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As when some cruel hind has borne away The turtle's nest, and made the young his prey, Sad in her native grove she sits alone, There hangs her wings, and murmursouther moan; So the bright shepherdess, who bore the boy, 13eneath a baleful yew does weeping lie; Nor can the fair the weighty woe sustain, But bends, like roses crush'd with falling rain; Nor from the silent earth her eyes removes, That, weeping, languish like a dying dove's. Not such her look (severe reverse of fate') When little Loves in every dimple sate; And all the Smiles delighted to resort On the calm Heaven of her soft cheeks to sport: Soft as the clouds mild April evenings wear, Which drop fresh flowrets on the youthful year. The fountain's fall can't lull her wakeful woes, Nor poppy-garlands give the nymph repose: Through prickly brakes, and unfrequented groves, O'er hills and dales, and craggy cliffs, she roves. And when she spies, beneath some silent shade, The daisies press'd, where late his limbs were laid, To the cold print there close she joins her face, And all with gushing tears bedevs the grass. [skies, There with loud plaints she wounds the pitying “And, oh! return, my lovely youth,” she cries; “Return, Florelio, with thy wonted charms Fill the soft circle of my longing arms.”— Cease, fair Ashliction, cease! the lovely boy In Death's cold arms must pale and breathless lie. The Fates can never change their first decree, Or sure they would have chang'd this one for thee. Pan for his Syrinx makes eternal moan, Ceres her daughter lost, and thou thy son. Thy son for ever now has left the plain, And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British
Adieu, ye mossy caves, and shady groves,
Once happy scenes of our successful loves:
Ye hungry herds, and bleating flocks, adieu !
Flints be your b. ds, and browze the bitter yew.
Two lambs alone shall be my charge to feed,
For yearly on his gave two lambs shall bleed.
This pledge of lasting love, dear shade, receive;
'Tis all, alas, a shepherd's love can give
But grief from its own power will set me free,
Will send me soon a willing ghost to thee:
Cropt in the flowery spring of youth, I'll go
With hasty joy to wait thy shade below:
In ever-fragrant meads, and jasmine-bowers,
We'll dwell, and all Flysium shall be ours.
Where citron groves ethereal odours breathe,
And streams of flowing crystal purl beneath;
Where all are ever young, and heavenly fair,
As here above thy sister Graces are.
What art thou, Life, whose stay we court?
What is thy rival Death we fear
Since we're but fickle Fortune's sport,
Why should we wist, to inhabit here,
And think the race, we find so rough, too short?
While in the womb we forming lie, While yet the lamp of life displays A doubtful dawn with feeble rays, New issuing from non-entity;
The shell of flesh pollutes with sin
Its gem, the soul, just enter'd in ;
And, by transmitted vice defil’d,
The fiend commences with the child.
In this dark region future fates are bred,
And mines of secret ruin laid :
Hot fevers here long kindling lie,
Prepifr’d with flaming whips to rage,
And lash on lingering Destiny:
Whene'er excess has fir'd our riper age,
Here brood in infancy the gout and stone,
Fruits of our fathers' rollies, not our own.
Ev’n with our nourishment we death receive,
For here onr guiltless mothers give
Poison for food when first we live.
Hence noisome humours sweat thro’ every pore',
And blot us with an undistinguisli’d sore:
Nor, mov’d with beauty, will the dire disease
Forbear on faultless forms to seize;
But vindicates the good, the gay,
The wise, the young, its common prey.
Had all, conjoin'd in one, had power to save,
The Muses had not wept o'er Blandford's grave,
Unnumber'd seraphs round the burning throne,
Sung to th’ incomprehensible Three-One:
Yet then his clemency did please
With lower forms to augment his train,
And made thee, wretched creature, man,
Probationer of happiness.
