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THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. IX. FOR SEPTEMBER.
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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.
THE SECOND EDITION.
LONDON: Printed by DRYDEN LEACH; For J. COOTE, at the King's Arms, in Pater-noſter-Row. MDCCLXIII.
[]THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
SEPTEMBER. AN ODE.
FArewell the pomp of Flora! vivid ſcene!
Welcome ſage Autumn, to invert the year—
Farewell to ſummer's eye-delighting green!
Her verdure fades—autumnal blaſts are near.
The ſilky wardrobe now is laid aſide,
With all the rich regalia of her pride.
And muſt we bid ſweet Philomel adieu?
She that was wont to charm us in the grove?
Muſt Nature's livery wear a ſadder hue,
And a dark canopy be ſtretch'd above?
Yes—for September mounts his ebon-throne,
And the ſmooth foliage of the plain is gone.
Libra, to weigh the harveſt's pearly ſtore,
The golden ballance poizes now on high,
The calm ſerenity of Zephyr o'er,
Sol's glittering legions to th' equator fly,
[2]At the ſame hour he ſhows his orient head,
And, warn'd by Thetis, ſinks in Ocean's bed.
Adieu! ye damaſk roſes, which remind
The maiden fair-one, how her charms decay;
Ye riſing blaſts, oh! leave ſome mark behind,
Some ſmall memorial of the ſweets of May:
Ah! no—the ruthleſs ſeaſon will not hear,
Nor ſpare one glory of the ruddy year.
No more the waſte of muſic ſung ſo late
From every buſh, green orcheſtre of love,
For now their winds the birds of paſſage wait,
And bid a laſt farewell to every grove;
While thoſe, whom ſhepherd-ſwains the ſleepers call,
Chuſe their receſs in ſome ſequeſter'd wall.
Yet ſtill ſhall ſage September boaſt his pride,
Some birds ſhall chant, ſome gayer flowers ſhall blow,
Nor is the ſeaſon wholly unallied
To purple bloom; the haler fruits ſhall grow,
The ſtronger plants, ſuch as enjoy the cold,
And wear a livelier grace by being old.
AN AUTUMNAL ODE▪
TO MR. HAYMAN.
[3]YET once more, glorious God of day,
While beams thine orb ſerene,
O let me warbling court thy ſtay
To gild the fading ſcene!
Thy rays invigorate the Spring,
Bright Summer to perfection bring,
The cold inclemency of Winter cheer,
And make th' Autumnal months the mildeſt of the year.
Ere yet the ruſſet foliage fall
I'll climb the mountain's brow,
My friend, my Hayman, at thy call,
To view the ſcene below:
How ſweetly pleaſing to behold
Foreſts of vegetable gold!
How mix'd the many chequer'd ſhades between
The tawny, mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green!
How ſplendid all the ſky! how ſtill!
How mild the dying gale!
How ſoft the whiſpers of the rill,
That winds along the vale!
[4]So tranquil Nature's works appear,
It ſeems the ſabbath of the year:
As if, the Summer's labour paſt, ſhe choſe
This ſeaſon's ſober calm for blandiſhing repoſe.
Such is of well-ſpent life the time,
When buſy days are paſt;
Man, verging gradual from his prime,
Meets ſacred peace at laſt:
His flowery Spring of pleaſures o'er,
And Summer's full-blown pride no more,
He gains pacific Autumn, mild and bland,
And dauntleſs braves the ſtroke of Winter's palſied hand.
For yet a while, a little while,
Involv'd in wintry gloom,
And lo! another Spring ſhall ſmile,
A Spring eternal bloom:
Then ſhall he ſhine, a glorious gueſt,
In the bright manſions of the bleſt,
Where due rewards on virtue are beſtow'd,
And reap'd the golden fruits of what his Autumn ſow'd.
AUTUMN. AN ODE.
[5]ALas! with ſwift and ſilent pace,
Impatient Time rolls on the year;
The ſeaſons change, and Nature's face
Now ſweetly ſmiles, now frowns ſevere.
'Twas ſpring, 'twas ſummer, all was gay,
Now autumn bends a cloudy brow,
The flowers of ſpring are ſwept away,
And ſummer's fruits deſert the bough.
The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
And wanton'd in the weſtern breeze,
Now trod in duſt neglected lie,
As Boreas ſtrips the bending trees.
The fields that wav'd with golden grain,
As ruſſet heaths are wild and bare,
Not moiſt with dew, but drench'd in rain,
Nor health, nor pleaſure, wanders there.
No more, while thro' the midnight ſhade,
Beneath the moon's pale orb I ſtray,
Soft pleaſing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.
[6]
From this capricious clime ſhe ſoars,
O! would ſome God but wings ſupply!
To where each morn the ſpring reſtores,
Companion of her flight, I'd fly.
Vain wiſh! me fate compells to bear
The downward ſeaſon's iron reign,
Compells to breathe polluted air,
And ſhiver on a blaſted plain.
What bliſs to life can autumn yield,
If glooms, and ſhowers, and ſtorms prevail,
And Ceres flies the naked field,
And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail?
Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,
To cheer me in the darkening hour?
The grape remains! the friend of wit,
In love and mirth of mighty power.
Haſte, preſs the cluſters, fill the bowl—
Apollo! ſhoot thy parting ray;
This gives the ſunſhine of the ſoul,
This God of health, and verſe, and day.
Still, ſtill the jocund ſtrain ſhall flow,
The pulſe with vigorous rapture beat;
My Stella with new charms ſhall glow,
And every bliſs in wine ſhall meet.
AUTUMN.
[7]THo' the ſeaſons muſt alter, ah! yet let me find
What all muſt confeſs to be rare,
A female ſtill cheerful, and faithful and kind,
The bleſſings of autumn to ſhare.
Let one ſide of our cottage, a flouriſhing vine
Overſpread with its branches, and ſhade;
Whoſe cluſters appear more tranſparent and fine,
As its leaves are beginning to fade.
When the fruit makes the branches bend down with its load,
In our orchard ſurrounded with pales;
In a bed of clean ſtraw let our apples be ſtow'd,
For a tart that in winter regales.
When the vapours that riſe from the earth in the morn
Seem to hang on its ſurface like ſmoke,
'Till diſpers'd by the ſun that gilds over the corn,
Within doors let us prattle and joke.
But when we ſee clear all the hues of the leaves,
And at work in the fields are all hands,
Some in reaping the wheat, others binding the ſheaves,
Let us careleſly ſtrole o'er the lands.
[8]
How pleaſing the ſight of the toiling they make,
To collect what kind Nature has ſent!
Heaven grant we may not of their labour partake;
But, oh! give us their happy content.
And ſometimes on a bank, under ſhade, by a brook,
Let us ſilently ſit at our eaſe,
And there gaze on the ſtream, till the fiſh on the hook
Struggles hard to procure its releaſe.
And now when the huſbandman ſings harveſt home,
And the corn's all got into the houſe;
When the long wiſh'd for time of their meeting is come,
To frolic, and feaſt, and carouſe;
When the leaves from the trees are begun to be ſhed,
And are leaving the branches all bare,
Either ſtrew'd at the roots, ſhrivell'd, wither'd, and dead,
Or elſe blown to and fro in the air;
When the ways are ſo miry, that bogs they might ſeem,
And the axle-tree's ready to break,
While the waggoner whiſtles in ſtopping his team,
And then claps the poor jades on the neck;
In the morning let's follow the cry of the hounds,
Or the fearful young covey beſet;
Which, tho' ſkulking in ſtubble and weeds on the grounds,
Are becoming a prey to the net.
[9]
Let's enjoy all the pleaſure retirement affords,
Still amus'd with theſe innocent ſports,
Nor once envy the pomp of fine ladies and lords,
With their grand entertainments in courts.
In the evening when lovers are leaning on ſtiles,
Deep engag'd in ſome amorous chat,
And 'tis very well known by his grin, and her ſmiles,
What they both have a mind to be at;
To our dwelling, tho' homely, well-pleas'd to repair,
Let our mutual endearments revive,
And let no ſingle action, or look, but declare,
How contented and happy we live.
Should ideas ariſe that may ruffle the ſoul,
Let ſoft muſic the phantoms remove,
For 'tis harmony only has force to controul,
And unite all the paſſions in love.
With her eyes but half open, her cap all awry,
When the laſs is preparing for bed;
And the ſleepy dull clown, who ſits nodding juſt by,
Sometimes rouzes and ſcratches his head.
In the night when 'tis cloudy, and rainy, and dark,
And the labourers ſnore as they lie,
Not a noiſe to diſturb us, unleſs a dog bark
In the farm, or the village hard by.
[10]
At the time of ſweet reſt, and of quiet like this,
Ere our eyes are clos'd up in their lids,
Let us welcome the ſeaſon, and taſte of that bliſs,
Which the ſunſhine and daylight forbids.
UPON MY HAIRS FALLING.
FEW and eaſy in your ſtay,
Never curl'd, and hardly grey;
Hairs, adieu! tho' falling all,
Blameleſs, harmleſs, may you fall.
Light and trifling tho' you be,
More deſerving poetry
Than the dream of guilty power,
Than the miſer's gather'd ore,
Than the world's moſt ſerious things,
Murdering victors, haughty kings,
If your moral fall preſage
Death, the certain end of age,
If a ſingle hint you give,
Well to die, and ſoon to live.
AN EVENING ODE TO DELIA.
[11]EVening now, from purple wings,
Sheds the grateful gifts ſhe brings;
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,
Cooling breezes ſhake the reed,
Shake the reed, and curl the ſtream,
Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam:
Near the chequer'd, lonely grove,
Hears and keeps thy ſecrets, love.
Thither, Delia, let us ſtray
Lightly o'er the dewy way;
Phoebus drives his burning car,
Hence, my lovely Delia, far:
In his ſtead, the queen of night
Sheds around a lambent light;
Light that ſerves but juſt to ſhow
Breaſts that beat, and cheeks that glow.
Let us there, in whiſper'd joy,
All the ſilent hours employ;
Silence beſt, and duſky ſhades,
Pleaſe the heart that love invades.
Other paſſions then at reſt,
Love poſſeſſes all the breaſt.
REFLECTIONS ON A WATCH.
[12]LET vain Philoſophy hence learn to bind
The lawleſs operations of the mind,
And teach us to obey that Power unſeen,
That fram'd, and firſt inform'd, our wiſe machine;
Then ſhall we know what ſchools have idly taught,
To guide each act, and regulate each thought:
Like this mechanic wonder ſhall we move,
Unvaried by ambition, anger, love;
Conſtant in each viciſſitude of care,
Not urg'd by hope, nor yet repreſs'd by fear;
Alike in health, diſeaſe, in age or youth,
Our equal judgment ſtill will point at truth;
No longer ſhall we live whole years in vain,
Nor one ſad hour be mark'd with grief or pain;
Freedom and joy our meaſur'd time will fill,
Guiltleſs, unerring, and aſſur'd our will,
'Till the laſt pulſe ſhall beat, and life ſtand ſtill.
AUTUMN.
[13]I At my window ſit, and ſee
Autumn his ruſſet fingers lay
On every leaf of every tree,
I call, but Summer will not ſtay.
She flies, the boaſting Goddeſs flies,
And, pointing where th' eſpaliers ſhoot,
" Deſerve my parting gift, ſhe cries,
" I take the leaves, but not the fruit."
Let me the parting gift improve,
And emulate the juſt reply,
As life's ſhort ſeaſons ſwift remove,
Ere fix'd in winter's froſt I lie.
Health, beauty, vigour, now decline,
The pride of ſummer's ſplendid day,
Leaves, which the ſtem muſt now reſign,
The mournful prelude of decay.
But let fair virtue's fruit remain,
Tho' ſummer with my leaves be fled;
Then, not deſpis'd, I'll not complain,
But cheriſh autumn in her ſtead.
THE FIRE-SIDE:
A PARODY ON THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE.
[14]" THrice happy, who free from ambition and pride,
In a rural retreat, has a quiet fire-ſide;
I love my fire-ſide, thither let me repair,
And drink a delightful oblivion of care:
Oh! when ſhall I 'ſcape to be truly my own,
From the noiſe, and the ſmoke, and the buſtle of town.
Then I live, then I triumph, whene'er I retire
From the pomp and parade that the many admire:
Hail ye woods, and ye lawns, ſhady vales, ſunny hills,
And the warble of birds, and the murmur of rills,
Ye flowers of all hues that embroider the ground,
Flocks feeding, or friſking in gambols around;
Scene of joy to behold! joy that who would forego,
For the wealth and the power that a court can beſtow:
I have ſaid it at home, I have ſaid it abroad,
That the town is man's world, but that this is of God;
Here my trees cannot flatter; plants, nurs'd by my care,
Pay with fruit, or with fragrance, and incenſe the air;
Here contemplative ſolitude raiſes the mind,
(Leaſt alone when alone) to ideas refin'd.
[15]Methinks hid in groves, which no ſound can invade,
Save when Philomel ſtrikes up her ſweet ſerenade,
I revolve on the changes and chances of things,
And pity the wretch, that attends upon kings.
Now I paſs with old authors an indolent hour,
And, reclining at eaſe, turn Demoſthenes o'er;
Now facetious and vacant, I urge the gay flaſk
With a ſett of old friends—who have nothing to aſk;
Thus happy, I reck not of France nor of Spain,
Nor the balance of power what hand ſhall ſuſtain.
The balance of power! ha! till that is reſtor'd,
What ſolid delight can retirement afford?
Some muſt be content to be drudges of ſtate,
That the Sage may ſecurely enjoy his retreat.
In weather ſerene, when the ocean is calm,
It matters not much who preſides at the helm;
But ſoon as clouds gather, and tempeſts ariſe,
Then a pilot there needs; a man dauntleſs and wiſe.
If ſuch can be found, ſure he ought to come forth,
And lend to the public his talents and worth.
Whate'er inclination or eaſe may ſuggeſt,
If the ſtate wants his aid, he has no claim to reſt.
But who is the man, a bad game to redeem?
He whom Savoy admires, who has Pruſſia's eſteem;
Whom the Spaniards have felt; and whoſe iron, with dread,
Haughty Lewis ſaw forging to fall on his head.
[16]Holland loves him; nor leſs, in the North, all the powers
Court, honour, revere; and the Empreſs adores.
Hark! what was that ſound? for it ſeem'd more ſublime
Than befits the low genius of paſtoral rhime?
Was it Wiſdom I heard? or can fumes of the brain
Cheat my ears with a dream? ha! repeat me that ſtrain;
Yes, Wiſdom, I hear thee; thou deign'ſt to declare
Me, me, the ſole Atlas, to prop this whole ſphere;
Thy voice ſays, or ſeems in ſweet accents to ſay,
Haſte, and ſave ſinking Britain—Reſign'd I obey;
And, O! witneſs, ye powers, that Ambition and Pride
Have no ſhare in this change—for I love my Fire-Side!"
Thus the Shepherd; then, throwing his crook away, ſteals
Direct to St. James's, and takes up the ſeals.
THE DRYADS; OR WOOD-NYMPHS.
A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM.
[17]Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus
Vidi docentem (credite poſteri)
Nymphaſque diſcentes, et aures
Capripedum Satyrorum acutas.
Evae! recenti mens trepidat metu.
HOR.
FOrgive, ye Nereids, if I ſing no more
The uncertain ſea, but chooſe the ſafer ſhore,
And leave the reſtleſs waves for ſteady hills,
To ſit on graſſy plots, or dream by rills.
The wanton muſe the meaner thorn prefers
To coral twigs, and amber's coſtly tears;
Again I may, when tir'd of leavy woods,
Haſte to the ſea, and court the rolling floods.
No lov'd amuſement's here, but ſoon will cloy,
The deareſt bliſs becomes a worthleſs toy,
And we muſt ſhift our pleaſures to enjoy.
Sick of the town, I left the buſy place,
Where deep concern broods on the thoughtful face;
Where factious cits, with nods, and roguiſh leer,
Are whiſpering nothing in attentive ear;
[18]Where knaves ſtrange lies invent, and fools retail,
And home-made treaſon find in every mail:
Falſhoods their credit gain, tho' ill-contriv'd,
And ſcandals, oft diſprov'd, are ſtill reviv'd;
Imagin'd ills in frightful ſhapes appear,
While preſent evils we with patience bear;
Phantoms, and empty forms, are fear'd the moſt,
As thoſe who ſcorn'd the man, yet dread the ghoſt.
No longer plagued with faction, ſpleen and noiſe,
How was I bleſs'd, when firſt my raviſh'd eyes
Suck'd in the purer day, and ſaw unclouded ſkies?
How happy, when I view'd the calm retreat,
And groves o'erlook'd by Winchcomb's antient ſeat?
Here the ſmooth *Kennet takes his doubtful way,
In wanton rounds the lingering waters play,
And by their circling ſtreams prolong the grate⯑ful ſtay.
Here good old Chaucer whilom cheer'd the vale,
And ſootely ſung, and told the jocund tale.
Bright was the moon, and her reflected beams
Spangled the dewy leaves with trembling gleams;
While ſtars, by conſcious twinklings, ſeem'd to know
What waking lovers acted here below.
Careleſs I walk'd, where prowling beaſts had made
A path, that led thro' a lone ſilent glade.
[19]The moon, with doubtful rays, deceiv'd the ſight,
And waving boughs gave an uncertain light.
