DORINDA at her Glaſs.
DORINDA, once the faireſt of the Train,
Toaſt of the Town, and Triumph of the Plain;
Whoſe ſhining Eyes a thouſand Hearts alarm'd,
Whoſe Wit inſpired, and whoſe Follies charm'd:
Who, with Invention, rack'd her careful Breaſt
To find new Graces to inſult the reſt,
Now ſees her Temples take a ſwarthy Hue,
And the dark Veins reſign their beauteous Blue;
[2] While on her Cheeks the fading Roſes die,
And the laſt Sparkles tremble in her Eye.
Bright Sol had drove the ſable Clouds away,
And chear'd the Heavens with a Stream of Day,
The woodland Choir their little Throats prepare,
To chant new Carols to the Morning Air:
In Silence wrap'd, and curtain'd from the Day,
On her ſad Pillow loſt Dorinda lay;
To Mirth a Stranger, and the like to Eaſe,
No Pleaſures charm her, nor no Slumbers pleaſe.
For if to cloſe her weary Lids ſhe tries,
Deteſted Wrinkles ſwim before her Eyes;
At length the Mourner rais'd her aking Head,
And diſcontented left her hated Bed.
But ſighing ſhun'd the Relicks of her Pride,
And left the Toilet for the Chimney Side:
Her careleſs Locks upon her Shoulders lay
Uncurl'd, alas! becauſe they half were Gray;
No magick Baths employ her skilful Hand,
But uſeleſs Phials on her Table ſtand:
[3] She ſlights her Form, no more by Youth inſpir'd,
And loaths that Idol which ſhe once admir'd.
At length all trembling, of herſelf afraid,
To her lov'd Glaſs repair'd the weeping Maid,
And with a Sigh addreſs'd the alter'd Shade.
Say, what art thou, that wear'ſt a gloomy Form,
With low'ring Forehead, like a northern Storm;
Cheeks pale and hollow, as the Face of Woe,
And Lips that with no gay Vermilion glow?
Where is that Form which this falſe Mirror told
Bloom'd like the Morn, and ſhou'd for Ages hold;
But now a Spectre in its room appears,
All ſcar'd with Furrows, and defac'd with Tears;
Say, com'ſt thou from the Regions of Deſpair,
To ſhake my Senſes with a meagre Stare?
Some ſtragg'ling Horror may thy Phantom be,
But ſurely not the mimick Shape of me.
Ah! yes—the Shade its mourning Viſage rears,
Pants when I ſigh, and anſwers to my Tears:
Now who ſhall bow before this wither'd Shrine,
This Mortal Image, that was late Divine?
[4] What Victim now will praiſe theſe faded Eyes,
Once the gay Baſis for a thouſand Lyes?
Deceitful Beauty—falſe as thou art gay,
And is it thus thy Vot'ries find their Pay;
This the Reward of many careful Years,
Of Morning Labours, and of Noon-day Fears,
The Gloves anointed, and the bathing Hour,
And ſoft Coſmetick's more prevailing Pow'r;
Yet to thy Worſhip ſtill the fair Ones run,
And hail thy Temples with the riſing Sun;
Still the brown Damſels to thy Altars pay
Sweet-ſcented Unguents, and the Dews of May;
Sempronia ſmooths her wrinkled Brows with Care,
And Iſabella curls her griſled Hair:
See poor Auguſta of her Glaſs afraid,
Who even trembles at the Name of Maid,
Spreads the fine Mechlin on her ſhaking Head,
While her thin Cheeks diſown the mimick Red.
Soft Silvia, who no Lover's Breaſt alarms,
Yet ſimpers out the Ev'ning of her Charms,
[5] And tho' her Cheek can boaſt no roſy Dye,
Her gay Brocades allure the gazing Eye.
But hear, my Siſters—Hear an ancient Maid,
Too long by Folly, and her Arts betray'd;
From theſe light Trifles turn your partial Eyes,
'Tis ſad Dorinda prays you to be wiſe;
And thou Celinda, thou muſt ſhortly feel
The ſad Effect of Time's revolving Wheel;
Thy Spring is paſt, thy Summer Sun declin'd,
See Autumn next, and Winter ſtalks behind:
But let not Reaſon with thy Beauties fly,
Nor place thy Merit in a brilliant Eye;
'Tis thine to charm us by ſublimer ways,
And make thy Temper, like thy Features, pleaſe:
And thou, Sempronia, trudge to Morning Pray'r,
Nor trim thy Eye-brows with ſo nice a Care;
Dear Nymph believe—'tis true, as you're alive,
Thoſe Temples ſhow the Marks of Fifty-five.
Let Iſabel unload her aking Head
Of twiſted Papers, and of binding Lead;
[6] Let ſage Auguſta now, without a Frown,
Strip thoſe gay Ribbands from her aged Crown;
Change the lac'd Slipper of delicious Hue
For a warm Stocking, and an eaſy Shoe;
Guard her ſwell'd Ancles from Rheumatick Pain,
And from her Cheek expunge the guilty Stain.
Wou'd ſmiling Silvia lay that Hoop aſide,
'Twou'd ſnow her Prudence, not betray her Pride:
She, like the reſt, had once her flagrant Day,
But now ſhe twinkles in a fainter Ray.
Thoſe youthful Airs ſet off their Miſtreſs now,
Juſt as the Patch adorns her Autumn Brow:
In vain her Feet in ſparkling Laces glow,
Since none regard her Forehead, nor her Toe.
Who would not burſt with Laughter, or with Spleen,
At Prudo, once a Beauty, as I ween?
But now her Features wear a dusky Hue,
The little Loves have bid her Eyes adieu:
Yet ſhe purſues the Pleaſures of her Prime,
And vain Deſires, not ſubdu'd by Time;
[7] Thruſts in amongſt the Frolick and the Gay,
But ſhuts her Daughter from the Beams of Day:
The Child, ſhe ſays, is indolent and grave,
And tells the World Ophelia can't behave:
But while Ophelia is forbid the Room,
Her Mother hobbles in a Rigadoon;
Or to the Sound of melting Muſick dies,
And in their Sockets rolls her blinking Eyes;
Or ſtuns the Audience with her hideous Squal,
While Scorn and Satire whiſper through the Hall.
Hear this, ye fair Ones, that ſurvive your Charms,
Nor reach at Folly with your aged Arms;
Thus Pope has ſung, thus let Dorinda ſing;
" Virtue, brave Boys,—'tis Virtue makes a King:"
Why not a Queen? fair Virtue is the ſame
In the rough Hero, and the ſmiling Dame:
Dorinda's Soul her Beauties ſhall purſue,
Tho' late I ſee her, and embrace her too:
Come, ye bleſt Graces, that are ſure to pleaſe,
The Smile of Friendſhip, and the careleſs Eaſe;
[8] The Breaſt of Candour, the relenting Ear,
The Hand of Bounty, and the Heart ſincere:
May theſe the Twilight of my Days attend,
And may that Ev'ning never want a Friend
To ſmooth my Paſſage to the ſilent Gloom,
And give a Tear to grace the mournful Tomb.
COLINETTA.
[26]TWAS when the Fields had ſhed their golden Grain.
And burning Suns had ſear'd the ruſſet Plain;
No more the Roſe nor Hyacinth were ſeen,
Nor yellow Cowſlip on the tufted Green:
But the rude Thiſtle rear'd its hoary Crown,
And the ripe Nettle ſhew'd an irkſom Brown.
In mournful Plight the tarniſh'd Groves appear,
And Nature weeps for the declining Year.
The Sun too quickly reach'd the weſtern Sky,
And riſing Vapours hid his ev'ning Eye:
Autumnal Threads around the Branches flew,
While the dry Stubble drank the falling Dew.
In this ſick Seaſon, at the cloſe of Day,
On Lydia's Lap pale Colinetta lay;
Whoſe ſallow Cheeks had loſt their roſy Dye,
The Sparkles languiſh'd in her cloſing Eye.
[27] Parch'd were thoſe Lips whence Muſick us'd to flow,
Nor more the Flute her weary Fingers know,
Yet thrice to raiſe her feeble Voice ſhe try'd,
Thrice on her Tongue the fainting Numbers dy'd;
At laſt reviv'd, on Lydia's Neck ſhe hung,
And like the Swan expiring thus ſhe ſung.
Farewel, ye Foreſts and delightful Hills,
Ye flow'ry Meadows and ye cryſtal Rills,
Ye friendly Groves to whom we us'd to run,
And beg a Shelter from the burning Sun.
Thoſe blaſted Shades all mournful now I ſee,
Who droop their Heads as tho' they wept for me.
The penſive Linnet has forgot to ſing,
The Lark is ſilent till returning Spring.
The Spring ſhall all thoſe wonted Charms reſtore,
Which Colinetta muſt behold no more.
Farewel, ye Fields; my native Fields, adieu;
Whoſe fertile Lays my early Labours knew;
Where, when an Infant, I was wont to ſtray,
And gather King-cups at the cloſing Day.
[28] How oft has Lydia told a mournful Tale,
By the clear Lake that ſhines in yonder Vale;
When ſhe had done I ſung a chearful Lay,
While the glad Goldfinch liſten'd on the Spray:
Lur'd by my Song each jolly Swain drew near,
And roſy Virgins throng'd around to hear:
Farewel, ye Swains; ye roſy Nymphs, adieu:
Tho' I (unwilling) leave the Streams and you,
Still may ſoft Muſick bleſs your happy Shore,
But, Colinetta, you muſt hear no more.
O Lydia, thou, (if wayward Tongues ſhou'd blame
My Life, and blot a harmleſs Maiden's Name)
Tell them if e'er I found a ſtraggling Ewe,
Although the Owner's Name I hardly knew;
I fed it kindly with my Father's Hay,
And gave it ſhelter at the cloſing Day:
I never ſtole young Pigeons from their Dams,
Nor from their Paſture drove my Neighbours Lambs:
Nor ſet my Dog to hunt their Flocks away,
That mine might graze upon the vacant Lay.
[29] When Phillida by dancing won the Prize,
Or Colin prais'd young Mariana's Eyes:
When Damon wedded Urs'la of the Grange,
My Cheek with Envy ne'er was ſeen to change:
When-e'er I ſaw Aminda croſs the Plain,
Or walk the Foreſt with her darling Swain,
I never whiſper'd to a Stander-by,
But hated Scandal and abhorr'd a Lye.
On Sundays I (as Siſter Sue can tell)
Was always ready for the Sermon-bell:
I honour'd both the Teacher and the Day;
Nor us'd to giggle when he bid me pray:
Then ſure for me there's ſomething good in Store,
When Colinetta ſhall be ſeen no more.
When I am gone, I leave to Siſter Sue
My Gown of Jerſey, and my Aprons blue.
My ſtudded Sheep-hook Phillida may take,
Likewiſe my Hay-fork and my Hazel Rake:
My hoarded Apples and my winter Pears
Be thine, O Lydia, to reward thy Cares.
[30] Theſe Nuts that late were pluck'd from yonder Tree,
And this Straw-basket, I bequeath to thee:
That Basket did theſe dying Fingers weave:
My boxen Flute to Corydon I leave,
So ſhall it charm the liſt'ning Nymphs around,
For none like him can make it ſweetly ſound.
In our Churchyard there grows a ſpreading Yew,
Whoſe dark green Leaves diſtil a baneful Dew:
Be thoſe ſad Branches o'er my Grave reclin'd,
And let theſe Words be graven on the Rind:
" Mark, gentle Reader,—Underneath this Tree,
" There ſleeps a Maid, old Simon's Daughter ſhe;
" Thou too, perhaps, ere many Weeks be o'er,
" Like Colinetta, ſhalt be ſeen no more.
Here ends the Maid—for now the Seal of Death
Clos'd her pale Lips, and ſtop'd her roſy Breath.
Her ſinking Eye-balls took their long Adieu,
And with a Sigh her harmleſs Spirit flew.
The MONTH of AUGUST.
[34]Sylvanus, a Courtier. Phillis, a Country Maid.
SYLVANUS.
HAIL, Phillis, brighter than a Morning Sky,
Joy of my Heart, and Darling of my Eye;
See the kind Year her grateful Tribute yields,
And round-fac'd Plenty triumphs o'er the Fields.
But to yon Gardens let me lead thy Charms,
Where the curl'd Vine extends her willing Arms:
Whoſe purple Cluſters lure the longing Eye,
And the ripe Cherries ſhow their ſcarlet Dye.
PHILLIS.
Not all the Sights your boaſted Gardens yield,
Are half ſo lovely as my Father's Field,
Where large Increaſe has bleſs'd the fruitful Plain,
And we with Joy behold the ſwelling Grain,
Whoſe heavy Ears towards the Earth reclin'd,
Wave, nod, and tremble to the whisking Wind.
SYLVANUS.
[35]But ſee, to emulate thoſe Cheeks of thine,
On yon fair Tree the bluſhing Nect'rins ſhine:
Beneath their Leaves the ruddy Peaches glow,
And the plump Figs compoſe a gallant Show.
With gaudy Plumbs ſee yonder Boughs recline,
And ruddy Pears in you Eſpalier twine.
There humble Dwarfs in pleaſing Order ſtand,
Whoſe golden Product ſeems to court thy Hand.
PHILLIS.
In vain you tempt me while our Orchard bears
Long-keeping Ruſſets, lovely Cath'rine Pears,
Pearmains and Codlings, wheaten Plumbs enough,
And the black Damſons load the bending Bough.
No Pruning-knives our fertile Branches teaze,
While yours muſt grow but as their Maſters pleaſe.
The grateful Trees our Mercy well repay,
And rain us Buſhels at the riſing Day.
SYLVANUS.
Fair are my Gardens, yet you ſlight them all;
Then let us haſte to you majeſtick Hall,
[36] Where the glad Roofs ſhall to thy Voice reſound,
Thy Voice more ſweet than Muſick's melting Sound:
Now Orion's Beam infeſts the ſultry Sky,
And ſcorching Fevers through the Welkin fly;
But Art ſhall teach us to evade his Ray,
And the forc'd Fountains near the Windows play;
There choice Perfumes ſhall give a pleaſing Gale,
And Orange-flow'rs their od'rous Breath exhale,
While on the Walls the well-wrought Paintings glow,
And dazzling Carpets deck the Floors below:
O tell me, Thou whoſe careleſs Beauties charm,
Are theſe not fairer than a Threſher's Barn?
PHILLIS.
Believe me, I can find no Charms at all
In your fine Carpets and your painted Hall.
'Tis true our Parlour has an earthen Floor,
The Sides of Plaſter and of Elm the Door:
Yet the rub'd Cheſt and Table ſweetly ſhines,
And the ſpread Mint along the Window climbs:
An aged Laurel keeps away the Sun,
And two cool Streams acroſs the Garden run.
SYLVANUS.
[37]Can Feaſts or Muſick win my lovely Maid?
In both thoſe Pleaſures be her Taſte obey'd.
The ranſack'd Earth ſhall all its Dainties ſend,
Till with its Load her plenteous Table bend.
Then to the Roofs the ſwelling Notes ſhall riſe,
Pierce the glad Air and gain upon the Skies,
While Eaſe and Rapture ſpreads itſelf around,
And diſtant Hills roll back the charming Sound.
PHILLIS.
Not this will lure me, for I'd have you know
This Night to feaſt with Corydon I go:
To Night his Reapers bring the gather'd Grain,
Home to his Barns, and leave the naked Plain:
Then Beef and Coleworts, Beans and Bacon too,
And the Plumb-pudding of delicious Hue,
Sweet-ſpiced Cake, and Apple-pies good Store,
Deck the brown Board; who can deſire more?
His Flute and Tabor too Amyntor brings,
And while he plays ſoft Amaryllis ſings.
Then ſtrive no more to win a ſimple Maid,
From her lov'd Cottage and her ſilent Shade.
[38] Let Phillis ne'er, ah never let her rove
From her firſt Virtue and her humble Grove.
Go ſeek ſome Nymph that equals your Degree,
And leave Content and Corydon for me.
The Proclamation of APOLLO.
MAY Artemiſia hear my Strain,
I quote the Sages once again:
And ſhou'd you ask the Reaſon why,
" Old Authors fib, and ſo may I."
[42] Proceed we then—Old Authors ſay,
Apollo once made Holiday,
And call'd the Brethren of the Quill,
To feaſt upon his tuneful Hill,
From ev'ry Nook and ev'ry Wind:
They came, for who wou'd ſtay behind?
Great was the Crowd, as may be gueſs'd:
Side grew to Side, and Back to Breaſt,
Till the Imperial Prince of Song,
Who fearing ſomething might be wrong,
Sent forth a Troop with Caps and Spears,
Much like Parnaſſian Granadiers,
With ſurly Eyes and ſour Faces,
To part the Crowd and give 'em Places.
Now I have quite forgot, I fear,
What Names the People gave 'em there
Amongſt the Muſes—But I trow
Men call 'em Criticks here below.
Now when at laſt theſe ſage Reformers,
Had drove the Crew to Heaps and Corners,
They call'd them out by two and three,
And ſet 'em in a due Degree,
[43] That each his proper Place ſhou'd know,
On Laurel Benches all a-row.
Now you may think they all were happy,
As Drunkard o'er his Jug of Nappy,
That ev'ry Brow was ſmooth and clear,
But firſt I beg you'd lend an Ear:
The Queen of Love to grace the Feaſt,
Had ſent a thouſand Pipes at leaſt
Of ſmiling Nectar neat and fine,
To whet the Gueſts before they dine:
But when the Cups had walk'd about,
Some ſurly Bards began to pout,
And wrinkle up their tiny Faces,
And fret and fume about their Places:
Their giddy Brains began to glow,
Each thinking he was plac'd too low:
This vow'd to make all Creatures fear him,
And That cou'd bear no Creature near him.
One ſeem'd to talk with mighty Spirit,
Of baffl'd Worth and ſlighted Merit:
Another was in Paſſion hurl'd,
And curs'd the ſtupid ſenſeleſs World,
[44] Till Choler ſwell'd in ev'ry Vein,
And each no longer cou'd contain,
But fairly went, as I'm a Sinner,
To Loggerheads before their Dinner.
Apollo was offended quite,
And all the Muſes in a Fright:
Then thunder'd out a Proclamation.
" O Ye—And all the rhiming Nation,
" Our King commands you to be ſtill,
" And not diſturb the ſacred Hill.
" If ſome refuſing to be quiet,
" Shall dare to aid this lawleſs Riot:
" The Statutes of Parnaſſian tender
" The Stocks to ev'ry ſuch Offender.
" At this the Riot ſeem'd to ceaſe,
" And with a murmur ſunk in Peace:
" When all was ſilent to a Man,
" Again the Herald thus began.
" Directed by your Prince I bring
" This Meſſage from the laurel'd King,
" Who long has view'd with ſilent Woe
" Your Quarrels in the World below,
[45] " How moral and ſatirick Wits
" And jingling Pedants—Rhiming Cits,
" The gay, the empty, and the full,
" The ſoft, the froward, and the dull,
" Wage endleſs Wars with one another,
" And ev'ry Blockhead hates his Brother.
" But while you take a world of pains
" In pelting at each other's Brains;
" While Envy ſwells the little Mind,
" You ne'er conſider that you find
" (To ſee you in the Tempeſt hurl'd)
" Diverſion for the laughing World;
" And ſo you break all moral Rules
" To grow the Mocking-ſtock of Fools:
" But now Apollo begs you will
" Suſpend your Quarrels, and be ſtill.
" Let Wits ſhake Hands with one another,
" And ev'ry Dunce embrace his Brother,
" From batter'd Bards with ne'er a Shoe
" To thoſe who ſtrut about with two;
" From Poets doom'd to whittle Sticks,
" To Rhimers in a Coach and Six.
[46] " Let none preſume to fret and ſquabble,
" Nor curſe the dirty rhiming Rabble:
" For ſee the Beams of Phoebus ſtrike
" The Meadows, Hills, and Dales alike:
" So ſhines the Muſe on ev'ry Creature,
" Who tags his humble Lines with Metre.
