* * * * *

TO MISS * * * *

ON HER PLAYING UPON A HARPSICHORD IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES OF HER OWN PAINTING.

When Stella strikes the tuneful string, In scenes of imitated Spring, Where beauty lavishes her powers On beds of never-fading flowers, And pleasure propagates around Each charm of modulated sound; Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour, The nymph fictitious as the flower, But shun, rash youth! the gay alcove, Nor tempt the snares of wily love. 10

When charms thus press on every sense, What thought of flight or of defence? Deceitful hope or vain desire, For ever flutter o'er her lyre, Delighting, as the youth draws nigh, To point the glances of her eye, And forming, with unerring art, New chains to hold the captive heart.

But on those regions of delight Might truth intrude with daring flight, 20 Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young, One moment hear the moral song, Instruction with her flowers might spring, And wisdom warble from her string.

Mark, when, from thousand mingled dyes, Thou seest one pleasing form arise, How active light and thoughtful shade In greater scenes each other aid; Mark, when the different notes agree In friendly contrariety, 30 How passion's well accorded strife, Gives all the harmony of life: Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame, Consistent still, though not the same; Thy music teach the nobler art, To tune the regulated heart.

* * * * *

EVENING: AN ODE.

TO STELLA.

Evening now, from purple wings, Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, Cooling breezes shake the reed— Shake the reed, and curl the stream, Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near, the chequer'd, lonely grove, Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love. Stella, thither let us stray Lightly o'er the dewy way! 10 Phoebus drives his burning car, Hence, my lovely Stella, far; In his stead, the Queen of Night Round us pours a lambent light; Light that seems but just to show Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow; Let us now, in whisper'd joy, Evening's silent hours employ, Silence best, and conscious shades, Please the hearts that love invades; 20 Other pleasures give them pain, Lovers all but love disdain.

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

Whether Stella's eyes are found Fix'd on earth, or glancing round, If her face with pleasure glow, If she sigh at others' woe, If her easy air express Conscious worth or soft distress, Stella's eyes, and air, and face, Charm with undiminish'd grace.

If on her we see display'd Pendent gems, and rich brocade, 10 If her chintz with less expense Flows in easy negligence; Still she lights the conscious flame, Still her charms appear the same; If she strikes the vocal strings, If she's silent, speaks, or sings, If she sit, or if she move, Still we love, and still approve.

Vain the casual transient glance, Which alone can please by chance— 20 Beauty, which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendent gems, and rich brocade. I those charms alone can prize Which from constant Nature rise, Which nor circumstance, nor dress, E'er can make, or more, or less.

* * * * *

TO A FRIEND.

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With Avarice painful vigils keep; Still unenjoy'd the present store, Still endless sighs are breathed for more. Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize, Which not all India's treasure buys! To purchase Heaven, has gold the power? Can gold remove the mortal hour? In life, can love be bought with gold? Are friendship's pleasures to be sold? 10 No; all that's worth a wish—a thought, Fair Virtue gives unbribed, unbought. Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bind, Let nobler views engage thy mind.

With Science tread the wondrous way, Or learn the Muse's moral lay; In social hours indulge thy soul, Where Mirth and Temperance mix the bowl; To virtuous love resign thy breast, And be, by blessing beauty, blest. 20

Thus taste the feast by Nature spread, Ere youth and all its joys are fled; Come, taste with me the balm of life, Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife! I boast whate'er for man was meant, In health, in Stella, and content; And scorn, oh! let that scorn be thine, Mere things of clay, that dig the mine!

* * * * *

TO A YOUNG LADY,

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

This tributary verse receive, my fair, Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer. May this returning day for ever find Thy form more lovely, more adorn'd thy mind; All pains, all cares, may favouring Heaven remove, All but the sweet solicitudes of love! May powerful Nature join with grateful Art, To point each glance, and force it to the heart! Oh then, when conquer'd crowds confess thy sway, When even proud Wealth and prouder Wit obey, 10 My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust, Alas! 'tis hard for beauty to be just! Those sovereign charms with strictest care employ; Nor give the generous pain, the worthless joy: With his own form acquaint the forward fool, Shown in the faithful glass of Ridicule; Teach mimic Censure her own faults to find, No more let coquettes to themselves be blind, So shall Belinda's charms improve mankind.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY A LADY WHO WAS TO PERSONATE 'THE GHOST OF HERMIONE.'

Ye blooming train, who give despair or joy, Bless with a smile, or with a frown destroy; In whose fair cheeks destructive Cupids wait, And with unerring shafts distribute fate; Whose snowy breasts, whose animated eyes, Each youth admires, though each admirer dies; Whilst you deride their pangs in barbarous play, Unpitying see them weep, and hear them pray, And unrelenting sport ten thousand lives away: For you, ye fair! I quit the gloomy plains, 10 Where sable Night in all her horror reigns; No fragrant bowers, no delightful glades, Receive the unhappy ghosts of scornful maids. For kind, for tender nymphs, the myrtle blooms, And weaves her bending boughs in pleasing glooms; Perennial roses deck each purple vale, And scents ambrosial breathe in every gale; Far hence are banish'd vapours, spleen, and tears, Tea, scandal, ivory teeth, and languid airs; No pug, nor favourite Cupid there enjoys 20 The balmy kiss for which poor Thyrsis dies; Form'd to delight, they use no foreign arms, No torturing whalebones pinch them into charms; No conscious blushes there their cheeks inflame, For those who feel no guilt can know no shame; Unfaded still their former charms they show, Around them pleasures wait, and joys for ever new. But cruel virgins meet severer fates; Expell'd and exiled from the blissful seats, To dismal realms, and regions void of peace, 30 Where furies ever howl, and serpents hiss, O'er the sad plains perpetual tempests sigh, And poisonous vapours, blackening all the sky, With livid hue the fairest face o'ercast, And every beauty withers at the blast: Where'er they fly, their lovers' ghosts pursue, Inflicting all those ills which once they knew; Vexation, fury, jealousy, despair, Vex every eye, and every bosom tear; Their foul deformities by all descried, 40 No maid to flatter, and no paint to hide. Then melt, ye fair, while crowds around you sigh, Nor let disdain sit lowering in your eye; With pity soften every awful grace, And beauty smile auspicious in each face To ease their pain exert your milder power; So shall you guiltless reign, and all mankind adore.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG AUTHOR.

