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THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POESY. SELECTED BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON: Printed for WILLIAM GRIFFIN, in Catharine Street in the Strand. MDCCLXVII.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

[]

A Night-Piece, on Death Page 1
A Fairy Tale Page 5
Palemon and Lavinia Page 13
The Baſtard Page 19
The Poet and his Patron Page 25
The Wolf, Sheep, and Lamb Page 29
The Female Seducers Page 33
An Epiſtle to a Lady Page 51
Hans Carvel Page 58
The Ladle Page 64
Baucis and Philemon Page 71
To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr. Addiſon Page 79
[]Collin and Lucy, a Ballad Page 84
The Tears of Scotland Page 87
On the Death of the Lord Protector Page 91
The Story of Phoebus and Daphne Page 93
Night Thoughts Page 95
Satire Page 135
A Paſtoral Ballad Page 145
Phoebe, a Paſtoral Page 157
A Song Page 159
An Eſſay on Poetry Page 163
Cadenus and Vaneſſa Page 175
Alma, or the Progreſs of the Mind Page 205

[]THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POESY.

A NIGHT-PIECE, ON DEATH.The great fault of this piece, written by Dr. Parnell, is, that it is in eight ſyllable lines, very improper for the ſolemnity of the ſubject; otherwiſe, the poem is natural, and the reflections juſt.
BY the blue taper's trembling light
No more I waſte the wakeful night,
Intent with endleſs view to pore
The ſchoolmen and the ſages o'er:
Their books from wiſdom widely ſtray,
Or point, at beſt, the longeſt way.
[2]I'll ſeek a readier path, and go
Where wiſdom's ſurely taught below.
How deep yon azure dies the ſky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lye,
While thro' their ranks, in ſilver pride,
The nether creſcent ſeems to glide.
The ſlumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is ſmooth, and clear beneath,
Where once again the ſpangled ſhow
Deſcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aſpire,
In dimneſs from the view retire:
The left preſents a place of graves,
Whoſe wall the ſilent water laves.
That ſteeple guides thy doubtful ſight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There paſs, with melancholy ſtate,
By all the ſolemn heaps of fate,
And think, as, ſoftly-ſad, you tread
Above the venerable dead,
"Time was, like thee they life poſſeſt,
And time ſhall be, that thou ſhalt reſt."
Thoſe graves, with bending oſier bound,
That, nameleſs, heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought diſcloſe,
Where toil and poverty repoſe.
The flat ſmooth ſtones that bear a name,
The chiſſel's ſlender help to fame,
(Which ere our ſet of friends decay
Their frequent ſteps may wear away;)
[3]A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that riſe on high,
Whoſe dead in vaulted arches lye,
Whoſe pillars ſwell with ſculptur'd ſtones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
Theſe, all the poor remains of ſtate,
Adorn the rich, or praiſe the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are ſenſeleſs of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze pale Cynthia fades,
The burſting earth unveils the ſhades!
All ſlow, and wan, and wrap'd with ſhrouds,
They riſe in viſionary crouds,
And all with ſober accent cry,
"Think, mortal, what it is to die."
Now, from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-houſe with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, ceaſe your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time reſound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It ſends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus ſpeaking from among the bones.
"When men my ſcythe and darts ſupply,
How great a King of Fears am I!
They view me like the laſt of things;
They make, and then they dread my ſtings.
Fools! if you leſs provok'd your fears,
No more my ſpectre-form appears.
[4]Death's but a path that muſt be trod,
If man wou'd ever paſs to God:
A port of calms, a ſtate of eaſe
From the rough rage of ſwelling ſeas.
Why, then, thy flowing ſable ſtoles,
Deep pending cypreſs, mourning poles,
Looſe ſcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herſes, cover'd ſteeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'ſcutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the ſoul, theſe forms of woe:
As men who long in priſon dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
When-e'er their ſuff'ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring ſun:
Such joy, tho' far tranſcending ſenſe,
Have pious ſouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years, they waſte:
But, when their chains are caſt aſide,
See the glad ſcene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

A FAIRY TALE. BY DR. PARNELL.[5]Never was the old manner of ſpeaking more hap⯑pily applied, or a tale better told, than this.
IN Britain's iſle, and Arthur's days,
When midnight Fairies daunc'd the maze,
Liv'd Edwin of the Green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow'd with courage, ſenſe, and truth,
Tho' badly ſhap'd he been.
His mountain back mote well be ſaid,
To meaſure height againſt his head,
And lift itſelf above;
Yet, ſpite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dar'd to love.
He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
Cou'd ladies look within;
But one Sir Topaz dreſs'd with art,
And, if a ſhape cou'd win a heart,
He had a ſhape to win.
[6]Edwin, if right I read my ſong,
With ſlighted paſſion pac'd along
All in the moony light;
'Twas near an old inchanted court,
Where ſportive fairies made reſort,
To revel out the night.
His heart was drear, his hope was croſs'd,
'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was loſt
That reach'd the neighbour-town;
With weary ſteps he quits the ſhades,
Reſolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.
But ſcant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,
A trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once an hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.
Now ſounding tongues aſſail his ear,
Now ſounding feet approachen near,
And now the ſounds increaſe:
And, from the corner where he lay,
He ſees a train profuſely gay
Come prankling o'er the place.
But (truſt me gentles!) never yet
Was dight a maſquing half ſo neat,
Or half ſo rich, before;
The country lent the ſweet perfumes,
The ſea the pearl, the ſky the plumes,
The town its ſilken ſtore.
[7]Now, whilſt he gaz'd, a gallant, dreſt
In flaunting robes above the reſt
With awful accent cry'd,
What mortal, of a wretched mind,
Whoſe ſighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here preſum'd to hide?
At this the ſwain, whoſe vent'rous ſoul
No fears of magic art controul,
Advanc'd in open ſight;
"Nor have I cauſe of dreed, he ſaid,
Who view, by no preſumption led,
Your revels of the night.
'Twas grief, for ſcorn of faithful love,
Which made my ſteps unweeting rove
Amid the nightly dew."
'Tis well, the gallant cries again,
We fairies never injure men
Who dare to tell us true.
Exalt thy love-dejected heart;
Be mine the taſk, or ere we part,
To make thee grief reſign;
Now take the pleaſure of thy chaunce;
Whilſt I with Mab, my partner, daunce,
Be little Mable thine.
He ſpoke, and, all a ſudden, there
Light muſic floats in wanton air;
The Monarch leads the Queen:
The reſt their fairie partners found:
And Mable trimly tript the ground,
With Edwin of the green.
[8]The dauncing paſt, the board was laid,
And ſiker ſuch a feaſt was made
As heart and lip deſire,
Withouten hands the diſhes fly,
The glaſſes with a wiſh come nigh,
And with a wiſh retire.
But now, to pleaſe the fairie king,
Full ev'ry deal they laugh and ſing,
And antic feats deviſe;
Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other-ſome tranſmute their ſhape
In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.
Till one, at laſt, that Robin hight,
Renown'd for pinching maids by night,
Has hent him up aloof;
And full againſt the beam he ſlung,
Where, by the back, the youth he hung,
To ſprawl unneath the roof,
From thence, "Reverſe my charm, he crys,
And let it fairly now ſuffice
The gambol has been ſhown."
But Oberon anſwers with a ſmile,
Content thee, Edwin, for a while,
The vantage is thine own.
Here ended all the phantom play;
They ſmelt the freſh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind that bore the crowd,
Has clapp'd the door, and whiſtled loud,
To warn them all to go.
[9]Then, ſcreaming all at once, they fly,
And, all at once, the tapers dye;
Poor Edwin falls to floor;
Forlorn his ſtate, and dark the place,
Was never wight in ſuch a caſe
Thro' all the land before.
But, ſoon as dan Apollo roſe,
Full jolly creature home he goes,
He feels his back the leſs;
His honeſt tongue and ſteady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind,
Which made him want ſucceſs.
With luſty livelyhed he talks,
He ſeems a dauncing as he walks;
His ſtory ſoon took wind;
And beauteous Edith ſees the youth
Endow'd with courage, ſenſe, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.
The ſtory told, Sir Topaz mov'd,
The youth of Edith erſt approv'd,
To ſee the revel ſcene:
At cloſe of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome
All on the gloomy plain.
As there he bides, it ſo befell,
The wind came ruſtling down a dell,
A ſhaking ſeiz'd the wall:
Up ſprung the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And muſic fills the hall.
[10]But, certes, ſorely ſunk with woe
Sir Topaz ſees the Elphin ſhow,
His ſpirits in him dy:
When Oberon crys, "A man is near;
A mortal paſſion, cleeped ſear,
Hangs flagging in the ſky."
With that Sir Topaz, hapleſs youth!
In accents falt'ring, ay for ruth,
Intreats them pity graunt,
For als he been a miſter wight
Betray'd by wand'ring in the night
To tread the circled haunt;
"Ah Loſell vile, at once they roar;
And little ſkill'd of fairie lore,
Thy cauſe to come we know:
Now has thy keſtrell courage fell;
And fairies, ſince a lye you tell,
Are free to work thee woe."
Then Will, who bears the wiſpy fire
To trail the ſwains among the mire,
The captive upward flung:
There, like a tortoiſe in a ſhop,
He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where, whilom, Edwin hung.
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they friſk it o'er the place,
They ſit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while,
Till all the rout retreat.
[11]By this the ſtars began to wink,
They ſhriek, they fly, the tapers ſink,
And down ydrops the knight:
For never ſpell by fairie laid
With ſtrong enchantment, bound a glade,
Beyond the length of night.
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin roſe the day,
Then deem'd the dole was o'er:
But wot ye well his harder lot;
His ſeely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin loſt afore.
This tale a Sybil-nurſe ared;
She ſoftly ſtroak'd my youngling head;
And, when the tale was done,
"Thus ſome are born, my ſon, ſhe cries,
With baſe impediments, to riſe,
And ſome are born with none.
But virtue can itſelf advance
To what the fav'rite fools of chance
By Fortune ſeem'd deſign'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itſelf ſhake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind."

PALEMON AND LAVINIA.[13]Mr. Thomſon, though, in general, a verboſe and affected poet, has told this ſtory with unuſual ſim⯑plicity: it is rather given here for being much eſteemed by the public, than by the editor.
THE lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And Fortune ſmil'd, deceitful, on her birth.
For, in her helpleſs years, depriv'd of all,
Of every ſtay, ſave Innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale;
By ſolitude and deep ſurrounding ſhades,
But more by baſhful modeſty, conceal'd.
Together thus they ſhunn'd the cruel ſcorn
Which virtue, ſunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy paſſion and low-minded pride:
Almoſt on Nature's common bounty fed;
Like the gay birds that ſung them to repoſe,
Content, and careleſs of tomorrow's fare.
Her form was freſher than the morning roſe,
[14]When the dew wets its leaves: unſtain'd, and pure,
As is the lilly, or the mountain ſnow.
The modeſt virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers:
Or when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithleſs fortune promis'd once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy ſtar
Of evening, ſhone in tears. A native grace
Sat, fair-proportion'd, on her poliſh'd limbs,
Veil'd in a ſimple robe, their beſt attire,
Beyond the pomp of dreſs; for lovelineſs
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the moſt.
Thoughtleſs of beauty, ſhe was beauty's ſelf,
Recluſe amid the cloſe-embowering woods.
As, in the hollow breaſt of Appenine,
Beneath the ſhelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle riſes, far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;
So flouriſh'd blooming, and unſeen by all,
The ſweet Lavinia; till, at length, compell'd
By ſtrong Neceſſity's ſupreme command,
With ſmiling patience in her looks, ſhe went
To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of ſwains
Palemon was, the generous, and the rich;
Who led the rural life in all its joy
And elegance, ſuch as Arcadian ſong
Tranſmits from ancient uncorrupted times;
When tyrant cuſtom had not ſhackled Man,
[15]But free to follow Nature was the mode.
He then, his fancy with autumnal ſcenes
Amuſing, chanc'd beſide his reaper-train
To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye;
Unconſcious of her power, and turning quick
With unaffected bluſhes from his gaze:
He ſaw her charming, but he ſaw not half
The charms her down-caſt modeſty conceal'd.
That very moment love and chaſte deſire
Sprung in his boſom, to himſelf unknown;
For ſtill the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh,
Which ſcarce the firm philoſopher can ſcorn,
Should his heart own a gleaner in the field:
And thus, in ſecret, to his ſoul he ſigh'd.
"What pity! that ſo delicate a form,
By beauty kindled, where enlivening ſenſe
And more than vulgar goodneſs ſeem to dwell,
Should be devoted to the rude embrace
Of ſome indecent clown! She looks, methinks,
Of old Acaſto's line; and to my mind
Recalls that patron of my happy life,
From whom my liberal fortune took its riſe;
Now to the duſt gone down; his houſes, lands,
And once fair-ſpreading family, diſſolv'd.
'Tis ſaid, that, in ſome lone, obſcure retreat,
Urg'd by remembrance ſad, and decent pride,
Far from thoſe ſcenes which knew their better days,
His aged widow and his daughter live,
Whom, yet, my fruitleſs ſearch could never find.
Romantic wiſh! would this the daughter were!"
[16]When, ſtrict enquiring, from herſelf he found
She was the ſame, the daughter of his friend,
Of bountiful Acaſto: who can ſpeak
The mingled paſſions that ſurpris'd his heart,
And thro' his nerves in ſhiv'ring tranſport ran?
Then blaz'd his ſmother'd flame, avow'd, and bold;
And as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er,
Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once.
Confus'd, and frighten'd at his ſudden tears,
Her riſing beauties fluſh'd a higher bloom,
As thus Palemon, paſſionate, and juſt,
Pour'd out the pious rapture of his ſoul.
"And art thou, then, Acaſto's dear remains?
She, whom my reſtleſs gratitude has ſought
So long in vain? O heavens! the very ſame,
The ſoftened image of my noble friend
Alive, his every look, his every feature,
More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring!
Thou ſole ſurviving bloſſom from the root
That nouriſh'd up my fortune! Say, ah where,
In what ſequeſter'd deſart, haſt thou drawn
The kindeſt aſpect of delighted Heaven?
Into ſuch beauty ſpread, and blown ſo fair;
Tho' Poverty's cold wind, and cruſhing rain,
Beat keen, and heavy, on thy tender years?
O let me, now, into a richer ſoil
Tranſplant thee ſafe; where vernal ſuns, and ſhowers,
Diffuſe their warmeſt, largeſt influence;
And of my garden be the pride, and joy!
Ill it befits thee, oh it ill befits
[17]Acaſto's daughter, his whoſe open ſtores,
Tho' vaſt, were little to his ampler heart,
The father of a country, thus to pick
The very refuſe of thoſe harveſt-fields,
Which from his bounteous friendſhip I enjoy.
Then throw that ſhameful pittance from thy hand,
But ill apply'd to ſuch a rugged taſk;
The fields, the maſter, all, my fair, are thine;
If to the various bleſſings which thy houſe
Has on me laviſh'd, thou wilt add that bliſs,
That deareſt bliſs, the power of bleſſing thee!"
Here ceas'd the youth: yet ſtill his ſpeaking eye
Expreſs'd the ſacred triumph of his ſoul,
With conſcious virtue, gratitude, and love,
Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd.
Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm
Of goodneſs irreſiſtible, and all
In ſweet diſorder loſt, ſhe bluſh'd conſent.
The news immediate to her mother brought,
While, pierc'd with anxious thought, ſhe pin'd away
The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate;
Amaz'd, and ſcarce believing what ſhe heard,
Joy ſeiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam
Of ſetting life ſhone on her evening-hours:
Not leſs enraptur'd than the happy pair;
Who flouriſh'd long in tender bliſs, and rear'd
A numerous offspring, lovely like themſelves,
And good, the grace of all the country round.

THE BASTARD.[19]Almoſt all things written from the heart, as this certainly was, have ſome merit. The poet here deſcribes ſorrows and misfortunes which were by no means imaginary; and, thus, there runs a truth of thinking through this poem, without which it would be of little value, as Savage is, in other reſpects, but an indifferent poet.
IN gayer hours, when high my fancy ran,
The muſe, exulting, thus her lay began:
Bleſt be the Baſtard's birth! thro' wond'rous ways
He ſhines, eccentric, like a comet's blaze;
No ſickly fruit of faint compliance he!
He! ſtampt in Nature's mint of Extacy!
He lives to build, not boaſt a generous race:
No tenth tranſmitter of a fooliſh face.
His daring hope no ſire's example bounds:
His firſt-born lights no prejudice confounds.
He, kindling from within, requires no flame:
He glories in a baſtard's glowing name.
Born to himſelf, by no poſſeſſion led,
In Freedom foſter'd, and by Fortune fed;
Nor guides, nor rules, his ſov'reign choice controul,
His body independent, as his ſoul.
[20]Loos'd to the world's wide range,—enjoin'd no aim;
Preſcrib'd no duty, and aſſign'd no name:
Nature's unbounded ſon, he ſtands alone,
His heart unbiaſs'd, and his mind his own.
O Mother, yet no Mother—'tis to you,
My thanks for ſuch diſtinguiſh'd claims are due.
You, unenſlav'd to Nature's narrow laws,
Warm championeſs for Freedom's ſacred cauſe,
From all the dry devoirs of blood and line,
From ties maternal, moral, and divine,
Diſcharg'd my graſping ſoul; puſh'd me from ſhore,
And launch'd me into life without an oar.
What had I loſt, if, conjugally kind,
By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd,
Untaught the matrimonial bounds to ſlight,
And coldly conſcious of a huſband's right,
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life, by force your own!
Then, while your backward will retrench'd deſire,
And unconcurring ſpirits lent no fire,
I had been born your dull, domeſtic heir;
Load of your life, and motive of your care;
Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great;
The ſlave of pomp, a cypher in the ſtate;
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And ſlumbering in a ſeat, by chance my own.
Far nobler bleſſings wait the baſtard's lot;
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
Strong as neceſſity, he ſtarts away,
Climbs againſt wrongs, and brightens into day.
[21]Thus unprophetic, lately miſinſpir'd,
I ſung: gay flutt'ring Hope my fancy fir'd;
Inly ſecure, thro' conſcious ſcorn of ill,
Nor taught by wiſdom how to ballance will,
Raſhly deceiv'd, I ſaw no pits to ſhun;
But thought to purpoſe, and to act, were one;
Heedleſs what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now, expos'd, and ſhrinking from diſtreſs,
I fly to ſhelter, while the tempeſts preſs;
My muſe to grief reſigns the varying tone,
The raptures languiſh, and the numbers groan.
O Memory! thou ſoul of joy and pain!
Thou actor of our paſſions o'er again!
Why doſt thou aggravate the wretches woe?
Why add continuous ſmart to ev'ry blow?
Few are my joys; alas! how ſoon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'ſt me not,
While ſharp and numberleſs my ſorrows fall;
Yet thou repeat'ſt, and multiply'ſt 'em all!
Is chance a guilt, that my diſaſtrous heart,
For miſchief never meant, muſt ever ſmart?
Can ſelf-defence be ſin?—Ah, plead no more!
What tho' no purpos'd malice ſtain'd thee o'er?
Had Heav'n befriended thy unhappy ſide,
Thou had'ſt not been provok'd—or Thou had'ſt dy'd,
Far be the guilt of homeſhed blood from all,
On whom, unſought, embroiling dangers fall!
Still the pale Dead revives, and lives to me,
To me! thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to ſee.
[22]Remembrance veils his rage, but ſwells his fate;
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late.
Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day,
What ripening virtues might have made their way!
He might have liv'd, till Folly died in Shame,
Till kindling wiſdom felt a thirſt for fame.
He might, perhaps, his country's friend have prov'd;
Both happy, gen'rous, candid, and belov'd.
He might have ſav'd ſome worth, now doom'd to fall;
And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.
O fate of late repentance! always vain:
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.
Where ſhall my hope find reſt?—No mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer:
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice reſtrain'd.
Is it not thine to ſnatch ſome pow'rful arm,
Firſt to advance, then ſcreen from future harm?
I am return'd from death, to live in pain!
Or wou'd Imperial Pity ſave in vain?
Diſtruſt it not—What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives, at once, a life, and rears a mind?
Mother, miſcall'd, farewell—of ſoul ſevere,
This ſad reflection yet may force one tear:
All I was wretched by to you I ow'd,
Alone from ſtrangers ev'ry comfort flow'd!
Loſt to the life you gave, your ſon no more,
And now adopted, who was doom'd before;
New-born, I may a nobler mother claim,
But dare not whiſper her immortal name;
[23]Supremely lovely, and ſerenely great!
Majeſtic mother of a kneeling ſtate!
Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er, before,
Agreed—Yet now, with one conſent, adore!
One conteſt yet remains in this deſire,
Who moſt ſhall give applauſe, where all admire,

THE POET AND HIS PATRON.[25]Mr. More was a poet that never had juſtice done him while living; there are few of the moderns have a more correct taſte, or a more pleaſing manner of expreſſing their thoughts. It was upon theſe fables he chiefly founded his reputation; yet they are, by no means, his beſt production.
WHY, Celia, is your ſpreading waiſt
So looſe, ſo negligently lac'd?
Why muſt the wrapping bed-gown hide
Your ſnowy boſom's ſwelling pride?
How ill that dreſs adorns your head,
Diſtain'd, and rumpled, from the bed!
Thoſe clouds, that ſhade your blooming face▪
A little water might diſplace,
As Nature, ev'ry morn, beſtows
The cryſtal dew, to cleanſe the roſe:
Thoſe treſſes, as the raven black,
That wav'd in ringlets down your back,
Uncomb'd, and injur'd by neglect,
Deſtroy the face which once they deckt.
Whence this forgetfulneſs of dreſs?
Pray, madam, are you marry'd? Yes.
[26]Nay, then, indeed, the wonder ceaſes;
No matter, then, how looſe your dreſs is;
The end is won, your fortune's made;
Your ſiſter, now, may take the trade.
Alas! what pity 'tis, to find
This fault in half the female kind!
From hence proceed averſion, ſtrife,
And all that ſours the wedded life.
Beauty can only point the dart;
'Tis neatneſs guides it to the heart:
Let neatneſs, then, and beauty, ſtrive
To keep a wav'ring flame alive.
'Tis harder far (you'll find it true)
To keep the conqueſt, than ſubdue;
Admit us once behind the ſcreen,
What is there farther to be ſeen?
A newer face may raiſe the flame;
But ev'ry woman is the ſame.
Then ſtudy, chiefly, to improve
The charm that fix'd your huſband's love;
Weigh well his humour. Was it dreſs
That gave your beauty power to bleſs?
Purſue it ſtill; be neater ſeen;
'Tis always frugal to be clean;
So ſhall you keep alive deſire,
And Time's ſwift wing ſhall fan the fire.
In garret high (as ſtories ſay)
A Poet ſung his tuneful lay;
So ſoft, ſo ſmooth his verſe, you'd ſwear
Apollo and the muſes there;
[27]Thro' all the town his praiſes rung,
His ſonnets at the playhouſe ſung;
High waving o'er his lab'ring head,
The goddeſs Want her pinions ſpread,
And with poetic fury fir'd,
What Phoebus faintly had inſpir'd.
A noble youth, of taſte and wit,
Approv'd the ſprightly things he writ,
And ſought him in his cobweb dome,
Diſcharg'd his rent, and brought him home.
Behold him at the ſtately board;
Who, but the Poet, and my Lord!
Each day, deliciouſly he dines,
And greedy quaffs the gen'rous wines;
His ſides were plump, his ſkin was ſleek,
And plenty wanton'd on his cheek;
Aſtoniſh'd at the change ſo new,
Away th' inſpiring goddeſs flew.
Now, dropt for politics, and news,
Neglected lay the drooping muſe;
Unmindful whence his fortune came,
He ſtifled the poetic flame;
Nor tale, nor ſonnet, for my lady,
Lampoon, nor epigram, was ready.
With juſt contempt his patron ſaw,
(Reſolv'd his bounty to withdraw)
And th [...]s, with anger in his look,
The late-repenting fool beſpoke.
Blind to the good that courts thee grown;
Whence has the ſun of favour ſhone?
[28]Delighted with thy tuneful art.
Eſteem was growing in my heart;
But idly thou reject'ſt the charm
That gave it birth, and kept it warm.
Unthinking fools, alone deſpiſe
The arts, that taught them firſt to riſe.

THE WOLF, SHEEP, AND LAMB.[29]DUTY demands, the parent's voice
Should ſanctify the daughter's choice;
In that, is due obedience ſhewn;
To chooſe, belongs to her alone.
May horror ſeize his midnight hour,
Who builds upon a parent's pow'r,
And claims, by purchaſe vile and baſe,
The loathing maid for his embrace;
Hence virtue ſickens, and the breaſt,
Where Peace had built her downy neſt,
Becomes the troubled ſeat of Care,
And pines with anguiſh and deſpair.
A Wolf, rapacious, rough, and bold,
Whoſe nightly plunders thinn'd the fold,
Contemplating his ill-ſpent life,
And, cloy'd with thefts, would take a wife.
His purpoſe known, the ſavage race,
In num'rous crouds, attend the place;
For why, a mighty Wolf he was,
And held dominion in his jaws.
Her fav'rite whelp each mother brought,
And, humbly, his alliance ſought;
But cold by age, or elſe too nice,
None found acceptance in his eyes.
[30]It happen'd, as, at early dawn,
He ſolitary croſs'd the lawn,
Stray'd from the fold, a ſportive lamb
Skipp'd wanton, by her fleecy dam;
When Cupid, foe to man and beaſt,
Diſcharg'd an arrow at his breaſt.
The tim'rous breed the robber knew,
And, trembling, o'er the meadow flew;
Their nimbleſt ſpeed the Wolf o'ertook,
And, courteous, thus the dam beſpoke.
Stay, faireſt, and ſuſpend your fear;
Truſt me, no enemy is near:
Theſe jaws, in ſlaughter oft imbru'd,
At length, have known enough of blood;
And kinder buſineſs brings me now,
Vanquiſh'd, at beauty's foot to bow.
You have a daughter—Sweet, forgive
A Wolf's addreſs—In her I live;
Love from her eyes like lightning came,
And ſet my marrow all on flame;
Let your conſent confirm my choice,
And ratify our nuptial joys.
Me ample wealth and pow'r attend,
Wide o'er the plains my realms ex [...]
What midnight robber dare invade
The fold, if I the guard am made?
At home the ſhepherd's cur may ſleep,
While I ſecure his maſter's ſheep.
Diſcourſe like this attention claim'd;
Grandeur the mother's breaſt inflam'd;
[31]Now, fearleſs, by his ſide ſhe walk'd,
Of ſettlements and jointures talk'd;
Propos'd, and doubled her demands,
Of flow'ry fields, and turnip-lands.
The wolf agrees. Her boſom ſwells;
To miſs her happy fate ſhe tells;
And, of the grand alliance vain,
Contemns her kindred of the plain.
The loathing lamb with horror hears,
And wearies out her dam with pray'rs;
But all in vain; mamma beſt knew
What unexperienc'd girls ſhould do;
So, to the neighb'ring meadow carry'd,
A formal aſs the couple marry'd.
Torn from the tyrant mother's ſide,
The trembler goes, a victim-bride,
Reluctant meets the rude embrace,
And bleats among the howling race.
With horror oft her eyes behold
Her murder'd kindred of the fold;
Each day a ſiſter lamb is ſerv'd,
And at the glutton's table carv'd;
The craſhing bones he grinds for food,
And ſlakes his thirſt with ſtreaming blood.
Love, who the cruel mind deteſts,
And lodges but in gentle breaſts,
Was now no more. Enjoyment paſt,
The ſavage hunger'd for the feaſt;
But (as we find in human race,
A maſk conceals the villain's face)
[32]Juſtice muſt authorize the treat;
Till then he long'd, but durſt not eat.
As forth he walk'd, in queſt of prey,
The hunters met him on the way;
Fear wings his flight; the marſh he ſought;
The ſnuffing dogs are ſet at fault.
His ſtomach baulk'd, now hunger gnaws;
Howling, he grinds his empty jaws;
Food muſt be had—and lamb is nigh;
His maw invokes the fraudful lye.
Is this (diſſembling rage) he cry'd,
The gentle virtue of a bride?
That, leagu'd with man's deſtroying race,
She ſets her huſband for the chace?
By treach'ry prompts the noiſy hound
To ſcent his footſteps on the ground?
Thou trait'reſs vile! for this thy blood
Shall glut my rage, and dye the wood!
So ſaying, on the lamb he flies;
Beneath his jaws the victim dies.

