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Spread wide abroad, the glassy plain,
Wherc, like sworn foes, successive all, In various colours gay,
The furious surges run, Reflects the glorious Sun again,
To urge their predecessur's fall, And doubly gills the day.
Though follow'd by their own. Th’horizon glows from side to side,
Where, like our moderns so profound, And tlames with glancing rays ;
Engag'd in dark dispute, The floating, trembling, silver tide,
The scuttles cast their ink around Is one continual blaze.
To puzzle the dispute. Your eyes the prospect now cornmand,
Where sharks, like shrewd directors, thrive, All incontrold and free,
Like lawyers, rob at will; Fly like a thought from land to land,
Where flying-lish, like trimmers live; And dart from sea to sea.
Like soldiers, sword-fish kill. Thus, while above the clouds we sit,
Where on the less the greater feed, And innocently gay,
The tyrants of an hour, Pass in amusements, wine, or wit,
Till the huge royal whale succeed, The sultry buurs away;
And all at once devour. Sometimes, with pity, or disdain,
Thus in the mortal world we now In thought a glance we throw
Too truly understand, Down on the poor, the proud, the vain,
Each monster of the sea below In yonder world below.
Is match'd by one at land. We see, from this exalted seat;
(How shrunk, reduc'il, confin'd!) The little person of the great, As mtle as his mind.
ON MRS. WALKER'S POEMS. See there-amidst the crowds out view
PARTICULARLY THAT ON THE AUTHOR. Some scatter'd virtues strike;
Blusn, Wilmot, blush; a female Muse, But those so throng d, and these so few,
Without one guilty line, The world looks all alike.
The tender theme of love pursues
In softer strains tban thine. Yet, through this cloud of human-kind, 'The 'Falbots we survey,
"Tis thine the passion to blaspheme, The Pitts, the Yorkes, the Seckers lod,
"Tis hers with wit and ease Who shine in open day.
(When a inere nothing is the tbeme)
Beyond thyself to please.
Then be to her the prize decreed,
Whose merit has prevail'd;
For what male poet can succeed,
If Rochester has fail'd ?
Since Phæbus quite forgetful grows, The vales with piles to crown,
And has not yet thought fit, And great Palladio's plans jinprove
In his high wisdom, to impose With nobler of your own;
A salique law on wit ; O bid a structure o'er the foods
Since of your rights he takes no care, From this high mountain rise,
Ye Priors, Popes, and Gays;
'Tis hard !-but let the women wear Where we may sit enthron'd like gods, And revel in the skies.
The breeches and the bays. Th' ascending breeze, at each repast;
Shall breathe an air divine, Give a new brightness to the taste,
VERSES O.V A FLOWERED CARPET. New spirit to the wine.
WORKED BY THE YOUNG LADIES AT KINGSTON Or these low pleasuses we may quit For banquets more refind,
Wuen Pallas saw the piece her pupils wrought, The works of each immortal wit,
She stood long wondering at the lovely draught : The luxary of the mind.
“ And, Flora, now” (she cried)“ no more display Plato, or Boyle's, or Newton's pago;
'Thy flowers, the trifling beauties of a day:
For see! how these with life immortal bloom, Our towering thoughts shall raise, Or Homer's fire, or Pindar's rage,
And spread and flourish for an age to come! Or Virgil's lofty lays.
In what unguarded hour did I impart
To these fair virgins all my darling art? Or with amusive thoughts the sea
In all my wit I saw these rivals shine, Sball entertain the mind,
But this ono art I thought was always mine : While we the rolling scene survey,
Yet lo! I yield; their mistress now no more, An emblem of mankind.
But proud to learn from these I taught before.
For look, what vegetable sense is here!
Pull licence priests and painters ever had How warm with life these blushing leaves appear! To run bold lengths, but never to run mad; What temper'd splendours o'er the piece ate laid! For these can't reconcile God's grace to sin, Shade steals on light, and light dies into shade. Nor those paint tigers in an ass's skin. Through heaven's gay bow less various beauties run, No common dauber in one piece would join And far less bright, though painted by the Sun. The fox and goose-unless upon a sign. See in each blooming fower what spirit glows ! Some steal a page of sense from Tillotson, What vivid colours flush the opening rose :
And then conclude divinely with their own. In some few hours thy lily disappears ;
Like oil on water, mounts the prelate up;
That vein of mercury its beams will spread,
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's to read To works so far superior to my own."
For pence, and bury for a groat a head.
Some easy subject chuse, within your power,
Preach one part now, and t'other half the next.
Speak, look, and move, with dignity and ease,
Like mitred Secker, you'll be sure to please. On this fair ground, with ravish'd eyes,
But if you whine like boys at country schools, We see a second Eden rise,
Can you be said to study Cambray's rules? As gay and glorious as the first,
Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile, Before th' offending world was curst.
