001 A1r

Poems
upon
Several Occasions.

By Mrs. Leapor of Brackley
in Northamptonſhire.

London,
Printed: And Sold by J. Roberts in Warwick-Lane.
1748MDCCXLVIII.

002 A1v 003 A2r

To the Reader.

THE Author of the following Poems was taken from the World at the time when ſhe firſt began to meet with Encouragement to print them, and, in Compliance with her dying Requeſt, they are now publiſhed for the Benefit of her Father, who is deſirous to make uſe of this Opportunity of returning his humble thanks to the Subſcribers for the Favour they have been pleaſed to ſhew him.

The ſhort Account which has been given of Mrs. Leapor, with the Propoſals for a Subſcription, it is hop’d, will ſufficiently apologize for the Defects that ſhall be found in this Collection. Had ſhe lived to correct and finiſh theſe firſt Productions of a young unaſſiſted Genius, certainly they would have been greatly improved, tho’, as they now appear in their native Simplicity, they cannot ſurely but afford an agreeable Entertainment to the Reader, and ſerve as a convincing Proof of the common Aphoriſm, Poeta naſcitur, non fit.

Mrs. Leapor from a Child delighted in reading, and particularly Poetry, but had few Opportunities of procuring any Books of that kind. The Author A2 ſhe 004 A2v ſhe moſt admired was Mr. Pope, whom ſhe chiefly endeavoured to imitate; how far ſhe ſucceeded in this, or any other of her Attempts, muſt be left to The Judgment of the Publick. And indeed if the Poems will not recommend themſelves to the Reader, little Advantage is to be expected from any thing that can be ſaid of them here; but, in Justice to the Memory of the Author, as well as for the Satisfaction of all thoſe who have ſo chearfully and generouſly contributed to improve the beſt Legacy ſhe could bequeath to her Father, we beg leave to inform them, that her Conduct and Behaviour entirely correſponded with thoſe virtuous and pious Sentiments which are conſpicuous in her Poems. She was courteous and obliging to all, chearful, good-natured, and contented in the Station of Life in which Providence had placed her. The generous and charitable Spirit that appeared in her was exerted upon all Occaſions to the utmoſt of her Ability, and was ſuch as would have been ornamental in a much higher Sphere, to which in all Probability, if it had pleaſed God to ſpare her Life, her own Merit would have raiſed her.

Some of her Papers, a little time before her Death, were communicated to ſeveral Perſons or Rank and of diſtinguiſhed Taſte and Judgment, who were pleaſed to expreſs a great Satisfaction in the View they had of promoting a Subſcription for their being printed, and by that means encouraging her to proceed in a Science ſo agreeable to herſelf, and entertaining to them; but her Friends are now left to lament her Loſs, and that ſo great a Part of a ſhort and valuable Life was ſpent in Obſcurity.

Aflawed-reproduction1 character 005 A3r

A LIST of the Subscribers Names.

  • A

    • The Right Honourable the Earl of Arran.
    • The Right Honourable the Counteſs of Arran.
    • Mrs. Mary Adkins.
    • Mrs. Addis.
    • Mrs. Abram.
    • Mrs. Sarah Arme.
    • Miſs Adams.
    • Mrs. Archer.
    • Miſs Ackhurſt.
    • Mrs. Frances Ayre.
    • Mr. James Affleck.
    • Rever. Mr. Gilbert Affleck.
    • Rever. Mr. Adams, A.M. Fellow of Lincoln-College.
    • John Affleck, Eſq;
    • Mr. Daniel Addiſon.
    • Captain Henry Ather.
    • Mr. William Adams.
    • Edward Aſhe, Eſq;
    • Miſs Elizabeth Aſhe.
    • Mr. Burrage Angier.
    • Mrs. Martha Arburthnot.
    • Miſs Archer.
  • B

    • His Grace the Duke of Bridgwater.
    • The Right Honourable the Lady Amelia Butler.
    • The Honourable Benjamin Bathurſt, Eſq;
    • Thomas Bathurſt, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Bowles.
    • Mrs. Burton.
    • Mr. Thomas Bowers.
    • Mr. Edward Baylis.
    • Mr. John Bud.
    • Mrs. Salome Bull.
    • A3 Edward 006 A3v 6
    • Edward Bacon, Eſq;
    • Captain Butler.
    • Mr. Bowles.
    • Mrs. Barker.
    • Mr. Charles Butler, 2 Books.
    • Miſs Barnadiſton.
    • Miſs Elizabeth Barnardiſton.
    • Miſs Blencowe.
    • Mrs. Barnardiſton.
    • Thomas Blencowe, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Elizabeth Barker.
    • John Blencowe, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Blencowe.
    • Mr. William Boreton.
    • Mr. James Bradford.
    • Rever. Mr. Burrows, M.A.
    • Mrs. Boothby.
    • Mrs. Bainter.
    • William Bridges, Eſq;
    • Miſs Elizabeth Boyce.
    • Reverend Dr. Bacon.
    • Miſs Temperance Blencowe.
    • Mr. Henry Blencowe.
    • Miſs Mary Blencowe.
    • Miſs Bellamy.
    • Mr. Blake, 5 Books.
    • G. Bedford, Eſq;
    • Captain John Brownell.
    • Mr. Barnaby Bland.
    • William Browne, Eſq;
    • Mr. William Briggs.
    • Mr. Jeremiah Batley.
    • Stukely Bayntun, Eſq;
    • Thomas Barrington, Eſq;
    • Lawrence Battin, Eſq;
    • John Benſon, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Blackwell.
    • William Blackburne, Eſq;
    • Puſey Brook, Eſq;
    • Captain John Blake, 2 Books.
    • Mr. John Bleydeſtein.
    • Mrs. Elizabeth Burton.
    • Valentine Boyles, Eſq;
    • Mr. Ebenezer Blackwell.
    • William Bromley, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Bromley, 2 Books:
    • Mrs. Bowman.
    • Mr. John Bromſal.
    • Mr. Launcelot Burton.
    • Mrs. Bertie.
    • Mr. Richard Bowling.
    • Henry Brounker, Eſq;
    • Mr. William Bayntun.
    • Thomas Blake, Eſq; 6 Books.
    • David Burleigh, Eſq;
    • Mr. James Briſcoe.
    • Mrs. Blencowe.
    • Edward Bacon, Eſq;
    • William Bodwell, Eſq;
    • Miles Barnes, Eſq;
    • ―― Brooksbanks, Eſq;
    • Thomas Bridges, Eſq;
  • C

    • The Right Honourable the Lady Cobham.
    • The Right Honourable the Counteſs of Clancarty.
    • The Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Campbel.
    • The Lady Henrietta Conyers.
    • The 007 A4r 7
    • The Lady Clark.
    • The Lady Sophia Carteret.
    • The Honourable Mrs. Chandler.
    • William Cartwright, Eſq; 2 Books.
    • Robert Cunningham, Eſq;
    • Mr. Richard Cowper.
    • Mrs. Clayton, 2 Books.
    • Miſs Clayton.
    • Mrs. Chancy.
    • Reverend Mr. Clark.
    • Mrs. Chauncy of Edgcot.
    • Miſs Elizabeth Chauncy.
    • Mrs. Frances Cotton.
    • Charles Cotterel, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Cotterel.
    • Mr. Coyſgarne.
    • Mrs. Canning.
    • Mrs. Ann Clark.
    • Mrs. Mary Clark.
    • Mrs. Clark.
    • Mrs. Cotton.
    • Oxwitch Cater, Eſq;
    • Henry Cliffe, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Charlton.
    • Mrs. Cliffe.
    • Mrs. Margaret Cliffe.
    • Reverend Mr. Henry Coker.
    • Captain Loftice Cliffe.
    • Mr. Connibeere.
    • Mr. Clutterbuck.
    • Thomas Cauſton, Eſq;
    • Mr. Joſeph Cotton.
    • Thomas Criſpe, Eſq;
    • Richard Chandler, Eſq;
    • Joſeph Creſswicke, Eſq;
    • Capt. Thomas Carver.
    • John Creſſwicke, Eſq;
    • Mr. Martin Chalice.
    • Mr. Henry Crawley.
    • Mr. Robert Carey.
    • Mr. James Cunningham.
    • Mr. Miles Cook.
    • Hugh Cane, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Coleby.
    • Mr. Joſiah Corthine.
    • Mr. John Colby.
    • Mr. Anthony Cox.
    • Mr. Rooth Colebran.
    • Thomas Coe, M.D.
    • Joſeph Crew, Eſq; 3 Books.
    • Miſs Mary Crewe.
    • Mrs. Elizabeth Crewe.
    • Miſs Sarah Crewe.
    • William Cowel, Eſq; 2 Books.
    • Mr. John Carrey.
    • Thomas Carter, Eſq;
    • Job Stanton Charlton, Eſq; 2 Books.
  • D

    • The Right Honourable the Counteſs of Dyſart.
    • The Lady Daſhwood, 2 Books.
    • The Lady Delves.
    • Sir John Dolben, Baronet.
    • Miſs Ann Dolben.
    • Miſs Frances Dolben.
    • Reverend Mr. Daniel.
    • Major John Daviſon.
    • Henry St. George Dayrell, Eſq;
    • Paul Dayrell, Eſq;
    • A4 Mrs. 008 A4v 8
    • Mrs. Dod.
    • Reverend Mr. Dod.
    • Dr. Delany.
    • Mrs. Delany.
    • Mrs. Donnilant.
    • George Denton, Eſq:;
    • Mrs. Denton.
    • Mr. Dobree.
    • William Dolben, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Dolben
    • Rever. Mr. Stephen Duck.
    • Mr. Draper.
    • Mr. William Dawſon.
    • Mr. Thomas Daviſon.
    • Robert Dinwiddie, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Merrial Dubourdieu.
    • Thomas Day, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Hannah Dewell.
    • Mr. Albert Devins.
    • Mr. George Dent.
    • Griffith Davies, Eſq;
    • Mr. Iſaac Dagnet.
  • E

    • John Eaton, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Eaton.
    • Mrs. Ennys.
    • Reverend Mr. Ekins.
    • Mr. Thomas Erith.
    • Edward Emſal, Eſq;
    • Reverend Mr. Tho. Eynon.
  • F

    • The Right Honourable the Viſcount Fitzwilliams.
    • The Right Honourable the Lady Fitzwilliams.
    • The Right Honourable the Lady Feverſham.
    • The Honourable the Lady Charlotte Finch, 2 Books.
    • The Honourable Henry Finch, Eſq;
    • Miſs Ann Foley, 2 Books.
    • Thomas Talbot Foley, Eſq;
    • Reverend Mr. Fairbrothers.
    • Miſs Theodoſia Fiſher.
    • Miſs Floyd.
    • Mr. Fanſhaw.
    • John Fletcher, Eſq;
    • Dudley Foley, Eſq;
    • Mr. Furnice.
    • ―― Field, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Bridget Fremantle, 2 Books.
    • Mr. Robert Forſter.
    • Gilbert Fleming, Eſq;
    • Thomas Fanſhaw, Eſq;
    • Mr. Samuel Freeman.
    • Mr. Samuel Freeman, 5 Books
    • John Fremantle, Eſq; 2 Books
    • Jonathan Forward, Eſq;
    • Mr. Peter Fector.
    • Mr. Jenkin Ferrier.
    • Miſs Fuller.
    • Mr. John Hardy Franklyn.
    • Mr. 009 A5r 9
    • Mr. Benjamin Forward.
    • Thomas Farrington, Eſq;
  • G

    • The Right Honourable the Earl of Gainsborough, 2 Books.
    • The Right Honourable the Earl of Granville, 2 Books.
    • The Right Reverend the Biſhop of Glouceſter.
    • The Reverend Dr. Grey.
    • Mrs. Grey.
    • Mrs. Gordon.
    • Mrs. Garland.
    • Mrs. Gee.
    • Reverend Mr. Gill.
    • Mrs. Geckmore.
    • Mrs. Gores.
    • Mrs. Garland.
    • Mrs. Gyford.
    • Mrs. Gunning.
    • Mr. John Gibſon.
    • Mrs. Margaret Gambier.
    • Mr. Hugh Granger.
    • Mr. John Gibbs.
    • Samuel Gale, Eſq;
    • Thomas Gee, Eſq;
    • Thomas Gordon, Eſq;
    • Mr. Place Green.
    • Mr. Edward Goodwin,
    • Chriſtopher Gunman, Eſq;
  • H

    • The Right Honourable the Lady Hertford.
    • The Honourable Mrs. Hume.
    • Lady Holt.
    • Mr. William Halifax.
    • Mrs. Halifax.
    • Reverend Mr. Hawes.
    • Miſs Harriot.
    • Miſs Hiccocks.
    • Mrs. Holford.
    • Sir Thomas Head.
    • William Holbech, Eſq;
    • Mr. Charles Heath.
    • Charles Halſtead, Eſq;
    • Rever. James Halifax, M.A.
    • Mr. Hind.
    • Mr. Philip Hyat.
    • Mr. William Howe.
    • Mr. James Hindman.
    • Mr. Edmund Horrex.
    • Samuel Hunton, Eſq;
    • Mr. Edward Hyat.
    • Mr. William Hawys.
    • Howard Haſtings, Eſq; 2 Books.
    • Mr. Evan Hughes.
    • Mr. Iſaac Hunter.
    • Mr. John Hudgebout.
    • Mr. William Holloran.
    • Mr. Roger Hog.
    • William Hinton. Eſq;
    • Mr. Harnage, 3 Books.
    • Mrs. Haiſtwell.
    • Mr. 010 A5v 10
    • Mr. Morins Hollinberry.
    • Mrs. Haiſtwell.
    • Mr. Stephen Harvey.
    • John Hill, Eſq;
    • Mr. Hiccocks.
    • Mr. George Harris.
  • I

    • Mrs. Jennens.
    • Mr. Lawrence Jakeman.
    • Miſs Iſaacſon.
    • Laſcells Iremonger, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Jeffries.
    • Mrs. Edmunda Iſham.
    • Mrs. Jackſon.
    • Mr. Thomas Jakeman.
    • Reverend Dr. Iſham.
    • Mrs. Iſham.
    • Mrs. Jones.
    • Mrs. Jonesof Ramſturg.
    • Mr. William Jones.
    • Nathaniel Johnſon, Eſq;
    • William Jackſon, Eſq;
    • Owen Jones, Eſq;
    • Mr. Thomas Jones.
    • Francis Jackſon, Eſq;
    • Mr. William Jorden.
    • Mr. Henry Jelly.
    • Richard Jordan, Eſq; 2 Books.
    • Mr. Thomas Jackſon.
    • Mr. William Jones.
    • The Reverend Dr. Jenner.
    • Mrs. Jenner.
  • K

    • Anthony Keck, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Keck.
    • William Kinſley, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Kirby.
    • Mr. John Knowles.
    • Mr. Alexander Kerr.
    • Mr. Thomas Kite.
    • Miſs Ann Kempthorne, 2 Books.
    • Miſs Charlotte Kempthorne, 2 Books.
  • L

    • His Grace the Duke of Leeds.
    • Her Grace the Dutcheſs of Leeds.
    • The Right Honourable Lord Viſcount Lymington.
    • Will. Loveday, Eſq; 2 Books.
    • Mrs. Loveday, 2 Books.
    • Reverend Mr. Long.
    • Mr. Langley.
    • Mrs. Leabon.
    • William Le Grand, Eſq;
    • Mr. Love.
    • Miſs Liſle.
    • Colonel Littleton.
    • Reverend Mr. Lye.
    • Mrs. Mary Liſle.
    • Mrs. Harriot Liſle.
    • Mrs. Sophia Liſle.
    • Mrs. Frances Liſle.
    • Mr. 011 A6r 11
    • Mr. Lancaſter.
    • Mrs. Ann Lynn.
    • Peter Leigh, Eſq; Gent. Com. of C.C.C.
    • Mr. William Leach.
    • James Lucas, Eſq;
    • Richard Loyd, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Lawton.
    • Miſs Long.
    • Mr. William Lane.
    • John Law, Eſq;
    • Mr. Lee, 2 Books.
    • Matthew Lord, Eſq;
    • William Lockwood, Eſq;
    • Mr. Lewis Loyd.
    • Captain Warren Liſle.
    • William Levinz, Eſq;
  • M

    • The Reverend Mr. Mabbot.
    • Mrs. Morris.
    • Mrs. Mandeville.
    • Mrs. Moyſe.
    • Mr. Edward Metcalfe.
    • Thomas Matthews, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Metcalfe.
    • Mrs. Mitchell.
    • Maſter James Mitchell.
    • Maſter Knight Mitchell.
    • Mr. Joſeph Martin.
    • George Medcalfe, Eſq;
    • Mr. James Mechell.
    • Mr. Simons Mercer.
    • Robert Man, Eſq;
    • Mr. Matthew Mead.
    • Captain Robert Martin.
    • Mr. James Maillard.
    • Mr. Samuel Maddock .
    • Mrs. Mary Merrick.
    • John Manley, Eſq;
    • Mr. Dennis Maccarty.
    • William Milner, Eſq;
    • Capt. Luke Mercer, 2 Books.
    • Miſs Moore.
    • Mr. John Matthews.
    • Mr. John Matſon.
    • Arthur Mears, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Meylett.
    • Miſs Polly Mercer.
    • Major Richard Mercer.
    • Richard Middleton, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Maſon.
    • Mr. Patrick Mackfarland.
  • N

    • Miſs Neve.
    • Rever. Timothy Neve, A.M. Fellow of C.C.C.
    • Mr. Nicholls.
    • Charles Northcote, Eſq;
    • Richard NeedhamEſq;
    • Mrs. Nicholls.
    • Reverend Mr. Nixon.
  • O

    • Mrs. Oglethorp.
    • John Oxenford, Eſq;
    • Colonel Arthur Owen.
    • William Owen, Eſq;
  • Her 012 A6v 12
  • P

    • Her Grace the Dutcheſs of Portland, 4 Books.
    • The Right Honourable the Earl of Pomfret, 4 Books.
    • The Right Honourable the Counteſs of Pomfret, 4 Books.
    • The Honourable Mrs. Percival.
    • The Lady Probyn.
    • The Lady Primroſe.
    • Sir Francis Pool, Baronet.
    • Campbell Price, Eſq;
    • Miſs Pruce.
    • John Pollard, Eſq;
    • Robert Pearn, Eſq;
    • Henry Purefoy, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Purefoy.
    • Miſs Phillis Price, 2 Books.
    • Miſs Kitty Price.
    • Miſs Playdell.
    • Reverend Mr. Pead.
    • Maſter Pearith.
    • Mrs. Powis.
    • Mrs. Purcell.
    • Mrs. Parſons.
    • Reverend Mr. Pordage.
    • Mrs. Potter.
    • Thomas Pulleyn, Eſq;
    • John Travanion Plowden, Eſq;
    • John Parkhurſt, Eſq;
    • Rever. James Parker, M.A.
    • Mrs. Parſons.
    • Mr. Robert Parrot.
    • Reverend Mr. Peak.
    • Phil. Parſons, Eſq;
    • J. Paterſon, Eſq;
    • William Parſons, Eſq;
    • Robert Paul, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Mary Page.
    • Joſeph Pitt, Eſq;
    • Mr. Horatio Paul.
    • Mr. Edward Pariſh.
    • Mrs. Peyton.
    • Mr. Francis Pelham.
    • Rever. Mr. Thomas Powell.
    • John Powell, Eſq;
    • Miſs Elizabeth Pariſh.
    • Henry Peers. Eſq;
  • R

    • Ryſley Ryſley, Eſq;
    • Miſs Read.
    • Mrs. Rich.
    • Mrs. Radcliffe.
    • Miſs Robſon.
    • Mrs. Raynsford.
    • Mrs. Raynsford of Brixworth.
    • Reverend Mr. Rawbone.
    • Mrs. Robinſon.
    • Hamet Richardſon, Eſq;
    • Mr. Thomas Reup.
    • William Ruſſel, Eſq;
    • Captain Alexander Ridley.
    • Mr. John Robinſon, Junior.
    • Mr. Charles Rayner.
    • Mr. Martin Rayner.
    • Miſs Rickſon.
  • The 013 A7r 13
  • S

    • The Right Honourable the Counteſs of Sunderland.
    • The Right Honourable the Dowager Counteſs of Shaftsbury.
    • The Right Honourable the Counteſs of Shaftsbury.
    • The Honourable the Lady Ann Scott.
    • Lady Strickland.
    • Lady Elizabeth Smithſon.
    • Sir Thomas Samwell, Bart.
    • Lady Smith.
    • Mrs. Ann Smith.
    • Mrs. Margaret Sherman, 2 Books.
    • Robert Sharrock, Eſq; 2 Books.
    • The Honourable Mr. Shirley.
    • The Honourable Mrs. Shirley.
    • Mrs. Shaw.
    • Walter Shirley, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Catharine Shelly.
    • Miſs Penelope Shelly.
    • Mr. Plowden Slaney.
    • Miſs Elizabeth Slaney.
    • Mrs. Stanley.
    • Mr. James Smith.
    • Mr. Edward Short.
    • Doctor Smith.
    • Mrs. Smith.
    • Mrs. Snape.
    • Miſs Spencer.
    • Mr. Leonard Seely.
    • Mr. Thomas Sanders.
    • Thomas Salter, Eſq;
    • Mr. Sharp.
    • Edward Stanley, Eſq;
    • Mr. Benjamin Scott.
    • Mr. George Stierndall.
    • Henry Saxby, Eſq;
    • Mr. William Spearman.
    • Mr. William Sarney.
    • Mr. John Sturmey.
    • Mr. William Spyer.
    • Miſs Priſcilla Stert.
    • Reverend Mr. Styleman.
    • Mr. Thomas Sharpe.
    • Henry Simons, Eſq;
    • Mr. William Solly. 2 Books.
    • Mr. Samuel Simons.
    • Mr. Nicholas Stokes.
    • Mr. Iſaac Samſon.
    • Mr. James Samſon.
    • Mr. William Smith.
    • George Smith, Eſq;
    • Mr. Henry Sparrow.
    • Mr. Richard Solly.
    • Colonel William Swan.
    • Captain Nathaniel Smith.
    • Miſs Mary Shadwell.
    • Mr. Edward Sadler.
  • T

    • The Lady Tent.
    • Sir John Turner, Baronet.
    • Mrs. Margaret Tufton
    • Mrs. Mary Tufton.
    • Mrs. Catharine Titley.
    • Mr. 014 A7v 14
    • Mr. William Thomas.
    • Reverend Mr. Troutbeck.
    • Mr. Tillard.
    • Mrs. Towers.
    • Mrs. Tempeſt.
    • Fiennes Trotman, Eſq;
    • Miſs Kitty Torſhell.
    • Mrs. Thomas.
    • Mr. Henry Thornton.
    • Mr. Wheatley Thompſon.
    • Mr. Thomas Tooley.
    • Miſs Turner.
    • Mrs. Thornton.
    • Thomas Thornton, Eſq;
    • Rever. Mr. Trimnel, Arch- Deacon of Leiceſter.
    • Jacob Tonſon, Eſq;
    • Richard Tonſon, Eſq;
    • Mr. Hugh Tomlins.
    • Mr. Joſeph Thompſon.
    • Mr. John Titon.
    • Bryan Taylor, Eſq;
    • Mr. Anthony Torleſs.
    • Mr. William Thomas.
    • Henry Tolcher, Eſq;
    • Mr. Oliver Toulmin.
    • Reverend Mr. Tindal.
    • Edmund Taylor, Eſq;
    • George Thornberow, Eſq;
    • William Temple, Eſq;
    • Thomas Thomſon, M.D.
    • Mr. Triſtram Twell.
    • Francis Thirkell, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Taver.
    • Mr. Charles Taver, 3 Books.
    • John Thornhaugh, Eſq;
    • William Thornton, Esq;
    • Miſs Sally Towne

    V

    • The Lady Vandeput.
    • The Lady Vanbrugh.
    • Mrs. Vernon.
    • Mrs. Vernon.
    • Robert Vincent, Eſq; 4 Books.

    W

    • The Lady Wills.
    • The Hounourable Colonel Whitworth.
    • Mrs. Whitworth.
    • Mrs. Ward.
    • Mr. John Watts.
    • Mr. Wiſdom.
    • Mr. Samuel Wilkins.
    • Mrs. Wilmot.
    • Mrs. Weſton.
    • Richard Willis, Eſq;
    • Miſs Watſon.
    • Mr. John Whitmore.
    • Mr. Francis Wilkins.
    • Charles Whitworth, Eſq;
    • Rever. Dr. David Williams.
    • Mr. Thomas Wheatley.
    • Mr. Waldoe.
    • Reverend Mr. Walton.
    • Mrs. Catharine Whitlock.
    • Mr. William Wooton.
    • William Wood, Eſq;
    • Charles Wade, Eſq;
    • Edward 015 A8r 15
    • Edward Wyat, Eſq;
    • Mr. John Warner.
    • Mr. Robert Weſton.
    • John Whormby, Eſq;
    • Reverend Mr. Wyat.
    • Conway Whithorne, Eſq;
    • ―― Webſter, Eſq;
    • Andrew Wilkinſon, Eſq;
    • Kyffin Williams, Eſq;
    • Mrs. Wiſeman.
    • Mr. Thomas Watſon.
    • Mr. John Watſon.
    • Mr. John Wharry.
  • Y

    • Mr. Edward Yates.
    • Mrs. Elizabeth Young.
    • Robert Young, Eſq;
    • Miſs Sally Yeats.
The 016 A8v 017 a1r
Poems
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Poems on Several Occasions.

Dorinda at her Glaſs.

Dorinda, once the faireſt of the Train,

Toaſt of the Town, and Triumph of the Plain;

Whoſe ſhining Eyes a thouſand Hearts alarm’d,

Whoſe Wit inſpired, and whoſe Follies charm’d:

Who, with Invention, rack’d her careful Breaſt

To find new Graces to inſult the reſt,

Now ſees her Temples take a ſwarthy Hue,

And the dark Veins reſign their beauteous Blue;

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While on her Cheeks the fading Roſes die,

And the laſt Sparkles tremble in her Eye.

Bright Sol had drove the ſable Clouds away,

And chear’d the Heavens with a Stream of Day,

The woodland Choir their little Throats prepare,

To chant new Carols to the Morning Air:

In Silence wrap’d, and curtain’d from the Day,

On her ſad Pillow loſt Dorinda lay;

To Mirth a Stranger, and the like to Eaſe,

No Pleaſures charm her, nor no Slumbers pleaſe.

For if to cloſe her weary Lids ſhe tries,

Deteſted Wrinkles ſwim before her Eyes;

At length the Mourner rais’d her aking Head,

And diſcontented left her hated Bed.

But ſighing ſhun’d the Relicks of her Pride,

And left the Toilet for the Chimney Side:

Her careleſs Locks upon her Shoulders lay

Uncurl’d, alas! becauſe they half were Gray;

No magick Baths employ her skilful Hand,

But uſeleſs Phials on her Table ſtand:

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She ſlights her Form, no more by Youth inſpir’d,

And loaths that Idol which ſhe once admir’d.

At length all trembling, of herſelf afraid,

To her lov’d Glaſs repair’d the weeping Maid,

And with a Sigh addreſs’d the alter’d Shade.

Say, what art thou, that wear’ſt a gloomy Form,

With low’ring Forehead, like a northern Storm;

Cheeks pale and hollow, as the Face of Woe,

And Lips that with no gay Vermilion glow?

Where is that Form which this falſe Mirror told

Bloom’d like the Morn, and ſhou’d for Ages hold;

But now a Spectre in its room appears,

All ſcar’d with Furrows, and defac’d with Tears;

Say, com’ſt thou from the Regions of Deſpair,

To ſhake my Senſes with a meagre Stare?

Some ſtragg’ling Horror may thy Phantom be,

But ſurely not the mimick Shape of me.

Ah! yes ―― the Shade its mourning Viſage rears,

Pants when I ſigh, and anſwers to my Tears:

Now who ſhall bow before this wither’d Shrine,

This Mortal Image, that was late Divine?

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What Victim now will praiſe theſe faded Eyes,

Once the gay Baſis for a thouſand Lyes?

Deceitful Beauty――falſe as thou art gay,

And is it thus thy Vot’ries find their Pay;

This the Reward of many careful Years,

Of Morning Labours, and of Noon-day Fears,

The Gloves anointed, and the bathing Hour,

And ſoft Coſmetick’s more prevailing Pow’r;

Yet to thy Worſhip ſtill the fair Ones run,

And hail thy Temples with the riſing Sun;

Still the brown Damſels to thy Altars pay

Sweet-ſcented Unguents, and the Dews of May;

Sempronia ſmooths her wrinkled Brows with Care,

And Iſabella curls her griſled Hair:

See poor Auguſta of her Glaſs afraid,

Who even trembles at the Name of Maid,

Spreads the fine Mechlin on her ſhaking Head,

While her thin Cheeks diſown the mimick Red.

Soft Silvia, who no Lover’s Breaſt alarms,

Yet ſimpers out the Ev’ning of her Charms,

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And tho’ her Cheek can boaſt no roſy Dye,

Her gay Brocades allure the gazing Eye.

But hear, my Siſters――Hear an ancient Maid,

Too long by Folly, and her Arts betray’d;

From theſe light Trifles turn your partial Eyes,

’Tis ſad Dorinda prays you to be wiſe;

And thou Celinda, thou muſt ſhortly feel

The ſad Effect of Time’s revolving Wheel;

Thy Spring is paſt, thy Summer Sun declin’d,

See Autumn next, and Winter ſtalks behind:

but let not Reaſon with thy Beauties fly,

Nor place thy Merit in a brilliant Eye;

’Tis thine to charm us by ſublimer ways,

And make thy Temper, like thy Features, pleaſe:

And thou, Sempronia, trudge to Morning Pray’r,

Nor trim thy Eye-brows with ſo nice a Care;

Dear Nymph believe――’tis true, as you’re alive,

Thoſe Temples ſhow the Marks of Fifty-five.

Let Iſabel unload her aking Head

Of twiſted Papers, and of binding Lead;

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Let ſage Auguſta now, without a Frown,

Strip thoſe gay Ribbands from her aged Crown;

Change the lac’d Slipper of delicious Hue

For a warm Stocking, and an eaſy Shoe;

Guard her ſwell’d Ancles from Rheumatick Pain,

And from her Cheek expunge the guilty Stain.

Wou’d ſmiling Silvia lay that Hoop aſide,

’Twou’d ſhow her Prudence, not betray her Pride:

She, like the reſt, had once her flagrant Day,

But now ſhe twinkles in a fainter Ray.

Thoſe youthful Airs ſet off their Miſtreſs now,

Juſt as the Patch adorns her Autumn Brow:

In vain her Feet in ſparkling Laces glow,

Since none regard her Forehead, nor her Toe.

Who would not burſt with Laughter, or with Spleen,

At Prudo, once a Beauty, as I ween?

But now her Features wear a dusky Hue,

The little Loves have bid her Eyes adieu:

Yet ſhe purſues the Pleaſures of her Prime,

And vain Deſires, not ſubdu’d by Time;

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Thruſts in amongſt the Frolick and the Gay,

But ſhuts her Daughter from the Beams of Day:

The Child, ſhe ſays, is indolent and grave,

And tells the World Ophelia can’t behave:

But while Ophelia is forbid the Room,

Her Mother hobbles in a Rigadoon;

Or to the Sound of melting Muſick dies,

And in their Sockets rolls her blinking Eyes;

Or ſtuns the Audience with her hideous Squal,

While Scorn and Satire whiſper through the Hall.

Hear this, ye fair Ones, that ſurvive your Charms,

Nor reach at Folly with your aged Arms;

Thus Pope has ſung, thus let Dorinda ſing;

Virtue, brave Boys,――’tis Virtue makes a King:

Why not a Queen? fair Virtue is the ſame

In the rough Hero, and the ſmiling Dame:

Dorinda’s Soul her Beauties ſhall purſue,

Tho’ late I ſee her, and embrace her too:

Come, ye bleſt Graces, that are ſure to pleaſe,

The Smile of Friendſhip, and the careleſs Eaſe;

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The Breaſt of Candour, the relenting Ear,

The Hand of Bounty, and the Heart ſincere:

May theſe the Twilight of my Days attend,

And may that Ev’ning never want a Friend

To ſmooth my Paſſage to the ſilent Gloom,

And give a Tear to grace the mournful Tomb.

Mira’s Will.

Imprimis――My departed Shade I truſt

To Heav’n――My body to the ſilent Duſt;

My Name to publick Cenſure I ſubmit,

To be dispos’d of as the World thinks fit;

My Vice and Folly let Oblivion cloſe,

The World already is o’erſtock’d with thoſe;

My Wit I give, as Miſers give their Store,

To thoſe who think they had enough before.

Beſtow my Patience to compoſe the Lives

Of ſlighted Virgins and neglected Wives;

To modiſh Lovers I reſign my Truth,

My cool Reflexion to unthinking Youth;

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And ſome Good-nature give (’tis my Deſire)

To ſurly Husbands, as their Needs require;

And firſt diſcharge my Funeral――and then

To the ſmall Poets I bequeath my Pen.

Let a ſmall Sprig (true Emblem of my Rhyme)

Of blaſted Laurel on my Hearſe recline;

Let ſome grave Wight, that ſtruggles for Renown,

By chanting Dirges through a Market-Town,

With gentle Step precede the ſolemn Train;

A broken Flute upon his Arm ſhall lean.

Six comick Poets may the Corſe ſurround,

And All Free-holders, if they can be found:

Then follow next the melancholy Throng,

As ſhrewd Inſtructors, who themſelves are wrong.

The Virtuoſo, rich in Sun-dry’d Weeds,

The Politician, whom no Mortal heeds,

The ſilent Lawyer, chamber’d all the Day,

And the ſtern Soldier that receives no Pay.

But ſtay――the Mourners ſhou’d be firſt our Care,

Let the freed Prentice lead the Miſer’s Heir;

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Let the young Relict wipe her mournful Eye,

And widow’d Husbands o’er their Garlick cry.

All this let my Executors fulfil,

And reſt aſſur’d that this is Mira’s Will,

Who was, when ſhe theſe Legacies deſign’d,

In Body healthy, and compos’d in Mind.

The Friend in Diſgrace.

A Dialogue

Lycander.

Damon, why ſo cold and ſerious?

Wherefore that reluctant Bow?

Why ſo haughty and imperious?

Say, have you forgot me now?

Tho array’d in coarſe Attire,

You may read Lycander’s Face;

For ’tis Him (my gentle Squire)

Juſtled in a homely Cafe

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True, no ſhining Slaves ſurround me,

And my Brows with Sorrow bend;

Fortune left me as ſhe found me,

Yet let Damon own his Friends.

Damon.

Sir, your Servant, and all that, Sir;

But indeed I am in haſte;

Surely (pray keep on your Hat, Sir),

I have ſomewhere ſeen your Face.

Lycander.

Am I grown ſo great a Stranger?

Yet ’tis hardly half a Year,

Since you vow’d (in e’ery Danger)

Not your Life was half ſo dear.

Sure the Court is mighty lulling,

(Not the Streams of Lethe more)

E’en the Groom and dirty Scullion

Know not thoſe they lov’d before.

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So on that fatal Day you did

The Levee of his Grace attend;

You of your Memory was rid,

I of my Fortune and my Friend.

Damon.

’Tis Bus’neſs, Sir; that fills my Head,

Believe me now I cannot ſtay;

I’ll order half a Pint of Red,

And if you’ll drink it, Sir, you may.

An Ode on Mercy:

In Imitation of Part of the 145th Pſalm.

I

’Tis Mercy calls――Awake, my grateful String;

Ye Worlds of Nature, liſten while I ſing;

’Tis not his dire avenging Rod,

I ſing the Mercies of a God;

Hark, ye Warblers of the Sky,

Rivers glide ſerenely by;

Or rather in the ſacred Chorus join,

Till our united Voices reach the Seats Divine.