On the vast ocean of his wonders here,
We momentary bubbles ride,
Till, crush'd by the tempestuous tide,
Sunk in the parent flood, we disappear:
We, who so gaudy on the waters shone,
Proud, like the showery bow, with beauties not our
But, at the signal given, this earth and sea
Shall set their sleeping vassals free;
And the belov'd of God,
The faithful, and the just,
Like Aaron's chosen rod,
Though dry, shall blossom in the dust:
Then, gladly bounding from their dark restraints,
The skeletons shall brighten into saints,
And, from mortality refin'd, shall rise
To meet their Saviour coming in the skies:
Instructed then by intuition, we
Shall the vain efforts of our wisdom see;
Shall then impartially confess
Our demonstration was but guess;
That knowledge, which from human reason flows,
Unless Religion guide its course,
And Faith her steady mounds oppose,
Is ignorance at best, and often worse.
PART of the FOURTEENTH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH paraphrased.
Now has th' Almighty Father, seated high In ambient glories, from the eternal throne Vouchsaf’d compassion; and th’ afflictive power Has broke, whose iron sceptre long had bruis'd The groaning nations. Now returning Peace, Dove-ey'd, and rob’d in white, the blissful land Deigns to re-visit; whilst beneath her steps The soil, with civil slaughter oft manur'd, Pours forth abundant olives. Their high tops The cedars wave, exulting o'er thy fall, Whose steel from the tall monarch of the grove Sever'd the regal honours, and up tore The scions blooming in the parent shade. When, vehicled in flame, thou slow didst pass Prone thro' the gates of Night, the dreary realms With loud acclaim receiv'd thee. Tyrants old (Gigantic forms, with human blood besmear'd) Rose from their thrones; for thrones they still possess, [cry, Their penance and their guilt: “Art thou,” they “O emulous of our crimes, here doom'd to reign Associate of our woe 2 Nor com'st thou girt with livery'd slaves, or bands of warrior-knights, Which erst before thee stood, a flattering crowd, Observant of thy brow; nor hireling quires, Attempering to the harp their warbled airs, Thy panegyric chaunt; but, hush'd in death, Like us thou ly'st unwept ; a corse obscene With dust, and preying worms, bare and despoil'd Of ill-got pomp. We hail thee our coupeer'
“How art thou with diminish'd glory fals'm From thy proud zenith, swift as meteors glide Aslope a summer-eve Of all the stars, Titled the first and fairest, thou didst hope To share divinity, or haply more, Elated as supreme, when o'er the North Thy bloody banners stream'd, to rightful kings Portending ruinous downfall; wondrous low, Opprobrious and detested, art thou thrown, Disrob'd of all thy splendours: round thee stand The swarming populace, and with fix’d regard Eying thee, pale and breathless, spend their rage In taunting speech, and jovial ask their friends, ‘ls this the Mighty, whose imperious yoke We bore reluctant, who to desert wilds, And haunts of savages, transform'd the marts, And capital cities raz'd, pronouncing thrall Or exile on the peerage? How becalm'd The tyrant lies, whose nostrils us’d to breathe Tempests of wrath, and shook establish'd thrones!"
“In solemn state the bones of pious kings, Gather'd to their great sires, are safe repos'd Beneath the weeping vault: but thou, a branch Blasted and curs'd by Heaven, to dogs and fowls Art doom'd a banquet; mingling some remains With criminals unabsolv'd; on all thy race Transmitting guilt and vengeance. From thy domes Thy children skulk, erroneous and forlorn, Fearing perdition, and for mercy sue, With eyes uplift, and tearful. From thy seed The sceptre Heaven resumes, by thee usurp'd By guile and force, and sway’d with lawless rage.”
The Gaul, intent on universal sway,
Sees his own subjects with constraint obey;
And they who most his rising beams ador'd,
Weep in their chains, and wish another lord.
But, if the Muse not uninspir'd presage,
Justice shall triumph o'er oppressive rage:
His power shall be reclaim'd to rightful laws,
And all, like Savoy, shall desert his cause.
So when to distant vales an Eagle steers,
His fierceness not disarm'd by length of years,
From his stretch'd wing he sees the feathers fly,
Which bore him to his empire of the sky.
Unlike, great queen, thy steps to deathless Fame;
O best, O greatest, of thy royal name !
Thy Britons, fam'd for arts, in battle brave,
Have nothing now to censure, or to crave:
Ev’n Vice and factious Zeal are held in awe,
Thy court a temple, and thy life a law.
