ON

With awful silence stalk'd before the gate, Tor this, with pity touchid, almighty Jose,
But when he saw the trophies of his fate,

The sire of gods, dispatch'd me from above.
High on a colunin rais'd against the door,

Be still a monarch ; let him swell in vain And his rich chariot still de form'd with gore, With a gay prospect of a fancy'd reigo : He starts with horrour back; ev'n Jove's command Still let himn hope by fraud, or by the sword, Could scarce control bim, nor the vital wand. To bumble Thebes beneath a foreign lord.”

'Twas pow the solemn day, when Jove, array'd Thus the majestic ghost; but ere he fled, In all his thunders, grasp'd the Theban maid: He pluck'd the wreaths and fillets from his head. Then took from blasted Seinele her load,

For now the sickening stars were chas'd away, And in himself conceir'd the future god.

And Heaven's immortal coursers breath'd the day. For this the Thebans revel'd in delight,

Awful to sight confest the grandsire stood, And gave to play and luxury the night;

Bared his wide wound, and all his bosom shor'd, A national debauch ! confus'd they lie

Then dash'd the sleeping monarch with his blood. Stretch'd o'er the fields, their canopy the sky. With a distracted air, and sudden spring, The sprightly trumpets sound, the timbrels play, Starts from his broken sleep the trembling king. And wake with sacred harmony the day.

Shakes off amaz'd th' imaginary gore, The matron's breast the gracious power inspires While fancy paints the scene he saw before : With milder raptures, and with softer fires. Deep in his soul his grandsire's image wrought, So the Bistonian race, a madding train,

And all his brother rose in every thought Exult and revel on the Thracian plain ;

So while the toils are spread, and from behind With milk their bloody banquets they allay, The hunter's shouts come thickening in the wind; Or from the lion rend his panting prey:

The tiger starts from sleep the war to wage, On some abandon'd savage fiercely fly,

Collects his powers, and rouses all his rage: Seize, tear, devour, and think it luxury.

Sternly he grinds his fangs, he weighs his might, But if the rising fumes of wine conspire

And whets his dreadful talons for the fight; To warm their rage, and fan the brutal fire, Then to his young he bears his foe away, Then scenes of horrour are their dear delight, His foe at once the chaser and the prey, They whirl the goblets, and provoke the tight: Thus on his brother he in every thought, Then on the slain the revel is renew'd

Waged future wars, and batiles yet unfought. And all the horrid banquet Aoats in blood.

And now the winged Hermes from on high Shot in deep silence from the dusky skv; Then hover'd o'er the Theban tyrant's head, THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. As stretch'd at ease he prest his gorgeous bed: Where labour'd tapestry from side to side,

WITH joy, blest youth, we saw thee reach thy goal; Glow'd with rich figures, and Assyrian pride.

Fair was thy frame, and beautiful thy soul; Oh! the precarious terms of buman state !

The Graces and the Muses came combin'd, How blind is man! how thoughtless of his fate;

These to adorn the body, those the mind; Sce! through his limbs the dews of slumber creep, Twas there we saw the softest manners meet, Sunk as he lies, in luxury and sleep.

Truth, sweetness, judgment, innocence, and wit. The reverend shade commission'd from above,

So form’d, he flew his race; 'twas quickly won; Hastes to fulfil the high behests of Jove:

'Twas but a step, and finish'd vben begun. Like blind Tiresias to the bed he came,

Nature herself surpris'd would add no more, In form, in babit, and in voice the same,

His life complete in all its parts before ; Pale, as before, the phantom still appear'd,

But his few years with pleasing wonder told, Down his wan bosom flow'd a length of beard ;

By virtues, not by days; and thought him old. His head an imitated fillet wore,

So far beyond his age those virtues ran, His hand a wreath of peaceful olive bore :

That in a boy she found him more than man. With this he touch'd the sleeping monarch's breast, For years let wretches importune the skies, And in his own, the voice of Fate, exprest.

Till, at the long expense of anguish wise, “Then canst thou sleep, to thoughtless rest resign'd? They live, to count their days by miseries. And drive thy brother's image from thy mind?"

Those win the prize, who soonest run the race, Yon gathering storm demands thy timely care,

And life burns brightest in the shortest space. See! how it rolls this way the tide of war.