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II.

Where injur’d Saints, that us’d to mourn below,

Find their glad Breaſts with Joys eternal glow;

Where thouſand Tongues inceſſant cry,

Glory be to God on high;

Dominion, Power, Praiſe, and then

Mercy to the Sons of Men.

Heav’n hears delighted, and the joyful Sound

Swell’d with celeſtial Muſick ſpreads the Regions round.

III.

The Lord, though ſeated far beyond the Sky,

Yet ſees the wretched with a pitying Eye;

That Power knows our ſecret Fear,

The lonely Sigh, or ſilent Tear;

He ſees the Widows ſtreaming Eye,

And hears the hungry Orphans cry.

Depending Worlds his ſacred Bounty ſhare,

All Creatures find a part of their Creator’s Care.

IV.

His Juſtice next employs the heavenly String,

And hymning Angels tremble while they ſing;

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The Lord is juſt and holy, then

O weep ye thoughtleſs Sons of Men:

For who can from his Anger fly,

Or ſhun the Frown of God moſt high?

Yet ſhall the Sigh, or penitential Groan,

Mount like the Seraph’s Wing, and reach the ſacred Throne.

V.

Hear this, ye pious but dejected Minds,

Whom Errors darken, or whom Weakneſs binds;

Lift from the Duſt your mournful Eye,

And know the Lord your Help is nigh;

Theſe Sorrows from your Breaſts ſhall roll,

And Comfort bleſs the humble Soul;

Let chearful Hope in ev’ry Boſom ſpring,

For boundleſs Mercy dwells with Heaven’s immortal King.

VI.

Come then, ye Worlds, with mingled Voices raiſe

A Song of mean, but not ungrateful Praiſe;

Tho’ the dull Numbers rudely flow,

And our cold Hearts but faintly glow,

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Our Raptures own a leſs Degree,

Yet Cherubs ſing, and ſo ſhou’d we.

The Almighty hears, and gives us leave to call

On him the Judge, the Guide and ſacred Lord of All.

VII.

All you that bend beneath the Stroke of Time,

And you whoſe Cheeks confeſs their healthy Prime,

Your Maker and Preſerver praiſe,

For early and for Length of Days;

The pious and the grateful Song,

Shall liſp upon the Infant’s Tongue,

While heav’nly Mercy ſooths the Mourner’s Care,

And bids the Innocent rejoice, the Sinner not deſpair.

The Beauties of the Spring.

Hail happy Shades, and hail thou chearful Plain,

Where Peace and Pleaſure unmoleſted reign;

Where dewy Buds their bluſhing Boſoms ſhow,

And the cool Rivers murmur as they flow:

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See yellow Crowfoots deck the gaudy Hills,

While the faint Primroſe loves the purling Rills:

Sagacious Bees their Labours now renew,

Hum round the Bloſſoms, and extract their Dew:

In their new Liv’ries the green Woods appear,

And ſmiling Nature decks the Infant Year;

See yon proud Elm that ſhines in borrow’d Charms,

While the curl’d Woodbines deck her aged Arms.

When the ſtreak’d Eaſt receives a lighter Gray,

And Larks prepare to meet the early Day;

Through the glad Bowers the ſhrill Anthems run,

While the Groves glitter to the riſing Sun:

Then Phillis haſtens to her darling Cow,

Whoſe ſhining Treſſes wanton on her Brow,

While to her Cheek enliv’ning Colours fly,

And Health and Pleaſure ſparkle in her Eye.

Unſpoil’d by Riches, nor with Knowledge vain,

Contented Cymon whiſtles o’er the Plain;

His Flock diſmiſſes from their nightly Fold,

Obſerves their Health, and ſees their Number told.

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Pleas’d with its Being, ſee the nimble Fawn

Sports in the Grove, or wantons o’er the Lawn,

While the pleas’d Courſers frolick out the Day,

And the dull Ox affects unwieldy Play.

Then haſte, my Friend, to yonder Sylvan Bowers,

Where Peace and Silence crown the bliſsful Hours;

In thoſe ſtill Groves no martial Clamours ſound,

No ſtreaming Purple ſtains the guiltleſs Ground;

But fairer Scenes our raviſh’d Eyes employ,

Give a ſoft Pleaſure, and a quiet Joy;

Grief flies from hence, and waſting Cares ſubſide,

While wing’d with Mirth the laughing Minutes glide.

See, my fair Friend, the painted Shrubs are gay,

And round thy Head ambroſial Odours play;

At Sight of thee the ſwelling Buds expand,

And op’ning Roſes ſeem to court thy Hand;

Hark, the ſhrill Linnet charms the diſtant Plain,

And Philomel replies with ſofter Strain;

See thoſe bright Lilies ſhine with milky Hue,

And thoſe fair Cowſlips drop with balmy Dew;

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To thee, my Fair, the chearful Linnet ſings,

And Philomela warbles o’er the Springs;

For thee thoſe Lilies paint the fertile Ground,

And thoſe fair Cowſlips are with Nectar crown’d;

Here let us reſt to ſhun the ſcorching Ray,

While curling Zephyrs in the Branches play.

In theſe calm Shades no ghaſtly Woe appears,

No Cries of Wretches ſtun our frighted Ears;

Here no gloſs’d Hate, no ſainted Wolves are ſeen,

Nor buſy Faces throng the peaceful Green;

But Fear and Sorrow leave the careful Breaſt,

And the glad Soul ſinks happily to Reſt.

Damon and Strephon.

A Paſtoral Complaint.

Damon.

Say, why theſe Sight that in thy Boſom riſe?

Why from thy Cheek the wonted Crimſon flies?

Why on the Ground are fix’d thy ſtreaming Eyes?

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Strephon.

Still let this Boſom ſwell with aking Woe,

And from my Eyes the ſtreaming Sorrows flow.

But Oh! the Cauſe――(See Clouds are gath’ring round,

And Zephyrs wait to catch the mournful Sound;

The ſick’ning Trees all ſhed their blooming Store)

Why wouldſt thou hear it?――Sylvius is no more.

Damon.

Is Sylvius dead?――then Phillis rend thy Hair,

And blot thoſe Features that were late ſo fair.

Thou Sun, forbear to gild this fatal Day;

Nor you my Lambkins dare to think of Play.

Strephon.

No more alas!――no more the tuneful Swain

Shall with ſoft Numbers charm the liſt’ning Plain.

No more his Flute ſhall greet the dawning Spring;

Nor to his Hand rebound the trembling String.

Damon.

Ah cruel Death! wou’d none but Sylvius do?

No meaner Swain amongſt the worthy few?

Why didſt thou take (and leave the baſer Tribe)

The Flow’r of Shepherds and the Muſes Pride?

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Strephon.

None knew like him the heav’nly Notes to ſwell,

And moral Tales in pleaſing Numbers tell.

While Sylvius ſung, none thought the Day too long;

But all repin’d at the too haſty Song.

Damon.

Ye ſolemn Winds that whiſtle through the Glade,

Or rudely bluſter in the darker Shade,

Go bear our Sorrows to the diſtant Shore,

And tell them Sylvius chears our Plains no more.

Strephon.

Vain are our Sighs, our Tears as vainly flow,

And each ſad Boſom ſwells with fruitleſs Woe!

As northern Blaſts deſtroy the Autumn Store,

So Sylvius fell and ſhall return no more.

Damon.

Enough of Sorrow――now your Garlands bring;

Crop all the Beauties of the early Spring;

Around his Tomb theſe willing Hands ſhall twine

The choiceſt Briers of ſweet Eglantine.

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Strephon.

On his cold Grave a Laurel I beſtow,

Which late did in my Father’s Garden grow:

This Wreath Amyntas asked to ſhade her Brow,

But to my Sylvius I reſign it now.

Damon.

The penſive Swains ſhall ſtrike their Boſoms there,

And ſoft-ey’d Virgins drop a gentle Tear:

May ſome good Angel guard the ſacred Ground,

And Flow’rs unfading ſhed their Sweets around.

A Summer’s Wish.

My Guardian, bear me on thy downy Wing

To ſome cool Shade where infant Flow’rs ſpring;

Where on the Trees ſweet Hony-ſuckles blow,

And ruddy Daiſies paint the Ground below:

Where the ſhrill Linnet charms the ſolemn Shade,

And Zephyrs pant along the cooler Glade,

Or ſhake the Bull-ruſh by a River Side,

While the gay Sun-beams ſparkle on the Tide:

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O for ſome Grot whoſe ruſtick Sides declare,

Eaſe, and not Splendor, was the Builder’s Care;

Where Roſes ſpread their unaffected Charms,

And the curl’d Vine extends her claſping Arms;

Where happy Silence lulls the quiet Soul,

And makes it calm as Summer Waters roll.

Here let me learn to check each growing Ill,

And bring to Reaſon diſobedient Will;

To watch this incoherent Breaſt, and find

What fav’rite Paſſions rule the giddy Mind.

Here no Reproaches grate the wounded Ear;

We ſee delighted, and tranſported hear,

While the glad Warblers wanton round the Trees,

And the ſtill Waters catch the dying Breeze,

Grief waits without, and melancholy Gloom:

Come, chearful Hope, and fill the vacant Room;

Come ev’ry Thought, which Virtue gave to pleaſe;

Come ſmiling Health with thy Companion Eaſe:

Let theſe, and all that Virtue’s ſelf attends,

Bleſs the ſtill Hours of my gentle Friends:

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Peace to my Foes, if any ſuch there be,

And gracious Heav’n give Repoſe to me.

An Hymn to the Morning.

I.

See the lovely Morning riſe,

See her Glories paint the Skies,

Half o’er the reviving Globe

Gaily ſpreads her Saffron Robe:

See the Hills with Flowers crown’d,

And the Valleys laughing round.

II.

Mira to Aurora ſings,

While the Lark exulting ſprings

High in Air――and tunes her throat

To a ſoft and merry Note;

The Goldfinch and the Linnet join:

Hail Aurora, Nymph divine.

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III.

See Clione’s gilded Car,

See it blazes from afar;

Here the fair One bends her Way,

Balmy Zephyrs round her play;

Now ſhe lights upon the Vale,

Fond to meet the weſtern Gale.

IV.

May this artleſs Praiſe be thine,

Soft Clione half divine.

See her ſnowy Hand ſhe waves,

Silent ſtand her waiting Slaves;

And while they guard the Silver Reins,

She wanders lonely o’er the Plains.

V.

See thoſe Cheeks of beauteous Dye,

Lovely as the dawning Sky,

Innocence that ne’er beguiles

Lips that wear eternal Smiles:

Beauties to the reſt unknown,

Shine in her and her alone.

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VI.

Now the Rivers ſmoother flow,

Now the op’ning Roſes glow,

The Woodbine twines her odorous Charms

Round the Oaks ſupporting Arms:

Lilies paint the dewy Ground,

And Ambroſia breathes around.

VII.

Come, ye Gales that fan the Spring;

Zephyr, with thy downy Wing,

Gently waft to Mira’s Breaſt

Health, Content, and balmy Reſt.

Far, O far from hence remain

Sorrow, Care, and ſickly Pain.

VIII.

Thus ſung Mira to her Lyre,

Till the idle Numbers tire:

Ah! Sappho ſweeter ſings, I cry,

And the ſpiteful Rocks reply,

(Reſponſive to the jarring Strings)

Sweeter――Sappho ſweeter ſings.

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Colinetta.

’Twas when the Fields had ſhed their golden Grain.

And burning Suns had ſear’d the ruſſet Plain;

No more the Roſe nor Hyacinth were ſeen,

Nor yellow Cowſlip on the tufted Green:

But the rude Thiſtle rear’d its hoary Crown,

And the ripe Nettle ſhew’d an irkſom Brown.

In mournful Plight the tarniſh’d Groves appear,

And Nature weeps for the declining Year.

The Sun too quickly reach’d the weſtern Sky,

And riſing Vapours hid his ev’ning Eye:

Autumnal threads around the Branches flew,

While the dry Stubble drank the falling Dew.

In this ſick Seaſon, at the cloſe of Day,

On Lydia’s Lap pale Colinetta lay;

Whoſe ſallow Cheeks had loſt their roſy Dye,

The Sparkles languiſh’d in her cloſing Eye.

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Parch’d were thoſe Lips whence Muſick us’d to flow,

No more the Flute her weary Fingers know,

Yet thrice to raiſe her feeble Voice ſhe try’d,

Thrice on her Tongue the fainting Numbers dy’d;

At laſt reviv’d, on Lydia’s Neck ſhe hung,

And like the Swan expiring thus she ſung.

Farewel, ye Foreſts and delightful Hills,

Ye flow’ry Meadows and ye cryſtal Rills,

Ye friendly Groves to whom we us’d to run,

And beg a Shelter from the burning Sun.

Thoſe blaſted Shades all mournful now I ſee,

Who droop their heads as tho’ they wept for me.

The penſive Linnet has forgot to ſing,

The Lark is ſilent till returning Spring.

The Spring ſhall all thoſe wonted Charms reſtore,

Which Colinetta muſt behold no more.

Farewel, ye Fields; my native Fields, adieu;

Whoſe fertile Lays my early Labours knew;

Where, when an Infant, I was wont to ſtray,

And gather King-cups at the cloſing Day.

How 048 C6v 28

How oft has Lydia told a mournful Tale,

By the clear Lake that ſhines in yonder Vale;

When ſhe had done I ſung a chearful Lay,

While the glad Goldfinch liſten’d on the Spray:

Lur’d by my Song each jolly Swain drew near,

And roſy Virgins throng’d around to hear:

Farewel, ye Swains; ye roſy Nymphs, adieu:

Tho’ I (unwilling) leave the Streams and you,

Still may ſoft Muſick bleſs your happy Shore,

But, Colinetta, you muſt hear no more.

O Lydia, thou, (if wayward Tongues ſhou’d blame

My Life, and blot a harmleſs Maiden’s Name)

Tell them if e’er I found a ſtraggling Ewe,

Although the Owner’s Name I hardly knew;

I fed it kindly with my Father’s Hay,

And gave it ſhelter at the cloſing Day:

I never ſtole young Pigeons from their Dams,

Nor from their Paſture drove my Neighbours Lambs:

Nor ſet my Dog to hunt their Flocks away,

That mine might graze upon the vacant Lay.

When 049 C7r 29

When Phillida by dancing won the Prize,

Or Colin prais’d young Mariana’s Eyes:

When Damon wedded Urs’la of the Grange,

My Cheek with Envy ne’er was ſeen to change:

When-e’er I ſaw Aminda croſs the Plain,

Or walk the Foreſt with her darling Swain,

I never whiſper’d to a Stander-by,

But hated Scandal and abhorr’d a Lye.

On Sundays I (as Siſter Sue can tell)

Was always ready for the Sermon-bell:

I honour’d both the Teacher and the Day;

Nor us’d to giggle when he bid me pray:

Then ſure for me there’s ſomething good in Store,

When Colinetta ſhall be ſeen no more.

When I am gone, I leave to Siſter Sue

My Gown of Jerſey, and my Aprons blue.

My ſtudded Sheep-hook Phillida may take,

Likewiſe my Hay-fork and my Hazel Rake:

My hoarded Apples and my winter Pears

Be thine, O Lydia, to reward thy Cares.

Theſe 050 C7v 30

Theſe Nuts that late were pluck’d from yonder Tree,

And this Straw-basket, I bequeath to thee:

That Basket did theſe dying Fingers weave:

My boxen Flute to Corydon I leave,

So ſhall it charm the liſt’ning Nymphs around,

For none like him can make it ſweetly ſound.

In our Churchyard there grows a ſpreading Yew,

Whoſe dark green Leaves diſtil a baneful Dew:

Be thoſe ſad Branches o’er my Grave reclin’d,

And let theſe Words be graven on the Rind:

Mark, gentle Reader, — Underneath this Tree,

There ſleeps a Maid, old Simon’s Daughter ſhe;

Thou too, perhaps, ere many Weeks be o’er,

Like Colinetta, ſhalt be ſeen no more.

Here ends the Maid — for now the Seal of Death

Clos’d her pale Lips, and ſtop’d her roſy Breath.

Her ſinking Eye-balls took their long Adieu,

And with a Sigh her harmleſs Spirit flew.

The 051 C8r 31

The Linnet and the Goldfinch.

’Twas when the Morn diſclos’d her roſy Brow,

And new-wak’d Heifers in the Paſtures low,

When little Songſters in the Gales reſpire:

To Mira’s Shades repair’d the woodland Choir;

Perch’d on a Bough that ſhone with Morning Dew,

The Linnet thus addreſs’d the feather’d Crew.

The Linnet.

Say, my ſoft Siſters; ſay, ye tuneful throng;

Who now demands the Trirbute of a Song?

Who call’d us here? Who gave us leave to rove

And warble in this late forbidden Grove?

Not long ago as Mira, mournful Maid,

All penſive ſat beneath the dusky Shade,

Just o’er her Head I whiſtled on a Bough,

But Diſcontent ſat frowning on her Brow:

Be gone thou too officious Bird, ſhe cries;

(And turn’d on Me――on Me her angry Eyes)

Go 052 C8v 32

Go from my Bowers, lead the tuneful Throng;

For Artemiſia hears no more your Song.

Theſe ſlighted Shades can pleaſe the Fair no more;

Ye Hony-ſuckles ſhed your blooming Store;

Ye ſpreading Trees now let your Branches die;

And ye ſhrill Warblers from thoſe Branches fly:

She ſaid:――the Bloſſoms fell from ev’ry Tree,

And we dejected from her Arbours flee;

We fled all mournful to the diſtant Plain:

Then ſay who calls us to theſe Groves again.

The Goldfinch.

By Mira’s Order to this Grove we came,

Mira, whoſe Sonnets pleaſe the rural Dame:

’Twas Yeſternight ſhe wav’d her Hand to me,

As I ſat whiſtling on a Cheſnut-tree:

Come here (ſhe cry’d) ye ſoft aërial Choirs;

My Ear no more your ſprightly Muſick tires:

Now I can liſten all the Ev’ning long,

For Artemiſia will attend your Song:

She comes: Ye Trees put on your beſt Array,

And with freſh Odours greet the riſing Day.

Breathe 053 D1r 33

Breathe ſweet, ye Woodbines, and with Heads reclin’d

Court the ſoft Whiſpers of the weſtern Wind.

Ye friendly Zephyrs, dry the dewy Ground;

Shine bright, thou Sun; and laugh, ye Meads around:

Thus Mira ſpoke.――Once more the Bloſſoms glow,

And milder Breezes o’er the Mountains blow.

The ſmiling Grove once more renews its Charms,

And Trees embracing twiſt their curling Arms;

Safely to ſhelter the expected Fair,

From the hot Sun-beams or the norrthern Air:

Here we attend, and hop from Spray to Spray,

’Till the kind Fates ſhall bring the wiſh’d-for Day.

When She, of whom our Mira daily ſings,

Whoſe Name ſhe whiſpers to the liſt’ning Springs,

Shall bleſs theſe Shades――then, ye melodious throng,

Let each prepare ’em for the ſprightly Song.

Let the ſhrill thruſh begin her vary’d Strain,

And the ſmall Wren in ſofter Note complain.

The piercing Linnet and the Lark agree,

Leſs loud the Red-breaſt, Nightingale and me.

Here ends the Goldfinch, and exulting ſprings;

Her pleas’d Companions clap their joyful Wings.

D The 054 D1v 34

The Month of August.

Sylvanus, a Courtier.

Phillis, a Country Maid.

Sylvanus.

Hail, Phillis, brighter than a Morning Sky,

Joy of my Heart, and Darling of my Eye;

See the kind Year her grateful Tribute yields,

And round-fac’d Plenty triumphs o’er the Fields.

But to yon Gardens let me lead thy Charms,

Where the curl’d Vine extends her willing Arms:

Whoſe purple Cluſters lure the longing Eye,

And the ripe Cherries ſhow their ſcarlet Dye.

Phillis.

Not all the Sights your boaſted Gardens yield,

Are half ſo lovely as my Father’s Field,

Where large Increaſe has bleſs’d the fruitful Plain,

And we with Joy behold the ſwelling Grain,

Whoſe heavy Ears towards the Earth reclin’d,

Wave, nod, and tremble to the whisking Wind.

Syl- 055 D2r 35

Sylvanus.

But ſee, to emulate thoſe Cheeks of thine,

On yon fair Tree the bluſhing Nect’rins ſhine:

Beneath their Leaves the ruddy Peaches glow,

And the plump Figs compoſe a gallant Show.

With gaudy Plumbs ſee yonder Boughs recline,

And ruddy Pears in yon Eſpalier twine.

There humble Dwarfs in pleaſing Order ſtand,

Whoſe golden Product ſeems to court thy Hand.

Phillis.

In vain you tempt me while our Orchard bears

Long-keeping Ruſſets, lovely Cath’rine Pears,

Pearmains and Codlings, wheaten Plumbs enough,

And the black Damſons load the bending Bough.

No Pruning-knives our fertile Branches teaze,

While yours muſt grow but as their Maſters pleaſe.

The grateful Trees our Mercy well repay,

And rain us Buſhels at the riſing Day.

Sylvanus.

Fair are my Gardens, yet you ſlight them all;

Then let us haſte to yon majeſtick Hall,

D2 Where 056 D2v 36

Where the glad Roofs ſhall to thy Voice reſound,

Thy Voice more ſweet than Muſick’s melting Sound:

Now Orion’s Beam infeſts the ſultry Sky,

And ſcorching Fevers through the Welkin fly;

But Art ſhall teach us to evade his Ray,

And the forc’d Fountains near the Windows play;

There choice Perfumes ſhall give a pleaſing Gale,

And Orange-flow’rs their od’rous Breath exhale,

While on the Walls the well-wrought Paintings glow,

And dazzling Carpets deck the Floors below:

O tell me, thou whoſe careleſs Beauties charm,

Are theſe not fairer than a Threſher’s Barn?

Phillis.

Believe me, I can find no Charms at all

In your fine Carpets and your painted Hall.

’Tis true our Parlour has an earthen Floor,

The Sides of Plaſter and of Elm the Door:

Yet the rub’d Cheſt and Table ſweetly ſhines,

And the ſpread Mint along the Window climbs:

An aged Laurel keeps away the Sun,

And two cool Streams acroſs the Garden run.

Syl- 057 D3r 37

Sylvanus.

Can Feaſts or Muſick win my lovely Maid?

In both thoſe Pleaſures be her Taſte obey’d.

The ranſack’d Earth ſhall all its Dainties ſend,

Till with its Load her plenteous Table bend.

Then to the Roofs the ſwelling Notes ſhall riſe,

Pierce the glad Air and gain upon the Skies,

While Eaſe and Rapture ſpreads itſelf around,

And diſtant Hills roll back the charming Sound.

Phillis.

Not this will lure me, for I’d have you know

This Night to feaſt with Corydon I go:

To Night his Reapers bring the gather’d Grain,

Home to his Barns, and leave the naked Plain:

Then Beef and Coleworts, Beans and Bacon too,

And the Plumb-pudding of delicious Hue,

Sweet-ſpiced Cake, and Apple-pies good Store,

Deck the brown Board; who can deſire more?

His Flute and Tabor too Amyntor brings,

And while he plays ſoft Amaryllis ſings.

Then ſtrive no more to win a ſimple Maid,

From her lov’d Cottage and her ſilent Shade.

D3 Let 058 D3v 38

Let Phillis ne’er, ah never let her rove

From her firſt Virtue and her humble Grove.

Go ſeek ſome Nymph that equals your Degree,

And leave Content and Corydon for me.

An Epistle to a Lady.

In vain, dear Madam, yes in vain you ſtrive;

Alas! to make your luckleſs Mira thrive.

For Tycho and Copernicus agree,

No golden Planet bent its Rays on me.

’Tis twenty Winters, if it is no more;

To ſpeak the Truth it may be Twenty four.

As many Springs their ’pointed Space have run,

Since Mira’s Eyes firſt open’d on the Sun.

’Twas when the Flocks on ſlabby Hillocks lye,

And the cold Fiſhes rule the watry Sky:

But tho’ theſe Eyes the learned Page explore,

And turn the pond’rous Volumes o’er and o’er,

I 059 D4r 39

I find no Comfort from their Syſtems flow,

But am dejected more as more I know.

Hope ſhines a while, but like a Vapour flies,

(the Fate of all the Curious and the Wiſe)

For, Ah! cold Saturn triumph’d on that Day,

And frowning Sol deny’d his golden Ray.

You ſee I’m learned, and I ſhew’t the more,

That none may wonder when they find me poor.

Yet Mira dreams, as ſlumbring Poets may,

And rolls in Treaſures till the breaking Day:

While Books and Pictures in bright Order riſe,

And painted Parlours ſwim before her Eyes:

Till the ſhrill Clock impertinently rings,

And the ſoft Viſions move their ſhining Wings:

Then Mira wakes,――her Pictures are no more,

And through her Fingers ſlides the vaniſh’d Ore.

Convinc’d too ſoon, her Eye unwilling falls

On the blue Curtains and the duſty Walls:

She wakes, alas! to Buſineſs and to Woes,

To ſweep her Kitchen, and to mend her Clothes.

D4 But 060 D4v 40

But ſee pale Sickneſs with her languid Eyes,

At whoſe Appearance all Deluſion flies:

The World recedes, its Vanities decline,

Clorinda’s Features ſeem as faint as mine:

Gay Robes no more the aking Sight admires,

Wit grates the Ear, and melting Muſick tires:

Its wonted Pleaſures with each Senſe decay,

Books pleaſe no more, and Paintings fade away:

The ſliding Joys in miſty Vapours end:

Yet let me ſtill, Ah! let me graſp a Friend:

And when each Joy, when each lov’d Object flies,

Be you the laſt that leaves my cloſing Eyes.

But how will this diſmantl’d Soul appear,

When ſtrip’d of all it lately held ſo dear,

Forc’d from its Priſon of expiring Clay,

Afraid and ſhiv’ring at the doubtful Way.

Yet did theſe Eyes a dying Parent ſee,

Loos’d from all Cares except a thought for me,

Without a Tear reſign her ſhort’ning Breath,

And dauntleſs meet the ling’ring Stroke of Death.

Then 061 D5r 41

Then at th’Almighty’s Sentence ſhall I mourn:

Of Duſt thou art, to Duſt ſhalt thou return.

Or ſhall I wiſh to ſtretch the Line of Fate,

That the dull Years may bear a longer Date,

To ſhare the Follies of ſucceeding Times

With more Vexations and with deeper Crimes:

Ah no――tho’ Heav’n brings near the final Day,

For ſuch a Life I will not, dare not pray;

But let the Tear for future Mercy flow,

And fall reſign’d beneath the mighty Blow.

Nor I alone――for through the ſpacious Ball,

With me will Numbers of all Ages fall:

And the ſame Day that Mira yields her Breath,

Thouſands may enter through the Gates of Death.

The Proclamation of Apollo.

May Artemiſia hear my Strain, I quote the Sages once again:

And ſhou’d you ask the Reaſon why,

Old Authors fib, and ſo may I.

Proceed 062 D5v 42

Proceed we then――Old Authors ſay,

Apollo once made Holiday,

And call’d the Brethren of the Quill,

To feaſt upon his tuneful Hill,

From ev’ry Nook and ev’ry Wind:

They came, for who wou’d ſtay behind?

Great was the Crowd, as may be gueſs’d:

Side grew to Side, and Back to Breaſt,

Till the Imperial Prince of Song,

Who fearing ſomething might be wrong,

Sent forth a Troop with Caps and Spears,

Much like Parnaſſian Granadiers,

With ſurly Eyes and ſour Faces,

To part the Crowd and give ’em Places.

Now I have quite forgot, I fear,

What Names the People gave ’em there

Among’t the Muſes――But I trow

Men call ’em Criticks here below.

Now when at laſt theſe ſage Reformers,

Had drove the Crew to Heaps and Corners,

They call’d them out by two and three,

And ſet ’em in a due Degree,

That 063 D6r 43

That each his proper Place ſhou’d know,

On Laurel Benches all a-row.

Now you may think they all were happy,

As Drunkard o’er his Jug of Nappy,

That ev’ry Brow was ſmooth and clear,

But firſt I beg you’d lend an Ear:

The Queen of Love to grace the Feaſt,

Had ſent a thouſand Pipes at leaſt

Of ſmiling Nectar neat and fine,

To whet the Gueſts before they dine:

But when the Cups had walk’d about,

Some ſurly Bards began to pout,

And wrinkle up their tiny Faces,

And fret and fume about their Places:

Their giddy Brains began to glow,

Each thinking he was plac’d too low:

This vow’d to make all Creatures fear him,

And That cou’d bear no Creature near him.

One ſeem’d to talk with mighty Spirit,

Of baffl’d Worth and ſlighted Merit:

Another was in Paſſion hurl’d,

And curs’d the ſtupid ſenſeleſs World,

Till 064 D6v 44

Till Choler ſwell’d in ev’ry Vein,

And each no longer cou’d contain,

But fairly went, as I’m a Sinner,

To Loggerheads before their Dinner.

Apollo was offended quite,

And all the Muſes in a Fright:

Then thunder’d out a Proclamation.

O Ye――And all the rhiming Nation,

Our King commands you to be ſtill,

And not diſturb the ſacred Hill.

If ſome refuſing to be quiet,

Shall dare to aid this lawleſs Riot:

The Statues of Parnaſſian tender

The Stocks to ev’ry ſuch Offender.

At this the Riot ſeem’d to ceaſe,

And with a murmur ſunk in Peace:

When all was ſilent to a Man,

Again the Herald thus began.

Directed by your Prince I bring This Meſſage from the laurel’d King, Who long has view’d with ſilent Woe Your Quarrels in the World below, “How 065 D7r 45 How moral and ſatirick Wits And jingling Pedants — Rhiming Cits, The gay, the empty, and the full, The ſoft, the froward, and the dull, Wage endleſs Wars with one another, And ev’ry Blockhead hates his Brother. But while you take a world of pains In pelting at each other’s Brains; While Envy ſwells the little Mind, You ne’er conſider that you find (To ſee you in the Tempeſt hurl’d) Diverſion for the laughing World; And ſo you break all moral Rules To grow the Mocking-ſtock of Fools: But now Apollo begs you will Suſpend your Quarrels, and be ſtill. Let Wits ſhake Hands with one another, And ev’ry Dunce embrace his Brother, From batter’d Bards with ne’er a Shoe To thoſe who ſtrut about with two; From Poets doom’d to whittle Sticks, To Rhimers in a Coach and Six. “ Let 066 D7v 46 Let none preſume to fret and ſquabble, Nor curſe the dirty rhiming Rabble: For ſee the Beams of Phœbus ſtrike The Meadows, Hills, and Dales alike: So ſhines the Muſe on ev’ry Creature, Who tags his humble Lines with Metre.

He ſaid — The Children of the Bays

Sent up a Shout of mingled Praiſe,

Devoutly promiſing to pay

Obedience to the Prince of Day;

And now they ſee the Tables ſpread

With Dainties and Parnaſſian Bread,

Whoſe tiny Loaves were nicely white,

And no French Rolls were half ſo light:

The firſt bold Courſe was brought along

In diſhes made of Homer’s Song.

Next Virgil on the Table ſhines,

And then ſmooth Ovid’s tender Lines.

The gay Deſert expos’d to view,

Of modern Authors not a few,

Heroicks in the midſt preſide,

With Elegy on either Side:

Here 067 D8r 47

Here through tranſparent Sonnets gleam

Whip-Syllabubs and ſpiced Cream:

There loaded Epigrams appear,

And little Mottos cloſe the Rear.

Now Dinner paſt their jolly Souls,

Cut Capers to the Nectar Bowls,

Till ev’ry Bard had drank his fill,

And then they left the tuneful Hill.

But ere they part, the laurel’d King,

Extracted from a wond’rous Spring

A magick Bath of mighty Pow’r,

Whoſe Virtues could in half an Hour

Make Proof againſt ſharp Satyr’s Pain,

The Fibres of a Dunce’s Brain;

And give him Confidence to puſh

Through the broad World without a Bluſh.

Apollo next upon the Crew,

Beſtow’d a Grey-gooſe Quill or two,

With Ink that into Metre runs,

And charms againſt the Fear of Duns.

This done diſmiſs’d ’em, as before,

With Sirs, your Servant, and no more.

The 068 D8v 48

The Fall of Lucia.

Lucia was fair and bright as riſing Day,

Sweet as Arabia, or the Buds of May;

Freſh as the Winds that ſweep the dewy Hills,

Or Beds of Roſes waſh’d by healthy Rills:

Whoſe Soul was ſofter than a trembling Dove,

Nor knew a Failing till ſhe learn’d to love.

Nor Fraud nor Scandal to her Lips were known,

And thought each Boſom guiltleſs as her own.

Thus only arm’d with Innocence and Smiles,

She fell the Victim of a Tyrant’s Wiles.

So loſt from Shepherd and its mourning Dam,

Through ſome lone Deſart roves a ſtragg’ling Lamb;

No Danger fears, but as he idly ſtrays

Round ev’ry Buſh the heedleſs Wanton plays;

Till raging Wolves the beauteous Toy ſurround,

Or foaming Tigers rend the moſſy Ground:

Then from his Heart the guiltleſs Purple flows,

A grateful Morſel to his hungry Foes:

Thus 069 E1r 49

Thus wrap’d in Sorrows wretched Lucia lies,

Whoſe Sighs ſtill anſwer to her ſtreaming Eyes.

And Damon ſtill — Ah! faithleſs Damon cries,

No more thoſe Lips like dewy Roſes glow;

Her weary Lids no peaceful Slumbers know:

But left to ſtrike her penſive Breaſt in vain,

And curſe the Author of her laſting Pain.

Her Soul of Eaſe has took its long Adieu:

Hear this, ye Nymphs; but hear and tremble too,

Ye Fair that lanch in Pleaſure’s tempting Sea,

Though Fortune crowns you with a calmer Day,

And Joy’s ſoft Gale ſalutes your nimble Oar:

Where Lucia’s Fame was ſhipwreck’d on the Shore,

Yet let Reflexion mark your gliding Days,

Nor drink too deeply in the Draught of Praiſe:

For Flatt’ry is — So ſay the learned Schools,

The Bane of Virgins and the Bait of Fools.

How happy ſhe whoſe purer Spirit knows,

No Thought leſs harmleſs than a Saint’s Repoſe,

Whoſe guiltleſs Charms purſue no greater End,

But to rejoice a Parent or a Friend:

E Whoſe 070 E1v 50

Whoſe Care it is her Paſſions to control,

And keep the Steerage of a quiet Soul:

Then this ſhall grace her monumental Page,

In Youth admir’d, and belov’d in Age.

The Crucifixion and Resurrection.

An Ode.

I.

What means the reeling Earth? O why

Theſe Wonders in the dreadful Sky?

The frighted Sun withdraws its Beams,

Deep Groans are heard and doleful Screams.

O ſay, what this Convulſion means:

Afflicted Nature with a Shriek replies,

A God expires, a mighty Saviour dies.

II.

The conſcious Stars their Rays deny,

The Moon receives a crimſon Dye.

The temple conſcious of its Fall,

Now ſhakes its emblematick Wall.

The 071 E2r 51

The Ocean ſtagnates, and the Mountains bow,

And Angels weep that never wept till now.

III.

Still tremble, Earth, and ſtill, O Sky,

Thy ever-chearing Lamps deny:

Amaz’d ſtill let the Ocean ſtand,

But what remains for guilty Man?

What Groans? what Sorrows are for him decreed?

For Man whoſe Crimes have made Perfection bleed?

IV.

But ſee, O ſee, the Sun returns!

No more afflicted Nature mourns!

The Stars their vacant Orbs regain!

And the Moon ſheds a ſilver Beam!

While heav’nly Voices warble in the Skies,

Behold your Saviour from his Tomb ariſe.!

V.

