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NEW POEMS ON Several OCCASIONS,
- I. A ſhort ESSAY on the Progreſs of Engliſh Poetry.
- II. On the Rotund erected by Mervyn Pratt, Eſq
- III. To a Gentleman of Fortune, on commencing Holy Orders.
- IV. To a Friend in Sickneſs.
- V. To a Gentleman, who promis'd his Letter of Recommendation.
- VI. To a Gentleman, who promis'd me Mr. Addiſon's Works.
- VII. A ſhort Paſtoral.
- VIII. On Chriſtmas Day;
- IX. On Painting.
- X. To the Rt. Hen. the Lord Kingſland.
- XI. To the Hon. Thomas Coote, Eſq
- XII. An Epitaph on Steven Taffe, Eſq
- XIII. From a Gentleman to a Lady.
- XIV. An Elegy on Little Meredy.
- XV. On the Sawyers Pro⯑ceſſion.
- XVI. On the Boyn Rock.
- XVII. Verſes, to the Air of Tweed-Side.
- XVIII. — to the Air of Bonny Jane.
- XIX. — to the Air of Bonny Broom.
- XX. A Valentine to a Girl, whoſe Mother makes Pyes and Tarts.
- XXI. To Mr. Stanley, A⯑pothecary.
By HENRY JONES.
DUBLIN: Printed by Chriſtopher Dickſon, in the Poſt-Office-Yard. 1735-6.
TO Mervyn Pratt, Eſq
[]SIR,
I Doubt not but you will be ſurpriz'd to ſee the following Trifles ven⯑ture abroad, under the Protection of your Name. I muſt confeſs, that no⯑thing but the higheſt Confidence of your Humanity and Candour, could have emboldened me to proſtrate them at your Feet, being convinc'd by the ma⯑ny Inſtances of your Favours, of what I may modeſtly expect from your Goodneſs upon this Occaſion, even your kind Reception. The beſt Part of the following Papers relates imme⯑diately to yourſelf, having had their [4] Birth beneath your friendly Roof, and ſome of them their Maturity from your own Hand. Gratitude therefore, as well as prudence obliges me to make my Acknowledgment, by of⯑fering them as ſo many Orphans, to the Shelter of your Compaſſion, in Hopes you will not only pardon this Aſſurance, but alſo receive them, as the beſt Teſtimony of the Reſpects of him who is,
SIR,
Your moſt grateful, Moſt Sincere, and moſt obliged Humble Servant, HENRY JONES.
POEMS on ſeveral Occaſions, &c.
[5]A ſhort ESSAY on the Progreſs of Engliſh POETRY.
TO Grecian Numbers Homer's Harp was ſtrung,
And Virgil triumph'd in the Latin Song;
But Milton on Urania's Wings did riſe,
And open'd wide the Curtain of the Skies;
By Aid Divine, Celeſtial Scenes he drew,
And brought Embattl'd Seraphs in our View;
A Flight ſo high to Mortal ne'er was given,
'Till Milton ſung the mighty War in Heaven;
When with Thunder the bleſs'd Meſſiah rode,
Aſtoniſh'd Fiends confeſs'd their awful God;
By Force reſiſtleſs, trembling Hoſts he hurl'd
To dreadful Dungeons, of the Nether World.
Diſmay'd in Circles, Rebel Angels fell,
And ſunk beneath the gloomy Shades of Hell.
Not ſo feign'd Gods with ancient Giants ſtrove,
When Mortals mock'd the Thunderbolts of Jove.
Thoſe fearful Powers from raging Monſters fled,
Whil'ſt Egypt ſcreen'd them from the unwieldy Dread.
Our Sacred Bard inflam'd, by Angels fir [...]d,
On azure Wings to heav'nly Truths aſpir'd:
[6]What paſs'd above e're this vaſt World began,
Or glittering Stars did light the Seat of Man;
When unborn Nature, in its Womb did ſleep,
And ſable Darkneſs veil'd the dusky Deep;
When ſhapeleſs Matter in jumbl'd Attoms lay.
And Hard with Soft, and Night was mix'd with Day.
Thus ſung our Engliſh Bard in glorious Strains,
Whil'ſt more than Homer's Stile his Song ſuſtains.
In Cowly's Theme the Son of Jeſſe ſhines;
And mourning David's lovely in his Lines;
He whom God to Kingly Power did call,
Whoſe Wings preſerv'd him from the Rage of Saul.
Such pious Charms in his bright Soul did raiſe,
Which flam'd a glowing and continued Blaze.
Surpriz'd with Wonder, in his Songs we meet
A flowing Stream, and endleſs Source of Wit.
To Cromwell's Fame ſweet Waller's Lyre was ſtrung;
Th' Uſurper lives, becauſe the Poet Sung.
His manly Notes ſo lofty and ſublime,
Made hardy Treaſon with a Luſtre ſhine.
When Waller did in melting Meaſures ſing,
He lull'd th' Execution of a King.
Waller ſure turn'd our Engliſh Hearts to Stone,
When, careleſs of a King, and empty Throne,
Their harden'd Souls, remorſeleſs did rejoice.
And Treaſon triumph'd in the publick Choice.
Our Dryden next; can we his Praiſe refuſe,
In Honour of his high exalted Muſe?
To him ſhall future Times their Thanks expreſs,
For well choſe Tales, and Virgil's Engliſh Verſe.
The noble Muſe of Buckhurſt on her Wing,
Taught humble Prior in ſweet Notes to ſing:
Our ancient Bards he tuned to modern Lays;
To Buckhurſt's Glory, and to Prior's Praiſe.
Whil'ſt Phoebus does his dazling Circles run,
Our Iſle will boaſt the Name of Addiſon;
His Numbers equal all old Poets knew,
In lofty Strains he far exceeds the new,
In his bold Scenes the Roman, Virtues ſhine,
And Cato's Soul appears in every Line.
[7]Triumphant in his Country's native Strain,
Paints Ros'mond's Fate, and Marlborough's Campaign.
Harmonious Congreve the ſofteſt Muſe inſpir'd;
Congreve by all the tuneful Throng admir'd:
Around his Head immortal Bays ſhall bloom;
For Fame with him laments Paſtora's Gloom.
To Parnel's Praiſe may every Tongue combine,
For flowing Sweetneſs, and his Songs divine:
In ſprightly Numbers, and a melting Strain,
We taſte the Treaſures of his dulcid Vein.
Theſe happy Bards did living Crowns acquire,
Immortal Fame tranſmits their glorious Fire.
The Muſes ſtill with chearful Aſpects ſmile,
With verdant Laurels blooming in our Iſle;
Since tuneful Pope his Harp from Homer ſtrung,
To ſound the Beauties of our copious Tongue:
His matchleſs Pen diſplays to vulgar View,
What Nature's Force, and Engliſh Words could do.
O Muſe indulgent! lend an equal Strain,
To ſing harmonious Numbers to the Dean.
Far be the Day, when Mankind are bereft
Of thy bold Patriot Pen, Immortal Swift;
For thee above ſome glorious Throne remains,
Who b [...]vely broke thy Country's brazen Chains;
And did'ſt with great and virtuous Courage join,
To baffle Wood, and ſink his droſſy Coin.
To ſpeak thy Merit, in my humble View,
Thou art our Horace, and Mecenas too.
Let Ireland triumph in her Laurel'd Son,
That to his Country has ſuch Honours done.
Beneath his Shade the blooming Youth appears,
Mature in Wit, but ſlender yet in Years:
His riſing Genius and his envy'd Name,
Beſpeak his Glory in the Rolls of Fame.
In groveling Numbers thus I'd fain declare,
The Progreſs of the ſweet tongu'd Muſes here.
With trembling Pinions and a feeble Quill,
I ſtrove in vain to mount the ſacred Hill;
The diſtant Top diſturbs my aking Sight,
Retards my Progreſs, and corrects my Flight.