He ſaid—The Children of the Bays
Sent up a Shout of mingled Praiſe,
Devoutly promiſing to pay
Obedience to the Prince of Day;
And now they ſee the Tables ſpread
With Dainties and Parnaſſian Bread,
Whoſe tiny Loaves were nicely white,
And no French Rolls were half ſo light:
The firſt bold Courſe was brought along
In Diſhes made of Homer's Song.
Next Virgil on the Table ſhines,
And then ſmooth Ovid's tender Lines.
The gay Deſert expos'd to view,
Of modern Authors not a few,
Heroicks in the midſt preſide,
With Elegy on either Side:
[47] Here through tranſparent Sonnets gleam
Whip-Syllabubs and ſpiced Cream:
There loaded Epigrams appear,
And little Mottos cloſe the Rear.
Now Dinner paſt their jolly Souls,
Cut Capers to the Nectar Bowls,
Till ev'ry Bard had drank his fill,
And then they left the tuneful Hill.
But ere they part, the laurel'd King,
Extracted from a wond'rous Spring
A magick Bath of mighty Pow'r,
Whoſe Virtues could in half an Hour
Make Proof againſt ſharp Satyr's Pain,
The Fibres of a Dunce's Brain;
And give him Confidence to puſh
Through the broad World without a Bluſh.
Apollo next upon the Crew,
Beſtow'd a Grey-gooſe Quill or two,
With Ink that into Metre runs,
And charms againſt the Fear of Duns.
This done diſmiſs'd 'em, as before,
With Sirs, your Servant, and no more.
The FALL of LUCIA.
[48]LUCIA was fair and bright as riſing Day,
Sweet as Arabia, or the Buds of May;
Freſh as the Winds that ſweep the dewy Hills,
Or Beds of Roſes waſh'd by healthy Rills:
Whoſe Soul was ſofter than a trembling Dove,
Nor knew a Failing till ſhe learn'd to love.
Nor Fraud nor Scandal to her Lips were known,
And thought each Boſom guiltleſs as her own.
Thus only arm'd with Innocence and Smiles,
She fell the Victim of a Tyrant's Wiles.
So loſt from Shepherd and its mourning Dam,
Through ſome lone Deſart roves a ſtragg'ling Lamb;
No Danger fears, but as he idly ſtrays
Round ev'ry Buſh the heedleſs Wanton plays;
Till raging Wolves the beauteous Toy ſurround,
Or foaming Tigers rend the moſſy Ground:
Then from his Heart the guiltleſs Purple flows,
A grateful Morſel to his hungry Foes:
[49] Thus wrap'd in Sorrows wretched Lucia lies,
Whoſe Sighs ſtill anſwer to her ſtreaming Eyes.
And Damon ſtill—Ah! faithleſs Damon cries,
No more thoſe Lips like dewy Roſes glow;
Her weary Lids no peaceful Slumbers know:
But left to ſtrike her penſive Breaſt in vain,
And curſe the Author of her laſting Pain.
Her Soul of Eaſe has took its long Adieu:
Hear this, ye Nymphs; but hear and tremble too,
Ye Fair that lanch in Pleaſure's tempting Sea,
Though Fortune crowns you with a calmer Day,
And Joy's ſoft Gale ſalutes your nimble Oar:
Where Lucia's Fame was ſhipwreck'd on the Shore,
Yet let Reflexion mark your gliding Days,
Nor drink too deeply in the Draught of Praiſe:
For Flatt'ry is—"So ſay the learned Schools,
" The Bane of Virgins and the Bait of Fools."
How happy ſhe whoſe purer Spirit knows,
No Thought leſs harmleſs than a Saint's Repoſe,
Whoſe guiltleſs Charms purſue no greater End,
But to rejoice a Parent or a Friend:
[50] Whoſe Care it is her Paſſions to control,
And keep the Steerage of a quiet Soul:
Then this ſhall grace her monumental Page,
" In Youth admir'd, and belov'd in Age."
ESSAY on HAPPINESS.
NOTHING, dear Madam, nothing is more true,
Than a ſhort Maxim much approv'd by you;
The Lines are theſe: "We by Experience know
" Within ourſelves exiſts our Bliſs or Woe."
Tho' round our Heads the Goods of Fortune roll,
Dazzle they may, but cannot chear the Soul.
Content, the Fountain of eternal Joy,
Can Riches purchaſe, or can Want deſtroy?
No. Born of Heav'n, its Birth it will maintain,
No Slave to Power nor the Prize of Gain:
Say, who can buy what never yet was ſold?
No Wealth can bribe her, nor no Bonds can hold:
[55] Sometimes ſhe deigns to ſhine in lofty Halls,
But found more frequent in a Cottage Walls;
Her Flight from thence too often is decreed,
Then Poverty is doubly curs'd indeed.
Content and Bliſs, which differ but in Name,
Alike their Natures and their End the ſame,
Faſt bound together in eternal Chains.
This as the End—The other, as the Means,
Will ne'er divide. But who enjoys the one,
Muſt find the other ere the ſetting Sun.
Then where? Ah where do theſe fair Siſters fly?
Beneath the northern or the ſouthern Sky.
Courts do they love? The Senate or the Town,
Or the ſtill Village and the healthful Down.
Say, do they like Humilo's humble Veſt,
Or the gay Diamonds on Belinda's Breaſt.
To none of theſe, alas, are they confin'd,
But the ſtill Boſom and the virtuous Mind.
[56]See Glaro feated on his gilded Car,
Whoſe ſtubborn Paſſions wage continual War.
Who cannot call that ravag'd Heart his own,
Where Vice and Virtue ſtruggle for the Throne.
See Rage appearing in that hoſtile Frown:
Now Fears diſtract him and now Pleaſures drown,
Now turns to Heav'n with repentant Tears:
But the next Hour at his Chaplain ſneers:
This day a Beaſt, the next a reas'ning Man:
Behold him right, then envy, if you can,
Pale Livia too—Who pants beneath the weight
Of irkſom Jewels and afflicting State;
Whoſe Glaſs and Pillow do her Time divide,
At once oppreſs'd with Sickneſs and with Pride.
The ſhapely Stays her aking Ribs confine,
And in her Ears the ſparkling Pendents ſhine.
Yet not a Joy the tortur'd Wretch can feel,
Beyond Ixion on his rolling Wheel.
See reſtleſs Cloe, fond to be admir'd,
Of Joy impatient and as quickly tir'd,
[57] When firſt her Eye-lids open on the Day,
With eager haſte ſhe gobbles down her Tea,
And to the Park commands her rolling Wheels,
Yet ſighs and wiſhes for the rural Fields:
Then back to Cards and Company ſhe flies,
Then for the Charms of melting Muſick dies.
At Eve the Play, Aſſembly, or the Ball:
She hates them ſingly, yet wou'd graſp 'em all:
With languid Spirits and appal'd Deſires,
She to her Cloſet and her Book retires.
But Solitude offends the ſprightly Fair;
Reading ſhe loaths, and Thought ſhe cannot bear.
Then to her Chamber and her Couch ſhe flies,
Where gilded Chariots ſwim before her Eyes.
In vain for Sleep ſhe folds her weary Arms,
Who wou'd be Cloe to enjoy her Charms?
In yonder Path Sir Thrifty we behold,
With Beaver drooping and with Garments old;
Whoſe dirty Linen ſhews no Mark of Pride,
Nor ſparkling Laces deck his ſlender Side;
[58] Whoſe heavy Soul a ſaucy Wit wou'd ſwear,
Was made exactly to his eaſy Chair.
Whoſe taſteleſs Senſes ask for nothing new,
Whoſe Meals are temp'rate and whoſe pleaſures few:
" Is this Man bleſt?—He may be ſo.—But when?
" Why, when his Thouſands riſe to number ten,
" From ten to twenty, and from twenty—Hold,
" To one round Million of bright Sterling Gold;"
Not there we ſtop, for Avarice will crave
Till it ſhall meet with its grand Cure, the Grave.
Lavinia's bleſt with all that Man deſires,
With Eyes that charm and Reaſon that inſpires;
Youth, Wealth, and Friends, to gild her ſhining Days,
The poor Man's Bleſſing and the rich Man's Praiſe.
With Judgment ſound and touch'd by no extreme,
Speech gently flowing and a Soul ſerene,
For ever pleaſing and for ever true,
By all admir'd, envy'd by a few:
Then ſhe is happy, tho' beneath the Sky,
Hold, not ſo haſty:—Let her Husband die.
[59]Then who are happy, 'twill be hard to ſay,
Since undiſturb'd it ſeldom laſts a Day:
For who in Smiles beholds the Morning Sun,
May weed before his ſhort-liv'd Journey's done.
All Pleaſures ſatiate and all Objects cloy;
We crave, we graſp, but loath the taſted Joy:
Nor Wealth nor Beauty, Friend's nor Fortune's Smile,
Can bleſs our Moments, tho' they may beguile:
Nor Wit with Happineſs can often grow,
A helpleſs Friend, if not an arrant Foe.
Where then? O where ſhall Happineſs be found?
Say, ſhall we ſearch the rolling World around,
On borrow'd Pinions travel through the Sky,
Or to the Centre drive our piercing Eye?
Ceaſe, buſy Fool: Is Happineſs thy Care?
Pierce thy own Breaſt, and thou wilt find it there:
Drive thence the Paſſions, and the Guilt expel,
And call fair Virtue to the poliſh'd Cell.
Call ſoft Content with all her ſmiling Train;
Peace for thy Health, and Patience for thy Pain:
[60] Then not till then, O Man, thy Heart ſhall know
Bliſs ſo ador'd, but ſeldom found below.
An ESSAY on HOPE.
TO you who ne'er the willing Verſe refuſe,
Thus ſings an humble but a grateful Muſe:
Our Theme is Hope—but of a diff'rent kind,
The Bane or Bleſſing of the ſubject Mind;
This dawning Joy that to the Soul was given,
As a ſhort Earneſt of its future Heav'n:
To blame is not the Purpoſe of my Song,
But warn our Siſters not to place it wrong.
Shun trifling Hope, that bids your Fancy roll,
The conſtant Torment of a reſtleſs Soul:
For two pale Handmaids are for ever near,
Sick Diſappointment and the ſecret Tear:
'Tis this that makes the reſtleſs Heart repine,
Beneath the Treaſures of an Indian Mine
Much Fortune gives—Yet, Give us more, they cry,
And ſome new Proſpect lures the dazzl'd Eye:
[61] Like wanton Babes they reach at ſomething more,
And drop the Gewgaws which they held before.
See the puff'd Tradeſman ſtrut before his Door,
Whoſe Birth was humble and whoſe Fortune poor;
Yet you may ſee his roving Thoughts depend
On ſome bold Venture or ſome wealthy Friend,
Till the loſt Bankrupt drops into the Jaw
Of pale Diſcredit and voracious Law.
The grave-fac'd Student better learn'd than fed
With Store of Logick in his aking Head,
Sees pleaſing Pictures in his Boſom drawn,
The Dean's ſoft Cuſhion and the Biſhop's Lawn:
He dines with Lords and takes the higheſt Place,
And weds a Counteſs, Couſin to his Grace.
But ſoon his Heart the loſt Deluſion mourns:
And the proud Prelate to a Curate turns
On ſome dark Dome with thirty Pounds per-ann,
He ſips his Liquors in a pewter Cann.
[62]Young Seizum, fated to diſtract the Law,
Who talks of Men and Books he never ſaw,
Now ſtruts a Counſellor, a Serjeant now,
While the quick Turns elate his ſcornful Brow.
Behold the Judge in that commanding Frown:
See then: juſt then he ſtrok'd his Ermin'd Gown.
Cecilia ſoft, whoſe pleaſing Features ſhine
Bright in their Wane, and beauteous in Decline,
Still to her eyes recalls the ſcatter'd Darts,
Still hopes the Conqueſt of a thouſand Hearts.
Care ſtalks around: Vexation hovers nigh;
Her Friends bewail her, and her Children cry:
Her wounded Ears their hateful Whinings tire,
Whoſe Fancy dwells upon a wealthy 'Squire:
Wrap'd in ſoft Viſions on her Couch ſhe lies;
Knights, Peers, and Garters ſwim before her Eyes.
She rides in triumph through her Husband's Fields,
And hears the rattling of her Chariot Wheels,
Till her charm'd Senſes will contain no more;
Then flies the Viſion through its Iv'ry Door,
[63]See Acamas with Time's ſad Burden bow,
Guilt in his Breaſt and Wrinkles on his Brow;
Yet points out Cloe for his charming Bride,
And fain would tempt her to his frozen Side:
At Chapel where ſoft Grace and Virtue calls,
And pale Vice trembles at the ſacred Walls;
Where Conſcience warns the guilty Wretch to pray,
And beg a Bleſſing on his cloſing Day.
The Preacher reads: But Acamas the while
Grins at his Cloe with a ghaſtly Smile.
In their red Orbs his waiting Eye-balls roll,
And Charming Cloe ruſhes on his Soul:
But Death will teach the ſilver-bearded Fool
Some other Leſſon in his gloomy School.
Blank Diſappointment with its Train attends
In Delia's Heart, if Delia's Heart depends
On Silia's Tongue ſo aptly hung with Guile,
On Cynthio's Friendſhip or on Clara's Smile:
Such courtly Friends are like the ſhow'ry Bow,
Ting'd with falſe Luſtre by Reflexion glow:
[64] Like its faint Rays they hardly laſt an Hour,
Loſt in a Cloud or melted in a Show'r.
If trifling Hope has any room to plead,
'Tis that where Nature's ſimple Dictates lead:
So the wet Hind, who travels o'er the Plain
Through the cold Mire and afflicting Rain;
Tho' his low Roofs with trickling Show'rs run,
May hope next Morn to ſee the chearful Sun:
Or when keen Hunger at the ev'ning Tide
Drives home the Shepherd to his ruſtick Bride,
His honeſt Reaſon haply might not ſtray,
Tho' he ſhould dream of Dumpling all the way.
See ſad Aemilia doom'd by fatal Vows
To the harſh Uſage of a Tyrant Spouſe,
To ſee his Miſtreſs in her Woes rejoice,
Her Fortune waſted on his guilty Choice,
To bear Reproaches doubled on her Ear,
Yet only anſwer with a ſilent Tear.
Tho' patient Wives muſt wait the Fate's good time;
Yet ſhe, I think, may hope without a Crime.
[65]But the grand Hope that yields perpetual Joy,
No trifles gave, no trifles can deſtroy;
With Mercy from the bleſt Abode it came,
Its Birth Celeſtial and its End the ſame;
That bids our Days in one ſmooth Tenor roll,
Its task to chear and harmonize the Soul.
On ſmarting Want it pours a healing Balm,
Makes Toil ſeem pleaſant and Affliction calm.
ESSAY on FRIENDSHIP.
TO Artemiſia.—'Tis to her we ſing,
For her once more we touch the ſounding String,
'Tis not to Cythera's Reign nor Cupid's Fires,
But ſacred Friendſhip that our Muſe inſpires.
A Theme that ſuits Aemilia's pleaſing Tongue:
So to the Fair Ones I devote my Song.
The Wiſe will ſeldom credit all they hear,
Tho' ſaucy Wits ſhou'd tell them with a Sneer,
That Womens Friendſhips, like a certain Fly,
Are hatch'd i'th Morning and at Ev'ning die.
'Tis true, our Sex has been from early Time
A conſtant Topick for Satirick Rhyme:
[75] Nor without Reaſon—ſince we're often found,
Or loſt in Paſſion, or in Pleaſures drown'd:
And the fierce Winds that bid the Ocean roll,
Are leſs inconſtant than a Woman's Soul:
Yet ſome there are who keep the mod'rate Way,
Can think an Hour, and be calm a Day:
Who ne'er were known to ſtart into a Flame,
Turn Pale or tremble at a loſing Game.
Run Chloe's Shape or Delia's Features down,
Or change Complexion at Celinda's Gown:
But ſtill ſerene, compaſſionate and kind,
Walk through Life's Circuit with an equal Mind.
Of all Companions I would chooſe to ſhun
Such, whoſe blunt Truths are like a burſting Gun,
Who in a Breath count all your Follies o'er,
And cloſe their Lectures with a mirthful Roar:
But Reaſon here will prove the ſafeſt Guide,
Extremes are dang'rous plac'd on either Side.
A Friend too ſoft will hardly prove ſincere;
The Wit's inconſtant, and the Learn'd ſevere.
[76]Good-Breeding, Wit, and Learning, all conſpire
To charm Mankind and make the World admire:
Yet in a Friend but ſerve an under Part,
The main Ingredient is an honeſt Heart:
By this can Urs'la all our Souls ſubdue
Which wanting, this, not Sylvia's Charms, can do.
Now let the Muſe (who takes no Courtier's Fee)
Point to her Friend—and future Ages ſee
(If this ſhall live 'till future Ages be)
One Line devoted to Fidelia's Praiſe,
The lov'd Companion of my early Days:
Whouſe harmleſs Thoughts are ſprightly as her Eyes,
By Nature chearful, and by Nature wiſe.
To have them laſt, the ſocial Laws decree;
We chooſe our Friendſhips in the ſame degree:
What mighty Pleaſure, if we might preſume,
To ſtrut with Freedom in Arvida's Room,
Or ſhare the Table what ſupreme Delight?
With ſome proud Dutcheſs or a ſcornful Knight,
[77] To ſit with formal and aſſenting Face?
For who ſhall dare to contradict her Grace?
Our free-born Nature hates to be confin'd,
Where State and Power check the ſpeaking Mind;
Where heavy Pomp and ſullen Form withholds
That chearful Eaſe and Sympathy of Souls.
But yet the Soul whate'er its Partner do,
Muſt lift its Head above the baſer Crew.
Celeſtial Friendſhip with its nicer Rules,
Frequents not Dunghills nor the Clubs of Fools.
It asks, to make this Union ſoft and long,
A Mind ſuſceptible, and Judgment ſtrong;
And then a Taſte: But let that Taſte be giv'n
By mighty Nature and the Stamp of Heav'n:
Poſſeſt of theſe, the juſtly temper'd Flame
Will glow inceſſant, and be ſtill the ſame:
Not mov'd by Sorrow, Sickneſs, or by Age
To ſullen Coldneſs or diſtemper'd Rage.
The Soul unſtain'd with Envy or with Pride,
Pleas'd with itſelf and all the World beſide,
[78] Unmov'd can ſee gilt Chariots whirling by,
Or view the wretched with a melting Eye,
Diſcern a Failing and forgive it too:
Such, Artemiſia, we may find in you.
Be ſeldom ſour, or your Friends will fly
From the hung Forehead and the ſcornful Eye:
Nor, like Aurelia, in the Morning kind,
And ſoft as Summer or the weſtern Wind:
But round ere night her giddy Paſſions wheel,
She'll clap the Door againſt your parting Heel.
An even Temper will be ſure to pleaſe,
With cool Reflexion and a chearful Eaſe.
But ſee Armida's unfrequented Rooms,
How vainly ſpread with Carpets and Perfumes:
All ſhun her like the Cocatrice's Beams,
And for no other Reaſon but her loath'd Extremes.
To-day more holy than a cloiſter'd Nun,
Almoſt an Atheiſt by to-morrow's Sun:
Now ſpeaks to Heaven with a lifted Eye:
Now to her Footman, You're a Rogue, and lye.
[79] O ſay, from what ſtrange Principles begin
Theſe odd Compounds of Piety and Sin?
A ſickly Fair may ſome Excuſes find,
(What grieves the Body will affect the Mind)
But not the Creatures who have learn'd to ſcreen
Their own Ill-nature in the name of Spleen.
What the black Miſts afflict the aking Skull,
The Spirits tremble and the Heart be dull:
Have you from thence a Licence to offend,
Affront a Patron or abuſe a Friend?
And ape the Manners of a ſurly Beaſt,
Becauſe 'tis cloudy and the Wind's i'th' Eaſt?
But all have Failings, not the beſt are free,
Or in a greater or a leſs Degree.
What follows then?—Forgive, or unforgiven
Expect no Paſſage at the Gate of Heav'n.