While Saints attend the bleſſed Morn,

He roſe: — The God in human Form,

A Form not made of vulgar Clay:

Which, tho’ it ſlept, cou’d not decay!

E2 Hail, 072 E2v 52

Hail, Mortals; Hail (tranſported Seraphs cry)

Redeem’d, and favour’d by the God moſt high.

VI.

In Heav’n let Joys eternal flow,

And Mercy in the Worlds below;

The Penitent ſhall Peace obtain,

And not a Tear ſhall fall in vain.

Then join, ye Worlds, in one glad Chorus ſing,

Praiſe to Meſſiah, and th’ Almighty King.

The Third Chapter of the Wiſdom of Solomon.

From the Firſt to the Sixth Verſe.

Thus ſung the Man, for Wiſdom long renown’d,

What mean theſe Tears and mournful Numbers round?

Is Death the Cauſe? Ah! then reſtrain your Tears,

That ſtubborn Monarch nor regard nor hears,

And the bleſt Shades for whom you vainly mourn,

To theſe dim Regions wou’d no more return,

Wrap’d 073 E3r 53

Wrap’d in bright Viſions they no Ills endure,

From Sin, from Danger, and from Death ſecure:

’Tis paſt. The parting Struggles are no more,

They now are landed on the bliſsful Shore,

Where no pale Fears nor ſullen Sorrows dwell,

But Joys beyond what mortal Tongues can tell?

Where ſmiling Hope for ever blooms around,

And growing Pleaſures that ſhall know no Bound.

When thoughtleſs Mortals by conſtraint attend

On the laſt Moments of their parting Friend,

See the chang’d Features wear a deathful Hue,

The Temples water’d with a fainting Dew,

The Limbs that tremble with convulſive Pain:

Then ſtand agaſt the ignorant and vain,

Who ſhiver at the ſeeming ſtern Decree;

But look no farther than their Eyes can ſee,

The happy Soul glides unobſerv’d away

To Worlds of Glory and eternal Day.

The Pains and Sorrows which the Virtuous know,

Which long had bid the Tears in ſecret flow,

Shall not be loſt nor bury’d in the Ground;

But ſerve to brighten their immortal Crown:

E3 From 074 E3v 54

From that great Being they ſhall find their Pay,

Who bleſt the riſing and the cloſing Day.

When the pure Spirit from its Priſon flies,

How joy the Seraphs in their brighter Skies:

Around their Gueſt the ſhining Guards attend,

And heav’nly Harps with heav’nly Voices blend.

Essay on Happiness.

Nothing, dear Madam, nothing is more true,

Than a ſhort Maxim much approv’d by you;

The Lines are theſe: We by Experience know

Within ourſelves exiſts our Bliſs or Woe.

Tho’ round our Heads the Goods of Fortune roll,

Dazzle they may, but cannot chear the Soul.

Content, the Fountain of eternal Joy,

Can Riches purchaſe, or can Want deſtroy?

No. Born of Heav’n, its Birth it will maintain,

No Slave to Power nor the Prize of Gain:

Say, who can buy what never yet was ſold?

No Wealth can bribe her, nor no Bonds can hold:

Some- 075 E4r 55

Sometimes ſhe deigns to ſhine in lofty Halls,

But found more frequent in a Cottage Walls;

Her Flight from thence too often is decreed,

Then Poverty is doubly curs’d indeed.

Content and Bliſs, which differ but in Name,

Alike their Natures and their End the ſame,

Faſt bound together in eternal Chains.

This as the End — The other, as the Means,

Will ne’er divide. But who enjoys the one,

Muſt find the other ere the ſetting Sun.

Then where? Ah where do theſe fair Siſters fly?

Beneath the northern or the ſouthern Sky.

Courts do they love? The Senate or the Town,

Or the ſtill Village and the healthful Down.

Say, do they like Humilo’s humble Veſt,

Or the gay Diamonds on Belinda’s Breaſt.

To none of theſe, alas, are they confin’d,

But the ſtill Boſom anhd the virtuous Mind.

E4 See 076 E4v 56

See Glaro ſeated on his gilded Car,

Whoſe ſtubborn Paſſions wage continual War.

Who cannot call that ravag’d Heart his own,

Where Vice and Virtue ſtruggle for the Throne.

See Rage appearing in that hoſtile Frown:

Now Fears diſtract him and now Pleaſures drown,

Now turns to Heav’n with repentant Tears:

But the next Hour at his Chaplain ſneers:

This day a Beaſt, the next a reas’ning Man:

Behold him right, then envy, if you can,

Pale Livia too — Who pants beneath the weight

Of irkſom Jewels and afflicting State;

Whoſe Glaſs and Pillow do her Time divide,

At once oppreſs’d with Sickneſs and with Pride.

The ſhapely Stays her aking Ribs confine,

And in her Ears the ſparkling Pendents ſhine.

Yet not a Joy the tortur’d Wretch can feel,

Beyond Ixion on his rolling Wheel.

See reſtleſs Cloe, fond to be admir’d,

Of Joy impatient and as quickly tir’d,

When 077 E5r 57

When firſt her Eye-lids open on the Day,

With eager haſte ſhe gobbles down her Tea,

And to the Park commands her rolling Wheels,

Yet ſighs and wiſhes for the rural Fields:

Then back to Cards and Company ſhe flies,

Then for the Charms of melting Muſick dies.

At Eve the Play, Aſſembly, or the Ball:

She hates them ſingly, yet wou’d graſp ’em all:

With languid Spirits and appal’d Deſires,

She to her Cloſet and her Book retires.

But Solitude offends the ſprightly Fair;

Reading ſhe loaths, and Thought ſhe cannot bear.

Then to her Chamber and her Couch ſhe flies,

Where gilded Chariots ſwim before her Eyes.

In vain for Sleep ſhe folds her weary Arms,

Who wou’d be Cloe to enjoy her Charms?

In yonder Path Sir Thrifty we behold,

With Beaver drooping and with Garments old;

Whoſe dirty Linen ſhews no Mark of Pride,

Nor ſparkling Laces deck his ſlender Side;

Whoſe 078 E5v 58

Whoſe heavy Soul a ſaucy Wit wou’d ſwear,

Was made exactly to his eaſy Chair.

Whoſe taſteleſs Senſes ask for nothing new,

Whoſe Meals are temp’rate and whoſe pleaſures few:

Is this Man bleſt? — He may be ſo. — But when?

Why, when his Thouſands riſe to number ten,

From ten to twenty, and from twenty — Hold,

To one round Million of bright Sterling Gold;

Not there we ſtop, for Avarice will crave

Till it ſhall meet with its grand Cure, the Grave.

Lavinia’s bleſt with all that Man deſires,

With Eyes that charm and Reaſon that inſpires;

Youth, Wealth, and Friends, to gild her ſhining Days,

The poor Man’s Bleſſing and the rich Man’s Praiſe.

With Judgment ſound and touch’d by no extreme,

Speech gently flowing and a Soul ſerene,

For ever pleaſing and for ever true,

By all admir’d, envy’d by a few:

Then ſhe is happy, tho’ beneath the Sky,

Hold, not ſo haſty: — Let her Husband die.

Then 079 E6r 59

Then who are happy, ’twill be hard to ſay,

Since undiſturb’d it ſeldom laſts a Day:

For who in Smiles beholds the Morning Sun,

May weed before his ſhort-liv’d Journey’s done.

All Pleaſures ſatiate and all Objects cloy;

We crave, we graſp, but loath the taſted Joy:

Nor Wealth nor Beauty, Friend’s nor Fortune’s Smile,

Can bleſs our Moments, tho’ they may beguile:

Nor Wit with Happineſs can often grow,

A helpleſs Friend, if not an arrant Foe.

Where then? O where ſhall Happineſs be found?

Say, ſhall we ſearch the rolling World around,

On borrow’d Pinions travel through the Sky,

Or to the Centre drive our piercing Eye?

Ceaſe, buſy Fool: Is Happineſs thy Care?

Pierce thy own Breaſt, and thou wilt find it there:

Drive thence the Paſſions, and the Guilt expel,

And call fair Virtue to the poliſh’d Cell.

Call ſoft Content with all her ſmiling Train;

Peace for thy Health, and Patience for thy Pain:

Then 080 E6v 60

Then not till then, O Man, thy Heart ſhall know

Bliſs ſo ador’d, but ſeldom found below.

An Essay on Hope.

To you who ne’er the willing Verſe refuſe,

Thus ſings an humble but a grateful Muſe:

Our Theme is Hope — but of a diff’rent kind,

The Bane or Bleſſing of the ſubject Mind;

This dawning Joy that to the Soul was given,

As a ſhort Earneſt of its future Heav’n:

To blame is not the Purpoſe of my Song,

But warn our Siſters not to place it wrong.

Shun trifling Hope, that bids your Fancy roll,

The conſtant Torment of a reſtleſs Soul:

For two pale Handmaids are for ever near,

Sick Diſappointment and the ſecret Tear:

’Tis this that makes the reſtleſs Heart repine,

Beneath the Treaſures of an Indian Mine

Much Fortune gives — Yet, Give us more, they cry,

And ſome new Proſpect lures the dazzl’d Eye:

Like 081 E7r 61

Like wanton Babes they reach at ſomething more,

And drop the Gewgaws which they held before.

See the puff’d Tradeſman ſtrut before his Door,

Whoſe Birth was humble and whoſe Fortune poor;

Yet you may ſee his roving Thoughts depend

On ſome bold Venture or ſome wealthy Friend,

Till the loſt Bankrupt drops into the Jaw

Of pale Diſcredit and voracious Law.

The grave-fac’d Student better learn’d than fed

With Store of Logick in his aking Head,

Sees pleaſing Pictures in his Boſom drawn,

The Dean’s ſoft Cuſhion and the Biſhop’s Lawn:

He dines with Lords and takes the higheſt Place,

And weds a Counteſs, Couſin to his Grace.

But ſoon his Heart the loſt Deluſion mourns:

And the proud Prelate to a Curate turns

On ſome dark Dome with thirty Pounds per-ann,

He ſips his Liquors in a pewter Cann.

Young 082 E7v 62

Young Seizum, fated to diſtract the Law,

Who talks of Men and Books he never ſaw,

Now ſtruts a Counſellor, a Serjeant now,

While the quick Turns elate his ſcornful Brow.

Behold the Judge in that commanding Frown:

See then: juſt then he ſtrok’d his Ermin’d Gown.

Cecilia ſoft, whoſe pleaſing Features ſhine

Bright in their Wane, and beauteous in Decline,

Still to her eyes recalls the ſcatter’d Darts,

Still hopes the Conqueſt of a thouſand Hearts.

Care ſtalks around: Vexation hovers nigh;

Her Friends bewail her, and her Children cry:

Her wounded Ears their hateful Whinings tire,

Whoſe Fancy dwells upon a wealthy ’Squire:

Wrap’d in ſoft Viſions on her Couch ſhe lies;

Knights, Peers, and Garters ſwim before her Eyes.

She rides in triumph through her Husband’s Fields,

And hears the rattling of her Chariot Wheels,

Till her charm’d Senſes will contain no more;

Then flies the Viſion through its Iv’ry Door,

See 083 E8r 63

See Acamas with Time’s ſad Burden bow,

Guilt in his Breaſt and Wrinkles on his Brow;

Yet points out Cloe for his charming Bride,

And fain would tempt her to his frozen Side:

At Chapel where ſoft Grace and Virtue calls,

And pale Vice trembles at the ſacred Walls;

Where Conſcience warns the guilty Wretch to pray,

And beg a Bleſſing on his cloſing Day.

The Preacher reads: But Acamas the while

Grins at his Cloe with a ghaſtly Smile.

In their red Orbs his waiting Eye-balls roll,

And charming Cloe ruſhes on his Soul:

But Death will teach the ſilver-bearded Fool

Some other Leſſon in his gloomy School.

Blank Diſappointment with its Train attends

In Delia’s Heart, if Delia’s Heart depends

On Silia’s Tongue ſo aptly hung with Guile,

On Cynthio’s Friendſhip or on Clara’s Smile:

Such courtly Friends are like the ſhow’ry Bow,

Ting’d with falſe Luſtre by Reflexion glow:

Like 084 E8v 64

Like its faint Rays they hardly laſt an Hour,

Loſt in a Cloud or melted in a Show’r.

If trifling Hope has any room to plead,

’Tis that where Nature’s ſimple Dictates lead:

So the wet Hind, who travels o’er the Plain

Through the cold Mire and afflicting Rain;

Tho’ his low Roofs with trickling Show’rs run,

May hope next Morn to ſee the chearful Sun:

Or when keen Hunger at the ev’ning Tide

Drives home the Shepherd to his ruſtick Bride,

His honeſt Reaſon haply might not ſtray,

Tho’ he ſhould dream of Dumpling all the way.

See ſad Æmilia doom’d by fatal Vows

To the harſh Uſage of a Tyrant Spouſe,

To ſee his Miſtreſs in her Woes rejoice,

Her Fortune waſted on his guilty Choice,

To bear Reproaches doubled on her Ear,

Yet only anſwer with a ſilent Tear.

Tho’ patient Wives muſt wait the Fate’s good time;

Yet ſhe, I think, may hope without a Crime.

But 085 F1r 65

But the grand Hope that yields perpetual Joy,

No trifles gave, no trifles can deſtroy;

With Mercy from the bleſt Abode it came,

Its Birth Celeſtial and its End the ſame;

That bids our Days in one ſmooth Tenor roll,

Its task to chear and harmonize the Soul.

On ſmarting Want it pours a healing Balm,

Makes Toil ſeem pleaſant and Affliction calm.

The Moral Vision.

Tyrannick Winter’s Iron Reign was done,

And the ſoft Twins receiv’d the radiant Sun;

The chearful Earth appear’d in vernal Pride,

And the clear Waves did more ſerenely glide:

Kind Zephyrs play’d around the waving Trees,

While op’ning Roſes caught the welcome Breeze.

Amid theſe Scenes beneath a Maple Shade,

Sat careleſs Mira on her Elbow laid,

F While 086 F1v 66

While frolick Fancy led the uſual Train

Of gaudy Phantoms through her cheated Brain:

Till Slumber ſeiz’d upon her thoughtful Breaſt,

And the ſtill Spirits ſunk in balmy Reſt:

But while her Eyes had bid the World farewel,

Thus Mira dream’d, and thus her Dreams we tell;

A ſeeming Nymph, like thoſe of Dian’s Train,

Came ſwiftly tripping o’er the flow’ry Plain,

Whoſe ſmiling Face was as the Morning fair,

A ſilver Fillet ty’d her flaxen Hair,

A golden Zone her lovely Boſom bound,

And her green Robe hung careleſs on the Ground.

Sleep, happy Mortal, with a Smile ſhe cries,

And turn’d on Mira her far-beaming Eyes.

Still o’er thy own aerial Mountains ſtray,

And in bright Viſions ſlumber out the Day;

With gaudy Scenes delude thy dazzl’d Mind,

Yet thou muſt wake and leave ’em all behind:

Yes, thou ſhalt drop from that enchanted Sky,

And wake to Wiſdom with a weeping Eye,

While in a Miſt the ſhining Proſpects end;

Then hear, O Mira, thy immortal Friend.

Recall 087 F2r 67

Recall thy wand’ring Thoughts, and make ’em dwell

In the ſmall Limits of their native Cell.

To thine own Heart confine thy chiefeſt Care,

For Mira, know, thy Joys are planted there:

And as you manage and improve the Soil,

’Twill puniſh your Neglect, or pay your Toil;

Here let your Views and your Ambition reſt,

To reign the Queen of a well-govern’d Breaſt,

This Point ſecur’d, let Heav’n diſpoſe the reſt.

Yet you may ask for what your State requires,

But not the Gewgaws your Caprice deſires:

As thus, ‘ O keep me from the reach of Pain,

From meagre Famine and her mournful Train:

Let not Reproach aſſault my wounded Ears,

Nor let my Soul behold a Friend in Tears:

Secure from Noiſe, let my ſtill Moments run,

And ſtill be chearful as the riſing Sun:

Or if a Gloom my trembling Heart invades,

Ah! may it vaniſh with the nightly Shades

Through the craz’d Walls: O may not Reaſon fly?

But if it does then let its Manſion die:

F2 ‘ Let 088 F2v 68

Let not Remorſe of Guilt the certain Pay,

Blot my clear Sun nor ſtain its parting Ray:

Give me a lively but a guiltleſs Mind,

A Body healthful and a Soul reſign’d.

Thus far, O Mira, thou mayſt ask of Heav’n,

How bleſs’d the Mortal to whom theſe are giv’n:

If ſuch thy Lot, let Kings enjoy their Crowns,

Their pageant State and arbitrary Frowns:

Who, tho’ encircl’d by their ſhining Slaves,

Intriguing Friends and well diſſembl’d Knaves,

Are only wretched Idols plac’d on high,

To bear the Rage of a tempeſtuous Sky:

And while the Storms around his Temples blow,

His fawning Servants ſafely ſneer below:

But now the Sun brings on the Noon of Day,

Riſe, Mira, riſe and ſhun the ſcorching Ray:

This ſaid, no more appear’d the beauteous Maid,

And Mira waking found a lonely Shade.

A 089 F3r 69

A Prayer for the Year, 17451745.

Almighty Wiſdom, at whoſe Nod

The Stars ſhall ceaſe to ſhine,

Great Nature’s Father, Guide, and God,

O let me call thee mine.

Yet not for me, and me alone,

Thy Mercies I implore:

No, let that Bliſs to all be known,

That tremble and adore.

Now Fear, that makes the Sorrows flow

Ev’n from the Infant’s Eyes,

O’er-whelms in one promiſcuous Woe

The Ignorant and Wiſe.

Then hear, O hear, thy Servants cry,

We beg thy ſaving Hand:

To whom but Heav’n ſhou’d we apply,

To raiſe a drooping Land!

F3 Be 090 F3v 70

Be thou the Guard of helpleſs Age,

The wretched Orphan’s Friend:

O ſmooth the Face of hoſtile Rage,

And ſpare its purple End.

Reſtrain the Hand of threat’ning Pride,

Aſſwage the cruel Breaſt:

Teach Mercy to the Victor Side,

And Patience to the reſt.

And when the Sword of Conqueſt ſhall

The trembling Wretch arraign,

Let Juſtice guide the equal Scale,

Nor ſwerve the ſteady Beam.

Preſerve the merciful and kind

From Violence and Pain:

And let the meek and gentle Mind

Rejoice, and not complain.

Nor 091 F4r 71

Nor let the barb’rous Steel invade

The Breaſt of hoary Age:

Nor give the unreſiſting Babe

A Prey to purple Rage.

Amongſt un-number’d Worlds if I

Am worth my Maker’s Care,

Then let me live and let me die

Unwounded by Deſpair.

Tho’ Want or Peril, Pain or Death,

Aſſault this feeble Clay,

Let Hope attend my lateſt Breath

And chear the gloomy Way.

Preſerve my Parent and my Friend

From Danger, Guilt or Shame:

In Peace their chearful Days extend

To praiſe thy holy Name.

Forgive the Errors of my Youth,

If in my Youth I fall:

F4 Or 092 F4v 72

Or teach my Age thy ſaving Truth,

O hear me when I call.

Thou mighty Lord of all above

And all beneath the Sun,

Thy Servant’s humble Suit approve;

If not, thy Will be done.

David’s Complaint, ii Samuel, chap. I.

Mourn, Judah, mourn beneath the ſilent Sky,

And pierce the Deſerts with thy midnight Cry.

See Zion, conſcious of her failing Powers,

Heaves from her Baſe and ſhakes the nodding Bowers.

For their loſt Sires orphan’d Babes complain,

And Matrons ſtrike their widow’d Breaſts in vain;

From Street to Street the howling Mourners fly,

Fear on their brows and Horror in their Eye.

For why, her Peers are waſh’d with purple Gore:

Her Princes and her Monarch is no more:

Whom 093 F5r 73

Whom not the ſacred Diadem cou’d ſhield,

But ſerv’d to ſwell the Horrors of the Field.

But why, amongſt the Heathen doom’d to fall?

Is this, alas, the End of mighty Saul?

Mourn, mourn in Silence leſt Philiſtia hear,

Nor let our Foes behold the ſtreaming Tear.

But O my Friend — (Ah there my Sorrows ſwell)

Deny’d the Bleſſing of a ſad Farewel?

Whoſe ruddy Cheeks confeſs’d their early Prime,

Nor his ſmooth Brows had felt the Stroke of Time.

He was my Soul’s beſt Pleaſure while alive,

And is he blaſted? — then do I ſurvive?

Ah no, ’tis Death and aggravated Woe.

O ſay, my Heart, caſt thou ſuſtain the Blow?

Ye Nations, mourn — if ſuch a thing cou’d be,

Till Nature too ſhou’d learn to grieve, like me:

Ye ſmiling Dames, your gaudy Robes reſign,

And ſuit your Garments and your Griefs to mine.

Go, hide your ſlighted Beauties from the Sun,

While down your Cheeks the ſtreaming Sorrows run.

Still let your Eye-balls waſte their humid Store,

And ſtill repeat — Your Monarch is no more!

Be 094 F5v 74

Be thou, Gilboä, wrap’d in endleſs Night,

Nor let thy Hills behold the Beams of Light.

Let the gay Sun to thee his Rays deny,

While rattling Tempeſts o’er thy Borders fly.

There Judah’s Chief lay proſtrate on the Ground,

And there my Friend receiv’d the mortal Wound.

Essay on Friendship.

To Artemiſia. — ’Tis to her we ſing,

For her once more we touch the ſounding String.

’Tis not to Cythera’s Reign nor Cupid’s Fires,

But ſacred Friendſhip that our Muſe inſpires.

A Theme that ſuits Æmilia’s pleaſing Tongue:

So to the Fair Ones I devote my Song.

The Wiſe will ſeldom credit all they hear,

Tho’ ſaucy Wits ſhou’d tell them with a Sneer,

That Womens Friendſhips, like a certain Fly,

Are hatch’d i’th Morning and at Ev’ning die.

’Tis true, our Sex has been from early Time

A conſtant Topick for Satirick Rhyme:

Nor 095 F6r 75

Nor without Reaſon――ſince we’re often found,

Or loſt in Paſſion, or in Pleaſures drown’d:

And the fierce Winds that bid the Ocean roll,

Are leſs inconſtant than a Woman’s Soul:

Yet ſome there are who keep the mod’rate Way,

Can think an Hour, and be calm a Day:

Who ne’er were known to ſtart into a Flame,

Turn Pale or tremble at a loſing Game.

Run Chloe’s Shape or Delia’s Features down,

Or change Complexion at Celinda’s Gown:

But ſtill ſerene, compaſſionate and kind,

Walk through Life’s Circuit with an equal Mind.

Of all Companions I would chooſe to ſhun

Such, whoſe blunt Truths are like a burſting Gun,

Who in a Breath count all your Follies o’er,

And cloſe their Lectures with a mirthful Roar:

But Reaſon here will prove the ſafeſt Guide,

Extremes are dang’rous plac’d on either Side.

A Friend too ſoft will hardly prove ſincere;

The Wit’s inconſtant, and the Learn’d ſevere.

Good- 096 F6v 76

Good-Breeding, Wit, and Learning, all conſpire

To charm Mankind and make the World admire:

Yet ina Friend but ſerve an under Part,

The main Ingredient is an honeſt Heart:

By this can Urs’la all our Souls ſubdue

Which wanting, this, not Sylvia’s Charms, can do.

Now let the Muſe (who takes no Courtier’s Fee)

Point to her Friend――and future Ages ſee

(If this ſhall live ’till future Ages be)

One Line devoted to Fidelia’s Praiſe,

The lov’d Companion of my early Days:

Whouſe harmleſs Thoughts are ſprightly as her Eyes,

By Nature chearful, and by Nature wiſe.

To have them laſt, the ſocial Laws decree;

We chooſe our Friendſhips in the ſame degree:

What mighty Pleaſure, if we might preſume,

To ſtrut with Freedom in Arvida’s room,

Or ſhare the Table with ſupreme Delight?

With ſome proud Dutcheſs or a ſcornful Knight,

To 097 F7r 77

To ſit with formal and aſſenting Face?

For who ſhall dare to contradict her Grace?

Our free-born Nature hates to be confin’d,

Where State and Power check the ſpeaking Mind;

Where heavy Pomp and ſullen Form withholds

That chearful Eaſe and Sympathy of Souls.

But yet the Soul whate’er its Partner do,

Muſt lift its Head above the baſer Crew.

Celeſtial Friendſhip with its nicer Rules,

Frequents not Dunghills nor the Clubs of Fools.

It asks, to make this Union ſoft and long,

A Mind ſuſceptible, and Judgment ſtrong;

And then a Taſte: But let that Taſte be giv’n

By mighty Nature and the Stamp of Heav’n:

Poſſeſt of theſe, the juſtly temper’d Flame

Will glow inceſſant, and be ſtill the ſame:

Not mov’d by Sorrow, Sickneſs, or by Age

To ſullen Coldneſs or diſtemper’d Rage.

The Soul unſtain’d with Envy or with Pride,

Pleas’d with itſelf and all the World beſide,

Unmov’d 098 F7v 78

Unmov’d can ſee gilt Chariots whirling by,

Or view the wretched with a melting Eye,

Diſcern a Failing and forgive it too:

Such, Artemiſia, we may find in you.

Be ſeldom ſour, or your Friends will fly

From the hung Forehead and the ſcornful Eye:

Nor, like Aurelia, in the Morning kind,

And ſoft as Summer or the weſtern Wind:

But round ere night her giddy Paſſions wheel,

She’ll clap the Door againſt your parting Heel.

An even Temper will be ſure to pleaſe,

With cool Reflexion and a chearful Eaſe.

But ſee Armida’s unfrequented Rooms,

How vainly ſpread with Carpets and Perfumes:

All ſhun her like the Cocatrice’s Beams,

And for no other Reaſon but her loath’d Extremes.

To-day more holy than a cloiſter’d Nun,

Almoſt an Atheiſt by to-morrow’s Sun:

Now ſpeaks to Heaven with a lifted Eye:

Now to her Footman, You’re a Rogue, and lye.

O 099 F8r 79

O ſay, from what ſtrange Principles begin

Theſe odd Compounds of Piety and Sin?

A ſickly Fair may ſome Excuſes find,

(What grieves the Body will affect the Mind)

But not the Creatures who have learn’d to ſcreen

Their own Ill-nature in the name of Spleen.

What the black Miſts afflict the aking Skull,

The Spirits tremble and the Heart be dull:

Have you from thence a Licence to offend,

Affront a Patron or abuſe a Friend?

And ape the Manners of a ſurly Beaſt,

Becauſe ’tis cloudy and the Wind’s i’th’ Eaſt?

But all have Failings, not the beſt are free,

Or in a greater or a leſs Degree.

What follows then? — Forgive, or unforgiven

Expect no Paſſage at the Gate of Heav’n.

Kind Nature gave, in Pity to Mankind,

This ſocial Virtue to the human Mind:

This gives our Pleaſures a more eaſy Flow,

And helps to blunt the Edge of ſmarting Woe:

The 100 F8v 80

The Soul’s Relief, with Grief or Cares oppreſt,

Is to diſcloſe them to a faithful Breaſt;

And then how lovely in a Friend appear,

The mournful Sigh and ſympathizing Tear.

When changing Fortune with propitious Ray,

Gilds the brown Ev’ning or the ſmiling Day;

The pleas’d Companion ſhares the welcome Tide,

And wrap’d in Joy the happy Minutes glide.

Grave Authors differ — Men of Senſe incline

This Way or that — Opinions rarely join:

Their Thoughts will vary. Why? Becauſe they’re free,

But moſt in this and only this agree;

That our chief Task is ſeldom to offend,

And Life’s great Bleſſing a well-choſen Friend.

The 101 G1r 81

The Mistaken Lover.

Strephon the ſprightly and the gay,

Lov’d Celia freſh and fair as May:

None ſhone ſo brilliant in the Mall,

The Court, th’ Aſſembly and the Ball;

None bare at Will’s the laurel’d Prize,

But Celia with the killing Eyes.

’Twas at the Drawing Room or Play,

(But which our Author cannot ſay)

As Celia roll’d her Eyes around,

This Youth receiv’d a mortal Wound.

What ſhou’d he do?――Commence the Beau,

For Women oft are caught by Show.

The wounded Strephon now behold,

Array’d in Coat of Green and Gold,

(Of which we ſomething might advance)

The Sleeve was a-la-mode de France.

G We 102 G1v 82

We leave it here――and haſte to tell,

How ſmartly round his Temples fell

The modiſh Wig.――Yet we preſume,

More graceful was the ſcarlet Plume:

Tho’ ſome rude Soldier (doom’d to bear

The Southern and the Northern Air,

And walk through ev’ry kind of Weather)

Might jeer at Strephon’s ſcarlet Feather;

And tell us ſuch ſhou’d ne’er be wore,

Unleſs you fought at Marſton-moor.

His Perſon finiſh’d, now the Care

Is to addreſs and gain the Fair:

He purchas’d all the Songs of Note,

And got the Lover’s Cant by rote:

He brib’d her Footmen and her Maids,

And with his nightly Serenades

Her vaulted Roofs and Gardens rung:

For her he ogled, danc’d and ſung:

Was often as her Toilet ſeen,

With Sonnets to the Paphian Queen:

Then 103 G2r 83

Then at her Feet dejected lying,

Praying, weeping, ſighing, dying.

Was Celia kind? It ſhall be known:

D’ye think our Hearts are made of Stone?

Yes, ſhe was kind, and to proceed,

The Writings drawn and Friends agreed:

Grave Hymen’s ſacred Knot was ty’d,

And Celia Fair commenc’d a Bride.

But I ſhall paſs the Wedding-day,

Nor ſtay to paint the Ladies gay,

Nor Splendor of the lighted Hall,

The Feaſt, the Fiddles, nor the Ball.

A lovely Theme!――’Tis true, but then

We’ll leave it to a ſofter Pen:

Thoſe tranſient Joys will fade too ſoon,

We’ll therefore skip the Hony-Moon.

’Twas half a Year — It might be more,

Since Celia brought her ſhining Store,

G2 Five 104 G2v 84

Five thouſand Pounds of Sterling clear,

To bleſs the Manſion of her Dear.

Some tell us Wives their Beauties loſe,

When they have ſpoil’d their bridal Shoes:

Some learned Caſuiſts make it clear,

A Wife might pleaſe for half a Year:

And others ſay, her Charms will hold

As long as the ſuſpended Gold;

But that her Bloom is ſoon decay’d,

And wither’d when her Fortune’s paid.

Now which of theſe was Celia’s Caſe,

(Tho’ all are common to her Race)

I ſhall not rack my Brains about,

But leave the Learn’d to pick it out.

This Husband, whimſical and gay,

Lov’d Muſick, Maſquerades, and Play,

Was one of thoſe moſt happy Elves,

That dote upon their charming Selves:

Who 105 G3r 85

Who hating dull domeſtick Walls,

Fly here and there as Fancy calls;

Still in purſuit of ſomething new,

Nor even to their Vices true.

Miſtaken Strephon finds no more

His Celia charming as before:

Her Eyes! — Why, they have loſt their Fire:

The Roſes on her Cheek expire.

Her Shape — ’Tis alter’d ſtrangely, ſure;

Her Voice no Mortal can endure.

Then to the Park where Claudia rolls

Her Eyes to fiſh for ſhallow Souls:

Or at the Play he muſt appear,

For lovely Lindamine is there:

No mortal Bell ſo fair as ſhe,

If wretched Strephon was but free.

I’th’ Country he deludes the Morn

With Ringwood and the hunting Horn:

G3 Perhaps 106 G3v 86

Perhaps may with his Deareſt dine,

Then hey for Company and Wine;

Wine that wou’d make an Hermit gay,

With Muſick intermix’d and Play.

For Tables and for Cards they call:

The Dice-box rattles in the Hall.

Now all are happy nor give o’er,

Till Watches point to Number Four:

Then ſee the Face of dawning Day:

Here Lucy. Where’s your Lady, pray?

She’s gone to reſt. — There let her be,

Go make the crimſon Bed for me.

All this while in Silence paſs’d,

The Lady’s Patience fail’d at laſt.

One Morning (ſo the Fates decree)

Alone was ſitting he and ſhe:

Not yet arriv’d the roaring Band,

Nor Rake nor Coxcomb was at hand.

This bleſt Occaſion pleas’d the Fair,

And with a mild and chearful Air,

She 107 G4r 87

She thus began: My Strephon ſay,

Why this dejected Face to day?

Why art thou always croſs and dull,

Unleſs the noiſy Rooms are full?

Black diſcontent and Anger lies

Cloſe lurking in thy ſullen Eyes;

Thoſe Eyes that I with Sorrow ſee

Diſguſted when they roll on me.

Here ceas’d the greatly injur’d Bride,

And Strephon with a Bluſh reply’d:

Why, Madam, I muſt own that you,

Have Merit, (give the De’l his due)

And was the Pleaſure of my Life,

Before you wore the Name of Wife:

But Ma’m, the Reaſon was, I find,

That while a Lover I was blind:

And now the Fault is not in me,

’Tis only this — that I can ſee.

I thought you once a Goddſs trim,

The Graces dwelt on ev’ry Limb:

G4 But 108 G4v 88

But, Madam, if you e’er was ſuch,

Methinks you’re alter’d very much:

As firſt (I beg your Pardon tho’)

You hold your Head extremely low:

And tho’ your Shape is not awry,

Your Shoulders ſtand prodigious high:

Your curling Hair I durſt have ſwore,

Was blacker than the ſable Moor:

But now I find ’tis only brown,

A Colour common through the Town:

’Tis true you’re mighty fair――But now

I ſpy a Freckle on your Brow;

Your Lips I own are red and thin,

But there’s a Pimple on your Chin:

Beſides your Eyes are gray. — Alack!

’Till now I always thought ’em black.

Thus, Madam, I the Truth have told;

’Tis true, I thank you for your Gold;

But find in ſearching of my Breaſt,

That I cou’d part with all the reſt.

He 109 G5r 89

He ceas’d — And both were mute a while,

’Till Celia anſwer’d with a Smile:

Who would have thought, my Dear, ſays ſhe,

That Love was blind to this degree;

But in my Turn I’ll own it too,

That I’m as much deceiv’d as you:

From hence let our Example ſhow

The gay Coquette and ſprightly Beau;

That Love like theirs will never hold,

Not tho’ ’tis cemented with Gold:

Let all the Youths to you repair,

For Counſel――and to me the Fair.

’Twill help to make our Strephons wiſe,

And ſtop the Growth of tender Lies:

And more than Plato’s moral Page

Inſtruct the Celia’s of the Age.

But now, my Deareſt, as you ſee

In mutual Hatred we agree,

Methinks ’tis better we retreat,

Each Party to a diſtant Seat;

And 110 G5v 90

And tho’ we value each the other,

Juſt as one Ruſh regards another:

Yet let us often ſend to hear,

If Health attend the abſent Dear:

And tho’ each other we would ſhun,

As Debtors do a hateful Dun:

(Nor mind the croſſing of a Street)

Yet let’s be civil when we meet,

And live in ſhort like courtly Friends:

They part――and thus the Story ends.

The Way of the World.

Some Herbs there are, whoſe deadly Juices fill

The Heart with Venom, and directly kill:

Some operate more ſlowly, but as ſure;

The Dart leſs ſudden, but admits no Cure.

Yet there’s a Drug, nor Plain nor Mountain yields,

Not Libya’s Deſarts nor Britannia’s Fields,

Deſtructive more than all the baneful kind;

’Tis Flatt’ry call’d――the Poiſon of the Mind.

This, 111 G6r 91

This, ſoft Sir Wealthy feeds on all the Day:

This, Delia ſwallows with her ſoft Bohea,

To this we owe Sublimo’s ſcornful Eye,

And Thalia’s Cheeks that bluſh with borrow’d Dye.

