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THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. X. FOR OCTOBER.
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THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
CONTAINING A COLLECTION Of ſcarce and valuable PIECES OF POETRY: With Variety of ORIGINALS AND TRANSLATIONS, BY THE MOST EMINENT HANDS.
Written and Selected By FRANCIS FAWKES, M.A. And WILLIAM WOTY.
IN TWELVE VOLUMES.
LONDON: Printed by DRYDEN LEACH; For J. COOTE, at the King's Arms, in Pater-noſter-Row. MDCCLXIII.
[]THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
OCTOBER. AN ODE.
THE naked grove now ſhivers at the blaſt,
While his green mantle on the ground is caſt.
Bleak are the proſpects of the widow'd trees,
Mourning their faded glories in the breeze;
Hark! where the barns conceal their yellow ſtores,
Echo repeats the labour of the floors!
Like a young threſher, on the neighbouring hill,
Her mimic ſtrokes the diſtant woodlands fill;
Now in the Scorpion, Phoebus rules the day,
And Summer's painted foliage fades away,
Shorn is the verdure of the hazel-ſhade,
While the gale bruſhes o'er the auburn glade;
Now, ye autumnal beauties, mourn the time
Miſpent in prudery, while you paſs'd your prime!
And, ere the the plum is of its blue bereft,
Be frugal of the golden hour that's left;
Yon ſtately pine late triumph'd in its ſhade,
But mark, in Autumn, how its honours fade!
[2]
The ſkies, prophetic of ſtern Winter, wear
A ſadder robe—and nipping is the air;
Now to the thirſty root the ſap deſcends,
Tho' ſtill the bough, with golden fruitage, bends.
Still the hale jaſmine boaſts its white and green,
And annuals triumph o'er the withering ſcene;
Now teem the cyder-vats with apple-wine,
And emulate the nectar of the vine;
While ripe Pomona labours to produce
A cooling beverage for the Summer's uſe,
The fervor of the heated ſwain to cool,
While the proud dog-ſtar holds his tyrant-rule;
Will Myra from her plighted promiſe range?
Shall Love's affections with the weather change?
No; tho' around diſmantled foreſts pine,
And the gay fields their velvet gloſs reſign,
Reverſe of Autumn, ſhe ſhall never fade,
But ardent Truth embower us with its ſhade.
THE FALL OF THE LEAF.
[3]‘We all do fade as a leaf. ISAIAH.’
SEE the leaves around us falling,
Dry and wither'd, to the ground,
Thus to thoughtleſs mortals calling,
In a ſad and ſolemn ſound;
" Sons of Adam, once in Eden,
" 'Till like us he blighted fell,
" Hear the lecture we are reading,
" 'Tis alas! the truth we tell.
" Virgins, much, too much preſuming
" On your boaſted white and red,
" View us late in beauty blooming,
" Number'd now among the dead.
" Griping miſers, nightly waking,
" See the end of all your care,
" Fled on wings of our own making,
" We have left our owners bare.
" Sons of honour, ſed on praiſes,
" Fluttering high in fancied worth,
" Lo! the fickle air that raiſes,
" Brings us down to parent earth.
[4]
" Learned ſophs, in ſyſtems jaded,
" Who for new ones daily call,
" Ceaſe at length, by us perſuaded—
" Every leaf muſt have its fall.
" Youths, tho' yet no loſſes grieve you,
" Gay in health and manly grace,
" Let not cloudleſs ſkies deceive you,
" Summer gives to Autumn place.
" Venerable ſires, grown hoary,
" Hither turn th' unwilling eye,
" Think, amidſt your falling glory,
" Autumn tells a Winter nigh.
" Yearly in our courſe returning,
" Meſſengers of ſhorteſt ſtay,
" Thus we preach this truth concerning,
" Heaven and earth ſhall paſs away."
" On the tree of life eternal,
" Man, let all thy hopes be ſtay'd,
" Which alone, for ever vernal,
" Bears a leaf that ſhall not fade."
THE DECLINE OF AUTUMN.
[5]THE boſom of earth is all matted with leaves,
The honours of Autumn decay;
Brown Ceres no longer exhibits her ſheaves,
To the golden-eyed monarch of day.
With diſſonant guns hills and vallies reſound,
The ſwains thro' the coppices rove;
The partridges bleed on the arable ground,
The pheaſants lie dead in the grove.
The coats of the hedges look languidly green,
The ſwallows relinquiſh the meads;
Rude winter approaches with horrible mien,
The flowrets give place to the weeds.
The ſun too is lazy, and ſlumbers abed,
As loathing ſo early to riſe:
When riſen, how dim looks his vapoury head!
How faint he illumines the ſkies!
No more on the poles hang the cluſtering hops,
Or form a magnificent ſhade;
No more on their ſkirts ſhine the ſhowery drops,
For Autumn, their nurſe, is decay'd.
[6]The gale that was wont to approach me ſo kind,
Grows ſharp, and flies haſtily by,
To give me ſweet kiſſes no longer inclin'd,
It bids the tear ſtart from my eye.
O! ſee, while I ſpeak, from the gun's levell'd aim
Death pierces the birds of the air!
Ye rovers, will nothing your conduct reclaim,
And move your hard boſoms to ſpare?
No, nothing—ye cry with unanimous voice,
While ridicule falls from your tongue:
Ye think not, ye cruel ones, as ye rejoice,
How once the poor innocents ſung.
To others ſuch barbarous ſports I reſign,
And fly to my Florimel's arms;
Her ſanctified love ſhall be totally mine,
For virtue adds force to her charms.
On the baſe of religion, my fair, let it riſe!
To crown us with bleſſings 'twas given,
To bid our ſouls mount from the earth to the ſkies,
And give us a foretaſte of heaven.
A FAREWELL TO SUMMER. AN ELEGY.
[7]ADieu fair ſpring! adorn'd with chaplets gay,
Ye fields and vernal landſcapes all adieu,
Bright ſummer and the long tranſparent day,
No more I hail the ſcented groves and you.
Farewell the walk where cryſtal rivulets glide,
Where ſlender oſiers waft the healthful gale,
Where inſects float along the ſilver tide,
And ſilent rapture haunts the fruitful vale.
Where purple lawns ſalubrious odours ſpread,
Where heath-ſhrubs bloſſom wild with languid dye,
Where round the hedge unbought perfumes are ſhed,
And native beauty courts the roving eye.
Where hawthorns bud, and velvet cowſlips grow,
Where verdant banks put forth the painted weed,
Whoſe vivid hues eclipſe th' embroider'd beau,
And the proud flaunters of the Park exceed.
Where Solitude unfolds her matchleſs charms,
And meek Content aſſumes her happy reign,
Where jocund Plenty crowns the riſing farms,
And fills the ſtorehouſe of the village-ſwain.
[8]
How freſh paſt pleaſures dance before the mind,
Renew'd in thought by winter's coming train,
That now, like vapours on the broad-wing'd wind,
Haſte to deface the beauty of the plain.
I ſee, with memory's retroſpective eye,
Each rivulet's poliſh'd current ſmoothly flow,
See blithſome May hang pearly bloſſoms high,
And richly dreſs the flowery meads below.
See nodding orchards wave their plumy pride,
See gardens grac'd with all the tints of ſpring,
Enamell'd beds their tender foliage hide,
'Till genial ſuns a warmer ſeaſon bring.
What ſcenes can equal ſummer's bright diſplay,
When ſwift Aurora drives her early car,
When glowing Phoebus gives the bluſhing day,
And ſends his boundleſs influence wide and far.
How ſweet to ſee the flocks that crop their food,
And ſkip in wanton ſport around the field,
Glad to preſent their bleating gratitude,
For the green paſture that the meadows yield.
To hear the wakeful ſhepherd's homely ſtrain,
Breathe welcome ſonnets to the roſy beam,
While ſlumbering towns in leaden ſleep remain,
And loſe ſubſtantial pleaſures for a dream.
[9]
To tread betimes the neighbouring lanes, and view
(Ere ſcorching heat rides on the noon-tide air)
The graſs, the trees, the vallies rob'd in dew,
And garden plants the liquid garment wear.
There oft at morn I tun'd the rural lay,
And with my Sylvia gently ſtray'd along,
The birds ſat mute on every leafy ſpray,
While liſtening echo catch'd the flowing ſong.
There ſilent mus'd on Shakeſpear's tragic page,
Of Milton learn'd to ſcale the azure road,
Chanted Maeonides' poetic rage,
And read, O Pope! thy equal thoughts of God.
Admir'd great Thomſon's active ſkilful muſe,
That in ſuch eaſy numbers ſcans the globe,
Such lively colours Albion's ſpring renews,
And paints the beauties of her vernal robe.
There, when the lark began her warbling ſong,
And ſhook her pinions for the morning flight,
Rais'd the loud chorus of the feather'd throng,
And tower'd beyond the fartheſt reach of ſight.
The tuneful black-bird whiſtling to his mate,
Far o'er the lonely foreſt thrill'd the note,
And cheerful linnets in the woods, elate,
Rejoin'd the melting muſic of his throat.
[10]
Our praiſe reap'd fervor from the general glow,
The pious airs inſpir'd the heavenly flame,
The thruſh's plaint, the cattle's meaning low,
With grateful joy our ſwelling hearts o'ercame.
Nor leſs at eve the rural manſions pleaſe,
Or rural virtues charm th' exalted ſoul,
Whoſe powers not yet enervated by eaſe,
Like Newton, graſp creation's ample whole;
In ſearch of learning's gifts unwearied roam,
Th' illumin'd ſpaces of the milky way,
Traverſe th' infinitude of nature's dome,
The earth, its ſnow-top'd mountains, and the ſea;
In every part diſcover wiſdom's hand,
Find Deity inſcrib'd on all around,
Omnipotence and love from ſtrand to ſtrand,
Far as th' encircling ocean's utmoſt bound.
For ſuch, O ſpring! thy fragrant breezes blow,
Thy new-born flowers expand the crimſon leaf;
Thy rays, O ſummer! golden proſpects ſhow,
And tinge the grain of Ceres' pointed ſheaf.
For ſuch, mild autumn rears the ſhooting vines,
Bids juicy cluſters ſwarm the ſhaded wall,
Enriching crops o'erhang her wheaten mines,
And ripen'd fruits from bending branches fall.
[11]
To ſuch, even winter's jarring winds convey,
The gladſome tidings of eternal peace:
And ſtorms, and clouds, that others bliſs allay
Their hope, their ſtrength, their fortitude increaſe.
A FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY.
WRITTEN THE MIDDLE OF OCTOBER.
ADieu! the pleaſing rural ſcene,
Thick ſhades and meadows fair and green,
The field adorn'd with ſheaves of corn,
The walk at early hour of morn.
Behold! with green no meads are clad,
Behold the thruſh ſits mute and ſad:
No lively ſongſter's warbling throat
Pours joy, pours muſic in his note.
How bare, how naked ſeems yon bed!
The pink is gone, the tulip dead:
Where is the gay, the odorous flower,
That lately bluſh'd in yonder bower?
So fade the glories of the year,
They bloſſom fair, and diſappear;
And (melancholy truth!) fond man!
Thy life's a flower, thy days a ſpan!
[12]
Almighty Sovereign, bounteous Power,
Whom every clime and tongue adore:
Whoſe wiſdom this vaſt ſyſtem plann'd,
And form'd the ſea, and form'd the land;
Proſtrate before thy throne we bow,
Parent of circling ſeaſons Thou!
Haſten far happier days—and bring
" One glorious and eternal ſpring!"
ON SEEING A ROSE IN OCTOBER.
[13]THrice happy flower, what heavenly aid
Supports thy ſtrength, while others fade?
What quickening ſpirit makes thee blow,
While all thy ſiſters droop below?
Sure there's a ſpark of heavenly flame,
That ſhoots its warmth throughout thy frame;
Some inborn eſſence moſt refin'd,
Some genial virtue good and kind,
That makes thy bluſhing beauties blow,
And thy mellifluous ſweets to flow;
That gives new life, and rears thy head,
When all thy beauteous race lie dead.
Thou, charming roſe! art now moſt rare,
And would'ſt be quite beyond compare;
But that my Delia, but that ſhe,
Is lovely, fair, and ſweet like thee:
Like thee, when other beauties pine,
She glows with virtue, and ſhall ſhine;
Deep in the heart the bleſſing lies,
The ſpark divine that never dies:
Which (when the froſt of age invades,
When on her cheek thy picture fades)
Shall give new grace, new life, new air,
And make her eminently fair.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. PARNE, FELLOW OF TRIN. COL. CAM.
[14]AT length, poor ſuffering wretch, thy pangs are o'er,
Death ſeals thy eyes, and thou ſhalt groan no more;
No more ſhall miſery reach thy tortur'd breaſt,
Nor life's low cares diſturb thy ſettled reſt:
From pride, ambition, envy, malice free,
Thou feel'ſt no more the gripes of penury,
Nor all the thouſand pains of ſad mortality.
Yet ſure ſome decent honours to thy ſhade,
From learning's ſons ſome tribute might be paid:
In the laſt office might there not have been
Some added grace to ſolemnize the ſcene?*
Some plaintive Muſe to deck thy empty bier,
Some pitying friend to drop the tender tear?
But foes purſued thee to thy lateſt breath,
And malice left thee not a friend in death.
[15]One eye alone I ſaw with ſorrow flow,
In artleſs full ſimplicity of woe;
The faithful * ruſtic wept; and only he
Reproach'd the croud for loſt humanity.
Deſpis'd, unfelt for, unlamented lay,
In the rude grave, th' unanimated clay.
And yet this trampled corſe had once a name,
Once was no ſtranger to the voice of fame;
This thing deſpis'd was once with genius fir'd,
Nay, by the adverſe Bentley was admir'd;
'Midſt Granta's ſons but lately fill'd the chair,
Graceful, as when her Whalley's ſelf was there.
Foe to himſelf alone, his open mind
Embrac'd, and lov'd, and would have ſerv'd man⯑kind;
But niggard Fortune acts by partial rules,
And oft her bounty ſhowers on knaves and fools;
Once ſhe could ſmile on him with glimmering ray,
But clouded o'er the evening of his day;
In life's decline no healing comfort gave,
But ſunk his ſoul with ſorrow to the grave.
By hopes too ſanguine led, he met the fate
Of all who ſeek the rich, and truſt the great.
He went, he bow'd, he heard, and he believ'd;
Was courted, flatter'd, promis'd,—and deceiv'd;
[16]Find we then moſt to pity or to blame?
Shall we reward with praiſe, or brand with ſhame?
If livelier parts to venial faults betray,
Muſt cenſure wipe his merits quite away?
If meagre want, with deep affliction join'd,
Subdue the reaſon, and unhinge the mind,
Shall we, officious, every blot reveal,
And judge him with uncharitable zeal?
Or kindly weep for Nature thus decay'd,
And o'er his failings caſt a friendly ſhade;
To future ages bid his virtues bloom,
And bury all his follies in the tomb.
1751.
FABLES FOR GROWN GENTLEMEN.
[17]FABLE I. THE RIVER WITH A PETITION.
ACcording to the Romiſh creed,
I ſpeak of Rome two thouſand years ago,
The life that they ſuppos'd the Gods to lead,
You would not chuſe to undergo.
Jupiter's buſineſs, day and night,
Was to attend with open ears and eyes,
And to write down, as faſt as he could write,
All the impertinence that men deviſe.
