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The Muse inspires me now to look again, Hold, hold, impetuous Muse - I would restrain And see a meaner sort of sordid men
Her over-eager heat, but all in vain ; Doating on little heaps of yellow dust;
Abandon'd to delights, she longs to rove; For that despising honour, case, and lust.
I check'd her here, and now she flics to love ; Let other bards, expressing how it shines,
Shows me some rural nymph, by shepherd chasid, Describe with envy what the miser finds;
Soon overtaken, and as soon embrac'd : Only as heaps of dirt it seems to me,
The grass by her, as she by him, is press'd;
For shame, my Muse, Jet fancy guess the rest:
But flies beyond whatever you can say.
Not to enlarge on such an obvious thought, This is his lowest sphere, his country scene, Behold their folly, which transcends their fault! Where Love is humble, and his fare but mcan ; Alas! their cares and cautions only tend
Yet springing up without the help of art, To gain the means, and then to lose the end. Leaves a sincerer relish in the heart, Like heroes in romances, still in sight
More healthfully, though not so finely fed, For mistresses that yield them no delight.
And better thrives than where more nicely brede
And, high enthron'd, governs the world below ;
What story, place, or person, cannot prove
Where'er the Sun can vigorous heat inspire, And every wind brings a new mischief still ; Both sexes glow, and languish with desire. By trade we flourish in our leaves and fruit, The weary'd swain, fast in the arms of sleep, But avarice and excess devour the root.
Love can awake, and often sighing keep ; Thus far the Muse unwillingly has been
And busy gown-men, by fond love disguis'd, Fix'd on the dull, less happy sorts of sin ;
Will leisure find to make themselves despis'd. But now, more pleas'd, she views the different ways The proudest kings submit to Beauty's sway; Of luxury, and all its charms surveys.
Beauty itself, a greater prince than they, Dear Luxury! thou soft, but sure deceit !
Lies sometimes languishing with all its pride Rise of the mean, and ruin of the great!
By a belov'd, though fickle lover's side.
I mean to slight the soft enchanting charm,
I doat on womnan-kind with all their faults,
Of all that passion which our peace destroys
But short will be bis reign (I fear too short),
Then Love's bright torch put out, his arrows broke, Whence all those vices came, which soon devour Loose from kind chains, and from th' engaging yoke, The best foundations of renown and power.
To all fond thoughts I'll sing such counter-charms, But oh! what need have we abroad to roam, The fair shall listen in their lovers arms. Who feel too much the sad effects at home,
Now the enthusiastic fit is spent, Of wild excess! which we so plainly find
I feel my weakness, and too late repent.
As they who walk in dreams oft climb too high
And in such wild attempts are blindly bold,
So I review these sallies of my pen, Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight,
And modest Reason is return'd again ;
My confidence I curse, my fate accuse,
Than I with judgment against all I write.
MR. HOBBES, AND HIS WRITINGS.
Such is the mode of these censorious days,
The art is lost of knowing liow to praise ;
THE MIRACLE... ON THE DEATH OF HENRY PURCELL.
97 Poets are envious now, and fools alone
For how could such a wretch succeed,
THE MIRACLE, 1707.
Merit they hate, and wit they slight;
They neither act, nor reason right,
And nothing mind but pence.
Vaskilful they victorious are, The reader's malice helps the writer out
Conduct a kingdom without care,
A council without sense.
So Moses once and Joshua,
And that virago Debora,
Bestrid poor Israel :
Like reverence pay to these! for who
Could ride a nation as they do,
Without a miracle?
ON THE DEATH OF HENRY TI'RCELL. That jewel oft unpolish'd has remain'd;
Good angels snatch'd him eagerly on high ; Some words should be left out, and some explain'd; Joyful they flew, singing and soaring through the So that in search of sense, we either stray,
sky, Or else grow weary in so rough a way. But here sweet eloquence does always smile,
Teaching his new-fledgid soul te fly; In such a choice, yet unaffected style,
While we, alas ! lamenting lie.
He went musing all along,
Composing new their heavenly song:
A while his skilful notes loud hallelujahs drown'd; Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in:
But soon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleas. Like a delicious stream it ever ran,
David himself improv'd the harmony,
David, in sacred story so renown'd
No less for music, than for poetry !
Genius sublime in either art!
Crown'd with applause surpassing all desert !!
A man just after God's own heart !
If human cares arc lawful to the blest,
Already settled in eternal rest; Envy herself is glad to be at peace,
Needs must he wish, that Purcell only might
Have liv'd to set what he vouchsaf'd to write; Gives over, weary'd with so high a fight,
For, sure, the noble thirst of fame Above her reach, and scarce within her sight.