THE FEMALE SEDUCERS.[33]'TIS ſaid of widow, maid, and wife,
That Honour is a woman's life;
Unhappy ſex! who only claim
A being, in the breath of fame;
Which tainted, not the quick'ning gales,
That ſweep Sabaea's ſpicy vales,
Nor all the healing ſweets reſtore,
That breathe along Arabia's ſhore.
The trav'ler, if he chance to ſtray,
May turn, uncenſur'd, to his way;
Polluted ſtreams again are pure,
And deepeſt wounds admit a cure;
But woman! no redemption knows;
The wounds of honour never cloſe.
Tho' diſtant ev'ry hand to guide,
Nor ſkill'd on life's tempeſtuous tide,
If once her feeble bark recede,
Or deviate from the courſe decreed,
In vain ſhe ſeeks the friendly ſhore;
Her ſwifter folly flies before;
The circling ports againſt her cloſe,
And ſhut the wand'rer from repoſe;
Till, by conflicting waves oppreſs'd,
Her found'ring pinnace ſinks to reſt.
[34]Are there no offerings to atone
For but a ſingle error?—None.
Tho' woman is avow'd, of old,
No daughter of celeſtial mold,
Her temp'ring not without allay,
And form'd but of the finer clay,
We challenge, from the mortal dame,
The ſtrength angelic natures claim;
Nay more; for ſacred ſtories tell,
That ev'n immortal angels fell.
Whatever fills the teeming ſphere
Of humid earth, and ambient air,
With varying elements endu'd,
Was form'd to fall, and riſe renew'd.
The ſtars no fix'd duration know,
Wide oceans ebb, again to flow,
The moon repletes her waining face,
All-beauteous, from her late diſgrace,
And ſuns, that mourn approaching night,
Refulgent riſe with new-born light.
In vain may Death and Time ſubdue,
While Nature mints her race anew,
And holds ſome vital ſpark apart,
Like virtue, hid in ev'ry heart;
'Tis hence reviving warmth is ſeen,
To cloathe a naked world in green.
No longer barr'd by winter's cold,
Again the gates of life unfold;
Again each inſect tries his wing,
And lifts freſh pinions on the ſpring;
[35]Again, from ev'ry latent root,
The bladed ſtem and tendril ſhoot,
Exhaling incenſe to the ſkies,
Again to periſh, and to riſe.
And muſt weak woman, then, diſown
The change, to which a world is prone?
In one meridian brightneſs ſhine,
And ne'er, like evening ſuns, decline?
Reſolv'd and firm alone?—Is this
What we demand of woman?—Yes.
But, ſhould the ſpark of veſtal fire,
In ſome unguarded hour, expire,
Or, ſhould the nightly thief invade
Heſperia's chaſte and ſacred ſhade,
Of all the blooming ſpoil poſſeſs'd,
The dragon Honour charm'd to reſt,
Shall Virtue's flame no more return?
No more with virgin ſplendor burn?
No more the ravag'd garden blow
With Spring's ſucceeding bloſſom?—No.
Pity may mourn, but not reſtore;
And woman falls, to riſe no more.
Within this ſublunary ſphere,
A country lies—No matter where;
The clime may readily be found
By all, who tread poetic ground.
A ſtream, call'd Life, acroſs it glides,
And equally the land divides;
And here, of Vice the province lies,
And there, the hills of Virtue riſe.
[36]Upon a mountain's airy ſtand,
Whoſe ſummit look'd to either land,
An antient pair their dwelling choſe,
As well for proſpect as repoſe;
For mutual faith they long were fam'd,
And Temp'rance, and Religion, nam'd.
A num'rous progeny divine,
Confeſs'd the honours of their line;
But in a little daughter fair,
Was center'd more than half their care;
For Heav'n, to gratulate her birth,
Gave ſigns of future joy to earth;
White was the robe this infant wore,
And Chaſtity the name ſhe bore.
As now the maid in ſtature grew,
(A flow'r juſt op'ning to the view)
Oft thro' her native lawns ſhe ſtray'd,
And, wreſtling with the lambkins, play'd;
Her looks diffuſive ſweets bequeath'd,
The breeze grew purer as ſhe breath'd,
The morn her radiant bluſh aſſum'd,
The ſpring with earlier fragrance bloom'd;
And Nature, yearly, took delight,
Like her, to dreſs the world in white.
But, when her riſing form was ſeen
To reach the criſis of fifteen,
Her parents up the mountain's head,
With anxious ſtep their darling led;
By turns they ſnatch'd her to their breaſt,
And thus the fears of age expreſs'd.
[37]O joyful cauſe of many a care!
O daughter, too divinely fair!
Yon world, on this important day,
Demands thee to a dang'rous way;
A painful journey all muſt go,
Whoſe doubtful period none can know,
Whoſe due direction who can find,
Where Reaſon's mute, and Senſe is blind?
Ah, what unequal leaders theſe,
Thro' ſuch a wide, perplexing maze!
Then mark the warnings of the wiſe,
And learn what love and years adviſe.
Far to the right thy proſpect bend.
Where yonder tow'ring hills aſcend;
Lo, there, the arduous paths in view,
Which Virtue and her ſons purſue;
With toil o'er leſſening earth they riſe,
And gain, and gain upon the ſkies.
Narrow's the way her children tread,
No walk for pleaſure ſmoothly ſpread,
But rough, and difficult, and ſteep,
Painful to climb, and hard to keep.
Fruits immature thoſe lands diſpenſe,
A food indelicate to ſenſe,
Of taſte unpleaſant; yet, from thoſe,
Pure health, with chearful vigour, flows,
And ſtrength, unfeeling of decay,
Throughout the long, laborious way.
Hence, as they ſcale that heav'nly road,
Each limb is lighten'd of its load;
[38]From earth refining ſtill they go,
And leave the mortal weight below;
Then ſpreads the ſtrait, the doubtful clears,
And ſmooth the rugged path appears;
For cuſtom turns fatigue to eaſe,
And, taught by virtue, pain can pleaſe.
At length, the toilſome journey o'er,
And near the bright, celeſtial ſhore,
A gulph, black, fearful, and profound,
Appears, of either world the bounds,
Thro' darkneſs leading up to light;
Senſe backward ſhrinks, and ſhuns the ſight;
For there the tranſitory train,
Of time, and form, and care, and pain,
And matter's groſs incumb'ring maſs,
Man's late aſſociates, cannot paſs,
But, ſinking, quit th' immortal charge,
And leave the wond'ring ſoul at large;
Lightly ſhe wings her obvious way,
And mingles with eternal day.
Thither, O thither wing thy ſpeed,
Though pleaſure charm, or pain impede;
To ſuch th' all-bounteous pow'r has giv'n,
For preſent earth, a future Heav'n;
For trivial loſs, unmeaſur'd gain,
And endleſs bliſs, for tranſient pain.
Then fear, ah! fear to turn thy ſight
Where yonder flow'ry fields invite;
Wide on the left the path-way bends,
And with pernicious eaſe deſcends;
[39]There, ſweet to ſenſe, and fair to ſhow,
New-planted Edens ſeem to blow,
Trees, that delicious poiſon bear;
For death is vegetable there.
Hence is the frame of health unbrac'd,
Each ſinew ſlack'ning at the taſte:
The ſoul to paſſion yields her throne,
And ſees with organs not her own;
While, like the ſlumb'rer in the night,
Pleas'd with the ſhadowy dream of light,
Before her alienated eyes
The ſcenes of fairy-land ariſe;
The puppet world's amuſing ſhow,
Dipt in gayly-colour'd bow;
Scepters, and wreaths, and glitt'ring things,
The toys of infants, and of kings,
That tempt, along the baneful plain,
The idly wiſe, and lightly vain,
Till, verging on the gulphy ſhore,
Sudden they ſink, and riſe no more.
But, liſt to what thy fates declare;
Tho' thou art woman, frail as fair,
If once thy ſliding foot ſhould ſtray,
Once quit yon heav'n-appointed way,
For thee, loſt maid, for thee alone,
Nor pray'rs ſhall plead, nor tears atone;
Reproach, ſcorn, infamy, and hate,
On thy returning ſteps ſhall wait;
Thy form be loath'd by ev'ry eye,
And ev'ry foot thy preſence fly.
[40]Thus, arm'd with words of potent ſound,
Like guardian angels plac'd around,
A charm, by truth divinely caſt,
Forward our young advent'rer paſs'd.
Forth from her ſacred eye-lids ſent,
Like morn, fore-running radiance went,
While Honour, hand-maid late aſſign'd,
Upheld her lucid train behind.
Awe-ſtruck, the much-admiring crowd
Before the virgin viſion bow'd,
Gaz'd with an ever new delight,
And caught freſh virtue at the ſight;
For not of earth's unequal frame
They deem'd the heav'n-compounded Dame,
If matter, ſure the moſt refin'd,
High wrought, and temper'd into mind,
Some darling daughter of the day,
And body'd by her native ray.
Where-e'er ſhe paſſes, thouſands bend,
And thouſands, where ſhe moves, attend;
Her ways obſervant eyes confeſs,
Her ſteps purſuing praiſes bleſs;
While to the elevated maid
Oblations, as to Heav'n, are paid.
'Twas on an ever-blithſome day,
The jovial birth of roſy May,
When genial warmth, no more ſuppreſs'd,
New melts the froſt in ev'ry breaſt,
The cheek with ſecret fluſhing dyes,
And looks kind things from chaſteſt eyes;
[41]The ſun with healthier viſage glows,
Aſide his clouded kerchief throws,
And dances up th' etherial plain,
Where late he us'd to climb with pain,
While Nature, as from bonds ſet free,
Springs out, and gives a looſe to glee.
And now, for momentary reſt,
The nymph her travell'd ſtep repreſs'd,
Juſt turn'd to view the ſtage attain'd,
And glory'd in the height ſhe gain'd.
Out-ſtretch'd before her wide ſurvey,
The realms of ſweet Perdition lay,
And Pity touch'd her ſoul with woe,
To ſee a world ſo loſt below;
When ſtrait the breeze began to breathe
Airs, gently wafted from beneath,
That bore commiſſion'd witchcraft thence,
And reach'd her ſympathy of ſenſe;
No ſounds of diſcord, that diſcloſe
A people ſunk, and loſt in woes,
But, as of preſent good poſſeſs'd,
The very triumph of the bleſs'd,
The maid in wrapt attention hung,
While thus approaching Sirens ſung.
Hither, faireſt, hither haſte,
Brighteſt beauty come and taſte
What the pow'rs of bliſs unfold,
Joys, too mighty to be told;
Taſte what extaſies they give,
Dying raptures taſte, and live.
[42]In thy lap, diſdaining meaſure,
Nature empties all her treaſure,
Soft deſires, that ſweetly languiſh,
Fierce delights, that riſe to anguiſh;
Faireſt, doſt thou yet delay?
Brighteſt beauty, come away.
Liſt not, when the froward chide,
Sons of pedantry, and pride,
Snarlers, to whoſe feeble ſenſe
April ſunſhine is offence;
Age and Envy will adviſe
Ev'n againſt the joy they prize.
Come, in Pleaſure's balmy bowl,
Slake the thirſtings of thy ſoul,
Till thy raptur'd pow'rs are fainting
With enjoyment, paſt the painting;
Faireſt, doſt thou yet delay?
Brighteſt beauty, come away.
So ſung the Sirens, as of yore,
Upon the falſe Auſonian ſhore;
And, O! for that preventing chain,
That bound Ulyſſes on the main,
That, ſo, our Fair-One might withſtand,
The covert ruin now at hand.
The ſong her charm'd attention drew,
When now the tempters ſtood in view;
Curioſity, with prying eyes,
And hands of buſy, bold empriſe;
Like Hermes, feather'd were her feet,
And, like fore-running fancy, fleet.
[43]By ſearch untaught, by toil untir'd,
To novelty ſhe ſtill aſpir'd,
Taſteleſs of ev'ry good poſſeſs'd,
And but in expectation bleſs'd.
With her, aſſociate, Pleaſure came,
Gay Pleaſure, frolic-loving dame;
Her mien all ſwimming in delight,
Her beauties half reveal'd to ſight;
Looſe flow'd her garments from the ground,
And caught the kiſſing winds around.
As, erſt, Meduſa's looks were known
To turn beholders into ſtone,
A dire reverſion here they felt,
And in the eye of Pleaſure melt.
Her glance with ſweet perſwaſion charm'd,
Unnerv'd the ſtrong, the ſteel'd, diſarm'd;
No ſafety e'en the flying find,
Who, vent'rous, look but once behind.
Thus was the much admiring maid,
While diſtant, more than half betray'd.
With ſmiles, and adulation bland,
They join'd her ſide, and ſeiz'd her hand;
Their touch envenom'd ſweets inſtill'd,
Her frame with new pulſations thrill'd;
While, half conſenting, half denying,
Repugnant now, and now complying,
Amidſt a war of hopes, and fears,
Of trembling wiſhes, ſmiling tears,
Still down, and down, the winning pair
Compell'd the ſtruggling, yielding fair.
[44]As when ſome ſtately veſſel, bound
To bleſs'd Arabia's diſtant ground,
Borne from her courſes, haply lights
Where Barca's flow'ry clime invites,
Conceal'd around whoſe treach'rous land,
Lurks the dire rock, and dang'rous ſand;
The pilot warns with ſail and oar,
To ſhun the much ſuſpected ſhore,
In vain; the tide, too ſubtly ſtrong,
Still bears the wreſtling bark along,
Till, found'ring, ſhe reſigns to fate,
And ſinks, o'erwhelm'd, with all her freight.
So, baffling ev [...]y bar to ſin,
And Heav'n's own pilot, plac'd within,
Along the devious, ſmooth deſcent,
With pow'rs increaſing as they went,
The dames, accuſtom'd to ſubdue,
As with a rapid current drew,
And o'er the fatal bounds convey'd
The loſt, the long reluctant maid.
Here ſtop, ye fair ones, and beware,
Nor ſend your fond affections there;
Yet, yet your darling, now deplor'd,
May turn, to you and Heav'n reſtor'd;
Till then, with weeping Honour wait,
The ſervant of her better fate,
With Honour, left upon the ſhore,
Her friend and handmaid now no more;
Nor, with the guilty world, upbraid
The fortunes of a wretch betray'd,
[45]But o'er her failing caſt the veil,
Rememb'ring, you yourſelves are frail.
And now, from all-enquiring light,
Faſt fled the conſcious ſhades of night;
The damſel, from a ſhort repoſe,
Confounded at her plight, aroſe.
As when, with ſlumb'rous weight oppreſs'd,
Some wealthy miſer ſinks to reſt,
Where felons eye the glitt'ring prey,
And ſteal his hoard of joys away;
He, borne where golden Indus ſtreams,
Of pearl, and quarry'd di'mond dreams,
Like Midas, turns the glebe to oar,
And ſtands all wrapt amidſt his ſtore,
But wakens, naked, and deſpoil'd
Of that, for which his years had toil'd.
So far'd the nymph, her treaſure flown,
And turn'd, like Niobe, to ſtone,
Within, without, obſcure, and void,
She felt all ravag'd, all deſtroy'd.
And, O thou curs'd, inſidious coaſt!
Are theſe the bleſſings thou can'ſt boaſt?
Theſe, Virtue! theſe the joys they find,
Who leave thy heav'n-topt hills behind?
Shade me, ye pines, ye caverns, hide,
Ye mountains, cover me, ſhe cry'd!
Her trumpet Slander rais'd on high,
And told the tidings to the ſky;
Contempt diſcharg'd a living dart,
A ſide-long viper to her heart;
[46]Reproach breath'd poiſons o'er her face,
And ſoil'd, and blaſted ev'ry grace;
Officious Shame, her handmaid new,
Still turn'd the mirror to her view,
While thoſe, in crimes the deepeſt dy'd,
Approach'd, to whiten at her ſide,
And every lewd, inſulting dame,
Upon her folly roſe to fame.
What ſhould ſhe do? Attempt, once more,
To gain the late-deſerted ſhore;
So truſting, back the mourner flew,
As faſt the train of fiends purſue.
Again the farther ſhore's attain'd,
Again the land of virtue gain'd;
But Echo gathers in the wind,
And ſhows her inſtant foes behind.
Amaz'd, with head-long ſpeed ſhe tends,
Where, late, ſhe left an hoſt of friends;
Alas! thoſe ſhrinking friends decline,
Nor longer own that form divine,
With fear they mark the following cry,
And from the lonely trembler fly,
Or backward drive her on the coaſt,
Where peace was wreck'd, and honour loſt.
From earth, thus, hoping aid in vain,
To Heav'n, not daring to complain,
No truce by hoſtile Clamour giv'n,
And from the face of Friendſhip driv'n,
The nymph ſunk proſtrate on the ground,
With all her weight of woes around.
[47]Enthron'd within a circling ſky,
Upon a mount o'er mountains high,
All radiant ſate, as in a ſhrine,
Virtue, firſt effluence divine;
Far, far above the ſcenes of woe,
That ſhut this cloud wrapt world below;
Superior goddeſs, eſſence bright,
Beauty of uncreated light,
Whom ſhould mortality ſurvey,
As doom'd upon a certain day,
The breath of Frailty muſt expire,
The world diſſolve in living fire,
The gems of Heav'n, and ſolar flame,
Be quench'd by her eternal beam,
And Nature, quick'ning in her eye,
To riſe a new-born Phoenix, die.
Hence, unreveal'd to mortal view,
A veil around her form ſhe threw,
Which three ſad ſiſters of the ſhade,
Pain, Care, and Melancholy made.
Thro' this, her all-enquiring eye,
Attentive from her ſtation high,
Beheld, abandon'd to deſpair,
The ruins of her fav'rite fair;
And, with a voice whoſe awful ſound
Appal'd the guilty world around,
Bid the tumultuous winds be ſtill;
To numbers bow'd each liſt'ning hill,
Uncurl'd the ſurging of the main,
And ſmooth'd the thorny bed of pain,
[48]The golden harp of Heav'n ſhe ſtrung,
And thus the tuneful goddeſs ſung.
Lovely penitent, ariſe,
Come, and claim thy kindred ſkies,
Come, thy ſiſter angels ſay
Thou haſt wept thy ſtains away.
Let experience now decide
'Twixt the good and evil, try'd,
In the ſmooth, enchanted ground,
Say, unfold the treaſures found.
Structures, rais'd by morning dreams,
Sands, that trip the flitting ſtreams,
Down, that anchors on the air,
Clouds, that paint their changes there.
Seas, that ſmoothly dimpling lie,
While the ſtorm impends on high,
Showing, in an obvious glaſs,
Joys, that in poſſeſſion paſs;
Tranſient, fickle, light, and gay,
Flatt'ring, only to betray;
What, alas, can life contain!
Life! like all its circles—vain.
Will the ſtork, intending reſt,
On the billow build her neſt?
Will the bee demand his ſtore
From the bleak, and bladeleſs ſhore?
Man, alone, intent to ſtray,
Ever turns from Wiſdom's way,
Lays up wealth in foreign land,
Sows the ſea, and plows the ſand.
[49]Soon this elemental maſs,
Soon th' incumb'ring world ſhall paſs,
Form be wrapt in waſting fire,
Time be ſpent, and life expire.
Then, ye boaſted works of men,
Where is your aſſylum then?
Sons of Pleaſure, ſons of Care,
Tell me, mortals, tell me where?
Gone, like traces on the deep,
Like a ſcepter, graſp'd in ſleep,
Dews, exhal'd from morning glades,
Melting ſnows, and gliding ſhades.
Paſs the world, and what's behind?
Virtue's gold, by fire refin'd;
From an univerſe deprav'd,
From the wreck of nature ſav'd.
Like the life-ſupporting grain,
Fruit of patience, and of pain,
On the ſwain's autumnal day,
Winnow'd from the chaff away.
Little trembler, fear no more,
Thou haſt plenteous crops in ſtore,
Seed, by genial ſorrows ſown,
More than all thy ſcorners own.
What though hoſtile earth deſpiſe,
Heav'n beholds with gentler eyes;
Heav'n thy friendleſs ſteps ſhall guide,
Chear thy hours, and guard thy ſide.
When the fatal trump ſhall ſound,
When th' immortals pour around,
[50]Heav'n ſhall thy return atteſt,
Hail'd by myriads of the bleſs'd.
Little native of the ſkies,
Lovely penitent, ariſe,
Calm thy boſom, clear thy brow,
Virtue is thy ſiſter now.
More delightful are my woes,
Than the rapture pleaſure knows;
Richer far the weeds I bring,
Than the robes that grace a king.
On my wars, of ſhorteſt date,
Crowns of endleſs triumphs wait;
On my cares, a period bleſs'd;
On my toils, eternal reſt.
Come, with Virtue at thy ſide,
Come, be ev'ry bar defy'd,
Till we gain our native ſhore,
Siſter, come, and turn no more.

AN EPISTLE TO A LADY.[51]This little poem, by Mr. Nugent, is very pleaſing. The eaſineſs of the poetry, and the juſtice of the thoughts, conſtitute its principal beauty.
CLARINDA, dearly lov'd, attend
The counſels of a faithful friend;
Who, with the warmeſt wiſhes fraught,
Feels all, at leaſt, that friendſhip ought!
But ſince, by ruling Heav'n's deſign,
An other's fate ſhall influence thine;
O! may theſe lines for him prepare
A bliſs, which I wou'd die to ſhare!
Man may for wealth or glory roam,
But woman muſt be bleſt at home;
To this ſhould all her ſtudies tend,
This, her great object and her end.
Diſtaſte unmingl'd pleaſures bring,
And uſe can blunt Affliction's ſting;
Hence perfect bliſs no mortals know,
And few are plung'd in utter woe;
While Nature, arm'd againſt Deſpair,
Gives pow'r to mend, or ſtrength to bear;
And half the thought content may gain,
Which ſpleen employs to purchaſe pain.
[52]Trace not the fair domeſtic plan,
From what you wou'd, but what you can!
Nor, peeviſh, ſpurn the ſcanty ſtore,
Becauſe you think you merit more!
Bliſs ever differs in degree,
Thy ſhare alone is meant for thee;
And thou ſhou'dſt think, however ſmall,
That ſhare enough, for 'tis thy all:
Vain ſcorn will aggravate diſtreſs,
And only make that little leſs.
Admit whatever trifles come,
Units compoſe the largeſt ſum:
O! tell them o'er, and ſay how vain
Are thoſe who form Ambition's train;
Which ſwell the monarch's gorgeous ſtate,
And bribe to ill the guilty great!
But thou, more bleſt, more wiſe than theſe,
Shalt build up happineſs on eaſe.
Hail ſweet Content! where joy ſerene,
Guilds the mild ſoul's unruffl'd ſcene;
And, with blith Fancy's pencil wrought,
Spreads the white web of flowing thought;
Shines lovely in the chearful face,
And clothes each charm with native grace;
Effuſion pure of bliſs ſincere,
A veſtment for a god to wear.
Far other ornaments compoſe
The garb that ſhrouds diſſembl'd woes,
Piec'd out with motley dies and ſorts,
Freaks, whimſies, feſtivals, and ſports:
[53]The troubl'd mind's fantaſtic dreſs,
Which madneſs titles happineſs.
While the gay wretch to revels bears
The pale remains of fighs and tears;
And ſeeks in crowds, like her undone,
What only can be found in one.
But, chief, my gentle friend! remove
Far from thy couch ſeducing Love!
O! ſhun the falſe magician's art,
Nor truſt thy yet unguarded heart!
Charm'd by his ſpells fair Honour flies,
And thouſand treacherous phantoms riſe;
Where Guilt, in Beauty's ray, beguiles,
And Ruin lurks in Friendſhip's ſmiles.
Lo! where th' enchanted captive dreams,
Of warbling groves, and purling ſtreams;
Of painted meads, of flow'rs that ſhed
Their odours round her fragrant bed.
Quick ſhifts the ſcene, the charm is loſt,
She wakes upon a deſert coaſt;
No friendly hand to lend its aid,
No guardian bow'r to ſpread its ſhade;
Expos'd to ev'ry chilling blaſt,
She treads th' inhoſpitable waſte;
And down the drear decline of life,
Sinks a forlorn, diſhonour'd wife.
Neglect not thou the voice of Fame,
But, clear from crime, be free from blame!
Tho' all were innocence within,
'Tis guilt to wear the garb of ſin,
[54]Virtue rejects the foul diſguiſe:
None merit praiſe who praiſe deſpiſe.
Slight not, in ſupercilious ſtrain,
Long practis'd modes, as low or vain!
The world will vindicate their cauſe,
And claim blind faith in Cuſtom's laws.
Safer, with multitudes, to ſtray,
Than tread, alone, a fairer way;
To mingle with the erring throng,
Than boldly ſpeak ten millions wrong.
Beware of the relentleſs train
Whom forms adore, whom forms maintain!
Leſt prudes demure, or coxcombs loud,
Accuſe thee to the partial crowd;
Foes who the laws of honour ſlight,
A judge who meaſures guilt by ſpite.
Behold the ſage Aurelia ſtand,
Diſgrace and Fame at her command;
As if Heav'n's delegate deſign'd,
Sole arbiter of all her kind.
Whether ſhe try ſome favour'd piece,
By rules devis'd in antient Greece;
Or whether, modern in her flight,
She tells what Paris thinks polite:
For, much her talents to advance,
She ſtudy'd Greece, and travell'd France.
There learn'd the happy art to pleaſe,
With all the charms of labour'd eaſe;
Thro' looks and nods with meaning fraught,
To teach what ſhe was never taught.
[55]By her each latent ſpring is ſeen;
The workings foul of ſecret ſpleen;
The guilt that ſkulks in fair pretence,
Or folly, veil'd in ſpecious ſenſe.
And much her righteous ſpirit grieves,
When worthleſſneſs the world deceives;
Whether the erring crowd commends,
Some patriot ſway'd by private ends;
Or huſband truſt a faithleſs wife,
Secure, in ignorance, from ſtrife.
Averſe ſhe brings their deeds to view,
But juſtice claims the rig'rous due;
Humanely anxious to produce,
At leaſt, ſome poſſible excuſe.
O ne'er may virtue's dire diſgrace
Prepare a triumph for the baſe!
Meer forms the fool implicit ſway,
Which witlings with contempt ſurvey;
Blind folly no defect can ſee,
Half wiſdom views but one degree.
The wiſe remoter uſes reach,
Which judgment and experience teach.
Whoever wou'd be pleaſ'd and pleaſe,
Muſt do what others do with eaſe.
Great precept, undefin'd by rule,
And only learn'd in Cuſtom's ſchool;
To no peculiar form confin'd,
It ſpreads thro' all the human kind;
Beauty, and wit, and worth ſupplies,
Yet graceful in the good and wiſe.
[56]Rich with this gift, and none beſide,
In Faſhion's ſtream how many glide?
Secure from ev'ry mental woe,
From treach'rous friend or open foe;
From ſocial ſympathy, that ſhares
The public loſs or private cares;
Whether the barb'rous foe invade,
Or merit pine in Fortune's ſhade.
Hence gentle Anna, ever gay,
The ſame to-morrow as to-day.
Save where, perchance, when others weep,
Her cheek the decent ſorrow ſteep.
Save when, perhaps, a melting tale,
O'er ev'ry tender breaſt prevail.
The good, the bad, the great, the ſmall,
She likes, ſhe loves, ſhe honours all.
And yet, if ſland'rous malice blame,
Patient ſhe yields a ſiſter's fame.
Alike if ſatyr or if praiſe,
She ſays whate'er the circle ſays;
Implicit does whate'er they do,
Without one point in wiſh or view.
Sure teſt of others, faithful glaſs,
Thro' which the various phantoms paſs.
Wide blank, unfeeling when alone;
No care, no joy, no thought her own.
Not thus ſucceeds the peerleſs dame,
Who looks, and talks, and acts for fame;
Intent, ſo wide her cares extend,
To make the univerſe her friend.
[57]Now with the gay in frolics ſhines,
Now reaſons deep with deep divines.
With courtiers now extols the great,
With patriots ſighs o'er Britain's fate.
Now breathes with zealots holy fires,
Now melts in leſs refin'd deſires.
Doom'd to exceed in each degree,
Too wiſe, too weak, too proud, too free;
Too various for one ſingle word,
The high ſublime of deep abſurd.
While ev'ry talent nature grants
Juſt ſerves to ſhew how much ſhe wants.
Altho' in — combine,
The virtues of our ſex and thine:
Her hand reſtrains the widow's tears;
Her ſenſe informs, and ſooths, and cheers:
Yet, like an angel in diſguiſe,
She ſhines but to ſome favour'd eyes;
Nor is the diſtant herd allow'd
To view the radiance thro' the cloud.
But thine is ev'ry winning art;
Thine is the friendly, honeſt heart;
And ſhou'd the gen'rous ſpirit flow
Beyond where prudence fears to go;
Such ſallies are of nobler kind,
Than virtues of a narrow mind.

HANS CARVEL.[58]This bagatelle, for which, by the bye, Mr. Prior has got his greateſt reputation, was a tale told in all the old Italian collections of jeſts, and bor⯑rowed from thence by Fontaine. It had been tranſlated once or twice before into Engliſh, yet was never regarded till it fell into the hands of Mr. Prior. A ſtrong inſtance how much every thing is improved in the hands of a man of genius.
HANS CARVEL, impotent and old,
Married a laſs of London mold:
Handſome enough; extremely gay;
Lov'd muſic, company, and play:
High flights ſhe had, and wit at will;
And ſo her tongue lay ſeldom ſtill:
For, in all viſits, who but ſhe,
To argue, or to repartee?
She made it plain, that human paſſion
Was order'd by predeſtination;
That if weak women went aſtray,
Their ſtars were more in fault than they:
Whole tragedies ſhe had by heart:
Enter'd into Roxana's part:
To triumph in her rival's blood,
The action, certainly, was good.
[59]How like a vine young Ammon curl'd!
Oh that dear conqu'ror of the world!
She pity'd Betterton in age,
That ridicul'd the godlike rage.
She firſt of all the town, was told,
Where neweſt India things were ſold:
So, in a morning, without bodice,
Slipt ſometimes out to Mrs. Thody's;
To cheapen tea, to buy a ſcreen:
What elſe could ſo much virtue mean?
For, to prevent the leaſt reproach,
Betty went with her in the coach.
But, when no very great affair
Excited her peculiar care,
She, without fail, was wak'd at ten;
Drank chocolate, then ſlept again:
At twelve ſhe roſe; with much ado
Her cloaths were huddled on by two:
Then, does my lady dine at home?
Yes, ſure;—but is the Col'nel come?
Next, how to ſpend the afternoon,
And not come home again too ſoon;
The change, the city, or the play,
As each was proper for the day;
A turn, in ſummer, to Hyde Park,
When it grew tolerably dark.
Wife's pleaſure cauſes huſband's pain:
Strange fancies come in Hans's brain:
He thought of what he did not name;
And would reform; but durſt not blame.
[60]At firſt, he, therefore, preach'd his wife
The comforts of a pious life:
Told her, how tranſient beauty was;
That all muſt die, and fleſh was graſs:
He bought her ſermons, pſalms, and graces;
And doubled down the uſeful places.
But, ſtill, the weight of worldly care
Allow'd her little time for pray'r;
And Cleopatra was read o'er,
While Scot, and Wake, and twenty more,
That teach one to deny one's ſelf,
Stood unmoleſted on the ſhelf.
An untouch'd bible grac'd her toilet:
No fear that thumb of her's ſhould ſpoil it.
In ſhort, the trade was ſtill the ſame;
The dame went out; the Col'nel came.
What's to be done? poor Carvel cry'd;
Another batt'ry muſt be try'd:
What if to ſpells I had recourſe?
'Tis but to hinder ſomething worſe.
The end muſt juſtify the means;
He only ſins, who ill intends:
Since, therefore, 'tis to combat evil,
'Tis lawful to employ the Devil.
Forthwith, the Devil did appear
(For name him and he's always near)
Not in the ſhape in which he plies
At Miſs's elbow when ſhe lies;
Or ſtands before the nurs'ry doors,
To take the naughty boy that roars:
[61]But without ſawcer eye or claw,
Like a grave barriſter at law.
Hans Carvel, lay aſide your grief,
The Devil ſays; I bring relief.
Relief, ſays Hans: pray let me crave
Your name, Sir,—Satan.—Sir, your ſlave:
I did not look upon your feet:
You'll pardon me:—Ay now I ſee't:
And pray, Sir, when came you from Hell?
Our friends there, did you leave them well?
All well: but pr'ythee, honeſt Hans,
(Says Satan) leave your complaiſance:
The truth is this: I cannot ſtay
Flaring in ſun-ſhine all the day:
For, entre nous, we helliſh ſprites,
Love more the freſco of the nights;
And oftner our receipts convey
In dreams, than any other way.
I tell you, therefore, as a friend,
Ere morning dawns your fears ſhall end:
Go, then, this evening, maſter Carvel,
Lay down your fowls, and broach your barrel;
Let friends and wine diſſolve your care,
Whilſt I the great receipt prepare:—
To-night I'll bring it, by my faith;
Believe, for once, what Satan ſaith.
Away went Hans, glad not a little;
Obey'd the Devil to a tittle;
Invited friends ſome half a dozen,
The Col'nel, and my lady's couſin.
[62]The meat was ſerv'd; the bowls were crown'd;
Catches were ſung; and healths went round:
Barbadoes waters for the cloſe;
Till Hans had fairly got his doſe:
The Col'nel toaſted to the beſt:
The dame mov'd off, to be undreſt:
The chimes went twelve: the gueſts withdrew;
But when, or how, Hans hardly knew.
Some modern anecdotes aver,
He nodded in his elbow chair;
From thence was carried off to bed;
John held his heels, and Nan his head.
My lady was diſturb'd: new ſorrow!
Which Hans muſt anſwer for to-morrow.
In bed, then, view this happy pair;
And think how Hymen triumph'd there.
Hans, faſt aſleep as ſoon as laid;
The duty of the night unpaid:
The waking dame, with thoughts oppreſt,
That made her hate both him and reſt:
By ſuch a huſband, ſuch a wife!
'Twas Achme's and Septimius' life:
The lady ſigh'd; the lover ſnor'd:
The punctual Devil kept his word;
Appear'd to honeſt Hans again;
But not at all by madam ſeen;
And giving him a magic ring,
Fit for the finger of a king:
Dear Hans, ſaid he, this jewel take,
And wear it long for Satan's ſake;
[63]'Twill do your buſineſs to a hair:
For, long as you this ring ſhall wear,
As ſure as I look over Lincoln,
That ne'er ſhall happen which you think on.
Hans took the ring with joy extream,
(All this was only in a dream)
And, thruſting it beyond his joint,
'Tis done, he cry'd; I've gain'd my point.—
What point, ſaid ſhe, you ugly beaſt?
You neither give me joy, nor reſt.
'Tis done.—What's done, you drunken bear?
You've thruſt your finger G—d knows where.