Kind Nature gave, in Pity to Mankind,
This ſocial Virtue to the human Mind:
This gives our Pleaſures a more eaſy Flow,
And helps to blunt the Edge of ſmarting Woe:
[80] The Soul's Relief, with Grief or Cares oppreſt,
Is to diſcloſe them to a faithful Breaſt;
And then how lovely in a Friend appear,
The mournful Sigh and ſympathizing Tear.
When changing Fortune with propitious Ray,
Gilds the brown Ev'ning or the ſmiling Day;
The pleas'd Companion ſhares the welcome Tide,
And wrap'd in Joy the happy Minutes glide.
Grave Authors differ—Men of Senſe incline
This Way or that—Opinions rarely join:
Their Thoughts will vary. Why? Becauſe they're free,
But moſt in this and only this agree;
That our chief Task is ſeldom to offend,
And Life's great Bleſſing a well-choſen Friend.
The MISTAKEN LOVER.
[81]STREPHON the ſprightly and the gay,
Lov'd Celia freſh and fair as May:
None ſhone ſo brilliant in the Mall,
The Court, th' Aſſembly and the Ball;
None bare at Will's the laurel'd Prize,
But Celia with the killing Eyes.
'Twas at the Drawing Room or Play,
(But which our Author cannot ſay)
As Celia roll'd her Eyes around,
This Youth receiv'd a mortal Wound.
What ſhou'd he do?—"Commence the Beau,
" For Women oft are caught by Show."
The wounded Strephon now behold,
Array'd in Coat of Green and Gold,
(Of which we ſomething might advance)
The Sleeve was a-la-mode de France.
[82] We leave it here—and haſte to tell,
How ſmartly round his Temples fell
The modiſh Wig.—Yet we preſume,
More graceful was the ſcarlet Plume:
Tho' ſome rude Soldier (doom'd to bear
The Southern and the Northern Air,
And walk through ev'ry kind of Weather)
Might jeer at Strephon's ſcarlet Feather;
And tell us ſuch ſhou'd ne'er be wore,
Unleſs you fought at Marſton-moor.
His Perſon finiſh'd, now the Care
Is to addreſs and gain the Fair:
He purchas'd all the Songs of Note,
And got the Lover's Cant by rote:
He brib'd her Footmen and her Maids,
And with his nightly Serenades
Her vaulted Roofs and Gardens rung:
For her he ogled, danc'd and ſung;
Was often at her Toilet ſeen,
With Sonnets to the Paphian Queen:
[83] Then at her Feet dejected lying,
Praying, weeping, ſighing, dying.
" Was Celia kind?" It ſhall be known:
D'ye think our Hearts are made of Stone?
Yes, ſhe was kind, and to proceed,
The Writings drawn and Friends agreed:
Grave Hymen's ſacred Knot was ty'd,
And Celia Fair commenc'd a Bride.
But I ſhall paſs the Wedding-day,
Nor ſtay to paint the Ladies gay,
Nor Splendor of the lighted Hall,
The Feaſt, the Fiddles, nor the Ball.
A lovely Theme!—'Tis true, but then
We'll leave it to a ſofter Pen:
Thoſe tranſient Joys will fade too ſoon,
We'll therefore skip the Hony-Moon.
'Twas half a Year—It might be more,
Since Celia brought her ſhining Store,
[84] Five thouſand Pounds of Sterling clear,
To bleſs the Manſion of her Dear.
Some tell us Wives their Beauties loſe,
When they have ſpoil'd their bridal Shoes:
Some learned Caſuiſts make it clear,
A Wife might pleaſe for half a Year:
And others ſay, her Charms will hold
As long as the ſuſpended Gold;
But that her Bloom is ſoon decay'd,
And wither'd when her Fortune's paid.
Now which of theſe was Celia's Caſe,
(Tho' all are common to her Race)
I ſhall not rack my Brains about,
But leave the Learn'd to pick it out.
This Husband, whimſical and gay,
Lov'd Muſick, Maſquerades, and Play,
Was one of thoſe moſt happy Elves,
That dote upon their charming Selves:
[85] Who hating dull domeſtick Walls,
Fly here and there as Fancy calls;
Still in purſuit of ſomething new,
Nor even to their Vices true.
Miſtaken Strephon finds no more
His Celia charming as before:
Her Eyes!—Why, they have loſt their Fire:
The Roſes on her Cheek expire.
Her Shape—'Tis alter'd ſtrangely, ſure;
Her Voice no Mortal can endure.
Then to the Park where Claudia rolls
Her Eyes to fiſh for ſhallow Souls:
Or at the Play he muſt appear,
For lovely Lindamine is there:
No mortal Bell ſo fair as ſhe,
If wretched Strephon was but free.
I'th' Country he deludes the Morn
With Ringwood and the hunting Horn:
[86] Perhaps may with his Deareſt dine,
Then hey for Company and Wine;
Wine that wou'd make an Hermit gay,
With Muſick intermix'd and Play.
For Tables and for Cards they call:
The Dice-box rattles in the Hall.
Now all are happy nor give o'er,
Till Watches point to Number Four:
Then ſee the Face of dawning Day:
Here Lucy. "Where's your Lady, pray?
" She's gone to reſt.—There let her be,
" Go make the crimſon Bed for me."
All this a while in Silence paſs'd,
The Lady's Patience fail'd at laſt.
One Morning (ſo the Fates decree)
Alone was ſitting he and ſhe:
Not yet arriv'd the roaring Band,
Nor Rake nor Coxcomb was at hand.
This bleſt Occaſion pleas'd the Fair,
And with a mild and chearful Air,
[87] She thus began: "My Strephon ſay,
" Why this dejected Face to day?
" Why art thou always croſs and dull,
" Unleſs the noiſy Rooms are full?
" Black Diſcontent and Anger lies
" Cloſe lurking in thy ſullen Eyes;
" Thoſe Eyes that I with Sorrow ſee
" Diſguſted when they roll on me.
Here ceas'd the greatly injur'd Bride,
And Strephon with a Bluſh reply'd:
" Why, Madam, I muſt own that you,
" Have Merit, (give the De'l his due)
" And was the Pleaſure of my Life,
" Before you wore the Name of Wife:
" But Ma'm, the Reaſon was, I find,
" That while a Lover I was blind:
" And now the Fault is not in me,
" 'Tis only this—that I can ſee.
I thought you once a Goddeſs trim,
" The Graces dwelt on ev'ry Limb:
[88] " But, Madam, if you e'er was ſuch,
" Methinks you're alter'd very much:
" As firſt (I beg your Pardon tho')
" You hold your Head extremely low:
" And tho' your Shape is not awry,
" Your Shoulders ſtand prodigious high:
" Your curling Hair I durſt have ſwore,
" Was blacker than the ſable Moor:
" But now I find 'tis only brown,
" A Colour common through the Town:
" 'Tis true you're mighty fair—But now
" I ſpy a Freckle on your Brow;
" Your Lips I own are red and thin,
" But there's a Pimple on your Chin:
" Beſides your Eyes are gray.—Alack!
" 'Till now I always thought 'em black.
" Thus, Madam, I the Truth have told;
" 'Tis true, I thank you for your Gold;
" But find in ſearching of my Breaſt,
" That I cou'd part with all the reſt.
[89] He ceas'd—And both were mute a while,
'Till Celia anſwer'd with a Smile:
" Who would have thought, my Dear, ſays ſhe,
" That Love was blind to this degree;
" But in my Turn I'll own it too,
" That I'm as much deceiv'd as you:
" From hence let our Example ſhow
" The gay Coquette and ſprightly Beau;
" That Love like theirs will never hold,
" Not tho' 'tis cemented with Gold:
" Let all the Youths to you repair,
" For Counſel—and to me the Fair.
" 'Twill help to make our Strephons wiſe,
" And ſtop the Growth of tender Lies:
" And more than Plato's moral Page
" Inſtruct the Celia's of the Age.
" But now, my Deareſt, as you ſee
" In mutual Hatred we agree,
" Methinks 'tis better we retreat,
" Each Party to a diſtant Seat;
[90] " And tho' we value each the other,
" Juſt as one Ruſh regards another:
" Yet let us often ſend to hear,
" If Health attend the abſent Dear:
" And tho' each other we would ſhun,
" As Debtors do a hateful Dun:
" (Nor mind the croſſing of a Street)
" Yet let's be civil when we meet,
" And live in ſhort like courtly Friends:
" They part—and thus the Story ends.
The WAY of the WORLD.
SOME Herbs there are, whoſe deadly Juices fill
The Heart with Venom, and directly kill:
Some operate more ſlowly, but as ſure;
The Dart leſs ſudden, but admits no Cure.
Yet there's a Drug, nor Plain nor Mountain yields,
Not Libya's Deſarts nor Britannia's Fields,
Deſtructive more than all the baneful kind;
'Tis Flatt'ry call'd—the Poiſon of the Mind.
[91] This, ſoft Sir Wealthy feeds on all the Day:
This, Delia ſwallows with her ſoft Bohea,
To this we owe Sublimo's ſcornful Eye,
And Thalia's Cheeks that bluſh with borrow'd Dye.
Sublimo once cou'd like his Neighbours walk,
Bow to his Friends, or with his Tenants talk;
Nor had been ſeiz'd with this majeſtick Fit,
If ſubtle Florio had not prais'd his Wit.
Gray Thalia too wou'd now her Arts give o'er,
And reſt thoſe Eye-balls that muſt ſlay no more;
Nor would that Face engroſs her Morning's Care,
Did not Philander tell her ſhe is fair.
Alcidas tells you with an artful Smile,
That Womens Eyes were giv'n them to beguile:
His Way is cunning and miſchievous too,
He'll praiſe in others what he finds in you.
You hear delighted, nor perceive the Foe;
But drink in Flatt'ry ere you think 'tis ſo.
And when he's run the gay Deſcription through,
The ſmart Concluſion is apply'd to you:
[92] But turn your Back—Alcidas with a Grin
Will vow you're ugly as a Sooterkin.
How oft you hear from a deſigning Knave,
Sir, I'm your Servant, Madam, I'm your Slave;
Yet if you're bleſt with penetrating Eyes,
You'll in his Features read the Villain lies.
See ſoft Courtine, whoſe Hat with Silver bound,
Is ſo obſequious that 'twill kiſs the Ground:
Whoſe Actions point to ſome unworthy End,
And ne'er was Patron, Counſellor, or Friend:
Whoſe narrow Views are to himſelf confin'd,
Yet he's the humble Slave of all Mankind.
Theſe fawning Rogues are irkſom Creatures—True,
But then a Clown is full as odious too:
The Face unpractis'd in the Arts of Guile,
Need not be ſtretech'd with an eternal Smile:
Nor yet affect the Cynick's awful Scowl,
Screw'd like the Viſage of Minerva's Owl;
[93] For ſome reject (and hold it as a Rule,)
The Crab-faced Student for the tender Fool.
The Phraſe unſtudied flows with graceful Eaſe,
And careleſs Geſture never fails to pleaſe:
The Heart inſtructs the Features and the Tongue;
Let that be right, and theſe will ne'er be wrong.
Ask Cynthio's Judgment in ſome nice Affair,
He'll praiſe your Conduct with a charming Air,
Extol your Senſe and Prudence to the Skies:
" And ſure ſuch Merits were deſign'd to riſe."
His candid Eyes can hidden Beauties ſee,
Ev'n Faults are uſeful, or they ceaſe to be:
And each no-meaning Cynthio can explore;
But asks his Friendſhip, and he ſpeaks no more.
But the worſt Flatterer that wears a Tongue,
Is him whoſe Power aggravates the Wrong:
To whoſe grand Levee Crowds of Suppliants run,
And bow like Perſians to the riſing Sun:
[94] Where ſtarv'd Dependents linger out their Days,
Yet proud to ſhare his Snuff-box and his Praiſe,
Grow ſtiff with Standing and with Staring thin,
To watch the Dimple on their Patron's Chin:
Who with a Nod can make the Wretch believe,
And ſmiles on Hunger which he'll ne'er relieve.
Surrounded thick with Bus'neſs and with Gold,
Yet dreſs'd in Smiles Virginius you behold:
The expecting Crowd around his Table ſtand,
You ask a Favour and he graſps your Hand:
Another comes with an obſequious Air,
He winks and whiſpers.—"Leave it to my Care."
Then to the next—"Oh I'll remember you;
" Sir, truſt my Honour, you ſhall find me true:"
Then bows a third.—"Good Sir, your Pardon."—Why?
" I ſaw you not.—Forgive my careleſs Eye.
" Next Tueſday ſe'en-night, let me ſee you pray,
" Perhaps you'll find it Hundreds in your way."
[95]The meagre Wight departs with happier Soul,
Romantick Viſions in his Boſom roll:
He faſts in Rapture, as of late in Sorrow;
For who can eat, that's to be rich to-morrow?
But Tueſday ſee, the joyful Day is come;
Now to his Patron.—"But he's not at home.
" Alas! But then to-morrow Morn will do,
" And I'll be early.—Gentlemen, adieu.
Next Day at Six before the Gate appears,
The Wretch divided by his Hopes and Fears.
The haughty Servants meet him with a Frown.
I'd ſee his Honour.—"But he's not come down;
" Your Servant, Sir—I'll ſtay then in the Hall:
" But he is ſick and can't be ſpoke withal.
" I'll wait with Patience till another Day,
" And for his Honour and his Health ſhall pray.
At laſt the Knight (his Fate had order'd ſo)
Was ſeiz'd and boarded by the lurking Foe;
And wiſely thinking 'twas in vain to fly,
Smooth'd up his Face and with a leering Eye
Began. "Oh Mr. What-d'ye-call, Is't you?
" I'm glad to ſee you: Yet I'm ſorry too,
[96] " Sure ſome ill Stars preſided o'er your Fate,
" I cou'd have ſerv'd you, but you're come too late.
Yet ſure, there is whoſe honeſt Soul was made
Too grand a Being for the ſoothing Trade;
Whoſe Wit can neither flatter nor offend,
A gay Companion, yet a conſtant Friend;
Willing to pleaſe where Honeſty may win,
Averſe to Slander, tho' it was no Sin.
With native Manners as with Senſe endu'd;
Not ſoft as Cynthio, nor as Damon rude;
Not baſely humble, yet a Foe to Pride:
Whoſe Tongue ne'er promis'd what his Heart deny'd.
Whoſe Satire charms, nor Mirth offends the Ear;
Tho' wife not froward, juſt but not ſevere;
Not ſway'd by Int'reſt, nor in Paſſion hurl'd:
But walks a calm Spectator through the World,
Whoſe Breaſt (where no unmanly Vapours grow)
Can feel Compaſſion for another's Woe;
Where Courage, Mercy, Juſtice, Candour lie,
That ſhine celeſtial in the ſpeaking Eye.
[97] This Man is great, whate'er be his Degree;
O bleſs him, Heav'n, if ſuch a one there be:
May Life's beſt Comforts on his Days attend,
Bleſt in himſelf, and happy in his Friend:
Far from his Gate fly Poverty and Woe;
Let not a Sigh his quiet Manſion know:
But the fair Dome each roving Eye allure,
With Peace and Plenty ſmiling at the Door:
Let him ſoft Days and happy Ev'nings find,
And live ſtill bleſt, and bleſſing all Mankind.
The INSPIR'D QUILL.
Occaſion'd by a Preſent of CROW-PENS.
TO you, Dear Madam, I complain,
Where Wretches never ſigh in vain;
But always find, if not Relief,
At leaſt Compaſſion for their Grief.
But I ſhou'd make my Woes appear,
Before I claim a gentle Tear;
My Tale is ſomething odd, 'tis true;
Yet ſure 'twill Credit find with you.
[112]The ſage Pythagoras, you know,
Aſſerted many Years ago,
That when or Man or Woman dies,
The Soul to ſome new Manſion flies?
If ſo, Belinda, now ſo fair
May range the Woods a ſullen Bear:
Likewiſe the courtly Bellamour,
The Lady's Darling to be ſure:
Tho' he in ſparkling Laces glow,
The Pattern of a perfect Beau;
When he puts off the human Shape,
May ſtrut a Monkey or an Ape.
For me who now to you indite,
Whoſe Talent chiefly is to write;
What Form it was, I do not know,
I wore two thouſand Years ago:
The Being that I firſt remember,
Was on a Morning of December;
But not December laſt (I ween)
No—many Years have paſt between;
[113] I found myſelf a wealthy Squire,
And ſeated by a Parlour-Fire,
A fine Eſtate of mellow Ground,
In Caſh full Thirty thouſand Pound,
Two hundred Oxen in a Stall,
And ten lean Servants at my Call,
An ancient Houſe well built but low,
Behind of Oaks an ample Row,
A Court before—without much State,
And three Gaunt Maſtiffs at the Gate;
All theſe had I—a happy Knave
As you may think—but with your Leave
A wretched Uſurer was I,
With hagard Jaws and eager Eye,
That ſtarv'd amidſt unwieldy Store,
And loſt my Life in ſearch of more,
This Pluto ſaw, and bid me go
Into the Carcaſe of a Beau,
To taſte of Pleaſure and of Pains,
With ſlender Purſe and ſhallow Brains,
[114] My Wig behind was ſmartly ty'd,
My ſilver Box with Snuff ſupply'd:
On Books I ſeldom lov'd to pore,
But ſung and danc'd, and aptly ſwore;
Where-e'er I came the Ladies ſmil'd;
This call'd me Pug—and t'other Child:
To pleaſe and to addreſs the Fair,
Was all my Buſineſs and my Care;
But now my Gold began to fly,
And ſure Deſtruction hover'd nigh:
At laſt to Limbo was I led,
From whence the ſtruggling Spirit fled.
Almeria's Lap-dog next I grew,
And wore a Coat of gloſſy Hue,
Careſs'd and courted ev'ry Day,
At Ev'ning by her Side I lay:
Her Smiles were always bent on me
(The happieſt Days that e'er I ſee)
But, Oh, as by a River-ſide,
I walk'd along with ſhort-liv'd Pride,
[115] A cruel Foot-boy threw me in,
And laugh'd as tho' it was no Sin.
Once more to gain a human Face,
I ſtep'd into a Lawyer's Caſe:
This Station pleas'd me wond'rous well,
And in a trice I learn'd to ſpell,
Cou'd read old Coke with prying Eyes,
Explain, diſtinguiſh, and adviſe,
Talk Latin to a good degree;
As Admittendo Cuſtode,
Eject, Extendi: and my Fee:
'Tis true I ſcorn'd to rob or kill,
But not to cheat or forge a Will:
In Jointures I cou'd ſplit a Hair,
And make it turn againſt the Heir:
I ſpar'd no Widow for her Tears,
No Orphan for his tender Years:
My Maxim was—'Get Money, Man,
Get Money, where and how you can:
Thus through the Stage of Life I run,
(For, Ah! my Race was quickly done)
[116] And ſtill preſerv'd my Ears and Noſe,
In ſpite of venial Sins like thoſe.
My next Diſguiſe too well you know,
Degraded to a ſimple Crow;
Both Cold and Hunger doom'd to bear,
And hover in the limpid Air,
Till on a day a ſpiteful Hind,
With dreadful Arms and bloody Mind,
Vow'd quick Deſtruction to my Head:
And in a Moment ſhot me dead:
Then ſet my ghaſtly Corſe on high
To fright my Fellows from his Rye.
I now grew out of Pluto's Favour,
Who grumbl'd at my late Behaviour;
And vow'd (when thus his Sentence ran)
I ſhou'd no more appear as Man;
But that he wou'd confine me ſtill
Within the compaſs of a Quill.
[117] My Fate is hard, as you may gueſs,
Yet I cou'd bear it ne'er-the-leſs,
Wou'd you or Fortune be ſo kind
To comfort an afflicted Mind,
And take me from the hated Cell,
Where Yeſterday you bid me dwell:
For Oh, I gueſs—nay more I know it,
That my new Miſtreſs is a Poet;
Then how ſhall I who ſtill inherit,
A Tincture of the Lawyer's Spirit;
How ſhall I bear from time to time
To ſcrawl unprofitable Rhyme?
To live for Years and ne'er behold
The Preſence of enchanting Gold,
Yet ſcribble on—Beſides, alack,
I fear ſhe'll quickly break my Back.
