But before old Time pursued her,
Ere he sunk these little caves,
How I pity those who view'd her,
And in youth were made her slaves!
ON FULVIA, THE WIFE OF ANTHONY.
FROM THE LATIN OF AUGUSTUS CÆSAR.
WHILE from his consort false Antonius flies,
And doats on Glaphyra's far brighter eyes,
Fulvia, provok'd, her female arts prepares,
Reprisals seeks, and spreads for me her snares.
"The busband's false."-But why must I endure
This nauseous plague, and her revenge procure?
What though she ask?-How happy were my doom,
Should all the discontented wives of Rome
Repair in crowds to me, when scorn'd at home!
""Tis war," she says "if I refuse her charms :"
Let's think-she's ugly.-Trumpets,sound to arms!
WRITTEN IN 1710.
O BLESSED time of reformation,
That's now beginning through the nation!
The Jacks bawl loud for church triumphant,
And swear all Whigs shall kiss the rump on't.
See how they draw the beastly rabble
With zeal and noises formidable,
And make all cries about the town
Join notes to roar fanatics down!
As bigots give the sign about,
They stretch their throats with hideous shout.
Black tinkers bawl aloud "to settle
"Church privilege"-for "mending kettle."
Each sow-gelder that blows his horn,
Cries out" to have dissenters sworn."
The oyster-wenches lock their fish up,
no presbyterian bishop !"
The mouse-trap men lay save-alls by,
And 'gainst "low-church men" loudly cry;
A creature of amphibious nature,
That trims betwixt the land and water,
And leaves his mother in the lurch,
To side with rebels 'gainst the church! Some cry for " penal laws," instead Of" pudding-pies, and gingerbread :"
And some, for " brooms, old boots, and shoes,"
Roar out,
"God bless our commons' house!"
Some bawl" the votes" about the town,
And wish they'd "vote dissenters down."
Instead of" kitchen-stuff," some cry,
"Confound the late whig-ministry!"
And some, for "any chairs to mend,"
The commons' late address commend.
Some for "old gowns for china ware,"
Exclaim against "extempore prayer :"
And some for "old suits, cloaks, or coats,'
Cry, "D-n your preachers without notes!"
He that cries "coney-skins, or onions,"
Blames" toleration of opinions,"
Blue-apron whores, that sit with furmety,
Rail at" occasional conformity."
Instead of "cucumbers to pickle,"
Some cry aloud, no conventicle!"
Masons, instead of "building houses,"
To" build the church," would starve their spouses,
And gladly leave their trades, for storming
The meeting houses or informing.
Bawds, strumpets, and religion-haters,
Pimps, pandars, atheists, fornicators,
Rogues, that, like Falstaff, scarce know whether
A church's inside 's stone or leather,
Yet join the parsons and the people,
To cry "the church,"-but mean "the steeple."
If, holy mother, such you'll own
For your true sons, and such alone,
Then Heaven have mercy upon you,
But the de'il take your beastly crew!
INTRODUCTION TO THE FOLLOWING ODE.
THAT the praises of the Author of Nature, which is the fittest subject for the sublime way of writing, was the most ancient use of poetry, cannot be learned from a more proper instance (next to examples of holy writ) than from the Greek fragments of Orpheus; a relique of great antiquity: they contain several verses concerning God, and his making and governing the universe; which, though imperfect, have many noble hints and lofty expressions. Yet, whether these verses were indeed written by that celebrated father of poetry and music, who preceded Homer, or by Onomacritus, who lived about the time of Pisistratus, and only contain some of the doctrines of Orpheus, is a question of little use or importance.
A large paraphrase of these in French verse has been prefixed to the translation of Phocylides, but in a flat style, much inferior to the design. following ode, with many alterations and additions proper to a modern poem, is attempted upon the same model, in a language which, having stronger sinews than the French, is, by the confession of their best critic, Rapin, more capable of sustaining great subjects.
ODE TO THE CREATOR OF THE WORLD.
O MUSE unfeign'd! O true celestial fire,
Brighter than that which rules the day,
Descend! a mortal tongue inspire
To sing some great immortal lay!
Begin, and strike aloud the consecrated lyre!
Hence, ye profane! be far away!
Hence, all ye impious slaves, that bow
To idol lusts, or altars raise,
And to false heroes give fantastic praise! And hence, ye gods, who to a crime your spurious. beings owe!
But hear, O Heaven, and Earth, and Seas profound!
Hear, ye fathom'd Deeps below,
And let your echoing vaults repeat the sound;
Let Nature, trembling all around,
Attend her Master's awful name,
From whom Heaven, Earth, and Seas, and all the wide Creation came.