So to the convex-glass embody'd run, When o'er the seas the sweeping whirlwinds fly,

Drawn to a point, the glories of the Sun; And roar from every quarter of the sky;

At once the gathering beams intensely glow, The pilot, in despair the ship to save,

And through the streighten'd circle fiercely flow: Gives up the helm, a sport to every wave:

In one strong faine conspire the blended rays, Such is thy errour, and thy fate the same

Run to a fire, and crowd into a blaze.
(For know, I speak the common voice of Fame.)
Proud in his new alliances, from far
Against thy realm he meditates the war;

CHRIST'S PASSION,
Big with ambitious hopes to reign alone,

FROM A GREEK ODE OF MR. MASTER'S, FORMERLY O! And swell unrival'd on the Theban throne. New signs and fatal prodigies inspire His mad ambition, with his boasted sire ; And Argos' ample realms in dower bestow'd, No more of earthly subjects sing, And Tydeus reeking from his brother's blood,

To Heaven, my Muse aspire; League and conspire to raise him to the throne, To raise the song, charge every string, And make his tedious banishment thy own.

And strike the living lyre,

NEW COLLEGE,

AN ODE.

Begin; in lofty numbers show

Too long, too long, has she deplor'd
Th’ Eternal King's unfathom'd love,

Her absent father and her lord.
Who reigns' the sovereign God above,
And suffers on the cross below.

To bend her gracious monarch's mind,
Prodigious pile of wonders! rais’d too high

She sends her sighs in every wind : For the dim ken of frail mortality.

Can Britain's prayer be thrown aside? What numbers shall I bring along!

And that the first he e'er deny'd ! From whence shall I begin the song?

Yet, mighty prince, vouchsafe to smile, The mighty mystery I'll sing inspir'd

Return and bless our longing isle;
Beyond the reach of human wisdom wrought, Though fond Germania begs thy stay,
Beyond the compass of an angel's thought,

And courts thee from our eyes away.
How by the rage of man his God expir'd.
I'll make the trackless depths of mercy known,

Though Belgia would our king detain,
How to redeem his foe God rendered up his Sop;

We know she begs and pleads in vain ; l'll raise my voice to tell mankind

We know our gracious king prefers The victor's conquest o'er his doom,

Britannia's happiness to bers. How in the grave he lay confin'd,

And lo! to save us from despair, To seal more sure the ravenous tomb.

At length be listens to our prayer.
Three days th' infernal empire to subdue,

Dejected Albion's vows he hears,
He pass'd triumphant through the coasts of woe;
With his own dart the tyrant Death he slew,

And hastes to dry her falling tears.
And led Hell captive through her realms below. He hears his anxious people pray,

And loudly call their king away, A mingled sound from Calvary I hear,

Once more their longing eyes to bless, And the loud tumult thickens on my ear,

And guard their freedom and their peace. The shouts of murderers that insult the slain, The voice of torment and the shrieks of pain. They know, while Brunswick fills the throne, I cast my eyes with horrour up

The seasons glide with pleasure on ;
To the curst mountain's guilty top;

The British suns improve their rays,
See there! whom hanging in the midst I view ! Adorn, and beautify the days.
Ah ! how ulike the other two !

But see the royal vessel flies,
I see him high above his foes,

Lessening to Belgia's weeping eyes :
And gently bending from the wood
His head in pity down to those

She prondly sails for Albion's shores,

Guard her, ye gods, with all your powers. Whose guilt conspires to shed his blood. Ilis wide-extended arms I see,

O sea, bid every wave subside,
Transfix'd with nails, and fasten'd to the tree. And teach allegiance to thy tide;

Man! senseless man! canst thou look on? Thy billows in subjection keep,
Nor make thy Saviour's pains thy own.

And own the monarch of the decp.
The rage of all thy grief exert,
Rend thy garments and thy heart :

Old Thames can scarce his joys sustain,
Beat thy breast, and grovel low,

But runs down headlong to the main, Beneath the burden of thy woe;

His mighty master to descry, Bleed through thy bowels, tear thy hairs,

And leaves his spacious channel dry-
Breathe gales of sighs, and weep a flood of tears. Augusta's sons from either hand
Behold thy king with purple cover'd round, Pour forth, and darken all the strand;
Not in the 'Tyrian tinctures dy'd,

Their eyes pursue the royal barge,
Nor dipt in poison of Sidonian pride, swound. Which now resigns her sacred charge.
But in his own rich blood that streams from every Th' unruly transport shakes the shore,

Dost thou not see the thorny circle red?
The guilty wreath that blushes round his head ?

And drowns the feeble cannon's roar; .
And with what rage the bloody scourge apply'd,

The nations in the sight rejoice, Curls round his limbs, and ploughs into his side ?

