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THE HILLS OF HYBLA; BEING A COLLECTION OF ORIGINAL POEMS.

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LONDON: Printed for the AUTHOR, By W. FRANKLIN, in Bartlet's Buildings, Holborn; And Sold by J. FLETCHER, at the Oxford Theatre, And J. WILKIE, at the Bible, in St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLXVII.

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A LIST OF THE SUBSCRIBERS.

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A
  • MR.—Arnold,
  • Mr. Ackman.
B
  • Mr. William Bonnick,
  • Mr. Brookes,
  • Mr. Bowman,
  • Mr. Francis Blyth,
  • Mr. Bourn,
  • Mr. William Brackſtone,
  • Mr. George Bigg,
  • Mr. Beauchamp
  • Mrs. Brown,
  • Mrs. Bellamy.
C
  • George Colman, Eſq
  • —Crawford, Eſq
  • Mr. William Clendon,
  • Mr. William Cooke,
  • Mr. Chriſtie,
  • Mrs. Crawford,
  • [iv] Miſs Cottell,
  • Mrs. Jane Child,
  • Mrs. Elizabeth Chriſtie,
  • Mrs. F. Croſs,
  • Miſs Kitty Carey.
D
  • Mr. Drummond,
  • Mr. J. Deacon,
  • Mr. Davis.
E
  • Mr. T. Egleſham,
  • Mr. Evans, ſen.
  • Mr. Evans,
  • Mr. Evans, jun.
  • Mrs. Eaſon.
F
  • Mr. John Few,
  • Mr. J. Foſter.
  • Mr. William Faulkner,
  • Mr. William Franklin.
G
  • Mr. Mark Graham,
  • Mr. Gibſon,
  • Mr. J. Grove,
  • Mr. Gibbs,
  • Miſs Gees.
H
  • Thomas Hopkins, Eſq
  • Samuel Hodſon, Eſq
  • The Rev. Robert Houlton, M. A.
  • Mr. Richard Hawkins,
  • Mr. Thomas Hurſt,
  • Mr. Hunter,
  • Mr. Hull,
  • Mr. Robert Hudſon,
  • [v] Mr. Baker Harris,
  • Mr. Hall,
  • Mrs. Hall,
L
  • Mr. Richard Lidgley,
  • Mr. Samuel Lidgley,
  • Mr. John Leech
  • Mr. Liſter,
  • Mrs. Elizabeth Lovell.
M
  • Mr.—Mapleton,
  • Mr. William Morgan
  • Mr. Francis Magnus,
  • Mrs. May.
N
  • Mr. William Nelſon,
  • Mr. Richard Nichols,
  • Mr. Nocks.
O
  • Mr. John Oliver.
P
  • Mr. Robert Pudman,
  • Mr. Thomas Pope,
  • Mr. J. Powell,
  • Mrs. Powell.
R
  • Mr. William Robe, 21 Books,
  • Mr. Robinſon,
  • Mr. George Rimmer,
  • Mr. J. Robinſon,
  • Mr. John Randell,
  • Mr. Joſeph Ruſt,
  • Mrs. Robe,
  • Miſs M. Robe,
  • [vi] Miſs Elizabeth Robe,
  • Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Renoldſon.
S
  • Mr. Chriſtopher Smart, M. A. 21 Books,
  • The Rev. Mr. Scott,
  • Mr. Daniel Sutton,
  • Mr. Charles Spendelow,
  • Mr. Humphrey Skelton,
  • Mr. Richard Smith,
  • Mr. Richard Studley,
  • Mr. John Swan,
  • Mr. Joſeph Smith,
  • Mrs. Smith.
T
  • Mr. William Tetley,
  • Mr. Charles Thomas,
  • Mr. Thorowgood,
  • Mr. George Turner,
  • Mr. Tringham,
  • Mrs. Elizabeth Tringham,
  • Miſs Mary Tringham,
  • Miſs Martha Thorley.
V
  • Thomas Vincent, Eſq
W
  • James Worſdale, Eſq
  • Mr. J. Warren,
  • Mr. James Walbank,
  • Mr. Whitaker,
  • Mr. William Whittaker,
  • Mr. Warren.

A LIST OF THE SUBSCRIBERS, Since the FIRST DELIVERY.