When my chill'd ſpirits ſunk with ſudden fear,
And trembling horror bid the ſearch forbear;
My heedleſs ſteps had touch'd the hallow'd ground,
Where airy demons dance the wanton round;
Where fairy elves, and midnight Dryads meet,
And to the moon the ſylvan ſong repeat.
Tall rifted oaks, and circling elms had made
A central void amidſt ſurrounding ſhade,
With hollow vaulted cells, and riſing heaps,
In which by day the wearied badger ſleeps.
Thick thorny brakes grew round the loneſome place,
And twining boughs enclos'd the middle ſpace.
Here Dryads in nocturnal revels join,
While ſtars thro' ſhaking leaves obſcurely ſhine:
And here I ſaw (bleſs'd with a kinder fate)
Where in a beauteous ring the nymphs were ſate:
Well-pleas'd the Elfins ſmil'd, but ſhe, who guards
Pomaceous fruits, and orchard-cares rewards,
Down penſive lean'd her head; no ruddy ſtreaks
Mixt with the languid paleneſs of her cheeks:
Caſt on the ground her wither'd garland lay,
Whoſe ſhrivell'd leaves ſeem'd conſcious of decay.
Thyrſis, that much-lov'd youth, the goddeſs mourn'd,
Thyrſis, who once Silurian plains adorn'd;
The rural powers confeſs'd their meaner lays,
When Thyrſis ſung, and own'd his juſter praiſe;
[20]He Ariconian ſwains induſtrious taught
To ſtrain rich muſt, and preſs the racy draught;
Since he is gone, the trees are all decay'd,
With moſs bedight, and bloſſoms ill-array'd.
The penſive owner mourns the tedious weeks,
And wants the generous bowl, that paints the fluſhing cheeks.
Men led by ſenſe, and partial to themſelves,
Nor roving demons own, nor wandering elves:
But who can know th' intelligible race,
Or gueſs the powers that fill th' aerial ſpace!
Oft the tir'd horſe is forc'd to ſcour the plain,
When Fairies ride, fix'd in his twiſted mane:
And I, ye Gods! have wondrous circles ſeen,
Where wanton ſprites in midnight dance have been,
And preſs'd their rounding ſteps on every new-mow'd green.
Ye demons, who in lonely foreſts rove,
And friendly powers, that human arts improve,
Ye careful Genii, that o'er men preſide,
Direct their counſels, and their actions guide;
The grateful Muſe ſhall your aſſiſtance own,
And tell of heavenly forms, as yet unknown;
(Bleſs'd beings, whom no earthy fetters bind,
Nor to the preſſing weight of clay confin'd!
Of unmixt ether form'd, their beauty fears
No pale diſeaſe, nor change of coming years.)
[21]
Be kind, ye powers, and tune my artleſs tongue,
While I repeat the Dryads pleaſing ſong.
Napé began; a nymph with careleſs mien,
Clad like autumnal leaves in yellowiſh green:
Her round plump cheeks a deeper purple dy'd,
Such as ripe fruits boaſt on their ſunny ſide:
A wreath of platted moſs curl'd round her head,
Cheerful ſhe ſmil'd, and thus the Elfin ſaid:
" Tall ſycamores, the noiſy inſects love,
And buzzing round the leaves inceſſant move;
While the day laſts, the worthleſs creatures play,
And mourn the evening duſk, and wing their ſilent way.
But foreſt nymphs prefer the peaceful night,
When ſolemn gloom, and dewy ſeats invite.
While drowzy man in ſleep unactive reſts,
Not half ſo happy as the watchful beaſts,
Who ſilent leave their dens, and ſecret home,
And, on the prey intent, thro' all the foreſt roam.
The raging ſun, with his too ſcorching beams,
Burns up the herbs, and leſſens all the ſtreams;
But the kind moon reflects a milder ray,
And makes a night more lovely than the day;
Nor darts fierce flame, but innocently bright
Leaves all the fire, and gives the purer light;
No noiſome vapour, or dark cloud exhales,
But gentle drops, freſh dews, and pleaſing gales.
[22]So woman is but rougher man refin'd,
Has nought of him that's fierce, but all that's kind.
Now falling drops like ſhining pearls are ſeen,
And dewy ſpangles hang on every green:
Refreſhing moiſture cools the thirſty mead,
Extends the ſtalk, and ſwells th'unfolded ſeed;
Reſtores the verdure of the tarniſh'd leaves,
And every herb the ripening juice receives.
Day always is the ſame, but wanton night
Boaſts a more grateful change of harmleſs light.
Below, the glow-worms, wondrous orbs, are ſeen,
That ſtud with burniſh'd gold the ſhaded green:
Theſe little wandering comets never ſhed
Or baneful ill, or dire contagion ſpread;
Their ſhining tails foretel no falling ſtate,
Nor future dearth, nor ſad diſeaſe create.
Bright lambent flames, and kindled vapours riſe,
Sweep glaring thro' the duſk, and ſtrike the won⯑dering eyes.
In oblique tracks the meteors blaze around,
And ſkim the ſurface of the marſhy ground,
Unſeen by day, when, tyrant-like, the ſun,
Envious, admits no ſplendor but his own.
The liquid drops, that ooze from weeping trees,
And ſparkling ſtones with ſtar-like luſtre pleaſe;
Even ſapleſs wood, improv'd by age, grows bright,
And, what it wants in moiſture, gains in light.
[23]While ripen'd fruits, and milder ſeaſons laſt,
And only empty clouds the ſkies o'ercaſt,
Nymphs in lone deſerts chant the rural lay,
'Till the wing'd Hours bring on returning day.
But when fierce wintery ſtorms the foreſt rend,
And rattling hail, or fleecy ſnows deſcend;
When conſcious birds, who know ſucceeding times,
Haſte from the cold, and ſeek for milder climes;
The Elfin powers (who can at pleaſure leave
Aerial bodies, and new forms receive)
Caſt off their vehicles, and freed from ſenſe,
Nor dread the ſtorms, nor cold, when too intenſe.
The earthy Gnomes, and Fairy Elves are ſeen
Digging in loweſt mines with buſy men;
There labour, on the fruitleſs work intent,
While deeper ſnows the wonted dance prevent:
But fooliſh ſwains the blooming Spring prefer,
The infant glory of the budding year;
Nature, as yet, is but imperfect ſeen,
And her weak products ſhow a rawiſh green:
The flowers look gay, but lovely Autumn treats
With ripen'd beauties, and ſubſtantial ſweets;
Nor wants its flowers, while poppies grace the corn,
And azure cups the waving fields adorn.
Fruits lov'd by ruſtic taſtes, of pleaſing ſhow,
On the wild hedge, and ſcented briar grow;
And yellow leaves, the fairy Elfin's bed,
Fly with the wind, and on the ground are ſpread.
[24]The friſking Satyrs ſqueeze the cluſter'd grape,
And the chaſte Dryad fears the coming rape:
Ripe mellow heaps from every tree are ſhook,
And bending corn expects the ſharpen'd hook;
Soon will the nodding ſheaves be borne away,
And the drawn net incloſe th' unguarded prey.
The friendly powers, who labouring peaſants aid,
Nymphs, and lightfawns, frequent the woody ſhade;
But oft curs'd fiends quit their infernal home,
And (hated gueſts) in gloomy foreſts roam,
With glaring eyes affright the howling beaſts,
And little birds ſhrink cloſer in their neſts.
Earth would be heaven, if we might here enjoy
Pleaſure unmixt, and leave the baſe alloy.
The greateſt good has its attending ill,
And doubtful bliſs diſtracts th' uncertain will.
So teeming Autumn boaſts her luſcious fruits,
And plants of grateful taſte, and healing roots;
But ripens with like care the growing ſeeds
Of baneful aconite, and noxious weeds.
The deadly nightſhade wanton youth deceives
With ſhining berries, and with ſpreading leaves;
Th' accurſed fruit invites with pleaſing ſhow,
Fair as the damſen, or the ſky-dy'd ſloe;
But ah! not raſhly truſt the tempting ills;
Too well you know, that beauty often kills:
[25]Swift thro' the bones the ſpreading venom flies,
A deadly ſleep hangs on his cloſing eyes,
And the loſt wretch in raging frenzy dies.
Now round its pole the ſpiral hop entwiſts,
Like Thyrſi, borne by Bacchus' antient prieſts.
The huſband elm ſupports th' embracing vines,
And round its oak the ivy cloſer twines.
To Bacchus ſacred all, and prone to love,
They ſhow what fuel muſt the flame improve;
Love, blind himſelf, the mark would hardly know,
But Bacchus takes the aim, and ſets the bow.
Autumnal days a conſtant medium boaſt,
Nor chap the ground with heat, nor dry with froſt.
Nature on all her finiſh'd labour ſmiles,
And the glad peaſant reaps the grateful ſpoils;
Winds ſhake the ripen'd ſeeds on parent earth,
And thus impregnate for ſucceeding birth.
The tufted cod with future harveſt ſwells,
While weighty ſeeds fall from their native cells,
And near their mother-ſtem: but ſmaller kinds,
Far from their homes, are borne by ſweeping winds;
The atoms fly, wafted on every breeze,
Hence moſſy threads enwrap the talleſt trees;
Herbs of ſtrange forms on higheſt rocks are found,
And ſpreading fern runs o'er the barren ground.
But, Goddeſs, you neglect your wonted care,
(While blighted orchards mourn, the nymphs de⯑ſpair;)
[26]Nor love (as once) to ſee the handed bowls,
When tipling ruſtics cheer their droughty ſouls,
And tread with faltring ſteps th' unequal ground,
While humble cots with wayward mirth reſound.
Succeeding bards, in rural ſecrets ſkill'd,
Shall teach the ſwain t' enrich the barren field;
The prophet's inſpiration never ends,
But with a double portion ſtill deſcends.
Poets, like rightful kings, can never die,
Heaven's ſacred ointment will the throne ſupply,
And Tityrus, when he draws his lateſt breath,
Will to ſome darling youth the valued pipe bequeath.
So tuneful inſects, fed by morning dew,
Who in warm meads the daily ſong renew;
(True poets they) laugh at approaching want,
And careleſs ſing, and mock the labouring ant;
But ſoon bleak colds the wanton throng ſurprize,
And the whole race (ah! too unpitied) dies:
And yet returning heat, and ſultry days,
Reſtore the ſpecies, and new ſongſters raiſe.
The Goddeſs will not long forget her care,
But loſs of fruit with future crops repair.
No more ſhall blaſting winds the harveſt grieve,
Or blighted buds autumnal hopes deceive.
The youth, well-pleas'd, will daily thanks repeat,
While loaden branches groan beneath their weight.
As from ſalt waves are drawn the ſweeter rains,
And cheerful ſtreams, that ſwell the fatten'd plains,
[27]So from our griefs ſucceeding pleaſures flow;
Grafted on crabs the faireſt apples grow.
Bitters and ſweets in the ſame cup are thrown,
And prickly thiſtles have the ſofteſt down."
Thus ſaid the nymph, and Pſecas thus replied,
Pſecas, who gives the herbs their various pride:
She Nature aids, and is the ſylvan power,
That ſhapes the leaf, and paints the woody flower:
She blanches lillies to their lovelieſt white,
Whoſe ſkin-like beauty pleaſes human ſight:
Hence the blue vervains grace the humble ſhade,
And drowzy poppies are in ſcarlet clad:
Unerring forms the growing plant receives,
She rounds the ſtem, and points th' indented leaves.
" Who (ſaid the nymph) would ſing of bleating flocks,
Or hanging goats that browze on craggy rocks?
When antient bards have rifled all the ſtore,
And the drain'd ſubject can afford no more.
Nor Cuddy now, nor Colin would engage;
Eclogue but ill becomes a warlike age.
In antient times the ſhepherd's ſong would pleaſe,
When pious kings enjoy'd the ſhepherd's eaſe,
And monarchs ſat beneath the ſhadowing trees.
When thoſe firſt happier ages were no more,
But curſt ambition ſtill increas'd with power;
When crouded towns fill'd the deſerted plain,
And craving paſſions a new life began,
[28]The peaceful woods were not ſo ſoon forgot,
Th' uneaſy ſoul her wonted pleaſure ſought:
Reaſon, when free and undiſturb'd, approves
The pleaſing penſiveneſs of thoughtful groves:
Hence twiſted bowers, and cooling grots were made
To imitate, at leaſt, the rural ſhade.
But men, by furies urg'd, and curſt by fate,
All that is calm and inoffenſive hate;
Guilt muſt prevail, and bloodſhed never ceaſe;
Nations are ſaid to be undone by peace.
Too well you know, who oft, unſeen, repair
To whiſpering courts, enwrapp'd in fineſt air;
In cloſets ſit, and unſuſpected hear
What the great vulgar feign, the little fear.
By night, while ſwains dream of ſucceſsful loves,
The Foreſt-Genii wanton in their groves,
And o'er the platted heath the Fairy-Demon roves:
But, when grey dawn awakes from pleaſing reſt
The yawning peaſant, and diſturbs the beaſt,
Thro' ſtreets, and noiſy crowds, they range unknown,
And mark the conduct of the factious town.
Britannia's ſons, like thoſe of monſtrous birth,
When ſerpents teeth were ſown in furrow'd earth;
Enflam'd with rage, and prone to mutual hate,
With baneful ſtrife diſtract th' endanger'd ſtate.
War is now thought the panaceal good;
Quacks know no other cure but letting blood,
[29]Even when th' expiring wretch already faints,
And not a lancet, but a cordial wants.
Thoſe who could wiſh all temples ſhut beſide,
Ne'er think the gates of Janus ſet too wide;
For endleſs ſlaughter, as a bleſſing pray;
Farewell the humble muſe, and ſhepherd's peaceful lay!"
She ſaid, and all the nymphs with ſorrow heard,
When, clad in white, an heavenly form appear'd;
A leavy crown adorn'd her radiant head,
Majeſtic were her looks, and thus ſhe ſaid:
" Unbodied powers are not confin'd to floods,
To purling rivulets, or to ſhady woods.
Kind demons on ungrateful man attend,
Obſerve his ſteps, and watch the hated fiend.
The ſame good Genii guard the harmleſs ſheep,
When wearied Damon lies in thoughtleſs ſleep;
The ſame, whoſe influence aids th' unſettled ſtate,
And gladly haſtens on the work of fate.
Rome's ſecond king enjoy'd a fairy dame,
To lonely woods the royal pupil came;
To Numa's leſſons, and the Elfin-Bride,
Rome all her grandeur ow'd, and future pride.
Bleſs'd powers, and beings of the higheſt rank,
Nor love the flowing ſtream, nor flowery bank.
Clad in etherial light, the purer mind
Scorns the baſe earth, and was for heaven deſign'd.
Inferior orders have a meaner home,
And here in wilds, and woody mazes roam.
[30]To learned Magi we ſtrange ſpells impart,
Myſteries diſcloſe, and tell the ſecret art.
With ſacred miſletoe the Druids crown'd,
Sung with the nymphs, and danc'd the pleaſing round,
But vulgar thoughts confound celeſtial forms
With envious fiends, who raiſe deſtructive ſtorms;
And harmleſs elves, that ſcuttle o'er the plain,
Are rank'd with furies doom'd to endleſs pain.
Mortals, to earth and mean delights inclin'd,
No pleaſure in abſtracted notions find:
Unus'd to higher truths will not believe
Aught can exiſt, but what their eyes perceive;
Tho' to good demons they their ſafety owe,
Few are thoſe happy, who their guardians know.
But hear, ye nymphs; indulge no cauſeleſs fears,
I know the laſting joys of coming years.
I, Britain's kind Egeria, will protect
The loyal patriot, and his ſchemes direct.
All do not hate the plain, nor fly the woods;
Fields have their lovers, and the groves their gods.
If Bolingbroke and Oxford, with a ſmile,
Reward the ſong, nor ſcorn the meaner ſtyle;
Each bleeding tree ſhall tell the ſhepherd's flame,
And in its wounds preſerve the growing name.
Swains to tranſmitted pipes ſhall long ſucceed,
And ſort with artful hand th' unequal reed.
The birds on every bough will liſtening throng,
And noiſy, ſtrive to drown the envied ſong.
[31]Echo to diſtant rocks ſhall waft the tale,
And reach with borrow'd ſounds the loweſt vale;
While the glad lambs purſue the circling round,
Friſk wanton, and o'er graſſy ridges bound.
Would *he again the better choice approve,
Who once of Henry ſung, and Emma's love;
Would he (a grateful gueſt) to woods repair,
And private eaſe prefer to public care,
The nymphs would learn his ſong, their own forget,
And little fawns the moving tale repeat.
Peace from neglected pipes will wipe the duſt,
When uſeleſs arms are doom'd to cankering ruſt.
No dreaded ſounds ſhall ſcare the finny race,
Or fright the Triton from his lov'd embrace.
The buſy Naiads cleanſe polluted floods,
And nymphs frequent the long-deſerted woods.
The river-gods hug the declining urn;
All to their ſtreams, or to their ſhades return.
When civil wars diſturb'd the Roman ſtate,
And Brutus haſten'd on his juſter fate;
While falſe-nam'd liberty, and doubtful claim,
Madded the world, and fann'd Alecto's flame;
The ſwain was injur'd, and his ſong forgot,
And Tityrus only by his flocks was ſought.
But when Octavius had the nations freed,
And every realm its rightful lord obey'd;
[32]The God look'd down on the neglected groves,
And deign'd to hear of peace, and ſofter loves;
Fields and their owners were with leiſure bleſs'd,
And Mantua's ſhepherd had his wrongs redreſs'd.
