Je dois, en affrontant l' orage,
Penser, vivre, et mourir en Roi.
Translated into English.
By JOHN GILBERT COOPER,
Esq
VOLTAIRE, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm station plac'd,
Let Heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indiff'rence would I view
Changing Fortune's winged haste,
And laugh at her caprice like you.
Th' insipid farce of tedious state,
Imperial duty's real weight,
The faithless courtier's supple bow,
The fickle multitude's caress,
And the great Vulgar's Littleness,
By long experience well I know;
And, tho' a Prince and Poet born,
Vain blandishments of glory scorn.
For when the ruthless shears of Fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank'd me with th' unconscious dead,
What wil't avail that I
was
great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of Fame
In Mem'ry's temple chaunts my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do Potentates receive
Of good, peculiarly their own?
Sweet Ease and unaffected Joy,
Domestic Peace, and sportive Pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure,
To, what we Monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle Fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, or fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth,
By which is measur'd human worth.
Voltaire, within his private cell
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,
And sacred Freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all
his
peaceful mind,
Guided by Plato's deathless page,
In silent solitude resign'd
To the mild virtues of a Sage;
But I, 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be, to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a king.
At seeing
John Williams was consecrated bishop of Lincoln, November
11. 1621.
was translated to York December
4. 1641▪
and died March
25. 1649.
and was buried at Landegay near Bangor.
Archbishop WILLIAMS'S Monument in CARNARVONSHIRE.
IN that remote and solitary place,
Which the seas wash, and circling hills embrace,
Where those lone walls amid the groves arise,
All that remains of thee, fam'd
Williams,
lies.
Thither, sequester'd shade, creation's nook,
The wand'ring Muse her pensive journey took,
Curious to trace the statesman to his home,
And moralize at leisure o'er his tomb:
She came not, with the pilgrim, tears to shed,
Mutter a vow, or trifle with a bead,
But such a sadness did her thoughts employ,
As lives within the neighbourhood of joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty shade,
His glories, and his miseries, she said:
"How poor the lot of the once-honour'd dead!
Perhaps the dust is
Williams,
that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politic, and great,
Statesman, and prelate, this alas! thy fate.
Cou'd not thy
Lincoln
yield her pastor room,
Cou'd not thy
York
supply thee with a tomb?
Was it for this thy losty genius soar'd,
Caress'd by monarchs and by crowds ador'd?
For this, thy hand o'er rivals cou'd prevail,
Grasping by turns the crosier and the
He was made lord keeper of the great seal July
20. 1621.
seal?
Who dar'd on
Laud
's meredian pow'r to frown,
And on aspiring
Buckingham
look down.
This thy gay morn,—but ere the day decline
Clouds gather, and adversity is thine.
Doom'd to behold thy country's fierce alarms,
What had thy trembling age to do with arms?
Thy lands dragoon'd, thy palaces in dust,
Why was thy life protracted to be curst?
Thy king in chains,—thyself by lawless might
Strip't of all pow'r, and exil'd from thy right.
Awhile the venerable hero stood,
And stemm'd with quiv'ring limbs the boist'rous flood;
At length, o'er-match'd by injuries and time,
Stole from the world and sought his native clime.
Cambria
for him with moans her region fills:
She wept his downfal from a thousand hills:
Tender embrac'd her prelate tho' undone,
Stretch'd out her mother-rocks to hide her son:
Search'd, while alive, each vale for his repast,
And, when he died, receiv'd him in her breast.
Envied Ambition! what are all thy schemes,
But waking misery, or pleasing dreams,
Sliding and tottering on the heights of state!
The subject of this verse declares thy fate.
Great as he was, you see how small the gain,
A burial so obscure, a Muse so mean.
Extempore Verses upon a Trial of Skill between the two great Masters of Defence, Messieurs FIGG and SUTTON.
By Dr. BYROM.
I.
LONG was the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains,
Sole monarch acknowledg'd of Mary-bone plains:
To the towns, far and near, did his valour extend,
And swam down the river from Thame to Gravesend;
Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, pipemaker by trade,
Who hearing that Figg was thought such a stout blade,
Resolv'd to put in for a share of his fame,
And so sent to challenge the champion of Thame.
II.
With alternate advantage two trials had past,
When they fought out the rubbers on Wednesday last.
To see such a contest the house was so full
There hardly was room left to thrust in your skull.
With a prelude of cudgells we first were saluted,
And two or three shoulders most handsomely fluted;
Till weary at last with inferior disasters,
All the company cry'd, come, the masters, the masters.
III.
Whereupon the bold Sutton first mounted the stage,
Made his honours as usual, and yearn'd to engage;
Then Figg, with a visage so fierce, yet sedate,
Came, and enter'd the lists, with his fresh-shaven pate;
Their arms were encircled with armigers too,
With a red ribbon Sutton's, and Figg's with a blue.
Thus adorn'd the two heroes, 'twixt shoulder, and elbow,
Shook hands, and went to 't, and the word it was Bilboe.
IV.
Sure such a concern in the eyes of spectators,
Was never yet seen in our amphi-theatres.
Our commons and peers from their several places,
To half an inch distance all pointed their faces;
Wnile the rays of old Phoebus, that shot thro' the sky-light,
Seem'd to make on the stage a new kind of twilight;
And the Gods without doubt, if one cou'd but have seen 'em,
Were peeping there thro' to do justice between 'em.
V.
Figg struck the first stroke, and with such a vast fury,
That he broke his huge weapon in twain, I assure you;
And if his brave rival this blow had not warded,
His head from his shoulders had quite been discarded.
Figg arm'd him again, and they took t' other tilt,
And then Sutton's blade ran away from its hilt;
The weapons were frighted, but as for the men,
In truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.
VI.
Such a force in their blows, you'd have thought it a wonder
Every stroke they receiv'd did not cleave 'em asunder.
Yet so great was their courage, so equal their skill,
That they both seem'd as safe as a thief in a mill;
While in doubtful attention dame Victory stood,
And which side to take cou'd not tell for her blood,
But remain'd like the ass, 'twixt the bundles of hay,
Without ever stirring an inch either way.