With the frail boxy never dies; Hubbes, to this happy pitch arriv'd at last,
But with the soul ascends the skies, Might have look'd down with pride un dangers past:
From whence at first it came But such the frailty is of human-kind,
"Tis sure no little proof we have Men toil for Pame, which no man lives to find;
That part of us survives the grave, Long ripening under ground this China lies;
And in our fame below still bears a share: Fame bears no fruit, till the rain planter dies.
Why is the future else so much our care,
Evin in our latest moment of despair?
And death despis'd for fame by all the wise and
brave? To spare berself, was glad to let him die.
Oh, all ye blest harmonious choir !
On this sad isle perplex'd,
And ever, ever vex'd
With anxious care of trifles, wealth and power. Depends upon predestination;
In our rough minds due reverence infuse For which the learned and the wise
For sweet melodious sounds, and each harmonious His understanding much despiso:
Muse. But I pronounce with loyal tongue.
Music exalts man's nature, and inspires Him in the right, them in the wrong;
High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires. YOL X
One moral, or a mere well-natur'à deed,
Can all desert in sciences exceed.
'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways; ROBERT MARQUIS OF NORMANBY.
But a much greater to give merit praise.
The days our joys declare ;
HEXE'Er my foolish bent to public good, Was often heard to cry,
Or fonder zeal for some misguided prince, Oh, where is such an other
Shall make my dangerous humour understood, So bless'd by Heaven as I ?
For changing ministers for men of sense : A child at first was wanting;
When, vainly proud to show my public care, Now such a son is sent,
And ev'n asham'd to see three nations foolid, As parents most lamenting
I shall no longer bear a wretched share In him would find content.
In ruling ill, or being over-rul'd : A child of whom kind Heaven
Then, as old lechers in a winter's night Not only hope bestows,
To yawning hearers all their pranks disclose ; But has already given
And what decay deprives them of delight, Him all our hopes propose.
Supply with vain endeavours to impose : The happy sire's possessing
Just so shall I as idly entertain His share in such a boy,
Some stripling patriots, fond of seeming wise; Adds still a greater blessing
Tell how I still could great employments gain, To all my other joy.
· Without concealing truths, or whispering lies! But ah! this shiny weather
Boast of succeeding in my country's cause Became too hot at last;
Ev'n against some almost too high to blame ; Black clouds began to gather,
Whom, when advanc'd beyond the reach of laws, And all the sky o'ercast.
I oft' had ridicul'd to sense and shame: So fierce a fever rages,
Say, I resisted the most potent fraud; We all lie drown'd in tears;
But friendless merit openly approv'd; And dismal sad presages
And that I was above the being aw'd Come thundering in our ears.
Not only by my prince, but those he lov'd: The doubts that made us languish
Who knows but my example then may please Did worse, far worse than kill.
Such noble, hopeful spirits as appear Yet, oh, with all their anguish,
Willing to slight their pleasures and their ease, Would we had doubted still !
For fame and honour? till at last they hear, But why so much digression,
After much trouble bome, and danger run, This fatal loss to show?
The crown assisted, and my country serv'd ; Alas, there's no expression
Without good fortune I had been undone, Can tell a parent's woc !
Without a good estate I might have starr'd.
THE ELECTION OF A POET LAUREAT
IN M.DCC. XIX.
ON MR. POPE, AND HIS POEMS.
Encoiniums suit not this censorious time,
And yet so wondrous, so sublime a thing,
A sous assembly was summond of late:
Came Blackmore, and cry'd, “Look, all these are , And so spying one who came only to gaze, my lays,
A hater of verse, and despiser of plays; But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays." To bim in great form, without any delay, Lampooners and critics rush'd in like a tide,
('Though a zealous fanatic) presented the bay: Stern Dennis and Gildon came first side-by side. All the wits stood astonish'd at hearing the god Apollo confess'd that their lashes had stings, So gravely pronounce an elvetion so odd; But beadles and hangmen were never chose kings. And though Prior and Pope only laugh'd in his face, Steele long had so cunningly inanag'd the town,
Most others were ready to sink in the place. He could not be blam'd for expecting the crown; Yet some thought the vacancy open was kept, Apollo demurr'd as to granting his wish,
Concluding the bigot would never accept : But wish'd him good luck in his project of fish. But the hypocrite told them, he well understood, Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure,
Though the function was wicked, the stipend was Of Apollo begg'd either a crown or a cure;
good. To refuse such a writer, Apollo was loth,
At last in rush'd Eusden, and cry'd, “ Who shall And almost inclin'd to have granted him both.
have it, When Buckingham came, he scarce card to be Apollo begg'd pardon, and granted his claim;
But I, the true laureat, to whom the king gave it?" seen, Till Phæbus desir'd his old friend to walk in;
But vow'd though, till then he ne'er heard of his
ON THE TIMES.
Since in vain our parsons teach,
Vice has lost its very name, And said he would choose him, but that he should fear
Skill and cozenage thought the same;
Only playing well the game.