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A
  • MR. Aveline.
B
  • Mr. Samuel Baker,
  • Mr. Samuel Bird,
  • Mr. Brookſbank,
C
  • Mr. John Colman,
  • Mrs. Clive.
D
  • Mr. Dodſley, ſix Books,
  • Mr. Davies,
  • Mr. Dove,
  • Mr. David Dalton, ſen.
  • Mr. Timothy Deang.
E
  • Mrs. Ewer.
G
  • Mr. Gregg,
  • Mrs. Gregg,
  • Mr. Edward Gibſon.
H
  • Mr. Hope,
  • Mr. Harris.
J
  • Mr. T. Jones,
  • Mr. Evan Jones.
K
  • Mr. Kingſley,
  • Mr. Thomas Kirwan.
L
  • Mr. Robert Landall,
  • Mr. Lloyd,
  • Mr. Lockman,
  • Miſs Lockman.
M
  • Miſs Macartney.
P
  • Mr. T. Prior,
  • Mrs. Pritchard,
  • Mrs. Powell.
R
  • Mr. Redman.
S
  • Mr. R. Shaw,
  • Mr. Strafford.
T
  • Bonn [...]ll Thornton, Eſq
  • Mr. William Tennant,
  • Mrs. Sarah Tringham.
W
  • Mr. Woodward,
  • Mr. Wayn,
  • Mr. Wotty,
  • Mr. Wood, jun.

TO HER GRACE THE Ducheſs of BUCCLEUGH.

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MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GRACE,

I HAVE preſumed to preſent your Grace with the follow⯑ing Trifle, as a Nuptual Offer⯑ing, ſenſible that you have always ſhewn a tender regard, wherever you have perceived the leaſt Ray of Genius; and I ſhall be extremely happy if your Grace ſhould find the leaſt appearance of it in what I have ſent you; as it is from ſo obſcure a Bard, you will be [viii] pleaſed to accept of it, as one of the meaneſt Flowers, among the many that form the wreath upon your Grace's brow, placed there by Virtue and Humility; if I ſhould be ſo happy as to have it prove acceptable, it will confer the higheſt honour on

Your GRACE's Moſt Humble And Obedient Servant, GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY.

AN EVENING's WALK.