So firſt the mountain tops are touch'd with light,
And from the gloomy vales the ſwain invite;
While miſts below, and intervening clouds,
Caſt a deep duſk on all the frowning woods.
The ſhaded meadows view, with envy, round
The diſtant ſplendor of the riſing ground;
But ſoon the ſpreading rays, expanded, move,
And, ſtreaming like a deluge from above,
Sweep o'er the gladſome field, and dart thro' every grove.
By foreign wars inteſtine factions thrive,
The dam deſtroy'd, the imps not long ſurvive;
Tumultuous hurry an advantage gives
Both to the little, and the greater thieves.
A guilty act is in confuſion hid,
When buſy times a nicer ſearch forbid;
So crafty fiſh, of clearer ſtreams afraid,
Lie hid in eddies, which themſelves have made.
Touch'd with the roſe, the jetty beetle dies,
And from the ſpicy hills the vultur flies;
So baſer ſouls abhor the ſweets of peace,
Whoſe private gains by public loſs increaſe.
When noiſy ſtorms deluge the dropping leaves,
The penſive lark retires, and ſilent grieves;
[33]But chattering birds joy at th' expected flood,
And with mixt clamours watch the teeming cloud;
For then (a grateful prey) the horned ſnail,
And worms, o'er moiſten'd clouds, their folding bodies trail.
Deſigning men the public welfare hate,
Who cannot riſe but on a ruin'd ſtate.
Baſe ſouls will always keep their native ſtain,
And rooted paſſions will th' aſcendant gain.
The worm, when once become a ſpotted fly,
And, borne on gaudy wings, it mounts on high,
Unchang'd admires the ordure, whence it ſprung,
And feeds with pleaſure on its native dung.
But ſteady patriots will juſt ſchemes purſue,
Nor fear the rage of the diſcarded few,
Who, prone to cauſeleſs change, unwearied ſtrive,
Old crimes repeat, and baffled plots revive.
Eternal infamy rewards their pains,
And, tho' the flame is out, the ſtench remains.
What ſpecious-colour'd fraud, or ſecret ſnare,
Can St. John's prudence 'ſcape, or Oxford's care?
Diſeaſes oft prove fatal, when conceal'd,
But ripen'd ſores, if lanc'd, are ſooneſt heal'd.
Slow Lentulus, and raſh Cethegus join,
And with ambitious Catiline combine;
Wretches who, only in deſtruction ſkill'd,
Try to pull down, what they could never build;
[34]But, when intent to ſpring the ſudden mine,
One Cicero can blaſt the baſe deſign.
So when black ſtorms caſt up the boiling deep,
And envious winds diſturb the Triton's ſleep;
The ſhepherd, who the watry conflict hears,
Shuddering at diſtance, for his paſture fears;
Thinks with himſelf, when will the tumult ceaſe,
Or what kind power can warring floods appeaſe?
But th' ocean-gods, rous'd from their oozy beds,
The trident graſp, and nod their reedy heads;
The waves rebuk'd, fear to approach the ſhore,
And all is huſh'd, and winds are heard no more.
Peace guides her ſteps, as St. John leads the way,
And all her little Loves around him play:
When he arriv'd, France (the firſt time) confeſs'd
Her court eclips'd by a politer gueſt;
Unwilling own'd Britannia has her charms,
And is as ſtrong in eloquence, as arms.
When St. John ſpeaks, who would refuſe to hear?
Mars ſmooths his brow, and Pallas drops her ſpear:
A thouſand graces on his lips are hung,
And Suada ſips her nectar from his tongue.
When wild ſuſpicions cauſe diſtracting hate,
And party-clamours ſway the warm debate;
Such eloquence the tumult over-rules,
Like falling drops, it ſoftens, and it cools;
It calms th'enrag'd, and draws the ſtubborn minds,
And to th' unwilling breaſt a paſſage finds;
[35]Nervous, yet ſmooth, the heart it gently ſteals,
Like wine it ſparkles, but like oil it heals.
He with his country ſhares one common fate,
All St. John love, but who Britannia hate.
Kennet of late neglects his broken urn,
And St. John's abſence all the Dryads mourn.
Not Gallus once in woods was ſo belov'd,
Whoſe luckleſs flame the nymphs to pity mov'd.
Heaven has its choſen favourites, and on thoſe,
With partial hand, its doubled gift beſtows:
While common ſouls, like coarſer ſtuffs laid by,
Are not prepar'd to take the brighter dye.
The kingly oaks engroſs the honey'd dews,
Whoſe viſcous ſweets the meaner ſhrubs refuſe;
And every neighbouring tree neglected grieves,
But willing ſpreads in vain its taſteleſs leaves.
St. John the woods, and breezy foreſt loves.
Where Nature's pride preſuming art reproves.
New beauties ſhow themſelves to nearer views,
And themes untouch'd expect the ſkilful muſe;
The vegetable worlds neglected lie,
And flowers ungather'd fall, and nameleſs die.
Thouſands eſcape, hid in the preſſing throng,
Unknown to Macer's, or to Cowley's ſong.
You, Pſecas, know, in ſeedy labour ſkill'd,
What various herbage fatten'd paſtures yield,
And what unnumber'd kinds adorn the field,
[36]Whoſe fading beauties paſs without regard,
While every drooping herb upbraids the bard.
What learned ſong will Nature's care impart,
By what kind inſtinct, and unſtudied art,
The numerous natives of the ſheltering wood
Avoid their dangers, or procure their food?
What verſe has told, how ſmaller rivals wage
Unequal war, and with the toad engage?
They, Argus-like, are ſet around with eyes,
And, hung on ſilken threads, the foe ſurprize;
Spit on the poiſonous wretch more deadly bane,
Who, deeply-wounded, feels the raging pain.
Swift up her pendent womb Arachne climbs,
While he ſcarce trails along his tortur'd limbs;
But careful will the healing plantain find,
(Plantain to undeſerving creatures kind)
Whoſe ſovereign herb the venom'd juice expels,
And now the bloated wretch with innate poiſon ſwells.
Or how the ſpeckled ſnakes their prey ſurprize,
And with hot fennel rub their weaker eyes;
They, when the bloom of warmer ſpring begins,
Caſt off, as worn-out cloaths, their ſloughy ſkins;
With early youth, returning vigour bleſt,
Brandiſh the tongue, and raiſe the azure creſt.
Ants prudent bite the ends of hoarded wheat,
Leſt growing ſeeds their future hopes defeat;
[37]And when they conſcious ſcent the gathering rains,
Draw down their windy eggs, and pilfer'd grains;
With ſummer's toil, and ready viands fill
The deepeſt caverns of their puny hill;
There lie ſecure, and hug their treaſur'd goods,
And, ſafe in labour'd cells, they mock the coming floods.
A thouſand kinds unknown in foreſts breed,
And bite the leaves, and notch the growing weed;
Have each their ſeveral laws, and ſettled ſtates,
And conſtant ſympathies, and conſtant hates;
Their changing forms no artful verſe deſcribes,
Or how fierce war deſtroys the wandering tribes.
How prudent Nature feeds her various young,
Has been, if not untold, at leaſt unſung.
To th' inſect-race the Muſe her aid denies,
While prouder men the little ant deſpiſe.
But tho' the bulky kinds are eaſy known,
Yet Nature's ſkill is moſt in little ſhown;
Beſide that man, by ſome kind demon taught,
Has ſecrets found, that were of old unſought.
Labourious wights have wonderous optics made,
Whoſe borrow'd ſight the curious ſearcher aid,
And ſhow, what heaven to common view denies,
Strange puny ſhapes, unknown to vulgar eyes.
So ſhadowy forms, and ſportive demons fly.
Wafted on winds, and not perceiv'd when nigh;
[38]Unſeen they ſweep along the graſſy plains,
And ſcud unſeen before the whiſtling ſwains.
But to thoſe ſeers, in northern iſles confin'd,
Inur'd to cold, and harden'd by the wind,
Th' indulgent powers have given a ſecond fight,
That kens the airy ſylph, and wandering ſprite.
No flitting elf the ſubtle eye eſcapes,
When wanton genii ſport in antic ſhapes.
Men Nature, in her ſecret work, behold,
Untwiſt her fibres, and her coats unfold;
With pleaſure trace the threads of ſtringy roots,
The various textures of the ripening fruits;
And animals, that careleſs live at eaſe,
To whom the leaves are worlds, the drops are ſeas.
If to the finiſh'd whole ſo little goes,
How ſmall the parts that muſt the whole compoſe!
Matter is infinite, and ſtill deſcends:
Man cannot know where leſſening Nature ends.
The azure dye, which plums in autumn boaſt,
That handled fades, and at a touch is loſt,
Of faireſt ſhow, is all a living heap;
And round their little world, the monſters creep.
Who would on colour dote, or pleaſing forms,
If beauty, when diſcover'd, is but worms?
When the warm ſpring puts forth the opening bud,
The waken'd inſects find their ready food;
But when the ſummer-days dilate the gem,
Stretch out the leaves, and fix the growing ſtem,
[39]They die unknown, and numerous kinds ſucceed,
That baſk in flowers, or eat the ranker weed;
Wanton in ſultry heat, and keep their place,
'Till autumn-fruits produce a different race.
But tho' a thouſand themes invite the Muſe,
Yet greater ſubjects will from mean excuſe;
They claim the grateful ſong, whoſe prudent care
Has quench'd the waſting flames of endleſs war.
Late civil rage alarm'd the trembling woods,
And burſting ſulphur ſcar'd the ſylvan-gods.
War fell'd the trees, and ſpreading havock made,
The nymphs could hardly find a ſheltering ſhade.
Now, with leſs frightful ſounds the fields are bleſt,
The ſwains have leiſure, and the land has reſt.
Faction, that Hydra, is no longer fear'd,
Her heads are lopp'd, and all the wounds are ſear'd:
When innovating ſchemes ſucceſsleſs prove,
They do but faſten, what they would remove.
So reſtleſs winds would fly without reſtraint,
Sweep down the corn, and bend the growing plant;
But taller trees withſtand their giddy haſte,
And break the fury of the coming blaſt;
They angry tear the leaves, and blight the fruit,
But ſtrengthen while they ſhake, and fix the ſpreading root.
Be ſtill, ye aſpin-boughs, nor reſtleſs ſcare,
With buſy trembling leaves, the liſtening hare;
And ceaſe, ye inſects, who, to plants unkind,
Or gnaw the root, or bite the ſofter rind;
[40]Silent attend, while I Britannia bleſs,
And ſing the future joys of laſting peace.
Victoria long her fruitleſs labour mourn'd;
Without effect her annual work return'd.
One blow to Caeſar gave the deſtin'd throne;
Philippi made the Roman power his own.
Swift as a ray, ſhot from the riſing ſun,
Pella's immortal youth his Perſia won.
But conqueſt now is ſtopp'd by every fort;
Bloodſhed is cheap, and war becomes a ſport;
In vain the captains fall, the heroes bleed;
Freſh victims to the ſacrifice ſucceed.
So doubtful hills the wearied pilgrim ſees,
And flattering proſpects give a fancied eaſe;
Deluſive hopes compel his fainting feet
To climb th' aſcent, and paſs the ſteepy height:
That ſummit gain'd, far diſtant mountains riſe,
Whoſe towering ridges meet the ſorrowing eyes,
And, pain renew'd, the wiſh'd-for reſt denies.
Ten years could Hector coming fate retard,
And from th' inſulting Greek his Ilium guard.
Yet waving heaps, as antient ballads tell,
The doubtful ruins of old Troy conceal;
Now ten campaigns, and battles yearly won,
Transfer no kingdom, and no king dethrone.
But pitying Anna ends the fruitleſs toil,
Blood ſhall no more enrich Flanderian ſoil.
[41]From her the injur'd States expect redreſs;
She, who maintain'd the war, muſt make the peace.
She gives the power, whatever ſide prevails,
Where-e'er the balance is, ſhe holds the ſcales.
To her they all commit their common cauſe,
She ſets their limits, and confirms their laws;
Portions divides, and gives to each his ſhare,
The right of birth, or the reward of war.
All muſt the juſt impartial hand acquit,
And thoſe who cauſeleſs murmur—will ſubmit.
So when th' Almighty, with an awful nod,
Made the rude Chaos own a greater God,
The blended elements, that long had ſtrove,
Would not ſo ready join in mutual love:
But, firſt, the purer parts their places took,
And ſubtle fire the meaner maſs forſook:
The war continued with the baſer kind,
While ſeas were loth to be by ſhores confin'd,
Or earth to have the loweſt place aſſign'd.
Anna has long enrich'd the powers allied,
Their want of treaſure, and of troops ſupplied;
Yet they, as wrong'd, with awkward ſtate complain,
Inſatiate thirſt! and would new empires gain.
So wanton children ſport in careleſs play,
And ſlumbering lie, or toy the hours away;
Heedleſs they live, nor ſweat for daily bread,
Yet cry, and murmur, if they are not fed.
[42]The Belgic ſtates forget their former moan,
But, ſwoln with bloated pride, and mighty grown,
New conqueſts ſeek, and deem the world their own.
Nor raviſh'd ſeas, nor India's ſpicy plants,
Content their wiſhes, or ſuffice their wants.
So when fierce rains waſh down the leſſen'd hills,
And redden'd floods increaſe the ſwelling rills;
The ſwift united ſtreams haſte to the plain,
And ſwampy meads the gathering waters drain.
Each neighbouring hill, and every riſing mound,
Barrens itſelf t' enrich the lower ground:
No moiſture can ſuffice th' inſatiate weeds,
Creſſes, and filmy ruſh, and flaggy reeds.
Sunk in their ſlime, the marſhy vales below
Scorn thoſe, to whom their herbs ſuch rankneſs owe;
Their ſubject ſtate they confident deny,
And loweſt fens will call themſelves the High;
Ceaſe, ye unthinking hills, and ſtrive no more
To ſwell th' ungrateful bogs with a too laviſh ſtore.
The foreign realms, whom Anna's arms ſuſtain'd,
Now boaſt of power, as they before complain'd,
So he, who baſely tempts the virtuous dame,
In ſofter words conceals the guilty flame;
The trembling ſuppliant her reſentment fears,
And adds to moving words more moving tears:
But if the fair refuſe with juſter pride,
And prudent ſcorn, what ought to be denied;
[43]The raviſher confeſs'd reſumes the ſword,
And rudely threatens, whom he once ador'd.
But none will long the offer'd peace refuſe,
Leſt what was conquer'd, they as certain loſe.
In vain the hireling troops their courage boaſt,
Victoria ſees not there her favourite hoſt.
The German chief retir'd, nor could purſue
The well-laid ſchemes his warlike fancy drew.
Men cannot gueſs th' events of future time,
Ambition is the growth of every clime;
None can the riſe or fall of empires know,
Where power now ebbs, it may as ſudden flow.
Gallia has oft, and oft has haughty Spain,
Indulg'd their hopes of univerſal reign,
And in revolving years may oft again.
The Gods awhile ſeem to deſerve no leſs,
And, ſmiling, flatter princes with ſucceſs.
By wondrous turns the heavenly powers are known,
And baffled ſchemes ſuperior guidance own.
Heaven has ſet bounds to every riſing ſtate,
And kingdoms have their barriers fix'd by fate.
An infant will the Gallic prince ſucceed,
The ſword is ſheath'd; no more the nations bleed.
That kingdom hardly can itſelf defend,
Where children reign, and factious lords contend.
Once Gallia's ſhore to Albion's cliffs was join'd,
'Till ſeas grew rough, and Nereus was unkind;
[44]Tho' lengthen'd wars may ſome diſtruſt create,
And ſow the ſpreading ſeeds of vulgar hate;
Again they may a ſtricter union prove,
And join in mutual aid, and mutual love.
Nor ſhall the Britiſh line enſurance need,
Or Belgic powers determine, who ſucceed.
For monarchy is heaven's peculiar care,
But foreign aid is worſe than civil war.
The promis'd ſuccour is an handle made,
And a pretended reaſon to invade;
When crafty Hengiſt with his Saxons came
To aid the iſle, and fix the doubtful claim;
The eaſy Britains the falſe friend believ'd,
And with fond joy the hoſtile troops receiv'd:
But Druids, taught by Nymphs, repining ſate,
And ſaw the coming ills, and knew Britannia's fate.
And now the Britiſh fleets in ſouthern ſeas,
With ſpreading ſails the wondering Nereids pleaſe:
In havens, erſt unknown, they proudly ride,
While the glad Tritons force the lazy tide:
Toſs'd with freſh gales the wanton ſtreamers flow,
Nor dread the ſtorms above, nor rocks below:
The powers protect, who rule the reſtleſs ſea,
And winds themſelves their ſteerage will obey.
The Nymphs ſhall hide no more from human ſight
But with their lovelieſt forms the bard invite:
Swift Fawns in open view ſhall ſcour the plains,
And be, as once, familiar with the ſwains:
[45]The harmleſs elves, in every meadow ſeen,
Will dance at mid-day on the public green:
Pan, and the ſhepherd-youth ſhall loving ſit
Beneath one tree, and ſport in ruſtic wit;
In the ſame ſhade alternate ſongs repeat,
While Aegle helps the maid to preſs the ſtreaming tear.
