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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 ooding 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,
For knew on which to fix their wonder most.

The watery world behold, with picas'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'å,
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.

TO URANIA,

ON HER ARRIVAL AT JAMAICA.

THROUGH yielding waves the vessel swiftly flies,
That bears Urania from our eager eyes;
Deaf to our call, the billows waft her o'er,
With speed obsequious, to a distant shore:

A prize more rich than Spain's whole fleets could
[boast
From fam'd Peru, or Chili's golden coast!
There the glad natives, on the crowded strand,
With wonder see the matchless stranger land;
Transplanted glories in her features smile,
And a new dawn of beauty gilds their isle.

So from the sea, when Venus rose serene,
And by the Nymphs and Tritons first was seen,

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 hile I feel, by fast degrees,

My shaggard 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
ow 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. The 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. 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.

CHORUS, ORESTES, ELECTRA.

CHORUS.

DRAW near, Electra, to thy brother's couch; See if he breathes; this long-protracted rest May end in death, and fatally deceive thee.

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Thou grasp'st me thus to plunge me down to Hell.

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When Heaven is deaf, and all the gods our foes!

ORESTES.

Reach me the weapons of the shooting god, Apollo's gift, the shafts, and horny bow; With these he bad me drive the fiends away, When cruel, they attack me

ELECTRA.

Can they feel?

Can deathless beings feel a mortal wound?

ORESTES.

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 more the raging waves
Have spent their force-and all is calm again-
My sister?-weeping too? Why dost thou turn
Thy face away, thus muffled in thy garment?
I grieve to think what I have made thee suffer;

He's now arriv'd-and brings from conquer'd Troy I know my sickness bears too hard upon thee; His beauteous Helen

Yet weep not for my crimes, unhappy maid!

[me,

The deed was mine-Thou only didst consent:
'Twas I that slew my mother-Phœbus 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 affection.

But now, retiring to thy own apartment, Let gentle slumber close thy wakeful eyes1 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 me too, I'm lost indeed,

ELECTRA.

O no! thy sister never will forsake thee; Nor only will I live, but die, with thee; What joy could life afford a wretched woman, Bereft of father, brother, every friend?

But if you so command, I will retire; In the meanwhile compose thyself to rest, Reclin'd upon thy couch; nor let vain terrours Rouse thee again-Thy own upbraiding conscience Is the revengeful fiend that haunts thy breast!

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD CHANCELLOR PARKER.

JULY XXIII. M.DCC.XIX.

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 PINDAR.

TO ASOPICUS OF ORCHOMENUS.
Yɛ 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 candle 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,

Fast clos'd awhile; and, as their lids I rear'd,
Full at my feet a tall thin form appear'd,
While through my parted curtains rushing broke
A light like day, ere yet the figure spoke.
Cold sweat bedew'd my limbs-nor did I dream;
Hear, mortals, hear! for real truth's my theme.
And now, more bold, I rais'd my trembling bones
To look-when, lo! 'twas honest master Jones';
Who wav'd his hand, to banish fear and sorrow,
Well charg'd with toast and sack, and cry'd —
"Good morrow!"

WRITTEN IN A WINDOW AT WALLINGTON-HOUSE, THEN THE SEAT OF

MRS. ELIZABETH BRIDGES.

M, DCC. XIX.

ENVY, if thy searching eye
Through this window chance to pry,
To thy sorrow thou shalt find,
All that's generous, friendly, kind,
Goodness, Virtue, every Grace,
Dwelling in this happy place:

Then, if thou would'st shun this sight,
Hence for ever take thy flight.

THE SUPPLEMENT:

THE CHARACTER OF

MRS. ELIZABEth bridges.

IMPERFECT,

PAINTER, give o'er; here ends thy feeble art;
For how wilt thou describe th' immortal part?
Tho' Kneller's or tho' Raphael's skill were thine,
Or Titian's colours on the cloth did shine,
The labour'd piece must yet half-finish'd stand,
And mock the weakness of the master's hand.

Colours are but the phantoms of the day,
With that they're born, with that they fade away:
Like Beauty's charms, they but amuse the sight,
Dark in themselves, till, by reflection bright,
With the Sun's aid, to rival him they boast,
But, light withdrawn, in their own shades are lost.
Then what are these t' express the living fire,
The lamp within, that never can expire?
That work can only by the Muse be wrought;
Souls must paint Souls, and Thought delineate
Thought,

Then, Painter-Muse, begin, and, unconfin'd,
Draw boldly first a large extent of mind:
Yet not a barren waste, an empty space,
For crowds of virtues fill up all the place.
See! o'er the rest fair Piety presides,

As the bright Sun th' inferior planets guides;
To the soul's powers it vital heat supplies,
And hence a thousand worthy habits rise,

1 The butler.

She died Dec. 1, 1745, aged 88.

See some

So when that genial father of the Spring
Smiles on the meads, and wakes the birds to sing
And from the heavenly Bull his influence sheds
On the parterres and fruitful garden beds,
A thousand beauteous births shoot up to sight,
A thousand buds, unfolding, meet the light;
Each useful plant does the rich earth adorn,
And all the flowery universe is born.

O! could my verse describe this sacred queen,
This first of virtues, awful, yet serene,
Plain in her native charms, nor too severe,
Free from false zeal, and superstitious fear;
Such and so bright, as by th' effects we find,
She dwells in this selected, happy mind,
The source of every good should stand confest,
And all, who see, applaud the heaven-born guest!

Proceed, my Muse: next in the picture place Diffusive Charity to human race. Justice thou need'st not in thy draught express, Since every greater still includes the less. What were the praise, if Virtue idly stood, Content alike to do nor harm nor good? Though shunning ill, unactive, and supine, Like painted suns, that warm not while they shine? The nobler soul such narrow life disdains, Flows out, and meets another's joys and pains, Tasteless of blessings, if possest alone,

And in imparted pleasures seeks its own.

Hence grows the sense of Friendship's generous fires,
Hence Liberality the heart inspires,
Hence streams of good in constant actions flow,
And man to man becomes a god below!

A soul thus form'd, and such a soul is here,
Needs not the dangerous test of riches fear,
But, unsubdued to wealth, may safely stand,
And count o'er heaps with an unsully'd hand.
Heaven, that knew this, and where t' intrust its store,
And, blessing one, oft' blesses many more,
First gave a will to give, then fitly join'd
A liberal fortune to a liberal mind.
With such a graceful ease her bounty flows;
She gives, and scarce that she's the giver knows,
But seems receiving most, when she the most be-
Rich in herself, well may she value more [stows.
Her wealth within, the mind's immortal store;
Passions subdued, and knowledge free from pride,
Good humour, ever to good sense ally'd,
Well-season'd mirth, and wisdom unsevere,
An equal temper, and a heart sincere;
Gifts that alone from Nature's bounty flow,
Which Fortune may display, but not bestow;
For wealth but sets the picture more in sight,
And brings the beauties or the faults to light.
How true th' esteem that's founded in desert♪
How pleasing is the tribute of the heart!
Here willing duty ne'er was paid in vain,
And ev'n dependence cannot feel its chain;
Yet whom she thus sets free she closer binds,
(Affection is the chain of grateful minds)
And, doubly blessing her adopted care,
Makes them her virtues with her fortune share,
Leads by example, and by kindness guards,
And raises first the merit she rewards.

Oft too abroad she casts a friendly eye, As she would help to every need supply.

verses to her memory in Mrs. Tollet's poems, p. The poor near her almost their cares forget,

139.

Their want but serves as hunger to their meat;"

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