Set out in this high prancing stumbling style, While these bright nymphs the needle guide, “ Whoever with a piercing eye can see To paint the rose in all her pride,
“ Through the past records of futurity Nature, like her, may blush to own
All gape no meaning--the puff'd orator Herself so far by Art out-done.
Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour. These flowers she rais'd with all her care,
Truth and the text he labours to display, So blooming, so divinely fair !
Till both are quite interpreted away: The glorious children of the Sun,
So frugal dames insipid water pour, That David's regal heir out-shone,
Till green, bohea, and coffee, are no more. Were scarce like one of these array'd;
His arguments in silly circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begun:
Surpris'd with solitary self-applause,
He sees the motley mingled scene he draws:
Thus when old Bruin teems, her children fail IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S ART OF POETRY, Of limbs, form, figure, features, head, or tail;
Nay, though she licks her cubs, her tender -Pendent opera interrupta. SHOULD some fam'd band, in this fantastic age,
At best can bring the Bruins but to bears.
Still to your hearers all your sermons sort; Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the stage,
Who'd preach against corruption at the court! With all his postures in one niotley plan,
Against church-power at Visitations bawl, The god, the hound, the monkey, and the man,
Or talk about damnation at Whitehall ? Here o'er his hrad high brandishing a leg, And there just hatch'd, and breaking fronı bis egg; Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls,
Harangue the Horse-guards on a Cure of souls, While monster crowds on monster through the piece, Or rail at hoovis and organs at St. Paul's ! Who could help laughing at a sight like this?
Or be, like David Jones, so indiscreet, Or, as a drunkard's dream together brings
To rave at usurers in Lombard-street. " A court of coblers, or a mob of kings?;"
Ye country-vicars, when you preach, in town, Such is a seriou, where, confus'dly dark,
A turn at Paul's to pay your journey down, Join ? Sharp, South, Sherlock, Barrow, Wake, and If you would shun the sneer of every prig, So eggs of different parishes will run (Clarke; Lay-by the little band and rusty wig; To batter, when you beat six yolks to one;
But yet be sure your proper language know, So six bright chymic liquors when you mix, Nor talk as born within the sound of Bow; In one dark shadow vapish all the six.
Speak not the phrase that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from 'Change-alley steal a cant of words : 'Dryden.
Coachmen will criticise your style; nay, further, 2 Another copy reads,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther : * Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and The dregs of the canaille will look askew, Clarke."
To hear the language of the town from you:
Nay, my lotd-mayor, with merriment possest, What makes that girl with hideous visage stare?
Why all this noise, this bustle and this rout?
Meantime, superior to the pains below,
In rapturous trance on Virgil's genins dwell,
To us, poor mortals, his strong beauties tell,
And, like Æneas, from your couch of state, IN ALLUSION TO HORACK, BOOK I. EP. V. In all the pomp of words display the Trojan fate. Ir Dodington will condescend
Can nothing your aspiring thoughts restraio ?
Or does the Muse suspend the rage of pain ? To visit a poetic friend,
Awhile give o'er your rage; in sickness prove And leave a numerous bill of fare,
Like other mortals, if you'd pity move:
Think not your friends compassionate can be,
When such the product of disease they see;
Your sharpest pangs but add to our delight, A plain, but clean and spacious room,
Well wish you still the Gout, if still you write The master and his heart at home, A cellar open as his face, A dinner shorter than his grace ; Your mutton comes from Pimpern-down,
WRITTEN IN THE FOLDS OF A PIN. Your fish (if any) from the town;
Op old, a hundred Cyclops strove
To forge the thunderbolt for Jove; Or send it all to master King';
I too employ a hundred hands, And yet, perhaps, some venturous spark
And travel through as many lands. May bring it, now the nights are dark.
A head I have, though very small, Punch I have store, and beer beside,
But then I have no brains at all. And port that's good, though frenchified.
The miser locks me up with care, Then, if you come, I'm sure to get
Close as his money, all the year.
When Joha and Joan are both at strife,
'Tis I find money for the wife.
At court I make the ladies shine,
And, though I often take my way
'Through town and country, land and sea,
I'm neither fish, nor flesh, nor herring,
And now I live with goody Verring
DE VININIS MAXIMA.
AUTORE LUDOVICO DUNCOMBE.