On the ROTUND, erected by Mervyn Pratt, Eſq
[8]WIthin this Dome each curious Eye may view,
What ancient Greeks, and learned Romans knew:
Here Columns plac'd, in ſtately Order ſtand,
And proudly boaſt the ſkilful Artiſt's Hand;
Their ſpiral Heads Ionick Stile diſplays,
The Artiſt's Pride, but more the Maſter's Praiſe:
Their Shafts a female Comelineſs expreſs,
And ſpeak the Beauties of a Grecian Dreſs.
The fretted Roof next does the Eye engage;
A lively Emblem of Auguſtus' Age;
When Marcus did the lofty Pantheon rear
For Rome's immortal Gods, and plac'd them there.
A Circle here in reverend Form appears,
The ancient Virtue of two thouſand Years;
Whoſe Name's as glorious as the riſing Day,
Their Fame ſtill bright'ning on the moulded Clay:
Hence alſo from their awful Buſts we learn,
How mighty Heroes blooming Wreaths did earn:
How Scipio conquer'd, how Alcides fought;
Fauſtina charm'd, and wiſe Aurelius taught.
Here fated Meleager's Flame we mourn;
A Mother's Furies his too early Urn:
Seneca ſhining in the Rolls of Fame,
His Precepts blaſt a wreched Tyrant's Name;
Sublime his Morals, his Reas'ning's refin'd,
Of Force to ſoften bloody Nero's Mind.
The Sage in vain the fruitleſs Task did try,
And gain'd at laſt an eaſier Way to die.
Plato divine by heavenly Ray inſpir'd,
For Man's Inſtruction was ſo greatly fir'd.
[9]Through Nature's Miſts, pointed to bleſs'd Aboads,
And taught th'immortal Soul in ſpight of Heathen Gods:
Theſe awful Buſts do grace thy curious Dome,
Who've ſearch'd the poliſh'd Stores of Greece and Rome.
Here you've plac'd what ancient Story told,
A Treaſure far more precious than their Gold.
O'er rugged Alps you ſought the nobler Prize;
And courted Dangers, to become more wiſe:
Nor ſlightly curious did you thither go,
To breath new Air, or make an empty Show;
As many do o'er ſpacious Regions roam,
Not bringing Art, but various Vices home·
Not ſo thy virtuous Judgment thee inclin'd;
Their Ore you choſe, but left the Droſs behind.
Thy Skill has rear'd a Pattern in our Land,
Since on thy Fort we ſee thy Pantheon ſtand.
A lively Image of Agrippa's Toil,
Appears triumphant in our Northern Soil.
Hibernia now with joyful Pride may ſee,
Vitruvian Taſte, and Greek diſplay'd by thee.
Accept this Tribute of an humble Muſe,
Nor do thy Praiſe in feeble Strains refuſe.
To a Young Gentleman of Fortune, on Commencing Holy Orders.
SAY virtuous Youth, what does thy Mind inſpire?
To ſhun the World, and from its Cares retire:
Scorning this frail, and tranſient vain Abode,
Inliſted in the Service of thy God.
The happier Choice is to thy Wiſhes given.
To be an early Voluntier for Heaven.
No Pomp of Life could force thee to refrain,
The meek Meſſiah and his Pilgrim's Train:
Beneath his Banner the Tempter to repel,
And ſnatch the Sinner from the Jaws of Hell.
[10]With pious Valour wield the Ghoſtly Sword,
And conquer Satan by thy Maſter's Word:
His dread Commands do thou obſerve and keep,
And be a watchful Paſtor to his Sheep;
Againſt their Foe ſuſtain th' important Strife,
And to thy Flock diſpenſe the Bread of Life.
Beware that they the wily Wolf withſtand,
And feed 'em from thy conſecrating Hand.
Let thy good Deeds a ſhining Lamp ſtill burn;
And more by Practiſe than by Preaching turn.
Not once a Week content thy Charge to ſee,
Let all thy Life one conſtant Sermon be;
That when thy Lord ſhall in the Clouds appear,
Thy Head a Crown of Righteouſneſs may wear:
And then with him in pious Joy ſhall boaſt;
Behold, of thoſe you gave me none are loſt.
Be this thy Taſk, let this thy Hours employ;
Give Sinners Comfort, and give Angels Joy.
In thy bleſs'd Function chearfully rejoice;
Thy Work not by Neceſſity but Choice.
A pious Atlas bear th' incumbent Load;
And be a Pillar in the Houſe of God.
On Faith's firm Baſis ever reſt ſecure;
And every Shock of changing Time endure.
Sedate in Life's precarious Windings go,
Not toſt by various Intereſts to and fro.
To ſacred Dignities do thou aſpire,
And be thy Maſter's, and thy Flock's Deſire,
That e're thy Honours in the Duſt be laid,
The ſacred Mitre may adorn thy Head.
Be as a ſkilful Pilot on this ſtormy Sea,
To ſteer thy Veſſel in the faithful Way;
That when this Life's tempeſtuous Courſe it paſt,
You may reſt ſecure upon the wiſh'd for Coaſt.
To a Friend in Sickneſs.
WHEN late the ſad Account I heard,
That racking Pains diſturb'd thy Reſt;
[11]My anxious Soul thy Sorrow ſhar'd;
My Heart beat thick within my Breaſt,
O God! I ſaid, thy Mercy ſhow,
Let Angels guard my Friend,
Eternal King avert the Blow,
And round his Bed thy Comfort ſend.
Let Health her azure Wings expand,
And let us greet the welcome Dove.
O! ſend that Carrier from thy Hand,
And all his bitter Pangs remove.
With earneſt Wiſh I thus implor'd,
The mighty One that governs all;
And for thy Sake I low ador'd,
And for thy Eaſe did humbly call.
Let chearful Hope thy Soul inſpire;
Let Faith ſuſtain thy troubled Mind;
One contrite Tear will quench his Ire,
And move thy Maker to be kind·
No hallow'd Straws nor Bones you need,
No Virgin's Milk, nor Merits vain:
One roſy Drop which Chriſt did bleed,
Will ſooth thy Sorrow and thy Pain.
To a Gentleman, who promis'd his Letter of Recommendation.
NO Court-dependant in his Corner ſtands,
When fluſh'd with Hopes to kiſs his Patron's Hand;
Who grudges neither Time nor Pains, the while,
If he procures the Favour of a Smile.
No Country Curate at Levee does appear,
When big with Hopes of fifty Pound a Year;
With meagre Looks, and many a cringing Scrape,
To ſhow the Merits of his tatter'd Crape.
No poor Cadee, impatient of a Poſt,
Whoſe Monty's ſpent, and neareſt Friends are loſt;
[12]That now has nothing left to ſhew him big,
But ſhatter'd Ruffles, and a powder'd Wigg.
Believe me, Sir, not one of all the three
Has ſtronger Hopes, or wilder Thoughts than me.
But ſtill I hope my Views are founded better,
Since I'm to get your kind and friendly Letter;
And on my Word, I'll gratefully receive it,
And humbly thank the worthy Hand that gave it.
So now I value not the Rogues a Ruſh;
I hope to make a Fortune of my Bruſh.
To a Gentleman, who promiſed me the Works of Mr. Addiſon.
