תמונות בעמוד
PDF
ePub

Is this the thing," you cry," that Paris boasts? | The nightly scene of joy the Park was made,

Is this the thing renown'd among our toasts?
For such a fluttering sight we need not roam;
Our own assemblies shine with these at home."
Let us into the field of beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warm'd my heart,
Think not, ye fair, that I the sex accuse :
How shall I spare you, prompted by the Muse?
(The Muses all are prudes!) She rails, she frets,
Amidst this sprightly nation of coquettes :
Yet let not us their loose coquetry blame;
Women of every nation are the same.

You ask me, if Parisian dames, like ours,
With rattling dice prophane the Sunday's hours;
If they the gamester's pale-ey'd vigils keep,
And stake their honour while their husbands
sleep?

Yes, sir; like English toasts, the dames of France
Will risque their income on a single chance.
Nannette last night a tricking pharaon play'd,
The cards the Taillier's sliding hand obey'd:
To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.
Why does old Chloris an assembly hold?
Chloris each night divides the sharper's gold.
Corinna's cheek with frequent losses burns,
And no bold Trente le va her fortune turns.
Ah, too rash virgin! where's thy virtue flown?
She pawns her person for the sharper's loan.
Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid,
Whose debts of honour are so duly paid?

But let me not forget the toilette's cares,
Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs:
This red's too pale, nor gives a distant grace;
Madame to-day puts on her opera face;
From this we scarce extract the milk-maid's bloom:
Bring the deep dye that warms across the room:
Now flames her cheek, so strong her charms pre-
vail,

That on her gown the silken rose looks pale !
Not but that France some native beauty boasts,
Clermont and Charolois might grace our toasts.
When the sweet-breathing Spring unfolds the buds,
Love flies the dusty town for shady woods.
Then Tottenham fields with roving beauty swarm,
And Hampstead balls the city virgin warm?
Then Chelsea's meads o'erhear perfidious vows,
And the prest grass defrauds the grazing cows.
'Tis here the same, but in a higher sphere,
For ev'n court-ladies sin in open air.
What cit with a gallant would trust his spouse
Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs?
What peer of France would let his dutchess rove,
Where Boulogne's closest woods invite to love?
But here no wife can blast her husband's fame,
Cuckold is grown an honourable name.
Stretch'd on the grass, the shepherd sighs his pain;
And on the grass what shepherd sighs in vain ?
On Chloe's lap here Damon, laid along,
Melts with the languish of her amorous song;
There Iris flies Palamon through the glade,
Nor trips by chance-till in the thickest shade;
Here Celimene defends her lips and breast,
For kisses are by struggling closer prest :
Alexis there with eager flame grows bold,
Nor can the nymph his wanton fingers hold:
Be wise, Alexis; what, so near the road!
Hark, a coach rolls, and husbands are abroad!
Such were our pleasures in the days of yore,
When amorous Charles Britannia's sceptre bore;

And Love in couples peopled every shade.
But, since at court the rural taste is lost,
What mighty sums have velvet couches cost!
Sometimes the Tuilleries' gaudy walk I love,
Where I through crowds of rustling mantuas

rove.

As here from side to side my eyes I cast,
And gaz'd on all the glittering train that past,
Sudden a fop steps forth before the rest;
I knew the bold embroidery of his vest.
He thus accosts me with familiar air,
"Parbleu ! on a fait cet habit en Angleterre !
Quelle manche! ce galon est grossièrement range;
Voila quelque chose de fort beau et degagé !”
This said on his red he he turns, and then
Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds again:
"Well; now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly

own

Your boasted London seems a country town.
Has Christianity yet reach'd your nation?
Are churches built? Are masquerades in fashion?
Do daily soups your dinners introduce?
Are music, snuff, and coaches, yet in use?"
"Pardon me, sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather politesse from courts abroad.
Like you, our courtiers keep a numerous train
To lead their coach, and tradesmen dun in vain.
Nor has religion left us in the lurch;
And, as in France, our vulgar crowd the church:
Our ladies too support the masquerade;
The sex by nature love th' intriguing trade."
Straight the vain fop in ignorant raptures cries,
"Paris the barbarous world will civilize!"
"Pray, sir, point out among the passing band
The present beauties who the town command"
"See youder dame; strict virtue chills her breast,
Mark in her eye demure the prude profest;
That frozen bosom native fire must want,
Which boasts of constancy to one gallaut!
This next the spoils of fifty lovers wears,
Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears
The necklace Florio's generous flame bestow'd,
Clitander's sparkling gems her finger load;
But now her charms grow cheap by constant use,
She sins for scarfs, clock'd-stockings, knots, and
shoes.