When first the peasant, long inclined to roam, Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home, Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields, He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields: Then dances jocund o'er the watery way, While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play: Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll, And future millions lift his rising soul; In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine, And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine. 10 Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies, Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise; Sickening with fear, he longs to view the shore, And vows to trust the faithless deep no more. So the young author, panting after fame, And the long honours of a lasting name, Intrusts his happiness to human kind, More false, more cruel than the seas or wind!

Toil on, dull crowd! in ecstasies he cries, For wealth or title, perishable prize; 20 While I those transitory blessings scorn, Secure of praise from ages yet unborn. This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late, He flies to press, and hurries on his fate; Swiftly he sees the imagined laurels spread, And feels the unfading wreath surround his head. Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth be wise, Those dreams were Settle's[1] once, and Ogilby's![2] The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise, To some retreat the baffled writer flies, 30 Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest, Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest; There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot— Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.

[Footnote 1: 'Settle;' see Life of Dryden.]

[Footnote 2: 'Ogilby:' a poor translator.]

* * * * *

FRIENDSHIP: AN ODE.

PRINTED IN THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, 1743.

1 Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven, The noble mind's delight and pride— To men and angels only given, To all the lower world denied!

2 While love, unknown among the blest, Parent of thousand wild desires, The savage and the human breast Torments alike with raging fires;

3 With bright, but oft destructive gleam, Alike o'er all his lightnings fly; Thy lambent glories only beam Around the favourites of the sky.

4 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys, On fools and villains ne'er descend; In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, And hugs a flatterer for a friend.

5 Directress of the brave and just, Oh, guide us through life's darksome way! And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey.

6 Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow, When souls to peaceful climes remove: What raised our virtue here below, Shall aid our happiness above.

* * * * *

IMITATION OF THE STYLE OF[1] * * *

1 Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life's evening gray, Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way.

2 Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd, Scarce repress'd the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, 'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.'

* * * * *

ONE AND TWENTY.

1 Long-expected one-and-twenty, Lingering year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * *, are now your own.

2 Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell.

3 Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir.

4 All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester, light and jolly; There the lender, grave and sly.

5 Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill.

6 When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high— What are acres? what are houses? Only dirt, or wet, or dry.

7 Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste: Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother, You can hang or drown at last.

[Footnote 1: Supposed to be Percy.]

* * * * *

END OF JOHNSON'S POEMS.

* * * * *



THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

THOMAS PARNELL.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER.

Such were the notes thy once-loved poet sung, Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld, and lost! admired, and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd, Blest in each science, blest in every strain, Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear—in vain!

For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims—the dead, a tear) Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays: Who careless, now, of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure if ought below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine: A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all anger, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; The Muse attends thee to the silent shade: 'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace, Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace. When Interest calls off all her sneaking train, When all the obliged desert, and all the vain, She waits; or, to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. Even now she shades thy evening walk with bays, (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise) Even now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day, Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that MORTIMER is he.

September 25, 1721. A. POPE.

THE LIFE AND POETRY OF THOMAS PARNELL.

Parnell is the third in a trio of poetical clergymen whose names have immediately succeeded each other in this edition. Bowles, Churchill, and Parnell were all clergymen, and all poets; but in other respects differed materially from each other. In Bowles, the clerical and the poetical characters were on the whole well attuned and harmonised. In Churchill, they came to an open rupture. In Parnell, they were neither ruptured nor reconciled, but maintained an ambiguous relation, till his premature death settled the moot point for ever.

The life of this poet has been written by Goldsmith, by Johnson, by the Rev. John Mitford, and others; but, after all, very little is known about him. Thomas Parnell was the descendant of an ancient family, which had been settled for some hundreds of years at Congleton, Cheshire. His father, whose name also was Thomas, took the side of the Commonwealth, and at the Restoration went over to Ireland, where he purchased a considerable property. This, along with his estate in Cheshire, devolved to the poet. His father had a second son, John, whose descendants were created baronets. The late Sir Henry Parnell, for some years the respected member of Parliament for the town of Dundee, where we now write, was the great-great-grandson of the poet's father. Parnell was born in Dublin, in the year 1679. He was sent to a school taught by one Dr Jones. Here he is said to have distinguished himself by the readiness and retentiveness of his memory; often performing the task allotted for days in a few hours, and being able to repeat forty lines in any book of poems, after the first reading. It is a proof of the prematurity of his powers, that he entered Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of thirteen, where his compositions attracted attention from the extent of classical lore which they discovered. He took the degree of M.A. in 1700; and the same year (through a dispensation on account of being under age) was ordained deacon by the Bishop of Deny. Three years after, he was ordained priest; and in 1705, he was made Archdeacon of Clogher, by Sir George Ashe, bishop of that see. So soon as he received the archdeanery, he married Miss Ann Minchin, who is described as a young lady of great beauty, and of an amiable character, by whom he had two sons, who died young, and a daughter, who long survived both her parents.