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ONE ſummer's eve, when ev'ry ſwain was hous'd,
When Sol had ſcarce one glimmer left behind,
Each little ſtar, faint glitt'ring, caſt a ray,
And ſpangled o'er the duſky robe of night.
Fond of the ſcene, I wander'd far from home,
O'er leafleſs lawns, and flower-breeding vales,
Till weary nature ſlacken'd in my ſteps,
And made me halt upon a friendly bank.
Calm thro' a bridge there ran a peerleſs ſtream,
That ſcarcely mov'd the ozier's ſlender wand:
Here I took my ſtand, and view'd the ſolemn ſcene.
The bat had been an hour on the wing,
[2] Chaſing the night-fly and the buzzing gnat:
The purblind owl had left the ancient tower,
Prowling with floſſy wing along the mead.
Anon, as out of Chaos, ſhot a ray
Of chearing light, quiv'ring o'er the hills▪
As yet too weak to ſtruggle with the dark;
Or, as th' Egyptian queen, far off beheld,
Shot her firſt beams on the Italian ſhore,
Her brilliant train reflecting on the waves,
Making the Tybur like a golden ſea.
Clouds that o'er-hung the horizon, unſeen,
Appear'd in view, like ſilver-ſkirted troops
Waiting the up-riſe of the queen of night.
Slow ſhe approach'd, and ſmil'd upon the world,
Op'ning freſh landſcapes to my wond'ring eyes.
Philomel now chear'd the embow'ring grove,
The woodlark too, miſtaking it for day,
Join'd her ſweet notes with emulating ſtrains.
Near to my left there ſtood an ancient pile,
By waſting time, and ſavage war defac'd,
Like a reduc'd and hoary-headed chief,
Commanding awe even in deſtruction.
[3] On its ſlinty ſides deep-dy'd ivy clung;
Its roof was capt with velvet-grounded moſs,
And round its baſe, wild weeds and flowers grew,
The ſtinging nettle with the briars blend,
The ſecret haunt of adders and of toads.
Thro' the wide breaches of the rock-built walls
Pale Cynthia beam'd her lucid columns down
Upon the verdant ſlope, in lines direct and clear,
Reflecting on a dimpled brook below.
A ſolemn ſilence now o'erſpread the globe,
Save when the minnew wanton'd on the ſtream,
And left a circle ſpreading to the brink.
Anon, as wind from out ſome hollow cave,
A deep-felt ſigh from out the ruins came,
As from a heart juſt burſting with its load,
Which ſtreight was anſwer'd with a voice of woe,
Like ſorrow ſoothing the more ſad deſpair.
A while I ſtood, in doubt, to know the cauſe,
Or to retreat, leſt ſome deluding fiend,
Aping the voice of grief, meant to deſtroy.
At length reſolv'd, with caution I approach'd,
O melting ſight! my wounded heart ran o'er
[4] And empty'd at my eyes.—A mournful pair,
The woeful part ners of affliction ſat,
On the low baſis of a mould'ring urn
And open'd to my view a tragic ſcene.
Conceal'd, I ſtood, obſerving their diſtreſs;
She, in her lap, an infant cherub held,
A lovely boy, the offspring of their loves.
Her eyes were bent with ſorrow on the babe,
While in her face the little dear one ſmil'd,
And then, with tears of miſery and love,
She clung him eager to her throbbing breaſt.
The wretched huſband on her neck reclin'd,
Striving to chear his melancholy dame,
Feigned a hope, tho' foreign to his heart:
But when he found deſpair had ſeiz'd her ſoul,
His tears burſt forth, and bath d his manly cheeks,
And on his bended knees he trembling fell,
Lifting his eyes with anguiſh 'gainſt the ſky,
With invocations loud, and agonizing ſighs,
Imploring heaven for a ray of peace,
Till his loud accents ſhook the vaulted roof,
And reft his tortur'd breaſt.—I cou'd no more,
But flying to his aid with heart diſtreſs'd,
[5] He fix'd his eyes with furious glare upon me,
And threaten'd me with death if I advanc'd;
Like the fierce tyger, aſſail'd by hunters
In his dreary den, he ſtood defenſive o'er his young,
Shielding 'em from danger. With humble voice
And friendly tears I mov'd him to attend,
And liſten patient to the voice of pity.
Joy then, with fear and admiration mix'd,
O'erſpread each face, and as I ſpake, they bleſt;
Hope, like the ſun that clouds had long o'erveil'd,
Fluſh'd on their cheeks, extinguiſhing deſpair.
Ye woeful pair let your ſuſpicions ceaſe;
If the baſe world has put ye out of door,
If friends forſake and creditors purſue:
If you once more can truſt a thought to hope,
And think it poſſible to meet a friend,
Tell me your ſtory, and you yet ſhall find
That fate relents, and ceaſes to afflict.
Tho' here to you a ſtranger I appear,
To mercy I am none; to ſee another wretched
Makes me wretched too: by ſerving others
I ſtill myſelf oblige, and meet reward,
Ample reward, a tranquil happineſs!
[6] Seeing others ſo, by me made happy.
I'd rather wipe the tear of grief away
Than add a ruby to a monarch's crown,
And win a Prince's promiſe for my pains.
If fate's not giv'n you over to deſpair,
And you'll accept of friendſhip once again,
Chear your ſad hearts—let ev'ry fear ſubſide,
Nor doubt a ſtranger yet may prove a friend;
If you'd be happy, tell me but in what,
I'll try my ev'ry means to make ye ſo.
Thou gracious being! (if thou art human)
For thou ſpeak'ſt with a celeſtial tongue,
Let me embrace thee;—O! pardon me, too,
That I aſſail'd thee with the threat of death,
When thou but meant to ſave me from his ſhaft;
For O! thy words were welcome to my ſoul
As mollient dews that fall upon the mead,
When parching Sol has curled each verdant blade;