NO ſtripling, puny Preiſt deſires more,
To ſteal from Auſtins, or from Grotius' Store;
When knotty Themes his muddy Brains has vext,
And he is puzl'd to purſue his Text:
No unfledg'd Lawyer eſſaying at the Bar,
With empty Head-Piece, and a noiſy Jar;
Was e'er ſo ſorely anxious to invoke,
Some ſpeedy Aid from Bracton, or from Coke:
No plaugy Quack, that of Succeſs deſpairs,
Who's trembling for his Credit and his Ears:
And when for both he's wofully afraid,
He flies for Help to Galen, or to Mede:
No Bard, alas! diveſted of his Bays,
On whom a Swarm of hungry Criticks preys;
When charg'd with Spleen, and for his lateſt Shift,
He makes Addreſs to Horace, or to Swift;
Not one of all the Donny Rogues I nam'd,
When in the Dumps, and of their Works aſham'd;
Did ever long with more intenſe Concern
T' improve their Knowledge, and their Arts to learn;
Than I to read thoſe Lines of Addiſon,
Where Britons beat, and fairy Frenchmen run.
Who knows, when I 've paus'd a while his Theme,
But I next Year may grow like him in Fame.
[13]If former Friends their triple League advance;
By Jove I'll write, and they ſhall cudgel France.
When like a Wren upon his Wings, I raiſe,
With England's Fame I'll mix your worthy Praiſe.
A ſhort Paſtoral.
REmember my Mira when I'm gone away,
Thoſe pleaſant ſweet Arbours where once we did play;
Likewiſe the Meads, the Valleys, the Brooks,
Whoſe murmuring Streams reflected your Looks:
Think of thoſe Thickets, where we did beguile,
The Noons burning Rays, and the Meridian Toil,
Forget not the Flowers, where we uſed to ſit;
Remember the Roſes which bluſh'd at your Feet,
When the proud Daiſies their Leaves did expand,
And ſeem'd to rejoice, when touch'd by your Hand.
O! call then to mind thoſe amorous Hours,
We ſpent with ſuch Joy in the Jeſſamine Bowers;
When Mirth and Amuſement made us both gay,
And innocent Pleaſures deluded the Day;
'Till Evening's cool Breezes invited us forth,
To hear the Flocks bleating, and ſee the Lambs ſport;
And ſmell the ſweet Gales that were fann'd from each Buſh,
To hear the Notes ſung by the Lark and the Thruſh:
Thoſe warbling Strains that our Loves did inſpire,
Which rung through the Grove by the feathered Quire.
Remember the Rivul'ts which ſmoothly did glide,
When we paſs'd pleaſantly by their Banks Side;
And you in ſweet Humour would oftentimes ſay,
My Love ſhall as laſting, as true be as they.
When chearfully proffer'd and promis'd ſuch Bliſs,
I often embolden'd, would ſteal a ſweet Kiſs;
Whil'ſt you with a Bluſh, would ſeem to be coy,
And patting my Cheek, you'd call me bold Boy.
Can you, my dear Nymph, for ever forget,
When at the Sheep Fold one Evening we met;
[14]When Phoebus was ſinking to Thetis's Bed,
And Cinthia was rearing her Silver pale Head;
When lending your Hand to help a weak Lamb,
You tenderly led him to ſuckle his Dam;
Surpriz'd at my Preſence, you ſeem'd much afraid,
And bid me begone, not injure a Maid.
Startl'd a little, I ſoon turn'd away,
But ſaw your bright Eyes invited my Stay;
Tempted by Beauty, your Looks and your Charms,
And wing'd with Deſire, I flew to your Arms.
Where loſt in Delight your Boſom I preſs'd;
But Night, Love and you can tell all the reſt;
Remember my Charmer, remember what paſt,
And let thy Affections for ever then laſt.
Let Love in my Mira unſpotted ſtill burn;
And let her be faithful 'till Colin return.
On Chriſtmas Day.
HAIL auſpicious Day, whoſe Dawn gave Birth,
To him who conquer'd Death and Hell;
Welcome bleſs'd Morn, that brought a God to Earth,
A God with ſinful Duſt to dwell.
And thou Refulgent Star, whoſe glorious Ray,
Did'ſt uſher in the Sun of Peace,
And gave the Glimpſes of Eternal Day,
To Adam's dark and wandering Race.
When the bright Hoſt inſpir'd with holy Zeal,
Did the ſweet Heav'nly Meſſage bring;
And to the ſimple Shepherds did reveal,
The new born Prophet, Prieſt and King.
He equal to the all-tremenduous Name,
Aſſum'd the Form of ſinful Man;
Vail'd in the Veſture of our humane Frame,
His Work of peerleſs Love began.
He who rules the Stars, the copious Globe and Hell;
To whom the Seraphs ſing above;
[15]For us did in a ſordid Manger dwell;
O! Mirrour of Almighty Love,
In holy Raptures let our Souls ariſe;
No earthly Clogs our Flight delay;
And with the Altar's hallow'd Sacrifice,
Adore the Author of this Day.
To the Rt. Hon. Lord Kingſland
WHat humble Tribute ſhall the Muſe afford,
To hail her Patron, and approach her Lord;
What melting flowing Numbers ſhall ſhe find,
To ſpeak the Tranſports of a raviſh'd Mind;
In Notes unknown to raiſe her rural Lays,
And ſing of Virtue, and to Kingſland's Praiſe:
The noble Theme my joyful Fancy fires,
Inflames my Genius, and my Soul inſpires.
On lofty Pinnions boldly now I ſoar,
Attempting Heights I never ſought before.
So from her Neſt th' unfledged Lark does try,
To ſpread her Wings, and fearful learns to fly;
With feeble Strokes ſhe fans the nether Air,
Nor dares to mount, witheld by native Fear;
'Till warm'd to Strength by Phoebus' genial Ray,
She wings the Aether, and explores the Day.
Now let Hibernia's laurel'd Sons rejoice,
And crown their Wiſhes in their Patron's Choice,
In him ſecure Politeneſs ſtill ſhall thrive,
And Arts and Learning in his Race ſhall live.
Thoſe noble Pledges for ſome future Age,
To nurſe the Hero, and ſupport the Stage:
Reform the Coxcomb, and reclaim the Fool;
Refine the Genius, and improve the Soul.
Hail bright Pair in ſacred Union join'd,
To be the Darling of each others Mind;
Enjoy thoſe Banquets virtuous Love can give;
Still feaſt on Bliſs, and for each other live.
[16]May ſoft Content, improving new Delights,
Smile on your Days, and crown with Joy your Nights;
May Fate propitious downy Pleaſures ſhed,
And Genial Sweets ſurround your nuptial Bed,
That Scene of Raptures, where Love's ſacred Fire
Inflames new Bliſs, and kindles chaſte Deſire;
Where ming'ling Minds in Ecſtacy are loſt,
For blended Souls refine Fruition moſt,
From that pure Source, where ev'ry Grace accords,
May iſſue Heroes, and a Race of Lords.
Let after Times admire their ſhining Fame,
And diſtant Years revere a Barnwall's Name;
Whoſe noble Soul no earthly Toys can move,
From ſacred Honour, or his Maker's Love.
The following Lines are humbly in⯑ſcribed to the Hon. Tho Coote, Eſq
AS a tir'd Pilgrim, long by Tempeſts toſs'd,
With chearful Eyes beholds his native Coaſt;
Replete with Joy he views the welcome Shoar,
Where ſafe repos'd, he dreads the Waves no more;
His Feet impatient ſeek the peaceful Soil,
Where lull'd at Eaſe, he fears no future Toil.
So longs the virtuous Man for heavenly Eaſe,
And waits with Joy the Evening of his Days;
When well diſcharg'd of e'ery Earthly Load,
His Soul's on Wing to reſt ſecure with God:
His Mind enlarg'd from all precarious Strife,
He feells the Tranſports of a well ſpent Life.
Such Bliſs rewards his painful Labours paſt,
And ſooths his Toils with Hopes of heavenly Reſt.
Rejoice good Man, the Hour will ſhortly come,
When Angels waft thee to thy happy Home.
Then ſhall thy Pains to pious Ends deſign'd,
Immortal Sweets in heavenly Manſions find.
[17]O glorious Day, when Conſcience ſets thee free,
And, Euge bene, is pronounc'd to thee.