Up to the triumph of the Tories, at the end of Queen Anne's reign, Parnell appears to have been, like his father, a keen Whig. He was at that time, however, induced, for motives which his biographers call obscure, but which to us seem obvious enough, on the well-known principle of the popularity of the rising sun, to change his party; and he was hailed by the Tories as a valuable accession to their ranks. This proves that his talents were even then known; a fact corroborated by Johnson's statement, that while he was waiting in the outer-room at Lord Oxford's levee, the prime minister, when told he was there, went out, at the persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer's staff in his hand, and saluted him in the most flattering manner. He became, either before or immediately after this, intimate with Pope, Swift, Gay, and the rest of that brilliant set, who all appear to have loved him for his social qualities, to have admired his genius, and to have pitied his infirmities. He was a member of the Scriblerus Club, and contributed some trifles to their transactions. He was, at the same time, intimate with Addison and Steele, and wrote a few papers in the "Spectator." To Pope, he was of essential service, assisting him in his notes to the "Iliad," being, what Pope was not, a good Greek scholar. He wrote a life of Homer, which was prefixed to the Translation, although stiff in style, and fabulous in statement. He gratified Pope's malicious spirit still more by writing, under the guise of a "Life of Zoilus," a bitter attack on Dennis—the great object of the poet's fear and mortal abhorrence. For these and other services, Pope rewarded him, after his usual manner, with large offerings of that sweet and suffocating incense, by which he delighted, now to gain his enemies, and now to gratify his friends. With Gay, also, Parnell was intimate; and the latter, himself independent by his fortune, is said to have bestowed on this needy and improvident genius the price of the copyright of his works.

Parnell first visited London in 1706; and from that period till his death, scarcely a year elapsed without his spending some time in the metropolis. He seems to have had as intense a relish of London life as Johnson and Boswell exhibited in the next age. So soon as he had collected his rents, he hied to the capital, and there enjoyed himself to the top of his bent. He jested with the Scriblerus Club. He quaffed now and then with Lord Oxford. He varied his round of amusements by occasional professional exhibitions in the pulpits of Southwark and elsewhere,—made, we fear, more from a desire to display himself, than to benefit his hearers. Still his sermons were popular; and he entertained at one time the hope,—a hope blasted by the death of Queen Anne,—of being preferred to a city charge. So soon as each London furlough was expired, he returned to Ireland, jaded and dispirited, and there took delight in nursing his melancholy; in pining for the amusements of the metropolis; in shunning and sneering at the society around him; and in abusing his native bogs and his fellow-countrymen in verse. This was not manly, far less Christian conduct. He ought to have drowned his recollections of London in active duty, or in diligent study; and if he found society coarse or corrupt, he should have set himself to refine and to purify it. But he seems to have been a lazy, luxurious person—his life a round of selfish rapture and selfish anguish,—in fact, ruined by his independent fortune. Had he been a poorer, he had probably been a happier man. He was not, moreover, of that self-contained cast of character, which can live on its own resources, create its own world, and say, "My mind to me a kingdom is."

In 1712 he lost his wife, with whom he appears to have lived as happily as his morbid temperament and mortified feelings would permit. This blow deepened his melancholy, and drove him, it is said, to an excessive and habitual use of wine. In the same year we find him in London, brought out once more under the "special patronage" of Dean Swift, who had quite a penchant for Parnell, and who wished, through his side, to mortify certain persons in Ireland, who did not appreciate, he says, the Archdeacon; and who, we suspect, besides, did not thoroughly appreciate the Dean. Swift, partly in pity for the "poor lad," as he calls him, whom he saw to be in such imminent danger of losing caste and character, and partly in the true patronising spirit, introduced Parnell to Lord Bolingbroke, who received him kindly, entertained him at dinner, and encouraged him in his poetical studies. The Dean's patronage, however, was of little avail in this matter to the protege; Bolingbroke, a man of many promises, and few performances, did nothing for him. The consequences of dissipation began, at this time, too, to appear in Parnell's constitution; and we find Swift saying of him, "His head is out of order, like mine, but more constant, poor boy." It was perhaps to this period that Pope referred, when he told Spence, "Parnell is a great follower of drams, and strangely open and scandalous in his debaucheries." If so, his bad habits seem to have sprung as much from disappointment and discontent as from taste.

Yet Swift continued his friend, and it was at his instance that, in 1713, Archbishop King presented Parnell with a prebend. In 1714, his hope of London promotion died with Queen Anne; but in 1716, the same generous Archbishop bestowed on him the vicarage of Finglass, in the diocese of Dublin, worth L400 a-year. This preferment, however, the poet did not live long to enjoy,—dying at Chester, in July 1717, on his way to Ireland, aged thirty-eight years. His estates passed to his nephew, Sir John Parnell. He had, in the course of his life, composed a great deal of poetry; much of it, indeed, invita Minerva. After his death, Pope collected the best pieces, and published them, with a dedication to Lord Oxford. Goldsmith, in his edition, added two or three; and other editors, a good many poems, of which we have only inserted one, deeming the rest unworthy of his memory. In 1788 a volume was published, entitled, "The Posthumous Works of Dr T. Parnell, containing poems moral and divine." These, however, attracted little attention, being mostly rubbish. Johnson says of them, "I know not whence they came, nor have ever inquired whither they are going." It is said that the present representative of the Parnell family preserves a mass of unpublished poems from the pen of his relative. We trust that he will long and religiously refrain from disturbing their MS. slumbers.

