The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: ... by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley's collection. Written and selected by Francis Fawkes, M. A. and William Woty. In twelve volumes. [pt.12] 122 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2008 September 004897569 T146609 CW113522202 K113952.012 CW3313380558 ECLL 0579800312

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The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: ... by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley's collection. Written and selected by Francis Fawkes, M. A. and William Woty. In twelve volumes. Fawkes, Francis, 1720-1777. Woty, William, 1731?-1791. The second edition. 12v. ; 8⁰. printed by Dryden Leach; for J. Coote, London : 1763-64. The half-title to each volume bears the volume number and the commemorated month. Vol.3 is dated 1764, vols.4-5 and 8-9 are dated 1763. Reproduction of original from the British Library. English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT146609. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

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eng

THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. XII. FOR DECEMBER.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR.

CONTAINING A COLLECTION Of ſcarce and valuable PIECES OF POETRY: With Variety of ORIGINALS AND TRANSLATIONS, BY THE MOST EMIMENT HANDS.

Written and Selected By FRANCIS FAWKES, M.A. And WILLIAM WOTY.

IN TWELVE VOLUMES.

LONDON: Printed by DRYDEN LEACH; For J. COOTE, at the King's Arms, in Pater-noſter-Row. MDCCLXIII.

THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
DECEMBER. LAſt of the months, ſevereſt of them all, Woe to the regions where thy terrors fall! Hail to thy tempeſts, which the deep deform, Thrice hail thy ruthleſs hurricane and ſtorm! Now Eolus, let forth thy mightieſt blaſt, By land to rock the ſpire, by ſea the maſt; Let earth and ocean feel thy potent ſway, And give thy blaſts their full impetuous way: For lo! the fiery horſes of the ſun Thro' the twelve Signs their rapid courſe have run, Time, like a ſerpent, bites his forked tail, And Winter on a Goat beſtrides the gale; Rough blows the north wind near Arcturus' ſtar, And ſweeps, unrein'd, acroſs the polar bar, On the world's confines, where the ſea-bears prowl, And Greenland whales, like moving iſlands, roll: There, thro' the ſkies, on brooms, are ſeen to ride, The Lapland wizzard, and his helliſh bride; There, on a ſledge, the rain-deer drives the ſwain To meet his miſtreſs on the froſt-bound plain: Have mercy, Winter!—for we own thy power, Thy flooding deluge, and thy drenching ſhower; Yes—we acknowledge what thy proweſs can, But oh! have pity on the toil of man! And, tho' the floods thy adamantine chain Submiſſive wear—yet ſpare the treaſur'd grain: The peaſants to thy mercy now reſign The infant ſeed—their hope and future mine: Not always Phoebus bends his vengeful bow, Oft in mid winter placid breezes blow, Oft tinctur'd with the blueſt tranſmarine, The fretted canopy of heaven is ſeen; Girded with argent lamps, the full-orb'd moon In mild December emulates the noon; Tho' ſhort the reſpite, if the ſaphire blue Stains the bright luſtre with an inky hue; Then a black wreck of clouds is ſeen to fly, In broken ſhatters, thro' the frighted ſky: But if fleet Eurus ſcour the vaulted plain, Then all the ſtars propitious ſhine again; Like Myra's face appears the vivid ſcene, And, like her mind, free, open, and ſerene.
ODE TO WINTER. BY A GENTLEMAN OF CAMBRIDGE. FRom mountains of eternal ſnow, And Zembla's dreary plains; Where the bleak winds for ever blow, And Froſt for ever reigns, Lo! Winter comes, in fogs array'd, With ice, and ſpangled dews; To dews, and fogs, and ſtorms be paid The tribute of the Muſe. Each flowery carpet Nature ſpread Is vaniſh'd from the eye; Where'er unhappy lovers tread, No Philomel is nigh. (For well I ween her plaintive note, Can ſoothing eaſe impart; The little warblings of her throat Relieve the wounded heart.) No bluſhing roſe unfolds its bloom, No tender lillies blow, To ſcent the air with rich perfume, Or grace Lucinda's brow. Th' indulgent Father who protects The wretched and the poor; With the ſame gracious care directs The ſparrow to our door. Dark, ſcowling tempeſts rend the ſkies, And clouds obſcure the day; His genial warmth the ſun denies, And ſheds a fainter ray. Yet blame we not the troubled air, Or ſeek defects to find; For Power Omnipotent is there, And 'walks upon the wind.' Hail! every pair' whom love unites In wedlock's pleaſing ties; That endleſs ſource of pure delights, That bleſſing to the wiſe! Tho' yon pale orb no warmth beſtows, And ſtorms united meet, The flame of love and friendſhip glows With unextinguiſh'd heat.
TO WINTER. BY MR. WOTY. WHat! tho' thou com'ſt in ſable mantle clad, Yet, Winter! art thou welcome to my eye: Thee here I hail, tho' terrors round thee wait, And winds tempeſtuous howl along the ſky. But ſhall I then ſo ſoon forget the days When Ceres led me thro' her wheaten mines! When Autumn pluck'd me, with his tawny hand, Empurpled cluſters from ambroſial vines! So ſoon forget, when up the yielding pole I ſaw aſcend the ſilver-bearded hop! When Summer, waving high her crown of hay, Pour'd o'er the mead her odoriferous crop! I muſt forget them—and thee too, O Spring! Tho' many a chaplet thou haſt weav'd for me: For, now prepar'd to quit th' enchanting ſcenes, Cold, weeping Winter! I come all to thee. Hail to thy rolling clouds, and rapid ſtorms! Tho' they deform fair Nature's lovely face: Hail to thy winds, that ſweep along the earth! Tho' trees they root up from their ſolid baſe. How ſicklied over is the face of things! Where is the ſpice-kiſs of the ſouthern gale! Where the wild roſe, that ſmil'd upon the thorn, The mountain flower, and lilly of the vale! How gloomy 'tis to caſt the eye around, And view the trees diſrob'd of every leaf, The velvet path grown rough with clotting ſhowers, And every field depriv'd of every ſheaf! How far more gloomy o'er the rain-beat heath, Alone to travel in the dead of night! No twinkling ſtar to gild the arch of heaven, No moon to lend her temporary light: To ſee the lightning ſpread its ample ſheet, Diſcern the wild waſte thro' its liquid fire, To hear the thunder rend the troubled air, As time itſelf and nature would expire: And yet, O Winter! has thy poet ſeen Thy face as ſmooth, and placid as the Spring, Has felt, with comfort felt, the beam of heaven, And heard thy vallies and thy woodlands ring. What time the ſun with burniſh'd locks aroſe, The long loſt charms of nature to renew, When pearls of ice bedeck'd the graſſy turf, And tree-tops floated in the ſilver dew. Father of heaven and earth! this change is thine: By thee the Seaſons in gradation roll, Thou great omniſcient Ruler of the world! Thou Alpha and Omega of the whole! Here humbly bow we down our heads to thee! 'Tis ours the voice of gratitude to raiſe, Thine to diffuſe thy bleſſings o'er the land; Thine to receive the incenſe of our praiſe. Pure if it riſes from the conſcious heart, With thee for ever does the ſymbol live: Tho' ſmall for all thy love is man's return, Thou aſk'ſt no more, than he has power to give.
ON THE FIFTH OF DECEMBER, BEING THE BIRTH-DAY OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY. HAil! eldeſt of the monthly train, Sire of the winter drear, December, in whoſe iron reign Expires the chequer'd year! Huſh all the bluſtering blaſts that blow, And, proudly plum'd in ſilver ſnow, Smile gladly on this bleſt of days: The liveried clouds ſhall on thee wait, And Phoebus ſhine in all his ſtate With more than ſummer rays. Tho' jocund June may juſtly boaſt Long days and happy hours, Tho' Auguſt be Pomona's hoſt, And May be crown'd with flowers; Tell June, his fire and crimſon dies By Harriot's bluſh, and Harriot's eyes, Eclips'd and vanquiſh'd, fade away: Tell Auguſt, thou canſt let him ſee A richer, riper fruit than he, A ſweeter flower than May.
DEATH. A POEM. BY THE LATE CHARLES EMILY, ESQ. THE feſtive roar of laughter, the warm glow Of briſk-eyed joy, and friendſhip's genial bowl, Wit's ſeaſon'd converſe, and the liberal flow Of unſuſpicious youth, profuſe of ſoul, Delight not ever; from the boiſterous ſcene Of riot far, and Comus' wild uproar, From folly's crowd, whoſe vacant brow ſerene Was never knit to wiſdom's frowning lore, Permit me, ye time-hallow'd domes, ye piles Of rude magnificence, your ſolemn reſt, Amid your fretted vaults and lengthening iſles Lonely to wander; no unholy gueſt, That means to break, with ſacrilegious tread, The marble ſlumbers of your monumented dead. Permit me with ſad muſings, that inſpire Unlabour'd numbers apt, your ſilence drear Blameleſs to wake, and with th' Orphean lyre Fitly attemper'd, ſooth the mercileſs ear Of Hades, and ſtern Death, whoſe iron ſway Great Nature owns thro' all her wide domain; All that with oary fin cleave their ſmooth way Thro' the green boſom of the ſpawny main, And thoſe that to the ſtreaming ether ſpread, In many a wheeling glide, their feathery ſail; And thoſe that creep, and thoſe that ſtatelier tread, That roam o'er foreſt, hill, or browſed dale; The victims each of ruthleſs fate muſt fall; Even God's own image, man, high paramount of all. And ye, the young, the giddy, and the gay, That ſtartle from the ſleepful lid of light The curtain'd reſt, and with the diſſonant bray Of Bacchus, and loud Jollity, affright Yon radiant goddeſs, that now ſhoots among Thoſe many window'd iſles her glimmering beam; Know, that or e'er its ſtarr'd career along Thrice ſhall have roll'd her ſilvery-wheeled team, Some parent breaſt may heave the anſwering ſigh, To the ſlow pauſes of the funeral knell; E'en now black Atropos, with ſcouling eye, Roars in the laugh, and revels o'er the bowl, E'en now in roſy-crowned pleaſure's wreath Entwines in adder folds all-unſuſpected Death. Know, on the ſtealing wing of time ſhall flee Some few, ſome ſhort-liv'd years; and all is paſt; A future bard theſe awful domes may ſee, Muſe o'er the preſent age as I the laſt; Who mouldering in the grave, yet once like you The various maze of life were ſeen to tread, Each bent their own peculiar to purſue, As cuſtom urg'd, or wilful nature led; Mix'd with the various crouds inglorious clay, The nobler virtues undiſtinguiſh'd lie; No more to melt with beauty's heaven-born ray, No more to wet compaſſion's tearful eye, Catch from the poet raptures not their own, And feel the thrilling melody of ſweet renown. Where is the maſter-hand, whoſe ſemblant art Chiſſel'd the marble into life, or taught From the well-pencill'd portraiture to ſtart The nerve that beat with ſoul, the brow that thought! Cold are the fingers that in ſtone-fixt trance The mute attention rivetting, to the lyre Struck language: dimm'd the poet's quick-eyed glance, All in wild raptures flaſhing heaven's own fire Shrunk is the ſinew'd energy, that ſtrung The warrior arm: where ſleeps the patriot breaſt Whilom that heav'd impaſſion'd! Where the tongue That lanc'd its lightning o'er the towering creſt Of ſcepter'd Inſolence, and overthrew Giant Oppreſſion, leagued with all her earth-born crew! Theſe now are paſt; long, long, ye fleeting years Purſue, with glory wing'd, your fated way, Ere from the womb of time unwelcome peers The dawn of that inevitable day, When wrapt in ſhrouded clay their warmeſt friend The widow'd virtues ſhall again deplore, When o'er his urn in pious grief ſhall bend His Britain, and bewail one Patriot more; For ſoon muſt Thou, too ſoon! who ſpread'ſt abroad Thy beaming emanations unconfin'd, Doom'd, like ſome better angel ſent of God, To ſcatter bleſſings over humankind, Thou too muſt fall, O Pitt! to ſhine no more, And tread theſe deathful paths, a Faulkland trod before. Faſt to the driving winds the marſhall'd clouds Sweep diſcontinuous o'er th' etherial plain; Another ſtill upon another crouds, All haſtenihg downward to their native main. Thus paſſes o'er thro' varied life's career Man's fleeting age; the Seaſons as they fly Snatch from us in their courſe, year after year, Some ſweet connection, ſome endearing tie. The parent ever-honour'd, ever-dear, Claims from the filial breaſt the pious ſigh; A brother's urn demands the kindred tear; And gentle ſorrows guſh from friendſhip's eye. To-day we frolic in the roſy bloom Of jocund youth—The morrow knells us to the tomb. Who knows how ſoon in this ſepulchral ſpot, Shall heaven to me the drear abode aſſign! How ſoon the paſt irrevocable lot Of theſe, that reſt beneath me, ſhall be mine! Haply, when Zephyr to thy native bourn Shall waft thee o'er the ſtorm'd Hibernian wave, Thy gentle breaſt, my Taviſtock, ſhall mourn To find me ſleeping in the ſenſeleſs grave. No more the ſocial leiſure to divide, In the ſweet intercourſe of ſoul and ſoul, Blithe or of graver brow; no more to chide The lingering years impatient as they roll, Till all thy cultur'd virtues ſhall diſplay, Full-bloſſom'd, their bright honours to the gazing day. Ah deareſt youth! theſe vows perhaps unheard, The rude wind ſcatters o'er the billowy main; Theſe prayers at friendſhip's holy ſhrine preferr'd May riſe to graſp their father's knees in vain. Soon, ſoon may nod the ſad funereal plume With ſolemn horror o'er thy timeleſs hearſe, And I ſurvive to grave upon thy tomb The mournful tribute of memorial verſe.— That leave to Heaven's deciſion—Be it thine, Higher than yet a parent's wiſhes flew, To ſoar in bright pre-eminence, and ſhine With ſelf-earn'd honours, eager to purſue Where glory, with her clear unſullied rays, The well-born ſpirit lights to deeds of mightieſt praiſe. Twas ſhe thy god-like Ruſſell's boſom ſteel'd With confidence untam'd, in his laſt breath Stern-ſmiling. She, with calm compoſure, held The patriot axe of Sidney, edg'd with death. Smit with the warmth of her impulſive flame, Wolfe's gallant virtue flies to worlds a-far, Emulous to pluck freſh wreaths of well-earn'd fame From the grim frowning brow of laurell'd war. 