Blame not the Eſſay of a willing Muſe,
Which would thy Virtue for her Subject chuſe▪
With gentle Cenſure view each feeble Line,
Excuſe th' Attempt, nor blame the weak Deſign.
O could my ſlender, low and feeble Vein
Deſcribe thy Goodneſs in a proper Strain;
How would my raviſh'd Muſe thy Fame rehearſe,
And hope to be immortal in ſuch Verſe.
To praiſe thy Worth, whom ſhall I moſt commend,
The noble Patriot, or the worthy Friend?
Since both conſpicuous in thy Life we ſee,
With open Candour and a Temper free.
Thy good Endeavours daily aim this End,
To ſerve thy Country, and regard thy Friend:
To both your Bounty and your Wiſh you give;
Nor for yourſelf, but for their Welfare live.
Thy ſteady Mind unmov'd in Changes ſtood,
And ſtill thy Actions aim the publick Good.
To thee th' oppreſs'd for quick Redreſs apply'd,
Nor was their Cauſe, tho' poor, by thee deny'd:
With thee impartial Juſtice did prevail,
To poize the Ballance in an equal Scale.
Thy awful Hand was by the unruly fear'd,
As thy good Name is by the Juſt rever'd.
So once the Father of the Roman State,
Incurr'd the Glory of a Tyrant's Hate:
No adverſe Blaſt could ſhock his ſtedfaſt Soul;
Pointing to Virtue as her conſtant Pole:
No courtly Pomps could his great Mind enſnare;
His Country's Cauſe was ſtill his neareſt Care;
Like him for a Kingdom's Good you daily Toil,
And ſhines the Cato of a ſuffering Iſle.
Many has thy Hand from dreadful Wants preſerv'd;
Thy Hand, which gives Induſtry her Reward;
Snatching the Needy from Defraud and Stealth,
You made 'em virtuous, and you gave them Wealth▪
Thy Bounty does a double Good impart,
Improve the Mind, and humanize the Heart.
[18]Their grateful Prayers like Incenſe doth ariſe,
And wafts on high thy Morning Sacrifice.
When mov'd by friendly Love, you deign to come
And with thy Preſence chear thy beſt lov'd Home.
The eager Throng in Emulation live,
And gazing Crowds their Acclamations give;
A general Joy in every Face appears,
And hoary Sires aſſume their youthful Years;
The Infants in their Mothers Arms do wait,
And ſtrive to bliſs thee, as they learn to ſpeak.
So pious Job divine Applauſe did meet,
When Numbers hail'd his Preſence in each Street.
With R [...]pture in thy late decline of Days,
Enjoy thy Children, and thy Country's Praiſe.
Behold the Offspring of thy chaſte Embrace,
The hopeful Pledges of thy virtuous Race.
As Branches blooming from the Cedar Tree,
Imbibe a pious Odour ſtill from thee.
So Iſr'el's Sons the Fathers of each Tribe,
Enjoy'd the Gifts a Patriarch did divide;
When round his Couch each weeping Child did ſtand,
And took the Bleſſings from his dying Hand.
And ſo may thou, when Heaven appoints the Day,
Thy Soul to Bliſs ſhall wing its pearly Way;
Thy lateſt Legacy of Love diſpenſe,
And in the Arms of Peace depart from hence.
An Epitaph on Steven Taffe, Eſq
ENough, O Grave! now fill thy greedy Womb:
Awake ye Dead, and give the Worthy Room.
Acquired Fame on ſolid Baſis ſtand;
The Virtuous ev'n Fate and Fame commands.
Illuſtrious Conſorts grac'd his happy Life,
And ſmiling Fortune crown'd him in a Wiſe.
But Earthly Joys are tranſient in their Stay;
By Death eclips'd, a Night obſcures their Day;
[19]'Till that glorious gilded Morn is come
When happy Saints receive their final Doom.
The meeting Atoms from the Tomb ſhall riſe;
If Mortals ſleep, yet Virtue never dies.
From a Gentleman to his Miſtreſs.
HOW long, my Nymph, ſhall I complain,
And charge thee Lesbia with Diſdain;
When will thy Heart to Love incline,
And eaſe this ſcorching Breaſt of mine.
A warmer Flame, a purer Fire,
The God of Love did ne'er inſpire,
Than in my Boſom burns for thee;
And ſhall increaſe eternally.
Ah! muſt I then repine in Care,
And fill my Mind with black Deſpair;
Or ſhall I think that partial Fate,
Decrees no Bliſs but for the Great.
Can it the Beam unequal hold,
And ſink the Scale with droſſy Gold?
Muſt none enjoy thoſe melting Charms,
Or raſte the Heaven within thoſe Arms;
But he whom Fortune ever blind,
Did in her fickle Mazes find:
What ſhe profuſely heap [...] to Day,
To Morrow's Dawn may ſnatch away.
When Riches ſpread their downy Wings,
And all the Ores of India brings.
If ſhining Duſt in Heaps ariſe,
To glut the grov'ling Miſer's Eyes;
He rowls ſupine amid'ſt his Stores;
His ſordid Soul the Duſt adores.
He fondly believes his Bliſs ſecure,
And thinks his Joys will ſtill endure;
Nor dreams that Fortune in an Hour,
Can all his Wealth and Hopes devour.
[20]His boaſted Claim is juſt as good,
Who vaunts of Fame and noble Blood.
For whence can he derive his Race;
Or higher his long Lineage trace;
Than when the ſenſeleſs Clay began,
To glow with Life, and warm to Man.
The Offspring of the eldeſt Pair,
Of Honour held an equal Share;
Except what Nature claim'd as due,
No other Titles then they knew.
The Springs were at the Source the ſame,
Began alike their Courſe of Fame;
But ſome through clearer Channels paſt,
And ſeem'd more noble than the reſt.
'Tis Time the mighty Change does bring,
Which lifts the Peaſant to be King.
The ſhifting Dame can tumble down,
The Regal Scepter, and the Crown.
In ſuch Confuſions often toſt,
Honour's gone, Diſtinction's loſt.
Immortal Love ſhall higher riſe,
And live refin'd above the Skies:
When Wealth and Honour's vaniſh'd here,
Love will reign triumphant there.
My charming Maid lay by thy Art,
And take this Gueſt into thy Heart;
Nor longer ſpurn a dying Swain,
Who triumphs only in his Chain.
Forbear by Times my Hopes to Kill,
And be not thus ſo fickle ſtill.
O wear thoſe Smiles which Nature gave,
And ſcorn t' inſult thy captive Slave.
Diſdain to make vain Wealth thy Boaſt,
But pity him who loves thee moſt.
On Painting.
THE Kind'red Muſe reſigns her Bays,
And fain would ſoar in notes Divine;
[21]To ſing the Magic Pencil's Praiſe,
And make the glowing Canvaſs ſhine.
See conſcious Nature yields the Prize,
And bluſhing views her Art outdone;
Whilſt rowling years their Glories riſe,
Who have immortal Laurels won.
My grateful Muſe cannot refrain
But gladly tunes her humble Lyre;
And dedicates each chearful Strain,
To the fam'd PAINTER'S hallow'd Fire:
Hail bright Art, by Heav'n ordain'd,
Th' exalted Force of Skill ſublime;
Since by thy Strokes is ſtill retain'd,
The mighty Deeds of ancient Time.
When this vaſt World in Chaos lay,
E're yet the formleſs Maſs was chang'd;
When gloomy Night was mix'd with Day,
Before the rowling Orbs were rang'd:
Th' Almighty Artiſt ſhew'd his Skill,
The wide Expanſe his Canvaſs made,
The flowing Pencil of his Will,
Painted Lights Etherial Shade.
With ſtronger Touch he form'd the Stars;
In groſſer Grounds the Earth he laid;
The ſurging Deep his Skill declares,
His Landſkip is the woody Shade.