VII.
Till Jove to the Gods signified his intention
In a speech that he made 'em too tedious to mention;
But the upshot on 't was, that at that very bout,
From a wound in Figg's side the hot blood spouted out;
Her ladyship then seem'd to think the case plain,
But Figg stepping forth with a sullen disdain,
Shew'd the gash, and appeal'd to the company round,
If his own broken sword had not given him the wound.
VIII.
That bruises, and wounds a man's spirit shou'd touch,
With danger so little, with honour so much!
Well, they both took a dram, and return'd to the battle,
And with a fresh fury they made the swords rattle;
While Sutton's right arm was observed to bleed,
By a touch from his rival; so Jove had decreed;
Just enough for to shew that his blood was not icor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red-liquor.
IX.
Again they both rush'd with as equal a fire on,
'Till the company cry'd, hold, enough of cold iron,
To the quarter-staff now, lads. So first having dram'd it,
They took to their woods, and i' faith never sham'd it.
The first bout they had was so fair, and so handsome,
That to make a fair bargain, was worth a king's ransom;
And Sutton such bangs on his neighbour imparted,
Wou'd have made any fibres but Figg's to have smarted.
X.
Then after that bout they went on to another—
But the matter must end on some fashion, or other;
So Jove told the Gods he hath made a decree,
That Figg shou'd hit Sutton a stroke on the knee.
Tho' Sutton disabled as soon as he hit him
Wou'd still have fought on, but Jove wou'd not permit him;
'Twas his fate, not his fault, that constrain'd him to yield,
And thus the great Figg became lord of the field.
A Letter from Cambridge to a young Gentleman at Eton School.
By Dr. LITTLETON.
THO' plagu'd with algebraic lectures,
And astronomical conjectures,
Wean'd from the sweets of poetry
To scraps of dry philosophy,
You see, dear sir, I've found a time
T' express my thoughts to you in rhime.
For why, my friend, shou'd distant parts,
Or times, disjoin united hearts,
Since, tho' by intervening space
Depriv'd of speaking face to face,
By faithful emissary letter
We may converse as well, or better?
And not to stretch a narrow fancy,
To shew what pretty things I can say,
(As some will strain at simile,
First work it fine, and then apply;
Tag Butler's rhimes to Prior's thoughts,
And chuse to mimic all their faults,
By head and shoulders bring in a stick,
To shew their knack at hudibrastic,)
I'll tell you as a friend, and crony,
How here I spend my time, and money;
For time, and money, go together
As sure as weathercock, and weather;
And thrifty guardians all allow
This grave reflection to be true,
That whilst we pay so dear for learning
Those weighty truths we've no concern in,
The spark who squanders time away
In vain pursuits, and fruitless play,
Not only proves an arrant blockhead,
But, what's much worse, is out of pocket.
Whether my conduct bad, or good is,
Judge from the nature of my studies.
No more majestic Virgil's heights,
Nor tow'ring Milton's loftier flights,
Nor courtly Flaccus's rebukes,
Who banters vice with friendly jokes,
Nor Congreve's life, nor Cowley's fire,
Nor all the beauties that conspire
To place the greenest bays upon
Th' immortal brows of Addison;
Prior's inimitable ease,
Nor Pope's harmonious numbers please;
Homer indeed (for critics shew it)
Was both philosopher, and poet,
But tedious philosophic chapters
Quite stifle my poetic raptures,
And I to Phoebus bade adieu
When first I took my leave of you.
Now algebra, geometry,
Arithmetic, astronomy,
Optics, chronology, and statics,
All tiresome parts of mathematics;
With twenty harder names than these
Disturb my brain, and break my peace.
All seeming inconsistencies
Are nicely solv'd by a's, and b's;
Our eye-sight is disprov'd by prisms,
Our arguments by syllogisms.
If I shou'd confidently write
This ink is black, this paper white,
Or, to express myself yet fuller,
Shou'd say that black, or white's a colour;
They'd contradict it, and perplex one
With motion, rays, and their reflexion,
And solve th' apparent falsehood by
The curious texture of the eye.
Shou'd I the poker want, and take it,
When't looks as hot, as fire can make it,
And burn my finger, and my coat,
They'd flatly tell me, 'tis not hot;
The fire, say they, has in't, 'tis true,
The pow'r of causing heat in you;
But no more heat's in fire that heats you,
Than there is pain in stick that beats you.
Thus too philosophers expound
The names of odour, taste, and sound;
The salts, and juices in all meat
Affect the tongues of them that eat,
And by some secret poignant power
Give them the taste of sweet, and sour.
Carnations, violets, and roses
Cause a sensation in our noses;
But then there's none of us can tell
The things themselves have taste, or smell.
So when melodious Mason sings,
Or Gethring tunes the trembling strings,
Or when the trumpet's brisk alarms
Call forth the cheerful youth to arms,
Convey'd thro' undulating air
The music's only in the ear.
We're told how planets roll on high,
How large their orbits, and how nigh;
I hope in little time to know
Whether the moon's a cheese, or no;
Whether the man in't, as some tell ye,
With beef and carrots fills his belly;
Why like a lunatic confin'd
He lives at distance from mankind;
When he at one good hearty shake,
Might whirl his prison off his back;
Or like a maggot in a nut
Full bravely eat his passage out.
Who knows what vast discoveries
From such inquiries might arise?
But feuds, and tumults in the nation
Disturb such curious speculation.
Cambridge from furious broils of state,
Foresees her near-approaching fate;
Her surest patrons are remov'd,
And her triumphant foes approv'd.
No more! this due to friendship take,
Not idly writ for writing's sake;
No longer question my respect,
Nor call this short delay neglect;
At least excuse it, when you see
This pledge of my sincerity;
For one who rhimes to make you easy,
And his invention strains to please you,
To shew his friendship cracks his brains,
Sure is a mad-man if he feigns.
The INDOLENT.