And send their souls in every voice. At such a sight let all thy anguish rise,

But now amidst the loud applause, Break up, break up the fountains of thy eyes.

With shame the conscious Muse withdraws; Here bid thy tears in gushing torrents flow,

Nor can her voice be heard amidst the throng, Indulge thy grief, and give a loose to woe.

The theme so lofty, and so low the song.
Weep from thy soul, till Earth be drown's,

Weep, till thy sorrows drench the ground.
Canst thou, ungrateful man! his torments see,
Nor drop a tear for him, who pours his blood for

OV THE MASQUERADES. thee?

Si Natura negat, facit indignatio versum. WEL

ELL—we have reach'd the precipice at last; ON THE KING'S RETURN,

The present age of vice obscures the past.

Our dull forefathers were content to stay, IN THE YEAR 1720.

Nor sinn'd till Nature pointed out the way: RETURN, auspicious prince, again,

No arts they practis'd to forestall delight, Yor let Britannia mourn in vain ;

But stopp'd, to wait the calls of appetite.

Their top-debauches were at best precise,

The fond philosophers for gain
An unimpror'd simplicity of vice.

Will leave unturp'd no stone ;
But this blest age has found a fairer road, But though they tvil with endless pain,
And left the paths their ancestors have trod.

They never find their own.
Nay, we could wear (our taste so very nice is)
Their old cast-fashions sooner than their vices.

By the same rock the chymists drown,
Whoring till now a common trade has been,

And find no friendly hold,

But melt their ready specie down,
But masquerades refine upon the sin :
An higher Taste to wickedness impart,

In hopes of faucy'd gold.
And second Nature with the helps of art.

What is the mad projector's care? New ways and means to pleasure we devise,

In hopes elate and swelling,
Since pleasure looks the lovelier in disguise. He builds his castles in the air,
The stealth and frolic give a smarter gust,

Yet wants an house to dwell in,
Add wit to vice, and eloquence to lust.
In vain the modish evil to redress,

At court the poor de pendants fail,

And damn their fruitless toil,
At once conspire the pulpit and the press :
Our priests and poets preach and write in vain ;

When complimented thence to jail,
All satire's lost both sacred and profane.

And ruin'd with a smile. So many various changes to impart,

How to philosophers will sound Would tire an Ovid's or a Proteus' art;

So strange a truth display'd ?
Where lost in one promiscuous whim we see, “ There's not a substance to be found,
Sex, age, condition, quality, degree.

But every where a shade."
Where the facetious crowd themselves lay down,
And take up every person but their own.
Fools, dukes, rakes, cardinals, fops, Indian queens,
Belles in tye-wigs, and lords in harlequins ;

TO CELIA PLAYING ON A LUTE.
Troops of right-honourable porters come, [room:
And garter'd small-coal-merchants crowd the
Valets adorn'd with coronets appear,

While Cælia's hands fly swiftly o’er,
Lacqueys of state, and footmen with a star:
Sailors of quality with judges mix,

And strike this soft machine,
And chimney-sweepers drive their coach and six.

Her touch awakes the springs, and life Statesmen so us'd at court the mask to wear,

Of harmony within. With less, disguise assume the vizor here.

Sweetly they sink into the strings, Officious Heydegger deceives our eyes,

The quivering strings rebound, For his own person is his best disguise :

Each stroke obsequiously obey,
And half the reigning toasts of equal grace,

And tremble into sound.
Trust to the natural vizor of the face.
Idiots turn conjurers, and courtiers clowns;

Oh ! had you blest the years of old ;

His lute had Ovid strung,
And sultans drop their handkerchiefs to nuns.
Starch'd quakers glare in furbelows and silk;

And dwelt on yours, the charıning theme
Beaux deal in sprats, and dutchesses cry milk.

Of his immortal song,
But guard thy fancy, Muse, nor stain thy pen Your's, with Arion's wondrous harp,
With the lewd joys of this fantastic scene;

The bard had hung on high;
Where sexes blend in one confus'd intrigue, And on the new-born star bestow'd
Where the girls ravish, and the men grow big: The honours of the sky.
Nor credit what the idle world has said,
Of lawyers forc'd, and judges brought to bed :

The radiant spheres had ceas'd their tunes,
Or that to belles their brothers breathe their vows,

And danc'd in silence on, Or husbands through mistake gallant a spouse.

Pleas'd the new harmony to hear, Such dire disasters, and a numerous throng

More heavenly than their own. Of like enormities, require the song :

Of old to raise one shade from Hell, But the chaste Muse, with blushes cover'd o'er, To Orpheus was it given : Retires confus'd, and will reveal no more.