'Twas ſhe, that on the morn of direful birth, Bared thy young boſom to the fatal blow, Lamented Armytage!—the bleeding youth!— O bathe him in the pearly caves below, Ye Nereids: and ye Nymphs of Camus hoar, Weep—for ye oft have ſeen him on your haunted ſhore. Better to die with glory, than recline On the ſoft lap of ignominious peace, Than yawn out the dull droning life ſupine In Monkiſh apathy and Gowned eaſe. Better employ'd in honour's bright career The leaſt diviſion on the dial's round, Than thrice to compaſs Saturn's livelong year, Grown old in ſloth, the burthen of the ground; Than tug with ſweating toil the ſlaviſh oar Of unredeem'd affliction, and ſuſtain The feverous rage of fierce diſeaſes ſore Unnumber'd, that in ſympathetic chain Hang ever thro' the ſick circumfluous air, All from the drizzly verge of yonder ſtar-girt ſphere. Thick in the many-beaten road of life, A thouſand maladies are poſted round, With wretched man to wage eternal ſtrife Unſeen, like ambuſh'd Indians, till they wound. There the ſwollen Hydrops ſtands, the watery Rheum, The northern Scurvy, blotch with leperous ſcale; And moping ever in the cloiſter'd gloom Of learned ſloth, the bookiſh Aſthma pale: And the ſhun'd hag unſightly, that ordain'd On Europe's ſons to wreak the faithleſs ſword Of Cortez, with the blood of millions ſtain'd, O'er dog-eyed Luſt the torturing ſcourge abhorr'd Shakes threatening; ſince the while ſhe wing'd her flight From Amazon's broad wave, and Andes' ſnow-clad height. Where the wan daughter of the yellow year The chattering Ague chill, the writhing Stone, And he of ghaſtly feature, on whoſe ear Unheeded croaks the death-bird's warning moan, Maraſmus; knotty Gout; and the dead life Of nerveleſs Palſy; there on purpoſe fell Dark brooding, whets his interdicted knife Grim Suicide, the damned fiend of hell. There too is the ſtunn'd Apoplexy pightPlaced., The bloated child of gorg'd Intemperance foul; Self-waſting Melancholy, black as night Lowering, and foaming fierce with hideous howl The dog Hydrophoby, and near allied Scar'd Madneſs, with her moon-ſtruck eye-balls ſtaring wide. There, ſtretch'd One huge, beneath the rocky mine,Alluding to the earthquake at Liſbon. With boiling ſulphur fraught, and ſmouldering fires; He, the dread delegate of wrath divine, E'er while that ſtood o'er Taio's hundred ſpires Vindictive; thrice he wav'd th' earth-ſhaking wand, Powerful as that the Son of Amron bore, And thrice he rais'd, and thrice he check'd his hand. He ſtruck the rocking ground, with thunderous roar Yawn'd; here from ſtreet to ſtreet hurries, and there Now runs, now ſtops, then ſhrieks and ſcours amain, Staring Diſtraction; many a palace fair, With millions ſinks ingulpht, and pillar'd fane; Old Ocean's fartheſt waves confeſt the ſhock; Even Albion trembled conſcious on his ſtedfaſt rock. The meagre Famine there, and drunk with blood Stern War; and the loath'd monſter, whom of yore The ſlimy Naiad of the Memphian flood Engendering, to the bright-hair'd Phoebus bore, Foul Peſtilence, that on the wide ſtretch'd wings Of commerce ſpeeds from Cairo's ſwarthy bay His weſtering flight, and thro' the ſick air flings Spotted Contagion; at heels Diſmay And Deſolation urge their fire-wheel'd yoke Terrible; as long of old, when from the height Of Paran came unwrath'd the Mightieſt, ſhook Earth's firm fix'd baſe tottering; thro' the black night Glanc'd the flaſh'd lightnings: heaven's rent roof abroad Thunder'd; and univerſal Nature felt its God. Who on that ſcene of terror, on that hour Of rouſed indignation, ſhall withſtand Th' Almighty, when he meditates to ſhower The burſting vengeance o'er a guilty land! Canſt thou, ſecure in reaſon's vaunted pride, Tongue-doughty miſcreant, who but now didſt gore With more than Hebrew rage the innocent ſide Of agonizing mercy, bleeding ſore, Canſt thou confront, with ſtedfaſt eye unaw'd, The ſworded Judgment ſtalking far and near? Well may'ſt thou tremble, when an injur'd God Diſclaims thee—guilt is ever quick of fear— Loud whirlwinds howl in Zephyr's ſofteſt breath; And every glancing meteor glares imagin'd death. The good alone are fearleſs—they alone, Firm and collected in their virtue, brave The wreck of worlds, and look unſhrinking down On the dread yawnings of the ravenous grave: Thrice happy! who the blameleſs road along Of honeſt praiſe hath reach'd the vale of death; Around him, like miniſtrant Cherubs, throng His Better Actions; to the parting breath Singing their bleſſed requiems: he the while, Gently repoſing on ſome friendly breaſt, Breaths out his benizons; then, with a ſmile Of ſoft complacence, lays him down to reſt, Calm as the ſlumbering infant: from the goal Free and unbounded flies the diſembodied ſoul. Whether ſome delegated charge below, Some much-lov'd friend its hovering care may claim, Whether it homeward ſoars, again to know That long forgotten country whence it came; Conjecture ever, the misfeatur'd child Of letter'd arrogance, delights to run Thro' ſpeculation's puzzling mazes wild, And all to end at laſt where it begun. Fain would we trace, with reaſon's erring clue, The darkſome paths of deſtiny aright; In vain; the taſk were eaſier to purſue The trackleſs wheeling of the ſwallow's flight. From mortal ken himſelf the Almighty ſhrouds Pavilion'd in thick night, and circumambient clouds.
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. A CAMBRIDGE PRIZE POEM IN MDCCLVII. BY R. GLYNN, M.D. THY juſtice, heavenly King, and that great day, When virtue, long abandon'd and forlorn, Shall raiſe her penſive head; and vice, that erſt Rang'd unreprov'd and free, ſhall ſink appall'd; I ſing adventurous.—But what eye can pierce The vaſt immeaſurable realms of ſpace, O'er which Meſſiah drives his flaming car To that bright region, where enthron'd He ſits, Firſt-born of heaven, to judge aſſembled worlds, Cloath'd in celeſtial radiance! Can the Muſe, Her feeble wing all damp with earthly dew, Soar to that bright empyreal, where, around, Myriads of angels, God's perpetual choir, Hymn hallelujahs; and, in concert loud, Chant ſongs of triumph to their Maker's praiſe?— Yet will I ſtrive to ſing, albeit unus'd To tread poetic ſoil. What tho' the wiles Of Fancy me enchanted ne'er could lure To rove o'er fairy lands; to ſwim the ſtreams That thro' her valleys weave their mazy way, Or climb her mountain tops; yet will I raiſe My feeble voice, to tell what harmony (Sweet as the muſic of the rolling ſpheres) Attunes the moral world: that virtue ſtill May hope her promis'd crown; that vice may dread Vengeance, tho' late; that reaſoning pride may own Juſt, tho' unſearchable, the ways of heaven. Sceptic! whoe'er thou art, who ſay'ſt the ſoul, That particle divine, which God's own breath Inſpir'd into the mortal maſs, ſhall reſt Annihilate, till duration has unroll'd Her never-ending line; tell, if thou know'ſt, Why every nation, every clime, tho' all In laws, in rites, in manners diſagree, With one content expect another world, Where wickedneſs ſhall weep? why Paynim bards Fabled Elyſian plains; Tartarean lakes, Styx and Cocytos? tell, why Hali's ſons Have feign'd a paradiſe of mirth, and love, Banquets, and blooming Nymphs? or rather tell, Why on the brink of Orellana's ſtream, Where never Science rear'd her ſacred torch, Th' untutor'd Indian dreams of happier worlds Behind the cloud-topt hill? why in each breaſt Is plac'd a friendly monitor, that prompts, Informs, directs, encourages, forbids? Tell why, on unknown evil, grief attends; Or joy on ſecret good? Why conſcience acts With tenfold force, when ſickneſs, age, or pain, Stands tottering on the precipice of death? Or why ſuch horror gnaws the guilty ſoul Of dying ſinners; while the good man ſleeps Peaceful and calm, and with a ſmile expires? Look round the world! with what a partial hand The ſcale of bliſs and miſery is ſuſtain'd! Beneath the ſhade of cold obſcurity Pale Virtue lies; no arm ſupports her head; No friendly voice ſpeaks comfort to her ſoul; Nor ſoft-eyed Pity drops a melting tear: But, in their ſtead, Contempt and rude Diſdain Inſult the baniſh'd wanderer: on the goes Neglected and forlorn: diſeaſe, and cold, And famine, worſt of ills, her ſteps attend: Yet patient, and to heaven's juſt will reſign'd, She ne'er is ſeen to weep, or heard to ſigh. Now turn your eyes to yon ſweet-ſmelling bower, Where, fluſh'd with all the inſolence of wealth, Sits pamper'd Vice! for him th' Arabian gale Breathes forth delicious odours; Gallia's hills For him pour nectar from the purple vine; Nor think for theſe he pays the tribute due To heaven: of heaven he never names the name; Save when with imprecations, dark, and dire, He points his jeſt obſcene. Yet buxom Health Sits on his roſy cheek; yet Honour gilds His high exploits; and downy-pinion'd Sleep Sheds a ſoft opiate o'er his peaceful couch. See'ſt thou this, righteous Father! ſee'ſt thou this, And wilt thou ne'er repay? ſhall good and ill Be carried undiſtinguiſh'd to the land Where all things are forgot?—Ah! no; the day Will come, when Virtue from the cloud ſhall burſt That long obſcur'd her beams; when Sin ſhall fly Back to her native hell; there ſink eclips'd In penal darkneſs; where nor ſtar ſhall riſe, Nor ever ſunſhine pierce th' impervious gloom. On that great day the ſolemn trump ſhall ſound, (That trump, which once, in heaven, on man's revolt, Convok'd th' aſtoniſh'd ſeraphs;) at whoſe voice Th' unpeopled graves ſhall pour forth all their dead. Then ſhall th' aſſembled nations of the earth From every quarter at the judgment-ſeat Unite; Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Parthians; and they who dwelt on Tyber's banks, Names fam'd of old: or who of later age, Chineſe, and Ruſſian, Mexican, and Turk, Tenant the wide terrene; and they who pitch Their tents on Niger's banks; or, where the ſun Pours on Golconda's ſpires his early light, Drink Ganges' ſacred ſtream. At once ſhall riſe Whom diſtant ages to each others ſight Had long denied: before the throne ſhall kneel Some great Progenitor, while at his ſide Stands his deſcendant thro' a thouſand lines. Whate'er their nation, and whate'er their rank, Heroes, and patriarchs, ſlaves, and ſceptred kings, With equal eye the God of All ſhall ſee; And judge with equal love. What tho' the great With coſtly pomp, and aromatic ſweets, Embalm'd his poor remains; or thro' the dome A thouſand tapers ſhed their gloomy light, While ſolemn organs to his parting ſoul Chanted ſlow oriſons? ſay, by what mark Do'ſt thou diſcern him from that lowly ſwain, Whoſe mouldering bones beneath the thorn-bound turf Long lay neglected?—All at once ſhall riſe; But not to equal glory: for, alas! With howlings dire, and execrations loud, Some wail their fatal birth.—Firſt among theſe Behold the mighty murtherers of mankind; They who in ſport whole kingdoms ſlew; or they Who to the tottering pinnacle of power Waded thro' ſeas of blood! how will they curſe The madneſs of ambition! how lament Their dear-bought laurels; when the widow'd wife, And childleſs mother, at the judgment-ſeat Plead trumpet-tongu'd againſt them!—Here are they Who ſunk an aged father to the grave: Or, with unkindneſs hard, and cold diſdain, Slighted a brother's ſufferings:—Here are they, Whom fraud and ſkilful treachery long ſecur'd; Who from the infant virgin tore her dower, And eat the orphan's bread:—who ſpent their ſtores In ſelfiſh luxury; or, o'er their gold Proſtrate and pale, ador'd the uſeleſs heap.— Here too who ſtain'd the chaſte connubial bed;— Who mix'd the poiſonous bowl;—or broke the ties Of hoſpitable friendſhip;—And the wretch, Whoſe liſtleſs ſoul, ſick with the cares of life, Unſummon'd, to the preſence of his God Ruſh'd in with inſult rude. How would they joy Once more to viſit earth; and, tho' oppreſs'd With all, that pain or famine can inflict, Pant up the hill of life? vain wiſh! the Judge Pronounces doom eternal on their heads, Perpetual puniſhment. Seek not to know What puniſhment! for that th' Almighty Will Has hid from mortal eyes. And ſhall vain man, With curious ſearch refin'd, preſume to pry Into thy ſecrets, Father! no: let him With humble patience all thy works adore, And walk in all thy paths: ſo ſhall his meed Be great in heaven; ſo haply ſhall he 'ſcape Th' immortal worm, and never-ceaſing fire. But who are they, who, bound in ten-fold chains, Stand horribly aghaſt? this is that crew Who ſtrove to pull Jehovah from his throne, And, in the place of heaven's eternal King, Set up the phantom Chance. For them in vain Alternate ſeaſons cheer'd the rolling year; In vain the ſun, o'er herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Shed genial influence, mild; and the pale moon Repair'd her waning orb.—Next theſe is plac'd The vile blaſphemer; he, whoſe impious wit Profan'd the ſacred myſteries of faith; And 'gainſt th' impenetrable walls of heaven Planted his feeble battery.—By theſe ſtands The arch-Apoſtate: He with many a wile Exhorts them ſtill to foul revolt. Alas! No hope have they from black deſpair, no ray Shines thro' the gloom to cheer their ſinking ſouls. In agonies of grief they curſe the hour When firſt they left Religion's onward way. Theſe on the left are rang'd: but on the right A choſen band appears, who fought beneath The banner of Jehovah, and defied Satan's united legions. Some, unmov'd At the grim tyrant's frown, o'er barbarous climes Diffus'd the goſpel's light: Some, long immur'd, (Sad ſervitude!) in chains, and dungeons pin'd: Or, rack'd with all the agonies of pain, Breath'd out their faithful lives. Thrice happy they Whom heaven elected to that glorious ſtrife!— Here are they plac'd, whoſe kind munificence Made heaven-born Science raiſe her drooping head; And on the labours of a future race Entail'd their juſt reward.