Beſides mens fopperies and ravings,
The women had ſo great a ſhare,
That their abſurdities and cravings
Omnipotence alone could bear.
And furthermore, to try his patience,
He heard the prayers and fanciful diſtreſſes
Of all his children and relations,
And of his wife and his miſ-treſſes.
[18]Once on a time, if you'll believe tradition,
A river in great tribulation,
To Jupiter preſented a petition,
With an expoſtulating exhortation;
Whereby, if the petitioner's refus'd,
He has a right to think himſelf ill-us'd;
A form of prayer contriv'd for execution,
Exactly like a double-barrell'd gun,
Which if you fire with reſolution,
You have another chance when one is done,
So far from killing two birds with one ſtone,
An art that's very little known;
All the petitioner deſir'd to do,
Was to kill one with two.
Now this petition ſhew'd how the petitioner,
For his fidelity, zeal, and devotion,
Had been appointed a commiſſioner
Of the revenues of the Ocean,
Which he collected with great pains,
And ſent in good and current caſh,
But, for his trouble and clear gains,
The Sea return'd adulterated traſh:
Wherefore he pray'd,
Exhorted and ſubmitted,
That all the ſums the Ocean paid,
Shall for the future be remitted,
And iſſued fair,
Without debaſement or impair.
[19]Ungrateful Thames! the God replied,
Without that mixture and alloy,
Which the Sea pours into thee every tide,
Thy beauty and thy ſtrength would wear away.
Without his aid thou wouldſt remain
Like Tiber, or the poor pretending Seine,
Led thro' parterres, or rolled down a caſcade,
Confin'd to vanity, and loſt to trade.
'Tis thus the Highlander complains,
'Tis thus the Union they abuſe
For binding their back-ſides in chains,
And ſhackling their feet in ſhoes:
For giving them both food and fewel,
And comfortable cloaths,
Inſtead of cruel oat-meal gruel;
Inſtead of rags and heritable blows.
Luxury every day grows ſtronger;
The Highland fair
Beholds her lover now no longer
Trotting with his buttocks bare.
Thus Doctor Brown was taken with the ſpleen,
And fancied we were all undone,
Raving about a carpet and a ſcreen,
And out of temper with the ſun:
Becauſe it is a crime,
As he ſuppoſes,
For men to run in winter time
Into the ſun to warm their noſes.
[20]'Tis an egregious want of ſenſe,
A want of taſte, and want of ſhame,
To fancy univerſal affluence
And luxury the ſame.
In ſpite of Doctor Brown's diſcerning,
The term of univerſal will agree,
As well with his benevolence and learning,
As univerſal ſuit with luxury.
He may perceive, if he be ſo inclin'd,
Like his diſcernment, luxury's confin'd.
For as the gout torments the hands and feet,
To eaſe the nobler ſtomach and the head,
So luxury, to gratify the great,
Inſults and robs the labourer of his bread.
Luxury in a ſtate is a diſeaſe,
Becauſe 'tis partial, and obſtructed wealth,
But univerſal affluence and eaſe
Is univerſal happineſs and health.
FABLE II. THE PHOENIX AND HER LOVERS.
[21]THat every female's a coquette,
I could as ſafely ſwear upon a book,
As I could ſafely bet,
That every Frenchman is a cook.
A Phoenix, daughter of the Sun,
Chaſte as a Veſtal, modeſt as a Nun,
Added ſuch merit to her birth,
That not a bird, tho' of the higheſt faſhion,
No feather'd coxcomb of the earth
Ventur'd to declare his paſſion.
They all agreed
No earthly bird was worthy of her love;
None but a bird of the celeſtial breed,
An angel from above.
The Phoenix liv'd ſo long a maid,
'Till all her gaiety and bloom
Began to fade,
And ſavour of the tomb.
She mop'd, grew ſplenetic, and tir'd
Of ſo much awe and ſo much ſtate,
Se long'd like other birds to be admir'd,
Like other birds ſhe long'd to find a mate.
[22]At laſt ſhe iſſued out a proclamation
To ſummon the male birds of every nation;
Perhaps this ſummons, and this longing,
Was a political machine,
Juſt like the lovers that came thronging,
Summon'd by our virgin queen.
Now, from all quarters,
The birds appear'd in their beſt cloaths;
Nobles in ſtars and garters,
Curled and embroider'd beaux.
Some ſtately, others light and gay,
One cooed, another ſung and flatter'd,
Some, like the Magpie and the Jay,
For ever chatter'd.
About the inner ring,
Where all the birds of figure preſs,
A bat whirl'd round with leathern wing,
To ſhow his ſhape and his addreſs,
Offering his heart, his eyes and wings to boot,
At which there roſe an univerſal hoot.
The Phoenix anſwer'd in the tone,
And in the ſelf-ſame manner languiſh'd,
As queen Elizabeth, when ſhe was ſhown
A taylor by her beauty vanquiſh'd;
Take courage man, ſays ſhe,
For if I needs muſt have a taylor,
I promiſe, without failure,
To marry none but thee.
[23]And as the queen coquetted at an age
When other queens are tame,
'Till ſhe went off the ſtage,
The Phoenix did the ſame.
She died a great coquette, and, what is more,
Roſe from the grave a greater than before.
The Phoenix and ſelf-love are the ſame beaſt,
Within the human breaſt,
Which poets feign the ſpicy eaſt,
She builds her ſolitary neſt;
From whence, with every gale of wind,
The traveller may ſmell the mind.
Her lovers are our paſſions; theſe ſhe meets,
Either by appointment or by chance,
Which if ſhe can't indulge, ſhe treats
With ſmiles and complaiſance.
And as the Phoenix, from her aſhes rais'd,
Returns as blooming as a bride,
So when we think it dies, the Lord be prais'd,
Self-love ſprings up again with double pride.
'Tis a determin'd caſe,
None but ourſelves can occupy our place.
For this ſame reaſon, phyſical and clear,
Each individual of us all
Is that ſame Phoenix, without any peer,
On this terreſtrial ball.
A Lover is a mad-man, and a miſer
Not one jot wiſer.
[24]Let any try, except a lover,
Or one devoted to his pelf,
Whether in all the world they can diſcover
Another ſelf.
FABLE III. THE DUCKLINGS AND THE WISE BIRDS.
A Hen, one evening to enjoy the cool,
Was walking with a brood of ducklings cal⯑low,
Juſt like a miſtreſs of a boarding-ſchool,
With miſſes green and yellow.
As ſhe was tutoring and ſchooling
This bird fot loitering, and that for fooling,
Behold a fiſh-pond ſo alluring,
That, ſpite of her remonſtrances and cackle,
They ventur'd their whole ſtock without enſuring,
Truſting to their oars and tackle.
The hen kept ſcolding like a drab,
Curſing her rebellious race;
We're not thy children, cried a pert young ſquab,
If we were chickens, we ſhould have more grace;
On Nature we depend,
Our courſe ſhe ſteers,
Nature's a ſafer guide, and better friend
Than any dotard's fears.
[25]Cloſe by the pond, an antient tower
Lifted its venerable head,
A college and ſequeſter'd bower,
Where owls for ages had been bred;
An old profeſſor, a great clerk,
Taught them their talents to diſplay,
To keep their eyes wide open in the dark,
And ſhut them in the face of day.
To think abſtractedly, to reaſon deep,
And to declaim, 'till all the world's aſleep.
Theſe ſtudents from the tower ſaw our young folks,
Our bold adventurers under ſail,
They heard their clamorous mirth and jokes,
And heard their nurſe's fruitleſs wail.
Obſerve, ſays one more learned than the reſt,
Theſe birds by inſtinct know the ſeaſon
To ſail, to eat, to go to reſt,
Juſt as we know by argument and reaſon.
We know from reaſon and experience both,
We ſee it every hour;
That governors are loth
To part with power.
Yon hen which you all hear,
In ſuch a fright,
Undoubtedly affects that fear,
To keep her pupils always in her ſight.
From the ſame principle, for the ſame end,
Our tutor keeps us all thus pen'd:
[26]Preaching that we muſt not pretend to fly,
We are too weak, it is too ſoon,
Which I'll demonſtrate to be a lye,
As clear as the ſun at noon.
Feet, ſaid the ſubtle Owl,
Are not the things,
That conſtitute the eſſence of a fowl,
So much as wings.
Whatever is eſſential to our make
We ſooneſt learn, and ſeldomeſt miſtake.
Hence that pathetic prayer, that tender call,
By which we get our wants diſpatch'd,
Is ſo eſſential above all,
That we all ſpeak the moment we are hatch'd.
Nature, benevolent and wiſe,
Opens our mouths much ſooner than our eyes.
By parity of reaſon meet,
Our wings and pinions ſhould be ready
Long time before our heads and feet
Are firm and ſteady.
Therefore 'twill follow like a chain,
That as we walk, you muſt confeſs,
With little giddineſs and pain,
If we attempt it, we muſt fly with leſs.
This reaſoning philoſophic wight
Convinc'd his brethren one and all:
With one accord they took their flight,
And fatal and untimely was their fall.
[27]None of them reaſon'd any more,
The young logicians lay like wrecks,
Drown'd in the pond, or ſcatter'd on the ſhore,
With mangled limbs, and broken necks.
Bred in a court, or ſome gay city,
The ducklings are thoſe thoughtleſs ſpritely fools,
O Cambridge is it not a pity,
Strangers to thee and to thy ſchools!
FABLE IV. LA NOBLESSE DE FRANCE. THE FIGHTING COCK AND THE CRAVEN.
A Cock, an officer of foot,
In France retir'd into a village,
Where he did nought but crow and ſtrut,
And live by pillage.
Whene'er he had a mind
To take his paſtime with the fair,
He was not to one wife confin'd,
Nor to a pair,
But, like a lord,
Had half a dozen both at bed and board.
[28]He ſpied a barn-door fowl one day,
Cram'd from the rump up to the gullet,
In amorous dalliance and play
With a young pullet.
His robes and train, his ſenatorial cap,
His ſize almoſt the ſize of geeſe,
Show'd that he had been nurtur'd in the lap
Of peace.
Bred for the bench and preſidental chair,
He judg'd, he rooſted, and digeſted there.
The military cock took as much pleaſure
As an unlucky page,
To ſee the magiſtrate employ his leiſure
So much below his dignity and age.
He that ſhould ſet a good example!
Be virtuous and diſcreet!
To tread on modeſty, and trample
Chaſtity beneath his feet!
Fine times, ſays he, when judges run
Seducing maidens in the open ſun!
This wanton fit
Comes of intemperance and over-eating;
Which, as it ſoon will bring you to the ſpit,
Shall ſave your reverence from a beating.
To this reproof,
With a ſly ſneer, the judge replied aloof:
'Tis true, that I and all my brood,
When we have run the race aſſign'd,
[29]Shall have the honour to become the food
And comfort of mankind.
An unexpected death
Shall gently ſteal, not force away our breath.
Good colonel, you are mightily miſtaken,
It is not owing to reſpect, in deed,
That you are neither boil'd, like us, with bacon,
Roaſted nor fricaſſeed.
But tho' your fleſh be men's averſion,
Yet it contributes much to their diverſion;
They give you barley, bread, and oats,
Becauſe they take great pleaſure and delight
To ſee you fight;
To ſee you cutting one another's throats.
If you eſcape, and are not ſlain in war,
You are in a worſe plight by far.
Amongſt the hogs,
Wounded and lame, you're on a dunghill caſt,
By wanton boys and puppy dogs
Worried or teaz'd to death at laſt.
In France the land-tax is not as 'tis here,
A tax where you appeal and ſquabble;
There the nobility go free and clear,
Like the raſcality and rabble.
The ſame exemption pards and tygers own;
And the baſe polecat caught in gins:
Their fleſh and bone we let alone,
And aſk them nothing but their ſkins.
FABLE V. THE DOG AND THE CAT.
[30]INtereſt faſcinates both age and youth,
And, with a glance of her bewitching eye,
Can make a miniſter ſpeak truth,
Or make a mighty monarch tell a lye.
She can ſet brothers by the ears,
And, what you'll ſcarce believe perhaps,
Make ſiſters as harmonious as the ſpheres,
And live together without pulling caps.
'Tis ſhe gives every one her place,
Oft, like a blundering marſhal at a feaſt,
Joining a ſcoundrel to his grace,
An atheiſt to a prieſt.
Intereſt well underſtood,
Made Solomon, makes Melcomb now declare
That life is only good
To eat and drink, and laugh, and baniſh care.
Cloſe by a kitchen fire, a dog and cat,
Each a famous politician,
Were meditating, as they ſat,
Plans and projects of ambition.
By the ſame fire were ſet to warm
Fragments of their maſter's dinner;
Temptations to alarm
The frailty of a ſinner.
[31]Clear prurient water ſtream'd from Pompey's jaws,
And Tabby look'd demure, and lick'd her paws;
And as two plenipos,
For fear of a ſurpriſe,
When both have ſomething to propoſe,
Examine one another's eyes;
Or like two maids, tho' ſmit by different ſwains,
In jealous conference o'er a diſh of tea,
Pompey and Tabby both, cudgell'd their brains,
Studying each other's phyſiognomy.
Pompey, endow'd with finer ſenſe,
Diſcover'd, in a caſt of Tabby's face,
A ſymptom of concupiſcence,
Which made it a clear caſe.
When, ſtrait applying to the dawning paſſion,
Pompey addreſs'd her in this faſhion:
Both you and I, with vigilance and zeal,
Becoming faithful dogs, and pious cats,
Have guarded day and night this common-weal
From robbery and rats,
All that we get for this, heaven knows,
Is a few bones and many blows.
Let us no longer fawn and whine,
Since we have talents and are able;
Let us impoſe an equitable fine
Upon our maſter's table,
[32]And, to be brief,
Let us each chuſe a ſingle diſh,
I'll be contented with roaſt beef,
Take you that turbot—you love fiſh.
Thus every dog and cat agrees,
When they can ſettle their own fees.
Thus two contending chiefs are ſeen,
To agree at laſt in every meaſure;
One takes the management of the marine,
The other of the nation's treaſure:
Thus L—g retir'd, thus even P—t
His popularity reſign'd,
For a tid-bit,
A pit-tance ſuited to the patriot's mind.
FABLE VI. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
[33]WIth malice fell
A ſpider watch'd within his cell,
Ready to ſally,
The unwary traveller to ſouſe,
Like a Jew-broker in the Alley,
Or a Dutch merchant in his counting-houſe,
Like them he correſponded far and near,
And tho' his trade was intricate and dark,
He manag'd his affairs, and kept all clear,
Without a partner or a clerk.
A petit maitre, an active buſtling fly,
Thinking to ſcamper unmoleſted,
With airy equipage as he paſs'd by,
By cruel Cacus was arreſted.
Furniſh'd with that undaunted ſenſe,
Which only courts and camps can teach,
Having no weapon or defence,
Except his inſtrument of ſpeech,
The fly, with flattering ſoporific ſtrains,
Tried to benumb the ſpider's brains:
Hearing ſuch daily praiſe beſtow'd,
Upon your elegance in weaving,
[34]I came to viſit your abode,
Which is magnificent beyond believing:
And now I am convinc'd, if you will drop
The linen trade,
And take to weaving velvets and brocade,
The ſallad-eaters ſoon muſt ſhut up ſhop,
Change but your diet, and, like their's, your taſte
Will grow refin'd, correct and chaſte.