But every tune of yours calls down

An angel from his Heaven.

AN ODB.

OV A SHADOW.

AY ODE.

How are deluded human kind

By empty shows betray'd ?
In all their hopes and schemes they find

A nothing or a shade.
The prospects of a truncheon cast

The soldier on the wars;
Dismist with shatter'd limbs at last,

Brats, poverty, and scars.

TO THE UNKNOWN
AUTHOR OF THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES.
The theme in other works, for every part,
Supplies materials to the builder's art:
To build from matter, is sublimely great,
But gods and poets only can create ;
And such are you; their privilege you claim,
To show your wonders, but conceal your name.

Like some establish'd king, without control,
You take a general progress through the soul;

Survey each part, examine every side,

The Muse Alcides shall resound; Where she's secure, and where unfortify'd.

The twins of Leda shall succeed ; In faithful lines her history declare,

This for the standing fight renown'd, And trace the causes of her civil war ;

And that for managing the steed, Your pen no partial prejudices sway,

Whose star shines innocently still ; • But truth decides, and virtue wins the day. (pass,

The clouds disperse, the tempests cease, Through what gay fields and flowery scenes we

The waves obedient to their will, Where fancy sports, and fiction leads the chase?

Sink down, and hush their rage to peace. Where life, as through her various acts she tends, Like other comedies, in marriage ends.

Next shall I Numa's pious reign, What Muse but youis so justly could display Or thine, O Romulus, relate : Th' embauled passions marshal'd in array? Or Rome by Brutus freed again, Bid the rang'd appetites in order move,

Or haughty Cato's glorious fate?
Give lust a figure, and a shape to love?

Or dwell on noble Paulus' fame?
To airy notions solid forms dispense,
And inake our thoughts the images of sense?

Too lavish of the patriot's blood ?
Discover all the rational machine, [within?

Or Regulus' immortal name,
And show the movements, springs, and wheels

Too obstinately just and good ?
But Iymen waves bis torch, all discords cease; These with Camillus brave and bold,
All parley, drop their arms, and sue for peace. And other chiefs of matchless might,
Soon as the signal flames, they quit the light, Rome's virtuous poverty of old,
For all at first but differ'd to unite.

Severely season'd to the fight.
From every part the lines in order more,
And sweetly centre in the point of love.

Like trees, Marcellus' glory grows,
Let blockheads to the musty schools repair,

With an insensible advance; And poach for morals and the passions there,

The Julian star, like Cynthia, glows, Where Virtue, like a dwarf in giant's arms,

Who leads the planetary dance. Cumber'd with words, and manacled in terms, The Pates, ( sire of human race, Serves to amuse the philosophic fool,

Entrust great Cæsar to thy care, By method dry, and regularly dull.

Give him to hold thy second place, Who sees thy lines so visibly express

And reign thy sole vicegerent here. The soul herself in such a pleasing dress,

And whether India he shall tame, May from thy labours be convinc'd and taught,

Or to his chains the Seres doom ; How Spencer would have sung, and Plato thought.

Or mighty Parthia dreads his name,

And bows her haughty neck to Rome.
While on our groves thy bolts are hurta,

And thy loud car shakes Heaven above,
THE TWELFTII ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK He shall with justice awe the world,
OF HORACE,

.To nonc ipferior but to Jove.

TRANSLATED.

Wyat man, what hero will you raise,

By the shrill pipe, or deeper lyre? What god, o Clio, will you praise,

And teach the echoes to admire ? Amidst the shades of Helicon,

Cold Hæmus' tops, or Pindus' head, Whence the glad forests hasten d down,

And danc'd as tuneful Orpheus play'd. Taught by the Muse, he stopp'd the fall

Of' rapid floods, and charm'd the wind; The listening oaks obey'd the call,

And left their wondering hills behind. Whom should I first record, but Jove,

Whose sway extends o'er sea and land, The king of men and gods above,

Who holds the seasons in command ? To rival Jove, shall none aspire,

None shall to equal glory rise ; But Pallas claims beneath her sire,

The second honours of the skies. To thee, O Bacchus, great in war,

To Dian will I strike the string, Of Phæbus wounding from afar,

In numbers like his own I'll sing.