—Thou, amongſt theſe, Good The gentleman who, by will, left an annual premium to the author of the beſt poem on ſome divine ſubject, who muſt be M.A. of Cambridge.Seaton! whoſe well-judg'd benevolence, Foſtering fair genius, bad the poet's hand Bring annual offerings to his Maker's ſhrine, Shalt find the generous care was not in vain.— Here is that favourite band, whom mercy mild, God's beſt lov'd attribute, adorn'd; whoſe gate Stood ever open to the ſtranger's call; Who fed the hungry; to the thirſty lip Reach'd out the friendly cup: whoſe care benign From the rude blaſt ſecur'd the pilgrim's ſide; Who heard the widow's tender tale; and ſhook The galling ſhackle from the priſoners feet: Who each endearing tie, each office knew, Of meek-eyed, heaven-deſcended Charity.— O Charity, thou Nymph divinely fair! Sweeter than thoſe whom antient poets bound In Amity's indiſſoluble chain, The Graces! how ſhall I eſſay to paint Thy charms, celeſtial Maid; and, in rude verſe, Blazon thoſe deeds thy ſelf didſt ne'er reveal? For thee nor rankling Envy can infect, Nor rage tranſport, nor high o'erweening Pride Puff up with vain conceit: ne'er didſt thou ſmile To ſee the ſinner, as a verdant tree, Spread his luxuriant branches o'er the ſtream; While like ſome blaſted trunk the righteous fall, Proſtrate, forlorn.—When prophecies ſhall fail, When tongues ſhall ceaſe, when knowledge is no more, And this great day is come; thou by the throne Shalt ſit triumphant.—Thither, lovely Maid, Bear me, Oh bear me on thy ſoaring wing; And thro' the adamantine gates of heaven Conduct my ſteps; ſafe from the fiery gulph, And dark abyſs, where Sin, and Satan reign! But, can the Muſe, her numbers all too weak, Tell how that reſtleſs element of fire Shall wage with ſeas and earth inteſtine war, And deluge all creation? Whether (ſo Some think) the comet, as thro' fields of air Lawleſs he wanders, ſhall ruſh headlong on Thwarting th' ecliptic, where th' unconſcious earth Rolls in her wonted courſe: whether the ſun, With force centripetal, into his orb Attract her long reluctant: or the caves, Thoſe dread volcanos, where engendering lie Sulphureous minerals. from their dark abyſs Pour ſtreams of liquid fire; while from above, As erſt on Sodom, heaven's avenging hand Rains fierce combuſtion.—Where are now the works Of art, the toil of ages? Where are now Th' imperial cities, ſepulchres, and domes, Trophies, and pillars?—Where is Egypt's boaſt, Thoſe lofty pyramids, which high in air Rear'd their aſpiring heads, to diſtant times Of Memphian pride a laſting monument?— Tell me where Athens rais'd her towers?—Where Thebes Open'd her hundred portals?—Tell me, where Stood ſea-girt Albion?—Where imperial Rome, Propt by ſeven hills, ſat like a ſceptred queen, And aw'd the tributary world to peace?— Shew me the rampart, which o'er many a hill, Thro' many a valley ſtretch'd its wide extent, Rais'd by that mighty monarch, to repel The roving Tartar, when, with inſult rude, 'Gainſt Pekin's towers he bent th' unerring bow. But what is mimic Art? even Nature's works, Seas, meadows, paſtures, the meandring ſtreams, And everlaſting hills, ſhall be no more. No more ſhall Teneriff, cloud-piercing height, O'er-hang th' Atlantic ſurge.—Nor that fam'd cliff, Thro' which the Perſian ſteer'd with many a ſail, Throw to the Lemnian iſle its evening ſhade O'er half the wide Aegaean.—Where are now The Alps, that confin'd with unnumber'd realms, And from the Black Sea to the Ocean ſtream Stretch'd their extended arms?—Where's Ararat, That hill on which the faithful Patriarch's ark, Which ſeven long months had voyag'd o'er its top, Firſt reſted, when the earth, with all her ſons, As now by ſtreaming cataracts of fire, Was whelm'd by mighty waters?—All at once Are vaniſh'd and diſſolv'd: no trace remains, No mark of vain diſtinction: heaven itſelf, That azure vault with all thoſe radiant orbs Sinks in the univerſal ruin loſt.— No more ſhall planets round their central ſun Move in harmonious dance; no more the moon Hang out her ſilver lamp: and thoſe fix'd ſtars Spangling the golden canopy of night, Which oft the Tuſcan with his optic glaſs Call'd from their wonderous height, to read their names, And magnitude, ſome winged miniſter Shall quench: and (ſureſt ſign that all on earth Is loſt) ſhall rend from heaven the myſtic bow. Such is that awful, that tremendous day, Whoſe coming who ſhall tell? for as a thief Unheard, unſeen, it ſteals with ſilent pace Thro' night's dark gloom—Perhaps as here I ſit, And rudely carol theſe incondite lays, Soon ſhall the hand be check'd, and dumb the mouth That liſps the faultering ſtrain—O! may it ne'er Intrude unwelcome on an ill-ſpent hour; But find me wrapt in meditations high, Hymning my great Creator! "Power ſupreme! " O everlaſting King! to Thee I kneel; " To Thee I lift my voice. With fervent heat " Melt all ye elements! and thou, high heaven, " Shrink, like a ſhrivell'd ſcroll!—But think, O Lord, " Think on the beſt the nobleſt of thy works; " Think on thine own bright image! think on Him, " Who died to ſave us from thy righteous wrath; " And 'midſt the wreck of worlds remember man!"
TO FAME. AN ODE. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXXXIX. LO! on yon promontory's pendent brow, That threats the ſhadow'd gulph below, In the dun air ſublime; Fame ſpreads her haſty pinions wide, Diſdaining Britain's ſluggiſh clime, And, in a moment's flight, Determines to alight On active Gaul's more formidable ſide— —Stay, Goddeſs, I conjure thee, ſtay! And, ere irrevocably ſoar'd away, Thy piercing trump apply, And pour ſo vehement a blaſt, As ſhall alarm earth, ſea, and ſky, Amaze the preſent age, and echo to the laſt!— —She hears the Muſe's call! And, with obedient breath Inſpires the myſtic ſtrain!— Hark! hark! the ſwelling ſound Tempeſts the air around; Rouſes the ſleeping main, Shakes earth's remoteſt bound; Pierces the very centre of the ball, And almoſt wakens death! Again! again th' upbraiding peal renew! Make courtly Deafneſs hear, Make tyrant Power and baſe Corruption fear; The Furies cloſe their guilty ſteps purſue! Again, again it ruſhes loud, As thunder from a burſting cloud! The diſtant Ruſſians catch the fierce alarm! And, fir'd with martial flame, Luxurious Perſians arm, And bravely emulate the Greek and Roman name. But, death to honeſt eyes! Britannia's Genius ſlumbering lies, Effeminately ſoft on carpets ſpread; Deaf to the honourable ſound, That kindles virtue thro' the world's vaſt round; Numb'd with inglorious peace, Enervated with ſloth and eaſe, And to all ſenſe of emulation dead! Her uſeleſs ſhield is hurl'd aſide; And her neglected lance, The terror once of trembling France! Diſdainful Cupids wantonly beſtride: Unmov'd ſhe feels her idle hands Fetter'd with golden bands; The victor-laurel too Drop wither'd from her brow; While, in its ſtead, ſarcaſtic Humour ties A roſe-wreath, emblem of a victim doom'd for ſacrifice! Oh, where are all her antient honours flown? Her ſenators of high renown; Her patriots, ſuch as dar'd withſtand The frowns of power, the charm of gold; Made proud Oppreſſion quit her greedy hold, And from the jaws of ruin ſnatch'd their parent-land? Alas! the monumental buſt That guards their awful duſt, And the hiſtorian's faithful page, 〈◊〉 the ſole reliques of that nobler age! Unleſs then, Goddeſs, thy awakening ſtrain Can rouſe the mighty dead again, Give, give thy fruitleſs labour o'er, And quit for ever this degenerate ſhore! For, where all vices make their joint abode, •• me's to be fear'd as heaven's ſevereſt rod, 〈◊〉 night-begot Oblivion worſhipp'd as a God.
AD ORNATISSIMAM PUELLAM. BY DR. LOWTH. VAnae ſit arti, ſit ſtudio modus, Formoſa virgo; ſit ſpeculo quies; Curamque quaerendi decoris Mitte, ſupervacuoſque cultus. Ut fortuitis verna coloribus Depicta vulgo rura magis placent, Nec invident horto nitenti Divitias operoſiores: Lenique fons cum murmure pulchrior Obliquat ultrò praecipitem fugam, Inter reluctantes lapillos, et Ducit aquas temere ſequentes; Utque inter undas, inter et arbores, Jam vere primo dulcè ſtrepunt aves, Et arte nullâ gratiores Ingeminant ſine lege cantus: Nativa ſic te gratia, te nitor Simplex decebit, te veneres tuae: Nudus Cupido ſuſpicatur Artifices nimis apparatus. Ergo fluentem tu malè ſedula, Ne ſaevâ inuras ſemper acu comam; Neu ſparſa odorato nitentes Pulvere dedecores capillos; Quales nec olim vel Ptolemaeia Jactabat uxor, ſidereo in choro Ut cunque devotae refulgent Verticis exuviae decori; Nec Diva Mater, cum ſimilem tuae Mentita formam, et pulchrior aſpici Permiſit incomtas protervis Fuſa comas agitare ventis.
THE SAME TRANSLATED. BY WILLIAM DUNCOMBE, ESQ. NO longer ſeek the needleſs aid Of ſtudious art, dear lovely maid! Vainly, from ſide to ſide, forbear To ſhift thy glaſs, and braid each ſtraggling hair. As the gay flowers, which nature yields, Spontaneous, on the verdant fields, Delight the fancy more than thoſe Which gardens trim arrange in equal rows: As tho pure rill, whoſe mazy train The prattling pebbles check in vain, Gives native pleaſures, while it leads Its random waters winding thro' the meads; As birds, the groves and ſtreams among, In artleſs ſtrains the vernal ſong Warbling, their wood-notes wild repeat, And ſooth the ear, irregularly ſweet: So ſimple dreſs and native grace Will beſt become thy lovely face! For naked Cupid ſtill ſuſpects, In artful ornaments, conceal'd defects. Ceaſe then, with idly-cruel care, To torture thus thy flowing hair; O! ceaſe, with taſteleſs toil, to ſhed A cloud of ſcented duſt around thy head. Not Berenice's locks could boaſt A grace like thine; among the hoſt Of ſtars, tho' radiant now they riſe, And add new luſtre to the ſpangled ſkies; Nor Venus, when her charms divine, Improving in a form like thine, She gave her treſſes unconfin'd, To wave around her neck, and wanton in the wind.
THE FACULTIES OF THE SOUL, AN ARGUMENT OF ITS IMMORTALITY. BY THE SAME. INSCRIBED TO DR. THOMAS HERRING, LORD ARCH. OF CANT. MAY, MDCCL. SO oft indulg'd, the philoſophic Muſe Again, my lord, for your protection ſues; Small her pretenſions, who no merit knows, But what th' importance of her theme beſtows. Oh! could her verſe attain that happy art, Which charms, perſuades, and melts the human heart; That grace, that warmth, that energy divine, Which in your language, looks, and geſture ſhine, When truths ſublime you cloath in radiant dreſs, And heav'n's commands on liſtning crowds impreſs, Smooth then would flow each modulated ſtrain, And every heart intire conviction gain. Pleas'd with the honeſt praiſe of meaning well, Your candid cenſures prompt us to excel: Your ſteady friendſhip, nothing can impair; Who ſhare your love, your love for ever ſhare! THE FACULTIES OF THE SOUL. THE active ſoul, by which man lives and move; By her high faculties her lineage proves; Her faculties, ſo variouſly beſtow'd, Diſplay the ſource divine from which they flow'd, And of his creatures rational require, A hymn of praiſe to their all-gracious ſire. To tame the barren earth by toil and ſkill, Raiſe the low ſtream, and ſink the lofty hill, The ſoul firſt taught; and o'er the mounting tide, Borne by the winds, in floating forts to ride; From various climes to bring their various ſtore. Silver and gold from rich Peruvia's ſhore; Spices and pearls from realms of dawning day, While Perſia's coſtly ſilks our limbs array. By letters we converſe with every ſage, That grac'd the Grecian or the Roman age: Hence in the ſacred academic grove, With Plato and with Xenophon we rove; At Tuſculum attend to Tully's tongue, Of truth and virtue while he reaſons ſtrong. By letters, with our knowledge we adorn, And teach our arts to nations yet unborn. Thus foremoſt in the learned train ſhall ſtand, Newton and Clarke in each politer land. The mind, with numberleſs ideas fraught, Exerts by memory each latent thought, Till her frail caſket moulders into clay, And every fair impreſſion fades away. To pleaſing objects boundleſs fancy roves, And, charm'd with cooling ſprings or ſhady groves, With ready pencil paints each rural ſcene, The moſſy fountain, or the level green. Thus Eden's bowers in Milton gaily bloom: Here fragrant gales the balmy air perfume; There the great artiſt's lively tints have drawn The tufted thicket, and the verdant lawn; Hill, dale, and ſhady woods, and ſunny plains: Joy here, unmix'd with cares and ſorrows, reigns; Warble the birds; along the flowing ſtream The bounding fiſh reflect the golden beam. Here ſhines each lovely flower, there fountains play; Or gliding rivers in meanders ſtray, And to each plant refreſhing ſtreams diſpenſe, While fruits and bloſſoms charm the various ſenſe; The boughs at once both fruits and bloſſoms bear; With flavour pleaſe the taſte, with fragrance 〈◊〉 the air The fleeting race of flowers, not wholly dead, Revive in ſpring, and wave the dewy head; In ſpring once more the virgin lillies blow, Whitening the vales with vegetable ſnow; In ſpring the varied tulips paint the field, Tho' to the rigour of the year they yield, Bound up by winter's froſt; and muſt this ſpan, This dream of life, compriſe the whole of man? For better ends th' Almighty, wiſe and good, With ſuch high faculties the ſoul endued. The ſteady judgment's penetrating eye Into th' abyſs of future times can pry; And ſome have made the prophet's praiſe their own, For things to come by paſt and preſent known. Tireſias thus, and Phineus, ſages old, The ſecrets of futurity foretold; Their outward eyes, tho' clos'd in endleſs night, Were amply recompens'd by mental light. Rais'd by philoſophy from narrow earth, The ſoul, heaven-born, aſſerts her heavenly birth; On Contemplation's wing ſhe boldly flies, And claims acquaintance with her native ſkies; Can there each ſun, each peopled world behold, Thro' ſpace immenſe, with courſe unerring roll'd; Their periods, diſtance, ſize, eclipſes knows, And why the ſea alternate ebbs and flows: Can meaſure even the ſpeed of ſolar light, Than which thought only boaſts a ſwifter flight; Soars, like a ſeraph, unconfin'd by ſenſe, To graſp the wonders of Omnipotence! But higher ſtill aſcends the moral ſoul; Nor can corporeal forms her ſearch controul: By this th' Almighty's attributes we trace, And ponder time, eternity, and ſpace; By this are taught our follies to reſtrain, To curb our paſſions with a ſtreighten'd rein, And imitate the bounteous power above, In juſtice, goodneſs, purity, and love! But will the wiſe Creator throw away Such talents on the creature of a day? A creature, which to virtue's heights can ſoar, And, drinking deep of knowledge, thirſts for more. Shall he! cut off from life, no more to bloom, For ever ſleep forgotten in the tomb? Or may we not, with humble hope, conclude, That ſince, with ſuch prerogatives endued, Our heavenly Sire will bid his image riſe To happier ſeats, an inmate of the ſkies.