As I have ſtudied every herb and leaf,
That's either noxious or good to eat,
Make me your caterer in chief,
And pourveyor of all your meat.
Send me this inſtant, in a trice
I'll bring you ſomething ſavoury and nice.
Seeing the ſpider ſmile and grin,
He found his plot would not ſucceed,
It was too thin,
For one of that ſagacious breed,
On which he fell a vapouring and buzzing,
Swearing the drones would take the alarm,
And come to the aſſiſtance of their couſin
With an enormous ſwarm.
The drones and I are no ſuch ſtrangers,
We know, ſaid Cacus, what we both can do,
They are too wiſe to run their heads in dangers,
For ſuch a buſy meddling fool as you:
[35]But, ſince you come to ſpoil our manufacture,
And poiſon honeſt traders,
I'll hang you like a malefactor,
To terrify invaders.
No ſooner ſaid than done,
He knock'd him down, and hung him in the ſun.
The ſpider's a negotiator,
And an enſnaring captious debater,
Obdurate, ſubtile and alert,
The fly a coxcomb and a prater,
Teazing and pert.
Tho' all ſuch characters I hate,
And from my ſoul deſpiſe,
May we have many ſpiders in the ſtate,
When we are plagued with French and Spaniſh flies.
FABLE VII. THE WILD DUCKS AND THE WATER SPANIEL.
[36]AFter a tedious flight,
Of many a ſtormy day and night;
A flock of wild ducks ſailing up and down,
Upon a lake were making merry;
Like ſailors, in a ſea-port town,
Juſt arriv'd from Pondicherry.
A ſwan too ſtately for ſport,
To ſhew herſelf was all her view,
Had undertaken to eſcort
The jovial crew.
Swelling and bridling
With all the airs of a fine dame at court;
Turning about and ſidling,
Advancing, and then ſtopping ſhort.
Diſplaying in her features
Contempt and inſolent dejection,
To ſignify that thoſe ſtrange creatures
Were forc'd upon her for protection.
I muſt confeſs, amongſt mankind
I have ſeen ſwans as fooliſhly inclin'd.
At Paris on the Seine,
[37]I've ſeen a French marquee conduct a pair
Of German barons to the fair
Of Saint Germaine,
Strutting before them, toſſing up his head,
Then looking back, and lowering his creſt,
The barons were ſo aukward, ſo ill-bred,
And ſo ill-dreſs'd.
Have you not ſeen a new-made peer
With equal pride, but greater trepidations,
Obſerving in his rear
A troop of country relations,
Run up Saint James's-ſtreet, and, at two leaps,
Take Arthur's ſteps?
Thoſe ſteps as terrible as the Tarpeian,
From whence with one black ball you're hurl'd
Into another world
Amongſt the damn'd Plebeian.
Perhaps this grave and ſolemn ſwan
Diſlik'd the company of thoſe wild-ducks,
Juſt as a prude, or ſober man,
Diſlikes the company of bucks.
For while they made more noiſe and riot
Than twenty juſtices of peace,
The ſwan was ſerious and quiet,
As captain Gander marching with his geeſe,
Marching to the field,
With gorget and a wooden ſhield.
[38]About the middle of the lake,
Upon the banks, a water-ſpaniel lay,
Looking out for duck or drake,
Or any lawful prey,
And as the captain of a privateer
Lies by,
Nor offers to bear down, nor gives a cheer,
'Till his expected prize begins to fly,
Cloſe to the ſhore the ſpaniel let them ſail,
And ruſh'd into the lake when they turn'd tail,
Snorting and ſnoring;
Purſuing them with all his force,
Swearing and roaring
'Till he was hoarſe;
He turn'd and veer'd,
Now made a ſtretch, and then a tack;
Now ſnapp'd, and now they diſappear'd,
And roſe again a long way back:
'Till the poor ſpiritleſs exhauſted brute
Was forc'd to give up the purſuit.
And as the French to Toulon ran,
And left the Spaniards in a ſcrape,
The moment that the fray began
The ſwan made her eſcape.
Quite out of reach,
A roan duck on the beach,
Under a ſhed,
Conſider'd the whole ſcene with wonder,
[39]Juſt like Caligula under the bed,
Studying the cauſe of lightning and thunder.
As the victorious crew paſs'd by in order,
He made them an oration;
The roan duck being the recorder,
Or burgomaſter of the corporation.
Leave your abandon'd lives,
Roving like pirates and Jews,
Come hither with your children and wives,
And ſettle peaceably in our mews.
We'll take you without any fuſs,
Here we have neither law nor code,
You're only tied to copy us,
And go by cuſtom and the mode;
You ſhall be faſhionably dreſs'd,
Protected, treated, and careſs'd,
A friſeur, with an inſtrument of ſteel,
Shall ſhape your wings and your toupee,
Make them ſit perfectly genteel,
Eaſy and free.
As to the reſt, you may gather from my looks
Whether the air is good,
And whether we have wholeſome food,
Or tolerable cooks.
Peace, wretch, the chieftain of the ducks replied,
Nor with thy venal breath offend the brave,
Freedom is as much our pride,
As 'tis thine to be a ſlave.
[40]We neither injure nor provoke;
We neither fear great nor ſmall,
Becauſe we ſcorn to yield to any yoke,
We are hated by them all.
From pole to pole purſued,
From pole to pole,
Our enemies have every ſoul
Been baffled and ſubdued.
Lords of three elements, we can maintain
Our freedom and poſſeſſions,
With the ſame eaſe that we diſdain
Thy offers, and inſidious profeſſions.
In our own virtue we confide,
On others how can we rely?
When fear or hope, envy or pride,
May turn a friend into a falſe ally.
Thoſe who depend on others;
Whether on males or females they depend,
Will find the ſwan has many brothers,
And ſiſters without end.
THE ADVICE OF AN OLD SPANIEL.
[41]A Certain dog of middling birth,
Frolickſome and full of play:
Even in the height of all his mirth,
Delicate, as well as gay:
With far more feeling for his friend,
Than they could either taſte or comprehend.—
Being thrown into the world betimes,
Betimes diſcover'd it was all a cheat,
Yet not ſo dangerous for odious crimes,
As odious for malice and deceit,
Oft, when he meant to have amus'd
His friends with a conceit, or harmleſs jeſt,
By many he was ſnarl'd at and abus'd,
And ſlighted even by the beſt.
Oft, when half-ſtarv'd, he found a bone,
Or ſomething hid,
Inſtead of eating it alone,
As others did,
He ran to ſhare his daily bread,
Unſought;
With thoſe that were much better fed
Than taught,
His daily bread they ſeiz'd;
And drove him from their meſs,
More diſappointed and diſpleas'd
With their ingratitude than his diſtreſs.
[42]It is a maxim amongſt dogs,
When they have the addreſs and ſkill,
To ſlip their collars and their clogs,
And leave their friends that uſe them ill.
To avoid anxiety and ſtrife
Tray was reſolv'd to try a country life.
A country dog, I think,
Is exactly like a country ſquire,
They both are only fit to ſleep and ſtink
By their own fire,
And when awake are only good
To yelp and halloo in a wood.
Their joys,
And converſation are the ſame,
'Tis all a clamour and a noiſe,
And all the noiſe and clamour about game.
Three words compoſe their whole vocabulary,
A fox, a hare, and a fine ſcenting day,
Whether they are ſerious or merry,
'Tis all they have to ſay:
In ſhort they never are ſo entertaining,
As when they're faſt aſleep, or feigning.
To quit ſuch friends as theſe,
One would not grieve,
Tray parted from them with great eaſe,
Without ſo much as taking leave,
[43]Conſults his grandſire, by profeſſion,
A ſpaniel;
For judgment and diſcretion,
A perfect Daniel.
Benign and mild;
He heard his grandſon's grievances, and ſmil'd.
Grandſon, ſaid he, I do conceive,
If you had known the world, and how things go,
But half as much as you believe;
Which is twice as much as I believe you know;
You would not have complain'd,
That dogs behave to one another,
When they are unchain'd,
Like every creature to his brother.
Say, dupe of a raſh confidence and truſt,
If you lie open and unguarded,
Is it not juſt,
That vigilance ſhould be rewarded?
'Twas neither Nature's call,
Nor my inſtruction,
To truſt your friends at all;
Much leſs, to truſt them to your own deſtruction:
A painful and ſevere attention,
Is but a neceſſary fence,
To every dog of ſenſe,
Againſt deceit and circumvention,
[44]A taſk from which you hop'd to be reliev'd
By truſting to your friends:
You are deceiv'd,
Acting as much as they for your own ends,
All the world knows,
That friendſhip's a meer ſound;
A ſound that hardly can impoſe
Upon a puppy hound.
Nature is not to blame,
Flatter'd by cunning, indolence invented
That fooliſh name,
By which ſo many fools are circumvented.
Happineſs you'll ſeldom find,
Unleſs you learn
To have no weighty intereſt, or concern,
With thoſe of your own kind.
Unleſs you learn, (if it is not too late)
That they are neither worth your love nor hate,
A PRESENT TO A YOUNG LADY WITH A PAIR OF STOCKINGS.
[45]TO pleaſe the Fair, what different ways
Each lover acts his part;
One tenders ſnuff, another praiſe,
A toothpick, or a heart!
Alike they all, to gain their end,
Peculiar arts diſcloſe;
While I, ſubmiſſive, only ſend
An humble pair of hoſe.
Long may they guard, from cold and harm,
The ſnowy limbs that wear 'em,
And kindly lend their influence warm
To every thing that's near 'em.
But let it not be faulty deem'd,
Nor move your indignation,
If I a little partial ſeem'd
In gifts or commendation:
[46]
Each fair perfection to diſplay
Would far exceed my charter,
My humble Muſe muſt never ſtray
Above the knee or garter.
And who did e'er a ſubject view
So worthy to be prais'd,
Or from ſo fair foundation knew
So fine a ſtructure rais'd?
Thou learned leach, ſage Kember, ſay,
(In ſpite of drugs and plaiſters)
You who can talk the live-long day
Of buildings and pilaſters:
You who for hours have rov'd about
Thro' halls and colonades,
And ſcarce would deign to tread on aught
But arches and arcades:
Did you, in all your mazy rounds,
Two nobler pillars view?
What yielding marble ere was found
So exquiſitely true?
The ſwelling dome, with ſtately ſhow,
May many fancies pleaſe,
I view content what lies below
The cornice of the frieze:
[47]
The lovely twins, ſo white ſo round,
That bear the noble pile,
Muſt ſoon proceed from Venus' mound,
Or from Cythera's iſle.
Propitious Fates preſerve them ſafe,
And keep them cloſe together,
And grant they may the malice brave
Of man as well as weather.
From luckleſs love, or rancour baſe,
May never harm attend 'em,
And grant, whatever be the caſe,
That I may ſtill defend 'em.
By gentle, generous love, 'tis true,
They never can miſcarry,
No ill can come, no loſs enſue
From honeſt, harmleſs Harry.
But ſhould a knight of greater heat
Precipitate invade,
Believe me, Bell, they then may need
Some ſeaſonable aid.
O may I ready be at hand
From every harm to ſcreen 'em,
Then, Samſon-like, I'll take my ſtand,
And live, or die between 'em.
THE COPPER FARTHING.
[48]HAppy the boy, who dwells remote from ſchool,
Whoſe pocket or whoſe rattling box contains
A copper farthing! he nor grieving hears
Hot cheeſe-cakes cried, nor ſavoury mutton-pies;
But with his play-mates, in the duſk of eve,
To well-known blackſmith's ſhop, or churchyard hies;
Where, mindful of the ſport that joys his heart,
Marbles or chuck, he inſtantly begins,
With undiſſembled pleaſure in his face,
To draw the circle, or to pitch the dump:
While I, confin'd within the hated walls
Of ſchool, reſounding with a clamorous din,
By ſtill more hated books environ'd, I,
With tedious leſſons and long taſk to get,
My diſmal thoughts employ; or wield my pen
To mark dire characters on paper white:
Not blunter pen or ſtranger character
Uſes the ſage, a chiromancer hight,
Sprung from Egyptian king, and ſwarthy race,
Amenophis or Ptolemy, when he,
In ſearch of ſtolen calf, or money loſt,
[49]For wondering ploughman does his art employ;
Or for the wiſh'd return of ſweet-heart dear,
Or apron fine, purloin'd from hawthorn hedge,
For country-maid conſults directing ſtars,
Gemini, Taurus, or chill Capricorn.
Thus while my lingering hours I joyleſs ſpend,
With magiſterial look, and ſolemn ſtep,
Appears my ſchoolmaſter, tremendous wight,
Dreaded by truant boys; how can I 'ſcape
Th' expected puniſhment for taſk ungot?
Aghaſt I ſtand, nor fly to covert bench,
Or corner dark, to hide my hapleſs head;
So great my terror, that it quite bereaves
My limbs the power to fly; ſlow he aſcends
Th' appointed ſeat, and on his right-hand lies
The buſhy rod, compos'd of numerous twigs,
Torn from the birchen tree, or bending willow,
Which to the fleſh of idle boys portends.
For the neglected taſk, a poignant ſmart;
And with him comes another mighty elf,
Yclep'd an uſher; ah terrific name
To leſſer wights! who, if they haply place
In ſtation wrong, pronoun or participle,
Strait, by the magic of his voice, are rais'd
In attitude above their lov'd compeers,
Where they, reluctant, various torments bear,
'Till by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the ſkies,
They draw kind Pity, moiſt-eyed Goddeſs, down,
[50]To heal, with balm of ſympathy, their woe.
Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care,
For, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways,
And in his mind revolves diſaſtrous deeds
Againſt th' unwary wretch. So ſtory tells,
That chanticleer, on dunghill's top elate,
With haughty ſtep, and watchful eye aſkance,
Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he
May find conceal'd delicious grub or worm,
To which his maw inſatiate forebodes
Certain deſtruction, while behind or buſh
Or pale, encompaſſing the farmer's yard,
Skulks Reynard, fraught with many a crafty wile
T' enſnare the feather'd race, who, if they ſtray
Beyond the precincts of their mother's ken,
He ſtrait purloins them from her careful wing,
With his ſharp teeth torments their tender frame,
And with the crimſon gore diſtains their ſides,
Relentleſs; nor can all the piercing cries
Of duckling, chick, or turkey, yet unfledg'd,
His heart obdurate move; inſtant he tears
Each trembling limb, devours the quivering fleſh,
Nor leaves a remnant of the bloody feaſt,
Save a few fluttering feathers ſcatter'd round,
(That, with their varied plumage, whilom deck'd
The ſlaughter'd prey) to tell the hapleſs tale.