Sublimo once cou’d like his Neighbours walk,

Bow to his Friends, or with his Tenants talk;

Nor had been ſeiz’d with this majeſtick Fit,

If ſubtle Florio had not prais’d his Wit.

Gray Thalia too wou’d now her Arts give o’er,

And reſt thoſe Eye-balls that muſt ſlay no more;

Nor would that Face engroſs her Morning’s Care,

Did not Philander tell her ſhe is fair.

Alcidas tells you with an artful Smile,

That Womens Eyes were giv’n them to beguile:

His Way is cunning and miſchievous too,

He’ll praiſe in others what he finds in you.

You hear delighted, nor perceive the Foe;

But drink in Flatt’ry ere you think ’tis ſo.

And when he’s run the gay Deſcription through,

The ſmart Concluſion is apply’d to you:

But 112 G6v 92

But turn your Back――Alcidas with a Grin

Will vow, you’re ugly as a Scoterkin.

How oft you hear from a deſigning Knave,

Sir, I’m your Servant, Madam, I’m your Slave,

Yet if you’re bleſt with penetrating Eyes,

You’ll in his Features read the Villain lies.

See ſoft Courtine, whoſe Hat with Silver bound,

Is ſo obſequious that ’twill kiſs the Ground:

Whoſe Actions point to ſome unworthy End,

And ne’er was Patron, Counſellor, or Friend:

Whoſe narrow Views are to himſelf confin’d,

Yet he’s the humble Slave of all Mankind.

Theſe fawning Rogues are irkſom Creatures――True,

But then a Clown is full as odious too:

The Face unpractis’d in the Arts of Guile,

Need not be ſtretech’d with an eternal Smile:

Nor yet affect the Cynick’s awful Scowl,

Screw’d like the Viſage of Minerva’s Owl;

For 113 G7r 93

For ſome reject (and hold it as a Rule,)

The Crab-faced Student for the tender Fool.

The Phraſe unſtudied flows with graceful Eaſe,

And careleſs Geſture never fails to pleaſe:

The Heart inſtructs the Features and the Tongue;

Let that be right, and theſe will ne’er be wrong.

Ask Cynthio’s Judgment in ſome nice Affair,

He’ll praiſe your Conduct with a charming Air,

Extol your Senſe and Prudence to the Skies:

And ſure ſuch Merits were deſign’d to riſe.

His candid Eyes can hidden Beauties ſee,

Ev’n Faults are uſeful, or they ceaſe to be:

And each no-meaning Cynthio can explore;

But asks his Friendſhip, and he ſpeaks no more.

But the worſt Flatterer that wears a Tongue,

Is him whoſe Power aggravates the Wrong:

To whoſe grand Levee Crowds of Suppliants run,

And bow like Perſians to the riſing Sun:

Where 114 G7v 94

Where ſtarv’d Dependents linger out their Days,

Yet proud to ſhare his Snuff-box and his Praiſe,

Grow ſtiff with Standing and with Staring thin,

To watch the Dimple on their Patron’s Chin:

Who with a Nod can make the Wretch believe,

And ſmiles on Hunger which he’ll ne’er relieve.

Surrounded thick with Bus’neſs and with Gold,

Yet dreſs’d in Smiles Virginius you behold:

The expecting Crowd around his Table ſtand,

You ask a Favour and he graſps your Hand:

Another comes with an obſequious Air,

He winks and whiſpers. — Leave it to my Care.

Then to the next――Oh I’ll remember you;

Sir, truſt my Honour, you ſhall find me true:

Then bows a third.――Good Sir, your Pardon. ―― Why?

I ſaw you not.――Forgive my careleſs Eye.

Next Tueſday ſe’en-night, let me ſee you pray,

Perhaps you’ll find it Hundreds in your way.

The 115 G8r 95

The meagre Wight departs with happier Soul,

Romantick Viſions in his Boſom roll:

He faſts in Rapture, as of late in Sorrow;

For who can eat, that’s to be rich to-morrow?

But Tueſday ſee, the joyful Day is come;

Now to his Patron.――But he’s not at home.

Alas! But then to-morrow Morn will do,

And I’ll be early.――Gentlemen, adieu.

Next Day at Six before the Gate appears,

The Wretch divided by his Hopes and Fears.

The haughty Servants meet him with a Frown.

I’d ſee his Honour――.But he’d not come down

Your Servant, Sir I’ll ſtay then in the Hall:

But he is ſick and can’t be ſpoke withal.

I’ll wait with Patience till another Day,

And for his Honour and his Health ſhall pray.

At laſt the Knight (his Fate had order’d ſo)

Was ſeiz’d and boarded by the lurking Foe;

And wiſely thinking ’twas in vain to fly,

Smooth’d up his Face and with a leering Eye

Began. Oh Mr. What-d’ye-call, Is’t you?

I’m glad to ſee you: Yet I’m ſorry too,

Sure 116 G8v 96

Sure ſome ill Stars preſided o’er your Fate,

I cou’d have ſerv’d you, but you’re come too late.

Yet ſure, there is whoſe honeſt Soul was made

Too grand a Being for the ſoothing Trade;

Whoſe Wit can neither flatter nor offend,

A gay Companion, yet a conſtant Friend;

Willing to pleaſe where Honeſty may win,

Averſe to Slander, tho’ it was no Sin.

With native Manners as with Senſe endu’d;

Not ſoft as Cynthio nor as Damon rude;

Not baſely humble, yet a Foe to Pride:

Whoſe Tongue ne’er promis’d what his Heart deny’d.

Whoſe Satire charms, nor Mirth offends the Ear;

Tho’ wiſe not froward, juſt but not ſevere;

Not ſway’d by Int’reſt, nor in Paſſion hurl’d:

But walks a calm Spectator through the World,

Whoſe Breaſt (where no unmanly Vapours grow)

Can feel Compaſſion for another’s Woe;

Where Courage, Mercy, Juſtice, Candour lie,

That ſhine celeſtial in the ſpeaking Eye.

This 117 H1r 97

This Man is great, whate’er be his Degree;

O bleſs him, Heav’n, if ſuch a one there be:

May Life’s beſt Comforts on his Days attend,

Bleſt in himſelf, and happy in his Friend:

Far from his Gate fly Poverty and Woe;

Let not a Sigh his quiet Manſion know:

But the fair Dome each roving Eye allure,

With Peace and Plenty ſmiling at the Door:

Let him ſoft Days and happy Ev’nings find,

And live ſtill bleſt, and bleſſing all Mankind.

The Fox and the Hen. A Fable.

’Twas on a fair and healthy Plain,

There liv’d a poor but honeſt Swain,

Had to his Lot a little Ground,

Defended by a quick-ſet Mound:

’Twas there he milk’d his brindled Kine,

And there he fed his harmleſs Swine:

His Pigeons flutter’d to and fro,

And bask’d his Poultry in a Row:

H Much 118 H1v 98

Much we might ſay of each of theſe,

As how his Pigs in Conſort wheeze;

How the ſweet Hay his Heifers chew,

And how the Pigeons ſoftly coo:

But we ſhall wave this motley Strain,

And keep to one that’s ſhort and plain:

Nor paint the Dunghill’s feather’d King,

For of the Hen we mean to ſing.

A Hen there was, a ſtrange one too,

Cou’d ſing (believe me, it is true)

Or rather (as you may preſume)

Wou’d prate and cackle in a Tune:

This quickly ſpread the Pullet’s Fame,

And Birds and Beaſts together came:

All mixt in one promiſcuous Throng,

To viſit Partlet and her Song.

It chanc’d there came amongſt the Crew,

Of witty Foxes not a few:

But one more ſmart than all the reſt,

His ſerious Neighbour thus addreſt:

What 119 H2r 99

What think you of this Partlet here?

’Tis true her Voice is pretty clear:

Yet without pauſing I can tell,

In what much more ſhe wou’d excel:

Methinks ſhe’d eat exceeding well.

This heard the liſt’ning Hen, as ſhe

Sat perch’d upon a Maple-tree.

The ſhrewd Propoſal gall’d her Pride,

And thus to Reynard ſhe reply’d:

Sir, you’re extremely right I vow,

But how will you come at me now?

You dare not mount this lofty Tree,

So there I’m pretty ſafe, you ſee.

From long ago, (or Record lies)

You Foxes have been counted wiſe:

But ſure this Story don’t agree

With your Device of eating me.

For you, Dame Fortune ſtill intends

Some coarſer Food than ſinging Hens:

Beſides e’er you can reach ſo high,

Remember you muſt learn to fly.

H2 I 120 H2v 100

I own ’tis but a ſcurvy way,

You have as yet to ſeize your Prey,

By ſculking from the Beams of Light,

And robbing Hen-rooſts in the Night:

Yet you muſt keep this vulgar Trade

Of thieving till your Wings are made.

‘Had I the keeping of you tho’,

I’d make your ſubtle Worſhip know,

We Chickens are your Betters due,

Not fatted up for ſuch as you:

Shut up in Cub with ruſty Chain,

I’d make you lick your Lips in vain:

And take a ſpecial Care, be ſure,

No Pullet ſhou’d come near your Door:

But try if you cou’d feed or no,

Upon a Kite or Carrion Crow.’

Here ceas’d the Hen. The baffl’d Beaſt

March’d off without his promis’d Feaſt.

The 121 H3r 101

The Head-Ach.

To Aurelia.

Aurelia, when your Zeal makes known

Each Woman’s Failing but your own,

How charming Silvia’s Teeth decay,

And Celia’s Hair is turning gray:

Yet Celia gay has ſparkling Eyes,

But (to your Comfort) is not wiſe:

Methinks you take a world of pains,

To tell us Celia has no Brains.

Now you wiſe Folk, who make ſuch a pother

About the Wit of one another,

With Pleaſure wou’d your Brains reſign,

Did all your Noddles ach like mine.

Not Cuckolds half my Anguiſh know,

When budding Horns begin to grow;

H3 Nor 122 H3v 102

Nor batter’d Skull of wreſtling Dick,

Who late was drubb’d at ſingle Stick;

Not Wretches that in Fevers fry,

Not Sappho when her Cap’s awry,

E’er felt ſuch tort’ring Pangs as I;

Nor Forehead of Sir Jeff’ry Strife,

When ſmiling Cynthio kiſs’d his Wife.

Not love-ſick Marcia’s languid Eyes,

Who for her ſimp’ring Corin dies,

So ſleepy look or dimly ſhine,

As theſe dejected Eyes of mine:

Nor Claudia’s Brow ſuch Wrinkles made

At ſight of Cynthia’s new Brocade.

Just ſo, Aurelia, you complain

Of Vapours, Rheums, and gouty Pain;

Yet I am patient, ſo ſhou’d you,

For Cramps and Head-achs are our due:

We ſuffer juſtly for our Crimes;

For Scandal you, and I for Rhymes:

Yet 123 H4r 103

Yet we (as harden’d Wretches do)

Still the enchanting Vice purſue;

Our Reformation ne’er begin,

But fondly hug the Darling Sin.

Yet there’s a mighty diff’rence too,

Between the Fate of me and you;

Tho’ you with tott’ring Age ſhall bow,

And Wrinkles ſcar your lovely Brow;

Your buſy Tongue may ſtill proclaim

The Faults of ev’ry ſinful Dame:

You ſtill may prattle nor give o’er,

When wretched I muſt ſin no more.

The ſprightly Nine muſt leave me then,

This trembling Hand reſign its Pen;

No Matron ever ſweetly ſung,

Apollo only courts the young;

Then who wou’d not (Aurelia, pray)

Enjoy his Favours while they may?

Nor Cramps nor Head-achs ſhall prevail;

I’ll ſtill write on, and you ſhall rail.

H4 STRE- 124 H4v 1604

Stephon to Celia.

A modern Love-Letter.

Madam,

Ihope you’ll think it’s true,

I deeply am in Love with you,

When I aſſure you t’other Day,

As I was muſing on my way,

At thought of you I tumbl’d down

Directly in a deadly Swoon:

And tho’ ’tis true I’m ſomething better,

Yet I can hardly ſpell my Letter:

And as the latter you may view,

I hope you’ll think the former true.

You need not wonder at my Flame,

For you are not a mortal Dame:

I ſaw you dropping from the Skies;

And let dull Idiots ſwear your Eyes

With Love their glowing Breaſt inſpire,

I tell you they are Flames of Fire,

That 125 H5r 105

That ſcortch my Forehead to a Cinder,

And burn my very Heart to Tinder.

Your Breaſt ſo mighty cold I trow,

Is made of nothing elſe but Snow:

Your Hands (no wonder they have Charms)

Are made of Iv’ry like your Arms.

Your Cheeks that look as if they bled,

Are nothing elſe but Ro’es red.

Your Lips are Coral very bright,

Your Teeth — tho’ Numbers out of ſpite,

May ſay they’re Bones — yet ’twill appear

They’re Rows of Pearl exceeding dear.

Now, Madam, as the Chat goes round,

I hear you have ten thouſand Pound:

But that I as a Trifle hold,

Give me your Perſon, dem your Gold;

Yet for your own Sake ’tis ſecur’d,

I hope――your Houſes too enſur’d,

I’d have you take a ſpecial Care,

And of falſe Mortgages beware;

You’ve 126 H5v 106

You’ve Wealth enough ’tis true, but yet

You want a Friend to manage it.

Now ſuch a Friend you ſoon might have,

By fixing on your humble Slave;

Not that I mind a ſtately Houſe,

Or value Mony of a Louſe;

But your Five Hundred Pounds a Year,

I wou’d ſecure it for my Dear:

Then ſmile upon your Slave, that lies

Half murder’d by your radiant Eyes;

Or elſe this very Moment dies ――

Strephon.

To Artemisia.

Dr. King’s Invitation to Bellvill: Imitated.

If Artemiſia’s Soul can dwell

Four Hours in a Tiny Cell,

(To give that Space of Bliſs to me)

I wait my Happineſs at three.

Our 127 H6r 107

Our Tommy in a Jug ſhall bring

Clear Nectar from the bubbling Spring:

The Cups ſhall on the Table ſtand,

The Sugar and the Spoons at hand:

A skilful Hand ſhall likewiſe ſpread

Soft Butter on the yielding Bread;

And (as you eat but mighty little,

And ſeem an arrant Foe to Vittle)

You’ll cry perhaps, One Bit may do,

But I’m reſolv’d it ſhall be two:

With you and your Amanda bleſt,

Care flies away from Mira’s Breaſt;

O’er ſtubborn Flax no more I grieve,

But ſtick the Needle on my Sleeve:

For let them work on Holiday,

Who won’t be idle when they may:

If I muſt fret and labour too,

Like Caricus and Lumberloo;

As well I might, like Simoneer,

Be plagu’d with ſixty Pounds a Year.

What 128 H6v 108

What Nymph, that’s eloquent and gay,

But owes it chiefly to her Tea?

With Satire that ſupplies our Tongues,

And greatly helps the failing Lungs.

By that aſſiſted we can ſpy

A Fault with microſcopick Eye;

Diſſect a Prude with wond’rous Art,

And read the Care of Delia’s Heart.

Now to the Company we fall,

’Tis Me and Mira that is all:

More wou’d you have — Dear Madam, then

Count me and Mira o’er agen.

The Apparition.

From that inevitable Shore,

Wheer Styx’s tremendous Waters roar,

Thus wing’d with Vengeance lo I fly,

And skim beneath the gloomy Sky.

To you O falſe, O faithleſs Fair,

(Yet tremble do — and wildly ſtare)

To 129 H7r 109

To you this angry Viſit’s paid,

To you once lov’d, but faithleſs Maid,

Perhaps (too thin for mortal Eyes)

You know me not in this Diſguiſe;

I ne’er was number’d with your Foes,

But what I’m now, ſhall not diſcloſe

My Name (eſteem’d by one or two)

Was Mira――while I liv’d like you,

Till your Unkindneſs cut the Twine

Of Life, before its ſtated Time.

And ſhou’d you ask to know the End

Of her that once you call’d a Friend?

Whether of Pleuriſies ſhe dy’d,

Or in a parching Fever dry’d?

Or pale Conſumption ſure and ſlow?

Or Apoplexy’s ſudden Blow?

’Twas none of theſe — no common Dart,

That ſtruck my unreſiſting Heart:

The dire Diſtemper you ſhall hear,

Then liſten with attentive Ear.

Did 130 H7v 110

Did you not, Ah! did you not ſay,

That you wou’d come the next fair Day

To Mira’s Dome? — rejoic’d to ſee

At once the Butterflies and me?

But now, Alas! (too late, I find)

The promis’d Joys of human Kind,

Inconſtant as the flitting Wind:

You came not — That I need not tell.

But then, O then your Mira fell,

That fatal Day expecting you;

I ſwept my Houſe, and din’d by Two,

Took off the Night-Cap from my Brow,

(O Pride!) but I repend it now:

(Ambitious her I lov’d to pleaſe)

And, Ah! too ſtraitly lac’d my Stays;

Then ſilent ſate ’twixt Hopes and Fears,

With beating Heart and liſt’ning Ears,

Till the ſhrill Clock had ſounded four;

Then wretched Mira was no more:

Her Cheeks put on a death-like Hue,

Her Eye-balls bid this World Adieu:

And 131 H8r 111

And tho’ untouch’d by Cupid’s Dart,

She periſh’d with a broken Heart.

But I have done — Farewel, for I

From this corporeal World muſt fly:

So the relentleſs Fates decree,

Once more Farewel――Remember Me.

The Inspir’d Quill.

Occaſion’d by a Preſent of Crow-Pens.

To you, Dear Madam, I complain,

Where Wretches never ſigh in vain;

But always find, if not Relief,

At leaſt Compaſſion for their Grief.

But I ſhou’d make my Woes appear,

Before I claim a gentle Tear;

My Tale is ſomething odd, ’tis true;

Yet ſure ’twill Credit find with you.

The 132 H8v 112

The ſage Pythagoras, you know,

Aſſerted many Years ago,

That when or Man or Woman dies,

The Soul to ſome new Manſion flies?

If ſo, Belinda, now ſo fair

May range the Woods a ſullen Bear:

Likewiſe the courtly Bellamour,

The Lady’s Darling to be ſure:

Tho’ he in ſparkling Laces glow,

The Pattern of a perfect Beau;

When he puts off the human Shape,

May ſtrut a Monkey or an Ape.

For me who now to you indite,

Whoſe Talent chiefly is to write;

What Form it was, I do not know,

I wore two thouſand Years ago:

The Being that I firſt remember,

Was on a Morning of December;

But not December laſt (I ween)

No — many Years have paſt between;

I 133 I1r 113

I found myſelf a wealthy Squire,

And ſeated by a Parlour-Fire,

A fine Eſtate of mellow Ground,

In Caſh full Thirty thouſand Pound,

Two hundred Oxen in a Stall,

And ten lean Servants at my Call,

An ancient Houſe well built but low,

Behind of Oaks an ample Row,

A Court before — without much State,

And three Gaunt Maſtiffs at the Gate;

All theſe had I――a happy Knave

As you may think — but with your Leave

A wretched Uſurer was I,

With hagard Jaws and eager Eye,

That ſtarv’d amidſt unwieldy Store,

And loſt my Life in ſearch of more,

This Pluto ſaw, and bid me go

Into the Carcaſe of a Beau,

To taſte of Pleaſure and of Pains,

With ſlender Purſe and ſhallow Brains,

I My 134 I1v 114

My Wig behind was ſmartly ty’d,

My ſilver Box with Snuff ſupply’d:

On Books I ſeldom lov’d to pore,

But ſung and danc’d, and aptly ſwore;

Where-e’er I came the Ladies ſmil’d;

This call’d me Pug — and t’other Child:

To pleaſe and to addreſs the Fair,

Was all my Buſineſs and my Care;

But now my Gold began to fly,

And ſure Deſtruction hover’d nigh:

At laſt to Limbo was I led,

From whence the ſtruggling Spirit fled.

Almeria’s Lap-dog next I grew,

And wore a Coat of gloſſy Hue,

Careſs’d and courted ev’ry Day,

At Ev’ning by her Side I lay:

Her Smiles were always bent on me

(The happieſt Days that e’er I ſee)

But, Oh, as by a River-ſide,

I walk’d along with ſhort-liv’d Pride,

A 135 I2r 115

A cruel Foot-boy threw me in,

And laugh’d as tho’ it was no Sin.

Once more to gain a human Face,

I ſtep’d into a Lawyer’s Caſe:

This Station pleas’d me wond’rous well,

And in a trice I learn’d to ſpell,

Cou’d read old Coke with prying Eyes,

Explain, diſtinguiſh, and adviſe,

Talk Latin to a good degree;

As Admittendo Cuſtode,

Eject, Extendi: and my Fee:

’Tis true I ſcorn’d to rob or kill,

But not to cheat or forge a Will:

In Jointures I cou’d ſplit a Hair,

And make it turn againſt the Heir:

I ſpar’d no Widow for her Tears,

No Orphan for his tender Years:

My Maxim was — ’Get Money, Man,

Get Money, where and how you can:

Thus through the Stage of Life I run,

(For, Ah! my Race was quickly done)

I2 And 136 I2v 116

And ſtill preſerv’d my Ears and Noſe,

In ſpite of venial Sins like thoſe.

My next Diſguiſe too well you know,

Degraded to a ſimple Crow;

Both Cold and Hunger doom’d to bear,

And hover in the limpid Air,

Till on a day a ſpiteful Hind,

With dreadful Arms and bloody Mind,

Vow’d quick Deſtruction to my Head:

And in a Moment ſhot me dead:

Then ſet my ghaſtly Corſe on high

To fright my Fellows from his Rye.

I now grew out of Pluto’s Favour,

Who grumbl’d at my late Behaviour;

And vow’d (when thus his Sentence ran)

I ſhou’d no more appear as Man;

But that he wou’d confine me ſtill

Within the compaſs of a Quill.

My 137 I3r 117

My Fate is hard, as you may gueſs,

Yet I cou’d bear it ne’er-the-leſs,

Wou’d you or Fortune be ſo kind

To comfort an afflicted Mind,

And take me from the hated Cell,

Where Yeſterday you bid me dwell:

For Oh, I gueſs — nay more I know it,

That my new Miſtreſs is a Poet;

Then how ſhall I who ſtill inherit,

A Tincture of the Lawyer’s Spirit;

How ſhall I bear from time to time

To ſcrawl unprofitable Rhyme?

To live for Years and ne’er behold

The Preſence of enchanting Gold,

Yet ſcribble on――Beſides, alack,

I fear ſhe’ll quickly break my Back.

Then ſince my Pedigree you know:

(Dear Madam,) Ah ſome pity ſhow,

And recommend me to a Place;

For ſure there’s Mercy in your Face,

I3 To 138 I3v 118

To ſome Attorney let me go,

For there my Talents ſuit (you know)

Heroicks I ſhall write but ill;

But I’m a Doctor at a Bill,

At Flights of Fancy very dull;

But I can form Receipts at full.

The Favour that I ask of you,

(Have pity when the Wretched ſue)

Is your good Word or what is better,

A Recommandatory Letter?

And if I’m happy in your Grace,

I think I need not doubt a Place.

The PENITENT.

Occaſion’d by the Author’s being asked if ſhe would take Ten Pounds for her Poems.

When Partheniſſa talk’d to-day

Of Profits and of Mira’s Lay,

And liſt’ning Mira heard the Sound

Of number Ten with added Pound,

The 139 I4r 119

The ſaucy Minx betray’d her Pride,

And turn’d her ſcornful Head aſide:

You, doubtleſs, Madam, wonder’d why,

And hardly could believe ’twas I:

But all have Faults, and ’twou’d be vain

To boaſt a Heart that’s free from Stain.

This Maxim Mira prov’d was true,

No golden Apples lay in view

Acroſs her Path — and yet ſhe fell:

The Cauſe — have Patience and we’ll tell,

You ſaw now――no, to my Surprize

It ſcap’d your penetrating Eyes;

The wicked Knot――’twas new to-day,

The Knot — what Colour was it, pray?

So gay, ’twou’d make a Hermit vain;

Then wonder not at Mira’s Brain.

But now diſrob’d――with dirty Shoes

And Apron ragged as the Muſe,

In Night-cap tight and wrapping Gown,

No more is ſeen the haughty Frown;

I4 The 140 I4v 120

The fatal Top-knot laid aſide

With its deſtructive Daughter Pride.

The vain Chimeras all are flown,

And Reaſon re-aſſumes her Throne.

Now, could you find an honeſt Dealer,

(As an Attorney or a Taylor)

Who wants a Muſe that’s not too dear,

Send him directly you know where:

We for a Trifle ſhall not part,

Nor from an eaſy Bargain ſtart,

And that his Purchaſe may’nt be hard,

I’ll add a Packthread half a Yard,

To ſatisfy the greedy Lout,

And bind the Papers round about.

Song to Cloe, playing on her Spinet.

When Cloe ſtrikes the trembling Strings,

Applauding Cupids round her fly;

Exulting clap their little Wings

Bask’d in the Sun-ſhine of her Eye.

The 141 I5r 121

The Graces too,

As others do,

In Raptures ſtand to hear,

Time ſtays his flagging Wings, and adds,

One Hour to the rolling Year:

Keep off, ye Beaus,

For who but knows

That Cloe’s Eyes can wound?

If thoſe you miſs――yet pray avoid

The Danger of enchanting Sound.

Amphion led the raviſh’d Stones

(They ſay)――and as he’d riſe or fall,

Bricks, Pebbles, Slats, and Marrow-Bones

Wou’d form a Steeple or a Wall:

But this, you know,

Is long ago:

We fancy ’tis a Whim:

O had they charming Cloe heard,

They’d ſurely not have ſtir’d for him.

The Thracian Bard,

Whoſe Fate was hard,

(And 142 I5v 122

And Proſerpine ſevere)

Had brought Eurydice back――alas!

But Cloe was not there.

To GRAMMATICUS.

SIR,

Mira wou’d with Tears atone

For all the Miſchief ſhe has done;

Sincerely mourns (believe it true)

The ſending of her Rhymes to you.

The Wound my Verſes gave your Ear,

Was undeſign’d it will appear;

Nor in the leaſt the Fault of me,

As by this Sorrow you may ſee.

And cou’d I in our Meadows find,

Among the vegetable Kind,

A healing Simple, that wou’d cure

Thoſe ſmarting Pangs which you endure:

Whoſe 143 I6r 123

Whoſe Juice the Matrons well eſteem

For Cuts and Bruiſes that are green,

I’d ſend it with an Heart moſt willing,

Tho’ it ſhou’d coſt me half a Shilling:

Yet I can ſerve you but in Will,

For I’ve conſulted Doctor Pill,

Who tells me that a Caſe like yours

Will not admit of common Cures;

For that Inciſions made by Rhymes

Are worſe than Ulcers fifty times:

He gives a Reaſon that is clear,

Becauſe they always ſtrike the Ear,

And give un-utterable Pain

To the ſmall Fibres of the Brain:

Yet as the Doctor is my Friend,

His Worſhip order’d me to ſend

This grand Receipt which he has known,

To ſerve in Caſes like your own:

’Tis true, the Drug is ſomething rare,

And yet I wou’d not quite deſpair;

But hope the Med’cine may be found

Within the Space of Britiſh Ground:

This 144 I6v 124

This Balſam then I’d have you ſeek,

No matter for its Name in Greek;

But ſure ’tis call’d (or I am wrong)

Good-nature in the Engliſh Tongue:

The Doctor ſwears by all his Skill,

If this don’t eaſe you, nothing will;

To either Ear be this apply’d,

(The better if ’tis quickly try’d)

Then fill the hollow Spaces full

With Aqua-vitæ drop’d on Wool:

And take a ſpecial Care be ſure,

No Poets come about your Door:

For you might keep the Bench of Law,

Or hear the ſqueaking of a Saw,

More ſafely by a hundred times,

Than half a Page of modern Rhymes:

But when you gather Strength a little,

Can walk abroad and eat your Vittle?

As you are mighty fond of Verſe,

Let ſome with gentle Voice rehearſe:

How Corn grows now where Troy Town ſtood,

Or elſe the Children in the Wood:

Theſe 145 I7r 125

Theſe gentle Numbers will compoſe

Your Spirits and your Eye-lids cloſe!

Thoſe Slumbers will complete the Cure;

Now, Sir, your Servant, and――no more.

The Ten-Penny Nail.

’TWAS paſt the Date of ſav’ry Noon,

And downwards roll’d the radiant Sun,

When all (except us rhyming Sinners)

Had roſted, boil’d, and eat their Dinners;

In my great Chair I ſat to pout,

And beat my weary Brains about;

About (what did not much avail)

Amanda’s Riddle of the Nail; The Queſtion was this, Where was the firſt Nail ſtruck?

When Somnus took me by Surpriſe,

And put his Finger in my Eyes:

’Twas He, for Poets never nod

Without the Influence of a God:

I 146 I7v 126

I dream’d of what――Why, you ſhall hear,

Good People all, I pray draw near,

Methought there lay before my Eyes

A Nail of more than common Size;

’Twas one that nails our Garden Door,

And oft my Petticoat has tore:

When ſudden (it is true, my Friend)

It rear’d itſelf, and ſtood an end,

And tho’ no Mouth I cou’d deſcry,

I talk’d as faſt as you or I:

And thus began――As I am told

You Poets ſeldom deal in Gold;

That’s not the Price of empty Songs,

But to Sir Thrifty Gripe belongs,

Bright Silver is Sir Wary’s Claim,

And Copper for the lab’ring Dame;

If ſo (that each may have their due)

We ruſty Nails belong to you;

I therefore ask as my Deſert

(I hope you bear a grateful Heart)

You write my Life――and be it ſhown

What ſtrange Adventures I have known.

I 147 I8r 127 I muſt confeſs I was not made So early quite as Adam’s Spade; Yet many Ages I have known, And double with my Labours grown: I occupy’d, the firſt of all, A worthy Poſt at Gloomy-Hall, Where I, with ſeven hundred more, Were hammer’d in the ſpacious Door: And there had haply ſtuck till now, Had not old Simon broke his Plough; Who ſeeing none but us at hand, And knowing us a truſty Band, Me with the Pincers ſore oppreſs’d, And drew me headlong from the reſt: My lazy Life, alas! was done, And now I toil’d from Sun to Sun: None pity me, and none relieve, Till Fortune gave me a Reprieve: My Maſter broke his Plough again, And I from thence was dragg’d amain. To 148 I8v 128 ‘To Celia’s Chamber next I came, And bore a Glaſs with curious Frame; To whom the lovely Nymphs repair: There Delia ſpread her ſhining Hair, All ſmiling there was Claudia ſeen, And Thalia ty’d her Ribbands green. ‘At laſt my Miſtreſs drew too nigh, And ſome ill Genius ſtanding by, Drove me directly in her Eye. Then I was baniſh’d from her Train, Hurl’d on a Dunghill with Diſdain. But idle long I did not lie, For old Sir Gripus walking by, Who held it was a crying Sin, To trample o’er and ſlight a Pin. And that they well deſerve a Jail, Who proudly ſcorn a ruſty Nail, Carry’d me home, and made ſecure With me――a ſtately oaken Door. Through the ſtrong Boards he made me go, To keep his Daughter from a Beau; But 149 K1r 129 But ſhe (what is’t but Love can do?) With Aqua-fortis eat me through: A Cripple now, and uſeleſs quite, I’m baniſh’d from the chearful Light: And all folk deſpiſe me that behold; At laſt I to a Smith was ſold, Who had Compaſſion on my Pain, And brought me to myſelf again. ‘To Jeff’ry Bouze I next belong, Where ſparkling Ale was clear and ſtrong; One Vault, more precious than the reſt, Was ſtow’d with Hogſheads of the beſt: And having lately loſt the Key, He faſt’ned up the Door with me: I ſtood a faithful Centry there, To guard the choice inſpiring Beer From thirſty Bacchanalian Rage, Till his Son Guzzle was of Age: At length the Youth an Entrance found, Tho’ ſtoutly I maintain’d my Ground; K Yet 150 K1v 130 Yet all my Strength wou’d not avail, For how cou’d one poor ſingle Nail Maintain a dang’rous Poſt (you know) Againſt whole Legions of the Foe; Who well conſid’ring Life’s a Bubble, And drinking is the Cure of Trouble, And more――that he again could brew Before the Date of Twenty two; While e’er that time the preſent Ale Might happen to be flat or ſtale; He came himſelf with fifty more, And wiſely drank it out before.

It wou’d be tedious now to tell

What to your humble Slave befel,

Amongſt a rude mechanick Band,

Till Fortune gave me to your Hand:

Now if a proper Poſt I knew,

I’d gladly be of uſe to you;

But you reſolve to hide no Pelf,

And chooſe to walk abroad yourſelf:

But, 151 K2r 131

But, Mira, theſe are dang’rous Times,

I’d have you faſten up your Rhymes;

And ’tis the beſt thing you can do,

To nail up Pens and Paper too:

Do this and get thee gone to ſpinning,

Or wiſely dearn your Father’s Linen.

This ſaid――a Cart with rumbling Sound

Came by, and ſhook the trembling Ground;

The Viſion vaniſh’d from her Sight,

And Mira waken’d in a Fright.

The Genius in Disguise.

As I Fidelia and my Sire,

Sat muſing o’er a ſmoky Fire,

We heard a Knocking at the Door,

Riſe, ſomething is the Matter ſure.

The little Turret ſeem’d to quake,

The Shelves, the Chairs and Tables ſhake;

Fidelia cries, O, what’s the Matter?

And Mira’s Teeth began to chatter:

K2 The 152 K2v 132

The frighted Door (as what could chooſe)

Flew open (pray believe the Muſe)

A hollow Voice for Entrance calls,

And ſoon — Although the dirty Walls

Were ſtain’d with Ignorance and Sin,

Yet Mira’s Genius ventur’d in,

Not in a Cherub’s Form enſhrin’d,

Nor in the ſhape of human kind:

But Locks and Hinges round him glow,

In Figure like a neat Buroe;

Like Brambles in a thorny Gap

Stood Mira’s Hair beneath her Cap:

Her frighted Senſes gone aſtray,

She bent her Knees in act to pray;

But the preſuming Prieſt drew near,

As void of Piety as Fear,

And by its Side undaunted ſtood,

And wou’d perſuade us it was Wood:

With Rev’rence then we did preſume

To place him in the little Room;

The Prieſt excluded with the reſt,

The Stranger Mira thus addreſs’d,

(Tho’ 153 K3r 133

(Tho’ ſhaking with Surpriſe and Fear)

O ſay what Power ſent thee here,

Not Fortune, for I ne’er cou’d ſee

As yet her Favours bent on me:

Nor Chance although we often find

She governs moſt of human kind;

Or can, againſt the Maid’s Deſire,

Throw Madam’s Caudle in the Fire;

Can light a Candle, or can miſs,

She never brought a thing like this.

This ſaid, pale Mira gazing ſtood,

And thus reply’d the ſeeming Wood;

Canſt thou behold me and not find

The Picture of the Giver’s Mind?

Behold the Lock and ſhining Key,

That ne’er its Miſtreſs ſhall betray,

Not blemiſh’d with a Spot of Ruſt,

And always faithful to its Truſt.

The reſt may be to you conſign’d, F or in this narrow Space you’ll find K3 No 154 K3v 134 No Emblem large enough to fit Her Bounty, Judgment, and her Wit. ‘But, Mira, ſince I have begun, The Thread of my Diſcourſe ſhall run, Explaining how I am to you A Monitor and Table too. My hollow Spaces you may fill With all your Verſes good and ill; One ſmall one for your Wit may do, But then your Faults will take up two. And from the reſt I pray exclude One ſacred Place for Gratitude: And what our Patron yours and mine Shall to my truſty Care conſign, For thoſe lov’d Strangers I’ll ſecure The Cloſet with its tiny Door. ‘And now I’ve prattl’d long, my Dear, Yet you are liſt’ning ſtill to hear, Expecting that I ſhou’d ſupply At once Advice and Propheſy; But 155 K4r 135 But that’s not right for me nor you To dive ſo deeply — tho’, ’tis true, Without Divining I can ſee You’ll ne’er deſerve the Gift of me: More wou’d you know — why, may be then Within theſe Mornings nine or ten, Propitious Jet may tsrudge before, And lead his Miſtreſs to your Door; And when the Sun (whoſe diſtant Wheels But faintly warm the icy Fields) Shall gild your Cot with brighter Ray, I hope to ſee her ev’ry Day. ‘But turn away thy ſtedfaſt Eyes, That ſtare ſo ghaſtly with Surpriſe: Go ſeek your Pillow and be ſtill, And dream of me or what you will.