Then ſince my Pedigree you know:
(Dear Madam,) Ah ſome Pity ſhow,
And recommend me to a Place;
For ſure there's Mercy in your Face,
[118] To ſome Attorney let me go,
For there my Talents ſuit (you know)
Heroicks I ſhall write but ill;
But I'm a Doctor at a Bill,
At Flights of Fancy very dull;
But I can form Receipts at full.
The Favour that I ask of you,
(Have pity when the Wretched ſue)
Is your good Word or what is better,
A Recommandatory Letter?
And if I'm happy in your Grace,
I think I need not doubt a Place.
The TEN-PENNY NAIL.
'TWAS paſt the Date of ſav'ry Noon,
And downwards roll'd the radiant Sun,
When all (except us rhyming Sinners)
Had roſted, boil'd, and eat their Dinners;
In my great Chair I ſat to pout,
And beat my weary Brains about;
About (what did not much avail)
Amanda's Riddle of the Nail
*;
When Somnus took me by Surpriſe,
And put his Finger in my Eyes:
'Twas He, for Poets never nod
Without the Influence of a God:
[126] I dream'd of what—Why, you ſhall hear,
Good People all, I pray draw near,
Methought there lay before my Eyes
A Nail of more than common Size;
'Twas one that nails our Garden Door,
And oft my Petticoat has tore:
When ſudden (it is true, my Friend)
It rear'd itſelf, and ſtood an end,
And tho' no Mouth I cou'd deſcry,
It talk'd as faſt as you or I:
And thus began—As I am told
' You Poets ſeldom deal in Gold;
' That's not the Price of empty Songs,
' But to Sir Thrifty Gripe belongs;
' Bright Silver is Sir Wary's Claim,
' And Copper for the lab'ring Dame;
' If ſo (that each may have their due)
' We ruſty Nails belong to you;
' I therefore ask as my Deſert
' (I hope you bear a grateful Heart)
' You write my Life—and be it ſhown
' What ſtrange Adventures I have known.
[127] ' I muſt confeſs I was not made.
' So early quite as Adam's Spade;
' Yet many Ages I have known,
' And double with my Labours grown:
' I occupy'd, the firſt of all,
' A worthy Poſt at Gloomy-Hall,
' Where I, with ſeven hundred more,
' Were hammer'd in the ſpacious Door:
' And there had haply ſtuck till now,
' Had not old Simon broke his Plough;
' Who ſeeing none but us at hand,
' And knowing us a truſty Band,
' Me with the Pincers ſore oppreſs'd,
' And drew me headlong from the reſt:
' My lazy Life, alas! was done,
' And now I toil'd from Sun to Sun:
' None pity me, and none relieve,
' Till Fortune gave me a Reprieve:
' My Maſter broke his Plough again,
' And I from thence was dragg'd amain.
[128] ' To Celia's Chamber next I came,
' And bore a Glaſs with curious Frame;
' To whom the lovely Nymphs repair:
' There Delia ſpread her ſhining Hair;
' All ſmiling there was Claudia ſeen,
' And Thalia ty'd her Ribbands green.
' At laſt my Miſtreſs drew too nigh,
' And ſome ill Genius ſtanding by,
' Drove me directly in her Eye.
' Then I was baniſh'd from her Train,
' Hurl'd on a Dunghill with Diſdain.
' But idle long I did not lie,
' For old Sir Gripus walking by,
' Who held it was a crying Sin,
' To trample o'er and ſlight a Pin.
' And that they well deſerve a Jail,
' Who proudly ſcorn a ruſty Nail,
' Carry'd me home, and made ſecure
' With me—a ſtately oaken Door.
' Through the ſtrong Boards he made me go,
' To keep his Daughter from a Beau;
[129] ' But ſhe (what is't but Love can do?)
' With Aqua-fortis eat me through:
' A Cripple now, and uſeleſs quite,
' I'm baniſh'd from the chearful Light:
' And all folk deſpiſe me that behold;
' At laſt I to a Smith was ſold,
' Who had Compaſſion on my Pain,
' And brought me to myſelf again.
' To Jeff'ry Bouze I next belong,
' Where ſparkling Ale was clear and ſtrong;
' One Vault, more precious than the reſt,
' Was ſtow'd with Hogſheads of the beſt:
' And having lately loſt the Key,
' He faſt'ned up the Door with me:
' I ſtood a faithful Centry there,
' To guard the choice inſpiring Beer
' From thirſty Bacchanalian Rage,
' Till his Son Guzzle was of Age:
' At length the Youth an Entrance found,
' Tho' ſtoutly I maintain'd my Ground;
[130] ' Yet all my Strength wou'd not avail,
' For how cou'd one poor ſingle Nail
' Maintain a dang'rous Poſt (you know)
' Againſt whole Legions of the Foe;
' Who well conſid'ring Life's a Bubble,
' And drinking is the Cure of Trouble,
' And more—that he again could brew
' Before the Date of Twenty two;
' While e'er that time the preſent Ale
' Might happen to be flat or ſtale;
' He came himſelf with fifty more,
' And wiſely drank it out before.
' It wou'd be tedious now to tell
' What to your humble Slave befel,
' Amongſt a rude mechanick Band,
' Till Fortune gave me to your Hand:
' Now if a proper Poſt I knew,
' I'd gladly be of uſe to you;
' But you reſolve to hide no Pelf,
' And chooſe to walk abroad yourſelf:
[131] ' But, Mira, theſe are dang'rous Times,
' I'd have you faſten up your Rhymes;
' And 'tis the beſt thing you can do,
' To nail up Pens and Paper too:
' Do this and get thee gone to ſpinning,
' Or wiſely dearn your Father's Linen."
This ſaid—a Cart with rumbling Sound
Came by, and ſhook the trembling Ground;
The Viſion vaniſh'd from her Sight,
And Mira waken'd in a Fright.
The GENIUS in DISGUISE.
AS I Fidelia and my Sire,
Sat muſing o'er a ſmoky Fire,
We heard a Knocking at the Door,
Riſe, ſomething is the Matter ſure.
The little Turret ſeem'd to quake,
The Shelves, the Chairs and Tables ſhake;
Fidelia cries, O, what's the Matter?
And Mira's Teeth began to chatter:
[132] The frighted Door (as what could chooſe)
Flew open (pray believe the Muſe)
A hollow Voice for Entrance calls,
And ſoon—Although the dirty Walls
Were ſtain'd with Ignorance and Sin,
Yet Mira's Genius ventur'd in,
Not in a Cherub's Form enſhrin'd,
Nor in the ſhape of human kind:
But Locks and Hinges round him glow,
In Figure like a neat Buroe;
Like Brambles in a thorny Gap
Stood Mira's Hair beneath her Cap:
Her frighted Senſes gone aſtray,
She bent her Knees in act to pray;
But the preſuming Prieſt drew near,
As void of Piety as Fear,
And by its Side undaunted ſtood,
And wou'd perſuade us it was Wood:
With Rev'rence then we did preſume
To place him in the little Room;
The Prieſt excluded with the reſt,
The Stranger Mira thus addreſs'd,
[133] (Tho' ſhaking with Surpriſe and Fear)
' O ſay what Power ſent thee here,
' Not Fortune, for I ne'er cou'd ſee
' As yet her Favours bent on me:
' Nor Chance although we often find
' She governs moſt of human kind;
' Or can, againſt the Maid's Deſire,
' Throw Madam's Caudle in the Fire;
' Can light a Candle, or can miſs,
' She never brought a thing like this.
This ſaid, pale Mira gazing ſtood,
And thus reply'd the ſeeming Wood;
' Canſt thou behold me and not find
' The Picture of the Giver's Mind?
' Behold the Lock and ſhining Key,
' That ne'er its Miſtreſs ſhall betray,
' Not blemiſh'd with a Spot of Ruſt,
' And always faithful to its Truſt.
' The reſt may be to you conſign'd,
' For in this narrow Space you'll find
[134] ' No Emblem large enough to fit
' Her Bounty, Judgment, and her Wit.
' But, Mira, ſince I have begun,
' The Thread of my Diſcourſe ſhall run,
' Explaining how I am to you
' A Monitor and Table too.
' My hollow Spaces you may fill
' With all your Verſes good and ill;
' One ſmall one for your Wit may do,
' But then your Faults will take up two.
' And from the reſt I pray exclude
' One ſacred Place for Gratitude:
' And what our Patron yours and mine
' Shall to my truſty Care conſign,
' For thoſe lov'd Strangers I'll ſecure
' The Cloſet with its tiny Door.
' And now I've prattl'd long, my Dear,
' Yet you are liſt'ning ſtill to hear,
' Expecting that I ſhou'd ſupply
' At once Advice and Propheſy;
[135] ' But that's not right for me nor you
' To dive ſo deeply—tho', 'tis true,
' Without Divining I can ſee
' You'll ne'er deſerve the Gift of me:
' More wou'd you know—why, may be then
' Within theſe Mornings nine or ten,
' Propitious Jet may tsudge before,
' And lead his Miſtreſs to your Door;
' And when the Sun (whoſe diſtant Wheels
' But faintly warm the icy Fields)
' Shall gild your Cot with brighter Ray,
' I hope to ſee her ev'ry Day.
' But turn away thy ſtedfaſt Eyes,
' That ſtare ſo ghaſtly with Surpriſe:
' Go ſeek your Pillow and be ſtill,
' And dream of me or what you will.
' This ſaid (which Mira hop'd was true)
' The Lid ſhut up, and cries Adieu."
Then gave a Crack, and ſpoke no more,
And all was ſilent as before.
CELADON to MIRA.
[136]TO thee, O Mira, I theſe Lines commend,
Theſe from thy gentle and immortal Friend,
Tho' not to thee my airy Form appears,
Yet I've been oft a Witneſs to thy Tears,
(At Night when, lonely by the Taper's Flame,
In a ſtill Whiſper thou haſt breath'd my Name)
And in thy Eyes beheld the riſing Woe;
(Ah ſimple Sorrows when for me they flow!)
Think not, O Mira, not in me to find
A Friend like Vido, or like Roſalind,
Or like Courtine to cheat thy dazzl'a Eye,
And ſooth thy Weakneſs with a well-bred Lye:
Theſe are (as thou wilt by the Sequel find)
Below a Spirit of the bliſsful kind:
And was thy Form, as wanton Helen gay,
Or did thy Eyes outſhine the Lamp of Day,
[137] Theſe pleaſe not me—Bright Eyes in vain may roll,
I read no Charms but in the purer Soul.
By thy chang'd Features I too often find
The wild Ideas of thy reſtleſs Mind;
All ſerious now abſtracted from the Crew,
No prudent Stoick more ſerene than you,
Till in your Brain ſome gaudy Pictures ſpring,
All gay and careleſs, then you laugh and ſing:
Theſe vaniſh like a painted Cloud—and now
Pale Diſcontent o'er-ſhades thy mournful Brow:
You form dark Viſions and at Phantoms ſtart,
Theſe Woes proceed from an ill-govern'd Heart,
From a too thoughtleſs or too roving Mind;
For theſe are Strangers to a Soul reſign'd.
Canſt thou preſume thy little Bark may ſteer
From Griefs black Eddy and the Gulphs of Fear?
Or canſt thou hope to ſcape the gloomy Land,
Where Diſappointments crowd the rocky Strand?
Not ſo—nor let thy Vanity pretend
To hope for more than ever bleſt thy Friend;
[138] In Life I ſhone conſpicuous o'er the reſt,
While the pure Beams malignant Eyes oppreſt;
Sound Judgment, Learning, Wiſdom, too was mine,
And piercing Wit ſuperior far to thine;
Yet gaping Rage ſtood ready to devour,
And Dulneſs rain'd on me a leaden Shower:
Now ſtung with Scoffs, and now with Flatt'ry tir'd,
Defam'd, applauded, envy'd, and admir'd:
This Fate was mine—to hope canſt thou preſume
A milder Paſſage and more eaſy Doom?
Deluded Girl! let not a Thought ſo vain
Elate thy Spirits, nor aſcend thy Brain.
But hear, O Mira, nor too late be wiſe,
From painted Trifles turn thy longing Eyes;
Ask not for what will make thy Pray'r offend,
But ask Content, a Parent and a Friend;
Ask Bread and Peace, 'tis all that Nature craves,
This Kings acknowledge, when they find their Graves.
Say, why thy Features loſe their healthful Dye,
And the Tears tremble in the languid Eye?
[139] The mighty Conflict I with pity ſee,
When thy rude Paſſions ſtruggle to be free,
And rack thy Breaſt—the incoherent Stage,
Where grave and comick jar like Youth and Age;
Now Death appears all horrible and grim:
But the next Moment none ſo fair as him,
And now you ſigh—Ah, let me calmly die:
Then ſhrinking, trembling from the Grave you fly,
Such jarring Tumults in your Boſom roll;
(Ah, what ſo various as a Woman's Soul!)
But thou, beware, and if thy Fate has join'd
A ſickly Body to a roving Mind;
Be calm nor mourn at the Supreme Decree,
Nor think the Mandate ſhall be chang'd for thee,
But meet with Patience what thou canſt not flee.
Wou'dſt thou repine to ſee thy Form decay,
When Spio's Eye-lids are forbid the Day!
Might'ſt thou with us unbodied Spirits fly,
From Sphere to Sphere and trace the boundleſs Sky?
Then wou'd the Lives of little Mortals ſhew,
Like empty Bubbles rais'd of Morning Dew:
[140] All ſeem as Trifles, whether we behold
A Monarch baniſh'd, or a Sparrow ſold;
A thoughtleſs Inſect trampled in the Mire,
Or a proud Beauty in her Bloom expire.
More noble Scenes enraptur'd Spirits view,
But the grand Proſpect is too large for you:
A cloſer Bound beſt ſuits thy narrow Mind,
A few Examples of thy fading kind.
Haſt thou forgot the ſoft Iphenia's Name,
Whoſe ſmiling Face not Spleen itſelf could blame;
Scarce nineteen Years her dawning Beauties knew,
E'er the young Roſes bid her Cheeks adieu;
Yet bleſs'd with all, cou'd pleaſe a Woman's Pride:
In this gay Bloom the bright Iphenia dy'd;
Her Sire lifts to Heav'n his mournful Eyes,
And her ſad Brother fills the Air with Cries:
Her Brother Clodius, who to Grief reſign'd
To fruitleſs Paſſion all his manly Mind.
What ſimple Sorrow to the dead you pay,
Who ſoon muſt follow the ſame dusky Way.
[141] For e'er the Tranſport of his Grief was o'er,
Fate gave the Sign and Clodius was no more.
Still Pero liv'd a yet ſurviving Son,
A little Space and Pero's Race was done:
Death's icy Hand his youthful Limbs invades,
And bids him mingle with his kindred Shades.
So quickly Pero and Narciſſa fell,
Scarce looking round them e'er they bid farewel:
Yet dang'rous 'tis to wander here too long;
Theſe went more willing as they fell more young;
But Laura's Name demands thy flowing Tears,
Whoſe Doubts increaſing with her lengthen'd Years,
Serv'd not to clear but cloud the dusky Way,
And gave new Terrors to her final Day:
The dreadful Moment wou'd have paſt as well,
At ſixteen Years had weeping Laura fell.
Let this, O Mira, chear thy drooping Mind,
To bear the Sentence paſt on all Mankind:
I bore the ſame, whoſe Life was more deſir'd,
More lov'd, more known, and juſtly more admir'd:
[142] Yet this grand Fear is wove with Nature's Laws;
Is ſometimes right, and ſometimes has no Cauſe:
Repent and mend—theſe Vapours then will fly,
And the Clouds brighten to a purer Sky;
Still look to Heav'n and its Laws attend,
And next the Lines of thy aerial Friend.
The FIELDS of MELANCHOLY and CHEARFULNESS.
[145]STILL were the Groves, and venerable Night
O'er half the Globe had caſt her gloomy Veil,
When by a Taper's ſolitary Gleam
Sat muſing Mira penſive and alone;
In her ſad Breaſt officious Memory
Reviv'd the Pictures of departed Friends,
Whoſe pleaſing Forms ſhe muſt behold no more.
Forgotten Woe, that for a time had ſlept,
Roſe into Life, and like a Torrent pour'd
On her faint Soul, which ſunk beneath its Rage:
At length ſoft Slumber kindly interven'd,
And clos'd thoſe Eye-lids that were drench'd in Tears;
But reſtleſs Fancy that was waking ſtill,
Led my deluded Spirit on the Wing
To pictur'd Regions and imagin'd Worlds.
I ſeem'd tranſported to a gloomy Land,
Whoſe Fields had never known the chearful Sun:
[146] A heavy Miſt hung in the frowning Sky,
No feather'd Warblers chear'd the mourning Groves,
Nor bluſhing Flow'rs adorn'd the barren Ground:
I gaz'd around the ſolitary Coaſt,
When lo a Nymph with ſolemn Air approach'd,
Whoſe Dreſs was careleſs and her Features grave,
Her Voice was broken and her Hearing dull:
She ſpoke but ſeldom, yet at laſt ſhe told
Me in a Whiſper, that her Name was Thought;
And more, ſhe offer'd, with a friendly Air,
To lead me ſafely through the dreary Gloom:
We walk'd along through rough unpleaſing Paths,
O'er Beds of Night-Shade and through Groves of Yew,
Till we arriv'd within a dusky Wood,
Whoſe ſpacious Bound was fenc'd with ſhagged Thorn.
The Trees were baleful Cypreſs; and a few
Tall Pines that murmur'd to the ruſhing Wind:
Here dwelt the Natives, (mournful as the Place)
Or ſunk in real or imagin'd Woe;
Complaining Sounds were heard on ev'ry Side,
[147] And each bewail'd the loſs of ſomething dear:
Some mourn'd a Child that in its Bloom expir'd,
And ſome a Brother's or a Parent's Fate:
Loſt Wealth and Honours many Tongues deplor'd,
And ſome were wretched, tho' they knew not why.
But as we reach'd the Centre of the Place,
Complaints were heard more piercing than before:
The gathering Fogs grew thicker o'er our Heads,
And a cold Horror thrill'd our wounded Souls,
And thus we travell'd, penſive beyond meaſure,
Through Paths half cover'd with perplexing Thorns;
At length we found two Rows of aged Firs,
Whoſe Tops were blaſted by unwholſom Winds.
This ſolitary Viſta op'ning wide,
Diſclos'd the Palace of its mournful Queen:
Before the Gate was plac'd a frightful Guard,
Who ſerv'd as Porters to the gloomy Dome:
Here, ſtretch'd upon a miſerable Couch,
Lay pining Sickneſs with continual Groans;
And by her Side, (array'd in filthy Weeds)
Sat quaking Poverty with ghaſtly ſtare:
His Preſence ſeem'd to aggravate her Pain,
[148] For when ſhe caſt her languid Eyes on him,
She hid her Face and rais'd a fearful Cry.
There Diſappointment like a Statue ſtood,
With Eyes dejected and with Viſage pale:
Her heaving Boſom ſeem'd to ſwell with Anguiſh,
And in her Hand ſhe graſp'd a broken Reed:
Here, in the Garb of Piety, we ſaw
Proud Error frowning with a Look ſevere:
Doubt at his Elbow bore a Rod of Snakes,
And held a Cup fill'd to the Brim with Tears,
By theſe we paſs'd into the dusky Court,
O'er-run with Hemlock and with gloomy Fern:
Perpetual Night hung o'er the diſmal Walls,
And from the Ground unhealthy Vapours roſe;
Through folding Doors of Ebony we came,
Into a winding Paſſage hung with black,
For ever dark—poſſeſt by flitting Shades,
By waking Fancies, and by frightful Dreams
This led us to a ſubterraneous Cell,
Where the ſad Empreſs Melancholy reign'd;
The muſing Matron ſat upon a Throne
Of mould'ring Earth—her Footſtool of the ſame;
[149] And for her Canopy an aged Yew
Spread o'er her Head its venerable Arms:
Her careleſs Robe was of a ſable Hue,
And on her Shoulders flow'd her ſlighted Hair:
Her Lips were clos'd with an eternal Silence;
Her Arms were folded and her Head reclin'd;
On either Side her pale Attendants ſtood,
Two mournful Maids, Dejection and Deſpair;
The firſt (attended with continual Faintings)
Seem'd on the Point to cloſe her dying Eyes:
A conſtant Dew hung on her death-like Brow,
And her cold Boſom half forgot to heave.