Thou haſt preſerv'd to me the deareſt roſe
That ever ſcented gale, the ſweeteſt bud
That ever eye beheld, or tempted death to kill,
(This drooping fair one, and her ſmiling boy,)
For they have ſuffer'd more than I dare tell,
[7] And to repeat, is more than I can bear:
She once, alas, was fortune's favourite
And Minerva's pride, the tender fondling
Of a wealthy pair—O! ſad remembrance;
Provoking tears! when will ye ceaſe to flow!
Theſe eyes have long been ſtrangers to a ſmile;
Excuſe me, friend, if they diſguſt thee.
We ſing of others woe, but cry our own;
My heart has guſhed at a thouſand veins,
To ſee the ſufferings of a matchleſs wife—
There was a time, when this forſaken held
At ſuch an hour would have giv'n delight,
When ſolitude and night would give a ſcope
To thought, and yield a pleaſing melancholy
To the jaded mind, o'ercharg'd with pleaſure
And variety; but now, how dreary and ſorlorn
It ſeems; and as we tell our mournful tale,
With double horror echoes back each word,
Mocking adverſity, in hollow ſounds,—
Telling us over what is death to hear.—
Such tale as mine, good friend, I oft have read,
Such woeful ſcenes have oft been play'd;
With ſympathizing heart I've heard and ſeen,
And dropp'd a tear for the oppreſs'd and brave;
[8] But ere I'd ſlept the fiction fled my breaſt,
And time would leave no traces on the mind.
When we become the objects of diſtreſs,
Remembrance ſtamps it with an iron ſeal
Upon our hearts, and ev'ry thought is death.
But to my ſtory, 'tis my friend's deſire—
I am no ſtranger to this gloomy pile,
I oft have paid a viſit to theſe walls,
And oft admir'd the romantic form,
When the fair morn invited me abroad,
When fertile nature daſy'd ev'ry hill,
And ev'ry meadow bluſh'd a purple hue:
When thruſhes ſang, and linnet, charm'd the grove;
My heart then drank in pleaſure at my eyes,
And felt no interrupter by the way,
No wretched thought to daſh it back again.—
My father was a man of wealth and note,
(And held a manſion in a village by)
A better ne'er gave being to a ſon:—
I having read of mighty things abroad,
Of ancient Rome and grand Cairo's court,
The wealth of India and Egyptian wilds.
With thirſt for novelty and deſire,
[9] I urg'd my father, and at length prevail'd,
That he would let me venture on a tour,
And prove the truth of hiſt'ry and report.—
'Tis ſix years ſince I left my native home;
Since when, ſo many wonders I have ſeen,
That curioſity at laſt grew ſick.
Returning home, I croſs'd the mighty Alps;
A deadly ſickneſs ſeiz'd me on the way,
And made me ſeek for ſuccour and a friend;
A greater rarity than all I'd met.
An ample dwelling open'd to my view,
To which I bent my way, and ſhelter aſk'd,
And was receiv'd at once a welcome gueſt.
With mild compaſſion they beheld my ſtate,
And ſtrove to chear me with a friendly voice.
Diſmounting here, I would have enter'd in,
But that my feet their wonted uſe deny'd:
My limbs gave way, and let me to the ground;
When this dear fair came running to my aid;
She rais'd me up, and led me careful in,
And ev'ry day a true attendance paid:
When I was ſtrugling with the pangs of death,
[10] And with conſoling hope ſhe'd drop a tear,
Imploring heaven to preſerve my life.
Her ſupplications did at length prevail.
No ſooner had I▪ conquer'd one compeer,
But found my heart was with another ta'en,
Love, to whom I ſoon ſubmitted, and embrac'd.
And made my hoſteſs partner of my life,
But here partaker in affliction too;—
Her father was a Briton, once of wealth,
And held a manſion in that happy iſle,
Till revolution and domeſtic broils
Deſtroy'd his lands and plunder'd all he had,
(Save a few ſtores, in ſecret he had ſaved,)
Putting himſelf and family to flight,
To ſeek for refuge in a foreign land.—
The action robb'd the good man of his life,
And in diſtreſs the mournful widow left,
With this fair comforter to buffet life,
And ſhield her from a baſe enſnaring world.
Here eighteen months I liv'd in ſocial joy,
And in the deſert found the deareſt wife.
The kindeſt mother ever man cou'd boaſt,
[11] Her better ſpirits ſo outworn by grief,
That made her frame, like frozen lillies, fade,
Recline and droop unto the earth again.
Not having heard one tiding from my friends
For many a day, we for England made;
And ere we reach'd the ſhore, the wind blew high,
And frowning Neptune on the ſurface foam'd,
Throwing up wat▪ry m [...]untains in our way,
And, in his anger, daſh'd us on a rock:
Some twenty periſh'd in the yawning deep,
But we eſcap'd, to meet a harder fate.
We ſav'd our lives, but ſaw our cargo ſink:
No ſooner had I ſtepp'd with pleaſure on the ſhore,
But met the tidings of my father's death.
From one misfortune often comes a crowd,
For ſome malignant enemy of mine,
Inform'd the good man I had long been dead.
And ere he died, he choſe another heir,
And left him all his fortune and eſtate.
Here, each glaring circumſtance aroſe,
And fill'd me with ſurpriſe: I aſk'd his name,
"Landore, he cry'd, a wealthy neighbour here."
[12] Landore! ye mighty Gods, how juſt!
I am that heir thy worthy father choſe,
And for his friendſhip and his love to me,
I'll give his ſon his fortune back again.
I had enough before to make me happy,
And but reſign that ſuperflux to him
Which fate had choſen me ſteward to a while,
To quit my claim upon a juſt demand.