But now the huntſman takes his uſual round,
While liſtening foxes hear th' unwelcome ſound;
And early peaſants, who prevent the day,
May hither chance unweening guide their way;
For ſee—the grayiſh edge of dawn appears,
Night her departure mourns in dewy tears.
The goblins vaniſh, and the Elfin queen
Foregoes the pleaſures of the trampled green.
Nature's unwilling to be rouz'd ſo ſoon,
And earth looks pale on the declining moon;
The nimble hours dreſs out th' impatient ſun,
While riſing fogs, and whiſpering gales fore-run.
The bats, a doubtful kind, begin their ſleep,
And to their cells the darken'd glow-worms creep;
The coming day, the conſcious inſects grieve,
And with ſlow haſte the grateful herbage leave,
Wreathe o'er the graſs, and the moiſt path purſue,
Streaking with viſcous ſlime the ſhining dew;
In ſome cloſe ſhade a friendly covert find,
And parent earth receives the reptile kind.
Guilt, and the day diſturb the wily ſnakes,
And urchins hide their theft in thorny brakes.
[46]All fly the ſun, and ſeek a cool retreat,
Nor envy ſwarms, who joy in ſcorching heat."
She ſaid, and ſudden all the Elfin Fair
Vaniſh'd unſeen, and mixt with trackleſs air.
But thou, O Wyndham, who didſt ne'er diſdain
The ſhepherd's gift, nor ſcorn the rural ſtrain;
(Tho' to no pompous ſound the ear inclines,
While the mean ſenſe is propt by ſtronger lines)
Accept the ſylvan ſong—
With pleaſing look the fearful bard receive;
You bad him firſt the humble cottage leave;
Ready to praiſe, and willing to excuſe,
You gave aſſurance to the baſhful Muſe.
How would I now deſcribe a generous mind,
Improv'd by ſtudy, and by courts refin'd?
But you (ah! too reſolv'd) will not allow
The verſe to tell, what men already know;
Envy itſelf their conduct muſt approve,
Whom the prince honours, and the people love.
Tho' you, in this, unkind deny the bard
The only ſubject can his pains reward,
You cannot make the tuneful Dryads ceaſe,
For Goddeſſes will ſing of whom they pleaſe;
Long will the grateful woods your name repeat,
And Wyndham be the theme, when next the Dryads meet.
1713.
THE OAK AND DUNGHILL.
A FABLE.
[47]Et vincere inglorium, et atteri ſordidum, arbitrabatur.
TACITUS.
ON a fair mead a dunghill lay,
That rotting ſmoak'd, and ſtunk away;
To an exceſſive bigneſs grown,
By nightmen's labours on him thrown.
Ten thouſand nettles from him ſprung;
Who ever came but near was ſtung.
Nor ever fail'd he to produce
The baneful hemlock's deadly juice:
Such as of old at Athens grew,
When patriots thought it Phocion's due;
And for the man its poiſon preſt,
Whoſe merit ſhone above the reſt.
Not far from hence, ſtrong-rooted ſtood
A ſturdy oak; itſelf a wood!
With friendly height, o'ertopt the grove,
And look'd the favourite tree of Jove.
Beneath his hoſpitable ſhade,
The ſhepherds all at leiſure play'd;
They fear'd no ſtorms of hail, or rain;
His boughs protected all the plain:
[48]Gave verdure to the graſs around,
And beautified the neighbouring ground.
The gracious landlord joy'd to ſee
The proſperous vigour of his tree;
And often ſought, when in diſtreſs,
This oak's oracular redreſs:
Sprung from the fam'd Dodonian grove,
Which told to men the will of Jove.
His boughs he oft with chaplets crown'd,
With azure ribbons wreath'd them round;
And there, in golden letters wrought,
" Ill to the man, who evil thought."
With envious rage, the dunghill view'd
Merit, with honour, thus purſued:
Th' injuſtice of the times he moan'd;
With inward jealouſy he groan'd.
A voice at length pierc'd thro' the ſmoke,
And thus, the patriot dunghill ſpoke:
" If a proud look forerun a fall,
And inſolence for vengeance call;
Doſt thou not fear, inſulting oak!
The juſt, th' impending hatchet's ſtroke?
When all the farmers of the town,
Shall come, with joy, to pull thee down;
And wear thy leaves, all blithe, and gay,
Some happy Reſtoration Day:
For 'tis reſerv'd to thoſe good times,
To puniſh all thy matchleſs crimes.
[49]Beyond the Alps, my mind now ſees
The man, ſhall fell ſuch traytor trees.
To heaven, 'tis true, thy branches grow;
But thy roots ſtretch to hell below.
Oh! that my utterance could keep pace
In curſing thee, and all thy race!
Thou plunderer! grown rich by crimes:
Thou Wolſey of theſe modern times!
Thou curſt Sejanus of the plain!
Thou ſlave, of a Tiberian reign!
Empſon and Dudley!—Star and garter!—
A Knez!—a Menzicoff!—a Tartar!"
Th' aſtoniſh'd farmers all around
Stood gaping, at th' impetuous ſound;
The dunghill in high triumph lay,
And ſwore the oak had nought to ſay.
His work was done;—the farmers all
Might gather round, and ſee him fall.
No [...] ſo th' event—the oak was ſeen
To flouriſh more, in freſher green.
By ſcandal unprovok'd he ſtood;
And anſwer'd thus, the heap of mud:
" When Folly, Noiſe, and Slander rage,
And Calumny reforms the age;
They, in the wiſe no paſſions raiſe;
Their clamours turn to real praiſe.
[50]Yet ſure, hard-fated is the tree
Reduc'd to ſpatter dirt with thee.
Soon ſhould a branch, from off my ſide,
Chaſtiſe thine inſolence and pride,
Did not the wiſe obtain their ends,
As well from enemies as friends.
Thus, ſome increaſe thy heap receives,
Even from the falling of my leaves;
Which, like falſe friends, when dropt from me,
Aſſimilate, and turn to thee.
But be they thine:—New ſeaſons ſpread
New honours o'er my riſing head."
1728.
THE THEORY OF TEARS;
A FRAGMENT.
[51]Sunt lachrymae rerum—
TEars, which the bar-rang'd orators command,
Are tears of pleaſure for the fee in hand;
The greater this, the more abundant thoſe,
Rated by price, as wine by meaſure flows.
But wines a due hilarity impart,
Their tears add gladneſs to the heavy heart.
Grief, when ſincere, by no vain proof appears,
Too vaſt for the parade of formal tears.
So, in the ſkies when deep-charg'd thunders brew,
No clouds deſcend in rain, or melt in dew.
On Tully's words when liſtening ſenates hung,
Charm'd by the living magic of his tongue,
Few tears ſuffic'd; for tears then learn'd to flow
Leſs at the call of lucre than of woe.
Once from the offer'd hand your fee withdraw,
That key which opes the cabinet of law;
Tears then no more ſhall their full ſluices break,
Nor eyes amid the dew of rhetoric—ſpeak:
[52]Thus, when the ſky a gloom of vapours ſhrouds,
Thunders would mutter words thro' watery clouds.
Alike ſo far, each here the verſe confines,
That both are empty marks, and paſſive ſigns;
Theſe, from the touch of flames etherial roll'd,
Thoſe, from the no leſs ſubtile touch of gold.
This maxim then how much the truth beyond,
" Hearts muſt with eyes for ever correſpond:"
Reverſe the adage, and behold it true,
If you mankind thro' no falſe optics view.
The doctor's tears, if doctors weep at all,
That ſoon his patient will recover, fall.
Each ſalient vein, that vibrates ſtill to health,
Beats in repugnance to the pulſe of wealth.
Each ſign, that to a happy criſis tends,
A tear reſiſtleſs to its orbit ſends.
But here the pointed ſatire fain would ſtop,
Joy too, like ſorrow, boaſts her pearly drop.
From fleecy clouds, on which the ſun-beam plays,
Oft falls the dew-ſhower interſpers'd with rays:
Let Candor then, who ſcorns the partial plan,
Sometimes miſtake the doctor for a man.
" All hope is gone! ſee how the doctor cries,
" His tears, ah! ſpeak in ſilence from his eyes!
" Good, tender man!—But ſay, dear doctor, ſay,
" Is it too certain what your looks betray?
" Has Phyſic now no laſt reſource to try?
" And muſt the ſweet, the lovely patient—die?
[53]" But ſure the dire diſeaſe, in luckleſs hour,
" O'er youth and ſtrength can ſcarcely boaſt the power;
" Not yet attain'd the fever's wonted height,
" To make our noon-day hopes all ſet in night."
" No! heaven be prais'd!" with fervor-lifted eyes,
" My tears are tears of joy," the doctor cries;
" No more the fever's heats internal burn,
" No more deliriums, big with fate, return.
" Mix thoſe few cordials, and your fears abate,
" Our patient's in a convaleſcent ſtate."
Short triumph! his lank purſe ſo empty felt,
Each eye would fain from other motives melt.
Now certain hopes health's kind prognoſtics give;
So ſoon cur'd patients, how ſhall doctors live?
Men muſt debauch, take fevers, faint and rave,
Few hopes attend them, and late periods ſave;
Their fatal ſnares muſt wine and women ſpread,
Or doctors go a begging for their bread.
But uſeleſs is the hint, if meant as ſuch,
Mankind are ſure too complaiſant by much,
To ſuffer thoſe, who kindly them preſerve
From fell diſeaſe, and death itſelf, to ſtarve.
Now to the pulpit turns the muſe's eye,
There, haply, tears from proper fonts to ſpy;
For ſure, if ſuch us any where o'ertake,
Altho' with-held for friendſhip's preſſing ſake,
Tho' rarely found in roſtrums; it muſt be
Where God deſcends, and mortals bend the knee.
[54]Where tears ſincere, in heaven's pure eye, diſcloſe
A finer twinkle than the diamond ſhows.
Where all confeſs, a tale that ſtill begins,
How much Religion ſuffers by their ſins.
Religion! that ſublime and gracious plan,
By which for angel we exchange the man.
But hold—all honour to the ſacred gown,
Tho' leſs rever'd the gem-encircled crown.
A ſcoff contemptuous here, or laugh of ſcorn,
Were Virtue to decry, celeſtial-born;
Were to defame the volume of the ſkies,
Which, penn'd by hand divine, expanded lies:
Far more, for devils act leſs monſtrous parts,
Were to eraze God's image from our hearts:
Degrade the gown, religion, and the text,
You muſt, dread thought! dethrone Jehovah next.
The perſon from the office we divide,
To ſhun the ſtigma, or of guilt or pride;
Pride, that betrays a littleneſs of mind,
And guilt, indeed, of an enormous kind.
Tears, guſhing forth, the parſon's ſight bedim,
His eyes, like ſtars in miſts, uncertain ſwim;
Nor wonder tears his cautious lids beguile,
For oh! the melting pathos of his ſtile!
Who can behold him, and refrain from tears,
None, but the marble-hearted wretch who—hears.
His head, his heart, his eyes, all correſpond,
Like mutual friends, of one another fond.
[55]But, had he been from ſelf-complacence freed,
His head, his heart, his eyes, had diſagreed.
Not joy, but grief, in tears had then indulg'd,
Expreſs'd her feelings, and her doubts divulg'd.
This vain parade of partial tears is ſhown,
Becauſe the preacher's to himſelf unknown.
In big effuſive conſciouſneſs they run,
For what his pen, not wicked heart, has done.
His pen's the ſinner; nor leſs oddly true,
His pen's the generous expiator too.
Yet, ſtranger ſtill! dry eyes had ſhown his ſenſe,
Had he ſurpriz'd his pen in one offence.
What could he, all awake to feeling, more,
Had he himſelf been faulty o'er and o'er?
For acting ill (who can in all excel?)
Sure heaven will pardon him for writing well.
His ſins, indeed, are multiplied he owns,
As are his flock's, which hourly he bemoans;
But ſay, ye adepts, how things fit to call,
Has not his quill all-potent cancell'd all?
But this, not nature's, but the preacher's law,
No tears can once but ſacerdotal draw:
Hence, tho' the rapt ſelf-conſcious parſon weeps,
No ſocial tear a well-bred cadence keeps;
Or, if a courteous drop with his conſents,
The cheek alone, but not the heart, relents:
They weep, becauſe they ſee, but liſten not,
Or, if they heard, the ſubſtance all forgot.
[56]Thus womens eyes abundant uſe to flow,
Aſk them the reaſon why?—they do not know.
But ſhall coarſe ſatire quite engroſs the page,
And thro' the numbers ſpend its gloomy rage?
No; let ſome gentle ſubject cloſe the ſong,
To the ſoft paſſions ſofter ſtrains belong.
The muſe increaſing ardors too may feel,
And kindle onward like a chariot-wheel.
But not, as chariots raiſe the duſt around,
Truth to obſcure, or reaſon to confound.
Tears are the eye's pellucid dews, that fall
At Pity's ſummons, or at Mercy's call;
Tho' ruthleſs eyes oft-times affect them too,
As ſtones themſelves diſtil a breathing dew.
As ſprings to earth, all-gently they impart
A kindly genial ſoftneſs to the heart.
Tears, when the mind enjoys unruffled eaſe,
For form-ſake ſhed, or from deſire to pleaſe,
Are like thoſe rains thro' ſunſhine oft ſent down
From partial clouds, when nature wears no frown.
Tears are the ſpecial meſſengers akin
To oracles, on errands from within;
To tell mankind, beyond conjectures vain,
Thoſe ſecrets friendſhip only can explain;
What active paſſions riſe in tender ſtrife,
What ſoft affections touch the ſprings of life.
Tears are the ſilent language of the heart,
That more, far more, than empty ſounds impart:
[57]By which it loves, o'erburden'd, to complain,
When words would but offend, or prove in vain.
Tears eaſe the ſoul in anguiſh and deſpair,
Leaving a ſadly-pleaſing languor there.
Thus cloſe-pent clouds diſſolve in haſty ſhowers,
By which the thunder loſes all its powers;
By which the ſky, far as the view unfolds,
A temperature ſerene and ſoften'd holds.
Tears are the gentle ſtreams that off convey
Thoſe floods that would o'erwhelm us by delay;
The heart's big ſwell, much by misfortunes griev'd,
That heaving ſoon would burſt if not reliev'd.
Tears are the tender proofs of love ſincere,
In ſilence ſhed, whence no reports take air:
Shed, as the tribute of congenial minds,
While each a more than vulgar tranſport finds.
Falſe eyes, indeed, may weep, if fame divulge,
But true affection only can indulge.
Tears are the debt in pearly drops convey'd,
But more than pearls in price, to merit paid;
In which none act the baſe inſolvent's part,
But thoſe whom Nature form'd without a heart.
Tears wait on vice, and oft on virtue too,
As winter-clouds diſſolve in ſummer-dew.
Tears, tho' the cheek a partial mark retain,
Waſh out, if ſhed aright, a fouler ſtain;
Which, as it fainter and more faint appears,
Makes angels envy human-kind their tears.
[58]
Tears are the ſilent arguments to tell
That man's immortal, tho' at firſt he fell.
Immortal—for he weeps for joy oft-times,
Free from the ſting of recollected crimes.
And what can Nature's law thus counteract?
What thus ſenſation's ſprings revers'd affect?
O! thought ſublime! ſtrong proofs inculcate hence,
How much inferior to the mind the ſenſe;
Diſſolv'd in tears, that feebly it reflects
Back to the ſoul what rapturous ſhe expects.
As Cynthia, tho' in full-orb'd glory bright,
But faintly repreſents her parent light:
Thus men infer, the ſoul ſuperior muſt
Exiſt apart, when duſt returns to duſt.
For if the body impotent withſtands
Thoſe tranſports ſhe to infinite demands,
Reaſon dare promiſe her deſires immenſe,
As virtue's long-expected recompence;
But when, or where, 'tis not for man to know,
That full enjoyment ſenſe can ne'er beſtow;
When matter lives in various forms no more,
And all the farce of human life is o'er.
ON THE ILLNESS OF DR. TURNER, PRESIDENT OF C. C. C. OXFORD.
[59]HOW venerable Turner's ſilver hairs!
How comely vigour crowns him at his prayers!
With pleaſing ſanctity his wiſdom ſhines,
Mellows each gift, and every grace refines.
Learn'd and well-bred his virtues eaſy ſit,
Truth dwells with Love, and Candor tempers wit.
The prophets ſons are honour'd with his choice,
Form'd by his hand, and guided by his voice:
With reverence we our father's years explore,
Nor count them many, while we wiſh them more.
Born on acceſſion to the Martyr's cauſe,
He ſees the world at peace by Anna's laws:
For Peace and Anna ſcarce his vows he paid,
His next important health our joys allay'd:
In the ſweet calm a ſudden ſtorm appears,
And with our gratitude excites our fears.
Even I, by pining fevers melted down,
Struck with his danger, well forgot my own.
[60]Each private loſs is by his care ſupplied;
And Fate can only wound us thro' his ſide.
Yet thus, with ſickneſs prov'd, new palms he gains,
His ſoul has raptures; while his body pains.
Oft his learn'd charge is to his comfort brought,
And oft his college riſes to his thought.
More charms his conduct than his bounty yields,
He's more a founder in the youth he builds.
So good Antonius plac'd his life's extreme,
(For claſſic ſenſe may ſuit a Chriſtian theme)
Looks o'er the faithful volume of his age,
Studies himſelf, and dwells on every page.