THE TWENTY-SECOND ODE OF THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.
The man unsully'd with a crime,

Disdains the pangs of fear,
He scorns to dip the poison'd shaft,

Or poise the glittering spear.
Nor with the loaded quiver goes

To take the dreadful field:
His solid virtue is his helm,

And innocence his shield.
In vain the fam'd Hydaspes' tides

Obstruct and bar the road,
He smiles on danger, and enjoys

The roarings of the flood.
All climes are native, and forgets

Th’ extremes of heats and frosts,
The Scythian Caucasus grows warm,

And cool the Libyan coasts..
For while I wander'd through the woods,

And rang'd the lonely grove,
Lost and bewilder'd in the songs

And pleasing cares of love ;

TRANSLATED.

A wolf be held me from afar,

A bare downright old-fashiond English feast, Of monstrous bulk and might;

Such as true Britons only can digest; But, naked as I was, he fled

Such as your homely fathers us'd to love, And trembled at the sight.

Who only came to hear and to improve : A beast so huge, nor Daunia's grove,

Humbly content and pleas'd with what was drest, Nor Afric ever view'd,

When Otway, Lee, and Shakespeare rang'd the
Though nurst by her, the lion reigns

feast.
The monarch of the wood.
Expose me in those horrid climes,
Where not a gentle breeze

PSALM VIII.
Revives the vegetable race,

Or cheers the drooping trees : Where on the world's remotest verge

O King eternal and divine ! Th'unactive seasons lie,

The world is thine alone : And not one genial ray unbinds

Above the stars thy glories shine, The rigour of the sky :

Above the heavens thy throne. On that un habitable shore,

How far extends thy mighty name! Expose me all alone,

Where'er the Sun can roll, Where I may view without a shade,

That Sun thy wonders shall proclaim,
The culminating Sun.

Thy deeds from pole to pole.
Beneath th' equator, or the pole,
In safety could I rove,

The infant's tongue shall speak thy power,
And in a thousand different climes

And vindicate thy laws; Could live for her I love.

The tongue that never spoke before,

Shall labour in thy cause.
For when I lift my thoughts and eyes,

And view the heavens around,
A PROLOGUE FOR THE STROLLERS. Yon stretching waste of azure skies,

With stars and planets crown'd;
Gesteels, of old pert prologues led the way,
To guide, defend, and usher in the play,

Who in their dance attend the Moon,
As powder'd footmen run before the coach,

The empress of the night,
And thunder at the door my lord's approach.

And pour around her silver throne,
But though they speak your entertainment near, Their tributary light:
Most prologues speed like other bills of fare ;

Lord! what is mortal man ? that he
Seldom the languid stomach they excite,

Thy kind regard should share? And oftner pall, than raise the appetite.

What is his son, who claims from thee
As for the play—tis hardly worth our care,

And challenges thy care ?
The prologue craves your mercy for the player;
That is, your money-for by Jove I swear, Next to the blest angelic kind,
White gloves and lodging are confounded dear. Thy hands created man,
Since here are none but friends, the truth to own, And this inferior world assign'd,
Hasp'd in a coach our company came down,

To dignify his span.
But I most shrewdly fear we shall depart,

Him all revere, and all obey Ev'n in our old original, a cart.

His delegated reign, With pride inverted, and fantastic power,

The focks that through the valley stray,
We strut the fancy'd monarchs of an hour;

The herds that graze the plain.
While dups our emperors and heroes fear,
And Cleomenes' starves in earnest here :

The furibus tiger speeds his flight,
The mightiest kings and queens we keep in pay, And trembles at his power;
Support their pomp on eighteen-pence a day. In fear of his superior might,
Great Cyrus for a dram has pawn'd his coat, The lions cease to roar.
And all our Cæsars can't command a groat;
Our Scipios, Hannibals, and Pompeys break,

Whatever horrid monsters tread

The paths beneath the sea,
And Cleopatra shifts but once a week.
To aggravate the case we have not one,

Their king at awful distance dread,
Of all the new refinements of the town:

And sullenly obey.
No moving statues, no lewd harlequins,

O Lord, how far extends thy name!
No pasteboard-players, no heroes in machines; Where-e'er the Sun can roll,
No rosin to flash lightning---twould exhaust us, That Sun thy wonders shall proclaim,
To buy a devil and a Doctor Faustus.

Thy deeds from pole to pole.
No windmills, dragons, millers, conjurers,
To exercise your eyes, and spare your ears ;
No paper-seas, no thunder from the skies,

PSALM XXIV.
No witches to descend, no stage to rise ;
Scarce one for us the actors--we can set

PARAPHRASED.
Nothing before you but mere sense and wit.

Far as the world can stretch its bounds, ? The Spartan llero, a tragedy, by Mr. Dryden.

The Lord is king of all ;