THE PEASANT and ANT. A FABLE.

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THE fields were ripen'd all around,
And Ceres' head with corn was crown'd;
Pomona with her fruits array'd,
And Plenty (coy, much-envied maid)
Her horn of bounty careleſs held,
And dropp'd a gift in ev'ry field.
A peaſant, walking thro' the grain,
Was heard to murmur and complain:
His face was wan and meagre grown,
And hunger ſtamp'd him with a frown.
A laden ant was paſſing by,
And with her ſmall inſectic eye,
She look'd upon the abject man,
And, with revilings, thus began:
[14]
"Art not aſham'd, ungrateful clown,
Amongſt ſuch crops thy wants to own,
Whilſt ſmiling plenty round thee ſtands,
Inviting thy unwilling hands.
Thou poor incorrigible knave,
Thy ſloth will bring thee to the grave.
Benevolence is thrown away
On ſuch as thou art, ev'ry day.
How canſt thou ever think to thrive,
Except with induſtry thou'lt ſtrive
To help thyſelf, when there is giv'n
Before thine eyes ſuch ſtores from heav'n?
Had I one opportunity
Like this, I'd lay ſuch plenty by,
In ſuch a ſeaſon I'd provide
Enough for all my days beſide.
But I'm oblig'd each day to roam
Many a furlong from my home,
And cry, good luck, whene'er I pick
From off the ground a ſingle ſtick;
Or, in ſome long and rutty lane,
I find by chance a ſingle grain.
Had I the art, and ſtrength, like you,
To reap, to threſh, to bake, and brew,
[15] I would not murmur or complain
At winter's ſnow or ſummer's rain,
Which heav'n in each ſeaſon ſends,
To anſwer all its wiſer ends."
"Thou boaſting thing, (the clown reply'd,)
Thou little crawling piece of pride,
Or ſtop thy foul reproaching breath,
This moment elſe ſhall be thy death;
For all thy counſel's mere pretence,
To ſhew thy mighty ſhare of ſenſe,
Thy induſtry and inſolence.
Thou would'ſt not in this manner prate,
Wert thou, like me, of human ſtate;
Were what I've reap'd, and what I've ſown,
Like what thou gather'ſt, all my own,
My barns ſhould ev'ry one be ſtor'd,
And I, as well as thee, would hoard.—
I own the ſeaſons plenty ſend,
Were men, like ants, each other's friend;
I would not now come murm'ring here,
Were food and raiment not ſo dear.
Thoſe times you ſure muſt own are bad,
When there's no victuals to be had;
[16] When Nature ſends her ſtores at large,
And Earth does all her gifts diſcharge.—
'Tis not by God, but man deny'd,
Who feaſts in luxury and pride:
For ſee, yon infant, ſtarving, dies,
With all this bounty 'fore his eyes."
THE APOLOGY.
There is no reaſon to comment,
The Moral is moſt evident.

SUNDAY, A POEM.

