Printed for C. Rivington, at the Bible
and Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard. 1734M.DCC.XXXIV.
To the Right Honourable John, Earl of Orrery.
Altho’ Dr. Swift, in the foregoing Letter to your Lordſhip, which he has done me the Honour to permit me to publiſh, hath but ſlightly touch’d upon your numerous Virtues, as well as your Learning and Abilities; (probably with a Deſign of leaving me Room to a enlarge x a1v x enlarge upon each) yet I ſhould think it as great a Preſumption in me, to imagine I could add any Weight to what He hath ſaid, as the World would look upon it in an ordinary Painter, to attempt to fill up a Sketch of Raphael.
Those who know how fearleſs Dr. Swift hath ever been in ſatirizing Vice in the higheſt Stations, will never ſuſpect his Praiſe of the Great to proceed from any thing, but the Deſire of doing Juſtice to uncommon, unſullied, Merit.
Besides, my Lord, were I ever ſo zealous and able to do Juſtice to your Character, yet I am taught by the ſame Dr. Swift, that Characters are never ſo ill plac’d, or ſo little believ’d, as in Dedications, of Attempters in Poetry in particular, who ſeldom fail to celebrate principally the Patron’s Liberality, for a very manifeſt Reaſon: But, in that Article, your Lordſhip has wholly preventedvented xi a2r xi vented me, by an unask’d and continu’d Bounty, much above my Expectation.
The Expatiating upon the Patron’s Modeſty, generally makes another pompous Paragraph in Writings of this kind: In this, I muſt own, no Dedicator ever had a more ample Field; as all who know your Lordſhip, will agree; but ’tis ſo beaten a Path, that I ſhall only ſay, (what I have often thought) that Modeſty is to your other Excellencies, what Butler ſays Light is to the Moon, — Both their Luſtre and their Shade.
If I ſhould, my Lord, attempt to number up your many Virtues, I fear the World would allow you but little Merit from them; nay, I doubt the refining Caſuiſts would call ſome of them Sins; they might ſay you have ſo ſtrong a Propenſity to humane and generous Actions, that you cannot forbear indulging yourſelf in them.a2 The xii a2v xii
The Goodneſs of your Nature gave you an early Diſpoſition to filial Piety; and filial Piety was eaſily improv’d into conjugal Fidelity and Affection. A good Son, and a good Husband, are Characters that include whatever is moſt amiable in human Nature; at leaſt, if Mothers and Wives, may be allowed for Judges: And we are not ſurprized, or rather, we naturally expect, to find in them, the tender Parent, the humane Maſter, and the generous Friend.
It muſt indeed be own’d, that the Merit of Genius is of another Species; nor will it ever be thought an eaſy Task to ſhine remarkably in a Race, ſo early and ſo long diſtinguiſh’d for great Talents and Accompliſhments, as the Family of Boyle is allow’d to be. And therefore this, my Lord, muſt always make a conſiderable Part of your Praiſe, that you add new Luſtre to your greateſt Predeceſſors.But, xii a3r xii
But, altho’ what Dr. Swift hath ſaid of your Lordſhip, cannot be ſuſpected to proceed from any other Motive than Juſtice; yet I have Reaſon to think, his Humanity hath greatly influenc’d him, in the Honour he hath done me by that Letter; ſince it muſt be allow’d, that he is not more remarkable for his Genius, than for his diſtinguiſh’d Generoſity, in endeavouring to place the Writings of others in an advantageous Light.
I have often thought, my Lord, when I have been reading Dedications, that it was very odd in Authors, to confeſs they had already receiv’d great Favours, and yet requeſt a greater, in deſiring Protection for their Writings: But ſince it has happen’d to be my own Caſe, I now view it in another Light; and affirm, that nothing could more ſhew a true Grandeur of Soul in the greateſt of Mankind, than the ſupporting the Dependence,dence, xiv a3v xiv dence, which their Patronage had encourag’d.So Providence on Mortals waits, Preſerving what it firſt creates.
The quoting theſe Lines from Dr. Swift, puts me in mind of a fine Reflection of his, upon hearing ſome generous Actions of your Lordſhip’s: One in particular; That upon refuſing to give your Protection, as a Peer, to a Perſon in Diſtreſs, you ſoften’d that Refuſal, (the Effect of your natural Love of Juſtice) by a conſiderable Preſent. His Reflection was this: That, having no Vices to feed, you had more Supplies for Beneficence.
How ſhall I expreſs the Senſe I have of that great Goodneſs, wherewith you condeſcended to diſtinguiſh me, when I was a Stranger in England; and after that, bounteouſly to enrich me in Ireland, at a Time when my Want of Health made your Generoſity the more valuable. I have your Letterter xv a4r xv ter before me, wherewith I was honour’d upon that Occaſion: Which thus concludes,
If you think you owe any Thanks on this Account, remember to whom they are due,— to a Being, who, I hope, will one Day put it in my Power, to ſhew my ſelf to many others, as well as to you, a Sincere Friend.
Forgive me, my Lord, for mentioning what you charged me to conceal; believe me, it is with the utmoſt Confuſion I knowingly offend againſt ſuch infinite Modeſty; but a Favour conferr’d with ſo much Virtue and Piety, ought never to be hidden; and no Words, but your own, could do it Juſtice.
With what Delicacy do you oblige! The Mind that is indebted to You, is ſure never to have Occaſion, from your Conduct, to make this grating Reflection—This I muſt bear for my Obligations.—You, my Lord, have condeſcended to treat me with more Goodneſs, (if poſſible) ſince I have been ſo much xvi a4v xvi much indebted to you, than before; nor have you ever neglected any one Circumſtance that could increaſe the Value of your Favours. To you, my Lord, was given the peculiar Felicity of knowing how to treat thoſe below you, in ſuch a Manner, as to make them think it a Bleſſing, to have Superiors. This Excellence hath, I doubt not, been happily experienc’d by many others; but ſurely by none more ſenſibly, than by,
I Am ſenſible that a Woman ſteps out of her Province whenever ſhe preſumes to write for the Preſs, and therefore think it neceſſary to inform my Readers, that my Verſes were written with a very different View from any of thoſe which other Attempters in Poetry have propoſed to themſelves: My Aim being chiefly to form the Minds of my Children, I imagin’d that Precepts convey’d in b Verſe xviii b1v xviii Verſe would be eaſier remember’d, and that their being obliged to repeat them in School, would greatly contribute, not only to fix them more firmly in the Mind, but to give early a proper and graceful Manner of ſpeaking. Nor was I ever known to write upon any other Account, till the Diſtreſſes of an Officer’s Widow ſet me upon drawing a Petition in Verſe, having found that other Methods had proved ineffectual for her Relief.
The Petition was to my Lady Carteret, during the Time of my Lord Carteret’s Government in Ireland, and ſent incloſed to Mr. Tickell, in a Letter without a Name. It was my Felicity, as well as the Petitioner’s, to have the Petition recommended with great Generoſity, and received with uncommon Goodneſs; that excellent Lady intereſted herſelf with ſo much Zeal for the diſtreſſed Widow, that a conſiderable Sum was raiſed for her Relief; xix b2r xix Relief; and in this, as well as upon many other Occaſions, ſet a Noble Example to thoſe in exalted Stations, not only to give, but never to think themſelves too Great to ſollicit for the Unfortunate: Nor did her Ladyſhip reſt there, but endeavoured to find out the Author, whom She hath ever ſince condeſcended to patronize with continual Acts of Goodneſs.
I mention this not only from a Motive of Gratitude, but likewiſe to encourage others to excite the Great to generous and charitable Actions; ſince the Author providentially found, to her Felicity, that the writing the Petition above-mention’d, gain’d her the Protection of that whole Noble Family.
This Reflection naturally recalls to my Mind another Advantage derived to me from a like Endeavour to relieve Diſtreſs. The Caſe was this: An Engliſh Gentlewoman, b2 who xx b2v xx who had lived for ſome Years in Ireland in Plenty and Splendour, was at length reduced to unhappy Circumſtances, by unavoidable Misfortunes, which occaſion’d her to requeſt of me (when I was going for England) to get a Pair of Diamond Ear-rings diſpoſed of for her, which ſhe thought might be done to ſome little Advantage if they were raffled for. I endeavour’d to ſerve her, and was generouſly aſſiſted in that Endeavour by Dr. Arbuthnot; the Ear-rings were raffled for at Tunbridge-Wells, and won by the Lord Boyle, (now Earl of Orrery). His Lordſhip hearing that the unfortunate Gentlewoman who had once owned them, had liv’d long in great Proſperity, inquir’d for the Perſon commiſſion’d to diſpoſe of the Jewels, and in a moſt generous manner (although he had then a Family, and was not poſſeſs’d of his Eſtate) deſir’d I would reſtore them to her again.I think xxi b3r xxi
I think it my Duty to make this known, for two Reaſons; firſt, that all thoſe who were ſo good as to put in for the Ear-rings, from a Motive of Charity, may be convinc’d they were not impos’d upon; ſince the Gentlewoman to whom they were return’d, when the preſent Earl of Orrery was lately in Ireland, took that Opportunity of acknowledging the Favour to his Lordſhip: And next to obſerve, that the little Trouble I had upon that Occaſion, hath prov’d a great Bleſſing to me, as it firſt gained me the Honour and Happineſs of being known to his Lordſhip, now my great Patron and Benefactor.
I ſhould not have run the Hazard of offending the Noble Perſons I have mention’d, by publiſhing theſe Inſtances of their Goodneſs, but that my Reaſons were too important to be ſacrificed to the greatest Modeſty; beſides, I could xxii b3v xxii I could wiſh that thoſe whoſe Example might be of Service to Mankind, would remember what Divines tell us, that the two Texts, Let your Light ſo ſhine before Men, and Let not your Left-hand know what your Right-hand doeth, however ſeemingly oppoſite, are eaſily reconciled.
My Want of Health, which I had Reaſon to think was occaſion’d by a ſedentary Life, and the Hopes of obtaining a Favour which ſome Perſons of great Worth and Eminence had requeſted for me of the Lord Carteret, (just before his Lordſhip left Ireland) prevailed with me to take a Voyage for England; but as the Government of Ireland was ſoon after chang’d, my Hopes of Succeſs vaniſh’d.
Whilst I was then in England, I wrote ſome few occaſional Verſes, and was encouraged to print them by ſeveral Perſons of Quality xxiii b4r xxiii Quality and Diſtinction, who generouſly offer’d to ſollicit a Subſcription for me. This, added to the Goodneſs of ſome Men of Genius, who with great Condeſcenſion undertook to correct what I had written, together with the Proſpect of ſome Advantage to my Family, drew me into a Reſolution of publiſhing the following Poems; but with what Diffidence and Reluctance, thoſe who beſt know me, can bear me Witneſs.
I am not ignorant, that the acknowledging Favours from the Great, upon Occaſions of this Nature, hath been finely rallied by a powerful Hand; yet the Fear of being thought vain, ſhall not hinder me from doing myſelf the Juſtice to declare, that I have the highest Senſe of the generous Treatment I have met with from many of the Nobility and Gentry of England. Surely there was ſomething truly Noble in their condeſcending to treat an obſcure Perſon, a Woman, and a Stranger, with ſo much xxiv b4v xxiv much Goodneſs, which I ſhall ever gratefully remember, nor think myſelf the leſs indebted there, although I am convinc’d that the Foundation of this Felicity was laid, next to Providence, in the Recommendation with which Dr. Swift had honour’d me, to whom I am obliged beyond Expreſſion.
When I mention the Favours I met with from Strangers, I ſhould be very ungrateful if I did not acknowledge, that I have alſo been highly obliged to many Perſons of the greatest Merit in Ireland. It is my Happineſs to have received Encouragement from many in both Kingdoms, to whom it is an Honour to be indebted; and I flatter myſelf, that they will never have Cauſe to repent of that Generoſity, at least if my Intention (which I hope will be allow’d good) can atone for my Performance.The xxv c1r xxv
The Affairs of my Family having called me back to Ireland, before my Subſcription was finiſhed, I was ſo unhappy as to be long confined there by my Want of Health, which prevented me from paying my Debt to my Subſcribers, as ſoon as I ought to have done; and ſince my Return hither, a new Perplexity hath obliged me to treſpaſs further upon their Patience: But as thoſe Delays have been occaſioned by my Misfortunes, I hope they will not be imputed as my Fault.
Should it be ask’d, What has the Publick to do with Verſes written between a Mother and her Son? I anſwer, That as nothing can be of more Uſe to Society than the taking early Care to form the Minds of Youth, I publiſh ſome of the Verſes written by me with that View, when my Son was a Schoolboy,c boy, xxvi c1v xxvi boy, as the best Apology a Woman could make for writing at all; and thoſe written ſince by him, as Inſtances of that Filial Piety, which, I flatter myſelf, was in ſome meaſure the Conſequence of the Care it hath amply rewarded.
I hope I ſhall be excuſed for publiſhing Poems written in my Commendation, ſince I can plead great Precedents for doing ſo; and whether my own Verſes ſhall be approv’d of by my Subſcribers or not, it is a Pleaſure to me to think that thoſe written by other Hands, will always make this Collection of Value.
The Poems written in my Favour by Mrs. Grierson, will, I think, be allow’d to do Honour to the Female Sex in general, as they are a ſtrong Proof that Women may have ſo much Virtue, as, inſtead of depreciating,ciating, xxvii c2r xxvii ciating, to endeavour to raiſe the Character of each other. To her known Friendſhip for me, the Reader must attribute the great Partiality ſhe has there ſhewn; nothing elſe could have thus biaſs’d her Judgment: which I am ſo conſcious of, that thoſe Poems ſhould never have appeared in this Collection, but that from her abundant Regard to me, ſhe made me promiſe, a little before her Death, to publiſh them upon this Occaſion.
The Author of thoſe Verſes was born in the County of Kilkenny in Ireland, and was one of the most extraordinary Women that either this Age, or perhaps any other, ever produc’d. She died in the Year 1733I733, at the Age of 27, and was allow’d, long before, to be an excellent Scholar, not only in Greek and Roman Literature, but in Hiſtory, Divinity, Philoſophy, and Mathematicks. She gave a Proof of her Knowledgec2 ledge xxviii c2v xxviii ledge in the Latin Tongue, by her Dedication of the Dublin Edition of Tacitus to the Lord Carteret, and by that of Terence to His Son, to whom ſhe likewiſe wrote a Greek Epigram. She wrote ſeveral fine Poems in Engliſh, on which ſhe ſet ſo little Value, that ſhe neglected to leave Copies behind her but of very few.
What makes her Character the more remarkable, is, that ſhe roſe to this Eminence in Learning merely by the Force of her own Genius, and continual Application.
She was not only happy in a fine Imagination, a great Memory, an excellent Underſtanding, and an exact Judgment, but had all theſe crown’d by Virtue and Piety; ſhe was too learned to be vain, too wiſe to be conceited, too knowing and too clear-ſighted to be irreligious.If xxix c3r xxix
If Heaven had ſpared her Life, and bleſſed her with Health which She wanted for ſome Years before her Death, there is good Reaſon to think, She would have made as great a Figure in the learned World, as any of her Sex are recorded to have done.
As her Learning and Abilities raiſed her above her own Sex, ſo they left her no Room to envy any; On the contrary, her Delight was to ſee Others excell: She was always ready to adviſe and direct thoſe who apply’d to her; and as willing to be advis’d.
So little did ſhe value Herſelf upon her uncommon Excellencies, that it has often recall’d to my Mind, a fine Reflection of a French Author. That Great Genius’s ſhould be ſuperiour to their own Abilities.I per- xxx c3v xxx
I perſuade my ſelf that this ſhort Account of ſo extraordinary a Woman, of whom much more might have been ſaid, will not be diſagreeable to my Readers; nor can I omit mentioning what I think is greatly to the Lord Carteret’s Honour, that when He was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, He obtained a Patent for Mr. Grierſon her Husband to be the King’s Printer, and to diſtinguiſh and reward her uncommon Merit, had her Life inſerted in it.
It was truly worthy a Nobleman ſo eminent for Learning and great Abilities, to diſtinguiſh thoſe Excellencies whereſoever He found them, as He did remarkably in many Inſtances during his Adminiſtration in Ireland.
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- ――Dodd, M.D.
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- Miſs Lambert -- Law- xxxix d4r xxxix
- ―― Lawſon, A.M.
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- William Ward L.D. Judge of the Prerogative Court of York.
- Mr. Weſtern
- ―― Winnington Eſq;
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- Mrs. Weſtley
- Miſs Weſtley
- Honourable Governour Worſeley
- Watkin Williams Wynn Eſq;
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- Granville Wheeler Eſq;
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- Thomas Wynn Eſq;
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- Nicholas Wogan Eſq; Mr. xliv e2v xliv
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- Sir William Yonge, Knight of the Bath
- Reverend Dr. Young
- Mrs. Yate.
Since the above Names were ſent to the Preſs, the following have come to Hand.
- Mrs. Rebecca Beven
- Mrs. Deborah Buckle
- Mrs. Anne Barclay
- Mrs. Elizabeth Barclay
- Mrs. Patience Barclay
- Mrs. Elizabeth Clark
- Mrs. Anne Elliot
- Mr. Millington Hayford
- ―― Littleton, Eſq;
To Mrs. Mary Barber, under the Name of Sapphira: Occaſion’d by the Encouragement She met with in England, to publiſh her Poems by Subſcription.
Long has the Warrior’s, and the Lover’s Fire,
Employ’d the Poet, and ingroſs’d the Lyre;
And juſtly too the World might long approve
The Praiſe of Heroes and of virtuous Love;
Had Tyrants not uſurp’d the Hero’s Name,
Nor low Deſires debas’d the Lover’s Flame;
If on thoſe Themes, all Triflers had not writ,
Guiltleſs of Senſe, or Elegance, or Wit.
Far different Themes We in thy Verſes view;
Themes, in themſelves, alike ſublime, and new:Thy xlvi e3v xlvi
Thy tuneful Labours all conſpire to ſhow
The higheſt Bliſs the Mind can taſte below;
To eaſe thoſe Wants, with which the Wretched pine;
And imitate Beneficence divine:
A Theme, alas! forgot by Bards too long;
And, but for Thee, almoſt unknown to Song.
Such wiſe Reflections in thy Lays are ſhown,
As Flaccus’ Muſe, in all her Pride, might own:
So Elegant, and ſo Refin’d, thy Praiſe,
As greateſt Minds, at once, might mend and pleaſe:
No florid Toys, in pompous Numbers dreſt;
But juſteſt Thoughts, in pureſt Stile, expreſt:
Whene’er thy Muſe deſigns the Heart to move,
The melting Reader muſt, with Tears, approve;
Or when, more gay, her ſpritely Satire bites,
’Tis not to wound, but to inſtruct, She writes.
Cou’d ***, or ***, from the Tomb,
Which ſhades their Aſhes till the final Doom,The xlvii e4r xlvii
The dire Effects of vitious Writings view,
How wou’d they mourn to think what might enſue!
Bluſh at their Works, for no one End deſign’d,
But to embelliſh Vice, and taint the Mind!
No more their dear-bought Fame wou’d raiſe their Pride;
But Terrors wait on Talents miſapplied.
Not ſo Sapphira: her unſullied Strain
Shall never give her Soul one conſcious Pain;
To lateſt Times ſhall melt the harden’d Breaſt,
And raiſe her Joys, by making others bleſt.
These Works, which Modeſty conceal’d in Night,
Your Candor, gen’rous Britons, brings to Light;
Born, by your Arms, for Liberty’s Defence;
Born, by your Taſte, the Arbiters of Senſe:
Long may your Taſte, and long your Empire ſtand,
To Honour, Wit, and Worth, from every Land.
Oh! cou’d my conſcious Muſe but fully trace
The ſilent Virtues which Sapphira grace;How xlviii e4v xlviii
How much her Heart, from low Deſires refin’d;
How much her Works, the Tranſcript of her Mind;
Her tender Care, and Grief for the Diſtreſt;
Her Joy unfeign’d, to ſee true Merit bleſt;
Her Soul ſo form’d for every ſocial Care;
A Friend ſo gen’rous, ardent, and ſincere;
How wou’d you triumph in yourſelves to find
Your Favours ſhewn to ſo complete a Mind;
To find her Breaſt with every Grace inſpir’d,
Whom firſt You only for her Lays admir’d.
Thus the great Father of the Hebrew State,
Who watch’d for weary’d Strangers at his Gate;
The Good He thought conferr’d on Men unknown,
He found to more exalted Beings ſhown.
Poems on Several Occasions.
To the Honble. Miſs Carteret, now Counteſs of Dyſert. Written when the Lord Carteret was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and ſent with the Widow Gordon’s Petition.
Fair Innocence, the Muſe’s lovelieſt Theme,
On Acts of Mercy found thy riſing Fame:
Let Others from frail Beauty hope Applauſe,
Plead Thou the Fatherleſs, and Widow’s Cauſe;
Fly to your Mother, let each winning Grace
Engage Compaſſion for my helpleſs Race:B So 2 B1v 2
So ſhall the wond’ring World be taught from thence,
Beauty is but your Second Excellence.
The Widow Gordon’s Petition: Written for an Officer’s Widow. To the Right Hon. the Lady Carteret.
Weary’d with long Attendance on the Court,
You, Madam, are the Wretch’s laſt Reſort.
Eternal King! if Here in vain I cry,
Where ſhall the Fatherleſs, and Widow fly?
How bleſt are they, who ſleep among the Dead,
Nor hear their Childrens piercing Cries for Bread!
When your lov’d Off-ſpring gives your Soul Delight,
Reflect, how mine are irkſome to my Sight:
O think, how muſt a wretched Mother grieve,
Who hears the Want ſhe never can relieve!
An Evil preys upon my helpleſs Son,
(How many ways the Wretched are undone!)
Cruel Diſtemper, to aſſault his Sight,
And rob him of his only Joy, the Light!
His Anguiſh makes my wearied Eyes o’erflow,
And loads me with unutterable Woe.
No Friendly Voice my lonely Manſion cheers,
All fly th’ Infection of the Widow’s Tears:
Ev’n thoſe, whoſe Pity eas’d my Wants w[i]th Bread,
Are now, O ſad Reverſe! my greateſt Dread.
My mournful Story will no more prevail,
And ev’ry Hour I dread a diſmal Jail:
I ſtart at each imaginary Sound,
And Horrors have encompaſs’d me around.
Tremble, ye Daughters, who at Eaſe recline,
Leſt ye ſhould know a Miſery like mine.B2 Ye 4 B2v 4
Ye now, unmov’d, can hear the Wretched moan,
And feel no Wants, yourſelves oppreſs’d by none;
Fly from the Sight of Woes, ye will not ſhare,
And leave the helpleſs Orphan to deſpair.
But know, that dreadful Hour is drawing near,
When you’ll be treated, as you’ve acted here:
To you no more the Wretched ſhall complain,
’Twill be your Turn to weep, and ſue in vain.
Not ſo the Fair, with God-like Mercy bleſs’d,
Who feels another’s Anguiſh in her Breaſt;
Who never hears the Wretched ſigh in vain,
Herſelf diſtreſs’d, till ſhe relieves their Pain.
This, Fame reports, Fair Carteret, of You;
This bleſt Report encourag’d me to ſue.
O Angel Goodneſs, hear, and eaſe my Moan,
Nor let your Mercy fail in me alone!
So at the laſt Tribunal will I ſtand,
With my poor Orphans, plac’d on either Hand;There, 5 B3r 5
There, with my Cries, my Saviour I’ll aſſail;
(For at His Bar the Widow’s Tears prevail)
That ſhe, who made the Fatherleſs her Care,
The Fulneſs of Cœleſtial Joys may ſhare;
That She a Crown of Glory may receive,
Who ſnatch’d me from Deſtruction and the Grave.