The whole tenor of Parnell's history convinces us that he was an easy-tempered, kind-hearted, yet querulous and self-indulgent man, who had no higher motive or object than to gratify himself. His very ambition aspired not to very lofty altitudes. His utmost wish was to attain a metropolitan pulpit, where he could have added the reputation of a popular preacher to that of being the protege of Swift, and the pet of the Scriblerus Club. The character of his poetry is in keeping with the temperament of the man. It is slipshod, easy, and pleasing. If the distinguishing quality of poetry be to give pleasure, then Parnell is a poet. You never thrill under his power, but you read him with a quiet, constant, subdued gratification. If never eminently original, he has the art of enunciating common-places with felicity and grace. The stories he relates are almost all old, but his manner of telling them is new. His thoughts and images are mostly selected from his common-place book; but he utters them with such a natural ease of manner, that you are tempted to think them his own. He knows the compass of his poetical powers, and never attempts anything very lofty or arduous. His "Allegory on Man,"—pronounced by Johnson his best,—seems rather a laborious than a fortunate effusion. His "Hymn to Contentment" is animated, as the subject required, by a kind of sober rapture. His "Faery Tale" is a good imitation of that old style of composition. His "Hesiod" catches the classical tone and spirit with considerable success. His "Flies," and "Elegy to the Old Beauty," are ingenious trifles. His "Nightpiece on Death" has fine touches, but is slight for such a theme, and must not be named beside Blair's "Grave," and Gray's "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His translations we have, in accordance with the plan of this edition, omitted—and, indeed, they are little loss. His "Bookworm," &c., are adaptations from Beza and other foreign authors. By far his most popular poem is the "Hermit." In it he tells a tale that had been told in Arabic, French, and English, for the tenth time; and in that tenth edition tells it so well, that the public have thanked him for it as for an original work. Of course, the story not being Parnell's, it is not his fault that it casts no light upon the dread problems of Providence it professed to explain. But the incidents are recorded with ease and liveliness; the characters are rapidly depicted, and strikingly contrasted; and many touches of true poetry occur. How vivid this couplet, for instance—

"Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair!"

How picturesque the following—

"A fresher green the smiling leaves display, And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day!"

The description of the unveiled angel approaches the sublime—

"Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, Wide at his back, their gradual plumes display. The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light."

A passage of similar brilliance occurs in "Piety, or the Vision"—

"A sudden splendour seem'd to kindle day; A breeze came breathing in; a sweet perfume, Blown from eternal gardens, fill'd the room, And in a void of blue, that clouds invest, Appear'd a daughter of the realms of rest."

Such passages themselves are enough to prove Parnell a true poet.

* * * * *

PARNELL'S POEMS.

HESIOD; OR, THE RISE OF WOMAN.

What ancient times, those times we fancy wise, Have left on long record of woman's rise, What morals teach it, and what fables hide, What author wrote it, how that author died,— All these I sing. In Greece they framed the tale; (In Greece, 'twas thought a woman might be frail); Ye modern beauties! where the poet drew His softest pencil, think he dreamt of you; And warn'd by him, ye wanton pens, beware How Heaven's concern'd to vindicate the fair. 10 The case was Hesiod's; he the fable writ— Some think with meaning—some, with idle wit: Perhaps 'tis either, as the ladies please; I waive the contest, and commence the lays.

In days of yore, no matter where or when, 'Twas ere the low creation swarm'd with men, That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth (Our author's song can witness), lived on earth. He carved the turf to mould a manly frame, And stole from Jove his animating flame. 20 The sly contrivance o'er Olympus ran, When thus the Monarch of the Stars began: 'Oh versed in arts! whose daring thoughts aspire To kindle clay with never-dying fire! Enjoy thy glory past, that gift was thine; The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine: And such a gift, a vengeance so design'd, As suits the counsel of a God to find; A pleasing bosom cheat, a specious ill, Which, felt, they curse, yet covet still to feel.' 30

He said, and Vulcan straight the sire commands To temper mortar with ethereal hands; In such a shape to mould a rising fair, As virgin-goddesses are proud to wear; To make her eyes with diamond-water shine, And form her organs for a voice divine. 'Twas thus the sire ordain'd; the power obey'd; And work'd, and wonder'd at the work he made; The fairest, softest, sweetest frame beneath, Now made to seem, now more than seem, to breathe. 40

As Vulcan ends, the cheerful queen of charms Clasp'd the new-panting creature in her arms; From that embrace a fine complexion spread, Where mingled whiteness glow'd with softer red. Then in a kiss she breathed her various arts, Of trifling prettily with wounded hearts; A mind for love, but still a changing mind; The lisp affected, and the glance design'd; The sweet confusing blush, the secret wink, The gentle-swimming walk, the courteous sink, 50 The stare for strangeness fit, for scorn the frown, For decent yielding, looks declining down, The practised languish, where well-feign'd desire Would own its melting in a mutual fire; Gay smiles to comfort; April showers to move; And all the nature, all the art, of love.

Gold-sceptred Juno next exalts the fair; Her touch endows her with imperious air, Self-valuing fancy, highly-crested pride, Strong sovereign will, and some desire to chide: 60 For which an eloquence, that aims to vex, With native tropes of anger arms the sex.

Minerva, skilful goddess, train'd the maid To twirl the spindle by the twisting thread, To fix the loom, instruct the reeds to part, Cross the long weft, and close the web with art: An useful gift; but what profuse expense, What world of fashions, took its rise from hence!

Young Hermes next, a close-contriving god, Her brows encircled with his serpent rod; 70 Then plots, and fair excuses, fill'd her brain, The views of breaking amorous vows for gain, The price of favours, the designing arts That aim at riches in contempt of hearts; And for a comfort in the marriage life, The little, pilfering temper of a wife.

Full on the fair his beams Apollo flung, And fond persuasion tipp'd her easy tongue; He gave her words, where oily flattery lays The pleasing colours of the art of praise; 80 And wit, to scandal exquisitely prone, Which frets another's spleen to cure its own.

Those sacred virgins whom the bards revere, Tuned all her voice, and shed a sweetness there, To make her sense with double charms abound, Or make her lively nonsense please by sound.

To dress the maid, the decent Graces brought A robe in all the dyes of beauty wrought, And placed their boxes o'er a rich brocade Where pictured loves on every cover play'd; 90 Then spread those implements that Vulcan's art Had framed to merit Cytherea's heart; The wire to curl, the close-indented comb, To call the locks that lightly wander, home; And chief, the mirror, where the ravish'd maid Beholds and loves her own reflected shade.