This next, with sober gait and serious leer,
Wearies her knees with morn and evening prayer;
She scorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages,
But with three abbots in one night engages.
This with the cardinal her nights employs,
Where holy sinews consecrate her joys.
Why have I promis'd things beyond my power?
Five assignations wait me at this hour!
The sprightly cou tess first my visit claims,
To-morrow shall indulge inferior dames.
Pardon me, sir, that thus I take my leave;
Gay Florimella slily twitch'd my sleeve."

[ocr errors]

Adieu, Monsieur!"-The opera hour draws near.
Not see the opera! all the world is there;
Where on the stage th' embroider'd youth of

France

In bright array attract the female glance;
This languishes, this struts, to show his mien,
And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen.
But hark! the full orchestra strike the strings,
The hero struts, and the whole audience sings.
My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarse and confus'd, like Babel's mingled sound.

Hard chance had plac'd me near a noisy throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd every note.
"Pray, sir," says I, "suspend awhile your song;
The opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous
strong;

I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain,
While he with rooted forests strows the plain."
Sudden he shrugs surprise, and answers quick,
"Monsieur apparement n'aime pas la musique!
Then turning round, he join'd th' ungrateful noise:
And the loud chorus thunder'd with his voice.

199

O soothe me with some soft Italian air,
Let harmony compose my tortur'd ear!
When Anastasia's voice commands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through every vein;
Thought stands suspense, and Silence pleas'd at-
tends,

While in her notes the heavenly choir descends.

But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So strongly with this prejudice possest,

He thinks French music and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some scraping fiddler of their ball he quotes;
Talk of the spirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives;
"Yes, sir," says he, "in colour and design,
Rigaut and Raphael are extremely fine!"

'Tis true his country's love transports his breast With warmer zeal than your old Greeks profest. Ulysses lov'd his Ithaca of yore,

Yet that sage traveller left his native shore.
What stronger virtų in the Frenchman shines!
He to dear Paris all his life confines.
I'm not so fond. There are, I must confess,
Things which might make me love my country less.
I should not think my Britain had such charins,
If lost to learning, if enslav'd by arms.
France has her Richlieus and her Colberts known;
And then, I grant it, France in science shone.
We too, I own, without such aids may chance
In ignorance and pride to rival France.

But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's strong sense, and Moliere's humorous

scene.

Let Cambray's name be sung above the rest,
Whose maxims, Pulteney, warm thy patriot breast;
In Mentor's precepts wisdom strong and clear
Dictates sublime, and distant nations hear.
Hear, all ye princes, who the world control,
What cares, what terrours, haunt the tyrant's soul;
His constant train are, Anger, Fear, Distrust.
To be a king, is to be good and just;
His people he protects, their rights he saves,
And scorns to rule a wretched race of slaves.
Happy, thrice happy, shall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws despotic power restrain!
There shall the ploughshare break the stubborn
land,

And bending harvest tire the peasant's hand :
There Liberty her settled mansion boasts,
There Commerce plenty brings from foreign coasts.
O Britain? guard thy laws, thy rights defend:
So shall these blessings to thy sons descend!

You'll think 'tis time some other theme to choose,|
And not with beaux and fops fatigue the Muse:
Should I let satire loose on English ground,
There fools of various character abound;
But here my verse is to one race confin'd,
All Frenchmen arc of petit-maitre kind.

1

EPISTLE IV.

TO THE RIGHT HON.

PAUL METHUEN, ESQ1.

THAT 'tis encouragement makes science spread,
Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often said.
When Learning droops and sickens in the land,
What patron's found, to lend a saving hand?
True generous spirits prosperous Vice detest,
And love to cherish Virtue when distrest:
But, ere our mighty lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.
Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's sides,
To find the seat where Harmony resides?
Why touch we not so soft the silver lute,
The cheerful hautboy, and the mellow flute?
"Tis not th' Italian clime improves the sound;
But there the patrons of her sons are found.

Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mæcenas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel stars!) a poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write rancorous libels to reform the state:
Or, if you choose more sure and ready ways,
Spatter a minister with fulsome praise:
Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not-all men are dedication proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He, who his pen in party-quarrels draws,
Lists an hir'd bravo to support the cause;
He must indulge his patron's hate and spleen,
And stab the fame of those he ne'er had seen.
Why then should authors inourn their desperate
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place [case?
Why art thou poor? Exert the gifts to rise.
And banish timorous virtue from thy eyes.

All this seems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fancy learning starves because they're poor.
Yet why should learning hope success at court?
Why should our patriots virtue's cause support?
Why to true merit should they have regard?
They know that virtue is its own reward.
Yet let not me of grievances complain,
Who (though the meanest of the Muses' train)
Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays,
Aud mingle profit with my little praise.

Ask Painting, why she loves Hesperian air?
"Go view," she cries," my glorious labours there;
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temples lofty domes create.
The nobles view any works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize."

Why didst thou, Kent, forego thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?
Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy just labours shine,
And Raphael live again in thy design.
Yet stay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington urbiass'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy master-strok ́s can trace
Titian's strong fire, and Guido's softer grace.
But, oh! consider, ere thy works appear,
Canst thou unhurt the tongue of Envy hear?
'Afterwards sir Paul, K. B.

Censure will blame; her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows, are condemn'd by passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandos with a liberal hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;

When, if the motive right were understood,

His daily pleasure is in doing good.

Think on the rescue of th' imperial throne,
Then think of Marlborough's death without a
Apollo kindly whispers me: "Be wise: [groan?
How to his glory shall thy numbers rise?
The force of verse another theme might raise,
But here the merit must transcend the praise.
Hast thou, presumptuous bard! that godlike flame,
Which with the Sun shall last, and Marlborough's
fame?

Then sing the man. But who can boast this fire?

Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page, Resign the task, and silently admire.”
Dennis had never kindled into rage,

'Tis the sublime that hurts the critic's ease;
Write nonsense, and he reads and sleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift, and Pope, unknown,
Poor slander-selling Curll would be undo e.
He, who would free from malice pass his days,
Must live obscure, and never merit praise,
But let this tale to valiant Virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.

[sing!

A Crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain,
Just as a Lark, descending, clos'd his strain.
The Crow bespoke him thus, with solemn grace:
"Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race!
What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you
And no bird soars upon a stronger wing,"
The Lark, who scorn'd soft flattery, thus replies:
"True I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My song confines me to the wiry cage,
My flight provokes the falcon's fatal rage.
But, as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
To shoot at crows is powder flung away."

[ocr errors]

EPISTLE V.

TO HER GRACE HENRIETTA, DUTCHESS
OF MARLBOROUGH.

1722.

EXCUSE me, madam, if, amidst your tears,
A Muse intrudes, a Muse who feels your cares;
Numbers, like music, can ev'n grief control,
And lull to peace the tumults of the soul.

If partners in our woes the mind relieve,
Consider for your loss ten thousands grieve;
Th' affliction burthens not your heart alone;
When Marlborough died, a nation gave a groan.
Could I recite the dangerous toils he chose,
To bless his country with a fixt repose;
Could I recount the labours he o'ercame,
To raise his country to the pitch of fame;
His councils, sieges, his victorious fights,
To save his country's laws and native rights;
No father (every generous heart must own)
Has stronger fondness to his darling shown.
Britannia's sighs a double loss deplore,
Her father and her hero is no more.

Does Britain only pay her debt of tears?
Yes. Holland sighs, and for her freedom fears.
When Gallia's monarch pour'd his wasteful bands,
Like a wide deJuge, o'er her level lands,
She saw her frontier towers in ruin lie,
Ev'n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly:
Then Marlborough came, defeated Gallia fled;
And shatter'd Belgia rais'd her languid head;
In him secure, as in her strongest mound
That keeps the raging sea within its bound.

O Germany! remember Hockstet's plain,
Where prostrate Gallia bled at every vein :

Yet shall he not in worthy lays be read?
Raise Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
But he requires not the strong glare of verse:
Let punctual history his deeds rehearse;
Let truth in native purity appear,
You'll find Achilles and Eneas there.