There's not one day that clouds his bliſsful view,
One ſcene, but what he wiſhes to renew—
He moſt extends his life, who moſt employs,
And he lives twice, who his paſt life enjoys.
TO THE REV. MR. FITZGERALD, RECTOR OF WOTTON, SURRY, MDCCXXXV.
[61]WHile you enjoy a calm and cool retreat,
Not vex'd by autumn's wind, or ſummer's heat,
Entrench'd within the boſom of the vale,
You catch the morning ſun, or evening gale;
Then trip the verdant lawn, and penſive muſe,
Or moralize within the gloom of yews:
'Till ſomething ſtarts to blame or to commend,
To pleaſe, ſurprize, and to inſtruct a friend.
The ſands then loſe their barrenneſs, for they
Produce a cheerful ſong, or moral lay.
The villa, garden, mountain, meadow, rill,
Riſe all-ſpontaneous to the fertile quill;
Grow in your verſe, and grow to fair renown;
While others property you make your own.
Forgive me, if the long-neglected lyre
I touch, to warble lays thy lines inſpire:
If I the tender notes of friendſhip raiſe,
Yet greatly envy what I fondly praiſe.
As humble as thy heart I view thy vill,
Thy ſong as lofty as yon chalky hill.
I view thy mind, and, undeceiv'd, can tell
How taſte with true ſimplicity can dwell:
[62]How the calm dictates of thy mind diſpenſe
Mirth to reſerve, and ſolitude to ſenſe.
See the great world, ſee all its buſy ſtrife
Is but to wander thro' the maze of life:
Tir'd, from the down of Pleaſure's pamper'd bed,
They riſe, they yawn, are dreſs'd, fatigued, and fed:
And, in the chaſe of one laborious day,
A thouſand errands make, or viſits pay.
Aſk, for what all this buſtle? They muſt own
They hate to think, and dread to be alone.
Aſk old and young, the giddy girls and wives?
Frolick's th' important buſineſs of their lives.
Soldiers, divines, the ſprightly and the ſad,
All muſt ruſh headlong, faſhionably mad.
Paint thy own heart, thence draw th' inſtructive plan
To teach the Chriſtian how to mend the man.
You, plac'd in happier climes, can truly tell,
To live with pleaſure is with Truth to dwell:
Where gay Content with healthy Temperance meets,
And Learning intermixes all its ſweets;
Where friendſhip, elegance, and arts unite
To make the hours glide ſocial, eaſy, bright:
There taſte the converſe of the pureſt mind,
Tho' mild, yet manly; and, tho' plain, refin'd;
There, thro' the moral world, expatiate wide;
Truth is thy end, and Evelyn is thy guide.
POEM ON A PIN.
[63]FOR once, ye critics, let the ſportive Muſe
Her fool's-cap wear, ſpite of the ſhaking head
Of ſtern-eyed Gravity—for, tho' the Muſe
To frolic be diſpos'd, no ſong ſhe chants
Immoral; nor one picture will ſhe hold,
But Virtue may approve it with a ſmile.
Ye ſylvan deities! awhile adieu!
Ye curling ſtreams! whoſe banks are fring'd with flowers,
Violet and hare-bell, or the king-cup bright,
Farewell! for I muſt leave your rich perfumes
To ſing the Pin in ever-ſounding lays:
But not that Pin, at whoſe circumference
Rotund, the ſtrong-nerv'd ruſtic hurls the bowl
Ponderous and vaſt: nor that which window bars
From thief nocturnal: nor that other call'd
A ſkittle; chiefly found where alehouſe ſnug
Invites mechanic to the flowing cup
Of Calvert's mild, o'er-canopied with froth.
No—'tis the Pin ſo much by ladies us'd;
Without whoſe aid, the nymph of niceſt taſte,
Of neateſt mould, a ſlattern would appear.
Hail then, thou little uſeful inſtrument!
Tho' ſmall, yet conſequential. For by thee
[64]Beauty ſets off her charms, as at the glaſs
Lucy, or Phillis, beſt adapts thy point.
Without thy ſervice would the ribband flaunt
Looſe to the fanning gale, nor on the head
Of belle would ſtand her whimſical attire.
The kerchief from her neck of ſnow would fall
With freedom bold, and leave her boſom bare.
How would the ſempſtreſs trim thy want regret
As ſhe her apron forms! And how the man of law, ſagacious, with his ſpectacles
On noſe reverted! frequent does he want
Thy prompt aſſiſtance, to connect his ſcraps
And notes obliterated o'er. Thee oft
In alley, path, wide ſquare, and open ſtreet,
The miſer picks, as conſcious of thy uſe;
With frugal hand, accompanied with brow
Of corrugated bent, he ſticks thee ſafe,
Interior on his coat; then creeps along,
Well judging thy proportion to a groat.
Thro' all thy different ſtorehouſes to trace
Thy preſence, either in the ſculptur'd dome,
Or tenement clay-built, would aſk a pen
With points almoſt as various as thy heads.
Where-e'er thou art, or in whatever form,
Magnificent in ſilver, or in braſs,
Or wire more humble, nightly may'ſt thou lie
Safe on thy cuſhion'd bed, or kiſs the locks
Of Chloe, ſleeping on the pillow's down.
THE NEEDLE. A POETICAL ESSAY.
INSCRIBED TO MR. WILLIAM WOTY.
[65]CANTO I.
Rem acû tetigiſti.
PLAUTUS.
WHile others ſing of high imperial ſtates,
Their jarring intereſts, or impending fates,
Terpſichoré, do thou inſpire my ſong,
To thee, gay Muſe, delightful ſtrains belong.
Accept, dear Woty, madrigals of glee,
I ſing the needle—and I ſing to thee;
Nor thou refuſe the incenſe which I bring,
Singing to thee, I ſhall the ſweeter ſing:
For thou delighteſt too in jocund themes,
Tho' every Muſe has viſited thy dreams;
But chief thou batheſt in that ſilver wave
Where blithe Anacreon's Muſe was wont to lave,
Where all-facetious Flaccus wont to ſport,
Where Humour reigns, and Comus keeps his court.
But what ſhall I, a poor pretender, win?
Since all my ſonnets are not worth thy *Pin.
[66]The pole-enamour'd Needle paſs we here,
By which the mariners are taught to ſteer:
Nor mean we now that death-denouncing *ſtreight,
Where oft the merchant trembles for his freight;
The Spaniſh Needle, a new theme, we ſing,
And to our friend the ſhining tribute bring.
Need we the proceſs of its birth admire,
Or trace it from the temper'd bars to wire?
How firſt the Rounder gives the graceful form,
Beneath the hammer while he keeps it warm;
Or how the Poliſher, with ſmoothing file,
Bids the rich toy in ſilver luſtre ſmile:
Need we to ſing the Pointer's curious art,
Which makes it keen as Cupid's fatal dart:
How next the Piercer's punching tools ſupply
The little Cyclops with a ſingle eye,
'Midſt of the forehead, where it takes in light,
And forms a pleaſing viſto to the ſight:
Thro' this ſmall ſky-light (may we uſe that name?)
With ſpectacles oft pores the antient dame;
And when the caſement plain appears to view,
Labouring to introduce the flaxen clue,
Raptur'd ſhe ſmiles, if ſhe the paſs attain,
And reaps the pleaſure, which ſhe bought with pain.
So have I ſeen a Philomath explore
The windings of a problem o'er and o'er;
[67]Turn it, and twiſt it round, a thouſand ways,
Loſt and bewilder'd in the endleſs maze,
'Till inſtantaneous, on a ſudden thought,
Happy at laſt the great ſolution's caught;
With extacy, too high to be expreſt,
The Eureka inſpires his glowing breaſt;
Fill'd with the raptures of approaching fame,
To the New Almanack he ſends his name,
Enjoys the bright diſcovery in his mind,
And ranks himſelf the foremoſt of mankind.
But leave we terms mechanic, ſince the muſe
Now ſoars ambitious to ſublimer views,
To lead the Needle to its worthieſt plan,
Its ultimate deſign—the uſe of man.
Its uſe imply we from its early want,
Ere Wiſdom's voice could charm, or Art inchant;
Ere petticoats were made, or breeches worn,
To ſew his fig-leaves Adam us'd a thorn;
Sharp poignant emblem of each future bride,
To prove a thorn in every huſband's ſide!
'Twas in the days of yore, when Time was young.
If we may credit bards, and antient ſong,
Ere Solomon was ſeated on his throne,
Or ere the birth of Needlework was known,
That young Needilla, fair and chaſte as ſnow,
Liv'd with her grandſire on the *banks of Po,
[68]Beyond the river's mouth, where Ocean roars,
Whoſe briny wave ſalutes the ſedgy ſhores,
Guiltleſs of love, unconſcious of his fire,
She gather'd ſhell-fiſh for her helpleſs ſire;
His ſole ſupport, and pillar of his age,
For him ſhe frequent riſk'd the billow's rage;
Spurr'd by parental duty—lo! the tide,
Once furious, hemm'd her in on every ſide,
This, Algaret, a fiſherman, in view
Anxious beheld, and row'd his ſwift canoe,
Timely he ſnatch'd her from the daſhing wave,
And claſp'd the prize, which he was doom'd to ſave;
The lovely damſel from the deep he bore,
And after wedded on the friendly ſhore.
Three moons had ſcarce elaps'd, to cloſe their wane,
It chanc'd ſhe ſpied her huſband on the main;
'Twas on an evening mild, the ſky ſerene,
Heaven ſhed its ſofteſt ſplendors on the ſcene,
Huſh'd every breeze, and every wave aſleep,
Needilla riſk'd her beauty on the deep,
With Algaret, to ſeek the ſcaly prey,
Perfidious winds! and more perfidious ſea!
The ſail was torn, their little veſſel toſt
On barren rocks, far-diſtant from the coaſt,
When, in a moment, every wave ſubſides,
And leaves the proſpect of the ſilver tides,
Long was the ſpace to gain the diſtant ſhore,
Their cordage broke, and ſhatter'd every oar—
[69]What can they helpleſs?—lo! Needilla ſpies
A pointed ſhell-fiſh, pierc'd with argent eyes,
A heap of ſea-weed on the rocks was caſt,
Which thro' the eyes with eager haſte ſhe paſt,
With theſe her ready fingers tack'd the ſail,
Which Algaret unfurl'd to catch the gale;
Safe they arriv'd—hence, from Needilla's name,
The Needle-fiſh has fill'd the trump of fame:
Hence the 6Venetians took the hint to form
Needles of ſteel—diſcover'd from a ſtorm!
Such is the work of chance, which oft prevents
Our deepeſt projects, and our beſt intents;
Thus, ſince thoſe days, has gravity been found
By a bare apple's dropping on the ground.
Art thus grop'd on, bewilder'd in the dark,
'Till from the flint of genius, like a ſpark,
Iſſued the Needle, with a new-born light,
And ſtruck improvement's beam upon the ſight.
CANTO II.
[70]OLD Nature ſmil'd to ſee this child of art
From her own womb, like ſome bright meteor, ſtart:
Well-pleas'd ſhe gave the ſeeds of flax to ſpread,
And hence the Needle's ſoft companion—Thread:
A correſponding amity began,
And both were wedded by the care of man,
When long they liv'd in amorous friendſhip join'd,
The Thread grew rotten, and the Needle blind!
For who can rule th' uncertain chance of life?
So fares it in the end with man and wife!
Our froward dames are often out of joint,
And huſbands, like the Needle, loſe their point.
The Silk-worm next her curious weft diſplay'd,
And wrought her lines along the mulberry ſhade;
The Needle ſoon another miſtreſs found,
A ſofter bride, more elegant and round,
Of firmer texture, and of gloſſier hue,
Needles, like men, are fond of all that's new:
For now the blade a libertine is grown,
Like man, his maker, quickly tir'd of one;
Yes! bigamy ſtill tempts the lawleſs crowd,
But thank the laws, ye wives—'tis not allow'd.
What! a third wife—ay! tremble at the word
Ye former wives—the Needle weds a third!
[71]He weds the daughter of old Farmer Fleece,
Even ſuch a dame as Jaſon brought from Greece;
A bride full coarſe, and recreant to his love,
But once united—ſupple as a glove—
Hairy, and rough, of Eſau's ruſtic breed,
Who mock'd her rivals of the worm, and weed;
For her the Needle muſt his ſize enlarge,
And the third wife ſtill brings a heavy charge;
Her name was Lady Worſted, and ſhe came
From Lady Wool—a matron of high fame;
She boaſted blood, and blood of tincture deep,
Deſcended from the lineage of a—ſheep.
And thus, while dear polygamy prevail'd,
The Needle ſtill with wind and current ſail'd;
Yet, like Sultanas, tho' they wooed their Turk,
Each wife was ſkill'd, and conſtant to her work,
For joint, or ſeparate, they maintain'd their vows,
And never left the drudgery to poor ſpouſe;
Each had her own department—Lady Silk
Deck'd the white glove, for hands as white as milk;
She claim'd the mantua-making, as her trade,
Her's was the jantee trolloppee and ſhade,
From the ſmirk lady to—my lady's maid;
'Twas ſhe ſet off the milliner ſo gay,
From humble ſattin to proud padeſuay—
She trimm'd the bonnet, and the flaming hat,
Proportion'd to the face, or lean or fat.
[72]Fair Lady Thread profeſs'd the ſempſtreſs' art;
In the fine ſhirt, or ſhift, ſhe warm'd the heart:
Sometimes ſhe wanton'd in the linen gown,
From Lady Bab to Dolly of the town,
While Gammar Worſted wrought the humbler ſtuff
Of various colours, for her work was rough.
Like theſe, did women lead induſtrious lives;
What halcyon-days were in the gift of wives?
Vain rovers then would envy what they hate,
And only fools reject the married ſtate.
But here, my Muſe, the home-ſpun theme muſt change,
O'er the ſad field of elegy to range;
To ſing the dire misfortune of the dame,
Who died a victim to the Needle's fame;
So home the puncture, that ſhe bled to death,
And thro' ſome artery reſign'd her breath;
Th' induſtrious finger ſudden felt the ſmart,
And quick convey'd it to her throbbing heart,
The crimſon ſtreams precipitately move
To guard their fort—the citadel of love;
In vain—for Death too cloſe a ſiege had laid,
And took by ſtorm the miſerable maid—
Here draw the veil—let fancy paint the reſt,
And ſhare that grief which cannot be expreſt.
CANTO III.
[73]TO man the ſway of nations was aſſign'd;
The Needle's empire fell to woman-kind,
Bright as her form, and taper as her waiſt,
Like her refin'd, and poliſh'd as her taſte,
With eye of light, with poignant fancy crown'd,
Keen as the Needle to impart the wound,
Like the ſharp weapon, ſhe, with pointed wit,
Can ſting the heart of noble, or of cit,
With mazy clue, and Daedalean ſkill,
Can lead thro' winding labyrinths at will,
Arachne-like, within her nets can lie,
Quick to ſurprize the proud entangled fly.
Ye taylors, glovers, ſtaymakers, beware!
Nor ſtill uſurp the province of the fair;
Ye ſadlers too, ye male-embroiderers, yield
The Needle to the woman—as her field;
'Tis her's to bear this ſpear of ſofter war,
And her's to drive the Amazonian car.
When did a woman labour in the forge
To form the bolt for Jupiter—or George?
Or when did Mars, or Vulcan intervene
To walk the paths of Beauty's Sovereign Queen?
Deſpiſe we not great Hercules, who bore
The female diſtaff on the Lydian ſhore.
[74]And look we not with proud faſtidious eyes
On Peleus' ſon, who wore the female guiſe.
With pain we read of Sampſon, when he gave
His giant-ſtrength to be a woman's ſlave:
Theſe paid the forfeit for their want of pride,
And the three heroes for a woman died.
Emaſculated man, be wiſe in time,
Or meet their fortunes, as you ſhar'd their crime.
Come, Woty, wilt thou deign to climb with me
Old Pindus' top?—or ſhall I follow thee?
Thou take the lead, and, like Eliſha, I
Will catch thy mantle to the Muſe's ſky:
Wilt thou, with me, the Needle's toil purſue,
And laugh at Mother Griffith's poor Review;
Come, leave law-quirks and precedents awhile,
For thy own native tongue—the Muſe's ſtyle:
Cloſe by thy own Parnaſſus' ſhrubs we'll ſtray,
And from dull buſineſs ſteal one happy day:
But mark the Muſe—for ſhe proceeds to ſing
The Needle's labours on ſublimer wing.
The ſacred veil ſequeſter'd females choſe,
And left the world for ſolitude's repoſe;
Here Eloiſa mourn'd her Abelard,
While Love inſpir'd the nun to be a bard;
'Twixt grace and nature ſtruggling, ſoft deſire
Prompted her tongue, and tun'd her ſilver lyre;
Not Leſbian Sappho ſung a ſweeter ſtrain,
Nor half ſo ſweet does Philomel complain,
[75]For Abelard had tutor'd her, when young,
In Wiſdom's lore, and in the Muſe's ſong;
So Ovid his Corinna did inſpire
With love, with learning, and Apollo's lyre;
To fill the vacant intervals of time
Fair Eloiſe beguil'd the hours with rhime;
But rhime not always, tho' its numbers charm,
Can ſooth a loveſick bread with paſſion warm;
Her glowing fancy to the Needle flies,
And firſt, behold! the works of Nature riſe;
Deep-read in ſage philoſophy, her hand
Bids a creation dawn at her command,
Here the bright ſun emerges from a cloud,
There thickening miſts his golden luſtre ſhroud,
At diſtance Cynthia ſhines amid her train,
In full-orb'd glory, thro' the heavenly plain;
His glowing car there Sol in Ocean laves,
And the horizon ſtoops to drink the waves;
And now the Needle to our earth deſcends,
Where the tall foreſt to the tempeſt bends,
Here valleys ſink, and hoary mountains riſe,
The lark, obſequious, in light ether flies,
In liquid lapſe a river winds below,
Here bleat the ſheep, and there the oxen low;
Viſion has ears, can ſee the torrent roar,
And ears can ſee the billows laſh the ſhore:
[76]Who has not heard the forked lightning fly,
Or ſeen the thunder crack along the ſky?