Written in the Concluſion of a Letter to Mr. Tickell, entreating him to recommend the Widow Gordon’s Petition.
Eternal King, is there one Hour,
To make me greatly bleſs’d!
When ſhall I have it in my Pow’r
To ſuccour the Diſtreſs’d?
In vain, alas! my Heart o’erflows
With uſeleſs Tenderneſs;
Why muſt I feel Another’s Woes,
And cannot make them leſs?
Yet I this Torture muſt endure;
’Tis not reſerv’d for me,
To eaſe the Sighing of the Poor,
Or ſet the Pris’ners free.
A True Tale.
Amother, who vaſt Pleaſure finds
In modelling her Childrens Minds;
With whom, in exquiſite Delight,
She paſſes many a Winter Night;
Mingles in every Play, to find
What Byaſs Nature gave the Mind;
Reſolving thence to take her Aim,
To guide them to the Realms of Fame;
And wiſely make thoſe Realms their Way,
To Regions of eternal Day;
Each boiſt’rous Paſſion to controul,
And early humanize the Soul;
In ſimple Tales, beſide the Fire,
The nobleſt Notions would inſpire:Her 8 B4v 8
Her Children, conſcious of her Care,
Tranſported, hung around her Chair.
Of Scripture Heroes ſhe would tell,
Whoſe Names they liſp’d, ere they cou’d ſpell:
The Mother then delighted ſmiles,
And ſhews the Story on the Tiles.
At other Times, her Themes would be
The Sages of Antiquity:
Who left immortal Names behind,
By proving Bleſſings to their Kind.
Again, ſhe takes another Scope,
And tells of Addison and Pope.
Studious to let her Children know,
The various Turns of Things below; —
How Virtue here was oft oppreſs’d,
To ſhine more glorious with the Bleſs’d;Told 9 C1r 9
Told Tully’s and the Gracchi’s Doom,
The Patriots, and the Pride, of Rome.
Then, bleſt the Draper’s happier Fate,
Who ſav’d, and lives to guard the State.
Some Comedies gave great Delight,
And entertain’d them many a Night:
Others could no Admittance find,
Forbid, as Poiſon to the Mind:
Thoſe Authors Wit and Senſe, ſaid ſhe,
But heighten their Impiety.
This happy Mother met, one Day,
The Book of Fables, wrote by Gay;
And told her Children; Here’s a Treaſure,
A Fund of Wiſdom, and of Pleaſure;
Such Morals, and ſo finely writ,
Such Decency, good Senſe, and Wit!
Well has the Poet found the Art,
To raiſe the Mind, and mend the Heart.
Her fav’rite Son the Volume ſeiz’d,
And, as he read, ſeem’d highly pleas’d;
Made ſuch Reflections ev’ry Page,
The Mother thought above his Age;
Delighted read, but ſcarce was able
To finiſh the concluding Fable.
What ails my Child, the Mother cries,
Whoſe Sorrows, now, have fill’d your Eyes?
O dear Mamma, can he want Friends,
Who writes for ſuch exalted Ends?
O baſe, degen’rate Human-kind!
Had I a Fortune to my Mind,
Should Gay complain? but now, alas!
Thro’ what a World am I to paſs?
Where Friendſhip is an empty Name,
And Merit ſcarcely paid in Fame.
Resolv’d to lull his Woes to reſt,
She tells him, he ſhould hope the beſt;
This has been yet Gay’s Caſe, I own,
But now his Merit’s amply known:
Content that tender Heart of thine,
He’ll be the Care of Caroline.
Who thus inſtructs the Royal Race,
Muſt have a Penſion, or a Place.
Mamma, if you were Queen, ſays he,
And ſuch a Book were wrote for me,
I find, ’tis ſo much to your Taſte,
That Gay would keep his Coach at leaſt.
My Son, what you ſuppoſe is true;
I ſee its Excellence in You.
Poets, who write to mend the Mind,
A Royal Recompence ſhou’d find.C2 But 12 C2v 12
But I am barr’d by Fortune’s Frowns,
From the beſt Privilege of Crowns;
The glorious, God-like Pow’r to bleſs,
And raiſe up Merit in Diſtreſs.
But, dear Mamma, I long to know,
Were you the Queen, what you’d beſtow.
What I’d beſtow, ſays ſhe, my Dear?
At leaſt, a thouſand Pounds a Year.
Written for my Son, and Spoken by him at his firſt putting on Breeches.
What is it our Mammas bewitches,
To plague us little Boys with Breeches?
To Tyrant Cuſtom we muſt yield,
Whilſt vanquiſh’d Reaſon flies the Field.
Our Legs muſt ſuffer by Ligation,
To keep the Blood from Circulation;
And then our Feet, tho’ young and tender,
We to the Shoemaker ſurrender;
Who often makes our Shoes ſo ſtrait,
Our growing Feet they cramp and fret:
Whilſt with Contrivance moſt profound,
Acroſs our Inſteps we are bound;
Which is the Cauſe, I make no Doubt,
Why thouſands ſuffer in the Gout.Our 14 C3v 14
Our wiſer Anceſtors wore Brogues,
Before the Surgeons brib’d theſe Rogues,
With narrow Toes, and Heels like Pegs,
To help to make us break our Legs.
Then, ere we know to uſe our Fiſts,
Our Mothers cloſely bind our Wriſts;
And never think our Cloaths are neat,
Till they’re ſo tight we cannot eat.
And, to increaſe our other Pains,
The Hat-band helps to cramp our Brains.
The Cravat finiſhes the Work,
Like Bow-ſtring ſent from the Grand Turk.
Thus Dreſs, that ſhould prolong our Date,
Is made to haſten on our Fate.
Fair Privilege of nobler Natures,
To be more plagu’d than other Creatures!
The wild Inhabitants of Air
Are cloath’d by Heav’n, with wond’rous Care;Their 15 C4r 15
Their beauteous, well-compacted Feathers
Are Coats of Mail againſt all Weathers;
Enamell’d, to delight the Eye,
Gay, as the Bow that decks the Sky.
The Beaſts are cloath’d with beauteous Skins,
The Fiſhes arm’d with Scales and Fins;
Whoſe Luſtre lends the Sailor Light,
When all the Stars are hid in Night.
O were our Dreſs contriv’d like theſe,
For Uſe, for Ornament, and Eaſe!
Man only ſeems to Sorrow born,
Naked, Defenceleſs, and Forlorn.
Yet we have Reaſon, to ſupply
What Nature did to Man deny:
Weak Viceroy! Who thy Pow’r will own,
When Cuſtom has uſurp’d thy Throne?
In vain did I appeal to thee,
Ere I would wear his Livery;Who, 16 C4v 16
Who, in Defiance to thy Rules,
Delights to make us act like Fools.
O’er human Race the Tyrant reigns,
And binds them in eternal Chains:
We yield to his deſpotic Sway,
The only Monarch All obey.
An unanſwerable Apology for the Rich.
All-bounteous Heav’n, Caſtalio cries,
With bended Knees, and lifted Eyes,
When ſhall I have the Pow’r to bleſs,
And raiſe up Merit in Diſtreſs?
How do our Hearts deceive us here!
He gets Ten Thouſand Pounds a Year.
With this the pious Youth is able,
To build, and plant, and keep a Table.
But then, the Poor he muſt not treat;
Who asks the Wretch, that wants to eat?
Alas! to eaſe their Woes he wiſhes,
But cannot live without Ten Diſhes.
Tho’ Six would ſerve as well, ’tis true;
But one muſt live, as others do.D He 18 D1v 18
He now feels Wants, unknown before,
Wants ſtill encreaſing with his Store.
The good Caſtalio muſt provide
Brocade, and Jewels, for his Bride.
Her Toilet ſhines with Plate emboſs’d,
What Sums her Lace, and Linen coſt!
The Cloaths, that muſt his Perſon grace,
Shine with Embroidery and Lace.
The coſtly Pride of Perſian Looms,
And Guido’s Paintings, grace his Rooms.
His Wealth Caſtalio will not waſte,
But muſt have every thing in Taſte.
He’s an Œconomiſt confeſt,
But what he buys muſt be the beſt.
For common Uſe, a Set of Plate;
Old China, when he dines in State.
A Coach and Six, to take the Air,
Beſides a Chariot, and a Chair.
All theſe important Calls ſupply’d,
Calls of Neceſſity, not Pride,His 19 D2r 19
His Income’s regularly ſpent;
He ſcarcely ſaves, to pay his Rent.
No Man alive wou’d do more Good,
Or give more freely, if he cou’d.
He grieves, whene’er the Wretched ſue,
But what can poor Caſtalio do?
Wou’d Heav’n but ſend Ten Thouſand more,
He’d give—juſt as he did before.
Written for my Son, and ſpoken by him at School to ſome of the Fellows of the College of Dublin, at a Publick Examination for Victors.
When Athens was for Arts and Arms renown’d,
Olympick Wreaths uncommon Merit crown’d.
Theſe ſlight Diſtinctions from the Learn’d and Wiſe,
Convey’d eternal Honour, with the Prize:
’Twas this, the gen’rous Love of Fame inſpir’d,
And Grecian Breaſts with nobleſt Ardour fir’d.
For like Rewards like Judges we implore;
Immortal Fame, with Grecian Arts, reſtore:
Our growing Merit with Indulgence view;
And ſure you’ll favour what diſtinguiſh’d You.
Leave Ignorance and Sloth, to Scorn and Shame;
But crown the Worthy with immortal Fame;
And Fame, conferr’d by You, can never fail:
What Men have purchas’d, they of Right entail.
The Prodigy. A Letter to a Friend in the Country.
Tho’ Rhyme ſerves the Thoughts of great Poets to fetter,
It ſets off the Senſe of ſmall Poets the better:
When I’ve written in Proſe, I often have found,
That my Senſe, in a Jumble of Words, was quite drown’d.
In Verſe, as in Armies that march o’er the Plain,
The leaſt Man among them is ſeen without Pain.
This they owe to good Order, it muſt be allow’d,
Elſe Men that are Little, are loſt in a Crowd.
So much for Simile: Now, to be brief,
The following Lines come to tell you my Grief.
’Tis well I can write, for I ſcarcely can ſpeak,
I’m ſo plagued with my Teeth, which eternally ake.When 23 D4r 23
When the Wind’s in the Point which oppoſes the South,
For fear of the Cold, I can’t open my Mouth:
And you know, to the Sex it muſt be a Heart-breaking,
To have any Diſtemper, that keeps them from ſpeaking.
When firſt I was ſilent a Day, and a Night,
The Women were all in a terrible Fright.
Supplications to Jove, in an Inſtant, they make—
Avert the Portent――a Woman not ſpeak!
Since Poets are Prophets, and often have ſung,
The laſt Thing that dies in a Woman’s her Tongue;
O Jove, for what Crime is Sapphira thus curſt?
’Tis plain, by her breathing, her Tongue has died firſt.
Ye Powers Cœleſtial, tell Mortals, what Cauſe
Occaſions Dame Nature to break her own Laws?
Did the Preacher live now, from his Text he muſt run,
And own there was ſomething new under the Sun.
O Jove, for the future this Puniſhment ſpare,
And all other Evils we’ll willingly bear.
Then they throng to my Houſe, and my Maid they beſeech,
To ſay, if her Miſtreſs had quite loſt her Speech.
Nell readily own’d, what they heard was too true,
That To-day I was dumb, give the Devil his Due;
And frankly confeſs’d, were it always the Caſe,
No Servant cou’d e’er have a happier Place.
When they found it was Fact, they began all to fear me,
And, dreading Infection, would ſcarcely come near me;
Till a Neighbour of mine, who was famous for ſpeeching,
Bid them be of good Cheer, the Diſeaſe was not catching:
And offer’d to prove, from Authors good Store,
That the like Caſe with this, never happen’d before;
And if Ages to come ſhould reſemble the paſt,
As ’twas the firſt Inſtance, it would be the laſt.
Yet againſt this Diſorder we all ought to ſtrive,
Were I in her Caſe, I’d been buried alive;
Were I One Moment ſilent, except in my Bed,
My good-natur’d Husband would ſwear I was dead.
The next ſaid, her Tongue was ſo much in her Pow’r,
She was ſullenly ſilent, almoſt—half an Hour:
That to vex her good Man, ſhe took this way to teaſe him,
But ſoon left it off, when ſhe found it would pleaſe him:
And vow’d, for the future, ſhe’d make the Houſe ring;
For when ſhe was dumb, he did nothing but ſing.
Quite tir’d with their talking, I held down my Head;
So ſhe, who ſat next me, cried out, I was dead.
They call’d for cold Water, to throw in my Face;
Give her Air, give her Air—and cut open her Lace.
Says good Neighbour Nevil, you’re out of your Wits;
She oft, to my Knowledge, has theſe ſullen Fits:
Let her Husband come in, and make one Step that’s wrong,
My Life for’t, the Woman will ſoon find her Tongue.
You’ll ſoon be convinc’d—O’ my Conſcience he’s here—
Why what’s all this Rout!—Are you ſullen, my Dear?
This ſtruck them all ſilent; which gave me ſome Eaſe,
And made them imagine they’d got my Diſeaſe.
So they haſted away, in a terrible Fright,
And left me, in Silence, to paſs the long Night.
Not the Women alone were ſcar’d at my Fate;
’Twas reckon’d of dreadful Portent to the State.
When the Governors heard it, they greatly were troubled,
And, whilſt I was ſilent, the Guards were all doubled:
The Militia Drums beat a perpetual Alarm,
To rouze up the Sons of the City to arm.
A Story was rumour’d about, from Lambey, A ſmall Iſland near Dublin.
Of a powerful Fleet, that was ſeen off at Sea.
With Horror all liſt to the terrible Tale,
The Barriſters tremble, the Judges grow pale.
To the Caſtle the frighted Nobility fly,
And the Council were ſummon’d, they could not tell why.The 27 E2r 27
The Clergy, in Crouds, to the Churches repair,
And Armies, embattled, were ſeen in the Air.
Why they were in this Fright, I have lately been told.
It ſeems, it was ſung, by a Druid of old,
That the Hanover Race to Great-Britain ſhould come,
And ſit on the Throne, till a Woman grew dumb.
As ſoon as this Prophecy reach’d the Pretender,
He cry’d out, My Claim to the Crown I ſurrender.
Sincerity. A Poem.
Occaſion’d by a Friend’s reſenting ſome Advice I gave.
Sincerity, what are thy Views?
No more my Breaſt attend;
By thee, alas! we often loſe,
But ſeldom gain a Friend.
No more with dangerous Zeal preſume,
To warn whom you eſteem;
Be wiſe, or I foreſee your Doom;
Impertinence you’ll ſeem.
A Thouſand Ills from thee I’ve found,
A Thouſand more I fear;
In Worlds like this ſhould you abound?
What Buſ’neſs have you here?
But if you ſtill muſt haunt my Breaſt,
To Deſarts we’ll repair;
Or ſeek the Manſions of the Bleſt,
They know your Value there.
To Dr. Richard Helſham.
Upon my Recovery from a dangerous Fit of Sickneſs.
For fleeting Life recall’d, for Health reſtor’d,
Be firſt the God of Life and Health ador’d;
Whoſe boundleſs Mercy claims this Tribute due:
And next to Heav’n, I owe my Thanks to You;
To You, who feel the Eaſe your Med’cines give,
And, in reviving Patients, doubly live;
You, who from Nature’s Dictates never ſtray,
But wiſely wait, till ſhe points out the Way:
Where e’er ſhe leads, unerring, you purſue
Her mazy Syſtem, op’ning to your View.
In you reviv’d we Ratcliff’s Genius ſee,
Heighten’d by Learning and Humanity.With 31 E4r 31
With Eaſe all Nature’s Secrets you explore,
And to the nobleſt Heights of Science ſoar.
Your Thoughts, unbounded, travel with the Sun,
And ſee attendant Worlds around him run;
Which trace their diſtant Courſes thro’ the Sky,
Nor fly his Throne too far, nor preſs too nigh.
The wiſe and wond’rous Laws, you clearly know,
Which rule thoſe Worlds above, and this below.
The World of Life, which we obſcurely ſee,
In all its Wonders is ſurvey’d by thee.
And thou in every Part can’ſt ſomething find,
To praiſe thy Maker, and to bleſs thy Kind.
Quick to diſcern, judicious to apply,
Your Judgment clear, and piercing, as your Eye:
Ev’n Med’cines, in your wiſe Preſcriptions, pleaſe,
And are no more the Patient’s worſt Diſeaſe.
Goodneſs, and Skill, and Learning, leſs than thine,
Rais’d Æsculapius to the Realms divine.
To Mrs. —.
Cælia, when you oblige again,
Subdue that haughty Eye:
Rather than Inſolence ſuſtain,
Who would not wiſh to die?
A grateful Heart will own the Debt,
But, oh! muſt feel it, with Regret.
To the Right Honourable the Lady Dowager Torrington, with ſome Verſes her Lady ſhip commanded me to ſend Her.
When You command, the Muſe obeys,
Proud to preſent her humble Lays.
Of Writing I’ll no more repent,
Nor think my Time unwiſely ſpent;
If Verſe the Happineſs procures,
Of pleaſing ſuch a Soul as Yours.
Endless Anxiety, I find,
Hath dire Effects upon the Mind:
A Life of unſucceſsful Care
Too often ſinks us to Deſpair.F From 34 F1v 34
From ſuch a Life as this, I chuſe
To ſnatch ſome Moments for the Muſe;
To ſlight Mortality, and ſoar
To Worlds, where Anguiſh is no more;
Forget Ierne’s wretched State,
Tho’ doom’d to ſhare her cruel Fate;
Deſtin’d to paſs my joyleſs Days,
Where Poverty, relentleſs, preys;
And form’d, unhappily, to grieve
For Miſeries I can’t relieve.
From giving Wealth, my Hands are ty’d;
That great Felicity’s deny’d.
Yet have I, ſometimes, the Delight,
To help a Wretch, by what I write;
To make ſome happier Boſoms melt,
And heal the Woes, they never felt.
To Torrington, whoſe gen’rous Breaſt
Delights in raiſing the Diſtreſs’d,Adding 35 F2r 35
Adding new Honour to her Blood,
By all the ways of doing Good,
How needleſs is the Poet’s Art,
Since He, that made, enlarg’d her Heart?
Written for my Son, and ſpoken by him in School, upon his Maſter’s firſt bringing in a Rod.
Our Maſter, in a fatal Hour,
Brought in this Rod, to ſhew his Pow’r.
O dreadful Birch! O baleful Tree!
Thou Inſtrument of Tyranny!
Thou deadly Damp to youthful Joys;
The Sight of thee our Peace deſtroys.
Not Damocles, with greater Dread,
Beheld the Weapon o’er his Head.
That See Lock upon Education. Sage was ſurely more diſcerning,
Who taught to play us into Learning,By 37 F3r 37
By ’graving Letters on the Dice:
May Heav’n reward the kind Device,
And crown him with immortal Fame,
Who taught at once to read and game!
Take Near Tunbridge-Wells. my Advice; purſue that Rule:
You’ll make a Fortune by your School.
You’ll ſoon have all the Elder Brothers,
And be the Darling of their Mothers.
O may I live to hail the Day,
When Boys ſhall go to School to play!
To Grammar Rules we’ll bid Defiance,
For Play will then become a Science.
Occaſion’d by ſeeing ſome Verſes written by Mrs. Conſtantia Grierſon, upon the Death of her Son.
This Mourning Mother can with Eaſe explore
The Arts of Latium, and the Grecian Store:
Was early learn’d, nay more, was early wiſe;
And knew, the Pride of Science to deſpiſe;
Left Men to take aſſuming Airs from thence,
And ſeem’d unconſcious of ſuperior Senſe.
Yet ah! how vain to guard the Soul, we ſee,
Are the beſt Precepts of Philoſophy!
See Nature triumph o’er the boaſted Art,
Ev’n in a Solon’ Bowing to his Maſter. s, and Constantia’s, Heart.
See how ſhe mourns her Son’s untimely Doom,
And pours her Woes o’er the relentleſs Tomb.
Soften, kind Heav’n, her ſeeming rigid Fate,
With frequent Viſions of his bliſsful State.
Oft let the Guardian Angel of her Son
Tell her in faithful Dreams, his Task is done;
Shew, how he kindly led her lovely Boy
To Realms of Peace, and never-fading Joy.
Then, for a while, reverſe his happy Fate;
Shew him ſtill here, ſtill in this wretched State:
Shew the falſe World, ſeducing him from Truth;
And paint the ſlipp’ry, dang’rous Paths of Youth:
Shew him, in riper Years, beſet with Snares,
Wearied with ſtruggling thro’ unnumber’d Cares.
Convey him thence to Life’s remoteſt Stage,
To feel the dire Calamities of Age;
Oppreſt with Sorrows, with Diſtempers torn,
Or rack’d with Guilt, much harder to be born.
Raiſe the Diſtreſs, and let her darling Care,
Diſtracted in the Horrors of Deſpair,The 40 F4v 40
The dreadful Scene of Judgment op’ning ſee,
And, trembling, plunge into Eternity.
Then ask her, Wou’d ſhe call him down from Bliſs,
To hazard ſuch a diſmal Doom as this?
That ſhe may learn to be reſign’d from thence,
And bleſs the Guardian Hand, that ſnatch’d him hence.
To the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Brownlow, upon deſiring me to ſend Her ſome of my Poems.
Who can the hardeſt Task refuſe,
When lovely Lady Betty ſues?
If her Requeſts Reſiſtance find,
It muſt be from the Deaf, and Blind.
The Favours of Fortune I once hop’d to gain,
And often invok’d her, but ever in vain.
She deſpis’d my Addreſſes, which gave me ſuch Grief,
I flew to the Muſes, in hopes of Relief.
Ah Wretch that I was! I might very well know,
’Twas the Method to make her for ever my Foe.
They laugh’d at the Goddeſs, and bid me deſpiſe her;
But Time, and Experience, have made me grow wiſer.
This unhappy Miſtake I reſolve to repair;
O Fortune, thy Votaries muſt perſevere!
Written for my Son in his Sickneſs, to one of his School-Fellows.
I Little thought, that honeſt Dick
Would ſlight me ſo, when I was ſick.
Is he a Friend, who only ſtays,
Whilſt Health and Pleaſure gild our Days;
Flies, when Diſeaſe our Temper ſours,
Nor helps to paſs the gloomy Hours?
Says my Mamma, who loves to make
Reflections, for her Children’s Sake;
You ſee how Mortal Friendſhip ends――
My Child, ſecure Cœleſtial Friends;
Make Heav’n your chief, your early Care;
You’ll meet no Diſappointment there.
Build not on Length of Days, my Son;
Life’s longeſt Race is quickly run.G2 Lay 44 G2v 44
Lay hold on ev’ry coming Hour,
Do all the Good, that’s in your Pow’r.
This will the ſinking Heart ſuſtain,
When Cordials are diſpens’d in vain;
Aſſuage the racking Pains, that sieze
On Limbs, devoted to Diſeaſe;
The Place of fleeting Friends ſupply,
Pour balmy Slumbers on thine Eye;
Shield thee from Terrors of the Night,
And wing thy Pray’rs to Realms of Light;
Thy ev’ry painful Care diſmiſs,
And crown thee with eternal Bliſs.
Written at Tunbridge-Wells, To the Right Honourable the Lady Barbara North, occaſion’d by ſome of the Company’s ſaying they would go to See Life of Solon. Faint-Fair, and act a Play.