Then Man compleats the vaſt Deſign,
The laſt of all Creation born;
His Face came neareſt to Divine,
And beſt diſplay'd his Maker's Form.
The Power beheld him with Delight,
And quickly ſaw that Man muſt die;
When loſt in Shades of gloomy Night,
His fleeting Soul from hence muſt fly.
His Bounty mov'd him to impart,
A Portion of 's Creative Skill;
[22]He then infus'd the Painter's Art;
Inſpir'd the Poet's deathleſs Quill.
Hand in Hand Olympus's Top they choſe,
And always quaff Caſtalian Spring,
Where Virgil's Laurel ever grows,
And Titian's Fame ſhall ever ring.
The Siſter Sciences do thrive,
In Arts refin'd and ſacred Love;
Their blooming Wreaths are ſtill alive;
The lateſt Teſt of Time to prove.
Whil'ſt Mortals view the riſing Sun,
Prepar'd his Radiant Courſe to go;
The World will praiſe the bright Lebrun,
And ſpeak the Fame of Angelo.
Great Urben, Reuben and Vandike
Such laſting Monuments did raiſe,
Which ever will the Fancy ſtrike,
And ſpeak their own immortal Praiſe.
O! happy Kneller, by whom we ſee
A Royal Race of Kings diſplay'd;
A deathleſs Pledge to them and thee,
Preſerv'd by thy deluſive Shade.
Thy Strokes ſecur'd, ſhall ever ſhine,
In ſpight of mouldering Years;
Still guarded by each golden Line,
That in thy Addie's Page appears.
To Jervice now do Lords reſort;
And Ladies for his Leiſure wait;
His Skill is valued much at Court,
Himſelf carreſs'd by all the Great.
Then let us fill a briming Bowl,
To keep our Patrons ſtill in Mind;
Since Wine gives Wings unto the Soul,
We ſcorn a Genius that's confind.
An Elegy on little Meredy.
[23]SHame on thee Death, and thy remorſeleſs Dart,
Which found a Paſſage to his harmleſs Heart;
And quench'd the Vigour of that vital Flame,
Whoſe Heat gave Birth to many a tuneful Theme.
Could not his Wit reſtrain thy frozen Hand;
Nor holy Rhimes thy mortal Sting withſtand.
Ah no! nor Wit, nor Piety could ſave
His puny Carcaſs from the greedy Grave.
Lament you Sons of Phoebus now, and mourn,
And let your Tears bedew his little Urn:
No more, alas! in witty Verſe he'll talk,
Which lack'd no Feet, although he ne'er could walk;
But Wings he had, and mounted high at Will,
On wooden Pinions to Parnaſſus' Hill.
Late in the Town he ſeldom did appear,
Unleſs retarded by a Doſe of Beer;
And then indeed he never grudg'd to ſtay,
And crack his Crock 'till near the Break of Day.
When Leland's Liquor warm'd his nimble Brains,
He touch'd the Reed, and ſung his merry Strains.
How ſweetly would he tune each Note and Lay,
To ſing of Eaſter, or on Chriſtmas-Day;
And, O! what pious Charms did ſweetly ſhine,
In every Stanza of his Songs divine.
In Odes and Elegies he did excel;
And told a mournful Story wond'rous well:
Indeed he did, for all can tell the ſome,
Who ſaw his Songs of Charity and Fame.
The conſtant Labour of his Hand and Rod,
Was training Children in the Fear of God.
It's hard to tell what Pains he chiefly took,
To make them pious, or to mind their Book.
The hapleſs Youth that ſtir'd his Mind to Anger,
Felt the Fury of his crooked Finger;
When faſt he grip'd'em by the Button-Hole,
And ſhew'd the tart Diſcipline of his School
[24]The Logwood Ruler with a weighty Blow,
Repell'd the Nails that dare indecent grow:
Beſides he took ſuch good diligent Care,
That Boys ſhould black their Shoes, and comb their Hair.
What Parents then could e'er begrudge him Sterling,
He taught their Sons ſuch Manners with their Learning.
A Clark he was, and did Devotion cheriſh;
But ſeldom ſaid Amen in Mary's Pariſh:
Th' indulgent Prieſt, to eaſe his weekly Cares,
To Peter's ſent him ſtill to ſay his Prayers.
Loth his Brother's pious Flock to hinder,
And plaugy ſparing of his Pulpit-Timb [...]r;
In vain he ſtrove to ſave his Waſte of Breath,
His little Organs were untun'd by Death.
Now he's gone where we muſt follow after,
And left his Care to ſerious Billy Carter.
May theſe poor Lines be ſeen in his Behalf:
The next ſhall be his humble Epitaph.
Beneath this Sod he ſilent lies
Who once crack'd many a Joke;
His Bulk, tho' but a Pigmie Size,
With Gyant's Wit he always ſpoke.
His little Body's now at Reſt,
The happy Soul to Heaven is fled;
We'll hear no more his merry Jeſt,
For, Oh' alack a day he's dead.
On the Sawyers Proceſſion
BEhold, my Muſe, nor dread the Critick's Claw,
But ſound thy Notes in Chorus to the Saw;
Hoarſe as itſelf may all thy Numbers flow,
In ſturdy Strains to praiſe the gallant Show;
Nor care a Fig what Wits do frown or ſmile,
But tune thy Diſtichs to the Lyrick File;
Thence thy Scale of grateing Muſick bring,
Nor weak nor faintly of the Sawyers ſing:
Loud as themſelves, when e'rey jarring Stroke
Does rend the Texture of ſome knotted Oak,—
[25]O may my Lines produce ſuch buſling Stir,
As when their Arms divide the crack'ling Fir
To mike their Worth in lofty Sonnets ſhine,
I ſcorn the Compaſs, or the Chalking Line.
Diſdaining Method in my daring Song,
By Rule of Thumb, I fear not to run wrong.
Tho' I deal with Judges of both Rhime and Wit,
Becauſe their Station's always in the PIT;
Yet like the moſt who fill that Place, we know
Their Senſe is ſometimes high, and ſometimes low.
This Truth indeed confeſs I freely muſt
We're all beholden to their friendly Duſt;
For that which ſerves to cool their ſweaty Feet,
Preſerves the Wine which warms the Poets Wit;
Thoſe ſacred Atoms form a funeral Bed,
And Sawyers Duſt is buried with the Dead.
But ſee themſelves! a Train and ſprightly Band,
That does our Wonder and Surpriſe command:
See, ſee, they march in gaudy proud Array,
With various Ribbonds, glittering in the Day:
Behold their Arms, which rends the maſſy Beam,
And pulls and hauls like Horſes in a Team;
With martial Order move in Pomp along,
A dreadful Bluff and well diſciplin'd Throng:
The cutting Ax appears ſerenely bold,
An endleſs War with Blocks and Boards to hold.
The gaping Crowd their manly Praiſes ſpeak,
And Creeping Joyners in their Levee wait;
With craving Viſage at their Elbow ſtand,
And begs the Labour of their nervous Hand.
On them the Herd of hungry Starvlings wait,
Like Beggars mumping at ſome great Man's Gate;
How pitiful the filly Chips appear,
And cringing come for ſome of their Phineer;
And ſadly tell their heavy mournful Tale,
When forc'd to idle for ſome two-cut Deal.
From Morn till Noon the ſplendid Gang we meet,
In ſolemn Motion paſs through every Street;
Then all agree, with fierce accord Repair,
To cram their Craws with good and wholſome Fare;
[26]For Ax and Wedge they wield the Knife and Fork,
Inſtead of Saws, their Teeth begin to work.
A dreadful Carnage ends the gorging Day,
And ſtuff'd with Triumph, homeward reel their Way.
A Song, to the Tune of Tweed-Side.