He spoke the great command; and Light, Heaven's eldest-born and fairest child, Flash'd in the lowering face of ancient Night, And, pleas'd with its own birth, serenely smil❜d. The sons of Morning, on the wing, Hovering in choirs, his praises sung, When, from the unbounded vacuous space, A beauteous rising World they saw, When Nature show'd her yet unfinish'd face, And Motion took th' establish'd law To roll the various globes on high; When Time was taught his infant wings to try, And from the barrier sprung to his appointed
Supreme, Almighty, still the same!
'Tis he, the great inspiring Mind,
That animates and move this universal frame,
Present at once in all, and by no place confin'd.
Not Heaven itself can bound his sway;
Beyond th' untravell❜d limits of the sky,
Invisible to mortal cye,
He dwells in uncreated day.
Without beginning, without end; 'tis he
That fills th' unmeasur'd growing orb of vast im-
mensity.
What power but his can rule the changeful Main, And wake the sleeping Storm, or its loud rage restrain?
When Winds their gather'd forces try,
And the chaf'd Ocean proudly swells in vain,
His voice reclaims th' impetuous roar;
In murmuring tides th' abated billows fly,
And the spent tempest dies upon the shore.
The meteor world is his, Heaven's wintry store,
The moulded hail, the feather'd snow;
The summer breeze, the soft refreshing shower,
The loose divided cloud, and many-colour'd bow;
The crooked lightning darts around,
His sovereign orders to fulfil;
The shooting flame obeys th' Eternal will,
Launch'd from his hand, instructed where to kill,
Or rive the mountain oak, or blast th' unshelter'd
ground.
Yet, pleas'd to bless, indulgent to supply,
He, with a father's tender care,
Supports the numerous family
That peoples earth, and sea, and air.
From Nature's giant race, th' enormous elephant,
Down to the insect worm and creeping ant;
From th' eagle, sovereign of the sky,
To each inferior feather'd brood;
From crowns and purple majesty,
To humble shepherds on the plain,
His hand unseen, divides to all their food,
And the whole world of life sustains.
At one wide view his eye surveys His works, in every distant clime; He shifts the seasons, months, and days, The short-liv'd offspring of revolving Time; By turns they die, by turns are born. Now cheerful Spring the circle leads, And strows with flowers the smiling meads; Gay Summer next, whom russet robes adorn, And waving fields of yellow corn;
Then Autumn, who with lavish stores the lap of
Nature spreads;
Decrepit Winter, laggard in the dance,
(Like feeble Age oppress'd with pain)
A heavy season does maintain,
With driving snows, and winds, and rain;
Till Spring, recruited to advance,
The various year rolls round again.
But who, thou great Ador'd! who can withstand
The terrours of thy lifted hand,
When, long provok'd, thy wrath awakes, And conscious Nature to her centre shakes? Rais'd by thy voice, the thunder flies, Hurling pale Fear and wild Confusion round, How dreadful is th' inimitable sound,
The shock of Earth and Seas, and labour of the Skies!
Then where's Ambition's haughty crest?
Where the gay head of wanton Pride?
See! tyrants fall, and wish the opening ground
Would take them quick to shades of rest,
And in their common parent's breast,
From thee, their bury'd forms for ever hide!
In vain-for all the elements conspire,
The shatter'd Earth, the rushing Sea,
Tempestuous Air, and raging Fire,
To punish vile mankind, and fight for thee;
Nor Death itself can intercept the blow,
Eternal is the guilt, and without end the woe.
O Cyrus! Alexander! Julius! all
Ye mighty Lords, that ever rul'd this ball!
Once gods of Earth, the living destinies.
That made a hundred nations bow!
Where's your extent of empire now!
Say, where preserv'd your phantom Glory lies!
Can brass the fleeting thing secure?
Enshrin'd in temples does it stay?
Or in huge amphitheatres endure
The rage of rolling Time, and scorn decay?
Ah, no! the mouldering monuments of Fame
Your vain deluded hopes betray,
Nor show th' ambitious founder's name,
Mix'd with yourselves in the same mass of clay.
Proceed, my Muse! Time's wasting thread pursue,
And see, at last, th' unravell'd clue,
When cities sink, and kingdoms are no more,
And weary Nature shall her work give o'er.
Behold th' Almighty Judge on high!
See in his hand the book of Fate!
Myriads of spirits fill the sky
T'attend, with dread solemnity,
The World's last scene, and Time's concluding
The feeble race of short-liv'd Vanity,
And sickly Pomp, at once shall die!
Foul Guilt to midnight caves will shrink away,
Look back, and tremble in her flight,
And curse at Heaven's pursuing light,
Surrounded with the vengeance of that day.
How will you then, ye impious, 'scape your doom, Self-judg'd, abandon'd, overcome?
Your clouds of painted bliss shall melt before your sight.