In picture, fancy every organ ſways,
We hear the painted ſhepherd tune his lays;
Such is the force of mimic art which draws,
Amphion-like, even quarries to her laws!
Painting and Poetry, twin-ſiſters, vie
Thro' fancy's ear, to charm the raviſh'd eye.
Beneath the plaſtic hand of Eloiſe
The timorous aſpin trembles at the breeze,
Clear flows the brook beneath the ſhining toy,
Which ſeems to work for Eloiſe with joy;
Here ſkuds the trout thro' ſhades of fineſt lawn,
There, o'er the velvet parks, the bounding fawn.
Here blooms a garden—there a fountain flows,
Here the pale lilly weds the crimſon roſe;
Now twiſted woodbines form a proud alcove,
Beneath whoſe arch ſhe rais'd a ſhrine to Love,
Amid the graceful forms, which deck'd the ſhrine,
Large as the life, young Abelard, was thine;
And in the train of beauteous nymphs, which ſhone
Reſplendent, Eloiſe had wrought her own;
She firſt in tap'ſtry, ere the curious loom
Taught trees to wave their tops, and flowers to bloom,
Gave the bold figures to the raviſh'd ſight,
Where ſhepherds ſport, or warlike heroes fight;
[77]Hence, emulous, the fair ſequeſter'd maid
Still guides the Needle thro' the rich brocade;
Or, when warm love is prevalent o'er grace,
Breathes her fond paſſion on a piece of lace;
For, ere the intermingling bobbins toil'd,
The brighter needle all their glories foil'd;
No ſupplemental patterns then were known,
For Love or Fancy was the guide alone;
In rich embroidery Cupid tipt his dart,
While ſage Minerva dignified the art.
CANTO IV.
[78]THUS, from the eſſays of a loveſick heart,
Mechlin and Bruſſels ſtole their mimic art;
Hence lace, with all its gay creation, roſe,
Eſſential ornament of belles and beaux,
Ally of beauty—ſupplement of ſenſe,
And, next to ſnuff, the orator's defence;
Grac'd with this armour, if he wave his hand,
Say, what plain ſhirt his proweſs can withſtand?
Not half ſo ſtrong the brilliant's ſhining aid,
When on the finger in full light diſplay'd.
So when the flag of Britain waves on high,
And gives its ſtreaming glories to the ſky,
All other flags ſubmit, and ſtrike their pride
To the known empreſs of old ocean's tide.
Nor paſs we here the knitting-needle's aid,
Once the delight of each induſtrious maid:
In days of yore, near Nottingham's fair town,
Ere the wove ſtocking to the leg was known,
Young Leius, a Cantab, of learned fame,
Sigh'd for Kinnetta with a virtuous flame,
With unavailing paſſion, long he ſtrove
To win the icy virgin to his love;
In vain he ſung, in vain he touch'd the lyre,
Or boaſted ſage Apollo as his ſire,
[79]Apollo's ſelf, in vain, to Daphne prov'd
The high deſerts, thro' which he fruitleſs lov'd,
Like her, Kinetta fled the amorous ſwain,
And he, like ſage Apollo, wooed in vain;
Tho' oft the laws of motion he explain'd,
And why velocity its end attain'd,
How the quick needles form'd the oblong ſquares,
Or what proportion time to motion bears,
Why the diameter of calf, and ſmall,
By due gradations, cauſe the threads to fall,
Or, why the ſeam behind was like the Line,
Parting each ſegment of the fair deſign.
Oft on his knee, imploring, would he beg
To tell, why Italy was call'd the leg;
Or, why ſome ſages held a fond diſpute,
Affirming it was rather like—a boot.
Deaf to his learning, on her work intent,
She ſought the ſafe retreat of winding Trent,
Or oft to Sherwood's foreſt bent her way,
And to her knitting ſung the ſprightly lay.
Enrag'd, his philoſophic heart was turn'd
To proud diſdain, and whom he lov'd, he ſcorn'd;
Within a wooden frame, by art divine,
Aſſiſted by Apollo, and the Nine,
In order rang'd a thouſand needles ſhone,
A ſhuttle thro' the woof was taught to run
With expedition, thus divinely taught,
With diſappointed love and paſſion fraught,
[80]He firſt, the ſtocking wove within a loom,
Glorious diſcovery! in his peaceful room,
His peaceful room the future ſcene of war,
Whoſe arts ten thouſand female hands debar
From honeſt bread—ſo Thracian women tore
Harmonious Orpheus, in the days of yore.
With haſty ſtep, full to Kinetta's eyes,
Juſt-finiſh'd, he diſplay'd the new-born prize:
" Now, ſcornful maid, he cries, to wiſdom's lore
" Dare to prefer thy Knitting Needles more;
" Thine and thy ſiſter females arts, proud fair,
" For love deſpis'd, ſhall vaniſh into air;
" From an unhappy, but an injur'd maid,
" I learn'd the ſecret to deſtroy thy trade;
" I ſpied Arachne's web thro' optic glaſs,
" And ſaw where lines o'er lines tranſverſely paſs,
" Enrag'd like her, ſhe taught me firſt to know
" The happy item of thine overthrow."
Stung to the heart, ſuperior merit aw'd
Kinetta's mind, and Leius ſeem'd a god,
The work ſtupendous in the frame appear'd
Like magic, or as if divinely rear'd;
Now to Love's altar ſhe ſubmiſſive bow'd,
Nor bluſh'd to own the new-born flame aloud,
With ſoften'd look the blooming youth ſhe eyed,
Her brow unarm'd with ſupercilious pride,
[81]Conſcious he felt the ſympathetic heat
Glow in his breaſt, and at his boſom beat.
" I know thee by myſelf, Oh nymph divine,
" I feel thy heart's warm paſſion kindle mine,"
Young Leius cried—and claſp'd her to his arms,
Then from the town he bore her vanquiſh'd charms,
To Cambridge ſafe convey'd his happy prize,
Ere the dread females ſhould tumultuous riſe,
Too well he propheſied the dire event,
Lo! to his chamber, with a fell intent,
Forth ruſh'd in haſte the Amazonian bands,
Rage in their looks, and broomſticks in their hands;
Firſt fell the victim of their ire, the loom,
And next the chamber met its fated doom,
Him too they ſought for, author of their woe,
Fatidic Phoebus ſav'd him from the blow,
He, with a beam of his all-ſeeing light,
Had warn'd young Leius to a ſudden flight,
Elſe had they torn him piecemeal in their rage,
As Thracian dames once ſerv'd the *vocal Sage.
Maugre their fury, Leius perſeveres,
His labours flouriſh'd with his growing years;
Ten thouſand looms the happy texture wove,
One reach'd the ſtars—a monument of love!
[82]A thouſand ſhining needles, light array'd,
Near *Granby's hat, effulgent, are diſplay'd;
Hence mariners the well-known term aſſume,
Who cry—how large the diſtant veſſels loom!
Here, 'mid the heavens, the Loom ſhall ever ſhine,
A conſtellation ſacred to the Nine!
And, when we ſee a ſtar glide croſs the ſkies,
Sage bards well know it is the ſhuttle flies;
And when pale ſtreamers gild the midnight air,
Theſe are the threads—like Ariadne's hair.
CANTO V.
[83]REſume we now the theme, hiſtoric Maid,
Where we digreſſive broke the homeſpun thread,
Tho' every Muſe in epiſode delight,
Subject and epiſode are ſhade and light.
Ere the gay thimble claim'd its later birth,
Ere gold and luxury had ſtain'd the earth,
Long had the taper finger felt the ſmart,
Sharp as the wound which thrills from Cupid's dart,
Whoſe arrows dipt in honey, and in gall,
With ſofter puncture Chloe's heart enthrall:
Various expedients were applied in vain,
To guard the fair-one from the ſtinging pain,
Thick leaves ſubſidiary were often bound
On folded paper, to prevent the wound,
Until the blue-eyed Maid's indulgent care,
Full oft invok'd, took pity on the fair,
She, from the regions of eternal day,
To Paphos on a viſit wing'd her way.
The queen of beauty ſaw, with wondering eye,
Wiſdom, bright regent, and her chariot, nigh,
When thus aſide—"What cauſe can Pallas move,
" That Prude divine, to grace the court of Love?
" Why this high honour from th' imperial dame,
" Whoſe cold virginity defies our flame?"
[84]She rung the bell—a thouſand Cupids hear,
A thouſand Cupids at the porch appear,
Vying they ſeem to wage a ſportive war,
Who firſt ſhall help the Goddeſs from her car.
" What favour can Minerva aſk from Love?"
Said Venus to the head-ſprung child of Jove,
" Since Wiſdom ſolemnly diſowns his ſway,
" And rarely deigns to trifle time away."
" Oh! Goddeſs, you miſtake, Minerva cried,
" Apollo's ſelf the pleaſing ſmart has tried,
" Fair Daphne's name in capitals he wears,
" The poſy of the ring which binds his hairs;
" A ſprig of laurel in his boſom too,
" For Love the power of Wiſdom can ſubdue;
" But not for man Minerva ſues your grace,
" I beg a favour for the female race;
" A boon, which Cupid and his Loves may grant,
" Your ſon ne'er frown'd upon a woman's want.
" The maids of induſtry, whom I protect,
" And next to wiſdom's ſons eſteem my ſect,
" Have long implor'd me to remove a pain
" From fingers wounded with a guiltleſs ſtain,
" Not reputation's wound, which few can bear,
" Is half ſo painful to my darling fair:
" An implement there is, a female toy,
" Sharp as the arrow of your one-eyed boy,
" With this the ſiſters of my art have led
" Long-time, with pleaſing toil, the ductile thread,
[85]" But pleaſing toils are mingled ſtill with pain,
" Such is the chequer'd lot of human gain—
" The uſeful toy, fallacious to its truſt,
" Oſt at the head has thro' the finger burſt,
" Whence trickling ichor iſſues from the wound,
" Tho' guarded well with leaves, or paper round—
" This is the implement—behold the head!
" From which the pureſt virgin blood is ſhed;
" I had, myſelf, to Mulciber applied,
" But toys, like theſe, are more to Love allied;
" Vulcan, on ſight, would take it for a dart,
" And, ſeen, refer me to young Cupid's art:
" Therefore to Love I ſupplicate alone,
" And at his footſtool beg the gracious boon,
" That, correſponding to the needle's head,
" A guard be form'd, which ſhould the finger wed,
" To ſhield th' induſtrious fair from future harm."
To whom Love's Queen, with glowing friendſhip warm,
" Be thine to think how Venus to oblige,
" Who highly honours Wiſdom's ſovereign liege,
" Be her's to ſpeak, and Venus ſhall attend
" To every mandate of her lovely friend."
Scarce had ſhe ſpoke, when empty-quiver'd came
The potent God of every ſofter flame,
" Mama, he cried—I've emptied all my ſtore,
" And now am come to forge ten thouſand more.
" In Mecklenburg I've lodg'd a golden dart,
" And left its fellow in Auguſta's heart;
[86]" And, laughing, ran away—the laſt I ſhot,
" Not eaſily the ſting will be forgot,
" Hymen ſhall celebrate their nuptials ſoon,
" Or elſe my bow and arrow's out of tune."
Here interrupted Love's imperial queen,
(For ſhy Minerva ran behind the ſkreen)
" Who do you think, you wanton, claims your power?
" No leſs than wiſdom's Goddeſs, and this hour—
" This precious hour bright Wiſdom claims your aid,
" Appear, Minerva, from behind yon ſhade;"
At ſight of Wiſdom Cupid ſcrap'd a bow,
Half ſmile, half frown, contending on his brow,
" My dear, Minerva cried, my dimpled boy,
" For what you told Mama, I give you joy,
" And honour you for thoſe well-choſen darts
" Infix'd ſo wiſely in two royal hearts,
" There may I ſafely with thy conqueſts join,
" Their heads belong to me—their hearts be thine—
" I'm come to beg a boon—you'll not deny?
" 'Tis for your favourite women I apply;"—
She then produc'd the needle to his view,
Alas! the well-known inſtrument he knew.
" And what am I to do with this?" ſays Love,
" Is it a doughty thunderbolt of Jove,
" With which, when you firſt ſtarted from his brain,
" You ſagely thought man's vices to reſtrain?"
He jeſting ſpoke—Minerva underſtood,
And, ſpite of wiſdom, anger fluſh'd her blood.
[87]
" Nay, be not angry, bright, ſagacious dame,"
Sly Cupid cried—"my Pſyche has the ſame,
" Ten thouſand of ſuch toys my art has form'd
" Long ſince—when in my forge the ſteel I warm'd;"
" No,"—ſmiling anſwer'd the all-ſapient queen,
" I want a guard, or ſhield, to intervene,
" To ſave the finger from the poignant ſmart,
" No ſhield but mine, I know, can turn thy dart."
To whom young Cupid—ſtifling here a laugh,
" You over-rate my wiſdom, now, by half:
" Myriads of ſhields, adapted to the uſe,
" Long ſince for women did my ſkill produce;
" Thimbles you mean, well known to every maid,
" Long ſince my forges form'd the bright parade,
" Wiſdom not always knows what Love has done,
" Tho' bright Minerva mocks at Beauty's ſon,
" Secreted ſtill be all her wiles from me,
" And Love's arcanas be conceal'd from thee,
" Juſt vengeance for Arachne's wretched doom!
" For Love now guides the needle and the loom;"
He laugh'd—a thouſand Loves the banter join,
Which half abaſh the Goddeſs, tho' divine,
Her car precipitate ſhe mounts, and flies
To ſeek her own dominion in the ſkies;
Foil'd by the God, to him ſhe left the care
Of every toy, which decorates the fair;
And Love ſhall reign in ſpite of Wiſdom's rules,
And Love ſhall prove her wiſeſt ſages—fools.
FIRE, WATER, AND REPUTATION.
[88]NICE to the touch, as ermine chaſte,
Sweet reputation ſoon is loſt,
Before detraction's beam 'twill waſte,
And prove us bankrupts to our coſt.
How ſtrictly then ſhould prudence guard
This rich, invaluable gem?
Whence honour ſprouts, the bright reward,
Full-blowing from ſo frail a ſtem.
To prove my moral ſtaunch and true,
Three travellers once took the road,
Each had a ſeparate point in view,
And each, no doubt, his own abode.
One was the element of Fire,
A right, choice ſpirit of the age,
The boon companion of deſire,
And well adapted to engage.
Water, a ſmooth deceitful ſpark,
Walk'd with, him—and you'll ſay that's ſtrange,
But, ſtranger, met in Noah's ark—
And any novelty for change.
[89]
The third was Reputation, ſweet
As violet, or damaſk roſe,
They talk'd of Britain's conquering fleet,
And who were friends, and who were foes.
At length three roads appear'd in view,
Alas! the deareſt friends muſt part;
A future commerce to renew,
They aſk'd each other's trade, or art;
By what ſure tokens each may find,
Upon enquiry, one another,
If, haply, each were ſo inclin'd,
On meeting, to ſalute his brother.
Warmeſt in converſe, Fire began,
" My friends, I part with you in pain,
" By country, I'm an African,
" And, ſometimes, traffic to New Spain.
" In Nature's works I range at large,
" A tyrant-maſter, unconfin'd;
" The ſervant's duty I diſcharge,
" When due reſtraints, compulſive, bind.
" I'm oft produc'd from flint and ſteel;
" For ſmiths I heat the temper'd bar,
" For cooks I dreſs the ſplendid meal,
" And roar, like thunder, in the war.
[90]
" In faction's voice I'm loud and high,
" In love, I kindle chaſte deſire,
" When ſmoke appears, ſuſpect me nigh,
" Tho' frequently I prove falſe fire.
" From heaven Prometheus ſtole my ray,
" To man imparted as a gift,
" I'm gently lambent when I'm Gay,
" But keen, and brighteſt when I'm Swift.
" You cannot miſs me by theſe marks,
" Such are the characters I bear,
" Like Beauty, I have many ſparks,
" Moſt apt to catch, if tinder's near."
" My varied ſhape, a thouſand ways,
" Says Water, may be ſoon miſtook,
" When winter's freezing fetters glaze,
" 'Tis hard to know me in the brook.
" Chang'd in my nature, now in ſnows
" I fall—now murmur in the rill,
" In hail or fleet, as Boreas blows,
" I drop—and yet I'm Water ſtill.
" I ſtand unmov'd in ſtagnant pool,
" In cryſtal lakes have little motion,
" In baths I'm warm—in fountains cool,
" Seldom at quiet in the Ocean.
[91]
" Whene'er you ſpy the willow green,
" Believe my banks are very near;
" Or where the waving flag is ſeen,
" Suſpect my Naiads to be there.
