Thus Cyneas, faithful, old, experienc'd, wise,
Address'd king Pyrrhus ;-thus the king replies:
""Tis glory calls us hence; to Rome we go."
"For what?"-" To conquer "-" Rome's a noble
A prize for Alexander fit, or you:
[foe,
But, Rome reduc'd, what next, sir, will you do?"-
"The rest of Italy my chains shall wear."-
"And is that all?"" No, Sicily lies near;
See how she stretches out her beauteous arms,
And tempts the victor with unguarded charms!
In Syracusa's port this fleet shall ride."-
""Tis well--and there you will at last abide ?"-
No; that subdu'd, again we'll hoist our sails,
And put to sea; and, blow but prosperous gales,
Carthage must soon be ours, an easy prey,
The passage open: what obstructs our way?"—
"Then, sir, your vast design I understand,
To conquer all the earth, cross seas and land,
O'er Afric's spacious wilds your reign extend,
Beneath your sword make proud Arabia bend;
Then seek remoter worlds, where Ganges pours
His swelling stream; beyond Hydaspes' shores,
Through Indian realins to carry dire alarms,
And make the hardy Scythian dread your arms.
But say this wondrous race of glory run,
When we return, say, what shall then be done?"--
"Then, pleas'd, my friend, we'll spend the joyful
day

In full delight, and laugh our cares away.”—
"And why not now? Alas! sir, need we roam
For this so far, or quit our native home?
No-let us now each valued hour employ,
Nor, for the future, lose the present joy,"

AN IMAGE OF PLEASURE.

IN IMITATION OF AN ODE IN CASIMIRE.

SOLACE of life, my sweet companion, Lyre!
On this fair poplar bough I'll hang thee high,
While the gay fields all soft delights inspire,
And not one cloud deforms the smiling sky.

While whispering gales, that court the leaves and flowers,

Play thro' thy strings, and gently make them sound, Luxurious I'll dissolve the flowing hours

In balmy slumbers on the carpet ground.

But see what sudden gloom obscures the air! What falling showers, impetuous, change the day! Let's rise, my Lyre-Ah, Pleasure, false as fair! How faithless are thy charms, how short thy stay!

Begin, and Echo shall the song repeat;

While, skreen'd from August's feverish heat,
Beneath this spreading elm I lie,

And view the yellow harvest far around,
The neighbouring fields with plenty crown'd,
And, over head, a fair unclouded sky.

The wood, the park's romantic scene,
The deer, that, innocent and gay,
On the soft turf's perpetual green
Pass all their lives in love and play,
Are various objects of delight,
That sport with fancy, and invite
Your aid, the pleasure to complete:
Begin-and Echo shall the song repeat.
Hark! the kind inspiring powers
Answer from their secret bowers,
Propitious to my call!

They join their choral voices all,
To charm my solitary hours.
"Listen," they cry, "thou pensive swain!
Though much the tuneful sisters love
The fields, the park, the shady grove:
The fields, and park, and shady grove,
The tuneful sisters now disdain,

And choose to soothe thee with a sweeter strain
Molinda's praises shall our skill employ,
Molinda, Nature's pride, and every Muse's joy!
The Muses triumph'd at her birth,
When, first descending from her parent Skies,
This star of beauty shot to Earth.

saw,

Love saw the fires that darted from her eyes, He and smil'd-the winged boy Gave early omens of her conquering fame, And to his mother lisp'd her name, “Molinda!”—Nature's pride, and every Muse's joy. Say, beauteous Asted! has thy honour'd shade Ever receiv'd that lovely maid?

Ye nymphs and Sylvan deities, confess
That shining festal day of happiness!
For if the lovely maid was here,
April himself, though in so fair a dress
He clothes the meads, though his delicious showers
Awake the blossoms and the breathing flowers,
And new-create the fragrant year;
April himself, or brighter May,
Assisted by the god of day,

Never made your grove so gay,
Or half so full of charms appear.
Whatever rural seat she now doth grace,
And shines a goddess of the plains,
Imperial Love new triumphs there ordains,
Removes with her from place to place,

With her he keeps his court, and where she lives he reigns.

A thousand bright atte: 'ants more
Her glorious equipage compose:
There circling Pleasure ever flows:
Friendship, and Arts, a well-selected store,
Good-humour, Wit, and Music's soft delight,
The shorten'd minutes there beguile,
And sparkling Mirth, that never looks so
bright,
As when it lightens in Molinda's smile.
Thither, ye guardian powers (if such there are,
Deputed from the sky

To watch o'er human-kind with friendly care),
Thither, ye gentle spirits, fly!