Yet shall you not the giddy chase refrain,
Nor hope more solid bliss t' obtain,
Nor once repeat the joys you knew before;
But sigh, a long eternity of pain,
Tost in an ocean of desire, yet never find a shore.
But see where the mild Sovereign sits prepar'd His better subjects to reward!
Where am I now! what power divine Transports me! what immortal splendours shine' Torrents of glory that oppress the sight! What joys, celestial King! thy throne surround! The Sun, who, with thy borrow'd beams so bright, Sees not his peer in all the starry round, Would here, diminish'd, fade away, Like his pale sister of the night, When she resigns her delegated light, Lost in the blaze of day.
Here wonder only can take place;-
Then, Muse, th' adventurous flight forbear!
These mystic scenes thou canst no farther trace;
Hope may some boundless future bliss embrace,
But what, or when, or how, or where,
Are mazes all, which Fancy runs in vain;
Nor can the narrow cells of human brain
The vast immeasurable thought contain.
TO MR. ADDISON,
ON HIS TRAGEDY OF CATO.
THOUGH Cato shines in Virgil's epic song,
Prescribing laws among th' Elysian throng;
Though Lucan's verse, exalted by his name,
O'er gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame;
The Roman stage did ne'er his image see,
Drawn at full length; a task reserv'd for thee.
By thee we view the finish'd figure rise,
And awful march before our ravish'd eyes;
We hear his voice, asserting Virtue's cause;
His fate, renew'd, our deep attention draws,
Excites, by turns, our various hopes and fears,
And all the patriot in thy scene appears.
On Tyber's bank thy thought was first inspir'd;
'Twas there, to some indulgent grove retir'd,
Rome's ancient fortunes rolling in thy mind,
Thy happy Muse this manly work design'd:
Or, in a dream, thou saw'st Rome's genius stand,
And, leading Cato in his sacred hand,
Point out th' immortal subject of thy lays,
And ask this labour to record his praise.
'Tis done-the hero lives and charms our age! While nobler morals grace the British stage. Great Shakespeare's ghost, the solemn strain to hear,
(Methinks I see the laurel'd shade appear!)
Will hover o'er the scene, and, wondering, view
His favourite Brutus rival'd thus by you.
Such Roman greatness in each action shines,
Such Roman eloquence adorns your lines,
That sure the Sibyls books this year foretold,
And in some mystic leaf was found enroll'd,
"Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Afric's shore,
Nor in her sands thy Cato's tomb explore!
ADVICE TO MR. POPE,
ON HIS INTENDED TRANSLATION OF HOMER'S ILIAD, 1714.
THOU, who with a happy genius born, Canst tuneful verse in fiowing numbers turn, Crown'd on thy Windsor's plains with early bays, Be early wise, nor trust to barren praise. Blind was the bard that sung Achilles' rage, He sung, and begg'd, and curs'd th' ungiving age: If Britain his translated song would hear, First take the gold-then charm the listening ear; So shall thy father Homer smile to see
His pension paid-though late, and paid to thee.
THE MEMORY OF MILTON.
HOMER'S DESCRIPTION OF HIMSELF, UNDER THE CHARACTER OF DEMODOCHUS THE MUSICIAN, AT THE FEAST OF KING ALCINOUS.
FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF THE ODYSSEYS.
THE Muse with transport lov'd him; yet, to fill
His various lot, she blendid good with ill;
Depriv'd him of his eyes, but did impart
The heavenly gift of song, and all the tuneful art.
TO A LADY,
WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.
Two shining maids this happy work displays;
Each moves our rapture, both divide our praise;
In Marcia, we her godlike father trace;
While Lucia triumphs with each softer grace.
One strikes with awe, and one gives chaste delight:
That bright as lightning, this serene as light.
Yet by the Muse the shadow'd forms were wrought,
And both are creatures of the poct's thought.
In her that animates these lines, we view
The wonder greater, the description true;
Each living virtue, every grace combin'd,
And Marcia's worth with Lucia's sweetness join'd.
Had she been born ally'd to Cato's name,
Numidia's prince had felt a real flame;
And pouring his resistless troops from far,
With bolder deeds had turn'd the doubtful war;
Cæsar had fled before his conquering arms,
And Roman Muses sung her beauty's charms.
PROMISCUOUS Crowds to worthless riches born,
Thy pencil paints, 'tis true, yet paints with scorn.
Sometimes the fool, by Nature left half-made,
Mov'd by some happy instinct, asks thy aid,
To give his face to reason some pretence,
And raise his looks with supplemental sense,
IN LIBRO PRIMO EPISTOLARUM.
RIGHT HON. THE LORD COBHAM TO MRS. DIMIDIUM facti, qui cœpit, habet. Sapere ande:
Incipe. Vivendi rectè qui prorogat horam, Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis: at ille Labitur & labetur in omne volubilis ævum.