This ſaid (which Mira hop’d was true)

The lid ſhut up, and cries Adieu.

Then gave a Crack, and ſpoke no more,

And all was ſilent as before.

K4 CELA- 156 K4v 136

Celadon to Mira.

To thee, O Mira, I theſe Lines commend,

Theſe from thy gentle and immortal Friend,

Tho’ not to thee my airy Form appears,

Yet I’ve been oft a Witneſs to thy Tears,

(At Night when, lonely by the Taper’s Flame,

In a ſtill Whiſper thou haſt breath’d my Name)

And in thy Eyes beheld the riſing Woe;

(Ah ſimple Sorrows when for me they flow!)

Think not, O Mira, not in me to find

A Friend like Vido, or like Roſalind,

Or like Courtine to cheat thy dazzl’d Eye,

And ſooth thy Weakneſs with a well-bred Lye:

Theſe are (as thou wilt by the Sequel find)

Below a Spirit of the bliſsful kind:

And was thy Form, as wanton Helen gay,

Or did thy Eyes outſhine the Lamp of Day,

Theſe 157 K5r 137

Theſe pleaſe not me — Bright Eyes in vain may roll,

I read no Charms but in the purer Soul.

By thy chang’d Features I too often find

The wild Ideas of thy reſtleſs Mind;

All ſerious now abſtracted from the Crew,

No prudent Stoick more ſerene than you,

Till in your Brain ſome gaudy Pictures ſpring,

All gay and careleſs, then you laugh and ſing:

Theſe vaniſh like a painted Cloud――and now

Pale Diſcontent o’er-ſhades thy mournful Brow:

You form dark Viſions and at Phantoms ſtart,

Theſe Woes proceed from an ill-govern’d Heart,

From a too thoughtleſs or too roving Mind;

For theſe are Strangers to a Soul reſign’d.

Canſt thou preſume thy little Bark may ſteer

From Griefs black Eddy and the Gulphs of Fear?

Or canſt thou hope to ſcape the gloomy Land,

Where Diſappointments crowd the rocky Strand?

Not ſo — nor let thy Vanity pretend

To hope for more than ever bleſt thy Friend;

In 158 K5v 138

In Life I ſhone conſpicuous o’er the reſt,

While the pure Beams malignant Eyes oppreſt;

Sound Judgment, Learning, Wiſdom, too was mine,

And piercing Wit ſuperior far to thine;

Yet gaping Rage ſtood ready to devour,

And Dulneſs rain’d on me a leaden Shower:

Now ſtung with Scoffs, and now with Flatt’ry tir’d,

Defam’d, applauded, envy’d, and admir’d:

This Fate was mine — to hope canſt thou preſume

A milder Paſſage and more eaſy Doom?

Deluded Girl! let not a Thought ſo vain

Elate thy Spirits, nor aſcend thy Brain.

But hear, O Mira, nor too late be wiſe,

From painted Trifles turn thy longing Eyes;

Ask not for what will make thy Pray’d offend,

But ask Content, a Parent and a Friend;

Ask Bread and Peace, ’tis all that Nature craves,

This Kings acknowledge, when they find their Graves.

Say, why thy Features loſe their healthful Dye,

And the Tears tremble in the languid Eye?

The 159 K6r 139

The mighty Conflict I with pity ſee,

When thy rude Paſſions ſtruggle to be free,

And rack thy Breaſt — the incoherent Stage,

Where grave and comick jar like Youth and Age;

Now Death appears all horrible and grim:

But the next Moment none ſo fair as him,

And now you ſigh — Ah, let me calmly die:

Then ſhrinking, trembling from the Grave you fly,

Such jarring Tumults in your Boſom roll;

(Ah, what ſo various as a Woman’s Soul!)

But thou, beware, and if thy Fate has join’d

A ſickly Body to a roving Mind;

Be calm nor mourn at the Supreme Decree,

Nor think the Mandate ſhall be chang’d for thee,

But meet with Patience what thou canſt not flee.

Wou’dſt thou repine to ſee thy Form decay,

When Spio’s Eye-lids are forbid the Day!

Might’ſt thou with us unbodied Spirits fly,

From Sphere to Sphere and trace the boundleſs Sky?

Then wou’d the Lives of little Mortals ſhew,

Like empty Bubbles rais’d of Morning Dew:

All 160 K6v 140

All ſeem as Trifles, whether we behold

A Monarch baniſh’d, or a Sparrow ſold;

A thoughtleſs Inſect trampled in the Mire,

Or a proud Beauty in her Bloom expire.

More noble Scenes enraptur’d Spirits view,

But the grand Proſpect is too large for you:

A cloſer Bound beſt ſuits thy narrow Mind,

A few Examples of thy fading kind.

Haſt thou forgot the ſoft Iphenia’s Name,

Whoſe ſmiling Face not Spleen itſelf could blame;

Scarce nineteen Years her dawning Beauties knew,

E’er the young Roſes bid her Cheeks adieu;

Yet bleſs’d with all, cou’d pleaſe a Woman’s Pride:

In this gay Bloom the bright Iphenia dy’d;

Her Sire lifts to Heav’n his mournful Eyes,

And her ſad Brother fills the Air with Cries:

Her Brother Clodius, who to Grief reſign’d

To fruitleſs Paſſion all his manly Mind.

What ſimple Sorrow to the dead you pay,

Who ſoon muſt follow the ſame dusky Way.

For 161 K7r 141

For e’er the Tranſport of his Grief was o’er,

Fate gave the Sign and Clodius was no more.

Still Pero liv’d a yet ſurviving Son,

A little Space and Pero’s Race was done:

Death’s icy Hand his youthful Limbs invades,

And bids him mingle with his kindred Shades.

So quickly Pero and Narciſſa fell,

Scarce looking round them e’er they bid farewel:

Yet dang’rous ’tis to wander here too long;

Theſe went more willing as they fell more young;

But Laura’s Name demands thy flowing Tears,

Whoſe Doubts increaſing with her lengthen’d Years,

Serv’d not to clear but cloud the dusky Way,

And gave new Terrors to her final Day:

The dreadful Moment wou’d have paſt as well,

At ſixteen Years had weeping Laura fell.

Let this, O Mira, chear thy drooping Mind,

To bear the Sentence paſt on all Mankind:

I bore the ſame, whoſe Life was more deſir’d,

More lov’d, more known, and juſtly more admir’d:

Yet 162 K7v 142

Yet this grand Fear is wove with Nature’s Laws;

Is ſometimes right, and ſometimes has no Cauſe:

Repent and mend — theſe Vapours then will fly,

And the Clouds brighten to a purer Sky;

Still look to Heav’n and its Laws attend,

And next the lines of thy aerial Friend.

On Mr. Pope’s Univerſal Prayer.

Ah Thou! whom Nature and thy Stars deſign’d,

At once the Joy and Envy of Mankind,

To thy lov’d Memory this Sigh I ſend;

To thee a Stranger, to thy Lines a Friend:

How bleſt the Muſe cou’d ſhe like thine aſpire,

So ſmooth her Accent, and ſublime her Fire;

With bright Deſcription make the Boſom glow,

Charm like thy Senſe, and like thy Numbers flow:

O teach my Soul to reach the Seats divine,

And praiſe her Maker in a Strain like thine.

Ye careleſs Ones, who never thought before,

Read this grand Verſe, then tremble and adore:

Let 163 K8r 143

Let ſtern Enthuſiaſts here be taught to know,

’Tis from the Heart true Piety muſt flow:

Here Hope, Content, and ſmiling Mercy ſhine;

And breathe celeſtial through the ſpeaking Line:

From the ſtill Mind its guilty Paſſions roll,

And dawning Grace awakes the fervent Soul.

Let angry Zealots quarrel for a Name,

The good, the juſt, the viruous are the ſame:

Grace to no Sect, nor Virtue is confin’d;

They blend with all, and ſpread amongſt the kind;

And the pure Flame that warms the pious Breaſt:

Thoſe cannot merit who condemn the reſt.

To the dark Nations when Religion came,

All dreſt in Smiles; they ſaw the heav’nly Dame,

Till ſome ſtern Teachers of their Office proud,

Choſe not to ſoften but affright the Crowd,

With gloomy Terrors fill’d the dusky Age,

And veil’d her Beauties in the mask of Rage:

Then bid the Hand-maids of Perdition riſe,

Black Cruelty with fierce and flaming Eyes;

Diſ- 164 K8v 144

Diſtraction ravag’d on the publick Weal,

And Perſecution wore the Robe of Zeal:

Deluded Faith eſpous’d the ſtronger Side,

And conquer’d Juſtice gave her Sword to Pride.

This ſaw the ſurly diſcontented Mind,

By Nature haughty and to Vice inclin’d:

And thence concluded all their Syſtems vain,

The Cant of Schools and Phrenſy of the Brain:

From hence the Sect of Libertines aroſe,

Who ſcorn what Reaſon or the Prieſts impoſe:

Who give to Chance the World’s that round us roll,

And tear from Man his ever-conſcious Soul.

But thou whoſe Name (immortal as thy Rhymes)

Shall live and brighten through ſucceeding Times:

(Whoſe Lines can Wit and Virtue both inſpire,

Whom future Ages ſhall like me admire)

Teach me between the two Extremes to glide,

Not brave the Stream nor ſwim with ev’ry Tide:

But more with Charity than Zeal poſſeſt,

Keep my own Faith, yet not condemn the reſt.

The 165 L1r 145

The Fields of Melancholy and Chearfulness.

Still were the Groves, and venerable Night

O’er half the Globe had caſt her gloomy Veil,

When by a Taper’s ſolitary Gleam

Sat muſing Mira penſive and alone;

In her ſad Breaſt officious Memory

Reviv’d the Pictures of departed Friends;

Whoſe pleaſing Forms ſhe muſt behold no more.

Forgotten Woe, that for a time had ſlept,

Roſe into Life, and like a Torrent pour’d

On her faint Soul, which ſunk beneath its Rage:

At length ſoft Slumber kindly interven’d,

And clos’d thoſe Eye-lids that were drench’d in Tears;

But reſtleſs Fancy that was waking ſtill,

Led my deluded Spirit on the Wing

To pictur’d Regions and imagin’d Worlds.

I ſeem’d tranſported to a gloomy Land,

Whoſe Fields had never known the chearful Sun:

L A 166 L1v 146

A heavy Miſt hung in the frowning Sky,

No feather’d Warblers chear’d the mourning Groves,

Nor bluſhing Flow’rs adorn’d the barren Ground:

I gaz’d around the ſolitary Coaſt,

When lo a Nymph with ſolemn Air approach’d,

Whoſe Dreſs was careleſs and her Features grave,

Her Voice was broken and her Hearing dull:

She ſpoke but ſeldom, yet at laſt ſhe told

Me in a Whiſper, that her Name was Thought;

And more, ſhe offer’d, with a friendly Air,

To lead me ſafely through the dreary Gloom:

We walk’d along through rough unpleaſing Paths,

O’er Beds of Night-Shade and through Groves of Yew,

Till we arriv’d within a dusky Wood,

Whoſe ſpacious Bound was fenc’d with ſhagged Thorn.

The Trees were baleful Cypreſs; and a few

Tall Pines that murmur’d to the ruſhing Wind:

Here dwelt the Natives, (mournful as the Place)

Or ſunk in real or imagin’d Woe;

Complaining Sounds were heard on ev’ry Side,

And 167 L2r 147

And each bewail’d the loſs of ſomething dear:

Some mourn’d a Child that in its Bloom expir’d,

And ſome a Brother’s or a Parent’s Fate:

Loſt Wealth and Honours many Tongues deplor’d,

And ſome were wretched, tho’ they knew not why.

But as we reach’d the Centre of the Place,

Complaints were heard more piercing than before:

The gathering Fogs grew thicker o’er our Heads,

And a cold Horror thrill’d our wounded Souls,

And thus we travell’d, penſive beyond meaſure,

Through Paths half cover’d with perplexing Thorns;

At length we found two Rows of aged Firs,

Whoſe Tops were blaſted by unwholſom Winds.

This ſolitary Viſta op’ning wide,

Diſclos’d the Palace of its mournful Queen:

Before the Gate was plac’d a frightful Guard,

Who ſerv’d as Porters to the gloomy Dome:

Here, ſtretch’d upon a miſerable Couch,

Lay pining Sickneſs with continual Groans;

And by her Side, (array’d in filthy Weeds)

Sat quaking Poverty with ghaſtly ſtare:

His Preſence ſeem’d to aggravate her Pain,

L2 For 168 L2v 148

For when ſhe caſt her languid Eyes on him,

She hid her Face and rais’d a fearful Cry.

There Diſappointment like a Statue ſtood,

With Eyes dejected and with Viſage pale:

Her heaving Boſom ſeem’d to ſwell with Anguiſh,

And in her Hand ſhe graſp’d a broken Reed:

Here, in the Garb of Piety, we ſaw

Proud Error frowning with a Look ſevere:

Doubt at his Elbow bore a Rod of Snakes,

And held a Cup fill’d to the Brim with Tears,

By theſe we paſs’d into the dusky Court,

O’er-run with Hemlock and with gloomy Fern:

Perpetual Night hung o’er the diſmal Walls,

And from the Ground unhealthy Vapours roſe;

Through folding Doors of Ebony we came,

Into a winding Paſſage hung with black,

For ever dark — poſſeſt by flitting Shades,

By waking Fancies, and by frightful Dreams

This led us to a ſubterraneous Cell,

Where the ſad Empreſs Melancholy reign’d;

The muſing Matron ſat upon a Throne

Of mould’ring Earth — her Footſtool of the ſame;

And 169 L3r 149

And for her Canopy an aged Yew

Spread o’er her Head its venerable Arms:

Her careleſs Robe was of a ſable Hue,

And on her Shoulders flow’d her ſlighted Hair:

Her Lips were clos’d with an eternal Silence;

Her Arms were folded and her Head reclin’d;

On either Side her pale Attendants ſtood,

Two mournful Maids, Dejection and Deſpair;

The firſt (attended with continual Faintings)

Seem’d on the Point to cloſe her dying Eyes:

A conſtant Dew hung on her death-like Brow,

And her cold Boſom half forgot to heave.

Deſpair (whoſe Garments by herſelf were torn)

Was mark’d with Wounds that Time can never heal:

With deſp’rate Hand ſhe ſtruck her bleeding Breaſt,

And waſh’d the Ground with never-ceaſing Tears;

With ghaſtly Figures was the Cave adorn’d,

And in the midſt the Effigies of Death.

Shock’d at the Place we haſted to return,

And left the horrid Manſion far behind;

Long time we travell’d through untrodden Paths,

Where the brown Foreſts caſt an awful Gloom:

L3 At 170 L3v 150

At length the floating Clouds began to part,

And left behind them Streaks of chearful Azure;

Our Path grew ſmooth and widen’d to the view,

Until it open’d on a ſpacious Field;

A Field whoſe Charms no Painter e’er cou’d reach,

Though he ſhou’d borrow from the Poet’s Heav’n;

The Clime was temp’rate and the Air was ſtill,

The ſprouting Turf was of a beauteous Green,

Speckled with Flow’rs of a delicious Dye.

Here cryſtal Lakes were border’d round with Trees,

Where Bloſſoms flouriſh’d in eternal Spring;

For here the Groves no blaſting Tempeſts know,

But ſtill are bleſt with Fruits that ne’er decay:

Perpetual Sun-ſhine crown’d the gaudy Hills,

And the fair Vallies were with Plenty gay.

A Path there was, trod o’er the ſpicy Field,

Which led the Wand’rer to a bliſsful Shade,

Whoſe Fence was made of balmy Eglantine;

Where the fair Plane o’erlook’d the Myrtle Shrub,

And flow’ring Orange that perfume the Air;

Here flew in Throngs the ſoft aerial Choir,

Whoſe glitt’ring Necks like poliſh’d Amber ſhone:

We 171 L4r 151

We paſs’d delighted through ambroſial Paths,

And Bowers move with Jeſſamine and Roſe;

Joy ſeiz’d the raviſh’d Spirits, while we breath’d

In Gales that taſted of immortal Sweets.

At length the parting Trees broke into Form,

And with a Circle bound a charming Plain,

I’th’ midſt of which upon an Iv’ry Throne

Sat Chearfulneſs, the Genius of the Place:

Her Mien was graceful and her Features fair;

Continual Smiles dwelt on her dimpl’d Cheeks,

Her Hair was bound beneath a ſhining Crown,

Her Robes were Azure bright with golden Stars,

And in her Hand ſhe held a ſilver Lute.

On either Side her royal Siſters ſat,

Both lovely, as herſelf, tho’ not ſo gay;

The eldeſt had a Face divinely fair;

Calm was her Look, with Lips prepar’d for ſmiling,

She often rais’d her thankful Eyes to Heav’n;

Her Form was eaſy and her Name Content:

The other (much the youngeſt) was array’d

In Virgin Robes white as unſully’d Snow;

Her thoughtleſs Smiles wou’d tame a Tiger’s Rage,

L4 A 172 L4v 152

A Lamb (whoſe Neck was circl’d with a Band

Of new blown Roſes) at her Feet was laid,

A milk-white Dove upon her Hand ſhe bore:

Thus ever bleſt ſat Innocence the fair.

Behind theſe Siſters ſtood a ſhining Train,

As Maids of Honour to the Royal Fair:

Proſperity (the firſt) was climbing up

A ſtately Pyramid of painted Marble;

From whoſe high Top ſhe reach’d a brilliant Crowd:

Then with an Air that ſpoke a joyful Heart,

Look’d down with Pleaſure on the Plain below.

Gay Wealth the next, in her embroider’d Veſt,

Shone like the Entrails of the eaſtern Mine;

Her Hair was platted thick with ſparkling Gems,

And in her Hand ſhe bore a golden Wand.

Health, like a Sylvan Huntreſs cloath’d in Green,

In her right Hand a dapled Palfry held,

Her Air was maſculine, and ſwift her Motion;

A Wreath of Flow’rs juſt raviſh’d from the Meads,

Bound up the Ringlets of her ſable Hair;

Her Cheeks were ruddy; and her large black Eyes

Confeſs’d the Vigour of her ſprightly Soul.

Theſe 173 L5r 153

Theſe were the Natives of this happy Land,

The Sight of whom ſo fill’d my glowing Breaſt

With Ecſtaſy that I awoke: And thus

Their Glories vaniſh’d, and were ſeen no more.

The Libyan Hunter, a Fable.

Inſcrib’d to the Memory of a late admir’d Author.

When Merit riſes like the Prince of Day,

Pale Envy turns her aking Eyes away;

Then ſallow Cheeks with Rage are taught to glow,

And narrow Souls to bloated Furies grow.

Old Story tells us, on an earthly Plain

Once Jove deſcended wrap’d in golden Rain:

Now Fate permits no ſuch familiar Powers,

But Shoals of Criticks fall in leaden Showers:

Theſe gaze at Wit, as Owls behold the Sun,

And curſe the Luſtre which they fain wou’d ſhun;

Theſe Beaſts of Prey no living worth endure,

Nor are the Regions of the Dead ſecure;

Yet 174 L5v 154

Yet ſhall the Worthy o’er their Spite prevail;

Here lies the Moral――follows next the Tale.

Once on a time on Libya’s thirſty Land,

Where Showers ſeldom wet the burning Sand,

Liv’d happy Sylvius as the Morning gay,

A well-known Fav’rite of the Prince of Day;

Whoſe Hand, unerring, to the Mark in view

Sent the ſwift Arrow from the twanging Yew:

The trembling Panthers from his Fury fly,

When the keen Jav’lin hiſs’d along the Sky;

Fierce were his Eyes, and dazzling as the Sun;

His raven Looks in mazy Ringlets run,

As well-ſtor’d Quiver at his Back was ty’d,

A ſhining Spear his better Hand ſupply’d:

Thus rudely charming, he was ſure to pleaſe

With graceful Negligence and careleſs Eaſe:

He breath’d ſoft Muſick from his tuneful Tongue,

And the wild Tiger liſten’d to his Song:

The woodland Nymphs their dusky Shades forego,

And the blue Naiads left the Deeps below:

None 175 L6r 155

None guard the Flocks, nor hunt the flying Prey,

Till he had finiſh’d the enchanting Lay:

Then Sylvan Dames with Wreaths of Laurel bound,

His chearful Temples and with Roſes crown’d.

But grudging Envy heard the juſt Applauſe,

And the pale Phantom writh’d her hagard Jaws;

Now ſwell’d the Boſoms of repining Swains,

And hiſſing Scandals flew acroſs the Plains.

At length his Fame the wondring Sky invades,

And reach’d the Muſes in their ſacred Shades;

Bright Thalia view’d him with an envious Eye,

And thus addreſs’d her Partners of the Sky:

Ye tuneful Maids, give o’er the labour’d Song,

Small are the Praiſes to our ſhare belong;

Look down and ſee on yonder ſultry Plain,

Our Voices equal’d by a Libyan Swain;

Give o’er the Lay, ye too officious Fair,

Lay down the Lyre and fruitleſs Hymns forbear,

Nor hope to charm the partial Prince of Day,

While heav’nly Accents breathe from mortal Clay:

In 176 L6v 156

In vain we keep our radiant Seats on high,

If rural Swains ſhall with our Muſick vie:

She ſaid: And Rage poſſeſt the beauteous Ring,

Some curſe the Youth and ſome their partial King.

The Dame who ſaw th’ infectious Murmurs run,

Roll’d her blue Eyes, and thus afreſh begun:

No more the Bays ſhall to our Share belong,

Nor charm’d Celeſtials ſhall attend our Song:

But all to Sylvius ſhall their Off’rings pay;

To Sylvius favour’d by the Prince of Day,

Shall he exceed the Muſes ſacred Choir:

Not while Revenge ſhall injur’d Boſoms fire.

‘But ſee, my Siſters: On the Plains below

Swift Cynthia’s Hounds purſue the flying Doe:

Be mine the Task to bear a fraudful Tale,

To the ſwift Hunters in the Libyan Vale:

As how her Herds in vain from Sylvius fly;

His Darts purſue them, and the Victims die:

So Delia’s Rage ſhall ſtop his tuneful Tongue,

And we no more ſhall dread the rival Song.

Here 177 L7r 157

Here ceas’d the Dame — the ſmiling Siſters join:

Their loud Applauſes to her ſly Deſign.

Now had the Sun withdrawn his piercing Eye,

And Night aſſum’d the Empire of the Sky:

Lull’d in her Lap repoſing Nature lay,

And Swains forgot the Labours of the Day:

The Winds were huſh’d, the Ocean ceas’d to roar,

And ſoftly murmur’d by the ſandy Shore,

When from Parnaſſus flew the envious Maid,

To ſeek the Huntreſs of the lonely Shade:

The fierce Virago on a verdant Plain,

She found, encircl’d by her ſleeping Train;

Where a cool River bleſt the fertile Ground,

Its Bank with Trees and bending Oſier’s crown’d:

Beneath a Shade the lovely Dian ſtood

With down-caſt Eyes, and view’d the rolling Flood;

Whoſe Waves were bright with the reflected Beams

Of her own Orb that ſparkl’d on the Streams.

‘Hail, Delia, Hail, (began the artful Dame)

Lives there a Wretch who owns not Delia’s Name?

Lives 178 L7v 158

Lives there a Slave whoſe daring Hand defies

The awful Empreſs of the nightly Skies?

Yes, haughty Sylvius triumphs o’er the Plain,

Tho’ thy choice Herds are by his Arrows ſlain;

The frighted Fauns his wanton Rage wou’d fly,

But the keen Dart o’ertakes ’em, and they die.

His ſhining Spear arreſts the trembling Doe,

And groaning Stags the deadly Weapon know:

But if fair Delia to the Libyan Swain

Reſigns the Freedom of her ſacred Plain,

Let none diſpute the Licence of her Will,

And I retire to our tuneful Hill.

With fluſhing Features and diſorder’d Charms

The angry Goddeſs ſeiz’d her deathful Arms;

‘Shall Man with me diſpute the Plain (ſhe cries,

While kindling Rage inflam’d her rolling Eyes)

This Hand ſhall well revenge my ſlaughter’d Deer:

She ſaid: And furious graſp’d the dreadful Spear,

And o’er her Shoulder floung the ſhining Bow,

Then breathing Vengeance ſought her guiltleſs Foe.

The 179 L8r 159

The Youth beneath a dusky Shade ſhe found,

Thoughtleſs of Ill and ſleeping on the Ground;

A deadly Shaft deluded Cynthia drew,

And to his Heart the feather’d Vengeance flew;

The reaking Blood came bubbling through the Wound,

Pour’d o’er his Boſom and diſtain’d the Ground;

Then the freed Spirit took her airy Way,

To Fields of Pleaſure and of endleſs Day.

The red-cheek’d Morning had now chas’d away

Night’s ſable Curtain — and the dawning Day

Call’d forth abroad the truſty Bands — Again

To chaſe the Tiger o’er the Deſert Plain;

To ſearch the Caves where kingly Lions roar,

And from thick Shades diſlodge the briſtled Boar:

Sylvius they want, for him they ſearch, they call,

They ſearch the Shades where cryſtal Waters fall,

His wonted Haunts: Then ev’ry Voice they try:

In vain they call, for none, alas! reply:

Hear, Sylvius, hear, they cry, and all around;

Hear, Sylvius, hear, the hollow Rocks reſound.

At 180 L8v 160

At length a Crew, the baſeſt of the Plain,

Approach’d, the Covert of the ſlaughter’d Swain:

Glad they beheld him breathleſs on the Ground,

And gaz’d with Rapture on the purple Wound,

When one began — Now bleſs the friendly Hand,

That ſwept off Sylvius from the gazing Land:

Behold the Day ſo oft by us deſir’d,

Here lies the Swain whom lately all admir’d.

This Phœbus ſaw, as from his blazing Wheels,

With his broad Eye he view’d the glitt’ring Fields,

Behold the Youth whom he had taught to throw

The feather’d Arrow from the bounding Bow,

Beheld his Sylvius, to whoſe artful Tongue

He taught the Numbers of enchanting Song.

Now cold and breathleſs on the dewy Plain,

And his worſt Foes inſulting o’er the Slain:

Then rag’d the God that wears the ſilver Bow,

And his broad Eyes with ſparkling Fury glow,

Deſcended Phœbus in a burning Ray,

His beamy Locks declares the Prince of Day,

And flaſhing Glories round his Temples play,

Each 181 M1r 161

Each on his Face the trembling Victims fall,

Their ſtammering Tongues wou’d fain for Mercy call;

But as all grov’ling on the Duſt they lie,

His Shafts diſpatch them to the darker Sky:

Learn hence (he cry’d) ye impious Men, to know,

And dread the Pow’r that wears the mortal Bow:

For while I rule the blazing Throne of Day,

None wrong my Servants but ſhall find their Pay;

He ſaid — and rais’d his Fav’rite from the Ground,

Then ſmil’d the Features: And the gaping Wound

Was ſeen no more. The glowing Cheeks revive,

Shake off the Stamp of Death, and ſeem alive;

Inſtead of Cypreſs and a mournful Shroud,

Apollo wrap’d him in a golden Cloud,

And bore him thence: But where, there’s none can ſay,

Unleſs to his own Regions of the Day.

And from the Ground where Sylvius late was ſeen,

Where the warm Gore had ſtain’d the thirſty Green;

A pleaſing Tree aroſe with ſlender Stems,

That breath’d Ambroſia from its op’ning Gems:

M Thoſe 182 M1v 162

Thoſe op’ning Gems the Virgins us’d to wear

On their fair Boſoms, and their ſhining Hair:

Now the gay Shrub each happy Climate knows,

By all admir’d, and ’tis call’d the Roſe.

The Temple of Love.

When lonely Night compos’d the drowſy Mind,

And huſh’d the Boſom of the weary Hind,

Pleas’d with plain Nature and with ſimple Life,

I read the Scenes of Shore’s deluded Wife,

Till my faint Spirits ſought the ſilent Bed,

And on its Pillow drop’d my aking Head;

Then Fancy ever to her Mira kind,

Prepar’d her Phantoms for the roving Mind.

Behold a Fabrick riſing from the Ground,

To the ſoft Timbrel and the Cittern’s Sound:

Corinthian Pillars the vaſt Building hold,

Of poliſh’d Silver and Peruvian Gold;

In 183 M2r 163

In four broad Arches ſpread the ſhining Doors,

The blazing Roofs enlighten all the Floors:

Beneath a ſparkling Canopy that ſhone

With Perſian Jewels, like a Morning Sun

Wrap’d in a Robe of pureſt Tyrian Dye,

Cythera’s Image met the raviſh’d Eye,

Whoſe glowing Features wou’d in Paint beguile:

So well the Artiſt drew her mimick Smile;

Her ſhining Eyes confeſs’d a ſprightly Joy;

Upon her Knees reclin’d her wanton Boy;

On the bright Walls, around her and above,

Were drawn the Statutes and the Arts of Love:

Theſe taught the ſilent Language of the Eye,

The broken Whiſper and amuſing Lye;

The careleſs Glance peculiar to the Fair,

And Vows for Lovers, that diſſolve in Air;

The graceful Anger, and the rolling Eyes;

The practis’d Bluſh and counterfeit Surpriſe,

The Language proper for pretending Swains;

And fine Deſcription for imagin’d Pains;

The friendly Caution and deſigning Eaſe,

And all the Arts that ruin while they pleaſe.

M2 Now 184 M2v 164

Now entred, follow’d by a ſplendid Train,

A blooming Damſel and a wealthy Swain;

The gaudy Youth in ſhining Robes array’d,

Behind him follow’d the unthinking Maid:

Youth in her Cheek like op’ning Roſes ſprung,

Her careleſs Treſſes on her Shoulders hung.

Her Smiles were chearful as enliv’ning May;

Her Dreſs was careleſs, and her Eyes were gay;

Then to ſoft Voices and melodious Sound

The Board was ſpread, the ſparkling Glaſſes crown’d:

The ſprightly Virgin in a Moment ſhines

In the gay Entrails of the eaſtern Mines;

Then Pride comes in with Patches for the Fair,

And ſpicy Odours for her curling Hair:

Rude Riot in a crimſon Veſt array’d,

With ſmooth-fac’d Flatt’ry like a Chamber-maid:

Soft Pomp and Pleaſure at her Elbow ſtand,

And Folly ſhakes the Rattles in her Hand.

But now her feeble Structure ſeem’d to ſhake,

Its Baſis trembl’d and its Pillars quake;

Then 185 M3r 165

Then ruſh’d Suſpicion through the lofty Gate,

With heart-ſick Loathing led by ghaſtly Hate;

And foaming Rage, to cloſe the horrid Band,

With a drawn Poniard in her ſhaking Hand.

Now like an Earthquake ſhook the reeling Frame,

The Lamps extinguiſh in a purple Flame:

One univerſal Groan was heard, and then

The Cries of Women and the Voice of Men:

Some roar out Vengeance, ſome for Mercy call;

And Shrieks and Tumult fill the dreadful Hall.

At length the Spectres vaniſh’d from my Sight,

Again the Lamps reſum’d a feeble Light;

But chang’d the Place: No Splendor there was ſhown,

But gloomy Walls that Mirth had never known;

For the gay Dome where Pleaſure us’d to dwell,

Appear’d an Abbey and a doleful Cell;

And here the ſad, the ruin’d Nymph was found,

Her Robe diſorder’d and her Locks unbound,

While from her Eyes the pearly Drops of Woe,

Waſh’d her pale Cheek where Roſes us’d to blow:

M3 Her 186 M3v 166

Her blue and trembling Lips prepar’d to breathe

The Sighs that made her ſwelling Boſom heave;

Thus ſtupid with her Grief ſhe ſat and preſt

Her lily Hands acroſs her penſive Breaſt;

A Group of ghaſtly Phantoms ſtood behind,

Whoſe Task it is to wreck the guilty Mind:

Wide-mouth’d Reproach with Viſage rude and thin,

And hiſſing Scandal made a hideous Din;

Remorſe that darted from her deadly Wings,

Invenom’d Arrows and a thouſand Stings:

Then with pale Cheeks and with a ghaſtly Stare,

Peep’d o’er her Shoulder hollow-ey’d Deſpair;

Whoſe Hand extended bore a bleeding Heart,

And Death behind her ſhook his threat’ning Dart:

Theſe Forms with Horror fill’d my aking Breaſt,

And from my Eye-lids drove the Balm of Reſt:

I woke and found old Night her Courſe had run,

And left her Empire to the riſing Sun.

Advic 187 M4r 167

Advice to Myrtillo.

Since you, Myrtillo, will devote your Time

To the lean Study of deluſive Rhyme:

Since you’re content to ſlumber out your Days,

To dream of Dinners, but to feed on Praiſe;

Receive this Counſel, e’er your Flights begin,

From one long practis’d in the darling Sin.

Now Fame’s broad Ocean lies before your Way;

Yet, Friend, be careful; ’tis a dang’rous Sea:

Where (tho’ ſome few may reach the happy Land)

Numbers are wreck’d upon the treach’rous Sand:

Then guard your Spirits, as your prize your Eaſe,

Nor once indulge ’em in a thirſt of Praiſe;

For Fame, like Fortune, (proud, yet wanton too)

Is pleas’d to fly and make the Wretch purſue;

Frowns on her Slaves, but to the careleſs Mind

That ſlights her Favours ſhe is always kind.

M4 Would 188 M4v 168

Would you the Ladies ſhou’d approve your Song?

Paint Sylvia’s Eyes, or praiſe Clarinda’s Tongue;

Deſcribe the Charms of Cloe’s ſprightly Air,

Or blooming Daphne more divinely fair;

Or Venus’s Son that hurls the flaming Dart,

And tag each Stanza with a bleeding Heart:

Tell them of Rocks where Tears eternal flow,

Diſſolv’d to Fountains by a Lover’s Woe:

Of icy Boſoms that in Summer freeze,

And Sighs much ſtronger than a ſouthern Breeze.

Perhaps the Fair, whom for a Theme you chooſe,

Muſt owe her Beauties to your skilful Muſe:

Has erring Nature raiſs’d her Noſe too high,

Sunk down her Cheeks, or drawn her Lips awry?

No matter how the twiſted Features ſtand,

They’ll grow divine beneath a Poet’s Hand:

Tho’ her dim Eye-balls roll within her Head,

Like two gray Bullets in a Verge of red;

You like Promotheus muſt their Rays inſpire,

And fill their Orbs with more than mortal Fire.

Do 189 M5r 169

Do you the Levee of his Grace attend,

And (like moſt Poets) ſhou’d you want a Friend,

Make not his Worth the Meaſure of your Song;

But learn his Humour, and you can’t be wrong:

Perhaps this Maxim may offend the wiſe;

But you muſt flatter, if you mean to riſe:

Obſerve what Paſſions in his Boſom roll,

And watch the ſecret Motions of his Soul:

Mind what falſe Guard has left a Breach within,

For ſome choice Folly, or ſome darling Sin:

Theſe you muſt hide――but draw his Virtues nigh,

Leſt the rude Picture ſhock the gazing Eye.

The Heralds-Office you muſt ſearch with Care;

And look you find no Pimps nor Taylors there:

Bring none to light but honourable Knaves;

Shut up the Peaſants in their mouldy Graves:

If Knights are wanting in the dusky Breed,

Arthur’s round Table will ſupply your Need.

