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Excus'd, if in her cause we never stir, Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher 2 Thus sings our bard with heat almost divine ; *Tis pity that his thought was not as strong as fine. Would it more justly did the case express, Or that its beauty, and its grace were less, (Thus a nymph sometimes we see, Who so charming seems to be, That, jealous of a soft surprise, We searce durst trust our eager eyes) Such a fallacious ambush to escape, It were but vain to plead a willing rape; A valiant son would be provok'd the more; A force we therefore must confess, but acted long A marriage since did intervene, [before; With all the solemn and the sacred scene: Loud was the Hymenean song ; The violated dame 'walk'd smilingly along, And in the midst of the most sacred dance, As if enamour'd of his sight, Often she cast a kind admiring glance On the bold struggier for delight; Who afterwards appear'd so moderate and cool, As if for public good alone he so desir'd to rule.
But, oh that this were all which we can urge Against a Roman of so great a soul | And that fair truth permitted us to purge His fact, of what appears so foul | Friendship, that sacred and sublimest thing ! The noblest quality, and chiefest good, (In this dull age scarce understood) [to sing. Inspires us with unusual warmth her injur'd rites Assist, ye angels! whose immortal bliss, Though more refin'd, chiefly consists in this. How plainly your bright thoughts to one another shine ! Oh! how ye all agree in harmony divine ! The race of mutual love with equal zeal ye run, A course, as far from any end, as when at first begun. Ye saw, and smil'd upon this matchless pair, Who still betwixt them did so many virtues share, Some which belong to peace, and some to strife, Those of a calm, and of an active life, That all the excellence of human-kind Concurr'd to make of both but one united mind, Which friendship did so fast and closely bind, Not the least cement could appear by which their souls were join'd. That tye which holds our mortal frame, Which poor unknowing we a soul and body name, Seems not a composition more divine, [shine. Or more abstruse, than all that does in friendship
From mighty Caesar and his boundless grace, Though Brutus, once at least, his life receiv'd ; Such obligations, though so high believ'd, Are yet but slight in such a case. Where friendship so possesses all the place, There is no room for gratitude, since he, Who so obliges, is more pleas'd than his sav'd friend can be. Just in the midst of all this noble heat, While their great hearts did both so kindly beat, That it amaz'd the lookers-on, And forc'd them to suspect a father and a son”;
" Rome. * Cesar was suspected to have begotten Brutus.
(Though here ev'n Nature's self still seem'd to be
In coolest blood he laid a long design
I yield, I yield, and can no longer stay
The Muse inspires me now to look again, And see a meaner sort of sordid men Doating on little heaps of yellow dust; For that despising honour, ease, and lust. Let other bards, expressing how it shines, Describe with envy what the miser finds; Only as heaps of dirt it seems to me, Where we such despicable vermin see, Who creep through filth a thousand crooked ways, Insensible of infamy or praise: Loaded with guilt, they still pursue their course, Not ev'n restrain'd by love or friendship's force. Not to enlarge on such an obvious thought, Behold their folly, which transcends their fault! Alas! their cares and cautions only tend To gain the means, and then to lose the end. Like heroes in romances, still in sight For mistresses that yield them no delight. This, of all vice, does most debase the mind, Gold is itself th’ allay to human-kind. Oh, happy times! when no such thing as coin E'er tempted friends to part, or foes to join ' Cattle or corm, among those harmless men, Was all their wealth, the gold and silver then : Corm was too bulky to corrupt a tribe, And bellowing herds would have betray'd the bribe. Ev’n traffic now is intercourse of ill, And every wind brings a new mischief still ; By trade we flourish in our leaves and fruit, But avarice and excess devour the root. Thus far the Muse unwillingly has been Fix'd on the dull, less happy sorts of sin; But now, more pleas'd, she views the different ways Of luxury, and all its charms surveys. Dear Luxury! thou soft, but sure deceit! Rise of the mean, and ruin of the great! Thou sure presage of ill-approaching fates, The bane of empires, and the change of states! Armies in vain resist thy mighty power; Not the worst conduct would confound them more. Thus Rome herself, while o'er the world she flew, And did by virtue all that world subdue, Was by her own victorious arms oppress'd, And catch'd infection from the conquer'd East; Whence all those vices came, which soon devour The best foundations of renown and power. But oh what need have we abroad to roam, Who feel too much the sad effects at home, Of wild excess! which we so plainly find Ilecays the body, and impairs the mind. But yet grave fops must not presume from hence To slight the sacred pleasures of the sense: Our appetites are Nature's laws, and given Under the broad authentic seal of Heaven. Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight, To put restraint on innocent delight, But Heaven and Nature's always in the right; They would not draw poor wretched mortals in, Or give desires that shall be doom'd for sin. Yet, that in height of harmless joy we may Last to old age, and never lose a day, Amidst our pleasures we ourselves should spare, And manage all with temperance and care. The gods forbid but we sometimes may steep Our joys in wine, and lull our cares asleep : It raises Nature, ripens seeds of worth, As moistening pictures calls the colours forth; But if the varnish we too oft apply, Alas! like colours, we grow faint and die.
Hold, hold, impetuous Muse—s would restrain
on MR. HORBES, AND HIS WRITINGS.