In ſome few Hours we muſt repair
To act, like Thespis, in the Fair:
And, as our Stage is of a Piece
With that tranſmitted down from Greece,
Some powerful Coeleſtial muſt unfold
Our Fable, too obſcurely told;
And, ſince it helps the Poet’s Art,
When Actors ſpeak and look their Part;
Wonder not, Fair One, that we ſue
The Goddeſs may be plaid by you.
Upon ſeeing a Raffle for Addiſon’s Works unfilled.
Ye gentle Beaux, and thoughtleſs Belles,
Who gayly rove at Tunbridge-Wells,
With Pockets full, and empty Looks,
Raffling for every Toy — but Books;
Should Addison’s immortal Page,
(The Glory of his Land, and Age)
Want two Subſcriptions to be full,
The World will dare pronounce you dull.
Be wiſe—Subſcribe—and ſhew, at leaſt,
That you have one Pretence to Taſte.
To a Lady at Bath.
Flavia, ſince Conqueſt is your Aim,
I’ll point you out the Way;
And give you an unerring Scheme,
For univerſal Sway.
Since Nature gave a Form ſo fair,
Why will you practiſe Art?
Which ſerves, too oft, to ſhew the Snare,
And warn the heedleſs Heart.
Thoſe Eyes could never fail to kill;
But loſe their Force by too much Skill.
Learn then to captivate the Age,
From beauteous, unaffected Page. The Honourable Mrs. Page.
The Oak and its Branches. A Fable.
Occaſion’d by ſeeing a dead Oak beautifully encompaſſed with Ivy.
An Oak, with ſpreading Branches crown’d,
Beheld an Ivy on the Ground,
Expos’d to every trampling Beaſt,
That roam’d around the dreary Waſte.
The Tree of Jove, in all his State,
With Pity view’d the Ivy’s Fate;
And kindly told her, ſhe ſhould find
Security around his Rind:
Nor was that only his Intent,
But to beſtow ſome Nouriſhment.
The Branches ſaw, and griev’d to ſee,
Some Juices taken from the Tree.Parent, 49 H1r 49
Parent, ſay they, in angry Tone,
Your Sap ſhould nouriſh us alone:
Why ſhould you nurſe this Stranger-Plant,
With what your Sons, in time, may want?
May want, to raiſe us high in Air,
And make us more diſtinguiſh’d there.
’Tis well—the Parent-Tree reply’d;
Muſt I, to gratify your Pride,
Act only with a narrow View
Of doing good to none but you?
Know, Sons, tho’ Jove hath made me great,
I am not ſafe from Storms of Fate.
Is it not prudent then, I pray,
To guard againſt another Day?
Whilſt I’m alive, You crown my Head;
This graces me alive, and dead.
An Apology written for my Son to his Maſter, who had commanded him to write Verſes on the Death of the late Lord ——.
I Beg your Scholar you’ll excuſe,
Who dares no more debaſe the Muſe.
My Mother ſays, if e’er ſhe hears
I write again on worthleſs Peers,
Whether they’re living Lords, or dead,
She’ll box the Muſe from out my Head.
Sir, let me have no more, ſhe cry’d,
Of Panegyricks, ill apply’d:
For Praiſe, ill plac’d, adds no more Grace,
Than Jewels to Samantha’s Face;
Whoſe Luſtre ſerves to let us ſee
Both Folly, and Deformity.
Written for a Gentlewoman in Diſtreſs. To her Grace Adelida, Dutcheſs of Shrewſbury.
Might I inquire the Reaſons of my Fate,
Or with my Maker dare expoſtulate;
Did I, in proſp’rous Days, deſpiſe the Poor,
Or drive the friendleſs Stranger from my Door?
Was not my Soul pour’d out for the Diſtreſs’d?
Did I not vindicate the Poor oppreſs’d?
Did not the Orphan’s Cry with me prevail?
Did I not weep the Woes I could not heal?
Why then, thou gracious, thou all-pow’rful God,
Why do I feel th’ Oppreſſor’s Iron Rod?H2 Why 52 H2v 52
Why thus the Scorners cruel Taunts endure,
Who baſely fret the Wounds, they will not cure?
Oh Thou, whoſe Mercy does to all extend,
Say, ſhall my Sorrows never, never, end?
Let not my Tears for ever, fruitleſs, flow;
Commiſerate a Wretch, o’erwhelm’d with Woe;
No longer let Diſtreſs my Boſom tear;
Oh, ſhield me from the Horrors of Deſpair!
Forgive me, Madam, that I thus impart
The Throbs, the Anguiſh, of a breaking Heart.
Oft, when my weary’d Eyes can weep no more,
To ſooth my Woes, I read your Letters o’er.
Goodneſs, and Wit, and Humour, there I find;
And view, with Joy, thoſe Pictures of your Mind:
With Pleaſure on the lov’d Reſemblance gaze,
Till peaceful Slumbers on my Eye-lids ſeize.
Then, then, Imagination glads my Sight
With tranſient Images of paſt Delight;My 53 H3r 53
My aking Heart of ev’ry Care beguiles;
Then, Talbot lives, and Adelida ſmiles.
Delightful Forms! why will you fleet away,
And leave me to the Terrors of the Day?
In vain from Reaſon I expect Relief;
For ſad Reflection doubles ev’ry Grief.
Some of my Friends in Death’s cold Arms I ſee;
Others, tho’ living, yet are dead to me!
Of Friends, and Children both, I am bereft,
And ſoon muſt loſe the only Bleſſing left;
A Husband, form’d for Tenderneſs and Truth,
The lov’d, the kind, Companion of my Youth;
With him, thro’ various Storms of Fate I paſs’d;
Relentleſs Fate!——And muſt we part at laſt?
O King of Terrors, I invoke thy Pow’r;
Oh! ſtand between me and that dreadful Hour;
From that ſad Hour thy wretched Suppliant ſave;
Oh! ſhield me from it!——Hide me in the Grave!
Written for my Son, to ſome of the Fellows of the College, who took care of the School in his Maſter’s Abſence.
We of late had a terrible Rout in our Houſe;
If I happen’d to ſpeak, I was ſure of a Souſe.
My Mamma had the Tooth-ach, and I felt the Smart—
O Steel, The Name of the Tooth-drawer. I for ever will value thy Art:
Both Children, and Servants, to thee are beholden;
Let them do what they would, they were ſure of a Scolding.
Athenians, I humbly beſeech you, explain,
Why the Tongue cannot reſt, when the Teeth are in Pain.
A Letter written for my Daughter, to a Lady who had preſented her with a Cap.
Your late kind Gift let me reſtore;
For I muſt never wear it more.
My Mother cries,
What’s here to do?
A Crimſon Velvet Cap for you!
If to theſe Heights ſo ſoon you climb,
You’ll wear a Coachman’s Cap in time:
Perhaps on Palfry pace along,
With ruffled Shirt, and Tete-Moutton;
Baniſh the Woman from your Face,
And let the Rake ſupply the Place;
Delighted ſee the People ſtare,
And ask each other what you are?
If ſhe goes on to this dull Tune,
Poor I muſt be a Quaker ſoon.She’ll 56 H4v 56
She’ll ſcarcely let me wear a Knot;
But keeps me like a Hottentot;
Says, Dreſſing plain, at ſmall Expence,
Shews better Taſte, and better Senſe.
I’d take her Judgment, I confeſs,
Sooner in any Thing, than Dreſs;
A Science, which ſhe little knows,
Who only huddles on her Cloaths.
This Day, to pleaſe my Brother Con,
She let me put your Preſent on;
And when ſhe ſaw me very glad,
Cry’d out, She looks like one that’s mad!
Know, Girl, (ſays ſhe) that Affectation
Suits only thoſe in higher Station;
Who plead Preſcription for their Rule,
Whene’er they pleaſe to play the Fool:
But that it beſt becomes us Cits,
To dreſs like People in their Wits.
To his Grace the Duke of Chandos.
Were Princes grac’d with Souls like thine,
Princes had ſtill been deem’d divine.
Such Merit as we find in thee,
Firſt introduc’d Idolatry;
When an excelling Form and Mind,
Delighting, had miſled Mankind;
Inſpiring with an awful Senſe
Of infinite Beneficence.
Were Kings elective, Realms would ſue,
Contending to be ſway’d by you.
Yet, tho’ no regal Throne is thine,
Thou haſt no Reaſon to repine;
Since Heav’n, that gave the Monarch’s Heart,
Beſtow’d thee far the nobler Part.
The Concluſion of a Letter to the Rev. Mr. C--..
’Tis Time to conclude; for I make it a Rule,
To leave off all Writing, when Con. comes from School.
He diſlikes what I’ve written, and ſays, I had better
To ſend what he calls a poetical Letter.
To this I reply’d, You are out of your Wits;
A Letter in Verſe would put him in Fits:
He thinks it a Crime in a Woman, to read—
Then, what would he ſay, ſhould your Counſel ſucceed?
I pity poor Barber, his Wife’s ſo romantick:
A Letter in Rhyme!—Why, the Woman is frantick!
This Reading the Poets has quite turn’d her Head!
On my Life, ſhe ſhould have a dark Room, and a Straw Bed.
I often heard ſay, that St. Patrick took care,
No poiſonous Creature ſhould live in this Air:He 59 I2r 59
He only regarded the Body, I find;
But Plato conſider’d who poiſon’d the Mind.
Would they’d follow his Precepts, who ſit at the Helm,
And drive Poetaſters from out of the Realm!
Her Husband has ſurely a terrible Life;
There’s nothing I dread, like a verſe-writing Wife:
Defend me, ye Powers, from that fatal Curſe;
Which muſt heighten the Plagues of, for better for worſe!
May I have a Wife, that will duſt her own Floor;
And not the fine Minx, recommended by More. See Sir Thomas More’s Advice to his Son.
(That he was a Dotard, is granted, I hope,
Who dy’d for aſſerting the Rights of the Pope.)
If ever I marry, I’ll chuſe me a Spouſe,
That ſhall ſerve and obey, as ſhe’s bound by her Vows;
That ſhall, when I’m dreſſing, attend like a Valet;
Then go to the Kitchen, and ſtudy my Palate.I2 She 60 I2v 60
She has Wiſdom enough, that keeps out of the Dirt,
And can make a good Pudding, and cut out a Shirt.
What Good’s in a Dame, that will pore on a Book?
No!—Give me the Wife, that ſhall ſave me a Cook.
Thus far I had written—Then turn’d to my Son,
To give him Advice, ere my Letter was done.
My Son, ſhould you marry, look out for a Wife,
That’s fitted to lighten the Labours of Life.
Be ſure, wed a Woman you thoroughly know,
And shun, above all Things, a houſewifely Shrew;
That would fly to your Study, with Fire in her Looks,
And ask what you got by your poring on Books;
Think Dreſſing of Dinner the Height of all Science,
And to Peace, and good Humour bid open Defiance.
Avoid the fine Lady, whoſe Beauty’s her Care;
Who ſets a high Price on her Shape, and her Air;
Who in Dreſs, and in Viſits, employs the whole Day;
And longs for the Ev’ning, to ſit down to Play.
Chuse a Woman of Wiſdom, as well as good Breeding,
With a Turn, at leaſt no Averſion, to Reading:
In the Care of her Perſon, exact and refin’d;
Yet ſtill, let her principal Care be her Mind:
Who can, when her Family Cares give her Leiſure,
Without the dear Cards, paſs an Ev’ning with Pleaſure;
In forming her Children to Virtue and Knowledge,
Nor truſt, for that Care, to a School, or a College:
By Learning made humble, not thence taking Airs,
To deſpiſe, or neglect, her domeſtick Affairs:
Nor think her leſs fitted for doing her Duty,
By knowing its Reaſons, its Uſe, and its Beauty.
When you gain her Affection, take care to preſerve it;
Leſt others perſuade her, you do not deſerve it.
Still ſtudy to heighten the Joys of her Life;
Nor treat her the worſe, for her being your Wife.
If in Judgment ſhe errs, ſet her right, without Pride:
Tis the Province of inſolent Fools, to deride.A Huſ- 62 I3v 62
A Husband’s firſt Praiſe, is a Friend and Protector:
Then change not theſe Titles, for Tyrant and Hector.
Let your Perſon be neat, unaffectedly clean,
Tho’ alone with your Wife the whole Day you remain.
Chuſe Books, for her Study, to faſhion her Mind,
To emulate thoſe who excell’d of her Kind.
Be Religion the principal Care of your Life,
As you hope to be bleſt in your Children and Wife:
So you, in your Marriage, ſhall gain its true End;
And find, in your Wife, a Companion and Friend.
Jupiter and Fortune, a Fable.
Once Jupiter from out the Skies,
Beheld a Thouſand Temples riſe;
The Goddeſs Fortune all invok’d,
To Jove an Altar ſeldom ſmoak’d:
The God reſolv’d to make Inſpection,
What had occaſion’d this Defection;
And bad the Goddeſs tell the Arts,
By which ſhe won deluded Hearts.
My Arts? (ſays ſhe) Great Jove, you know,
That I do ev’ry Thing below:
I make my Vot’ries dine on Plate;
I give the gilded Coach of State;
Beſtow the glitt’ring Gems, that deck
The fair Lavinia’s lovely Neck;I make 64 I4v 64
I make Novella Nature’s Boaſt,
And raiſe Valeria to a Toaſt;
’Tis I, who give the Stupid, Taſte,
(Or make the Poets lie, at leaſt);
My fav’rite Sons, whene’er they pleaſe,
Can Palaces in Deſarts raiſe,
Cut out Canals, make Fountains play,
And make the dreary Waſte look gay;
Ev’n Vice ſeems Virtue by my Smiles;
I gild the Villain’s gloomy Wiles,
Nay, almoſt raiſe him to a God,
While crowded Levees wait his Nod.
Enough—the Thunderer reply’d;
But ſay, whom have you ſatisfy’d?
Theſe boaſted Gifts are thine, I own;
But know, Content is mine alone.
To the Right Honourable the Lady Sarah Cowper. Written when the Author was ſick at Tunbridge-Wells.
Let me the Honour ſoon obtain,
For which I long have hop’d in vain:
Since I, alas! am now confin’d,
Your Viſit would be doubly kind.
What Sorrows have I not to fear,
Ty’d to the Bed of Sickneſs here?
When all that’s human, quits the Place,
And Winter ſhews his horrid Face;
Whilſt Deſolation proudly ſtalks
Along the dull, deſerted Walks.K Methinks 66 K1v 66
Methinks the skies already lour;
Loud, from the Hills, the Torrents pour;
The Shops are ſhut; the Days are dark;
And ſcarce a Dog is left to bark.
O, ſhield me from the dreadful Storms,
Which my diſtemper’d Fancy forms!
The thoughtleſs Fair the Toilette prize,
There practiſe Smiles, and point their Eyes.
But Cowper, negligent of Art,
Choſe, early wiſe, the better Part.
Yet from your Mind ſome Moments ſpare;
The Stranger be a-while your Care,
Who now beneath Affliction bends,
Far from her Country, and her Friends.
Come, and my anxious Heart relieve:
For in your Preſence who could grieve?
A Letter to a Friend, on Occaſion of ſome Libels written againſt him.
As in ſome wealthy, trading Town,
Where Riches raiſe to ſure Renown,
The Man, with ample Sums in Store,
More than enough, yet wanting more,
Bent on Abundance, firſt ſecures
His Rails, his Windows, and his Doors,
With many a Chain, and Bolt, and Pin,
To keep Rogues out, and Riches in;
Ranges his Iron Cheſts in View,
And paints his Window Bars with Blue;
Diſcounts your Notes, receives your Rents,
A Banker now, to all Intents.
Suppose his more ſucceſsful Labours
Should raiſe him high above his Neighbours;
As ſure, as if Apollo ſaid it,
They’ll all combine to blaſt his Credit:
But if, in ſolid Wealth ſecure,
Their vain Aſſaults he can endure;
Their Malice but augments his Gain,
And ſwells the Store it meant to drain.
The Caſe in ev’ry Point’s the ſame,
In Funds of Wealth, and Funds of Fame.
Tho’ you’re ſecur’d, by ev’ry Fence
Of ſolid Worth, and Wit, and Senſe;
In vain are all your utmoſt Pains,
Your Virtue’s Bars, and Wiſdom’s Chains;
Nor Worth, nor Wit, nor Senſe, combin’d,
Can bar the Malice of the Mind.
The firmeſt, and the faireſt Fame
Is ever Envy’s ſureſt Aim:But 69 K3r 69
But if it ſtand her Rage, unmov’d,
Like Gold, in fiery Furnace prov’d;
Unbiaſs’d Truth, your Virtue’s Friend,
Will more exalt you in the End.
An Hymn to Sleep. Written when the Author was ſick.
Somnus, pow’rful Deity,
Mortals owe their Bliſs to thee.
How long ſhall I thy Abſence mourn,
And when be bleſs’d in thy Return?
Relentleſs God! why will you flee,
And take Delight to torture me?
Or do you kindly ſlight my Pray’r,
To make me for my Change prepare?
’Tis well this Happineſs remains;
When you refuſe to eaſe our Pains,
Your Brother Death your Place ſupplies.
And kindly ſeals the Wretch’s Eyes.
On ſending my Son, as a Preſent, to Dr. Swift, Dean of St. Patrick’s, on his Birth- Day.
A Curious Statue, we are told,
Is priz’d above its Weight in Gold;
If the fair Form the Hand confeſs
Of Phidias, or Praxiteles: Two famous Statuaries.
But if the Artiſt could inſpire
The ſmalleſt Spark of heav’nly Fire,
Tho’ but enough to make it walk,
Salute the Company, or talk;
This would advance the Price ſo high,
What Prince were rich enough to buy?
Such if Hibernia could obtain,
She ſure would give it to the Dean:So 72 K4v 72
So to her Patriot ſhould ſhe pay
Her Thanks upon his Natal Day.
A richer Preſent I deſign,
A finiſh’d Form, of Work divine,
Surpaſſing all the Pow’r of Art,
A thinking Head, and grateful Heart,
An Heart, that hopes, one Day, to ſhow
How much we to the Drapier owe.
Kings could not ſend a nobler Gift;
A meaner were unworthy Swift.
Occaſion’d by reading the Memoirs of Anne of Auſtria, written by Madam de Motteville. Inſcrib’d to the Right Honourable the Counteſs of Hertford.
Ye heedleſs Fair, who paſs the live-long Day,
In Dreſs and Scandal, Gallantry and Play;
Who thro’ new Scenes of Pleaſure hourly run,
Whilſt Life’s important Buſineſs is undone;
Look here, when guilty Conqueſts make you vain,
And ſee, how ſad Remorſe ſhuts up the Scene.
If future Bliſs, or Miſery, muſt flow
From what the Heart delights in here below,
Think how theſe Habits, rooted in the Breaſt,
Will fit you for a Commerce with the Bleſt.
Ye Politicians, who, in Courts to ſhine,
Study the Maxims of the Florentine; Matchiavel.
Who, void of Virtue, anxious to be great,
Would riſe, tho’ on the Ruins of the State;
See how deluſive are Ambition’s Dreams,
See Providence defeating all your Schemes:
The Hand divine the well-laid Plot prevents,
And daſhes all with unforeſeen Events.
Yet the ſhort-ſighted Atheiſt dares advance,
Theſe wondrous Changes are the Work of Chance.
Not ſo this pious, penetrating Dame,
Who to the ſacred Fountain trac’d the Stream:
Like lovely Hertford, who her Hours employs,
To form her Mind for never-fading Joys.
Excelling Fair! whom All ſo juſtly prize;
Who, in a Court, find Leiſure to be wiſe;
Humane and humble, pious and ſincere;
Who walk, untainted, thro’ infectious Air;Thou 75 L2r 75
Thou Honour to thy Sex! may I purſue
The Paths of Wiſdom, early trod by you!
I, who am deſtin’d to a low Eſtate,
Free from the Vanities that vex the Great;
Bleſt with a Happineſs to Courts unknown;
For I, thank Heav’n, may call my Hours my own:
O may I paſs thoſe Hours in ſuch a Way,
As may prepare me for the laſt, great Day!
That I may, unappall’d, lift up my Head,
When the Arch-Angel calls—Ariſe, ye Dead
When all the haughty, pompous Sons of Duſt,
Who here in fleeting Treaſures plac’d their Truſt;
Who here, to their Confuſion, largely quaff’d
Proſperity’s intoxicating Draught;
Till, drunk with Bleſſings, they deſpis’d their God,
Arraign’d his Wiſdom, and defy’d his Rod;
Too late ſhall find, that Arm they durſt oppoſe,
Can pour eternal Vengeance on his Foes.
Reflect, my Soul, that Day is drawing near;
And timely think, what was thy Buſineſs here.
O Thou, whoſe Arm, reach’d down from Heav’n to ſave,
So lately ſnatch’d me from the op’ning Grave;
Who bow’d thine Ear, nor let me ſue in vain,
Reliev’d my Sickneſs, and remov’d my Pain;
In hallow’d Strains, O, teach my Soul to ſoar,
To celebrate the Mercies I adore!
To Thee alone to dedicate my Lays,
Who heard my Vows, and added to my Days!
Watch o’er my Heart, fix ev’ry Duty there,
And make Eternity my only Care.
On the Dutcheſs of Newcaſtle’s Picture.
Say, Worſdeal, where you learn’d the Art
To paint the Goodneſs of the Heart:
The flatt’ring Teint let others prize;
You call the Soul into the Eyes:
There we the various Virtues trace
Of Churchill’s, and Godolphin’s Race.
Thrice happy Pelham, to whoſe Arms
Were deſtin’d never-fading Charms!
A Letter for my Son to one of his Schoolfellows, Son to Henry Roſe, Eſq;
Dear Roſe, as I lately was writing ſome Verſe,
Which I next Day intended in School to rehearſe;
My Mother came in, and I thought ſhe’d run wild:
This Mr. Macmullen has ruin’d my Child:
He uſes me ill, and the World ſhall know it;
I ſent you to Latin, he makes you a Poet:
A fine Way of training a Shopkeeper’s Son!
’Twould better become him to teach you to dun:
Let him teach both his Wit, and his Rhyming, to Roſe;
And give you ſome Leſſons, to help to ſell Cloaths:
He’ll have an Eſtate, and ’twill do very well,
That he, like his Father, in Arts ſhould excel;
But for you, if your Father will take my Advice,
He’ll ſend you no more, till he lowers his Price:A Guinea 79 L4r 79
A Guinea a Quarter! ’tis monſtrouſly dear—
You might learn to dance, for four Guineas a Year:
Then, Sir, tell your Maſter, That theſe are hard Times;
And Paper’s too dear to be waſted in Rhymes:
I’ll teach you a Way of employing it better;
As, July the fifteenth, Lord Levington Debtor:
You may rhyme till you’re blind, what ariſes from thence?
But Debtor and Creditor brings in the Pence:
Thoſe beggarly Muſes but come for a Curſe;
But give me the Wit, that puts Gold in the Purſe.
From what ſhe then told me, I plainly diſcern,
What different Leſſons we Scholars muſt learn.
You’re happy, dear Roſe; for, as far as I find,
You’ve nothing to do, but embelliſh your Mind.
What different Tasks are aſſign’d us by Fate!
’Tis yours to become, mine to get an Eſtate.
Then, Roſe, mind your Learning, whatever you do;
For I have the eaſier Task of the two.
To a Gentleman, who had abus’d Waller.
I Grieve to think that Waller’s blam’d,
Waller, ſo long, ſo juſtly, fam’d.
Then own your Verſes writ in Haſte,
Or I ſhall ſay, you’ve loſt your Taſte.
Perhaps your loyal Heart diſdains
A Poet, who could take ſuch Pains,
To tune his ſweet, immortal Lays
To an uſurping Tyrant’s Praiſe:
And, where you hate the Man, I ſee,
You never like his Poetry.