If goodness, like your own, can move
Your constant zeal, your tenderest love,

For ever wait on this accomplish'd fair!
Shield her from every ruder breath of air,
Nor let invading Sickness come

To blast those beauties in their bloom.
May no misguided choice, no hapless doom,
Disturb the heaven of her fair life
With clouds of grief, or showers of melting tears;
Let harsh Unkindness, and ungenerous Strife,
Repining Discontent, and boding Fears,
With every shape of woe, be driven away,

Like ghosts prohibited the day,

Let Peace o'er her his dovelike wings display,
And smiling joys crown all her blissful years!

TO MR. CONSTANTINE,

ON HIS PAINTINGS,

WHILE O'er the cloth thy happy pencil strays,
And the pleas'd eye its artful course surveys,
Behold the magic power of shade and light!
A new creation opens to our sight.
Here tufted groves rise boldly to the sky,
There spacious lawns, more distant, charm the eye;
The crystal lakes in borrow'd tinctures shine,
And misty hills the fair horizon join,
Lost in the azure borders of the day,
Like sounds remote, that die in air away.
The peopled prospect various pleasure yields,
Sheep grace the hills, and herds or swains the fields;
Harmonious order o'er the whole presides,
And Nature crowns the work, which Judgment
guides.

Nor with less skill display'd by thee appear
The different products of the fertile year;
While fruits with imitated ripeness glow,
And sudden flowers beneath thy pencil blow.
Such, and so various, thy extensive hand,
Oft in suspense the pleas'd specators stand,
Doubtful to choose, and fearing still to err,
When to thyself they would thyself prefer.
So when the rival gods at Athens strove,
By wondrous works, their power divine to prove,
As Neptune's trident strook the teeming earth,
Here the proud horse upstarted to his birth;
And there, as Pallas bless'd the fruitful scene,
The spreading olive rear'd its stately green;
In dumb surprise the gazing crowds were lost,
Nor knew on which to fix their wonder most.

The watery world behold, with pleas'd surprise.
O'er its wide waste new tracks of light arise;
The winds were hush'd, the floods forgot to move,
And Nature own'd the auspicious queen of love.
Henceforth no more the Cyprian isle be nam'd,
Though for th' abode of that bright goddess fam'd;
Jamaica's happier groves, conceal'd so long
Through ages past, are now the poets song.
The Graces there, and Virtues, fix their throne;
Urania makes th' adopted land her own.

The Muse, with her in thought transported, sees
The opening scene, the bloomy plants and trees,
By brighter skies rais'd to a nobler birth,
And fruits deny'd to Europe's colder earth.
At her approach, like courtiers doubly gay
To grace the pomp of some lov'd prince's day,
The gladden'd soil in all its plenty shines,
New spreads its branching palms, and new adorns
its pines;

With gifts prepares the shining guest to meet,
And pours its verdant offerings at her feet.
As in the fields with pleasure she appears,
Smiles on the labourers, and their labours cheers,
The luscious canes with sweeter juices flow,
The melons ripen, and the citrons blow,
The golden orange takes a richer dye,
And slaves forget their toil, while she is by.
Not Ceres' self more blessings could display,
When thro' the Earth she took her wandering way,
Far from her native coast, and all around
Diffus'd ripe harvests through the teeming ground.

Mean while our drooping vales, deserted, mourn,
Till happy years bring on her wish'd return;
New honours then, Urania, shall be thine,
And Britain shall again the world outshine,

So when, of late, our Sun was veil'd from sight In dark eclipse, and lost in sudden night, A shivering cold each heart with horrour thrill'd, The birds forsook the skies, the herds the field; But when the conquering orb, with one bright ray, Broke thro' the gloom, and reinthron'd the day, The herds reviv'd, the birds renew'd their strains, Unusual transports rais'd the cheerful swains, And joy, returning, echo'd through the plains.

THE FOLLOWING

SUPPLEMENT AND CONCLUSION

TO MR. MILTON'S INCOMPARABLE POEM,

ENTITLED,

IL PENSEROSO, OR THE PENSIVE MAN,
WAS ALSO WRIT BY MR, HUGHES,

It seems necessary to quote the eight foregoing lines
for the right understanding of it.
"AND may, at last, my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown, and mossy cell,
Where I may sit, and rightly spell
Of every star that Heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old Experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.”

There let Time's creeping Winter shed
His hoary snow around my head;
And while I feel, by fast degrees,

My sluggard blood wax chill, and freeze,
Let thought unveil to my fixt eye
The scenes of deep eternity,
Till, life dissolving at the view,
I wake, and find those visions true!

