Not he such present honor shall receive,
As to his consort we aspire to give.
Writings of men our thoughts to-day neglects,
To pay due homage to the softer sex:
Plato and Tully we forbear to read,
And their great foll'wers, whom this House has
To study lessons from thy morals giv'n,
And shining characters impress'd by Heav'n.
Science in books no longer we pursue,
Minerva's self in Harriet's face we view;
For when with Beauty we can Virtue join,
We paint the semblance of a form divine.
Their pious incense let our neighbours bring
To the kind mem'ry of some bounteous king:
With grateful hand due altars let them raise
To some good knight's or holy prelate's praise:
We tune our voices to a nobler theme,
Your eyes we bless, your praises we proclaim;
Saint John's was founded in a woman's name.
Enjoin'd by statute, to the Fair we bow;
In spite of time we keep our ancient vow;
What Margret Tudor was, is Harriet Harley now.
ON BISHOP ATTERBURY'S
Burying the Duke of Buckinghamshire, 1721. I HAVE no hopes, the Duke he says, and dies. In sure and certain hopes-the Prelate cries
Of these two learned peers, I pry'thee, say, man, Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman? The Duke he stands an infidel confest:
He's our dear brother, quoth the lordly Priest. The Duke, tho' knave, still brother dear he cries, And who can say the rev'rend Prelate lies?
ON A PICTURE OF SENECA,
DYING IN A BATH,
At the Right Honorable the Earl of Exeter's, at Burleigh-house.
HILE cruel Nero only drains
The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By study worn, and slack with age,
How dull, how thoughtless is his rage?
Heighten'd revenge he should have took;
He should have burnt his tutor's book,
And long have reign'd supreme in vice;
One nobler wretch can only rise;
'Tis he whose fury shall deface
The Stoic's image in this piece;
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has soul,
And lives and speaks, restor'd and whole.
These lines, too faint; the pictnre is not like.
Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again:
Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious plain
Place Ormond's duke: impendent in the air,
Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,
Where'er it points denouncing death: below
Draw routed squadrons, and the num❜rous foe
Falling beneath, or flying from his blow;
Till weak with wounds, and cover'd o'er with blood,
Which from the patriot's breast in torrents flow'd,
He faints his steed no longer bears the rein,
But stumbles o'er the heap his hand had slain.
And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies,
Lovely, sad object! in his half-clos'd eyes
Stern Vengeance yet and hostile Terror stand:
His front yet threatens, and his frowns command.
The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call,
Fear to approach him, tho' they see him fall.
O Kneller! could thy shades and lights express
The perfect hero in that glorious dress,
Ages to come might Ormond's picture know,
And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow;
In spite of time thy work might ever shine,
Nor Homer's colors last so long as thine.
PASSAGE IN SCALIGERIANA,
Les allemans ne ce soucient pas quel vin ils boivent pourveu que ce soit vin, ni quel Latin ils parlent pourveu que ce soit Latin.
WHEN you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin and stum'd wine :-
They never taste, who always drink;
They always talk, who never think.
My dear! was born to-day,
So all my jolly comrades say;
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth.
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe.
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne'er been born:
I wish to die ev'n whilst I say,
I, my dear, was born to-day.
I, my dear! was born to-day;
Shall I salute the rising ray?
Well-spring of all my joy and woc,
Clotilda! thou alone dost know:
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say,
Thou! my dear, wert born to day.
LOVE DISARMED.
BENEATH
ENEATH a myrtle's verdant shade
As Chloe, half asleep, was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on her breast,
And in that heav'n desir'd to rest:
Over her paps his wings he spread,
Between he found a downy bed,
And nestled in his little head.
Still lay the God: the nymph, surpris'd,
Yet mistress of herself, devis'd
How she the vagrant might enthral,
And captive him who captives all.
Her bodice half-way she unlac'd,
About his arms she slily cast
The silken bond, and held him fast.
The God awak'd, and thrice, in vain,
He strove to break the cruel chain;
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