The Truth of this your Verſe diſcovers;
So you abus’d the Conſcious Lovers.
Tho’ in your Principles you glory,
The Muſes are nor Whig nor Tory:
So from your Sentence they appeal,
Nor will be judg’d by Party Zeal.
Whene’er a Poet’s to be try’d,
Let Pope hereafter be your Guide.
Eſſay on Criticiſm. Survey the Whole; nor ſeek ſlight Faults to find,
Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind.
Written for my Son, in a Bible which was preſented to him.
Welcome, thou ſacred, ſolemn Gueſt,
Who com’ſt to guide me to the Bleſt.
O Fountain of eternal Truth,
Thou gracious Guardian of my Youth!
True Wiſdom to my Soul diſpenſe,
That I may learn thy Will from hence:
Still let me make thy Word my rule,
And ſtill deſpiſe the ſcorning Fool.
Inſpir’d from thence, my Verſe ſhall ſoar,
Till Time itſelf ſhall be no more.
Alas, my Soul! and what is great,
In Glory of a mortal Date?
Henceforth this vain Ambition ſpare,
And be Eternity thy Care.
To Mr. Roſe; ſent in the Name of the Honourable Mr. Barry, one of his Schoolfellows: Written by the Reverend Dr. T— Occaſion’d by the foregoing Verſes, p. 78.
Believe me, Roſe, howe’er this Con. may pleaſe,
With flowing Numbers, and an eaſy Phraſe;
With Wit, with Humour, and with ev’ry Art,
That ſteals the Ear, and raviſhes the Heart;
Howe’er his Verſes are with Rapture read,
They ne’er could ſpring from his poor Baby Head.
No, no, dear Roſe, his Tricks are too well known;
They are his Mother’s Verſes, not his own.
Presumptuous Youth! this dang’rous Art forbear;
Nor tempt a Character beyond thy Sphere.M2 Let 84 M2v 84
Let meaner Flames thy tender Breaſt inſpire;
Touch not a Beam of hers—’Tis ſacred Fire!
Phœbus might truſt thy Mother with his Sun;
But you, fond Boy, may prove a Phaethon.
Written for my Son, to Mr. Barry; occaſion’d by the foregoing Verſes.
Since Phœbus makes your Verſe divine,
Since the God glows in ev’ry Line;
Why ſhould you think, but I, with Eaſe,
Might write my native, artleſs Lays?
My Mother told me many a Time,
That Double-dealing was a Crime:
Alas! and is it only ſo,
In us, whoſe Birth and Fortune’s low?
For you, tho’ nobly born, deſcend
To injure, yet appear a Friend;
And ſeem to make my Praiſe your Aim,
With more Succeſs to wound my Fame.
So your Apollo’s Prieſts, of old,
(As by his Poets we are told)
With glorious Wreaths the Victim dreſt;
Then plung’d the Poniard in his Breaſt.
Upon my Son’s ſpeaking Latin in School to leſs Advantage than Engliſh: Written as from a Schoolfellow. By Mrs. Grierſon.
Thus twice detected, Con. thy Pride give o’er,
And hope to triumph in our School no more.
Tho’ you ſpeak Engliſh Verſe with graceful Eaſe;
Tho’ ev’ry Motion, Air, and Accent, pleaſe;
Tho’ ev’ry Speech a crowded Audience draws;
And ev’ry Line be echo’d with Applauſe;
Yet now thy undeceiv’d Companions ſee,
The Muſe, thy Mother, only ſpeaks in thee.
We knew long ſince, your Verſe, ſo much admir’d,
By her ſuperior Genius was inſpir’d;And 88 M4v 88
And by your Latin Speech, this Day, you’ve ſhown,
Your graceful Action too was hers alone.
In learned Languages had ſhe been skill’d,
Still with your Praiſes had our School been fill’d.
Yet, Youth, repine not at impartial Fate;
Nor mourn thoſe Ills, that muſt attend the Great.
For had ſhe been with meaner Talents born;
Did no uncommon Gifts her Mind adorn;
Had ſhe been moulded like the ſtupid Race,
Whom Culture can’t exalt, nor Science grace;
Phœbus had then not ſtudy’d to controul
The future Grandeur of her ſoaring Soul.
But, when he ſaw each Muſe, with endleſs Pains,
Forming the curious Texture of her Brains;
When he beheld them anxious to inſpire
A double Portion of celeſtial Fire;
Grown jealous for the Honour of the Dead,
He thus, in Anger, to the Virgins ſaid:
In vain you ſtrive, with ſuch unweary’d Care,
To grace the Breaſt of this accompliſh’d Fair:
In vain you labour to adorn her Mind
With tuneful Numbers, and with Senſe refin’d;
With ev’ry Elegance of Thought and Phraſe;
With Virgil’s Purity, and Ovid’s Eaſe;
Tho’ ſhe with them in all their Graces vie;
Yet I’ll their univerſal Tongue deny.
For if, like them, ſhe could unfold her Mind
In Language underſtood by all Mankind;
Their matchleſs Fame, thro’ many Ages won,
(Her Sex might boaſt) would be in one outdone.
An Apology written for my Son to the Reverend Mr. Sampſon, who had invited ſome Friends to celebrate Lord Carteret’s Birth Day, at Mount-Carteret near Dublin; and deſir’d my Son to write on that Occaſion.
With Joy your Summons we obey,
And come to celebrate this Day.
Yet I, alas! deſpair to pleaſe;
For you require exalted Lays:
And, let me write whate’er I will,
You’ll think my Verſe deficient ſtill;
Altho’ the Task I now decline,
Asks no Aſſiſtance from the Nine;
For Nature, better far than Art,
Can paint the honeſt, grateful Heart.
Heav’n knows how much I rack’d my Head,
(For beaten Paths I ſcorn to tread)
To tell the Vice-Roy ſomething new
Who graciouſly diſtinguiſh’d you;
Who had your Merit in his Eye,
When Prelates often paſs’d it by.
What Bleſſings muſt the People ſhare,
Where Virtue is the Ruler’s Care!
Some Lines I wrote; which ſeem’d ſo fine,
My Mother cry’d, They can’t be thine:
(Alas! there needs but little Care
In Sons, to pleaſe a Mother’s Ear)
Maro might own ſuch Lines as theſe,
Nor with more Elegance could praiſe:
This is the true poetic Fire,
But ſuch a Subject muſt inſpire:
What beauteous Images are here!
Conſtantia help’d you now, I fear:N2 “It 92 N2v 92
It muſt be ſo; you are not able—
Then I by chance upon the Table
The Birth of manly Virtue A Poem on Lord Carteret. ſpy’d;
So threw my uſeleſs Pen aſide,
And ſet my Verſes in a Flame,
Nor dar’d to touch the hallow’d Theme:
For there the God his Pow’r diſplays,
And leaves no Room for mortal Praiſe.
Apology to Dr. Clayton, Biſhop of Killala, and his Lady, who had promis’d to dine with the Author.
My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can’t have the Honour I hop’d for, To-morrow.
But why I’m ſo wretched, my The Lady who deliver’d the Apology, Dublin, 1730-05-02May 2. 1730. Friend muſt rehearſe;
For I never can write my Vexations in Verſe.
Diſappointments are ſent to poor Mortals, to ſhow,
’Tis in vain to expect to be happy below.
Yet you’ve a fair Proſpect, it muſt be confeſs’d,
Who with Fortune, and Station, and Delia are bleſs’d;
With Delia, whoſe Soul is ſo fitted for you,
Who ſhares, with ſuch Pleaſure, the Good which you do;
Who viſits your See with far other Deſigns,
Than conning your Rent-rolls, and raiſing your Fines.
No longer let Rome her old Argument boaſt,
That by Marriage the End of the Prieſthood is loſt;
That toil’d, and entangled in Family Cares,
The Clergy forget their celeſtial Affairs:
For, had ſhe known Delia, ſhe muſt have confeſs’d,
That the Church, in the Marriage of Prelates, was bleſs’d.
Written for my Son, upon Lady Santry’s coming to School, to ſee her Son, and getting the Scholars a Play-Day.
So Ceres, lovely and divine,
Eager to ſee her Proſerpine,
Bleſſing the Nations as ſhe paſs’d,
Reach’d the fell Tyrant’s Court at laſt;
Around her ſhot a Gleam of Light,
Diffuſing Joy, diſpelling Night;
And, whilſt ſhe gilds the diſmal Gloom,
The Damn’d a-while forget their Doom;
The Danaids no longer fill;
And Siſyphus’s Stone ſtands ſtill;
Ixion wonders why he ſtrove,
With impious Arts, to rival Jove;
Grim Pluto ſmil’d; all Hell look’d gay;
Happy, as we were Yeſterday.
Written for my Son to his Maſter, on the Anniverſary of the Battle of the Boyne.
Is what we owe great William then
Forgotten by ungrateful Men?
And has His Fame run out its Date,
Who ſnatch’d us from the Brink of Fate?
Elſe, why ſhould Scholars, Sir, I pray,
Be Priſ’ners on this glorious Day;
When Nassau’s Arms, by Heav’n’s Decree,
Devoted it to Liberty?
An Apology for my Son to his Maſter, for not bringing an Exerciſe on the Coronation Day.
Why are we Scholars plagu’d to write,
On Days devoted to Delight?
In Honour of the King, I’d play
Upon his Coronation Day:
But as for Loyalty in Rhyme,
Defer that to another Time.
Now to excuſe this to my Maſter—
(This Want of Rhyme’s a ſad Diſaſter)
Sir, we confeſs you take great Pains,
And break your own, to mend our Brains.
You ſtrive to make us learn’d, and wiſe;
But to what End?——We ſhall not riſe:O In 98 O1v 98
In vain ſhould at Preferment aim,
Whilſt Strangers make their happier Claim.
Why ſhould we labour to excel,
Doom’d in Obſcurity to dwell?
Then, ſince our Welfare gives you Pain,
(And yet your Toil may prove in vain)
I wiſh, for your, and for our Eaſe,
That all were Coronation Days.
Written from Dublin, to a Lady in the Country.
A Wretch, in ſmoaky Dublin pent,
Who rarely ſees the Firmament,
You graciouſly invite, to view
The Sun’s enliv’ning Rays with you;
To change the Town for flow’ry Meads,
And ſing beneath the ſylvan Shades.
You’re kind in vain-It will not be—
Retirement was deny’d to me;
Doom’d by inexorable Fate,
To paſs thro’ crouded Scenes I hate.
O with what Joy could I ſurvey
The riſing, glorious Source of Day!O2 Attend 100 O2v 100
Attend the Shepherd’s fleecy Care,
Tranſported with the vernal Air;
Behold the Meadow’s painted Pride,
Or ſee the limpid Waters glide;
Survey the diſtant, ſhaded Hills,
And, penſive, hear the murm’ring Rills.
Thro’ your Verſailles with Pleaſure rove,
Admire the Gardens, and the Grove;
See Nature’s bounteous Hand adorn
The bluſhing Peach, and blooming Thorn;
Behold the Birds diſtend their Throats,
And hear their wild, melodious Notes.
Delighted, thro’ your Paſtures roam,
Or ſee the Kine come lowing home;
Whoſe od’rous Breaths a Joy impart,
That ſooths the Senſe, and glads the Heart;
With Pleaſure view the frothing Pails,
And ſilent hear the creaking Rails;See 101 O3r 101
See whiſtling Hinds attend their Ploughs,
Who never hear of broken Vows;
Where no Ambition to be great,
E’er taught the Nymph, or Swain, Deceit.
Thus thro’ the Day, delighted, run;
Then raptur’d view the ſetting Sun;
The rich, diffuſive God behold,
On diſtant Mountains pouring Gold,
Gilding the beauteous, riſing Spire,
While Cryſtal Windows glow with Fire;
Gaze, till he quit the Weſtern Skies,
And long to ſee his Siſter riſe;
Prefer the ſilent, Silver Moon
To the too radiant, noiſy Noon.
Or Northward turn, with new Delight,
To mark what Triumphs wait the Night;
When Shepherds think the Heav’ns foreſhow
Some dire Commotions here below;When 102 O3v 102
When Light the human Form aſſumes,
And Champions meet with nodding Plumes
With Silver Streamers, wide unfurl’d,
And gleaming Spears amaze the World.
Thence to the higher Heav’ns I ſoar,
And the great Architect adore;
Behold what Worlds are hung in Air,
And view Ten Thouſand Empires there;
Then proſtrate to Jehovah fall,
Who into Being ſpake them all.
Sent as from a Schoolfellow to my Son, 1727Anno 1727.
I Grieve to ſee you waſte your Time,
And turn your Thoughts ſo much to Rhyme.
Be wiſe—your uſeleſs Views reſign,
And fly the fair, deluſive Nine.
I know, they try their wonted Art,
To win your eaſy, youthful Heart;
They talk of an immortal Name,
And promiſe you the Realms of Fame:
A mighty Empire, Con. ’tis true,
But wondrous ſmall the Revenue!
They’ll tell you too, to gain their Ends,
That Verſe will raiſe you pow’rful Friends.
Believe me, Youth, this is not true:
The Great think ev’ry thing their Due.
Ierne’s now our royal Care:
We lately fix’d our Dr. Swift. Vice-roy there.
How near was ſhe to be undone,
Till pious Love inſpir’d her Son!
What cannot our Vice-gerent do,
As Poet, and as Patriot too?
Let his Succeſs our Subjects ſway,
Our Inſpirations to obey:
Let beaten Paths no more be trac’d;
But ſtudy to correct your Taſte.
No Simile ſhall be begun
With riſing, or with ſetting Sun;
And let the ſecret Head of Nile
Be ever baniſh’d from your Iſle.
When wretched Lovers live on Air,
In Pity the Chameleon ſpare:
And when you’d make a Hero grander,
Forget he’s like a Salamander.
No Son of mine ſhall dare to ſay,
Aurora uſher’d in the Day.
You all agree, I make no Doubt,
The Prophet’s Mantle’s quite worn out.
The Bird of Jove ſhall toil no more,
To teach the humble Wren to ſoar.
Your tragic Heroes ſhall not rant,
Nor Shepherds uſe poetic Cant.
Simplicity alone can grace
The Manners of the rural Race.
When Damon’s Soul ſhall take its Flight,
(Tho’ Poets have the ſecond Sight)
No Trail of Light ſhall upwards riſe,
Nor a new Star adorn the Skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
So glorious as Belinda’s Rape of the Lock. Hair?
Yet, if his Name you eternize,
And muſt exalt him to the Skies;
Without a Star it may be done—
So Tickell mourn’d his Addiſon.
If Anna’s happy Reign you praiſe,
Say not a Word of Halcyon-Days:
Nor let my Vot’ries ſhew their Skill,
In apeing Lines from Cooper’s-Hill;
For, know, I cannot bear to hear
The Mimickry of deep, yet clear.
Whene’er my Viceroy is addreſs’d,
Againſt the Phœnix I proteſt.
When Kelly’s Mrs. Frances-Arabella Kelly. Beauties you ſurvey,
Forget they’re like the Milky Way.
When Poets ſoar in youthful Strains,
No Phaeton, to hold the Reins.
Cupid ſhall ne’er miſtake another,
Not ev’n Eliza, Mrs. Elizabeth Penifeather. for his Mother;
Nor ſhall his Darts at Random fly,
From Magazines in Rochford’s Eye.
When Boyle’ John Earl of Orrery. s exalted Genius ſhines,
Diſtinguiſh’d in your nobleſt Lines;With 109 P3r 109
With his own Worth your Patron grace,
And let Mæcenas ſleep in Peace.
When you deſcribe a lovely Girl,
No Coral Lips, or Teeth of Pearl.
With Women Compounds I am cloy’d,
Which only pleas’d in Biddy Floyd.
For foreign Aid what need they roam,
Whom Fate hath amply bleſs’d at Home?
Unerring Heav’n, with bounteous Hand,
Has form’d a Model for your Land;
Whom Jove endow’d with ev’ry Grace,
The Glory of the Granard Race;
Now deſtin’d by the Pow’rs divine,
The Bleſſing of another Line.
Then, would you paint a matchleſs Dame,
And raiſe her to immortal Fame;Invoke 110 P3v 110
Invoke not Cytherea’s Aid,
Nor borrow from the Blue-ey’d Maid,
Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take Qualities from Donegal. Counteſs Dowager Donegal, Daughter to the late Earl of Granard.
News from St. James’s.
A Courtier, ſummon’d hence of late,
Was call’d to Minos’ Judgment Seat.
The Cretan Sage began the Charge,
Recounted all his Crimes at large;
His Inſincerity, and Pride,
His Hundred evil Arts beſide;
Arts, thinly veil’d with Virtue’s Guiſe,
The modern Stateſmens Scheme to riſe.
He, cringing, owns his Guilt, with Shame;
Yet from himſelf would ſhift the Blame;
Inſiſts, that ſince the World began,
Kings ſeldom rais’d the virtuous Man:
(Some Inſtances muſt be allow’d,
Tho’ almoſt loſt in ſuch a Crowd)That 112 P4v 112
That Courts were other Things of late,
Than when He rul’d the Cretan State:
That thoſe who breathe in them, will find,
The tainted Air corrupts the Mind.
Courtier, the Judge reply’d, beware—
Theander has reſided there;
The third of an accompliſh’d Race,
Who fill’d ſucceſſively one Place:
Yet ſee the Stream of Virtue run,
Untainted down from Sire to Son:
Humane their Hearts, enlarg’d, refin’d,
With ev’ry Gift to bleſs their Kind;
In Friendſhip’s nobleſt Zeal ſincere;
In Honour amiably ſevere;
Steady to Faith, and Truth, and Right;
With open Honeſty, polite;
With no Diſguiſe in Speech, or Spirit,
But Modeſty, the Mask of Merit.
True, Minos — yet you muſt agree,
Theſe Inſtances conclude for me.
They uncorrupt have breath’d that Air;
But how have they ſucceeded there?
To a Lady who was libell’d.
When Cynthia, Regent of the Tides,
Pale in meridian Pride preſides;
A Sov’reign Pow’r the Goddeſs claims
O’er Seas, and Sea-ſupplying Streams;
The River of the richeſt Source
With Eaſe ſhe turns, and checks his Courſe;
His cryſtal Clearneſs can defile
With ev’ry Filth, and Salt as vile;
However ſtrong, and ſmooth, and pure,
Her Tyranny he muſt endure;
Till, her Dominion in the Wain,
He clears, and is himſelf again.
Thus, over black, benighted Brains,
Fell Envy, baleful Goddeſs, reigns;
O’er mortal Paſſions, pale, preſides,
Paſſions, the Soul’s tumultuous Tides;
Which, in their fierce, reſiſtleſs Sway,
Invade all Merit in their Way;
With Eaſe the cleareſt Truths confute,
With Eaſe the pureſt Worth pollute;
Check ev’ry Virtue in its Courſe,
And taint, impetuous, to its Source,
The Current of the faireſt Fame,
By forcing Filth into the Stream.
So are you ſully’d for a Seaſon,
Till Rage recoils, and yields to Reaſon:
Then turns the Tide — your Credit clears,
And all your real Worth appears.
To the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Germain, upon ſeeing her do a generous Action.
Written as from the Perſon reliev’d.
When Ruin threaten’d me of late,
With all its ghaſtly Train;
Some Pow’r, in Pity to my Fate,
Sent bountiful Germain.
Her Soul is mov’d with my Diſtreſs,
And kind Compaſſion ſhows;
That gen’rous Hand, long us’d to bleſs,
Quick mitigates my Woes.
Thrice happy Fair! indulgent Heav’n
To thee was doubly kind:
To others only Hearts are giv’n;
Thy Fortune ſuits thy Mind.
Epilogue to a Comedy acted at Bath, where the Dutcheſs of Ormond was preſent.
Ladies, this Entertainment we have ſhown,
Has not been rightly ſuited, I muſt own.
Heroic Virtue ſhould have been diſplay’d,
And Homage to heroic Virtue paid.
Low Comedy ſupplies but mean Delight;
Some Heroine ſhould have grac’d our Scenes To-night;
Firſt Fortune’s Favours, then her Frowns to feel,
Unmov’d, unſhaken, on her tott’ring Wheel;
With Wiſdom bleſt by Heav’n’s peculiar Care,
Too great to be elated, or deſpair;
A lovely Form, and an excelling Mind,
To all that Providence ordains, reſign’d;
Rever’d by All, Delight of ev’ry Eye,
Humane and humble, when exalted high;From 119 Q4r 119
From Princes ſprung, and gloriouſly ally’d,
At once her Sex’s, and her Country’s Pride;
Whoſe Soul, ſuperior to all earthly State,
Shines with new Luſtre ’midſt the Storms of Fate.
Then had the Audience wept her Woes anew,
And own’d the Poet was prophetic too;
Foreſaw Plantagenet’s imperial Race
Would ſuch a Heroine give us, in Your Grace.
To her Grace the Dutcheſs of Mancheſter, and Lady Diana Spencer, now Dutcheſs Bedford.
The humble Petition of little Jemmy Pen, at Tunbridge-Wells.
Madam, I hear, and hear with Sorrow,
That we’re to loſe Your Grace To-morrow;
Nor you alone, but Lady Di.
Where, thus deſerted, ſhall I fly?
Am I condemn’d to live in Pain,
Till diſtant Autumn comes again;
Till Time, in Pity to my Grief,
Shall bring you back to my Relief?
Do not, relentleſs, let me moan;
O take me, Ladies, as your own!Tho’ 121 R1r 121
Tho’ Thouſands have your Rigour felt,
Let me your lovely Boſoms melt:
Since you to win my Heart have deign’d,
Quit not the Conqueſt you have gain’d:
Nor Marlbro’s glorious Footſteps ſhun;
He always kept the Field he won.
To the Honourable Mrs. Percival.
And will your Goodneſs never have an End?
And will you ſtill perſiſt to be my Friend?
To meet me ſtill with that engaging Air,
Still open, ardent, gen’rous, and ſincere;
Still to adviſe, to aid, to chear, to bleſs,
Still to prevent, or to diſpel Diſtreſs;
Sollicit for me with unweary’d Zeal,
Pleas’d to ſucceed, nor ſlacken’d when you fail;
Point out each Path to good Succeſs from far,
And guide me by thy Light, my happier Star!
When of ungen’rous Minds I Favours ask,
And ſink, oppreſs’d beneath the grievous Task;
Hear the falſe Promiſe, or the feign’d Excuſe,
In Words that mean but more refin’d Abuſe;Full 123 R2r 123
Full in my View thy nobler Soul appears,
And ſwells my Heart, and fills my Eyes with Tears;
Whilſt, to prevent my Wiſh, your Goodneſs flies,
Nor one kind Look deceives me, from your Eyes.
Then let good Heav’n withhold, or grant Succeſs,
Add to a Weight of Cares, or make it leſs;
By you protected, I no more repine:
How few can boaſt an Happineſs like mine!
A Bliſs ſo great can Wealth, or Pow’r, impart,
As one fix’d Friend, with ſuch a Head, and Heart?
Written at Bath to a young Lady. who had just before given me a ſhort Anſwer.
You us’d me ill, and I withdrew,
Intent on ſatirizing you.
The Muſes to my Aid I call;
They came; and told me, one and all,
That I miſtook their Province quite;
They never ſully’d what was bright;
And ſaid, If Satire was my Aim,
I ought to chuſe another Theme.
I heard with Anger, and Surprize;
Begg’d they’d inſpire, and not adviſe.