THE LADLE.[64]THE Sceptics think, 'twas long ago,
Since gods came down incognito,
To ſee who were their friends or foes,
And how our actions fell or roſe:
That, ſince they gave things their beginning,
And ſet this whirlagig a ſpinning,
Supine, they in their heav'n remain,
Exempt from paſſion and from pain,
And frankly leave us human elves
To cut and ſhuffle for ourſelves;
To ſtand or walk, to riſe or tumble,
As matter and as motion jumble.
The poets, now, and painters, hold
This theſis both abſurd and bold:
And your good-natur'd gods, they ſay,
Deſcend ſome twice or thrice a-day:
Elſe all theſe things we toil ſo hard in
Would not avail one ſingle farthing;
For, when the hero we rehearſe,
To grace his actions and our verſe,
'Tis not by dint of human thought
That to his Latium he is brought;
Iris deſcends by Fate's commands,
To guide his ſteps thro' foreign lands,
[65]And Amphitrite clears the way
From rocks and quickſands in the ſea.
And if you ſee him in a ſketch,
(Tho' drawn by Paulo or Carrache)
He ſhows not half his force and ſtrength,
Strutting in armour, and at length:
That he may take his proper figure,
The piece muſt yet be four yards bigger:
The nymphs conduct him to the field;
One holds his ſword, and one his ſhield;
Mars, ſtanding by, aſſerts his quarrel,
And Fame flies after with a lawrel.
Theſe points, I ſay, of ſpeculation,
(As 'twere to ſave or ſink the nation)
Men idly learned will diſpute,
Aſſert, object, confirm, refute;
Each mighty angry, mighty right,
With equal arms ſuſtains the fight;
'Till, now, no umpire can agree 'em,
So both draw off, and ſing Te Deum.
Is it in equilibrio,
If deities deſcend or no?
Then let th' affirmative prevail,
As requiſite to form the tale;
For by all parties 'tis confeſt,
That thoſe opinions are the beſt,
Which, in their nature, moſt conduce
To preſent ends, or private uſe.
Two gods came, therefore, from above,
One Mercury, the t'other Jove.
[66]The humour was, it ſeems, to know,
If all the favours they beſtow,
Could from our own perverſeneſs eaſe us,
And if our wiſh enjoy'd would pleaſe us.
Diſcourſing largely on this theme,
O'er hills and dales their godſhips came;
Till well nigh tir'd, at almoſt night,
They thought it proper to alight.
Note here, that it as true as odd is,
That, in diſguiſe, a god or goddeſs
Exerts no ſupernat'ral powers,
But acts on maxims much like ours.
They ſpy'd, at laſt, a country farm,
Where all was ſnug, and clean, and warm;
For woods before, and hills behind,
Secur'd it both from rain and wind;
Large oxen in the fields were lowing;
Good grain was ſow'd; good fruit was growing;
Of laſt year's corn in barns great ſtore;
Fat turkeys gobbling at the door:
And Wealth (in ſhort) with Peace conſented,
That people, here, ſhould live contented.
But did they, in effect, do ſo?
Have patience, friend, and thou ſhalt know.
The honeſt farmer, and his wife,
Two years declin'd from prime of life,
Had ſtruggled with the marriage nooſe,
As almoſt ev'ry couple does:
Sometimes, my Plague! ſometimes, my Darling!
Kiſſing to-day, to-morrow ſnarling;
[67]Jointly ſubmitting to endure
That evil which admits no cure.
Our gods the outward gate unbarr'd;
Our farmer met 'em in the yard;
Thought they were folks that loſt their way,
And aſk'd them, civilly, to ſtay;
Told them, for ſupper, or for bed,
They might go on, and be worſe ſped.—
So ſaid, ſo done; the gods conſent;
All three into the parlour went:
They compliment; they ſit, they chat;
Fight o'er the wars; reform the ſtate:
A thouſand knotty points they clear,
Till ſupper and my wife appear.
Jove made his leg, and kiſs'd the dame;
Obſequious Hermes did the ſame.
Jove kiſs'd the farmer's wife, you ſay.
He did—but in an honeſt way:
Oh! not with half that warmth and life,
With which he kiſs'd Amphitryon's wife.—
Well, then, things handſomely were ſerv'd;
My miſtreſs for the ſtrangers carv'd.
How ſtrong the beer, how good the meat,
How loud they laugh'd, how much they eat,
In epic ſumptuous wou'd appear,
Yet ſhall be paſs'd in ſilence here;
For I ſhould grieve to have it ſaid,
That, by a fine deſcription led,
I made my epiſode too long,
Or tir'd my friend to grace my ſong.
[68]The grace cup ſerv'd, the cloth away,
Jove thought it time to ſhew his play:
Landlord, and landlady, he cry'd,
Folly and jeſting laid aſide,
That ye thus hoſpitably live,
And ſtrangers with good chear receive,
Is mighty grateful to your betters,
And makes e'en gods themſelves your debtors.
To give the theſis plainer proof,
You have to-night beneath your roof
A pair of gods: (nay, never wonder)
This youth can fly, and I can thunder.
I'm Jupiter, and he Mercurius,
My page, my ſon indeed, but ſpurious.
Form, then, three wiſhes, you and madam;
And, ſure as you already had 'em,
The things deſir'd, in half an hour,
Shall all be here, and in your pow'r.
Thank ye, great gods, the woman ſays;
O may your altars ever blaze!
A ladle for our ſilver diſh
Is what I want, is what I wiſh.—
A ladle! cries the man, a ladle!
'Odzooks, Corſica, you have pray'd ill:
What ſhould be great, you turn to farce:
I wiſh the ladle in your a—.
With equal grief and ſhame, my muſe
The ſequel of the tale purſues:
The ladle fell into the room,
And ſtuck in old Corſica's bum.
[69]Our couple weep two wiſhes paſt,
And kindly join to form the laſt,
To eaſe the woman's aukward pain,
And get the ladle out again.
MORAL.THIS Commoner has worth and parts,
Is prais'd for arms, or lov'd for arts;
His head achs for a coronet:
And who is bleſs'd that is not great?
Some ſenſe, and more eſtate, kind Heav'n
To this well-lotted peer has given:
What then? he muſt have rule and ſway;
And all is wrong, till he's in play.
The miſer muſt make up his plum,
And dares not touch the hoarded ſum;
The ſickly dotard wants a wife,
To draw off his laſt dregs of life.
Againſt our peace we arm our will:
Amidſt our plenty, ſomething, ſtill,
For horſes, houſes, pictures, planting,
To thee, to me, to him is wanting.
The cruel ſomething unpoſſeſs'd
Corrodes, and leavens all the reſt.
That ſomething, if we could obtain,
Would ſoon create a future pain:
And to the coffin, from the cradle,
'Tis all a wiſh, and all a Ladle.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. FROM SWIFT.[71]This poem is very fine; and, though in the ſame ſtrain with the preceding, is yet ſuperior.
IN ancient times, as ſtory tells,
The ſaints would often leave their cells,
And ſtrole about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hoſpitality.
It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, ſaints by trade,
Taking their tour in maſquerade,
Diſguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
To a ſmall village down in Kent;
Where, in the ſtrollers' canting ſtrain,
They begg'd from door to door, in vain;
Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win,
But not a ſoul would let 'em in.
Our wand'ring ſaints, in woful ſtate,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village paſs'd,
To a ſmall cottage came at laſt;
Where dwelt a good old honeſt ye'man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon,
Who kindly did theſe ſaints invite
In his poor hut to paſs the night;
[72]And then, the hoſpitable ſire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon, off the hook,
And, freely, from the fatteſt ſide,
Cut out large ſlices, to be fry'd;
Then ſtepp'd aſide to fetch 'em drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And ſaw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
'Twas ſtill repleniſh'd to the top,
As if they had not touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And juſt began to cry—what art!
Then ſoftly turn'd aſide, to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, ſoon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errand;
Good folks, you need not be afraid;
We are but Saints, the hermits ſaid;
No hurt ſhall come to you or yours;
But, for that pack of churliſh boors,
Not fit to live on chriſtian ground,
They and their houſes ſhall be drown'd;
Whilſt you ſhall ſee your cottage riſe,
And grow a church before your eyes.
They ſcarce had ſpoke, when, fair and ſoft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
[73]Aloft roſe ev'ry beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd ſlowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a ſteeple, with a ſpire.
The kettle to the top was hoiſt,
And there ſtood faſten'd to a joiſt;
But with the upſide down, to ſhow
Its inclination for below;
In vain, for a ſuperior force,
Apply'd at bottom, ſtops its courſe:
Doom'd ever in ſuſpence to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almoſt
Loſt, by diſuſe, the art to roaſt,
A ſudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new inteſtine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion ſlower.
The flyer, though't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round ſo quick, you ſcarce could ſee't;
But, ſlacken'd by ſome ſecret pow'r,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's ſide;
The chimney to a ſteeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone,
But up againſt the ſteeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and ſtill adher'd;
And, ſtill, its love to houſhold cares,
By a ſhrill voice, at noon declares,
[74]Warning the cookmaid not to burn
That roaſt-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge ſnail, along the wall;
There ſtuck aloft in public view,
And, with ſmall change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that, in a row,
Hung high, and made a glitt'ring ſhew,
To a leſs noble ſubſtance chang'd,
Were, now, but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads paſted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and Engliſh Moll,
Fair Roſamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now ſeem'd to look abundant better,
Improv'd in picture, ſize, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, deſcribe
The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.
A bedſtead, of the antique mode,
Compact, of timber many a load;
Such as our anceſtors did uſe,
Was metamorphos'd into pews;
Which ſtill their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks diſpos'd to ſleep.
The cottage, by ſuch feats as theſe,
Grown to a church by juſt degrees,
The hermits then deſir'd their hoſt
To aſk for what he fancy'd moſt.
Philemon, having paus'd awhile,
Return'd 'em thanks in homely ſtyle:
[75]Then ſaid, "My houſe is grown ſo fine,
Methinks I ſtill would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at eaſe;
Make me the Parſon, if you pleaſe.
He ſpoke, and preſently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He ſees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding ſleeve;
His waiſtcoat to a caſſock grew,
And both aſſum'd a ſable hue;
But, being old, continu'd juſt
As threadbare, and as full of duſt.
His talk was now of tythes and dues:
He ſmoak'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old ſermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface, and the text:
At chriſt'nings well could act his part,
And had the ſervice all by heart;
Wiſh'd women might have children faſt,
And thought whoſe ſow had farrow'd laſt.
Againſt Diſſenters would repine,
And ſtood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a ſyſtem:
But claſſic authors—he ne'er miſs'd 'em.
Thus having furbiſh'd up a Parſon,
Dame Baucis, next, they play'd their farce on▪
Inſtead of home-ſpun coifs, were ſeen,
Good pinners, edg'd with Colberteen;
Her petticoat, transform'd a-pace,
Became black ſattin, flounc'd with lace.
[76]Plain Goody would no longer down;
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great ſurprize,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to ſee her look ſo prim,
And ſhe admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life
Were, ſeveral years, this man and wife;
When, on a day which prov'd their laſt,
Diſcourſing o'er old ſtories paſt,
They went, by chance, amidſt their talk,
To the church-yard, to take a walk:
When Baucis haſtily cry'd out,
"My dear, I ſee your forehead ſprout!"
"Sprout!" quoth the man, "what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous:
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And, really, your's is budding too—
Nay—now I cannot ſtir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root."
Deſcription would but tire my muſe;
In ſhort, they both were turn'd to Yews.
Old Goodman Dobſon of the Green
Remembers he the trees has ſeen:
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to ſhew the ſight:
On Sundays, after ev'ning pray'r,
He gathers all the pariſh there;
Points out the place of either Yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
[77]Till, once, a parſon of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev'd,
Grew ſcrubby, dy'd a-top, was ſtunted;
So the next parſon ſtubb'd and burnt it.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.[79]This elegy (by Mr. Tickell) is one of the fineſt in our language: there is ſo little new that can be ſaid upon the death of a friend, after the com⯑plaints of Ovid, and the Latin Italians, in this way, that one is ſurpriſed to ſee ſo much novelty in this to ſtrike us, and ſo much intereſt to affect.
IF, dumb too long, the drooping muſe hath ſtay'd,
And left her debt to Addiſon unpaid,
Blame not her ſilence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my boſom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires!
Slow comes the verſe that real woe inſpires:
Grief unaffected ſuits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the diſmal night, that gave
My ſoul's beſt art for ever to the grave!
How ſilent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the manſions of the dead,
Thro' breathing ſtatues, then unheeded things,
Thro' rows of warriors, and thro' walks of kings!
[80]What awe did the ſlow ſolemn knell inſpire;
The pealing organ, and the pauſing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the laſt words, that duſt to duſt convey'd!
While ſpeechleſs o'er thy cloſing grave we bend,
Accept theſe tears, thou dear departed friend;
Oh gone for ever, take this long adieu;
And ſleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu.
To ſtrew freſh laurels let the taſk be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy ſacred ſhrine;
Mine with true ſighs thy abſence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy ſtone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May ſhame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a ſong,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue.
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchaſtis'd by thee.
Oft let me range the gloomy iſles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls, where ſpeaking marbles ſhow
What worthies form the hallow'd mould below:
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd;
Chiefs, grac'd with ſcars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for ſacred Freedom ſtood;
Juſt men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And ſaints who taught, and led the way to Heav'n;
Ne'er to theſe chambers, where the mighty reſt,
Since their foundation, came a nobler gueſt;
[81]Nor e'er was to the bow'rs of bliſs convey'd
A fairer ſpirit, or more welcome ſhade.
In what new region, to the juſt aſſign'd,
What new employments pleaſe th' unbody'd mind;
A winged Virtue, through th' etherial ſky,
From world to world, unweary'd, does he fly?
Or, curious, trace the long laborious maze
Of Heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold ſeraphs tell
How Michael battel'd, and the Dragon fell;
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill eſſay'd below?
Or doſt thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A taſk well ſuited to thy gentle mind?
Oh! if, ſometimes, thy ſpotleſs form deſcend;
To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When Rage miſguides me, or when Fear alarms,
When Pain diſtreſſes, or when Pleaſure charms,
In ſilent whiſp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till Bliſs ſhall join, nor Death can part us more.
That awful form, which, ſo ye Heav'ns decree,
Muſt ſtill be lov'd, and ſtill deplor'd by me;
In nightly viſions ſeldom fails to riſe,
Or, rous'd by Fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If buſineſs calls, or crowded courts invite;
Th' unblemiſh'd ſtateſman ſeems to ſtrike my ſight;
If in the ſtage I ſeek to ſooth my care,
I meet his ſoul which breathes in Cato there;
[82]If, penſive, to the rural ſhades I rove,
His ſhape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
'Twas there of juſt and good he reaſon'd ſtrong,
Clear'd ſome great truth, or rais'd ſome ſerious ſong:
There, patient, ſhow'd us the wiſe courſe to ſteer,
A candid cenſor, and a friend ſevere;
There taught us how to live and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Thou hill, whoſe brow the antique ſtructures grace,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once ſo lov'd, when e'er thy bow'r appears,
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the ſudden tears!
How ſweet were once thy proſpects, freſh and fair,
Thy ſloping walks, and unpolluted air!
How ſweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide ſhadow, and thy ev'ning breeze!
His image thy forſaken bow'rs reſtore;
Thy walks and airy proſpects charm no more;
No more the ſummer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day ſhade.
From other ills, however Fortune frown'd,
Some refuge in the muſe's art I found;
Reluctant, now, I touch the trembling ſtring,
Bereft of him who taught me how to ſing;
And theſe ſad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that abſence they attempt to mourn.
O! muſt I, then, (now freſh my boſom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addiſon ſucceeds)
The verſe, begun to one loſt friend, prolong,
And weep a ſecond in th' unfiniſh'd ſong!
[83]Theſe works divine, which on his death-bed laid,
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring ſage convey'd,
Great, but ill-omen'd monument of fame,
Nor he ſurviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy ſocial ſpirit flies,
And cloſe to his, how ſoon! thy coffin lies.
Bleſt pair! whoſe union future bards ſhall tell
In future tongues: each other's boaſt, farewel,
Farewel! whom join'd in fame, in friendſhip try'd,
No chance could ſever, nor the grave divide.

COLIN AND LUCY. A BALLAD.[84]Through all Tickell's works there is a ſtrain of ballad-thinking, if I may ſo expreſs it; and, in this profeſſed ballad, he ſeems to have ſurpaſſed himſelf. It is, perhaps, the beſt in our language in this way.
OF Leinſter, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ſtream
Reflect ſo ſweet a face;
Till luckleſs love, and pining care,
Impair'd her roſy hue,
Her coral lips, and damaſk cheeks,
And eyes of gloſſy blue.
Oh! have you ſeen a lily pale,
When beating rains deſcend?
So droop'd the ſlow-conſuming maid,
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring ſwains
Take heed, ye eaſy fair:
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd ſwains, beware.
[85]Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And, ſhrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd his wing:
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The ſolemn boding ſound:
And thus, in dying words, beſpoke,
The virgins weeping round:
"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which ſays, I muſt not ſtay;
I ſee a hand you cannot ſee,
Which beckons me away.
By a falſe heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die:
Was I to blame, becauſe his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?
"Ah Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone:
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiſs,
Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow, in the church to wed,
Impatient, both prepare!
But know, fond maid; and know, falſe man,
That Lucy will be there!
"Then bear my corſe, my comrades bear,
This bridegroom blith to meet;
He in his wedding trim ſo gay,
I in my winding-ſheet."
[86]She ſpoke, ſhe dy'd; her corſe was borne,
The bridegroom blith to meet,
He in his wedding-trim ſo gay,
She in her winding-ſheet.
Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were theſe nuptials kept?
The brideſmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confuſion, ſhame, remorſe, deſpair,
At once his boſom ſwell:
The damps of death bedew'd his brow;
He ſhook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride, ah bride no more!
The varying crimſon fled,
When, ſtretch'd before her rival's corſe,
She ſaw her huſband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling ſwains,
One mould with her, beneath one ſod,
For ever he remains.
Oft, at this grave, the conſtant hind,
And plighted maid, are ſeen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the ſacred green;
But, ſwain forſworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd ſpot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

[87]

This ode, by Dr. Smellet, does rather more honour to the author's feelings than his taſte. The me⯑chanical part, with regard to numbers and language, is not ſo perfect as ſo ſhort a work as this requires; but the pathetic it contains, particularly in the laſt ſtanza but one, is exqui⯑ſitely fine.

I.MOURN, hapleſs Caledonia, mourn
Thy baniſh'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy ſons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie ſlaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hoſpitable roofs no more,
Invite the ſtranger to the door;
In ſmoaky ruins ſunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

II.The wretched owner ſees, afar,
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then ſmites his breaſt, and curſes life.
[88]Thy ſwains are famiſh'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy raviſh'd virgins ſhriek in vain;
Thy infants periſh on the plain.

III.What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-ſpreading waſte of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praiſe,
Still ſhone with undiminiſh'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring ſpirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.

IV.The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more ſhall chear the happy day:
No ſocial ſcenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No ſtrains, but thoſe of ſorrow, flow,
And nought be heard but ſounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the ſlain
Glide nightly o'er the ſilent plain.

V.Oh baneful cauſe, oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn !
The ſons, againſt their fathers ſtood;
The parent ſhed his children's blood.
[89]Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's ſoul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn muſt feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring ſteel!

VI.The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forſaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whiſtles round her head,
Her helpleſs orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of ſhelter, food, and friend,
She views the ſhades of night deſcend,
And, ſtretch'd beneath th' inclement ſkies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

VII.Whilſt the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Reſentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breaſt ſhall beat;
And, ſpite of her inſulting foe,
My ſympathizing verſe ſhall flow,
"Mourn, hapleſs Caledonia, mourn,
"Thy baniſh'd peace, thy laurels torn."

ON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR.[91]Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Waller's time; ſo that this, which would be now looked upon as a ſlovenly ſort of verſification, was, with reſpect to the times in which it was written, almoſt a prodigy of harmony. A modern reader will chiefly be ſtruck with the ſtrength of thinking, and the turn of the compliments beſtowed upon the uſurper. Every body has heard the anſwer our poet made Charles II; who aſked him how his poem upon Cromwell came to be finer than his panegyric upon himſelf. "Your majeſty," replies Waller, "knows, that poets always ſuc⯑ceed beſt in fiction."
WE muſt reſign! Heav'n his great ſoul does claim
In ſtorms, as loud as his immortal fame:
His dying groans, his laſt breath ſhakes our iſle;
And trees uncut fall for his fun'ral pile:
About his palace their broad roots are toſt
Into the air—So Romulus was loſt!
New Rome in ſuch a tempeſt miſs'd her king;
And, from obeying, fell to worſhipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd oaks, and pines, about him ſpread.
[92]The poplar, too, whoſe bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay proſtrate there.
Thoſe his laſt fury from the mountain rent:
Our dying hero from the continent.
Raviſh'd whole towns, and forts from Spaniards reft,
As his laſt legacy to Britain left.
The ocean, which ſo long our hopes confin'd,
Could give no limits to his vaſter mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his lateſt toil;
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our iſle:
Under the tropic is our language ſpoke:
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From civil broils he did us diſengage;
Found nobler objects for our martial rage:
And, with wiſe conduct, to his country ſhow'd
The antient way of conq'ring abroad.
Ungrateful, then! if we no tears allow
To him, that gave us peace, and empire too.
Princes that fear'd him, grieve; concern'd to ſee
No pitch of glory from the grave is free.
Nature herſelf took notice of his death,
And, ſighing, ſwell'd the ſea with ſuch a breath,
That to remoteſt ſhores her billows roll'd,
Th' approaching fate of their great ruler told.

THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE, APPLIED.[93]The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomſoever it belongs the thought is finely turned.
THYRSIS, a youth of the inſpired train,
Fair Sachariſſa lov'd, but lov'd in vain:
Like Phoebus ſung the no leſs amorous boy;
Like Daphne ſhe; as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph purſues;
With numbers ſuch as Phoebus' ſelf might uſe!
Such is the chaſe when love and fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and thro' flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to teſtify the lover's care,
Or form ſome image of his cruel fair.
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er theſe he fled, and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to ſtay.
Yet, what he ſung in his immortal ſtrain,
Though unſucceſsful, was not ſung in vain:
All, but the nymph that ſhould redreſs his wrong,
Attend his paſſion, and approve his ſong.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unſought praiſe,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

NIGHT THOUGHTS. BY DR. YOUNG.

[95]

Theſe ſeem to be the beſt of the collection; from whence only the two firſt are taken. They are ſpoken of differently, either with exaggerated applauſe or contempt, as the reader's diſpoſition is either turned to mirth or melancholy.

NIGHT THE FIRST. ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.TIR'D Nature's ſweet reſtorer, balmy Sleep!
He, like the world, his ready viſit pays
Where Fortune ſmiles; the wretched he forſakes:
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unſully'd with a tear.
From ſhort (as uſual) and diſturb'd repoſe,
I wake: how happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infeſt the grave.
I wake, emerging from a ſea of dreams
Tumultuous; where my wreck'd deſponding thought,
From wave to wave of fancy'd miſery,
At random drove, her helm of Reaſon loſt:
[96]Tho' now reſtor'd, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) ſeverer for ſevere,
The Day too ſhort for my diſtreſs; and Night,
Ev'n in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is ſunſhine, to the colour of my fate.
Night, ſable goddeſs! from her ebon throne,
In rayleſs majeſty, now ſtretches forth
Her leaden ſceptre o'er a ſlumb'ring world.
Silence, how dead! and Darkneſs, how profound!
Nor eye, nor liſt'ning ear, an object finds;
Creation ſleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulſe
Of Life ſtood ſtill, and Nature made a pauſe;
An awful pauſe! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be ſoon fulfill'd:
Fate! drop the curtain: I can loſe no more.
Silence and Darkneſs! ſolemn ſiſters! twins
From antient Night, who nurſe the tender thought
To Reaſon, and on Reaſon build Reſolve,
(That column of true majeſty in man)
Aſſiſt me: I will thank yon in the grave;
The grave, your kingdom: there this frame ſhall fall
A victim ſacred to your dreary ſhrine.
But what are ye?—
Thou, who didſt put to flight
Primaeval Silence, when the morning ſtars,
Exulting, ſhouted o'er the riſing ball:
O thou, whoſe word from ſolid Darkneſs ſtruck
That ſpark, the ſun, ſtrike wiſdom from my ſoul;
My ſoul, which flies to thee, her truſt, her treaſure,
As miſers to their gold, while others reſt.
[97]Thro' this opaque of Nature, and of Soul,
This double night, tranſmit one pitying ray,
To lighten, and to chear. O lead my mind,
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe)
Lead it thro' various ſcenes of life and death;
And, from each ſcene, the nobleſt truths inſpire.
Nor leſs inſpire my conduct than my ſong;
Teach my beſt reaſon, reaſon; my beſt will
Teach rectitude; and fix my firm reſolve
Wiſdom to wed, and pay her long arrear:
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd
On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.
The bell ſtrikes One. We take no note of time,
But from its loſs. To give it, then, a tongue,
Is wiſe in man. As if an an angel ſpoke,
I feel the ſolemn ſound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours:
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the ſignal that demands diſpatch:
How much is to be done? My hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and, o'er life's narrow verge
Look down—On what? A fathomleſs abyſs;
A dread eternity! How ſurely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor penſioner on the bounties of an hour?
How poor, how rich, how abject, how auguſt,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man?
How paſſing wonder He, who made him ſuch?
Who centred in our make ſuch ſtrange extremes?
From diff'rent natures, marvelouſly mixt,
[98]Connexion exquiſite, of diſtant worlds!
Diſtinguiſht link in Being's endleſs chain!
Midway from Nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, ſully'd, and abſorpt!
Tho' ſully'd, and diſhonour'd, ſtill divine!
Dim miniature of greatneſs abſolute!
An heir of glory! A frail child of duſt!
Helpleſs immortal! Inſect infinite!
A worm! a God!—I tremble at myſelf,
And in myſelf am loſt! At home, a ſtranger;
Thought wanders up and down, ſurpriz'd, aghaſt,
And wond'ring at her own: how Reaſon reels!
O what a miracle to man is man,
Triumphantly diſtreſs'd! what joy, what dread!
Alternately tranſported, and alarm'd!
What can preſerve my life? or what deſtroy?
An angel's arm can't ſnatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.
'Tis paſt conjecture; all things riſe in proof:
While o'er my limbs Sleep's ſoft dominion ſpread,
What tho' my ſoul phantaſtic meaſures trod
O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom
Of pathleſs woods; or down the craggy ſteep
Hurl'd headlong, ſwam with pain the mantled pool;
Or ſcal'd the cliff; or danc'd on hollow winds,
With antic ſhapes, wild natives of the brain?
Her ceaſeleſs flight, tho' devious, ſpeaks her nature,
Of ſubtler eſſence than the trodden clod;
Active, aërial, tow'ring, unconfin'd,
Unfetter'd with her groſs companion's fall.
[99]Ev'n ſilent Night proclaims my ſoul immortal:
Ev'n ſilent Night proclaims eternal day.
For human weal, Heav'n huſtands all events:
Dull ſleep inſtructs, nor ſport vain dreams in vain.
Why, then, their loſs deplore, that are not loft?
Why wanders wretched Thought their tombs around,
In infidel diſtreſs? Are angels there;
Slumbers, rak'd up in duſt, ethereal fire?
They live! they greatly live a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceiv'd; and from an eye
Of tenderneſs, let heav'nly pity fall
On me, more juſtly number'd with the dead.
This is the deſert, this the ſolitude:
How populous! how vital is the grave!
This is Creation's melancholy vault,
The vale funereal, the ſad cypreſs gloom;
The land of apparitions, empty ſhades!
All, all on earth is ſhadow, all beyond
Is ſubſtance: the reverſe is Folly's creed:
How ſolid all, where change ſhall be no more!
This is the bud of Being, the dim dawn,
The twilight of our day, the veſtibule;
Life's theatre, as yet, is ſhut; and Death,
Strong Death, alone can heave the maſſy bar,
This groſs impediment of clay remove,
And make us embryos of exiſtence free.
From real life, but little more remote
Is he, not yet a candidate for light,
The future embryo, ſlumb'ring in his ſire.
Embryos we muſt be, till we burſt the ſhell,
[100]Yon ambient azure ſhell, and ſpring to life,
The life of gods, O tranſport! and of man.
Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts;
Inters celeſtial hope without one ſigh.
Pris'ner of earth, and pent beneath the Moon,
Here pinions all his wiſhes; wing'd by Heav'n
To fly at infinite; and reach it there,
Where ſeraphs gather immortality
On Life's fair tree, faſt by the throne of God.
What golden joys ambroſial cluſt'ring glow,
In His full beam, and ripen for the juſt,
Where momentary ages are no more!
Where Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death expire!
And is it in the flight of threeſcore years
To puſh Eternity from human thought,
And ſmother ſouls immortal in the duſt?
A ſoul immortal, ſpending all her fires,
Waſting her ſtrength in ſtrenuous idleneſs,
Thrown into tumult, raptur'd, or alarm'd,
At ought this ſcene can threaten, or indulge,
Reſembles Ocean into tempeſt wrought,
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
Where falls this cenſure? It o'erwhelms myſelf;
How was my heart incruſted by the world!
O how ſelf-fetter'd was my grov'ling ſoul!
How, like a worm, was I wrapt round and round
In ſilken thought, which reptile Fancy ſpun,
Till darken'd Reaſon lay quite clouded o'er
With ſoft conceit of endleſs comfort here,
Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the ſkies!
[101]Night-viſions may befriend (as ſung above):
Our waking dreams are fatal. How I dreamt
Of things impoſſible? (Could Sleep do more?)
Of joys perpetual in perpetual change?
Of ſtable pleaſures on the toſſing wave?
Eternal ſunſhine in the ſtorms of life?
How richly were my noon-tide trances hung
With gorgeous tapeſtries of pictur'd joys?
Joy behind joy, in endleſs perſpective!
Till, at Death's toll, whoſe reſtleſs iron tongue
Calls daily for his millions at a meal,
Starting I woke, and found myſelf undone.
Where, now, my phrenſy's pompous furniture?
The cobwebb'd cottage, with its ragged wall
Of mould'ring mud, is royalty to me!
The ſpider's moſt attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie
On earthly bliſs; it breaks at ev'ry breeze.
O ye bleſt ſcenes of permanent delight!
Full, above meaſure! laſting, beyond bound!
A perpetuity of bliſs is bliſs.
Could you, ſo rich in rapture, fear an end,
That ghaſtly thought would drink up all your joy,
And quite unparadiſe the realms of light?
Safe are you lodg'd above theſe rolling ſpheres;
The baleful Influence of whoſe giddy dance
Sheds ſad viciſſitude on all beneath.
Here teems with revolutions ev'ry hour;
And rarely for the better; or the beſt,
More mortal than the common births of Fate.
[102]Each moment has its ſickle, emulous
Of Time's enormous ſcythe, whoſe ample ſweep
Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays
His little weapon in the narrower ſphere
Of ſweet domeſtic comfort, and cuts down
The faireſt bloom of ſublunary bliſs.
Bliſs! ſublunary bliſs!—Proud words, and vain!
Implicit treaſon to divine decree!
A bold invaſion of the rights of Heav'n!
I claſp'd the phantoms, and I found them air.
O had I weigh'd it e'er my fond embrace!
What darts of agony had miſs'd my heart!
Death! Great proprietor of all! 'tis thine
To tread out empire, and to quench the ſtars.
The ſun himſelf by thy permiſſion ſhines;
And, one day, thou ſhalt pluck him from his ſphere.
Amid ſuch mighty plunder, why exhauſt
Thy partial quiver on a mark ſo mean?
Why thy peculiar rancour wreak'd on me?
Inſatiate archer! could not one ſuffice?
Thy ſhaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was ſlain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
O Cynthia! why ſo pale? Doſt thou lament
Thy wretched neighbour? Grieve to ſee thy wheel
Of ceaſeleſs change outwhirl'd in human life?
How wanes my borrow'd bliſs! from Fortune's ſmile,
Precarious courteſy! Not Virtue's ſure,
Self-given, ſolar, ray of ſound delight.
In ev'ry vary'd poſture, place, and hour,
How widow'd ev'ry thought of ev'ry joy!
[103]Thought, buſy thought! too buſy for my peace!
Thro' the dark poſtern of time long elaps'd,
Led ſoftly, by the ſtillneſs of the night,
Led, like a murderer (and ſuch it proves!)
Strays (wretched rover!) o'er the pleaſing paſt;
In queſt of wretchedneſs perverſely ſtrays;
And finds all deſart now; and meets the ghoſts
Of my departed joys; a num'rous train!
I rue the riches of my former fate;
Sweet Comfort's blaſted cluſters I lament;
I tremble at the bleſſings once ſo dear;
And ev'ry pleaſure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the ſun his luſtre but for me,
The ſingle man? Are angels all beſide?
I mourn for millions: 'tis the common lot;
In this ſhape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than ſure heirs of pain.
War, famine, peſt, volcano, ſtorm, and fire,
Inteſtine broils, Oppreſſion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple braſs, beſiege mankind.
God's image diſinherited of day,
Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a ſun was made.
There, beings deathleſs as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling ore for life;
And plow the winter's wave, and reap deſpair.
Some, for hard maſters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour ſav' [...],
[104]If ſo the tyrant, or his minion, doom.
Want, and incurable Diſeaſe (fell pair!)
On hopeleſs multitudes remorſeleſs ſeize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave.
How groaning hoſpitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for ſad admiſſion there!
What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-ſed,
Solicit the cold hand of Charity!
To ſhock us more, ſolicit it in vain!
Ye ſilken ſons of Pleaſure! ſince in pains
You rue more modiſh viſits, viſit here,
And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce
Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but ſo great
Your impudence, you bluſh at what is right.
Happy! did Sorrow ſeize on ſuch alone.
Not Prudence can defend, or Virtue ſave;
Diſeaſe invades the chaſteſt temperance;
And puniſhment the guiltleſs; and Alarm,
Thro' thickeſt ſhades, purſues the fond of peace.
Man's caution often into danger turns,
And his guard falling, cruſhes him to death.
Not Happineſs itſelf makes good her name;
Our very wiſhes give us not our wiſh.
How diſtant, oft, the thing we doat on moſt,
From that for which we doat, Felicity?
The ſmootheſt courſe of Nature has its pains;
And trueſt friends, thro' error, wound our reſt.
Without Misfortune, what calamities?
And what hoſtilities, without a foe?
Nor are foes wanting to the beſt on earth.
[105]But endleſs is the liſt of human ills,
And ſighs might ſooner fail, than cauſe to ſigh.
A part, how ſmall, of the terraqueous globe,
Is tenanted by man! the reſt a waſte,
Rocks, deſarts, frozen ſeas, and burning ſands!
Wild haunts of monſters, poiſons, ſtings, and death.
Such is Earth's melancholy map! But far
More ſad! this earth is a true map of man.
So bounded are its haughty lord's delights
To Woe's wide empire; where deep Troubles toſs,
Loud Sorrows howl, invenom'd Paſſions bite,
Rav'nous Calamities our vitals ſeize,
And threat'ning Fate wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who ſorrow for myſelf?
In age, in infancy, from others aid
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, Nature's firſt, laſt leſſon to mankind;
The ſelfiſh heart deſerves the pain it feels.
More gen'rous ſorrow, while it ſinks, exalts;
And conſcious Virtue mitigates the pang.
Nor Virtue, more than Prudence, bids me give
Swoln Thought a ſecond channel; who divide,
They weaken too, the torrent of their grief.
Take, then, O World! thy much-indebted tear:
How ſad a ſight is human happineſs,
To thoſe whoſe thought can pierce beyond an hour?
O thou, whate'er thou art, whoſe heart exults!
Wouldſt thou I ſhould congratulate thy fate?
I know thou wouldſt; thy pride demands it from me.
Let thy pride pardon what thy nature needs,
[106]The ſalutary cenſure of a friend.
Thou happy wretch! by blindneſs thou art bleſt;
By dotage dandled to perpetual ſmiles.
Know, ſmiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd;
Thy pleaſure is the promiſe of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor ſevere,
But riſes in demand for her delay;
She makes a ſcourge of paſt proſperity,
To ſting thee more, and double thy diſtreſs.
Lorenzo, Fortune makes her court to thee.
Thy fond heart dances, while the ſyren ſings.
Dear is thy welfare; think me not unkind;
I would not damp, but to ſecure thy joys.
Think not that Fear is ſacred to the ſtorm.
Stand on thy guard againſt the ſmiles of Fate.
Is Heav'n tremendous in its frowns? Moſt ſure;
And in its favours formidable too:
Its favours here are trials, not rewards;
A call to duty, not diſcharge from care;
And ſhould alarm us full as much as woes;
Awake us to their cauſe, and conſequence;
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our deſert;
Awe Nature's tumult, and chaſtize her joys,
Leſt, while we claſp, we kill them; nay, invert
To worſe than ſimple miſery, their charms.
Revolted joys, like foes in civil war,
Like boſom friendſhips to reſentment ſour'd,
With rage invenom'd riſe againſt our peace.
Beware what earth calls happineſs; beware
All joys, but joys that never can expire.
[107]Who builds on leſs than an immortal baſe,
Fond as he ſeems, condemns his joys to death.
Mine dy'd with thee, Philander! thy laſt ſigh
Diſſolv'd the charm; the diſinchanted earth
Loſt all her luſtre. Where her glitt'ring towers?
Her golden mountains where? all darken'd down
To naked waſte; a dreary vale of tears:
The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece
Of out-caſt earth, in darkneſs! what a change
From yeſterday! thy darling hope ſo near.
(Long-labour'd prize!) O how ambition fluſh'd
Thy glowing cheek! Ambition, truly great,
Of virtuous praiſe. Death's ſubtle ſeed within,
(Sly, treach'rous miner!) working in the dark,
Smil'd at thy well-concerted ſcheme, and beckon'd
The worm to riot on that roſe ſo red,
Unfaded ere it fell; one moment's prey!
Man's foreſight is conditionally wiſe:
Lorenzo! Wiſdom into Folly turns
Oft, the firſt inſtant, its idea fair
To labouring thought is born. How dim our eye!
The preſent moment terminates our ſight;
Clouds, thick as thoſe on Doomſday, drown the next;
We penetrate, we propheſy in vain.
Time is dealt out by particles, and each,
Ere mingled with the ſtreaming ſands of life,
By Fate's inviolable oath is ſworn
Deep ſilence, "Where Eternity begins."
By Nature's law, what may be, may be now;
There's no prerogative in human hours.
[108]In human hearts what bolder thought can riſe,
Than man's preſumption on to-morrow's dawn?
Where is to-morrow? In another world.
For numbers this is certain; the reverſe
Is ſure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lyes,
As on a rock of adamant, we build
Our mountain hopes; ſpin our eternal ſchemes,
As we the fatal ſiſters would out-ſpin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.
Not ev'n Philander had beſpoke his ſhroud.
Nor had he cauſe; a warning was deny'd:
How many fall as ſudden, not as ſafe!
As ſudden, tho' for years admoniſht home.
Of human ills the laſt extreme beware.
Beware, Lorenzo! a ſlow-ſudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate ſurprize!
Be wiſe to-day; 'tis madneſs to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till Wiſdom is puſh'd out of life.
Procraſtination is the thief of time;
Year after year it ſteals, till all is fled,
And, to the mercies of a moment, leaves
The vaſt concerns of an eternal ſcene.
If not ſo frequent, would not this be ſtrange?
That 'tis ſo frequent, this is ſtranger ſtill.
Of man's miraculous miſtakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themſelves the compliment to think
[109]They one day ſhall not drivel; and their pride
On this reverſion takes up ready praiſe;
At leaſt their own, their future ſelves applauds;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!
Time, lodg'd in their own hands, is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in Fate's, to Wiſdom they conſign;
The thing they can't but purpoſe, they poſtpone:
'Tis not in Folly, not to ſcorn a fool,
And ſcarce in human wiſdom to do more.
All promiſe is poor dilatory man,
And that thro' ev'ry ſtage: when young, indeed,
In full content, we, ſometimes, nobly reſt,
Unanxious for ourſelves; and only wiſh,
As duteous ſons, our fathers were more wiſe.
At thirty man ſuſpects himſelf a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Puſhes his prudent purpoſe to reſolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Reſolves; and re-reſolves; then dies the ſame.
And why? Becauſe he thinks himſelf immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themſelves;
Themſelves, when ſome alarming ſhock of Fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the ſudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon cloſe; where paſs'd the ſhaft no trace is found.
As from the wing no ſcar the ſky retains;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel:
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature ſheds
[110]O'er thoſe we love, we drop it in their grave.
Can I forget Philander? That were ſtrange;
O my full heart!—But ſhould I give it vent,
The longeſt night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the lark liſten to my midnight ſong.
The ſprightly lark's ſhrill matin wakes the morn;
Grief's ſharpeſt thorn hard preſſing on my breaſt,
I ſtrive, with wakeful melody, to chear
The ſullen gloom, ſweet Philomel! like thee,
And call the ſtars to liſten: ev'ry ſtar
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' diſtant ages: wrapt in ſhade,
Pris'ner of darkneſs! to the ſilent hours,
How often I repeat their rage divine,
To lull my griefs, and ſteal my heart from woe!
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Maeonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah! could I reach your ſtrain!
Or his, who made Maeonides our own.
Man, too, he ſung: immortal man I ſing;
Oft burſts my ſong beyond the bounds of life;
What, now, but immortality, can pleaſe?
O had he preſs'd his theme, purſu'd the track
Which opens out of darkneſs into day!
O had he mounted on his wing of fire,
Soar'd, where I ſink, and ſung immortal man!
How had it bleſs'd mankind, and reſcu'd me!