Deſpair (whoſe Garments by herſelf were torn)
Was mark'd with Wounds that Time can never heal:
With deſp'rate Hand ſhe ſtruck her bleeding Breaſt,
And waſh'd the Ground with never-ceaſing Tears;
With ghaſtly Figures was the Cave adorn'd,
And in the midſt the Effigies of Death.
Shock'd at the Place we haſted to return,
And left the horrid Manſion far behind;
Long time we travell'd through untrodden Paths,
Where the brown Foreſts caſt an awful Gloom:
[150] At length the floating Clouds began to part,
And left behind them Streaks of chearful Azure;
Our Path grew ſmooth and widen'd to the view,
Until it open'd on a ſpacious Field;
A Field whoſe Charms no Painter e'er cou'd reach,
Though he ſhou'd borrow from the Poet's Heav'n;
The Clime was temp'rate and the Air was ſtill,
The ſprouting Turf was of a beauteous Green,
Speckled with Flow'rs of a delicious Dye.
Here cryſtal Lakes were border'd round with Trees,
Where Bloſſoms flouriſh'd in eternal Spring;
For here the Groves no blaſting Tempeſts know,
But ſtill are bleſt with Fruits that ne'er decay:
Perpetual Sun-ſhine crown'd the gaudy Hills,
And the fair Vallies were with Plenty gay.
A Path there was, trod o'er the ſpicy Field,
Which led the Wand'rer to a bliſsful Shade,
Whoſe Fence was made of balmy Eglantine;
Where the fair Plane o'erlook'd the Myrtle Shrub,
And flow'ring Orange that perfume the Air;
Here flew in Throngs the ſoft aerial Choir,
Whoſe glitt'ring Necks like poliſh'd Amber ſhone:
[151] We paſs'd delighted through ambroſial Paths,
And Bowers move with Jeſſamine and Roſe;
Joy ſeiz'd the raviſh'd Spirits, while we breath'd
In Gales that taſted of immortal Sweets.
At length the parting Trees broke into Form,
And with a Circle bound a charming Plain,
I'th' midſt of which upon an Iv'ry Throne
Sat Chearfulneſs, the Genius of the Place:
Her Mien was graceful and her Features fair;
Continual Smiles dwelt on her dimpl'd Cheeks,
Her Hair was bound beneath a ſhining Crown,
Her Robes were Azure bright with golden Stars,
And in her Hand ſhe held a ſilver Lute.
On either Side her royal Siſters ſat,
Both lovely, as herſelf, tho' not ſo gay;
The eldeſt had a Face divinely fair;
Calm was her Look, with Lips prepar'd for ſmiling,
She often rais'd her thankful Eyes to Heav'n;
Her Form was eaſy and her Name Content:
The other (much the youngeſt) was array'd
In Virgin Robes white as unſully'd Snow;
Her thoughtleſs Smiles wou'd tame a Tiger's Rage,
[152] A Lamb (whoſe Neck was circl'd with a Band
Of new blown Roſes) at her Feet was laid,
A milk-white Dove upon her Hand ſhe bore:
Thus ever bleſt ſat Innocence the fair.
Behind theſe Siſters ſtood a ſhining Train,
As Maids of Honour to the Royal Fair:
Proſperity (the firſt) was climbing up
A ſtately Pyramid of painted Marble;
From whoſe high Top ſhe reach'd a brilliant Crowd:
Then with an Air that ſpoke a joyful Heart,
Look'd down with Pleaſure on the Plain below.
Gay Wealth the next, in her embroider'd Veſt,
Shone like the Entrails of the eaſtern Mine;
Her Hair was platted thick with ſparkling Gems,
And in her Hand ſhe bore a golden Wand.
Health, like a Sylvan Huntreſs cloath'd in Green,
In her right Hand a dapled Palfry held,
Her Air was maſculine, and ſwift her Motion;
A Wreath of Flow'rs juſt raviſh'd from the Meads,
Bound up the Ringlets of her ſable Hair;
Her Cheeks were ruddy; and her large black Eyes
Confeſs'd the Vigour of her ſprightly Soul.
[153]Theſe were the Natives of this happy Land,
The Sight of whom ſo fill'd my glowing Breaſt
With Ecſtaſy that I awoke: And thus
Their Glories vaniſh'd, and were ſeen no more.
The LIBYAN HUNTER, a FABLE.
Inſcrib'd to the Memory of a late admir'd Author.
WHEN Merit riſes like the Prince of Day,
Pale Envy turns her aking Eyes away;
Then ſallow Cheeks with Rage are taught to glow,
And narrow Souls to bloated Furies grow.
Old Story tells us, on an earthly Plain
Once Jove deſcended wrap'd in golden Rain:
Now Fate permits no ſuch familiar Powers,
But Shoals of Criticks fall in leaden Showers:
Theſe gaze at Wit, as Owls behold the Sun,
And curſe the Luſtre which they fain wou'd ſhun;
Theſe Beaſts of Prey no living worth endure,
Nor are the Regions of the Dead ſecure;
[154] Yet ſhall the Worthy o'er their Spite prevail;
Here lies the Moral—follows next the Tale.
Once on a time on Libya's thirſty Land,
Where Showers ſeldom wet the burning Sand,
Liv'd happy Sylvius as the Morning gay,
A well-known Fav'rite of the Prince of Day;
Whoſe Hand, unerring, to the Mark in view
Sent the ſwift Arrow from the twanging Yew:
The trembling Panthers from his Fury fly,
When the keen Jav'lin hiſs'd along the Sky;
Fierce were his Eyes, and dazzling as the Sun;
His raven Looks in mazy Ringlets run,
A well-ſtor'd Quiver at his Back was ty'd,
A ſhining Spear his better Hand ſupply'd:
Thus rudely charming, he was ſure to pleaſe
With graceful Negligence and careleſs Eaſe:
He breath'd ſoft Muſick from his tuneful Tongue,
And the wild Tiger liſten'd to his Song:
The woodland Nymphs their dusky Shades forego,
And the blue Naiads left the Deeps below:
[155] None guard the Flocks, nor hunt the flying Prey,
Till he had finiſh'd the enchanting Lay:
Then Sylvan Dames with Wreaths of Laurel bound,
His chearful Temples and with Roſes crown'd.
But grudging Envy heard the juſt Applauſe,
And the pale Phantom writh'd her hagard Jaws;
Now ſwell'd the Boſoms of repining Swains,
And hiſſing Scandals flew acroſs the Plains.
At length his Fame the wondring Sky invades,
And reach'd the Muſes in their ſacred Shades;
Bright Thalia view'd him with an envious Eye,
And thus addreſs'd her Partners of the Sky:
' Ye tuneful Maids, give o'er the labour'd Song,
' Small are the Praiſes to our ſhare belong;
' Look down and ſee on yonder ſultry Plain,
' Our Voices equal'd by a Libyan Swain;
' Give o'er the Lay, ye too officious Fair,
' Lay down the Lyre and fruitleſs Hymns forbear,
' Nor hope to charm the partial Prince of Day,
' While heav'nly Accents breathe from mortal Clay:
[156] ' In vain we keep our radiant Seats on high,
' If rural Swains ſhall with our Muſick vie:'
She ſaid: And Rage poſſeſt the beauteous Ring,
Some curſe the Youth and ſome their partial King.
The Dame who ſaw th' infectious Murmurs run,
Roll'd her blue Eyes, and thus afreſh begun:
' No more the Bays ſhall to our Share belong,
' Nor charm'd Celeſtials ſhall attend our Song:
' But all to Sylvius ſhall their Off'rings pay;
' To Sylvius favour'd by the Prince of Day,
' Shall he exceed the Muſes ſacred Choir:
' Not while Revenge ſhall injur'd Boſoms fire.
' But ſee, my Siſters: On the Plains below
' Swift Cynthia's Hounds purſue the flying Doe:
' Be mine the Task to bear a fraudful Tale,
' To the ſwift Hunters in the Libyan Vale:
' As how her Herds in vain from Sylvius fly;
' His Darts purſue them, and the Victims die:
' So Delia's Rage ſhall ſtop his tuneful Tongue,
' And we no more ſhall dread the rival Song.
[157] Here ceas'd the Dame—the ſmiling Siſters join:
Their loud Applauſes to her ſly Deſign.
Now had the Sun withdrawn his piercing Eye.
And Night aſſum'd the Empire of the Sky:
Lull'd in her Lap repoſing Nature lay,
And Swains forgot the Labours of the Day:
The Winds were huſh'd, the Ocean ceas'd to roar,
And ſoftly murmur'd by the ſandy Shore,
When from Parnaſſus flew the envious Maid,
To ſeek the Huntreſs of the lonely Shade:
The fierce Virago on a verdant Plain,
She found, encircl'd by her ſleeping Train;
Where a cool River bleſt the fertile Ground,
Its Bank with Trees and bending Ofier's crown'd:
Beneath a Shade the lovely Dian ſtood
With down-caſt Eyes, and view'd the rolling Flood;
Whoſe Waves were bright with the reflected Beams
Of her own Orb that ſparkl'd on the Streams.
' Hail, Delia, Hail, (began the artful Dame)
' Lives there a Wretch who owns not Delia's Name?
[158] ' Lives there a Slave whoſe daring Hand defies
' The awful Empreſs of the nightly Skies?
' Yes, haughty Sylvius triumphs o'er the Plain,
' Tho' thy choice Herds are by his Arrows ſlain;
' The frighted Fauns his wanton Rage wou'd fly,
' But the keen Dart o'ertakes 'em, and they die.
' His ſhining Spear arreſts the trembling Doe,
' And groaning Stags the deadly Weapon know:
' But if fair Delia to the Libyan Swain
' Reſigns the Freedom of her ſacred Plain,
' Let none diſpute the Licence of her Will,
' And I retire to our tuneful Hill.'
With fluſhing Features and diſorder'd Charms
The angry Goddeſs ſeiz'd her deathful Arms;
' Shall Man with me diſpute the Plain (ſhe cries,
While kindling Rage inflam'd her rolling Eyes)
' This Hand ſhall well revenge my ſlaughter'd Deer:
She ſaid: And furious graſp'd the dreadful Spear,
And o'er her Shoulder flung the ſhining Bow,
Then breathing Vengeance ſought her guiltleſs Foe.
[159] The Youth beneath a dusky Shade ſhe found,
Thoughtleſs of Ill and ſleeping on the Ground;
A deadly Shaft deluded Cynthia drew,
And to his Heart the feather'd Vengeance flew;
The reaking Blood came bubbling through the Wound,
Pour'd o'er his Boſom and diſtain'd the Ground;
Then the freed Spirit took her airy Way,
To Fields of Pleaſure and of endleſs Day.
The red-cheek'd Morning had now chas'd away
Night's ſable Curtain—and the dawning Day
Call'd forth abroad the truſty Bands—Again
To chaſe the Tiger o'er the Deſert Plain;
To ſearch the Caves where kingly Lions roar,
And from thick Shades diſlodge the briſtled Boar:
Sylvius they want, for him they ſearch, they call,
They ſearch the Shades where cryſtal Waters fall,
His wonted Haunts: Then ev'ry Voice they try:
In vain they call, for none, alas! reply:
Hear, Sylvius, hear, they cry, and all around;
Hear, Sylvius, hear, the hollow Rocks reſound.
[160] At length a Crew, the baſeſt of the Plain,
Approach'd, the Covert of the ſlaughter'd Swain
Glad they beheld him breathleſs on the Ground,
And gaz'd with Rapture on the purple Wound,
When one began—Now bleſs the friendly Hand,
That ſwept off Sylvius from the gazing Land:
Behold the Day ſo oft by us deſir'd,
Here lies the Swain whom lately all admir'd.
This Phoebus ſaw, as from his blazing Wheels,
With his broad Eye he view'd the glitt'ring Fields
Behold the Youth whom he had taught to throw
The feather'd Arrow from the bounding Bow,
Beheld his Sylvius, to whoſe artful Tongue
He taught the Numbers of enchanting Song.
Now cold and breathleſs on the dewy Plain,
And his worſt Foes inſulting o'er the Slain:
Then rag'd the God that wears the ſilver Bow,
And his broad Eyes with ſparkling Fury glow,
Deſcended Phoebus in a burning Ray,
His beamy Locks declares the Prince of Day,
And flaſhing Glories round his Temples play,
[161]Each on his Face the trembling Victims fall,
Their ſtammering Tongues wou'd fain for Mercy call;
But as all grov'ling on the Duſt they lie,
His Shafts diſpatch them to the darker Sky:
Learn hence (he cry'd) ye impious Men, to know,
And dread the Pow'r that wears the mortal Bow:
For while I rule the blazing Throne of Day,
None wrong my Servants but ſhall find their Pay;
He ſaid—and rais'd his Fav'rite from the Ground,
Then ſmil'd the Features: And the gaping Wound
Was ſeen no more. The glowing Cheeks revive,
Shake off the Stamp of Death, and ſeem alive;
Inſtead of Cypreſs and a mournful Shroud,
Apollo wrap'd him in a golden Cloud,
And bore him thence: But where, there's none can ſay,
Unleſs to his own Regions of the Day.
And from the Ground where Sylvius late was ſeen,
Where the warm Gore had ſtain'd the thirſty Green;
A pleaſing Tree aroſe with ſlender Stems,
That breath'd Ambroſia from its op'ning Gems:
[162] Thoſe op'ning Gems the Virgins us'd to wear
On their fair Boſoms, and their ſhining Hair:
Now the gay Shrub each happy Climate knows,
By all admir'd, and 'tis call'd the Roſe.
The TEMPLE of LOVE.
WHEN lonely Night compos'd the drowſy Mind,
And huſh'd the Boſom of the weary Hind,
Pleas'd with plain Nature and with ſimple Life,
I read the Scenes of Shore's deluded Wife,
Till my faint Spirits ſought the ſilent Bed,
And on its Pillow drop'd my aking Head;
Then Fancy ever to her Mira kind,
Prepar'd her Phantoms for the roving Mind.
Behold a Fabrick riſing from the Ground,
To the ſoft Timbrel and the Cittern's Sound:
Corinthian Pillars the vaſt Building hold,
Of poliſh'd Silver and Peruvian Gold;
[163] In four broad Arches ſpread the ſhining Doors,
The blazing Roofs enlighten all the Floors:
Beneath a ſparkling Canopy that ſhone
With Perſian Jewels, like a Morning Sun
Wrap'd in a Robe of pureſt Tyrian Dye,
Cythera's Image met the raviſh'd Eye,
Whoſe glowing Features wou'd in Paint beguile:
So well the Artiſt drew her mimick Smile;
Her ſhining Eyes confeſs'd a ſprightly Joy;
Upon her Knees reclin'd her wanton Boy;
On the bright Walls, around her and above,
Were drawn the Statutes and the Arts of Love:
Theſe taught the ſilent Language of the Eye,
The broken Whiſper and amuſing Lye;
The careleſs Glance peculiar to the Fair,
And Vows for Lovers, that diſſolve in Air;
The graceful Anger, and the rolling Eyes;
The practis'd Bluſh and counterfeit Surpriſe,
The Language proper for pretending Swains;
And fine Deſcription for imagin'd Pains;
The friendly Caution and deſigning Eaſe,
And all the Arts that ruin while they pleaſe.
[164] Now entred, follow'd by a ſplendid Train,
A blooming Damſel and a wealthy Swain;
The gaudy Youth in ſhining Robes array'd,
Behind him follow'd the unthinking Maid:
Youth in her Cheek like op'ning Roſes ſprung,
Her careleſs Treſſes on her Shoulders hung.
Her Smiles were chearful as enliv'ning May;
Her Dreſs was careleſs, and her Eyes were gay;
Then to ſoft Voices and melodious Sound
The Board was ſpread, the ſparkling Glaſſes crown'd:
The ſprightly Virgin in a Moment ſhines
In the gay Entrails of the eaſtern Mines;
Then Pride comes in with Patches for the Fair,
And ſpicy Odours for her curling Hair:
Rude Riot in a crimſon Veſt array'd,
With ſmooth-fac'd Flatt'ry like a Chamber-maid:
Soft Pomp and Pleaſure at her Elbow ſtand,
And Folly ſhakes the Rattles in her Hand.
But now her feeble Structure ſeem'd to ſhake,
Its Baſis trembl'd and its Pillars quake;
[165] Then ruſh'd Suſpicion through the lofty Gate,
With heart-ſick Loathing led by ghaſtly Hate;
And foaming Rage, to cloſe the horrid Band,
With a drawn Poniard in her ſhaking Hand,
Now like an Earthquake ſhook the reeling Frame,
The Lamps extinguiſh in a purple Flame:
One univerſal Groan was heard, and then
The Cries of Women and the Voice of Men:
Some roar out Vengeance, ſome for Mercy call;
And Shrieks and Tumult fill the dreadful Hall.
At length the Spectres vaniſh'd from my Sight,
Again the Lamps reſum'd a feeble Light;
But chang'd the Place: No Splendor there was ſhown,
But gloomy Walls that Mirth had never known;
For the gay Dome where Pleaſure us'd to dwell,
Appear'd an Abbey and a doleful Cell;
And here the ſad, the ruin'd Nymph was found,
Her Robe diſorder'd and her Locks unbound,
While from her Eyes the pearly Drops of Woe,
Waſh'd her pale Cheek where Roſes us'd to blow:
[166] Her blue and trembling Lips prepar'd to breathe
The Sighs that made her ſwelling Boſom heave;
Thus ſtupid with her Grief ſhe ſat and preſt
Her lily Hands acroſs her penſive Breaſt;
A Group of ghaſtly Phantoms ſtood behind,
Whoſe Task it is to wreck the guilty Mind:
Wide-mouth'd Reproach with Viſage rude and thin,
And hiſſing Scandal made a hideous Din;
Remorſe that darted from her deadly Wings,
Invenom'd Arrows and a thouſand Stings:
Then with pale Cheeks and with a ghaſtly Stare,
Peep'd o'er her Shoulder hollow-ey'd Deſpair;
Whoſe Hand extended bore a bleeding Heart,
And Death behind her ſhook his threat'ning Dart:
Theſe Forms with Horror fill'd my aking Breaſt,
And from my Eye-lids drove the Balm of Reſt:
I woke and found old Night her Courſe had run,
And left her Empire to the riſing Sun.
The PROPOSAL.
WITH aking Fingers, twinging Noſe,
And vex'd, dear Madam, we'll ſuppoſe:
(To leave yourſelf and Parlour-fire)
Trudg'd Mira to her own good Sire;
Beneath a cold and gloomy Sky
Walk'd cheek by jole the Muſe and I:
The liſt'ning Goſſip, tho' unſeen,
Had watch'd the Talk that paſs'd between
Myſelf and you: And much offended
(It ſeems) at what was there intended.
' So cries the peeviſh Maid, (and ſquinting)
' Methinks I heard you talk of Printing:
' Have I beſtow'd a world of Pains,
' To ſpirit up your blockiſh Brains,
' To get from thence an idle Rhyme,
' That made me bluſh to call it mine?
[174] ' And ſhall I ſee the crippl'd Crew
' Diſcarded from their Seat and you,
' Turn'd out to skip from hand to hand
' In dirty Gazettes round the Land,
' To grace the Knee of ev'ry Sot,
' And catch the Droppings of his Pot,
' While in a Rage the drowſy Swains
' Perhaps may curſe you for your Pains,
' Proteſting with a Critick's Spite,
' That none ſince Durfey knew to write?
' But, Mira, if you want a Muſe,
' To grace the Page of weekly News,
' The Task is much too low for me,
' Yet I've a Maid of leſs Degree,
' (With Spirit ſuiting to her State)
' Will ſerve you at an eaſy Rate:
' Whoſe Voice, tho' hoarſe, is loud and ſtrong,
' An Artiſt at a ranting Song,
' Can chaunt Lampoons without much ſtraining,
' Or Epigrams with double Meaning,
' To join the Tavern-Harp or Viol:
' Now if you'll take her upon trial,
[175] ' To her Deſervings ſuit your Pay,
' And then you take the ſafeſt way:
' Perhaps you'll proſper in the End,
' I'll ſay no more: But ask your Friend,
' Here ends the Muſe—Dear Madam, ſay,
' Shall I reject her or obey?