WHAT self-sufficiency and false content
Benumb the senses of the indolent!
Dead to all purposes of good, or ill,
Alive alone in an
unactive will.
His only vice in
no good action
lies,
And his sole virtue is his
want of vice.
Business he deems too hard, trifles too easy,
And doing nothing finds himself too busy.
Silence he cannot bear, noise is distraction,
Noise kills with bustle, silence with reflection;
No want he feels,—what has he to pursue?
To him 'tis less to
suffer,
than to
do.
The
busy
world's a fool, the
learn'd
a sot,
And his sole hope to be by all forgot:
Wealth is procur'd with toil, and kept with fear,
Knowledge by labour purchas'd costs too dear;
Friendship's a clog, and family a jest,
A wife but a bad bargain at the best;
Honour a bubble, subject to a breath,
And all engagements vain since null'd by death;
Thus all the wise esteem, he can despise,
And
caring not,
'tis he alone is wise:
Yet, all his wish possessing, finds no rest,
And only lives to know,
he never can be blest.
The SONG of SIMEON paraphrased.
By Mr. MERRICK.
'TIS enough — the hour is come.
Now within the silent tomb
Let this mortal frame decay,
Mingled with its kindred clay;
Since thy mercies oft of old
By thy chosen seers foretold,
Faithful now and stedfast prove,
God of truth and God of love!
Since at length my aged eye
Sees the day-spring from on high.
Son of righteousness, to thee
Lo! the nations bow the knee,
And the realms of distant kings
Own the healing of thy wings.
Those whom death had overspread
With his dark and dreary shade,
Lift their eyes, and from afar
Hail the light of Jacob's star;
Waiting till the promis'd ray
Turn their darkness into day.
See the beams intensely shed
Shine o'er Sion's favour'd head.
Never may they hence remove,
God of truth and God of love!
On the Invention of LETTERS.
TELL me what Genius did the art invent,
The lively image of the voice to paint;
Who first the secret how to colour sound,
And to give shape to reason, wisely found;
With bodies how to cloath ideas, taught;
And how to draw the picture of a thought:
Who taught the hand to speak, the eye to hear
A silent language roving far and near;
Whose softest noise outstrips loud thunder's sound,
And spreads her accents thro' the world's vast round:
A voice heard by the deaf, spoke by the dumb,
Whose echo reaches long, long time to come;
Which dead men speak as well as those alive—
Tell me what Genius did this art contrive.
The ANSWER.
THE noble art to Cadmus owes its rise,
Of painting words, and speaking to the eyes;
He first in wond'rous magic fetters bound
The airy voice, and stop'd the flying sound:
The various figures by his pencil wrought,
Gave colour, form, and body to the thought.
On WIT.
TRUE wit is like the brilliant stone
Dug from the Indian mine;
Which boasts two various powers in one
To cut as well as shine,
Genius, like that, if polish'd right,
With the same gifts abounds;
Appears at once both keen and bright,
And sparkles while it wounds.
On a SPIDER.
ARTIST, who underneath my table
Thy curious texture hast display'd;
Who, if we may believe the fable,
Wert once a fair ingenious maid:
Insidious, restless, watchful spider,
Fear no osficious damsel's broom,
Extend thy artful fabric wider,
And spread thy banners round my room.
Swept from the rich man's costly ceiling,
Thou'rt welcome to my homely roof;
Here may'st thou find a peaceful dwelling,
And undisturb'd attend thy woof.
Whilst I thy wond'rous fabric stare at,
And think on hapless poet's fate;
Like thee confin'd to lonely garret,
And rudely banish'd rooms of state.
And as from out thy tortur'd body
Thou draw'st thy slender string with pain,
So does he labour, like a noddy,
To spin materials from his brain.
He for some fluttering tawdry creature,
That spreads her charms before his eye;
And that's a conquest little better
Than thine o'er captive butterfly.
Thus far 'tis plain we both agree,
Perhaps our deaths may better shew it;
'Tis ten to one but penury
Ends both the spider and the poet.
The PLAY-THING chang'd.
KITTY's charming voice and face,
Syren-like, first caught my fancy;
Wit and humour next take place,
And now I doat on sprightly Nancy.
Kitty tunes her pipe in vain,
With airs most languishing and dying;
Calls me false ungrateful swain,
And tries in vain to shoot me flying.
Nancy with resistless art,
Always humourous, gay, and witty;
Has talk'd herself into my heart,
And quite excluded tuneful Kitty.
Ah Kitty! Love, a wanton boy,
Now pleas'd with song, and now with prattle,
Still longing for the newest toy,
Has chang'd his whistle for a rattle.
The FABLE of JOTHAM: To the BOROUGH-HUNTERS.
By RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE,
Esq
Jotham
's fable of the trees is the oldest that is extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made since that time.
ADDISON.
JUDGES, Chap. ix. ver. 8.
OLL
Plumb,
who tho' blest in his
Kentish
retreat,
Still thrives by his oilshop in
Leadenhall-street,
With a
Portugal
merchant, a knight by creation,
From a borough in
Cornwall
receiv'd invitation.
Well-assur'd of each vote, well equip't from the alley,
In quest of election-adventures they sally.
Tho' much they discours'd, the long way to beguile,
Of the earthquakes, the Jews, and the change of the stile,
Of the Irish, the stocks, and the lott'ry committee,
They came silent and tir'd into
Exeter
city.
"Some books, prithee landlord, to pass a dull hour;
"No nonsense of parsons, or methodists sour,
"No poetical stuff—a damn'd jingle of rhimes,
"But some pamphlet that's new, and a touch on the times."
"O Lord! says mine host, you may hunt the town round,
"I question if any such thing can be found:
"I never was ask'd for a book by a guest;
"And I'm sure I have all the great folk in the
West.
"None of these to my knowledge e'er call'd for a book;
"But see, Sir, the woman with fish, and the cook;
"Here's the fattest of carp, shall we dress you a brace?
"Would you have any soals, or a mullet, or plaice?"