[]
HAIL holy day, by heav'nly laws deſign'd
A conſolation to all human kind,
To man and brutes a day of peace and reſt,
Wou'd man but own his duty, and be bleſt:
As when the harp, in Jeſſe's golden days,
Tun'd ev'ry Sabbath to Jehovah's praiſe,
By holy prophets, and by virgins ſtrung
When truth and faith inſpir'd ev'ry tongue;
Or when his ſon, with eloquence divine,
(The greateſt favorite of the ſacred Nine)
Made the proud Saul, whene'er he touch'd his ſtrings,
Bow his ſtiff neck, and own the King of Kings.
Obſerve the preſent age,—how vain, how ſtrange!
How true ſang he, who told us, "all things change,"
[18] A puny race of infidels and fools,
True ſlaves to vice, and faſhion's gaudy tools;
Strangers to virtue, enemies to fame,
Except in foreign dreſs, or foreign name.
My Lord ſends forth his hopeful heir to roam
To foreign climes, to bring new faſhions home:
Caught with their manners and their taſte, he burns,
And after ſix years travel, he returns
A flimſy fop, a coxcomb and a fool,—
A greater dunce than when he left the ſchool:
Quick at intrigue, to gamble, or to ſight,
A debauchee, if not a ſ—te.
Britain and France with emulation try
T' outdo each other in abſurdity.
For here at home what vaſt exceſs we ſee
In city fops, and city quality:
Is there a folly introduc'd at court,
But ſtreight on ſwifteſt pinions of report,
It thro' the city in a trice is fann'd,
And introduc'd,—for taſte, at ſecond hand?
With cards and routs their Sunday is employ'd,
And ev'ry Chriſtian virtue is deſtroy'd.
[19] Mode will bewitch, all eyes may plainly ſee,
And nothing charms like flimſy gaiety:
In all degrees, at ev'ry age, we find,
There's nought like faſhion captivates the mind:
Do but obſerve the rich Sir Traffick's wife,
Old and deform'd, upon the verge of life,
With fulſome art, ſhe rolls her faded eyes,
And thinks to make a conqueſt ere ſhe dies;
While in their dreſs there's no diſtinction ſeen
'Tween ſixty-ſix, and ſhe of gay ſixteen.
But to my theme; my muſe at random ſtrays,
And with a tedious prelude, ſhe delays
My better meaning, and perverts my plan,
I'll tack about, and to it, like a man.—
We raiſe ſubſcriptions and new churches build,
But heaven knows how ſeldom they are fill'd.
Shou'd Sunday ſhine a ſummer's day, and fair,
Behold what legions round the town repair;
What flocks to Richmond and to Windſor drive,
And buz and ſip, like drones about a hive,
At every welcome tavern which they meet,
Affecting bucks, and aſſes prove complete,
[20] On hackney'd ſteeds, the giddy blockheads fly,
Who kindly drag 'em home, perhaps, and die:
Of all the ſlaves dame nature's giv'n us here
There's none ſo noble, treated ſo ſevere
As the kind ſteed, that's ever yet been curſt,
To have his laſt load greater than his firſt.
When worn with hunger, ſlav'ry and age
Finds ſtill a harder journey to engage;
Than when in youth and vigour he wou'd bear
My Lord a mile or two to take the air.
But ſuch is fate, when uſeleſs and grown old
To ſome unfeeling monſter he is ſold.
Each needy wretch his thirſt for taſte declares
Whene'er he ſpeaks, but more by what he wears;
Oft is the fancy of ſome brainleſs prig
Couch'd in the choice of his enormous wig,
And oft we learn the tenor of the fair
By the ſly glance, or belle-affected air.
Is there a nymph that Fortune will not own,
That beauty might indeed have ſtamp'd have ſhown?
Behold her ſailing in the pink of taſte,
Trump'd up with powder, frippery and paſte,
[21] Reſolv'd 'gainſt fortune, beauty's force to try,
(The greateſt powers now beneath the ſky,)
Rather than fate her conqueſt ſhou'd impede,
She'll not retreat, tho' virtue's ſure to bleed.
Behold what droves to Bagnigge Wells repair,
Crowding together for the ſake of air,
And ſtrictly keeping Sunday's weekly fair.
Sunk in a vale, this fair retreat is plac'd,
And with two mountains on each ſide is grac'd;
That has for ages, there, in loads been thrown,
Receiving all the rubbiſh of the town.
Smooth thro' its flat a muddy riv'let ſtreams,
And down its ſides a wholſome church-yard teems;
Here, cloſe pent up by thouſands, we repair,
And praiſe the water, liquor and the air:
Here love-ſick couples ev'ry Sunday run,
They marry next, and find themſelves undone:
Soon ſhifts the ſcene, the paſſion next is cloy'd,
And all their promis'd happineſs deſtroy'd.
Behold a pair, that but two years ago,
She a coquette, and he a city beau,
[22] Now look with ſorrow at their former ſtate,
And curſe the burden of their preſent fate.
Marry'd, they walk indifferent and grave,
Whilſt worldly cares their ev'ry thought enſlave:
He, at a diſtance, from the crowd retires,
She, at a diſtance, leaves her gay deſires.
See, ſelf-admir'd, Miſs, of four feet high,
Diſplay her charms, and with an ogle, try
To captivate ſome dull unwary ſpark,
She often ſhoots, but ſeldom hits the mark:
For ſhould the rogue ſome imperfection ſpy,
Her crooked legs, or bolſter'd ſhape, awry:
If the high ſhoulder, which ſhe'd fain conceal,
Some thoughtleſs turn ſhou'd cruelly reveal,
No new device, how well ſoe'er 'tis dreſs'd,
Will win the lover to her ſtrutting breaſt.
If ſuch a wretch wou'd deal in Hymen's laws,
Let her throw off her frippery and gauze;
Nor vainly try, with ſelf-imagin'd charms,
To win the lover to her ſtunted arms.
To charm with perſon, never make pretence,
But try to pleaſe with gravity and ſenſe:
[23] Plain be your dreſs, ſeem conſcious of defect,
Let love ſubſide, and try to win reſpect.
Shou'd ſome grave friend of ſixty, ſeek a wife,
A needful helpmate, at the verge of life,
Who's with your virtues, not your perſon mov'd,
Its better far by ſuch to be approv'd,
Than try with ſuch a form to make a prize,
Or hope in vain to charm a lover's eyes,
Who will but rally, flatter and deſpiſe.
Devote no more your Sunday to intrigue,
Nor longer keep your vanity in league;
For where the perſon and the mind's awry,
We ſeldom find it catch a lover's eye.
Let not White Conduit, Bagnigge, or the Spaw,
One Sunday more your vain attention draw,
Where ſwarms of fools, of coxcombs, bucks and beaux,
Adore themſelves, and next themſelves, their clothes.
Where belles repair to catch, and to be caught,
That never yet gave being to a thought.
You, on whom fortune has been pleas'd to ſmile,
Lay by your giddy pleaſures for a while;
[24] Regard the cries of nature in diſtreſs,
Confine awhile your appetite and dreſs:
Where fortune's giv'n enough, and ſome to ſpare,
Let the remainder be the poor man's ſhare.

EPIGRAM ON LORD G—.

MY Lord has often ſaid, he ſcorns
The wretch who'd fain conceal his horns,
And, from his heart, quite full of glee,
He wiſh'd all cuckolds in the ſea.
A merry wag (pleas'd with the whim)
Reply'd, my Lord, Pray can you ſwim?

AN ELEGY On the DEATH of Mr. RICHARD CROSS.