NIGHT THE SECOND. ON TIME, DEATH, FRIENDSHIP.[111]"WHEN the cock crew, he wept"—Smote by that eye,
Which looks on me, on all: that Pow'r, who bids
This midnight centinel, with clarion ſhrill,
Emblem of that which ſhall awake the dead,
Rouſe ſouls from ſlumber, into thoughts of Heaven.
Shall I, too, weep? Where, then, is Fortitude?
And, Fortitude abandon'd, where is man?
I know the terms on which he ſees the light;
He that is born is liſted: life is war;
Eternal war with Woe. Who bears it beſt,
Deſerves it leaſt.—On other themes I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee,
And thine, on themes may profit; profit there,
Where moſt thy need. Themes, too, the genuine growth,
Of dear Philander's duſt. He, thus, tho' dead,
May ſtill befriend—What themes? Time's wond'rous Price,
Death, Friendſhip, and Philander's final ſcene.
So could I touch theſe themes, as might obtain
Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite diſengag'd,
[112]The good deed would delight me; half-impreſs
On my dark cloud an Iris; and from Grief
Call Glory—Doſt thou mourn Philander's fate?
I know thou ſay'ſt it: ſays thy life the ſame?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they deſire.
Where is that thrift, that avarice of Time,
(O glorious avarice!) thought of Death inſpires,
As rumour'd robberies endear our gold?
O Time! than gold more ſacred; more a load
Than lead, to fools; and fools reputed wiſe.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are ſquander'd, Wiſdom's debt unpaid!
Our wealth in days all due to that diſcharge.
Haſte, haſte, he lies in wait; he's at the door;
Inſidious Death! ſhould his ſtrong hand arreſt,
No compoſition ſets the pris'ner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain
Faſt binds; and Vengeance claims the full arrear,
How, late, I ſhudder'd on the brink! how, late,
Life call'd for her laſt refuge in deſpair!
That Time is mine, O Mead, to thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with eternity.
But ill my genius anſwers my deſire;
My ſickly ſong is mortal, paſt thy cure.
Accept the will—that dies not with my ſtrain.
For what calls thy diſeaſe, Lorenzo? Not
For Eſculapian, but for moral aid.
Thou think'ſt it folly to be wiſe too ſoon.
Youth is not rich in Time; it may be poor;
Part with it as with money, ſparing; pay
[113]No moment, but in purchaſe of its worth;
And what its worth, aſk death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come;
Time higher-aim'd, ſtill nearer the great mark
Of men and angels; virtue more divine.
Is this our duty, wiſdom, glory, gain?
(Theſe Heav'n benign in vital union binds)
And ſport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal ſuns inſpire? Amuſement reigns
Man's great demand: to trifle is to live:
And is it, then, a trifle, too, to die?
Thou ſay'ſt I preach, Lorenzo! 'Tis confeſt.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amuſement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treaſon to the ſoul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amuſe, when med'cines cannot cure?
When ſpirits ebb, when Life's enchanting ſcenes
Their luſtre loſe, and leſſen in our ſight,
As lands and cities with their glitt'ring ſpires,
To the poor ſhatter'd bark, by ſudden ſtorm
Thrown off to ſea, and ſoon to periſh there;
Will toys amuſe? No; thrones will then be toys,
And earth and ſkies ſeem duſt upon the ſcale.
Redeem we time?—Its loſs we dearly buy.
What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd ſports?
He pleads Time's num'rous blanks: he loudly pleads
The ſtraw-like trifles on Life's common ſtream.
From whom thoſe blanks and trifles, but from thee?
[114]No blank, no trifle Nature made, or meant.
Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, ſtill be thine;
This cancels thy complaint at once; this leaves
In act no trifle, and no blank in time.
This greatens, fills, immortalizes all;
This, the bleſt art of turning all to gold;
This, the good heart's prerogative to raiſe
A royal tribute from the pooreſt hours;
Immenſe revenue! ev'ry moment pays.
If nothing more than purpoſe in thy pow'r;
Thy purpoſe firm, is equal to the deed:
Who does the beſt his circumſtance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
Our outward act, indeed, admits reſtraint:
'Tis not in things o'er Thought to domineer;
Guard well thy thought; our thoughts are heard in Heaven.
On all important Time, thro' ev'ry age,
Tho' much, and warm, the wiſe have urg'd; the man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.
"I've loſt a day."—The prince who nobly cry'd,
Had been an emperor without his crown;
Of Rome? Say, rather, lord of human race:
He ſpoke, as if deputed by mankind.
So ſhould all ſpeak: ſo Reaſon ſpeaks in all;
From the ſoft whiſpers of that God in man,
Why fly to Folly, why to phrenſy fly,
For reſcue from the bleſſings we poſſeſs!
Time, the ſupreme!—Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give;
[115]Pregnant with all that makes archangels ſmile.
Who murders Time, he cruſhes in the birth
A pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd.
Ah! how unjuſt to Nature, and himſelf,
Is thoughtleſs, thankleſs, inconſiſtent man!
Like children babbling nonſenſe in their ſports,
We cenſure Nature for a ſpan too ſhort;
That ſpan too ſhort, we tax as tedious too;
Torture invention, all expedients tire,
To laſh the ling'ring moments into ſpeed,
And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourſelves.
Art, brainleſs Art, our furious charioteer,
(For Nature's voice unſtifled would recall)
Drives headlong tow'rds the precipice of Death;
Death, moſt our dread; Death thus more dreadful made;
O what a riddle of abſurdity!
Leiſure is pain; takes off our chariot-wheels;
How heavily we drag the load of life!
Bleſt Leiſure is our curſe; like that of Cain,
It makes us wander, wander earth around,
To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd
The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
We cry for mercy to the next amuſement;
The next amuſement mortgages our fields!
Slight inconvenience! Priſons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if priſons ſet us free.
Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief,
We call him cruel! years to moments ſhrink,
Ages to years. The teleſcope is turn'd.
[116]To man's falſe optics (from his folly falſe)
Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings,
And ſeems to creep, decrepit with his age:
Behold him when paſt by; what then is ſeen,
But his broad pinions, ſwifter than the winds?
And all mankind, in contradiction ſtrong,
Rueful, aghaſt, cry out on his career.
Leave to thy foes theſe errors, and theſe ills;
To Nature juſt, their cauſe and cure explore.
Not ſhort Heav'n's bounty; boundleſs our expence;
No niggard, Nature; men are prodigals.
We waſte, not uſe our time; we breathe, not live.
Time waſted is exiſtence; us'd, is life.
And bare exiſtence, man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppreſſes with enormous weight.
And why? ſince Time was giv'n for uſe, not waſte,
Injoin'd to fly; with tempeſt, tide, and ſtars,
To keep his ſpeed, nor ever wait for man;
Time's uſe was doom'd a pleaſure; waſte, a pain;
That man might feel his error, if unſeen:
And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure;
Not, blund'ring, ſplit on idleneſs for eaſe.
Life's cares are comforts; ſuch by Heav'n deſign'd;
He that has none, muſt make them, or be wretched.
Cares are employments; and, without employ,
The ſoul is on the rack; the rack of reſt,
To ſouls moſt adverſe, action all their joy.
Here, then, the riddle, mark'd above, unfolds;
Then Time turns torment, when man turns a fool.
We rave, we wreſtle with great Nature's plan;
[117]We thwart the Deity; and 'tis decreed,
Who thwart his will, ſhall contradict their own.
Hence our unnatural quarrel with ourſelves;
Our thoughts at enmity; our boſom-broil;
We puſh Time from us, and we wiſh him back;
Laviſh of luſtrums, and yet fond of life;
Life we think long, and ſhort; Death ſeek, and ſhun;
Body and ſoul, like peeviſh man and wife,
United jar, and yet are loth part.
Oh the dark days of Vanity! while here,
How taſteleſs! and how terrible, when gone!
Gone? they ne'er go; when paſt, they haunt us ſtill;
The ſpirit walks of ev'ry day deceas'd;
And ſmiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death, nor life delight us. If Time paſt,
And Time poſſeſt, both pain us, what can pleaſe?
That which the Deity to pleaſe ordain'd,
Time us'd. The man who conſecrates his hours
By vigorous effort, and an honeſt aim,
At once he draws the ſting of Life and Death;
He walks with Nature; and her paths are peace.
Our error's cauſe and cure are ſeen: ſee, next,
Time's nature, origin, importance, ſpeed;
And thy great gain from urging his career.—
All-ſenſual man, becauſe untouch'd, unſeen,
He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing elſe
Is truly man's; 'tis Fortune's—Time's a God.
Haſt thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence?
For or againſt, what wonders can he do!
And will: to ſtand blank neuter he diſdains.
[118]Not on thoſe terms was Time (Heav'n's ſtranger!) ſent
On his important embaſſy to man.
Lorenzo! no: on the long-deſtin'd hour,
From everlaſting ages growing ripe,
That memorable hour of wond'rous birth,
When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent,
And, big with Nature, riſing in his might,
Call'd forth Creation (for then Time was born),
By Godhead ſtreaming thro' a thouſand worlds;
Not on thoſe terms, from the great days of Heaven,
From old Eternity's myſterious orb,
Was Time cut off, and caſt beneath the ſkies;
The ſkies, which watch him in his new abode,
Meaſuring his motions by revolving ſpheres;
That horologe machinery divine.
Hours, days, and months, and years, his children, play,
Like num'rous wings around him, as he flies:
Or, rather, as unequal plumes, they ſhape
His ample pinions, ſwift as darted flame,
To gain his goal, to reach his antient reſt,
And join anew Eternity, his ſire;
In his immutability to neſt,
When worlds, that count his circles now, unhing'd,
(Fate the loud ſignal ſounding) headlong ruſh
To timeleſs Night and Chaos, whence they roſe.
Why ſpur the ſpeedy? Why, with levities,
New-wing thy ſhort, ſhort day's too rapid flight?
Know'ſt thou, or what thou doſt, or what is done?
Man flies from Time, and Time from Man; too ſoon
[119]In ſad divorce this double flight muſt end:
And then, where are we? where, Lorenzo! then
Thy ſports? thy pomps?—I grant thee, in a ſtate
Not unambitious; in the ruffled ſhroud,
Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath.
Has Death his fopperies? Then well may Life
Put on her plume, and in her rainbow ſhine.
Ye well-array'd! Ye lilies of our land!
Ye lilies male! who neither toil nor ſpin,
(As ſiſter lilies might) if not ſo wiſe
As Solomon, more ſumptuous to the ſight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can ſupport,
Yourſelves moſt inſupportable! for whom
The winter roſe muſt blow, the Sun put on
A brighter beam in Leo; ſilky-ſoft
Favonius breathe ſtill ſofter, or be chid;
And other worlds ſend odours, ſawce, and ſong,
And robes, and notions, fram'd in foreign looms!
O ye Lorenzo's of our age! who deem
One moment unamus'd, a miſery
Not made for feeble man! who call aloud
For ev'ry bawble, drivell'd o'er by ſenſe;
For rattles, and conceits of ev'ry caſt,
For change of follies, and relays of joy,
To drag your patient thro' the tedious length
Of a ſhort winter's day—ſay, ſages! ſay,
Wit's oracles! ſay, dreamers of gay dreams!
How will you weather an eternal night,
Where ſuch expedients fail?
[120]O treach'rous Conſcience, while ſhe ſeems to ſleep
On roſe and myrtle, lull'd with ſyren ſong;
While ſhe ſeems nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the ſlacken'd rein,
And give us up to Licence, unrecall'd,
Unmark'd;—See, from behind her ſecret ſtand,
The ſly informer minutes ev'ry fault,
And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the groſs act alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,
A watchful foe! The formidable ſpy,
Liſt'ning, o'erhears the whiſpers of our camp:
Our dawning purpoſes of heart explores,
And ſteals our embryos of iniquity.
As all rapacious uſurers conceal
Their doomſday-book from all-conſuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence moſt ſevere, ſhe treats
Us ſpendthrifts of ineſtimable Time;
Unnoted, notes each moment miſapply'd;
In leaves more durable than leaves of braſs,
Writes our whole hiſtory; which Death ſhall read
In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear;
And Judgment publiſh; publiſh to more worlds
Than this; and endleſs age in groans reſound.
Lorenzo, ſuch that ſleeper in thy breaſt!
Such is her ſlumber; and her vengeance ſuch
For ſlighted counſel; ſuch thy future peace!
And think'ſt thou ſtill thou can'ſt be wiſe too ſoon?
But why on Time ſo laviſh is my ſong?
On this great theme kind Nature keeps a ſchool.
[121]To teach her ſons herſelf. Each night we die,
Each morn are born anew: each day, a life!
And ſhall we kill each day? If Trifling kills,
Sure Vice muſt butcher. O what heaps of ſlain
Cry out for vengeance on us. Time deſtroy'd
Is ſuicide, where more than blood is ſpilt.
Time flies, Death urges, knells call, Heaven invites,
Hell threatens: all exerts; in effort, all;
More than Creation labours!—Labours more?
And is there in Creation, what, amidſt
This tumult univerſal, wing'd Diſpatch,
And ardent Energy, ſupinely yawns?—
Man ſleeps; and man alone; and man, whoſe fate,
Fate irreverſible, intire, extreme,
Endleſs, hair-hung, breeze ſhaken, o'er the gulph
A moment trembles; drops! and man, for whom
All elſe is in alarm; man, the ſole cauſe
Of this ſurrounding ſtorm! And yet he ſleeps,
As the ſtorm rock'd to reſt.—Throw years away?
Throw empires, and be blameleſs. Moments ſeize;
Heav'n's on their wing: a moment we may wiſh,
When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid Day ſtand ſtill▪
Bid him drive back his car, and reimport
The period paſt. Regive the given hour.
Lorenzo, more than miracles we want;
Lorenzo—O for yeſterdays to come!
Such is the language of the man awake;
His ardour ſuch, for what oppreſſes thee.
And is his ardour vain, Lorenzo? No;
That more than miracle the gods indulge;
[122]To-day is yeſterday return'd; return'd
Full-power'd to cancel, expiate, raiſe, adorn,
And reinſtate us on the rock of Peace.
Let it not ſhare its predeceſſor's fate;
Nor, like its elder ſiſters, die a fool.
Shall it evaporate in fume? Fly off
Fuliginous, and ſtain us deeper ſtill?
Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd?
More wretched for the clemencies of Heaven?
Where ſhall I find Him?—Angels! tell me where.
You know him: he is near you: point him out:
Shall I ſee glories beaming from his brow?
Or trace his footſteps by the riſing flowers?
Your golden wings, now hov'ring o'er him, ſhed
Protection; now, are waving in applauſe
To that bleſt ſon of Foreſight! lord of Fate!
That awful independent on To-morrow!
Whoſe work is done; who triumphs in the paſt;
Whoſe Yeſterdays look backwards with a ſmile;
Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly;
That common, but opprobrious lot! Paſt hours,
If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight,
If Folly bounds our proſpect by the grave,
All feeling of Futurity benumb'd;
All god-like paſſions for eternals quencht;
All reliſh of realities expir'd;
Renounc'd all correſpondence with the ſkies;
Our freedom chain'd; quite wingleſs our deſire;
In Senſe dark-priſon'd all that ought to ſoar;
Prone to the centre; crawling in the duſt;
[123]Diſmounted ev'ry great and glorious aim;
Embruted ev'ry faculty divine;
Heart-bury'd in the rubbiſh of the world.
The world, that gulph of ſouls, immortal ſouls,
Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire
To reach the diſtant ſkies, and triumph there,
On thrones which ſhall not mourn their maſters chang'd;
Tho' we from earth; ethereal they that fell.
Such veneration due, O man! to man!
Who venerate themſelves, the world deſpiſe.
For what, gay friend! is this eſcutcheon'd world,
Which hangs out Death in one eternal night?
A night, that glooms us in the nood-tide ray,
And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the ſhroud.
Life's little ſtage is a ſmall eminence,
Inch-high the grave above, that home of man,
Where dwells the multitude: we gaze around;
We read their monuments; we ſigh; and, while
We ſigh, we ſink; and are what we deplor'd:
Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot!
Is Death at diſtance? No: he has been on thee;
And giv'n ſure earneſt of his final blow.
Thoſe Hours, which lately ſmil'd, where are they now?
Pallid to Thought, and ghaſtly! drown'd, all drown'd
In that great deep which nothing diſembogues!
And, dying, they bequeath'd thee ſmall renown.
The reſt are on the wing: how fleet their flight!
Already has the fatal train took fire;
A moment, and the world's blown up to thee;
The Sun is darkneſs and the ſtars are duſt,
[124]'Tis greatly wiſe to talk with our paſt hours;
And aſk them, what report they bore to Heaven;
And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Their anſwers form what men Experience call;
If Wiſdom's friend, her beſt; if not, worſt foe.
O reconcile them! kind Experience cries,
"There's nothing here, buy what as nothing weighs;
"The more our joy, the more we know it vain;
"And by Succeſs are tutor'd to Deſpair."
Nor is it only thus, but muſt be ſo.
Who knows not this, tho' grey, is ſtill a child.
Looſe, then, from Earth, the graſp of fond Deſire,
Weigh anchor, and ſome happier clime explore.
Art thou ſo moor'd thou can'ſt not diſengage,
Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future ſcenes?
Since, by Life's paſſing breath, blown up from Earth,
Light, as the Summer's duſt, we take in air
A moment's giddy flight, and fall again;
Join the dull maſs, increaſe the trodden ſoil,
And ſleep, till Earth herſelf ſhall be no more;
Since then (as emmets, their ſmall world o'erthrown)
We, ſore amaz'd, from out Earth's ruins crawl,
And riſe to fate extreme of foul or fair,
As man's own choice (controuler of the ſkies!)
As man's deſpotic will, perhaps one hour,
(O how omnipotent is Time!) decrees;
Should not each warning give a ſtrong alarm?
Warning, far leſs than that of boſom torn
From boſom, bleeding o'er the ſacred dead!
Should not each dial ſtrike us as we paſs,
[125]Portentous, as the written wall, which ſtruck,
O'er midnight bowls, the proud Aſſyrian pale,
Ere-while high-fluſh'd with inſolence and wine?
Like that, the dial ſpeaks; and points to thee,
Lo [...] ▪ loth to break thy banquet up:
" [...] man, thy kingdom is departing from thee;
" [...]nd, while it laſts, is emptier than my ſhade."
Its ſilent language ſuch: nor need'ſt thou call
Thy magi, to decypher what it means.
Know, like the Median, Fate is in thy walls:
Doſt aſk, How? Whence? Belſhazzar-like, amaz'd?
Man's make incloſes the ſure ſeeds of Death;
Life ſeeds the murderer: ingrate! he thrives
On her own meal, and then his nurſe devours.
But here, Lorenzo, the deluſion lies;
That ſolar-ſhadow, as it meaſures life,
It Life reſembles too: Life ſpeeds away
From point to point, tho' ſeeming to ſtand ſtill.
The cunning fugitive is ſwift by ſtealth:
Too ſubtle is the movement to be ſeen;
Yet ſoon man's hour is up, and we are gone.
Warnings point out our danger; gnomons, Time;
As theſe are uſeleſs when the ſun is ſet;
So thoſe, but when more glorious Reaſon ſhines.
Reaſon ſhould judge in all; in Reaſon's eye,
That ſedentary ſhadow travels hard.
But ſuch our gravitation to the wrong,
So prone our hearts to whiſper what we wiſh,
'Tis later with the wiſe, than he's aware;
A Wilmington goes ſlower than the ſun:
[126]And all mankind miſtake their time of day;
Ev'n Age itſelf. Freſh hopes are hourly ſown
In furrow'd brows. So gentle Life's deſcent,
We ſhut our eyes, and think it is a plain.
We take fair days in Winter, for the Spring;
And turn our bleſſings into bane. Since oft
Man muſt compute that age he cannot feel,
He ſcarce believes he's older for his years.
Thus, at Life's lateſt eve, we keep in ſtore
One diſappointment ſure, to crown the reſt;
The diſappointment of a promis'd hour.
Oh this, or ſimilar, Philander! thou,
Whoſe mind was moral as the preacher's tongue;
And ſtrong, to wield all ſcience, worth the name;
How often we talk'd down the Summer's Sun,
And cool'd our paſſions by the breezy ſtream!
How often thaw'd and ſhorten'd Winter's eve,
By conflict kind, that ſtruck out latent truth,
Beſt found, ſo ſought; to the recluſe more coy!
Thoughts diſentangle, paſſing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,
Or kept to tie up nonſenſe for a ſong;
Song, faſhionably fruitleſs: ſuch as ſtains
The Fancy, and unhallow'd Paſſion fires;
Chiming her ſaints to Cytherea's fane.
Know'ſt thou, Lorenzo! what a Friend contains?
As bees mix'd Nectar draw from fragrant flow'rs,
So men from Friendſhip, Wiſdom and Delight;
Twins ty'd by Nature; if they part, they die.
Haſt thou no Friend to ſet thy mind abroach?
[127]Good Senſe will ſtagnate. Thoughts ſhut up, want air,
And ſpoil, like bales unopen'd to the Sun.
Had Thought been all, ſweet Speech had been deny'd;
Speech, Thought's canal! Speech, Thought's cri⯑terion too!
Thought in the mine, may come forth gold, or droſs;
When coin'd in word, we know its real worth.
If ſterling, ſtore it for thy future uſe;
'Twill buy thee benefit, perhaps renown.
Thought, too, deliver'd, is the more poſſeſt:
Teaching, we learn; and, giving, we retain
The births of Intellect; when dumb, forgot.
Speech ventilates our intellectual fire;
Speech burniſhes our mental magazine;
Brightens, for ornament; and whets, for uſe.
What numbers, ſheath'd in Erudition, lie,
Plung'd to the hilts in venerable tomes,
And ruſted in, who might have borne an edge,
And play'd a ſprightly beam, if born to Speech;
If born bleſt heirs of half their mother's tongue!
'Tis Thought's exchange, which, like th' alternate puſh
Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned ſcum,
And defecates the ſtudent's ſtanding pool.
In Contemplation is his proud reſource?
'Tis poor, as proud, by Converſe unſuſtain'd.
Rude Thought runs wild in Contemplation's field;
Converſe, the menage, breaks it to the bit
Of due reſtraint; and Emulation's ſpur
Gives graceful energy, by rivals aw'd.
[128]'Tis converſe qualifies for ſolitude;
As exerciſe, for ſalutary reſt.
By that untutor'd, Contemplation raves;
And Nature's fool by Wiſdom's is outdone.
Wiſdom, tho' richer than Peruvian mines,
And ſweeter than the ſweet ambroſial hive,
What is ſhe, but the means of Happineſs?
That unobtain'd, than Folly more a fool;
A melancholy fool, without her bells.
Friendſhip, the means of wiſdom, richly gives
The precious end which makes our wiſdom wiſe.
Nature, in zeal for human amity,
Denies, or damps, an undivided joy.
Joy is an import; joy is an exchange;
Joy flies monopoliſts; it calls for two;
Rich fruit! heav'n-planted! never pluck'd by one!
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give
To ſocial man true reliſh of himſelf.
Full on ourſelves deſcending in a line
Pleaſure's bright beam, is feeble in delight:
Delight intenſe is taken by rebound;
Reverberated pleaſures fire the breaſt.
Celeſtial happineſs, whene'er ſhe ſtoops
To viſit earth, one ſhrine the goddeſs finds,
And one alone, to make her ſweet amends
For abſent Heav'n—the boſom of a Friend;
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally ſoft,
Each other's pillow to repoſe divine.
Beware the counterfeit: in Paſſion's flame
Hearts melt; but melt like ice, ſoon harder froze.
[129]True love ſtrikes root in Reaſon; Paſſion's foe:
Virtue alone entenders us for life:
I wrong her much—entenders us for ever:
Of Friendſhip's faireſt fruits, the fruit moſt fair
Is Virtue, kindling at a rival fire,
And emulouſly rapid in her race.
O the ſoft enmity! endearing ſtrife!
This carries Friendſhip to her noon-tide point,
And gives the rivet of Eternity.
From Friendſhip, which outlives my former themes,
Glorious ſurvivor of old Time, and Death!
From Friendſhip, thus, that flow'r of heav'nly ſeed,
The wiſe extract Earth's moſt hyblean bliſs,
Superior Wiſdom, crown'd with ſmiling Joy.
But for whom bloſſoms this Elyſian flow'r?
Abroad they find, who cheriſh it at home.
Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts,
An honeſt love, and not afraid to frown.
Tho' choice of follies faſten on the great,
None clings more obſtinate, than Fancy fond
That ſacred Friendſhip is their eaſy prey;
Caught by the wafture of a golden lure,
Or faſcination of a high-born ſmile.
Their ſmiles, the great, and the coquet, throw out
For others hearts, tenacious of their own;
And we no leſs of ours, when ſuch the bait.
Ye Fortune's cofferers! Ye pow'rs of Wealth!
Can gold gain Friendſhip? Impudence of Hope!
As well mere man an angel might beget.
Love, and Love only, is the loan for Love.
[130]Lorenzo! Pride repreſs; nor hope to find
A Friend, but what has found a Friend in thee;
All like the purchaſe; few the price will pay:
And this makes Friends ſuch miracles below.
What if (ſince daring on ſo nice a theme)
I ſhew thee Friendſhip delicate, as dear,
Of tender violations apt to die?
Reſerve will wound it; and Diſtruſt, deſtroy.
Deliberate on all things with thy Friend.
But, ſince Friends grow not thick on ev'ry bough,
Nor ev'ry Friend unrotten at the core;
Firſt, on thy Friend delib'rate with thyſelf;
Pauſe, ponder, ſift; not eager in the choice,
Nor jealous of the choſen: fixing, fix;
Judge before Friendſhip; then confide till Death.
Well, for thy friend; but nobler far for thee;
How gallant danger for Earth's higheſt prize!
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
"Poor is the friendleſs maſter of a world:
"A world in purchaſe for a Friend is gain."
So ſung he (angels hear that angel ſing!
Angels from Friendſhip gather half their joy)
So ſung Philander, as his Friend went round
In the rich Ichor, in the generous blood
Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous Wit,
A brow ſolute, and ever-laughing eye.
He drank long health, and virtue to his Friend,
His Friend, who warm'd him more, who more inſpir'd.
Friendſhip's the wine of life; but Friendſhip new
(Not ſuch was his) is neither ſtrong nor pure.
O! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,
[131]And elevating ſpirit, of a friend,
For twenty ſummers ripening by my ſide;
All feculence of falſhood long thrown down;
All ſocial virtues riſing in his ſoul;
As cryſtal clear; and ſmiling, as they riſe!
Here nectar flows; it ſparkles in our ſight;
Rich to the taſte, and genuine from the heart.
High-flavour'd bliſs for Gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how loſt!—Philander is no more.
Think'ſt thou the theme intoxicates my ſong?
Am I too warm?—Too warm I cannot be.
I lov'd him much; but now I love him more.
Like birds, whoſe beauties languiſh, half-conceal'd,
Till, mounted on the wing, their gloſſy plumes
Expanded, ſhine with azure, green, and gold;
How bleſſings brighten as they take their flight!
His flight Philander took, his upward flight,
If ever ſoul aſcended. Had he dropt,
(That eagle genius!) O had he let fall
One feather as he flew, I, then, had wrote,
What friends might flatter; prudent foes forbear;
Rivals ſcarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.
Yet what I can, I muſt: it were profane
To quench a glory lighted at the ſkies,
And caſt in ſhadows his illuſtrious cloſe.
Strange! the theme moſt affecting, moſt ſublime,
Momentous moſt to man, ſhould ſleep unſung!
And yet it ſleeps, by genius unawak'd,
Painim or Chriſtian; to the bluſh of Wit.
Man's higheſt triumph! man's profoundeſt fall!
[132]The death-bed of the juſt! Is yet undrawn
By mortal hand; it merits a divine:
Angels ſhould paint it, angels ever there;
There, on a poſt of honour, and of joy.
Dare I preſume, then? But Philander bids;
And Glory tempts, and Inclination calls —
Yet am I ſtruck; as ſtruck the ſoul, beneath
Aěrial groves impenetrable gloom;
Or, in ſome mighty ruin's ſolemn ſhade;
Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born duſt,
In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings;
Or, at the midnight altar's hallow'd flame.
It is religion to proceed: I pauſe—
And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
Is it his death-bed? No: it is his ſhrine:
Behold him, there, juſt riſing to a God.
The chamber where the good man meets his fate,
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk
Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of Heav'n.
Fly, ye profane! If not, draw near with awe,
Receive the bleſſing, and adore the chance,
That threw in this Betheſda your diſeaſe;
If unreſtor'd by this, deſpair your cure.
For, here, reſiſtleſs Demonſtration dwells;
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd Diſſimulation drops her maſque,
Thro' Life's grimace, that miſtreſs of the ſcene!
Here real, and apparent, are the ſame.
You ſee the man; you ſee his hold on Heav'n;
If ſound his virtue; as Philander's ſound,
[133]Heav'n waits not the laſt moment; owns her friends
On this ſide death, and points them out to men,
A lecture ſilent, but of ſov'reign pow'r!
To Vice, confuſion; and to Virtue, peace.
Whatever farce the boaſtful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majeſty in Death;
And greater ſtill, the more the tyrant frowns.
Philander; he ſeverely frown'd on thee.
"No warning giv'n! Unceremonious fate!
"A ſudden ruſh from Life's meridian joys!
"A wrench from all we love! from all we are!
"A reſtleſs bed of Pain! a plunge opaque
"Beyond conjecture! Feeble Nature's dread!
"Strong Reaſon's ſhudder at the dark unknown!
"A Sun extinguiſht! A juſt opening grave!
"And Oh! the laſt, laſt; what? (can words expreſs?
"Thought reach it?) the laſt—Silence of a Friend!"
Where are thoſe horrors, that amazement, where,
This hideous group of ills, which ſingly ſhock,
Demand from man?—I thought him man till now.
Thro' Nature's wreck, thro' vanquiſht agonies,
(Like the ſtars ſtruggling thro' this midnight gloom)
What gleams of joy? what more than human peace?
Where, the frail mortal? the poor abject worm?
No, not in Death the mortal to be found.
His conduct is a legacy for all.
Richer than Mammon's for his ſingle heir.
His comforters he comforts; great in ruin,
With unreluctant grandeur gives, not yields
His ſoul ſublime; and cloſes with his fate.
[134]How our hearts burnt within us at the ſcene!
Whence this brave bound o'er limits fixt to man!
His God ſuſtains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God!
Man's glory Heav'n vouchſafes to call her own.
We gaze; we weep; mixt tears of grief and joy!
Amazement ſtrikes! Devotion burſts to flame!
Chriſtians adore, and Infidels believe.
As ſome tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow,
Detains the Sun, illuſtrious from its height;
While riſing vapours, and deſcending ſhades,
With damps and darkneſs drown the ſpacious vale;
Undampt by Doubt, undarken'd by Deſpair,
Philander, thus, auguſtly rears his head,
At that black hour, which gen'ral horror ſheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:
Sweet Peace, and heav'nly Hope, and humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted ſoul;
Deſtruction gild, and crown him for the ſkies,
With incommunicable luſtre bright.