In vain I begg’d — they all withdrew;
When to my Aid a Phantom flew,And 125 R3r 125
And vow’d ſhe’d give my Satire Stings,
And whiſper’d ſome reſentful Things—
Said, You delighted, all your Days,
To torture her a thouſand Ways:
Bad me revenge her Cauſe, and mine,
And blacken you in ev’ry Line.
This I reſolv’d; but ſtill in vain—
We both muſt unreveng’d remain:
For I, alas! remember now,
I long ago had made a Vow,
That, ſhould the Nine their Aid refuſe,
Envy ſhould never be my Muse.
Stella and Flavia.
Stella and Flavia, ev’ry Hour,
Unnumber’d Hearts ſurprize:
In Stella’s Soul lies all her Pow’r,
And Flavia’s, in her Eyes.
More boundleſs Flavia’s Conqueſts are,
And Stella’s more confin’d:
All can diſcern a Face that’s fair,
But few a lovely Mind.
Stella, like Britain’s Monarch, reigns
O’er cultivated Lands;
Like Eaſtern Tyrants, Flavia deigns
To rule o’er barren Sands.Then 127 R4r 127
Then boaſt, fair Flavia, boaſt your Face,
Your Beauty’s only Store:
Your Charms will ev’ry Day decreaſe,
Each Day gives Stella more.
A Letter written for my Son to a young Gentleman, who was ſent to be educated at the Jeſuits College in Flanders.
Dear Jack, whilſt you thro’ Flanders roam,
Can you forget your Friends at home?
Say, will your Tutors give you Time
To write to Hereticks in Rhyme?
A Name they brand us with, dear Youth,
And we affirm they injure Truth.
The ſacred Page before us lies,
Which you lock up from vulgar Eyes.
To point them out the Path to Heav’n;
If, leſt their Sight ſhould make them ſtray,
Their Guides alone muſt ſee the Way.
I fancy now you anſwer thus:
Lord! what’s Divinity to us?
This ſerious Subject is unfit
To exerciſe a School-boy’s Wit:
Then talk of other Matters, Con.
Inform me how your Claſs goes on:
Are you, poor Boys! at School to Day,
While others are allow’d to play?
Dear Jack, that is our Caſe, ’tis true;
We envy them, and envy you,
You, who may ramble from your Book,
To view the Towns Eugenio took;
Ev’n now, perhaps, attend the Story,
How Marlbro’ won immortal Glory;
Whilſt he who tells the wondrous Tale,
At ev’ry Period turning pale,
Still fancies Vengeance o’er his Head,
And asks you — Are you ſure He’s dead?
P.S. I just heard happy News, dear Boy;
And Friendſhip bids me ſhare the Joy:
Hibernia has not pray’d in vain;
Cyrus Lord Carteret declar’d the ſecond Time Lord Lieutenant. will viſit her again;
Cyrus, long train’d in Wiſdom’s School,
And by Mandana Counteſs of Granville. form’d for Rule.
Ramsay, Author of the Travels of Cyrus. we find from whence you drew
Thoſe Characters admir’d in you:
We Cassendana’ Lady Carteret. s Virtues trace,
And lovely Form, in Weymouth’s Race.
O would Mandana croſs the Seas,
And hear a People ſpeak her Praiſe,
With Britain vie to hail the Dame,
Who, Earl of Bath, Father to the Counteſs of Granville. Granville, could exalt thy Name,
Tranſmitting down thy Fame with Care,
And double Luſtre, in her Heir!
To Mrs. S—. Written in my Sickneſs.
Dear Pſyche, come, with chearful Face,
And bleſs this deſolated Place.
O come! my ſickly Couch attend,
And eaſe the Anguiſh of your Friend.
Thy Soul, with ev’ry Grace ſupply’d,
Thy gen’rous Soul, in Friendſhip try’d,
With Wit, and nervous Senſe delights;
And ſteals away the tardy Nights.
Whilſt others to Diverſions fly,
You watch the Sleep-forſaken Eye:
To Thee was giv’n the wond’rous Pow’r,
To gild the melancholy Hour,
To ſooth the long-diſtracted Brain,
And conquer ev’n the Tyrant Pain.
To a Lady, who invited the Author into the Country.
How gladly, Madam, would I go,
To ſee your Gardens, and Chateau;
From thence the fine Improvements view,
Or walk your verdant Avenue;
Delighted, hear the Thruſhes ſing,
Or liſten to ſome bubbling Spring;
If Fate had giv’n me Leave to roam!
But Citizens muſt ſtay at home.
We’re loneſome ſince you went away,
And ſhould be dead — but for our Tea;
That Helicon of female Wits,
Which fills their Heads with rhyming Fits!This 133 S3r 133
This Liquor ſeldom heats the Brain,
But turns it oft, and makes us vain;
With Fumes ſupplies Imagination,
Which we miſtake for Inſpiration.
This makes us cramp our Senſe in Fetters,
And teaze our Friends with chiming Letters.
I grieve your Brother has the Gout;
Tho’ he’s ſo ſtoically stout,
I’ve heard him mourn his Loſs of Pain,
And wiſh it in his Feet again.
What Woe poor Mortals muſt endure,
When Anguiſh is their only Cure!
Strephon is ill; and I perceive,
His lov’d Elvira grows ſo grave,
I fear, like Niobe, her Moan
Will turn herſelf and me to Stone.
Have I not Cauſe to dread this Fate,
Who ſcarce ſo much as ſmile of late?
Whilst lovely Landſcapes you ſurvey,
And peaceful paſs your Hours away,
Refreſh’d with various blooming Sweets;
I’m ſick of Smells, and dirty Streets,
Stifled with Smoke, and ſtunn’d with Noiſe
Of ev’ry thing — but my own Boys;
Thro’ Rounds of plodding doom’d to run,
And very ſeldom ſee the Sun:
Yet ſometimes pow’rful Fancy reigns,
And glads my Eyes with ſylvan Scenes;
Where Time, enamour’d, ſlacks his Pace,
Enchanted by the warbling Race;
And, in Atonement for his Stay,
Thro’ Cities hurries on the Day.
O! Would kind Heav’n reverſe my Fate,
Give me to quit a Life I hate,
To flow’ry Fields I ſoon would fly:
Let others ſtay — to cheat and lye.There, 135 S4r 135
There, in ſome bliſsful Solitude,
Where eating Care ſhould ne’er intrude,
The Muſe ſhould do the Country Right,
And paint the glorious Scenes you ſlight.
To his Excellency the Lord Carteret.
Occaſion’d by ſeeing a Poem, intitled, The Birth of Manly Virtue.
The Picture ſtrikes — ’tis drawn with wondrous Art;
Well has the Poet play’d the Painter’s Part.
Tho’ ’tis your Glory, yet, my Lord, I own,
I grieve the Features fit yourſelf alone.
But know, tho’ All agree the Picture’s yours,
’Tis Steadineſs alone your Claim ſecures.
With Pleaſure now your Image you ſurvey;
But ſhould you from the Rules of Virtue ſtray,
Should e’er degrading Vice deform your Frame,
You’d ſtart, like Io from the cryſtal Stream.
When Kneller has diſplay’d, with matchleſs Grace,
The fleeting Glories of Clarinda’s Face;
She ſighs, to think how Time will ſoon devour
The lovely Bloom, which gives her now ſuch Pow’r.
But yours, a Likeneſs of a nobler Kind,
Diſplays the deathleſs Beauties of the Mind:
Be it your Glory to ſurpaſs the Paint,
And make the finiſh’d Picture look too faint.
Why is he hid, who, with ſuch matchleſs Art,
Calls forth the Graces that adorn your Heart?
True Poets in their deathleſs Lays ſhould live,
And ſhare that Immortality they give.
To the Honourable Mrs. Percival, on her deſiſting from the Bermudan Project. By Mrs. Grierſon.
Some Guardian Pow’rs, in Pity to our Land,
Your Voyage to the Summer-Iſles withſtand.
Heav’n will by other means convert the Weſt;
And you muſt make your native Country bleſt:
Your Buſineſs there was but to ſerve Mankind;
And here, for that, an ample Field you’ll find;
To Virtue, here, may thoughtleſs Souls perſuade,
Inſtruct the Ignorant, the Wretched aid:
Of theſe no Realm, from Lapland to Japan,
Diſplays ſuch Numbers, as Hibernia can.
Haſte then, O haſte! return, and bleſs our Eyes,
Nor more the Call of Providence deſpiſe:Let 139 T2r 139
Let others ſtill near Albion’s Court reſide,
Who ſacrifice their Country to their Pride,
And ſquander vaſt Eſtates at Balls and Play,
While public Debts increaſe, and Funds decay;
While the ſtarv’d Hind with Want diſtracted lives,
Nor taſtes that Plenty, which his Labour gives.
Let thoſe alone to foreign Countries ſtray,
Who, with their Wealth, their Follies take away.
Whatever ſuch may act, where-e’er they go,
Do thou return, to mitigate our Woe.
Our Gold may flow to Albion with each Tide;
But let them with that Gold be ſatisfy’d:
The Want of that we long have learnt to bear,
But Souls like thine accompliſh’d, cannot ſpare.
To Mrs. Newans, encouraging her to draw Lady Killmorey’s Picture.
You ſay ’tis hard to copy well,
Where Nature does herſelf excel.
Allow’d—yet ſtill let me adviſe:
Near as you can to Nature riſe;
Nor Time, nor Colours will be loſt;
The Draught will more than pay the Coſt.
Then dare to draw that Angel Face;
The Pencil may the Features trace;
And, ſhould her Air thy Art defeat,
Add Wings, the Piece will be complete.
To the Reverend Dr. L—--.
Occaſion’d by his Sermon for the Support of the Charity-Children at Tunbridge-Wells, where the Collection was ſmall.
In vain you ſhew a happy Nation,
The Goſpel’s gracious Diſpenſation;
And plead from thence, to bring up Youth
To early Piety and Truth.
To unattentive Ears you preach,
What Miſeries alone can teach.
’Tis ſaid, Hibernia boaſts a Flood,
Famous for petrefying Wood:
Tunbridge, thy Min’ral Streams, we know,
A ſtranger Transformation ſhow:
Their dire Effects the Wretched feel:
Thy Waters turn the Heart to Steel.
An Epigram on the ſame Occaſion.
So little giv’n at Chapel Door—
This People doubtleſs muſt be poor:
So much at Gaming thrown away—
No Nation ſure ſo rich as they.
Britons, ’twere greatly for your Glory,
Should thoſe, who ſhall tranſmit your Story,
Their Notions of your Grandeur frame,
Not as you give, but as you game.
Children are ſnatch’d away ſometimes,
To puniſh Parents for their Crimes.
Thy Mother’s Merit was ſo great,
Heav’n haſten’d thy untimely Fate,
To make her Character complete.
Tho’ many Virtues fill’d her Breaſt,
’Twas Reſignation crown’d the reſt.
An Apology for the Clergy, who were preſent when the Miniſter of the Pariſh read Prayers and preach’d twice in one Day, at Tunbridge-Wells.
Written at the Requeſt of a Layman.
How well theſe Laymen love to gibe,
And throw their Jeſts on Levi’s Tribe!
Muſt One be toil’d to Death, they cry,
Whilſt other Prieſts are yawning by?
Forgetful that He reaps the Gain,
Why ſhould They waſte their Lungs in vain?
When Men were weak enough to prize
The Chriſtian Scheme, as good and wiſe,
To think there was a Heav’n and Hell;
To pray and preach did very well:When 145 U1r 145
When Mortals look’d beyond the Grave,
A Prieſt, for Conſcience ſake, might ſlave:
But in this learned Realm and Age,
Where Faith is beaten off the Stage;
This happy Realm, where Reaſon reigns,
And ſcorns to drag Religion’s Chains;
Where free-born Britons, ev’ry Day,
Sit down to feaſt, and riſe to play;
And, ſince their Money buys their Meat,
Won’t thank their God for what they eat;
Where ev’n ſome Chaplains fill their Place
Politely, without ſaying Grace;
If here (where Reaſon ſwells ſo high,
It dares all other Pow’rs defy)
The Prieſts are, like the Laymen, wiſe,
Nor hope Reverſions in the Skies;
Why ſhould they deign to preach, or pray,
For any View—but preſent Pay?
Written at Dr. Mead’s Houſe in Ormond- Street, to Mrs. Mead.
Books, Pictures, Statues, here we find,
And each excelling in their Kind.
Mead’s Taſte in ev’ry thing we view;
But chiefly in his Choice of You.
Written upon the Rocks at Tunbridge, on ſeeing the Names of ſeveral Perſons written there.
Hither, amongſt the Crouds, that ſhun
The ſmoaky Town, and ſultry Sun,
In cooling Springs to ſeek for Health,
Or throw away ſuperfluous Wealth,
A Native of Hibernia came,
Thus writ her Thoughts, but not her Name.
Hither the Britons, void of Care,
A happy, free-born Race, repair:
Whilſt I, who feel a diff’rent Fate,
Lament my Country’s wretched State;U2 The 148 U2v 148
The pitying Rocks return my Lays,
Juſt Emblem of the barren Bays.
Thus far—When, lo! the God of Wit,
Who ſlightly glanc’d on what was writ,
Suſpend, he cries, thy Cares a-while;
My Sackville ſoon ſhall bleſs your Iſle:
No longer talk of barren Bays;
Remember, ’tis a Dorset ſways.
A Letter written from London to Mrs. Strangeways Horner, whom the Author had left the Day before at Tunbridge- Wells. 1730-10Oct. 1730.
Say, my Hortenſia, in this ſilent Hour,
When the pale Queen of Night exerts her Pow’r,
What Guardian-Angels on thy Slumbers wait,
To paint the Glories of thy future State;
To ſhew what Manſions, in the Realms divine,
Are ſet apart for Souls, refin’d as thine?
Tho’ thither, wing’d with Hope, thy Virtues ſoar,
Late, very late, may’ſt thou thoſe Realms explore!
Alas! I left thee ſick: O Shame to tell!
I ſhould have ſtaid to ſee Hortenſia well:But 150 U3v 150
But dire Neceſſity, relentleſs, ſway’d;
She, ſtern, enjoin’d, unwilling I obey’d.
Torn from thy Sight, how have I dragg’d the Day,
Which, in thy Preſence, flew too ſwift away!
How ſhall I paſs the melancholy Night?
When will the Poſt arrive, and give Delight?
Of thy returning Health when ſhall I hear?
Fain would I hope, tho’ quite depreſs’d with Fear.
O pow’r ſupreme! yet, yet, Hortenſia ſpare;
The Stranger, and the Wretched, are her Care:
Snatch her not hence; we cannot let her go;
Still let her be thy Subſtitute below,
To raiſe the ſinking Heart, to heal Diſtreſs;
To her was giv’n the Will and Pow’r to bleſs.
O would Heav’n grant me, ere I croſs the Main,
To ſee thy Face, Hortenſia, once again!
But I muſt haſten to Hibernia’s Shore;
And never, never, ſhall behold thee more.
To Mrs. Frances-Arabella Kelly.
To Day, as at my Glaſs I ſtood,
To ſet my Head-cloaths, and my Hood;
I ſaw my grizzled Locks with Dread,
And call’d to mind the Gorgon’s Head.
Thought I, whate’er the Poets ſay,
Meduſa’s Hair was only gray:
Tho’ Ovid, who the Story told,
Was too well-bred to call her old;
But, what amounted to the ſame,
He made her an immortal Dame.
Yet now, whene’er a Matron ſage
Hath felt the rugged Hand of Age,You 152 U4v 152
You hear our witty Coxcombs cry,
Rot that old Witch — ſhe’ll never die.
Tho’, had they but a little Reading,
Ovid would teach them better Breeding.
I fancy now, I hear you ſay,
Grant Heav’n, my Locks may ne’er be gray!
Why am I told this frightful Story?
To Beauty a Memento mori.
And, as along the Room you paſs,
Caſting your Eye upon the Glaſs,
Surely, ſay you, this lovely Face
Will never ſuffer ſuch Diſgrace:
The Bloom, that on my Cheek appears,
Will never be impair’d by Years.
Her Envy, now, I plainly ſee,
Makes her inſcribe thoſe Lines to me.
Theſe Beldams, who were born before me,
Are griev’d to ſee the Men adore me:Their 153 X1r 153
Their ſnaky Locks freeze up the Blood;
My Treſſes fire the purple Flood.
Unnumber’d Slaves around me wait,
And from my Eyes expect their Fate.
I own, of Conqueſt I am vain,
Tho’ I deſpiſe the Slaves I gain.
Heav’n gave me Charms, and deſtin’d me
For univerſal Tyranny.
The Recantation: To the ſame Lady.
Forgive me, fair One, nor reſent
The Lines to you I lately ſent.
They ſeem, as if your Form you priz’d,
And ev’ry other Gift deſpis’d:
When a diſcerning Eye may find,
Your greateſt Beauty’s in your Mind.
To the Honourable Mrs. Percival, with Hutcheſon’s Treatiſe on Beauty and Order. By Mrs. Grierſon.
Th’ internal Senſes painted here we ſee:
They’re born in others, but they live in thee.
O were our Author with thy Converſe bleſt,
Could he behold the Virtues of thy Breaſt;
His needleſs Labours with Contempt he’d view;
And bid the World not read—but copy you!
The Author, who had been engag’d to dine with Mrs. Cæſar, was excus’d by that Lady, upon an Invitation from Lord Carteret’s; and the next Day Mrs. Cæſar was invited by the Speaker, which occaſion’d the following Lines.
To Mrs. Cæſar, at the Speaker’s Lodgings at Bath.
When lately you acquitted me,
With Carteret I din’d;
And, in Return, (tho’ grievous) thee
To Onslow I reſign’d.
’Tis wiſe the happy Hour to ſeize;
For, ſearch the Nation round,
Such Peers, or Commoners, as theſe,
Where are they to be found?
Our Situation’s chang’d, you ſee:
(How Pleaſures fleet away!)
But Yeſterday you envy’d me;
I envy you To-day.
To the Right Honourable John Earl of Orrery, at Bath, after the Death of the late Earl.
Tis ſaid, for ev’ry common Grief
The Muſes can afford Relief:
And, ſurely, on that heav’nly Train
A Boyle can never call invain.
Then ſtrait invoke the ſacred Nine,
Nor impious ſlight their Gifts divine;
Diſpel thoſe Clouds, which damp your Fire;
Shew, Bath, like Tunbridge, Alluding to ſome Verſes written by his Lordſhip, the Year before, at Tunbridge- Wells. can inſpire.
The Earl’s Anſwer, written extempore.
Nor Bath, nor Tunbridge, can my Lays inſpire;
Nor radiant Beauty make me ſtrike the Lyre:
Far from the buſy Croud I ſit, forlorn;
And ſigh in ſecret, and in Silence mourn:
Nor can my Anguiſh ever find an End;
I weep a Father, and have loſt a Friend.
Reply to the foregoing Verſes.
Why did I hope to make your Anguiſh leſs?
I try’d to cure, and I have caught, Diſtreſs.
Suppreſs your Sighs, dry up your Tears; ’tis Time:
Exceſs of Virtue may become a Cirme.
You loſt, you ſay, a Friend, and Father too;
But know, Mankind would loſe a Friend in you.
On leaving Bath.
The Britons, in their Nature ſhy,
View Strangers with a diſtant Eye:
We think them partial and ſevere;
And judge their Manners by their Air:
Are undeceiv’d by Time alone;
Their Value riſes, as they’re known.
Here many a worthy Mind I found,
With Senſe and Taſte, by Virtue crown’d,
At once ſo truly good and great,
They knew to bear a proſp’rous State.
Few take from noble Blood Pretence
To act or look with Inſolence:Y Veins, 162 Y1v 162
Veins, with the richeſt Purple dy’d,
But ſeldom ſwell the Heart with Pride.
So, tho’ the River-Gods, from high,
With plenteous Urns the Streams ſupply,
Which ſtill enlarge, as they deſcend,
Roll down, and in the Ocean end,
Thro’ Ages pour’d, yet, to our Eyes,
Old Ocean is too great to riſe.
The gen’rous Treatment I have met,
Hath run me deep in Albion’s Debt:
And, could my artleſs Lines impart
The grateful Dictates of my Heart,
Lateſt Poſterity ſhould know
The Senſe I have of what I owe.
Dear Bath, a long, a laſt Adieu!
Since I no more ſhall viſit you,
Nor fix’d by Choice, but barr’d by Fate,
From a Felicity ſo great.O may 163 Y2r 163
O may thy Waters ever be
Healthful to others, as to me!
Had Ovid, with prophetic View,
Beheld the Wonders wrought by you,
Medea’s Arts he might have ſpar’d,
And Life by thee alone repair’d.
An Epigram on the Battle of the Books.
Swift for the Antients has argu’d ſo well,
’Tis apparent from thence, that the Moderns excel.
Written at Camberwell, near London, in the Study of Mr. Wainwright, now Baron of the Exchequer in Ireland, where the Author accidentally din’d alone.
Whilst happily I paſs my Hours
In Camberwell’s delightful Bow’rs;
From thence the beauteous Walks ſurvey;
Or thro’ the fragrant Mazes ſtray;
Or o’er the Study caſt my Eye,
Where Virgil, Coke, and Horace lie,
Juſt Emblem of a Boſom grac’d
With Law, and Elegance of Taſte;
Apollo I invoke in vain,
Apollo anſwers with Diſdain:
Mortal, you’re here allow’d to roam,
And bid to think yourſelf at home:
O’er the Domeſticks then preſide;
Let that content your Female Pride;
In vain you call on me To-day;
Here Wainwright only I obey.
To Mrs. Putland.
Uncommon Charms, I plainly ſee,
Compleat the Fair for Tyranny.
Then, leſt your Form ſhould make you vain
Of Conqueſt, and of giving Pain,
Thoſe, whom your Beauties have enſlav’d,
By me ſhall now be undeceiv’d.
Long was I Fool enough to view
Thy rapt’rous Shape, and thought it new;
Till lately reading Waller o’er,
I found ’twas Amoret’s before.
Occaſion’d by ſeeing the Honourable ―― treat a Perſon of Merit with Inſolence, who came to make a Requeſt to her.
Contented in my humble State,
I look with Pity on the Great;
Who only Birth, or Wealth, reſpect,
And treat true Merit with Neglect.
O pow’r ſupreme, let me implore
Some Little from thy boundleſs Store!
Give me a conſtant, ſmall Support,
Without the Plague of paying Court!
Let none but Fools, who pine to riſe,
Be curs’d to bow, where they deſpiſe.
To the Right Honourable the Lady Kilmorey, with a Letter, which was written by the late Lady Roydon, of the Kingdom of Ireland, juſt before her Death.
Start not, nor tremble at the Sight of this;
It comes not written from the Realms of Bliſs:
’Tis true, you ſee your once-lov’d Roydon’s Hand;
Thence may conclude from Heav’n ſome high Command;
Conſcious perhaps of your celeſtial Frame,
You think you’re call’d to Worlds from whence you came;
Not ſo - but ere her Soul began its Flight,
She thought of you, and ſtaid a-while to write;
Kindly for me her dying Suit addreſs’d:
Then view it, Madam, as her laſt Requeſt.
To Dr. Mead, on his Cape Wine.
Your Wine, by Southern Suns refin’d,
Is a juſt Emblem of your Mind:
Like You, the gen’rous Juice diſplays
Its Influence a thouſand Ways;
Like You, it raiſes ſinking Hearts,
Inſpiring, and rewarding Arts;
Diſpels the Spleen, and conquers Pain,
Calls back departing Life again.
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Orrery, on his Promiſe to ſup with me.
Tho’ the Muſe had deny’d me ſo often before,
I ventur’d this Day to invoke her once more.
She ask’d what I wanted; I ſaid, with Delight,
Your Lordſhip had promis’d to ſup here To-night;
That on an Occaſion ſo much to my Honour,
I hop’d ſhe’d excuſe me for calling upon her.