" I'm known to all by different names,
" Of high diſtinctions vainly fond,
" I'm call'd a river, in the Thames,
" In pleaſure-gardens, I'm a pond.
" I'm ſalt, or ſweet, in ſea, or ſtream,
" I'm often muddy, often clear,
" And vary, like the poet's theme,
" As Dulneſs, or the Muſe is near.
" You'll know me ſirs—by Adam's wines,
" My ſtages too are worth recounting,
" You'll find me at two conſtant ſigns,
" Well known—the rainbow, and the fountain."
" Alas! ſweet Reputation cries,
With folded hands, and candid air,
" Unlike you both in ſhape, or ſize,
" I'm ſought with pain, and found with care.
" Ah me! if I but go aſtray,
" Or miſs my path, on fairy-ground—
" If Reputation loſe her way,
" 'Tis ten to one ſhe's never found."
A DIALOGUE IN THE SENATE HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE.
[92]STRANGER.
WHoſe is this image?
BEADLE.
Academic Glory.
S.
Is ſhe a maid or matron, Whig or Tory?
What quarry could produce ſo huge a block?
What engines heave her from her native rock?
What vehicle the ponderous marble bear?
Who bought her, who transform'd, who plac'd her there?
B.
Who plac'd her there! A maſon.
S.
Whoſe deſign
Contriv'd her ſtatue's architecture?
B.
Mine.
S.
Who thus her pedeſtal with Latin grac'd?
Who taught her thus to ſpeak in words unchaſte?
" Come all, come all, partake my ample treaſure,
" Who beſt deſerve the palm!"* Is that her pleaſure?
Her youths invites ſhe thus?
B.
The line, they ſay,
Is borrow'd, word for word, from Virgil's lay.
Poems I ſtudy not; I ſeek, I own,
Vitruvian art, Vitruvian ſtyle alone;
[93]But to my Johnian friends I give due credit,
And they in Virgil or in Maro read it:
Virgil unchaſte! Is your's a true tranſlation?
You differ ſurely from the congregation!
S.
The congregation, Sir! Did Alma Mater
A deity by ſolemn grace create her?
And place her oppoſite to George's view,
Fix'd in the place to George the ſecond due?
B.
Some myſteries, from curious eyes conceal'd,
To clerks alone and churchmen are reveal'd.
Tho' Whigs and Wits her origin ſuſpected,
And ſtill enquire by whom ſhe ſtands erected,
Faction to ſhake her baſe conſpires in vain;
A Deity ſhe is, and ſhall remain.
What tho' her brawny limbs, and ſtately ſize,
Taſte, and virtù, and elegance deſpiſe,
To us her ſhape unzon'd, unclasp'd by boddice,
And more than virgin ſtride, declare the Goddeſs.
S.
To Dian's image thus, with pomp array'd,
Their ardent vows Epheſian zealots paid;
Tho' conſcious whence the fuſile ore was brought,
What craftſman's ſkill the ductile figure wrought,
The work divine, with tranſport they commended,
Which, as they feign'd, from Jove himſelf deſcended.
B.
What Glory was, why ſeek her ſons to know?
See what alluring gifts ſhe proffers now!
Caps to the learn'd, a mitre to the ſleek
And white-glov'd chaplain, who forgets his Greek;
[94]To heads, repoſe; to bards, Parnaſſian bays;
To all, or worthy or unworthy, praiſe.
S.
What mean thoſe types that lurk beneath her feet,
Emblems ill-hid by ignorant deceit?
What means that civic crown? Are theſe rewards
For ſage divines, philoſophers, and bards?
B.
Nor ſmiles on theſe alone the Goddeſs; ſhe,
Propitious queen! ſome boon reſerves for me.
If Anneſley's friend,* who learning's giant ſlew,
A convert deem'd, preferr'd to honours new,
Laughs in his ſleeves of lawn, and ſhakes his ſides,
Eats, drinks, and marries, age and care derides,
Why may not I, by her careſs inſpir'd,
By jovial port, and juſt ambition fir'd,
Claim from her patroneſs an equal grace,
And for a Headſhip change the Beadle's mace?
S.
Her gifts I envy not; but wonder more
So partially ſhe deals her bounty's ſtore;
Hardinge, whoſe merit friends and foes confeſs'd,
By her repulſe defeated, ſinks oppreſs'd.†
B.
So periſh all, who inſolently dare,
Snatch'd from our champion's creſt, a plume to wear!
[95]Our frantic foes, who, late with towering pride,
The Church, the Prince, and Rutherforth defied,
Now in luxurious eaſe ſupinely ſleep,
Nor diſcipline retain, nor vigils keep:
We, in firm phalanx join'd, a choſen few,
With ſcatter'd troops ſucceſsful war renew;
Riſe by defeat, and, from the victor's brow,
Steal the freſh garland of his Delphic bough,
Triumphal wreaths around our temples twine,
And conſecrate our ſpoils at Glory's ſhrine.
S.
But what if Granta, rous'd by honeſt ſhame,
Should haply wake, and vindicate her fame;
Precipitate this Demon from her throne,
And vengefully eject this load of ſtone!
B.
Urg'd by unjuſt reproof, I ſhall unfold
A tale, perhaps not lawful to be told.
Her from the ſolid ſubſtance, vaſt and rude,
Firſt into Fame a painful ſculptor hew'd;
Her head a trumpet, wings her ſhoulders bore,
This wrinkled robe thus channel'd then ſhe wore;
Deck'd with fit attributes in front and rear,
Expos'd to view, ſhe charm'd a gazing *peer;
Who only diſapprov'd her wings and trump,
And made ſome ſmall objections to her rump.
Theſe faults corrected, ſtrait at C—s rear'd,
Mix'd in a grove of ſtatues ſhe appear'd;
[96]There Marlborough's form ſhe lovingly beheld,
And, wreath'd for him, a civic chaplet held:
But when, invok'd by Cock's enchanting tone,
As at Amphion's call, each ſculptur'd ſtone
Obſequious trembled at his hammer's ſound,
And fled, ſo ſummon'd, that unhappy ground,
A youth,* to Phoebus and the Muſes dear,
To Granta's voice, who lent a filial ear;
For her a deſtin'd gift this idol bought,
And, pleas'd, to her his votive image brought:
Doubtful at firſt what Nymph's, what Heroine's
What Queen's was beſt adapted to the dame;
At length, by vote unanimous, we made her name,
A ſovereign Goddeſs, and as ſuch diſplay'd her:
But fearing leſt the Senate ſhould diſown,
As George's friends, his adverſary's ſtone,
Inſcrib'd with bits of verſe, and ſcraps of proſe,
(The verſe at leaſt is claſſical) we choſe
To make and call her Academic Glory,
Still in diſguiſe a queen, and ſtill a Tory.
S.
Approv'd the Senate this transfiguration,
Or licens'd by decree the conſecration?
B.
Not by decree; but when malignant †W—,
Eager in hope, impatient of delay,
[97]A dapper, pert, loquacious, buſy elf,
More active for the public than himſelf,
Ran to and fro with anxious looks, and prated,
And mov'd that hence ſhe might be ſoon tranſlated,
Diſſenting from their friends, a wiſe majority
Supported us, and her, by their authority:
And who ſhall now remove her from the ſcene,
Or dare to drive her from the Muſes?
S.
Keene.*
So when the father of his country fled,
By fear of tribunitial rage miſled,
On exil'd Cicero's devoted floor
Clodius uprais'd his Tanagraean whore:
Th' indignant Senate ſaw, with patriot eyes,
A harlot cloath'd in Liberty's diſguiſe:
But, when again to Latian ſkies reſtor'd,
Her joy and guardian grateful Rome ador'd,
Their antient ſeat, by her abode profan'd,
His houſhold gods with dignity regain'd.
WRITTEN AT CLARE HALL IN CAMBRIDGE, UPON OCCASION OF THE DEATH OF THE REV. DR. CHARLES MORGAN, MASTER OF THAT COLLEGE, WHO DIED APRIL XX, MDCCXXXVI.
[98]WHere free from ſenſe, intrench'd in earth no more,
The ſoul unbodied gains its native ſhore:
Where Truth's uncloying banquet, ever new,
Opens the depths of ſcience to its view;
No longer on the verge it darkly ſtrays,
But myſtic Nature from within ſurveys;
Nor wants the teleſcopic glaſs to trace
God's power, and wiſdom, thro' the boundleſs ſpace;
Where doubts no more, nor myſteries confine
Its powers enlarg'd, its nature all divine,—
He's gone—and there erects his deathleſs head—
How vain our ſorrows which lament him dead!
Where Clarke, Boyle, Newton,—each exalted mind—
Each, while on earth, who dignified their kind—
Immortal now, with full fruition bleſt,
See Truth in native beauty ſtand confeſt.
While ſome contemplative their charms admire,
The Good Supreme their rational deſire:
[99]Others, as erſt, in ſweeteſt converſe join;
For pureſt friendſhip dwells in breaſts divine:
Sudden, a venerable Shade is ſeen
Of mildeſt dignity, and front ſerene:
Th' auguſt aſſembly riſe—See Clarke attend,
Joyful, to welcome firſt his much-lov'd friend:
Hail Thou! whoſe preſence joys the ſons of God,
Who, pious, have the paths of ſcience trod.
Behold for Thee, on Newton's own right hand,
For Thee prepar'd, that throne of glory ſtand:
'Twas thine, exalted Genius! to diſclaim,
With juſt contempt, the breath of mortal fame;
To nobler beings are thy praiſes known,
Where Truth and Newton worlds unnumber'd own.
THE MINISTER OF STATE.
A PANEGYRIC.
OCCASIONED BY READING A LATE POEM, EN⯑TITLED, THE MINISTER OF STATE, A SATIRE.
[100]" UNgrateful Rome!"—the generous Scipio ſaid,
And in retirement's ſhade conceal'd his head.
Ungrateful Britain!—might the Patriot ſay,
Or, if he will not ſpeak it, others may:
Say, will thy generous heart the Muſe permit
Merit and Thee to ſing, exalted Pitt;
While, fir'd with honeſt rage, ſhe ſighs to ſee
Baſe Scandal dart her venom'd tongue at thee?
She muſt; ſhe dares th' attempt, however new,
To give her warmeſt praiſe, where praiſe is due;
She burns—indeed unfaſhionably fir'd,
She burns to praiſe the miniſter retir'd.
Here needs not fiction gild the face of truth,
Thy voice inſpirited our generous youth,
That bad at once their glittering falchions glow,
And caſt a dreadful gleam upon the foe.
[101]
Ere this Britannia hung her drooping head,
And inly mourn'd her antient ſpirit fled,
Ere this how idly did her navies ſweep,
In uſeleſs pageantry, the ſilent deep?
And, as they ſail'd along, th' inſulting foe
Smil'd at the ſcene, and mock'd the harmleſs ſhow;
But when on thee the ſovereign fix'd his choice,
With joy reviving, Britons heard thy voice,
Wing'd at thy word the conquering navy flies,
And ſhouts of victory rend the echoing ſkies,
Freſh ſchemes of honour every boſom fill,
While Expectation holds Attention ſtill;
The trembling French dread every deep-laid plan,
And, while they curſe the foe, admire the man.
Ere this, ſee France, vain, inſolent, and proud,
With hoſtile threats diſtreſs the timid crowd;
Fear ſeiz'd each trembling breaſt, th' alarm began,
Thro' every heart the mean infection ran;
To ſave that land they call'd a foreign friend,
Which Britons were unable to defend.
Days of diſgrace! which call the ſcalding tear
Down the pale cheek, and wound the tingling ear;
Oh be the deed forgot!—with honeſt rage
May hiſtory from her annals rend the page,
When thus no boſom ſeem'd with ardor fir'd,
And Britain's courage—only not expir'd!
Say, ſhade of Wolfe, on that enſanguin'd plain,
Which ever ſhall thy memory retain,
[102]Where, while thy boſom pour'd the purple tide,
Fair Victory ſtood weeping by thy ſide,
Glow'd not thy heart with Pitt's auguſt deſign,
('Twas his to form, to execute was thine)
That gave proud Gaul Britannia's ſtrength to know,
Which fell with mighty ruin on the foe?
I ſee, I ſee the ſacred ſhade advance,
Bright flaſh his lightning eyes, quick gleams his quivering lance,
How ſtern the Hero's awful form appears,
While theſe indignant accents pierce my ears:
" Youth, how lamented on theſe plains I fell,
" Let Britain's voice, that wept in triumph, tell;
" Let the ſame voice, which gratitude once fir'd,
" Speak the ſtrong joy which patriot-worth inſpir'd!
" But oh the change!—If gratitude be dead,
" In vain the Patriot plann'd, the Hero bled;—
" No, not in vain:—for benefits will laſt,
" However faction rage, or malice blaſt.
" Ungrateful land! if thus his godlike mind
" The mean return of tainted ſlander find,
" My generous ardor may have found the ſame,
" And courage may be ſunk in folly's name;
" I bleſs, when ſuch ingratitude I ſee,
" The death that ſnatch'd me from a land like thee."
He ſaid; and vaniſh'd into empty air,
The ſounds yet murmuring on th' attentive ear:
[103]Oh much-lamented Shade! tho' juſt thy rage,
While ſcandal taints the venal poet's page,
Yet grant a gracious ſmile, if one remains
Who pours his honeſt, tho' his humble ſtrains,
To pay th' important debt, tho' all unfit,
The debt of gratitude, to thee and Pitt.
Thy heart, great George, with virtue's lore enlarg'd,
This generous debt of gratitude diſcharg'd;
Then ſure the ſons of ſlander muſt agree,
Who wound Pitt's merits, glance the dart at thee.
Who but remembers, (ah, who can forget?)
When faction's rage diſtreſs'd the tottering ſtate,
When diſcontent thro' every boſom ſpread,
And, torn by parties, Britain's vitals bled?
A hateful ſcene!—the Patriot then aroſe,
At once the wounds of fell diviſion cloſe;
On Britain's ſhore fair Union took her ſtand,
And wide diffus'd her bleſſings o'er the land,
Ere ſcandal lay diſpirited and dead,
And murmuring faction hid her horrid head:
Bleſt days!—O much-lov'd Britain ſtill 'tis mine
To wiſh ſuch halcyon days be ever thine!
Why need I paint the virtues of his heart,
Where rigid honour fills the largeſt part?
The virtues of his heart are not unknown—
Theſe his diſguſted enemies will own:—
And let not Falſhood's voice my verſe defame,
And ſtain fair Truth with Flattery's odious name;
[104]When place and power obey'd the Stateſman's will,
The generous Muſe ne'er tried her trembling quill;
For tho' each action heart-felt joy inſpir'd,
Each action ſtill in ſilence ſhe admir'd.
And now no ſtateſman's character I blaſt,
Nor blame the preſent, tho' applaud the paſt,
Exalted merit ſtill to praiſe be mine,
******, to blaſt bright characters be Thine.
When rolling time has bid our paſſions ceaſe,
And hateful faction ſhall be huſh'd to peace,
Then future ages ſhall his virtues know,
And wonder ſuch a Statſeman found a foe;
In honour's fane (a noble group!) ſhall ſit
Immortal Tully, Walſingham, and Pitt;
While Hiſtory ſhall raiſe her trump on high,
And ſpread his praiſes round the vaulted ſky,
Shall on her faireſt page inſcribe his name,
And give the roll to everlaſting fame.
A JOURNEY TO DONCASTER, OR A CURIOUS JOURNAL OF FIVE DAYS, WROTE WITH A PENCIL IN A CHAISE.
[105]DEAR ANNE,
IN proſe I've wrote you many a journal
Of travels, which I hope you'll burn all,
And now for once I write in rhyme
To tell you how I ſpend my time,
And what adventures may enſue
While I am haſting down to you.
On Sep. the ſecond day I went
To London from my houſe in Kent;
And, as good luck would have it, found
A friend for ſhire of Ebor bound:
It proving temperate, pleaſant weather,
We ſoon agreed to go together,
And for our eaſe, o'er turnpike-ways,
To travel down in my poſt-chaiſe.
By learned men it is agreed,
Poets ſhould ride the winged ſteed;
And therefore, thus ſays Betty Martin,
" Thou art no poet, that's moſt certain."
[106]Thro' Kentiſh-town, up Highgate-hill,
Our horſes move—againſt their will;
And, while they ſnuff the wholeſome wind,
We caſt a parting look behind,
Pleas'd t' have left yon ſable cloud,
That buries millions in its ſhroud;
Alas! they toil, the ſons of care!
And never breathe the purer air.
Thy common, Finchley, next we meaſure,
Whoſe woodland views would give us pleaſure,
But that they many a wretch exhibit,
Too near the high road, on a gibbet;
Hence men may gueſs, without much ſkill,
Here have been rogues—and may be ſtill.
High-Barnet paſs'd, we reach the plain,
Where Warwick, haughty earl, was ſlain:
So periſh all, as Warwick fell,
Who 'gainſt their lawful liege rebel!
Ah! paſſing ſtrange, that one ſweet flower
Should kindle all the rage of power!
Yet England oft has wail'd her woes,
And wept the colours of the roſe.
With hungry appetites we hie on,
Where Hatfield ſhows the Silver Lion;
But, lo! nice ſteaks from rump of beef
Will ſoon afford us kind relief;
Of good old Port we drink a quart,
Diſcharge our reckoning, and depart.