Is this the comfort which the Muse bestows?
I but indulge and aggravate your woes.
A prudent friend, who seeks to give relief,
Ne'er touches on the spring that mov'd the grief.
Is it not barbarous, to the sighing maid
To mention broken vows and nymphs betray'd
Would you the ruin'd merchant's soul appease,
With talk of sands, and rocks, and stormy seas?
Ev'n while I strive on Marlborough's fame to rise,
I call up sorrow in a daughter's eyes.

Think on the laurels that his temples shade,
Laurels that (spite of Time) shall never fade.
Immortal Honour has enroll'd his name;
Detraction's dumb, and Envy put to shame.
Say, who can soar beyond his eagle flight;
Has he not reach'd to glory's utmost height?
What could he more, had Heav'n prolong'd his
All human power is limited by Fate.

Forbear. "Tis cruel further to commend;

[date }

I wake your sorrow, and again offend.
Yet sure your goodness must forgive a crime,
Which will be spread through every age and clime;
Though in your life ten thousand summers roll,
And though you compass Earth from pole to pole,
Where'er men talk of war and martial fame,
They'll mention Marlborough's and Cæsar's name.
But vain are all the counsels of the Muse;
A soul like yours could not a tear refuse:
Could you your birth and filial love forego,
Still sighs must rise, and generous sorrow flow;
For, when from Earth such matchless worth re-
A great mind suffers. Virtue virtue loves. [moves,

EPISTLE VI.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS HAVING FINISHED HIS TRANSLATION OF
HOMER'S ILIAD.

A WELCOME FROM GREECE.

LONG hast thou, friend! been absent from my soil,
Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy;

I have been witness of thy six years toil,
Thy daily labours, and thy night's annoy,
Lost to thy native land, with great turmoil,
On the wide sea, oft threatening to destroy:

1 A close imitation of the beginning of the 46th canto of the Orlando Furioso. Mr. Gay has even adopted the measure of his original, and has comprised his design in almost the same number of lines, viz. in twenty-one octave stanzas, instead of nine

teen.

S.

Methinks with thee I've trod Sigæan ground,
And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.

Did I not see thee when thou first sett'st sail
To seek adventures fair in Homer's land?
Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail,

And wish thy bark had never left the strand?
Ev'n in mid ocean often didst thou quail,

And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand,
Praying the Virgin dear, and saintly choir,
Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.

Cheer up, my friend! thy dangers now are o'er,
Methinks-nay, sure the rising coasts appear;
Hark! how the guns salute from either shore,

As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair:
Shouts answering shouts from Kent and Essex roar,
And bells break loud through every gust of air:
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of some mighty king.
Now pass we Gravesend with a friendly wind,

And Tilbury's white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich, where dwells the friend of human kind,
More visited than or her park or hall,
Withers the good, and (with him ever join'd)
Facetious Disney, greet thee first of all:
I see his chimney smoke, and hear him say,
"Duke! that's the room for Pope, and that for
Gay.

"Come in, my friends! here shall ye dine and lie,
And here shall breakfast, and here dine again;
And sup and breakfast on, (if ye comply)

For I have still some dozens of champaign."
His voice still lessens as the ship sails by;

He waves his hand to bring us back in vain;
For now I see, I see proud London's spires;
Greenwich is lost, and Deptford-dock retires.
Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay!
The sky re-echoes with new shouts of joy :
By all this show, I ween, 'tis Lord-mayor's day;
I hear the voice of trumpet and hautboy.-
No, now I see them near.-Oh, these are they,
Who come in crowds, to welcome thee from Troy.
Hail to the bard, whom long as lost we mourn'd;
From siege, from battle, and from storm, return'd!
Of goodly dames, and courteous knights, I view
The silken petticoat, and broider'd vest;
Yea, peers and mighty dukes, with ribbands blue
(True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast).
Others I see, as noble, and more true,

By no court-hadge distinguish'd from the rest:
First see I Methuen, of sincerest mind,
As Arthur grave, as soft as woman-kind.
What lady's that, to whom he gently bends?
-Who knows not her? ah! those are Wortley's
eyes:

How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends!
For she distinguishes the good and wise.
The sweet-tongu'd Murray near her side attends;
Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies;
Now Harvey, fair of face, I mark full well,
With thee, youth's youngest daughter, sweet Lepell.