WHat Charms do ſurround thy fair Form,
What Beauties are glanc'd from thine Eyes;
The Graces thy Face do adorn,
Our Senſes and Souls do ſurpriſe.
Sweet Fragrance ambroſial and gay,
With Innocence chaſte and ſerene,
Sit ſmiling around thee each Day,
A raviſhing Sight to be ſeen.
The Nightingale chimes to thy Voice,
The Syrens do yield to thy Song;
With Ecchoes the Groves do rejoice;
Thy Muſick the Swains have undone.
Thy Mein ſo erect, fair and tall,
Such winning Attraction diſplays;
Thy Mind the beſt Beauty of all,
My Wiſh and Affections does raiſe.
Thou peerleſs and ſweet killing Dame,
What Cupids do baſk on thy Brow;
Their Shafts do augment my ſad Pain,
O quickly then grant me your Love.
Suſpend me no longer in Pain,
But ſweetly vouchſafe me a Smile;
Nor let my Soul ſigh thus in vain,
Nor yet my fond Fancy beguile.
Come with me, my Maid, to yon Grove,
Where Nymphs with their Swains do reſort;
Whoſe Bowers invite us to Love,
Where Cupids do revel and ſport:
[27]
In Bliſs we'll enjoy the long Day,
Our Flocks will be feeding cloſe by,
Their Lambkins around us will play,
No Monarch's ſo happy as we.
A Song, to the Tune of Bonny Jane
WHen ſofteſt Slumbers lull'd my Pain,
And downy Sleep becalm'd my Breaſt;
Free from Love's tyrannick Chain,
To ſooth my Cares in balmy Reſt.
The wily God withdrew his Dart,
That ſilent, lonely Moment choſe,
To eaſe a while my bleeding Heart,
And give my aking Senſe repoſe.
But ah! how vain the ſhort reſpite,
The buſy mocking Boy beſtows,
Returning with redoubl'd might,
His dreadful Shaft unerring throws.
My fleeting fancy on the Wing;
Deluſive Ideas wrought,
Her lovely Image ſoon did bring,
And rais'd the fair one in my thought.
She ſeem'd ſome Being from above,
Her melting preſence ſhone Divine,
Her mein expreſt the Queen of Love
Her radiant Eyes like Stars did ſhine.
What raptures fill'd my raviſh'd mind,
When I beheld her Angel's form.
Her glancing ſmiles beſpoke her kind,
And hid alas! her killing ſcorn.
[28]
With winged Arms I quickly flew,
To graſp her to my melting Heart,
Unhappy Swain I little knew,
My coming woe and future ſmart.
With ſullen frowns and haughty Face,
She ſhew'd her proud and ſtrange Surprize,
And turning from my fond embrace,
She veil'd the Luſtre of her Eyes.
So o'er the face of April Sun,
Some dark and gloomy Cloud is ſpread,
Which blots the chearful ray at Noon,
And fills the Shepherds Heart with dread.
Or as a Merchant from the Shore,
Who diſcrys the precious Sail,
When pregnant with the pearly Ore,
And wafted by a peaceful Gale,
With joy he waits the welcome Ship,
And views her from the verdant Brink,
Glide ſmoothly through the yeilding Deep,
And in one fatal Moment ſink.
Like him bereav'd and in deſpair,
With grief I loudly did complain,
And in my Tranſports beat the Air,
But gladly found it was a Dream.
A Song to the Tune of Bony Broom
SINCE love firſt hurl'd his golden Dart,
And taught his Shafts to flie,
Or wounded Swains did feel his Smart,
None felt it more than I.
[29]
The ſightleſs Boy has thrill'd me through,
His Arrows pierc'd my Breaſt,
The fatal Aim he took too true,
Which robs my Soul of Reſt.
My boiling Blood in rage doth move,
Through all my Veins doth run,
Still thronging to the ſeat of Love,
It's flame hath me undone.
The tedious Nights I wake with Care,
No ſlumbers cloſe my Eyes,
Still thinking of my charming Fair,
'Till Day's bright Beams ariſe.
In her dear Breaſt my Soul doth live,
Her breath's my vital Air;
Her ſmiles alone can Comfort give,
And ſooth my killing care.
But O ſhe Frowns when I implore,
And ſmiles at all my grief,
She ſcorns alaſs whom I adore,
Nor yields the leaſt Relief.
But God of love eſpouſe my part,
And give her equal Pain,
O make her Sharer in my Smart,
Nor let me love in Vain.
In her fair breaſt let pity Reign,
And mercy keep its Throne,
Can ſhe deſtroy a dying Swain,
Or ſee a Wretch undone.
On the BOYN ROCK.
WHERE ancient Boyn his edies run,
In rowling ſtreams againſt the Sun,
[30]And do's in curling mazes ſtray,
On liquid murmurs to the Sea;
Cloſe by the ſpot of happy Ground,
Where Naſſau felt a harmleſs Wound:
Who bravely fought, through fate his way,
Nor damp'd by dangers won the Day;
Near that place, a Pile appears,
Diſguis'd with Age and Gray with Years;
It's nodding Summit ſeems to peep,
And view it's ſhadow in the deep;
Upon it's brow is always ſeen,
A Haugh-thorn Buſh, that's ever green:
It's Convex o'er the Current ſwells,
The Concave forms two dreary cells;
That are a ſafe and cool Retreat,
From Winter's Storms, and Summers heat;
Within whoſe Caverns now and then,
Do meet young Laſſes and young Men;
What there they do I dare but think,
It's frightful ſure ſo near the Brink:
My friend and I have often ſat,
Upon it's Brow with chearful Chat;
Where with delight we'd ſit and ſpy,
The Salmon flouncing at a Flie;
And when the Trout with nimble Leap,
Above the wave diſplay'd his Shape;
And made the limpid Mirror ſwell,
In curling Rings when down he fell.
Thus engag'd the pleaſant while.
We did our Time and Cares beguile;
Then ſunk in thought, enquir'd the Cauſe,
Of what we ſaw and Natures Laws:
How Vapours drawn from Earth and Sea,
By Phoehus's warm attractive Ray;
Did wrapt in Clouds a while remain.
And when condens'd deſcend in Rain:
Then ſtrain'd through Rocks did purer flow,
And roſe, refin'd in Springs below.
Which ſtraying from their native ſource,
Unites in ſtreams of rapid force;
[31]That blooming Verdure always yields,
To paint the Lawns and fertil Fields:
'Till loſt in wonder ws gave o'er,
And learn'd their Author to adore;
From thence we ſaw, in order meet,
Some Ships on Land, a moving Fleet;
Born by Tritons from the Shore.
Who hung a Galley on each Oar:
Sons of Neptune that can bear,
Upon their Backs a Man of War:
Thoſe Oval Barks of ſkins are made,
Their Paddl's like a broken Spade;
When fix'd within thoſe whirling Diſhes,
They fill their Nets with ſhoals of Fiſhes;
Then each by lot receives his due,
And homewards lugs his light Canoe:
The Angler too with Flies and Hooks,
That puddles in the Ponds and Brooks;
Expecting ſtill ſome lucky riſe,
Who waits the Fortune, of his Flies;
Him too we ſaw with Rod and Line,
Amuſing thought beguiling Time:
When Faint and Dry he homewards came,
And ſwore the Wind had ſpoil'd his Game;
Who ſaid, he threw, and threw again,
Exchang'd his Baits, but ſtill in vain,
But added he, to chear my ſorrow
I hope to meet good ſport to-morrow;
You ſee the River ſeems to clear,
The Wind I hope will quickly veer;
Thoſe friendly Clouds that hide the Sun,
Will make a chearful duſky Noon;
When we ſhall to the Banks reſort,
And find an Hour's delightful ſport.
Fatigues to me are but a Sham,
Could all this Road afford a Dram;
For ſhame, that none of all the Club
Will at the Tavern ſell ſome Bub.