No more――for I (as many Teachers do)

Shew my own Folly by inſtructing you;

And 190 M5v 170

And you perhaps diſdain my wholſom Rules;

So ſaucy Pupils count their Maſters Fools:

But ſhou’d your Pride the common Track refuſe,

You’ll find ſmall penſions for your haughty Muſe:

Still you may ſcribble on; and in the End

Be juſt as rich as — Sir, your humble Friend.

On Discontent.

To Stella.

Say, deareſt Stella, why this penſive Air?

Tell me, O tell thy Sorrows and thy Care;

Why thy Lips tremble, and thy Cheeks are pale?

Why heaves thy Boſom with a mournful Gale?

Let not thy Eyes for diſtant Evils flow,

Nor rack thy Boſom with prophetick Woe:

Imagin’d Ills deceive our aking Eyes,

As lengthen’d Shades appear of monſtrous Size,

When ſetting Phœbus gilds the Ev’ning Skies.

Tho’ 191 M6r 171

Tho’ pictur’d Joy deludes our panting Souls,

When round the Heart its ſmiling Phantom rolls;

The gay Impoſtor mocks our reaching Arms;

Yet while it laſts, the pleaſing Viſion charms:

Not ſo Diſtruſt, her gloomy Forehead rears;

She brings cold Anguiſh and a crowd of Fears:

Ah lovely Stella! as you prize your Reſt,

Expel this Fury from your guiltleſs Breaſt.

The wiſe and mighty Guardian of Mankind,

To each Dividual has their Draught aſſign’d;

And tho’ no Pearls ſhou’d in our Potion fall,

Let us be chearful while he ſpares the Gall:

Unmeaning Tranſports for a Moment pleaſe,

Yet Peace alone can bleſs your equal Days.

But coldly view’d or quickly thrown aſide,

See cringing Merit at the Gates of Pride;

See Wit and Wiſdom (that our Fathers priz’d)

In Youth neglected as in Age deſpis’d:

Behold (the Scorn, as late the Dread of all)

The Politician from his Glory fall:

He 192 M6v 172

He whoſe ſly Genius cou’d a Kingdom rule,

Shall have his Exit hiſs’d by ev’ry Fool:

With aking Boſom and a ſtreaming Eye

The hoary Soldier ſees his Honour fly;

Who in his Age muſt to Oppreſſion bow,

And yield his Laurels to a younger Brow:

Thoſe Laurels ſhall the proud Succeſſor wear

A while; then ſtrip and leave ’em to his Heir.

If theſe are wretched let not us repine,

Whoſe meaner Talents ne’er were made to ſhine:

Our Good and Ill, our Vice and Virtue falls

Within the compaſs of domeſtick Walls:

To thoſe ſmall Limits be thy Views confin’d,

And bleſs thy Cottage with an humble Mind.

Look not at Joys that dazzle from afar,

Nor envy Glaro on his gilded Car;

For all Degrees their Days of Anguiſh know,

And the moſt happy have a taſte of Woe:

Then calmly take what Providence ordains,

He ſwells the Load who murmurs and complains:

For 193 M7r 173

For all things vary: And who ſits to day

Half-drown’d in Tears; to-morrow may be gay.

The Proposal.

With aking Fingers, twinging Noſe,

And vex’d, dear Madam, we’ll ſuppoſe:

(To leave yourſelf and Parlour-fire)

Trudg’d Mira to her own good Sire;

Beneath a cold and gloomy Sky

Walk’d cheek by jole the Muſe and I:

The liſt’ning Goſſip, tho’ unſeen,

Had watch’d the Talk that paſs’d between

Myſelf and you: And much offended

(It ſeems) at what was there intended.

So cries the peeviſh Maid, (and ſquinting)

Methinks I heard you talk of Printing:

Have I beſtow’d a world of Pains,

To ſpirit up your blockiſh Brains,

To get from thence an idle Rhyme,

That made me bluſh to call it mine?

And 194 M7v 174

And ſhall I ſee the crippl’d Crew

Diſcarded from their Seat and you,

Turn’d out to skip from hand to hand

In dirty Gazettes round the Land,

To grace the Knee of ev’ry Sot,

And catch the Droppings of his Pot,

While in a Rage the drowſy Swains

Perhaps may curſe you for your Pains,

Proteſting with a Critick’s Spite,

That none ſince Durſey knew to write?

But, Mira, if you want a Muſe,

To grace the Page of weekly News,

The Task is much too low for me,

Yet I’ve a Maid of leſs Degree,

(With Spirit ſuiting to her State)

Will ſerve you at an eaſy Rate:

Whoſe Voice, tho’ hoarſe, is loud and ſtrong,

An Artiſt at a ranting Song,

Can chaunt Lampoons without much ſtraining,

Or Epigrams with double Meaning,

To join the Tavern-Harp or Viol:

Now if you’ll take her upon trial,

To 195 M8r 175

To her Deſervings ſuit your Pay,

And then you take the ſafeſt way:

Perhaps you’ll proſper in the End,

I’ll ſay no more: But ask your Friend,

Here ends the Muſe — Dear Madam, ſay,

Shall I reject her or obey?

Soto. A Character.

In Soto’s Boſom you may find

The Glimm’ring of a worthy Mind:

’Tis but a faint and feeble Ray,

Imperfect as the dawning Day;

Yet were the jarring Paſſions tun’d,

And the wild Branches nicely prun’d,

The Soil from Thorns and Thiſtles clear,

Some latent Virtues might appear:

I’th’ Morning catch him, (early tho’

Your Bird will elſe be flown, I trow,)

E’er he has reach’d the bowzing Can,

You’ll find the Stamp of reas’ning Man:

Then 196 M8v 176

Then ſee the Wretch whom none can rule,

E’er Night a Mad-man and a Fool;

The witty Soto then you’ll find,

Juſt level with the brutal Kind.

With crimſon Face and winking Eyes,

That look like Woodcocks, mighty wiſe:

See ſtreams a Current down his Chin,

From ſoft Tobacco lodg’d within;

Be pleas’d to ſteal a Glance or two,

But one may ſerve to make you ――

He fain wou’d walk, but cannot ſtand,

And ſee a Palſy in his Hand;

And tho’ his Throat has ſwallow’d down

Two Gallons of October brown,

His greedy Guts impatient roar,

And ſeem to call aloud for more:

More they ſhall have: But hark, within

Is heard a rude and lawleſs Din:

Wind, Ale, and Phlegm their Powers wage,

And Hickups call them to engage;

And 197 N1r 177

And now, Ah now! inceſſant flows

The frothy Tide from Mouth and Noſe:

No more is ſeen the cover’d Ground,

But a huge River floating round:

Down drops the Youth, his giddy Head

Falls eaſy on the liquid Bed:

So ſwam Achilles fierce and brave,

On angry Xanthus’s ſwelling Wave;

And ’ſcap’d with being wet to th’ Skin;

For Pallas held him up by th’ Chin:

So Bacchus ſaves, by mighty Charms,

His helpleſs Devotee from Harms:

And Soto ſleeps till break of Day,

Then ſhakes his Ears and walks away.

The Universal Dream.

‘GIVE o’er your Whims, ſays my conſiderate Friend;

Retrieve the fleeting Hours you idly ſpend:

Blind to Advice, incorrigible, vain,

You follow Fancy and her laughing Train;

N Your 198 N1v 178

Your thoughtleſs Days in ſwift Deluſion fly:

So let them go, ſays unconverted I,

Look round the Globe, my Friend, and then you’ll ſee

The drowſy World is ſlumb’ring juſt like me.

See on ſoft Beds the Hero ſleeps ſecure,

Till War comes thund’ring at his trembling Door;

In wiſer Dreams the Politician prys

Through diſtant Kingdoms with his half-ſhut Eyes:

The lull’d Projector builds aerial Towers,

And rolls ſmooth Rivers through enchanted Bowers.

The Chymiſt ſlumbers o’er imagin’d Gold,

So Delia’s Conqueſts in her Dreams are told.

What monſtrous Phantoms in that Trance are born,

Through which Amyntor ſees his ſprouting Horn?

When purblind Mortals ſound the Depths of Fate,

Or ſome lean Poet aims at an Eſtate;

Or when the good believing Man depends

On the ſlight Promiſe of his courtly Friends;

Shou’d thoſe awake they to their Coſt wou’d find,

Theſe are but Shadows of a ſleeping Mind.

Few 199 N2r 179

Few real Pleaſures are on Earth poſſeſt,

And Mortals only in their Dreams are bleſt;

Then dream no longer, my well-meaning Friend,

That Mira’s Follies with her Muſe ſhall end:

Some younger Vanity ſucceeds the firſt,

And the laſt Folly often proves the worſt:

No: While the reſt in fruitleſs Cares are hurl’d,

Let me enjoy my viſionary World:

To this glad Boſom hug the dear Miſtake,

If Dreams are Bleſſings, who wou’d wiſh to wake?

The Sow and the Peacock.

A Fable.

In Days of Yore, as Authors tell,

When Beaſts and Birds cou’d read and ſpell,

(No matter where, in Town or City,)

There liv’d a Swine exceeding witty,

And for the Beauties of her Mind,

Excelling all her briſtl’d Kind:

N2 But 200 N2v 180

But yet to mortify her Pride,

She found at laſt her failing Side.

Philoſophy ſhe had good Store,

Had ponder’d Seneca all o’er;

Yet all Precautions uſeleſs prove

Againſt the Pow’r of mighty Love.

It happen’d on a ſultry Day,

Upon her fav’rite Couch ſhe lay:

’Twas a round Dunghil ſoft and warm,

O’er-ſhadow’d by a neighb’ring Barn,

When lo, her winking Eyes behold

A Creature with a Neck of Gold,

With painted Wings and gorgeous Train,

That ſparkl’d like the ſtarry Plain:

His Neck and Breaſt all brilliant ſhine

Againſt the Sun: The dazzl’d Swine,

Who never ſaw the like before,

Began to wonder and adore;

But ſeeing him ſo fair and nice,

She left her Dunghil in a trice,

And 201 N3r 181

And (fond to pleaſe) the grunting Elf

Began to waſh and prune herſelf,

And from the ſtinking Wave ſhe run

To dry her Carcaſe in the Sun:

Then rubb’d her Sides againſt a Tree,

And now as clean as Hogs can be,

With cautious Air and doubtful Breaſt,

The glitt’ring Peacock thus addreſt:

‘Sir; I, a homely rural Swine,

Can boaſt of nothing fair nor fine,

No Dainties in our Troughs appear,

But as you ſeem a Stranger here,

Be pleas’d to walk into my Sty,

A little Hut as plain as I;

Pray venture through the humble Door;

And tho’ your Entertainment’s poor,

With me you ſhall be ſure to find

An open Heart and honeſt Mind;

And that’s a Dainty ſeldom found

On Cedar Flow’rs and City Ground.

N3 Thus 202 N3v 182

Thus far the Sow had preach’d by rule,

She preach’d, alas! but to a Fool;

For this ſame Peacock (you muſt know)

Had he been Man, had been a Beau:

And had (like them) but mighty little

To ſay: So ſquirted out his Spittle.

And with an Air that teſtified,

He’d got at leaſt his ſhare of Pride,

He thus began: Why, truly now,

You’re very civil Mrs. Sow:

But I am very clean, d’ye ſee?

Your Sty is not a Place for me.

Shou’d I go through that narrow Door,

My Feathers might be ſoil’d or tore;

Or ſcented with unſav’ry Fumes:

And what am I without my Plumes?

The much offended Sow replies,

(And turns a-ſquint her narrow Eyes)

Sir, you’re incorrigibly vain,

To value thus a ſhining Train;

For 203 N4r 183

For when the northern Wind ſhall blow,

And ſend us Hail, and Sleet, and Snow;

How will you ſave from ſuch keen Weathers

Your Merit? — Sir, I mean your Feathers:

As for myſelf: — to think that I

Shou’d lead an Idiot to my Sty,

Or ſtrive to make an Oaf my Friend,

It makes my Briſtles ſtand an end:

But for the future when I ſee

A Bird that much reſembles thee,

I’ll ever take it as a Rule,

The ſhining Caſe contains a Fool.

Florimelia, the Firſt Pastoral.

By Mr. Newton.

Of Florimelia and her Charms I ſing,

Fair as the Bloſſoms of the ſmiling Spring;

Whoſe lovely Temples wore a Myrtle Wreath,

That ſerv’d to ſhade her glowing Cheeks beneath:

N4 How 204 N4v 184

How wou’d that Brow, which never knew to frown,

Become the Splendor of an awful Crown;

For, by the luſtre of her ſhining Eyes,

You’d take her for an Empreſs in diſguiſe:

Thoſe graceful Limbs tho’ clad in humble Green,

Wou’d ſuit a Princeſs, nor diſgrace a Queen:

Yet a plain Crook adorn’d her ſnowy Hands,

Fair as the Fleeces of her tender Lambs:

Her Task it was, thoſe tender Lambs to lead,

O’er the tall Mountain on the fertile Mead:

Where the clear Fountains gently murmur by,

And ſounding Grottos to her Flute reply:

Her Flute and Song delude the tedious Day,

And her ſoft Hours calmly glide away.

In Smiles the Fair One view’d the riſing Sun,

In Smiles beheld him when his Race was done:

And when his Beams had bid the Fields adieu,

And the damp Meadows ſhone with pearly Dew;

Pent in their Fold ſhe leaves her wanton Care,

And to her home returns the happy Fair:

’Twas a low Cottage, humble as their Fate,

Where an old Father met her at the Gate:

This 205 N5r 185

This Hind was call’d Aſophus of the Plain,

A Name much valu’d by each honeſt Swain:

On whoſe grave Brow were ſeen the Marks of Time,

No more his Cheeks confeſs’d their healthy Prime:

Dim were his Eyes: Thoſe Eye-balls that had ſeen

Full fourſcore Springs array’d in ſprightly Green:

Child of his Age was Florimel the Fair;

And ſhe alone his Comfort and his Care.

Their little Houſe was plac’d beneath a Hill,

Whoſe Verge was water’d by a ſtreaming Rill:

The Stranger here no gilded Spires ſaw,

For this low Roof was thatch’d with humble Straw;

Moſaick here nor Fret-work there was none,

Nor Venice Glaſs to ſparkle in the Sun:

Its only Window was of Oſier made,

Full South it look’d and ſeldom knew the Shade,

Where by the Sun this careful Peaſant knew,

How o’er his Head the ſwift-wing’d Minutes flew;

A little Orchard too was planted nigh,

And the cool River roll’d its Waters by:

In 206 N5v 186

In whoſe clear Stream the pendent Willows lave,

And the weak Bullruſh trembl’d o’er the Wave:

Within the Banks ſoft Water-creſſes ſpring,

Where the pleas’d Heron prunes her dabbled Wing.

Thus dwelt Aſophus — happier far than he

Whoſe Slaves approach him with a bending Knee;

His willing Eye-lids in ſoft Slumbers cloſe,

No midnight Revels break his lov’d Repoſe;

No dark Intrigue for open Vengeance calls,

Nor Envy dwelt within his peaceful Walls:

But his calm Days in one ſmooth Circle run;

He bleſt the riſing and declining Sun,

A Stranger both to Sickneſs and to Sin:

’Twas Health without and Happineſs within,

While by his Side his Florimelia ſung,

And his fond Soul upon her Muſick hung:

Like him no Parent lov’d his darling Care,

No Child like her ſo duteous and ſo fair:

Him with crumb’d Milk both Morn and Eve ſhe fed,

And ſmooth’d the Pillows for his weary Head:

With 207 N6r 187

With her his Moments gently glide away,

Who dreſs’d in Smiles the Ev’ning and the Day.

Hear this, ye great Ones, whoſe unwieldy Store

Is ſtill embitter’d with a Wiſh for more;

Who ſtrive to climb on Fortune’s ſlipp’ry Hill,

And ſwallow Ruin in a golden Pill.

But learn from hence that Happineſs can dwell,

With a plain Peaſant in his humble Cell:

She loves the Village and the harmleſs Hind,

With a clear Conſcience and a chearful Mind;

And the gay Wantons vainly ſearch around,

For Bliſs which only is with Virtue found.

Florimelia, the Second Pastoral.

By Mr. Newton,

As Florimelia watch’d her ſnowy Fold,

Soft Florimelia with her Locks of Gold,

Low in a Vale beneath a ſpreading Shade,

Two ruddy Youths that lov’d the beauteous Maid,

To 208 N6v 188

To pleaſe the Fair thus form’d the rival Song,

While the Herds liſten’d to each tuneful Tongue.

Philaster.

This Morn I wander’d through a poplar Grove,

Where a lone Turtle mourn’d her abſent Love;

With penſive Coo ſhe well expreſs’d her Woe,

Lull’d by her Voice the Brooks more gently flow;

When lo the Partner of her Neſt drew nigh

With hov’ring Wings: And bid her Sorrows fly.

All ſprightly now with brisker Note ſhe ſings,

Prunes her ſoft Breaſt, and ſpreads her joyful Wings.

No more the Grove is Witneſs to her Woe,

Such are the Joys that faithful Lovers know.

Chromis.

As yeſter’-even, while my Sheep did feed

On a ſoft Bank, I tun’d my Oaten Reed;

’Twas there a ſingle Violet I ſpy’d,

That breath’d its Odours, droop’d its Head, and dy’d;

When from the Root a gay Companion grew,

Fair as the firſt and freſh as Morning Dew:

Whoſe fragrant Leaves perfum’d the bord’ring Plain,

Then did the firſt its former Beauties gain,

Pleas’d 209 N7r 189

Pleas’d with each other ſide by ſide they grow,

Such are the Joys that faithful Lovers know.

Philaster.

As ſweet as was the Violet is my Love.

Chromis.

And I as conſtant as the Turtle-Dove.

Philaster.

Soft are the Murmurs of a ſouthern Wind,

And the Complainings of a love-ſick Mind;

Soft are the Breathings of an Infant’s Sleep,

But ſhe is ſofter than her harmleſs Sheep.

Chromis.

Sweet are the Gales that meet the roſy Morn,

Sweet are the Flow’rs that yonder Meads adorn;

Sweet are the Banks on which my Lambkins play,

But my lov’d Nymph is ſweet as early Day.

Philaster.

Where walks my Love — there op’ning Roſes bloom,

And yellow Cowſlips ſhed a choice Perfume;

When ſhe is gone the op’ning Roſes fade,

The Sun himſelf laments the abſent Maid.

Chro- 210 N7v 190

Chromis.

When ſmiles my Love, then ſmile the Groves below;

And the clear Skies with brighter Luſtre glow:

But when ſhe frowns, thoſe Groves are glad no more,

And the Sky lowers that was bright before.

Philaster.

While we prefer the Spring to Winter Storms,

Or goodly Cedars to unſeemly Thorns;

While Maples keep below the lofty Pine,

Shall my lov’d Nymph before her Siſters ſhine?

Chromis.

As we prefer the Peacock to the Crow,

As Maidens fairer than their Mothers ſhow;

And as my Voice above Philaſter ſwells,

So my lov’d Nymph each other Nymph excels.

Philaster.

You ſung laſt Night with more melodious Air,

As you lay plaiting Cloe’s yellow Hair;

While the ſhrill Pipe her ſlender Fingers ply’d,

The Pipe you gave her, and your Heart beſide.

Chro- 211 N8r 191

Chromis.

’Twas you I ſaw beneath a maple Shade;

With blubber’d Cheeks you curs’d the cruel Maid,

Who broke your Cypreſs Bowl on yonder Plain,

And ſent the Willow to her ſlighted Swain.

Philaster.

’Tell me at midnight where do Mandrakes groan,

And Blood fall dropping from the darkned Moon:

Tell this, and I ſhall, for thy Learning yield,

A coal-black Lamb that ſports in yonder Field.

Chromis.

Tell me, where Oaks have tender Medlars bore,

And Shrubs yield Apples that were Crabs before;

And for thy Knowledge I ſhall not refuſe

To give the beſt of all my ſpeckled Ewes.

Thus ſung the Shepherds while the liſt’ning Maid,

Prais’d both their Songs, and thus their Songs repaid;

Behold this lovely Pine-apple, ſhe cry’d;

And this Twin-cheſnut once my chiefeſt Pride,

Theſe long were mine, and theſe I give to you;

To both a Prize, a Prize to both is due.

Now 212 N8v 192

Now nightly Vapours taint the colder Air,

They part the Flocks, and to the Folds repair;

And the black Clouds forbid their longer Stay,

Their Feet unwilling tread their deſtin’d Way

At once: Farewel too lovely Nymphs, they cry,

And on the Virgin caſt a parting Eye.

Catharina’s Cave.

By Mr. Newton.

Beneath a Mountain’s ſolitary Shade

Liv’d Catharina, then an ancient Maid,

An uſeful Dame that ev’ry Simple knew,

And from choice Herbs exhal’d a cordial Dew.

Rude was her Dome, and hid from prying Eyes,

By lofty Hills that ſeem’d to reach the Skies;

Deep in a Rock the winding Cavern run,

A bending Cypreſs skreen’d it from the Sun:

From its rude Side a Fountain us’d to flow,

That pour’d inceſſant on the Stones below:

This 213 O1r 193

This Muſick lull’d the penſive Dame to Reſt,

And drew ſoft Slumbers on her aching Breaſt:

No Sun was there, nor ſcarce a dawning Gleam,

No twinkling Stars, nor Cynthia’s ſilver Beam.

There naked Elms and ſapleſs Oaks appear’d,

With Age grown rotten, and by Light’ning ſear’d;

There perch’d the Raven and the gray-ey’d Owl,

With his wiſe Viſage and his ſerious Scowl;

No Flow’rets there bedeck the moſſy Ground,

But a thick Foreſt ſpread its Shade around,

Where the ſmooth Box and browner Haſel grew,

The ſolemn Pine-tree and the baleful Yew:

Here no glad Sound was heard nor human Tongue,

Not Colin’s Flute nor Blouzelinda’s Song:

Theſe gloomy Shades for Grief were only made,

And howling Wolves that ſcamper’d thro’ the Glade.

Here Catharina ſpent her irkſom Days,

Secluded both from Envy and from Praiſe.

Not ſo her laughing Moments us’d to run,

When her bright Eyes were like a Morning Sun:

When to her Flock repair’d the gazing Swains,

Her Flock was then the faireſt of the Plains:

O And 214 O1v 194

And ſhe no leſs — with Veins of ſprightly Blue

And Cheeks like Roſes wrap’d in Morning Dew,

The Loves and Graces round her Features flew.

Her Mind was chearful as the riſing Day,

Mature as Summer and as April gay;

Yet Fate too ſoon eclips’d her early Joy,

She fell the Victim of the winged Boy,

The winged Boy that bears the fatal Darts:

Henceforth may Virgins better guard their Hearts.

’Twas Celadon, ’twas he that caus’d her Pain,

The faireſt Shepherd of the rural Train;

Whoſe careleſs Beauty made her Heart his Prize,

And ſtole the Slumbers from her wakeful Eyes.

Long time her Pride and cooler Reaſon ſtrove

Againſt the Power of encroaching Love,

In vain — her Cheeks and mournful Eyes declare

The ſmother’d Paſſion and the ſecret Care,

While the dull Youth, whom Beauty ne’er cou’d pleaſe,

Who ſought no more than Indolence and Eaſe,

Rang’d o’er the Vallies with his darling Tray,

Or near ſome Fountain ſlumber’d out the Day:

All 215 O2r 195

All Nymphs he ſtrove (but moſtly her) to ſhun,

And to thick Shades and diſtant Paſtures run:

There the ſoft Flute his nimble Fingers ply’d,

While his lov’d Dog ſat liſt’ning by his Side.

Then wept the Fair with Grief and Rage oppreſs’d;

Strange Paſſions labour’d in her penſive Breaſt;

She loſt her Crook — her Flocks no more were told,

And her Lambs wander’d from their nightly Fold,

Till to theſe Shades ſhe took her deſp’rate Way,

And vow’d no more to ſee the Beams of Day:

Here the gay Roſes on her Cheek expir’d,

And from her Eyes the laughing Loves retir’d:

No flow’ry Wreaths her faded Temples knew,

Her Locks uncomb’d upon her Shoulders flew;

No ſilken Veſtments on her Limbs were roll’d,

A ruſſet Mantle ſav’d her from the Cold;

A ſimple Cordage round her Waſte ſhe ty’d,

And a rude Staff her better Hand ſupply’d.

Here learn’d the Dame the Phyſick of the Field,

And what the Woods and what the Mountains yield

Of ſov’reign Balm, to heal a rankling Wound,

Or ripen Swellings where no Sores are found;

O2 To 216 O2v 196

To ſtrengthen Sinews, and Catarrhs expel,

And none for Colicks cou’d her Art excel.

With magick Herbs ſhe drew out feſt’ring Thorns;

Her Charms cou’d baniſh Tooth-ach, Cramps, and Corns.

To her repair’d from all the neighb’ring Plains,

The ſickly Matrons and the wounded Swains:

Nor to one Species was her Art confin’d;

Her Skill was known amongſt the fleecy Kind,

Her Cordials ſtrengthen’d the declining Ewe,

And limping Calves her healing Plaiſters knew.

The Enquiry.

In vain, alas! (do lazy Mortals cry)

In vain wou’d Wiſdom trace the boundleſs Sky,

Where doubled Wonders upon Wonders riſe,

And Worlds on Worlds confound our dazzl’d Eyes:

Better be ſtill — Let Nature reſt, ſay they,

Than err by Gueſs and with Opinion ſtray:

Then tell me, why our Eyes were made to view

Thoſe Orbs that gliſter in the fluid Blue?

Why 217 O3r 197

Why in our Sight thoſe ſhining Wonders roll?

Or why to Man was giv’n a thinking Soul?

May I not ask how moves the radiant Sun?

How the bright Stars their pointed Circuits run?

What warms thoſe Worlds that ſo remotely ſhine?

And what can temper Saturn’s frozen Clime?

Who that beholds the full-orb’d Moon ariſe,

That chearful Empreſs of the nightly Skies;

Who wou’d not ask (cou’d learned Sages tell)

What kind of People on her Surface dwell?

But there we pauſe — Not Newton’s Art can ſhow

A Truth, perhaps, not fit for us to know.

How great the Pow’r, who gave thoſe Worlds to roll;

The Thought ſtrikes inward, and confounds the Soul;

Fall down, O Man — Ah fall before the Rod

Of this Almighty, All-creating God:

But hark — from Heav’n there came a chearing Sound;

Now Man revives, and ſmile the Worlds around:

’Tis Mercy — lo a golden Ray deſcends,

And Hope and Comfort in the Luſtre blends.

O3 When 218 O3v 198

When from the Stars we turn our aking Eyes,

To Earth we bend them where new Wonders riſe;

Where Life and Death the equal Scale ſuſpend,

New Beings riſing as the former end.

Who not ſurpris’d can trace each juſt Degree

From the ſwift Eagle to the peeviſh Bee;

From the fierce Lion that will yield to none,

To the weak Mouſe that hides her from the Sun!

How near one Species to the next is join’d,

The due Gradations pleaſe a thinking Mind;

And there are Creatures which no Eye can ſee,

That for a Moment live and breathe like me:

Whom a ſmall Fly in bulk as far exceeds,

As yon tall Cedar does the waving Reeds:

Theſe we can reach — and may we not ſuppoſe

There ſtill are Creatures more minute than thoſe.

Wou’d Heav’n permit, and might our Organs bear

To pierce where Comets wave their blazing Hair:

Where other Suns alternate ſet and riſe,

And other Moons light up the chearful Skies:

The raviſh’d Soul might ſtill her Search purſue,

Still find new Wonders op’ning on her view:

From 219 O4r 199

From thence to Worlds in Miniature deſcend,

And ſtill preſs forward, but ſhou’d find no End:

Where little Foreſts on a Leaf appear,

And Drops of Dew are mighty Oceans there:

Theſe may have Whales that in their Waters play,

And wanton out their Age of half a Day:

In thoſe ſmall Groves the ſmaller Birds may ſing,

And ſhare like us their Winter and their Spring.

Pluck off yon Acorn from its Parent Bough,

Divide that Acorn in the midſt — and now

In its firm Kernel a fair Oak is ſeen

With ſpreading Branches of a ſprightly Green:

From this young Tree a Kernel might we rend,

There wou’d another its ſmall Boughs extend.

All Matter lives, and ſhews its Maker’s Power;

There’s not a Seed but what contains a Flower:

Tho’ unobſerv’d its ſecret Beauty lies,

Till we are bleſt with Microſcopick Eyes.

When for blue Plumbs our longing Palate calls,

Or ſcarlet Cherries that adorn the Walls;

O4 With 220 O4v 200

With each plump Fruit we ſwallow down a Tree,

And ſo deſtroy whole Groves that elſe wou’d be

As large and perfect as thoſe Shades we ſee.

Behold yon Monſter that unwieldy laves

Beneath the Surface of the briny Waves:

Still as he turns, the troubl’d Sea divides;

And rolls in Eddies from his ſlimy Sides.

Leſs huge the Dolphin to the Sun diſplays

His Scales, and in the ſmoother Ocean plays:

Still leſs the Herring and round Mackrel ſweep

The ſhallow Tide, nor truſt the roaring Deep:

How far by gradual numberleſs Degrees,

The ſenſeleſs Oyſter is remov’d from theſe.

Who follows Nature through her mazy Way,

From the mute Inſect to the Fount of Day,

(Where now ſhe riſes, now her Steps decline)

Has need of Judgment better taught than mine:

But on this Subject we have talk’d too long,

Where grave-fac’d Wiſdom may itſelf be wrong.

The 221 O5r 201

The Rival Brothers.

Celia and I, to ſhare the vernal Gales,

One Ev’ning wander’d o’er the dewy Vales;

Still was the Soul, and ev’ry Senſe was pleas’d,

And the cool Heart from Care and Buſineſs eas’d:

Arm lock’d in Arm with heedleſs Steps we rove,

Round the fair Borders of a blooming Grove;

Reclin’d at eaſe within the ſecret Shades,

A lovely Bower held two fairer Maids,

Soft Flavia one, with Cheeks of roſy Dye,

And Sylvia famous for her ſtar-like Eye.

Sylvia, whoſe Wit was vers’d in charming Wiles,

Who often varied her Diſcourſe with Smiles:

Love-tales ſhe told, ſome fictious and ſome true,

The Subject various and her Stories new;

Of Innocence oppreſs’d by mightier Wrong,

And many Proofs ſhe drew from ſacred Song:

When Flavia thus — behold the ling’ring Day

Still paints yon Heavens with a ſilver Gray;

And 222 O5v 202

And ſlothful Night with gentler Pace comes on,

As if ſhe liſten’d to thy charming Tongue:

The Rival Brothers, let my Sylvia tell,

How croſs they lov’d, and who untimely fell:

Her Friend reply’d, You ſhall not ask in vain,

Although the Story gives thy Sylvia Pain:

Then on her Cheek her iv’ry Hand ſhe laid,

And with a Sigh began the lovely Maid.

Long time before our Fathers Lives began,

There liv’d an ancient and a worthy Man,

Was long the Fav’rite of indulgent Fame;

For Wretches knew and bleſs’d Clytiphon’s Name,

Juſt without Pride, without Reluctance kind;

For inborn Goodneſs with ſoft Pity join’d,

To form the Baſis of his godlike Mind.

His temp’rate Soul was ne’er diſturb’d with Rage,

But graceful bore the rev’rend Weight of Age:

All bounteous Heav’n had to his ſhare conſign’d:

A moderate Fortune with a peaceful Mind:

His Dwelling ſeated on a riſing Hill,

Was water’d round with many a cryſtal Rill:

Gardens 223 O6r 203

Gardens and Groves the ſmother’d Buildings ſcreen,

Which look’d the Seat of ſome retir’d Queen.

Cythania toſt of the admiring Land,

The faireſt Virgin of the ſhining Band,

Did to Clytiphon’s Honour truſt her Charms,

And gave her Beauties to his faithful Arms:

But cruel Death, whoſe Buſineſs is to rend

The pale-ey’d Matron from her weeping Friend,

Had torn Cythania from his widow’d Side,

And left her Spouſe to wail his conſtant Bride:

Heav’n ſpar’d one Child to crown his feeble Age,

To chear his Spirits and his Grief aſſwage:

Sophinia precious to her Father’s Mind,

To her alone was ev’ry Wiſh confin’d:

Nor did the Virgin leſs deſerve his Care,

Her guiltleſs Soul was like her Perſon fair;

For Heav’n to form this matchleſs Beauty join’d

Her Mother’s Features to her Father’s Mind;

Not op’ning Roſes nor the baſhful Day,

Bluſh’d half ſo ſweetly as Sophinia gay:

Her Eyes were dazzling and her Temples fair,

And ev’ry Feature wore a ſmiling Air;

For 224 O6v 204

For Wit and Learning ſhe out-ſtrip’d her Kind,

Nor cou’d her Sex debaſe her noble Mind;

In ſearch of Knowledge ſhe wou’d ſpend the Day,

And Judgment walk’d before her guiltleſs Way.

Not many Furlongs ftrom thoſe bliſsful Plains,

Where good Clytiphon rul’d the happy Swains,

There liv’d a wealthy and a worthy Peer,

Lov’d by his Friends and to his Country dear;

Laon the great in Valour juſtly fam’d,

His Sons Lycander and Polyphon nam’d,

Both noble Youths and by their Friends admir’d,

And Thirſt of Glory both their Hearts inſpir’d:

Lycander’s Form was fairer than his Mind;

His Shape was faultleſs and his Brow ſublime.

His jetty Locks in mazy Ringlets run,

And his bright Eyes were like a Morning Sun:

Rays quick and fierce their ſubtle Light’nings fling,

His Cheeks were freſher than the dawning Spring;

But then as Tempeſts o’er the Ocean roll,

Continual Paſſion tore his boiling Soul;

Diſdainful, proud, with an imperious Will,

Headlong he ruſh’d on unſuſpected Ill:

Reaſon 225 O7r 205

Reaſon in vain oppos’d her ſacred Shield,

And Virtue’s ſelf muſt to the Whirlwind yield:

Polyphon’s Soul was of a gentler Kind,

No rugged Storms cou’d ſhake his eaſy Mind,

Still calm and pleaſant as the Ev’ning Skies:

When not a Breeze through the ſtill Region flies,

No gloomy Frowns a ſullen Heart betray,

His Brow was thoughtleſs and his Air was gay:

Theſe to Clytiphon’s did their Sire attend,

The pleaſing Manſion of their Father’s Friend,

With Lovers Eyes they both Sophinia view,

As with her Years her riſing Beauty grew,

With airy Hopes they nurs’d the rival Flame,

And ſought with Gifts to win the ſmiling Dame;

But ſhe too cautious to be ſoon betray’d,

Their Merit balanc’d, and their Tempers weigh’d:

Lycander’s Fortune pleas’d the lovely Dame,

His Powers, Titles and his riſing Fame;

And the gay Maid beheld with early Pride,

Laon’s bright Heir attending at her Side:

That way wou’d oft her Vanity incline,

But then her Reaſon fear’d his baſe Deſign:

Still 226 O7v 206

Still at her Heart the ſullen Doubt remains,

And put a Period to the golden Dreams:

Polyphon’s Image on her Fancy ſtole

With thouſand Beauties in his taintleſs Soul;

Clear as his Face and ſprightly as his Mien;

Soft as his Voice, and like his Brow ſerene.

Polyphon now the wavering Nymph admires,

Nor thinks of Caſtles, Towns, and ſhining Spires;

Her changing Thoughts prefer an eaſy Home,

And dwell with Patience on a younger Son.

Lycander once her Fav’rite was, but now

He meets Reſentment and a frozen Brow:

In vain to move the ſcornful Nymph he tries,

With ſprightly Oaths and well diſſembl’d Lies:

His Form no more can pleaſe Sophinia’s Eyes.