'He was usually called Duke Disney. N.

2 This person is mentioned in Pope's Epistle to Arbuthnot, ver. 23.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me, and my damn'd works, the cause.

I see two lovely sisters, hand in hand,

The fair-hair'd Martha, and Teresa brown;
Madge Bellenden, the tallest of the land;

And smiling Mary, soft and fair as down. Yonder I see the cheerful dutchess stand, [known: For friendship, zeal, and blithsome humours Whence that loud shout in such a hearty strain? Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train.

See next the decent Scudamore advance,

With Winchelsea, still meditating song:
With her perhaps Miss Howe came there by chance,
Nor knows with whom, or why she comes along.
Far off from these see Santlow, fam'd for dance';
And frolic Bicknell, and her sister young;
With other names, by me not to be nam'd,
Much lov'd in private, not in public fam'd!
But now behold the female band retire,

And the shrill music of their voice is still'd!
Methinks I see fam'd Buckingham admire,

That in Troy's ruin thou hadst not been kill'd;
Sheffield, who knows to strike the living lyre

With hand judicious, like thy Homer skill'd,
Bathurst impetuous hastens to the coast,
Whom you and I strive who shall love the most.
See generous Burlington, with goodly Bruce

(But Bruce comes wafted in a soft sedan);
Dan Prior next, belov'd by every Muse;

And friendly Congreve, unreproachful man! (Oxford by Cunningham hath sent excuse;)

See hearty Watkins comes with cup and can;
And Lewis, who has never friend forsaken;
And Laughton, whispering, asks—“ Is Troy town
taken ?"

Earl Warwick comes, of free and honest mind;
Bold, generous Craggs, whose heart was ne'er
disguis'd:

Ah, why, sweet St. John, cannot I thee find?
St. John, for every social virtue priz'd.-
Alas! to foreign climates he's confin'd,

Or else to see thee here I well surmis'd:
Thou too, my Swift, dost breathe Baotian air;
When wilt thou bring back wit and humour here?
Harcourt I see, for eloquence renown'd,

The mouth of justice, oracle of law!
Another Simon is beside him found,

Another Simon, like as straw to straw.
How Lansdown smiles, with lasting laurel crown'd!
What mitred prelate there commands our awe?
See Rochester approving nods his head 3,
And ranks one modern with the mighty dead.
Carleton and Chandos thy arrival grace;

Hanmer, whose eloquence th' unbiass'd sways;
Harley, whose goodness opens in his face,

And shows his heart the seat where virtue stays.
Ned Blount advances next, with busy pace,

In haste, but sauntering, hearty in his ways:
I see the friendly Carylls come by dozens,
Their wives, their uncles, daughters, sons, and

cousins.

1 She afterwards married Booth the player. S. 2 Mrs. Bicknell, the actress, is mentioned in the Spectator, Tatler, and Guardian, with applause. S.

So in the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.

Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head. S.

Arbuthnot there I see, in physic's art,

As Galen learn'd, or famed Hippocrate;
Whose company drives sorrow from the heart,
As all disease his med'cines dissipate:
Kneller amid the triumph bears his part',

Who could (were mankind lost) anew create:
What can th' extent of his vast soul confine?
A painter, critic, engineer, divine!

Thee Jervas hails, robust and debonair,

"Now have [we] conquer'd Homer, friends!" he cries:

Darteneuf, grave joker, joyous Ford is there?,

And wondering Maine, so fat with laughing eyes,
(Gay, Maine, and Cheney, boon companions dear,
Gay fat, Maine fatter, Cheney huge of size)
Yea Dennis, Gildon, (hearing thou hast riches)
And honest, hatless Cromwell, with red breeches.
O Wanley! whence com'st thou with shorten'd hair,
And visage from thy shelves with dust besprent3;
"Forsooth," quoth he, "from placing Homer there,
For ancients to compyle is myne entente:
Of ancients only hath lord Harley care;

But hither me hath my meeke lady sent:-
In manuscript of Grecke rede we thilke same,
But book yprint best plesyth myn gude dame."
Yonder I see, among th' expecting crowd,

Evans with laugh jocose, and tragic Young; High-buskin'd Booth, grave Mawbert, wandering Frowde,

And Titcomb's belly waddles slow along.
See Digby faints at Southern talking loud,

Yea, Steele and Tickell mingle in the throng:
Tickell, whose skiff (in partnership, they say ')
Set forth for Greece, but founder'd in the way.
Lo, the two Doncastles in Berkshire known!
Lo, Bickford, Fortescue, of Devon land!
Lo, Tooker, Eckershall, Sykes, Rawlinson!
See hearty Morley takes thee by the hand!
Ayrs, Graham, Buckridge, joy thy voyage done ;
But who can count the leaves, the stars, the
sand?