There's not a Brother, ſure wou'd fail,
But each wou'd help to drink his ALE;
[32]And every Day there paſſes many;
That for a Dram would drop their Penny;
At for me I'm always willing,
Once a week to ſpend my Shilling.
But let me ſee who ſhall we get,
That at the Rock may ſell ſome Wet;
Why Frank, ifaith's the only Man,
For he and we are Cup, and Can,
An honeſt hearty loving Fellow,
Will crack a Crock till he is Mellow:
And will beſides provide a Diſh,
A pair of Rabbits or ſome Fiſh;
Not a Day or Night in twenty,
You will find his Caſtle empty.
There's nothing can his humour Curl,
And on my ſoul he is no Churl;
Beſides he may with eaſe attend,
His Lordſhip's Work ſo near at hand:
In ſhort there's not a Man alive.
That at the Rock would ſooner thrive;
Now were we in Counſel ſet,
And moſt of all the Club were met,
He ſaid, when each with Heart and Voice,
Made honeſt Frank the common Choice;
My Friend th' invited out of Hand,
And ſoon poſſeſs'd him of his Land;
The Houſe that long neglected lay,
To weep it's Ruin in ſcraps of Clay:
Do's now diſplay it's gaudy Air,
And proudly boaſts its new Repair;
The tatter'd Roof diſdains a Flaw,
And ſhows its Fleece of Wheaten Straw;
With Walls and Windows plaſter'd o'er,
And temper'd Clay to pave the Floor;
Whilſt all within is neat and clean,
With Implements in order ſeen;
No more ſhall Goblins there reſort,
Or Fairies keep their midnight Court;
Now ſhall it's Crannys, Creeks and Holes,
No longer lodge the Batts and Owls.
[33]But now it will be ever gay,
With WHISKY flowing Night and Day;
Within this rural homely Spot,
All carking cares are quite forgot.
Here mirth and joy ſhall both abound,
And Love and Friendſhip ſtill go round:
Here Francis ſits at eaſe and reſt,
To entertain an honeſt Gueſt;
A worthy Chap does now begin,
And on my faith no pluck'em in;
It's here old Dudly ſhews his Scars,
And tells of Flanders and the Wars;
Of Hockſted's plain and brave defeat,
And how the creeping French were beat;
And here his troubles to redreſs,
Reſorts the Noble Prince of Heſs;
Maro too, ſedate and wiſe,
Often comes to make his Flies:
Maro with open candid Soul.
A mind as Generous as the Bowl.
Himſelf an honeſt chearful Gueſt,
The life and grace of e'vry Feaſt;
In him two ſhining gems contend,
Which ſpeak the Scholar and the Friend.
But ſee the Hero by his ſide,
Who cuff'd the Waves and foaming Tide;
Sure friendſhip fir'd his worthy Heart,
That could Altides charms deſert;
Not beauties power could him arreſt,
He waded dangers to the Waſte:
His preſence glads the chearful throng,
And ſooth's their care with Pipe and Song;
His Muſick can a paſage find,
To move the Soul and lull the Mind.
It's thus the Jocund Chorus join,
And quaff in plenty at the BOYN,
Boon companions daily flock,
To meet a welcome at the Rock.
An Elegy on John Wade, Eſq
[34]WITH gaſtly Smiles each ſordid Miſer's Shade,
Rejoic'd to catch the welcome Ghoſt of Wade,
With wide expanſe their griping Arms unfold,
To graſp the Mammon like a Bag of Gold;
O! impartial Death we now too plainly ſee,
Thy dreadful Dart diſdains a Bribe or Fee;
Could nothing than thy fatal Arm reſtrain,
Not Heaps of Pelf or Thouſsnds on the Plain;
Whoſe wo [...]y Loads th' Indigent never got,
'Till Sheep and Fleece were ſuffer'd both to rot,
His careful tender Heart could ne'er allow,
That Colts and Fillies ſhould be train'd to plow;
Expreſs'd Compaſſion to his Stud Mare's Race,
But made poor Men ſupply his Horſes Place;
His p [...]mper'd Steeds ne'er felt the uſeful Yoke,
The Breaking Bridle or the Rider's Stroke;
But rov'd unbounded thro' the Meads and Wood,
And like their Owner liv'd for no ones Good;
Whilſt he their Age and want of Teeth conceals,
And hides their Years beneath their Mains and Tails:
His ſimple Tradeſmen with ſuch Goods he paid,
And for a Gelding gave ſome toothleſs Jade.
The weeping Mice may now his Loſs regret,
When poor Men ſtarv'd they fed on precious Wheat;
Such Vermin in his Breaſt could Pity find,
But ſhut the Door of Mercy to his Kind:
The craving Needy from his Gate he warns,
While Heaps of Corn lay Rotting in his Barns;
His Niggard Soul begrudg'd the Food he Eat,
Nine Days he ſtrove to live without his Meat;
Sure Avarice in him is ſolely fled,
And Miſers are with Wade and Demar dead:
O! Fare them well ſince here they are no more,
But ſnatch'd too late to curſe their Idol Store;
[35]What now avails their Bags of ſhining Duſt,
The uſeleſs Heaps that in their Coffers Ruſt;
Thoſe bolted Trunks that held their better Parts,
Contain'd their Money and their ſordid Hearts;
A doleful Dialogue I fear they hold, I
And find there is another God than God.
EPITAPH.
YOU ſee at laſt poor Wade is dead,
Who once had mighty Heaps ef Gold;
Nor is he worth ten Pound of Lead,
If he were to the Surg'ons ſold;
But then theres Flear's under Ground,
That ſoon will get a welcome Gueſt;
And would not take two hundred Pounds,
To miſs a griping Miſer's Feaſt.
An Elegy on poor Robert Moore, the great Diſputant.
SAgacious MOORE alaſs is gone to know,
The Truth of what he Fought for here below;
With warm Zeal both Night and Day he ſtrove,
His Foes to baffle and his Cauſe to prove:
With endleſs Feuds his harmleſs Mind they Vext,
And plagu'd his Patience with ſome Vulgar Text;
But he Impregnant ſtill their Quirks did Cuff,
And ſhew'd their Arguments were all but Stuff:
For twice a Week he enter'd in the Cauſe,
And never left the Field but with Applauſe;
By Dint of Reaſon, and by Scripture Force,
The only Arms to which he had Recourſe.
He drove thoſe haughty Sticklers from the Field,
And made their Champions to his Proweſs yield;
No borrow'd Weapons did our HERO bring,
Reſembling DAVID, with his Stones and Sling:
He came with Joy to meet th' unequal Foe,
Their great Goliah felt his parting Blow;
[36]In him fair Truth, with native Luſtre ſhone,
And ſacred Scripture ſeem'd to be his own;
Religion' Bulwark in his Rank he ſtood,
And never fail'd to make his Purpoſe good;
When three to one he often did Diſpute,
He could their ableſt Cauſuiſts conſute;
But who ſhall now thoſe Enemies engage,
Since MOORE too ſoon has left the hoſtile Stage;
Where he by liſt'ning Crowds, with Joy was ſeen,
To gain Applauſe in that important Scene:
With brave Succeſs he ſtill perform'd his Part,
Defended Truth without the Help of Art;
He to the Church has ſignal Service done,
Who knew no Language, but his Mother Tongue;
By that alone her Principles maintain'd,
And adverſe Quirks and Sophiſms diſdain'd;
The HOLY BIBLE for his Rule he took,
And drew his Reaſ'nings from that ſacred BOOK:
From thence with pious Hints he ſtor'd his Head,
And Demonſtration follow'd all he ſaid.
But Death came creeping in a ſlow Decay,
And Inch by Inch, he ſtole our Friend away;
As if by tedious Arguments he'd have,
Our worthy Stickler to his lonely Grave;
Death came round him, with a tardy Scope,
As half unwilling to deſtroy our Hope;
But gone he is, be it with Sorrow ſaid.
