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Such mimic Swift or Prior to their cost,
A soul, where depth of sense and fancy meet; For in the rash attempt the fools are lost.
A judgment brighten'd by the beams of wit,
Be still yourself; the world can ask no more.
IMITATION OF SPENSER.
A well-known vase of sotereign use I sing,
Pleasing to young and old, and Jordan hight,
The lovely queen, and eke the hanghty king But in a distant view-yet what I write,
Snatch up this vessel in the murky night: In these loose sheets, must never see the light;
Ne lives there poor, ne lives there wealthy wight), Epistles, odes, and twenty trifles more,
But uses it in mantle brown or green; Things that are born and die in half an hour.
Sometimes it stands array'd in glossy white; • What ! you must dedicate," says sneering Spence, of China's fragile earth, with azure lowrets sheen.
And eft in mighty dortours may be seen “This year some new performance to the prince : Though money is your scorn, no doubt in time, The virgin, comely as the dewy rose, You hope to gain some vacant stall by rhyme; Here gently sheds the softly-whispering rill; Like other poets, were the truth but known, The frannion, wbo ne shame ne blushing knows, You too admire whatever is your own.”
At once the potter's glossy vase does fill; These wise remarks my modesty confound,
It whizzes like the waters from a mill. While the laugh rises, and the mirth goes round; Here frouzy housewives clear their loaded reins; Vext at the jest, yet glad to shun a fray,
The beef-fed justice, who fat ale doth swill, I whisk into my coach, and drive away.
Grasps the round-handled jar, and tries, and
strains, While slowly dribbling down the scanty water
drains. TO MR. SPENCE.
The dame of Fraunce shall without shame convey PREFIXED TO THE ESSAY ON POPE'S ODYSSEY.
This ready needment to its proper place;
Yet shall the daughters of the lond of Fay Tis done restor'd by thy immortal pen,
Learn better amenaunce and decent grace; The critic's noble name revives again;
Warm blushes lend a beauty to their face, Once more that great, that injur'd name we see For virtue's comely tints their cheeks adorn; Shine forth alike in Addison and thee.
Thus o'er the distant hillocks you may trace Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast, 'The purple beamings of the infant morn: And feed on scraps refus'd by every guest; Sweet are our blooming maids--the sweetest creaFrom the old Thracian dog' they learn'd the way tures born. To snarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey. None but their husbands or their lovers true As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they
They trust with management of their affairs; feel,
Nor even these their privacy may view, Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will,
When the soft bearys seek the bower by pairs: Such their inverted taste, that we expect
Then from the sight accoy'd, like timorous hares, For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect;
From mate or bellamour alike they fly ; (airs so the fell snake rejects the fragrant flowers,
Think not, good swain, that these are scornful But every poison of the field devours.
Think not for hate they shun thine amorous eye, Like bold Longinus of immortal fare,
Soon shall the fair return, nor done thee youth, to You read your poet with a poet's flame;
dye. With his, your generous raptures still aspire ;
While Belgic frows across a charcoal stove
(Replenish'd like the Vestal's lasting fire) [love,
Bren for whole years, and scorch'd the parts of The friendly succour of your healing hands;
No longer parts that can delight inspire,
Erst cave of bliss, now monumental pyre;
O British maid, for ever clean and neat,
From whom I aye will wake my simple lyre,
With double care preserve that dun retreat, 'Twas one bright mass of undistinguish'd light;
Fair Venus' mystic bower, Dan Cupid's featherd'
Unknown to goarring slander and to bale,
O'er seas of bliss peace guide her gondelay, A life well spent, that never lost a day;
Ne bitter dole impest the passing gale. An easy spirit, innocently gay ;
O ! sweeter than the lilies of the dale, A strict integrity, devoid of art;
In your soft breasts the fruits of joyance grow. Ibe sweetest manners, and sincerest heart; Ne fell despair be here with visage pale,
Brave be the youth from whom your bosoms glow, " Zoilus, so called by the ancients. Ne other joy but you the faithful striplings koow.
Where hills adorn the mansion they defend? EPISTLE TO J. PITT, ES2.
Where could he better answer Nature's end?
Here from the sea the melting breezes rise, IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK 1.
l'nbind the snow, and warm the wintry skies : DEAR SIR,
Here gentle gales the dog-star's heat allay,
And softly breathing cool the sultry day.