When edg’d with terrours, by thy vengeful hand
The sword is drawn to gore a guilty land;
Thy mercy cures the wound thy justice gave,
For ’tis thy lov'd prerogative to save:
And Victory, to grace thy triumph, brings
Palms in her hand, with healing in her wings.
But as mild Heaven on Eden's op'ning gems
Bestow'd the balmiest dews, and brightest beams:
So, whilst remotest climes thy influence share,
Rritain's the darling object of thy care:
By thy wise councils, and resistless might,
Abroad we conquer, and at home unite :
Refore thou bid'st the distant battles cease,
Thy picty cements domestic peace;
mpatient of delay to fix the state,
Thy dove brings olive ere the waves abate
Hail, happy sister-lands! for ever prove
Kivals alone in loyalty and love;
Kindled from Heaven, be your auspicious flame
As lasting, and as bright, as Anna's fame !
And thou, fair northern nymphs, partake our toil,
With us divide the danger, and the spoil:
When thy brave sons, the friends of Mars avow’d,
In steel around our Albion standards crowd;
What wonders in the war shall now be shown
By her, who single shook the Gallic throne!
The day draws nigh, in which the warrior-queen
Shall wave her union-crosses o'er the Seine:
Rous'd with heroic warmth unfelt before,
Her lions with redoubled fury roar;
And urging on to fame, with joy behold
The woody walks, in which they rang'd of old.
O Louis, long the terrour of thy arms
Has aw'd the continent with dire alarms;
Exulting in thy pride, with hope to see
Empires and states derive their power from thee;
From Britain's equal hand the scale to wrest,
And reign without a rival o'er the west:
But now the laurels, by thy rapine torn
From Belgian groves, in early triumphs borne;
Wither'd and leafless in thy winter stand,
Fxpos'd a prey to every hostile hand:
By strange extremes of destiny decreed
To flourish, and to fall with equal speed.
So the young gourd, around the prophet's head, With swift increase, her fragrant honours spread; Reneath the growing shade secure he sate, To see the towers of Ninus bow to Fate: But, curs'd by Heaven, the greens began to fade, And, sickening, sudden as they rose, decay’d.
Cupid resign'd to Sylvia's care
His bow and quiver stor'd with darts;
Commissioning the matchless fair
To fill his shrine with bleeding hearts.
His empire thus secur'd, he flies
To sport amid th’ Idalian grove;
Whose feather'd choirs proclaim'd the joys,
And bless'd the pleasing power of love.
The god their grateful songs engage,
To spread his nets which Venus wrought;
Whilst o held the golden cage,
To keep secure the game they caught.
The warblers, brisk with genial fiame,
Swift from the myrtle shades repair;
A willing captive each became,
And sweetlier carol'd in the snare.
When Hymen had receiv'd the prey,
To Cytherea's fame they flew,
Regardless, while they wing'd their way,
How sullen all the songsters grew.
Alas! no sprightly note is heard,
But each with silent grief consumes;
Though to celestial food preferr'd,
They pining droop their painted plumes.
To The same, READING THE ART of LovE.
Whilst Ovid here reveals the various arts, Both how to polish and direct their darts, Let meaner beauties by his rule improve, And read these lines to gain success in love : But Heaven alone, that multiplies our race, Has power to increase the conquests of your face. The Spring, before he paints the rising flowers, Receives mild beams, and soft descending showers; But love blooms ever fresh beneath your charms, Though neither pity weeps, nor kindness warms.
The chiefs who doubt success, assert their claim By stratagems, and poorly steal a name: The generous Son of Jove", in open fight, Made bleeding Victory proclaim his might: Like him resistless, when you take the field, Love sounds the signal, and the world must yield.