[51]
Thus joyleſs do I ſpend thoſe hours the ſun
Illuminates; and when the ſilver moon
Her gentle ray diſpenſes, and invites
The ſwains and maids to mix in jovial dance,
Around the towering may-poles of the green,
Where each gay ploughman does his partner chuſe
As love or ſate directs; or o'er the lawn
The needle thread, or toſs the bounding ball,
All cheerleſs I, nor dance nor pleaſing ſport,
Nor ſocial mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale,
Partake; but, on her drooping raven wing,
Sad melancholy hovers o'er my head,
Pale envy rankles deep within my breaſt,
And baneful venom ſheds. Grim horror too
Attends my thoughts, and fills my gloomy mind
With tales of gliding ſprites, in milk-white ſhrouds
Array'd, and rattling chains and yelling ghoſts
Iraſcible! or Fancy, mimic queen,
To ſwift imagination's eye preſents
A group of tiny elves, in circling dance,
Or luſcious feaſt employ'd; ſuch elves as danc'd
When Oberon did fair Titania wed;
While I, in wiſhes impotent and vain,
For liberty, dear object of my hopes,
The tedious moments ſpend; or if, perchance,
Morpheus invok'd, my heavy eyelids cloſe,
[52]Dear liberty ſtill haunts my ſleeping thoughts,
And in a ſhort-liv'd dream thoſe joys I taſte,
Which waking are denied; and beat the hoop
With dexterous hand, or run with feet as ſwift
As feather'd arrow flies from archer's bow;
'Till, from my ſlumber wak'd, too ſoon I find
It was illuſion all, and mockery vain.
Thus, comfortleſs, appall'd, forlorn, I paſs
The tardy hours, nor of thoſe viands taſte,
Which are on other boys full oft beſtow'd
In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand
Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart,
Or trembling cuſtard of delicious gout,
Or frothy ſyllabub in copious bowl:
Hard fate for me! yet harder ſtill betides
Me, hapleſs youth! my faithful top, that oft
Has cheer'd my drooping ſpirits, and reviv'd
My ſaddening thoughts, when o'er the pavement ſmooth
It ſpins, and ſleeps, and to its maſter's hand
Does ample juſtice, now, alas! become
To all the rude inclemencies of weather,
To time and deſtiny's relentleſs doom
A miſerable victim, quite decay'd
With many ſervices, and cleft throughout,
All uſeleſs lies; ah! fight of ſaddeſt woe
To wretched me, of every hope bereft,
[53]Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch;
Who near or Aetna or Veſuvius dwells,
Beholds the ſulphurous flames, the molten rocks,
And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet,
'Till, with a horrid yawn, it opens wide
Before his eyes, all glaring with affright;
Swallows his cultur'd vines, his gardens, houſe,
With all his ſoul held dear, his lovely wife,
And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come:
All, all are loſt, in ruin terrible!
NEW-MARKET. A SATIRE.
[54]HIS country's hope, when now the blooming heir
Has left the parent's, or the guardian's care;
Fond to poſſeſs, yet eager to deſtroy,
Of each vain youth, ſay, what's the darling joy?
Of each fond frolic what the ſource and end,
His ſole and firſt ambition what?—to ſpend.
Some 'ſquires, to Gallia's cooks moſt dainty dupes,
Melt manors in ragouts, or drown in ſoups.
This coxcomb doats on fiddlers, till he ſees
His mortgag'd mountains deſtitute of trees;
Convinc'd too late, that modern ſtrains can move,
With mightier force than thoſe of Greece, the grove.
In headleſs ſtatues rich, and uſeleſs urns,
Marmoreo from the claſſic tour returns;
So poor the wretch of current coin, you'd laugh—
He cares not—if his *Caeſars be but ſafe.
Some tread the ſlippery paths of love's delights,
Theſe deal the cards, or ſhake the box at White's.
To different pleaſures different taſtes incline,
Nor the ſame ſea receives the ruſhing ſwine.
Tho' drunk alike with Circe's poiſonous bowl,
In ſeparate ſties the mimic monſters roll.
[55]
But would ye learn, ye leiſure-loving 'ſquires,
How beſt ye may diſgrace your prudent ſires;
How ſooneſt ſoar to faſhionable ſhame,
Be damn'd at once to ruin—and to fame;
By hands of grooms ambitious to be crown'd,
O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!
Where fam'd New-Market ſpreads her tempting plain,
There let the choſen ſteed victorious ſtrain;
Where not * (as erſt was ſung in manly lays)
Men fly to different ends thro' different ways;
Thro' the ſame path, to the ſame gaol ye run,
And are, at once, undoing and undone.
Forfeit, forget friends, honour, and eſtate,
Loſe all at once—for what?—to win the plate:
All are betray'd, and all alike betray,
To your own beaſts, Actaeon-like, a prey.
What dreams of conqueſt fluſh'd Hilario's breaſt,
When the good knight at laſt retir'd to reſt!
Behold the youth with new-felt rapture mark
Each pleaſing proſpect of the ſpacious Park:
That Park, where beauties undiſguis'd engage,
Thoſe beauties leſs the work of art than age;
[56]In ſimple ſtate, where genuine Nature wears
Her venerable dreſs of antient years;
Where all the charms of chance with order meet,
The rude, the gay, the graceful and the great.
Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,
And form dark groves, which Druids might adore;
Pride and ſupport of Britain's conquering croſs,
Which diſtant anceſtors ſaw crown'd with moſs:
With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,
Here ſhoots the broad umbrageous avenue:
Here various trees compoſe a chequer'd ſcene,
Glowing in gay diverſities of green:
There the full ſtream, thro' intermingling glades,
Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep caſcades.
Nor wants there hazle copſe, or beechen lawn,
To cheer with ſun or ſhade the bounding fawn.
And ſee the good old feat, whoſe Gothic towers
Awful emerge from yonder tufted bowers;
Whoſe rafter'd hall the crouding tenants fed,
And dealt to Age and Want their daily bread:
Where garter'd knights, with peerleſs beauties join'd,
At high and ſolemn feſtivals have din'd;
Preſenting oft fair virtue's ſhining taſk,
In myſtic pageantries, and moral * maſque.
[57]But vain all antient praiſe, or boaſt of birth,
Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!
At once a bankrupt, and a proſperous heir,
Hilario bet▪ — Park, houſe diſſolve in air.
With antique armour hung, high trophied rooms
Deſcend to gameſters, proſtitutes, and grooms.
He ſees his ſteel-clad ſires, and mothers mild,
Who bravely ſhook the lance, or ſweetly ſmil'd,
All the fair feries of the whiſker'd race,
Whoſe pictur'd forms the ſtately gallery grace,
Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,
To deck ſome tavern vile, at auctions ſold.
The pariſh wonders at th' unopening door,
The chimnies blaze, the tables groan no more.
Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts ariſe,
And all the ſocial ſcene in ſilence lies.
Himſelf, the loſs politely to repair,
Turns atheiſt, fiddler, highwayman, or player.
At length, the ſcorn, the ſhame of Man and God,
Is deem'd to rub the ſteeds that once he rode.
Ye rival youths, your golden hopes how vain,
Your dreams of thouſands on the liſted plain!
[58]Not more fantaſtic *Sancho's airy courſe,
When madly mounted on the magic horſe,
He pierc'd heaven's opening ſpheres with dazzled eyes,
And ſeem'd to ſoar in viſionary ſkies.
Nor leſs, I ween, precarious is the meed,
Of young adventurers, on the Muſe's ſteed;
For poets have, like you, their deſtin'd round,
And ours is but a race on claſſic ground.
Long time, ſoft ſon of patrimonial eaſe,
Hippolitus had eat ſirloins in peace:
Had quaff'd ſecure, unvex'd by toils or wife,
The mild October of a rural life:
Long liv'd with calm domeſtic conqueſts crown'd,
And kill'd his game on ſafe paternal ground.
As bland he puff'd the pipe o'er weekly news,
His boſom kindles with ſublimer views.
Lo there, thy triumphs, Taaff, thy palms, Portmore,
Tempt him to rein the ſteed, and ſtake his ſtore.
Like a new bruiſer on Broughtonic ſand,
Amid the liſts our hero takes his ſtand;
Suck'd by the ſharper, to the peer a prey,
He rolls his eyes that witneſs huge diſmay;
When lo! the chance of one unlucky heat,
Strips him of game, ſtrong beer, and ſweet retreat.
How aukward now he bears diſgrace and dirt,
Nor knows the poor's laſt refuge, to be pert.—
[59]The ſhiftleſs beggar bears of ills the worſt,
At once with dullneſs, and with hunger curſt.
And feels the taſteleſs breaſt equeſtrian fires?
And dwells ſuch mighty rage in graver 'ſquires?
In all attempts, but for their country, bold,
Britain, thy conſcript counſellors behold;
(For ſome perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,
May gain a borough, by a lucky bet,)
Smit with the love of the laconic boot,
The cap and wig ſuccinct, the ſilken ſuit,
Mere modern Phaetons uſurp the reins,
And ſcour in rival race New-Market's plains.
See ſide by ſide, the Jockey and Sir John,
Diſcuſs th' important point—of ſix to one.
For oh, my Muſe, the deep-felt bliſs how dear,
How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!
See, like a routed hoſt, with headlong pace,
Thy Members pour amid the mingling race!
All aſk, what crowds the tumult could produce—
" Is Bedlam or the Commons all broke looſe?"
Such noiſe and nonſenſe, betting, damning, ſinking,
Such emphaſis of oaths, and claret-drinking!
Like ſchool-boys freed, they run as chance directs,
Proud from a well-bred thing to riſque their necks.
The warrior's ſcar not half ſo graceful ſeems,
As, at New-Market, diſlocated limbs.
Thy ſages hear, amid th' admiring crowd
Adjudge the ſtakes, moſt eloquently loud:
[60]With critic ſkill, o'er dubious bets preſide,
The low diſpute, or kindle, or decide:
All empty wiſdom, and judicious prate,
Of diſtanc'd horſes gravely fix the fate,
Guide the nice conduct of a daring match,
And o'er th' equeſtrian rights, with care paternal, watch.
Mean time, no more the mimic patriots riſe,
To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wiſe:
No more in Senates dare aſſert her laws,
Nor pour the bold debate in freedom's cauſe:
Neglect the counſels of a ſinking land,
And know no roſtrum, but New-Market's *Stand.
Are theſe the ſage directive powers deſign'd,
With the nice ſearch of a ſagacious mind,
In judgment's ſcales, the fate of realms to weigh,
Britannia's intereſt, trade, and laws ſurvey?
O ſay, when leaſt their ſapient ſchemes are croſt,
Or when a nation, or a match is loſt?
Who dams and ſires with more exactneſs trace,
Than of their country's kings the ſacred race:
Think London journies are the worſt of ills,
And ſet their hands to articles for bills:
[61]Strangers to all hiſtorians ſage relate,
Their's are the memoirs of th' equeſtrian ſtate:
Unſkill'd in Albion's paſt and preſent views,
Who *Cheny's records for Rapin peruſe.
Go on, brave youths, till, in ſome future age,
Whips ſhall become the ſenatorial badge;
Till England ſee her thronging ſenators
Meet all at Weſtminſter, in boots and ſpurs;
See the whole houſe, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad:
Of bets, for taxes, learnedly debate,
And guide, with equal reins, a Steed and State.
How would a virtuous †Houhnhym neigh diſdain,
To ſee his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
Bear ſlavery's wanton whip, or galling goad,
Smoak thro' the glebe, or trace the deſtin'd road,
And robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Suſtain each fordid toil of ſervile life.
Yet oh, what rage would touch his generous mind,
To ſee his ſons of more than mortal kind;
A kind, with each ingenuous virtue bleſt,
That fills the prudent head, or valorous breaſt,
Afford diverſion to that monſter baſe,
That meaneſt ſpawn of man's half-monkey race;
[62]In whom pride, avarice, ignorance conſpire,
That hated animal, a Yahoo-'ſquire.
How are th' adventurers of the Britiſh race
Chang'd from the choſen chiefs of antient days;
Who, warm'd with genuine glory's-honeſt thirſt,
Divinely labour'd in the Pythian duſt.
Theirs was the wreath that lifted from the throng,
Theirs was the Theban bard's recording ſong.
Mean time, to manly emulation blind,
Slaves to each vulgar vice that ſtains the mind,
Our Britiſh Therons iſſue to the race,
Of their own generous courſers the diſgrace.
What tho' the grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds,
They won no bets—but then they ſoar'd to gods;
And more an Hiero's palm, a Pindar's ode,
Than all the united plates of George beſtow'd.
Greece! how I kindle at thy magic name,
Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame,
Thy ſolemn ſcenes, and awful viſions riſe,
In antient grace, before my muſing eyes.
Here Sparta's ſons in mute attention hang,
While ſage Lycurgus pours the mild harangue;
There Xerxes' hoſts, all pale with deadly fear,
Shrink at her *fated Hero's flaſhing ſpear.
Here, hung with many a lyre of ſilver ſtring,
The laureat walks of ſweet Iliſſus ſpring:
[63]And lo where, rapt in beauty's heavenly dream,
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.—
Yet ah! no more the ſeat of art and arms
Delights with wiſdom, or with virtue warms,
Lo! the ſtern Turk, with more than Gothic rage,
Has blaſted all the bays of antient age;
No more her groves by ſacred feet are trod,
Each Attic Grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fallen is fair Greece! by luxury's pleaſing bane
Seduc'd, ſhe drags a barbarous foreign chain.
Britannia watch! O trim thy withering bays,
Remember thou haſt rivall'd Graecia's praiſe,
Great Nurſe of works divine! yet oh! beware
Leſt thou the fate of Greece, my Country, ſhare.
Recall thy wonted worth with conſcious pride,
Thou too haſt ſeen a Solon in a Hyde;
Haſt bade thine Edwards and thine Henry's rear,
With Spartan fortitude, the Britiſh ſpear;
Alike haſt ſeen thy ſons deſerve the meed,
Or of the moral, or the martial deed.
A REFLECTION ON SEEING THAT EXCELLENT PICTURE OF BE⯑LISARIUS, DRAWN BY VANDYKE.
[64]POor, blind, and old, ſee! Beliſarius led
An alms to aſk of thoſe his bounty fed:
Whom he defended, by his lord beknav'd;
And circumvented by the wretch he ſav'd!
Do ſuch things ſtartle you? raſh thoughts ſuſpend,
Judge not appearances, but mark the end.
What if the preſent is alone reveal'd,
And all beyond it prudently conceal'd;
What if the clue, when life's laſt thread is ſpun,
Should to a farther, more extenſive, run;
If here varieties diſorders ſeem,
Hereafter make a more conſiſtent ſcheme;
Why inequalities confuſion call?
'Tis providence in nature, God in all;
*This ſhows the value of all earthly things,
A great man's favours, or the ſmiles of kings;
On fortune's ſlippery ground, who ſtand elate,
This day the marks of love, the next of hate.
THE HERTFORDSHIRE GROVE.
[65]WHen evening gales allay the ſummer's heat,
With pleaſure I repair to this retreat,
While birds around me ſing, and flocks around me bleat.
They who retirement love this grove revere,
On every ſide hills crown'd with woods appear,
There venerable elms, majeſtic beeches here.
Hark! how the feather'd choir their notes prolong!
The mournful thruſh bewails her captive young,
And Philomela bears the burden of the ſong.
The joyful ſhepherds, whiſtling, home repair,
Horſes and ſteers th' approach of night declare,
For ſhepherds, horſes, ſteers, their daily taſks forbear.
See where the hare juſt ventures out to graze,
Cautious each hedge and thicket ſhe ſurveys,
And thro' the brakes and meadows timorouſly ſtrays!
Here Contemplation dwells with look ſerene,
Here dwells Content, that enemy to ſpleen,
And oft by poets here the tuneful Nine are ſeen.
[66]
Ye ſilent, venerable glades, all hail!