FLORIMELIA, the Second PASTORAL.
By Mr. NEWTON,
AS Florimelia watch'd her ſnowy Fold,
Soft Florimelia with her Locks of Gold,
Low in a Vale beneath a ſpreading Shade,
Two ruddy Youths that lov'd the beauteous Maid,
[188] To pleaſe the Fair thus form'd the rival Song,
While the Herds liſten'd to each tuneful Tongue.
PHILASTER.
This Morn I wander'd through a poplar Grove,
Where a lone Turtle mourn'd her abſent Love;
With penſive Coo ſhe well expreſs'd her Woe,
Lull'd by her Voice the Brooks more gently flow;
When lo the Partner of her Neſt drew nigh
With hov'ring Wings: And bid her Sorrows fly.
All ſprightly now with brisker Note ſhe ſings,
Prunes her ſoft Breaſt, and ſpreads her joyful Wings.
No more the Grove is Witneſs to her Woe,
Such are the Joys that faithful Lovers know.
CHROMIS.
As yeſter'-even, while my Sheep did feed
On a ſoft Bank, I tun'd my Oaten Reed;
'Twas there a ſingle Violet I ſpy'd,
That breath'd its Odours, droop'd its Head, and dy'd;
When from the Root a gay Companion grew,
Fair as the firſt and freſh as Morning Dew:
Whoſe fragrant Leaves perfum'd the bord'ring Plain;
Then did the firſt its former Beauties gain,
[189] Pleas'd with each other ſide by ſide they grow,
Such are the Joys that faithful Lovers know.
PHILASTER.
As ſweet as was the Violet is my Love.
CHROMIS.
And I as conſtant as the Turtle-Dove.
PHILASTER.
Soft are the Murmurs of a ſouthern Wind,
And the Complainings of a love-ſick Mind;
Soft are the Breathings of an Infant's Sleep,
But ſhe is ſofter than her harmleſs Sheep.
CHROMIS.
Sweet are the Gales that meet the roſy Morn,
Sweet are the Flow'rs that yonder Meads adorn;
Sweet are the Banks on which my Lambkins play,
But my lov'd Nymph is ſweet as early Day.
PHILASTER.
Where walks my Love—there op'ning Roſes bloom,
And yellow Cowſlips ſhed a choice Perfume;
When ſhe is gone the op'ning Roſes fade,
The Sun himſelf laments the abſent Maid.
CHROMIS.
[190]When ſmiles my Love, then ſmile the Groves below;
And the clear Skies with brighter Luſtre glow:
But when ſhe frowns, thoſe Groves are glad no more,
And the Sky lowers that was bright before.
PHILASTER.
While we prefer the Spring to Winter Storms,
Or goodly Cedars to unſeemly Thorns;
While Maples keep below the lofty Pine,
Shall my lov'd Nymph before her Siſters ſhine?
CHROMIS.
As we prefer the Peacock to the Crow,
As Maidens fairer than their Mothers ſhow;
And as my Voice above Philaſter ſwells,
So my lov'd Nymph each other Nymph excels.
PHILASTER.
You ſung laſt Night with more melodious Air,
As you lay plaiting Cloe's yellow Hair;
While the ſhrill Pipe her ſlender Fingers ply'd,
The Pipe you gave her, and your Heart beſide.
CHROMIS.
[191]'Twas you I ſaw beneath a maple Shade;
With blubber'd Cheeks you curs'd the cruel Maid,
Who broke your Cypreſs Bowl on yonder Plain,
And ſent the Willow to her ſlighted Swain.
PHILASTER.
'Tell me at midnight where do Mandrakes groan,
And Blood fall dropping from the darkned Moon:
Tell this, and I ſhall for thy Learning yield,
A coal-black Lamb that ſports in yonder Field.
CHROMIS.
Tell me, where Oaks have tender Medlars bore,
And Shrubs yield Apples that were Crabs before;
And for thy Knowledge I ſhall not refuſe
To give the beſt of all my ſpeckled Ewes.
Thus ſung the Shepherds while the liſt'ning Maid,
Prais'd both their Songs, and thus their Songs repaid;
Behold this lovely Pine-apple, ſhe cry'd;
And this Twin-cheſnut once my chiefeſt Pride,
Theſe long were mine, and theſe I give to you;
To both a Prize, a Prize to both is due.
[192]Now nightly Vapours taint the colder Air,
They part the Flocks, and to the Folds repair;
And the black Clouds forbid their longer Stay,
Their Feet unwilling tread their deſtin'd Way
At once: Farewel too lovely Nymphs, they cry,
And on the Virgin caſt a parting Eye.
CATHARINA's CAVE.
By Mr. NEWTON.
BENEATH a Mountain's ſolitary Shade
Liv'd Catharina, then an ancient Maid,
An uſeful Dame that ev'ry Simple knew,
And from choice Herbs exhal'd a cordial Dew.
Rude was her Dome, and hid from prying Eyes,
By lofty Hills that ſeem'd to reach the Skies;
Deep in a Rock the winding Cavern run,
A bending Cypreſs skreen'd it from the Sun:
From its rude Side a Fountain us'd to flow,
That pour'd inceſſant on the Stones below:
[193] This Muſick lull'd the penſive Dame to Reſt,
And drew ſoft Slumbers on her aching Breaſt:
No Sun was there, nor ſcarce a dawning Gleam,
No twinkling Stars, nor Cynthia's ſilver Beam.
There naked Elms and ſapleſs Oaks appear'd,
With Age grown rotten, and by Light'ning ſear'd;
There perch'd the Raven and the gray-ey'd Owl,
With his wiſe Viſage and his ſerious Scowl;
No Flow'rets there bedeck the moſſy Ground,
But a thick Foreſt ſpread its Shade around,
Where the ſmooth Box and browner Haſel grew,
The ſolemn Pine-tree and the baleful Yew:
Here no glad Sound was heard nor human Tongue,
Not Colin's Flute nor Blouzelinda's Song:
Theſe gloomy Shades for Grief were only made,
And howling Wolves that ſcamper'd thro' the Glade.
Here Catharina ſpent her irkſom Days,
Secluded both from Envy and from Praiſe.
Not ſo her laughing Moments us'd to run,
When her bright Eyes were like a Morning Sun:
When to her Flock repair'd the gazing Swains,
Her Flock was then the faireſt of the Plains:
[194] And ſhe no leſs—with Veins of ſprightly Blue,
And Cheeks like Roſes wrap'd in Morning Dew,
The Loves and Graces round her Features flew.
Her Mind was chearful as the riſing Day,
Mature as Summer and as April gay;
Yet Fate too ſoon eclips'd her early Joy,
She fell the Victim of the winged Boy,
The winged Boy that bears the fatal Darts:
Henceforth may Virgins better guard their Hearts.
'Twas Celadon, 'twas he that caus'd her Pain,
The faireſt Shepherd of the rural Train;
Whoſe careleſs Beauty made her Heart his Prize,
And ſtole the Slumbers from her wakeful Eyes.
Long time her Pride and cooler Reaſon ſtrove
Againſt the Power of encroaching Love,
In vain—her Cheeks and mournful Eyes declare
The ſmother'd Paſſion and the ſecret Care,
While the dull Youth, whom Beauty ne'er cou'd pleaſe,
Who ſought no more than Indolence and Eaſe,
Rang'd o'er the Vallies with his darling Tray,
Or near ſome Fountain ſlumber'd out the Day:
[195] All Nymphs he ſtrove (but moſtly her) to ſhun,
And to thick Shades and diſtant Paſtures run:
There the ſoft Flute his nimble Fingers ply'd,
While his lov'd Dog ſat liſt'ning by his Side.
Then wept the Fair with Grief and Rage oppreſs'd;
Strange Paſſions labour'd in her penſive Breaſt;
She loſt her Crook—her Flocks no more were told,
And her Lambs wander'd from their nightly Fold,
Till to theſe Shades ſhe took her deſp'rate Way,
And vow'd no more to ſee the Beams of Day:
Here the gay Roſes on her Cheek expir'd,
And from her Eyes the laughing Loves retir'd:
No flow'ry Wreaths her faded Temples knew,
Her Locks uncomb'd upon her Shoulders flew;
No ſilken Veſtments on her Limbs were roll'd,
A ruſſet Mantle ſav'd her from the Cold;
A ſimple Cordage round her Waſte ſhe ty'd,
And a rude Staff her better Hand ſupply'd.
Here learn'd the Dame the Phyſick of the Field,
And what the Woods and what the Mountains yield
Of ſov'reign Balm, to heal a rankling Wound,
Or ripen Swellings where no Sores are found;
[196] To ſtrengthen Sinews, and Catarrhs expel,
And none for Colicks cou'd her Art excel.
With magick Herbs ſhe drew out feſt'ring Thorns;
Her Charms cou'd baniſh Tooth-ach, Cramps, and Corns.
To her repair'd from all the neighb'ring Plains,
The ſickly Matrons and the wounded Swains:
Nor to one Species was her Art confin'd;
Her Skill was known amongſt the fleecy Kind,
Her Cordials ſtrengthen'd the declining Ewe,
And limping Calves her healing Plaiſters knew.
The ENQUIRY.
IN vain, alas! (do lazy Mortals cry)
In vain wou'd Wiſdom trace the boundleſs Sky,
Where doubled Wonders upon Wonders riſe,
And Worlds on Worlds confound our dazzl'd Eyes:
Better be ſtill—Let Nature reſt, ſay they,
Than err by Gueſs and with Opinion ſtray:
Then tell me, why our Eyes were made to view
Thoſe Orbs that gliſter in the fluid Blue?
[197] Why in our Sight thoſe ſhining Wonders roll?
Or why to Man was giv'n a thinking Soul?
May I not ask how moves the radiant Sun?
How the bright Stars their pointed Circuits run?
What warms thoſe Worlds that ſo remotely ſhine?
And what can temper Saturn's frozen Clime?
Who that beholds the full-orb'd Moon ariſe,
That chearful Empreſs of the nightly Skies;
Who wou'd not ask (cou'd learned Sages tell)
What kind of People on her Surface dwell?
But there we pauſe—Not Newton's Art can ſhow
A Truth, perhaps, not fit for us to know.
How great the Pow'r, who gave thoſe Worlds to roll;
The Thought ſtrikes inward, and confounds the Soul;
Fall down, O Man—Ah fall before the Rod
Of this Almighty, All-creating God:
But hark—from Heav'n there came a chearing Sound;
Now Man revives, and ſmile the Worlds around:
'Tis Mercy—lo a golden Ray deſcends,
And Hope and Comfort in the Luſtre blends.
[198]When from the Stars we turn our aking Eyes,
To Earth we bend them where new Wonders riſe;
Where Life and Death the equal Scale ſuſpend,
New Beings riſing as the former end.
Who not ſurpris'd can trace each juſt Degree
From the ſwift Eagle to the peeviſh Bee;
From the fierce Lion that will yield to none,
To the weak Mouſe that hides her from the Sun!
How near one Species to the next is join'd,
The due Gradations pleaſe a thinking Mind;
And there are Creatures which no Eye can ſee,
That for a Moment live and breathe like me:
Whom a ſmall Fly in bulk as far exceeds,
As you tall Cedar does the waving Reeds:
Theſe we can reach—and may we not ſuppoſe
There ſtill are Creatures more minute than thoſe.
Wou'd Heav'n permit, and might our Organs bear
To pierce where Comets wave their blazing Hair:
Where other Suns alternate ſet and riſe,
And other Moons light up the chearful Skies:
The raviſh'd Soul might ſtill her Search purſue,
Still find new Wonders op'ning on her view:
[199] From thence to Worlds in Miniature deſcend,
And ſtill preſs forward, but ſhou'd find no End:
Where little Foreſts on a Leaf appear,
And Drops of Dew are mighty Oceans there:
Theſe may have Whales that in their Waters play,
And wanton out their Age of half a Day:
In thoſe ſmall Groves the ſmaller Birds may ſing,
And ſhare like us their Winter and their Spring.
Pluck off you Acorn from its Parent Bough,
Divide that Acorn in the midſt—and now
In its firm Kernel a fair Oak is ſeen
With ſpreading Branches of a ſprightly Green:
From this young Tree a Kernel might we rend,
There wou'd another its ſmall Boughs extend.
All Matter lives, and ſhews its Maker's Power;
There's not a Seed but what contains a Flower:
Tho' unobſerv'd its ſecret Beauty lies,
Till we are bleſt with Microſcopick Eyes.
When for blue Plumbs our longing Palate calls,
Or ſcarlet Cherries that adorn the Walls;
[200] With each plump Fruit we ſwallow down a Tree,
And ſo deſtroy whole Groves that elſe wou'd be
As large and perfect as thoſe Shades we ſee.
Behold you Monſter that unwieldly laves
Beneath the Surface of the briny Waves:
Still as he turns, the troubl'd Sea divides;
And rolls in Eddies from his ſlimy Sides.
Leſs huge the Dolphin to the Sun diſplays
His Scales, and in the ſmoother Ocean plays:
Still leſs the Herring and round Mackrel ſweep
The ſhallow Tide, nor truſt the roaring Deep:
How far by gradual numberleſs Degrees,
The ſenſeleſs Oyſter is remov'd from theſe.
Who follows Nature through her mazy Way,
From the mute Inſect to the Fount of Day,
(Where now ſhe riſes, now her Steps decline)
Has need of Judgment better taught than mine:
But on this Subject we have talk'd too long,
Where grave-fac'd Wiſdom may itſelf be wrong.
The RIVAL BROTHERS.
[201]CELIA and I, to ſhare the vernal Gales,
One Ev'ning wander'd o'er the dewy Vales;
Still was the Soul, and ev'ry Senſe was pleas'd,
And the cool Heart from Care and Buſineſs eas'd:
Arm lock'd in Arm with heedleſs Steps we rove,
Round the fair Borders of a blooming Grove;
Reclin'd at eaſe within the ſecret Shades,
A lovely Bower held two fairer Maids,
Soft Flavia one, with Cheeks of roſy Dye,
And Sylvia famous for her ſtar-like Eye.
Sylvia, whoſe Wit was vers'd in charming Wiles,
Who often varied her Diſcourſe with Smiles:
Love-tales ſhe told, ſome fictious and ſome true,
The Subject various and her Stories new;
Of Innocence oppreſs'd by mightier Wrong,
And many Proofs ſhe drew from ſacred Song:
When Flavia thus—behold the ling'ring Day
Still paints you Heavens with a ſilver Gray;
[202] And ſlothful Night with gentler Pace comes on,
As if ſhe liſten'd to thy charming Tongue:
The Rival Brothers, let my Sylvia tell,
How croſs they lov'd, and who untimely fell:
Her Friend reply'd, You ſhall not ask in vain,
Although the Story gives thy Sylvia Pain:
Then on her Cheek her iv'ry Hand ſhe laid,
And with a Sigh began the lovely Maid.
Long time before our Fathers Lives began,
There liv'd an ancient and a worthy Man,
Was long the Fav'rite of indulgent Fame;
For Wretches knew and bleſs'd Clytiphon's Name,
Juſt without Pride, without Reluctance kind;
For inborn Goodneſs with ſoft Pity join'd,
To form the Baſis of his godlike Mind.
His temp'rate Soul was ne'er diſturb'd with Rage,
But graceful bore the rev'rend Weight of Age:
All bounteous Heav'n had to his ſhare conſign'd:
A moderate Fortune with a peaceful Mind:
His Dwelling ſeated on a riſing Hill,
Was water'd round with many a cryſtal Rill:
[203] Gardens and Groves the ſmother'd Buildings ſcreen,
Which look'd the Seat of ſome retir'd Queen.
Cythania toſt of the admiring Land,
The faireſt Virgin of the ſhining Band,
Did to Clytiphon's Honour truſt her Charms,
And gave her Beauties to his faithful Arms:
But cruel Death, whoſe Buſineſs is to rend
The pale-ey'd Matron from her weeping Friend,
Had torn Cythania from his widow'd Side,
And left her Spouſe to wail his conſtant Bride:
Heav'n ſpar'd one Child to crown his feeble Age,
To chear his Spirits and his Grief aſſwage:
Sophinia precious to her Father's Mind,
To her alone was ev'ry Wiſh confin'd:
Nor did the Virgin leſs deſerve his Care,
Her guiltleſs Soul was like her Perſon fair;
For Heav'n to form this matchleſs Beauty join'd
Her Mother's Features to her Father's Mind;
Not op'ning Roſes nor the baſhful Day,
Bluſh'd half ſo ſweetly as Sophinia gay:
Her Eyes were dazzling and her Temples fair,
And ev'ry Feature wore a ſmiling Air;
[204] For Wit and Learning ſhe out-ſtrip'd her Kind,
Nor cou'd her Sex debaſe her noble Mind;
In ſearch of Knowledge ſhe wou'd ſpend the Day,
And Judgment walk'd before her guiltleſs Way.
Not many Furlongs from thoſe bliſsful Plains,
Where good Clytiphon rul'd the happy Swains,
There liv'd a wealthy and a worthy Peer,
Lov'd by his Friends and to his Country dear;
Laon the great in Valour juſtly fam'd,
His Sons Lycander and Polyphon nam'd,
Both noble Youths and by their Friends admir'd,
And Thirſt of Glory both their Hearts inſpir'd:
Lycander's Form was fairer than his Mind;
His Shape was faultleſs and his Brow ſublime,
His jetty Locks in mazy Ringlets run,
And his bright Eyes were like a Morning Sun:
Rays quick and fierce their ſubtle Light'nings fling,
His Cheeks were freſher than the dawning Spring;
But then as Tempeſts o'er the Ocean roll,
Continual Paſſion tore his boiling Soul;
Diſdainful, proud, with an imperious Will,
Headlong he ruſh'd on unſuſpected Ill:
[205] Reaſon in vain oppos'd her ſacred Shield,
And Virtue's ſelf muſt to the Whirlwind yield:
Polyphon's Soul was of a gentler Kind,
No rugged Storms cou'd ſhake his eaſy Mind,
Still calm and pleaſant as the Ev'ning Skies:
When not a Breeze through the ſtill Region flies,
No gloomy Frowns a ſullen Heart betray,
His Brow was thoughtleſs and his Air was gay:
Theſe to Clytiphon's did their Sire attend,
The pleaſing Manſion of their Father's Friend,
With Lovers Eyes they both Sophinia view,
As with her Years her riſing Beauty grew,
With airy Hopes they nurs'd the rival Flame,
And ſought with Gifts to win the ſmiling Dame;
But ſhe too cautious to be ſoon betray'd,
Their Merit balanc'd, and their Tempers weigh'd:
Lycander's Fortune pleas'd the lovely Dame,
His Power, Titles and his riſing Fame;
And the gay Maid beheld with early Pride,
Laon's bright Heir attending at her Side:
That way wou'd oft her Vanity incline,
But then her Reaſon fear'd his baſe Deſign:
[206] Still at her Heart the ſullen Doubt remains,
And put a Period to the golden Dreams:
Polyphon's Image on her Fancy ſtole
With thouſand Beauties in his taintleſs Soul;
Clear as his Face and ſprightly as his Mien;
Soft as his Voice, and like his Brow ſerene.
Polyphon now the wavering Nymph admires,
Nor thinks of Caſtles, Towns, and ſhining Spires;
Her changing Thoughts prefer an eaſy Home,
And dwell with Patience on a younger Son.
Lycander once her Fav'rite was, but now
He meets Reſentment and a frozen Brow:
In vain to move the ſcornful Nymph he tries,
With ſprightly Oaths and well diſſembl'd Lies:
His Form no more can pleaſe Sophinia's Eyes.