Without Concern he met the Fair’s Diſdain,

Nor cou’d her Frown diſturb the haughty Swain:

Conſcious of Merit he purſu’d her ſtill,

And only thought her Tongue bely’d her Will:

For Impudence, to Vice a truſty Squire,

Who bears her Arms and fans her purple Fire,

Had 227 O8r 207

Had taught Lycander, that Affairs of Love

Are not regarded in the Realms above;

That Oaths are licens’d to addreſs th’ Fair,

And Vows to Virgins but the Sport of Air;

That Maids are Merchandiſe, and may be ſold

For charming Eloquence and mighty Gold.

II.

A Grove there was, a venerable Shade,

No hoſtile Iron durſt her Boughs invade,

Whoſe lofty Pines for ſev’ral Ages grew,

And rev’rend Oaks a hundred Winters knew:

A cryſtal River wander’d half-way round,

The reſt defended with a haſel Mound;

’Twas here to ſhun Lycander’s jealous Eye,

When Sol departed to the weſtern Sky;

The ſly Sophinia us’d to leave her Maids,

And meet Polyphon in the balmy Shades;

While the proud Youth who found himſelf deſpis’d,

His Perſon ſlighted and Polyphon priz’d;

Grew wild with Love and deſp’rate with Deſpair,

And vow’d Deſtruction to the gentle Pair:

No 228 O8v 208

No quiet Hour his ſurly Spirit knows,

Nor Reſt by Day-light or at Night Repoſe:

Cold to his Friends, and if they ask his Care,

He only anſwers with a ſullen Glare.

One Ev’ning when the ſparkling Sun withdrew,

And thirſty Flowers ſip’d the grateful Dew;

When this fair Grove had put on all her Charms,

And Zephyrs play’d amidſt her curling Arms;

Sophinia weary of the ſultry Day,

To the cool Foreſt took her lonely Way,

Attentive only to the Linnets Song,

No ill ſhe thought of, and ſhe fear’d no Wrong:

Pleas’d with the Glories of the ſmiling Year,

For guilty Minds are only taught to fear.

The well-known Path her willing Feet purſue

Through the brown Shade, where in the Centre grew

A Row of Laurels crown’d with laſting Green,

And ſofter Beech and flow’ring Roſe between:

Here in a fatal Hour Sophinia came;

For proud Lycander watch’d the lovely Dame:

Revenge and Love at once his Boſom fire;

His broad Eyes flaſh with more than mortal Fire:

Then 229 P1r 209

Then to his Friends the raging Hero flew,

His Friends a thoughtleſs and a wanton Crew,

Whoſe ſlothful Hands were backward, as their Will,

In Virtue’s Cauſe, but reſolute in Ill:

To theſe the Youth diſclos’d his raſh Deſign,

His glad Companions in th’ Adventure join,

That ſome well practis’d in the Ruſſians Trade

Shou’d bear Sophinia from the ſilent Shade:

The Miſchief pleas’d, yet none propos’d the Way,

Tho’ ſhort the Time and dang’rous the Delay:

In ſtill ſuſpenſe the liſt’ning Heroes ſtand,

Till with rude Voice Miranthus thus began:

A Caſtle has for many Centries ſtood,

Within the Confines of the neigh’bring Wood,

Whoſe gloomy Arches ſeem diſpos’d to hide

Offended Subjects from a Tyrant’s Pride.

And often ſhe has lent her hoſtile Towers,

The guilty Refuge of rebellious Powers:

Here let your Friends this peeviſh Girl convey,

And keep her ſecret from the Face of Day.

Thoſe Doors with iron Eloquence ſhall plead

Your mighty Paſſion to the ſcornful Maid:

P You 230 P1v 210

You have what my unready Thought deſign’d,

The haſty Dictates of a ruſtick Mind,

A Mind inur’d to Wars and rude Alarms,

Unskill’d in Love and Beauty’s ſofter Charms:

He ceas’d — Applauſe was ſeen in ev’ry Eye,

And Peals of Laughter rent the troubl’d Sky;

Two fav’rite Heroes ſingl’d from the Crew,

With hoſtile Feet that ſacred Path purſue;

Whoſe winding Maze betray’d the ſmiling Bower,

That held Sophinia in a baneful Hour:

The heedleſs Virgin on a Bank they found,

Where the faint Primroſe ſpreads her Odours round,

And nodding Poppies ſeem’d to kiſs the Ground.

With frighted Eyes the trembling fair One ſees

Their ſurly Figures through the parting Trees;

But yet ſhe roſe collected in her Fear,

’Twas vain to call and no Aſſiſtance near:

Then from the Ground ſhe rais’d her beauteous Eyes,

And weeping turn’d them on the pitying Skies:

Aſſiſt me Heaven and heavenly Pow’r, ſhe cries.

You 231 P2r 211

You Saints that hover round celeſtial Springs:

O take and wrap me in your ſacred Wings,

I ſee black Violence come frowning on;

But may Lycander mourn the dear-bought Wrong;

Ah hear, Sophinia, in this fearful Hour;

And ſave, O ſave me from a Villain’s Pow’r.

But now a Slave whom Beauty ne’er cou’d charm,

Drew nigh and ſeiz’d her by the ivory Arm:

Through untrod Paths they bore the ſtruggling Maid

To thoſe rude Towers where Lycander ſtay’d,

A diſmal Dwelling hid by waving Trees;

So thick they ſcarce admit the healthy Breeze,

On whoſe black Walls condenſing Vapours hung,

Whoſe lofty Spires hardly knew the Sun:

His Beams ne’er enter’d here, but in the Room

Perpetual Coldneſs and eternal Gloom:

Here the pleas’d Youth his charming Prey ſecures,

And round his Pris’ner ſhut the plated Doors;

Then left the Virgin to herſelf, nor ſtay’d

To bear Reproaches from the injur’d Maid:

Fierce as he was he, like a Coward, flies

The Rage that ſparkl’d in her glowing Eyes;

P2 But 232 P2v 212

But when he thought the dang’rous Storm was o’er,

Again he ſought thoſe Eyes he fled before,

Like ſome pale Wretch impatient for his Doom,

His fearful Steps approach’d the hallow’d Room:

For riſing Conſcience now her Task began,

And guilty Bluſhes through his Features ran:

Unuſual Horrors o’er his Paſſage hung,

At ev’ry Step the ſounding Portals rung:

Before the Door he took a ſilent Stand,

And the pale Taper trembl’d in his Hand:

A hollow Voice Lycander ſeem’d to call,

And Shadows danc’d along the gloomy Wall:

His haughty Spirit was at this diſmay’d,

Lycander trembl’d, and was once afraid:

Why beats my Heart, my coward Heart, he cries;

And why this Miſt before my dazzl’d Eyes?

Sophinia’s mine, and I will ſeize my Store,

If thouſand Spectres guard the awful Door:

Then ruſhing in, the lovely Dame he found

In ſullen Poſture and in Thought profound;

The wonted Roſes from her Cheeks were fled,

On her fair Hand reclin’d her beauteous Head:

With 233 P3r 213

With Flatt’ry firſt he tip’d his artful Tongue,

And ſtrove to palliate and excuſe the Wrong:

Let not Sophinia, with a Smile he cries,

Think we have ſeiz’d her as a hoſtile Prize;

The Fault we owe to this unconquer’d Flame,

Love was the Aggreſſor and be his the blame:

Truſt not thy Reaſon to a haughty Guide,

Nor call that Honour which is only Pride:

Honour a pageant Miſtreſs of the vain,

The Virgin’s Tyrant and the Hero’s Chain;

If ſparkling Wealth can pleaſe thy brighter Eyes,

The Mines of Perſia at thy Feet ſhall riſe;

And when thy Chariot marks the duſty Fields,

Full thirty Slaves ſhall grace the ſhining Wheels:

And thee the Eaſt ſhall yield her ſpicy Bowers,

And ſweeter Baths diſtil from weeping Flowers;

Then ſmile my fair One and be timely wiſe;

The Maid reply’d, and roll’d her ſcornful Eyes.

Hence, fawning Traitor, why wouldſt thou be told,

How much I hate thy Perſon and thy Gold?

Miſtaken Nature with too nice a Care,

In vain has ſhap’d thee in a Mold ſo fair:

P3 Vice 234 P3v 214

Vice will be Vice howe’er ’tis poliſh’d o’er,

Thou Villain, dare to meet my Eyes no more.

Thoſe gloomy Birds that love the midnight Air,

And hover round the Manſions of Deſpair;

When to their Shrieks the hollow Roofs rebound,

And the hoarſe Raven aids the dreadful Sound;

Tho’ howling Wolves ſhou’d with their Voices join,

Are leſs offenſive to my Ears than thine:

Beyond my Hate, if yet a Thought remain,

To make thy Spirit curſe the galling Chain;

If with thoſe Thorns that Love’s ſoft Empire bounds,

Succeſsful Rivals give the deepeſt Wounds:

I love thy Brother, and, if that can be,

With Paſſion equal to my Hate for thee.

She ſaid — And Rage poſſeſt Lycander’s Soul,

His pale Lips tremble and his Eye-balls roll:

Three times he rais’d a Dagger to her Breaſt,

But mighty Love his daring Hand ſuppreſs’d;

And now ſhrill Cries invade his wond’ring Ears,

The noiſe of Battle and the claſh of Spears;

Starting he turn’d, nor ſtaid to make reply,

Tho’ Fury ſparkl’d in his threat’ning Eye:

To 235 P4r 215

To Arms his Friends in mingled Voices call,

And Danger hover’d o’er the frowning Wall.

III.

In that ſad Hour, when the frighted Maid

Was drawn by Villains from the mourning Shade,

Polyphon to th’ appointed Foreſt came;

He reach’d the Bowers, but he miſs’d the Dame;

Through balmy Paths with infant Roſes bound,

Where bluſhing Daiſies ſtrew the painted Ground;

He rov’d, impatient of the Nymph’s Delay,

And often doubted to return or ſtay:

By chance he turn’d his mournful Eye, and ſees

His Friend Acanthus through the parting Trees:

The Youth drew nearer with an eager Pace

Amazement hover’d on his boding Face;

And thus impatient to Polyphon ſaid,

Where is Sophinia, where thy darling Maid,

This Ev’ning reſtleſs, tho’ I know not why,

When ſetting Phœbus ſtain’d the weſtern Sky:

To theſe ſweet Shades I took my heedleſs Way,

To ſhare the Fragrance of declining Day:

P4 Alone 236 P4v 216

Alone and penſive as I wander’d here,

A Woman’s Voice ſurpris’d my liſt’ning Ear;

To yon rude Tow’rs I trac’d the ſinking Sound,

Till the ſtill’d Out-cries were in diſtance drown’d:

What think you now? I fear ſome threat’ning Ill

From the headſtrong Paſſion and imperious Will:

I fear Sophinia and yourſelf betray’d,

I know your Brother loves the beauteous Maid;

Then hear my Vow, the frantick Lover cries,

And turn’d his Eye-balls on the glimm’ring Skies:

Hear me, ye Pow’rs whoſe ſacred Hands ſuſtain

Theſe Worlds of Nature in a mighty Chain;

If my fierce Brother has preſum’d to bear,

And from her Bowers force my injur’d Fair,

Theſe wakeful Eye-lids ſhall no more be clos’d:

This Spirit reſted, nor theſe Limbs repos’d;

This vengeful Rapier ſhall be ſheath’d no more,

Till the rude Traitor ſhall his Prize reſtore:

He ſaid, and raging left the gloomy Shade,

Full of Reſentment for his injur’d Maid:

Acanthus ſummon’d to a neighb’ring Plain

Their Friends a little, but a martial Train:

Twice 237 P5r 217

Twice twenty Youths their Gen’ral’s Voice attend,

And ſhare the Quarrel of their injur’d Friend.

Polyphon pleas’d to ſee the aſſembl’d Pow’rs,

Led his ſmall Squadron to the hoſtile Towers:

The frowning Portals well ſecur’d they found,

The gloomy Court with Centries guarded round;

Who ſpite of Reaſon and their Country’s Laws,

Were drawn to combat in a guilty Cauſe:

The firſt of theſe Cyrenus, fair and young,

Whoſe curling Locks below his Shoulders hung,

Too raſhly bold encounter’d hand to hand,

Fierce Polyarchus of Polyphon’s Band:

The pointed Jav’lin ſped beneath his Chin,

And ſtreaming Purple ſtain’d his beauteous Skin:

His very Cheeks are waſh’d with deeper Dyes,

And laſting Slumber ſeals his ſwimming Eyes:

This piteous Sight enrag’d the vicious Train,

But moſtly Iphis Brother of the ſlain;

Revenge, he cry’d, and hurl’d his deathful Dart:

It hiſs’d along, but miſs’d the Hero’s Heart,

Deſpairing, raging, on the Youth he flew,

While down his Forehead roll’d the ſultry Dew:

Blows 238 P5v 218

Blows anſwer Blows, and round their Temples ſing

The glancing Weapons, and the Bucklers ring:

Aloof they fight, or now in Circles wheel’d,

Each thought to conquer; both diſdain to yield,

Till Polyarchus with a ſide-way Blow

Tranſpierc’d the Liver of his heedleſs Foe:

He drew the Weapon from his tortur’d Side,

The gaping Wound diſgorg’d a purple Tide:

His Eyes turn’d upward with a ghaſtly Roll,

Headlong he fell and ſob’d away his Soul:

Now Joy tranſported the victorious Throng,

With Polyarchus all the Welkin rung:

Applauſe and Clamour ſhook the trembling Ground,

Lycander heard and curs’d the hated Sound:

Griev’d for his Friend he with the foremoſt preſs’d,

And all their Lances glitter round his Breaſt:

But the ſtrong Shield their Points at diſtance holds,

Where two fair Eagles ſpread their Wings in Gold;

A weighty Spear his better Hand ſupplies,

And livid Light’nings ſparkle in his Eyes.

Vinario firſt ſuſtain’d the Warrior’s Rage,

The beauteous Darling of his Father’s Age;

His 239 P6r 219

His tender Arm the deadly Spear arreſts,

And tore his Shoulder from his ivory Breaſt:

Too late his Friends to his Aſſiſtance run,

For his black Eyes no more behold the Sun.

Miranthus next did his bright Lance extend,

A bluſt’ring Soldier and Lycander’s Friend:

Him Merias met, old Meriander’s Heir,

The youthful Husband of Lycoſia fair:

Now born untimely from his Father’s Side,

His ſmiling Fortunes and his lovely Bride:

Juſt at his Hip the Steel an Entrance found,

And tore his Bowels with a ghaſtly Wound:

Back fell the Youth, his tinkling Arms reply;

Loud Shrieks and Clamours rend the frighted Sky:

Polyphon now with deadly Anguiſh ſtung,

His ready Jav’lin at the Victor flung:

The erring Weapon with a whiſtling Sound

Flew o’er his Head, and plough’d the diſtant Ground:

Enrag’d to ſee the bloodleſs Point deſcend,

And miſs the Vengeance for his bleeding Friend;

His ſhining Eyes that did with Fury glow,

He turn’d, and thus defy’d the ſtronger Foe:

Hope 240 P6v 220

Hope not for Conqueſt, mighty Clown, he cries,

From thy ſtern Viſage and gigantick Size:

A little Arm, if Heav’n direct the Blow,

May ſend thee howling to the Shades below:

Slave, cries Miranthus with a ſtormy Glare,

Go, waſh thy Face, and curl thy waving Hair,

Thy coward Heart belies thy daring Tongue;

He ſpoke and drove his weighty Spear along,

The failing Miſchief on the Buckler ſung:

No ſo Polyphon ſent his faithful Dart,

The ſpeedy Vengeance reach’d the Hero’s Heart;

Down fell the Knight, his clanging Arms rebound,

And his proud Soul came ruſhing thro’ the Wound.

Lycander ſaw, but turn’d his Eyes a way,

Where in the Duſt the mighty Soldier lay;

Then like a Whrilwind ruſh’d the Youth along,

And ſought his Brother in the hoſtile Throng:

Polyphon’s Spear his frantick Hand arreſts,

And hurl’d the Weapon at its Owner’s Breaſt;

The miſſive Death deceiv’d his bloody Hand,

Its thirſty Point lay ſhiver’d in the Sand:

Suſpence 241 P7r 221

Suſpence and Horror held the martial Crew,

And the ſick Moon receiv’d a paler Hue:

The Stars retir’d from the hated Sight,

And wrap’d their Glories in the Clouds of Night.

Polyphon cry’d, O ſtay thy hoſtile Arm,

The Name of Brother wears a potent Charm:

Our Mother did in Youth’s fair Bloom expire,

And left us Infants to our tender Sire;

And till Sophinia blew this deadly Flame,

Our Fears were equal and our Hopes the ſame;

The ſame our Pleaſures and the like our Woes;

We ſlept together and as fondly roſe,

Then let, O let not murd’rous Rage divide

Our Hearts, but lay thoſe threat’ning Arms aſide:

Let ranc’rous Hate poſſeſs our Souls no more,

Thou to her Friends the beauteous Maid reſtore;

Then let her Voice our rival Cauſe decide,

And him ſhe favours wed the ſmiling Bride:

He ſaid; but Rage had ſtop’d Lycander’s Ears;

Baſe Slave, he cry’d, thou Child of puny Fears,

Not Laon’s Son thy Soul diſclaim her Race,

My Mother ne’er produc’d a Thing ſo baſe,

Some 242 P7v 222

Some fairy Elf or treach’rous Nurſe beguil’d

My ſleeping Parents of their lawful Child:

Then in his Place her dunghil Offspring laid,

And my young Brother to her Hut convey’d:

This was thy Mother coarſer than her Fate,

And thou the Son of her plebeian Mate:

Here ceas’d the Youth; — for Actions ſpoke the reſt,

And hurl’d a Jav’lin at Polyphon’s Breaſt:

His Shield receiv’d it with a ſmart Rebound,

The miſſive Weapon trembl’d on the Ground;

Now hand to hand the rival Youths engage,

Lycander burn’d with more than mortal Rage:

Black Fury roll’d in each relentleſs Eye,

Both fought to conquer or reſolv’d to die;

But now Lycander, tho’ with Hate inſpir’d,

By fits was fainting and by fits reſpir’d;

Polyphon’s Sword a fatal Paſſage found,

Beneath his Arm a deep and ghaſtly Wound;

Stagg’ring he drop’d and graſp’d the bloody Ground.

Yet as he liv’d, without a Groan he fell,

Nor drew a Sigh, but only cry’d, ’Tis well;

’Tis 243 P8r 223

’Tis well, my Fury with my Life ſhall end:

Farewel, my Brother and at laſt my Friend;

By our dear Parent ſee me quickly laid,

Be thine the Conqueſt, thine the beauteous Maid;

He paus’d, and then with feebler Accent cries,

My Friends, Farewel, and clos’d his ſwimming Eyes:

The mourning Victor bending o’er the ſlain,

Eſſay’d to raiſe him, but eſſay’d in vain:

His failing Arms reſign’d their feeble Hold,

And Drops of Horror from his Temples roll’d:

From each cold Cheek the bluſhing Beauty flies,

And the Ground danc’d before his dazzl’d Eyes;

The weeping Youth, with friendly Force, divide

The gentle Mourner from his Brother’s Side;

Then Friends and Foes united gather round,

And lift the bleeding Body from the Ground;

Some raiſe the drooping Head, and others preſs’d

Their careful Arms around his manly Breaſt;

Tho’ with black Duſt and hoſtile Crimſon ſtain’d,

Its native Fierceneſs ſtill the Face retain’d;

Back on his Shoulders fell his graceful Hair,

And the grand Features wore a ſcornful Air.

Now 244 P8v 224

Now all too late the raſh Adventure blame,

Pale Conqueſt ſigh’d and loath’d her hated Name;

From the black Tow’rs their ſolemn Steps return,

And both the Victors and the Vanquiſh’d mourn.

The Question.

Occaſion’d by a ſerious Admonition.

IS Mirth a Crime? Inſtruct me you that know;

Or ſhou’d theſe Eyes with Tears eternal flow:

No (let ye Powers) let this Boſom find,

Life’s one grand Comfort a contented Mind:

Preſerve this Heart, and may it find no room

For pale Deſpondence or unpleaſing Gloom:

Too well the Miſchief and the Pangs we know

Of doubtful Muſing and prophetick Woe.

But now theſe Evils for a Moment reſt,

And brighter Viſions pleaſe the quiet Breaſt,

Where ſprightly Health its bleſſed Cordial pours,

And chearful Thought deceives the gliding Hours:

Then 245 Q1r 225

Then let me ſmile, and trifle while I may,

Yet not from Virtue nor from Reaſon ſtray:

From hated Slander I wou’d keep my Tongue;

My Heart from Envy, and from Guilt my Song:

Nature’s large Volume with Attention read,

Its God acknowledge, and believe my Creed:

Through Weakneſs, not Impiety, offend;

But love my Parent, and eſteem my Friend.

If (like the moſt) my undiſtinguiſh’d Days

Deſerve not much of Cenſure or of Praiſe:

If my ſtill Life, like ſubterraneous Streams,

Glides unobſerv’d, nor tainted by Extremes,

Nor dreadful Crime has ſtain’d its early Page,

To hoard up Terrors for reflecting Age;

Let me enjoy the ſweet Suſpence of Woe,

When Heav’n ſtrikes me, I ſhall own the Blow:

Till then let me indulge one ſimple Hour,

Like the pleas’d Infant o’er a painted Flow’r:

Idly ’tis true: But guiltleſly the Time

Is ſpent in trifling with a harmleſs Rhyme.

Q Heroick 246 Q1v 226

Heroick Virtue asks a noble Mind,

A Judgment ſtrong, and Paſſions well refin’d:

But if that Virtue’s meaſur’d by the Will,

’Tis ſurely ſomething to abſtain from Ill.

The Sacrifice.

An Epistle to Celia.

If you, dear Celia, cannot bear,

The low Delights that others ſhare:

If nothing will your Palate fit

But Learning, Eloquence, and Wit,

Why, you may ſit alone (I ween)

’Till you’re devour’d with the Spleen:

But if Variety can pleaſe

With humble Scenes and careleſs Eaſe;

If Smiles can baniſh Melancholy,

Or Whimſy with its Parent Folly;

If any Joy in theſe there be,

I dare invite you down to me.

You 247 Q2r 227

You know theſe little Roofs of mine

Are always ſacred to the Nine;

This Day we make a Sacrifice.

To the Parnaſſian Deities,

Which I am order’d by Apollo,

To ſhew you in the Words that follow.

As firſt we purge the hallow’d Room,

With ſoft Utenſil call’d a Broom;

And next for you a Throne prepare,

Which vulgar Mortals call a Chair,

While Zephyrs from an Engine blow,

And bid the ſparkling Cinders glow;

Then gather round the mounting Flames,

The Prieſteſs and aſſembl’d Dames,

While ſome inferior Maid ſhall bring

Clear Water from the bubbling Spring:

Shut up in Vaſe of ſable Dye,

Secure from each unhallow’d Eye,

Find wheaten Bread you next behold,

Like that which Homer ſings of old,

Q2 And 248 Q2v 228

And by ſome unpolluted Fair

It muſt be ſcorch’d with wond’rous Care:

So far ’tis done: And now behold

The ſacred Veſſels――not of Gold:

Of poliſh’d Earth muſt they be form’d,

With Painting curiouſly adorn’d,

Theſe Rites are paſt: And now muſt follow

The grand Libation to Apollo,

Of Juices drawn from magick Weeds,

And Pith of certain Indian Reeds.

For Flow’r of Milk the Prieſteſs calls,

Her Voice re-echoes from the Walls;

With hers the ſiſter Voices blend,

And with the od’rous Steam aſcend:

Each fair One now a Sibyl grows,

And ev’ry Cheek with Ardour glows,

And (tho’ not quite beſide their Wits)

Are ſeiz’d with deep prophetick Fits,

Some by myſterious Figures ſhow

That Celia loves a ſhallow Beau;

And ſome by Signs and Hints declare,

That Damon will not wed Ziphair;

Their 249 Q3r 229

Their Neighbours Fortunes each can tell,

So potent is the mighty Spell.

This is the Feaſt and this, my Friend,

Are you commanded to attend:

Yes at your Peril: But adieu,

I’ve tir’d both myſelf and you.

The Power of Beauty.

OGoddess of eternal Smiles,

Bright Cythera the fair,

Who taught Sabina’s pleaſing Wiles,

By which ſhe won Bellair.

Bellair, the witty and the vain,

Who laugh’d at Beauty’s Pow’r;

But now the conquer’d humble Swain

Adores a painted Flow’r.

Q3 With 250 Q3v 230

With Delia’s Art my Song inſpire,

Whoſe Lips of roſy Hue

Can ne’er the partial Audience tire,

Tho’ wiſer Claudia’s do.

Tho’ Claudia’s Wit and Senſe refin’d,

Flows eaſy from her Tongue;

Her Soul but coarſly is enſhrin’d,

So Claudia’s in the wrong.

Hark, Delia ſpeaks — that blooming Fair,

See Crowds are gathering round

With open Mouths: and wildly ſtare

To catch the empty Sound.

See Lelia with a Judgment clear,

With manly Wiſdom bleſt;

Wit, Learning, Prudence, all appear

In that unruffled Breaſt.

But 251 Q4r 231

But yet no Beau for Lelia dies,

No Sonnets pave her way;

Say, Muſe, from whence theſe Evils riſe,

Why Lelia’s Teeth decay.

Then, why do rev’rend Sages rail

At Woman’s wanton Pride?

If Wiſdom, Wit, and Prudence fail,

Let meaner Arts be try’d.

Thoſe Arts to pleaſe are only meant;

But with an angry Frown,

The Queen of Wiſdom lately ſent

This Proclamation down:

Minerva, with the azure Eyes,

And thus the Statute runs,

If you wou’d have your Daughters wiſe,

Take care to mend your Sons.

Q4 The 252 Q4v 232

The Death of Abel.

When from the Shade of Eden’s bliſsful Bow’rs,

Its Fruit ambroſial and immortal Flow’rs,

Our gen’ral Mother (who too ſoon rebell’d,)

Was, with the Partner of her Crime, expell’d

To Fields leſs fruitful — where the rugged Soil

With Thorns and Thiſtles often paid their Toil;

Where the pale Flow’rs ſoon loſt their chearful Hue,

And ruſhing Tempeſts o’er the Mountains flew:

Two Sons the Matron in her Exile bore,

Unlike in Feature but their Natures more;

The eldeſt Youth for Husbandry renown’d,

Tore up the Surface of the ſteril Ground;

His nervous Arms for rugged Tasks were form’d;

His Cheek but ſeldom with a Smile adorn’d;

Drops rais’d by Labour down his Temples run,

His Temples tarniſh’d by the mid-day Sun,

Robuſt 253 Q5r 233

Robuſt of Body, and of Soul ſevere,

Unknown to Pity, and the like to Fear.

Not ſo his Brother, caſt in fairer Mold

Was he — and ſofter than his fleecy Fold;

Fair were his Cheeks that bluſh’d with roſy Dye,

Peace dwelt for ever in his chearful Eye,

Nor Guilt, nor Rage his gentle Spirit knew;

Sweet were his Slumbers, for his Cares were few;

Thoſe were to feed and watch the tender Lamb,

And ſeek freſh Paſture for its bleating Dam,

From burning Suns his thirſty Foocks to hide,

And ſeek the Vales where limpid Rivers glide.

’Twas ere rude Hands had reap’d the waving Grain,

When Plenty triumph’d on the fertile Plain,

That to the Centre of a pleaſant Down,

Where half was Paſture, half a plenteous Brown:

Theſe Youths repair’d both emulous of Fame,

And rais’d an Altar to Jehovah’s Name,

With Heart elate and ſelf-preſuming Eye,

Firſt to the Pile unhappy Cain drew nigh.

Choice 254 Q5v 234

Choice was his Off’ring, yet no Sign appear’d,

No Flame was ſeen, nor Voice celeſtial heard:

Aſtoniſh’d ſtood the late preſumptuous Man,

Then came his Brother with a trembling Lamb;

His God accepts the Sacrifice ſincere;

The Flames propitious round the Slain appear;

The curling Smoke aſcended to the Skies:

This Cain beheld, and roll’d his glowing Eyes.

Stung to the Soul, he with his frantick Hand

A Stone up-rooted from the yielding Sand,

Nor ſpoke — for Rage had ſtop’d his failing Tongue;

The heavy Death impetuous whirl’d along:

This Abel met — his Heart receiv’d the Wound;

Amaz’d he fell, and graſp’d the bloody Ground.

The gentle Spirit ſprung to endleſs Day,

And left behind her Caſe of beauteous Clay;

Pale ſtood the Brother — to a Statue chill’d,

A conſcious Horror through his Boſom thrill’d:

His frighted Eyes abhorr’d the Beams of Light,

And long’d to find a never-ceaſing Night.

Shock’d 255 Q6r 235

Shock’d at the Sight of Murder firſt begun,

Down the ſteep Heavens roll’d the radiant Sun,

Old Night aſſuming her appointed Sway,

Stretch’d her black Mantle o’er the Face of Day:

Now for their Leader mourn’d the bleating Lambs,

That rov’d neglected by their penſive Dams;

The careful Parents ſearch the Fields around;

They call — the Woods roll back an empty Sound.

Within a Foreſt’s ſolitary Gloom,

Slept gentle Abel in a ſecret Tomb,

And there (beneath a Cypreſs Shade reclin’d)

Cain breath’d his Sorrows to the ruſhing Wind:

That in the Branches made a doleful Sound;

’Twas Silence elſe, and horrid Darkneſs round,

When lo! a ſudden and a piercing Ray

O’er-ſpread the Foreſt with a Blaze of Day,

And then deſcended on the hallow’d Ground,

A Seraph with empyreal Glory crown’d:

Afflicted Cain (that knew not where to fly)

Gaz’d on the Viſion with diſtracted Eye:

When 256 Q6v 236

When thus the Angel —Why theſe mournful Cries,

Theſe loud Complaints that pierce the nightly Skies.

Lye not to Heaven, but directly ſay,

Where roves thy Brother, where does Abel ſtray.

He ſaid — and thus the guilty Wretch return’d;

O ſacred Guardian, I for Abel mourn’d:

I ne’er beheld him ſince the Day began――

But why this Viſit to a ſimple Man?

Thus the Celeſtial —Wretch, canſt thou preſume,

Thy Brother’s Blood may ſlumber in its Tomb:

Or thou may’ſt ward off Vengeance with a Lye,

And dare attempt deceiving God moſt high;

But now thy Doom, O wretched Mortal hear;

The fleeting Hours nor the rolling Year,

To thee nor Joy, nor chearful Eaſe ſhall bring:

Alike to thee the Winter and the Spring,

Still vex’d with Woe, thy heavy Days ſhall fly

Beneath a radiant or a gloomy Sky:

Curs’d ſhalt thou be amidſt thy vagrant Band,

And curs’d the Labours of thy guilty Hand:

He ceas’d — But Cain all proſtrate on the Ground,

Still in his Ears retain’d the dreadful Sound:

At 257 Q7r 237

At length he roſe, and trembling thus began;

This is too much — too much for mortal Man:

The mighty Debt, O let me quickly pay,

And ſweep me inſtant from the Beams of Day:

The yet unborn, that I am curs’d, ſhall know,

And all ſhall hate me to augment the Blow:

Ev’n my own Sons, if ſuch are giv’n to be

The Death of Abel, ſhall revenge on me:

Thus he to change the dreadful Sentence try’d,

Thus the ſeraphick Meſſenger reply’d;

This Mark, O Cain, I fix upon thy Brow:

And thus by Heav’n’s mighty Monarch vow,

Who ſheds thy Blood, that Criminal ſhall be

Curs’d――Sev’n times curs’d, and wretched more than thee.

Thus be that Mortal who ſhall tear the Rod

Of ſcorching Vengeance from the Hand of God;

That Man may learn to fear the King of Kings:

He ſaid — and waving his immortal Wings,

That inſtant mingled with the ſtarry Train,

And Darkneſs wrap’d the ſilent Shades again.

Job’s 258 Q7v 238

Job’s Curse, and his Appeal.

Taken out of Job, Chap. i, and xxxi.

LET not that Day in circling Moments run,

When firſt theſe Eyes beheld th’ odious Sun:

Let his gay Beams forſake the mourning Fields,

And ſtarting backward roll his flaming Wheels;

Let ſulphurous Hail deſcend in baneful Show’rs,

And horrid Darkneſs mix the jumbling Hours;

Let trembling Mortals gaze in vain for Light,

Curs’d be the Day and doubly curs’d the Night:

Thou my great Judge theſe Imprecations hear,

And rend her Minutes from the rolling Year;

To the ſad Skies be every Star deny’d;

While ſcorching Plagues on quivering Meteors ride,

Let the black Air no melting Muſick know,

But ring with Horror and Complaints of Woe:

Through the grim Shade let griſly Terrors run,

And weeping Sorrows that abhor the Sun:

Let 259 Q8r 239

Let pale-ey’d Spectres burſt their yawning Tombs,

And dreadful Echos ſhake th’ hideous Gloom;

The low’ring Eaſt pour down a laſhing Storm;

Nor through her Gates admit th’ ſtruggling Morn:

Let the dark Hours no lively breaking ſee,

Becauſe they gave theſe ceaſeleſs Tears to me.

As others have, alas! why could not I

Yield my ſhort Being, and an Infant die?

Why was a Mother’s Care indulg’d to me?

And why ſupported on her friendly Knee?

Why did I in her tender Boſom grow,

A foſter’d Subject of impending Woe?

Did friendly Death my marble Limbs enchain,

This bleeding Heart would know no ſmarting Pain;

Then laſting Sleep would ſeal my ſhaded Eyes,

Where frozen Pride and conquer’d Vengeance lies;

There weary Slaves forgotten Reſt may find,

And injur’d Orphans leave their Tears behind;

Tyrannick Rage muſt in the Grave ſubſide,

Where ſtarving Wretches find their Wants ſupplyd,

Thrice happy Reſt, O why to me deny’d!

Life 260 Q8v 240

Life ſtill will hover round deſpairing Slaves,

Who ſlight her Favours, and would court their Graves;

Death gliding by us, ſhews his grizly Charms;

But the coy Phantom mocks our reaching Arms:

He flies the Dungeons of inteating Woe,

And ſtrikes the Proſp’rous with unwelcome Blow:

To blooming Youth his partial Arrows fly,

O’er wither’d Mendicants, that vainly try

To meet the fatal Shaft, and only wiſh to die.

When Darkneſs ſits as Regent of the Skies,

And round my Bed redoubled Horrors riſe,

Till Night grows hideous with my conſtant Cries:

My tortur’d Limbs with ceaſeleſs Pangs are torn,

But yet I live to ſee returning Morn:

The piercing Sun thruſts in a ſpiteful Ray,

To wound my Eyelids with unwelcome Day.

Tyrannick Death, whom trembling Mortals flee,

The Prince of Ills to ev’ry Wretch but me,

Plays 261 R1r 241

Plays with the Torments of my ſtruggling Heart,

And o’er my Boſom ſhakes his ling’ring Dart.

O! ſacred Judge, when will thy Wrath be done?

Why do I live to ſcare the wond’ring Sun?

Let not thy Mercy ſpare my wounded Clay,

But ſtrike and ſweep me from offenſive Day.

My Heart is vexed with conſuming Fears,

And nouriſh’d only with continual Tears;

Cloſe at my Heels purſue a meagre Train

Of pining Sickneſs and diſtorting Pain,

Pale-ey’d Confuſion with diſhivel’d Hair,

And wild Impatience leading on Deſpair.

Did I with Crimes profane my Days eof Reſt?

Did e’er Preſumption ſwell my riſing Breaſt?

Did guilty Flame my tainted Soul ſurpriſe?

Or Snares of Beauty catch my wand’ring Eyes?