Fair Flora lent her stores, the purpled hours Confined her tresses with a wreath of flowers; Within the wreath arose a radiant crown; A veil pellucid hung depending down; 100 Back roll'd her azure veil with serpent fold, The purfled border deck'd the flower with gold. Her robe (which, closely by the girdle braced, Reveal'd the beauties of a slender waist) Flow'd to the feet; to copy Venus' air, When Venus' statues have a robe to wear.

The new-sprung creature finish'd thus for harms, Adjusts her habit, practises her charms, With blushes glows, or shines with lively smiles, Confirms her will, or recollects her wiles: 110 Then conscious of her worth, with easy pace Glides by the glass, and, turning, views her face.

A finer flax than what they wrought before, Through Time's deep cave the sister Fates explore, Then fix the loom, their fingers nimbly weave, And thus their toil prophetic songs deceive:

'Flow from the rock, my flax! and swiftly flow, Pursue thy thread, the spindle runs below. A creature fond and changing, fair and vain, The creature Woman, rises now to reign. 120 New beauty blooms, a beauty form'd to fly; New love begins, a love produced to die; New parts distress the troubled scenes of life, The fondling mistress, and the ruling wife. Men, born to labour, all with pains provide; Women have time to sacrifice to pride: They want the care of man, their want they know, And dress to please with heart-alluring show, The show prevailing, for the sway contend, And make a servant where they meet a friend. 130

Thus in a thousand wax-erected forts A loitering race the painful bee supports, From sun to sun, from bank to bank he flies, With honey loads his bag, with wax his thighs, Fly where he will, at home the race remain, Prune the silk dress, and murmuring eat the gain.

Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride, Whose temper betters by the father's side; Unlike the rest, that double human care, Fond to relieve, or resolute to share: 140 Happy the man whom thus his stars advance! The curse is general, but the blessing chance.'

Thus sung the Sisters, while the gods admire Their beauteous creature, made for man, in ire; The young Pandora she, whom all contend To make too perfect not to gain her end: Then bid the winds that fly to breathe the spring, Return to bear her on a gentle wing; With wafting airs the winds obsequious blow, And land the shining vengeance safe below. 150 A golden coffer in her hand she bore, (The present treacherous, but the bearer more) 'Twas fraught with pangs; for Jove ordain'd above, That gold should aid, and pangs attend on love.

Her gay descent the man perceived afar, Wondering he ran to catch the falling star; But so surprised, as none but he can tell, Who loved so quickly, and who loved so well. O'er all his veins the wandering passion burns, He calls her nymph, and every nymph by turns. 160 Her form to lovely Venus he prefers, Or swears that Venus must be such as hers. She, proud to rule, yet strangely framed to tease, Neglects his offers while her airs she plays, Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown, In brisk disorder trips it up and down, Then hums a careless tune to lay the storm, And sits and blushes, smiles, and yields in form.

'Now take what Jove design'd, (she softly cried,) This box thy portion, and myself thy bride:' 170 Fired with the prospect of the double charms, He snatch'd the box, and bride, with eager arms.

Unhappy man! to whom so bright she shone, The fatal gift, her tempting self, unknown! The winds were silent, all the waves asleep, And heaven was traced upon the flattering deep; But whilst he looks, unmindful of a storm, And thinks the water wears a stable form, What dreadful din around his ears shall rise! What frowns confuse his picture of the skies! 180

At first the creature Man was framed alone, Lord of himself, and all the world his own. For him the Nymphs in green forsook the woods, For him the Nymphs in blue forsook the floods; In vain the Satyrs rage, the Tritons rave; They bore him heroes in the secret cave. No care destroy'd, no sick disorder prey'd, No bending age his sprightly form decay'd, No wars were known, no females heard to rage, And poets tell us, 'twas a golden age. 190

When woman came, those ills the box confined Burst furious out, and poison'd all the wind,

From point to point, from pole to pole they flew, Spread as they went, and in the progress grew: The Nymphs, regretting, left the mortal race, And, altering Nature, wore a sickly face: New terms of folly rose, new states of care; New plagues to suffer, and to please, the fair! The days of whining, and of wild intrigues, Commenced, or finish'd, with the breach of leagues; 200 The mean designs of well-dissembled love; The sordid matches never join'd above; Abroad, the labour, and at home the noise, (Man's double sufferings for domestic joys) The curse of jealousy; expense, and strife; Divorce, the public brand of shameful life; The rival's sword; the qualm that takes the fair; Disdain for passion, passion in despair— These, and a thousand yet unnamed, we find; Ah, fear the thousand yet unnamed behind! 210

Thus on Parnassus tuneful Hesiod sung, The mountain echoed, and the valley rung, The sacred groves a fix'd attention show, The crystal Helicon forbore to flow, The sky grew bright, and (if his verse be true) The Muses came to give the laurel too. But what avail'd the verdant prize of wit, If Love swore vengeance for the tales he writ? Ye fair offended, hear your friend relate What heavy judgment proved the writer's fate, 220 Though when it happen'd, no relation clears; 'Tis thought in five, or five and twenty years.

Where, dark and silent, with a twisted shade The neighbouring woods a native arbour made, There oft a tender pair for amorous play Retiring, toy'd the ravish'd hours away; A Locrian youth, the gentle Troilus he, A fair Milesian, kind Evanthe she: But swelling Nature, in a fatal hour, Betray'd the secrets of the conscious bower; 230 The dire disgrace her brothers count their own, And track her steps, to make its author known.