To this ſhe reply’d, with Diſdain in her Looks:
If that be the Caſe, go ſummon your Cooks.
I told her in Anſwer, How little you eat;
That in vain I ſhould hope to regale you with Meat;
That ſhe knew, Wit and Humour to you were a Feaſt,
Who had, tho’ no Stomach, an excellent Taſte.
This calm’d her Reſentment; ſhe paus’d for a while-
Then the Goddeſs, propitious, reply’d with a Smile:
If with Humour and Wit you would have him delighted,
What need I be call’d? - Let the Dean be invited.
The Bus’neſs is done, if with him you prevail;
For a Boyle, and a Swift, will each other regale.
To Mr. Pope: Intreating him to write Verſes to the Memory of Thomas, late Earl of Thanet.
Shall for the Man of Roſs Epiſtle to Lord Bathurſt, on the Uſe of Riches. thy Lyre be ſtrung,
And ſleeps illuſtrious Thanet yet unſung?
Since to diſtinguiſh Merit is thy Care,
Let Thanet in thy deathleſs Praiſes ſhare:
Let me, unequal to the Task, excite
Thy matchleſs Muſe, to do his Merit Right.
Numbers, like thine, ſhould call his Virtues forth;
Poetic Mirrors ſhould be true to Worth;
Diſdaining to reflect thoſe glitt’ring Rays,
Which flow from Pomp, or from Ambition’s Blaze.
From Scenes of Woe, unmov’d, whilſt Others fly,
And turn from Anguiſh the unmelting Eye;
Thanet purſues the Footſteps of the Poor,
And ſilent enters thro’ the lonely Door;
Fair Plenty in his Train, and Joy, and Health,
Seeking Diſtreſs, as others ſeek for Wealth;
With God-like Pity ev’ry Pray’r receives,
Each Wiſh fulfils, and ev’ry Want relieves:
Where Sickneſs reigns, he, to his utmoſt Pow’r,
Softens the Anguiſh of each diſmal Hour:
He ſmooths the rugged Brow of anxious Care,
And gilds the gloomy Proſpect of Deſpair:
Whilſt Libertines on Vice their Wealth employ,
He makes the Widow’s Heart to ſing for Joy:
Orphans no more their Parents loſt complain;
In Thanet’s Bounty they revive again.
Nor for this Life alone would he provide;
To Life eternal Thanet was their Guide:Nor 175 Z4r 175
Nor on Morality alone depends;
But to the nobleſt Heights of Faith aſcends:
Devotion’s heav’nly Flame inſpir’d his Breaſt;
Still in the Temple were his Vows addreſs’d:
Tho’ he in Virtue’s Paths, delighted, trod,
Studious to pleaſe, and imitate his God;
The hallow’d Altar, grateful, he ſurvey’d,
And there his lowly Adoration paid.
See the pale, childleſs Miſer hoard up Wealth,
And, trembling, ſnatch an anxious View by Stealth;
Amaſs the ſhining Ore with guilty Care,
To aggrandize ſome diſtant, worthleſs Heir;
Who longs, impatient, for the ſolemn Toll,
Which, ſlow, proclaims the ſad-departed Soul;
Then eyes with Joy the care-collected Hoard,
And ſpends, profuſe, what Avarice had ſtor’d;
By Fortune’s ſudden Smiles to Madneſs fir’d,
He waſtes on ev’ry Vice, what Guilt acquir’d.
So dwells on Mountain-Tops the Northern Snow,
Congeal’d by Froſts, for Years untaught to flow;
Till hotter Suns more vig’rous Beams diſplay;
The Maſs relents, the glitt’ring Piles decay;
Sudden, from high, reſounding Torrents flow,
Impetuous ruſhing on the Vales below;
O’erwhelm the Harveſt of the pining Swain,
And curſe with Floods, which ſhould have bleſs’d the Plain.
On Thanet Heav’n its happier Influence ſhed;
A num’rous Off-ſpring grac’d his Nuptial Bed:
And yet thoſe Motives to paternal Care
Steel’d not his Breaſt againſt the Suppliant’s Pray’r.
Studious to draw down Bleſſings on his Race,
His Bounties with his Progeny increaſe.
Like Egypt’s Flood, beneficent he roſe;
Silent, tho’ vaſt, his well-judg’d Bounty flows;
O’er the parch’d Earth it ſpreads its ample Courſe,
Profuſe of Good, but, modeſt, hides its Source.Ask 177 Aar 177
Ask not, to what his Charities amount;
So many Myriads ſwell the vaſt Account.
Ye vain Pretenders to ſuperior Senſe,
Ye empty Boaſters of Beneficence,
Who in the Scorners Seat, exulting, ſit,
And vaunt your impious Raillery for Wit,
The Goſpel-Rule defective you pretend,
When you the ſocial Duties recommend:
In Thanet ſee them heighten’d and refin’d;
In Thanet ſee the Friend of human Kind;
Heighten’d by Faith, ſee ev’ry Virtue’s Force;
By Faith, their ſureſt Sanction, nobleſt Source.
Loudly ye boaſt a more than Chriſtian Zeal,
For Virtue’s Int’reſt, and the public Weal;
Beſt by Effects are Boaſtings underſtood;
Come, prove your Ardor for the public Good!
The mighty Heroes of your Tribe ſurvey,
Their ev’ry hidden Excellence diſplay;Aa Or 178 Aav 178
Or dead, or living, ſet their Virtues forth;
Let all, united, vie with Thanet’s Worth;
Free-thinkers, Moraliſts, on you I call,
Can Thanet’s Worth be equall’d by you all?
Accept, illuſtrious Shade! theſe artleſs Lays;
My Soul this Homage to thy Virtue pays:
Led by that ſacred Light, a Stranger-Muſe
Attempts thoſe Paths, which abler Feet refuſe;
In diſtant Climes thy Virtue ſhe admires,
In diſtant Climes thy Worth her Strain inſpires.
Long to thy Tomb the Wretched ſhall repair,
And to thy Aſhes pay a ſilent Tear;
Shall to the Traveller thy Worth relate,
And Emulation thro’ the World create:
Ages to come ſhall celebrate thy Fame,
And Orphans, yet unborn, ſhall bleſs thy Name.
When the firm Baſis of the Earth gives Way,
And Nature’s Self ſhall feel her laſt Decay;
When thoſe, who from the Wretched turn’d their Eye,
Too late relenting, ſhall for Mercy cry;
The Thouſands thou haſt fed, ſhall, in thy Praiſe,
Their loud Hoſanna’s to Jehovah raiſe;
Thy modeſt Worth ſhall veil itſelf no more;
Angels ſhall tell what Thanet hid before.
To Mrs. Anne Donnellan, with the fourth Essay on MAN
Dear Philomela, of you condeſcend,
With Notes Seraphic, to tranſport your Friend:
Then in Return, let Verſe your Soul rejoice,
Wiſe, as your Converſe, rapt’rous, as your Voice.
Written for my Son, and ſpoken by him, at a public Examination for Victors.
To you, Athenians, we again ſubmit;
Reward, or puniſh us, as you think fit.
Let Idleneſs, unpity’d, meet Diſgrace;
For Idleneſs, this year, is doubly baſe.
This is the Æra, this the deſtin’d Year,
For Arts and Sciences to flouriſh here.
The Muses, exil’d long, to Court repair;
And—ſtrange to think! are all the Faſhion there.
Who feels not now a gen’rous Emulation,
When Merit raiſes to the higheſt Station?
Scholars may ſurely hope a better Fate,
While Carteret directs the Helm of StateO would 182 Aa3v 182
O would he govern here by Grecian Rules,
And chuſe a Senate, to preſide o’er schools;
Honour, alone, to pay the glorious Task,
(A Recompence no Foreigner would ask)
Then kind Britannia, doubtleſs, would conſent,
Hibernia ſhould ſupply a Preſident.
Too oft, alas! are Talents miſapply’d,
By Parents Fondneſs, Ignorance, and Pride.
This Grievance then would ceaſe, and we ſhould be
Regarded, as the Publick’s Property:
Genius alone would be conſulted then,
(The only Way to make us uſeful Men)
And each would have his ſev’ral Task aſſign’d,
As Nature gave the Bias to his Mind.
Boys of a brutal, cruel Diſpoſition,
Should go to Spain, to ſerve the Inquiſition.
O what a Change in Landlords would appear!
Next Age, not one would rack his Tenants here.
The Lads, who ſtudy but to dreſs and dance,
Should cultivate their Worthleſneſs in France.
Those who love Liberty, to Albion roam;
But, could they bear Oppreſſion, ſtay at home.
Then glorious Anceſtors would ceaſe to be
Degraded by a worthleſs Progeny.
None ſhould from noble Blood their Lineage trace,
Unleſs they added Luſtre to their Race.
That the degen’rate Off-ſpring of the Great
Might be no more a Burden to the State;
The Sons of Peers, with mean, ignoble Hearts,
In Holland ſhould be taught mechanic Arts;
And Boys of Genius to thoſe Honours ſoar,
Which high-born Dunces but diſgrac’d before:
See Nature, thus, the gen’rous Juice divide;
The Spirit riſes, and the Dregs ſubſide.
Thus modell’d, we may hope for happier Times;
Our Iſle will be rever’d by diſtant Climes:
And, leſt Poſterity ſhould think us rude,
And loſt, at once, to Shame and Gratitude;
A Patriot Race ſhall ſing the Drapier’s Praiſe,
And civic Crowns ſhall mingle with His Bays:
Nor ſhall His Works alone His Worth proclaim,
(Tho’ none, like thoſe, can eternize His Name)
His Statue ſhall be rais’d in ev’ry Street,
With proud Oppreſſion, writhing at His Feet;
At His Right-hand fair Liberty ſhall ſmile,
Protected by the Guardian of our Iſle;
On t’other Side, the Goddeſs Fame ſhall ſtand,
With His immortal Labours in her Hand:
Then ſhall each gen’rous Youth, who paſſes by,
And ſees the Patriot’s Image, plac’d on high,
With Emulation feel his Bosom fir’d,
And thus break forth, by Gratitude inſpir’d.
O Thou, whoſe Genius roſe, to ſave the State,
And ſnatch Thy Country from the Brink of Fate!
When for Thy Life Hibernia ſues in vain,
And Heav’n no longer will Thy Crown detain;
Her grateful Sons, already rob’d in White,
Shall hail Thee, glorious, in the Realms of Light.
To Mrs. Armine Cartwright, at Bath.
Lovely Armina, o’er her Books reclin’d,
Impairs her Body, to improve her Mind:
Of Wiſdom fond, as others are of Wealth,
In that Purſuit will ſacrifice her Health:
Then, Miſer-like, when ſhe has gain’d the Prize,
Hides both Herſelf, and Treaſure, from our Eyes.
In this alone, Armina, you’re to blame:
Regardleſs of your Health, or Friendſhip’s Claim:
A giddy, thoughtleſs World your Aid require;
And Ignorance prevails, when you retire.
Why, Form’d to pleaſe! and why, Improv’d with Care!
Is there no End, in being Wiſe, and Fair?
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Thomond, at Bath; who charg’d the Author with making an Iriſh Bull.
OBrian, we’re in Story told,
Thy Anceſtors wore Crowns of old:
In fair Hibernia’s Iſle they reign’d;
A Country, by their Sons diſdain’d!
Too apt to charge their native Iſle
With ev’ry Vice of Speech and Style:
Yet thy Eliza, Elizabeth Counteſs of Thomond, Daughter of Charles Duke of Somerſet, and Lady Elizabeth Piercy. great and good,
Of Seymour’s, and of Piercy’s Blood,
(Whoſe Anceſtors, to Fame well known,
When injur’d, ſhook the British Throne;)Bb2 Will 188 Bb2v 188
Will not thy native Iſle deride,
Tho’ to an higher Crown ally’d.
And ſhall Hibernia fear Diſgrace,
From Thomond, of Mileſian Race?
It ill becomes thee thus to treat
Thy Family’s Imperial Seat.
Great Boiroimke! Bryen Boiroimke, King of Ireland, remarkable in Hiſtory for his Valour in Defence of his Country, Hoſpitality, &c; from whom the preſent Earl of Thomond is lineally deſcended. look down and ſee
This Change in thy Poſterity;
Who quit all Titles to thy Throne,
But Hoſpitality alone.
To Mrs. Strangeways Horner, with a Letter from my Son; wherein he deſires me to accept his firſt Prize of Learning, conferr’d on him by the Univerſity of Dublin.
O Thou, with ev’ry Virtue grac’d,
Adorn’d with Wit, and Senſe, and Taſte;
Who, with a Goodneſs unconfin’d,
Delight’ſt in bleſſing human Kind,
Whoſe Woes ſo oft thy Peace deſtroy;
’Tis juſt, thou ſhouldſt partake their Joy:
Then in my Tranſport deign to ſhare;
Behold this Letter from my Heir:
There ſee the Picture of a Mind,
In Duty, as in Arts, refin’d;Who, 190 Bb3v 190
Who, in full Triumph, could ſubmit
His Trophies at his Parent’s Feet.
So he, in Roman Story fam’d,
Who from Corioli was nam’d,
With Joy engag’d in glorious Toils,
To glad his Mother with the Spoils:
Her Son, by Roman Arms, o’ercame;
By Roman Arts, mine ſoars to Fame.
Methinks, I ſee your Friendſhip riſe,
And ſparkle in your lovely Eyes.
Your Heir! (I hear you now repeat)
I long to know of your Eſtate.
Say — Is it an Hibernian Bog,
Where Phœbus ſeldom ſhines for Fog?
Hortensia, there he ſometimes ſhines;
But oft’ner hides his Head, and pines,
On happier Climes to look, nor ſee
Such diſmal Scenes of Poverty;Nor 191 Bb4r 191
Nor ſee an Iſle, by Nature bleſs’d,
By ill-judg’d Policy oppreſs’d;
Her Trade uſurp’d by foreign Lands,
Whilſt Albion faſt ties up her Hands:
Nor ſee her Sons in Science skill’d,
And yet her Poſts by Strangers fill’d.
But, ſince of my Eſtate you ask,
The Anſwer is no eaſy Task.
Criticks, not Lawyers, are to ſhow,
Whether my Title’s good, or no.
Ovid has long ago defin’d,
What Lands are to the Muſe aſſign’d:
’Tis but a barren Soil, ’tis true,
Not ſuch as Heav’n beſtow’d on You;
(Yet, Miſer-like, our Lands you ſeize;
And win, but will not wear, the Bays:)
A ſteep, a ſlipp’ry, dang’rous Hill,
Which we, alas! are climbing ſtill;Still 192 Bb4v 192
Still think there’s better Land up higher,
Which all would gain, but few acquire.
If low or beaten Paths we trace,
We’re deem’d an abject, grov’ling Race:
And oft, when we attempt to ſoar,
We miſs our Aim, and fall the lower:
Tho’ ſome by magic Numbers found
The Art to gain the higheſt Ground;
Yet moſt of thoſe, alas! we know,
Had Cauſe to wiſh they’d ſtay’d below;
Rather than be exalted there,
To ſtarve in pure poetic Air;
Whilſt taſteleſs Wights, in Valleys fed,
Deſpiſe the Wits in Want of Bread.
Yet ſometimes we in Story find
An Inſtance of a noble Mind,
That made Apollo’s Shrine its Care,
And bleſs’d the Tribe that worſhipp’d there.High 193 Ccr 193
High in the deathleſs Liſts of Fame,
Revere the godlike Sidney’s Name:
There Dorset, and Southampton, view;
And there the Poets Montagu.
Eliza paid her Spencer’s Toil
With Acres of Hibernian Soil:
And now illuſtrious Caroline
Reſolves to raiſe the drooping Nine;
With Pleaſure ſaw the lab’ring Hind
Studious to cultivate his Mind;
And deign’d to ſmile on Duck’s Poems. rural Lines,
Where ſo much native Beauty ſhines.
Hortensia, I revere your Mrs. Clayton. Friend:
May Bleſsings on her Head deſcend,
Who made a Peaſant’s Merit known,
And plac’d the Poor before the Throne:
Thus imitates the Pow’r Divine,
And proves her Soul ally’d to thine.
On imagining a Friend had treated the Author with Indifference.
Go, Jealouſy, Tormentreſs dire;
On Lovers only ſeize:
In Love, like Winds, you fan the Fire,
And make it higher blaze.
But Friendſhip’s calmer, purer Joy
Thou doſt not heighten, but deſtroy.
To the Right Honourable Charlotte Lady Conway, on her reſolving to leave Bath.
O Charlotte, truly pious, early wiſe!
The Pleaſures ſought by others, you deſpiſe:
Nor Bath, nor Bath’s Allurements thee detain;
Unmov’d, you quit them to the Gay and Vain.
But tho’ nor Health, nor Pleaſure will prevail;
The Happineſs you give, ſhould turn the Scale.
O ſtay, and teach the Virtues of thy Breaſt:
Thouſands by thy Example may be bleſt:
A Mind ſo humble, and ſo truly great,
So fitted to oblige in ev’ry State;
A Manner, ſo engaging and diſcrete,
A Manner, ſo inimitably ſweet!
Theſe, and thy thouſand Charms, who can expreſs?
Seymour, how vaſt a Treaſure you poſſeſs!
An Invitation to Edward Walpole, Eſq; upon hearing he was landed in Dublin.
When I heard you were landed, I flew to the Nine,
Intreating their Aid, to invite you to dine.
They told me, I came on that Errand too late;
For you were engag’d by the Rich, and the Great.
Already! ſaid I, they were ſpeedy indeed:
However I’ll try, and I hope to ſucceed.
Thoſe Creatures of Pow’r, who your Levee attend,
If your Father were out, their Conge’s would end:
Tho’ your perſonal Merit is great, ’tis allow’d;
’Tis the Son of the Stateſman, that weighs with the Croud.
I expect not a Place, nor hope for a Penſion.
The Love of the Muse is my only Pretenſion.I 197 Cc3r 197
I hate to abuſe — and I never can flatter:
I write for no Party, nor either beſpatter.
From the Lands of Parnaſſus the Rents are ill-paid,
And England has cruelly cramp’d us in Trade:
So look not for China, or Service of Plate,
Or ought that is coſtly, to tempt you to eat.
Yet a Way to engage you I think I have hit on:
I mean, to remember our Friends in Great-Britain.
Two Bottles of Wine, and two Diſhes I’ll give:
Then fly from the Crouds that oppreſs you — and live.
The firſt Glaſs ſhall welcome you, Sir, to our Coaſt;
And dear Lady Conway Charlotte Lady Conway. ſhall be my next Toaſt.
With Mirth, and Good-humour, I’ll make up the Treat;
I know you’re too wiſe, to love dining in State.
To the Reverend Mr. Mabell, of Cambridge, who has publiſh’d Propoſals for a Tranſlation of Longinus.
By William Ward, Eſq;
Bath, 1731-12-20Dec. 20. 1731.
Tho’ great Longinus claims thy aiding Hand,
And hopes, thro’ thee, t’inſtruct a barb’rous Land,
Where vile Conceits the Pow’r of Wit confound,
And true Sublimity is loſt in Sound;
Where Folly, dreſs’d ten thouſand various Ways,
The Bar, the Play-houſe, and the Pulpit ſways;
Yet to my Verſe thy kind Attention lend;
Pardon the Poet, and indulge the Friend.
From Noiſe, and Nonſenſe, and vain Laughter free,
I ſteal a thoughtful Hour, and give to thee;To 199 Cc4r 199
To thee, Conductor of my heedleſs Youth,
Who taught me firſt to rev’rence Senſe, and Truth;
Virtue to praiſe; and boldly Vice deride,
With all the Pomp of Faſhion on her Side.
Behold the Scene a motley Tribe compoſe,
Wives, Widows, Maids, and intermingled Beaux,
All Orders, Ages, in one League unite,
And to dear Paſſage conſecrate the Night!
Now the Dice rattle in the ſounding Box;
Now groans the Table with repeated Knocks;
(Delightful Muſic to the Gameſter’s Ear!)
While ev’ry Boſom beats with Hope or Fear.
A Paſs reſounds — What wond’rous Tranſports riſe
In Celia’s Breaſt, and lighten in her Eyes!
She ſweeps the Board — The Fop, with ardent Gaze,
Admires the Beauty that her Arm diſplays.
But who, unmov’d, can bear the piteous Sight,
While Cynthia frets and raves at Fortune’s Spite?Fled 200 Cc4v 200
Fled from her Cheek are ev’ry Love and Grace,
And all the Fury threatens in her Face:
Diſtracted, loſt, with Grief and Rage o’ercome,
She quits the Dice, and flies to ſtorm at home.
When I a Curſe implore, may courteous Fate
With ſuch a Conſort curſe the Man I hate!
But is there One amongſt the Many found,
Adorn’d with Modeſty, with Reaſon crown’d;
Who treads the ſlipp’ry Paths of Youth with Care,
And uninfected breathes in tainted Air?
If ſuch there be, kind Heav’n, afford thy Aid,
And ſoften to my Wiſh the virtuous Maid!
See the Belle flutter with the ſprightly Beau!
They trip it on the light, fantaſtic Toe:
Nor Words, nor Sighs, their am’rous Thoughts impart;
They dance, and glitter at each other’s Heart!
With honeſt Scorn ſurvey yon various Croud,
Of ſupple Slaves, or Lords of Titles proud!Stiff- 201 Ddr 201
Stiff-nodding Fools! a Mob in Maſquerade!
Whom Honours brand, and Dignities upbraid.
Yet ſome there are, with Worth and Wiſdom bleſt,
A noble Few! who ſatirize the reſt;
Who ſcorn to boaſt their great Fore-father’s Rays,
Shine of themſelves, and mingle Blaze with Blaze.
And ſuch is Orrery; whoſe gen’rous Mind,
Still prone to Pity, feels for human Kind.
A Zeal for Piety inflames his Breaſt,
Temper’d with Charity, in Meekneſs dreſs’d:
Grandeur and Eaſe his ev’ry Action guide;
He nor aſſumes, nor condeſcends, in Pride:
Add ſprightly Wit, by prudent Laws confin’d,
A Judgment ſober, and by Books refin’d:
Add, that the Muſes ev’ry Charm diſpenſe,
To tune his Voice, and beautify the Senſe.
This to my Friend: And, O! may this inſpire
Love of fair Fame, and fan the ſacred Fire!
Dare to have Taſte, and urge thy glorious Toil,
To teach th’Unknowing, and to pleaſe a Boyle.
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Orrery, in Dublin: Upon receiving an Account from Mrs. Barber, of his Lordſhip’s great Generoſity to her.
By the Same.
Let Others ſpeak your Titles, and your Blood;
Accept from Me the glorious Name of Good.
This Honour only from fair Virtue ſprings,
Ennobles Slaves, adds Dignity to Kings.
O born to ſhew Nobility deſign’d
Not to inſult, but to protect Mankind!
Well you diſcern to ſpare, or to beſtow;
Nor waſte in Riot, what to Worth you owe.Dd2 Judgment 204 Cc2v 204
Judgment your Bounty guides; and all agree,
’Tis Praiſe, ’tis Glory, to recieve from Thee.
Gen’rous thy Gifts; but more thy matchleſs Art,
To ſpare the Bluſh, and doubly bind the Heart.
Tho’ Fortune place me in a diſtant Scene;
And Mountains riſe, and Oceans roll between;
O’er Mountains, Oceans, Gratitude conveys
The good Man’s Act, and wide extends his Praiſe.
Strange! that your Judgment errs in this alone;
Barber you bleſs, yet hope your Gifts unknown.