Where ſweets of bloſſom'd limes the ſmell regale,
Where beauty on each ſide and dignity prevail.
But hark! the crickets chirp, and warn my Muſe
To quit theſe ſolemn ſhades: freſh fall the dews,
And glow-worms o'er the lawn a glimmering light diffuſe.
THE MIDDLESEX GARDEN.
TO MISS H—. IN KENT.
ON a clear fountain's ſhady brink,
Where flowers ſpontaneous grow,
Pleas'd I peruſe your lines, and think
Of you and B—chb—h.
Imagination for my guide,
On Fancy's wings I ſoar,
And in your verſe I ſeem "to ride
" Along th' enamell'd ſhore."
My rhymes, by your example led,
I once again renew:
How can my Muſe refrain to tread
The path explor'd by you!
[67]
The beauties of the ſcenes in ſight
She tempts me to rehearſe;
The beauties of theſe ſcenes invite
The culture of my verſe.
Where'er I turn my eyes around
Unnumber'd charms I view;
Here trees with fruits delicious crown'd,
There flowers of various hue.
A fountain here invites repoſe,
And, waving over head,
Tall firs, in venerable rows,
Afford a chequer'd ſhade.
Behold the ivy and the vine
Together interwove;
See fragrant honey-ſuckles twine
To form a rich alcove!
The charms of Nature and of Art
United here we ſee;
Order appears in every part,
Mix'd with Variety.
Neatneſs in white apparel here,
And Delicacy dwell;
The notes of birds regale my ear,
The ſweets of flowers my ſmell.
[68]
The leaves and graſs appear ſo green,
The birds ſo blithely ſing,
That I can ſcarce diſcern between
The autumn and the ſpring.
But ſoon will winter ſtrip the woods,
And ſtrow with leaves the ground,
And ſoon in icy chains the floods
By winter will be bound.
And hark! even now the winds adviſe
Theſe ſhady banks to ſhun;
Then ceaſe, my Muſe, quick let us riſe,
And baſk in open ſun.
KENSINGTON GARDENS. A PASTORAL.
[69]WHen now the ſpring had burſt, with genial power,
Each roſy bud, and open'd every flower,
Thrown his green mantle on the fields and woods,
And bruſh'd, with balmy gales, the curling floods,
Scarce had the ſun diſpers'd, with early ray,
The ſhades of night, and ſhed the dawn of day,
Scarce had the ſlocks their dew-dipt fleeces dried,
Or ſilent anglers reach'd the glaſſy tide,
When to thoſe bowers, which oft a monarch's care
With Britain's bliſs, and Europe's ballance ſhare,
To Kenſington's fair bowers, by Love inſpir'd,
With lonely ſtep a penſive ſwain retir'd,
While the blithe bullfinch tun'd his mellow lay.
And the ſhrill blackbird whiſtled from the ſpray.
O for that Muſe which firſt, in nervous ſtrains.
Diſplay'd the ſplendor of theſe fairy plains,
Where, by the moon, the dancing Fays were ſeen,
And royal Kenna glimmer'd on the green,
Eugenia then with equal charms ſhould ſhine,
And Tickell's Kenſington ſhould yield to mine,
While, in a brake conceal'd, I now diſcloſe
What there I heard, and tell the ſhepherd's woes.
[70]
" Ah! what avails it me that Nature ſpreads
" Ambroſial fragrance o'er the verdant meads,
" That from each buſh melodious murmurs fly,
" And ſoft aerial muſic fills the ſky!
" Nature, in vain your fragrant flowers you ſpread,
" In vain your ſongſters warble o'er my head,
" Nor flowers my eye, nor muſic charms my ear,
" Not Eden's ſelf can pleaſe 'till Eve appear.
" Bleſt with Eugenia, were I doom'd to ſeek
" The barren hills of Scotland or the Peak,
" By Fortune's frown to dreary deſerts ſent,
" The Fells of Weſtmorland, or Wealds of Kent,
" Even Fortune's frown her preſence would beguile,
" And make bleak hills and dreary deſerts ſmile,
" Inveſt each barren plain with bloomy pride,
" And give thoſe charms which Nature has denied.
" But far from her I ſeek theſe lonely bowers,
" And ſooth with rural taſks the tedious hours;
" Pluck the pale primroſe from its velvet bed,
" Or ſtray where cowſlips hang the dewy head,
" And, penſive, liſten to the ruſtic lay
" Of jocund mowers chanting o'er their hay:
" Now, wrapt in thought, and loſt in devious ſhades,
" With tuneful bards I court th' inſpiring Maids;
" With Thomſon thro' each varying ſeaſon rove,
" Or mourn with Lyttelton in Hagley's grove;
" Yet even their numbers my diſtreſs renew,
" In Lucy my Eugenia's mind I view,
[71]" Or in Lavinia's bluſhing beauties trace
" The glowing charms that deck her poliſh'd face,
" And muſt theſe glowing charms, I ſighing cry,
" Still be reveal'd alone to fancy's eye?
" Now, pleas'd, I liſten to the feather'd throng,
" While Love inſpires, and Nature tunes the ſong:
" The lark, ſweet leader of the gloſſy train,
" Tells his ſhrill tale of love, nor tells in vain;
" Hoarſe thro' the wood the turtle ſtrains her throat,
" And cooes reſponſive to the ring-dove's note;
" While the blithe linnet, in yon hawthorn-ſpray,
" Delighted twitters her ecſtatic lay:
" To this ſoft theme each riſing morn attends,
" And evening hears it when her dew deſcends:
" And can Eugenia, whom all charms adorn,
" As evening mild, unclouded as the morn,
" Sweet as the lark, high-pois'd in early air,
" And as the linnet's downy plumage fair,
" Can ſhe her lover ſtill regardleſs view,
" Nor crown a paſſion like the turtle's true?
" Oft to theſe plains enamour'd I retire,
" Where thy proud turrets, Holland-Houſe, aſpire,
" Where Addiſon, with courtly Warwick, ſtray'd,
" Or with his Tickell moraliz'd the ſhade:
" Here, on the proſpect gazing with delight,
" Hills, woods, and vallies, ſtrain my wondering ſight;
" Here, tipt with gold, the glittering villas riſe,
" There, loſt in ſmoke, they mingle with the ſkies:
[72]" But ſhort the pleaſure which theſe plains attends,
" Vain the delight which even this proſpect lends;
" Birth, riches, grandeur, with contempt I view,
" And wiſdom, goodneſs, truth alone purſue;
" I boaſt a love whoſe flame theſe objects guide,
" Nor envy Addiſon his titled bride;
" And undelighted all this landſcape ſee,
" While every thought, Eugenia, turns on thee,
" And no kind viſta points the fair retreat,
" Where all theſe virtues now have fix'd their ſeat.
" But ſee! the lightning's momentary gleam
" Darts thro' the trees, and glimmers on the ſtream,
" And diſtant thunders, with an ample growl,
" From themes of love and ſorrow rouze my ſoul.
" Then ceaſe, fond ſwain! for hark! even now above
" Heard is your ſorrow, and approv'd your love;
" The ſympathiſing clouds condole your pain,
" With you they murmur, and with you complain;
" The ſoothing breezes to your ſighs reply,
" And pitying drops ſoft trickle from the ſky.
" Then fly, fond ſhepherd, from this gloomy grove,
" And ſeek the covert of yon cloſe alcove;
" There, from all ſtorms, a ſhelter you may find,
" But Love, that raging tempeſt of the mind."
FAREWELL TO HOPE. AN ODE.
[73]HOpe, ſweeteſt child of Fancy born,
Tho' tranſient as the dew of morn,
Thou who canſt charm, with ſound and light,
The deafen'd ear, and darken'd ſight,
And in dry deſerts glad the ſwains
With bubbling ſprings, and cultur'd plains;
No more invent thy airy ſchemes,
Nor mock me with fantaſtic dreams;
No more thy flattering ſtories tell,
Deceitful prattler, Hope, farewell!
Adieu the pleaſing proſpect, plann'd
By Fancy's fair deluſive hand!
No more that momentary ray,
Which gilds by fits a ſhowery day,
Shall ſhow me, in a diſtant grove,
Health, friendſhip, peace, content and love;
While many a nymph, and many a youth,
By Hymen join'd, and crown'd by Truth,
On verdant hillocks danc'd and play'd,
Or warbled in the hawthorn ſhade.
No more, with ſweet endearing talk,
Shalt thou beguile my vernal walk;
[74]No more, as thro' the wintry vale,
We journey on, with many a tale
Of fancied pleaſure, cheer the day,
And ſtrow with flowers the rugged way,
Still pointing to that rural cell
Where Innocence and Stella dwell;
Charm with the bubbling of a rill,
That guſhes from the neighbouring hill.
O let me now in ſilence rove
Thro' yon ſequeſter'd cypreſs grove,
Where, crown'd with leaves of baleful yew,
And circled by a Stygian crew,
(When, from the ivy-mantled tower,
The cock proclaims the midnight hour)
Pale Melancholy takes her round,
And o'er the mouldering, hallow'd ground
Where lovers lie, deſponding ſtands,
And, dumb with pity, wrings her hands.
While thus, with gloomy thought oppreſt,
Heart-piercing ſorrow heav'd my breaſt,
A heavenly form ſwift gliding by,
With healing comfort in her eye,
A look of winning ſoftneſs caſt,
And thus addreſt me as ſhe paſt:
" Mortal, be wiſe! and, even in death,
" Let Hope receive thy parting breath!
" Securely truſt my guardian care,
" And, led by Reaſon, ſhun Deſpair."
ON A LADY'S SENDING THE AUTHOR A RIBBON FOR HIS WATCH.
[75]NO fabled knight, in days of yore,
A trophy with more pleaſure wore,
Or flowery chaplet in a grove
By ſome diſtinguiſh'd damſel wove,
To grace the warrior's ſhield decreed,
Or ſwell the trappings of his ſteed,
Nor Fielding's *Hero, at the ſight
Of Sophy's name, felt more delight,
Or more rejoic'd the muff ſurvey'd,
Which on her arm the Fair diſplay'd,
Than I this ribbon, form'd to deck,
With jetty pride, Narciſſa's neck.
Inſtruction too this gift attends,
For even the leaſt a moral lends;
The ſmalleſt inſect of a day,
That only flutters to decay,
May bring important truths to view,
And teach us that we're mortal too.
When-e'er I turn my curious eye,
To ſee how ſwift the minutes fly,
[76]Strait will your lov'd idea riſe,
And bid me thoſe ſwift minutes prize.
Thus warn'd, your conduct I'll purſue,
And own my Guide and Genius you,
Who ne'er neglect the preſent hour,
But ſnatch the moments in your power,
And, as the Siſter Arts inſpire,
The pencil dip, or ſtring the lyre,
Or, pleas'd, the vacant mind unbend
In converſe with a learned friend,
Conſcious that time flies faſt away,
Nor can your worth prolong its ſtay,
Thus if I learn, my Fair, from you,
Whene'er this jetty ſtring I view,
Wiſely the minutes to enjoy,
And in improving arts employ,
Much by this ribbon I ſhall gain,
And you'll not think it given in vain,
ON SEEING CAPT. CORNWALL'S MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.
[77]THO' Britain's Genius hung his drooping head,
And mourn'd her antient naval glory fled,
On that fam'd day when France, combin'd with Spain,
Strove for the wide dominion of the main,
Yet, Cornwall, all, with grateful voice, agree
To pay the tribute of applauſe to thee:
When his bold chief, in thickeſt fight engag'd,
Unequal war with Spain's proud leader wag'd,
With indignation mov'd, he timely came
To reſcue from reproach his country's fame;
Succeſs too dearly did his valour crown,
He ſav'd his leader's life—and loſt his own.
Her warlike ſon Britannia thus repays,
That lateſt times may learn the Hero's praiſe,
And chiefs, like him, ſhall unrepining bleed,
When Senates thus reward the glorious deed.
PROLOGUE TO AMALASONT, QUEEN OF THE GOTHS.
A MS. TRAGEDY BY MR. HUGHES.
[78]OFT have the Chiefs, that deck the letter'd age
Of Greece and Rome, adorn'd the Britiſh ſtage;
To-night, majeſtic in diſtreſs, is ſeen
A brave, a generous, tho' a Gothic queen;
Who ſtrove to poliſh with each milder grace,
And ſoften into men that ſavage race.
Rever'd at home, abroad with conqueſt crown'd,
A foe more dangerous in her court ſhe found;
For Love, that tyrant, whoſe deſpotic ſway
Alike the cottage and the throne obey,
With the bright luſtre of a Hero's charms,
By ſtealth her ſoft, unguarded boſom warms;
Each anſwering heart in ſilken fetters binds,
And forms that tender ſympathy of minds,
Which lovers only feel; that ſource of joy,
Which nought but jealouſy can e'er deſtroy.
So far'd the Heroine, whoſe untutor'd bands
Struck terror into diſtant, poliſh'd lands;
Unſkill'd in arts refining to enſlave,
Tho' plain their habits, yet their hearts were brave;
[79]They learn'd one ſcience only,—to ſubdue,
Nor ſofter muſic than the trumpet knew;
And theſe, while Rome, to luxury a prey,
In ſloth and folly languiſh'd life away,
Swift as a mountain-torrent, ruſhing forth
From the bleak caverns of their native North,
Chas'd learning's votaries from their claſſic plains,
And bound the rulers of the world in chains.
Britons, by ſuch examples warn'd, beware,
Nor ſhare their vices, left their fate ye ſhare:
'Twas luxury fore-ran the Grecian doom,
'Twas luxury that min'd the walls of Rome:
The ſervile ſtate of thoſe fam'd empires view,
But think, O think, they once reſembled you.
EPIGRAMS.
IN ſoft Narciſſa's form united ſhine
Such female eaſe, and majeſty divine,
That each beholder muſt with awe declare
Apelles' Venus was not half ſo fair:
But when the ſtores of judgment, wit, and ſenſe,
Her lips with graceful modeſty diſpenſe,
Each hearer owns, with pleaſure and ſurprize,
That Homer's Pallas was not half ſo wiſe.
Theſe different charms ſuch different paſſions move,
Who ſees muſt reverence, but who hears muſt love.
ON A LADY'S HURTING HER HAND WITH THE AUTHOR'S SWORD.
[80]A Fate like mine, as poets ſing,
The ſon of Tydeus found,
Who durſt on Beauty's Queen inflict
A ſacrilegious wound.
But deeper is the wound I feel,
And keener is the ſmart,
Since Venus' ſelf muſt own the hand
Leſs tender than the heart.
ON THE TWO NAVAL VICTORIES OF MDCCLIX.
WHat wonders brave Hawke and Boſcawen have done!
The one burnt the Ocean, the other the Sun.*
[81]HORACE, SAT. VII. BOOK II. IMITATED.
HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.
[86]HOR. EPIST. XVIII. BOOK I. IMITATED.
[88]HOR. EPIST. XIX. BOOK I. IMITATED.
HORACE, SAT. VII. BOOK II. IMITATED.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET AND HIS SERVANT.
To enter into the beauties of this ſatire, it muſt be remembered, that ſlaves, among the Romans, during the feaſts of Saturn, wore their maſters habits, and were allowed to ſay what they pleaſed.
SERVANT.
SIR,—I've long waited in my turn to have
A word with you—but I'm your humble ſlave.
P.