"A
place,
quoth the knight, we must have to be sure,
"But first let us see that our borough's secure,
"We'll talk of the
place
when we've settled the poll:
"They may dress us for supper the mullet and soal.
"But do you, my good landlord, look over your shelves,
"For a book we must have, we're so tired of ourselves."
"In troth, Sir, I ne'er had a book in my life,
"But the prayer book and bible I bought for my wife."
"Well! the bible must do; but who don't you take in
"Some monthly collection? the new magazine?"
The bible was brought and laid out on the table,
And open'd at
Jotham
's most apposite fable.
Sir
Freeport
began with this verse, tho' no rhime—
"The trees of the forest went forth on a time,
(To what purpose our candidates scarce could expect,
For it was not, they found, to transplant—but ELECT)
"To the olive and fig-tree their deputies came,
"But by both were refus'd, and their answer the same:
"Quoth the olive, shall I leave my fatness and oil
"For an unthankful office, a dignified toil?
"Shall I leave, quoth the fig-tree, my sweetness and fruit,
"To be envy'd, or slav'd in so vain a pursuit?
"Thus rebuff'd and surpriz'd they apply'd to the vine,
"He answer'd: shall I leave my grapes and my wine,
"(Wine the sovereign cordial of god and of man)
"To be made or the tool or the head of a clan?
"At last, as it always falls out in a scramble,
"The mob gave the cry for a bramble! a bramble!
"A bramble for ever! O! chance unexpected!
"But bramble prevail'd and was duly elected."
"O! ho! quoth the knight with a look most profound,
"Now I see there's some good
in good books
to be found.
"I wish I had read this same bible before:
"Of long miles at the least 'twould have sav'd us fourscore.
"You,
Plumb,
with your olives and oil might have staid,
"And myself might have tarried my wines to unlade.
"What have merchants to do from their business to ramble!
"Your electioneer-errant should still be a bramble."
Thus ended at once the wise comment on
Jotham,
And our citizens' jaunt to the borough of
Gotham.
An Elegy written in an empty Assembly-Room.
By the Same.
—Semperque relinqui
Sola sibi—
VIRG.
ADVERTISEMENT.
This poem being a parody on the most remarkable passages in the well-known epistle of
Eloisa
to
Abelard,
it was thought unnecessary to transcribe any lines from that poem, which is in the hands of all, and in the memory of most readers.
IN scenes where HALLET'S genius has combin'd
With BROMWICH to amuse and cheer the mind;
Amid this pomp of cost, this pride of art,
What mean these sorrows in a female heart?
Ye crowded walls, whose well-enlighten'd round
With lovers sighs and protestations sound,
Ye pictures flatter'd by the learn'd and wise,
Ye glasses ogled by the brightest eyes,
Ye cards, which beauties by their touch have blest,
Ye chairs, which peers and ministers have prest,
How are ye chang'd! like you my fate I moan,
Like you, alas! neglected and alone—
For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I must not go abroad—and cannot
be at home.
Blest be that social pow'r, the first who pair'd
The erring footman with th' unerring card.
'Twas VENUS sure; for by their faithful aid
The whisp'ring lover meets the blushing maid:
From solitude they give the cheerful call
To the choice supper, or the sprightly ball:
Speed the soft summons of the gay and fair,
From distant Bloomsbury to Grosvenor's square;
And bring the colonel to the tender hour,
From the parade, the senate, or the Tower.
Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!
Our daily lesson, and our nightly guide!
Where'er ye stand dispos'd in proud array,
The vapours vanish, and the heart is gay;
But when no cards the chimney-glass adorn,
The dismal void with heart-felt shame we mourn;
Conscious neglect inspires a sullen gloom,
And brooding sadness fills the slighted room.
If but some happier female's card I've seen,
I swell with rage, or sicken with the spleen;
While artful pride conceals the bursting tear,
With some forc'd banter or affected sneer:
But now grown desp'rate, and beyond all hope,
I curse the ball, the d—ss, and the pope.
And as the loads of borrow'd plate go by,
Tax it! ye greedy ministers, I cry.
How shall I feel, when Sol resigns his light
To this proud splendid goddess of the night!
Then when her aukward guests in measure beat
The crowded floors, which groan beneath their feet!
What thoughts in solitude shall then possess
My tortur'd mind, or soften my distress!
Not all that envious malice can suggest
Will sooth the tumults of my raging breast.
(For Envy's lost amid the numerous train,
And hisses with her hundred snakes in vain)
Though with contempt each despicable soul
Singly I view,—I must revere the whole.
The methodist in her peculiar lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though single happy, tho' alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (she thinks not of a crowd)
And if she ever feels a vap'rish qualm,
Some
The title of a book of modern devotion.
drop of honey,
or some holy balm,
The pious prophet of her sect distils,
And her pure soul seraphic rapture fills;
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring W * * * prompts her golden dreams.
Far other dreams my sensual soul employ,
While conscious nature tastes unholy joy:
I view the traces of experienc'd charms,
And clasp the regimentals in my arms.
To dream last night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits arise;
Alas! no more; methinks I wand'ring go
To distant quarters 'midst the Highland snow:
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in smoak'd tap'stry faded DIDO mourns;
To some assembly in a country town,
And meet the colonel—in a parson's gown—
I start— I shriek—
O! could I on my waking brain impose,
Or but forget at least my present woes!
Forget 'em—how!—each rattling coach suggests
The loath'd ideas of the crowding guests.
To visit—were to publish my disgrace;
To meet the spleen in ev'ry other place;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn;
And be at once their comfort and their scorn!
For once, to read with this distemper'd brain,
Ev'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.
My MANDOLINE—what place can music find
Amid the discord of my restless mind?
How shall I waste this time which slowly flies!
How lull to slumber my reluctant eyes!
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alike,—N * * *
has murder'd sleep.
The FAKEER: A TALE.
By the Same.