Exigua crescit de glande altissima quercus, What conscious greatness if the heart be stout ! Et tandem patulis surgit in astra oomis: Methinks I see you o'er the house preside, Dumnque anni pergunt, crescit latissima moles; In painful majesty and decent pride,
Mox secat æquoreas bellica navis æquas. With leg tost bigh, on stately sofa sit,
Angliacis hinc fama, salus hinc nascitur oris, More like a sultan than a modern wit;
Et glans est nostri präsidium imperii. Quick at your call the trembling slaves appear,
TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING, BY MR. PITIJ
Supremely tall, and towering in the skies !!
2 Blandford fair; two miles from Pimpem, Mr. Without, the horses wonder at their
Pitt's rectory, where he was born, and where he What terrible dismay, wbat scenes of care!
died, April 13, 1748, aged 48. See his epitaph in Why is the sooty Mintrem's hopeful heir
Hutchins's Dorset, I. 82. N. Before the morning-dawn compell’d to rise,
A seller of pins at Blandford. Pitt. And give attendance with his half-shut eyes! * See this ingenious young gentleman's verses to
the memory of Mr. Hughes, in vol. X He was Created Lord Melcombe in 1761.
second son of John Duncombe, Esq. of Stocks; and 2 The Blandford carrier.
died at Merton College, Oxford, where he was * Mr. Dodington's seat at that time.
a gentleman commoner, Dec. 26, 1730, in the * Mr. Pitt's servant, the son of a blacksmith. twentieth year of his age. N.
Quren of the groves! her stately head she rears, Oh! no; at such a melancholy scene,
The poet echoes back her woes again.
From all the moving elnquence of grief.
From dark obscurity bis virtues save,
With them the marble should due measures
Relent at every sigh, at every accent weep. INSCRIDED ON A STONE THAT COVERS HIS FATHER,
Britannia mouru thy hero, nor refuse
To vent the sighs and sorrows with the Muse :
Oh! let thy rising groans load erery wind Y sacred Spirits! while your friends distress'd
Nor let one sluggish accent lag behind. Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd;
Thy heavy fate with justice to deplore, O let the pensive Muse inscribe that stone,
('onvey a gale of sighs from shore to shore. And with the general sorrows mix her own :
And thou, her guardian angel, widely spread T'he pensive Muse! --who, from this mournful hour, Shall raise her voice, and wake the string no more! Thy golden wings, and shield the mighty dead.
Brood o'er his shes, and illustrious dust, Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive ;
And sooth with care the venerable ghost. 'Tis all a brother, all a son can give.
To guard the nobler relics, leare a while
Around his silent tomb, thy station keep,
And, with thy sister-angel, learn to wecp.
Ye sons of Albion, o'er your patriot moura, DEATH OF THE LATE EARL STANHOPE.
And cool with streams of tears his sacred ur.
His wondrous virtues, stretch'd to distant shores, BOMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE COUNTESS OF STANHOPE.
Demand all Europe's tears, as well as yours. "At length, grim Fate, thy dreadful triumphs cease: Nature can't bring in every period forth, Lock up the tomb, and seal the grave in peace." A finish'd hero of exalted worth,
Whose godlike genius, towering and sublime, Now from thy riot of destruction breathe, Must long lie ripening in the womb of time: Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant Death: Before a Stanhore enters on the stage, Too mean's the conquest which thy arms bestow, The birth of years, and labour of an agc. Too mean to sueep a nation at a blow.
In field, and council, born the palm to share, No, thy unbounded trillmphs higher run,
His voice a senate, as his sword a war: And seem to strike at all mankind in one;
Aud each ilustrious action of his life,
On either side, unite their blended rays,
Stand out, and witness this, unhappy Spain,
Tell how thy heroes yielded to their fear, In arms, and eloquence, like Carsar, shone When Stanhope rouz'd the thunder of the war: So bright, that each Minerva was his own.
With what fierce tumults of severe delight How could yo vast a fund of learning lie
Th' inipetuous hero plung'd into the fight Shut up in such a short mortality?
How he the dreadful front of Death defac'd, One world of science nobly travellid o'ers
Pour'd on the foe, and laid the battle waste. Like Philip's glorious son, he wept for more. Did not his arm the ranks of war deform,
And now, resign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs, And point the hovering tumult where to storm? With drooping heads, unstring their golden lyres, Did not his sword through legions cleave his way, Wrapt in a cloud of griet, they sigh to view Break their dark squadrons, and let in the day? Their sacred image laid by Heath so low :
Did not he lead the terrible attack, Avd deep io anguish sunk, on Stanhope's fate, Push Conquest on, and bring her bleeding back? Begin to doubt their own immortal state.