SATIRE I.[135]Young's Satires were in higher reputation when publiſhed, than they ſtand in at preſent. He ſeems fonder of dazzling than pleaſing; of raiſing our admiration for his wit, than our diſlike of the follies he ridicules.
MY verſe is Satire; Dorſet, lend your ear,
And patronize a muſe you cannot fear;
To poets ſacred is a Dorſet's name,
Their wonted paſſport thro' the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praiſe,
And throws a glory round the ſhelter'd lays;
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can ſee,
And gives applauſe to B—e, or to me.
But you decline the miſtreſs we purſue!
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.
Inſtructive Satire, true to Virtue's cauſe!
Thou ſhining ſupplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our ſilence and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies from each diſtant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's ſkilful hand;
When the law ſhews her teeth, but dares not bite,
And South-ſea treaſures are not brought to light;
When Churchmen Scripture for the Claſſics quit,
Polite apoſtates from God's Grace to Wit;
[136]When men grow great from their revenue ſpent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying ſinners, to blot out their ſcore,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;
To chafe our ſpleen when themes like theſe increaſe,
Shall Panegyric reign, and Cenſure ceaſe?
Shall Poeſy, like Law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications waſh an Aethiop white,
Set up each ſenſeleſs wretch for Nature's boaſt,
On whom praiſe ſhines as trophies on a poſt?
Shall Funeral Eloquence her Colours ſpread,
And ſcatter roſes on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors ſmile on ſuch illuſtrious days,
And ſatirize with nothing—but their praiſe?
Why ſlumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,
Nor hears that Virtue, which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorſet, Dryden, Rocheſter, are dead,
And Guilt's chief foe in Addiſon is fled;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels fairly won,
Sits ſmiling at the goal while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking ſtill!)
Ye Gods! he will not write, and Maevius will.
Doubly diſtreſt, what author ſhall we find
Diſcreetly daring, and ſeverely kind,
The courtly Roman's ſhining path to tread,
And ſharply ſmile prevailing Folly dead?
Will no ſuperior genius ſnatch the quill,
And ſave me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Tho' vain the ſtrife, I'll ſtrive my voice to raiſe.
What will not men attempt for ſacred Praiſe?
[137]The love of Praiſe, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or leſs, and glows in ev'ry heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modeſt ſhun it, but to make it ſure.
O'er globes and ſcepters, now, on thrones it ſwells;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college-cells.
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in ſenates, ſqueaks in maſquerades;
Here, to S—e's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in ſable plumes,
Adorns our herſe, and flatters on our tombs.
What is not proud? The Pimp is proud to ſee
So many like himſelf in high degree:
The Whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peeviſh Virtue, and the marriage-bed;
And the brib'd Cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To ſlaughter, glories in his gilded horn.
Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went.
One way they look, another way they ſteer,
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their ſins they ſet ſincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.
Others with wiſhful eyes on Glory look,
When they have got their picture towards a book.
Or pompous Title, like a gaudy ſign
Meant to betray dull ſots to wretched wine.
[138]If at his Title T—— had dropt his quill,
T— might have paſs'd for a great genius ſtill;
But T—, alas! (excuſe him, if you can)
Is now a ſcribbler, who was once a man.
Imperious, ſome, a claſſic Fame demand,
For heaping up, with a laborious hand,
A waggon-load of meanings for one word,
While A's depos'd, and B with pomp reſtor'd.
Some, for Renown, on ſcraps of learning dote,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd;
Both ſtrive to make our Poverty our Pride.
On Glaſs how witty is a noble peer?
Did ever diamond coſt a man ſo dear?
Polite diſeaſes make ſome idiots vain,
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
On death-beds ſome in conſcious glory lie,
Since of the doctor in the mode they die;
Whoſe wond'rous ſkill is, headſman-like, to know,
For better pay to give a ſurer blow.
Of Folly, Vice, Diſeaſe, men proud we ſee;
And (ſtranger ſtill) of blockhead's flattery,
Whoſe praiſe defames; as if a fool ſhould mean,
By ſpitting on your face, to make it clean.
Nor is't enough all hearts are ſwol'n with Pride,
Her pow'r is mighty, as her realm is wide.
What can ſhe not perform? The love of Fame
Made bold Alphonſus his Creator blame,
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning ſteep,
And (ſtronger ſtill!) made Alexander weep.
[139]Nay, it holds Delia from a ſecond bed,
Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been dead.
This paſſion with a pimple have I ſeen
Retard a cauſe, and give a judge the ſpleen,
By this inſpir'd (O! ne'er to be forgot)
Some lords have learnt to ſpell, and ſome to knot.
It makes globoſe a ſpeaker in the houſe;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouſe.
It makes dear ſelf on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.
Sick with the love of Fame what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the ſenate thin?
My growing ſubject ſeems but juſt begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.
Aid me, great Homer! with thy Epic rules,
To take a catalogue of Britiſh fools.
Satire! had I thy Dorſet's force divine,
A knave, or fool, ſhould periſh in each line;
Tho', for the firſt, all Weſtminſter ſhould plead,
And, for the laſt, all Greſham intercede.
Begin. Who firſt the catalogue ſhall grace?
To Quality belongs the higheſt place.
My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar! at your peril give him room;
He ſtands for Fame on his forefather's feet,
By heraldry prov'd valiant, or diſcreet.
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three deſcents leſs wiſe?
If virtues at his noble hand you crave,
You bid him raiſe his fathers from the grave,
[140]Men ſhould preſs forward in Fame's glorious chace,
Nobles look backward, and ſo loſe the race.
Let high birth triumph! What can be no more great?
Nothing—but Merit in a low eſtate.
To Virtue's humbleſt ſon let none prefer
Vice, tho' deſcended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, paſs for high or baſe,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honeſt men, and wiſe;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies.
They that on glorious anceſtors inlarge,
Produce their debt, inſtead of their diſcharge.
Dorſet, let thoſe who proudly boaſt their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, ſhine.
Vain as falſe greatneſs is, the muſe muſt own
We want not fools to buy that Briſtol ſtone.
Mean ſons of Earth, who, on a South-Sea tide
Of full ſucceſs, ſwam into Wealth and Pride,
Knock with a purſe of gold at Anſtis' gate,
And beg to be deſcended from the great.
When men of infamy to grandeur ſoar,
They light a torch to ſhew their ſhame the more.
Thoſe governments which curb not evils, cauſe;
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.
Belus with ſolid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain, empty ſound,
But builds himſelf a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immenſe eſtate;
In coſt and grandeur Chandos he'll out-do,
And, Burlington, thy taſte is not ſo true.
[141]The pile is finiſh'd, ev'ry toil is paſt,
And full perfection is arriv'd at laſt;
When, lo! my lord to ſome ſmall corner runs,
And leaves ſtate-rooms to ſtrangers and to duns.
The man who builds and wants wherewith to pay,
Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain what is many a lordly ſeat,
But a diſcharge in full for an eſtate?
In ſmaller compaſs lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antick ſtatues are his flame.
Not F—t—n's ſelf more Parian charms has known;
Nor is good Pembroke more in love with ſtone.
The bailiffs come (rude men, prophanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, ſirs," he cries, "I'll ſooner rot in jail!
"Shall Grecian arts be truckt for Engliſh bail?"
Such heads might make their very buſto's laugh,
His daughter ſtarves, but Cleopatra's ſafe.
Men overloaded with a large eſtate,
May ſpill their treaſure in a nice conceit;
The rich may be polite; but oh! 'tis ſad
To ſay you're curious, when we ſwear you're mad.
By your revenue meaſure your expence,
And to your funds and acres join your ſenſe;
No man is bleſt by accident or gueſs;
True wiſdom is the price of happineſs:
Yet few, without long diſcipline, are ſage,
And our youth only lays up ſighs for age.
But how, my muſe, can'ſt thou refuſe ſo long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
[142]Thy moſt inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for Satire, it abounds in lords.
"What lords are thoſe ſaluting with a grin?"
One is juſt out, and one is lately in.
"How comes it, then, to paſs, we ſee preſide,
"On both their brows, an equal ſhare of pride?"
Pride, that impartial paſſion, reigns thro' all,
Attends our glory, nor deſerts our fall.
As in its home, it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in diſgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their wands ſo white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their raviſht ſight;
Some lords it bids reſign, and turns their wands,
Like Moſes', into ſerpents in their hands.
Theſe ſink, as divers, for renown! and boaſt
With pride inverted, of their honours loſt.
But againſt Reaſon, ſure, 'tis equal ſin,
To boaſt of merely being out, or in.
What numbers, here, thro' odd ambition, ſtrive
To ſeem the moſt tranſported things alive?
As if by joy deſert was underſtood,
And all the fortunate were wiſe, or good.
Hence aching boſoms wear a viſage gay,
And ſtifled groans frequent the ball, and play.
Compleatly dreſs'd by Monteuel, and grimace,
They take their birth-day ſuit, and public face;
Their ſmiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night with lady B—'s hair.
What bodily fatigue is half ſo bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.
[143]What numbers, here, would into Fame advance,
Conſcious of merit in the coxcomb's dance?
The tavern! park! aſſembly! maſk! and play!
Thoſe dear deſtroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that Santer of the town;
Call it Diverſion, and the pill goes down;
Fools grin on fools, and, Stoic-like, ſupport,
Without one ſigh, the pleaſures of a court.
Courts can give nothing to the wiſe, and good,
But ſcorn of pomp, and love of ſolitude.
High ſtations tumults, but not bliſs, create;
None think the great unhappy, but the great;
Fools gaze, and envy; Envy darts a ſting,
Which makes a ſwain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and ſhow;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind ſerene,
And guiltleſs heart, to range the ſylvan ſcene.
No ſplendid poverty, no ſmiling care,
No well-bred hate, or ſervile grandeur there;
There pleaſing objects uſeful thoughts ſuggeſt,
The ſenſe is raviſht and the ſoul is bleſt;
On every thorn delightful Wiſdom grows,
In ev'ry rill a ſweet inſtruction flows;
But ſome, untaught, o'erhear the whiſp'ring rill,
In ſpite of ſacred Leiſure blockheads ſtill;
Nor ſhoots up Folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native ſoil, the Drawing-room.
The ſquire is proud to ſee his courſer ſtrain,
Or well-breath'd beagles ſweep along the plain.
[144]Say, dear Hippolitus (whoſe drink is ale,
Whoſe erudition is a Chriſtmas-tale,
Whoſe miſtreſs is ſaluted with a ſmack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back)
When thy ſleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praiſe? Let Ringwood's fame alone,
Juſt Ringwood leaves each animal his own,
Nor envies when a gipſy you commit,
And ſhake the clumſy bench with country wit;
When you the dulleſt of dull things have ſaid,
And then aſk pardon for the jeſt you made.
Here breathe, my muſe! and then thy taſk renew,
Ten thouſand fools unſung are ſtill in view.
Fewer lay-atheiſts made by church-debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large eſtates;
Ladies, whoſe love is conſtant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords to Scroope diſcreetly bend:
And fewer ſhocks a ſtateſman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in Winter with his ſtrain,
At Bath in Summer chants the reigning laſs,
And ſweetly whiſtles as the waters paſs?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding-up?
Is there, whom his tenth Epic mounts to fame?
Such, and ſuch only might exhauſt my theme;
Nor would theſe heroes of the taſk be glad;
For who can write ſo faſt as men run mad?

A PASTORAL BALLAD. IN FOUR PARTS.

[145]

Theſe ballads of Mr. Shenſtone are chiefly com⯑mended for the natural ſimplicity of the thoughts, and the harmony of the verſification. However, they are not excellent in either.

I. ABSENCE.

I.YE ſhepherds ſo chearful and gay,
Whoſe flocks never careleſly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to ſtray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muſe and to ſigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None, once, was ſo watchful as I:
—I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

II.Now I know what it is, to have ſtrove
With the torture of doubt and deſire;
What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
[146]Ah lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repell;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
—I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.

III.Since Phyllis vouchſaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I loſe both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are paſs'd, and I ſigh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

IV.But why do I languiſh in vain?
Why wander thus penſively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the ſmiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown!
Alas! where with her I have ſtray'd,
I could wander with pleaſure, alone.

V.When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguiſh I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought—but it might not be ſo—
'Twas with pain that ſhe ſaw me depart.
[147]She gaz'd, as I ſlowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly diſcern;
So ſweetly ſhe bade me adieu,
I thought that ſhe bade me return.

VI.The pilgrim that journeys all day
To viſit ſome far diſtant ſhrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft Hope is the relique I bear,
And my ſolace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

[148]

I.MY banks they are furniſh'd with bees,
Whoſe murmur invites one to ſleep;
My grottoes are ſhaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with ſheep.
I ſeldom have met with a loſs,
Such health do my fountains beſtow;
My fountains, all border'd with moſs,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

II.Not a pine in my grove is there ſeen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a ſweet-briar twines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold:
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fiſhes of gold.

III.One would think ſhe might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a ſhrub that I heard her admire,
But I haſted and planted it there.
[149]O how ſudden the jeſſamin ſtrove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away.

IV.From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,
What ſtrains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves,
From thickets of roſes that blow!
And when her bright form ſhall appear,
Each bird ſhall harmoniouſly join
In a concert ſo ſoft and ſo clear,
As—ſhe may not be fond to reſign.

V.I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will ſay 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, ſhe averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderneſs fall from her tongue.

VI.I have heard her with ſweetneſs unfold
How that pity was due to—a dove:
That it ever attended the bold,
And ſhe call'd it the ſiſter of Love.
[150]But her words ſuch a pleaſure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her ſpeak, and, whatever ſhe ſay,
Methinks I ſhould love her the more.

VII.Can a boſom ſo gentle remain
Unmov'd, when her Corydon ſighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Theſe plains, and this valley deſpiſe?
Dear regions of ſilence and ſhade!
Soft ſcenes of contentment and eaſe!
Where I could have pleaſingly ſtray'd,
If aught, in her abſence, could pleaſe.

VIII.But where does my Phyllida ſtray?
And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the ſhepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may, perhaps, be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The ſwains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

III. SOLICITUDE.

[151]

I.WHY will you my paſſion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I ſhew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien ſhe enamours the brave;
With her wit ſhe engages the free;
With her modeſty pleaſes the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleaſing to me.

II.O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my am'rous lays;
I could lay down my life for the ſwain
That will ſing but a ſong in her praiſe.
When he ſings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and liſten the while;
Nay, on him let not Phillida frown;
—But I cannot allow her to ſmile.

III.For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might ſhe ruin the peace of my mind!
[152]In ringlets he dreſſes his hair,
And his crook is beſtudded around;
And his pipe—oh may Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the ſound.

IV.'Tis his with mock paſſion to glow;
'Tis his in ſmooth tales to unfold,
"How her face is as bright as the ſnow,
"And her boſom, be ſure, is as cold;
"How the nightingales labour the ſtrain,
"With the notes of his charmer to vie;
"How they vary their accents in vain,
"Repine at her triumphs, and die."

V.To the grove or the garden he ſtrays,
And pillages every ſweet;
Then, ſuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis," he whiſpers, "more fair,
"More ſweet than the jeſſamine's flow'r!
"What are pinks, in a morn, to compare?
"What is eglantine after a ſhow'r?

VI."Then the lily no longer is white;
"Then the roſe is depriv'd of its bloom;
"Then the violets die with deſpight,
"And the woodbines give up their perfume."
[153]Thus glide the ſoft numbers along,
And he fancies no ſhepherd his peer;
Yet I never ſhould envy the ſong,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

VII.Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy deſpiſe;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they ſhine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a ſtranger to Paridel's tongue;
—Yet may ſhe beware of his art,
Or ſure I muſt envy the ſong.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

[154]

I.YE ſhepherds give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my ſheep:
They have nothing to do but to ſtray;
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair—and my paſſion begun;
She ſmil'd—and I could not but love;
She is faithleſs—and I am undone.

II.Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foreſee,
That a nymph ſo complete would be ſought
By a ſwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inſpire:
It baniſhes wiſdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a ſmile.

III.She is faithleſs, and I am undone;
Ye that witneſs the woes I endure,
Let Reaſon inſtruct you to ſhun
What it cannot inſtruct you to cure.
[155]Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree:
It is not for me to explain
How fair and how fickle they be.

IV.Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repoſe.
Yet time may diminiſh the pain:
The flow'r, and the ſhrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleaſure, in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.

V.The ſweets of a dew-ſprinkled roſe,
The ſound of a murmuring ſtream,
The peace which from ſolitude flows,
Henceforth ſhall be Corydon's theme.
High tranſports are ſhewn to the ſight,
But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never beſtow'd ſuch delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.

VI.O ye woods, ſpread your branches apace;
To your deepeſt receſſes I fly;
I would hide with the beaſts of the chace;
I would vaniſh from every eye.
[156]Yet my reed ſhall reſound thro' the grove
With the ſame ſad complaint it begun;
How ſhe ſmil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithleſs, and I am undone!

PHOEBE. A PASTORAL.

[157]

This, by Dr. Byron, is a better effort than the preceding.

I.MY time, O ye Muſes! was happily ſpent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went:
Ten thouſand ſoft pleaſures I felt in my breaſt:
Sure never fond ſhepherd like Colin was bleſt.
But now ſhe is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change, on a ſudden, I find?
When things were as fine as cou'd poſſibly be,
I thought it was Spring; but, alas! it was ſhe.

II.The fountain, that wont to run ſweetly along,
And dance to ſoft murmurs the pebbles among,
Thou know'ſt, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
It was pleaſure to look at, 'twas muſic to hear.
But, now ſhe is abſent, I walk by its ſide,
And, ſtill as it murmurs, do nothing but chide:
Muſt you be ſo chearful, whilſt I go in pain?
Peace, there, with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

III.My dog I was ever well pleaſed to ſee
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
[158]And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog ſaid,
"Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head.
But, now, when he's fawning, I, with a ſour look,
Cry, "Sirrah," and give him a blow with my crook:
And I'll give him another; for why ſhould not Tray
Be dull as his maſter, when Phoebe's away?

IV.Sweet muſic went with us both all the wood thro',
The Lark, Linnet, Throſtle, and Nightingale too;
Winds over us whiſper'd, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the graſhopper under our feet.
But now ſhe is abſent, tho' ſtill they ſing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gives every thing elſe its agreeable ſound.

V.Will no pitying power that hears me complain,
Or cure my diſquiet, or ſoften my pain?
To be cur'd, thou muſt, Collin, thy paſſion remove:
But what ſwain is ſo ſilly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return;
For ne'er was poor ſhepherd ſo ſadly forlorn.
Ah! what ſhall I do? I ſhall die with deſpair:
Take heed, all ye ſwains, how you love one ſo fair.

A SONG.

[159]

This, by Mr. Rowe, is better than any thing of the kind in our language.

I.DESPAIRING beſide a clear ſtream,
A ſhepherd forſaken was laid;
And, while a falſe nymph was his theme,
A willow ſupported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his ſighs with a ſigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

II.Alas! ſilly ſwain that I was;
(Thus ſadly complaining he cry'd);
When firſt I beheld that fair face,
'Twere better by far I had dy'd:
She talk'd, and I bleſs'd her dear tongue;
When ſhe ſmil'd, it was pleaſure too great;
I liſten'd, and cry'd when ſhe ſung,
Was nightingale ever ſo ſweet!

III.How fooliſh was I to believe
She could doat on ſo lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve
To forſake the fine folk of the town;
[160]To think that a beauty ſo gay,
So kind and ſo conſtant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in grey,
Or live in a cottage on love?

IV.What though I have ſkill to complain,
Though the Muſes my temples have crown'd;
What tho', when they hear my ſoft ſtrains,
The virgins ſit weeping around?
Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel reſign,
Thy fair one inclines to a ſwain,
Whoſe muſic is ſweeter than thine.

V.All you, my companions ſo dear,
Who ſorrow to ſee me betray'd,
Whatever I ſuffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuſe the falſe maid,
Tho' thro' the wide world I ſhould range,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;
'Twas her's to be falſe and to change;
'Tis mine to be conſtant and die.

VI.If, while my hard fate I ſuſtain,
In her breaſt any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And ſee me laid low in the ground:
[161]The laſt humble boon that I crave,
Is to ſhade me with cypreſs and yew;
And when ſhe looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her ſhepherd was true.

VII.Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array;
Be fineſt at ev'ry fine ſhow,
And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more ſhall be talk'd of or ſeen,
Unleſs when, beneath the pale moon,
His ghoſt ſhall glide over the green.

AN ESSAY ON POETRY.[163]This work, by the duke of Buckingham, is en⯑rolled among our great Engliſh productions. The precepts are ſenſible, the poetry not indifferent, but it has been praiſed more than it deſerves.
OF all thoſe arts in which the wiſe excel,
Nature's chief maſter-piece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man ſo high,
As ſacred and ſoul-moving poeſy:
No kind of work requires ſo nice a touch;
And, if well finiſh'd, nothing ſhines ſo much.
But Heav'n forbid we ſhould be ſo profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flaſh of fancy, which, ſometimes,
Dazzling our minds, ſets off the ſlighteſt rhimes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlaſting, like the ſun,
Which, tho' ſometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhime, and that harmonious ſound,
Which not the niceſt ear with harſhneſs wound,
[163] [...]
[164]Are neceſſary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain theſe ſuperficial parts
Contribute to the ſtructure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's the ſoul:
A ſpirit which inſpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidſt conceptions fit;
Ev'n ſomething of divine, and more than wit;
Itſelf unſeen, yet all things by it ſhown,
Deſcribing all men, but deſcrib'd by none.
Where doſt thou dwell? What caverns of the brain
Can ſuch a vaſt and mighty thing contain?
When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy abſence mourn,
Oh! where doſt thou retire? and why doſt thou return,
Sometimes with pow'rful charms to hurry me away,
From pleaſures of the night, and bus'neſs of the day?
Ev'n now, too far tranſported, I am fain
To check thy courſe, and uſe the needful rein.
As all is dulneſs, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:
And judgment has a boundleſs influence
Not only in the choice of words, or ſenſe,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;
Reaſon is that ſubſtantial, uſeful part,
Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart.
Here I ſhall all the various ſorts of verſe,
And the whole art of poetry rehearſe;
But who that taſk would after Horace do?
The beſt of maſters, and examples too!
[165]Echoes at beſt, all we can ſay is vain;
Dull the deſign, and fruitleſs were the pain.
'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with eaſe;
But who with that mean ſhift himſelf can pleaſe,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new abſurdities inſpire new thoughts;
What need has Satire, then, to live on theft,
When ſo much freſh occaſion ſtill is left?
Fertile our ſoil, and full of rankeſt weeds,
And monſters worſe than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools ſhall have no cauſe to fear;
'Tis wit and ſenſe that is the ſubject here:
Defects of witty men deſerve a cure,
And thoſe who are ſo, will ev'n this endure.
Firſt, then, of Songs, which now ſo much abound,
Without his ſong no fop is to be found;
A moſt offenſive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, againſt Apollo's laws.
Tho' nothing ſeems more eaſy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;
For as in rows of richeſt pearl there lies
Many a blemiſh that eſcape our eyes,
The leaſt of which defects is plainly ſhown
In one ſmall ring, and brings the value down:
So Songs ſhould be to juſt perfection brought;
Yet where can one be ſeen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expreſſion eaſy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not ſeem to creep, nor this to fly;
[166]No words tranſpos'd, but in ſuch order all,
As wrought with care, yet ſeem by chance to fall?
Here, as in all things elſe, is moſt unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nauſeous ſongs by a late author made,
Call an unwilling cenſure on his ſhade.
Not that warm thoughts of the tranſporting joy
Can ſhock the chaſteſt, or the niceſt cloy;
But words obſcene, too groſs to move deſire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choak the fire.
On other themes he well deſerves our praiſe;
But palls that appetite he meant to raiſe.
Next, Elegy, of ſweet, but ſolemn voice,
And of a ſubject grave, exacts the choice;
The praiſe of beauty, valour, wit contains;
And there too oft deſpairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That Phoenix-ſhe deſerves to be belov'd;
But noiſy nonſenſe, and ſuch fops as vex
Mankind, take moſt with that fantaſtic ſex.
This to the praiſe of thoſe who better knew;
The many raiſe the value of the few.
But here (as all our ſex too oft have try'd)
Women have drawn my wand'ring thoughts aſide.
Their greateſt fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit;
But ſhould this muſe harmonious numbers yield,
And ev'ry couplet be with fancy fill'd;
If yet a juſt coherence be not made
Between each thought, and the whole model laid
[167]So right, that ev'ry line may higher riſe,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the ſkies:
Such trifles may, perhaps, of late, have paſs'd,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never laſt:
'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with ſkill,
No Panegyric, nor a Cooper's Hill.
A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Muſes' moſt unruly horſe,
That bounds ſo fierce, the rider has no reſt,
Here foams at mouth, and moves like one poſſeſs'd.
The poet, here, muſt be, indeed, inſpir'd,
With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boaſt to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;
But, ſometimes, diction mean, or verſe ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Tho' all appear in heat and fury done,
The language ſtill muſt ſoft and eaſy run.
Theſe laws may ſound a little too ſevere;
But judgment yields and fancy governs here,
Which, tho' extravagant, this muſe allows,
And makes the work much eaſier than it ſhows.
Of all the ways that wiſeſt men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well-writ has moſt ſucceſsful prov'd,
And cures, becauſe the remedy is lov'd;
'Tis hard to write on ſuch a ſubject more,
Without repeating things ſaid oft before:
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove,
That ſtain a beauty which we ſo much love.
[168]Of choſen words ſome take not care enough,
And think they ſhould be, as the ſubject, rough;
This poem muſt be more exactly made,
And ſharpeſt thoughts in ſmootheſt words convey'd.
Some think, if ſharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only bus'neſs was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Diſtinguiſhes a ſatyr from a ſcold.
Rage you muſt hide, and prejudice lay down;
A ſatyr's ſmile is ſharper than his frown;
So, while you ſeem to ſlight ſome rival youth,
Malice itſelf may paſs ſometimes for truth.
The Laureat, here, may juſtly claim our praiſe,
Crown'd by Mack-Fleckno with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegaſus has borne dead weight,
Rid by ſome lumpiſh miniſter of ſtate.
Here reſt, my Muſe, ſuſpend thy cares awhile,
A more important taſk attends thy toil.
As ſome young eagle, that deſigns to fly
A long unwonted journey through the ſky,
Weighs all the dang'rous enterprize before,
O'er what wide lands and ſeas ſhe is to ſoar,
Doubts her own ſtrength ſo far, and juſtly fears
That lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet, incited by ſome bold deſign,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herſelf with care,
At laſt reſolv'd, ſhe cleaves the yielding air;
Away ſhe flies, ſo ſtrong, ſo high, ſo faſt,
She leſſens to us, and is loſt at laſt:
[169]So (tho' too weak for ſuch a weighty thing)
The muſe inſpires a ſharper note to ſing.
And why ſhould truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On then, my Muſe, advent'rouſly engage
To give inſtructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if obſerv'd, give plays ſo great a grace,
Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the preſent age,
Leſs obvious errors of the Engliſh ſtage.
Firſt then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely ſhort, and ſpoke in paſſion too.
Our lovers talking to themſelves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They truſt a friend, only to tell it us:
Th' occaſion ſhould as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confeſſes all.
Figures of ſpeech, which poets think ſo fine,
(Art's needleſs varniſh to make nature ſhine)
Are all but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in deſcriptions only claim a place:
But, to make rage declaim, and grief diſcourſe,
From lovers in deſpair fine things to force,
Muſt needs ſucceed: for who can chooſe but pity
A dying hero, miſerably witty?
But oh! the Dialogues, where jeſt and mock
Is held up like a reſt at ſhittle-cock!
[170]Or elſe, like bells eternally they chime,
They ſigh in Simile, and die in Rhime.
What things are theſe who would be poets thought,
By nature not inſpir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore they deſerve
A better courſe than this, by which they ſtarve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgement, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more; for they muſt look within, to find
Thoſe ſecret turns of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a ſoul.
All this united, yet but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful art,
Now almoſt loſt, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended ſince, but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the beſt remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourſelves we juſtice muſt allow,
Shakeſpeare and Fletcher are the wonders now:
Conſider them, and read them o'er and o'er;
Go ſee them play'd; then read them as before;
For tho' in many things they groſsly fail,
Over our paſſions ſtill they ſo prevail,
That our own grief by their's is rock'd aſleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wiſe to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their fau [...] ▪
Firſt, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thouſand ſeveral ways;
This oft, alone, has giv'n ſucceſs to plays.
[171]Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no ſuch thing in nature; and you'll draw
A faultleſs monſter which the world ne'er ſaw.
Some faults muſt be, that his misfortunes drew,
But ſuch as may deſerve compaſſion too.
Beſides the main deſign compos'd with art,
Each moving ſcene muſt be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As painters firſt chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own ſlave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiſs.
Think not ſo much where ſhining thoughts to place,
As what a man would ſay in ſuch a caſe:
Neither in comedy will this ſuffice,
The player too muſt be before your eyes;
And, tho' 'tis drudgery to ſtoop ſo low,
To him you muſt your ſecret meaning ſhow.
Expoſe no ſingle fop, but lay the load
More equally, and ſpread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft we ſee
A fool derided by as bad as he:
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r,
Ingredients to compoſe that precious juice,
Which ſerves the world for pleaſure and for uſe,
In ſpite of faction this would favour get;
But Falſtaff ſtands inimitable yet.
[172]Another fault which often may befall,
Is, when the wit of ſome great poet ſhall
So overflow, that is, be none at all;
That ev'n his fools ſpeak ſenſe, as if poſſeſt,
And each by inſpiration breaks his jeſt.
If once the juſtneſs of each part be loſt,
Well we may laugh, but at the poet's coſt,
That ſilly thing men call ſheer-wit avoid,
With which our age ſo nauſeouſly is cloy'd;
Humour is all; wit ſhould be only brought
To turn agreeably ſome proper thought.
But ſince the poets we of late have known,
Shine in no dreſs ſo much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Caſt but a view on this wrong ſide of ſenſe.
Firſt, a Soliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reaſon is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, moſt opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noiſe of drums;
For her ſweet ſake, whom at firſt ſight he loves,
And all in metaphor his paſſion proves:
But ſome ſad accident, tho' yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the ſwain alone;
He ſtrait grows jealous, tho' we know not why;
Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die:
But firſt he makes a ſpeech, wherein he tells
The abſent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generouſly now,
To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who ſtrait appears; but who can fate withſtand?
Too late, alas! to hold his haſty hand,
[173]That juſt has giv'n himſelf the cruel ſtroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than miſtreſs kind,
Moſt ſadly mourns at being left behind,
Of ſuch a death prefers the pleaſing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.
What ſhameful and what monſtrous things are theſe?
And then they rail at thoſe they cannot pleaſe;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the ſign of old Ben Johnſon's head;
When the intrinſic value of the ſtage
Can ſcarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian ſongs, and rhime,
May keep up ſinking nonſenſe for a time;
But that muſt fail, which now ſo much o'er-rules,
And ſenſe no longer will ſubmit to fools.
By painful ſteps at laſt we labour up
Parnaſſus' hill, on whoſe bright airy top,
The Epick poets ſo divinely ſhow,
And with juſt pride behold the reſt below.
Heroic poems have a juſt pretence
To be the utmoſt ſtretch of human ſenſe;
A work of ſuch ineſtimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought forth!
Homer and Virgil! with what ſacred awe,
Do thoſe mere ſounds the world's attention draw!
Juſt as a changeling ſeems below the reſt
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beaſt;
So theſe gigantic ſouls amaz'd we find
As much above the reſt of human kind!
[174]Nature's whole ſtrength united! endleſs fame,
And univerſal ſhouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more;
For all books elſe appear ſo mean, ſo poor,
Verſe will ſeem proſe; but ſtill perſiſt to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Boſſu never writ, the world had ſtill,
Like Indians, view'd this wond'rous piece of ſkill;
As ſomething of divine, the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be inſtructed, but inſpir'd:
But he, diſcloſing ſacred myſteries,
Has ſhewn where all the mighty magic lies;
Deſcrib'd the ſeeds, and in what order ſown,
That have to ſuch a vaſt proportion grown.
Sure, from ſome angel he the ſecret knew,
Who thro' this labyrinth has lent the clue!
But what, alas! avails it poor mankind,
To ſee this promis'd land, yet ſtay behind?
The way is ſhewn, but who has ſtrength to go?
Who can all ſciences profoundly know?
Whoſe fancy flies beyond weak reaſon's ſight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whoſe juſt diſcernment, Virgil-like, is ſuch,
Never to ſay too little, or too much?
Let ſuch a man begin without delay;
But he muſt do beyond what I can ſay!
Muſt above Taſſo's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spencer, and ev'n Milton fail.

