While savage beasts insult the Trojan tombs,
And in their caves unlade their pregnant wombs.
Let th' exil'd Trojans reign in every land,
And let the Capitol triumphant stand,
And all the tributary world command.
Let awful Rome, with seven refulgent heads,

Still keep her conquest o'er the vanquish'd Medes.
With conquering terrour let her arms extend
Her mighty name to shores without an end;
Where mid-land seas divide the fruitful soit
From Europe to the swelling waves of Nile.
Let them be greater by despising gold,
Than digging it from forth its native mould.
To be the wicked instrument of ill,
Let sword and ruin every country fill,
That strives to stop the progress of her arms;
Not only those that sultry Sirius warms;
But where the fields in endless winter lie,
Whose frosts and snows the Sun's bright rays
defy.

But yet, on this condition, I decree
The warlike Romans happy destiny:
That, when they universal rule enjoy,
They not presume to raise their ancient Troy :
For then all ugly omens shall return,
And Troy be built but once again to burn;
Ev'n I myself a second war will move,
Ev'n 1, the sister and the wife of Jove.
If Phoebus' harp should thrice erect a wall,
And all of brass, yet thrice the work should fall,
Sack'd by my favourite Greeks; and thrice again
The Trojan wives should drag a captive chain,
And mourn their children and their husbands
slain."

But whither would'st thou, soaring Muse, aspire,
To tell the counsels of the heavenly choir?
Alas thou canst not strain thy weakly strings,
To sing, in humble notes, such mighty things:
No more the secrets of the gods relate,
Thy tongue's too feeble for a task so great.

THE ROSE.

SEE, Sylvia, see, this new-blown rose,
The image of thy blush,
Mark how it smiles upon the bush,

And triumphs as it grows!

Oh, pluck it not! we'll come anon,"
Thou say'st. Alas! 'twill then be gone.

Now its purple beauty's spread,
Soon it will droop and fall,
And soon it will not be at all;

No fine things draw a length of thread.
Then tell me, seems it not to say,
"Come on, and crop me whilst you may ?"

EPIGRAM,

OUT OF MARTIAL,

MILO's from home; and, Milo being gone,
His lands bore nothing, but his wife a son:
Why she so fruitful, and so bare.the field?
The lands lay fallow, but the wife was till?

TO A YOUNG LADY,
WITH FENTON'S MISCELLANIES.

BY WALTER HARTE, M. A.

THESE various strains, where every talent charms,
Where humour pleases, or where passion warms;
(Strains, where the tender and sublime conspire,
A Sappho's sweetness, and a Homer's fire)
Attend their doom, and wait, with glad surprise,
Th' impartial justice of Cleora's eyes.

"Tis hard to say, what mysteries of Fate,
What turns of Fortune, on good writers wait.
The party slave will wound them as he can,
And damns the merit, if he hates the man.
Nay, ev'n the bards with wit and laurels crown'd,
Bless'd in each strain, in every art renown'd;
Misled by pride, and taught to sin by power,
Still search around for those they may devour;
Like savage monarchs on a guilty throne,
Who crush all night that can invade their own.
Others who hate, yet want the soul to dare,
So ruin bards-as beaux deceive the fair:
On the pleas'd ear their soft deccits employ;
Smiling they wound and praise but to destroy.
These are th' unhappy crimes of modern days,
And can the best of poets hope for praise?

How small a part of human blessings share
The wise, the good, the noble, and the fair!
Short is the date unhappy Wit can boast,
A blaze of glory in a moment lost!
Fortune, still envious of the great man's praise,
Curses the coxcomb with a length of days.
So (Hector dead) amid the female choir,
Unmanly Paris tun'd the silver lyre.

"Tis sure a scandal to withhold applause;
Attend, ye Britons, in so just a cause.
Nor let posterity, reviling, say,

"Thus unregarded Fenton pass'd away!'
Yet if the Muse may faith and merit claim,
(A Muse too just to bribe with venal fame)
Soon shalt thou shine" in majesty avow'd,
As thy own goddess breaking through a cloud '."
Fame, like a nation-debt, though long delay'd,
With mighty interest must at last be paid.

Like Vinci's' strokes, thy verses we behold,
Correctly graceful, and with labour bold.
At Sappho's woes we breathe a tender sigh,
And the soft sorrow steals from every eye.
Here Spenser's thoughts in solemn numbers roll,
Here lofty Milton seems to lift the soul.
There sprightly Chaucer charms our hours away
With stories quaint, and gentle roundelay.

Muse! at that name each thought of pride recall,
Ah, think how soon the wise and glorious fall!
What though the Sisters every grace impart,
To smooth thy verse, and captivate the heart:
What though your charms, my fair Cleora, shine
Bright as your eyes, and as your sex divine:
Yet shall the verses and the charms decay,
The boast of youth, the blessing of a day!
Not Chaucer's beauties could survive the rage
Of wasting Envy, and devouring Age:
One mingled heap of ruin now we see;
Thus Chaucer is 3, and Fenton thus shall be!

THE

POEMS

OF

JOHN GAY

THE

LIFE OF GAY,

BY DR. JOHNSON.

JOHN GAY, descended from an old family that had been long in possession of the inanor of Goldworthy in Devonshire, was born in 1688, at or near Barnstaple, where he was educated by Mr. Luck, who taught the school of that town with good reputation, and, a little before he retired from it, published a volume of Latin and English verses. Under such a master he was likely to form a taste for poetry. Being born without prospect of hereditary riches, he was sent to London in his youth, and placed apprentice with a silk-mercer.

How long he continued behind the counter, or with what degree of softness and dexterity he received and accommodated the ladies, as he probably took no delight in telling it, is not known. The report is, that he was soon weary of either the restraint or servility of his occupation and easily persuaded his master to discharge

him.

The dutchess of Monmouth, remarkable for inflexible perseverance in her demand to be treated as a princess, in 1712 took Gay into her service as secretary. By quitting a shop for such service he might gain leisure, but he certainly advanced little in the boast of independence. Of his leisure he made so good use, that he published next year a poem on Rural Sports, and inscribed it to Mr. Pope, who was then rising fast into reputation. Pope was pleased with the honour; and, when he became acquainted with Gay, found such attractions in his manners and conversation, that he seems to have received him into his inmost confidence; and a friendship was formed between them which lasted to their separation by death, without any known abatement on either part. Gay was the general favourite of the whole association of wits; but they regarded him as a play-fellow rather than a partner, and treated him with more fondness than respect.

Next year he published The Shepherd's Week, six English pastorals, in which the images are drawn from real life, such as it appears among the rustics in parts of

1 Goldworthy does not appear in the Villare. Dr. J. Holdsworthy is probably meant. C.