What knave is that? my raſcal!
S.
Sir, 'tis I,
No knave, nor raſcal, but your truſty Guy.
P.
Well, as your wages ſtill are due, I'll bear
Your rude impertinence this time of year.
S.
Some folks are drunk one day, and ſome forever,
And ſome, like Wharton, but twelve years together.
Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt,
Would change his living oftener than his ſhirt;
Roar with the rakes of ſtate a month; and come
To ſtarve another in his hole at home.
[82]So rov'd wild Buckingham, the public jeſt,
Now ſome Innholder's, now a monarch's gueſt;
His life and politics of every ſhape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.
The gout in every limb from every vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever; and their ſins on thoſe,
By cuſtom, ſit as eaſy as their cloaths.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the devil:
For they—
P.
To what will theſe vile maxims tend?
And where, ſweet ſir, will your reflections end?
S.
In you.
P.
In me, you knave? make out your charge.
S.
You praiſe low-living, but you live at large.
Perhaps you ſcarce believe the rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practiſe what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle journey down,
But, without buſineſs, you're again in town.
If none invite you, ſir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord, what pleaſure 'tis to read at home!
And ſip your two half-pints, with great delight,
Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night.
From *Encombe, John comes thundering at the door,
With "Sir, my maſter begs you to come o'er,
[83]" To paſs theſe tedious hours, theſe winter nights,
" Not that he dreads invaſions, rogues, or ſprites."
Strait for your two beſt wigs aloud you call,
This ſtiff in buckle, that not curl'd at all.
" And where, you raſcal, are the ſpurs," you cry;
" And O! what blockhead laid the buſkins by?"
On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none)
Splaſh, plunge, and ſtumble, as you ſcour the heath,
All ſwear at Morden 'tis on life or death:
Wildly thro' Wareham ſtreets you ſcamper on,
Raiſe all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for ſix long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingſton gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high reſpect, it ſeems, and eager love:
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shafteſbury, Dodington may ſend in vain.
Before you go, we curſe the noiſe you make,
And bleſs the moment that you turn your back.
As for myſelf, I own it to your face,
I love good eating, and I take my glaſs:
But ſure 'tis ſtrange, dear ſir, that this ſhould be
In you amuſement, but a fault in me.
All this is bare refining on a name,
To make a difference where the fault's the ſame.
My father ſold me to your ſervice here,
For this ſine livery, and four pounds a year.
[84]A livery you ſhould wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove—but lay your cudgel by.
You ſerve your paſſions—Thus, without a jeſt,
Both are but fellow-ſervants at the beſt.
Yourſelf, good ſir, are play'd by your deſires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.
P.
Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S.
The brave, wiſe, honeſt man, and only he:
All elſe are ſlaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, ſir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater ſtill) is maſter of himſelf:
Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But looſe to all the intereſts of the world:
And while that world turns round, entire and whole
He keeps the ſacred tenor of his ſoul;
In every turn of fortune ſtill the ſame,
As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himſelf, with godlike pride,
He ſees the darts of envy glance aſide;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempeſts blow,
Smiles at the idle ſtorms that roar below.
One ſuch you know, a layman, to your ſhame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name.
If you can ſuch a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your ſlave again.
But when in Hemſkirk's pictures you delight,
More than myſelf, to ſee two drunkards fight;
[85]" Fool, rogue, ſot, blockhead," or ſuch names are mine:
" Your's are "a Connoiſſeur," or "Deep Divine."
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,
The ſacred prize of learning, worth and wit:
And yet ſome ſell their lands theſe bits to buy;
Then, pray, who ſuffers moſt from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I ſeal no bonds, I mortgage no eſtate.
Beſides, high living, ſir, muſt wear you out
With ſurfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By ſome new pleaſures are you ſtill engroſs'd,
And when you ſave an hour, you think it loſt.
To ſports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, ſleep, or (idler ſtill) you rhyme:
Why?—but to baniſh thought, and murder time.
And yet that thought, which you diſcharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.
P.
Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a ſtone,—
S.
For what?
P.
A ſword, a piſtol, or a gun:
I'll ſhoot the dog.
S.
Lord! who would be a wit?
He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.
P.
Fly, fly, you raſcal, for your ſpade and fork;
For once I'll ſet your lazy bones to work.
Fly, or I'll ſend you back, without a groat,
To the bleak mountains where you firſt were caught.
HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO JOHN PITT, ESQ.
[86]DEAR SIR,
—To all my trifles you attend,
But drop the critic to indulge the friend;
And with moſt Chriſtian patience loſe your time,
To hear me preach, or peſter you with rhyme.
Here with my books or friends I ſpend the day,
But how at Kingſton paſs your hours away?
Say, ſhall we ſee ſome plan with raviſh'd eyes,
Some future pile in miniature ariſe?
(A model to excel, in every part,
Judicious Jones, or great Palladio's art;)
Or ſome new bill, that, when the houſe is met,
Shall claim their thanks, and pay the nation's debt?
Or do you ſtudy, in the ſilent wood,
The ſacred duties of the wiſe and good?
Nature, who form'd you, nobly crown'd the whole
With a ſtrong body, and as firm a ſoul:
The praiſe is your's to finiſh every part
With all th' embelliſhments of taſte and art.
Some ſee, in canker'd heaps, their riches roll'd,
Your bounty gives new ſplendor to your gold.
[87]Could your dead father hope a greater bliſs,
Or your ſurviving parent more than this?
Than ſuch a ſon—a lover of the laws,
And ever true to honour's glorious cauſe;
Who ſcorns all parties, tho' by parties ſought;
Who greatly thinks, and truly ſpeaks his thought,
With all the chaſte ſeverity of ſenſe,
Truth, judgment, wit, and manly eloquence.
So, in his youth, great Cato was rever'd,
By Pompey courted, and by Caeſar fear'd;
Both he diſdain'd alike with godlike pride;
For Rome and Liberty he liv'd—and died!
In each perfection as you riſe ſo faſt,
Well may you think each day may be your laſt:
Uncommon worth is ſtill with fate at ſtrife,
Still inconſiſtent with a length of life.
The future time is never in your power,
Then 'tis clear gain to ſeize the preſent hour:
Break from your ſerious thoughts, and laugh away,
In Pimpern walls, one idle eaſy day.
You'll find your rhyming kinſman well in caſe,
For ever fix'd to this delicious place;
Tho' not like Lynch with corpulence o'ergrown;
For he has twenty cures— and I but one.
HOR. EPIST. XVIII. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO MR. SPENCE, WHEN TUTOR TO THE EARL OF MIDDLESEX.
[88]SPence, with a friend you paſs the hours away
In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay:
You ever differ'd from a flatterer more
Than a chaſte lady from a flaunting whore.
'Tis true, you raillied every fault you found,
But gently tickled, while you heal'd the wound:
Unlike the paltry poets of the town,
Rogues, who expoſe themſelves for half a crown;
And ſtill obtrude on every ſoul they meet
Rudeneſs for ſenſe, and ribaldry for wit:
Who, tho' half-ſtarv'd, in ſpite of time and place,
Repeat their rhymes, tho' dinner ſtays for grace;
And, as their poverty their dreſſes fit,
They think of courſe a ſloven is a wit:
But ſenſe (a truth theſe coxcombs ne'er ſuſpect)
Lies juſt 'twixt affectation and neglect.
One ſtep ſtill lower, if you can, deſcend
To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend;
That moving ſhade, that pendant at his ear,
That two-legg'd dog, ſtill pawing on the Peer:
[89]Studying his looks, and, watching at the board,
He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord;
And, tickled to the ſoul at every joke,
Like a preſs'd watch repeats what t'other ſpoke:
Echo to nonſenſe! ſuch a ſcene to hear!
'Tis juſt like Punch and his interpreter.
On trifles ſome are earneſtly abſurd;
You'll think the world depends on every word.
" What! is not every mortal free to ſpeak?
" I'll give my reaſons, tho' I break my neck."
And what's the queſtion? if it ſhines or rains,
Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen miles to Stains?
The wretch, reduc'd to rags by every vice,
Pride, projects, races, miſtreſſes, and dice,
The rich rogue ſhuns, tho' full as bad as he,
And knows a quarrel is good huſbandry.
" 'Tis ſtrange, cries Peter, you are out of pelf;
" I'm ſure, I thought you wiſer than myſelf:"
Yet gives him nothing—but advice too late;
" Retrench, or rather mortgage your eſtate:
" I can advance the ſum—'tis beſt for both—
" But henceforth cut your coat to match your cloth."
A miniſter, in mere revenge and ſport,
Will give his foe a paltry place at court:
The dupe, for every royal birth-day, buys
New horſes, coaches, cloaths, and liveries;
Plies at the levee; and, diſtinguiſh'd there,
Lives on the royal whiſper for a year.
[90]His miſtreſs ſhines in Bruſſels and brocade;
And now the wretch, ridiculouſly mad,
Draws on his banker, mortgages, and fails,
Then to the country runs away from jails.
There, ruin'd by the court, he ſells a vote
To the next burgeſs, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the ſteeds, which once his chariot bore,
Or ſweeps the borough, which he ſerv'd before.
But, by this roving meteor led, I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend:
Then take advice; and preach not out of time,
When good lord Middleſex is bent on rhyme.
Their humour check'd, or inclination croſt,
Sometimes the friendſhip of the great is loſt:
With innocent amuſements ſtill comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:
For your reward you gain his love, and dine
On the beſt veniſon, and the beſt French wine.
Never in wine, or wrath, betray your truſt;
Be ſilent ſtill, and obſtinately juſt:
Explore no ſecrets, draw no characters;
For echo will repeat, and walls have ears:
Nor let a buſy fool a ſecret know;
A ſecret gripes him 'till he lets it go:
Words are like bullets, and we wiſh in vain,
When once diſcharg'd, to call them back again.
Defend, dear Spence, the honeſt and the civil,
But to cry up a raſcal—that's the devil.
[91]Who guards a good man's character, 'tis known,
At the ſame time protects and guards his own:
For as with houſes ſo it fares with names,
A ſhed may ſet a palace all on flames:
The fire neglected on the cottage preys,
And mounts at laſt into a general blaze.
'Tis a fine thing, ſome think, a lord to know;
I wiſh his tradeſmen could but think ſo too.
He gives his word—then all your hopes are gone:
He gives his honour—then you're quite undone.
Moſt folks ſo partial to themſelves are grown,
They hate a temper differing from their own.
The grave abhor the gay, the gay the ſad,
And formaliſts pronounce the witty mad:
The ſot, who drinks ſix bottles in a place,
Swears at the flinchers who refuſe their glaſs.
Would you not paſs for an ill-natur'd man,
Comply with every humour that you can.
Pope will inſtruct you how to paſs away
Your time like him, and never loſe a day;
From hopes or fears your quiet to defend,
To all mankind, as to yourſelf, a friend;
And ſacred from the world, retir'd, unknown,
To lead a life with morals like his own.
When to delicious Pimpern I retire,
What greater bliſs, my Spence, can I deſire?
Contented there my eaſy hours I ſpend
With maps, globes, books, my bottle, and a friend.
[92]There I can live upon my income ſtill,
Even tho' the houſe ſhould paſs the Quaker's bill:
Yet to my ſhare ſhould ſome good prebend fall,
I think myſelf of ſize to fill a ſtall:
For life, or health, let heaven my lot aſſign,
A firm and even ſoul ſhall ſtill be mine.
HOR. EPIST. XIX. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO MR. LOWTH.
'TIS ſaid, dear ſir, no poets pleaſe the town,
Who drink mere water, tho' from Helicon:
For in cold blood they ſeldom boldly think;
Their rhymes are more inſipid than their drink.
Not great Apollo could the train inſpire,
'Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire:
Warm'd by two gods at once, they drink and write,
Rhyme all the day, and tipple all the night.
Homer, ſays Horace, nods in many a place,
But hints he nodded oftner o'er the glaſs.
Inſpir'd with wine old Ennius ſung and thought
With the ſame ſpirit that his heroes fought:
And we from Johnſon's tavern-laws divine,
That Bard was no great enemy to wine.
[93]'Twas from the bottle King deriv'd his wit,
Drank 'till he could not talk, and then he writ.
Let no coif'd ſerjeant touch the ſacred juice,
But leave it to the bards for better uſe:
Let the grave judges too the glaſs forbear,
Who never ſing, and dance but once a year.
This truth once known, the poets take the hint,
Get drunk or mad, and then get into print:
To raiſe their flames indulge the mellow fit,
And loſe their ſenſes in the ſearch of wit:
And when, with claret fir'd, they take the pen,
Swear they can write, becauſe they drink like Ben.
Such mimic Swift or Prior to their coſt,
For, in the raſh attempt, the fools are loſt.
When once a genius breaks thro' common rules,
He leads a herd of imitating fools.
If Pope, the prince of poets, fick a-bed,
O'er ſteaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools, in public, o'er the fragrant draught,
Incline thoſe heads that never ach'd or thought;
This muſt provoke his mirth or his diſdain,
Cure his complaint—or make him ſick again.
I too, like them, the poet's path purſue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;
But in a diſtant view—yet what I write,
In theſe looſe ſheets, muſt never ſee the light;
[94]Epiſtles, odes, and twenty trifles more,
Things that are born, and die in half an hour.
" What! you muſt dedicate," ſays ſneering Spence,
" This year, ſome new performance to the prince:
" Tho' money is your ſcorn, no doubt, in time,
" You hope to gain ſome vacant ſtall by rhyme;
" Like other poets, were the truth but known,
" You too admire whatever is your own."
Theſe wiſe remarks my modeſty confound,
While the laugh riſes, and the mirth goes round;
Vex'd at the jeſt, yet glad to ſhun a fray,
I whiſk into a coach, and drive away.
AN EPISTLE TO MR. SPENCE, IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. X. BOOK I.
[95]HEalth from the bard who loves the rural ſport,
To the more noble bard that haunts the court:
In every other point of life we chime,
Like two ſoft lines when coupled into rhyme.
I praiſe a ſpacious villa to the ſky,
You a cloſe garret full five ſtories high;
I revel here in Nature's varied ſweets,
You in the nobler ſcents of London ſtreets.
I left the court, and here, at eaſe reclin'd,
Am happier than the king who ſtay'd behind:
Twelve ſtifling diſhes I could ſcarce live o'er,
At home I dine with luxury on four.
Where would a man of judgment chuſe a ſeat,
But in a wholeſome, rural, ſoft retreat?
Where hills adorn the manſion they defend?
Where could he better anſwer Nature's end?
Here from the ſea the melting breezes riſe,
Unbind the ſnow, and warm the wintry ſkies:
Here gentle gales the dog-ſtar's heat allay,
And ſoftly breathing cool the ſultry day.
[96]How free from cares, from dangers and affright,
In pleaſing dreams I paſs the ſilent night!
Does not the variegated marble yield
To the gay colours of the flowery field?
Can the New-River's artificial ſtreams,
Or the thick waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding ruſty pipe convey'd,
Or daſh'd and broken down a deep caſcade,
With our clear ſilver ſtreams in ſweetneſs vie,
That in eternal rills run bubbling by;
In dimples o'er the poliſh'd pebbles paſs,
Glide o'er the ſands, or glitter thro' the graſs?
And yet in town the country proſpects pleaſe,
Where ſtately colonnades are flank'd with trees:
On a whole country looks the maſter down
With pride, where ſcarce five acres are his own.