A FAKEER (a religious well known in the East,
Not much like a parson, still less like a priest)
With no canting, no sly jesuitical arts,
Field-preaching, hypocrisy, learning, or parts;
By a happy refinement in mortification,
Grew the oracle, saint, and the pope of his nation.
But what did he do this esteem to acquire?
Did he torture his head or his bosom with fire?
Was his neck in a portable pillory cas'd?
Did he fasten a chain to his leg or his waist?
No. His holiness rose to this sovereign pitch
By the merit of running long nails in his breech.
A wealthy young Indian, approaching the shrine,
Thus in banter accosts the prophetic divine.
This tribute accept for your int'rest with FO,
Whom with torture you serve, and whose will you must know;
To your suppliant disclose his immortal decree;
Tell me which of the heav'ns is allotted for me.
Let me first know your merits.
I strive to be just:
To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my trust:
In religion I duly observe ev'ry form:
With an heart to my country devoted and warm:
I give to the poor, and I lend to the rich—
But how many nails do you run in your breech?
With submission I speak to your rev'rence's tail;
But mine has no taste for a ten-penny nail.
Well! I'll pray to our prophet and get you prefer'd;
Though no farther expect than to heaven the third.
With me in the thirtieth your seat to obtain,
You must qualify duly with hunger and pain.
With you in the thirtieth! you impudent rogue!
Can such wretches as you give to madness a vogue!
Though the priesthood of FO on the vulgar impose,
By squinting whole years at the end of their nose,
Though with cruel devices of mortification
They adore a vain idol of modern creation,
Does the God of the heav'ns such a service direct?
Can his mercy approve a self-punishing sect?
Will his wisdom be worship'd with chains and with nails?
Or e'er look for his rites in your noses and tails?
Come along to my house and these penances leave,
Give your belly a feast, and your breech a reprieve.
This reas'ning unhing'd each fanatical notion;
And stagger'd our saint in his chair of promotion.
At length with reluctance he rose from his seat:
And resigning his nails and his fame for retreat,
Two weeks his new life he admir'd and enjoy'd:
The third he with plenty and quiet was cloy'd.
To live undistinguish'd to him was the pain,
An existence unnotic'd he could not sustain.
In retirement he sigh'd for the fame-giving chair:
For the crowd to admire him, to rev'rence and stare:
No endearments of pleasure and ease could prevail;
He the saintship resum'd, and new larded his tail.
Our FAKEER represents all the vot'ries of fame;
Their ideas, their means, and their end is the same:
The sportsman, the buck; all the heroes of vice,
With their gallantry, lewdness, the bottle and dice;
The poets, the critics, the metaphysicians,
The courtier, the patriot, all politicians;
The slatesman begirt with th' importunate ring,
(I had almost compleated my list with the king)
All labour alike to illustrate my tale;
All tortur'd by choice with th' invisible nail.
To Mr. WHITEHEAD, On his being made POET LAUREAT.
By the Same.
'TIS so — tho' we're surpriz'd to hear it:
The laurel is bestow'd on merit.
How hush'd is ev'ry envious voice!
Confounded by so just a choice,
Tho' by prescriptive right prepar'd
To libel the selected bard.
But as you see the statesman's fate
In this our democratic state,
Whom virtue strives in vain to guard
From the rude pamphlet and the card;
You'll find the demagogues of Pindus
In envy not a jot behind us:
For each Aonian politician
(Whose element is opposition,)
Will shew how greatly they surpass us,
In gall and wormwood at Parnassus.
Thus as the same detracting spirit
Attends on all distinguish'd merit,
When 'tis your turn, observe, the quarrel
Is not with you, but with the laurel.
Suppose that laurel on your brow,
For cypress chang'd, funereal bough!
See all things take a diff'rent turn!
The very critics sweetly mourn,
And leave their satire's pois'nous sting
In plaintive elegies to sing:
With solemn threnody and dirge
Conduct you to Elysium's verge.
At Westminster the surplic'd dean
The fad but honorable scene
Prepares. The well-attended h
rse
Bears you amid the kings of verse.
Each rite observ'd, each duty paid,
Your fame on marble is display'd,
With symbols which your genius suit,
The mask, the buskin, and the flute:
The laurel crown aloft is hung:
And o'er the sculptur'd lyre unstrung
Sad allegoric figures leaning—
(How folks will gape to find their meaning!)
And a long epitaph is spread,
Which happy you will never read.
But hold—The change is so inviting
I own, I tremble while I'm writing.
Yet, WHITEHEAD, 'tis too soon to lose you:
Let critics flatter or abuse you,
O! teach us, e'er you change the scene
To Stygian banks from Hippocrene,
How free-born bards should strike the strings,
And how a Briton write to kings.
Verses on the Prospect of planting ARTS and LEARNING in AMERICA.
By the late Dr. BERKELEY, Bishop of CLOYNE.
THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime,
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame:
In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true:
In happy climes the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools:
There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heav'nly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.
To Mr. MASON.
By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD,
Esq
I.
BELIEVE me, MASON, 'tis in vain
Thy fortitude the torrent braves;
Thou too must bear th' inglorious chain;
The world, the world will have its slaves.
The chosen friend, for converse sweet,
The small, yet elegant retreat,
Are peaceful unambitious views
Which early fancy loves to form,
When aided by th' ingenuous Muse,
She turns the philosophic page,
And sees the wise of every age
With Nature's dictates warm.
II.
But ah! to few has Fortune given
The choice, to take or to refuse;
To fewer still indulgent Heaven
Allots the very will to chuse.
And why are varying schemes prefer'd?
Man mixes with the common herd,
By custom guided to pursue
Or wealth, or honors, fame, or ease;
What others wish he wishes too,
Nor, from his own peculiar choice,
'Till strengthen'd by the public voice,
His very pleasures please.
III.
How oft, beneath some hoary shade
Where Cam glides indolently slow,
Hast thou, as indolently laid,
Prefer'd to Heav'n thy fav'rite vow:
"Here, here forever let me stay,
"Here calmly loiter life away,
"Nor all those vain connections know
"Which fetter down the free-born mind
"The slave of interest, or of shew;
"Whilst yon gay tenant of the grove,
"The happier heir of Nature's love,
"Can warble unconfin'd."