Foul contrivances we see
Which an aukward child afford
The miser starves to raise a son, To Shippen, Apollo was cold with respect,
But, if once the fool is gone, Since he for the state could the Muses neglect :
Years of thrift scarce serve a day, But said, in a greater assembly he sbin'd,
Rake-hell squanders all away.
Husbands seeking for a place,
By petticoats and play:
Carrying girls to comedies,
Having first at sermon slept,
Tedious day is weekly kept Most authors will praise whatsoever's their own.”
By worse hypocrites than men, When Philips came forth, as starch as a Quaker,
Till Monday comes to cheat again. Whose simple profession's a Pastoral-maker;
Ev'n among the noblest-born,
Moral virtue is a scorn;
Gratitude, but rare at best,
And fidelity a jest.
All our wit but party-mocks,
Sinking side, or falling friend,
Prais'd and wounded, he may starre: Was wishing for Swift, or the fam'd lady Mary:
No receipt, to make him rise, Nay, had honest Tom Southerne but been within
Like inventing loyal lies.
We, whose ancestors have shin'd call But at last he grew wanton, and laugh'd at them all :
In arts of peace, and fields of fame,
To ill and idleness inclin'd, ? Dr. Atterbury, bishop of Rochester.
Now are grown a public shame.
Fatal that intestine jar,
ON THE DEITY,
WRETCHED mankind ! void of both strength and Senseless, violent, and base !
Among them none, alas! more weak than 1,
And none more blind : though still I worthless
The best I ever spoke, or ever wrote. (thought BANISHED TO BRUSSELS.
But zealous heat exalts the humblest mind;
Perhaps 'tis sacred, and I must obey.
Yet such the subjects, various, and so high, Observ'd those seeds of fortititude and truth,
Stupendous wonders of the Deity!
Miraculous effects of boundless power! Which since have spread so wide, so wondrous high,
And that as boundless goodness shining more! The good distress'd beneath that shelter lie.
All these so numberless my thoughts attend,
Oh where shall I begin, or ever end ?
But on that theme which ev'n the wise abuse, As so much courage mix'd with so much care. So sacred, so sublime, and so abstruse, When martial fire makes all the spirits boil, Abruptly to break off, wants po excuse. And forces youth to military toil; No wonder it should fiercely then engage :
While others vainly strive to know thee more, Women themselves will venture in a rage :
Let me in silent reverence adore; But in the midst of all that furious heat,
Wishing that human power were higher raisid, While so intent on actions brave and great,
Only that thine might be more nobly prais'd! For others' lives to feel such tender fears,
Thrice happy angels in their high degree,
Created worthy of extolling thee!
Oh, wondrous pair! whom equal virtues crown, Oh worthy of each other's vast renown!
Hope to mend Shakespeare' or to match his style! None but Turenne with York could glory share, And none but York deserves so great a master's T'is such a jest would make a Stoc smile.
Too fond of fame, our poet soars too high, care.
Yet freely owns he wants the wings to fly : Scarce was he come to bless his native isle,
So sensible of his presumptuous thought, And reap the soft reward of glorious toil,
That he confesses while he does the fault; But, like Alcides, still now dangers call
This to the fair will no great wonder prove,
Who oft in blushes yield to what they love.
Of grtato.st actions, and of noblest men, (Where Mars himself does frowningly command,
This story most deserves a poet's pen : And by lieutenants only fights at land)
For who can wish a scene more justly fam'd, For his own fame howe'er he fought before,
When Rome and nighty Julius are but nam'd!
That state of herocs who the world had brar'd! For England's honour yet he ventur'd more. In those black times, when, faction raging high, | Yet loth he was to take so rough a way,
That wondrous man who such a state enslar'd! Valour and Innocence were forc'd to fly, With York they fled; but not deprest his mind,
And after govern'd with so mild a sway. Still, like a diamond in the dust, it shin'd.
At distance now of seventeen bundred years, When from afar his drooping friends beheld
Methinks a lovely ravisher appears ; How in distress he ev'n himself excell'd;
Whom, though forbid by virtue to excuse, How to his envious fate, his country's frown,
A nyaph might pardon, and could scarce refase. His brother's will, he sacrific'd his own; They rais'd their hearts, and never doubted more But that just Heaven would all our joys restore. So when black clouds surround Heaven's glorious
CHORUSES IN JULIUS CÆSAR. face, Tempestuous darkness covering all the place, If we discern but the least glimmering ray
WHITHER is Roman honour gone? Of that bright orb of fire which rules the day,
Where is your ancient virtuc now? The cheerful sight our fainting courage warins,
That valour, which so bright has shone, Fix'd upon that we fear no future harms.
And with the wings of conquest flown,
Must to a haughty master bow:
Who, with our toil, our blood, and all we have beside, * The mareschal de Turenne
Gorges his ill-got power, his humour,and his pride.
TO THE ALTERATION OF JULIUS CÆSAR.