DR. SAMUEL BARROW'S LATIN VERSES, PREFIXED TO MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, TRANSLATED. BY THE SAME. WHO reads Loſt Paradiſe, the fall Of wretched man, what reads he leſs than all? All Nature's works, from whence they roſe, Their fates and ends, theſe lofty lines diſcloſe. Whatever in the womb of night Lay hid before, here ſtands reveal'd to ſight. The land, the ſea, the ſkies around, And Erebus, with flaming gulph profound; All that in earth, in ſea, or hell, Or in high heaven's enlighten'd regions dwell; Whatever is by ſpace confin'd, Unbounded Chaos and unbounded mind, And (could ought elſe more boundleſs prove) To man, in Chriſt, God's reconciling love! This If we wiſh'd, whoſe hope ſo bold, So fond a wiſh accompliſh'd to behold? Yet this Britannia's ſons now read, And find the work their fondeſt wiſh exceed. Chieftains in war how great he ſings! With what ſhrill notes his ſwelling trumpet rings! See Satan ſtalk! how vaſt his might! To Michael's ſelf almoſt a match in fight! What ſtrength by each archangel ſhown, To ſeize, or vindicate, th' Almighty's throne! While theſe, the mimic thunder throw, And thoſe, with mountains whelm the boaſting foe. In deep ſuſpenſe which hoſt ſhould ſway, All Nature fears to fall that dreadful day. But ſee, to end this impious war Ordain'd, Meſſiah's enſigns blaze from far! Self-mov'd his ruſhing chariot rolls, And ſhakes, with whirlwind ſound, th' eternal poleo. From living wheels true lightnings fly, Ten thouſand thunders bellow thro' the ſky, Launch'd by his arm—with terror toſt, " Exhauſted, ſpiritleſs, afflicted, loſt," Stop ſhort th' apoſtates!—Pale affright Unnerves their hands, and withers all their might. Headlong from heaven themſelves they throw, And plunge into th' abyſs of endleſs woe. Romans and Grecians yield the bays, Yield, all ye bards of old or modern days! Who reads this nobler work will own Homer ſung frogs, and Virgil gnats alone.
SONNET TO HIS GRACE THO. HERRING, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY. BY MR. THO. EDWARDS. PRelate, whoſe ſteady hand, and watchful eye The ſacred veſſel of Religion guide, Secure from Superſtition's dangerous tide, And fatal rocks of Infidelity; Think not, in this bad age of obloquy, When Chriſtian virtues Chriſtians dare deride, And worth by party-zeal alone is tried, To 'ſcape the poiſon'd ſhafts of calumny; No—tho' the tenor of thy blameleſs life, Like His, whoſe flock is to thy care consign'd, Be ſpent in teaching truth, and doing good; Yet, 'mongſt the ſons of bigotry and ſtrife, Thou too, like him, muſt hear thy good malign'd, Thy perſon ſlander'd, and thy truths withſtood.
AN EPISTLE OF M. DE VOLTAIRE, UPON HIS ARRIVAL AT HIS ESTATE NEAR THE LAKE OF GENEVA, IN MARCH, MDCCLV. FROM THE FRENCH. O Take, O keep me, ever bleſt domains, Where lovely Flora with Pomona reigns; Where Art fulfils what Nature's voice requires, And gives the charms to which my verſe aſpires; Take me, the world with tranſport I reſign, And let your peaceful ſolitude be mine! Yet not in theſe retreats I boaſt to find That perfect bliſs that leaves no wiſh behind; This, to no lonely ſhade kind Nature brings, Nor Art beſtows on courtiers, or on kings; Not even the Sage this boon has e'er poſſeſs'd, Tho' join'd with wiſdom, virtue ſhar'd his breaſt; This tranſient life, alas! can ne'er ſuffice To reach the diſtant goal, and ſnatch the prize; Yet, ſooth'd to reſt, we feel ſuſpence from woe, And tho' not perfect joy, yet joy we know. Enchanting ſcenes! what pleaſure you diſpenſe Where'er I turn, to every wondering ſenſe! An The lake of Geneva.ocean here, where no rude tempeſt roars, With cryſtal waters laves the hallow'd ſhores; Here flowery fields with riſing hills are crown'd, Where cluſtering vines empurple all the ground; Now by degrees from hills to Alps they riſe, Hell groans beneath, above they pierce the ſkies! See the proud ſummit, white with endleſs froſt, Eternal bulwark of the bliſsful coaſt! The bliſsful coaſt the hardy Lombards gain, And froſt and mountains croſs their courſe in vain; Here Glory beckon'd mighty chiefs of old, And planted laurels to reward the bold; Charles, Otho, Conti heard her trumpet ſound, And, borne on victory's wings, they ſpurn'd the mound. See, on thoſe banks where yon calm waters ſwell, The hair-clad epicure's luxurious cell! See fam'd Ripaille, where once ſo grave, ſo gay, Great AmedeusAmedeus the Pacific, firſt duke of Savoy, in 1434 retired to the priory of Ripaille, where he affected to live like an hermit, and ſuffered his beard to grow to an enormous length; but he kept a miſtreſs in his cell, and in other reſpects lived in great luxury; yet he joined with a faction againſt Pope Eugenius IV. and being elected to the ſee of Rome, he was crowned Pope by the name of Felix V. but afterwards reſigned at the requeſt of Charles VII. king of France. paſs'd from prayer to play: Fantaſtic wretch! thou riddle of thy kind! What ſtrange ambition ſeiz'd thy frantic mind? Prince, hermit, lover! bleſt thro' every hour With bliſsful change of pleaſure and of power, Couldſt thou, thus paradis'd, from care remote, Ruſh to the world, and fight for Peter's boat? Now by the Gods of ſweet repoſe I ſwear, I would not thus have barter'd eaſe for care, Spight of the keys that move our fear and hope, I ne'er would quit ſuch penance to be Pope. Let him who Rome's ſtern tyrant ſtoop'd to praiſe, The tuneful chanter of ſweet georgic lays, Let Maro boaſt of ſtreams that Nature pours To lave proud villas on Italia's ſhores; Superior far the ſtreams that court my ſong, Superior far the ſhores they wind along: Bleſt ſhores! the dwelling of that ſacred power Who rules each joyful, and each glorious hour, Queen of whate'er the good or great deſire, The patriot's eloquence, the hero's fire, Shrin'd in each breaſt, and near the tyrant's ſword Invok'd in whiſpers, and in ſighs ador'd, Immortal Liberty, whoſe generous mind With all her gifts would bleſs all human-kind! See, from MoratMorat is a little town in the canton of Fribourgh in Switzerland, famous for a battle which the Switzers gained againſt Charles the Raſh, duke of Burgundy, by which they recovered and eſtabliſhed their liberty. Charles himſelf was wounded, and left 18,000 Auſtrians dead on the ſpot. ſhe comes in martial charms, And ſhines like Pallas in celeſtial arms, Her ſword the blood of boaſtful Auſtria ſtains, And Charles, who threaten'd with opprobrious chains. Now hoſtile crowds Geneva's towers aſſail, They march in ſecret, and by night they ſcale; The Goddeſs comes—they vaniſh from the wall, Their launces ſhiver, and their heroes fall, For fraud can ne'er elude, nor force withſtand The ſtroke of Liberty's victorious handThe duke of Sivoy once attempted to ſurprize Geneva, and take it in the night eſcalade, but the firſt man that mounted the wall was diſcovered by a woman, who courageouſly knocked him down, and alarmed the Geneveſe, who drove off the aſſailants, and ſallying after them, made a great ſlaughter.. She ſmiles; her ſmiles perpetual joys diffuſe; A ſhouting nation where ſhe turns purſues; Their heart-felt Paeans thunder to the ſky, And echoing Appenines from far reply: Such wreaths their temples crown as Greece entwin'd Her hero's brows at MarathonAt Marathon Miltiades, with 10,000 Athenians, defeated an army of more than 100,000 Perſians, and delivered his country from a foreign yoke. to bind; Such wreaths the ſons of freedom hold more dear, Than circling gold and gems that crown the peer, Than the broad hat which ſhades the Pontiff's face, Or the cleft mitre's venerable grace. Inſulting grandeur, in gay tinſel dreſt, Shows here no ſtar embroider'd on the breaſt, No tiſſued ribbon on the ſhoulder tied, Vain gift implor'd by vanity from pride! Nor here ſtern Wealth, with ſupercilious eyes, The faltering prayer of weeping want denies; Here no falſe Pride at honeſt Labour ſneers, Men here are brothers, equal but in years; Here heaven, O! Liberty, has fix'd thy throne, Fill'd, glorious Liberty! by thee alone. Rome ſees thy face, ſince Brutus fell, no more, A ſtranger thou on many a cultur'd ſhore: The Poliſh lord, of thy embraces vain, Pricks his proud courſer o'er Sarmatia's plain; Erects his haughty front in martial pride, And ſpurns the burgher, grovelling at his ſide; The grovelling burgher burns with ſecret fires, Looks up, beholds thee, ſighs, deſpairs, expires. Britain's rough ſons in thy defence are bold, Yet ſome pretend at London thou art ſold, I heed them not, to ſell too proud, too wiſe, If blood muſt buy, with blood the Briton buys. On Belgic bogs, 'tis ſaid, thy footſteps fail, But thou ſecure may'ſt ſcorn the whiſper'd tale; To lateſt times the race of great Naſſau, Who rais'd ſeven altarsThe Union of the Seven Provinces. to thy ſacred law, With faithful hand thy honours ſhall defend, And bid proud factions to thy faſces bend. Thee Venice keeps, thee Genoa now regains; And next the throne thy ſeat the Swede maintains; How few in ſafety thus with kings can vie! If not ſupreme, how dangerous to be high! O! ſtill preſide where'er the law's thy friend, And keep thy ſtation, and thy rights defend; But take no factious League'sThe author alludes to the famous League formed againſt 〈◊〉 of France. reproachful name, Still prone to change, and zealous ſtill to blame, Cloud not the ſunſhine of a conquering race, Whom wiſdom governs, and whom manners grace; ond of their ſovereign, of ſubjection vain, They wiſh no favours at thy hands to gain, Nor need ſuch vaſſals at their lord repine, Whoſe eaſy ſway they fondly take for thine. Thro' the wide eaſt leſs gentle is thy fate, Where the dumb murderer guards the ſultan's gate; Here pale and trembling, in the duſt o'erturn'd, With chains diſhonour'd, and by eunuchs ſpurn'd, The ſword and bow-ſtring plac'd on either ſide Thou mourn'ſt, while ſlaves of life and death decide. Spol'd of thy cap thro' all the bright Levant TellWilliam Tell was the means of reſtoring liberty and independance to Switzerland by killing Griſler, the tyrant who governed it for the emperor Albert. gave thee his, and well ſupplied the want. O! come my Goddeſs, in thy choſen hour, And let my better fortune hail thy power; Fair friendſhip calls thee to my green retreat, O! come, with friendſhip ſhare the moſſy ſeat; Like thee ſhe flies the turbulent and great, The craft of buſineſs, and the farce of ſtate; To you, propitious powers, at laſt I turn, To you, my vows aſcend, my altars burn; Let me of each the pleaſing influence ſhare, My joys now heighten'd, and now ſooth'd my care; Each ruder paſſion baniſh'd from my breaſt, Bid the ſhort remnant of my Days be bleſt.
CONCORD. A POEM INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF RADNOR. BY JAMES HARRIS, ESQ. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLI. THE deeds of diſcord, or in proſe or rhyme, Let others tell. 'Tis mine (the better theme) Concord to ſing; and thus begins the ſong: Congenial things to things congenial tend: So rivulets their little waters join To form one river's greater ſtream: ſo haſte The rivers, from their different climes, to meet, And kindly mix, in the vaſt ocean's bed: So earth to earth down goes; and upwards ſlies To fires etherial, each terreſtrial blaze, Such elemental Concord.—Yet not here Confin'd the ſacred ſympathy, but wide Thro' plant and animal diffuſely ſpread. How many myriads of the graſſy blade Aſſemble, to create one verdant plain? How many cedars towering heights conſpire, Thy tops, O cloud-capt Lebanon! to deck? Life-animal ſtill more conſpicuous gives Her fair examples. Here the ſocial tie We trace, aſcending from th' ignoble ſwarms Of inſects, up to flocks and grazing herds; Thence to the polities of bees and ants, And honeſt beavers, bound by friendly league Of mutual help and intereſt.—Cruel man! For love of gain, to perſecute, to kill, This gentle, ſocial, and ingenious race, That never did you wrong.