If e’er Injuſtice ſwell’d my ſpreading Lands,

If e’er Oppreſſion ſtain’d my guiltleſs Hands;

Then let my God his flaming Vengeance throw,

Renew my Plagues, and double every Woe.

R Did 262 R1v 242

Did e’er my Servants of their Lord complain?

Did humble Rhetorick ever plead in vain?

In vain to me did helpleſs Widows cry?

Or at my Gate neglected Orphans lie?

No; their glad Eyes my plenteous Table knew,

And with my own the foſter’d Infants grew.

Was e’er my Portals barr’d againſt the Poor?

Did not the Stranger bleſs my friendly Door?

Tho’ cold and hungry in my Courts he mourn’d,

Joyful and full the ſmiling Wretch return’d.

When every Good obey’d my lordly Will,

Did I by Fraud my glitt’ring Coffers fill?

Did I by Fraud increaſe the tempting Store?

Or dote too fondly on the ſhining Ore?

Did reſtleſs Envy in my Boſom roll?

Or lurking Malice blot my tainted Soul?

No — this fond Heart has bled for diſtant Woe,

And learn’d Compaſſion for a ſinking Foe.

Did e’er my Soul from its Creator run

To painted Idols, or the beaming Sun?

Or 263 R2r 243

Or to the Moon my wav’ring Senſes yield,

When her pale Rays adorn’d the gliſt’ring Field?

Yet ſtay, preſumptuous Wretch, nor urge too far

Thy doubtful Sentence at the dreadful Bar:

What melting Rhet’rick, or what potent Friend,

At Heav’n’s Tribunal ſhall thy Cauſe defend?

Where ſmother’d Evils, hid from mortal Eye,

Mature and open to Omniſcience lie.

The Tale of Cushi.

From II. Samuel, Chap. xviii.

How fares my Son? the trembling Monarch cry’d,

Why wouldſt thou ask? afflicted Cuſh reply’d;

A Fate like his may all that hate thee feel,

Whoſe Blood, alas! has ſtain’d the guilty Steel.

He fell beneath the Hand of David’s Friend,

But to my Story let my Lord attend.

R2 When 264 R2v 244

When the pale Morning ſhew’d her languid Face,

And the dim Sun began his uſual Race;

Whoſe ſullen Orb receiv’d a crimſon Dye,

And Tempeſts hover’d in the frowning Sky,

As tho’ the Heavens wept a Mortal’s Fate,

And Nature trembl’d at domeſtick Hate;

Within the Shade of Ephraim’s dusky Wood,

In juſt Array the meeting Armies ſtood;

The frowning Hoſts with equal Fury glow,

And each to Death defy’d his meeting Foe;

All tender Thoughts were loſt in horrid Rage,

And with a Shout the charging Hoſts engage:

Then Clouds of Arrows hide the darken’d Sky,

And hiſſing Lances lighten as they fly:

Dreadful the Sight and horrid was the Cry.

Here groan’d a Steed that felt its ſmarting Wound,

And there a Soldier pinion’d to the Ground:

At length, proud Iſrael began to fail,

Our juſter Cauſe cou’d o’er their Strength prevail;

The vanquiſh’d Army rais’d a fearful Cry,

And thro’ the Wood their mighty Numbers fly;

There 265 R3r 245

There horrid Brambles tore their Wounds anew,

And thouſand Deaths their flying Heels purſue:

Then rag’d our Gen’ral thro’ the dreadful Gloom,

Pale Terror hover’d on his waving Plume;

From his known Spear the ſhrieking Numbers run,

And from his Fury fled your conquer’d Son;

Grim Danger urg’d him on with fatal Speed,

And thro’ black Shades he laſh’d the weary Steed:

In the dark Center of this Foreſt ſtood

A lofty Oak, which overlook’d the Wood.

Thro’ its thick Arms he ventur’d careleſs in,

They ſpringing caught him by the beauteous Chin;

His curling Locks among the Branches flew;

His Spirit fails him, and his Foes purſue;

Around in vain he caſt a mournful Eye,

And wiſh’d a Friend; for none, alas! was nigh:

But hoſtile Shouts invade his frighted Ears,

And ſoon beneath him ſhone a Grove of Spears:

Now, Traitor, fall — our mighty Leader cries:

(While glowing Vengeance ſparkl’d in his Eyes)

Then ſtep’d a Captain of the loyal Band,

And vainly ſtrove to ſtay his fatal Hand.

R3 That 266 R3v 246

That cruel Arm impell’d the flying Dart,

And the keen Weapon ſunk within his Heart:

Then thoſe fair Cheeks reſign’d their roſy Dye,

Yet Life a Moment ſtruggl’d in his Eye;

As from ſo fair a Manſion loth to fly,

Till the red Torren ſtain’d his throbbing Tide;

Then with a Groan the beauteous Rebel dy’d.

Hold, — ſtop thy Story, — cries the weeping King,

Thy horrid Tale has left a mortal Sting;

My Soul tho’ practis’d in the Paths of Woe,

Grows ſick and ſtaggers at this mighty Blow:

From its cold Fountain Life forgets to run;

Oh Abſalom――Oh Abſalom, my Son,

Eternal Shade has ſeal’d thy chearful Eyes;

And on the Ground thy breathleſs Beauty lies:

Curſt be the Hand that all my Hopes beguil’d,

And left a Parent to lament his Child:

Without a Tear let none his Story tell,

But curſe the Foreſt where my Darling fell:

While 267 R4r 247

While theſe wan Eyes with laſting Sorrows run,

Loſt to the World, and Strangers to the Sun;

Let milder Songs attend his noon-tide Ray,

For mine will beſt become the cloſing Day,

While round my Lyre afflicted Fathers throng,

And Orphans liſten to the mournful Song.

Proserpine’s Ragout.

AS once grave Pluto drove his royal Wheels,

O’er the large Confines of the Stygian Fields:

With kingly Port he ſat, and by his Side,

Rode his fair Captive, now his awful Bride;

But from the Lakes a ſulph’rous Miſt invades,

And ſtrikes the fainting Empreſs of the Shades.

The trembling Queen is ſeiz’d with ſickly Yawns,

With griping Colicks and with feveriſh Qualms.

Back to the Palace was the general Cry,

Before the Laſh her ſable Courſers fly:

There reſts the Dame, and ſought her Royal Bed,

Where the ſoft Pillows rais’d her drooping Head:

R4 Reſtoring 268 R4v 248

Reſtoring Lenitives were ſought in vain,

To cool her Vitals and aſſwage her Pain.

On nothing would the peeviſh Matron feed;

Then uſeful Mercury was call’d with ſpeed,

And ſent on Earth ſome curious Diſh to frame,

Of light Digeſtion for the ſickly Dame.

To Earth he poſted where he quickly found,

Proper Ingredients on our fertile Ground;

Here firſt he ſeiz’d as nonſubſtantial Foods,

The Courtiers Friendſhip and the Zeal of Prudes;

The Sighs of Widowers, and blends with thoſe

The Vows of Lovers and the Brains of Beaux;

The Miſer’s Charity, the Drunkard’s Cares;

The Wealth of Poets, and the Tears of Heirs;

Philander’s Patience, when his Lord denies

The Frowns of Celia, when her Heart complies:

Then with a Breath along the Air he drives

The Love of Husbands, and the Charms of Wives;

Where Trifles dwell ſagacious Hermes knew,

The winged Youth to lordly Senates flew;

From thence Debates and long Harangues to cull,

And ſteep’d them ſoftly in a Stateſman’s Skull.

And 269 R5r 249

And now the frothy Diſh began to ſeem,

A proper Viand for his ſickly Queen:

To crown the reſt, he met by lucky Chance

The Wit of England, and the Truth of France.

The Charms of Anthony.

YE Swains, attend; let ev’ry Nymph be near;

Be ſtill, ye Rivers, that the Swains may hear:

Ye Winds, be calm, and bruſh with ſofter Wing;

We mean the Charms of Anthony to ſing;

See all around the liſt’ning Shepherds throng;

O help, ye Siſters of immortal Song.

Lucy.

Sing, Phebe, ſing what Shepherd rules the Plain,

Young Colin’s Envy, and Aminda’s Pain:

Whom none can rival when he mows the Field,

And to whoſe Flute the Nightingale muſt yield.

Phebe.

’Tis Anthony — ’tis he deſerves the Lay,

As mild as Ev’ning, and as Morning gay;

Not 270 R5v 250

Not the freſh Blooms on yonder Codling-tree,

Nor the white Hawthorn half ſo fair as he;

Nor the young Daiſy dreſs’d in Morning Dew;

Nor the Pea Bloſſom wears a brighter Hue.

Lucy.

None knows like him to ſtrew the wheaten Grain,

Or drive the Plough-ſhare o’er the fertile Plain;

To raiſe the Sheaves, or reap the waving Corn,

Or mow brown Stubble in the early Morn.

Phebe.

How mild the Youth, when on a ſultry Day

In yonder Vale we turn’d the fragrant Hay:

How on his Voice the liſt’ning Shepherds hung,

Not tuneful Stella half ſo ſweetly ſung.

Lucy.

Whether he binds the Sheaf in twiſted Band,

Or turns the Pitch-fork on his nimble Hand;

He’s ſure to win a Glance from ev’ry Eye,

While clumſy Colin ſtands neglected by.

Phebe.

His curling Locks by far more lovely ſhew,

Than the white Wig on Squire Fopling’s Brow;

And 271 R6r 251

And when the Shepherd on a rainy Day,

Weaves for his Hat a Wiſp of flow’ry Hay,

The ſcarlet Feather not ſo gay appears,

Which on his Crown Sir Ambroſe Fino wears.

Lucy.

For Anthony Meriah leaves her Cow,

And ſtands to gape at him upon the Mow:

While he (for who but muſt that Wench deſpiſe?)

Throws Straws and Cobwebs on her ſtaring Eyes.

Phebe.

To the Back-door I ſaw proud Lydia hie,

To ſee the Team with Anthony go by;

He ſlily laugh’d, and turn’d him from the Door,

I thought the Damſel would have ſpoke no more.

Lucy.

Me once he met, ’twas when from yonder Vale,

Each Morn I brought the heavy milking Pail:

He took it from my Head, and with a Smile

Reach’d out his Hand, and help’d me o’er the Stile.

Phebe.

As I was dancing late amongſt the Crew,

A yellow Pippin o’er my Head he threw:

Sue 272 R6v 252

Sue bit her Lips, and Barbaretta frown’d;

And Phillis look’d as tho’ ſhe wou’d have ſwoon’d.

Thus ſung the Maids till Colinet came by,

And Rodrigo from weeding of the Rye;

Each took his Laſs, and ſped ’em to the Town,

To drink cool Cider at the Hare and Hound:

The Damſels ſimper like the ſparkling Beer,

And Colin ſhines till Anthony is near.

On the Death of a juſtly admir’d Author.

WHEN pale-ey’d Winter rules the mourning Fields,

And ſhiv’ring Nature to his Sceptre yields,

Dejected Earth is ſtrip’d of all her Pride,

And ſculking Flowers in her Boſom hide;

Through naked Groves afflicted Warblers fly,

And Storms of Hail come rattling through the Sky:

But when ſoft April lifts her downy Wing,

And calls the bluſhing Infants of the Spring,

The 273 R7r 2553

The verdant Groves their wonted Charms regain,

And laughing Nature paints the gaudy Plain;

Sweet-ſcented Vi’lets take their uſual Blue,

And the fair Primroſe drinks the Morning Dew;

Again revive their Beauty and their Smell,

But Man once blaſted takes a long Farewel.

Ah ſilly Muſe! thy fond Complaints give o’er,

Departed Sylvius ſhall return no more:

No Charms of Verſe can win the heav’nly Mind,

Back to the ſlighted Caſe ſhe left behind;

Not tho’ each Line ſhou’d make our Boſoms glow,

Like his grand Numbers, and as ſweetly flow.

His Name ſhall laſt to warm a diſtant Age,

Nor want th’ Aſſiſtance of a Title-page;

For his bright Lines are by their Luſtre known,

Ev’n Homer ſhines with Beauties not his own:

Unpoliſh’d Souls, like Codrus or like mine,

Fill’d with Ideas that but dimly ſhine,

Read o’er the Charms of his inſtructive Pen,

And taſte of Raptures never known till then.

Ill- 274 R7v 254

Ill-nature liſten’d, and approv’d the Song;

And bluſhing Envy check’d her burning Tongue:

Happy are thoſe, tho’ Grief their Hours attend,

Whom once he honour’d with the Name of Friend;

Whoſe pleaſing Thoughts at leaſt may ponder o’er

The ſmiling Days, that ſhall return no more:

Ev’n we condemn’d at diſtance to admire,

Bewail the Hopes that with our Guide expire:

Ah! who ſhall now our ruſtick Thoughts refine,

And to grave Senſe and ſolid Learning join

Wit ever ſparkling, and the Sweets of Rhyme?

Farewel, ye Themes, which none but he can ſing,

And ſylvan Scenes that wear eternal Spring;

Fair Nymphs, that in his fairer Paintings glow,

And ye ſmooth Lines that Sylvius taught to flow:

But huſh, ſad Muſe, thy dull Complaint give o’er:

Hence ſigh in ſecret, and his Loſs deplore,

Who ne’er, O ne’er, ſhall grace our Regions more.

An 275 R8r 255

An Epitaph.

Now triumph, Death, for here lies ſlain

More worth than Crowns can buy:

Celeſtial Zephyrs, waft her Soul

Back to its native Sky.

Who now ſhall charm, where Flavia once

Her chearful Smiles beſtow’d?

When pleaſing Candor ſwell’d her Breaſt,

And in her Aſpect glow’d:

Now to that Heav’n, where Virtue ſhines

With an eternal Blaze,

Her lofty Soul has wing’d its Flight,

And left this earthly Maze.

So from the ſmiling Infant’s Hand

We force the coſtly Gem,

Which he, not knowing how to prize,

Might to the Duſt condemn.

On 276 R8v 256

On Winter.

What Pictures now ſhall wanton Fancy bring?

Or how the Muſe to Artemiſia ſing?

Now ſhiv’ring Nature mourns her raviſh’d Charms,

And ſinks ſupine in Winter’s frozen Arms.

No gaudy Banks delight the raviſh’d Eye,

But northern Breezes whiſtle thro’ the Sky.

No joyful Choirs hail the riſing Day,

But the froze Cryſtal wraps the leafleſs Spray:

Brown look the Meadows, that were late ſo fine,

And cap’d with Ice the diſtant Mountains ſhine;

The ſilent Linnet views the gloomy Sky,

Sculks to his Hawthorn, nor attempts to fly:

Then heavy Clouds ſend down the feather’d Snow;

Through naked Trees the hollow Tempeſts blow;

The Shepherd ſighs, but not his Sighs prevail;

To the ſoft Snow ſucceeds the ruſhing Hail;

And 277 S1r 257

And theſe white Proſpects ſoon reſign their room

To melting Showers or unpleaſing Gloom;

The Nymphs and Swains their aking Fingers blow,

Shun the cold Rains and bleſs the kinder Snow;

While the faint Travellers around them ſee,

Here Seas of Mud and there a leafleſs Tree:

No budding Leaves nor Honeyſuckles gay,

No yellow Crow-foots paint the dirty Way;

The Lark ſits mournful as afraid to riſe,

And the ſad Finch his ſofter Song denies.

Poor daggled Urs’la ſtalks from Cow to Cow,

Who to her Sighs return a mournful Low;

While their full Udders her broad Hands aſſail,

And her ſharp Noſe hangs dropping o’er the Pail.

With Garments trickling like a ſhallow Spring,

And his wet Locks all twiſted in a String,

Afflicted Cymon waddles through the Mire,

And rails at Win’fred creeping o’er the Fire.

Say gentle Muſes, ſay, is this a Time

To ſport with Poeſy and laugh in Rhyme;

S While 278 S1v 258

While the chill’d Blood, that hath forgot to glide,

Steals through its Channels in a lazy Tide:

And how can Phœbus, who the Muſe refines,

Smooth the dull Numbers when he ſeldom ſhines.

Mira to Octavia.

FAIR One, to you this Monitor I ſend;

Octavia, pardon your officious Friend:

You think your Conduct merits only Praiſe,

But out-law’d Poets cenſure whom they pleaſe:

Thus we begin — your Servant has been told,

That you, (deſpiſing Settlements and Gold)

Determine Florio witty, young and gay,

To have and hold for ever and for ay;

And view that Perſon as your mortal Foe,

Who dares object againſt your charming Beau;

But now to furniſh Metre for my Song,

Let us ſuppoſe Octavia may be wrong:

’Tis true, you’re lovely; yet the learn’d aver,

That even Beauties like the reſt may err.

I 279 S2r 259

I know, to ſhun, you hold it as a Rule,

The arrant Coxcomb and the ſtupid Fool:

No ſuch is Florio, he has Wit — ’tis true,

Enough, Octavia, to impoſe on you:

Yet ſuch a Wit you’ll, by Experience, find

Worſe than a Fool that’s complaiſant and kind:

It only ſerves to gild his Vices o’er,

And teach his Malice how to wound the more.

I need not tell you, moſt ingenious Fair,

That hungry Mortals are not fed with Air,

But ſolid Food: And this voracious Clay

Asks Drink and Victuals more than once a Day:

Now cou’d your Florio by his Wit inſpire

The chilly Hearth, to blaze with laſting Fire:

Or when his Children round the Table throng,

By an Alluſion or a ſprightly Song,

Adorn the Board, i’th’ twinkling of an Eye,

With a hot Paſty or a Warden Pye,

There might be Reaſon on Octavia’s Side,

And not a Sage cou’d blame the prudent Bride.

S2 Yet 280 S2v 260

Yet (or ſome Authors often deal in Lies)

Lovers may live on Nuts and Blackberries;

For roving Knights bewilder’d in their way,

Who in black Foreſts half a Seaſon ſtray;

Unleſs they find Proviſion on the Trees,

Muſt ſup on Graſs and breakfaſt on the Breeze.

But as you’ve long been us’d to nicer Fare,

Your Conſtitution wou’d but hardly bear

Such Food as this: And therefore I adviſe

That you’d conſider (for you’re mighty wiſe)

If ſober Duſterandus wou’d not make

A better Huſband than your darling Rake,

Grave Duſterandus: He whoſe ſtedfaſt Mind

Is yet untainted, tho’ not much refin’d;

Whoſe Soul ne’er roves beyond his native Fields;

Nor asks for Joys but what his Paſture yields;

On Life’s dull Cares with Patience can attend,

A gentle Maſter and a conſtant Friend;

Who in ſoft Quiet ſpends the guiltleſs Days,

His Servants bleſſing and his Neighbours praiſe:

Say, would you, in his happy Manſion, reign,

Toaſt of the Village and the rural Plain?

With 281 S3r 261

With honeſt Friends your chearful Days beguile,

While Peace and Plenty on your Table ſmile:

Or cold and hungry writhe your tired Jaws,

And dine with Florio upon Hips and Haws,

In troth I think there’s little room to pauſe.

In ſpite of all romantick Poets ſing;

This Gold, my Deareſt, is an uſeful thing:

Not that I’d have you hoard the precious Store,

For not a Wretch is like the Miſer poor:

Enjoy your Fortune with a chearful Mind,

And let the Bleſſing ſpread amongſt the Kind:

But if there’s none but Florio that will do,

Write Ballads both, and you may thrive — Adieu.

The Setting Sun.

To Silvia.

See, Silvia, ſee the ſparkling Lamp of Day;

From our fond Eyes he draws the trembling Ray:

The curling Clouds purſue his ſhort’ning Beams,

And catch new Colours from the parting Gleams:

S3 From 282 S3v 262

From marſhy Vales unhealthy Fogs ariſe,

And gloomy Vapours fill the mourning Skies.

A creeping Miſt o’erſpreads the ſilent Field,

And drooping Flow’rs their Ev’ning Incenſe yield.

On ev’ry Leaf the pearly Drops appear,

And Nature weeps an univerſal Tear.

So will it be when thoſe fair Suns of thine,

By Fate eclips’d, their chearful Beams reſign:

When the juſt Heav’ns remand their beauteous Store,

And Silvia’s Eyes muſt chear the World no more:

Death may forbid thoſe dazzling Orbs to roll,

But cannot ſtrip the Radiance from thy Soul.

Amid the Stars, in ſpite of Fate or Time,

The Charms of Silvia ſhall eternal ſhine.

An 283 S4r 263

An Epitaph.

A Heart to Mercy as to Zeal inclin’d,

As well a gentle as a prudent Mind;

Still free to pardon, cautious to offend

A tender Parent and a faithful Friend.

All Parts perform’d, ſhe willingly withdrew,

Turn’d from the World, and bid her Friends adieu.

Ah thou! (if Spirits or regard or know

The Sigh of Friendſhip or a Daughter’s Woe)

Mix’d with thoſe Tears that waſh the ſacred Shrine,

Accept the Tribute of a grateful Line.

On Sickness.

When Heav’n’s almighty King prepares,

The angry Shaft to throw;

Ev’n Fortitude itſelf deſpairs

To bear the deadly Blow.

S4 Cold 284 S4v 264

Cold Tremors ſhake each fainting Limb,

That weeps a ſickly Dew;

The Features, chang’d to pale and dim,

Reſign their chearful Hue.

No more ſoft Eloquence ſhall flow,

Nor dreſs the ſilent Tongue;

But the dull Heart refuſe to glow,

Tho’ charm’d by melting Song.

Thoſe laughing Eyes, that lately ſhone

So ſprightly and ſo gay,

Sunk down with Sickneſs, faint and wan,

Decline the piercing Day.

And ſcarcely bear a chearful Beam,

To light the drooping Soul;

While round the weak afflicted Brain

Romantick Vapours roll.

Deceit- 285 S5r 265

Deceitful Earth and all its Joys

Elude our graſping Hands:

Tho’ Nature all her Skill employs,

To bind the failing Bands.

Death drives us to the horrid Steep;

And while we vainly mourn,

He pointing ſhews th’unmeaſur’d Deep,

From whence we ne’er return.

There the grim Spectre, with a Smile,

His panting Victim ſees:

Who fain wou’d linger here a while,

To ſwallow nauſeous Lees.

Who Death’s great Empire wou’d diſpute,

And hugs the gilded Pill,

Not knowing That his faithful Mute,

Whoſe Buſineſs is to kill.

The 286 S5v 266

The loſt, the ſlipp’ry Hold to ſave,

To lenient Arts we run;

They caſt us headlong on the Wave,

And we are twice undone.

The Pow’r who ſtamp’d the reas’ning Mind,

Its Partner can reſtore;

There we a laſting Cordial find,

And learn to ſigh no more.

But if the ſlow conſuming Ill

Shou’d lead us to the Grave,

Our Faith perſuades us that he will

The trembling Spirit ſave.

O thou, whoſe Bounty all things taſte,

Whoſe Anger none can bear;

Revive the melancholy Breaſt,

Nor let the Wretch deſpair.

To 287 S6r 267

To a Gentleman with a Manuſcript Play.

AS ſome grave Matron bred on rural Downs,

Who at the mention of a Top-knot frowns,

And the proud Minxes of the Market-Towns;

Whoſe humble Senſes are not much refin’d,

But us’d to Labour with a chearful Mind;

Clad in plain Coifs and Gown of ruſſet Hue,

With home-ſpun Aprons of a decent Blue;

From the white Curds extracts the greener Whey,

Nor dreams of Faſhion, Poetry, or Play;

From wicked Verſe ſhe turns her cautious Eyes,

And wonders People can delight in Lies:

At length her Landlord, the right noble Squire,

Takes her young Daughter at her own Deſire;

Prefers the Damſel to attend his Spouſe,

And ſhe with Joy reſigns her brindl’d Cows:

For London now prepares the ſmiling Dame,

While her ſad Mother trembles at the Name:

But 288 S6v 268

But O! what Griefs attend the parting Leave,

No Muſe can paint ’em, nor no Heart conceive:

In vain her Spouſe or friendly Neighbour tries,

To quell the Sorrows in her ſtreaming Eyes:

Roſſell ſhe fears will ſlight her Jersey Gown,

And wear white Aprons in the ſinful Town;

On the pure Ghoſt of Win’fred then ſhe calls,

To guard her Child within its guilty Walls.

So this rude Babe I to your Mercy yield,

Rough as the Soil of ſome untillag’d Field:

Can Nature pleaſe? — Not ’till ſhe’s well refin’d,

Reforming Art ſhou’d follow cloſe behind;

But that proud Dame with me diſdains to dwell,

And far ſhe flies — Ah far from Mira’s Cell.

What then remains? What Hope for me or mine,

But the kind Silence of forgetful Time?

To ſave us from the ſly buffooning Leer,

The ſpiteful Grimace, and the ſcornful Sneer;

The threat’ning Critic with his dreadful Rules,

The Wit’s keen Satire and the Burſt of Fools.

The 289 S7r 269

The wretched Villain pinion’d up on high,

Two Hours pendent ’twixt the Earth and Sky,

With Eggs and Turnips whirling round his Pate,

Is but an Emblem of an Author’s Fate.

A dread Example of the rhyming Fry,

So Poets tell me, but I hope they lye:

The World’s good-natur’d, if it is not croſs’d,

But Wits are often ſaucy to their Coſt.

Tho’ unaſſur’d, yet not in deep Deſpair,

I truſt this Infant to its Patron’s Care:

Ah let your Roofs the ſimple Vagrants ſhield,

I ask no more than Charity may yield,

Some little Corner in the friendly Dome,

(Leſt the looſe Varlet be induc’d to roam)

Where the cold Storms may hover round in vain,

The chilling Snow or penetrating Rain;

Where the fierce Rate (all dreadful) never climbs,

Nor the ſleek Mouſe ſad Foe to Mira’s Rhymes.

But I have done — for who implores a Friend

With long Petitions, juſtly may offend:

To 290 S7v 270

To no ſtrait Bounds Good-nature is confin’d;

And who ſhall dictate to a gen’rous Mind?

Which not content in narrow Space to roll,

Like the broad Ocean ſpreads from Pole to Pole:

While the glad Nations bleſs the ample Tide,

And waſted Treaſures o’er its Surface glide:

That ſtill waves on, regardleſs of their Praiſe,

As you perhaps of Mira’s idle Lays.

Silvia and the Bee.

AS Silvia in her Garden ſtray’d,

Where each officious Roſe,

To welcome the approaching Maid,

With fairer Beauty glows.

Tranſported from their dewy Beds,

The new blown Lilies riſe:

Gay Tulips wave their ſhining Heads,

To pleaſe her brighter Eyes.

A 291 S8r 271

A Bee that ſought the ſweeteſt Flow’r,

To this fair Quarter came:

Soft humming round the fatal Bow’r,

That held the ſmiling Dame.

He ſearch’d the op’ning Buds with Care,

And flew from Tree to Tree:

But Silvia (finding none ſo fair)

Unwiſely fix’d on thee.

Her Hand obedient to her Thought,

The River did deſtroy;

And the ſlain Inſect dearly bought

Its momentary Joy.

But now too raſh unthinking Maid,

Conſider what you’ve done;

Perhaps you in the Duſt have laid

A fair and hopeful Son.

Or 292 S8v 272

Or from his Friends and Senate wiſe

Have ſwept a valu’d Peer;

Whoſe life, that you ſo lightly prize,

Was to his Country dear,

Then, Silvia, ceaſe your Anger now,

To this your guiltleſs Foe;

And ſmooth again that gentle Brow,

Where laſting Lilies blow.

Soft Cynthio vows when you depart,

The Sun withdraws its Ray,

That Nature trembles like his Heart,

And Storms eclipſe the Day.

Amintor ſwears a Morning Sun’s

Leſs brilliant than your Eyes;

And tho’ his Tongue at random runs,

You ſeldom think he lyes.

They 293 T1r 273

They tell you, thoſe ſoft Lips may vie

With Pinks at op’ning Day;

And yet you ſlew a ſimple Fly,

For proving what they ſay.

Believe me, not a Bud like thee

In this fair Garden blows;

Then blame no more the erring Bee,

Who took you for the Roſe.

The CRUEL PARENT.

A Dream.

’TWAS when the Sun had his ſwift Progreſs made,

And left his Empire to the Queen of Shade;

Bright Cynthia too, with her refulgent Train,

Shot their pale Luſtre o’er the dewy Plain:

Sat lonely Mira with her Head reclin’d,

And mourn’d the Sorrows of her helpleſs Kind:

T Then 294 T1v 274

Then to her Fancy Celia’s Woes appear,

The Nymph, whoſe Tale deſerves a pitying Tear;

Whoſe early Beauties met a ſwift Decay;

A Roſe that faded at the riſing Day,

While Grief and Shame oppreſs’d her tender Age,

Purſu’d by Famine and a Father’s Rage;

Till too much Thought the aking Heart oppreſs’d.

And Mira’s Eye-lids clos’d in ſilent Reſt:

Then active Fancy, with her airy Train,

Compos’d the Subſtance of the enſuing Dream.

In a black Shade my wand’ring Self I found,

A Wood encircl’d by a thorny Bound;

Where Oaks up-rais’d their kingly Heads on high,

And the pleas’d Linnets thro’ the Branches fly:

There lofty Elms the wond’ring Skies invade,

And the dark Cypreſs caſt a browner Shade:

Grave Laurels there the humbler Shrubs o’erlook;

There the pale Aſh, and there the Poplar ſhook;

Here pliant Elder whom her Fruits adorn,

And the brown Haſel wove with ſhagged Thorn:

Rude 295 T2r 275

Rude Briers there their claſping Tendrels twine,

Whoſe rugged Arms with uſeleſs Roſes ſhine.

Beyond the Confines of the dusky Brake,

A Plain was bounded with a putrid Lake,

Where Planks of Timber ſtretch’d on mould’ring Beams,

Form’d a weak Paſſage o’er the ſtanding Streams,

Whoſe ſlimy Waters to its Arches clung,

Where wrap’d in Weeds the clodded Vermin hung,.

On this brown Plain ſurrounded by the Wood,

And the green Lake — an aged Caſtle ſtood;

Whoſe iron Gates were ſtrictly ſhut to all,

And frowning Roofs hung o’er the crumbling Wall:

Here perch’d Revenge and ever-waſting Care,

And Melancholy with diſhivel’d Hair.

Before the Portals wait a griſly Band,

Fraud with a Pencil in her ſhaking Hand:

Long Scrolls of Parchment at her Feet were laid,

Behind her Shoulder ſtood her ghaſtly Maid:

T2 Oppreſſion 296 T2v 276

Oppreſſion nam’d — and ſtretch’d her filthy Claw,

And next pale Av’rice with inſatiate Maw;

Two cumbrous Bags his twining Arms infold,

Of canker’d Silver and of uſeleſs Gold:

Grimly he ſtands, and by his Side appears

Fierce Cruelty, all drench’d in Orphans Tears;

Within (attended by relentleſs Hate)

Suſpicion ſquinted through the barbarous Grate:

To theſe rude Doors approach’d with baſhful Mien,

Soft Celia once the brighteſt of the Plain,

But now the Roſes from her Cheeks were flown,

Nor cou’d the Fair One by her Charms be known;

Thoſe Charms are now in ſable Weeds array’d,

Her Arm ſupported by a mournful Maid:

From her wan Eyes the Tears inceſſant flow,

And all her Form was Penitence and Woe.

But ſee Lyſegus, her relentleſs Sire,

Whoſe Eye-balls ſparkl’d with diſdainful Ire;

His potent Hand the ſounding Locks obey,

With grating Noiſe the horrid Gates gave way:

Then proſtrate at his Feet the Damſel lay.

Three 297 T3r 277

Three times to ſpeak the lovely Mourner try’d;

Thrice on her Lips the fainting Murmurs dy’d;

Sigh follows Sigh, and Tear ſucceeds to Tear:

At length ſhe cry’d — Ah! may Lyſegus hear;

If Nature or if Penitence may ſue,

Ah! let my Sorrows find Relief from you;

The nightly Stars my conſtant Wailings know,

The riſing Sun is Witneſs to my Woe:

But who ſhall paint what wretched Celia feels,

While Shame and Famine hunt her flying Heels:

The Fools deride me, and the virtuous ſhun,

Then to the Fields and lonely Shades I run;

Yet find no Comfort from the lonely Shade,

At my Approach the Bloſſoms ſeem to fade:

I fly to Wilds unknown to human Kind,

But cannot leave my hated Self behind;

And am — Oh am I — by my Parent curs’d;

Of all my Woes the deepeſt and the worſt:

She ſaid――Lyſegus anſwer’d in a Rage,

Hence vile Diſturber of my luckleſs Age:

Think not by Tears this ſtubborn Heart to win,

Nor jar my Senſes with thy hateful Din:

Go 298 T3v 278

Go learn of Vagrants (fit Companions) go,

Their Arts of Stealing and their Whine of Woe.

Yet when before the Gate of Pride you ſtand,

And crave your Morſel at the Porter’s Hand;

May ſome ſtern Slave prevent the coming Prize,

Thrown to the Dogs before thy longing Eyes:

He ceas’d――but Celia views no more the Sun,

For now her Sorrow with her Life was done:

Her Eyes no more afford their lucid Streams,

Nor the Pulſe ſtruggles in her quiet Veins.

The Tyrant view’d her with a ghaſtly Look,

His Heart beat heavy, and his Sinews ſhook;

When lo a Spectre horrible to view,

Roſe quick as Vapours of a Morning Dew;

Whoſe Preſence caſt unpleaſing Darkneſs round,

A Cypreſs Wreath his faded Temples crown’d:

Strange Forms were painted on his ſable Robe,

One Hand extended bore a cryſtal Globe;

Where the pale Sinner might his Picture find,

Yet not his Features, but his Darker Mind:

In 299 T4r 279

In vain to ſhun the faithful Glaſs he tries,

It plays unask’d before his aking Eyes:

His quick left Hand with this perform’d its Part,

His Right was dreadful with a poiſon’d Dart:

Then with a loud and horrid Voice he cry’d,

Lyſegus, mourn thy Cruelty and Pride:

From the fair Court of Equity I came,

Call’d by thy Sins, and Conſcience is my Name:

This venom’d Dart ſhall now thy Entrails tear:

And teach thy Eyes to know the melting Tear:

Prepare thy Spirits for their Weight of Woe,

With Celia’s Name I arm the dreadful Blow:

He ſaid and ſtruck――the viſionary Dart

Sought the dark Bottom of Lyſegus’ Heart:

He fell――and falling rais’d a fearful Cry;

Then Mira ’woke, and found the Morning Sky.

A 300 T4v 280

A Request to the Divine Being.

I.

THOU great and ſacred Lord of all,

Of Life the only Spring,

Creator of nuunnumber’d Worlds,

Immenſely glorious King.

II.

Whoſe Image ſhakes the ſtagg’ring Mind,

Beyond Conception high;

Crown’d with Omnipotence, and veil’d

With dark Eternity.

III.

Drive from the Confines of my Heart,

Impenitence and Pride:

Nor let me in erroneous Paths

With thoughtleſs Idiots glide.

What- 301 U1r 281

IV.

Whate’er thy all diſcerning Eye

Sees for thy Creature fit,

I’ll bleſs the Good, and to the Ill

Contentedly ſubmit.

V.

With humane Pleaſure let me view

The proſp’rous and the great;

Malignant Envy let me fly

With odious Self-conceit.

VI.

Let not Deſpair nor curs’d Revenge

Be to my Boſom known;

Oh give me Tears for others Woe,

And Patience for my own.

VII.

Feed me with neceſſary Food,

I ask not Wealth nor Fame:

But give me Eyes to view thy Works,

And Senſe to praiſe thy Name.

U And 302 U1v 282

VIII.

And when thy Wiſdom thinks it fit,

To ſhake my troubled Mind;

Preſerve my Reaſon with my Griefs,

And let me not repine.

IX.

May my ſtill Days obſcurely paſs,

Without Remorſe or Care;

And let me for the parting Hour,

My trembling Ghoſt prepare.

FINIS.