THE FAIR NUN. A TALE. Ire per ignes, [ullis, Per gladios ausim, Neque in hoc tamen ignibus Aut gladiis opus est! opus est mihi crine— Ovid. Met. lib, viii, Wr sage Cartesians, who profess Ourselves sworn foes to emptiness, Assert that souls a tip-toe stand On what we call the pineal gland; As weather cocks on spires are plac'd, To turn the quicker with each blast. This granted, can you think it strange, We all should be so prone to change; Ev’n from the go-cart till we wear A sattin cap in th’ elbow chair 2 The follies that the child began, Custom makes current in the man; And, firm by livery artd seisin, Holds the fee-simple of his reason. But still the gusts of love we find Blow strongest on a woman's mind; Nor need I learmedly pursue The latent cause, th’ effect is true; For proof of which, in manner ample, I mean to give you one example. Upon a time, (for so my nurse, Heaven rest her bones! began discourse) A lovely nymph, and just nineteen, Began to languish with the spleen : She, who had shone at balls and play In gold brocade extremely gay, All on a sudden grew precise, IDeciaim'd against the growth of vice, A very prude in half a vear, And most believ'd she was sincere: Necklace of pearl no more she wears, That's sanctify'd to count her prayers: Venus, and all her naked Loves, The reformado nymph removes; And Magdalem, with saints and martyrs, Was plac'd in their respective quarters. Nor yet content, she could not bear The rankncss of the public air,
'Twas so infected with the vice Of luscious songs, and lovers' sighs: So most devoutly would be gone, And straight profess herself a nun. A youth of breeding and address, And call him Thyrsis, if you please, Who had some wealth to recompense His slender dividend of sense; Yet could, with little thought and care, Write tender things to please the fair; ...And then successively did grow From a half-wit, a finish’d beau! (For fops thus naturally rise, As maggots turn to butterflies.) This spark, as story tells, before Had held with madam an amour, Which he resolving to pursue, Łxactly took the proper cue, And ou the wings of love he flies To lady abbess, in disguise, And tells her, he had brought th' advowson Of soul and body to dispose on. Old Sanctity, who nothing fear'd In petticoats, without a beard, Fond of a proselyte, and fees, Admits the fox among the geese. Here duty, wealth, and honour prove, Though three to one, too weak for love; And to describe the war throughout, Would make a glorious piece, no doubt, Where moral virtues might be slain, And rise, and fight, and fall again : Love should a bloody myrtle wear, And, like Camilla, fierce and fair, The nun should charge.—But I forbear. All human joys, though sweet in tasting, Are seldon (more's the pity) lasting: The nymph had qualms, her cheeks were pale, Which others thought th' effects of zeal : But she, poor she, began to doubt, (Best knowing what she'd been about) The marriage earnest-penny lay, And burnt her pocket, as we say. She now invokes, to ease her soul, The dagger and the poison'd bowl; And, self condemn'd for breach of vow, To lose her life and honour too, Talk'd in as tragical a strain, as Your craz'd Monimias and Roxanas. But as she in her cell lay sighing, Distracted, weeping, drooping, dying, The fiend (who never wants address To succour damsels in distress) Appearing, told her he perceiv'd The fatal cause for which she griev'd; But promis'd her en cavalier, She should be freed from all her fear, And with her Thyrsis lead a life Devoid of all domestic strife, If she would sign a certain scrawl— Aye, that she would, if that was all. She sign'd, and he engag’d to do Whate'er she pleas'd to set him to. The critics must excuse me now, They both were freed, no matter how : For when we epic writers use Machines to disengage the Muse, We're clean acquit of all demands, The matter's left in abler hands;
And if they cannot loose the knot,
Should we be censur'd 2 I think not.
The scene thus alter'd, both were gay,
For pomp and pleasures who but they,
Who might do every thing but pray
Madam in her gilt chariot flaunted,
And Pug brought every thing she wanted;
A slave devoted to her will :
But women will be wavering still.
Ev’n vice, without variety,
Their squeamish appetites will cloy :
And having stolen from lady abbess
One of our merry modern rabbies,
She found a trick she thought would pass,
And prove the devil but an ass.
His next attendance happen'd right
Amidst a moonless stormy night.
When madam and her spouse together
Guess'd at his coming by the weather.
He came : “ To-night,” says he, “I drudge
To fetch a heriot for a judge,
A gouty nine-i' th' hundred knave;
But, madam, do you want your slave
I need not presently be gone,
Because the doctors have not done.