’Tis Hers to bring each lovely Deed to Light,
And force unwilling Virtue to the Sight:
’Tis Hers, and ’tis Her Muſe’s greateſt Pride,
A Favour never to forget, or hide.
Illustrious Youth! and let me ſtyle you Friend!
O look with Candour on the Lines I ſend!
Warm from the Heart my artleſs Numbers fall;
Nor wait Correctneſs, when your Virtues call.Here, 205 Cc3r 205
Here, bleſs’d with all that human Life requires,
Superior to vain Fears, or low Deſires;
In chearful Solitude, in ſtudious Eaſe;
Careful my Conſcience, and my God, to pleaſe;
I think on Thee, when Want, or Worth implore;
And unrepining ſhare my little Store.
So Stars attend the beauteous Queen of Night;
And faintly ſhine, nor emulate her Light.
Edmonton, April 5. 1733.
To Mrs. Ward.
By the Same.
O Thou, my beauteous, ever tender Friend,
Thou, on whom all my worldly Joys depend,
Accept theſe Numbers; and with Pleaſure hear
Unſtudy’d Truth, which Few, alas! can bear;
While conſcious Virtue takes the Muſe’s Part,
Glows on thy Cheek, and warms thy gen’rous Heart.
Let Birth-day Suits be thoughtleſs Celia’s Care,
And Rows of Di’monds recommend the Fair;
While gazing Crouds around the Pageant preſs,
Charm’d with her Pride, and Luxury of Dreſs:
Far other Joys thy juſt Ambition move,
To cheriſh and reward a Husband’s Love;To 207 Cc4r 207
To ſlight vain Titles, in Retreat to ſhine,
Shun public Praiſe, and call a Poet thine.
And know, ye Fair, a Poet can ſupply
What Wealth, and Pow’r, and Equipage deny.
When the vain Bus’neſs of your Lives is o’er,
And the Glaſs frightens whom it charm’d before,
When not a Trace remains of what you were,
And not a Compliment ſalutes your Ear;
Without one Virtue, to redeem Reſpect,
Without one Beauty, to forbid Neglect:
With Tears unpity’d, you may then lament
The gloomy Setting of a Life miſ-ſpent;
Nor Delia’s Choice with witty Malice blame,
Who gave up Show for Happineſs and Fame.
O! If the Muſe, not uninſpir’d, divine,
Thy bright Example ſhall for ever ſhine;
Teach the wiſe Virgin where to fix her Choice,
And weigh no Marriage by the common Voice;To 208 Dd4v 208
To yield with Dignity; reject with Grace;
Nor tire the Lover with a tedious Chace.
With Eaſe to conquer, and with Eaſe retain,
Brighten Proſperity, or ſoften Pain:
Know Woman’s Glory, and her proper End,
Live to her Husband, Family, and Friend;
Thro’ varying Life her various Virtues prove,
Honour her Portion here, and Bliſs above.
Say, What Perſuaſion, or what Arts of mine,
Could gain a Paſſage to a Soul like thine?
Where Female Softneſs, Strength of Reaſon meet,
A piercing Judgment, and a Wit diſcrete;
Where ev’ry Paſſion, ev’ry Duty, knows
Its proper Bounds, and not unlicenc’d flows.
Say, for thou know’ſt, my ever-ableſt Guide,
(One doubtful Act remains unjuſtify’d)
On Me, on Me, thy choiceſt Favours fell;
Could You ſo err, or I deſerve ſo well?Inſtruct 209 Eer 209
Inſtruct me thou the happy Art to ſteer,
And ſtill with Modeſty thy Conduct clear:
So in thy Praiſes may the World agree;
Nor load with Vanity the Muſe and Me.
With Song ſtill uſher’d ſhall the Morn ariſe,
That ſhew’d thee firſt, all-charming, to my Eyes:
I gaz’d with Rapture, yet chaſtiz’d with Awe:
So the Firſt Man deſcending Angels ſaw.
Speaking, or ſilent, O! ſecure to charm,
To win with Wiſdom, or with Beauty warm;
The Graces unobſerv’d, with eaſy Care,
Form thy ſoft Accents, and compoſe thy Air,
I ſaw, and heard, nor heard, nor ſaw, unmov’d,
Unknowing, or I durſt not know, I lov’d.
What thence I ſuffer’d, let high Heav’n declare,
Pitying my Grief, propitious to my Pray’r.
Heav’n try’d my Paſſion, and pronounc’d it true;
Hence I embolden’d, and hence ſofter You.Ee Yet 210 Eev 210
Yet oft with-held, and falt’ring oft with Pain,
My Tongue half utters, what my Eyes explain.
Nor prone to flatter, nor to Virtue blind;
Not void of Knowledge, and to learn inclin’d;
Nor ſprung from noble, nor ungen’rous Blood;
Boaſting a Father honeſt, wiſe, and good;
Such long obſerv’d, and by long Converſe ſhown;
My Temper, Manners, and my Failings known;
You truſt my Vows, and pity Love ſincere;
Haſte to relieve, and ſmile away my Fear;
Give all you can, and all the reſt forſake,
The nobleſt Sacrifice that Love could make!
Of what Avail the Uſe of Wealth to Thee?
Or what the Bleſſing, if unſhar’d with Me?
O doubly honour’d by the grateful Mind,
For what you bring, and what you leave behind!
Is there a Man in Science not unread,
In ſimple Neatneſs elegantly bred,Of 211 Ee2r 211
Of what or Health or Nature asks, poſſeſs’d,
Receiv’d by all, and by his Friends careſs’d,
Falſe and inſidious can the Fair purſue,
And look on Beauty with a Miſer’s View?
Taught by the Muſe ſuch abject Souls to hate,
And hope ſweet Converſe from the Marriage-State;
I place my Triumphs in a matchleſs Wife,
Nor ſeek ſuperfluous Vanities of Life:
Thus, unobnoxious to Detraction’s Aim,
Nor baſe Suſpicion can attaint my Fame.
Degen’rate Thought! Let ſland’rous Tongues aſſail,
Spread all their Poiſon, all their Rage prevail;
So gracious Heav’n reſtore thee to enjoy
What Love could leave, but Wiſdom could employ.
Meanwhile my Delia manifeſts her Worth;
The Loſs of Riches calls her Prudence forth:
Behold her now with Dignity deſcend;
And low, but neceſſary, Cares attend;Ee2 Chearful, 212 Ee2v 212
Chearful, what Fortune not allows, reſign;
And (harder ſtill) her Charities confine:
But Heav’n in ſecret ſees the kind Intent,
Each Act of Pity, or of Bounty, meant;
Heav’n ſees in ſecret; but in open Day
Will crown thy Merit, and thy Praiſe diſplay.
Tho’ ſmall thy Store, not Millions could ſuffice,
To furniſh all thy lib’ral Thought ſupplies.
How oft thy lov’d Sapphira melts thy Breaſt,
Obſcur’d her Worth, her Genius half-depreſs’d!
How oft thy Fancy helps Old-Age along,
Or hears the Widow’s, and the Orphan’s Song!
Now viſionary Temples riſe around;
And half thy Empire, George, is ſacred Ground.
From Thee, my Delia, from thy watchful Care,
My Little laſts, my Little, Friends can ſhare:
Nor Debts diſtract, nor Uſuries devour;
Poor if I am, within my Fortune poor.Smile 213 Ee3r 213
Smile on, my Fair, tho’ cautious, void of Fear,
Wiſe to ſhun Sorrows, or prepar’d to bear.
Who copies Thee, ſhall never fail to find,
’Midſt Clouds and Storms, the Sun-ſhine of the Mind:
For Piety (whatever Ill impends)
Omniſcience guides, Omnipotence defends.
Bless’d in Retirement, Competence, and Love,
Below all Envy, and all Vice above,
Crown’d with Content, I only burn to ſhow,
(Hopeleſs to recompenſe) how much I owe.
O born with Genius, and with Learning fill’d,
In ev’ry Rule of happy Writing skill’d;
Whom Beauties ſtrike, falſe Ornaments offend;
Who weigh with Care each Author’s Scope and End;
Know why Pope ſlackens, or augments his Fire;
And oft, where others damn, the moſt admire;
(So ſhallow Wits, with bolder Folly, blame,
From Parts, the faultleſs Univerſal Frame:But 214 Ee3v 214
But Newton’s Genius could the Whole explore,
See All was good, and Wiſdom’s Hand adore)
This Verſe (you know me free from faulty Pride)
Or kindly authorize, or kindly hide:
Approve; and Fame ſhall ſanctify my Lays:
Suppreſs; yet Love my grateful Labour pays.
Written at Tunbridge-Wells, where the Author had, the Year before, been honour’d with the Acquaintance of Mrs. Strangeways Horner, who, after, went abroad on account of her Health.
These Plains, ſo joyous once to me,
Now ſadly chang’d appear:
Hortenſia I no more can ſee,
Who patroniz’d me here.
Fair Excellence, where-e’er you go,
May Kindred Angels wait,
To guard you thro’ this Vale of Woe,
To your celeſtial Seat.
Sage Boerhaave! now exert your Art,
New Medicines explore:
A purer, or a nobler Heart,
Ne’er ſought thy Aid before.
Your choiceſt Springs, Germania, give:
Goddeſs of Health, attend:
Long, long, and happy may ſhe live,
The lonely Stranger’s Friend.
To Novella, on her ſaying deridingly, that a Lady of great Merit, and fine Addreſs, was bred in the Old Way.
You cry, She’s bred in the Old Way;
Then into Laughter fall:
Were ſhe as juſt to you, ſhe’d ſay,
You are not bred at all.
The Speech of Cupid, upon ſeeing himſelf painted by the Honourable Miſs Carteret, (now Counteſs of Dyſert) on a Fan.
Written by Mrs. Grierſon.
In various Forms have I been ſhown,
Tho’ little yet to Mortals known;
In antient Temples painted blind,
Nor leſs imperfect in my Mind:
Abroad I threw my random Darts,
And, ſpiteful, pierc’d ill-ſuited Hearts:
The ſteady Patriot, wiſe and brave,
Is to ſome giddy Jilt a Slave;
The thoughtful Sage oft weds a Shrew;
And Veſtals languiſh for a Beau:The 219 Ff2r 219
The fiery Youth’s unguided Rage;
The childiſh Dotages of Age;
Theſe, and ten thouſand Follies more,
Are plac’d to injur’d Cupid’s Score.
As ſuch, is Love by Realms ador’d,
As ſuch, his giddy Aid implor’d:
Tho’ oft the thoughtleſs Nymph, and Swain,
That ſu’d me thus, have ſu’d in vain.
Yet, long inſulted by Mankind,
Who from falſe Figures judg’d my Mind;
And on me all the Faults have thrown,
They were themſelves aſham’d to own;
I from this Picture plainly ſee,
A Mortal can be juſt to me;
That awful Sweetneſs can diſplay,
With which Angelic Minds I ſway;
With which I rule the Good on Earth,
And give exalted Paſſions Birth:Ff2 The 220 Ff2v 220
The Form of Love, ſo long unknown,
At laſt by bright Charissa’s ſhown:
Her Hand does ev’ry Beauty trace,
That can adorn a heav’nly Face;
And of my Graces more unfold,
Than ever Paint, or Verſe, of old.
Now hear the God, whom Worlds revere,
What He decrees for Her, declare.
Thou, lovely Nymph! ſhalt ſhortly prove
Thoſe Sweets, thou paint’ſt ſo well in Love:
Thou ſoon that charming Swain ſhalt ſee,
Whom Fate and I deſign for Thee;
His Head adorn’d with ev’ry Art;
With ev’ry Grace his glowing Heart,
That throbs with ev’ry fond Deſire,
Thy Charms can raiſe, or Love inſpire.
You from each other ſhall receive
The highest Joys I know to give:(Tho’ 221 Ff3r 221
(Tho’ to thy Parents, long before,
I thought I empty’d all my Store)
While your exalted Lives ſhall ſhow
A Sketch of heav’nly Bliſs below;
The Bliſs of ev’ry god-like Mind,
Beneficent to human Kind;
And I to Mortals ſhine confeſs’d,
Both in your Paint, and in your Breaſt.
To the Honourable Mrs. Spencer, on her removing from Windſor to Rookly in Hampſhire.
Where-e’er you go, ſome Actions ſtill we hear,
Which make the Goodneſs of your Mind appear.
Hibernia early ſaw thoſe Seeds of Worth,
In your fair Breaſt, which now ſhoot nobly forth;
Foreſaw the Hopes you gave, matur’d by Time,
And griev’d to yield you to a happier Clime.
Tho’ to the Height of all your Wiſhes bleſs’d,
Yet ſtill your Sighs can riſe for the Diſtreſs’d:
So young, ſo good! Georgina, ’tis thy Fate,
To be admir’d, and lov’d in ev’ry State.
How does thy Manner to thy Words impart
Some wond’rous Pow’r to gain upon the Heart,
Engaging All! — Beneficence we ſee,
Tho’ fair Herſelf, yet owing Charms to Thee:
O fitted Thou for Spencer’s Race, who ſcorn
To think they only for Themſelves were born!
To a Gentleman, who ſhew’d a fine Poem as his own.
No more at Criticks, Ned, repine,
Who ſay thoſe Numbers are not thine.
I own I was ſuſpicious too,
And thought the Verſe too good for You:
But ſince you ſay thoſe Lines you writ,
The Proof is full, and I ſubmit.
So, if Thaumantia ſhould profeſs,
She owes Herſelf her glorious Dreſs;
And Cynthia, Empreſs of the Night,
Declare ſhe ſhines by native Light;
(Tho’ envious Criticks vent their Gall)
I’d equally believe you all.
To the Right Honourable John Barber, Eſq; Lord Mayor of London, on committing one of my Sons to his Care.
To the late King of Britain a Savage was brought,
Which wild in the Woods of Germania was caught.
This Preſent ſo princely was train’d up with Care;
And knew how to eat, and to jump, and to ſtare;
The Beaux, and the Belles, beheld it with Joy;
And at Court the high Mode was to ſee the Wild Boy
Reflecting on this, with a politic View,
I determin’d to ſend ſuch a Preſent to You.
In the Wilds of Hibernia this Boy was beſet,
And caught (as the Natives are there) in a Net:Gg The 226 Ggv 226
The Creature has Senſe, and, in my Eyes, is pretty,
With Talents to make a good Man The City-Phraſe for a rich Man. in the City;
Induſtrious, and orderly, prudent, and ſmart,
And not too much Conſcience, nor too little Art;
Not ſcrup’lous, but honeſt, a Heart ſet on Gain,
Whoſe higheſt Ambition is fix’d on the Chain.
From You may he copy to wear it with Glory;
Like You, in Return—be honour’d in Story.
Spoken extempore, to the Right Honourable the Lady Barbara North, on her preſenting the Author with a white Ribband at Tunbridge-Wells.
This Preſent from a lovely Dame,
Fair and unſully’d, as her Fame,
Shall to Hibernia be convey’d,
Where once, rever’d, her Thomas late Earl of Pembroke. Father ſway’d;
And taught the drooping Arts to ſmile,
And with his Virtues bleſs’d our Iſle.
To his Grace the Duke of Buckingham and Normanby, at the Camp before Philipsburg.
Return, brave Youth! ſuſpend thy Martial Fire,
Nor, like great Berwick, in the Field expire.
Illustrious Exile! thou art gone at laſt;
Thy Toils, and various Dangers now are paſt:
The royal Blood, which flow’d in Berwick’s Veins,
Is now pour’d out on hoſtile German Plains:
But tho’ in Duſt thy mortal Part be laid,
Yet ſhall thy dear-bought Laurels never fade:
Tho’ to a foreign Prince’s Service ty’d,
You liv’d with Glory, and with Glory dy’d.
Muse, look not back, nor vainly mourn the Fate,
Which robb’d Britannia of an Arm ſo great.
On the ſad Scene may Princes turn their Eye;
And from Oppreſſion’s fatal Footſteps fly;
Of arbitrary Pow’r the Danger ſee,
To Britiſh Monarchs the forbidden Tree;
Which, like the firſt, forbid by Pow’r divine,
Hurts not themſelves alone, but taints their Line.
Sheffield, ſince Martial Ardor fires your Breaſt,
Make Albion only in that Ardor bleſt;
Nor yet by War alone exalt thy Name;
Give Science her hereditary Claim:
Return, brave Youth! your longing Country grace;
Think what you owe Britannia, and your Race.
By a Perſon of Quality.
Remote from Strife, from urban Throngs, and Noiſe,
Here dwells my Soul amidſt domeſtic Joys:
No rattling Coaches ſerious Thoughts annoy;
Nor buſy prating Fools my Peace deſtroy:
Wrapt up in all the Sweets of rural Eaſe,
My great Creator’s Works my Senſes pleaſe.
The Mind, in peaceful Solitude, has Room
To range in Thought, and ramble far from home.
Others may court the Joys which Princes give,
Whilſt I, in ſacred Silence, truly live.
Verſes occaſion’d by the Sickneſs of Mrs. Anne Donnellan.
Goddess of Health, where-e’er you dwell,
To Philomela fly;
O haſten from your rural Cell,
Nor let the Fair one die.
Again her Voice divine reſtore,
And give her Eyes their Fire;
So ſhall a World thy Pow’r adore,
And raiſe thy Altars higher.
Since Milo rallies ſacred Writ,
To win the Title of a Wit;
’Tis Pity but he ſhould obtain it,
Who bravely pays his Soul to gain it.
On ſeeing an Officer’s Widow diſtracted, who had been driven to Deſpair, by a long and fruitleſs Sollicitation for the Arrears of her Penſion.
O Wretch! hath Madneſs cur’d thy dire Deſpair?
Yes—All thy Sorrows now are light as Air:
No more you mourn your once-lov’d Husband’s Fate,
Who bravely periſh’d for a thankleſs State.
For rolling Years thy Piety prevail’d;
At length, quite ſunk—thy Hope, thy Patience fail’d:
Diſtracted now you tread on Life’s laſt Stage,
Nor feel the Weight of Poverty and Age:
How bleſt in this, compar’d with thoſe, whoſe Lot
Dooms them to Miſeries, by you forgot!
Now, wild as Winds, you from your Off-ſpring fly,
Or fright them from you with diſtracted Eye;
Rove thro’ the Streets; or ſing, devoid of Care,
With tatter’d Garments, and diſhevell’d Hair;
By hooting Boys to higher Phrenzy fir’d,
At length you ſink, by cruel Treatment tir’d,
Sink into Sleep, an Emblem of the Dead,
A Stone thy Pillow, the cold Earth thy Bed.
O Tell it not; let none the Story hear,
Leſt Britain’s Martial Sons ſhould learn to fear:
And when they next the hoſtile Wall attack,
Feel the Heart fail, the lifted Arm grow ſlack;
And pauſing cry—Tho’ Death we ſcorn to dread,
Our Orphan Off-ſpring, muſt they pine for Bread?
See their lov’d Mothers into Priſons thrown;
And unreliev’d in Iron Bondage groan?
Britain, for this impending Ruin dread;
Their Woes call loud for Vengeance on thy Head:
Nor wonder, if Diſaſters wait your Fleets;
Nor wonder at Complainings in your Streets:
Be timely wiſe; arreſt th’ uplifted Hand,
Ere Peſtilence or Famine ſweep the Land.
To Mrs. Mary Cæſar, upon ſeeing her just after the Marriage of her Friend, the Lady Margaret Harley.
I Read in your delighted Face,
The Nuptial Bands are ty’d:
From Me congratulate her Grace,
Young Portland’s lovely Bride.
Tell her, an humble artleſs Muſe
Would hail the happy Pair;
But that, like Flow’rs by deadly Dews,
Her Strains are damp’d by Care.
Thoſe whom the tuneful Nine inſpire,
Have now a ſpacious Field:
To them I muſt reſign the Lyre,
To none in Wiſhes yield.
May Prudence ſtill the Fair attend,
Who, with diſtinguiſh’d Taſte,
In Cæsar early choſe a Friend,
With ev’ry Virtue grac’d:
Who back a thouſand Years may trace,
And her Deſcent maintain,
From Ademar’s Sir Julius Ademar, descended from Baron Ademar, who was Count of Genoa in the Reign of Charlemain, added the Name of Cæſar to his own, by the Command of Queen Elizabeth, he being Grandſon by the Female Line to the Duke De Cæſarini. illuſtrious Race,
Ally’d to Charlemain.
Sophronia, all the World agree,
The Soul of Friendſhip dwells in Thee:
Let Envy other Gifts diſpute,
Since here the Fury muſt be mute.
Without one vain, one venal View,
The Muſe inſcribes theſe Lines to you.
Tho’ I thy Favour ſhall not ſhare,
Thy Worth I’m deſtin’d to revere;
And in Sophronia muſt commend
The firm diſintereſted Friend:
To Virtue I this Homage pay;
Rewarded, tho’ you ſlight the Lay.
Those who thy Favour once obtain,
Need not ſollicit thee again;
Nor ever at Neglect repine:
Their Wiſhes and their Cares are thine:
Nor at the Grave thy Friendſhip ends;
But to Poſterity deſcends.
Hail, ſacred Friendſhip! ſeldom found,
Tho’ ſought for all the World around:
Say, Bleſſing of the peaceful Cell!
How cam’ſt thou in a Court to dwell?
Advice to the Ladies at Bath.
Written by a Lady.
Ye heedleſs Fair, who trifle Life away,
Let either Brownlow Lady Elizabeth Brownlow, and her Daughter, now Lady Veſey. ſet your Notions right:
Be, like the Daughter, innocently gay;
Or, like the Mother, prudent and polite.
To a Gentleman, who took a very grave Friend of his, to viſit one of quite a different Turn.
I Hope, Sir, by this you have found your Account,
In viſiting Airy, and ſeeing his Mount:
If Froth can delight you, you’re wonderous happy;
And we know it gives Joy on a Bottle of Nappy.
Your Friend would be very much mended, in troth,
Should Airy beſtow him a Daſh of his Froth.
To keep up the Metaphor, ’twould make him mellow,
And, of a ſour Stoic, a pleaſant young Fellow;
And Airy be recompens’d well for that Favour,
If your Friend, in Return, ſhould make him grow graver.
This Exchange ſhould they make, it would ſet ’em both right;
Since one is too ſolid, and t’other too light.
To a Lady, who valu’d herſelf on ſpeaking her Mind in a blunt Manner, which ſhe call’d being ſincere.
Well you Sincerity diſplay,
A Virtue wond’rous rare!
Nor value, tho’ the World ſhould ſay,
You’re rude, ſo you’re ſincere.
To be ſincere, then, give me leave,
And I will frankly own,
Since you but this one Virtue have,
’Twere better you had none.
Prologue to Theodoſius: Spoken by Athenais at the Theatre in Dublin, when Lord and Lady Carteret were in Ireland.
Written by Mrs. Grierſon.
You look ſurpriz’d, in this deriding Age,
To find that Love dares venture on the Stage;
Where you, of late, ſeem nothing to approve,
But what, in Men of Senſe, Contempt muſt move;
That after all your Concerts, Farces, Shows,
You muſt attend a dying Lover’s Woes.
I know you’ll be amaz’d at what I mean,
In all my height of Fortune to complain:
Ador’d by Monarchs, and an Emp’ror’s Bride,
You’ll ſay, I need not in a Fret have dy’d.Ii2 Forbear; 244 Ii2v 244
Forbear; nor witleſs Jeſts on Love employ,
Alike unknowing in its Pain and Joy:
When you deſpiſe its Happineſs, or Woe,
You but your Want of Senſe, or Virtue, ſhow:
Be humane then; be touch’d with Scenes refin’d;
Which, while they raiſe the Paſſions, mend the Mind:
And, by your Pity of my Woes To-night,
Convince the World, your Hearts are form’d aright.