CADENUS AND VANESSA.[175]This is thought one of Dr. Swift's correcteſt pieces; its chief merit, indeed, is the elegant eaſe with which a ſtory, but ill conceived in itſelf, is told.
THE ſhepherds and the nymphs were ſeen
Pleading before the Cyprian queen.
The council for the fair began,
Accuſing the falſe creature Man.
The brief with weighty crimes was charg'd,
On which the pleader much enlarg'd;
That Cupid now has loſt his art,
Or blunts the point of ev'ry dart;—
His altar now no longer ſmokes,
His mother's aid no youth invokes:
This tempts free-thinkers to refine,
And bring in doubt their pow'rs divine;
Now love is dwindled to intrigue,
And marriage grown a money-league.
Which crimes aforeſaid (with her leave)
Were (as he humbly did conceive)
Againſt our ſovereign lady's peace,
Againſt the ſtatute in that caſe,
Againſt her dignity and crown:
Then pray'd an anſwer, and ſat down.
The nymphs with ſcorn beheld their foes,
When the defendant's council roſe,
[176]And, what no lawyer ever lack'd,
With impudence own'd all the fact;
But, what the gentleſt heart would vex,
Laid all the fault on t'other ſex.
That modern love is no ſuch thing,
As what thoſe ancient poets ſing;
A fire celeſtial, chaſte, refin'd,
Conceiv'd and kindled in the mind,
Which, having found an equal flame,
Unites, and both become the ſame,
In diff'rent breaſts together burn,
Together both to aſhes turn:
But women now feel no ſuch fire,
And only know the groſs deſire.
Their paſſions move in lower ſpheres,
Where-e'er caprice or folly ſteers.
A dog, a parrot, or an ape,
Or ſome worſe brute in human ſhape,
Engroſs the fancies of the fair,
The few ſoft moments they can ſpare
From viſits to receive and pay,
From ſcandal, politics, and play,
From fans, and flounces, and brocades,
From equipage and park-parades,
From all the thouſand female toys,
From ev'ry trifle that employs
The out or inſide of their heads
Between their toylets and their beds.
In a dull ſtream, which moving ſlow,
You hardly ſee the current flow,
[177]If a ſmall breeze obſtructs the courſe,
It whirls about for want of force,
And in its narrow circle gathers
Nothing but chaff, and ſtraws, and feathers:
The current of a female mind
Stops thus, and turns with ev'ry wind;
Thus whirling round, together draws
Fools, fops, and rakes, for chaff and ſtraws.
Hence we conclude, no women's hearts
Are won by virtue, wit, and parts;
Nor are the men of ſenſe to blame,
For breaſts incapable of flame:
The fault muſt on the nymphs be plac'd,
Grown ſo corrupted in their taſte.
The pleader, having ſpoke his beſt,
Had witneſs ready to atteſt,
Who fairly could on oath depoſe,
When queſtions on the fact aroſe,
That ev'ry article was true;
Nor further thoſe deponents knew:—
Therefore he humbly would inſiſt,
The bill might be with coſts diſmiſt.
The cauſe appear'd of ſo much weight,
That Venus, from her judgment-ſeat,
Deſir'd them not to talk ſo loud,
Elſe ſhe muſt interpoſe a cloud:
For, if the heav'nly folk ſhould know
Theſe pleadings in the court below,
That mortals here diſdain to love,
She ne'er could ſhew her face above;
[178]For Gods, their betters, are too wiſe
To value that which men deſpiſe.
And then, ſaid ſhe, my ſon and I
Muſt ſtrole in air 'twixt earth and ſky;
Or elſe, ſhut out from heav'n and earth,
Fly to the ſea, my place of birth;
There live with daggled mermaids pent,
And keep on fiſh perpetual lent.
But, ſince the caſe appear'd ſo nice,
She thought it beſt to take advice.
The Muſes, by their king's permiſſion,
Though foes to love, attend the ſeſſion,
And on the right hand took their places
In order; on the left, the Graces:
To whom ſhe might her doubts propoſe
On all emergencies that roſe.
The Muſes oft were ſeen to frown;
The Graces, half-aſham'd, look'd down;
And 'twas obſerv'd, there were but few
Of either ſex among the crew,
Whom ſhe or her aſſeſſors knew.
The goddeſs ſoon began to ſee,
Things were not ripe for a decree,
And ſaid ſhe muſt conſult her books,
The Lovers' Fletas, Bractons, Cooks.
Firſt to a dapper clerk ſhe beckon'd
To turn to Ovid, book the ſecond;
She then referr'd them to a place
In Virgil (vide Dido's caſe);
As for Tibullus's reports,
They never paſs'd for law in courts:
[179]For Cowley's briefs, and pleas of Waller,
Still their authority was ſmaller.
There was on both ſides much to ſay:
She'd hear the cauſe another day;
And ſo ſhe did, and then a third;
She heard it—there ſhe kept her word:
But with rejoinders and replies,
Long bills, and anſwers ſtuff'd with lies,
Demur, imparlance, and eſſoign,
The parties ne'er could iſſue join:
For ſixteen years the cauſe was ſpun,
And then ſtood where it firſt begun.
Now, gentle Clio, ſing or ſay,
What Venus meant by this delay.
The goddeſs, much perplex'd in mind
To ſee her empire thus declin'd,
When firſt this grand debate aroſe,
Above her wiſdom to compoſe,
Conceiv'd a project in her head
To work her ends; which, if it ſped,
Wou'd ſhew the merits of the cauſe
Far better than conſulting laws.
In a glad hour Lucina's aid
Produc'd on earth a wond'rous maid,
On whom the queen of love was bent
To try a new experiment.
She threw her law-books on the ſhelf,
And thus debated with herſelf:
"Since men alledge, they ne'er can find
Thoſe beauties in a female mind,
[180]Which raiſe a flame, that will endure
For ever uncorrupt and pure;
If 'tis with reaſon they complain,
This inſtant ſhall reſtore my reign.
I'll ſearch where ev'ry virtue dwells,
From courts incluſive down to cells;
What preachers talk, or ſages write;
Theſe I will gather and unite,
And repreſent them to mankind
Collected in that infant's mind."
This ſaid, ſhe plucks in heav'n's high bow'rs
A ſprig of amaranthine flow'rs,
In nectar thrice infuſes bays,
Three times refin'd in Titan's rays;
Then calls the Graces to her aid,
And ſprinkles thrice the new-born maid:
From whence the tender ſkin aſſumes
A ſweetneſs above all perfumes:
From whence a cleanlineſs remains,
Incapable of outward ſtains;
From whence that decency of mind,
So lovely in the female kind;
Where not one careleſs thought intrudes
Leſs modeſt than the ſpeech of prudes;
Where never bluſh was call'd in aid,
That ſpurious virtue in a maid,
A virtue but at ſecond-hand;
They bluſh, becauſe they underſtand.
The Graces next would act their part,
And ſhew'd but little of their art;
[181]Their work was half already done,
The child with native beauty ſhone;
The outward form no help requir'd:
Each, breathing on her thrice, inſpir'd
That gentle, ſoft, engaging air,
Which in old times adorn'd the fair:
And ſaid, "Vaneſſa be the name,
By which you ſhall be known to fame;
Vaneſſa, by the gods enroll'd:
Her name on earth—ſhall not be told."
But ſtill the work was not compleat,
When Venus thought on a deceit:
Drawn by her doves, away ſhe flies,
And finds out Pallas in the ſkies:
"Dear Pallas, I have been this morn
To ſee a lovely infant born;
A boy in yonder iſle below,
So like my own without his bow,
By beauty could your heart be won,
You'd ſwear it is Apollo's ſon:
But it ſhall ne'er be ſaid a child
So hopeful has by me been ſpoil'd;
I have enough beſides to ſpare,
And give him wholly to your care."
Wiſdom's above ſuſpecting wiles:
The queen of learning gravely ſmiles,
Down from Olympus comes with joy,
Miſtakes Vaneſſa for a boy;
Then ſows within her tender mind
Seeds long unknown to womankind;
[182]For manly boſoms chiefly fit;
The ſeeds of knowledge, judgment, wit:
Her ſoul was ſuddenly endu'd
With juſtice, truth, and fortitude;
With honour, which no breath can ſtain,
Which malice muſt attack in vain;
With open heart and bounteous hand;
But Pallas here was at a ſtand;
She knew in our degen'rate days
Bare virtue could not live on praiſe;—
That meat muſt be with money bought:
She therefore, upon ſecond thought,
Infus'd, yet as it were by ſtealth,
Some ſmall regard for ſtate and wealth;
Of which, as ſhe grew up, there ſtay'd
A tincture in the prudent maid:
She manag'd her eſtate with care,
Yet lik'd three footmen to her chair.
But, leſt he ſhould neglect her ſtudies,
Like a young heir, the thrifty goddeſs
(For fear young maſter ſhould be ſpoil'd)
Would uſe him like a younger child!
And, after long computing, found
'Twould come to juſt five thouſand pound,
The queen of love was pleas'd, and proud,
To ſee Vaneſſa thus endow'd;
She doubted not but ſuch a dame
Through ev'ry breaſt would dart a flame:
That ev'ry rich and lordly ſwain
With pride would drag about her chain;
[183]That ſcholars would deſert their books
To ſtudy bright Vaneſſa's looks;
As ſhe advanc'd, that womankind
Would by her model form their mind,
And all their conduct would be try'd
By her, as an unerring guide;
Offending daughters oft would hear
Vaneſſa's praiſe rung in their ear:
Miſs Betty, when ſhe does a fault,
Lets fall a knife, or ſpills the ſalt,
Will thus be by her mother chid,
"'Tis what Vaneſſa never did."
Thus by the nymphs and ſwains ador'd,
My pow'r ſhall be again reſtor'd,
And happy lovers bleſs my reign—
So Venus hop'd, but hop'd in vain,
For when, in time, the martial maid
Found out the trick that Venus play'd,
She ſhakes her helm, ſhe knits her brows,
And, fir'd with indignation, vows,
To-morrow, e're the ſetting ſun,
She'd all undo that ſhe had done.
But in the poets we may find,
A wholeſome law time out of mind
Had been confirm'd by fate's decree,
That gods, of whatſoe'er degree,
Reſume not what themſelves have giv'n,
Or any brother-god in heav'n;
Which keeps the peace among the gods,
Or they muſt always be at odds:
[184]And Pallas, if ſhe broke the laws,
Muſt yield her foe the ſtronger cauſe;
A ſhame to one ſo much ador'd
For wiſdom, at Jove's council-board.
Beſides, ſhe fear'd the queen of love
Would meet with better friends above.
And though ſhe muſt with grief reflect,
To ſee a mortal virgin deck'd
With graces hitherto unknown
To female breaſts, except her own;
Yet ſhe would act as beſt became
A goddeſs of unſpotted fame.
She knew, by augury divine,
Venus would fail in her deſign:
She ſtudy'd well the point, and found
Her foe's concluſions were not found,
From premiſſes erroneous brought,
And therefore the deduction's nought,
And muſt have contrary effects,
To what her treach'rous foe expects.
In proper ſeaſon Pallas meets
The queen of love, whom thus ſhe greets,
(For gods, we are by Homer told,
Can in celeſtial language ſcold)
"Perfidious goddeſs! but in vain
You form'd this project in your brain;
A project for thy talents fit,
With much deceit, and little wit.
Thou haſt, as thou ſhalt quickly ſee,
Deceiv'd thyſelf, inſtead of me:
[185]For how can heav'nly wiſdom prove
An inſtrument to earthly love?
Know'ſt thou not yet, that men commence
Thy votaries for want of ſenſe?
Nor ſhall Vaneſſa be the theme
To manage thy abortive ſcheme:
She'll prove the greateſt of thy foes;
And yet I ſcorn to interpoſe,
But uſing neither ſkill, nor force,
Leave all things to their nat'ral courſe."
The goddeſs thus pronounc'd her doom:
When, lo! Vaneſſa in her bloom
Advanc'd, like Atalanta's ſtar,
But rarely ſeen, and ſeen from far;
In a new world with caution ſtept,
Watch'd all the company ſhe kept,
Well knowing, from the books ſhe read,
What dangerous paths young virgins tread:
Would ſeldom at the park appear,
Nor ſaw the playhouſe twice a year;
Yet, not incurious, was inclin'd
To know the converſe of mankind.
Firſt iſſu'd from perfumers ſhops
A croud of faſhionable fops:
They aſk'd her, how ſhe lik'd the play?
Then told the tattle of the day;
A duel fought laſt night at two,
About a lady—You know who;
Mention'd a new Italian, come
Either from Muſcovy or Rome;
[186]Gave hints of who and who's together:
Then fell to talking of the weather:
Laſt night was ſo extremely fine,
The ladies walk'd till after nine.
Then in ſoft voice, and ſpeech abſurd,
With nonſenſe ev'ry ſecond word,
With fuſtian from exploded plays,
They celebrate her beauty's praiſe;
Run o'er their cant of ſtupid lyes,
And tell the murders of her eyes.
With ſilent ſcorn Vaneſſa ſat,
Scarce liſt'ning to their idle chat;
Further than ſometimes with a frown,
When they grew p [...]rt, to pull them down.
At laſt ſhe ſpitefully was bent
To try their wiſdom's full extent;
And ſaid, ſhe valu'd nothing leſs
Than titles, figure, ſhape, and dreſs;
That merit ſhould be chiefly plac'd
In judgment, knowledge, wit, and taſte;
And theſe, ſhe offer'd to diſpute,
Alone diſtinguiſh'd man from brute:
That preſent times have no pretence
To virtue, in the noble ſenſe
By Greeks and Romans underſtood
To periſh for our country's good.
She nam'd the ancient heroes round,
Explain'd for what they were renown'd;
Then ſpoke with cenſure, or applauſe,
Of foreign cuſtoms, rites, and laws;
[187]Thro' nature and thro' art ſhe rang'd,
And gracefully her ſubject chang'd:
In vain: her hearers had no ſhare
In all ſhe ſpoke, except to ſtare.
Their judgment was upon the whole,
—That lady is the dulleſt ſoul—
Then tipt their forehead in a jeer,
As who ſhould ſay—ſhe wants it here;
She may be handſome, young, and rich,
But none will burn her for a witch.
A party next of glitt'ring dames,
From round the purlieus of St. James,
Came early, out of pure good-will,
To ſee the girl in deſhabille.
Their clamour, 'lighting from their chairs,
Grew louder all the way up ſtairs;
At entrance loudeſt; where they found
The room with volumes litter'd round.
Vaneſſa held Montaigne, and read,
Whilſt Mrs. Suſan comb'd her head:
They call'd for tea and chocolate,
And fell into their uſual chat,
Diſcourſing, with important face,
On ribbons, fans, and gloves, and lace;
Shew'd patterns juſt from India brought,
And gravely aſk'd her what ſhe thought;
Whether the red or green were beſt,
And what they coſt? Vaneſſa gueſs'd,
As came into her fancy firſt;
Nam'd half the rates, and lik'd the worſt.
[188]To ſcandal next—What aukward thing
Was that laſt Sunday in the ring?
I'm ſorry Mopſa breaks ſo faſt;
I ſaid her face would never laſt.
Corinna, with that youthful air,
Is thirty, and a bit to ſpare:
Her fondneſs for a certain earl
Began, when I was but a girl.
Phillis, who but a month ago
Was marry'd to the Tunbridge beau,
I ſaw coquetting t'other night
In public with that odious knight.
They rally'd next Vaneſſa's dreſs:
That gown was made for old queen Beſs.
Dear madam, let me ſee your head:
Don't you intend to put on red?
A petticoat without a hoop!
Sure, you are not aſham'd to ſtoop;
With handſome garters at your knees,
No matter what a fellow ſees.
Fill'd with diſdain, with rage inflam'd,
Both of herſelf and ſex aſham'd,
The nymph ſtood ſilent out of ſpight,
Nor would vouchſafe to ſet them right.
Away the fair detractors went,
And gave by turns their cenſures vent.
She's not ſo handſome in my eyes:
For wit, I wonder where it lies.
She's fair and clean, and that's the moſt:
But why proclaim her for a toaſt?
[189]A baby face, no life, no airs,
But what ſhe learnt at country fairs;
Scarce knows what diff'rence is between
Rich Flanders lace, and Colberteen.
I'll undertake, my little Nancy
In flounces hath a better fancy.
With all her wit, I would not aſk
Her judgment how to buy a maſk.
We begg'd her but to patch her face;
She never hit one proper place;
Which ev'ry girl at five years old
Can do, as ſoon as ſhe is told.
I own, that out-of-faſhion ſtuff
Becomes the Creature well enough.
The girl might paſs, if we could get her
To know the world a little better.
("To know the world!" a modern phraſe
For viſits, ombre, balls, and plays.)
Thus, to the world's perpetual ſhame,
The queen of Beauty loſt her aim.
Too late, with grief ſhe underſtood,
Pallas had done more harm than good:
For great examples are but vain,
Where ignorance begets diſdain,
Both ſexes, arm'd with guilt and ſpite,
Againſt Vaneſſa's pow'r unite:
To copy her few nymphs aſpir'd;
Her virtues fewer ſwains admir'd:
So ſtars beyond a certain height
Give mortals neither heat nor light.
[190]Yet ſome of either ſex, endow'd
With gifts ſuperior to the crowd,
With virtue, knowledge, taſte, and wit,
She condeſcended to admit.
With pleaſing arts ſhe could reduce
Men's talents to their proper uſe;
And with addreſs each genius held
To that, wherein it moſt excell'd;
Thus making others wiſdom known,
Could pleaſe them, and improve her own.
A modeſt youth ſaid ſomething new;
She plac'd it in the ſtrongeſt view.
All humble worth ſhe ſtrove to raiſe;
Would not be prais'd, yet lov'd to praiſe.
The learned met with free approach,
Although they came not in a coach:
Some clergy too ſhe would allow,
Nor quarrel'd at their aukward bow.
But this was for Cadenus' ſake,
A gownman of a diff'rent make;
Whom Pallas, once Vaneſſa's tutor,
Had fix'd on for her coadjutor.
But Cupid, full of miſchief, longs
To vindicate his mother's wrongs.
On Pallas all attempts are vain:
One way he knows to give her pain;
Vows on Vaneſſa's heart to take
Due vengeance, for her patron's ſake.
Thoſe early ſeeds by Venus ſown,
In ſpite of Pallas, now were grown;
[191]And Cupid hop'd, they would improve
By time, and ripen into love.
The boy made uſe of all his craft,
In vain diſcharging many a ſhaft,
Pointed at col'nels, lords, and beaux:
Cadenus warded off the blows;
For, placing ſtill ſome books betwixt
The darts were in the cover fix'd,
Or, often blunted and recoil'd,
On Plutarch's Morals ſtruck, were ſpoil'd.
The queen of Wiſdom could foreſee,
But not prevent the fate's decree:
And human caution tries in vain
To break that adamantine chain.
Vaneſſa, though by Pallas taught,
By Love invulnerable thought,
Searching in books for wiſdom's aid,
Was, in the very ſearch, betray'd.
Cupid, though all his darts were loſt,
Yet ſtill reſolv'd to ſpare no coſt:
He could not anſwer to his fame
The triumphs of that ſtubborn dame,
A nymph ſo hard to be ſubdu'd,
Who neither was coquette nor prude.
I find, ſaid he, ſhe wants a doctor,
Both to adore her, and inſtruct her;
I'll give her what ſhe moſt admires;
Among  [...]hoſe venerable fires
Cadenus is a ſubject fit,
Grown old in politics and wit,
[192]Careſs'd by miniſters of ſtate,
Of half mankind the dread and hate:
Whate'er vexations love attend,
She need no rivals apprehend.
Her ſex, with univerſal voice,
Muſt laugh at her capricious choice.
Cadenus many things had writ:
Vaneſſa much eſteem'd his wit,
And call'd for his poetic works:
Mean time the boy in ſecret lurks,
And, while the book was in her hand,
The urchin from his private ſtand
Took aim, and ſhot with all his ſtrength
A dart of ſuch prodigious length,
It pierc'd the feeble volume through,
And deep transfix'd her boſom too.
Some lines, more moving than the reſt,
Stuck to the point that pierc'd her breaſt,
And, borne directly to the heart,
With pains unknown increas'd her ſmart.
Vaneſſa, not of years a ſcore,
Dreams of a gown of forty-four;
Imaginary charms can find
In eyes with reading almoſt blind:
Cadenus now no more appears
Declin'd in health, advanc'd in years,
She fancies muſic in his tongue,
Nor farther looks, but thinks him young.
What mariner is not afraid
To venture in a ſhip decay'd?
[193]What planter will attempt to yoke
A ſapling with a falling oak?
As years increaſe, ſhe brighter ſhines;
Cadenus with each day declines;
And he muſt fall a prey to time,
While ſhe continues in her prime.
Cadenus, common forms apart,
In ev'ry ſcene had kept his heart;
Had ſigh'd and languiſh'd, vow'd and writ
For paſtime, or to ſhew his wit.
But time, and books, and ſtate-affairs,
Had ſpoil'd his faſhionable airs:
He now could praiſe, eſteem, approve,
But underſtood not what was love.
His conduct might have made him ſtil'd
A father, and the nymph his child.
That innocent delight he took
To ſee the virgin mind her book,
Was but the maſter's ſecret joy
In ſchool to hear the fineſt boy.
Her knowledge with her fancy grew;
She hourly preſs'd for ſomething new;
Ideas came into her mind
So faſt, his leſſons lagg'd behind;
She reaſon'd without plodding long,
Nor ever gave her judgment wrong.
But now a ſudden change was wrought;
She minds no longer what he taught.
Cadenus was amaz'd to find
Such marks of a diſtracted mind:
[194]For, though ſhe ſeem'd to liſten more
To all he ſpoke, than e'er before,
He found her thoughts would abſent range,
Yet gueſs'd not whence could ſpring the change.
And firſt he modeſtly conjectures
His pupil might be tir'd with lectures;
Which help'd to mortify his pride,
Yet gave him not the heart to chide:
But, in a mild dejected ſtrain,
At laſt he ventur'd to complain;
Said, ſhe ſhou'd be no longer teaz'd;
Might have her freedom when ſhe pleas'd;
Was now convinc'd he acted wrong
To hide her from the world ſo long,
And in dull ſtudies to engage
One of her tender ſex and age;
That ev'ry nymph with envy own'd,
How ſhe might ſhine in the Grande-monde,
And ev'ry ſhepherd was undone
To ſee her cloiſter'd like a nun.
This was a viſionary ſcheme:
He wak'd, and found it but a dream;
A project far above his ſkill;
For nature muſt be nature ſtill.
If he was bolder than became
A ſcholar to a courtly dame,
She might excuſe a man of letters:
Thus tutors often treat their betters;
And, ſince his talk offenſive grew,
He came to take his laſt adieu.
[195]Vaneſſa, fill'd with juſt diſdain,
Would ſtill her dignity maintain,
Inſtructed from her early years
To ſcorn the art of female tears.
Had he employ'd his time ſo long
To teach her what was right and wrong,
Yet could ſuch notions entertain,
That all his lectures were in vain?
She own'd the wandering of her thoughts;
But he muſt anſwer for her faults.
She well remember'd, to her coſt,
That all his leſſons were not loſt.
Two maxims ſhe could ſtill produce,
And ſad experience taught their uſe:
That virtue, pleas'd by being ſhown,
Knows nothing which it dares not own,
Can make us without fear diſcloſe
Our inmoſt ſecrets to our foes;
That common forms were not deſign'd
Directors to a noble mind.
Now, ſaid the nymph, I'll let you ſee
My actions with your rules agree;
That I can vulgar forms deſpiſe,
And have no ſecrets to diſguiſe.
I knew, by what you ſaid and writ,
How dang'rous things were men of wit;
You cautioned me againſt their charms,
But never gave me equal arms;
Your leſſons found the weakeſt part;
Aim'd at the head, but reach'd the heart.
[196]Cadenus felt within him riſe
Shame, diſappointment, guilt, ſurpriſe.
He knew not how to reconcile
Such language with her uſual ſtile:
And yet her words were ſo expreſt,
He could not hope ſhe ſpoke in jeſt.
His thoughts had wholly been confin'd
To form and cultivate her mind.
He hardly knew, till he was told,
Whether the nymph were young or old;
Had met her in a public place
Without diſtinguiſhing her face:
Much leſs could his declining age
Vaneſſa's earlieſt thoughts engage;
And, if her youth indiff'rence met,
His perſon muſt contempt beget:
Or, grant her paſſion be ſincere,
How ſhall his innocence be clear?
Appearances were all ſo ſtrong,
The world muſt think him in the wrong;
Would ſay, he made a treach'rous uſe
Of wit, to flatter and ſeduce:
The town would ſwear he had betray'd,
By magic ſpells, the harmleſs maid:
And ev'ry bean would have his jokes,
That ſcholars were like other folks;
That, when Platonic flights were over,
The tutor turn'd a mortal lover.
So tender of the young and fair!
It ſhew'd a true paternal care—
[197]Five thouſand guineas in her purſe!
The doctor might have fancy'd worſe.—
Hardly, at length, he ſilence broke,
And faulter'd ev'ry word he ſpoke;
Interpreting her complaiſance,
Juſt as a man fans conſequence.
She rally'd well, he always knew:
Her manner now was ſomething new;
And what ſhe ſpoke was in an air
As ſerious as a tragic player.
But thoſe who aim at ridicule
Should fix upon ſome certain rule,
Which fairly hints they are in jeſt,
Elſe he muſt enter his proteſt:
For, let a man be ne'er ſo wiſe,
He may be caught with ſober lyes;
A ſcience which he never taught,
And, to be free, was dearly bought;
For, take it in its proper light,
'Tis juſt what coxcombs call a Bite.
But, not to dwell on things minute,
Vaneſſa finiſh'd the diſpute,
Brought weighty arguments to prove
That reaſon was her guide in love.
She thought he had himſelf deſcrib'd,
His doctrines when ſhe firſt imbib'd:
What he had planted, now was grown;
His virtues ſhe might call her own;
As he approves, as he diſlikes,
Love or contempt her fancy ſtrikes.
[198]Self-love, in nature rooted faſt,
Attends us firſt, and leaves us laſt:
Why ſhe likes him, admire not her;
She loves herſelf, and that's the matter.
How was her tutor want to praiſe
The genius's of ancient days!
(Thoſe authors he ſo oft had nam'd,
For learning, wit, and wiſdom fam'd)
Was ſtruck with love, eſteem, and awe,
For perſons whom he never ſaw.
Suppoſe Cadenus flouriſh'd then,
He muſt adore ſuch god-like men.
If one ſhort volume could comprize
All that was witty, learn'd, and wiſe,
How would it be eſteem'd, and read,
Although the writer long were dead!
If ſuch an author were alive,
How all would for his friendſhip ſtrive,
And come in crowds to ſee his face!
And this ſhe takes to be her caſe.
Cadenus anſwers ev'ry end,
The book, the author, and the friend:
The utmoſt her deſires will reach,
Is but to learn what he can teach:
His converſe is a ſyſtem fit
Alone to fill up all her wit;
While ev'ry paſſion of her mind
In him is center'd and confin'd.
Love can with ſpeech inſpire a mute,
And taught Yaneſſa to diſpute.
[199]This topic, never touch'd before,
Diſplay'd her eloquence the more:
Her knowledge, with ſuch pains acquir'd,
By this new paſſion grew inſpir'd:
Through this ſhe made all objects paſs,
Which gave a tincture o'er the maſs;
As rivers, though they bend and twine,
Still to the ſea their courſe incline;
Or, as philoſophers, who find
Some fav'rite ſyſtem to their mind,
In ev'ry point to make it fit,
Will force all nature to ſubmit.
Cadenus, who could ne'er ſuſpect
His leſſons would have ſuch effect,
Or be ſo artfully apply'd,
Inſenſibly came on her ſide.
It was an unforeſeen event;
Things took a turn he never meant.
Whoe'er excels in what we prize
Appears a hero in our eyes:
Each girl, when pleas'd with what is taught,
Will have the teacher in her thought.
The nymph in ſober words intreats
A truce with all ſublime conceits:
For why ſuch raptures, flights and fancies,
To her who durſt not read romances?
In lofty ſtyle to make replies,
Which he had taught her to deſpiſe?
But when her tutor will affect
Devotion, duty, and reſpect,
[200]He fairly abdicates his throne;
The government is now her own:
But, though her arguments were ſtrong,
At leaſt could hardly wiſh them wrong.
Howe'er it came, he could not tell,
But ſure ſhe never talk'd ſo well.
His pride began to interpoſe;
Preferr'd before a crowd of beaux!
So bright a nymph to come unſought!
Such wonder by his merit wrought!
'Tis merit muſt with her prevail:
He never knew her judgment fail.
She noted all ſhe ever read,
And had a moſt diſcerning head.
'Tis an old maxim in the ſchools,
That vanity's the food of fools:
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condeſcend to take a bit.
So, when Cadenus could not hide,
He choſe to juſtify, his pride;
When miſs delights in her ſpinnet,
A fiddler may a fortune get;
A blockhead, with melodious voice,
In boarding-ſchools can have his choice:
And oft' the dancing-maſter's art
Climbs from the toe to touch the heart.
In learning let a nymph delight,
The pedant gets a miſtreſs by't.
Cadenus, to his grief and ſhame,
Could ſcarce oppoſe Vaneſſa's flame;
[201]Where hot and cold, where ſharp and ſweet
In all their equipages meet;
Where pleaſures mix'd with pains appear,
Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear;
Wherein his dignity and age
Forbid Cadenus to engage.
But friendſhip, in its greateſt height,
A conſtant, rational delight,
On virtue's baſis fix'd to laſt,
When love's allurements long are paſt,
Which gently warms, but cannot burn,
He gladly offers in return;
His want of paſſion will redeem
With gratitude, reſpect, eſteem;
With that devotion we beſtow,
When Goddeſſes appear below.
While thus Cadenus entertains
Vaneſſa in exalted ſtrains,
Conſtr'ing the paſſion ſhe had ſhown,
Much to her praiſe, more to his own.
Nature in him had merit plac'd,
In her a moſt judicious taſte.
Love, hitherto a tranſient gueſt,
Ne'er held poſſeſſion in his breaſt;
So long attending at the gate,
Diſdain'd to enter in ſo late.
Love why do we one paſſion call,
When 'tis a compound of them all?
He has a forfeiture incurr'd;
She vows to take him at his word,
[202]And hopes he will not think it ſtrange,
If both ſhould now their ſtations change.
The nymph will have her turn to be
The tutor; and the pupil, he;
Though ſhe already can diſcern,
Her ſcholar is not apt to learn;
Or wants capacity to reach
The ſcience ſhe deſigns to teach;
Wherein his genius was below
The ſkill of ev'ry common beau;
Who, though he cannot ſpell, is wiſe
Enough to read a lady's eyes,
And will each accidental glance
Interpret for a kind advance.
But what ſucceſs Vaneſſa met,
Is to the world a ſecret yet.
Whether the nymph, to pleaſe her ſwain,
Talks in a high romantic ſtrain;
Or whether he at laſt deſcends
To like with leſs ſeraphic ends;
Or, to compound the bus'neſs, whether
They temper love and books together;
Muſt never to mankind be told,
Nor ſhall the conſcious muſe unfold.
Mean time the mournful queen of love
Led but a weary life above.
She ventures now to leave the ſkies,
Grown by Vaneſſa's conduct wiſe:
For, though by one perverſe event
Pallas had croſs'd her firſt intent,
[203]Though her deſign was not obtain'd,
Yet had ſhe much experience gain'd,
And by the project vainly try'd
Could better now the cauſe decide.
She gave due notice, that both parties
Coram regina prox' die Martis
Should at their peril without fail
Come and appear, and ſave their bail.
All met; and, ſilence thrice proclaim'd,
One lawyer to each ſide was nam'd.
The judge diſcover'd in her face
Reſentments for her late diſgrace;
And, full of anger, ſhame, and grief,
Directed them to mind their brief;
Nor ſpend their time to ſhew their reading▪
She'd have a ſummary proceeding.
She gather'd under ev'ry head
The ſum of what each lawyer ſaid,
Gave her own reaſons laſt, and then
Decreed the cauſe againſt the men.
But, in a weighty caſe like this
To ſhow ſhe did not judge amiſs,
Which evil tongues might elſe report,
She made a ſpeech in open court;
Wherein ſhe grievouſly complains,
"How ſhe was cheated by the ſwains;"
On whoſe petition (humbly ſhewing
That women were not worth the wooing,
And that, unleſs the ſex would mend,
The race of lovers ſoon muſt end)
[204]"She was at lord knows what expence
To form a nymph of wit and ſenſe,
A model for her ſex deſign'd,
Who never could one lover find.
She ſaw, her favour was miſplac'd;
The fellows had a wretched taſte;
She needs muſt tell them to their face,
They were a ſenſeleſs, ſtupid race;
And, were ſhe to begin agen,
She'd ſtudy to reform the men;
Or add ſome grains of folly more
To women, than they had before,
To put them on an equal foot;
And this, or nothing elſe, would do't.
This might their mutual fancy ſtrike;
Since ev'ry being loves its like.
But now, repenting what was done,
She left all bus'neſs to her ſon;
She puts the world in his poſſeſſion,
And let him uſe it at diſcretion."
The cry'r was order'd to diſmiſs
The court, ſo made his laſt O yes!
The Goddeſs would no longer wait;
But, riſing from her chair of ſtate,
Left all below at ſix and ſev'n,
Harneſs'd her doves, and flew to heav'n.