Fair Honour, next in beauty and in grace,
Shines in her turn, and claims the second place;
She fills the well-born soul with noble fires,
And generous thoughts and godlike acts inspires.
Then Honesty, with native air, succeeds,
Plain is her look, unartful are her deeds;
And, just alike to friends and foes, she draws
The bounds of right and wrong, nor errs from equal laws.
From Heaven this scale of virtue thus descends
By just degrees, and thy full choice defends.
So when, in visionary trains, by night
Attending angels bless'd good Jacob's sight,
The mystic ladder thus appear'd to rise,
Its foot on earth, its summit in the skies.
SUNG BY THE CHILDREN OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL, at the
ENTRY OF KING GEORGE
INTO LONDON, 1714.
EAR US, O God, this joyful day! Whole nations join their voice, To thee united thanks to pay,
And in thy strength rejoice.
For led by thee, O King of Kings!
Our sovereign George we see;
Thy hand the royal blessing brings,
He comes, he reigns, by thee!
Plenteous of grace, pour from above
Thy favours on his head;
Truth, Mercy, Righteousness, and Love,
As guards around him spread.
With length of days, and glory crown'd,
With wealth and fair increase, Let him abroad be far renown'd, Still blest at home with peace.
TO THE MEMORY OF
MRS. ELIZABETH HUGHES,
LATE WIFE OF
EDWARD HUGHES, ESQ.
OF BERTINGFORDBURY, IN THE COUNTY OF HERTFORD, AND DAUGHTER OF RICHARD HARRISON, ESQ. OF BALLS, IN THE SAME COUNTY.
SEE! how those dropping monuments decay!
Frail mansions of the silent dead,
Whose souls, to uncorrupting regions fled,
With a wise scorn their mouldering dust survey.
Their tombs are rais'd from dust as well as they;
For see! to dust they both return,
And Time consumes alike the ashes and the urn.
We ask the sculptor's art in vain
To make us for a space ourselves survive ;
In Parian stone ve proudly breathe again,
Or scem in figur'd brass to live.
Yet stone and brass our hopes betray,
Age steals the inimic forms and characters away,
In vain, O Egypt, to the wondering skies,
With giant pride, thy pyramids arise;
Whate'er their vast and gloomy vaults contain,
No names distinct of their great dead remain.
Beneath the mass confus'd, in heaps thy monarchs
Unknown, and blended in mortality. [lie,
To Death ourselves and all our works we owe.
But is there nought, O Muse, can save
Our memories from darkness and the grave,
And some short after-life bestow?
"That task is mine," the Muse replies,
And, hark! she tunes the sacred lyre!
Verse is the last of human works that dies,
When Virtue does the song inspire.
Then look, Eliza, happy saint, look down!
Pause from immortal joys awhile
To hear, and gracious, with a smile,
The dedicated numbers own;
Say, how in thy life's scanty space,
So short a space, so wondrous bright,
Bright as a summer's day, short as a summer's night,
Could'st thou find room for every crowded grace?
As if thy thrifty soul foreknew,
Like a wise envoy, Heaven's intent,
Soon to recall whom it had sent,
And all its task resolv'd at once to do.
Or wert thou but a traveller below,
That hither didst awhile repair,
Curious our customs and our laws to know?
And, sickening in our grosser air,
And tir'd of vain repeated sights,
Our foolish cares, our false delights,
Back to thy native scats would'st go?
Oh! since to us thou wilt no more return,
Permit thy friends, the faithful few,
Who best thy numerous virtues knew,
Themselves, not thee, to mourn.
Now, pensive Muse, enlarge thy flight!
(By turns the pensive Muses love
The hilly heights and shady grove)
Behold where, swelling to the sight,
Balls, a fair structure, graceful stands!
And from yon verdant rising brow
Sees Hertford's ancient town, and lands, Where Nature's hand, in slow meanders, leads The Lee's clear stream its course to flow Through flowery vales, and moisten'd meads, And far around in beauteous prospects spreads Her map of plenty all below.
'Twas here and sacred be the spot of earth!
Eliza's soul, born first above,
Descended to au humbler birth,
And with a mortal's frailties strove.
So, on some towering peak that meets the sky,
When inissive Seraphs downward fly,
They stop, and for awhile alight,
Put off their rays celestial-bright,
Then take some milder form familiar to our eyà.
Swiftly her infant virtues grew :
Water'd by Heaven's peculiar care,
Her morning bloom was doubly fair,
Like Suiminer's day break, when we see
The fresh-dropp'd stores of rosy dew
(Transparent beauties of the dawn)
Spread o'er the grass their cobweb lawn,
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