It chanced one evening, ('twas the lover's day) Conceal'd in brakes the jealous kindred lay; When Hesiod, wandering, mused along the plain, And fix'd his seat where Love had fix'd the scene: A strong suspicion straight possess'd their mind, (For poets ever were a gentle kind.) But when Evanthe near the passage stood, Flung back a doubtful look, and shot the wood, 240 'Now take (at once they cry) thy due reward!' And, urged with erring rage, assault the bard. His corpse the sea received. The dolphins bore ('Twas all the gods would do) the corpse to shore.

Methinks I view the dead with pitying eyes, And see the dreams of ancient wisdom rise; I see the Muses round the body cry, But hear a Cupid loudly laughing by; He wheels his arrow with insulting hand, And thus inscribes the moral on the sand: 250 'Here Hesiod lies: ye future bards beware How far your moral tales incense the fair: Unloved, unloving, 'twas his fate to bleed; Without his quiver Cupid caused the deed: He judged this turn of malice justly due, And Hesiod died for joys he never knew.'

* * * * *

SONG.

1 When thy beauty appears, In its graces and airs, All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky; At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, So strangely you dazzle my eye!

2 But when without art, Your kind thoughts you impart, When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again.

3 There's a passion and pride In our sex (she replied), And thus (might I gratify both) I would do: Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you.

* * * * *

SONG.

1 Thyrsis, a young and amorous swain, Saw two, the beauties of the plain; Who both his heart subdue: Gay Caelia's eyes were dazzling fair, Sabina's easy shape and air With softer magic drew.

2 He haunts the stream, he haunts the grove, Lives in a fond romance of love, And seems for each to die; Till each, a little spiteful grown, Sabina Caelia's shape ran down, And she Sabina's eye.

3 Their envy made the shepherd find Those eyes, which love could only blind; So set the lover free: No more he haunts the grove or stream, Or with a true-love knot and name Engraves a wounded tree.

4 Ah, Caelia! (sly Sabina cried) Though neither love, we're both denied; Now, to support the sex's pride, Let either fix the dart. Poor girl! (says Caelia) say no more; For should the swain but one adore, That spite which broke his chains before, Would break the other's heart.

* * * * *

SONG.

1 My days have been so wondrous free, The little birds that fly With careless ease from tree to tree, Were but as bless'd as I.

2 Ask gliding waters, if a tear Of mine increased their stream? Or ask the flying gales, if e'er I lent one sigh to them?

3 But now my former days retire, And I'm by beauty caught, The tender chains of sweet desire Are fix'd upon my thought.

4 Ye nightingales! ye twisting pines! Ye swains that haunt the grove! Ye gentle echoes! breezy winds! Ye close retreats of lore!

5 With all of Nature, all of Art, Assist the dear design; Oh teach a young, unpractised heart To make my Nancy mine.

6 The very thought of change I hate, As much as of despair; Nor ever covet to be great, Unless it be for her.

7 'Tis true, the passion in my mind Is mix'd with soft distress; Yet while the fair I love is kind, I cannot wish it less.

* * * * *

ANACREONTIC.

When Spring came on with fresh delight, To cheer the soul, and charm the sight, While easy breezes, softer rain, And warmer suns salute the plain; 'Twas then, in yonder piny grove, That Nature went to meet with Love.

Green was her robe, and green her wreath, Where'er she trod, 'twas green beneath; Where'er she turn'd, the pulses beat With new recruits of genial heat; 10 And in her train the birds appear, To match for all the coming year.

Raised on a bank, where daisies grew, And violets intermix'd a blue, She finds the boy she went to find; A thousand pleasures wait behind, Aside a thousand arrows lie, But all, unfeather'd, wait to fly.

When they met, the dame and boy, Dancing graces, idle joy, 20 Wanton smiles, and airy play, Conspired to make the scene be gay; Love pair'd the birds through all the grove, And Nature bid them sing to Love, Sitting, hopping, fluttering sing, And pay their tribute from the wing, To fledge the shafts that idly lie, And, yet unfeather'd, wait to fly.

'Tis thus, when Spring renews the blood, They meet in every trembling wood, 30 And thrice they make the plumes agree, And every dart they mount with three, And every dart can boast a kind, Which suits each proper turn of mind.

From the towering eagle's plume The generous hearts accept their doom; Shot by the peacock's painted eye The vain and airy lovers die: For careful dames and frugal men, The shafts are speckled by the hen: 40 The pies and parrots deck the darts, When prattling wins the panting hearts: When from the voice the passions spring, The warbling finch affords a wing: Together, by the sparrow stung, Down fall the wanton and the young: And fledged by geese the weapons fly, When others love they know not why.

All this (as late I chanced to rove) I learn'd in yonder waving grove. 50 And see, says Love, who call'd me near, How much I deal with Nature here; How both support a proper part, She gives the feather, I the dart: Then cease for souls averse to sigh, If Nature cross ye, so do I; My weapon there unfeather'd flies, And shakes and shuffles through the skies. But if the mutual charms I find By which she links you, mind to mind, 60 They wing my shafts, I poise the darts, And strike from both, through both your hearts.

* * * * *

ANACREONTIC.

1 Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's[1] wine, A noble meal bespoke us; And for the guests that were to dine, Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.

2 The god near Cupid drew his chair, Near Comus, Jocus placed; For wine makes Love forget its care, And Mirth exalts a feast.

3 The more to please the sprightly god, Each sweet engaging Grace Put on some clothes to come abroad, And took a waiter's place.

4 Then Cupid named at every glass A lady of the sky; While Bacchus swore he'd drink the lass, And did it bumper-high.

5 Fat Comus toss'd his brimmers o'er, And always got the most; Jocus took care to fill him more, Whene'er he miss'd the toast.

6 They call'd, and drank at every touch; He fill'd, and drank again; And if the gods can take too much, 'Tis said they did so then.