—But ſtop, my Muſe, Stop thy ſad ſong, nor deviate to recount Man's more inhuman deeds; for man too feels Benign affection, nor dares diſobey, Tho' oft reluctant, Nature's mighty voice, That ſummons all to harmony and love. Elſe would to Nature's Author foul impute Of negligence accrue, while baſer things He knits in holy friendſhip, thus to leave His chief and laſt work void of ſweet attract, And tendence to its fellow. But not ſo, Not ſo, if truly ſings the heaven-born Muſe: And ſhe can tell; for ſhe the limpid fount Of truth approaches; rumours only reach Our earth-born ears. Then mark her tale divine. Ere yet creation was, ere ſun and moon And ſtars bedeck'd the ſplendid vault of heaven, Was God; and God was Mind; and Mind was Beauty, And Truth, and Form, and Order: For all theſe In Mind's profound receſs, and union pure Together dwelt, involv'd, inexplicate. Then matter (if then matter was) devoid, Formleſs, indefinite, and paſſive lay; Myſterious Being, in one inſtant found, Nor any thing, nor nothing; but at once Both all and none; none by privation, all By vaſt capacity, and pregnant power. This paſſive nature th' active Almighty Mind Deeming fit ſubject for his art, at once Expell'd privation, and pour'd forth himſelf; Himſelf pour'd forth thro' all the mighty maſs Of matter, now firſt bounded. Then was beauty And truth, and form, and order, all evolv'd, Was open'd all, that lay enwrapp'd and hid In the great mind of Godhead. Forth it went, Forth went the pure quinteſſence far and wide Thro' the vaſt whole; nor did its force not feel The laſt of minim atoms. So (great things It we compare with ſmall) in ſable cloud Invelop'd, lies the lightning: mortal men Look up, and dread th' event: When, lo! illum'd All in a moment, the ſmall nitrous ſeeds Expanding, fill heaven's mighty vault, and quick From pole to pole the fiery terror flies. Thus Mind thro' all things paſs'd, eſſence and worth Giving and limiting to each in bounds Proportion'd to its kind. To clods and ſtones It gave coheſion; to things vegetant Nutrition, and the power of growth; to brutes, Senſe, appetite, and motion: but to man All theſe it gave, and join'd to theſe the grace, The choſen grace, of reaſon, beam divine! Hence man, allied to all, in all things meets Congenial being, effluence of mind. And as the tuneful ſtring ſpontaneous ſounds The anſwer to his kindred note; ſo he The ſecret harmony within him feels, When aught of beauty offers. This the joy, While verdant plains and grazing herbs we view, Or ocean's mighty vaſtneſs; or the ſtars, In midnight ſilence as along they roll. Hence to the rapture, while th' harmonious bard Attunes his vocal ſong; and hence the joy, While what the ſculptor graves, the painter paints, And all the pleaſing mimickries of art Strike our accordant minds. Yet chief by far, Chief is man's joy, when, mixt with human kind He feels affection melt the ſocial heart; Feels friendſhip, love, and all the charities Of father, ſon, and brother. Here the pure Sincere congenial, free from all alloy, With bliſs he recognizes. For to man What dearer is than man? ſay you, who prove The kindly call, the ſocial ſympathy, What but this call, this ſocial ſympathy, Tempers to ſtandard due the vain exult Of proſperous fortune? what but this refines Soft pity's pain, and ſweetens every care, Each friendly care, we feel for human kind? O Gomez! gives thy pelf ſuch bliſs? or ye, Who wade thro' blood to fame, and worſe than wolves, Prey on your kind, can your vain triumphs give Such ſolid happineſs? like giants old, Ye fight 'gainſt Nature, Nature's order ſpurn, And would o'erthrow. But ſhe, be well aſſur'd, Will baffle all your efforts vain, and plant Fell daggers in your hearts, terror and guilt, Heart-burning hate, and dreary black remorſe. When Rome her laſt of heroes loſt (e'er ſince The wretched nurſe of Caeſars, and of Monks,) When Brutus, urg'd by faction, and a mob For baſeſt ſervitude now ripen'd, ſled From Latian ſoil, then, to attend her lord, Fled to the faithful partner of his bed, The wiſe, the virtuous Portia. Much ſhe fear'd; For much ſhe lov'd. He, godlike man, inſpir'd Not with leſs love, tho' with ſuperior ſtrength Of reaſon, thus her anxious thoughts reliev'd: " O Portia, beſt of wives, grateful thy ſight, " Grateful thy converſe. Yet, whene'er we part, " (And ſoon we muſt) then do not, Portia, thou, " Like other women, ſink; but bravely rouſe " Thy mighty ſire's remembrance. His firm deeds " May ſteel thy ſoul to ſufferance. Me the fates " O'er diſtant ſeas to hoſtile arms compel. " Should we ſucceed, then is thy lot and mine " Fortunate virtue; ſhould we fail, 'tis ſtill, " Still, Portia, virtue: think on that; then turn " Thy mental eye to every worſt event: " And, by premeditating, learn to bear " Whate'er befalls of ill. Joys will not come " The leſs for this; and each joy unforeſeen " With doubled energy will bleſs thy ſoul." Thus he with balmy words the labouring pain Within her boſom ſooth'd, and ſhe was cheer'd: Stedfaſt ſhe travell'd, ſtedfaſt ſhe arriv'd To the ſea-brink, where many a veſſel lay With fails expanded, Brutus to receive. Now were they lodg'd in hoſpitable houſe, The tender ſcene of their long laſt farewel: Yet ſtedfaſt ſtill ſhe was; ſtedfaſt ſhe ſaw The mariners prepare. When lo! by chance A picture meets her wandering eye. It ſhow'd, In living lines, brave Hector's laſt embrace, When from his weeping long-lov'd ſpouſe he went, Never to ſee her more. Ah, Portia! then Where fled thy courage? where thy ſtedfaſt heart? Thou look'ſt, thou feel'ſt: The ſad moving ſcene Too near reſemblance bears. Forth guſh thy tears, Thy ſpirits ſink, thy limbs forget their ſtrength, And thou forgetteſt all thy Brutus ſaid. Yet he forgives—forgives? yet ſtill he loves, Loves thee, that thou forgetteſt all he ſaid; For well he knows the cauſe: 'twas faithful love, By faithful love affected, like by like; Congenial by congenial.— But thy ſong 'Tis time, my Muſe, to end. This verſe, O thou, Radnor! who prov'ſt a ſecret ſympathy With all that's fair; patron and judge of arts; Studious of elegance in every form, Radnor! this verſe be conſecrate to thee.
TO THE AUTHOR OF A PANEGYRIC ON MRS. GRACE BUTLER, WHO DIED AGED LXXXVI. BY MR. POPE. The ſpirit of Mrs. Butler is ſuppoſed to ſpeak. STript to the naked ſoul, eſcap'd from clay, From doubts unfetter'd, and diſſolv'd in day; Unwarm'd by vanity; unreach'd by ſtrife; And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life, Why am I charm'd by friendſhip's fond eſſays, And, tho' unbodied, conſcious of thy praiſe? Has pride a portion in the parted ſoul? Does paſſion ſtill the formleſs mind controul? Can gratitude out-pant the ſilent breath? Or a friend's ſorrow pierce the glooms of death? No,—'tis a ſpirit's nobler taſte of bliſs! That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this; That not its own applauſe, but thine, approves; Whoſe practice praiſes, and whoſe virtue loves! Who liv'ſt, to crown departed friends with fame; Then, dying late, ſhalt all thou gav'ſt reclaim.
INSCRIPTION ON A GROTTO OF SHELLS AT CRUX-EASTQN, THE WORK OF NINE YOUNG LADIES. BY THE SAME. HEre, ſhunning idleneſs at once and praiſe, This radiant pile nine rural ſiſters raiſe; The glittering emblem of each ſpotleſs dame, Clear as her ſoul, and ſhining as her frame; Beauty which Nature only can impart, And ſuch a poliſh as diſgraces art; But fate diſpos'd them in this humble ſort, And hid in deſerts what would charm a court.
VERSES BY MR. POPE, ON READING A POEM, ENTITLED "A FIT OF THE SPLEEN," BY DR. IBBOTTSee Dodſley's collection, Vol. V. p. 202.. WHat are t •• falling rills, the pendent ſhades, The morni •• bowers, the evening colonades, But ſoft receſſes for 〈◊〉 uneaſy mind, To ſigh unheard in to the paſſing wind? So the ſtruck deer, in ſome ſequeſter'd part, Lies down to die—the arrow in his heart; There hid in ſhades, and waſting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his ſoul away.
VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE, ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER, USED AT ATTERBURY, A SEAT OF THE DUKE OF ARGYLE'S, IN OXFORDSHIRE, JULY IX, MDCCXXXIX. WIth no poetic ardor fir'd, I preſs the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, Begets no numbers grave or gay. But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie, Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed, Beneath a nobler roof, the ſky. Such flames as high in patriots burn, Yet ſtoop to bleſs a child, or wife; And ſuch as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, UPON READING THE PREAMBLE TO THE PATENT CREATING HIM DUKE OF GREENWICH. BY THE SAME. MIndleſs of fate, in theſe low vile abodes, Tyrants have oft uſurp'd the ſtyle of Gods: But that the Mortal may be thought Divine, The Herald ſtrait new-modell'd all his line; And venal Prieſt, with well-diſſembled lye, Preambled to the crowd the mimic Deity. Not ſo great Saturn's ſon, imperial Jove, He reigns, unqueſtion'd, in his realms above; No title from deſcent he need infer, His red right arm proclaims the Thunderer. This, Campbell, be thy pride, illuſtrious Peer, Alike to ſhine diſtinguiſh'd in thy ſphere. All merit but thine own thou may'ſt diſdain, And Kings have been thine anceſtors in vain.
A MORNING ELEGYThis and the three following poems are by Mr. Abr. Portal.. HAil, bright-eyed harbinger of ſacred light! Nature, refreſh'd, beholds thy cheering ray, At thy approach the gloomy ſhades of night, And all its dreary horrors, paſs away: Yet not to him, within whoſe manly breaſt Reaſon, with olive-twined ſceptre, ſways, I there in darkneſs aught that can moleſt; But nights ſerene ſucceed to virtuous days. Unlike that Lucifer whoſe baleful reign Excites to every deed of fouleſt dye, Repine and Luſt, and all the ſavage train Retire, abaſh'd, before thy holy eye. With ſilver hair, bright-flowing in the eaſt, And ruby-tinctur'd mantle, lightly ſpread, With pearl-beſtudded girdle bound her veſt, Aurora riſes from her coral bed. I feel her ſweet breath in the balmy gale, Purging from noxious fumes the humid air, Shedding freſh odours on the flowery vale, And genuine roſes on the village fair. I ſee the dappled fleece, her favourite woof, And golden-fringed clouds adorn the ſky, Skimming with light wing o'er its azure roof, And ſoftening every object to the eye. While yet the mind retains her tranquil eaſe, From day's perplexing cares and paſſions free. While Nature's charms are beſt array'd to pleaſe, And Health and Pleaſure join in amity, Oft let me rove beneath thy gentle beam, Ere ſultry Phoebus mounts his burning throne, And to the ſoaring ſky-lark's grateful theme, In numbers leſs melodious join my own: And as I range th' ambroſial fields along, Or climb the verdant hills unſhaded height, Pauſe on thoſe bleſſings that inſpire my ſong, And gather thence inſtruction and delight. Springs not a blade upon the ſpacious plain, Bends not a flower beneath the cryſtal tear, Chirps not an inſect of the turf in vain; But Contemplation Wiſdom's voice can hear. See! yonder feather'd parent, ſkimming round, Sudden ſhe darts upon her humble food: Yet, nobly ſcorning hunger, ſpurns the ground, And ſoars aloft, to ſerve her callow brood: Sweet moraliſt! to reaſon-vaunting man Thy generous leſſon teach; oft, in thy place, Deſpiſing Nature's all-inſtructive plan, He feeds his follies, and neglects his race. What ſudden burſt of oriental rays Diſturbs the peaceful muſings of my breaſt, Involves the ample firmament in blaze, And ſhoots its glories to the diſtant weſt? How bright the ſcene! magnificent and large, The orb of light reveals his glorious face, Rejoicing in his high Creator's charge, To ſpread his bounties thro' the realms of ſpace. Fitted to mortal eye, thy ſplendors mild More great appear than at meridian height; So ſhone the holy Virgin's heavenly child, Diſcloſing grace divine to human ſight. In prime advancing, now the jocund day, Laughs in the fulneſs of unclouded joy, Freſh-ſpringing flowrets ſtrew his radiant way, The woodland harmoniſts their notes employ: From hill to dale, from grove to verd'rous ſpring, Sweet ſounds, reſponſive, fill the ambient air, Sweet ſounds, reſponſive, make the valleys ring, And baniſh thence the family of care: Nor cheerleſs is the herd's majeſtic low, Loud-calling for the milk-maid's eaſing hand, Or white ſlocks bleating on the mountain's brow, Or plowman's whiſtling o'er his furrow'd land. Ye bleſt inhabitants of fields and ſhades, Elyſium ſoft of undiſturb'd repoſe! No artificial want your breaſt invades, No painful foretaſte of ſucceeding woes: By ſimple inſtinct led, to you unknown The tender throb of exquiſite deſire; The wealth of Avarice, and Ambition's throne, No raging wiſh, no diſcontent inſpire: To you ſufficing, that the genial beam Of day's enlivening planet wakes to joy, Satiate, ye quaff the pure untainted ſtream, And feaſt on dainties that can never cloy. O! to my heart your ſacred lore convey, Let Nature be my wealth, my joy, my guide, And be the buſineſs of each riſing day To check my wants, my paſſions, and my pride.
AN EVENING ELEGY. WElcome thou ſober evening, calm and grey, Now Phoebus' rage, and every blaſt is laid, Now foſt'ring clews deſcend, and turb'lent day Retires beneath the halcyon wing of ſhade. Now lucid Venus, grac'd with beamy hair, To dance nocturnal tempts the ſtarry train, Commanding toil to ceaſe, and anxious care From vexing mortal boſoms to refrain. Yet will not Avarice, curſed fiend! forbear To break wiſe Nature's beſt-appointed law, She penſive-plodding ſits, with downcaſt air Refuſing reſt, her fraudful plan to draw. Purſuing which, nor Themis' righteous lore, Nor precious relatives blood-binding tie, Nor all that heaven for virtue has in ſtore Can draw aſide her Mammon-fixed eye: O'er rocks and ſeas unheeded bounds ſhe flies, Explores the cold extreme of either Pole, Dares the fierce heats of equinoctial ſkies, Nor ſlacks her race, till Death's unwelcome goal. Far from my breaſt, kind heaven, ſuch luſt remove, At every grateful, tranquil eve's return, Let me, while doubtful Cynthia cheers the grove, With naught but love, or pious ardor burn. And as along ſome placid ſtream I range, Viewing the wild flowers cloſe their gaudy bloom, Or birds the free expanſe of ether change, To ſeek the ſhady covert's inmoſt gloom, Ah! let me tread with cautious ſtep and ſlow, Where thick-ſet hawthorns ſhed their odours wide, Where intermingled roſes ſweetly blow, And rambling woodbines cling on every ſide; Perchance, within the fragrant thicket hid, Some tuneful warbler reſts his wearied throat, Who, ere the ſun beneath th' horizon ſlid, Had ſooth'd my boſom with his dulcet note: Perchance, cloſe-perch'd aſide his brooding mate, With bill to bill inclin'd, in ſilent joy, He cheers her lonely hours, and watchful ſtate, And cares leſt aught ſhould her repoſe deſtroy. Sweet harmoniſts! your tender vigils keep Secure for me, I will not do ye wrong, The ruſtling boughs my garments ſhall not ſweep, And ye ſhall pay me with your future ſong. But hark! what voice the ſacred ſtillneſs breaks? Softer than ſilence are thoſe melting ſtrains, Or lover's ſighs, when pleading Nature ſpeaks; 'Tis ſadly-pleaſing Philomel complains. Long let me drink the magic of thy lay, Nor humming chafers baulk my thirſty ear, The time inſenſibly ſhall wear away, Till night approach, and every ſtar appear: Then as my lagging feet I homewards draw, My paſſions all in heavenly concord bound, The ſolemn ſcene ſhall fill my ſoul with awe, And God Omnipotent my tongue reſound. Methinks, when clad in beaming glories mild, Full and majeſtic ſhines the queen of night, Around her throne innumerous ſquadrons fil'd Of hoſts celeſtial, miniſters of light, It ſhould remind us of that holy hour, When heaven and earth's all-gracious Judge ſhall come, In the full ſplendor of his Father's power, With guard ſeraphic, to pronounce our doom. May I, when life's ſhort day begins to cloſe, The ſtar of age pale-glimmering o'er my head, Unvex'd by troublous blaſt my mind compoſe, Nor fortune's frowns, nor ſacred vengeance dread: From every anxious buſy ſcene retir'd, Let me the world's mad tumult view from far, Smile at what erſt each raging paſſion fir'd, Nor deem ſhort pleaſure worth unceaſing care. Within ſome humbly-decent rural ſhed, There let my ſun of life in radiance ſet, Thro' ſmiling hope, when Death's black night is ſled, A courſe more glorious ſhall its orient wait.