6

Lo, Stonor, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward, and Broome!
Lo, thousands more; but I want rhyme and room!

'This is no more than a compliment to the vanity of sir Godfrey, which Pope and other wits were always putting to the strongest trials. S.

Charles Ford, esq. writer of the Gazette. S.
So in the Dunciad, b. iii. 185.

But who is he in closet close ypent,
Of sober face, with learned dust besprent.
Humphrey Wanley was librarian to lord Ox-
ford. S.

The names of the majority of persons here enumerated are in want of no illustration; and concerning a few of them, it would be difficult to supply any. Titcomb, however, is mentioned in a letter from Pope to Congreve. "There is a grand revolution at Will's. Morrice has quitted for a coffee-house in the city; and Titcomb is restored, to the great joy of Cromwell, who was at a loss for a person to converse with on the fathers and church history." S.

How lov'd! how honour'd thou! yet be not vain:
And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say,
"All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain,
On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain?

And what rewards his grateful country pay?
None, none were paid-why then all this for me?
These honours, Homer, had been just to thee."

EPISTLE VII.

ΤΟ

MR. THOMAS SNOW,
GOLDSMITH, NEAR TEMPLE-BAR.

A PANEGYRIC,

OCCASIONED BY HIS BUYING AND SELLING OF THE THIRD
SOUTH-SEA SUBSCRIPTIONS, TAKEN IN BY THE DI
RECTORS AT A THOUSAND PER CENT.

DISDAIN not, Snow, my humble verse to hear:
Stick thy black pen awhile behind thy ear.
Whether thy compter shine with sums untold,
And thy wide-grasping hand grow black with gold;
Whether thy mien erect, and sable locks,
In crowds of brokers over-awe the stocks;
Suspend the worldly business of the day,
And, to enrich thy mind, attend my lay.

O thou, whose penetrative wisdom found
The South-sea rocks and shelves, where thousands
drown'd!

When credit sunk, and commerce gasping lay,
Thou stood'st; nor sent'st one bill unpaid away.
When not a guinea chink'd on Martin's boards,
And Atwell's self was drain'd of all his hoards,
Thou stood'st, (an Indian king in size and hue)
Thy unexhausted shop was our Peru.

Why did 'Change-alley waste thy precious hours
Among the fools, who gap'd for golden showers?
No wonder if we found some poets there,
Who live on fancy, and can feed on air;
No wonder they were caught by South-sea schemes,
Who ne'er enjoy'd a guinea, but in dreams;
No wonder they their third subscriptions sold,
For millions of imaginary gold;

No wonder, that their fancies wild can frame
Strange reasons, that a thing is still the same,
Tho' chang'd throughout in substance and in name.
But you (whose judgment scorns poetic flights)
With contracts furnish boys with paper-kites.

Let Vulture Hopkins stretch his rusty throat,
Who'd ruin thousands for a single groat.

I know thou spurn'st his mean, his sordid mind;
Nor with ideal debts would'st plague mankind.
Why strive his greedy hands to grasp at more?-
The wretch was born to want, whose soul is poor.

Madmen alone their empty dreams pursue,
And still believe the fleeting vision true;

They sell the treasure which their slumbers get,
Then wake, and fancy all the world in debt.
If to instruct thee all my reasons fail,
Yet he diverted by this moral tale.

Thro' fam'd Moorfields extends a spacious scat,
Where mortals of exalted wit retreat;
Where, wrapp'd in contemplation and in straw,

See the first book of the Iliad among the poems The wiser few from the mad world withdraw. of Mr. Tickell.

N.

• See Prior's ballad of Down Hall. N.

There, in full opulence, a banker dwelt,
Who all the joys and pangs of riches felt :

« הקודםהמשך »