Without Concern he met the Fair's Diſdain,
Nor cou'd her Frown diſturb the haughty Swain:
Conſcious of Merit he purſu'd her ſtill,
And only thought her Tongue bely'd her Will:
For Impudence, to Vice a truſty Squire,
Who bears her Arms and fans her purple Fire,
[207] Had taught Lycander, that Affairs of Love
Are not regarded in the Realms above;
That Oaths are licens'd to addreſs th' Fair,
And Vows to Virgins but the Sport of Air;
That Maids are Merchandiſe, and may be ſold
For charming Eloquence and mighty Gold.
II.
A Grove there was, a venerable Shade,
No hoſtile Iron durſt her Boughs invade,
Whoſe lofty Pines for ſev'ral Ages grew,
And rev'rend Oaks a hundred Winters knew:
A cryſtal River wander'd half-way round,
The reſt defended with a haſel Mound;
'Twas here to ſhun Lycander's jealous Eye,
When Sol departed to the weſtern Sky;
The ſly Sophinia us'd to leave her Maids,
And meet Polyphon in the balmy Shades;
While the proud Youth who found himſelf deſpis'd,
His Perſon ſlighted and Polyphon priz'd;
Grew wild with Love and deſp'rate with Deſpair,
And vow'd Deſtruction to the gentle Pair:
[208] No quiet Hour his ſurly Spirit knows,
Nor Reſt by Day-light or at Night Repoſe:
Cold to his Friends, and if they ask his Care,
He only anſwers with a fullen Glare.
One Ev'ning when the ſparkling Sun withdrew,
And thirſty Flowers ſip'd the grateful Dew;
When this fair Grove had put on all her Charms,
And Zephyrs play'd amidſt her curling Arms;
Sophinia weary of the ſultry Day,
To the cool Foreſt took her lonely Way,
Attentive only to the Linnets Song,
No ill ſhe thought of, and ſhe fear'd no Wrong:
Pleas'd with the Glories of the ſmiling Year,
For guilty Minds are only taught to fear.
The well-known Path her willing Feet purſue
Through the brown Shade, where in the Centre grew
A Row of Laurels crown'd with laſting Green,
And ſofter Beech and flow'ring Roſe between:
Here in a fatal Hour Sophinia came;
For proud Lycander watch'd the lovely Dame:
Revenge and Love at once his Boſom fire;
His broad Eyes flaſh with more than mortal Fire:
[209] Then to his Friends the raging Hero flew,
His Friends a thoughtleſs and a wanton Crew,
Whoſe ſlothful Hands were backward, as their Will,
In Virtue's Cauſe, but reſolute in Ill:
To theſe the Youth diſclos'd his raſh Deſign,
His glad Companions in th' Adventure join,
That ſome well practis'd in the Ruffians Trade
Shou'd bear Sophinia from the ſilent Shade:
The Miſchief pleas'd, yet none propos'd the Way,
Tho' ſhort the Time and dang'rous the Delay:
In ſtill ſuſpenſe the liſt'ning Heroes ſtand,
Till with rude Voice Miranthus thus began:
' A Caſtle has for many Centries ſtood,
' Within the Confines of the neigh'bring Wood,
' Whoſe gloomy Arches ſeem diſpos'd to hide
' Offended Subjects from a Tyrant's Pride.
' And often ſhe has lent her hoſtile Towers,
' The guilty Refuge of rebellious Powers:
' Here let your Friends this peeviſh Girl convey,
' And keep her ſecret from the Face of Day.
' Thoſe Doors with iron Eloquence ſhall plead
' Your mighty Paſſion to the ſcornful Maid:
[210] ' You have what my unready Thought deſign'd,
' The haſty Dictates of a ruſtick Mind,
' A Mind inur'd to Wars and rude Alarms,
' Unskill'd in Love and Beauty's ſofter Charms:
He ceas'd—Applauſe was ſeen in ev'ry Eye,
And Peals of Laughter rent the troubl'd Sky;
Two fav'rite Heroes ſingl'd from the Crew,
With hoſtile Feet that ſacred Path purſue;
Whoſe winding Maze betray'd the ſmiling Bower,
That held Sophinia in a baneful Hour:
The heedleſs Virgin on a Bank they found,
Where the faint Primroſe ſpreads her Odours round,
And nodding Poppies ſeem'd to kiſs the Ground.
With frighted Eyes the trembling fair One ſees
Their ſurly Figures through the parting Trees;
But yet ſhe roſe collected in her Fear,
'Twas vain to call and no Aſſiſtance near:
Then from the Ground ſhe rais'd her beauteous Eyes,
And weeping turn'd them on the pitying Skies:
Aſſiſt me Heaven and heavenly Pow'r, ſhe cries.
[211] You Saints that hover round celeſtial Springs:
O take and wrap me in your ſacred Wings,
I ſee black Violence come frowning on;
But may Lycander mourn the dear-bought Wrong;
Ah hear, Sophinia, in this fearful Hour;
And ſave, O ſave me from a Villain's Pow'r.
But now a Slave whom Beauty ne'er cou'd charm,
Drew nigh and ſeiz'd her by the ivory Arm:
Through untrod Paths they bore the ſtruggling Maid
To thoſe rude Towers where Lycander ſtay'd,
A diſmal Dwelling hid by waving Trees;
So thick they ſcarce admit the healthy Breeze,
On whoſe black Walls condenſing Vapours hung,
Whoſe lofty Spires hardly knew the Sun:
His Beams ne'er enter'd here, but in the Room
Perpetual Coldneſs and eternal Gloom:
Here the pleas'd Youth his charming Prey ſecures,
And round his Pris'ner ſhut the plated Doors;
Then left the Virgin to herſelf, nor ſtay'd
To bear Reproaches from the injur'd Maid:
Fierce as he was he, like a Coward, flies
The Rage that ſparkl'd in her glowing Eyes;
[212] But when he thought the dang'rous Storm was o'er,
Again he ſought thoſe Eyes he fled before,
Like ſome pale Wretch impatient for his Doom,
His fearful Steps approach'd the hallow'd Room:
For riſing Conſcience now her Task began,
And guilty Bluſhes through his Features ran:
Unuſual Horrors o'er his Paſſage hung,
At ev'ry Step the ſounding Portals rung:
Before the Door he took a ſilent Stand,
And the pale Taper trembl'd in his Hand:
A hollow Voice Lycander ſeem'd to call,
And Shadows danc'd along the gloomy Wall:
His haughty Spirit was at this diſmay'd,
Lycander trembl'd, and was once afraid:
Why beats my Heart, my coward Heart, he cries;
And why this Miſt before my dazzl'd Eyes?
Sophinia's mine, and I will ſeize my Store,
If thouſand Spectres guard the awful Door:
Then ruſhing in, the lovely Dame he found
In fullen Poſture and in Thought profound;
The wonted Roſes from her Cheeks were fled,
On her fair Hand reclin'd her beauteous Head:
[213] With Flatt'ry firſt he tip'd his artful Tongue,
And ſtrove to palliate and excuſe the Wrong:
Let not Sophinia, with a Smile he cries,
Think we have ſeiz'd her as a hoſtile Prize;
The Fault we owe to this unconquer'd Flame,
Love was the Aggreſſor and be his the blame:
Truſt not thy Reaſon to a haughty Guide,
Nor call that Honour which is only Pride:
Honour a pageant Miſtreſs of the vain,
The Virgin's Tyrant and the Hero's Chain;
If ſparkling Wealth can pleaſe thy brighter Eyes,
The Mines of Perſia at thy Feet ſhall riſe;
And when thy Chariot marks the duſty Fields,
Full thirty Slaves ſhall grace the ſhining Wheels:
For thee the Eaſt ſhall yield her ſpicy Bowers,
And ſweeter Baths diſtil from weeping Flowers;
Then ſmile my fair One and be timely wiſe;
The Maid reply'd, and roll'd her ſcornful Eyes.
Hence, fawning Traitor, why wouldſt thou be told,
How much I hate thy Perſon and thy Gold?
Miſtaken Nature with too nice a Care,
In vain has ſhap'd thee in a Mold ſo fair:
[214] Vice will be Vice howe'er 'tis poliſh'd o'er,
Thou Villain, dare to meet my Eyes no more.
Thoſe gloomy Birds that love the midnight Air,
And hover round the Manſions of Deſpair;
When to their Shrieks the hollow Roofs rebound,
And the hoarſe Raven aids the dreadful Sound;
Tho' howling Wolves ſhou'd with their Voices join,
Are leſs offenſive to my Ears than thine:
Beyond my Hate, if yet a Thought remain,
To make thy Spirit curſe the galling Chain;
If with thoſe Thorns that Love's ſoft Empire bounds,
Succeſsful Rivals give the deepeſt Wounds:
I love thy Brother, and, if that can be,
With Paſſion equal to my Hate for thee.
She ſaid—And Rage poſſeſt Lycander's Soul,
His pale Lips tremble and his Eye-balls roll:
Three times he rais'd a Dagger to her Breaſt,
But mighty Love his daring Hand ſuppreſs'd;
And now ſhrill Cries invade his wond'ring Ears,
The noiſe of Battle and the claſh of Spears;
Starting he turn'd, nor ſtaid to make reply,
Tho' Fury ſparkl'd in his threat'ning Eye:
[215] To Arms his Friends in mingled Voices call,
And Danger hover'd o'er the frowning Wall.
III.
In that ſad Hour, when the frighted Maid
Was drawn by Villains from the mourning Shade,
Polyphon to th' appointed Foreſt came;
He reach'd the Bower, but he miſs'd the Dame;
Through balmy Paths with infant Roſes bound,
Where bluſhing Daiſies ſtrew the painted Ground;
He rov'd, impatient of the Nymph's Delay,
And often doubted to return or ſtay:
By chance he turn'd his mournful Eye, and ſees
His Friend Acanthus through the parting Trees:
The Youth drew nearer with an eager Pace
Amazement hover'd on his boding Face;
And thus impatient to Polyphon ſaid,
Where is Sophinia, where thy darling Maid,
This Ev'ning reſtleſs, tho' I know not why,
When ſetting Phoebus ſtain'd the weſtern Sky:
To theſe ſweet Shades I took my heedleſs Way,
To ſhare the Fragrance of declining Day:
[216] Alone and penſive as I wander'd here,
A Woman's Voice ſurpris'd my liſt'ning Ear;
To yon rude Tow'rs I trac'd the ſinking Sound,
Till the ſtill'd Out-cries were in diſtance drown'd:
What think you now? I fear ſome threat'ning Ill
From headſtrong Paſſion and imperious Will:
I fear Sophinia and yourſelf betray'd,
I know your Brother loves the beauteous Maid;
Then hear my Vow, the frantick Lover cries,
And turn'd his Eye-balls on the glimm'ring Skies:
Hear me, ye Pow'rs whoſe ſacred Hands ſuſtain
Theſe Worlds of Nature in a mighty Chain;
If my fierce Brother has preſum'd to bear,
And from her Bowers force my injur'd Fair,
Theſe wakeful Eye-lids ſhall no more be clos'd:
This Spirit reſted, nor theſe Limbs repos'd;
This vengeful Rapier ſhall be ſheath'd no more,
Till the rude Traitor ſhall his Prize reſtore:
He ſaid, and raging left the gloomy Shade,
Full of Reſentment for his injur'd Maid:
Acanthus ſummon'd to a neighb'ring Plain
Their Friends a little, but a martial Train:
[217] Twice twenty Youths their Gen'ral's Voice attend,
And ſhare the Quarrel of their injur'd Friend.
Polyphon pleas'd to ſee the aſſembl'd Pow'rs,
Led his ſmall Squadron to the hoſtile Towers:
The frowning Portals well ſecur'd they found,
The gloomy Court with Centries guarded round;
Who ſpite of Reaſon and their Country's Laws,
Were drawn to combat in a guilty Cauſe:
The firſt of theſe Cyrenus, fair and young,
Whoſe curling Locks below his Shoulders hung,
Too raſhly bold encounter'd hand to hand,
Fierce Polyarchus of Polyphon's Band:
The pointed Jav'lin ſped beneath his Chin,
And ſtreaming Purple ſtain'd his beauteous Skin:
His very Cheeks are waſh'd with deeper Dyes,
And laſting Slumber ſeals his ſwimming Eyes:
This piteous Sight enrag'd the vicious Train,
But moſtly Iphis Brother of the ſlain;
Revenge, he cry'd, and hurl'd his deathful Dart:
It hiſs'd along, but miſs'd the Hero's Heart,
Deſpairing, raging, on the Youth he flew,
While down his Forehead roll'd the ſultry Dew:
[218] Blows anſwer Blows, and round their Temples ſing
The glancing Weapons, and the Bucklers ring:
Aloof they fight, or now in Circles wheel'd,
Each thought to conquer; both diſdain to yield,
Till Polyarchus with a ſide-way Blow
Tranſpierc'd the Liver of his heedleſs Foe:
He drew the Weapon from his tortur'd Side,
The gaping Wound diſgorg'd a purple Tide:
His Eyes turn'd upward with a ghaſtly Roll,
Headlong he fell and ſob'd away his Soul:
Now Joy tranſported the victorious Throng,
With Polyarchus all the Welkin rung:
Applauſe and Clamour ſhook the trembling Ground,
Lycander heard and curs'd the hated Sound:
Griev'd for his Friend he with the foremoſt preſs'd,
And all their Lances glitter round his Breaſt:
But the ſtrong Shield their Points at diſtance holds,
Where two fair Eagles ſpread their Wings in Gold;
A weighty Spear his better Hand ſupplies,
And livid Light'nings ſparkle in his Eyes.
Vinario firſt ſuſtain'd the Warrior's Rage,
The beauteous Darling of his Father's Age;
[219] His tender Arm the deadly Spear arreſts,
And tore his Shoulder from his ivory Breaſt:
Too late his Friends to his Aſſiſtance run,
For his black Eyes no more behold the Sun.
Miranthus next did his bright Lance extend,
A bluſt'ring Soldier and Lycander's Friend:
Him Merias met, old Meriander's Heir,
The youthful Husband of Lycoſia fair:
Now born untimely from his Father's Side,
His ſmiling Fortunes and his lovely Bride:
Juſt at his Hip the Steel an Entrance found,
And tore his Bowels with a ghaſtly Wound:
Back fell the Youth, his tinkling Arms reply;
Loud Shrieks and Clamours rend the frighted Sky:
Polyphon now with deadly Anguiſh ſtung,
His ready Jav'lin at the Victor flung:
The erring Weapon with a whiſtling Sound
Flew o'er his Head, and plough'd the diſtant Ground:
Enrag'd to ſee the bloodleſs Point deſcend,
And miſs the Vengeance for his bleeding Friend;
His ſhining Eyes that did with Fury glow,
He turn'd, and thus defy'd the ſtronger Foe:
[220] Hope not for Conqueſt, mighty Clown, he cries,
From thy ſtern Viſage and gigantick Size:
A little Arm, if Heav'n direct the Blow,
May ſend thee howling to the Shades below:
Slave, cries Miranthus with a ſtormy Glare,
Go, waſh thy Face, and curl thy waving Hair,
Thy coward Heart belies thy daring Tongue;
He ſpoke and drove his weighty Spear along,
The failing Miſchief on the Buckler ſung:
Not ſo Polyphon ſent his faithful Dart,
The ſpeedy Vengeance reach'd the Hero's Heart;
Down fell the Knight, his clanging Arms rebound,
And his proud Soul came ruſhing thro' the Wound.
Lycander ſaw, but turn'd his Eyes away,
Where in the Duſt the mighty Soldier lay;
Then like a Whirlwind ruſh'd the Youth along,
And ſought his Brother in the hoſtile Throng:
Polyphon's Spear his frantick Hand arreſts,
And hurl'd the Weapon at its Owner's Breaſt;
The miſſive Death deceiv'd his bloody Hand,
Its thirſty Point lay ſhiver'd in the Sand:
[221] Suſpence and Horror held the martial Crew,
And the ſick Moon receiv'd a paler Hue:
The Stars retir'd from the hated Sight,
And wrap'd their Glories in the Clouds of Night.
Polyphon cry'd, O ſtay thy hoſtile Arm,
The Name of Brother wears a potent Charm:
Our Mother did in Youth's fair Bloom expire,
And left us Infants to our tender Sire;
And till Sophinia blew this deadly Flame,
Our Fears were equal and our Hopes the ſame;
The ſame our Pleaſures and the like our Woes;
We ſlept together and as fondly roſe,
Then let, O let not murd'rous Rage divide
Our Hearts, but lay thoſe threat'ning Arms aſide:
Let ranc'rous Hate poſſeſs our Souls no more,
Thou to her Friends the beauteous Maid reſtore;
Then let her Voice our rival Cauſe decide,
And him ſhe favours wed the ſmiling Bride:
He ſaid; but Rage had ſtop'd Lycander's Ears;
Baſe Slave, he cry'd, thou Child of puny Fears,
Not Laon's Son thy Soul diſclaim her Race,
My Mother ne'er produc'd a Thing ſo baſe,
[222] Some fairy Elf or treach'rous Nurſe beguil'd
My ſleeping Parents of their lawful Child:
Then in his Place her dunghil Offspring laid,
And my young Brother to her Hut convey'd:
This was thy Mother coarſer than her Fate,
And thou the Son of her plebeian Mate:
Here ceas'd the Youth;—for Actions ſpoke the reſt,
And hurl'd a Jav'lin at Polyphon's Breaſt:
His Shield receiv'd it with a ſmart Rebound,
The miſſive Weapon trembl'd on the Ground;
Now hand to hand the rival Youths engage,
Lycander burn'd with more than mortal Rage:
Black Fury roll'd in each relentleſs Eye,
Both fought to conquer or reſolv'd to die;
But now Lycander, tho' with Hate inſpir'd,
By fits was fainting and by fits reſpir'd;
Polyphon's Sword a fatal Paſſage found,
Beneath his Arm a deep and ghaſtly Wound;
Stagg'ring he drop'd and graſp'd the bloody Ground.
Yet as he liv'd, without a Groan he fell,
Nor drew a Sigh, but only cry'd, 'Tis well;
[223] 'Tis well, my Fury with my Life ſhall end:
Farewel, my Brother and at laſt my Friend;
By our dear Parent ſee me quickly laid,
Be thine the Conqueſt, thine the beauteous Maid;
He paus'd, and then with feebler Accent cries,
My Friends, Farewel, and clos'd his ſwimming Eyes:
The mourning Victor bending o'er the ſlain,
Eſſay'd to raiſe him, but eſſay'd in vain:
His failing Arms reſign'd their feeble Hold,
And Drops of Horror from his Temples roll'd:
From each cold Cheek the bluſhing Beauty flies,
And the Ground danc'd before his dazzl'd Eyes;
The weeping Youth, with friendly Force, divide
The gentle Mourner from his Brother's Side;
Then Friends and Foes united gather round,
And lift the bleeding Body from the Ground;
Some raiſe the drooping Head, and others preſs'd
Their careful Arms around his manly Breaſt;
Tho' with black Duſt and hoſtile Crimſon ſtain'd,
Its native Fierceneſs ſtill the Face retain'd;
Back on his Shoulders fell his graceful Hair,
And the grand Features wore a ſcornful Air.
[224] Now all too late the raſh Adventure blame,
Pale Conqueſt ſigh'd and loath'd her hated Name;
From the black Tow'rs their ſolemn Steps return,
And both the Victors and the Vanquiſh'd mourn.
The DEATH of ABEL.
[232]WHEN from the Shade of Eden's bliſsful Bow'rs,
Its Fruit ambroſial and immortal Flow'rs,
Our gen'ral Mother (who too ſoon rebell'd,)
Was, with the Partner of her Crime, expell'd
To Fields leſs fruitful—where the rugged Soil
With Thorns and Thiſtles often paid their Toil;
Where the pale Flow'rs ſoon loſt their chearful Hue,
And ruſhing Tempeſts o'er the Mountains flew:
Two Sons the Matron in her Exile bore,
Unlike in Feature but their Natures more;
The eldeſt Youth for Husbandry renown'd,
Tore up the Surface of the ſteril Ground;
His nervous Arms for rugged Tasks were form'd;
His Cheek but ſeldom with a Smile adorn'd;
Drops rais'd by Labour down his Temples run,
His Temples tarniſh'd by the mid-day Sun,
[233] Robuſt of Body, and of Soul ſevere,
Unknown to Pity, and the like to Fear.