FRIENDSHIP. ATTEMPTED AFTER THE MANNER OF COWLEY. FRiendſhip, how ſweet! how comely doſt thou ſeem! But art thou aught indeed, beſides a dream? A pleaſing dream, where mines of wealth we own; But, by diſtreſs awak'd, we find our comfort flown: Yet have I read amongſt the poets tales What mighty things have been by friendſhip done; Or if the world of fiction naught avails, View Iſrael's royal youth and Jeſſe's ſon: Their love above the love of women roſe, Etherial flame, purg'd from each groſſer fire, Their boſoms throb'd with the ſame joys and woes, Like notes accordant from th' harmonious lyre. Barometers alike thus riſe and fall, Elate with ſunſhine, or by clouds depreſt, The ſame ſublime affection moves on all; So friendſhip acts upon the ſocial breaſt. But moſt, like paſteboard figures, ſeem t' agree, Which when the ſky is neither foul nor fair, At neighbouring doors, in kindly amity, Partake the common privilege of air; But if, perchance, the brightening ſky ſhould clear, And Phoebus ſpread his ſhining treſſes wide, Or threatning cloud drop ſome foreboding tear, Far as they can the former friends divide. And ſome there are, I ween, who, like the ſun, Cheer the fair opening bud with friendly gleam; But, when expanded wide, its beauties ſhun, Or envious wither with oppreſſive beam. Others, like wanton dames, exhauſt their charms On all alike, nor heed th' intrinſic worth, And loſe, within a thouſand different arms, What one alone had foſter'd into birth. Some, like the tuneful tenants of the ſhade, A fond and cloſe, but ſhort alliance make, The purpoſe ſerv'd which firſt their union made, A long farewel the future ſtrangers take. Others (whom fortune blaſt) with ſmooth-tongued guile, The unſuſpecting ſocial heart betray, Like treacherous Syrens murdering with a ſmile, Like comets blazing with malignant ray. Amid this threatning deluge, far outſpread, Where ſhall the faithful dove of friendſhip reſt? Return, ſweet bird, to thy domeſtic ſhed, The poets age, and miracles are ceas'd. Ah, yet return not! ſpread thy pinions wide, No labour ſpare; encompaſs land and ſea; Let naught th' ineſtimable jewel hide, Find me a friend, if any friend there be: Nay, better thou ſhould'ſt ſuffer fair deceit, Than ſolitary to my breaſt return; Who dreams of pleaſure is not ſo complete A wretch, as he who only wakes to mourn.
ELIZA'S WEDDING-DAY. AN ECLOGUE. INTRODUCTION. O Could my Muſe, with gentle Gay, Upon the boxen hautboy play, Or, with ſweet pipe of ſhepherd's boy, Make Windſor's ſhades reſound with joy, Maria's beauties ſtill ſhould live, And mournful Strephon ceaſe to grieve; Eliza's love, Eliza's truth, Unfading bloom in endleſs youth, And every bright delicious charm The barbed hand of Time diſarm; But ah, poor Colin! vain thy lay; Yet do thy beſt, and pipe away. COLIN. While from on high the flaming ſun diſplays The ſcorching fury of his noontide rays, And, at the foot of this oak-ſhaded hill, Our browſing cattle ſeek the cooling rill, Let us beguile the time with pleaſing ſong, And ſtretch our languid limbs at eaſe along. STREPHON. What boots it, Colin, that our limbs are laid, Compos'd, beneath the oak's refreſhing ſhade, Or that around us, on the yellow plain, The fertile ground is ſtock'd with plenteous grain? What tho' the meadows ſmile with cheerful green, And waving copſes ornament the ſcene, Can ſhades or plenty, or delightful views, O'er wounded minds the ſmiles of joy diffuſe? When fond Maria fled her ſhepherd's arms, Plains, meads, and copſes, loſt their wonted charms. C. Tho' juſt the cauſe, ah! what avails your grief, Since the pale Tyrant is to pity deaf? S. Tho' from my boſom Death has rudely torn The fragrant roſe, he left the pointed thorn. Well may you, Colin, blitheſome ſtrains compoſe, Happy in love, and ſtranger to my woes, Thoſe bleſſings which your life with tranſports crown, Four moons agone I boaſted as my own; But now, tho' vigour, youth, and love remain, The charming object I lament in vain. C. And who that knew the lovely nymph forbears The willing tribute of condoling tears? Bright was her form, with graces richly deck'd, Commanding love, attemper'd with reſpect; Sweet Modeſty, with ſocial Freedom join'd, Her manners form'd, and wit adorn'd her mind: How kind! how courteous ſhe to every ſwain! My wounded memory recollects with pain; But be all ſorrows laid aſide this day, To Colin's joys, let Strephon's griefs give way. S. As ſoon the hare ſhall quit the ſheltering brake, And linnets grey the yellow furze forſake: As ſoon ſhall Britiſh nymphs loſe power to charm, And Afric' maids the ſhepherds boſoms warm, As I from this afflicted breaſt remove The ſad remembrance of Maria's love. Weep ſkies, ſigh gales, droop all ye fading woods, Die every flower, and murmuring mourn ye floods; Ye gay-plum'd warblers, ceaſe your tuneful ſtrains, Bats, ravens, ſcreech-owls ſcream along the plains; In pity to my woes, ye ſwains around, Strip off the honours from the loaded ground, And let the fields, deſerted and forlorn, Three diſmal months my loſt Maria mourn: Then ſhall returning Spring their boſoms cheer; But ah! in mine, 'tis Winter all the year. C. My dear Eliza lov'd Maria more Than bees the fragrance of the gaudy flower: Then, while her praiſe I ſing, your woe ſuſpend, And loſe the lover in the generous friend. Ye hills, ye dales, ye ſtreams, and ſhady groves, To diſtant plains reſound our mutual loves. Twice three revolving happy years and one, Since ſacred wedlock join'd our hands are flown; Seven times the ſhifting ſeaſons went and came, The ſeaſons change, our hearts remain the ſame. Ye hills, ye dales, ye ſtreams, and ſhady groves, To diſtant plains reſound our mutual loves. Of every hue of every bloſſom dyed, The gay carnation is the garden's pride; So every beauty bright Eliza wears, Bleſt Colin's pride, and ſoftner of his cares. The fragrant clove in ſweetneſs moſt excels, The lilly's faireſt of the flowery belles; More ſweet than cloves, than ſpotleſs lillies fair, In Colin's eyes, Eliza's beauties are. Ye hills, ye dales, ye ſtreams, and ſhady groves, To diſtant plains reſound our mutual loves. Tell every nymph, that mourns her ſwain's deceit, The lov'd Eliza is as good as ſweet; When they, like her, each ſocial virtue prove, Their ſwains, like Colin, ſhall return their love. Guiltleſs of anger, harmleſs lambkins rove, The loving turtles coo within the grove, My conſtant Tray ne'er quits his maſter's ſide, The prudent ants unthinking ſwains deride, And bees beneficent, with pleaſing pains, Collect ſweet honey to enrich the ſwains; Lambs, turtles, Tray, and ants and bees may find Their virtues blended in Eliza's mind: Ye hills, ye dales, ye ſtreams, and ſhady groves, To diſtant plains reſound our mutual loves. Ye witleſs clowns, who marriage joys deride, Nor know the comforts of a faithful bride, Attentive liſten to my tender tale, Nor to your loſs let prejudice prevail. By Winter's falſe inclement ſkies betray'd, A burning fever on my vitals prey'd; My fleecy charge Eliza's care ſupplied, Reſpondent to each groan Eliza ſigh'd; Twelve ſleepleſs nights ſharp anguiſh rack'd my breaſt, Twelve ſleepleſs nights Eliza baniſh'd reſt, With care unwearied watch'd aſide my bed, And with fond arm ſuſtain'd my reſtleſs head, Each cooling herb applied to ſooth my pain, Nor were her tender labours wrought in vain; Kind ſymptoms of returning health appear'd, And Love's rich cordial my weak ſpirits cheer'd; My ſtrength renew'd, joy ſparkled in her eye, And fill'd my ſoul with grateful extaſy. Ye hills, ye dales, ye ſtreams, and ſhady groves, To diſtant plains reſound our mutual loves. Ye mantling vines that form the conſcious bower, Where oft we paſs the ſoft endearing hour, Whilſt you, to imitate our joys divine, In wanton folds your amorous branches twine, A thouſand kiſſes whiſper from your leaves; But barren of thoſe ſweets Eliza gives: For not the mingling arms, or frequent kiſs, But ſouls united cauſe the heart-felt bliſs. Ye hills, ye dales, ye ſtreams, and ſhady groves, To diſtant plains reſound our mutual loves. Eliza's preſence with ſupreme delights Shortens the ſummer's days, and winter's nights: No irkſome toil ſhall Colin e'er regard, Her happineſs and love the rich reward. Bleſt be the day, at each return thrice bleſt, That gave Eliza to my raptur'd breaſt: This day, may no misfortune vex the ſwains, No ripen'd corn be laid by furious rains; No luckleſs reaper meet with painful wound, Or tread the ſtinging adder on the ground; No nipping blaſts the hopeful grapes aſſail, Or make the downy peaches withering fail; But may propitious Love excite to mirth, And Ceres' honours grace the teeming earth; With golden fruit the loaded trees be crown'd, And purple cluſters on the vines abound. Now ceaſe, ye hills, ye dales, ye ſtreams, and groves, To tell the diſtant plains our mutual loves. S. Well haſt thou, Colin, tun'd the oaten reed, Thy ſongs the ſongs of nightingales exceed; Unable to withſtand thy powerful lay, The melancholy fiend is hied away; To fate reſign'd, I feel returning reſt, Sweet friendſhip, now, has all my ſoul poſſeſt, And Colin young, with his Eliza fair, Shall equal portions of my boſom ſhare: Long may ſucceeding years their love renew, A pattern for each nymph and ſhepherd true, And may Eliza fair, and Colin young, To diſtant times by happy pairs be ſung:
This, and as far as page 96 incluſive, by the ſame gentleman.PROLOGUE. BY E.R. LAdies, the ends for which we meet to-night, Are ſocial good, and innocent delight, Paſt ſcenes of mirth, by preſent, we reſtore, And thanks return for honours dealt before. Theſe too aloud for gratitude ſhall call, Whene'er your preſence cheers a future ball. The voids of life are often unſupplied From aukward ſhame, or ill-conſider'd pride: Still of our talents diffident or vain, We dread as vaſſals, or as kings diſdain; Diſeas'd with ſpleen, or impotence of mind, Skulking, ſad fugitives, from human-kind. Converſe, no doubt, an inſtitute divine, Corrects our manners, bids our virtues ſhine; For ſtill imperfect was the Maker's plan, Till this improv'd the ſavage into man. Yet ill by friendſhip man with man, we ſtrive To keep the ſoul of ſocial bliſs alive: Friendſhip among ourſelves is ſeldom true, But always proves more faithful made by you. Fir'd by your ſex it vies with joys above, It mounts, it glows exalted into love. Say, then, ye tender, and ye truly fair, Since heaven has form'd you with diſtinguiſh'd care, And made a parent laviſh of his ſtore, In Nature's bleſſings rich, in Virtue's more; Say, could ſuch gifts be ever meant the lot Of the pert coxcomb, or the ſtupid ſot? Oh, if impartially you dart your frowns On well-bred Fribbles, and on ill-bred Clowns; If men from honour, as from ſhame exempt, The falſe and venal ſhare your juſt contempt; When the ſmit youth of ſpirit, and of ſenſe, Attacks your hearts, forbear a long defence; Dire fruits of Smithfield-ſales let truth avert, And bleſs with beauty, where you find deſert.
POMPILIA. AN ODE. WRITTEN BY THE SIDE OF A FOUNTAIN WHOSE WATERS MIX WITH THE RIVER VANDAL. FAir cryſtal fount, whoſe peaceful bed Unnumber'd pebbles hide, From whence, by Nature's bounty fed, Perennial waters glide. What Nymph, by Satyrs hot purſued, Attempting ſwift eſcape, Did, to thy ſtreams transform'd, elude The meditated rape? 'Twas ſhe, Pompilia, virgin pure, Of chaſte Diana's train, By Vandal lov'd, but ah! ſecure, By Vandal lov'd in vain. Now tow'rds his banks, her only truſt, Fear gave her footſteps wing; She ſwoon'd, ſhe fell, deform'd with duſt, To riſe a ſilver ſpring. Then, Vandal, firſt thy longing arms The paſſive fair ſuſtain'd, And ow'd to lawleſs luſt the charms, Thy love had never gain'd. Yet coy, as when a maid of old, Tho' bright as noon-tide ray; She trembles ſtill, and, icy-cold, In ſilence ſteals away.
A DIALOGUE, BETWEEN A GENTLEMAN AND A LADY, AT A BALL AT CROYDON. BY E.R. LADY. GET along, ſir—I hate you, that's flat— Let me go then—Lord bleſs me—be quiet— If you wont keep your hands off, take that— D'ye think I came here to a riot? G. Why, madam,—how now? do you ſcratch? In ſhort, miſs, I wont bear this uſage— You're a little, unthinking croſs-patch— And yet you're of miſs I know who's age. L. Of this, or of that miſs's age, What buſineſs have fellows with me, ſir?— Put yourſelf into ne'er ſuch a rage, I care not three ſkips of a flea, ſir— G. Lord, madam, I hope no offence;— My words ſeldom bear any meaning:— Beſides, you're a lady of ſenſe, And anger would ſcorn to be ſeen in. L. Such rudeneſs would ruffle a ſaint— I wiſh you would learn to be civil.— G.