Thro' ſandy lanes, and deep defiles,
Where ray of Phoebus never ſmiles,
[107](Save on that beam-illumin'd dwelling,
Where Young delights the Muſe at Welling)
We march as gently as we can,
And reach at Stevenage the Swan:
A well-fed pullet, roaſted nice,
And of high-ſeaſon'd ham a ſlice,
Of ſuppers could not prove the worſt—
Warm negus gratified our thirſt:
At ten the welcome down we preſt,
And wooed the kindly Power of reſt.—
With early dawn we mount the chaiſe,
And Phoebus ſmiles in friendly rays:
O'er fineſt turnpike-road we bowl,
The wheels, the numbers gently roll,
Speed ſwift to Baldock down the hill,
Where liv'd ſweet Polly of the Mill,
But now the lovely Polly's gone,
Rival of Venus!—ſo drive on.
Thro' villages, o'er plains we ride,
Where Ouze conducts his ſilver tide;
So ſlow his winding waters ſtray,
He ſeems to linger on his way,
As loth to leave the pleaſing ſcene
Of woods, corn-fields, and paſtures green:
Thus man, low-grovelling, like the river,
Would loiter in this life for ever;
So beautiful theſe ſcenes appear,
He thinks it better to be here,
[108]Than try that country, from whoſe bourn
No pale-eyed travellers return.
At Eaton next, by twelve a clock,
We bait our horſes at the Cock:
Then leave awhile the public road,
To take with friends a night's abode:
This viſit comes in due ſucceſſion,
And therefore deem it no digreſſion.
Thence croſs corn-fields our way explore,
Where chariots never went before;
Thro' ruſhy ſwamps, and bogs we paſt,
And came to *Beggary at laſt:
Even then we did not know our doom,
For worſe misfortunes were to come:
Fain would we thro' the paſtures ride;
Our entrance gates and locks denied:
Thro' that deep lane, where many a ſlough
Would ſpoil a horſe, or hide a cow,
Paſs on we muſt, if we intend
To pay our viſit to a friend:
True friendſhip has a bias ſtrong,
It drove us thro' the mire along,
O'er banks and ridges, till, at laſt,
It fairly ſet the carriage faſt—
What's to be done?—with might and main
We haul'd it on the land again:
[109]At length, with fear and wild amaze,
We crawl'd thro' ſafely with the chaiſe;
Now on the precipice's edge,
Now bounc'd againſt a quickſet hedge,
And, by a wondrous kind of fate,
By four arriv'd at P—'s gate;
Whoſe entertainment, neat and kind,
Soon put theſe dangers out of mind:
With ſocial friends we paſt the day,
And gaily laugh'd our cares away—
At ſix we march, but firſt provide,
To ſhun bad roads, a faithful guide;
And ſhortly, o'er the riſing ſteep,
We ſaw the ſpire of Bugden peep:
At breakfaſt near an hour we waſte,
'Twas coffee, grateful to the taſte,
With dulcet cream, and nut-brown toaſt;
Then bid a Valeas to our hoſt.
O'er level roads we drive amain,
Roads as the well-roll'd terrace plain,
And ſoon reach'd Stilton ſafe and well—
We choſe the inn that bears the Bell.
On mutton, charming food! we dine,
And cheer our hearts with generous wine;
But long, alas! we muſt not ſtay—
Life flies with rapid wing away;
'Tis but a march that we muſt make;
'Tis but a journey we muſt take:
[110]Here we can fix no firm abode,
Nor loiter long upon the road;
But muſt, with vigilance, attend
Still to our journey, and its end.
At Stamford next, with ſpirits light,
The Bull receives us for the night;
Smelts and a rabbet was our food;
The bill was cheap, the wine was good.
Our wheels next morning early ſound
O'er rough, thro' truly Roman ground;
Th' immenſe Veſtigia, ſtill compleat,
Prove that the Romans once were great:
By ten, at Grantham we admire
The noble church, the lofty ſpire;
Sarum's alone is two feet higher.
Here, what before I ne'er had ſeen,
I ſaw fair Venus, Beauty's Queen;
Sweetly ſhe ſmil'd with graceful look,
In ſhape of Lady Mary C—.
Our breakfaſt done, in haſte we went
To Newark on the banks of Trent;
There ſtaid a little to regale
On cold roaſt-beef and humming ale.
Thence thro' a tedious, ſandy way
We labour'd, and at Carlton lay:
With friends we drain'd the cheerful bowl,
And ſupt on mutton and broil'd fowl,
[111]And eels that gave us much content,
Delicious eels—the eels of Trent.
Next morn thro' wretched roads we ſteer,
Yet pay at turnpikes deviliſh dear:
The purple heath we travers'd o'er,
And ſtopt at Barnby on the Moor;
Thence into honeſt Yorkſhire ventur'd,
Which firſt we at fair Bawtry enter'd:
By three to Doncaſter we came,
A town polite, of antient fame;
There will the Muſe awhile unbend,
And there this tedious journal end,
Wrote, deareſt Anne, at your commands,
And now it flies to kiſs your hands.
Sep. 6, 1759.
SONNET.
TO THE REV. MR. LAWRY, PREBENDARY OF ROCHESTER.
[112]LAwry, whoſe bliſsful lot has plac'd thee near
To Wiſdom's houſe, where thou may'ſt rightly ſpell
Of the beſt means in virtue to excel,
Science, which never can be priz'd too dear;
Where thy
Dr. Herring, archbiſhop of Canterbury.
great Patron, tho' in life ſevere,Is candid and humane, in doing well
Conſtant and zealous, eager to repel
Evil by good, in word and deed ſincere;
In this fair mirror ſee thy duty clear,
Practice enforcing what his precepts teach,
This great example ſtudy night and day;
If faithful thus thy Chriſtian courſe thou ſteer,
Tho' ſuch perfection thou ſhould'ſt fail to reach,
The generous effort ſure rewards will pay.
THE SENTIMENTS OF TRUTH; AN EPISTLE.
ADDRESSED TO THE SONS OF BRITAIN.
[113]YE generous Britons, ſons of fair renown,
With mute attention deign to lend an ear:
As late reclin'd beneath a ſpreading oak,
Muſing intent on Albion's happy iſle;
A ſudden ſlumber gently ſeal'd my eyes,
And wrapt my wearied limbs in ſoft repoſe;
Excurſive Fancy wing'd her agile flight
Thro' the aerial manſions of the world;
Inſtant appear'd, portray'd upon my mind,
The fair Urania, clad in candid robe;
And bright around; in beauteous order rang'd,
A crowd of Britons riſing to my view;
A gentle murmur, firſt, diſtinct was heard—
The Goddeſs wav'd her wand—a pauſe enſued—
Silent in expectation now they ſat,
When thus her ſentiments ſhe mildly ſpoke:
" Fam'd Albion's ſons, whoſe rock-encircling coaſt,
" Emblem of virtues in your noble race,
" Repels each boiſterous billow of the deep,
" And ſtands triumphant o'er the bounding main:
[114]" You who, to vindicate your regal right,
" That right divine by every kingdom claim'd,
" In dreadful thunder ſhook the diſtant poles,
" While trembling regions heard the horrid ſound;
" Let not Contention, hell's deſtructive fiend,
" Excite commotion, and your peace deſtroy;
" Let not Ambition's vile, ignoble train,
" The groveling arts of dark diſſimulation,
" Pride, pique, or intereſt, e'er delude your ſteps;
" But let benevolence your ſouls command,
" Your darling paſſion by your foes confeſs'd.
" Can you, who brave repell'd th' inſidious foe,
" And nobly humbled their imperious creſt;
" Can you, ſo high-renown'd for martial deeds
" And fair empriſe, to diſcord fall a prey?
" Inſtant renounce each ſtupor of the ſoul,
" And virtuous dare the fam'd Britannia's weal.
" Remember Rome, auguſt, imperial Rome—
" She long in virtue's cauſe reſplendent ſhone:
" Fragrant ſhe bloom'd, and flouriſh'd wondrous fair,
" Till pomp, vile luxury, corruption fell,
" And Hydra Faction, with malignant breath,
" Tumbled, with cumbrous fall, her eagle-head!
" This world's dread empreſs, renown'd for learning;
" For arms, arts, virtuous deeds, without compeer.
" Now how inglorious! how ſupinely ſunk!
" Fallen from her high eſtate, and grovelling in the duſt.
" Since reaſon's lamp illuminates the mind,
[115]" And cogent proves eternity to man;
" Since juſtice too, eternal, will require
" Strict retribution for offences paſt;
" Serious reflect on God's ſupreme decrees,
" And learn obedience to his great commands:
" For what avail earth's pageant pomp and joys
" In that dread hour when death terrific comes,—
" The gaudy title, ſilken dalliance,
" And life too gaily ſpent, will but torment,
" Not calm the mind, in that tremendous moment!
" Let then your civil broils and diſcord ceaſe;
" Enjoy the fruits of your well-earn'd renown;
" Caſt off each vice, each poiſonous dreg of life;
" Fly fell corruption, taint of generous minds,
" Leſt her corroding hand your frame diſſolve,
" And bury in the duſt your antient toil:
" But if, unheeded, exhortation paſs,
" Britannia, now ſo fam'd, will ſure imbibe
" A deeper ſtain than Afric's tawny ſons!"
She ſaid; then inſtant vaniſh'd into air,
When Morpheus ſoon his guardian poſt reſign'd,
And memory, faithful, ſtamp'd upon my mind
The ſage inſtructions of the meek-eyed fair.
ON THE NUPTIALS OF LORD GREY, AND LADY HARRIOT BENTINCK.
[116]HYmen (neglected God) this day appears
In blaze of glory, as in earlier years;
When innate worth alone th' affections ſway'd,
Nor wealth the youth, nor pomp allur'd the maid;
Titles and grandeur, "trifles light as air,"
Were not eſſentials to the well-match'd pair;
But when indulgent heaven benignly joins
To title, virtues that e'en wealth refines;
When noble birth adorns a nobler heart,
Which joys th' intruſted bleſſings to impart,
Copies the great Commander of the ſky,
And wipes Affliction's tear from Virtue's eye?
How fair's the lot?—we ſee, and wondering trace
Theſe glowing virtues ſtamp'd on Stamford's race:
A bright compeer in worth and noble fame,
Hark! radiant Truth re-echoes Bentinck's name.
Auſpicious morn! for ever gay appear,
Clad in the brighteſt livery of the year;
Joyful may circling hours thy ides relate,
Which ſaw united Grey and Bentinck's fate;
Long be their years, to grief and pain unknown,
And may each parent virtue be their own.
A NUPTIAL-CARD, SENT TO A YOUNG COUPLE ON THEIR WED⯑DING-DAY, JULY XXIII, MDCCLXIII.
[117]GLadly the call of friendſhip I obey,
And gratulating hail your nuptial day.
May life's ſmall circle ever bright appear,
Fair as the morn that gives you all that's dear;
May tender friendſhip (guardian power of Love)
Attendant wait you, and each act approve;
Scan both your merits with a partial eye,
And, if a fault ſhould riſe, each paſs it by:
Would you with joy ſtill view your wedding-day,
Not only both muſt love, but both obey.
HORACE, ODE XIV. BOOK II.
[118]HOW ſwift, alas! the rolling years
Haſte to devour their deſtin'd prey!
A moth each winged moment bears,
Which ſtill in vain the ſtationers
From the dead authors ſweep away;
And troops of canker-worms, with ſecret pride,
Thro' gay vermilion leaves, and gilded covers glide.
Great Bavius, ſhould thy critic vein
Each day ſupply the teeming preſs,
Should'ſt thou of ink whole rivers drain,
Not one octavo ſhall remain,
To ſhow thy learning and addreſs:
Oblivion drags them to her ſilent cell,
Where brave king Arthur and his nobles dwell.
Authors of every ſize and name;
Knights, 'ſquires, and doctors of all colours,
From the purſuit of laſting fame,
Re-living, there a manſion claim:
Behold the fate of modern ſcholars!
Why will you then, with hope deluſive led,
For various readings toil, which never will be read?
[119]
With ſilver claſp, and corner-plate,
You fortify the favourite book:
Fear not from worms or time your fate!
More cruel foes your works await:
The butler, with th' impatient cook,
And paſtry-nymphs, with trunk makers, combine
To eaſe the groaning ſhelves, and ſpoil the fair deſign.
HORACE, ODE XXX. BOOK I.
IMITATED IN THE PERSON OF GENERAL CH—LL.
O Venus! Joy of men and gods,
Forſake, for once, thy bleſt abodes,
And deign to viſit my land;
Quit Paphos and the Cyprian iſle,
On thy fond votary kindly ſmile,
And come to my Duck Iſland.
Thee, Goddeſs, thee, my prayers invoke,
To thee alone my altars ſmoke;
O treat me not with rigour:
Thy wanton ſon bring with thee too,
My dying embers to renew,
And give me back my vigour.
[120]
Bring, too, the Graces to my arms,
Girls that are prodigal of charms,
Of every favour laviſh:
Yielding and melting let them be;
Conſider, I am ſixty-three,
And that's no age to raviſh.
Let jocund Health attend thy train,
Much wanted by thy crazy ſwain;
And, gentle Venus, pr'y thee,
To crown thy gifts, and eaſe my pain,
(Since Ward has labour'd long in vain)
Let Mercury come with thee.
A SUBURBIAN PREACHMENT.
[121]A Reverend doctor, preaching in the ſuburbs,
About whoſe debts aroſe ſome plaguy hubbubs,
Thus, for his text, theſe pleaſing words let fall,
" Have patience with me, and I'll pay you all."
With joy-prick tears the rough Burroughnians ſtand,
And deem'd the day of ballancing at hand:
On his firſt Head his reaſons were ſo ſtrong,
They ſat with patience, tho' he preach'd ſo long:
" And now, ſays he, I come to "pay you all"—
" Great is your patience, and my merit ſmall—
" T' abuſe that noble virtue were a crime—
" So I'll defer it to—another time."
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER, MDCCXLVIII.
[122]PAtient to hear, and bounteous to beſtow,
A mind that melted at another's woe;
Studious to act the ſelf-approving part,
That midnight muſic of the honeſt heart;
Theſe ſilent joys th' illuſtrious youth poſſeſt,
This cloudleſs ſunſhine of th' unſullied breaſt:
From pride of peerage, and from folly free;
Life's early morn fair Virtue gave to thee.
The tear no longer ſtole from Sorrow's eye,
And Poverty rejoic'd, when he was nigh;
Like Titus, knew the value of a day,
And Want went ſmiling from his gates away.
Titles and rank are borrow'd from the throne:
Thoſe honours, Egerton, were all thy own.
EPITAPH ON KING THEODORE BARON NEUHOFF, IN ST. ANN'S CHURCH-YARD, WESTMINSTER.
[123]Near this place is interr'd
Theodore, king of Corſica,
Who died in this pariſh, Dec. 11, 1756.
Immediately after
Leaving the King's Bench priſon,
By the benefit of the act of inſolvency:
In conſequence of which
He reſigned his kingdom of Corſica
For the uſe of his creditors.
THE grave, great teacher, to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley-ſlaves and kings;
But Theodore this moral learn'd, ere dead;
Fate pour'd its leſſons on his living head,
Beſtow'd a kingdom, but denied him bread.
Appendix A CONTENTS.
[]- SEptember. An ode, Page 1
- An autumnal ode, 3
- Autumn. An ode, 5
- Autumn. By Brerewood, 7
- On my hairs falling, 10
- Evening ode, 11
- Reflections on a watch, 12
- Autumn, 13
- The Fire-ſide. By I. H. Browne, eſq. 14
- The Dryads, or Wood-Nymphs, 17
- The oak and dunghill. A fable, 47
- The theory of tears, 51
- On the illneſs of Dr. Turner, 59
- To the rev. Mr. Fitzgerald, 61
- Poem on a pin, 63
- The Needle. A poetical eſſay, 65
- Fire, water, and reputation, 88
- Dialogue in the ſenate-houſe at Cambridge, 92
- On the death of Dr. Morgan, 98
- The miniſter of ſtate, 100
- A journey to Doncaſter, 105
- Sonnet. By Mr. Edwards, 112
- The ſentiments of truth, 113
- On the nuptials of lord Grey and lady Bentinck, 116
- A nuptial-card, 117
- Horace, ode xiv. book ii. imitated, 118
- Horace, ode xxx. book i. ditto, 119
- A ſuburbian preachment, 121
- To the memory of the duke of Bridgewater, 122
- Epitaph on Theodore king of Corſica, 123
END OF VOL. IX.
Notes
*
A river in Barkſhire.
*
Prior.
*
The Pin, a poem written by mr. Woty. See p. 63.
*
The Needles.
*
Needles were firſt made there, and diſcovered from the Needle-fiſh.
6
The Venetians improv'd needles, and after them the Tyrians and Sidonians.
*
Orpheus.
*
See Poet. Cal. Vol. 3. p. 101.
*
Cuncti adſint, meritaeque expectent proemia palmae.
*
Biſhop Gooch, maſter of Caius college, was vice chan⯑cellor when Dr. Bentley was degraded.
†
Mr. Hardinge, of King's college, (author of this poem) had a diſpute with the univerſity about the non-performance of ſome divinity exerciſe.
*
Duke of C—s.
*
Peter Burrel, eſq. of St. John's.
†
A gentleman of Queen's college.
*
Vice chancellor in 1751. and biſhop of Cheſter.
*
The name of a ſmall hamlet.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5367 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-5B78-8