7 Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung, By reckoning his deceits; And Cupid mock'd his stammering tongue, With all his staggering gaits:

8 And Jocus droll'd on Comus' ways, And tales without a jest; While Comus call'd his witty plays But waggeries at best.

9 Such talk soon set 'em all at odds; And, had I Homer's pen, I'd sing ye, how they drank like gods, And how they fought like men.

10 To part the fray, the Graces fly, Who make 'em soon agree; Nay, had the Furies selves been nigh, They still were three to three.

11 Bacchus appeased, raised Cupid up, And gave him back his bow; But kept some darts to stir the cup Where sack and sugar flow.

12 Jocus took Comus' rosy crown, And gaily wore the prize, And thrice, in mirth, he push'd him down, As thrice he strove to rise.

13 Then Cupid sought the myrtle grove, Where Venus did recline; And Venus close embracing Love, They join'd to rail at wine.

14 And Comus loudly cursing wit, Roll'd off to some retreat, Where boon companions gravely sit In fat unwieldy state.

15 Bacchus and Jocus, still behind, For one fresh glass prepare; They kiss, and are exceeding kind, And vow to be sincere.

16 But part in time, whoever hear This our instructive song; For though such friendships may be dear, They can't continue long.

[Footnote 1: 'Estcourt:' Dick, a comedian and keeper of the Bumper Tavern—a companion of Addison, Steele, and the rest.]

* * * * *

A FAIRY TALE,

IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE.

1 In Britain's isle and Arthur's days, When midnight Faeries danced the maze, Lived Edwin of the green; Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, Though badly shaped he been.

2 His mountain back mote well be said To measure heighth against his head, And lift itself above: Yet spite of all that Nature did To make his uncouth form forbid, This creature dared to love.

3 He felt the charms of Edith's eyes, Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, Could ladies look within; But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art, And, if a shape could win a heart, He had a shape to win.

4 Edwin (if right I read my song) With slighted passion paced along, All in the moony light: 'Twas near an old enchanted court, Where sportive Faeries made resort To revel out the night.

5 His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 'Twas late, 'twas farr, the path was lost That reach'd the neighbour-town; With weary steps he quits the shades, Resolved, the darkling dome he treads, And drops his limbs adown.

6 But scant he lays him on the floor, When hollow winds remove the door, A trembling rocks the ground: And (well I ween to count aright) At once an hundred tapers light On all the walls around.

7 Now sounding tongues assail his ear, Now sounding feet approachen near, And now the sounds increase: And from the corner where he lay He sees a train, profusely gay, Come prankling o'er the place.

8 But trust me, gentles! never yet Was dight a masquing half so neat, Or half so rich before; The country lent the sweet perfumes, The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, The town its silken store.

9 Now whilst he gazed, a gallant dress'd In flaunting robes above the rest, With awful accent cried: What mortal of a wretched mind, Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, Has here presumed to hide?

10 At this the swain, whose venturous soul No fears of magic art control, Advanced in open sight: Nor have I cause of dread, he said, Who view, by no presumption led, Your revels of the night.

11 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, Which made my steps unweeting rove Amid the nightly dew. 'Tis well, the gallant cries again, We Faeries never injure men Who dare to tell us true.

12 Exalt thy love-dejected heart, Be mine the task, or e'er we part, To make thee grief resign; Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce, Be little Mable thine.

13 He spoke, and all a-sudden there Light music floats in wanton air; The monarch leads the queen: The rest their Faerie partners found, And Mable trimly tripp'd the ground With Edwin of the green.

14 The dauncing past, the board was laid, And siker such a feast was made As heart and lip desire; Withouten hands the dishes fly, The glasses—with a wish come nigh, And with a wish retire.

15 But now, to please the Faerie King, Full every deal, they laugh and sing, And antic feats devise; Some wind and tumble like an ape, And other some transmute their shape In Edwin's wondering eyes.

16 Till one at last that Robin bight, (Renown'd for pinching maids by night) Has hent him up aloof; And full against the beam he flung, Where by the back the youth he hung To spraul unneath the roof.

17 From thence, Reverse my charm, he cries, And let it fairly now suffice The gambol has been shown. But Oberon answers with a smile, Content thee, Edwin, for a while, The vantage is thine own.

18 Here ended all the phantom-play; They smelt the fresh approach of day, And heard a cock to crow; The whirling wind that bore the crowd Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud, To warn them all to go.

19 Then screaming all at once they fly, And all at once the tapers die, Poor Edwin falls to floor; Forlorn his state, and dark the place, Was never wight in sike a case Through all the land before.

20 But soon as Dan Apollo rose, Full jolly creature home he goes, He feels his back the less; His honest tongue and steady mind Had rid him of the lump behind Which made him want success.

21 With lusty livelyhed he talks, He seems a-dauncing as he walks, His story soon took wind; And beauteous Edith sees the youth, Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, Without a bunch behind.

22 The story told, Sir Topaz moved, The youth of Edith erst approved, To see the revel scene: At close of eve he leaves his home, And wends to find the ruin'd dome All on the gloomy plain.

23 As there he bides, it so befell, The wind came rustling down a dell, A shaking seized the wall: Up spring the tapers as before, The Faeries bragly foot the floor, And music fills the hall.

24 But, certes, sorely sunk with woe Sir Topaz sees the elfin show, His spirits in him die: When Oberon cries, A man is near, A mortal passion, cleeped fear, Hang's flagging in the sky.

25 With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth! In accents faltering aye for ruth, Entreats them pity graunt; For als he been a mister wight Betray'd by wandering in the night To tread the circled haunt.

26 Ah, losel vile! (at once they roar) And little skill'd of Faerie lore, Thy cause to come we know: Now has thy kestrel courage fell; And Faeries, since a lie you tell, Are free to work thee woe.

27 Then Will, who bears the wispy fire, To trail the swains among the mire, The caitiff upward flung; There like a tortoise in a shop He dangled from the chamber-top, Where whilom Edwin hung.