One kiſs, and I will, I'll maintain't—

L. Well! ſure you're an impudent devil— There!—now are you ſatisfied? G.

No:

L.

How can folks be ſo mortally teazing?

G. While your lips ſo much ſweetneſs beſtow, Your nails can do nothing diſpleaſing.
AN APOLOGY FOR RUNNING AWAY. WHene'er ſuperior force defies, 'Tis good the battle to decline; Grotius himſelf would ſo adviſe, And I may make his motives mine. Who roams, a ſtronger foe to ſeek, Is ſure unhappily employ'd; Retreat's the wiſdom of the weak; 'Tis oft a triumph to avoid. Mackheath, on either ſide attack'd, With artleſs honeſty, affirms, Oppos'd by odds, he cannot act, And fights not, but on equal terms. That, therefore, conqueſt may accrue, Your corps ſhould half its ſtrength detach; What fool would make attempt on two, When one may prove above his match?
SONG TO A TUNE IN THE PARTING LOVERS. AND muſt thou leave us, Nancy, And quit thy conqueſts round? Ah! can no necromancy To bring thee back be found? Thou Venus' ſmock wert wrapt in, Who gave thoſe charms, we ſee, So fatal to the captain, Thy zealous devotee. What tho' thy father cruel Decrees thy triumphs o'er, Soon abſence heaps with fuel, The love that blaz'd before. Thy blade, to change the ſentence, Shall ſummon force and ſkill, And thou, by Dad's repentance, Reviſit Dupper's Hill.
SONG. TEll me where the weakneſs lies, You who ſeem above it, Whence we joys in hand deſpiſe, Whence remote we covet? If, when objects diſtant move, Still they can allure us, Will that nigh they worthleſs prove Not ſuffice to cure us? Strange! our will perverſe and blind Schemes of peace oppoſes; Strange! we look aloft to find What's beneath our noſes. Go, ye anxious fools, and ſtun Heaven with vain addreſſes; He obtains your vows in one, Who content poſſeſſes.
TO NANNETTE. TIme flies, Nannette, to ſeal our doom, Nor backward turns his head, But ſweeps with unremitted plume The living to the dead. Alas! thoſe eyes, which warm the ſoul, But gild a ſummer's day, Too ſoon in vain their orbs ſhall roll, And ſoon their fires decay. Thoſe dimples, where the Loves reſide, And mock the dread of ſin, In wrinkles muſt their glories hide, As if they ne'er had been. Nor this alone; for age will prey A vulture on the mind, And, ſtealing brilliant thoughts away, Leave nought but cares behind. Thee black Reflection ſhall ſurpriſe Neglected, and uncouth, All paſſions loſt, but what ſuffice To curſe thy pride of youth. Prevent the ills theſe notes foretell, Be kind, leſt men complain, That Nature has but trifled well, And form'd thee fair in vain.
TO A LADY, ON HER OBTAINING A PRIZE IN THE LOTTERY. MAdam, to you ſince Fortune proves ſo kind, Sure, ill they paint who repreſent her blind: At leaſt, 'tis plain, that, deſtitute of ſight, She needs no eyes to place her favours right.
WRITTEN AT VENLO DURING THE LATE WAR: ON A BEAUTIFUL CHILD BEING KILLED BY THE FALL OF A STONE FROM THE STEEPLE. ONE ſummer's day, invited by the ſhade, As near a time-ſhook tower an infant play'd, From the high ſummit, whence a pigeon fled, A ſever'd fragment cruſh'd his blameleſs head. Ye ruthleſs hoſts, whoſe deſolating ſkill Makes lightnings ſlaſh, and mimic thunders kill; Deſtructive engines need your rage employ, When time can temples, doves can life deſtroy?
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. HEre, doom'd the ſabbath of the grave to keep, In peace, dear child, (ſo pray thy parents) ſleep; Sleep till the God of Nature bids thee wake; And of thy raptures may they then partake.
AN INSCRIPTION DESIGNED FOR THE STATUE OF EDWARD THE SIXTH IN ST. THOMAS'S HOSPITAL. ON Edward's brow no laurels caſt a ſhade, Nor at his feet are warlike ſpoils diſplay'd; Yet here, ſince firſt his bounty rais'd the pile, The lame grow active, and the languid ſmile: See this, ye chiefs, and, ſtruck with envy, pine, To kill is brutal, but to ſave, divine.
THE DEATH OF OTHO. FROM MARTIAL. WHen fierce Bellona doubtful held the ſcale, And yet in arms ſoft Otho might prevail, Shock'd at the bloodſhed civil ſtrife muſt deal, Deep in his breaſt he plung'd the fatal ſteel; Cato was greater living none deny, But ſay, than Otho did he greater die?
ON A LATE PARRICIDE. DEteſted deed! what rites ſhall purge the land, Where dies the parent by the Miſs Blandy.daughter's hand? Fell tygers rend the lamb and ſportive kid, Yet hold the ſlaughter of their race forbid. O grant me inſtinct! if from reaſon flows A fierceneſs more than ſavage nature knows.
THE ROMAN CHARITY, IN CONTRAST TO THE FOREGOING. THE Latian dame, a priſon's nightly gueſt, To ſate a father's hunger drain'd her breaſt; No leſs could filial piety confer, Than cheriſh life in him who gave it her.
EPIGRAM. CAſſandra from her ſpark receiv'd The gift of propheſying, Yet ſo, that all who her believ'd The wench was given to lying. Thy gift of midwifry, O G—n, Thy looks alike diſparage, Preventing oft a lying-in, By cauſing a miſcarriage.—
ANOTHER. OLD Ayres ſubpoenaed to the grave, The world conſents to call a knave: This, G—n, of thee is ſeldom ſaid; The cauſe is plain—Thou art not dead.—
EPITAPH ON A MAN WHO DIED SUDDENLY AT CHURCH. HEre lies a man (behold what faith can do!) At once found righteous, and rewarded too. Whoſe ſpirit, mounting on the wings of prayer, Scal'd heaven's bleſt ſeats, and crav'd acceptance there. God, pleas'd the ſoul ſo high eſſay'd to ſoar, Approv'd its zeal, and gave it back no more.
ON ONE WHO DIED OF THE HYP. DEath, by a conduct ſtrange and new, Prov'd here th' effect, and motive too: Ned met the blow he meant to fly, And died, becauſe—he fear'd to die.
EPIGRAM ON THE FALSE REPORT OF MRS. H—Y'S DEATH. ON wings of winds his journey Rumor ſped, Proclaiming wide illuſtrious H—y dead: Suſpended tears ſtood big in every eye, Till Truth's fair aſpect chas'd the recent lye: Slow mov'd the tears to ſorrow's ſad employ, But guſh'd a torrent in the cauſe of joy.
EPITAPH INTENDED FOR MY OWN TOMB-STONE. THat Power ſupreme who taught me firſt to breathe, Now bids my clay augment the duſt beneath: Enough to ſenſe, that, form'd of human kind, I fill'd that ſpace for which I was deſign'd; Enough to Nature, if I fill'd it well— This the great day of final doom ſhall tell.
GRATITUDE. A POEM. BY WILLIAM THOMPSON, M.A. LATE FELLOW OF QUEEN'S COLLEGE. SHall foreign lands for Pomfret wake the lyre, And Tyber's more than Iſis' banks inſpire? Let Iſis' groves with Pomfret's name reſound; Not Rome alone can boaſt of claſſic ground. Ye ſons of harmony, the wreath prepare, The living laurel wreath, to bind her hair. Hail, fair exemplar of the good and great, The Muſes hail thee to their honour'd ſeat, And ne'er, ſince Anna with her preſence bleſt, They ſung a nobler, more auſpicious gueſt. Behold our youth, tranſported at the ſight; Behold our virgins, ſparkling with delight; Even venerable age forgets its ſnow, The ſplendor catches, and conſents to glow. Ye youths, with Pomfret's praiſes tune the ſhell; Ye virgins, learn from Pomfret to excel: For her let age, with fervent prayers and pure, The bleſſings of all-bounteous heaven ſecure. Their breathing incenſe let the Graces bring; Their grateful Paeans let the Muſes ſing. If praiſe be guilt, ye laurels, ceaſe to grow, Oxford to ſing, and Seraphims to glow. No altars to an idol-power we raiſe, Nor conſecrate the worthleſs with our praiſe, To merit only, and to goodneſs juſt, We rear the arch-triumphal and the buſt. Sprung from the The Pembroke family have been remarkable for genius. Mary, counteſs of Pembroke, ſiſter to Sir Philip Sidney, for whoſe entertainment he wrote his Arcadia, publiſhed a tragedy called Antonius. Ann, counteſs of Pembroke, had Daniel for her tutor, and erected to Spenſer the monument in Weſtminſter Abbey. Wil iam, earl of Pembroke, printed a volume of poems. Shakeſpeare's and Fletcher's works, in their firſt editions, are dedicated to the earl of Pembroke: and Thomas, who ought particularly to be mentioned on this occaſion, made the largeſt and fineſt collection of ſtatues of any nobleman in Europe.Pembroke race, their nation's pride, Allied by ſcience, as by blood allied, Illuſtrious rare! ſure to protect or pleaſe With patriot freedom, or with courtly eaſe; Bleſt with the graceful form, and tuneful mind, To Oxford dear, as to the Muſes kind! Thy gifts, O Pomfret, we with wonder view, And while we praiſe their beauties think of you. Who but a Venus could a Cupid ſend, And who a Tully but Minerva's friend? A ſpeechleſs Tully, leſt he ſhould commend. The praiſe you merit you refuſe to hear; No marble orator can wound your ear. Mere ſtatues, worſe than ſtatues we ſhould be, If Oxford's ſons more ſilent were than he. Scarce ſilent, and impatient of the ſtone, He ſeems to thunder from his roſtral throne: He wakes the marble, by ſome Phidias taught, And, eloquently dumb, he looks a thought. With hopes and fears we tremble or rejoice, Deceiv'd we liſten, and expect a voice. This ſtation ſatisfies his noble pride, Diſdaining, but in Oxford, to reſide. Here ſafely we behold fierce Marius frown, Glad that we have no Marius, ſave in ſtone, So animated by the maſter's ſkill, The Gaul, awe-ſtrucken, dares not—cannot kill. The ſleeping Cupids happily expreſt The fiercer paſſions foreign to thy breaſt. Long ſtrangers to the laughter-loving Dame, They from Arcadia, not from Paphos, came. Whene'er his lyre thy kindred Sidney ſtrung, The flocking Loves around their Poet hung: Whene'er he fought, they flutter'd by his ſide, And ſtiffen'd into marble, when he died. Half-drop'd their quivers, and half-ſeal'd their eyes, They only ſleep:—for Cupid never dies. " A ſleeping Cupid!" (cries ſome well-dreſt ſmart,) " 'Tis falſe! I feel his arrows in my heart." I own, my friend, your argument is good, And who denies, that's made of fleſh and blood; But yon bright circle, ſtrong in native charms, No Cupid's bow requires, nor borrow'd arms: The radiant Meſſenger of conqueſt flies Keen from each glance, and pointed from their eyes. His heart, whom ſuch a proſpect cannot move, Is harder, colder, than the Marble-Love. But Modeſty rejects what Juſtice ſpeaks: —I ſee ſoft bluſhes ſtealing o'er their cheeks.— Not Phidian labours claim the verſe alone, The figur'd braſs, or fine-proportion'd ſtone. To make you theirs the Siſter Arts conſpire, You animate the canvas or the lyre: A new creation on your canvas flows, Life meets your hand, and from your pencil glows: How ſwells your various lyre, or melts away, While every Muſe attends on every lay! The bright contagion of Heſperian ſkies, Burn'd in your ſoul, and lightned in your eyes, To view what Raphael painted, Vinci plann'd, And all the wonders of the claſſic land. Proud of your charms, applauding Rome confeſt Her own Cornelias breathing in your breaſt. The Virtues, which each foreign realm renown, You bore in triumph home, to grace your own. Apelles thus to form his finiſh'd piece, The beauteous Pomfret of adoring Greece, In one united, with his happy care, The fair perfections of a thouſand fair. Tho' Virtue may with moral luſtre charm, Religion only can the boſom warm. In thee Religion wakens all her fires, Perfumes thy heart, and ſpotleſs ſoul inſpires. A Cato's Daughter might of virtue boaſt, Nobly to vice, tho' not to glory, loſt: A Pomfret, taught by Piety to riſe, Looks down on glory, while ſhe hopes the ſkies. Angels with joy prepare the ſtarry crown, And Seraphs feed a flame, ſo like their own. One ſtatue more let Rhedicina raiſe, To charm the preſent, brighten future days; The ſculptur'd column grave with Pomfret's name, A column, worthy of thy temple, Fame! Praxitiles might ſuch a form commend, And borrow graces which he us'd to lend; Where eaſe with beauty, force with ſoftneſs meet, Tho' mild majeſtic, and tho' awful ſweet. Of gold and elephant, on either hand, Let Piety and Bounty, graceful, ſtand; With fillets this, with roſes that entwin'd, And breath their virtues on the gazer's mind. Low at her feet, the ſleeping Cupids plac'd, By Marius guarded, and with Tully grac'd: A monument of gratitude remain The bright Palladium of Minerva's fane.
MORE NIGHT THOUGHTS. BY MR. W. O Night, dark Night! wrapt round with Stygian gloom, Thy riding-hood opaque! wove by the hands Of Clotho and of Atropos:—Thoſe hands That ſpin my thread of life,—how near its end! Ah wherefore, ſilent Goddeſs, ſhould'ſt thou thus Awake my terrors? ſilence ſounds alarms To me, and darkneſs dazzles my weak mind. Hark!—'tis the death-watch!—poſts themſelves can ſpeak Death's language!—ſtop, O ſtop, inſatiate worm, I feel thy ſummons; to my fellow-worms Thou bidſt me haſten!—I obey thy call;— For wherefore ſhould I live?—vain life to me Is but a tatter'd garment, a patch'd rag, That ill defends us from the cold of age. Cramp'd are my faculties, my eyes grow dim, No muſic charms my ear, no meats my taſte; The females fly me, and my very wife— Poor woman!—knows me not.— Ye flattering, idle vanities of life, Where are ye flown? the birds, that us'd to ſing Amidſt my ſpreading branches, now forſake This leafleſs trunk, and find no ſhelter there, What's life?—what's death? thus coveted and fear'd?— Life is a fleeting ſhadow—death's no more:— Death's a dark lantern; life a candle's end, Stuck on a ſave-all, ſoon to end in ſtench— Foh! death's a privy; life the alley green, That leads to't; where, perchance, from either ſide A ſweet briar hedge, or ſhrubs of broader leaf, And more commodious, breathe their treacherous ſweets. Death follows life, and ſtops it ere it reach The topmoſt ſpoke of Fortune's envied wheel!— Wheel!—life's a wheel, and each man is the aſs, That turns it; oft receiving in the end But water and rank thiſtles for his pains. And yet, Lorenzo, if conſider'd right, A life of labour is a life of eaſe! Pain is true joy, and want is luxury! Vain mirth's an opera tune, a tortur'd ſigh, The breath of eunuchs; it diſmembers bliſs, Makes man not man, and caſtrates real joy. Would you be merry?—ſeek ſome charnel-houſe Where death inhabits, give a ball to death, A dooms-day ball, and lead up Holben's dance. How weak? how ſtrong? how gentle? how ſevere Are Laughter's chains, that gall a willing world! The noiſy Idiot ſhakes her bells at all, Not e'en the Bible, or the Night-Thoughts 'ſcape— Fools ſpare not Heaven itſelf, O Y—! nor thee.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. JAMES THOMSON. BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINSThe ſcene of the following ſtanzas is ſuppoſed to lie on the Thames near Richmond. This ode and the ſubſequent account of the author were, by an unlucky accident, omitted in our laſt number.. IN yonder grove a Druid lies Where ſlowly winds the ſtealing wave! The Year's beſt ſweets ſhall duteous riſe To deck its Poet's ſylvan grave! In yon deep bed of whiſpering reeds His airy harpThe harp of Aeolus, of which ſee a deſcription in the Caſtle of Indolence. ſhall now be laid, That he, whoſe heart in ſorrow bleeds, May love thro' life the ſoothing ſhade. Then maids and youths ſhall linger here, And while its ſounds at diſtance ſwell, Shall ſadly ſeem in Pity's ear To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft ſhall haunt the ſhore When Thames in ſummer-wreaths is dreſt, And oft ſuſpend the daſhing oar To bid his gentle ſpirit reſt! And oft as Eaſe and Health retire To breezy lawn, or foreſt deep, The friend ſhall view yon whitening Richmond church.ſpire, And 'mid the varied landſcape weep. But thou, who own'ſt that earthy bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail? Or tears, which Love and Pity ſhed That mourn beneath the gliding ſail! Yet lives there one, whoſe heedleſs eye Shall ſcorn thy pale ſhrine glimmering near? With him, ſweet Bard, may Fancy die, And Joy deſert the blooming year. But thou, lorn Stream, whoſe ſullen tide No ſedge-crown'd Siſters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's ſide Whoſe cold turf hides the buried Friend! And ſee, the fairy valleys fade, Dun Night has veil'd the ſolemn view! —Yet once again, dear parted Shade, Meek Nature's Child again adieu! The genial meads aſſign'd to bleſs Thy life, ſhall mourn thy early doom, Their hinds, and ſhepherd-girls ſhall dreſs With ſimple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy ſtone and pointed clay Shall melt the muſing Briton's eyes, O! vales, and wild woods, ſhall he ſay, In yonder grave your Druid lies!

The following character of Mr. Thomſon, in his poem called the Caſtle of Indolence, is ſaid to be written by Lord L—.

A Bard there dwelt, more fat than Bard beſeems, Who void of envy, guile, and luſt of gain, On Virtue ſtill, and Nature's pleaſing themes, Pour'd forth his unpremeditated ſtrain, The world forſaking with a calm diſdain: Here laugh'd he careleſs, in his eaſy ſeat, Here quaff'd encircled with the joyous train; Oft-moralizing Sage his ditty ſweet! He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

MR. William Collins was born at Chicheſter in Suſſex, in the year 1721: in which city his father was a reputable tradeſman. He was admitted a ſcholar of Wincheſter college, Feb. 23, 1733. where he ſpent ſeven years under the care of the learned Dr. Burton. In the year 1740, in conſideration of his merit, he was placed firſt in the liſt of thoſe ſcholars who are elected from Wincheſter college to New college in Oxford: but no vacancy happening at the latter, he was entered, the ſame year, a commoner of Queen's college, Ox. and July 29, 1741. was elected a demy, or ſcholar, of Magdalen college in the ſame univerſity. At ſchool he began to ſtudy poetry and criticiſm, particularly the latter. The following epigram, made by him while at Wincheſter-ſchool, diſcovers a genius, and turn of expreſſion, very rarely to be met with in juvenile compoſitions.

TO MISS AURELIA C—R, ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER'S WEDDING. CEaſe, fair Aurelia, ceaſe to mourn; Lament not Hannah's happy ſtate; You may be happy in your turn, And ſeize the treaſure you regret. With Love united Hymen ſtands, And ſoftly whiſpers to your charms; " Meet but your lover in my bands, " You'll find your ſiſter in his arms."

His Latin exerciſes were never ſo much admired as his Engliſh.—At Oxford he wrote the epiſtle to Sir Thomas Hanmer, and Oriental eclogues, which were firſt publiſhed in 1742, under the title of Perſian eclogues. About the year 1743, he left Oxford, having taken the degree of bachelor of arts, weary of the confinement and uniformity of an academical life; fondly imagining that a man of parts was ſure of making his fortune in London; and ſtruck with the name of author and poet, without conſulting his friends, he immediately removed to town, and raſhly reſolved to live by his pen, without undertaking the drudgery of any profeſſion. Here he ſoon diſſipated his ſmall fortune, to compenſate for which, he projected the hiſtory of the revival of learning in Italy, under the pontificates of Julius II. and Leo X. His ſubſcription for this work not anſwering his expectations, he engaged with a bookſeller, to tranſlate Ariſtotle's Poetics, and to illuſtrate it with a large and regular comment. This ſcheme alſo being laid aſide, he turn'd his thoughts to dramatic poetry, and being intimately acquainted with the manager, reſolved to write a tragedy, which however he never executed. In the year 1746 he publiſhed his odes; and ſhortly after went abroad to our army in Flanders, to attend his uncle, colonel Martin, who, dying ſoon after his arrival, left him a conſiderable fortune; which however he did not live long to enjoy, for he fell into a nervous diſorder, which continued, with but ſhort intervals, till his death, which happened in 1756. and with which diſorder his head and intellects were at times affected.

For a man of ſuch an elevated genius, Mr. Collins has wrote but little: his time was chiefly taken up in laying extenſive projects, and vaſt deſigns, which he never even begun to put in execution.

We have been favoured with the following account of Mr. Collins by a gentleman, deſervedly eminent in the republic of letters, who knew him intimately well.

Mr. Collins was a man of extenſive literature, and of vigorous faculties. He was acquainted not only with the learned tongues, but with the Italian, French, and Spaniſh languages. He had employed his mind chiefly upon works of fiction, and ſubjects of fancy; and, by indulging ſome peculiar habits of thought, was eminently delighted with thoſe flights of imagination which paſs the bounds of nature, and to which the mind is reconciled only by a paſſive acquieſcence in popular traditions. He loved fairies, genii, giants, and monſters; he delighted to rove through the meanders of inchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to repoſe by the waterfals of Elyſian gardens. This was however the character rather of his inclination than his genius, the grandeur of wildneſs, and the novelty of extravagance, were always deſired by him, but were not always attained. But diligence is never wholly loſt: if his efforts ſometimes cauſed harſhneſs and obſcurity, they likewiſe produced in happier moments ſublimity and ſplendour. This idea, which he had formed of excellence, led him to oriental fictions, and allegorical imagery; and, perhaps, while he was intent upon deſcription, he did not ſufficiently cultivate ſentiment: his poems are the productions of a mind not deficient in fire, nor unfurniſhed with knowledge either of books or life, but ſomewhat obſtructed in its progreſs, by deviation in queſt of miſtaken beauties.

His morals were pure, and his opinions pious. In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of diſſipation, it cannot be expected that any character ſhould be exactly uniform. There is a degree of want by which the freedom of agency is almoſt deſtroyed, and long aſſociation with fortuitous companions will at laſt relax the ſtrictneſs of truth, and abate the fervour of ſincerity. That this man, wiſe and virtuous as he was, paſſed always unentangled through the ſnares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to affirm. But it may be ſaid, that at leaſt he preſerved the ſource of action unpolluted, that his principles were never ſhaken, that his diſtinctions of right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing of malignity or deſign, but proceeded from ſome unexpected preſſure, or caſual temptation.