ALMA: OR THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND.

[205]

[...]

[...].

Incert. ad Stobaeum.

What Prior meant by this poem I can't underſtand▪ by the Greek motto to it one would think it was either to laugh at the ſubject or his reader. There are ſome parts of it very fine; and let them ſave the badneſs of the reſt.

CANTO I.MATTHEW met Richard, when or where
From ſtory is not mighty clear:
Of many knotty points they ſpoke;
And pro and con by turns they took.
Rats half the manuſcript have eat:
Dire hunger! which we ſtill regret:
O! may they ne'er again digeſt
The horrors of ſo ſad a feaſt.
Yet leſs our grief, if what remains,
Dear Jacob, by thy care and pains
Shall be to future times convey'd,
It thus begins:
* * * * Here Matthew ſaid:
[206]Alma in verſe; in proſe, the Mind,
By Ariſtotle's pen defin'd,
Throughout the body ſquat or tall,
Is, bona fide, all in all.
And yet, ſlap daſh, is all again
In ev'ry ſinew, nerve, and vein:
Runs here and there, like Hamlet's ghoſt:
While every where ſhe rules the roaſt.
This ſyſtem, Richard, we are told,
The men of Oxford firmly hold.
The Cambridge wits, you know, deny
With ipſe dixit to comply.
They ſay (for in good truth they ſpeak
With ſmall reſpect of that old Greek)
That, putting all his words together,
'Tis three blue beans, one blue bladder.
Alma, they ſtrenuouſly maintain,
Sits cock-horſe on her throne the brain;
And from that ſeat of thought diſpenſes
Her ſov'reign pleaſure to the ſenſes.
Two optic nerves, they ſay, ſhe tyes,
Like ſpectacles, a-croſs the eyes;
By which the ſpirits bring her word,
Whene'er the balls are fix'd or ſtirr'd;
How quick at park and play they ſtrike;
The duke they court; the toaſt they like;
And at St. James's turn their grace
From former friends, now out of place.
Without theſe aids, to be more ſerious,
Her pow'r, they hold, had been precarious:
[207]The eyes might have conſpir'd her ruin:
And ſhe not known what they were doing.
Fooliſh it had been, and unkind,
That they ſhould ſee, and ſhe be blind.
Wiſe nature likewiſe, they ſuppoſe
Has drawn two conduits down our noſe:
Could Alma elſe with judgment tell,
When cabbage ſtinks, or roſes ſmell?
Or who would aſk for her opinion
Between an oyſter and an onion?
For from moſt bodies, Dick, you know,
Some little bits aſk leave to flow;
And, as thro' theſe canals they roll,
Bring up a ſample of the whole;
Like footmen running before coaches,
To tell the inn what lord approaches.
By nerves about our palate plac'd,
She likewiſe judges of the taſte.
Elſe (diſmal thought!) our warlike men
Might drink thick Port for fine Champagne;
And our ill-judging wives and daughters
Miſtake ſmall beer for Citron-waters.
Hence too, that ſhe might better hear,
She ſets a drum at either ear;
And loud or gentle, harſh or ſweet,
Are but the alarums which they beat.
Laſt, to enjoy her ſenſe of feeling
(A thing ſhe much delights to deal in)
A thouſand little nerves ſhe ſends
Quite to our toes, and fingers' ends;
[208]And theſe in gratitude again
Return their ſpirits to the brain;
In which their figure being printed
(As juſt before I think I hinted)
Alma inform'd can try the caſe,
As ſhe had been upon the place.
Thus, while the judge gives diff'rent journeys
To country counſel, and attornies,
He on the bench in quiet ſits,
Deciding, as they bring the writs.
The Pope thus prays and ſleeps at Rome,
And very ſeldom ſtirs from home:
Yet ſending forth his holy ſpies,
And having heard what they adviſe,
He rules the church's bleſt dominions,
And ſets men's faith by his opinions.
The ſcholars of the Stagyrite,
Who for the old opinion fight,
Would make their modern friends confeſs,
The diff'rence but from more to leſs.
The Mind, ſay they, while you ſuſtain
To hold her ſtation in the brain;
You grant, at leaſt, ſhe is extended:
Ergo, the whole diſpute is ended.
For till to-morrow ſhould you plead
From form and ſtructure of the head;
The mind as viſibly is ſeen
Extended thro' the whole Machine.
Why ſhould all honour then be ta'en
From lower parts to load the brain:
[209]When other limbs we plainly ſee
Each in his way, as briſk as he?
For muſic, grant the head receive it;
It is the artiſt's hand that gave it.
And though the ſkull may wear the laurel;
The ſoldier's arm maintains the quarrel.
Beſides, the noſtrils, ears and eyes
Are not his parts, but his allies.
Ev'n what you hear the tongue proclaim,
Comes, ab origine, from them.
What could the head perform alone,
If all their friendly aids were gone?
A fooliſh figure he muſt make;
Do nothing elſe, but ſleep and ake.
Nor matters it, that you can ſhow,
How to the head the ſpirits go.
Thoſe ſpirits ſtarted from ſome goal,
Before they thro' the veins could roll.
Now we ſhould hold them much to blame,
If they went back, before they came.
If, therefore, as we muſt ſuppoſe,
They came from fingers, and from toes;
Or toes, or fingers, in this caſe,
Of Num-ſcull's ſelf ſhould take the place.
Diſputing fair, you grant thus much,
That all ſenſation is but touch.
Dip but your toes into cold water,
Their correſpondent teeth will chatter;
And ſtrike the bottom of your feet,
You ſet your head into, a heat.
[210]The bully beat, and happy lover,
Confeſs, that feeling lies all over.
Note here, Lucretius dares to teach
(As all our youth may learn from Creech)
That eyes were made, but could not view;
Nor hands embrace, nor feet purſue:
But heedleſs nature did produce
The members firſt, and then the uſe.
What each muſt act was yet unknown;
Till all is mov'd by chance alone.
A man firſt builds a country ſeat;
Then finds the walls not good to eat.
Another plants, and wond'ring ſees
Nor books, nor medals on his trees.
Yet poet and philoſopher
Was he, who durſt ſuch whims aver.
Bleſt, for his ſake, be human reaſon,
That came at all, tho' late, in ſeaſon.
But no man, ſure, e'er left his houſe,
And ſaddled Ball with thoughts ſo wild,
To bring a midwife to his ſpouſe,
Before he knew ſhe was with child.
And no man ever reapt his corn,
Or from the oven drew his bread,
Ere hinds and bakers yet were born,
That taught them both to ſow and knead.
Before they're aſk'd, can maids refuſe?
Can—Pray, ſays Dick hold in your muſe;
While you Pindaric truths rehearſe,
She hobbles in alternate verſe.
[211]Verſe? Mat. reply'd, is that my care?
Go on, quoth Richard; ſoft and fair.
This looks, friend Dick, as nature had
But exercis'd the Saleſman's trade;
As if ſhe haply had ſat down,
And cut out cloaths for half the town:
Then ſent them out to Monmouth-ſtreet,
To try what perſons they would fit.
But ev'ry free and licens'd taylor
Would in this Theſis find a failure.
Should whims like theſe his head perplex,
How could he work for either ſex?
His cloaths, as atoms might prevail,
Might fit a piſmire, or a whale.
No, no: he views, with ſtudious pleaſure,
Your ſhape, before he takes your meaſure.
For real Kate he made the boddice,
And not for an ideal goddeſs.
No error near his ſhop-board lurk'd:
He knew the folks for whom he work'd.
Still to their ſize he aim'd his ſkill:
Elſe, pr'ythee, who would pay his bill?
Next, Dick, if Chance herſelf ſhould vary;
Obſerve how matters would miſcarry:
Acroſs your eyes, friend, place your ſhoes;
Your ſpectacles upon your toes;
Then you and Memmius ſhall agree,
How nicely men would walk, or ſee.
But Wiſdom, peeviſh and croſs-grain'd,
Muſt be oppos'd, to be ſuſtain'd.
[212]And ſtill your knowledge will increaſe,
As you make other people's leſs.
In arms and ſcience 'tis the ſame:
Our rival's hurts create our fame.
At Faubert's, if diſputes ariſe
Among the champions for the prize;
To prove who gave the fairer butt,
John ſhews the chalks on Robert's coat.
So, for the honour of your book,
It tells, where other folks miſtook:
And, as their notions you confound,
Thoſe you invent get farther ground.
The commentators on old Ari⯑ſtotle ('tis urg'd) in judgment vary:
They to their own conceits have brought
The image of his gen'ral thought;
Juſt as the melancholy eye
Sees fleets and armies in the ſky;
And, to the poor apprentice ear,
The bell ſounds Whittington lord-May'r.
The conj'rer thus explains his ſcheme;
Thus ſpirits walk, and prophets dream.
North Britons, thus have ſecond ſight;
And Germans, free from gunſhot, fight.
Theodoret, and Origen,
And fifty other learned men,
Atteſt, that if their comments find
The traces of their maſter's mind;
Alma can ne'er decay or die:
This flatly t'other ſect deny,
[213]Simplicius, Theophraſt, Durand;
Great names, but hard in verſe to ſtand.
They wonder men ſhould have miſtook
The tenets of their maſter's book;
And hold, that Alma yields her breath,
O'ercome by age, and ſeiz'd by death.
Now which were wiſe? and which were fools?
Poor Alma ſits between two ſtools:
The more ſhe reads, the more perplext;
The comment ruining the text:
Now fears, now hopes her doubtful fate:
But, Richard, let her look to that—
Whilſt we our own affairs purſue.
Theſe diff'rent ſyſtems, old or new,
A man with half an eye may ſee
Were only form'd to diſagree.
Now, to bring things to fair concluſion,
And ſave much Chriſtian ink's effuſion;
Let me propoſe an healing ſcheme,
And ſail along the middle ſtream:
For, Dick, if we could reconcile
Old Ariſtotle with Gaſſendus?
How many would admire our toil?
And yet how few would comprehend us?
Here, Richard, let my ſcheme commence:
Oh! may my words be loſt in ſenſe;
While pleas'd Thalia deigns to write
The ſlips and bounds of Alma's flight.
My ſimple ſyſtem ſhall ſuppoſe,
That Alma enters at the toes;
[214]That then ſhe mounts by juſt degrees
Up to the ancles, legs, and knees:
Next, as the ſap of life does riſe,
She lends her vigor to the thighs;
And, all theſe under-regions paſt,
She neſtles ſomewhere near the waiſt;
Gives pain or pleaſure, grief or laughter,
As we ſhall ſhew at large hereafter.
Mature, if not improv'd by time,
Up to the heart ſhe loves to climb:
From thence, compell'd by craft and age,
She makes the head her lateſt ſtage.
From the feet upward to the head;
Pithy, and ſhort, ſays Dick; proceed.
Dick, this is not an idle notion:
Obſerve the progreſs of the motion:
Firſt I demonſtratively prove,
That feet were only made to move;
And legs deſire to come and go:
For they have nothing elſe to do.
Hence, long before the child can crawl,
He learns to kick, and wince, and ſprawl:
To hinder which, your midwife knows
To bind thoſe parts extremely cloſe;
Leſt Alma newly enter'd in,
And ſtunn'd at her own chriſt'ning's din,
Fearful of future grief and pain,
Sould ſilently ſneak out again.
Full piteous ſeems young Alma's caſe:
As in a luckleſs gameſter's place,
She would not play, yet muſt not paſs▪
[215]Again, as ſhe grows ſomething ſtronger,
And maſter's feet are ſwath'd no longer,
If in the night too oft he kicks,
Or ſhows his Loco-motive tricks;
Theſe firſt aſſaults fat Kate repays him,
When, half aſleep, ſhe overlays him.
Now mark, dear Richard, from the age
That children tread this wordly ſtage,
Broom-ſtaff or poker they beſtride,
And round the parlor love to ride;
Till thoughtful father's pious care
Provides his brood, next Smithfield fair,
With ſupplemental hobby-horſes:
And happy be their infant courſes!
Hence for ſome years they ne'er ſtand ſtill:
Their legs, you ſee, direct their will;
From opening morn till ſetting ſun,
Around the fields and woods they run:
They friſk, and dance, and leap, and play;
Nor heed what Friend or Snape can ſay.
To her next ſtage as Alma flies,
And likes, as I have ſaid, the thighs.
With ſympathetic power ſhe warms
Their good allies and friends, the arms;
While Betty dances on the green,
And Suſan is at ſchool-ball ſeen:
While John for nine-pins does declare;
And Roger loves to pitch the bar;
Both legs and arms ſpontaneous move:
Which was the thing I meant to prove.
[216]Another motion now ſhe makes:
O need I name the ſeat ſhe takes?
His thought quite chang'd the ſtripling finds;
The ſport and race no more he minds;
Neglected Tray and Pointer lie,
And covies unmoleſted fly.
Sudden the jocund plain he leaves;
And for the nymph in ſecret grieves.
In dying accents he complains
Of cruel fires, and raging pains.
The nymph too longs to be alone;
Leaves all the ſwains, and ſighs for one.
The nymph is warm'd with young deſire;
And feels, and dies to quench his fire.
They meet each evening in the grove:
Their parley but augments their love;
So to the prieſt their caſe they tell:
He ties the knot; and all goes well.
But, O my Muſe, juſt diſtance keep;
Thou art a maid, and muſt not peep.
In nine months time the boddice looſe,
And petticoats too ſhort, diſcloſe
That at this age the active mind
About the waiſt lies moſt confin'd;
And that young life, and quick'ning ſenſe
Spring from his influence darted thence.
So from the middle of the world
The Sun's prolific rays are hurl'd:
'Tis from that ſeat he darts thoſe beams
Which quicken earth with genial flames.
[217]Dick, who thus long had paſſive ſat,
Here ſtroak'd his chin, and cock'd his hat;
Then ſlapp'd his hand upon the board,
And thus the youth put in his word:
Love's advocates, ſweet fir, would find him
A higher place than you aſſign'd him.
Love's advocates, Dick, who are choſe?—
The poets, you may well ſuppoſe.
I'm ſorry, ſir, you have diſcarded
The men, with whom till now you herded.
Proſe-men alone for private ends,
I thought forſook their ancient friends.
"In cor ſtillavit," cries Lucretius;
If he may be allowed to teach us.
The ſelf-ſame thing ſoft Ovid ſays,
(A proper judge in ſuch a caſe.)
Horace, his phraſe is, "torret jecur;"
And happy was that curious ſpeaker.
Here Virgil too has plac'd this paſſion:
What ſignifies too long quotation?
In Ode and Epic plain the caſe is,
That love holds one of theſe two places.
Dick, without paſſion or reflection,
I'll ſtraight demoliſh this objection.
Firſt, poets, all the world agrees,
Write half to profit, half to pleaſe.
Matter and figure they produce;
For garniſh this, and that for uſe;
And, in the ſtructure of their feaſts,
They ſeek to feed, and pleaſe their gueſts:
[218]But one may balk this good intent,
And take things otherwiſe than meant.
Thus, if you dine with my lord-may'r,
Roaſt-beef, and ven'ſon, is your fare,
Thence you proceed to ſwan and buſtard,
And perſevere in tart, and cuſtard:
But Tulip-leaves, and Lemon-peel,
Help only to adorn the meal:
And painted flags, ſuperb and neat,
Proclaim you welcome to the treat.
The man of ſenſe his meat devours;
But only ſmells the peel and flow'rs;
And he muſt be an idle dreamer,
Who leaves the pie, and gnaws the ſtreamer.
That Cupid goes with bow and arrows,
And Venus keeps her coach and ſparrows,
Is all but emblem to acquaint one,
The ſon is ſharp, the mother wanton.
Such images have ſometimes ſhown
A myſtic ſenſe, but oftner none,
For who conceives, what bards deviſe,
That Heav'n is plac'd in Celia's eyes,
Or where's the ſenſe, direct and moral,
That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral?
Your Horace owns, he various writ,
As wild or ſober maggots bit;
And, where too much the poet ranted,
The ſage philoſopher recanted.
His grave Epiſtles may diſprove
The wanton Odes he made to love.
[219]Lucretius keeps a mighty pother
With Cupid, and his fancy'd mother:
Calls her great queen of earth and air,
Declares that winds and ſeas obey her;
And, while her honour he rehearſes,
Implores her to inſpire his verſes.
Yet, free from this poetic madneſs,
Next page he ſays in ſober ſadneſs,
That ſhe and all her fellow-gods
Sit idling in their high abodes,
Regardleſs of this world below,
Our health or hanging, weal or woe;
Nor once diſturb their heav'nly ſpirits
With Scapin's cheats, or Caeſar's merits.
Nor e'er can Latin poets prove,
Where lies the real ſeat of love.
Jecur they burn, and Cor they pierce,
As either beſt ſupplies their verſe;
And, if folks aſk the reaſon for't,
Say, one was long, and t'other ſhort.
Thus, I preſume, the Britiſh Muſe
May take the freedom ſtrangers uſe.
In proſe our property is greater,
Why ſhould it then be leſs in metre?
If Cupid throws a ſingle dart,
We make him wound the lover's heart;
But, if he takes his bow and quiver,
'Tis ſure, he muſt transfix the Liver:
For rhime with reaſon may diſpenſe;
And ſound has right to govern ſenſe.
[220]But let your friends in verſe ſuppoſe,
What ne'er ſhall be allow'd in proſe;
Anatomiſts can make it clear,
The Liver minds his own affair;
Kindly ſupplies our public uſes,
And parts and ſtrains the vital juices;
Still lays ſome uſeful bile aſide,
To tinge the chyle's inſipid tide:
Elſe we ſhould want both gibe and ſatyr;
And all be burſt with pure good-nature.
Now gall is bitter with a witneſs:
And love is all delight and ſweetneſs.
My logic then has loſt its aim,
If ſweet and bitter be the ſame:
And he, methinks, is no great ſcholar,
Who can miſtake deſire for choler.
The like may of the Heart be ſaid:
Courage and terror there are bred.
All thoſe whoſe hearts are looſe and low,
Start, if they hear but the Tattoo:
And mighty phyſical their fear is;
For, ſoon as noiſe of combat near is,
Their heart, deſcending to their breeches,
Muſt give their ſtomach cruel twitches.
But heroes who o'ercome or die,
Have their hearts hung extremely high;
The ſtrings of which, in battles heat,
Againſt their very Corſlets beat;
Keep time with their own trumpet's meaſure,
And yield 'em moſt exceſſive pleaſure.
[221]Now if 'tis chiefly in the heart,
That courage does itſelf exert;
'Twill be prodigious hard to prove,
That this is eke the throne of love.
Would nature make one place the ſeat
Of fond deſire, and fell debate?
Moſt people only take delight in
Thoſe hours, when they are tir'd with fighting:
And has no man but who has kill'd
A father, right to get a child?
Theſe notions then I think but idle;
And love ſhall ſtill poſſeſs the middle.
This truth more plainly to diſcover,
Suppoſe your hero were a lover.
Tho' he before had gall and rage,
Which death, or conqueſt, muſt aſſwage;
He grows diſpirited and low:
He hates the fight, and ſhuns the foe.
In ſcornful ſloth Achilles ſlept;
And for his wench, like Tall-Boy, wept:
Nor would return to war and ſlaughter,
Till they brought back the parſon's daughter.
Antonius fled from Actium's coaſt,
Auguſtus preſſing, Aſia loſt:
His ſails by Cupid's hand unfurl'd,
To keep the fair, he gave the world.
Edward our Fourth, rever'd and crown'd,
Vig'rous in youth, in arms renown'd;
While England's voice, and Warwick's care
Deſign'd him Gallia's beauteous heir;
[222]Chang'd peace and pow'r for rage and wars,
Only to dry one widow's tears.
France's Fourth Henry we may ſee,
A ſervant to the ſair D'Eſtree;
When quitting Coutras proſp'rous field,
And fortune taught at length to yield,
He from his guards and mid-night tent,
Diſguis'd, o'er hills and vallies went,
To wanton with the ſprightly dame;
And in his pleaſure loſt his fame.
Bold is the critic, who dares prove
Theſe heroes were no friends to love;
And bolder he, who dares aver,
That they were enemies to war.
Yet, when their thought ſhould, now or never,
Have rais'd their Heart, or fir'd their Liver;
Fond Alma to thoſe parts was gone,
Which love more juſtly calls his own.
Examples I could cite you more;
But be contented with theſe ſour;
For when one's proofs are aptly choſen,
Four are as valid as four dozen.
One came from Greece, and one from Rome;
The other two grew nearer home.
For ſome in ancient books delight,
Others prefer what moderns write;
Now I ſhould be extremely loth,
Not to be thought expert in both.

CANTO II.[223]BUT ſhall we take the Muſe abroad,
To drop her idly on the road:
And leave our ſubject in the middle,
As Butler did his Bear and Fiddle?
Yet he, conſummate maſter, knew
When to recede, and where purſue:
His noble negligences teach,
What others toils deſpair to reach.
He, perfect dancer, climbs the rope,
And balances your fear and hope:
If, after ſome diſtinguiſh'd leap,
He drops his pole, and ſeems to ſlip;
Straight gathering all his active ſtrength,
He riſes higher half his length:
With wonder you approve his ſlight,
And owe your pleaſure to your fright.
But like poor Andrew I advance,
Falſe mimic of my maſter's dance;
Around the cord awhile I ſprawl;
And thence, tho' low, in earneſt fall.
My preface tells you, I digreſs'd:
He's half abſolv'd who has confeſs'd.
I like, quoth Dick, your ſimile;
And, in return, take two from me.
As maſters in the Clare obſcure,
With various light your eyes allure:
[224]A flaming yellow here they ſpread;
Draw off in blue, or change in red:
Yet from theſe colours oddly mix'd,
Your ſight upon the whole is fix'd.
Or as, again, your courtly dames]
(Whoſe cloaths returning birth-day claims)
By arts improve the ſtuffs they vary;
And things are beſt as moſt contrary.
The gown with ſtiff embroid'ry ſhining,
Looks charming with a ſlighter lining:
The out-, if Indian figure ſtain,
The in-ſide muſt be rich and plain.
So you, great authors, have thought fit,
To make digreſſion temper wit:
When arguments too fiercely glare,
You calm 'em with a milder air:
To break their points, you turn their force;
And Furbelow the plain diſcourſe.
Richard, quoth Mat, theſe words of thine
Speak ſomething ſly, and ſomething fine:
But I ſhall e'en reſume my theme;
However thou may'ſt praiſe, or blame.
As people marry now, and ſettle;
Fierce love abates his uſual mettle:
Worldly deſires, and houſhold cares,
Diſturb the godhead's ſoft affairs:
So now, as health or temper changes,
In larger compaſs Alma ranges,
This day below, the next above;
As light or ſolid whimſies move.
[225]So merchant has his houſe in town,
And country ſeat near Banſted-Down:
From one he dates his foreign letters,
Sends out his goods, and duns his debtors:
In t'other, at his hours of leiſure,
He ſmokes his pipe, and takes his pleaſure.
And now your matrimonial Cupid,
Laſh'd on by time, grows tir'd and ſtupid.
For ſtory and experience tell us,
That man grows old, and woman jealous.
Both would their little ends ſecure:
He ſighs for freedom, ſhe for pow'r.
His wiſhes tend abroad to roam;
And her's, to domineer at home.
Thus paſſion flags by ſlow degrees;
And ruffled more, delighted leſs,
The buſy mind does ſeldom go
To thoſe once charming ſeats below;
But, in the breaſt incamp'd, prepares
For well bred feints, and future wars.
The man ſuſpects his lady's crying
(When he laſt autumn lay a dying)
Was but to gain him to appoint her,
By codicil, a larger jointure.
The woman finds it all a trick,
That he could ſwoon, when ſhe was ſick;
And knows, that in that grief he reckon'd
On black-ey'd Suſan for his ſecond.
Thus having ſtrove ſome tedious years
With feign'd deſires, and real fears;
[226]And tir'd with anſwers and replies,
Of John affirms, and Martha lies;
Leaving this endleſs altercation,
The mind affects a higher ſtation.
Poltis, that gen'rous king of Thrace,
I think, was in this very caſe.
All Aſia now was by the ears,
And Gods beat up for volunteers
To Greece, and Troy; while Poltis ſat
In quiet governing his ſtate.
And whence, ſaid the pacific king,
Does all this noiſe and diſcord ſpring?
Why, Paris took Atrides' wife—
With eaſe I could compoſe this ſtrife:
The injur'd hero ſhould not loſe,
Nor the young lover want a ſpouſe:
But Helen chang'd her firſt condition,
Without her huſband's juſt permiſſion.
What from the dame can Paris hope?
She may as well from him elope.
Again, how can her old good man
With honour take her back again?
From hence I logically gather,
The woman cannot live with either.
Now I have two right honeſt wives,
For whoſe poſſeſſion no man ſtrives:
One to Atrides I will ſend;
And t'other to my Trojan friend.
Each prince ſhall thus with honour have,
What both ſo warmly ſeem to crave:
[227]The wrath of gods and men ſhall ceaſe;
And Poltis live and die in peace.
Dick, if this ſtory pleaſeth thee,
Pray thank Dan Pope, who told it me.
Howe'er ſwift Alma's flight may vary,
(Take this by way of Carollary:)
Some limbs ſhe finds the very ſame,
In place, and dignity, and name:
Theſe dwell at ſuch convenient diſtance,
That each can give his friend aſſiſtance.
Thus he who runs or dances, begs
The equal vigor of two legs;
So much to both does Alma truſt,
She ne'er regards which goes the firſt.
Teague could make neither of them ſtay,
When with himſelf he ran away.
The man who ſtruggles in the fight,
Fatigues left arm as well as right;
For whilſt one hand exalts the blow,
And on the earth extends the foe;
T'other would take it wond'rous ill,
If in your pocket he lay ſtill.
And when you ſhoot, and ſhut one eye,
You cannot think he would deny
To lend the t'other friendly aid,
Or wink, as coward, and afraid.
No, ſir; whilſt he withdraws his flame,
His comrade takes the ſurer aim:
One moment if his beams recede,
As ſoon as e'er the bird is dead,
[228]Opening again, he lays his claim
To half the profit, half the fame;
And helps to pocket up the game.
'Tis thus, one tradeſman ſlips away,
To give his partner fairer play.
Some limbs again, in bulk or ſtature
Unlike, and not a-kin by nature,
In concert act, like modern friends;
Becauſe one ſerves the t'other's ends.
The arm thus waits upon the heart,
So quick to take the bully's part,
That one, tho' warm, decides more ſlow
Than t'other executes the blow;
A ſtander-by may chance to have it,
Ere Hack himſelf perceives he gave it.
The am'rous eyes thus always go
A-ſtrolling for their friends below:
For long before the 'ſquire and dame
Have tête à tête reliev'd their flame;
Ere viſits yet are brought about,
The eye by ſympathy looks out;
Knows Florimel, and longs to meet her;
And, if he ſees, is ſure to greet her,
Tho' at ſaſh-window, on the ſtairs,
At court, nay (authors ſay) at pray'rs.
The funeral of ſome valiant knight
May give this thing its proper light.
View his two gantlets; theſe declare
That both his hands were us'd to war.
And from his two gilt ſpurs 'tis learn'd,
His feet were equally concern'd.
[229]But have you not with thought beheld
The ſword hang dangling o'er the ſhield?
Which ſhows the breaſt that plate was us'd to,
Had an ally right arm to truſt to:
And by the peep-holes in his creſt,
Is it not virtually confeſt,
That there his eyes took diſtant aim,
And glanc'd reſpect to that bright dame,
In whoſe delight his hope was center'd,
And for whoſe glove his life he ventur'd?
Objections to my general ſyſtem
May riſe, perhaps; and I have miſt them:
But I can call to my aſſiſtance
Proximity (mark that!) and diſtance:
Can prove, that all things, on occaſion,
Love union, and deſire adheſion;
That Alma merely is a ſcale;
And motives, like the weights, prevail.
If neither ſide turn down or up,
With loſs or gain, with fear or hope;
The balance always would hang ev'n,
Like Mah'met's tomb, 'twixt earth and heav'n.
This, Richard, is a curious caſe:
Suppoſe your eyes ſent equal rays
Upon two diſtant pots of ale,
Not knowing which was mild, or ſtale:
In this ſad ſtate your doubtful choice
Would never have the caſting voice:
Which beſt or worſt you could not think;
And die you muſt, for want of drink;
[230]Unleſs ſome chance inclines your ſight,
Setting one pot in fairer light;
Then you prefer or A, or B,
As lines and angles beſt agree:
Your ſenſe reſolv'd impells your will:
She guides your hand,—So drink your fill.
Have you not ſeen a baker's maid
Between two equal panniers ſway'd;
Her tallies uſeleſs lie, and idle,
If plac'd exactly in the middle:
But forc'd from this unactive ſtate,
By virtue of ſome caſual weight;
On either ſide you hear 'em clatter,
And judge of right and left-hand matter.
Now, Richard, this coercive force,
Without your choice, muſt take its courſe.
Great kings to wars are pointed forth,
Like loaded needles to the north:
And thou and I, by pow'r unſeen,
Are barely paſſive, and ſuck'd in
To Henault's vaults, or Celia's chamber,
As ſtraw and paper are by amber.
If we ſit down to play or ſet
(Suppoſe at Ombre or Baſſet)
Let people call us cheats or fools;
Our cards and we are equal tools.
We ſure in vain the cards condemn:
Ourſelves both cut and ſhuffle them.
In vain on Fortune's aid rely:
She only is a ſtander-by.
[231]Poor men! poor papers! we and they
Do ſome impulſive force obey:
And are but play'd with—do not play.
But ſpace and matter we ſhou'd blame;
They palm'd the trick that loſt the game.
Thus, to ſave further contradiction
Againſt what you may think but fiction;
I for attraction, Dick, declare:
Deny it thoſe bold men that dare.
As well your motion, as your thought,
Is all by hidden impulſe wrought:
Ev'n ſaying, that you think or walk,
How like a country 'ſquire you talk!
Mark then;—Where fancy or deſire
Collects the beams of vital fire,
Into that limb fair Alma ſlides,
And there, pro tempore, reſides.
She dwells in Nicholini's tongue,
When Pyrrhus chants the heav'nly ſong.
When Pedro does the lute command,
She guides the cunning artiſt's hand.
Thro' Macer's gullet ſhe runs down,
When the vile glutton dines alone:
And, void of modeſty and thought,
She follow's Bibo's endleſs draught.
Thro' the ſoft ſex again ſhe ranges,
As youth, caprice, or faſhion changes.
Fair Alma, careleſs and ſerene,
In Fanny's ſprightly eyes is ſeen,
While they diffuſe their infant beams,
Themſelves not conſcious of their flames.
[232]Again fair Alma ſits confeſt
On Florimel's experter breaſt;
When ſhe the riſing ſigh conſtrains,
And, by concealing, ſpeaks her pains.
In Cynthia's neck fair Alma glows,
When the vain thing her jewels ſhows:
When Jenny's ſtays are newly lac'd,
Fair Alma plays about her waiſt;
And, when the ſwelling hoop ſuſtains
The rich brocade, fair Alma deigns
Into that lower ſphere to enter,
Of the large round, herſelf the centre.
Again: that ſingle limb or feature
(Such is the cogent force of nature)
Which moſt did Alma's paſſion move,
In the firſt object of her love,
For ever will be found confeſt,
And printed on the am'rous breaſt.
O Abelard, ill-fated youth,
Thy tale will juſtify this truth:
But well I weet, that cruel wrong
Adorns a nobler poet's ſong.
Dan Pope for thy misfortune griev'd;
With kind concern and ſkill has weav'd
A ſilken web; and ne'er ſhall fade
Its colours, gently as he laid
The mantle o'er thy ſad diſtreſs;
And Venus ſhall the texture bleſs.
He o'er the weeping nun has drawn
Such artful folds of ſacred lawn,
[233]That love, with equal grief and pride,
Shall ſee the crime he ſtrives to hide;
And, ſoftly drawing back the veil,
The god ſhall to his vot'ries tell
Each conſcious tear, each bluſhing grace,
That deck'd dear Eloiſa's face.
Happy the poet, bleſs'd the lays,
That Buckingham has deign'd to praiſe.
Next, Dick, as youth and habit ſways,
A hundred gambols Alma plays.
If, whilſt a boy, Jack ran from ſchool,
Fond of his hunting-horn, and pole;
Tho' gout and age his ſpeed detain,
Old John halloos his hounds again;
By his fire-ſide he ſtarts the hare,
And turns her in his wicker chair:
His feet, however lame, you find,
Have got the better of his mind.
If, while the Mind was in her leg,
The dance affected nimble Peg;
Old Madge, bewitch'd at ſixty-one,
Calls for Green Sleeves, and Jumping Joan.
In public maſk, or private ball,
From Lincoln's-inn, to Goldſmiths-hall,
All Chriſtmaſs long away ſhe trudges;
Trips it with 'prentices, and judges:
In vain her children urge her ſtay,
And age or palſey bar the way.
But if thoſe images prevail,
Which whilom did affect the tail.
[234]She ſtill renews the ancient ſcene,
Forgets the forty years between;
Aukwardly gay, and oddly merry,
Her ſcarf pale pink, her head-knot cherry;
O'erheated with ideal rage,
She cheats her ſon, to wed her page.
If Alma, whilſt the man was young,
Slipp'd up too ſoon into his tongue;
Pleas'd with his own fantaſtic ſkill,
He lets that weapon ne'er lie ſtill:
On any point if you diſpute;
Depend upon it, he'll confute:
Change ſides; and you increaſe your pain:
For he'll confute you back again.
For one may ſpeak with Tully's tongue;
Yet all the while be in the wrong.
And 'tis remarkable, that they
Talk moſt, who have the leaſt to ſay.
Your dainty ſpeakers have the curſe,
To plead bad cauſes down to worſe;
As dames, who native beauty want,
Still uglier look, the more they paint.
Again: if in the female ſex,
Alma ſhould on this member fix;
(A cruel and a deſp'rate caſe,
From which Heav'n ſhield my lovely laſs!)
For evermore all care is vain,
That would bring Alma down again.
As in habitual gout, or ſtone,
The only thing that can be done,
[235]Is to correct your drink and diet,
And keep the inward foe in quiet:
So, if for any ſin of ours,
Or our forefathers, higher powers,
Severe tho' juſt, afflict our life
With that prime ill, a talking wife;
Till death ſhall bring the kind relief,
We muſt be patient, or be deaf.
You know a certain lady, Dick,
Who ſaw me when I laſt was ſick:
She kindly talk'd, at leaſt three hours,
Of Plaſtic forms, and Mental pow'rs;
Deſcrib'd our pre-exiſting ſtation
Before this vile terrene creation:
And, leſt I ſhould be weary'd, Madam,
To cut things ſhort, came down to Adam;
From whence, as faſt as ſhe was able,
She drowns the world, and builds up Babel;
Thro' Syria, Perſia, Greece, ſhe goes;
And takes the Romans in the cloſe.
But we'll deſcant on gen'ral nature:
This is a ſyſtem; not a ſatyr.
Turn we this globe; and let us ſee
How diff'rent nations diſagree,
In what we wear, or eat and drink;
Nay, Dick, perhaps in what we think.
In water as you ſmell and taſte
The ſoils thro' which it roſe and paſt;
In Alma's manners you may read
The place where ſhe was born and bred.
[236]One people from their ſwaddling bands
Releas'd their infants' feet and hands:
Here Alma to theſe limbs was brought;
And Sparta's offspring kick'd and fought.
Another taught their babes to talk,
Ere they could yet in goe-carts walk;
There Alma ſettled in the tongue;
And orators from Athens ſprung.
Obſerve but in theſe neighb'ring lands,
The diff'rent uſe of mouths and hands;
As men repos'd their various hopes;
In battles theſe, and thoſe in tropes.
In Britain's iſles, as Heylin notes,
The ladies trip in petticoats;
Which, for the honour of their nation,
They quit but on ſome great occaſion.
Men there in breeches clad you view:
They claim that garment, as their due.
In Turkey the reverſe appears;
Long coats the haughty huſband wears;
And greets his wife with angry ſpeeches,
If ſhe be ſeen without her breeches.
In our fantaſtic climes, the fair
With cleanly powder dry their hair:
And round their lovely breaſt and head
Freſh flow'rs their mingled odors ſhed.
Your nicer Hottentots think meet,
With tripe and guts to deck their feet:
With downcaſt looks on Totta's legs,
The ogling youth moſt humbly begs,
[237]She would not from his hopes remove
At once his breakfaſt and his love:
And, if the ſkittiſh nymph ſhould fly,
He in a double ſenſe muſt die.
We ſimple Toaſters take delight
To ſee our women's teeth look white,
And every ſaucy, ill-bred fellow,
Sneers at a mouth profoundly yellow.
In China none hold women ſweet,
Except their ſnaggs are black as jett.
King Chihu put nine queens to death,
Convict on ſtatute, Iv'ry Teeth.
At Tonquin, if a prince ſhou'd die
(As Jeſuits write, who never lye)
The wife, and counſellor, and prieſt,
Who ſerv'd him moſt, and lov'd him beſt,
Prepare, and light his fun'ral fire,
And chearful on the pile expire.
In Europe 'twould be hard to find,
In each degree, one half ſo kind.
Now turn we to the fartheſt eaſt,
And there obſerve the gentry dreſt;
Prince Giolo, and his royal ſiſters,
Scarr'd with ten thouſand comely bliſters.
The marks remaining on the ſkin,
To tell the quality within.
Diſtinguiſh'd ſlaſhes deck the great:
As each excels in birth, or ſtate,
His oylet-holes are more, and ampler;
The king's own body was a ſamplar.
[238]Happy the climate, where the beau
Wears the ſame ſuit for uſe, and ſhow;
And at a ſmall expence, your wife,
If once well pink'd, is cloath'd for life.
Weſtward, again, the Indian fair
Is nicely ſmear'd with fat of bear;
Before you ſee you ſmell your toaſt;
And ſweeteſt ſhe who ſtinks the moſt.
The fineſt ſparks, and cleanlieſt beaux,
Drip from the ſhoulders to the toes.
How ſleek their ſkins! their joints how eaſy!
There ſlovens only are not greaſy.
I mention'd different ways of breeding;
Begin we in our children's reading.
To maſter John the Engliſh maid
A hornbook gives, of ginger-bread:
And, that the child may learn the better,
As he can name, he eats the letter:
Proceeding thus with vaſt delight,
He ſpells, and knaws, from left to right.
But ſhew a Hebrew's hopeful ſon,
Where we ſuppoſe the book begun,
The child would thank you for your kindneſs,
And read quite backward from our Finis:
Devour he learning ne'er ſo faſt,
Great A will be reſerv'd the laſt.
An equal inſtance of this matter,
Is in the manners of a daughter.
In Europe, if a harmleſs maid,
By nature and by love betray'd,
[239]Should, ere a wife, become a nurſe,
Her friends would look on her the worſe.
In China, Dampier's travels tell ye,
(Look in his index for Pagelli)
Soon as the Britiſh ſhips unmoore,
And jolly long-boat rows to ſhore,
Down comes the nobles of the land;
Each brings his daughter in his hand,
Beſeeching the imperious tar
To make her but one hour his care.
The tender mother ſtands affrighted,
Leſt her dear daughter ſhould be ſlighted;
And poor miſs Yaya dreads the ſhame
Of going back the maid ſhe came.
Obſerve how cuſtom, Dick, compels
The lady that in Europe dwells:
After her tea ſhe ſlips away;
And what to do one need not ſay.
Now ſee how great Pomonque's queen
Behav'd herſelf among the men:
Pleas'd with her punch, the gallant ſoul
Firſt drank, then water'd in the bowl;
And ſprinkled in the captain's face
The marks of her peculiar grace—
To cloſe this point, we need not roam,
For inſtances, ſo far from home.
What parts gay France from ſober Spain?
A little riſing, rocky chain.
Of men born ſouth or north o' th' hill,
Thoſe ſeldom move, theſe ne'er ſtand ſtill.
[240]Dick, you love maps, and may perceive
Rome not far diſtant from Geneve;
If the good pope remains at home,
He's the firſt prince in Chriſtendome.
Chooſe then, good pope, at home to ſtay;
Nor weſtward curious take thy way:
Thy way unhappy ſhould'ſt thou take,
From Tiber's bank to Leman-Lake;
Thou art an aged prieſt no more,
But a young, flaring, painted whore;
Thy ſex is loſt; thy town is gone;
No longer Rome, but Babylon.
That ſome few leagues ſhould make this change,
To men unlearn'd ſeems mighty ſtrange.
But need we, friend, inſiſt on this?
Since in the very Cantons Swiſs,
All your philoſophers agree,
And prove it plain, that one may be
A heretic, or true believer,
On this, or t'other ſide a river.
Here, with an artful ſmile, quoth Dick,
Your proofs come mighty full, and thick—,
The bard on this extenſive chapter,
Wound up into poetic rapture,
Continu'd: Richard, call your eye
By night upon a winter ſky:
Caſt it by day-light on the ſtrand
Which compaſſes fair Albion's land:
If you can count the ſtars that glow
Above, or ſands that lie below;
[241]Into theſe common-places look,
Which from great authors I have took;
And count the proofs I have collected,
To have my writings well protected.
Theſe I ſay by for time of need;
And thou may'ſt at thy leiſure read.
For, ſtanding every critic's rage,
I ſafely will to future age
My Syſtem, as a gift, bequeath,
Victorious over ſpight, and death.