Or, if you ſcorn to hear what I adviſe,
Let great Examples teach you to be wiſe.
Lovers are not ſo out of Faſhion here,
That Athenais bluſhes to appear:
As fam’d a Pair Lordand Lady Carteret. adorns this Iſle and Age,
As ever could each other’s Heart engage;
Endow’d with ev’ry Grace of Form and Mind,
To raiſe the Love and Wonder of Mankind;Tho’ 245 Ii3r 245
Tho’ bleſs’d with ev’ry Gift to merit Fame,
Their higheſt Glory is their mutual Flame;
A Flame, like that my tender Boſom fir’d;
But rul’d by Reaſon, and by Heav’n inſpir’d;
Their Love like mine, but diff’rent far their Fate;
As happy they, as I unfortunate.
But my Diſtreſs had never reach’d the Stage,
Had Heav’n reſerv’d me to the preſent Age:
None would have dar’d my Fondneſs to abuſe,
Had I from beauteous Worsley learn’d to chuſe;
Nor I my Heart on raſh Varanes ſet,
Had I, like her, but known a Carteret.
A Letter to Mrs. Barber, at Tunbridge- Wells.
Thou glorious Ruler of the beauteous Day!
Have ſev’nteen Years ſo ſwiftly roll’d away?
Haſt thou ſo oft the heav’nly Circle run,
When ſcarce I thought thy radiant Courſe begun?
Never ſhall I my fleeting Time renew:
Muſt it all periſh in one tranſient View?
I wiſh—Alas! my Wiſhes are in vain:
Thoſe flying Years they never can regain:
With rapid Haſte Old Time the Moments drives;
And ſcarce a Trace of Youth in Age ſurvives:
So, when the weary’d Mortal ſinks to Reſt,
And ev’ry Tumult ceaſes in his Breaſt;Imagin’d 247 Ii4r 247
Imagin’d Scenes, and wiſh’d-for Views ariſe;
A new Creation feeds his wond’ring Eyes;
Till Phœbus, riſing o’er the ſpangled Plain,
Recalls him from the bright, deluſive Scene;
With Grief he then perceives th’ enchanting Sight,
The fleeting Creature of oblivious Night.
When ſome fine Voice delights the raptur’d Heart,
By Nature pleaſing, yet improv’d by Art;
Tho’ trembling each ſeraphic Sound decay,
And with melodious Cadence melt away;
The faithful Echo ſtill revives the Strain,
And ſweetly charms the liſt’ning Ear again:
But Life, once vaniſh’d, will return no more;
No mimic Thought its Preſence can reſtore.
Say then, my Soul, how muſt I now ſurvey
So many Years, ſo quickly ſnatch’d away?
Awake, my Muſe! Thou only canſt impart
Eaſe to my Griefs, and heal the wounded Heart:What 248 Ii4v 248
What Theme ſhall now employ my youthful Lays?
Say! Next to Heav’n, what Subject claims my Praiſe?
O impious Queſtion! Dare I ask the Theme,
When a lov’d Parent does that Duty claim?
The Infant Tree, that, with judicious Care,
Some Hand defended from the piercing Air,
With cooling Streams reliev’d the burning Root,
Or lopp’d, with tender Skill, each ſickly Shoot,
Soon as it learns the Tempeſt to deſpiſe,
And with diffuſive Branches hides the Skies,
Gladly rewards the weary’d Peaſant’s Pains,
And loads the Parent Hand with annual Gains.
Haste then, my Muſe, Sapphira is the Theme;
O ſtrive, tho’ vainly, to enhance her Fame:
Her Guardian Care did all my Griefs aſſuage,
Thoſe ſure Attendants of an Infant Age!
By her conducted to the Light of Truth,
I ſail, unſhipwreck’d, thro’ the Storm of Youth:The 249 Kkr 249
The heav’nly Influence of her ſage Advice
Points from afar the dang’rous Rocks of Vice;
Shews, with diſcerning Eye, the bliſsful Plains,
Where Peace, eternal, with fair Virtue reigns.
O Thou, whom ev’ry Grace and Worth attends,
Thou beſt of Mothers, and thou beſt of Friends!
Indulgently accept theſe filial Lays;
Accept thy Son’s inartificial Praiſe:
May Heav’n reſtore thee to theſe Eyes again,
And ſafely waft thee o’er th’ Iernian Main:
O quickly to my longing Eyes repair,
And ever bleſs me with thy Guardian Care!
To the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Boyle, Daughter to the Right Honourable John Earl of Orrery, on her Birth-day, May 7. 1733.
By the Same.
May each new Year ſome new Perfection give,
Till all the Mother in the Daughter live:
May’ſt Thou her Virtues to the World reſtore!
And be what Henrietta Late Counteſs of Orrery. was before!
And when revolving Years mature thy Charms,
When Pride of Conqueſt thy fair Boſom warms;
May ſome great Youth, for ev’ry Grace renown’d,
With Taſte and Science bleſs’d, by Virtue crown’d,Who 251 Kk2r 251
By Virtue guarded from Ambition’s Wiles,
Superior both to Fortune’s Frowns and Smiles;
Who wears the Honours of a glorious Name,
Yet to Diſtinction bears a nobler Claim;
Like a new Star, in native Luſtre bright,
That boaſts no Radiance from reflected Light;
Allow’d the riſing Genius of his Age;
By ev’ry Excellence thy Heart engage;
Like Him who bleſs’d thy Mother’s Nuptial State;
But O! may Heav’n give Thine a longer Date.
To Mrs. Frances-Arabella Kelly, with a Preſent of Fruit.
By the Same.
Tho’ the Plumb, and the Peach, with Apollo conſpire,
To preſent you their Softneſs, and Sweetneſs, and Fire;
Their Aid is in vain; for what can they do,
But bluſh, and confeſs themſelves vanquiſh’d by you?
Where Virtue and Wit with ſuch Qualities blend,
What Mortal, what Goddeſs would dare to contend?
Verſes ty’d about a Fawn’s Neck, which was preſented to a very young Lady, call’d by her Friends the Ivory Maid.
By the Same.
As thro’ this ſylvan Scene I ſtray’d,
I ſaw and lov’d the Iv’ry Maid:
And hearing that ſhe fled from Man,
I begg’d this Form of mighty Pan,
To try, by ev’ry winning Art,
To gain Poſſeſſion of her Heart;
When raging Tempeſts cloud the Sky,
Tranſported at her Feet to lie;
When Phoebus brightens up the Weather,
To trip it o’er the Lawns together.
To Mrs. Barber.
By the Same.
See, the bright Sun renews his annual Courſe,
Each Beam re-tinges, and revives its Force;
By Years uninjur’d, ſo may’ſt thou remain,
Not Time from thee, but thou from Time may’ſt gain.
O might the Fates thy vital Thread prolong,
And make thy Life immortal as thy Song!
Less Luſtre waits the God, when he refines
The rip’ning Metal in Peruvian Mines;
Brightens the Cryſtal with tranſparent Day,
Or points the Di’mond with its ſparkling Ray;Than 255 Kk4r 255
Than when, delighted, he thy Soul inſpires,
Informs thy Judgment, and thy Fancy fires;
Aſſiſts thee ſtriking out ſome bold Deſign,
And breathes immortal Honours on each Line:
In common as His Rays on all deſcend,
So You the Great delight, the Poor befriend:
As Heat productive His bright Beams beſtow,
So, warm with Life, your pow’rful Numbers flow:
As He from Clouds burſts forth divinely bright,
So Envy ſets You in a fairer Light:
Yet tho’ thus far Similitude we ſee,
One Thing diſturbs the wond’rous Harmony;
With faded Light the Winter Sun appears,
Whilſt You ſhine brighter in Decline of Years.
An Apology to the Earl of Orrery, Dr. Swift, and ſome others of my Friends, for falling into Tears before them, on my leaving Ireland.
Not Perſia’s Monarch could, unmov’d, ſurvey
Thoſe num’rous Hoſts, which time muſt ſweep away.
He wept Misfortunes of a diſtant Date;
I mourn the Rigour of my inſtant Fate.
The dreaded Hour, approaching faſt I ſee,
When you, alas! will all be dead to me.
Then ceaſe to wonder, if my Boſom riſe,
And Tears, unbidden, ruſh into my Eyes.
’Tis thus, and only thus, a grateful Breaſt
Pours out thoſe Thanks, which cannot be expreſs’d.
For, O Hibernia! when I quit thy Coaſt,
Such Friends I leave, as few could ever boaſt.
The Peacock. A Tale.
Inſcrib’d, (once at a Wedding) to the Baſhaws of Utopia.
Once Juno’s Bird (as Authors ſay)
Was ſeiz’d on by ſome Birds of Prey:
They pluck’d his Feathers, one by one,
Till all his uſeful Plumes were gone;
Stript him of ev’ry thing beſide;
But left his Train, to pleaſe his Pride.
Some other Birds admir’d to ſee,
He tamely bore ſuch Injury;
And often on his Patience jok’d——
He cry’d—They muſt not be provok’d:Ll I’m 258 Llv 258
I’m in their Pow’r, nor ſhall debate,
But yield to my unhappy Fate.
Oft in this Plight would he reſort,
To where the Eagle kept his Court:
For, tho’ oppreſs’d, he ſtill was proud
To make his Bows among the Croud.
The Eagle, gracious, ſaw him there;
Which envious Courtiers could not bear;
Well knowing, ſhould he tread that Soil,
He would in time put in for Spoil.
As Tameneſs Injuries provokes,
In Birds, as well as mortal Folks;
The Peacock they aſſault again,
And ſtrip him of his glitt’ring Train.
Enrag’d at this, he ſtampt and tore,
And quoted Precedents a Score,That 259 Ll2r 259
That Peacocks ever were allow’d
To ſhew their Beauty to the Croud.
At this the haughty Courtiers ſneer,
And cry, What Bus’neſs have you here?
He had a Right, they plainly ſaw;
But let him know, that Pow’r is Law.
At length a Pheaſant ſtanding by,
Beheld him with a pitying Eye;
And ſaid, You now begin too late,
To ſtem the Torrent of your Fate:
Yet are you not of all bereft;
For ſtill a fair Retreat is left:
Why will you here neglected roam,
When you might be rever’d at home?
To a Lady in the Spleen, whom the Author was deſir’d to amuſe.
Why, lovely Lelia, ſo depreſs’d?
With wonted Smiles your Eyes adorn;
Drive gloomy Sorrow from your Breaſt,
And ſhine out, beauteous, as the Morn.
The fair Pendarvis bid me try,
For you to tune my Lyre again,
To your lov’d Preſence inſtant fly,
And ſooth you with ſome joyous Strain.
But if Pendarvis, born to pleaſe,
Does in her native Province fail,
Nor can your anxious Boſom eaſe;
Alas! how ſhould my Muſe prevail?
Shall Heav’n, that form’d thee wond’rous fair,
Behold thee thus repining lie?
Dependent on that Guardian Care,
To bliſsful Proſpects turn your Eye.
Lelia, thy lovely Form ſurvey,
Let blooming Beauty plead her Cauſe:
Her pow’rful Empire fleets away
Too ſoon, alas! by Nature’s Laws.
On the Earl of Oxford and Mortimer’s giving his Daughter in Marriage in Oxford-Chapel.
See, in the Temple rais’d by Harley’s Hand,
His beauteous Off-ſpring at the Altar ſtand:
There Mortimer reſign’s his darling Care;
To happy Portland gives the blooming Fair.
Where had the Parent’s Pray’r like Favour found?
Where ſoar’d ſo high, as from that ſacred Ground?
What Boſom, but Devotion’s Ardor feels,
When, at the Shrine he hallow’d, Harley kneels?
At ſuch a Sight ſuperior Beings pleas’d,
To higher Notes their Hallelujahs rais’d.
To her Grace the Dutcheſs of Portland, with the foregoing Lines.
’Tis theirs, who but to pleaſe aſpire,
On Fiction to employ the Lyre;
Make Gods and Goddeſſes diſplay
The Splendor of the Nuptial Day.
To paint thee at the hallow’d Shrine,
A ſolemn, glorious Scene! be Mine;
Now lightly touch’d—Some other Hour,
(If e’er the Cloud-diſpelling Pow’r
Remove the Damps, that chill my Vein)
I’ll trace the ſlight-drawn Lines again;
Warm Col’ring on the Piece beſtow,
Till Life ſhall from the Pencil flow.
Lovely Bride! with Bliſs be crown’d,
Diffuſing Happineſs around:
Beneficent, like Harley, ſhine;
Like Henrietta, grace your Line.
Verſes written by Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe, on her drawing the Lord Boyle’s Picture.
In vain with mimic Skill my Pencil tries
To paint the Life, that ſparkles in thoſe Eyes.
What Art, what Rules of Symmetry, can trace
That Air of Wit, that Bloom, and modeſt Grace?
What ſoft Degrees of Shade or Light expreſs
The inward Worth, thoſe ſpeaking Looks confeſs?
’Tis more than Beauty here, that charms the Sight;
And gives our Souls an elegant Delight:
Were Virtue ſeen to mortal Eyes, ſhe’d wear
Thoſe peaceful Smiles, and that engaging Air.
Lord Boyle’s Anſwer to the foregoing Verſes.
No Air of Wit, no beauteous Grace I boaſt;
My Charms are native Innocence, at moſt.
Alike thy Pencil, and thy Numbers charm,
Glad ev’ry Eye, and ev’ry Boſom warm.
Mature in Years, if e’er I chance to tread,
Where Vice, triumphant, rears aloft her Head,
Ev’n there the Paths of Virtue I’ll purſue,
And own my fair and kind Director You.
To Robert Barber Eſq; Deputy to the Treaſurer’s Remembrancer in the Court of Exchequer, on his attending, whilst his Son repeated Gay’s Fable of the Hare and Many Friends.
Whilst Gay’s unhappy Fate thy Ear attends,
Thy Heart, indignant, ſcorns his faithleſs Friends;
Thy gen’rous Heart, which never learnt the Way,
A Friend or to deceive, or to betray:
With Honour and Integrity ſo bleſt,
Not Law, infectious, can pollute thy Breaſt:
With Juſtice and Humanity endow’d,
You ſhine, diſtinguiſh’d, ’midſt a venal Croud.
Verſes ſent to a Lady, who took Delight in ridiculing a Perſon of very weak Underſtanding, whom ſhe reliev’d from Want.
Should you employ your Ridicule,
On thoſe who Pity claim?
Think, Birtha, is the native Fool
For Wit a proper Theme?
On Vice your hum’rous Vein diſplay;
’Tis meritorious there;
Or tow’ring Vanity allay;
But, O! Misfortune ſpare.
With Wiſdom who endows the Brain,
To thy Remembrance call;
Nor, while the Wretched you ſuſtain,
Tincture their Cup with Gall.
To Lady H——r, who ask’d, Had the Author done writing Verſes?
Tell me, my Patroneſs, and Friend,
Can Age Parnaſſian Heights aſcend?
Sweet Poeſy’s light Footſteps trace?
Ah no! I muſt give up the Chace:
When Time the Head hath ſilver’d o’er,
The dear Deluſion charms no more.
But why haſt thou, with Taſte endow’d,
At Phoebus’ Altar never bow’d?
Shall Books engroſs thee all the Day?
When, lo! he waits to grace thy Lay.
On ſeeing the Captives, lately redeem’d from Barbary by His Majesty.
A Sight like this, who can unmov’d ſurvey?
Impartial Muſe, can’ſt thou with-hold thy Lay?
See the freed Captives hail their native Shore,
And tread the Land of Liberty once more:
See, as they paſs, the crouding People preſs,
Joy in their Joy, and their Deliv’rer bleſs.
Now, Slavery! no more thy rigid Hand
Shall drag the Trader to thy fatal Strand:
No more in Iron Bonds the Wretched groan;
Secur’d, Britannia, by thy Guardian Throne.
Say, mighty Prince! can Empire boaſt a Bliſs,
Amidſt its radiant Pomp, that equals this?To 272 Mm4v 272
To ſee the Captives, by thy Pow’r ſet free,
Their Supplications raiſe to Heav’n for Thee!
The god-like Bounty ſcatters Bleſſings round,
As flowing Urns enrich the diſtant Ground:
No more ſhall Woes the fainting Heart deſtroy;
The Houſe of Mourning now is turn’d to Joy:
See Arms in Grief long folded up, extend,
To claſp a Husband, Brother, Kinſman, Friend:
See hoary Parents tott’ring o’er the Grave,
A Son long-wail’d, to prop their Age, receive:
And, Have we liv’d to ſee thy Face? they cry;
O! ’tis enough — We now in Peace ſhall die:
O bleſs’d be Heav’n! and bleſs’d, while Life remains,
Shall be the Hand, that has unbound thy Chains!
Forbear, my Muſe; know Art attempts in vain,
What Nature pictures to the Breaſt humane.
To Wager Sir Charles Wager, who entertain’d the Captives at their coming to London, 1734-11-11Nov. 11. 1734. turn; for Wager raiſe thy Voice:
To feed the Hungry, long has been his Choice,
And make the Heart, born down by Care, rejoice.
Say, ye Luxurious, who indulge your Taſte,
And, by one Riot, might a Thouſand feaſt;
Do you not bluſh to ſee his Care to feed
The Captives by your Monarch’s Bounty freed?
The bitter Cup of Slavery is paſt;
But pining Penury approaches faſt.
And ſhall the Royal Race When the Captives attended his Majeſty at St. James’s in their ſlaviſh Habits, to return Thanks for their Deliverance, his Majeſty was graciouſly pleas’d to order 100 Guineas to be diſtributed among them; and their Royal Highneſſes the Duke and the Princeſſes gave above 50 more. alone beſtow?
Shall not Compaſſion from the Subject flow?Nn Shall 274 Nnv 274
Shall not each free-born Briton’s Boſom melt,
To make the Joys of Liberty more felt?
So, Albion, be it ever giv’n to thee,
To break the Bonds, and ſet the Pris’ners free.
To a Lady, who commanded me to ſend her an Account in Verſe, how I ſucceeded in my Subſcription.
How I ſucceed, you kindly ask;
Yet ſet me on a grievous Task,
When you oblige me to rehearſe
The Cenſures paſt upon my Verſe.
Tho’ I with Pleaſure may relate,
That many, truly good, and great,
With candid Eye my Lines ſurvey,
And ſmile upon the artleſs Lay;
To thoſe with grateful Heart I bend —
But your Commands I muſt attend.
Servilla cries, I hate a Wit;
Women ſhould to their Fate ſubmit,
Should in the Needle take Delight;
’Tis out of Character to write:
She may ſucceed among the Men;
They tell me, Swift ſubſcribes for Ten;
And ſome ſay, Dorset does the ſame;
But ſhe ſhall never have my Name:
Her Poetry has coſt me dear;
When Lady Carteret was here,
The Widow Gordon got my Guinea;
For which I own myſelf a Ninny.
Olivia loſes oft at Play;
So will not throw her Gold away.
Thus Sylvia, of the haughty Tribe:
She never ask’d me to ſubſcribe,Nor 277 Nn3r 277
Nor ever wrote a Line on me,
I was no Theme for Poetry!
She rightly judg’d; I have no Taſte —
For Womens Poetry, at leaſt.
Then Fulvia made this ſage Reply;
(And look’d with ſelf-ſufficient Eye:)
I oft have ſaid, and ſay again,
Verſes are only writ by Men;
I know a Woman cannot write;
I do not ſay this out of Spite;
Nor ſhall be thought, by thoſe who know me,
To envy one ſo much below me.
Sabina, fam’d in Wiſdom’s School,
Allows I write — but am a Fool:
What! — muſt our Sons be form’d by Rhyme?
A fine Way to employ one’s Time!
Albino has no Gold to waſte,
Far gone in the Italian Taſte:
He vows he muſt ſubſcribe this Year,
To keep dear Carestini Two famous Italian Singers, zealouſly ſupported by different Parties. here;
Not from a narrow Party View;
He doats on Senesino Two famous Italian Singers, zealouſly ſupported by different Parties. too;
By Turns their Int’reſt he’ll eſpouſe;
He’s for the public Good, he vows;
A gen’rous Ardor fires his Breaſt.
Hail, Britain, in ſuch Patriots bleſt!
Says Belvidera, Since a Wit
Or Friend or Foe alike will hit,
Deliver me from Wits, I ſay;
Grant Heav’n, they ne’er may croſs my Way!
Beſides, I oft have heart it hinted,
Her Poems never will be printed:Her 279 Nn4r 279
Her Sickneſs is a Feint, no Doubt,
To keep her Book from coming out.
Of Wit, ſays Celia, I’ll acquit her;
Then archly fell into a Titter.
A female Bard! Pulvillio cries;
’Tis poſſible ſhe may be wiſe;
But I could never find it yet,
Tho’ oft in Company we met:
She talks juſt in the common Way:
Sure Wits their Talents ſhould diſplay;
Their Language ſurely ſhould be bright,
Before they ſhould pretend to write:
I’ll ne’er ſubſcribe for Books, ſays he;
’Fore Gad, it looks like Pedantry.
High-born Belinda loves to blame,
On Criticiſm founds her Fame:When-e’er 280 Nn4v 280
Whene’er ſhe thinks a Fault ſhe ſpies,
How Pleaſure ſparkles in her Eyes!
Call it not Poetry, ſhe ſays;
No — Call it Rhyming, if you pleaſe:
Her Numbers might adorn a Ring,
Or ſerve along the Streets to ſing:
Stella and Flavia’s well enough;
What elſe I ſaw, was ſtupid Stuff;
Nor Love nor Satire in her Lays,
Inſipid! neither pain nor pleaſe:
I promis’d once to patronize her;
But on Reflection, I was wiſer:
Yet I ſubſcrib’d among the reſt;
I love to carry on a Jeſt.
Belinda thus her Anger ſhows,
Nor tells the World, from whence it flows:
With more Succeſs to wound my Lays,
She gilds the Dart with other Praiſe:To 281 Oor 281
To her own Breaſt I leave the Fair,
Convinc’d I ſtand acquitted there.
Amanda, your Commands, you ſee,
Tho’ grievous, are obey’d by me.
What my Friends told me had been ſaid,
Juſt as it came into my Head,
No matter for the Place or Time,
To ſhew your Pow’r, I tag with Rhyme.
Now let ſome News ſalute your Ear,
Tho’ I have weary’d you, I fear:
Know,—has Vengeance vow’d,
And in the Furies Temple bow’d:
He but ſuſpends his Wrath, he ſays,
Till he can criticiſe my Lays.
Malice, thy Rancour I expect,
And ſhall return it—with Neglect:
Go on, diſplay your treaſur’d Rage;
Invectives ſhall not blot my Page:Oo What 282 Oov 282
What real Faults you note, I’ll mend:
So now your Efforts I attend;
Taught early, Dryden, by thy Song,
They ne’er forgive, who do the Wrong.
Now to the Muſe I bid Adieu;
Nor rail at her, as Poets do:
Protected by the Good and Great,
I’ll not repine, but bleſs my Fate.
You, Madam, who your Sex adorn,
Who Malice and Detraction ſcorn,
Who with ſuperior Senſe are bleſs’d,
Of ev’ry real Worth poſſeſs’d;
With Eye indulgent view my Lays:
You know to blame, but love to praiſe:
You know my Faults, and know beſide,
I want not to be mortify’d.
One Merit I preſume to boaſt,
And dare to plead but one at moſt:The 283 Oo2r 283
The Muſe I never have debas’d;
My Lays are innocent at leaſt;
Were ever ardently deſign’d
To mend and to enlarge the Mind.
This muſt be own’d a virtuous Aim.
The Praiſe of Wit — let others claim.