THE HUE AND CRY.

O YES!-Hear, all ye beaux and wits,
Musicians, poets, 'squires, and cits,
All, who in town or country dwell!
Say, can you tale or tidings tell
Of Tortorella's hasty flight?
Why in new groves she takes delight,
And if in concert, or alone,

The cooing murmurer makes her moan?

Now learn the marks, by which you may Trace out and stop the lovely stray!

Some wit, more folly, and no care,
Thoughtless her conduct, free her air;
Gay, scornful, sober, indiscreet,
In whom all contradictions meet;
Civil, affronting, peevish, easy,

Form'd both to charm you and displease you;
Much want of judgment, none of pride,
Modish her dress, her hoop full wide;
Brown skin, her eyes of sable hue,

Angel, when pleas'd, when vex'd, a shrew.

Genteel her motion, when she walks,
Sweetly she sings, and loudly talks;
Knows all the world, and its affairs,
Who goes to court, to plays, to prayers,
Who keeps, who marries, fails, or thrives,
Leads honest or dishonest lives;

What money match'd each youth or maid,
And who was at each masquerade;
Of all fine things in this fine town,
She's only to herself unknown.

By this description, if you meet her,
With lowly bows and homage greet her;
And if you bring the vagrant beauty
Back to her mother and her duty,
Ask, for reward, a lover's bliss,
And (if she'll let you) take a kiss;
Or more, if more you wish and may,
Try if at church the words she'll say,
Then make her, if you can-" obey."

THE PATRIOT.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

WILLIAM LORD COWPER,

LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN.

How godlike is the man, how truly great,
Who, midst contending factions of the state,
In council cool, in resolution bold,

Nor brib'd by hopes, nor by mean fears control'd,
And proof alike against both foes and friends,
Ne'er from the golden mean of virtue bends!

But wisely fix'd, nor to extremes inclin'd,
Maintains the steady purpose of his mind.

So Atlas, pois'd on his broad base, defies
The shock of gathering storms and wintry skies;
Above the clouds, serene, he lifts his brow,
And sees, unmov'd, the thunder break below.

But where's the patriot, by these virtues known, Unsway'd by others' passions, or his own? Just to his prince, and to the public true, That shuns, in all events, each partial view? That ne'er forgets the whole of things to weigh, And scorns the short-liv'd wisdom of a day?

If there be one-hold, Muse, nor more reveal-
(Yet, oh that numbers could his name conceal!)
Thrice happy Britain, of such wealth possest!
On thy firm throne, great George, unshaken rest,
Safe in his judgment, on his faith rely,
And prize the worth which kingdoms cannot buy!

Rich in itself, the genuine diamond shines,
And owes its value to its native mines;
Yet, set in Britain's crown, drinks ampler rays
Of the Sun's light, and casts a wider blaze.
With pleasure we the well-plac'd gem behold,
That adds a lustre to the royal gold.

January 25, 1717-18.

THE SECOND SCENE OF THE FIRST ACT OF

ORESTES,

A TRAGEDY.

TRANSLATED FROM EURIPIDES.

ARGUMENT.

Per

Orestes had killed his mother Clytemnestra, in revenge of his father's death, who was murdered by her. This part of the story is the subject of the Electra of Sophocles, where, in the conclusion of the play, Clytemnestra is heard behind the scene crying out in vain for mercy, while her son is executing his revenge. haps this play was written first; and Euripides took up the story where the other left off. reflection on his guilt in putting his mother to death, though a criminal, with his own hands, filled Orestes's mind with so much horrour as afterwards caused his distraction. In this condition he is represented in the following scene, lying on a couch, and his sister Electra, with a chorus of Grecian women, waiting near him.

The

I shall detain the reader no longer than to observe, that the tenderness of Electra, and the alternate starts and returns of madness and reason in Orestes, are touched with the most exquisite strokes of nature and passion.

They shall or leave my tortur'd sight-behold! Dost thou not see their feather'd shafts fly round me?

Begone, ye ministers of wrath-Away! away! The guilt's not mine-Hence, through the yielding skies,

Fly swift to Heaven-and charge Apollo there,
Whose oracle betray'd me !-Ah I faint;
My spirits sink-Where am I now? Alas!
How have I left my bed?-how stray'd I hither?
O-I perceive-once inore the raging waves
Have spent their force--and all is calm again-
My sister?-weeping too? Why dost thou turn
Thy fare away, thus muffled in thy garment?
I grieve to think what I have made thec suffer;

Yet weep not for my crimes, unhappy maid!

[me.