The latter part of his life cannot be remembred but with pity and ſadneſs. He languiſhed ſome years under that depreſſion of mind which enchains the faculties without deſtroying them, and leaves reaſon the knowledge of right, without the power of purſuing it. Theſe clouds, which he found gathering on his intellects, he endeavoured to diſperſe by travel, and paſſed into France, but found himſelf conſtrained to yield to his malady, and returned: he was for ſome time confined in a houſe of lunatics, and afterwards retired to the care of his ſiſter in Colcheſter, where death at laſt came to his relief.

After his return from France, the writer of this character paid him a viſit at Islington, where he was waiting for his ſiſter, whom he had directed to meet him: there was then nothing of diſorder diſcernable in his mind by any but himſelf, but he had then withdrawn from ſtudy, and travelled with no other book than an Engliſh teſtament, ſuch as children carry to the ſchool; when his friend took it into his hand, out of curioſity to ſee what companion a man of letters had choſen, "I have but one book," ſays Collins, "but that is the beſt."

GENERAL INDEX.

*⁎*The numerals refer to the volumes, and the figures to the pages.

A ABelard to Eloiſa, by Pattiſon, iv. 27 Ditto to ditto, by Mr. Cawthorn, iv. 47 Accident, a paſtoral elegy, v. 112 Advice to an author, v. 123 African prince to Zara, iv. 13 Alcove, verſes in one, vi. 9 Amanda, ode to, xi. 12 Amoret, on her recovery from ſickneſs. iii. 116 Amoroſo, vii. 100 Anacreon, ode xxviii. imitated, ii. 73 — Imitated, vi. 62 Anacreontic on the ſpring, iv. 12 Aningait and A jut, by mrs. Penny. vii. 81 Apology for running away, xii. 86 Arachne, on the death of, iii. 33 Atheiſm, the folly of, v. 122 Atterbury, biſhop, poems by, viii. 74 — on his funeral, viii. 79 —, biſhop, on his preaching, by d. Wharton, xi. 7 Author, further advice to one, vi. 121 Autumnal ode, ix. 3 Autumn, by Brerewood, ix. 7 — The decline of, x. 5 B Bacchanalian, ii. 95 Barreaux's ſonnet tranſlated, viii. 65 Barrow, his verſes on Milton tranſlated, xii. 43 Beliſarius, on ſeeing the picture of, x. 64 Birth-day, to a lady on her's, April the firſt, iv. 7 — ode, vi. 112 — by Whitehead, vii. 120 Bramſton, James, to capt. Hinton, viii. 94 Breach of the rivers, v. 105 Bridgewater, duke, to his memory, ix. 122 Byng, admiral, on his return from Minorca, vi. 74 C Carnation, verſes ſent with one, vi. 6 Charity, to, iii. 84 Charles I. on a quiet conſcience, viii. 66 C—d, lord, on the ducheſs of R—d, iii. 111 Chloe's ſoliloquy, vi. 117 Cicero, on the baniſhment of, by the d. of Whirton, xi. 5 Cit's country-box, iv. 102 Cleanthes, his hymn to God, i. 72 Colin and Lucy, a fragment, iii. 119 Collins, William, poems by, Oriental eclogues, xi. 17 Twelve odes, xi. 31 Epiſtle to Sir Tho. Hanmer, xi. 67 Song from Shakeſpear's Cymbeline, xi. 74 Ode on the death of Thomſon, xii. 104 Compariſon, vii. 123 Complaint, a paſtoral elegy, iii. 86 Concord, xii. 53 Congreve, his epiſtle to lord Cobham, iii. 108 Contemplation, an ode, vi. 7 Contraſte to mrs. Carter's ode to wiſdom, iv. 91 Copernican ſyſtem, a poem, iii. 67 Copper farthing, x. 48 Country church-yard, ſoliloquy in, ii. 49 Cunningham, poems by, iv. 81. vii. 109 D Daughter, to the memory of one, iv. 73 Death, a poem, xii. 9 Deity, a poem, by S. Boyſe, ii. 9 Denis, mr. fables by him, ii. 97 Fables by ditto, i. 97 Devil-painter, vi. 118 Dialogue in the ſenate-houſe, ix. 92 — at Croydon, xii. 84 Doubt, origin of, iv. 60 Dryads, a poem, by mr. Diaper, ix. 17 Dryden, mr. on the old buſt of, ii. 119 Duncombe, mr. John, poems by him, vii. 17, 34, &c. By ditto, x. 65, &c. Dyer, his epiſtle to a friend in town, iii. 112 E Elegy, vi. 68 — on a pile of ruins, vii. 10 Elegies, four, morning, noon, owning, midnight, viii. 20 Elegy, written among ſome ruins, viii. 88 — on a drowned ſhepherd, xi. 85 Eliza's wedding-day, xii. 75 Enquiries, on theological, iv. 63 Epigram, on cutting down ſome college-trees, iv. 111 — on the paſſage of the Iſraelites, vi. 67 — on a glaſs, viii. 18 — on mrs. Collier's dedication, xi. 97 — on ſome dull verſes, xi. 102 Epigrams and epitaphs, ſeveral by E. R, xii. 90, &c. Epiſtle to a lady, iv. 97 — from Mary the cook-maid, xi. 98 Richard's anſwer, xi. 100 Epitaph, by mr. Gray, viii. 121 — on general Wolfe, viii. 122 Epitaph on Theodore, king of Corſica, ix. 123 Epitaph, written in the vapours, xi. 97 Eſſex, earl of, verſes by, vii. 113, &c. Evadne to Emma, vii. 71 Eupolis, his hymn to the Creator, i. 66 Evening contemplation in coll. a parody on Grey, vii. 34 — ode, ix. 11 — hymn, by Sir Tho. Brown, xi. 121 — elegy, xii. 60 F Fables for grown gentleman, x. 17 Fame, an ode, xii. 31 Farewell hymn to the country, by Potter, v. 51 — to ſummer, x. 7 — to the country, x. 11 Father's advice to his ſon, xi. 76 Feminead, a poem, by mr. Duncombe, vii. 17 Fire-ſide, by I. H. Browne, eſq. ix. 14 Fire, water, and reputation, a fable, ix. 88 Fitzgerald, to the rev. mr. ix. 61 Fog, on that in London, vi. 57 Force of love, by mr. Cowley, viii, 80 Foreſter, on captain, travelling in the Highlands, i. 10 Friendſhip and Love, a dialogue, vi, 107 Friendſhip, xi. 118. —, in imitation of Cowler, xii. 71 G Garden inſcriptions, by mr. Thompſon, viii. 97, &c. Genius of Britain, to mr. Pitt, vi. 102 — ode to, vii. 7 George II. phyſical cauſe of his death, iv. 80 George II. on his death, by Warton, ii. 81 God is love, vi. 64 Granby, on the marquis of, loſing his hat, iii. 101 Gratitude, a poem, xii. 97 Griffiths, on mother, iv. 123 Gymnaſiad, an epic poem, viii. 45 H Hairs, on the falling off, ix. 10 Harveſt-ſcene, vii. 6 Health, hymn to, iii. 97 — ode to, iv. 116 — ode to, vi. 10 Hedges, mr. to Sir Hans Sloane, viii. 91 Henry to Roſamond, by Pattnon, iv. 45 Hervey, James, pieces by, viii. 83 Hope, ode to, iii. 44 —, a paſtoral ballad, xi. 93 Horace, ode iv. book 1. imitated, ii. 8 — ode xiv. book ii. ditto, ix. 118 — ode xxx. b. i. ditto, ix. 119 — part of ſat. vi. b. ii. tranſlated, x. 113 — a parody on his city and country mouſe, x. 116 — epiſt. v. b. i. imitated, x. 119 Horſe, on the death of a favourite, vi. 60 Hours of love, in four elegies, vi. 90 Howard, doctor, his preachment, ix 121 Hughes, mr. to the memory of, iii. 29 —, his verſes on the wandering beauty, iv. 112 Hymn to the Creator, by mr. Merrick, i. 75 — occaſioned by pſalm 65th, i. 79 — from pſalm 8th, i. 80 I Inconſtancy, the cauſe of, xi. 111 Indifference, a prayer for, vi. 76 Inn, reflections at one, iii. 99 Inſcription for an hermitage, iv. 11 — on the tubs in Ham-walks, v. 87 — on a pedeſtal near Richmond ferry, v. 89 — for an oak, vi. 111 — for General Wolfe's monument, vi. 115 Inſcription by Gib. Weft, eſq viii. 102 Jourdan, the fall of Chloe's, by J. Philips, iv. 107 Journey to Doncaſter, ix. 105 Irby, Sir William, on his being created a peer, viii. 17 Judgment, day of, xii. 20 K Kent, man of, vii 111 The kite, an heroic-comic poem, iii. 49 L Labour in vain, a ſong. v. 110 Lady and linnet, a tale, vi. 15 Ladies lamentation, xi. 91 Lady, advice to one who intended to turn nun, xi. 107 Laſs of Iſleworth mill, a ballad, xi. 80 Layng, to mr. on his ſermon, v. 118 Leaf, on the fall of, x. 3 Life, for and againſt, from the Greek, ii. 66 Life, an ode, iii. 41 Locke, mr. poems by, viii. 71 Lotteries, a few thoughts on, xi. 105 Love-elegy, ii. 113 — at Oxford, v. 119 Love-verſes, in two elegies, v. 65 Love-elegies, two, v. 76 Lucian, epigram by, tranſlated, ii. 72 M Marloe, Chriſtopher, poem by, ii. 53 —, imitation of, ii. 59 Marriage, verſes before, vii. 97 — eight years after, vii. 98 Materials for a monody, v. 111 May, hymn on the approach of, iv. 113 Melcolme, lord, to doctor Young, viii. 16 Melpomene, an ode, vi. 37 Metaſtaſio, imitation of, vii. 77 Milton, ſonnet by him, viii. 67 —, a fragrant by, viii. 68 —, to him on Paradiſe loft, viii. 69 —, on Bentley's emendations of, viii. 70 Miniſter of ſtate, xi. 100 Moonlight night, v. 32 Moonlight, ode by a lady, vii. 68 Morgan, doctor, on the death of, ix. 98 Morning, hymn to, in ſummer, vii. 3 Morning, elegy, xii 65 Mulberry-garden, viii. 5 N Needle a poem in five cantos, ix. 65 Newmarket, a ſatire, x. 54 Nothing, a poem, xi. 9 Nuptials, on the royal, by mrs. Penny, i. 169 — on ditto. by mr. Spence, iv. 93 — on thoſe of lord Grey, and ix. 116 — card, ix. 117 O Oak and dunghill, a fable, ix 47 Oblivion, ode to, vi. 52 Obſcurity, ode to, vi. 46 Ode to pleaſure, iii. 47 — on darkneſs, i. 117 — on the new year, by Whitehead, ii. 86 — on Ranelagh, a parody on Grey's ode, v. 93 — to evening. vi. 13 Ode, written before a college vacation, vii. 106 — to ſolitude, viii. 19 — four by mr. Hudſon, vi. 22 Oldfield, mrs. on her death, ii. 116 Orrery, written on his remarks on Swift, iv. 120 P Parne, doctor, on the death of, x. 14 Paſtor Fido, imitation of, vii. 76 Paſtoral hymn, from the 23d pſalm, xi. 113 — the ſame, by doctor Byron, xi. 115 Peace, on occaſion of, i. 112 Petronius, paſſage from, tranſlated, ii. 70 Petrach and Laura, xi. 109 Pin, a poem on one, ix. 63 Pinnell, mr. poems by him, i. 81, &c. Pitt, Chriſtopher, imitations of Horace, and poems by him, x. 81 Pleaſure, the man of, ii. 92 Podiſippus, parody on, by lord Verulam, ii. 68 Pompilia, an ode, xii. 83 Pope, poems by, xii. 60 Poyntz, mr. on his birth-day, ii. 120 Progreſs of poetry, by mr. Maden, iii. 71 Prologue to the Grateful Fair, by C. Smart, iv. 123 — to the Diſtreſt Mother, xi. 119 Prologue, xii. 81 Proſpect, on an extenſive one, vii. 5 Pſalm, 104th imitated, by Blacklock, iii. 78 Puellam, ad onnatiſſimam, xii. 34 R Raleigh, Sir Walter, poems by, ii. 55, & vi. 55 Rattle, a ſong, xi. 14 Recantation, an ode, v. 73 Redbreaſt, to one, viii. 58 Reſignation, hymn to, vii. 74 Rival-beauties, a poem, v. 98 Robin, a paſtoral elegy, ii. 75 Roſamond to Henry, by Pattiſon, iv. 34 S Salt-water condemned, x. 121 — celebrated, xi. 103 Seaſons, a poem, by Mendez, v. 35 Senſibility, ode to, xi. 95 Shaw, on the death of a lady, i. 81 Silent lover, by Sir Walter Raleigh, vi. 55 Sneerers, the two, xi. 16 Somerville, mr. to lady Anne Coventry, iii. 103 — his epiſtle to mr Thomſon, iii. 106 Song for the Park at high mall, iv. 118 — to Cleora, vi. 12 — when a nymph at her toilet, vii. 122 —, by Akenſide, vi. 110 — to Chloe, xi. 83 Songs, xii. 87, &c. Sonnets, from the Italian, vii. 78 — by Edwards, ix. 112 — xii. 45 Sonnet, xi. 110 Sorrow, the man of, ii. 89 Soul, the faculties of, xii. 39 Spring, a rural ſong, by Brerewood, iii. 9 — in London, v. 30 —, ſtanzas on a forward, ii. 3 —, on the approach of, iii. 5 —, ſtanzas on, iv. 9 Stockings, to a lady with a pair, x. 45 Summer, a rural ſong, by Brerewood, vii. 5 Supplication, by a lady before marriage, i. 95 Sweet William, at the chriſtening of, v. 117 T Tame and Iſis, on the marriage of, iii. 115 Tears, theory of, ix. 51 Theocritus, idyllium 3d, tranſlated, ii. 61 — 19th, ditto, ii. 65 — 30th, ditto, iii. 113 Thompſon, William, his hymn to May, v. 1 Thought in a garden, vii. 96 — from Marcus Antoninus, viii. 96 — at waking, xi, 122 Thunder-ſtorm, a ſacred lyric on, i. 76 Tickell, poems by him, i. 18. — iii. 117 Truſt in God, a poem, i. 81 Truth at court, iii. 96 —, the ſentiments of, xi. 113 Turner, doctor, on his illneſs, ix. 59 V Valentine's-day, to a lady on, ii, 79 Vernal ode, iii. 3 Violet, a poem, iii. 13 Virtue and Fame, by lord L—n, viii. 11 Voltaire, an epiſtle by him, xii. 46 W Warburton, to biſhop, vii. 63 Watch, reflections on one, ix. 12 Water-mills, on the invention of. ii. 71 Wine, a poem, by mr. Gay, viii. 35 Winter, a paſtoral-ballad, by Brerewood, i. 5 Woman's age, v. 103 Woman, ſong in praiſe of, vi. 116 Wreight, mrs. poems by, vi. 79, &c. Wynter, doctor, to doctor Cheyne, &c. viii. 86 Y Yalden, mr. to ſir Humphry Mackworth, iv. 65 York and Kent, or the conteſt, xi. 107 Young lady, on the death of one, iv. 100 Young gentleman, an the drath of one, vii. 71 Young lady, on the birth of one, viii. 59 —, on the death of one, viii. 62 Z Zara to the Arican prince, iv. 20 Zelis to Ibrahim, xi. 87
FINIS.