Yet Nature, tho' repell'd, maintains her part,
And, in her turn, ſhe triumphs over art;
The hand-maid now may prejudice our taſte,
But the fair miſtreſs will prevail at laſt.
That man muſt ſmart, at length, whoſe puzzled ſight
Miſtakes in life falſe colours for the right;
As the poor dupe is ſure his loſs to rue,
Who takes a Pinchbeck guinea for a true.
The wretch, whoſe frantic pride kind fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the goddeſs frowns;
As he, who riſes when his head turns round,
Muſt tumble twice as heavy to the ground.
[97]Then love not grandeur, 'tis a ſplendid curſe;
The more the love, the harder the divorce.
We live far happier by theſe gurgling ſprings,
Than ſtateſmen, courtiers, counſellors, or kings.
The ſtag expell'd the courſer from the plain;—
What can he do?—he begs the aid of man;
He takes the bit, and proudly bears away
His new ally,—he fights, and wins the day:
But, ruin'd by ſucceſs, he ſtrives in vain
To quit his maſter, and the curb again.
So from the fear of want moſt wretches fly,
But loſe their nobleſt wealth, their liberty;
To their imperious paſſions they ſubmit,
Who mount, ride, ſpur, but never draw the bit.
'Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your ſhoe,
A large may wrench, a ſmall one wring your toe:
Then bear your fortune in the golden mean—
Not every man is born to be a Dean;
I'll bear your jeers if ever I am known
To ſeek two cures, when ſcarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, ſome ſervice may afford,
But oftner play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Money I ſcorn, but keep a little ſtill,
To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill.
From Encombe's ſoft romantic ſcenes I write,
Deep ſunk in eaſe, in pleaſure, and delight:
Yet, tho' her generous lord himſelf is here,
'Twould be one pleaſure more, could you appear.
THE INVITATION, AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND AT COURT.
[98]IF you can leave for books the crouded court,
And generous Bourdeaux for a glaſs of Port,
To theſe ſweet ſolitudes, without delay,
Break from the world's impertinence away.
Soon as the ſun the face of nature gilds,
For health and pleaſure will we range the fields;
O'er her gay ſcenes and opening beauties run,
While all the vaſt creation is our own.
But when his golden globe, with faded light,
Yields to the ſolemn empire of the night;
And, in her ſober majeſty, the moon
With milder glories mounts her ſilver throne;
Amidſt ten thouſand orbs with ſplendor crown'd,
That pour their tributary beams around,
Thro' the long levell'd tube our ſtrengthen'd ſight
Shall mark diſtinct the ſpangles of the night;
From world to world ſhall dart the boundleſs eye,
And ſtretch from ſtar to ſtar, from ſky to ſky.
The buzzing inſect families appear,
When ſuns unbind the rigour of the year;
[99]Quick glance the myriads round the evening bower,
Hoſts of a day, or nations of an hour.
Aſtoniſh'd we ſhall ſee th' unfolding race,
Stretch'd out in bulk, within the poliſh'd glaſs;
Thro' whoſe ſmall convex a new world we ſpy,
Ne'er ſeen before, but by a ſeraph's eye!
So long in darkneſs, ſhut from human kind,
Lay half God's wonders to a point confin'd!
But in one peopled drop we now ſurvey,
In pride of power, ſome little monſter play;
O'er tribes inviſible he reigns alone,
And ſtruts a tyrant of a world his own.
Now will we ſtudy Homer's awful page,
Now warm our ſouls with Pindar's noble rage:
To Engliſh lays ſhall Flaccus' lyre be ſtrung,
And lofty Virgil ſpeak the Britiſh tongue.
Immortal Virgil! at thy ſacred name
I tremble now, and now I pant for fame;
With eager hopes this moment I aſpire
To catch, or emulate thy glorious fire;
The next purſue the raſh attempt no more,
But drop the quill, bow, wonder, and adore;
By thy ſtrong genius overcome and aw'd!
That fire from heaven! that ſpirit of a God!
Pleas'd and tranſported with thy name I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend;
And from my firſt deſign, by rapture led,
Neglect the living poet for the dead.
ODE TO JOHN PITT, ESQ. ADVISING HIM TO BUILD A BANQUETING-HOUSE ON A HILL THAT OVERLOOKS THE SEA.
[100]FRom this tall promontory's brow
You look majeſtic down,
And ſee extended wide below
Th' horizon all your own.
With growing piles the vales are crown'd,
Here hills peep over hills;
There the vaſt ſky and ſea profound
Th' increaſing proſpect fills.
O bid, my friend, a ſtructure riſe,
And this huge round command;
Then ſhall this little point compriſe
The ocean and the land.
Then you, like Aeolus, on high,
From your aerial tower,
Shall ſee ſecure the billows fly,
And hear the whirlwinds roar.
You, with a ſmile, their rage deſpiſe,
'Till ſome ſad wreck appears,
And calls, from your relenting eyes,
The ſympathizing tears.
[101]
Thus may you view, with proud delight,
While winds the deep deform,
('Till human woes your grief excite)
All nature in a ſtorm.
Majeſtic, awful ſcene! when hurl'd,
On ſurges, ſurges rife,
And all the heaving watry world
Tumultuous mounts the ſkies.
The ſeas and thunder roar by turns,
By turns the peals expire;
The billows flaſh, and ether burns
With momentary fire.
But lo! the furious tempeſts ceaſe,
The mighty rage ſubſides;
Old ocean huſh'd, in ſolemn peace,
Has ſtill'd the murmuring tides.
Spread wide abroad, the glaſſy plain,
In various colours gay,
Reflects the glorious ſun again,
And doubly gilds the day.
Th' horizon glows from ſide to ſide,
And flames with glancing rays;
The floating, trembling, ſilver tide,
Is one continual blaze.
[102]
Your eyes the proſpect now command,
All uncontroul'd and free,
Fly like a thought from land to land,
And dart from ſea to ſea.
Thus, while above the clouds we ſit,
And, innocently gay,
Paſs in amuſements, wine, or wit,
The ſultry hours away.
Sometimes, with pity, or diſdain,
In thought a glance we throw
Down on the poor, the proud, the vain,
In yonder world below.
We ſee, from this exalted ſeat,
(How ſhrunk, reduc'd, confin'd!)
The little perſon of the great,
As little as his mind.
See there—amidſt the crowds our view
Some ſcatter'd virtues ſtrike;
But thoſe ſo throng'd, and theſe ſo few,
The world looks all alike.
Yet, thro' this cloud of human kind,
The Talbots we ſurvey,
The Pitts, the Yorks, the Seckers find,
Who ſhine in open day.
TO THE SAME, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
[103]O'ER curious models as you rove
The vales with piles to crown,
And great Palladio's plans improve
With nobler of your own;
O bid a ſtructure o'er the floods
From this high mountain riſe,
Where we may ſit enthron'd like gods,
And revel in the ſkies.
Th' aſcending breeze, at each repaſt,
Shall breathe an air divine,
Give a new brightneſs to the taſte,
New ſpirit to the wine.
Or theſe low pleaſures we may quit
For banquets more refin'd,
The works of each immortal wit
The luxury of the mind.
Plato, or Boyle's, or Newton's page
Our towering thoughts ſhall raiſe,
Or Homer's fire, or Pindar's rage,
Or Virgil's lofty lays.
[104]
Or with amuſive thoughts the Sea
Shall entertain the mind,
While we the rolling ſcene ſurvey,
An emblem of mankind.
Where, like ſworn foes, ſucceſſive all,
The furious ſurges run,
To urge their predeceſſor's fall,
Tho' follow'd by their own.
Where, like our moderns ſo profound,
Engag'd in dark diſpute,
The ſkuttles caſt their ink around
To puzzle the diſpute.
Where ſharks, like ſhrewd directors, thrive,
Like lawyers, rob at will;
Where flying-fiſh, like trimmers live;
Like ſoldiers, ſword-fiſh kill.
Where on the leſs the greater feed,
The tyrants of an hour,
'Till the huge royal whales ſucceed,
And all at once devour.
Thus in the moral world we now
Too truly underſtand,
Each monſter of the ſea below
Is match'd by one at land.
ON MRS. WALKER'S POEMS, PARTICULARLY THAT ON THE AUTHOR.
[105]BLuſh, Wilmot, bluſh; a female muſe,
Without one guilty line,
The tender theme of love purſues
In ſofter ſtrains than thine.
'Tis thine the paſſion to blaſpheme,
'Tis her's with wit and eaſe
(When a mere nothing is the theme)
Beyond thyſelf to pleaſe.
Then be to her the prize decreed,
Whoſe merit has prevail'd;
For what male poet can ſucceed,
If Rocheſter has fail'd?
Since Phoebus quite forgetful grows,
And has not yet thought fit,
In his high wiſdom, to impoſe
A ſalique law on wit;
Since of your rights he takes no care,
Ye Priors, Popes, and Gays;
'Tis hard!—but let the women wear
The breeches and the bays.
VERSES ON A FLOWERED CARPET, WORKED BY THE YOUNG LADIES AT KINGSTON.
[106]WHen Pallas ſaw the piece her pupils wrought,
She ſtood long wondering at the lovely draught:
" And, Flora, now (ſhe cried) no more diſplay
Thy flowers, the trifling beauties of a day:
For ſee! how theſe with life immortal bloom,
And ſpread and flouriſh for an age to come!
In what unguarded hour did I impart
To theſe fair virgins all my darling art?
In all my wit I ſaw theſe rivals ſhine,
But this one art I thought was always mine:
Yet lo! I yield; their miſtreſs now no more,
But proud to learn from theſe I taught before.
For look, what vegetable ſenſe is here!
How warm with life theſe bluſhing leaves appear!
What temper'd ſplendors o'er the piece are laid!
Shade ſteals on light, and light dies into ſhade.
Thro' heaven's gay bow leſs various beauties run,
And far leſs bright, tho' painted by the ſun.
See in each blooming flower what ſpirit glows!
What vivid colours fluſh the opening roſe!
In ſome few hours thy lilly diſappears;
But this ſhall flouriſh thro' a length of years,
[107]See unfelt winters paſs ſucceſſive by,
And ſcorn a mean dependence on the ſky.
And oh! may Britain, by my counſels ſway'd,
But live and flouriſh, 'till theſe flowers ſhall fade!
Then go, fond Flora, go, the palm reſign
To works more fair and durable than thine:
For I, even I, in juſtice yield the crown
To works ſo far ſuperior to my own."
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
ON this fair ground, with raviſh'd eyes,
We ſee a ſecond Eden riſe,
As gay and glorious as the firſt,
Before th' offending world was curſt.
While theſe bright nymphs the needle guide,
To paint the roſe in all her pride,
Nature, like her, may bluſh to own
Herſelf ſo far by art outdone.
Theſe flowers ſhe rais'd with all her care,
So blooming, ſo divinely fair!
The glorious children of the ſun,
That David's regal heir out-ſhone,
Were ſcarce like one of theſe array'd;
They died, but theſe ſhalt never fade.
ON THE ART OF PREACHING. A FRAGMENT. IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S ART OF POETRY.
[108]‘—Pendent opera interrupta—’
SHould ſome fam'd hand, in this fantaſtic age,
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the ſtage,
With all his poſtures, in one motley plan,
The god, the hound, the monkey, and the man;
Here o'er his head high brandiſhing a leg,
And there juſt hatch'd, and breaking from his egg;
While monſter crouds on monſter thro' the piece,
Who could help laughing at a ſight like this?
Or as a drunkard's dream together brings
A court of coblers, and a mob of kings;
Such is a ſermon, where, confus'dly dark,
Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and Clarke.
So eggs of different pariſhes will run
To batter, when you beat ſix yolks to one;
So ſix bright chymic liquors if you mix,
In one dark ſhadow vaniſh all the ſix.
This licence prieſts and painters ever had,
To run bold lengths, but never to run mad;
[109]For thoſe can't reconcile God's grace to ſin,
Nor theſe paint tygers in an aſs's ſkin;
No common dauber in one piece would join
A fox and gooſe,—unleſs upon a ſign.
Some ſteal a page of ſenſe from Tillotſon,
And then conclude divinely with their own;
Like oil on water mounts the prelate up,
His grace is always ſure to be at top;
That vein of mercury its beams will ſpread,
And ſhine more ſtrongly thro' a mine of lead.
With ſuch low arts your hearers never bilk,
For who can bear a ſuſtian lin'd with ſilk?
Sooner than preach ſuch ſtuff, I'd walk the town,
Without my ſcarf, in Whiſton's draggled gown;
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's, to read
For pence, and bury for a groat a head.
Some eaſy ſubject chuſe, within your power,
Or you will ne'er hold out for half an hour.
Still to your hearers all your ſermons ſort;
Who'd preach againſt corruption at a court?
Againſt church power at viſitations bawl?
Or talk about damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horſe-guards on a cure of ſouls?
Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Pauls?
Or be, like David Jones, ſo indiſcreet,
To rave at uſurers in Lombard-ſtreet?
[110]
Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing ſtumbling ſtyle:
" Whoever with a piercing eye can ſee
" Thro' the paſt records of futurity?"
All gape, no meaning:—the puft orator
Talks much, and ſays juſt nothing for an hour.
Truth and the text he labours to diſplay,
Till both are quite interpreted away:
So frugal dames inſipid water pour,
Till green, bohea, or coffee are no more.
His arguments in giddy circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begun:
So the poor turnſpit as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he loſes ground.
No parts diſtinct, or general ſcheme we find,
But one wild ſhapeleſs monſter of the mind:
So when old bruin teems, her children fail
Of limbs, form, figure, features, head or tail;
Nay, tho' ſhe licks the ruins, all her cares
Scarce mend the lumps, and bring them but to bears.
Ye country vicars, when you preach in town
A turn at Paul's, to pay your journey down,
If you would ſhun the ſneer of every prig,
Lay by the little band, and ruſty wig:
But yet be ſure, your proper language know,
Nor talk as born within the ſound of Bow.
Speak not the phraſe that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from Change-alley ſteal a cant of words.
[111]Coachmen will criticiſe your ſtyle, nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther:
The dregs of the canaille will look aſkew
To hear the language of the town from you;
Nay, my lord mayor, with merriment poſſeſt,
Will break his nap, and laugh among the reſt,
And jog the aldermen to hear the jeſt.
* * * * * *
AN EPITAPH INSCRIBED ON A STONE, THAT COVERS HIS FATHER, MOTHER, AND BROTHER.
YE ſacred ſpirits! while your friends diſtreſs'd
Weep o'er your aſhes, and lament the bleſs'd;
O let the penſive Muſe inſcribe that ſtone,
And with the general ſorrows mix her own:
The penſive Muſe!—who, from this mournful hour,
Shall raiſe her voice, and wake the ſtring no more!
Of love, of duty this laſt pledge receive;
'Tis all a brother, all a ſon can give.
EPITAPH ON DR. KEIL, THE LATE FAMOUS ASTROLOGER.
[112]BEneath this ſtone the world's juſt wonder lies,
Who, while on earth, had rang'd the ſpacious ſkies;
Around the ſtars his active ſoul had flown,
And ſeen their courſes finiſh'd ere his own:
Now he enjoys thoſe realms he could explore,
And finds that heaven he knew ſo well before.