Not ſo his Brother, caſt in fairer Mold
Was he—and ſofter than his fleecy Fold;
Fair were his Cheeks that bluſh'd with roſy Dye,
Peace dwelt for ever in his chearful Eye,
Nor Guilt, nor Rage his gentle Spirit knew;
Sweet were his Slumbers, for his Cares were few;
Thoſe were to feed and watch the tender Lamb,
And ſeek freſh Paſture for its bleating Dam,
From burning Suns his thirſty Flocks to hide,
And ſeek the Vales where limpid Rivers glide.
'Twas ere rude Hands had reap'd the waving Grain,
When Plenty triumph'd on the fertile Plain,
That to the Centre of a pleaſant Down,
Where half was Paſture, half a plenteous Brown:
Theſe Youths repair'd both emulous of Fame,
And rais'd an Altar to Jehovah's Name,
With Heart elate and ſelf-preſuming Eye,
Firſt to the Pile unhappy Cain drew nigh.
[234] Choice was his Off'ring, yet no Sign appear'd,
No Flame was ſeen, nor Voice celeſtial heard:
Aſtoniſh'd ſtood the late preſumptuous Man,
Then came his Brother with a trembling Lamb;
His God accepts the Sacrifice ſincere;
The Flames propitious round the Slain appear;
The curling Smoke aſcended to the Skies:
This Cain beheld, and roll'd his glowing Eyes.
Stung to the Soul, he with his frantick Hand
A Stone up-rooted from the yielding Sand,
Nor ſpoke—for Rage had ſtop'd his failing Tongue;
The heavy Death impetuous whirl'd along:
This Abel met—his Heart receiv'd the Wound;
Amaz'd he fell, and graſp'd the bloody Ground.
The gentle Spirit ſprung to endleſs Day,
And left behind her Caſe of beauteous Clay;
Pale ſtood the Brother—to a Statue chill'd,
A conſcious Horror through his Boſom thrill'd:
His frighted Eyes abhorr'd the Beams of Light,
And long'd to find a never-ceaſing Night.
[235]Shock'd at the Sight of Murder firſt begun,
Down the ſteep Heavens roll'd the radiant Sun,
Old Night aſſuming her appointed Sway,
Stretch'd her black Mantle o'er the Face of Day:
Now for their Leader mourn'd the bleating Lambs,
That rov'd neglected by their penſive Dams;
The careful Parents ſearch the Fields around;
They call—the Woods roll back an empty Sound.
Within a Foreſt's ſolitary Gloom,
Slept gentle Abel in a ſecret Tomb,
And there (beneath a Cypreſs Shade reclin'd)
Cain breath'd his Sorrows to the ruſhing Wind:
That in the Branches made a doleful Sound;
'Twas Silence elſe, and horrid Darkneſs round,
When lo! a ſudden and a piercing Ray
O'er-ſpread the Foreſt with a Blaze of Day,
And then deſcended on the hallow'd Ground,
A Seraph with empyreal Glory crown'd:
Afflicted Cain (that knew not where to fly)
Gaz'd on the Viſion with diſtracted Eye:
When thus the Angel—Why theſe mournful Cries,
[236] Theſe loud Complaints that pierce the nightly Skies.
Lye not to Heaven, but directly ſay,
Where roves thy Brother, where does Abel ſtray.
He ſaid—and thus the guilty Wretch return'd;
O ſacred Guardian, I for Abel mourn'd:
I ne'er beheld him ſince the Day began,—
But why this Viſit to a ſimple Man?
Thus the Celeſtial—Wretch, canſt thou preſume,
Thy Brother's Blood may ſlumber in its Tomb:
Or thou may'ſt ward off Vengeance with a Lye,
And dare attempt deceiving God moſt high;
But now thy Doom, O wretched Mortal hear;
The fleeting Hours nor the rolling Year,
To thee nor Joy, nor chearful Eaſe ſhall bring:
Alike to thee the Winter and the Spring,
Still vex'd with Woe, thy heavy Days ſhall fly
Beneath a radiant or a gloomy Sky:
Curs'd ſhalt thou be amidſt thy vagrant Band,
And curs'd the Labours of thy guilty Hand:
He ceas'd—But Cain all proſtrate on the Ground,
Still in his Ears retain'd the dreadful Sound:
[237] At length he roſe, and trembling thus began;
This is too much—too much for mortal Man:
The mighty Debt, O let me quickly pay,
And ſweep me inſtant from the Beams of Day:
The yet unborn, that I am curs'd, ſhall know,
And all ſhall hate me to augment the Blow:
Ev'n my own Sons, if ſuch are giv'n to be
The Death of Abel, ſhall revenge on me:
Thus he to change the dreadful Sentence try'd,
Thus the ſeraphick Meſſenger reply'd;
This Mark, O Cain, I fix upon thy Brow:
And thus by Heav'n's mighty Monarch vow,
Who ſheds thy Blood, that Criminal ſhall be
Curs'd—Sev'n times curs'd, and wretched more than thee.
Thus be that Mortal who ſhall tear the Rod
Of ſcorching Vengeance from the Hand of God;
That Man may learn to fear the King of Kings:
He ſaid—and waving his immortal Wings,
That inſtant mingled with the ſtarry Train,
And Darkneſs wrap'd the ſilent Shades again.
JOB'S CURSE, and his APPEAL.
Taken out of Job, Chap. i, and xxxi.
[238]LET not that Day in circling Moments run,
When firſt theſe Eyes beheld th' odious Sun:
Let his gay Beams forſake the mourning Fields,
And ſtarting backward roll his flaming Wheels;
Let ſulphurous Hail deſcend in baneful Show'rs,
And horrid Darkneſs mix the jumbling Hours;
Let trembling Mortals gaze in vain for Light,
Curs'd be the Day and doubly curs'd the Night:
Thou my great Judge theſe Imprecations hear,
And rend her Minutes from the rolling Year;
To the ſad Skies be every Star deny'd;
While ſcorching Plagues on quivering Meteors ride,
Let the black Air no melting Muſick know,
But ring with Horror and Complaints of Woe:
Through the grim Shade let griſly Terrors run,
And weeping Sorrows that abhor the Sun:
[239] Let pale-ey'd Spectres burſt their yawning Tombs,
And dreadful Echos ſhake th' hideous Gloom;
The low'ring Eaſt pour down a laſhing Storm;
Nor through her Gates admit th' ſtruggling Morn:
Let the dark Hours no lively breaking ſee,
Becauſe they gave theſe ceaſeleſs Tears to me.
As others have, alas! why could not I
Yield my ſhort Being, and an Infant die?
Why was a Mother's Care indulg'd to me?
And why ſupported on her friendly Knee?
Why did I in her tender Boſom grow,
A foſter'd Subject of impending Woe?
Did friendly Death my marble Limbs enchain,
This bleeding Heart would know no ſmarting Pain;
Then laſting Sleep would ſeal my ſhaded Eyes,
Where frozen Pride and conquer'd Vengeance lies;
There weary Slaves forgotten Reſt may find,
And injur'd Orphans leave their Tears behind;
Tyrannick Rage muſt in the Grave ſubſide,
Where ſtarving Wretches find their Wants ſupplyd,
Thrice happy Reſt, O why to me deny'd!
[240] Life ſtill will hover round deſpairing Slaves,
Who ſlight her Favours, and would court their Graves;
Death gliding by us, ſhews his grizly Charms;
But the coy Phantom mocks our reaching Arms:
He flies the Dungeons of intreating Woe,
And ſtrikes the Proſp'rous with unwelcome Blow:
To blooming Youth his partial Arrows fly,
O'er wither'd Mendicants, that vainly try
To meet the fatal Shaft, and only wiſh to die.
When Darkneſs ſits as Regent of the Skies,
And round my Bed redoubled Horrors riſe,
Till Night grows hideous with my conſtant Cries:
My tortur'd Limbs with ceaſeleſs Pangs are torn,
But yet I live to ſee returning Morn:
The piercing Sun thruſts in a ſpiteful Ray,
To wound my Eyelids with unwelcome Day.
Tyrannick Death, whom trembling Mortals flee,
The Prince of Ills to ev'ry Wretch but me,
[241] Plays with the Torments of my ſtruggling Heart,
And o'er my Boſom ſhakes his ling'ring Dart.
O! ſacred Judge, when will thy Wrath be done?
Why do I live to ſcare the wond'ring Sun?
Let not thy Mercy ſpare my wounded Clay,
But ſtrike and ſweep me from offenſive Day.
My Heart is vexed with conſuming Fears,
And nouriſh'd only with continual Tears;
Cloſe at my Heels purſue a meagre Train
Of pining Sickneſs and diſtorting Pain,
Pale-ey'd Confuſion with diſhivel'd Hair,
And wild Impatience leading on Deſpair.
Did I with Crimes profane my Days of Reſt?
Did e'er Preſumption ſwell my riſing Breaſt?
Did guilty Flame my tainted Soul ſurpriſe?
Or Snares of Beauty catch my wand'ring Eyes?
If e'er Injuſtice ſwell'd my ſpreading Lands,
If e'er Oppreſſion ſtain'd my guiltleſs Hands;
Then let my God his flaming Vengeance throw,
Renew my Plagues, and double every Woe.
[242] Did e'er my Servants of their Lord complain?
Did humble Rhetorick ever plead in vain?
In vain to me did helpleſs Widows cry?
Or at my Gate neglected Orphans lie?
No; their glad Eyes my plenteous Table knew,
And with my own the foſter'd Infants grew.
Was e'er my Portals barr'd againſt the Poor?
Did not the Stranger bleſs my friendly Door?
Tho' cold and hungry in my Courts he mourn'd,
Joyful and full the ſmiling Wretch return'd.
When every Good obey'd my lordly Will,
Did I by Fraud my glitt'ring Coffers fill?
Did I by Fraud increaſe the tempting Store?
Or dote too fondly on the ſhining Ore?
Did reſtleſs Envy in my Boſom roll?
Or lurking Malice blot my tainted Soul?
No—this fond Heart has bled for diſtant Woe,
And learn'd Compaſſion for a ſinking Foe.
Did e'er my Soul from its Creator run
To painted Idols, or the beaming Sun?
[243] Or to the Moon my wav'ring Senſes yield,
When her pale Rays adorn'd the gliſt'ring Field?
Yet ſtay, preſumptuous Wretch, nor urge too far
Thy doubtful Sentence at the dreadful Bar:
What melting Rhet'rick, or what potent Friend,
At Heav'n's Tribunal ſhall thy Cauſe defend?
Where ſmother'd Evils, hid from mortal Eye,
Mature and open to Omniſcience lie.
The CHARMS of ANTHONY.
YE Swains, attend; let ev'ry Nymph be near;
Be ſtill, ye Rivers, that the Swains may hear:
Ye Winds, be calm, and bruſh with ſofter Wing;
We mean the Charms of Anthony to ſing;
See all around the liſt'ning Shepherds throng;
O help, ye Siſters of immortal Song.
LUCY.
Sing, Phebe, ſing what Shepherd rules the Plain,
Young Colin's Envy, and Aminda's Pain:
Whom none can rival when he mows the Field,
And to whoſe Flute the Nightingale muſt yield.
PHEBE.
'Tis Anthony—'tis he deſerves the Lay,
As mild as Ev'ning, and as Morning gay;
[250] Not the freſh Blooms on yonder Codling-tree,
Nor the white Hawthorn half ſo fair as he;
Nor the young Daiſy dreſs'd in Morning Dew;
Nor the Pea Bloſſom wears a brighter Hue.
LUCY.
None knows like him to ſtrew the wheaten Grain,
Or drive the Plough-ſhare o'er the fertile Plain;
To raiſe the Sheaves, or reap the waving Corn,
Or mow brown Stubble in the early Morn.
PHEBE.
How mild the Youth, when on a ſultry Day
In yonder Vale we turn'd the fragrant Hay:
How on his Voice the liſt'ning Shepherds hung,
Not tuneful Stella half ſo ſweetly ſung.
LUCY.
Whether he binds the Sheaf in twiſted Band,
Or turns the Pitch-fork on his nimble Hand;
He's ſure to win a Glance from ev'ry Eye,
While clumſy Colin ſtands neglected by.
PHEBE.
His curling Locks by far more lovely ſhew,
Than the white Wig on Squire Fopling's Brow;
[251] And when the Shepherd on a rainy Day,
Weaves for his Hat a Wiſp of flow'ry Hay,
The ſcarlet Feather not ſo gay appears,
Which on his Crown Sir Ambroſe Fino wears.
LUCY.
For Anthony Meriah leaves her Cow,
And ſtands to gape at him upon the Mow:
While he (for who but muſt that Wench deſpiſe?)
Throws Straws and Cobwebs on her ſtaring Eyes.
PHEBE.
To the Back-door I ſaw proud Lydia hie,
To ſee the Team with Anthony go by;
He ſlily laugh'd, and turn'd him from the Door,
I thought the Damſel would have ſpoke no more.
LUCY.
Me once he met, 'twas when from yonder Vale,
Each Morn I brought the heavy milking Pail:
He took it from my Head, and with a Smile
Reach'd out his Hand, and help'd me o'er the Stile.
PHEBE.
As I was dancing late amongſt the Crew,
A yellow Pippin o'er my Head he threw:
[252] Sue bit her Lips, and Barbaretta frown'd;
And Phillis look'd as tho' ſhe wou'd have ſwoon'd.
Thus ſung the Maids till Colinet came by,
And Rodrigo from weeding of the Rye;
Each took his Laſs, and ſped 'em to the Town,
To drink cool Cider at the Hare and Hound:
The Damſels ſimper like the ſparkling Beer,
And Colin ſhines till Anthony is near.
The CRUEL PARENT.
A DREAM.
'TWAS when the Sun had his ſwift Progreſs made,
And left his Empire to the Queen of Shade;
Bright Cynthia too, with her refulgent Train,
Shot their pale Luſtre o'er the dewy Plain:
Sat lonely Mira with her Head reclin'd,
And mourn'd the Sorrows of her helpleſs Kind:
[274] Then to her Fancy Celia's Woes appear,
The Nymph, whoſe Tale deſerves a pitying Tear;
Whoſe early Beauties met a ſwift Decay;
A Roſe that faded at the riſing Day,
While Grief and Shame oppreſs'd her tender Age,
Purſu'd by Famine and a Father's Rage;
Till too much Thought the aking Heart oppreſs'd.
And Mira's Eye-lids clos'd in ſilent Reſt:
Then active Fancy, with her airy Train,
Compos'd the Subſtance of the enſuing Dream.
In a black Shade my wand'ring Self I found,
A Wood encircl'd by a thorny Bound;
Where Oaks up-rais'd their kingly Heads on high,
And the pleas'd Linnets thro' the Branches fly:
There lofty Elms the wond'ring Skies invade,
And the dark Cypreſs caſt a browner Shade:
Grave Laurels there the humbler Shrubs o'erlook;
There the pale Aſh, and there the Poplar ſhook;
Here pliant Elder whom her Fruits adorn,
And the brown Haſel wove with ſhagged Thorn:
[275] Rude Briers there their claſping Tendrels twine,
Whoſe rugged Arms with uſeleſs Roſes ſhine.
Beyond the Confines of the dusky Brake,
A Plain was bounded with a putrid Lake,
Where Planks of Timber ſtretch'd on mould'ring Beams,
Form'd a weak Paſſage o'er the ſtanding Streams,
Whoſe ſlimy Waters to its Arches clung,
Where wrap'd in Weeds the clodded Vermin hung,
On this brown Plain ſurrounded by the Wood,
And the green Lake—an aged Caſtle ſtood;
Whoſe iron Gates were ſtrictly ſhut to all,
And frowning Roofs hung o'er the crumbling Wall:
Here perch'd Revenge and ever-waſting Care,
And Melancholy with diſhivel'd Hair.
Before the Portals wait a griſly Band,
Fraud with a Pencil in her ſhaking Hand:
Long Scrolls of Parchment at her Feet were laid,
Behind her Shoulder ſtood her ghaſtly Maid:
[276] Oppreffion nam'd—and ſtretch'd her filthy Claw,
And next pale Av'rice with inſatiate Maw;
Two cumbrous Bags his twining Arms infold,
Of canker'd Silver and of uſeleſs Gold:
Grimly he ſtands, and by his Side appears
Fierce Cruelty, all drench'd in Orphans Tears;
Within (attended by relentleſs Hate)
Suſpicion ſquinted through the barbarous Grate:
To theſe rude Doors approach'd with baſhful Mien,
Soft Celia once the brighteſt of the Plain,
But now the Roſes from her Cheeks were flown,
Nor cou'd the Fair One by her Charms be known;
Thoſe Charms are now in ſable Weeds array'd,
Her Arm ſupported by a mournful Maid:
From her wan Eyes the Tears inceſſant flow,
And all her Form was Penitence and Woe.
But ſee Lyſegus, her relentleſs Sire,
Whoſe Eye-balls ſparkl'd with diſdainful Ire;
His potent Hand the ſounding Locks obey,
With grating Noiſe the horrid Gates gave way:
Then proſtrate at his Feet the Damſel lay.
[277] Three times to ſpeak the lovely Mourner try'd;
Thrice on her Lips the fainting Murmurs dy'd;
Sigh follows Sigh, and Tear ſucceeds to Tear:
At length ſhe cry'd—Ah! may Lyſegus hear;
If Nature or if Penitence may ſue,
Ah! let my Sorrows find Relief from you;
The nightly Stars my conſtant Wailings know,
The riſing Sun is Witneſs to my Woe:
But who ſhall paint what wretched Celia feels,
While Shame and Famine hunt her flying Heels:
The Fools deride me, and the virtuous ſhun,
Then to the Fields and lonely Shades I run;
Yet find no Comfort from the lonely Shade,
At my Approach the Bloſſoms ſeem to fade:
I fly to Wilds unknown to human Kind,
But cannot leave my hated Self behind;
And am—Oh am I—by my Parent curs'd;
Of all my Woes the deepeſt and the worſt:
She ſaid—Lyſegus anſwer'd in a Rage,
Hence vile Diſturber of my luckleſs Age:
Think not by Tears this ſtubborn Heart to win,
Nor jar my Senſes with thy hateful Din:
[278] Go learn of Vagrants (fit Companions) go,
Their Arts of Stealing and their Whine of Woe.
Yet when before the Gate of Pride you ſtand,
And crave your Morſel at the Porter's Hand;
May ſome ſtern Slave prevent the coming Prize,
Thrown to the Dogs before thy longing Eyes:
He ceas'd—but Celia views no more the Sun,
For now her Sorrow with her Life was done:
Her Eyes no more afford their lucid Streams,
Nor the Pulſe ſtruggles in her quiet Veins.
The Tyrant view'd her with a ghaſtly Look,
His Heart beat heavy, and his Sinews ſhook;
When lo a Spectre horrible to view,
Roſe quick as Vapours of a Morning Dew;
Whoſe Preſence caſt unpleaſing Darkneſs round,
A Cypreſs Wreath his faded Temples crown'd:
Strange Forms were painted on his ſable Robe,
One Hand extended bore a cryſtal Globe;
Where the pale Sinner might his Picture find,
Yet not his Features, but his darker Mind:
[279] In vain to ſhun the faithful Glaſs he tries,
It plays unask'd before his aking Eyes:
His quick left Hand with this perform'd its Part,
His Right was dreadful with a poiſon'd Dart:
Then with a loud and horrid Voice he cry'd,
Lyſegus, mourn thy Cruelty and Pride:
From the fair Court of Equity I came,
Call'd by thy Sins, and Conſcience is my Name:
This venom'd Dart ſhall now thy Entrails tear,
And teach thy Eyes to know the melting Tear:
Prepare thy Spirits for their Weight of Woe,
With Celia's Name I arm the dreadful Blow:
He ſaid and ſtruck—the viſionary Dart
Sought the dark Bottom of Lyſegus' Heart:
He fell—and falling rais'd a fearful Cry;
Then Mira 'woke, and found the Morning Sky.
FINIS.