How free from cares, from dangers and affright, But drop the critic to indulge the friend, And with most Christian patience lose your time,
In pleasing dreams I pass the silent night! To hear me preach, or pester you with rhyme.
Does not the variegated marble yield Here with my books or friend I spend the day,
To the gay colours of the flowery field ?
Can the New-river's artificial streains, But how at Kingston pass your hours away?
Or the thick waters of the troubled Thames, Say, shall we see some plan with ravish'd eyes,
In many a winding rusty pipe convey'd, Some future pile in miniature arise ?
Or dash'd and broken down a deep cascade, (A model to excel in every part
With our clear silver streams in sweetness vie, Judicious Jones, or great Palladio's art)
That in eternal rills run bubbling by ;
Glide o'er the sands, or glitter through-the grass !
And yet in town the country prospects please,
Where stately colonades are tank'd with trees : Nature, who form'd you, nobly crown'd the whole With a strong body, and as firm a soul :
On a whole country looks the master down
With pride, where scarce five acres are his own. The praise is yours to finish every part
Yet Nature, though repell’d, maintains her part, With all th' embellishinents of taste and art.
And in her turn she triumphs over art; Some see in canker'd heaps their riches roll’d,
The hand-maid now may prejudice our taste, Your bounty gives new lustre to your gold.
But the fair mistress will prevail at last. Could your dead father hope a greater bliss,
That man must smart at last whose puzzled sight, Or your surviving parent more than this?
Mistakes in life false colours for the right;
As the poor dupe is sure his loss to rue,
Who takes a Pinchbeck guinea for a true. (crowns, Who greatly thinks, and truly speaks his thought: Grows twice as abject when the goddess frowns; With all the chaste severity of sense,
As he, who rises when his head turns round, Truth, judgment, wit, and manly eloquence.
Must tumble twice as heavy to the ground. So iu his youth great Cato was reverd,
Then love not grandeur, 'tis a splendid curse; By Pompey courted, and by Cæsar feard :
The more the love, the harder the divorce. Both he disdain'd alike with godlike pride,
We live far happier by these gurgling springs, For Rome and Liberty he liv'd-and dy'd.
Than statesmen, courtiers, counsellors, or kings, In each perfection as you rise só fast,
The stag expell’d the courser from the plain ; Well may you think each day may be your last.
What can be do?--he begs the aid of man;
He takes the bit and proudly bears away
His new ally; he fights and wins the day:
But, ruin'd by success, he strives in vain Break froin the serious thonght, and laugh away
To quit his master and the curb again.
So from the fear of want most wretches fly, In Pimpern walls one idle easy ay.
But lose their noblest wealth, their liberty ;
To their imperious passions they submit,
Who mount, ride, spur, but never draw the hit.
'Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your shoe, For he has twenty cures, and I but one.
A large may wrench, a small one wring your toe.
Not every man is born to be a dean.
I'll bear your jeers, if ever I am known
To seek two cures, when scarce I merit one. IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. X. BOOK 1. Riches, 'tis true, sotne service may afford, Health from the bard who loves the rural sport,
But oftner play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Money I scorn, but keep a little still, To the more noble bard that haunts the court :
To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill. In every other point of life we chime,
From Encombe's soft romantic scenes I write, Like too soft lines when coupled into rbyme. Deep sunk in easa, in pleasure and delight ; I praise a spacious villa to the sky,
Yet, though her geb'rous lord himself is here, You a close garret full five stories high;
'Twould be one pleasure more, could you appear. I revel here in Nature's varied sweets, You in the nobler scents of London streets. I left the court, and here at ease reclin'd, Am happier than the king who staid behind : INVITATION TO A FRIEND AT COURT. Twelve stifling dishes I could scarce live o'er,
IF At home I dine with luxury on four.
you can leave for books the crowded court, Where would a man of judgement chuse a seat,
and generous Bourdeaux for a glass of port, Put in a wholesome, rural, soft retreat,
To these sweet solitudes without delay
Soon as the Sun the face of Nature gilds, That moving shade, that pendant at his ear, For health and pleasure will we range the fields ; That two-legg'd dog, still pawing on the peer. O'er her gay scenes and opening beauties run, Studying his looks, and watching at tlie board, While all the vast creation is our own.