CANTO III.[242]RICHARD, who now was half a-ſleep,
Rous'd, nor would longer ſilence keep:
And ſenſe like this, in vocal breath
Broke from his two-fold hedge of teeth,
Now if this phraſe too harſh be thought,
Pope, tell the world 'tis not my fault.
Old Homer taught us thus to ſpeak;
If 'tis not ſenſe, at leaſt 'tis Greek.
As folks, quoth Richard, prone to leaſing,
Say things at firſt, becauſe they're pleaſing;
Then prove what they have once aſſerted;
Nor care to have their lye deſerted:
Till their own dreams at length deceive 'em;
And oft repeating, they believe 'em:
Or as, again, thoſe amorous blades,
Who trifle with their mother's maids;
Tho', at the firſt, their wild deſire
Was but to quench a preſent fire:
Yet if the object of their love
Chance, by Lucina's aid to prove;
They ſeldom let the bantling roar
In baſket, at a neighbour's door:
But by the flatt'ring glaſs of nature,
Viewing themſelves in Cakebread's feature;
With ſerious thought and care ſupport,
What only was begun in ſport.
[243]Juſt ſo with you, my friend, it fares,
Who deal in philoſophic wares;
Atoms you cut, and forms you meaſure,
To gratify your private pleaſure;
Till airy ſeeds of caſual wit
Do ſome fantaſtic birth beget;
And, pleas'd to find your ſyſtem mended
Beyond what you at firſt intended,
The happy whimſey you purſue,
Till you at length believe it true.
Caught by your own deluſive art,
You fancy firſt, and then aſſert.
Quoth Matthew: Friend, as far as I
Thro' art or nature caſt my eye,
This axiom clearly I diſcern,
That one muſt teach, and t'other learn.
No fool Pythagoras was thought:
Whilſt he his weighty doctrines taught,
He made his liſt'ning ſcholars ſtand,
Their mouth ſtill cover'd with their hand;
Elſe, may be, ſome odd-thinking youth,
Leſs friend to doctrine than to truth,
Might have refus'd to let his ears
Attend the muſic of the ſpheres;
Deny'd all tranſmigrating ſcenes,
And introduc'd the uſe of beans.
From great Lucretius take his void,
And all the world is quite deſtroyed.
Deny Des-cart his ſubtil matter,
You leave him neither fire nor water.
[244]How oddly would Sir Iſaac look,
If you, in anſwer to his book,
Say in the front of your diſcourſe,
That things have no Elaſtic force?
How could our Chymic friends go on,
To find the philoſopbic ſtone,
If you more pow'rful reaſons bring
To prove that there is no ſuch thing?
Your chiefs in ſciences and arts,
Have great contempt of Alma's parts.
They find ſhe giddy is, or dull;
She doubts, if things are void, or full:
And who ſhould be preſum'd to tell,
What ſhe herſelf ſhould ſee, or feel?
She doubts if two and two make four,
Tho' ſhe has told them ten times o'er.
It can't—it may be—and it muſt:
To which of theſe muſt Alma truſt?
Nay, further yet they make her go,
In doubting, if ſhe doubts, or no.
Can Syllogiſm ſet things right?
No: majors ſoon with Minors fight;
Or, both in friendly conſort join'd,
The conſequence limps falſe behind.
So to ſome cunning-man ſhe goes,
And aſks of him, how much ſhe knows.
With patience grave he hears her ſpeak;
And from his ſhort notes gives her back
What from her tale he comprehended:
Thus the diſpute is wiſely ended.
[245]From the account the loſer brings,
The conj'ror knows, who ſtole the things.
'Squire (interrupted Dick) ſince when
Were you amongſt theſe cunning-men?
Dear Dick, quoth Mat, let not thy force
Of eloquence, ſpoil my diſcourſe.
I tell thee, this is Alma's caſe,
Still aſking, what ſome wiſe-man ſays,
Who does his mind in words reveal,
Which all muſt gra [...] tho' few can ſpell.
You tell your do [...]r that y' are ill;
And what does he, but write a bill,
Of which you need not read one letter?
The worſe the ſcrawl, the doſe the better;
For if you knew but what you take,
Tho' you recover, he muſt break.
Ideas, Forms, and Intellects,
Have furniſh'd out three diff'rent ſects.
Subſtance, or Accident, divides
All Europe into adverſe ſides.
Now, as engag'd in arms or laws,
You muſt have friends to back your cauſe:
In Philoſophic matters ſo
Your judgment muſt with others' go.
For as in ſenates, ſo in ſchools,
Majority of voices rules.
Poor Alma, like a lonely deer,
O'er hills and dales does doubtful err:
With panting haſte, and quick ſurpriſe,
From ev'ry leaf that ſtirs, ſhe flies:
[246]Till mingled with the neighb'ring herd,
She ſlights what erſt ſhe ſingly fear'd,
And now, exempt from doubt and dread,
She dares purſue, if they dare lead:
As their example ſtill prevails,
She tempts the ſtream, or leaps the pales.
He then, quoth Dick, who by your rule
Thinks for himſelf, becomes a fool.
As party-man who leaves the reſt,
Is call'd but Whimſical at beſt.
Now, by your favour, maſter Mat,
Like Ralpho, here I ſmell a rat.
I muſt be liſted in your ſect;
Who, tho' they teach not, can protect.
Right, Richard, Mat. in triumph cry'd:
So put off all miſtruſt and pride.
And, while my principles I beg,
Pray anſwer only with your leg.
Believe what friendly I adviſe:
Be firſt ſecure; and then be wiſe.
The man within the coach that ſits,
And to another's ſkill ſubmits,
Is ſafer much (whate'er arrives)
And warmer too, than he that drives.
So, Dick Adept, tuck back thy hair,
And I will pour into thy ear
Remarks, which none did e'er diſcloſe,
In ſmooth-pac'd verſe, or hobbling proſe.
Attend, dear Dick; but don't reply:
And thou may'ſt prove as wiſe as I.
[247]When Alma, now, in diff'rent ages,
Has finiſh'd her aſcending ſtages;
Into the head at length ſhe gets,
And there in public grandeur ſits,
To judge of things, and cenſure wits.
Here, Richard, how could I explain,
The various lab'rinths of the brain?
Surpriſe my readers, whilſt I tell 'em
Of Cerebrum and Cerebellum?
How could I play the commentator
On Dura and on Pia Mater?
Where hot and cold, and dry and wet,
Strive each the other's place to get;
And, with inceſſant toil and ſtrife,
Would keep poſſeſſion during life.
I could demonſtrate every pore,
Where mem'ry lays up all her ſtore;
And to an inch compute the ſtation,
'Twixt judgment and imagination.
O friend! I could diſplay much learning,
At leaſt to men of ſmall diſcerning.
The brain contains ten thouſand cells:
In each ſome active fancy dwells;
Which always is at work, and framing
The ſeveral follies I was naming.
As in a hive's vimineous dome,
Ten thouſand bees enjoy their home;
Each does her ſtudious actions vary,
To go and come, to fetch and carry.
Each ſtill renews her little labour,
Nor juſtles her aſſiduous neighbour:
[248]Each—whilſt this theſis I maintain,
I fancy, Dick, I know thy brain.
O with the mighty theme affected,
Could I but ſee thy head diſſected?
My head, quoth Dick, to ſerve your whim?
Spare that, and take ſome other limb.
Sir, in your nice affairs of ſyſtem,
Wiſe men propoſe; but fools aſſiſt 'em.
Says Matthew: Richard, keep thy head,
And hold thy peace; and I'll proceed.
Proceed? quoth Dick: ſir, I aver,
You have already gone too far.
When people once are in the wrong,
Each line they add, is much too long.
Who faſteſt walks, but walks aſtray,
Is only furtheſt from his way.
Bleſs your conceits! muſt I believe,
Howe'er abſurd, what you conceive;
And, for your friendſhip, live and die
A Papiſt in philoſophy:
I ſay, whatever you maintain,
Of Alma in the heart, or brain;
The plaineſt man alive may tell ye,
Her ſeat of empire is the belly:
From hence ſhe ſends out thoſe ſupplies,
Which makes us, either ſtout or wiſe:
The ſtrength of ev'ry other member
Is founded on your belly-timber:
The qualms or raptures of your blood
Riſe in proportion to your food:
[249]And, if you would improve your thought,
You muſt be fed, as well as taught.
Your ſtomach makes your fabric roll;
Juſt as the bias rules the bowl.
That great Achilles might employ
The ſtrength deſign'd to ruin Troy;
He din'd on lion's marrow, ſpread
On toaſts of ammunition-bread:
But by his mother ſent away,
Amongſt the Thracian girls to play,
Effeminate he ſat, and quiet:
Strange product of a cheeſe-cake diet!
Now give my argument fair play;
And take the thing the other way:
The youngſter, who at nine and three
Drinks with his ſiſters milk and tea,
From breakfaſt reads till twelve o'clock,
Burnet and Heylin, Hobbes and Locke;
He pays due viſits after noon
To couſin Alice, and uncle John;
At ten, from coffee-houſe or play
Returning, finiſhes the day.
But give him port, and potent ſack;
From Milk-ſop he ſtarts up Mohack:
Holds that the happy know no hours;
So thro' the ſtreet at midnight ſcow'rs:
Breaks watchmen's heads and chairmen's glaſſes;
And thence proceeds to nicking ſaſhes:
Till by ſome tougher hand o'ercome,
And firſt knock'd down, and then led home;
[250]He damns the footman, ſtrikes the maid,
And decently reels up to bed.
Obſerve the various operations
Of food and drink in ſeveral nations.
Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel
Upon the ſtrength of water-gruel?
But who ſhall ſtand his rage and force,
If firſt he rides, then eats his horſe?
Sallads, and eggs, and lighter fare,
Tune the Italian ſpark's guitar.
And, if I take Dan Congreve right,
Pudding and beef make Britons fight.
Tokay and coffee cauſe this work
Between the German and the Turk:
And both, as they proviſions want,
Chicane, avoid, retire, and faint.
Hunger and thirſt, or guns and ſwords
Give the ſame death in diff'rent words.
To puſh this argument no further;
To ſtarve a man, in law, is murder.
As in a Watch's fine machine,
Tho' many artful ſprings are ſeen;
The added movements which declare
How full the moon, how old the year,
Derive their ſecondary pow'r
From that which ſimply points the hour,
For, tho' thoſe gim-cracks were away
(Quare would not ſwear; but Quare would ſay)
However more reduc'd and plain,
The watch would ſtill a watch remain:
[251]But if the Horal orbite ceaſes,
The whole ſtands ſtill, or breaks to pieces;
Is now no longer what it was;
And you may e'en go ſell the caſe:
So if, unprejudic'd you ſcan
The goings of this clock-work, Man;
You find a hundred movements made
By fine devices in his head:
But 'tis the ſtomach's ſolid ſtroke,
That tells his being what's o'clock.
If you take off his Rhet'ric trigger,
He talks no more in mode and figure:
Or clog his Mathematic-wheel;
His buildings fall; his ſhips ſtand ſtill.
Or laſtly, break his Politic-weight;
His voice no longer rules the ſtate.
Yet if theſe finer whims were gone;
Your clock, tho' plain, would ſtill go on:
And ſpoil the engine of digeſtion,
And you entirely change the queſtion.
Alma's affairs no pow'r can mend;
The jeſt, alas! is at an end;
Soon ceaſes all this worldly buſtle;
And you conſign the corpſe to Ruſſel.
Now make your Alma come or go
From leg to hand, from top to toe;
Your ſyſtem, without my addition,
Is in a very ſad condition.
So Harlequin extoll'd his horſe,
Fit for the war, or road, or courſe;
[252]His mouth was ſoft; his eye was good;
His foot was ſure as ever trod:
One fault he had; a fault indeed;
And what was that? the horſe was dead.
Dick, from theſe inſtances and fetches,
Thou mak'ſt of horſes clocks and watches,
Quoth Mat, to me thou ſeem'ſt to mean,
That Alma is a mere Machine:
That telling others what's o'clock,
She knows not what herſelf has ſtruck;
But leaves to ſtanders-by the trial,
Of what is mark'd upon her dial.
Here hold a blow, good friend, quoth Dick,
And rais'd his voice exceeding quick.
Fight fair, Sir: what I never meant
Don't you infer. In argument
Similies are like ſongs in love:
They much deſcribe; they nothing prove.
Mat, who was here a little gravell'd,
Toſt up his noſe, and would have cavill'd:
But, calling Hermes to his aid,
Half pleas'd, half angry, thus he ſaid:
Where mind ('tis for the author's fame)
That Matthew call'd, and Hermes came.
In danger heroes, and in doubt
Poets, find gods to help 'em out.
Friend Richard, I begin to ſee,
That you and I ſhall ſcarce agree.
Obſerve how oddly you behave:
The more I grant, the more you crave.
[253]But, comrade, as I ſaid juſt now,
I ſhould affirm, and you allow.
We ſyſtem-makers can ſuſtain
The theſis which you grant was plain:
And with remarks and comments teaze ye;
In caſe the thing before was eaſy.
But in a point obſcure and dark,
We fight as Leibnits did with Clark;
And when no reaſon we can ſhow,
Why matters this or that way go,
The ſhorteſt way the thing we try,
And what we know not, we deny:
True to our own o'erbearing pride,
And falſe to all the world beſide.
That old philoſopher grew croſs,
Who could not tell what motion was:
Becauſe he walk'd againſt his will,
He fac'd down men that he ſtood ſtill:
And he who, reading on the heart,
(When all his Quidlibets of art
Could not expound its pulſe and heat)
Swore, he had never felt it beat.
Chryſippus, foil'd by Epicurus,
Makes bold (Jove bleſs him!) to aſſure us,
That all things which our mind can view,
May be at once both falſe and true.
And Mallbranch has an odd conceit,
As ever enter'd Frenchman's pate:
Says he, ſo little can our mind
Of matter, or of ſpirit find,
[254]That we by gueſs, at leaſt, may gather
Something, which may be both, or neither.
Faith, Dick, I muſt confeſs, 'tis true
(But this is only Entre Nous)
That many knotty points there are,
Which all diſcuſs, but few can clear:
As Nature ſlily had thought fit,
For ſome by-ends, to croſs-bite wit,
Circles to ſquare, and cubes to double,
Would give a man exceſſive trouble;
The longitude uncertain roams,
In ſpite of Whiſton and his bombs.
What ſyſtem, Dick, has right averr'd
The cauſe, why woman has no beard;
Or why, as years our frame attack,
Our hair grows white, our teeth grow black?
In points like theſe, we muſt agree,
Our barbers know as much as we.
Yet ſtill unable to explain,
We muſt perſiſt the beſt we can:
With care our ſyſtems ſtill renew,
And prove things likely, tho' not true.
I could, thou ſee'ſt, in quaint diſpute,
By dint of Logic, ſtrike the mute;
With learned ſkill, now puſh, now parry,
From Darii to Bocardo vary,
And never yield, or what is worſt,
Never conclude the point diſcours'd.
Yet, that you hic & nunc may know,
How much you to my candor owe;
[255]I'll from the diſputant deſcend,
To ſhow thee, I aſſume the friend:
I'll take thy notion for my own—
(So moſt philoſophers have done)
It makes my ſyſtem more complete:
Dick, can it have a nobler fate?
Take what thou wilt, ſaid Dick, dear friend;
But bring thy matters to an end.
I find, quoth Mat, reproof is vain:
Who firſt offend, will firſt complain.
Thou wiſheſt, I ſhould make to ſhoar;
Yet ſtill put'ſt in thy thwarting oar.
What I have told thee fifty times
In proſe, receive for once in rhimes:
A huge fat man in country-fair,
Or city-church, (no matter where)
Labour'd and puſh'd amidſt the croud,
Still bauling out extremely loud;
Lord ſave us! why do people preſs!
Another, marking his diſtreſs,
Friendly reply'd: Plump gentleman,
Get out as faſt as e'er you can:
Or ceaſe to puſh, or to exclaim:
You make the very croud you blame.
Says Dick, your moral does not need
The leaſt return; ſo e'en proceed:
Your tale, howe'er apply'd, was ſhort:
So far, at leaſt, I thank you for't.
Mat. took his thanks, and in a tone
More magiſterial, thus went on.
[256]Now Alma ſettles in the head,
As has before been ſung, or ſaid:
And here begins this farce of life,
Enter Revenge, Ambition, Strife:
Behold on both ſides men advance,
To form in earneſt Bays's dance.
L'Avare, not uſing half his ſtore,
Still grumbles that he has no more;
Strikes not the preſent tun, for fear
The vintage ſhould be bad next year;
And eats to-day with inward ſorrow,
And dread of fancied want to-morrow.
Abroad if the Sur-tout you wear
Repels the rigour of the air;
Would you be warmer, if at home
You had the fabric, and the loom;
And if two boots keep out the weather,
What need you have two hides of leather?
Could Pedro, think you, make no trial
Of a Sonata on his viol,
Unleſs he had the total gut
Whence ev'ry ſtring at firſt was cut?
When Rarus ſhows you his Cartone,
He always tells you, with a groan,
Where two of that ſame hand were torn,
Long before you or he were born.
Poor Vento's mind ſo much is croſt,
For part of his Petronius loſt,
That he can never take the pains
To underſtand what yet remains.
[257]What toil did honeſt Curio take;
What ſtrict enquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman ſet?
'Tis found: and O his happy lot!
'Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot:
Of theſe no more you hear him ſpeak;
He now begins upon the Greek;
Theſe rang'd and ſhown, ſhall, in their turns
Remain obſcure as in their urns.
My copper-lamps, at any rate,
For being true antique, I bought;
Yet wiſely melted down my plate,
On modern models to be wrought:
And trifles I alike purſue;
Becauſe they're old, becauſe they're new.
Dick, I have ſeen you with delight,
For Georgy make a paper-kite.
And ſimple odes too many, ſhow ye,
My ſervile complaiſance to Cloe.
Parents and lovers are decreed
By nature fools—That's brave indeed!
Quoth Dick: ſuch truths are worth receiving;
Yet ſtill Dick look'd as not believing.
Now, Alma, to divines and proſe
I leave thy frauds, and crimes, and woes;
Nor think to-night of thy ill-nature,
But of thy follies, idle creature;
The turns of thy uncertain wing,
 [...]nd not the malice of thy ſting:
[258]Thy pride of being great and wiſe,
I do but mention, to deſpiſe,
I view with anger and diſdain,
How little gives thee joy or pain:
A print, a bronze, a flow'r, a root,
A ſhell, a butterfly can do't.
Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhime,
Help thee to paſs the redious time,
Which elſe would on thy hand remain:
Tho' flown, it ne'er looks back again.
And cards are dealt, and chefs-boards brought,
To eaſe the pain of coward thought.
Happy reſult of human wit!
That Alma may herſelf forget.
Dick, thus we act; and thus we are
Or toſs'd by hope, or ſunk by care.
With endleſs pain this man purſues,
What, if he gain'd, he could not uſe:
And t'other fondly hopes to ſee
What never was, nor e'er ſhall be.
We err by uſe, go wrong by rules,
In geſture grave, in action fools:
We join hypocriſy to pride,
Doubling the faults we ſtrive to hide.
Or grant, that with extreme ſurprize,
We find ourſelves at ſixty wiſe;
And twenty pretty things are known,
Of which we can't accompliſh one;
Whilſt as my ſyſtem ſays, the mind
Is to theſe upper rooms confin'd:
[259]Should I, my friend, at large, repeat
Her borrow'd ſenſe, her fond conceit;
The bede-roll of her vicious tricks;
My poem will be too prolix.
For could I my remarks ſuſtain,
Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne,
Who in theſe times would read my books,
But Tom o' Stiles, or John o' Nokes?
As Brentford kings, diſcreet and wiſe,
After long thought and grave advice,
Into Lardella's coffin peeping,
Saw nought to cauſe their mirth or weeping:
So Alma now, to joy or grief
Superior, finds her late relief:
Weary'd of being high, or great,
And nodding in her chair of ſtate;
Stunn'd and worn out with endleſs chat,
Of Will did this, and Nan ſaid that;
She finds, poor thing, ſome little crack,
Which nature, forc'd by time, muſt make;
Thro' which ſhe wings her deſtin'd way:
Upward ſhe ſoars, and down drops clay:
While ſome ſurviving friend ſupplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.
O Richard, till that day appears,
Which muſt decide our hopes and fears,
Would Fortune calm her preſent rage,
And give us play-things for our age:
Would Clotho waſh her hands in milk,
And twiſt our thread with gold and ſilk;
[260]Would ſhe in friendſhip, peace and plenty,
Spin out our years to four times twenty:
And ſhould we both, in this condition,
Have conquer'd love, and worſe ambition;
(Elſe thoſe two paſſions, by the way,
May chance to ſhow us ſcurvy play;)
Then, Richard, then ſhould we ſit down,
Far from the tumult of the town:
I, fond of my well-choſen ſeat,
My pictures, medals, books compleat:
Or ſhould we mix our friendly talk,
O'er-ſhaded in that fav'rite walk,
Which thy own hand had whilom planted,
Both pleas'd with all we thought we wanted:
Yet then, ev'n then, one croſs reflection
Would ſpoil thy grove, and my collection;
Thy ſon, and his, e'er that, may die,
And time ſome uncouth heir ſupply;
Who ſhall for nothing elſe be known,
But ſpoiling all, that thou haſt done.
Who ſet the twigs, ſhall he remember,
That is in haſte to ſell the timber?
And what ſhall of thy woods remain,
Except the box that threw the main?
Nay, may not time and death remove
The near relations whom I love?
And my coz Tom, or his coz Mary
(Who hold the plough, or ſkim the dairy)
My fav'rite books and pictures ſell
To Smart, or Doiley, by the ell;
[261]Kindly throw in a little figure,
And ſet the price upon the bigger?
Thoſe who could never read the Grammar,
When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books beſt as richeſt bound:
My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned juſtice weigh'd;
To turn the balance, Otho's head
May be thrown in; and for the metal,
The coin may mend a tinker's kettle—
Tir'd with theſe thoughts—leſs tir'd than I,
Quoth Dick, with your philoſophy—
That people live and die, I knew
An hour ago, as well as you.
And if fate ſpins us longer years,
Or is in haſte to take the ſhears;
I know, we muſt both Fortunes try,
And bear our evils wet or dry.
Yet let the goddeſs ſmile, or frown;
Bread we ſhall eat, or white, or brown:
And in a cottage, or a court,
Drink fine Champagne, or muddled Port.
What need of books theſe truths to tell,
Which folks perceive who cannot ſpell?
And muſt we ſpectacles apply,
To view what hurts our naked eye?
Sir, if it be your wiſdom's aim,
To make me merrier than I am;
I'll be all night at your devotion—
Come on, friend; broach the pleaſing notion;
[262]But if you would depreſs my thought,
Your ſyſtem is not worth a groat—
For Plato's fancies what care I?
I hope you would not have me die,
Like ſimple Cato, in the play,
For any thing that he can ſay?
E'en let him of ideas ſpeak
To heathens in his native Greek.
If to be ſad is to be wiſe,
I do moſt heartily deſpiſe
Whatever Socrates has ſaid,
Or Tully writ, or Wanley read.
Dear Drift, to ſet our matters right,
Remove theſe papers from my ſight:
Burn Mat's Des-cart, and Ariſtottle:
Here, Jonathan, your maſter's bottle.

FINIS.

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Rechtsinhaber*in: University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]

Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt: TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 5320 The beauties of English poesy Selected by Oliver Goldsmith In two volumes pt 2. . University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-DEE1-3