A rosy vicar and a quack -
Repuls'd me in my last attack:
But all in vain, for mine he is ;
A fig for both the faculties.
The dame produc’d a single hair,
But whence it came I cannot swear;
Yet this I will affirm is true;
It curl’d like any bottle screw.
“ Sir Nic,” quoth she, “you know us all,
We ladies are fantastical :
You see this hair”—“Yes, madam”—“Pray
In presence of my husband stay,
And makes it straight; or else you grant
Our solemn league and covenant
is void in law.”—“ It is, I own it:”
And so he sets to work upon it.
He tries, not dreaming of a cheat,
If wetting would not do the feat:
And 'twas, in truth, a proper notion,
But still it kept th' elastic motion.
Well! more ways may be found than one
To kill a witch that will not drown.
“If I,” quoth he, “conceive its nature,
This hair has flourish’d nigh the water:
'Tis crisp'd with cold, perhaps, and then
The fire will make it straight again.”
In haste he to the fire applies it,
And turns it round and round, and eyes it.
Heigh jingo, worse than 'twas before '
The more it warms, it twirls the more.
He stamp'd his cloven foot, and chafd;
The husband and the lady laugh’d.
Howe'er he fancy'd sure enough
He should not find it hammer-proof.
No Cyclops e'er at work was warmer,
At forging thunder-bolts or armour,
Than Satan was; but all in vain:
Again he beats.--It curls again!
At length he bellow'd in a rage,
* This hair will take me up an age.”
* This take an age!” the husband swore,
“ Z—ds! Betty has five hundred more” ..
* More! take your bond,” quoth Pug; “adieu,
'Tis loss of time to ply for you.”
Born is the Muse to leave her humble cell,
And sing to thee, who know'st to sing so well:
Thee! who to Britain still preserv'st the crown,
And mak’st her rival Athens in renown.
Could Sophocles behold, in mournful state,
The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait;
Or hear thy Isabella's moving moan,
Distress'd and lost for vices not her own;
If envy could permit, he'd sure agree,
To write by nature were to copy thee:
So full, so fair, thy images are shown,
He by thy pencil might improve his own.
There was an age (its memory will last!)
Before Italian airs debauch'd our taste,
In which the sable Muse with hopes and fears
Fili'd every breast, and every eye with tears.
But where's that art which all our passions rais'd,
And mov’d the springs of Nature as it pleas'd :
Our poets only practise on the pit
With florid lines, and trilling turns of wit.
Howe'er 'tis well the present times can boast
The race of Charles's reign not wholly lost.
Thy scenes, immortal in their worth, shall stand
Among the chosen classics of our land.
And whilst our sons are by tradition taught
How Barry spoke what thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish and repeat,
And own thy works inimitably great.
Shakespeare, the genius of our isle, whose mind
(The universal mirror of mankind)
Express'd all images, enrich'd the stage,
But sometimes stoop'd to please a barbarous age :
When his immortal bays began to grow,
Rude was the language, and the humour low :
He, like the god of day, was always bright,
But rolling in its course, his orb of light
Was sully'd, and obscur'd, though soaring high,
With spots contracted from the nether sky.
But whither is th’ adventurous Muse betray'd
Forgive her rashness, venerable shade 1
May Spring with purple flowers perfume thy urns
And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn:
Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be,
If puted to the times, and not to thee.
Some scions shot from this immortal root,
Their tops much lower, and less fair the fruit:
Jonson the tribute of my verse might claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespeare's name.
But, like the radiant Twins that gild the sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear:
The first a fruitful vine, in blooming pride,
Had been by superfluity destroy'd,
But that his friend, judiciously severe,
Prun'd the luxuriant boughs with artful care;
On various sounding harps the Muses play'd,
And sung, and quaff'd their nectar in the shade.
Few moderns in the lists with these may stand,
For in those days were giants in the land:
Suffice it now by lineal right to claim,
And bow with filial awe to Shakespeare's fame;
The second honours are a glorious name.
Achilles dead, they found no equal lord
To wear his armour, and to wield his sword.
An age most odious and accurs'd ensu’d,
Discolour'd with a pious monarch's blood;