[]
FAREWELL, kind youth! my friend farewell!
Since fate will have it ſo;
Ceaſe, ceaſe, the ſolemn paſſing bell,
Nor aggravate my woe.
In plaintive notes my muſe ſhall ſing
Thy merits and thy name,
And on her weak, but grateful wing,
She'll bear thee up to fame.
What tho' obſcure, thou ſpent thy days
A friend to virtue's cauſe,
Thy merits ſtill demand my lays,
To whiſper thy applauſe.
[26]
The lonely bud that blows obſcure
Beneath the ſpreading thorn,
Often preſerves a ſcent more pure,
Than what the top adorn.
I little thought, my deareſt friend,
To ſee thee dead ſo ſoon,
For who could think the day wou'd end
Before it well was noon?
Thy noon of life an ev'ning prov'd,
Thy ſun ran quickly down,
Thy morning was by all belov'd,
Thine eve without a frown.
Thro' life with even pace thou ſteer'd,
Without one ſingle foe,
(By friends belov'd, by truth rever'd,)
Leſt envy made them ſo.
But who could be a foe to thee,
A friend to all mankind:
Whoſe breaſt was all tranquility,
With harmony combin'd.
[27]
How oft have I at peep of dawn
Thy friendly ſummons heard,
And with thee trod the verdant lawn,
Before the ſun appear'd.
From Richmond hill to Twick'nham dale,
How often have we ſtray'd,
Charm'd with the thruſh and nightingale,
That ſang in Dyſart's ſhade.
When cloudy miſts from off the brooks
Proclaim'd a ſummer's day,
With glee we talk'd of men and books,
And argu'd time away.
Whene'er a wild romantic ſcene
Has ſtruck our wand'ring eyes,
And where the magic circle's been,
Great Shakeſpear would ariſe.
Where gentle Zephyrs blew ſerene,
As thro' the copſe we ſteer'd,
Or when ſome garden we have ſeen,
Great Milton has appear'd.
[28]
When nature daſy'd o'er the lawn,
And bloſſom'd ev'ry tree,
The humble Thompſon's Muſe would dawn,
Like pure ſimplicity.
When o'er the hill we've chanc'd to ſtray,
And view'd ſome manſion by,
Oft with a ſmile, I've heard thee ſay
"Its wealthy Lord muſt die."
Thou envy'd not the proud his wealth,
His luxury and pride,
Thy only boon a little health,
But that the fates deny'd.
Thy honeſt ear would ne'er attend
The vile detractor's lye,
But with a manly zeal defend
Both friend and enemy.
Oft when the lark had clos'd her wings,
The Moon began her reign,
I've heard thee touch thy magic ſtrings,
And play thy uſual ſtrain.
[29]
Scarce had the Thames ſent up a breeze,
Or dews fall'n on the ground,
But thro' the gentle waving trees,
I heard the pleaſing ſound.
Enraptur'd have I ſtood alone
Beneath a cooling ſhade,
With extacy I've caught each tone,
In ſoft piano's play'd.
But now the ev'ning charms no more,
No more the morn delights,
Since morn nor ev'ning can reſtore
Thee back again to ſight.
No more ſhall I at break of day
Thy friendly ſummons hear,
Nor with thee o'er the woodlands ſtray,
Before the Sun appear.
In ſad remembrance o'er thy tomb,
Thy requiem will I ſing,
When night with dull and awful gloom
Shall ſpread her raven wing.

A POOR MAN's QUERIES. Addreſſed to his FRIEND.

[]
OUR betters ſeem to make a rout,
To find the cauſe of famine out,
Pretend the myſt'ry is too great,
To tell us why we have no meat;
Nor can our ableſt St—ſ—n's head,
Find out the cauſe we have no bread.
The reaſon's plain, I tell you why,
I don't believe they ever try.
But ſhould they want to lay a tax
Upon our heavy-laden backs,
There is not one but knows the way,
To do it for us any day.
Like dog i'the fair they ſhift about,
To-day in place, to-morrow out,
[31] Nor ſhall you find the beſt reſign,
Without ſome motive or deſign
To wriggle into better bread;—
Then can you think he'll plague his head
About ſuch things as you or I,
Who were but born to ſtarve and die?
QUERY I.
Were they like you and I to feel
An appetite, without a meal;
Say, would they not ſoon find the way,
To move this obſtacle away?
II.
Would foreſtallers and regrators
Until now have 'ſcap'd their betters,
If ſome great rogue 'tween you and I,
Had not giv'n them authority?
Thieves are ſeldom hang'd for ſtealing,
Where my Lord's a fellow feeling.
III.
If one knave ſhould chance to ſwing,
O that wou'd be a happy thing.
[32] In ſuch a caſe, 'tis ten to four,
But he'd impeach a hundred more;
And then I'd lay you nine to ten,
That half of them were N—n,
Or ſuch to whom we give the name,
For they by birth aſſume the claim,
And have not in reality
The ſmalleſt claim to quality.
Titles that once were bravely won,
That have thro' generations run,
May grace at laſt a worthleſs fool,
Perhaps ſome haughty fav'rite's tool,
In ſome baſe office exercis'd,
And by his countrymen deſpis'd.