IV.
Yet sure, my friend, th' eternal plan
By truth unerring was design'd;
Inferior parts were made for man,
But man himself for all mankind.
Then by th' apparent judge th' unseen;
Behold how rolls this vast machine
To one great end, howe'er withstood,
Directing its impartial course.
All labour for the general good.
Some stem the wave, some till the soil,
By choice the hold, th' ambitious toil,
The indolent by force.
V.
That bird, thy fancy frees from care,
With many a fear, unknown to thee,
Must rove to glean his scanty fare
From field to field, from tree to tree:
His lot, united with his kind,
Has all his little joys confin'd;
The Lover's and the Parent's ties
Alarm by turns his anxious breast;
Yet, bound by fate, by instinct wise,
He hails with songs the rising morn,
And pleas'd at evening's cool return
He sings himself to rest.
VI.
And tell me, has not nature made
Some stated void for thee to fill,
Some spring, some wheel which asks thy aid
To move, regardless of thy will?
Go then, go feel with glad surprize
New bliss from new connections rise;
'Till, happier in thy wider sphere,
Thou quit thy darling schemes of ease;
Nay, glowing in the full career
Ev'n wish thy virtuous labours more;
Nor 'till the toilsome day is o'er
Expect the night of peace.
ODE. To INDEPENDENCY.
By Mr. MASON.
I.
HERE, on my native shore reclin'd,
While Silence rules this midnight hour,
I woo thee, GODDESS. On my musing mind
Descend, propitious Power!
And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside:
Bid my calm'd soul with all thy influence shine;
As yon chaste Orb along this ample tide
Draws the long lustre of her silver line,
While the hush'd breeze its last weak whisper blows,
And lulls old HUMBER to his deep repose.
II.
Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent pray'r,
In all thy graceful plainness drest;
No knot confines thy waving hair,
No zone thy floating vest.
Unsullied Honor decks thine open brow,
And Candor brightens in thy modest eye:
Thy blush is warm Content's aetherial glow,
Thy smile is Peace; thy step is Liberty:
Thou scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand,
As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.
III.
As now o'er this lone beach I stray;
Thy
Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston upon Hull in the Year
1620.
fav'rite Swain oft stole along,
And artless wove his Doric lay,
Far from the busy throng.
Thou heard'st him, Goddess, strike the tender string,
And badst his soul with bolder passions move:
Strait these responsive shores forgot to ring,
With Beauty's praise, or plaint of slighted Love;
To loftier flights his daring Genius rose,
And led the war, 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes.
IV.
Pointed with Satire's keenest steel,
The shafts of Wit he darts around:
Ev'n
Parker, bishop of Oxford.
mitred Dulness learns to feel,
And shrinks beneath the wound.
In aweful poverty his honest Muse
Walks forth vindictive thro' a venal land:
In vain Corruption sheds her golden dews,
In vain Oppression lifts her iron hand;
He scorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone,
Bids Lust and Folly tremble on the throne.
V.
Behold, like him, immortal Maid,
The Muses vestal fires I bring:
Here at thy feet the sparks I spread;
Propitious wave thy wing,
And fan them to that dazzling blaze of Song,
That glares tremendous on the Sons of Pride.
But, hark, methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue!
In distant trills it echos o'er the tide;
Now meets mine car with warbles wildly free,
As swells the Lark's meridian ecstacy.
VI.
"Fond Youth! to MARVELL'S patriot fame,
"Thy humble breast must ne'er aspire.
"Yet nourish still the lambent flame;
"Still strike thy blameless Lyre:
"Led by the moral Muse securely rove;
"And all the vernal sweets thy vacant Youth
"Can cull from busy Fancy's fairy grove,
"O hang their foliage round the fane of Truth:
"To arts like these devote thy tuneful toil,
"And meet its fair reward in D'ARCY'S smile."
VII.
"'Tis he, my Son, alone shall cheer
"Thy sick'ning soul; at that sad hour,
"When o'er a much-lov'd Parent's bier
"Thy duteous Sorrows shower:
At that sad hour; when all thy hopes decline;
When pining Care leads on her pallid train,
And sees thee, like the weak, and widow'd Vine,
Winding thy blasted tendrils o'er the plain.
At that sad hour shall D'ARCY lend his aid,
And raise with friendship's arm thy drooping head.
VIII.
"This fragrant wreath, the Muses meed,
"That bloom'd those vocal shades among,
"Where never Flatt'ry dared to tread,
"Or Interest's servile throng;
"Receive, my favour'd Son, at my command,
"And keep, with sacred care, for D'ARCY'S brow:
"Tell him, 'twas wove by my immortal hand,
"I breath'd on every flower a purer glow;
"Say, for thy sake, I send the gift divine
"To him, who calls thee HIS, yet makes thee MINE."
ODE. On MELANCHOLY. To a FRIEND.
By the Same.
I.
AH! cease this kind persuasive strain,
Which, when it flows from friendship's tongue,
However weak, however vain,
O'erpowers beyond the Siren's song:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me muse upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats?
Why rob me of these pensive sweets?
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill
Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill,
Whilst thro' the west, where sinks the crimson Day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey?
II.
Say, from Affliction's various source
Do none but turbid waters flow?
And cannot Fancy clear their course?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.
Say, 'mid that grove, in love-lorn state,
When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all, that meets the shepherd's ear,
Inspir'd by anguish, and despair?
Ah no, fair Fancy rules the Song:
She swells her throat; she guides her tongue;
She bids the waving Aspin-spray
Quiver in Cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed Osiers bow,
And rustle round the lake below,
To suit the tenor of her gurgling sighs,
And sooth her throbbing breast with solemn sympathies.
III.
To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares;
Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears;
To thee yon Abbey dank, and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mould'ring stone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.
Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander thro' the cloysters drear,
Could rove each desolated Isle,
Tho' midnight thunders shook the pile;
And dauntless view, or seem to view,
(As faintly flash the lightnings blue)
Thin shiv'ring Ghosts from yawning charnels throng,
And glance with silent sweep the shaggy vaults along.
IV.
But such terrific charms as these,
I ask not yet: My sober mind
The fainter forms of Sadness please;
My sorrows are of softer kind.
Thro' this still valley let me stray,
Wrapt in some strain of pensive GRAY:
Whose lofty Genius bears along
The conscious dignity of Song;
And, scorning from the sacred store
To waste a note on Pride, or Power,
Roves, when the glimmering twilight glooms,
And warbles 'mid the rustic tombs:
He too perchance (for well I know,
His heart would melt with friendly woe)
He too perchance, when these poor limbs are laid,
Will heave one tuneful sigh, and sooth my hov'ring Shade.
ODE.
By. Mr. GRAY.
—
PINDAR, Olymp. II.
I. 1.
AWAKE, Aeolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along
Deep, majestic, smooth and strong,
Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
I. 2.
Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares,
And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curb'd the fury of his car,
And drop'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the scept'red hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.
I. 3.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet-green
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
On Cytherea's day,
With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move
The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love.
II. 1.
Man's feeble race what Ills await,
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
The fond complaint, my Song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,
Her Spectres wan, and Birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky:
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.
II. 2.
In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom
To chear the shiv'ring Native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od'rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage Youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky Loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
II. 3.
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown th' Egaean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Maeander's amber waves
In lingering Lab'rinths creep,
How do your tuneful Echo's languish,
Mute, but to the voice of Anguish!
Where each old poetic Mountain
Inspiration breath'd around;
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
III. 1.
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To Him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her aweful face: The dauntless Child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.
This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horrour that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
III. 2.
Nor second He, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy,
The secrets of th' Abyss to spy.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:
The living Throne, the saphire-blaze,
Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-resounding pace.
III. 3.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts, that breathe, and words, that burn.
But ah! 'tis heard no more—
Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban Eagle bear
Sailing with supreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the Good how far—but far above the Great.
ODE.
By the Same.
The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that
EDWARD
the First, when he compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death.
I. 1.
'RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
'Confusion on thy banners wait,
'Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
'They mock the air with idle state.
'Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,
'Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
'To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
'From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance:
To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.
I. 2.
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
'Hark, how each giant-oak, and desart cave,
'Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
'O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
'Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
'Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
'To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
I. 3.
'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
'That hush'd the stormy main:
'Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
'Mountains, ye mourn in vain
'Modred, whose magic song
'Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
'On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
'Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
'Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
'The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.
'Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
'Dear, as the light, that visits these sad eyes,
'Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
'Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—
'No more I weep. They do not sleep.
'On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
'I see them sit, they linger yet,
'Avengers of their native land:
'With me in dreadful harmony they join,
'And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
II. 1.
"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
"The winding-sheet of Edward's race,
"Give ample room, and verge enough
"The characters of hell to trace.
"Mark the year, and mark the night,
"When Severn shall re-echo with affright
"The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
"Shrieks of an agonizing King!
"She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
"That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,
"From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
"The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait!
"Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd,
"And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
II. 2.
"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
"Low on his funeral couch he lies!
"No pitying heart, no eye afford
"A tear to grace his obsequies.
"Is the sable Warriour fled?
"Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.
"The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born,
"Gone to salute the rising Morn.
"Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
"While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
"In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;
"Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
"Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
"That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.
II. 3.
"
Richard the Second, (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop, Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older Writers,) was starved to death. The story of his assassination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date.
Fill high the sparkling bowl,
"The rich repast prepare,
"Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
"Close by the regal chair
"Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
"A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest.
"Heard ye the din of battle bray,
"Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
"Long Years of havock urge their destined course,
"And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
"Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
"With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
"Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
"And spare the meek Usurper's holy head.
"Above, below, the rose of snow,
"Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
"The bristled Boar in infant-gore
"Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
"Now Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,
"Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
III. 1.
"Edward, lo! to sudden fate
"(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)
"
Eleanor of Castile, died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her Lord is well known. The monuments of his regret, and sorrow for the loss of her, are still to be seen in several parts of England.
Half of thy heart we consecrate,
"(The web is wove. The work is done.)"
'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
'Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:
'In yon bright track, that sires the western skies,
'They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
'But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
'Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
'Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
'Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!
'No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail,
'All hail
Accession of the line of Tudor.
, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail!
III. 2.
'Girt with many a Baron bold,
'Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
'And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old
'In bearded majesty, appear.
'In the midst a Form divine!
'Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
'Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
'Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
'What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
'What strains of vocal transport round her play!
'Hear from the grave, great Taliessin
Taliessin, Chief of the Bards, flourish'd in the VIth Century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his Countrymen.
, hear;
'They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
'Bright rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
'Wave in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.
III. 3.
'The verse adorn again
'Fierce War, and faithful Love,
'And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
'In buskin'd measures move
'Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
'With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.
'A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,
'Gales from blooming Eden bear;
'And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
'That lost in long futurity expire.
'Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
'Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?
'To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
'And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
'Enough for me: With joy I see
'The different doom our Fates assign.
'Be thine Despair, and scepter'd Care,
'To triumph, and to die, are mine.'
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.
POSTSCRIPT.
HAVING now, by the advice and assistance of my friends, brought this Collection of POEMS to a competent size, it has been thought proper that the farther progress of its growth should here be stop'd. From the loose and fugitive pieces, some printed, others in manuscript, which for forty or fifty years past have been thrown into the world, and carelessly left to perish; I have here, according to the most judicious opinions I could obtain in distinguishing their merits, endeavour'd to select and preserve the best. The favourable reception which the former volumes have met with, demands my warmest acknowledgments, and calls for all my care in compleating the Collection; and in this respect, if it appear that I have not been altogether negligent, I shall hope to be allow'd the merit, which is all I claim, of having furnish'd to the Public an elegant and polite Amusement. Little more need be added, than to return my thanks to several ingenious friends, who have obligingly contributed to this Entertainment. If the reader should happen to find, what I hope he seldom will, any pieces which he may think unworthy of having been inserted; as it would ill become me to attribute his dislike of them to his own want of Taste, so I am too conscious of my own deficiencies not to allow him to impute the insertion of them to mine.