He thro' more worlds his victory purſued
Than the brave Greek could wiſh to have ſubdued;
In triumph ran one vaſt creation o'er,
Then ſtop'd,—for Nature could afford no more.
With Caeſar's ſpeed, young Ammon's noble pride,
He came, ſaw, vanquiſh'd, wept, return'd, and died.
N.B. All the pieces, from page 100 to this incluſive, were written by Mr. C. Pitt.
PART OF SAT. VI. BOOK II. OF HORACE, TRANSLATED.
BEGINNING AT, PERDITUR HAEC INTER MISERO LUX, NON SINE VOTIS, &c.
[113]COnſum'd in trifles, thus the golden day
Steals, not without this ardent wiſh, away;
When ſhall I ſee my peaceful country farm,
My fancy when with antient authors charm?
Or, lull'd to ſleep, the cares of life elude
In ſweet oblivion of ſolicitude?
O, for thoſe beans which my own fields provide!
Deem'd by Pythagoras to man allied;
The ſavoury pulſe ſerv'd up in platters nice,
And herbs high-reliſh'd with the bacon ſlice!
O, tranquil nights in pleaſing converſe ſpent,
Ambroſial ſuppers that might gods content!
When with my choſen friends (delicious treat!)
Before the houſhold deities we eat;
The ſlaves themſelves regale on choiceſt meat.
Free from mad laws we ſit reclin'd at eaſe,
And drink as much, or little, as we pleaſe.
Some quaff large bumpers that expand the ſoul,
And ſome grow mellow with a moderate bowl.
We never talk of this man's houſe or vill,
Or whether Lepos dances well or ill:
[114]But of thoſe duties which ourſelves we owe,
And which 'tis quite a ſcandal not to know:
As whether wealth or virtue can impart
The trueſt pleaſure to the human heart:
What ſhould direct us in our choice of friends,
Their own pure merit, or our private ends:
What we may deem, if rightly underſtood,
Man's ſovereign bliſs, his chief, his only good.
Mean-time my friend, old Cervius, never fails
To cheer our converſe with his pithy tales:
Praiſe but Arellius, or his ill-got ſtore,
His fable thus begins: "In days of yore
A country mouſe within his homely cave
A treat to one of note, a courtier, gave;
A good plain mouſe our hoſt, who lov'd to ſpare
Thoſe heaps of forage he had glean'd with care;
Yet on occaſion would his ſoul unbend,
And feaſt with hoſpitality his friend:
He brought wild oats and vetches from his hoard;
Dried grapes and ſcraps of bacon grac'd the board:
In hopes, no doubt, by ſuch a various treat,
To tempt the dainty traveller to eat.
Squat on freſh chaff, the maſter of the feaſt
Left all the choiceſt viands for his gueſt,
Nor one nice morſel for himſelf would ſpare,
But gnaw'd coarſe grain, or nibbled at a tare.
At length their ſlender dinner finiſh'd quite,
Thus to the ruſtic ſpoke the mouſe polite:
[115]' How can my friend a wretched being drag
' On the bleak ſummit of this airy crag?
' Say, do you ſtill prefer this barbarous den
' To poliſh'd cities, ſavages to men?
' Come, come with me, nor longer here abide,
' I'll be your friend, your comrade, and your guide.
' Since all muſt die that draw this vital breath,
' Nor great nor ſmall can ſhun the ſhafts of death;
' 'Tis ours to ſport in pleaſures while we may;
' For ever mindful of life's little day.'
Theſe weighty reaſons ſway'd the country mouſe,
And light of heart he ſallied from his houſe,
Reſolv'd to travel with this courtly ſpark,
And gain the city when ſecurely dark.
Now midnight hover'd o'er this earthly ball,
When our ſmall gentry reach'd a ſtately hall,
Where brightly glowing, ſtain'd with Tyrian dye,
On ivory couches richeſt carpets lie;
And in large baſkets, rang'd along the floor,
The rich collation of the night before.
On purple bed the courtier plac'd his gueſt,
And with choice cates prolong'd the grateful feaſt;
He carv'd, he ſerv'd, as much as mouſe could do,
And was his waiter, and his taſter too.
Joy ſeiz'd the ruſtic as at eaſe he lay;
This happy change had made him wondrous gay—
When lo! the doors burſt open in a trice,
And at their banquet terrified the mice:
[116]They ſtart, they tremble, in a deadly fright,
And round the room precipitate their flight;
The high-roof'd room with hideous cries reſounds
Of baying maſtiffs, and loud-bellowing hounds:
Then thus the ruſtic in the courtier's ear;
' Adieu! kind ſir! I thank you for your cheer:
' Safe in my cell your ſtate I envy not;
' Tares be my food, and liberty my lot!"
F.
A PARODY ON THE CITY AND COUN⯑TRY MOUSE.
A Country vicar in his homely houſe,
Pleas'd with his lot, and happy in his ſpouſe,
With ſimple diet, at his humble board,
Once entertain'd the chaplain of a lord;—
He gave him (all he could) a little fiſh,
With ſauce of oyſters, in no ſilver diſh;
And, for the craving ſtomach's ſure relief,
The glory of Old England, rare Roaſt-beef,
Horſe-radiſh and potatoes, Ireland's pride;
A pudding too the prudent dame ſupplied:
Their cheering beverage was a pint of port
(Tho' ſmall the quantum) of the better ſort;
But plenty of good beer, both ſmall and ſtout,
With wine of elder to prevent the gout.
[117]The vicar hop'd, by ſuch a various treat,
To tempt his ſcarf-embelliſh'd friend to eat;
With niceſt bits provok'd his gueſt to dine,
He carv'd the haddock, and he ſerv'd the wine:
Content his own ſharp ſtomach to regale
With plain, ſubſtantial roaſt-meat, and mild ale.
Our courtly chaplain, as we may ſuppoſe,
At ſuch old-faſhion'd commons curl'd his noſe;
He tried in vain to piddle, and, in brief,
Piſh'd at the pudding, and declin'd the beef;—
At length, their homely dinner finiſh'd quite,
Thus to the vicar ſpoke the prieſt polite:
' How can my brother in this paltry town
' Live undiſtinguiſh'd, to the world unknown?
' And not exalt your towering genius higher,
' Than here to herd with country clown—or ſquire;
' Stunn'd with the diſcord of hoarſe cawing rooks,
' The roar of winds, the diſſonance of brooks,
' Which diſcontented thro' the valley ſtray,
' Plaintive and murmuring at their long delay.
' Come, come with me, nor longer here abide;
' You've friends in town, and I will be your guide:
' Soon great preferment to your ſhare will fall,
' A good fat living, or perhaps—a ſtall.'
Theſe weighty reaſons ſway'd the vicar's mind—
To town he hied, but left his wife behind:—
Next levee-day he waited on his Grace,
With hundreds more, who bow'd to get a place;
[118]Shov'd in the croud, he ſtood amaz'd to ſee
Lords who to Baal bent the ſupple knee,
And doctors ſage he could not but admire,
Who ſtoop'd profoundly low—to riſe the higher.
So much of ermine, lace, beaus, biſhops, young and old,
'Twas like a cloud of ſable edg'd with gold:
By turns his Grace the ſervile train addreſt,
Pleas'd with a ſmile, or in a whiſper bleſt.
Sick of the ſcene, the vicar ſought the door,
Determin'd never to ſee London more;
But, as his friend had pleas'd the hour to fix,
Firſt went to dinner to my Lord's at ſix;—
He knock'd—was uſher'd to the room of ſtate,
(My Lord abroad) and dinner ſerv'd in plate;
Which, tho' it ſeem'd but common ſoup and haſh,
Was really callipee and callipaſh,
(The relicks of the gaudy day before)
What Indians eat, and Engliſhmen adore;
With bright champaign the courtier crown'd the feaſt,
Sooth'd his own pride, and gratified his gueſt:
All this conſpir'd our Stoic to controul,
And warpt the ſteady purpoſe of his ſoul—
When lo! the cry of fire creates amaze—
" The next houſe, Lady Riot's, in a blaze"—
Aghaſt the vicar ſtood, in wild affright,
Then briefly thus addreſs'd the prieſt polite:
" Adieu, my friend—your ſtate I envy not—
" Beef, liberty, and ſafety be my lot."
F.
HORACE, EPIST. V. BOOK I. IMITATED.
TO JOHN H—H, ESQ.
[119]IF you, dear ſir, will deign to paſs a day
In the fair vale of Orpington and Cray,
And live for once as humble vicars do;
On Thurſday let me ſee you here by two.
Expect no niceties my plates to foul,
But Banſted mutton, and a barn-door fowl.
My friends with generous liquors I regale,
Good port, old hock, or, if they like it, ale;
But if of richer wine you chuſe a quart,
Why bring, and drink it here—with all my heart.
Plain is my furniture, as is my treat,
For 'tis my beſt ambition, To be neat.
Leave then all ſordid views, and hopes of gain,
To mortals miſerable, mad, or vain;
Put the laſt poliſh to th' hiſtoric page,
And ceaſe awhile to moralize the age.
By your ſweet converſe cheer'd, the live-long day
Will paſs unnotic'd, like the ſtream, away.
Why ſhould kind Providence abundance give,
If we, like niggards, can't afford to live?
The wretched miſer, poor 'midſt heaps of pelf,
To cram his heir, moſt madly ſtarves himſelf—
So will not I—give me good wine and eaſe,
And let all miſers call me fool that pleaſe.
[120]What cannot wine?—it opens all the ſoul;
Faint Hope grows brilliant o'er the ſparkling bowl:
Wine's generous ſpirit makes the coward brave,
Gives eaſe to kings, and freedom to the ſlave:
Bemus'd in wine the Bard his duns forgets,
And drinks ſerene oblivion to his debts:
Wine drives all cares, and anguiſh from the heart,
And dubs us Connoiſſeurs of every art:
Whom does not wine with eloquence inſpire?
The bouſy beggar ſtruts into a ſquire.
This you well know—to me belongs to mind
That neatneſs with frugality be join'd;
That no intruding Blab, with itching ears,
Darken my doors, who tells whate'er he hears;
Two D—s, each a poet, with me dine,
Your friends, and decent C—n, a divine:
There's room for more—ſo to complete the band,
Your wife will bring fair *Innocence in hand.
Should Cave want copy, let the teazer wait,
While you ſteal ſecret thro' the garden gate.
F.
SALT WATER.
[121]O! ſure the greedy wretch is pent
In endleſs chains of deep damnation,
Who firſt to plague us did invent
The curſed art of navigation.
When to the wind we ſpread our ſails,
Upon the pathleſs ocean ſtrolling,
Cramm'd in a tub, ſtuck full of nails,
Like Regulus we die with rolling.
A plague upon the nauſeous brine,
What benefit receive we from it?
Unleſs with rank diſeaſe we pine,
And uſe it for a purge or vomit.
While Eve in innocence did dwell,
Her water in freſh rills deſcended,
But ſoon as ſhe to folly fell,
The violet ſtream with brine was blended.
The race of men in antient times
Were bent on rapine, and on ſlaughter,
When heaven, incenſed at their crimes,
Decreed their deaths, and ſent ſalt water.
[122]
And when thoſe heavy judgments paſt
On Aegypt, for her plagues renowned,
Salt water was reſerv'd the laſt,
And Pharoah and his hoſt were drowned.
When we who now are turn'd to fiſh,
And with the ſcurvy grown all ſcaly,
And made for ſhark a curious diſh,
While over-board we're tumbled daily:
May you who on the land abide
Our element to mourn us borrow,
Let fall of tears a briny tide,
Salt water is the mark of ſorrow.
Appendix A CONTENTS.
[]- OCtober. An ode, Page 1
- The fall of the leaf, 3
- The decline of autumn, 5
- Farewell to ſummer, 7
- Farewell to the country, 11
- On ſeeing a roſe in October, 13
- On the death of Dr. Parne, 14
- Fables for grown Gentlemen.
- I. The river with a petition, 17
- II. The Phoenix and her lovers, 21
- III. The ducklings and the wiſe birds, 24
- IV. The fighting cock and the craven, 27
- V. The dog and the cat, 30
- VI. The ſpider and the fly, 33
- VII. The wild-ducks and water-ſpaniel, 36
- VIII. The advice of an old ſpaniel, 41
- Verſes to a lady with a pair of ſtockings 45
- The copper farthing, 48
- New-Market. A ſatire, 54
- On ſeeing the picture of Beliſarius, 64
- The Hertfordſhire grove, 65
- The Middleſex garden, 66
- Kenſington-gardens. A paſtoral, 69
- Farewell to hope. An ode, 73
- On a lady's ſending the author a ribbon, 75
- On ſeeing captain Cornwall's monument, 77
- Prologue to Amalaſont, 78
- Three epigrams. On Narciſſa, 79
- On a lady's being wounded by the author's ſword, 80
- On the two naval victories of 1759. Ibid.
- Imitations of Horace, by Mr. C. Pitt.
- Satire vii. book ii. 81
- Epiſtle xviii. book i. 88
- [124]Epiſtle xix. book i. Page 92
- Epiſtle x. book i. 95
- The invitation. An epiſtle, 98
- Ode to John Pitt, eſq. 100
- — to the ſame, 103
- On Mrs. Walker's poems, 105
- Verſes on a flowered carpet, 106
- On the ſame ſubject, 107
- The art of preaching, a fragment, 108
- Epitaph on his father, mother, and brother, 111
- Epitaph on Dr. Keil, 112
- Part of the ſixth ſatire of the ſecond book of Horace, 113
- A parody on the city and country mouſe, 116
- Horace, epiſt. v. book i. imitated, 119
- Salt water, 121
END OF VOL. X.
Notes
*
The doctor was buried in the college chapel: It is uſual, on the death of any Fellow, to carry an empty bier, with a pall over it, round the Quadrangle, the Choir walking before it, and all the members of the ſociety behind: Verſes on the deceaſed are uſually fixed to the pall, and thrown into the grave:—But theſe ceremonies were omitted.
*
A country boy that waited on the Doctor, who was ob⯑ſerved to cry all the time.
*
See her character in Poet. Cal. vol. 7. p. 30.
*
Antique medals.
*
Alluding to thoſe well-known lines of Sir John Denham, in Cooper's Hill, on London.
" —Thro' ſeveral ways they run,
" Some to undo, and ſome to be undone."
*
It was a faſhionable practice among our antient nobility and gentry, of both ſexes, to perform perſonally in entertain⯑ments of this kind. Nothing could be a more delightful or rational method of ſpending an evening than this. Milton's Comus was thus exhibited at Ludlow-Caſtle, in the year 1631. See Ben Johnſon's Maſques.
*
Clavileno. See Don Quixote.
*
A kind of ſcaffold, where is held a conſiſtory, made up of ſeveral very eminent gentlemen, for determining doubtful caſes in the race, &c. This place might not improperly be called, a Pandaemonium.
*
The accurate and annual author of an hiſtorical liſt of the running-horſes, &c.
†
Vide Gulliver's travels, voyage to the Houhnhyms.
*
Leonidas,
*
The picture.
*
Tom Jones, then juſt publiſhed.
*
The French admiral's ſhips, ſo called.
*
The ſeat of John Pitt, eſq. in Derſetſhire,
*
The name of a very agreeable young lady.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5368 The poetical calendar Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry by the most eminent hands Intended as a supplement to Mr Dodsley s collection Written and selected by Fra. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5833-8