He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord ; But when his golden globe with faded light And, tickled to the soul at every joke, Yields to the solemın einpire of the night ;
Like a press'd watch, repeats what t'other spoke And in her suber majesty the Moon
Echo to nonsense ! such a scene to hear! With milder glories mounts her silver throne ; 'Tis just like Punch and his interpreter. Amidst ten thousand orbs with splendour crown'd, On trifles soine are earnestly absurd, That pour their tributary beams around; You'll think the world depends on ev'ry word. Through the long levell’d tube our strengthen'd sight “ What, is not every mortal free to speak ? Shall mark distinct the spangles of the night ; I'll give my reasons, thu' I break my neck.” From world to world shall dart the boundless eye, And what's the question ?--if it shines or rains, And stretch from star to star, from sky to sky. Whether it is twelve or fifteen miles to Staines. The buzzing insect families appear,
The wretch reduc'd to rags by every vice, When suns unbind the rigour of the year;
Pride, projects, races, mistresses, and dice, Quick glance the myriads round the evening bower, The rich rogue shuns, though full as bad as be, liosts of a day, or nations of an hour.
And knows a quarrel is good husbandry. (pelf, Astonish'd we shall sec th' unfolding race,
" "Tis strange," cries Peter, “ you are out of Stretch'd out in bulk, within the polish'd glass ; I'm sure I thought you wiser than myself;" Through whose small convex a new world we spy, Yet gives him nothing but advice too late, Ne'er seen before, but by a scraph's eye!
Retrench, or rather mortgage your estate, So long in darkness shut from human kind
I can advance the sum,--'tis best for both; lay half God's wonders to a point contin'd ! But henceforth cut your coat to match your cloth But in one peopled drop we now survey
A minister, in mere revenge and sport, In pride of power some little monster play; Shall give his fue a paltry place at court, O'er tribes invisible he reigns alone,
The dupe for every royal birth-day buys And struts a tyrant of a world his own.
New horses, coaches, clothes, and liveries; Now will we study Homer's awful page,
Plies at the levee, and distinguish'd there
Draws on his banker, mortgages and fails,
There, ruin'd by the court, he sells a vote To catch or emulate thy glorious fire ;
To the next burgess, as of old he bought; The next pursue the rash attempt no more, Rubs down the steeds which once his chariot bore, But drop the quill, bow, wonder, and adore ; Or sweeps the town, which once he serv'd before. By thy strong genius overcome and awd !
But, by this roving meteor led, I tend That fire from Heaven! that spirit of a god! Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend. Pleas'd and transported with thy name I tend Then take advice; I preach not out of time, Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend; When good lord Middlesex is bent on rhyme. And from my first design by rapture led,
Their humour check'd, or inclination crossid, Neglect the living poet for the dead.
Sometimes the friendship of the great is lost.
For your reward you gain his love, and dine
On the best venison and the best French wine :
Nor to lord ****** make the observation, 10 LORD MIDDLESEX.
How the twelve peers have answer'd their creation, IN IMITATION OF HORACE, BOOK I. EPIST. XVIII. Nor in your wine or wrath betray your trust,
Be silent still, and obstinately just : Spesce, with a friend you pass the hours away Explore no secrets, draw no characters, In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay:
For Echo will repeat, and walls have ears: You ever differ'd from a flatterer inore,
Nor let a busy fool a secret know, Than a chaste lady from a daunting whore.
A secret gripes him till he lets it go : "T'is true you rallied every fault you found,
Words are like bullets, and we wish in vain, But gently tickled, while you cur'd the wound:
When once discharg'd, to call them back again. Unlike the paultry poets of the town, Rogues who expose themselves for half a crown : And still impose on every soul they meet
Defend, dear Spence, the honest and the civil, Rudeness for sense, and ribaldry for wit:
But to cry up a rascal that's the devil. Who, though half-starv'd, in spite of time and place, Who guards a good man's character, 'tis known, Repeat their rhymes, though dinner stays for grace: At the saine tine protects and guards his own. And as their poverty their dresses fit,
For as with houses 'tis with people's names, They think of course a sloven is a wit;
A shed may set a palace all on flames; But sense (a truth these coxcombs ne'er suspect) The fire neglected on the cottage preys, Lies just 'twixt affectation and neglect.
But mounts at last into a general blaze. One step still lower, if you can, descend,
"Tis a fine thing, some think, a lord to know ; To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend; I wish bis tradesmen could buí think so too.
He gives his word—then all your hopes are gone : / From hopes or fears your quict to defend,
Most folks so partial to theinselves are grown, When to delicious Pimperne I retire,
With maps, globes, books, my bottle, and a friend.
I think myself of size to fill a stall.