R. DODSLEY.
INDEX to the Sixth Volume.
HYmn to the Naiads,
1746 Page 1
Ode to the Right Hon.
Francis
E. of
Huntingdon, 1747 Page 15
Ode to the Right Rev.
Benjamin
Lord Bishop of
Winchester Page 25
Inscriptions,
1.
For a Grotto
Page 29
2.
For a Statue of
Chaucer
at
Woodstock Page 30
3. Page 31
4. Page 32
5. Page 33
6.
For a Column at
Runnymede Page 34
Ode
Page 35
Ode to the
Tiber Page 37
Elegies,
1.
Written at the Convent of
Haut Villiers
in
Champagne, 1754 Page 41
2.
On the
Mausoleum
of
Augustus.
To the Right Hon.
George Bussy Villers,
Viscount
Villers,
written at
Rome, 1756 Page 44
3.
To the Right Hon.
George Simon Harcourt,
Viscount
Newnham,
written at
Rome, 1756 Page 47
4.
To an Officer, written at
Rome, 1756 Page 50
5.
To a Friend Sick, written at
Rome, 1756 Page 54
6.
To another Friend, written at
Rome, 1756 Page 56
The Lyric Muse to Mr.
Mason Page 58
On the Immortality of the Soul, in two Books
60, Page 76
The Arbour: an Ode to Contentment
Page 91
The Grotto: an Ode to Silence
Page 97
The Picture of Human Life
Page 100
The Dropsical Man
Page 125
Paradise regain'd
Page 126
To the Right Hon. Sir
Robert Walpole Page 129
To a Lady on a Landscape of her Drawing
Page 135
Ode to
Cupid
on
Valentine
's Day
Page 137
To the Hon. and Rev.
F. C. Page 138
To the Rev.
T*** T**, D. D. Page 142
Vacation
Page 148
To a Lady very handsome, but too fond of Dress
Page 155
Anacreon. Ode
III. Page 157
An Imitation of
Horace,
Ode
II.
Book
III. Page 158
A Reply to a Copy of Verses made in Imitation of Ode
II.
Book
III.
of
Horace Page 160
Inscription on a Grotto of Shells at
Crux-Easton,
the Work of Nine young Ladies
Page 161
Verses occasioned by seeing a Grotto built by Nine Sisters
Page 162
An Excuse for Inconstancy,
1737 ibid.
To
Venus.
A Rant,
1732 Page 164
The Power of Music. A Song. Imitated from the
Spanish Page 166
Letter from
Smyrna
to his Sisters at
Crux-Easton, 1733 Page 167
Part of a Letter to my Sisters at
Crux-Easton,
wrote from
Cairo
in
Egypt, August 1734 Page 172
Letter from
Marseilles
to my Sisters at
Crux-Eaton, May, 1735 Page 174
The History of
Porsenna,
King of
Russia,
in two Books
Page 178
The Ever-Green
Page 211
Answer
Page 212
Candour
ibid.
Lysander
to
Cloe Page 213
Cloe
to
Lysander Page 215
To the Memory of an agreeable Lady buried in Marriage to a Person undeserving her
Page 216
An Elegy, written on
Valentine
Morning
Page 217
The Dowager
Page 221
Ode to the Hon.***
Page 225
To Miss ***
Page 227
Lady Mary
W***,
to Sir
W*** Y*** Page 230
Sir
W** Y**
's Answer
ib.
Miss
Soper
's Answer to a Lady, who invited her to retire into a monastic Life at St.
Cross,
near
Winchester Page 231
Repentance
Page 232
A Song
Page 233
Cynthia,
an Elegiac Poem
Page 234
Dialogue to
Chlorinda Page 239
To
Chlorinda Page 241
The Fable of
Ixion.
To
Chlorinda Page 242
A Tale. To
Chlorinda Page 246
Ode on Lyric Poetry
Page 250
Arion,
an Ode
Page 253
Horace,
Book
II.
Ode
II. Page 255
A Panegyric on Ale.
Page 258
Ode to the Genius of
Italy,
occasioned by the Earl of
Corke's
going Abroad
Page 263
To
C*** P***,
Esq
Page 265
Epistle from the late Lord Visc.
B—gb—ke
to Miss
Lucy A—k—ns Page 267
The Cheat's Apology
Page 268
Song
Page 270
Another
Page 271
To Mr.
Grenville
on his intended Resignation
ibid.
To Mr.
Garrick,
on his erecting a Temple and Statue to
Shakespear Page 273
On the Birth-Day of
Shakespear.
A Cento. Taken from his Works
Page 275
An Ode to Sculpture
Page 276
True Resignation
Page 280
Epistle from the King of
Prussia
to Mr.
Voltaire Page 281
At seeing Archbishop
Williams
's Monument in
Carnarvonshire Page 284
Extempore Verses upon a Trial of Skill between the two great Masters of Defence, Messieurs
Figg
and
Sutton Page 286
A Letter from
Cambridge
to a Young Gentleman at
Eton
School
Page 290
The Indolent
Page 294
The Song of
Simeon
paraphrased
Page 295
On the Invention of Letters
Page 296
The Answer
Page 297
On Wit
ibid.
On a Spider
Page 298
The Play-Thing chang'd
Page 299
The Fable of
Jotham:
To the Borough-Hunters
Page 300
An Elegy written in an empty Assembly-Room
Page 302
The Fakeer: A Tale
Page 306
To Mr.
Whitehead,
on his being made Poet Laureat
Page 309
Verses on the Prospect of planting Arts and Learning in
America Page 311
To Mr.
Mason Page 312
Ode. To Independency
Page 315
Ode. On Melancholy. To a Friend
Page 318
Ode
Page 321
Ode
Page 326
Postscript
Page 333
The END.