Throw wide the scenes of horrour and despair, But hold, my Muse, thy mournful transport errs, The tide of conflict, and the stream of war? Hold here, and listen to Lucinda's tears,
Bid yellow Tagns, who in triumph roll'd While thy vain sorrows echo to his torb,
Till then his turbid tides of foarning gold, Behold a sight that strikes all sorrow dumb: Boast his rich channels to the world no more, Behold the partner of his cares and life,
Since all his glittering streatns, and liquid ore, Bright in her tears, and beautiful in grief. Lie undistinguish'd in a flood of gore. Shall then in vain those streams of sorrow flow, Bid his charg'd waves, and loaded billows sweep, Drest up in all the elegance of woe?
Thy slaughter'd thousands to the frighted deep. And shall the kind offieious Muse forbear
Confere, fair Albion, how the listening throng To answer sigh for sigh, and tell out tear for tear? Dwelt on the moving accents of his tongue.
In the sage council seat him, and confess . Robert Pitt, A. M. his eldest brother. See Thy arm in war, thy oracle in peace : the Latin inscription, in Hutchins's Dorset, vol. I. How here triumphant too, his nervous sense
Bore oti the palm of manly elognence :
TUR LATE PAMOUS ASTRONOMER.
The healing balm to Albion's wounds apply'd, Oh! choak thy griefs, thy rising sighs suppress, And charın'd united factions to his side
Nor let thy sorrows violate his peace. Fix'd on his sovereign's head the nodding crown, This rage of anguish, that disdains relief, And propp'd the toctering basis of the throne, Diins bis bright jovs, with some allay of grief, Supported bravely all the nation's weight,
Look on his dearest pledge he left behind,
And see how Nature, bountiful and kind,
In fair succession, to adorn the son ;
The last best hopes of Albion's realms to grace, Iet each sad hero in procession go,
And form the hero worthy of his race: And swell the vast solemnity of woe.
Some means at last by Britain may be found, Neglect the yew, the mournful cypress leave, To dry her tears, and close her bleeding wound. And with fresh laurels strew the warrior's grave. And if the Muse through future times can see, There they shall rise, in honour of his name, Fair youth, thy father shall revive in ther: Grow green with victory, and bloom with fame. Thou shalt the wondering nation's hopes engage,
Lo! from bis azure throne, old father Thames To rise the Stanhope of the future age. Sigius through his floods, and groans from all his
EPITAPH ON DR. KEIL,
Beneath this stone the world's just wonder lies, With streams of tears, the god supplies his urn. Who,while on Earth, had rang'd the spacious skies; Within bis channels he forgets to Uow,
Around the stars his active soul had flown,
IIOR.ICE, BOOK II. EP. XIX.
AN EPISTLE TO MR. ROBERT LOWTH'.
'Tis said, dear sir, no poets please the town, Thence his aspiring course in triumph steers, Who drink mere water, though from Helicon : Beyond the golden circles of the spheres ;
For in cold blood they seldom boldly think; Into the Ileaven of Heavens, the seat divine,
Their rhymes are more insipid than their drink Where Nature never drew her mighty line.
Not great Apollo could the train inspire, A region that excludes all time and place,
'Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire. And shuts creation from th' unbounded space : Warın’d by two gods at once they drink and write, Where the full tides of light in oceans flow, Rhyme all the day, and fuddle all the night. And see the Sun ten thousand worlds below.
Homer, says Horace, nods in many a place, So far froin our inferior orbs disjoin'd,
But hints, he nodded oft:er o'er the glass. The tir'd imagination pants behind.
Inspir'd with wine old Ennius sung and thought Then cease thy painful flight, nor venture more, With the same spirit, that his heroes fought : Where never Muse has stretch'd her wing before. And we from Jonson's tavern-laws divine, Thy pinions tempt immortal heights in vain,
That bard was no great enemy to wine. That throw thee futtering back to Earth again. 'Twas from the bottle King derived his wit,
Ori Earth a while, blest shade, thy thoughts em- Drank till he could not talk, and then he writ And steal one moinent from eternal joy. (ploy, Let no coif'd serjeant touch the sacred juice, While there, in Heaven, immortal songs inspire But leave it to the bards for better use: Thy golden strings, and tremble on the lyre,
Let the grave judges too the glass forbear, Which raise to nobler strains, th' angelic choir. Who never sing and dance but once a year. Look down with pity on a mortal's lays,
This truth once known, our poets take the hint, Who strives, in vain, to reach thy boundless praise : Get drunk or mad, and then get into print : Who with low verse profanes thy sacred name, To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit, Lost in the spreading circle of thy fame.
And lose their senses in the seach of wit : Thy fame, which, like thyself, is mounted high, And when with claret fir'd they take the pen, Wide as thy Heaven, and lofty as thy sky. Swear thy can write, because they driuk, like Ben.
And thou, his pious consort, here below, Lavist-of grief, and prodigad of woe :
• Late Bishop of London.