The deed was mine-Thou only didst consent:
'Twas I that slew my mother-Phoebus himself
Advis'd that impious act-the guilt be his,
Whose words spoke comfort, but who now forsakes
But oh! Electra, had our father's shade
Been present then-had I, before the god,
Ask'd his consent, to strike the murderess dead,
The pitying manes sure had stopp'd my hand,
Nor would have wish'd for his own life again,
Redeem'd by guilt, so horrid in a son.

Now wipe away thy tears, lamenting maid;
Though we're both wretched, tears are shed in vain ;
And when thou seest again my faltering reason,
Be ready thou to rule my broken sense,
And comfort my affliction-And when thou
Shalt sink beneath thy pressing woes, I'll strive
By soothing words to mitigate thy sorrows.
Such offices become our fond aflection.

But now, retiring to thy own apartment, Let gentle slumber close thy wakeful eyes] Then rise refresh'd; anoint thy wearied limbs, And with due nourishment recruit thy spirits. Such ceaseless watchings will exhaust thy strength, And make thy languid life a burthen to thee. Thou seest all other friends are fled; thou art My only solace in this dire affliction. Should'st thou forsake ine too, I'm lost indeed,

As father Thames pours out his plenteous urn
O'er common tracts, with speed his waters flow;
But where some beauteous palace does adorn
His banks, the river seems to move more slow;
As if he stopp'd awhile, with conscious pride,
Nor to the ocean would pursue his race,
Till he reflects its glories in his tide,

And call the Water-nymphs around to gaze.
So in Time's common flood the huddled throng
Of Months and Hours unheeded pass away,
Unless some general good our joy prolong.

And mark the moments of some festal day. Not fair July, though Plenty clothe his fields, Though golden suns make all his morning smile, Can boast of aught that such a triumph yields, As that he gave a Parker to our isle. Hail happy month! secure of lasting fame! Doubly distinguish'd through the circling year: In Rome a hero gave thee first thy name; A patriot's birth makes thee to Britain dear.

THE XIVTH OLYMPICK OF FINDAR.

TO ASOPICUS OF ORCHOMENUS,
YE heavenly Graces, who reside
O'er Minyæa's happy soil, that breeds,

Swift for the race, the fairest steeds;
And rule the land, where with a gentle tide
Your lov'd Cephisian waters glide!
To you Orchomenus's towers belong,
Then hear, ye goddesses, and aid the song.

Whatever honours shine below,
Whatever gifts can move delight,

Or sooth the ravish'd soul, or charm the sight,
To you their power of pleasing owe.
Fame, beauty, wisdom, you bestow;
Nor will the gods the sacred banquet own,
Nor on the Chorus look propitious down,

If you your presence have deny'd,

To rule the banquet, and the Chorus guide.
In Heaven itself all own your happy care;
Bless'd by your influence divine,
There all is good, and all is fair:

On thrones sublime you there illustrious shine;
Plac'd near Apollo with the golden lyre,

You all his harmony inspire,

And warbled hymns to Jove perpetual sing,
To Jove, of Heaven the father and the king,
Now hear, Aglaia, venerable maid!
Hear thou that tuneful verse dost love,
Euphrosyne join your cœlestial aid,
Ye daughters of immortal Jove!

Thalia too be present with my lays;
Asopicus has rais'd his city's name,

And, victor in th' Olympic strife, may claim
From
you his just reward of virtuous praise.

And thou, O Fame! this happy triumph spread;
Fly to the regions of the dead,

Through Proserpine's dark empire bear the sound,
There seek Cleodamus below,

And let the pleas'd paternal spirit know,
How on the plains of Pisa far renown'd,
His son, his youthful son, of matchless speed,
Bore off from all the victor's meed,

And with an olive wreath his envy'd temples crown'd,

THE MORNING APPARITION.
WRITTEN AT WALLINGTON-HOUSE, IN SURRY,

THE SEAT OF MR. BRIDGES.

ALL things were hush'd, as Noise itself were dead
No midnight mice stirr'd round my silent bed;
Not e'en a gnat disturb'd the peace profound,
Dumb o'er my pillow hung my watch unwound;
No ticking death-worm told a fancy'd doom,
Nor hidden cricket chirrup'd in the room;
No breeze the casement shook, or fann'd the leaves,

Nor drops of rain fell soft from off the eaves;
Nor noisy splinter made the candie weep,
But the dim watchlight seem'd itself asleep,
When, tir'd, I clos'd my eyes--how long I lay
In slumber wrapp'd, I list not now to say:
When hark! a sudden noise-See! open flies
The yielding door-I, starting, rubb'd my eyes,