Rejoice ſome Folks, for your great FOE is dead.
O! Shorthill now you may, with Gorman cry,
Come on, come on, we all your Force defie,
To combat now we'll meet you without fail,
We'll bogg your Arguments, and drink your Ale:
And Sheridan too, ten to one, will hold,
The Fox being gone that Gander is grown bold;
With noiſ'y Brags they loudly now will Vaunt,
And boaſting cry we'll all your courage Daunt;
We doubt not, but each Victory to gain,
Your Strength and Pride has left the hoſtile Plain.
So when Achilles from the War withdrew,
Each ſtripling Trojan dare the Fight renew;
[37]Thoſe poor Poultroons, that durſt not ſee his Face,
Will now triumph ſince Death has chang'd the Caſe.
O! Engine-Alley Paint your blue Poſts black,
Melt down your Pottles and your Pitchers crack;
Let all your Taps in mourning, Murmurs run,
And flowing Poſſets purl their Liquid moan:
Your Friend indeed, who once could bring you Trade,
A tedious Exit from your Doors has made;
A Friend he was and to your Intereſt kind,
A better Cauſe, has few ſuch Friends behind.
EPITAPH.
POOR MOORE, who once could well Diſpute,
And ſtand a tedious ſtiff Debate;
Theres only Death could ſoon confute,
Since ROBIN was run down by Fate,
'Till then no Sophiſt with his Art,
Could his diſcerning Senſe deceive;
Death's Topicks touch'd him to the Heart,
And did convert him to the Grave.
To Mr. Stanly Apothecary.
OF all the Trades a Wit, is ſure the worſt,
For Poets are by Providence acurſt;
The ſhabby Rogues get nothing for their Pains,
But empty Pockets and tormented Brains;
The great Reward adapted to their, Lays,
Is Garret Lodgings and a little Praiſe,
True, good Fellows, now and then may treat'em;
But, ſerious Ones of e'vry Sort do hate'em,
Will curſe their Epigrams and damn their Muſe,
A better Trade ſay they to blacken Shoes;
As for thoſe Raſkals with the ſcrib'ling Itch,
Their donny Charters never to be Rich;
Are valu'd like a Monkey for his Tail,
And pledg'd by Doctors for a Pot of Ale.
An Elegy on A—r—n W—e.
[38]LET Quakers Weep and Builders now Rejoice,
Since Death at laſt has made the wiſh'd-for Choice;
At length he did by one unerring Stroke,
Thruſt C—r W—e into a Cheſt of Oak;
Its all the meagre Tyrant now affords,
Altho his Captive lov'd to deal in Boards;
Unkind he was his Wooden Trade to hinder;
And ſink his Credit in a Caſe of Timber:
Blame not me, nor think that I'm Scoffing,
For on my Faith I only mean his Coffin;
Of all the Plank he ever ſold or bought,
He has no more than makes him now a Coat:
The Workman came with Wings of joyful haſt,
To make that Suit that was to be his laſt;
For rather than ſo good a Jobb ſhould ſtand,
Every Chip I'm ſure would lend a Hand;
Not one of all the chearful tribe would fail,
But each would ſtrive to clinch the foremoſt Nail:
And I'll be bound that e'vry Man whatever,
Would take due Care to faſten down the Cover;
Within his gloomy Manſion to immure him,
From the World and Builders to ſecure him;
O! he's fled, but where by Fate he's driven,
To Charon's Coaſt or up the Road to Heaven;
Is now indeed a Dark myſterious Doubt,
There's only W— can find the Secret out;
But of the two I'd boldly lay a Groat,
His welcome Shade was wafted in the Boat;
What Point that lands at few or none can tell,
But ſome ſuſpect it borders near to H—
If on that Coaſt his Fortune was to fix,
He's ſtill a Dealer on the Banks of Styx;
And perhaps for his Judgment Skill and Care,
[39]May be employ'd by Pluto for Surveyor.
Ye Quakers all lament Friend W—e with Tears,
Whoſe Character as black is You appears:
Who murder'd Trade and lop'd off ev'ry Joint,
That us'd the Rule and Compaſs faithful Point;
But now he's gone let injur'd Workmen have,
One joyful Day to Dance upon his Grave;
Whilſt I pay Tribute to his hateful Herſe,
And ſing his Actions in vindictive Verſe.
The EPITAPH.
WITHIN this Hole his Body lies,
His Soul is fled, the Lord knows where;
See the glad Croud with joyful Eyes,
Whilſt each let's fall a chearful Tear;
Let ev'ry Foot tread down this Clod,
And willing Hands heap on the Clay;
Oh! bury deep the ſordid Sod,
And lock it till the Judgment Day.
The following Lines are humbly Ad⯑dreſs'd to Arthur Dobbs and John Codding⯑ton, Eſqrs. on the laudable Deſign to erect an Obelisk at the Boyn.
WHEN high Oppreſſion cruſh'd the guilty Land'
And bleeding Juſtice claim'd the HERO's Hand;
When pale Religion ſunk her mourning Head,
And glorious Liberty was almoſt fled.
No ſaving Arm could Albion's Rights maintain,
'Till WILLIAM's Hand ſoon broke the ſervile Chain;
His noble Soul Brittania's Thrall did ſee,
Redreſs'd her Wrongs and bid her once be Free.
What lofty Trophies ſhould glad Britons raiſe,
To NASSAU'S Glory and to virtue's Praiſe.
A Soul like His, who ſoar'd to deathleſs Fame,
In Deeds immortal as His ſacred NAME.
[40]What breathing Statues and expreſſive Coin,
Should ſpeak his Actions and Record the Boyn;
Or Pyramids to ſhade th'illuſtr'ous Flood,
And tell where once the Royal HERO ſtood:
What ſtately Columns ſhould adorn the Ground,
Where Mighty WILLIAM felt harmleſs Wound;
Who bravely fought (thro' ſtorming Death) His Way,
Repel'd the Foe and ſnatch'd the doubtful Day;
Whom Angels ſhielded in the ſanguine Tide,
Who turn'd fell Swords and flying Fates aſide.
Yours it is by publick worth to claim,
A Kingdom's Credit and a Patriot's NAME;
To lateſt Times convey the Glorious Deed,
Of reſcu'd Juſtice and Hibernia freed:
Such gloming Ardour do's your Boſoms fire,
Such flaming Virtues do's your Thoughts inſpire,
That thus you ſhine among the grateful few,
And ſingly brave do's your Attempt renew:
Your great Deſign that ſhall thro' Ages ſtand,
The laſting Trophy of a loyal Land,
When Men unborn ſhall at the Wonder gaze,
Revere the MONARCH and the Founders Praiſe;
His deathleſs Wreaths will on your Labours live,
Whilſt you partake what His great Fame can give,
Your Bays ingrafted on His Stock ſhall Bloom,
The Curb of Tyrants and the Dread of Rome;
Expreſſive Emblems in rich Sculpture wrought,
Shall d [...]te your Project, ſhew when NASSAU Fought.
Thus diſplay'd were Trajan's Deeds of old,
In living Marble and in ſpeaking Gold;
Such ſplended Labours with the Sun ſhall ſhine,
And ſet with Nature at the End of Time;
All Hail to thee who came to us once more,
A welcome Friend unto thy native Shore:
Thy curious Mind to foreign Realms did roam,
To bring their Knowledge, Arts and Virtue home;
Whilſt Neigbours ſtrive who ſhall applaud thee moſt,
Thy Skill the Nation and the Boyn ſhall boaſt.
FINIS
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3533 New poems on several occasions I A short essay on the progress of English poetry XXI To Mr Stanley apothecary By Henry Jones. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5F41-1