Such is the mode of these censorious days, The art is lost of knowing how to praise;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone Admire at wit, because themselves have none. Yet whatsoe'er is by vain crities thought, Praising is harder much than finding fault; In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel, Italians only can draw beauty well. As strings, alike wound up, so equal prove, That one resounding makes the other move; Frou, such a cause our satires please so much, We sympathize with each ill-natur'd touch; And as the sharp infection spreads about, The reader's malice helps the writer out. To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold,; Yet, if the Muse inspires it, who can hold : To merit we arebound to give applause, Content to suffer in so just a cause. While in dark ignorance welay, afraid Of fancies, ghosts, and every empty shade, Great Hobbes appeard, and by plain reason's light Put such fantastic forms to shameful flight. Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be To vice enslav'd, if from vain terrours free ; The wise and good morality will guide, And superstition all the world beside. In other authors, though the thought be good, Tis not sometimes so easily understood; That jewel oft’ unpolish'd has remain'd; Some words should be left out, and some explain'd; So that in search of sense, we either stray, Or else grow weary in so rough a way. But here sweet eloquence does always smile, In such a choice, yet unaffected style, As must both knowledge, and delight impart, The force of reason, with the flowers of art; Clear as a beautiful transparent skin, Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in : Like a delicious stream it ever ran, As smooth as woman, but as strong as man. Bacon himself, whose universal wit Poes admiration through the world beget, Scarce more his age's ornament is thought, Or greater credit to his country brought. While Fame is young, too weak to fly away, Malice pursues her, like some bird of prey; But once on wing, then all the quarreis cease; Envy herself is glad to be at peace, Gives over, weary'd with so high a flight, Above her reach, and scarce within her sight. Hobbes, to this happy pitch arriv'd at last, Might have look'd down with pride on dangers past: But such the frailty is of human-kind, Men toil for Fame, which no man lives to find; Long ripening under ground this China lies; Fame bears no fruit, till the vain planter dies. Thus Nature, tir'd with his unusual length Of life, which put her to her utmost strength, Such stock of wit unable to supply, To spare herself, was glad to let hin die.
For how could such a wretch succeed, But that, alas, it was decreed
THE MIRACLE, 1707.
Menir they hate, and wit they slight;
ODE ON The DEATH OF HENRY ft. Rcer L.
Good angels snatch'd him eagerly on high;
sky, teachioi. new-fledg'd soul to fly; While we, alas ! lamenting tie. He went musing all along, Composing new their heavenly song: A while his skilful notes loud hallelujahs drown'd; But soon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleasing sound. 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 to A man just after God's own heart | lf human cares arc lawful to the blest, Already settled in eternal rest; Needs must he wish, that Purcell only might Have liv'd to set what he vouchsaf'd to write; For, sure, the noble thirst of fame With the frail body never dies; But with the soul ascends the skies, From whence at first it came. 'Tis sure no little proof we have That part of us survives the grave, And in our fame below still bears a share: Why is the future else so much our care, Ev’n in our latest moment of despair? And death despis'd for fame by all the wise and brave 2 Oh, all ye blest harmonious choir' Who Power Almighty only love, and only that admire"? Dook down with pity from your peaceful bower, On this sad isle perplex’d, And ever, ever vex'd With anxious care of trifles, wealth and power. In our rough inshds due reverence infuse For sweet melodious sounds, and each harmonious Muse. Music exalts unan's nature, and inspires
High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires, H
on THE loss of AN ONLY son, ROBERT MAR2UIS OF NORMANBY.
Our morning's gay and shining;
At evening no repining;
A fond transported mother
Oh, where is such an other
A child at first was wanting; Now such a son is sent,
As parents most lamenting In him would find content.
A child of whom kind Heaven
But has already given
The happy sire's possessing His share in such a boy,
Adds still a greater blessing To all my other joy.
But ah! this shiny weather
Black clouds began to gather,
So fierce a fever rages,
And dismal sad presages
The doubts that made us languish
Yet, oh, with all their anguish,
But why so much digression, This fatal loss to show?
Alas, there's no expression Can tell a parent's woe."
oN MR. POPE, AND HIS POEMS.
Wrrh age decay'd, with courts and business tir’d,
Came Blackmore, and cry'd, “Look, all these are my lays, But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays.”
Lampooners and critics rush'd in like a tide,
Steele long had so cunningly manag'd the town,
Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure,
When Buckingham came, he scarce car'd to be
seen, Till Phoebus desir'd his old friend to walkin; But a laureat pecr had never been known, The commoners claim'd that place as their own.
Yet if the kind god had been ne'er so inclin'd
Notwithstanding this law, yet Lansdowne was nam'd,
A prelate” for wit and for cloquence fam'd,
Apollo soon miss'd, and he needs not be nam'd;
Since, amidst a whole bench, of which some are so bright,
No one of then shines so learn’d and polite.
To Shippen, Apollo was cold with respect,
Trapp, Young, and Vanbrugh, expected reward,
Pert Budrell came next, and, demanding the bays, said, “Those works must be good, which had Addison's praise;” But Apollo reply'd, “Child Eustace, 'tis known, Most authors will praise whatsoever's their own.”
When Philips came forth, as starch as a Quaker,
Hughes, Fenton, and Gay, came last in the train,
Too modest to ask for the crown they would gain:
Phaebus thought them too bashful, and said they would need
More boldness, if ever they hop'd to succeed.
Apollo, now driven to a cursed quandary, was wishing for Swift, or the fam'd Lady Mary: Nay, had honest Tom Southerne but been within call— But at last he grew wanton, and laugh'd at them all:
* Dr. Atterbury, bishop of Rochester.
Since in vain our parsons teach,