THE FATAL INCIDENT.

[]
'TIS full ſix months, cry'd Aladin,
Since Emina I've ſeen,
Say, was it not a ſorry ſin,
To leave my fairy queen?
Say, was it not a ſorry ſin,
To force me ſo away,
And make me plod thro' thick and thin,
"O'er hills and far away?"
To make me ſoldier 'gainſt my will,
And go the lud knows where,
And what's alas, more cruel ſtill,
To force me from my dear.
[34]
'Tis fourteen days ſince laſt I heard,
Or had one ſingle line,
And ſhe's forſa'en me I'm afraid,
But ſure the fault's not mine.
We parted at this very ſtile,
I thought I ſhou'd have dy'd;
I took my leave, and all the while
The lovely creature cry'd.
Plague on the man, be who he will,
That firſt the wars began,
But may he be more plagued ſtill,
That ſchem'd the Militia plan.
Why ſhou'd they fix on me forſooth,
That ne'er got drunk and ſwore,
There's Ralph and Hal, aye, and in truth,
I cou'd name twenty more.
There's Thomas now, as great a rake
As ever trod the lea,
He got with barn, at our laſt wake,
Poor Sally Mapletree.
[35]
Our Joe got drunk and beat his wife
Until ſhe ſcarce cou'd ſee,
And yet for all, upon my life,
They needs muſt fix on me.
But I'll no longer time delay,
With thinking what is paſt▪
I'm glad I've got ſo ſafe away,
To ſee my love at laſt.
O how my heart with fancy throbs,
To think we ſoon ſhall meet;
From her the Roſe its colour robs,
The Hyacinth its ſweet.
I ſhall be 'ſham'd to ſee her too
In this ſtrange ſoldier's dreſs,
But if her heart like mine be true,
She'll not love me the leſs.
I'll e'en acroſs the Church-yard now,
And ſee my Emina,
She lives at foot of yonder brow,
Where yon white lambkins play.
[36]
Here ſtands the Church where ſhe and I
Together oft have been,
And hope once more, yet ere I die,
To go with her again.
When ſhe ſome morning by my ſide,
O! wou'd it were to-day!
Shall go a maid, but turn a bride,
Dreſs'd like the queen of May.
Then luck attend! I'll e'en away
In this ſame ſoldier's trim,
Deſire will not let me ſtay,
To make myſelf more prim.
Ah! me, what name's on yonder ſtone,
That meets my tortur'd ſight!
'Tis Emina's! 'tis her's alone!—
Then to the world, good night.
For, like the barbed-ſhafted dart,
It plunges thro' my breaſt,
Faſt bleeds within, my wounded heart,
But here I'll give 'em reſt.
[37]
O cruel fate! I cannot bear
To look upon her grave;
Strike me to earth, nor longer ſpare
A love-deſtracted ſlave.
Alas! I feel my blood retire,
My eyes grow dim apace,
The fates have heard my laſt deſire,
We'll in the grave embrace.

A PASTORAL, Written on the DEATH of Mr. C. CHURCHILL and Mr. R. LLOYD, The latter dying ſoon after the news of the former's death.

[]
JONNY and ROBIN.
JONNY.
AH! Robin haſt thou heard the news?
Our blitheſt ſwain is dead,
The greateſt fav'rite of the Muſe
Is in the Church-yard laid.
ROBIN.
Thou doſt not ſure, my Charley mean,
My true and faithful friend?
If ſo, alas! my woes again
Will never have an end.
JONNY.
[39]
I wou'd it were not him indeed,
I'm griev'd the news to tell,
I know thy honeſt heart will bleed,
Thou lov'd the ſwain ſo well.
ROBIN.
Ah! woe is me, what ſhall I do!
I can no more ſurvive,
Thy words have cut my life-ſtring thro',
Thro' him alone I live.
JONNY.
Nay, do not go and leave me too,
To wander here alone,
To ſit beneath the church-yard Yew,
To weep beſide thy ſtone.
ROBIN.
Alas! kind youth, alas I die,
My eyes begin to fade,
I ſoon ſhall with my Charley lie,
Beneath the Yew-tree ſhade.
JONNY.
[40]
Ah! moſt diſtreſs'd and wretched me,
To live to ſee this day,
I'll ſet beneath ſome gloomy tree,
And ſigh my ſoul away.
ROBIN.
Nay, pray thee live, thou worthy ſwain,
And hope a better day,
Let not my lambs die on the plain,
When I am turn'd to clay.
FINIS.

Appendix A ERRATUM.

Page 20. Line 22. For,

That beauty might indeed have ſtamp'd have ſhewn,

Read,

On whom Ma'am Beauty has her charms beſtown▪
Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License
Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3367 The hills of Hybla being a collection of original poems. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5C8E-E