28 The revel now proceeds apace, Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, They sit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while, Till all the rout retreat.

29 By this the stars began to wink, They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, And down ydrops the knight. For never spell by Faerie laid With strong enchantment bound a glade Beyond the length of night.

30 Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay, Till up the welkin rose the day, Then deem'd the dole was o'er; But wot ye well his harder lot? His seely back the bunch has got Which Edwin lost afore.

31 This tale a Sybil-nurse aread; She softly stroked my youngling head, And when the tale was done, Thus some are born, my son, (she cries,) With base impediments to rise, And some are born with none.

32 But virtue can itself advaunce To what the favourite fools of chaunce By fortune seem'd design'd; Virtue can gain the odds of Fate, And from itself shake off the weight Upon the unworthy mind.

* * * * *

TO MR POPE.

To praise, yet still with due respect to praise, A bard triumphant in immortal bays, The learn'd to show, the sensible commend, Yet still preserve the province of the friend, What life, what vigour, must the lines require, What music tune them, what affection fire!

Oh! might thy genius in my bosom shine, Thou shouldst not fail of numbers worthy thine; The brightest ancients might at once agree To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10

Horace himself would own thou dost excel In candid arts, to play the critic well.

Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream; On silver feet, with annual osier crown'd, She runs for ever through poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, Made by thy Muse the envy of the fair! Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess[1] wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before; 20 Here courtly trifles set the world at odds, Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for gods, The new machines in names of ridicule, Mock the grave frenzy of the chymic fool. But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart: The Graces stand in sight; a Satyr train Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the scene.

In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits Enshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits, 30 And sits in measures, such as Virgil's Muse To place thee near him might be fond to choose. How might he tune the alternate reed with thee, Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he, While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize! Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains, And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains. Indulgent nurse of every tender gale, Parent of flowerets, old Arcadia, hail! 40 Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread, Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head, Still slide thy waters soft among the trees, Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze, Smile all thy valleys in eternal spring, Be hush'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil sing.

In English lays, and all sublimely great, Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat; He shines in council, thunders in the fight, And flames with every sense of great delight. 50 Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown, Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne, In all the majesty of Greek retired, Himself unknown, his mighty name admired; His language failing, wrapp'd him round with night, Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light. So wealthy mines, that ages long before Fed the large realms around with golden ore, When choked by sinking banks, no more appear, And shepherds only say, The mines were here: 60 Should some rich youth (if Nature warm his heart, And all his projects stand inform'd with Art) Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein; The mines, detected, flame with gold again.

How vast, how copious are thy new designs! How every music varies in thy lines! Still as I read, I feel my bosom beat, And rise in raptures by another's heat. Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the days, When Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70 Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest, And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest: The shades resound with song—oh softly tread! While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my friend—and when a friend inspires, My silent harp its master's hand requires, Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound; For fortune placed me in unfertile ground, Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning—far, oh far from thee! 80 Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf, Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf; Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet, Rocks at their side, and torrents at their feet, Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood, Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud.

Yet here Content can dwell, and Learned Ease, A friend delight me, and an author please; Even here I sing, while Pope supplies the theme, Show my own love, though not increase his fame. 90

[Footnote 1: 'Egypt's princess:' Cleopatra.]

* * * * *

HEALTH: AN ECLOGUE.

Now early shepherds o'er the meadow pass, And print long footsteps in the glittering grass, The cows neglectful of their pasture stand, By turns obsequious to the milker's hand, When Damon softly trode the shaven lawn, Damon a youth from city cares withdrawn; Long was the pleasing walk he wander'd through, A cover'd arbour closed the distant view; There rests the youth, and while the feather'd throng Raise their wild music, thus contrives a song. 10

Here wafted o'er by mild Etesian air, Thou country Goddess, beauteous Health, repair! Here let my breast through quivering trees inhale Thy rosy blessings with the morning gale. What are the fields, or flowers, or all I see? Ah! tasteless all, if not enjoy'd with thee.

Joy to my soul! I feel the Goddess nigh, The face of Nature cheers as well as I; O'er the flat green refreshing breezes run, The smiling daisies blow beneath the sun, 20 The brooks run purling down with silver waves, The planted lanes rejoice with dancing leaves, The chirping birds from all the compass rove To tempt the tuneful echoes of the grove: High sunny summits, deeply shaded dales, Thick mossy banks, and flowery winding vales, With various prospect gratify the sight, And scatter fix'd attention in delight.

Come, country Goddess, come! nor thou suffice, But bring thy mountain sister, Exercise! 30 Call'd by thy lovely voice, she turns her pace, Her winding horn proclaims the finish'd chase; She mounts the rocks, she skims the level plain, Dogs, hawks, and horses crowd her early train; Her hardy face repels the tanning wind, And lines and meshes loosely float behind. All these as means of toil the feeble see, But these are helps to pleasure join'd with thee.

Let Sloth lie softening till high noon in down, Or lolling fan her in the sultry town, 40 Unnerved with rest, and turn her own disease, Or foster others in luxurious ease: I mount the courser, call the deep-mouth'd hounds; The fox unkennell'd, flies to covert grounds; I lead where stags through tangled thickets tread, And shake the saplings with their branching head; I make the falcons wing their airy way, And soar to seize, or stooping strike their prey: To snare the fish I fix the luring bait; To wound the fowl I load the gun with fate. 50 'Tis thus through change of exercise I range, And strength and pleasure rise from every change. Here beauteous for all the year remain; When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.

Oh come, thou Goddess of my rural song, And bring thy daughter, calm Content, along! Dame of the ruddy cheek and laughing eye, From whose bright presence clouds of sorrow fly: For her I mow my walks, I plait my bowers, Clip my low hedges, and support my flowers; 60 To welcome her, this summer seat I dress'd, And here I court her when she comes to rest; When she from exercise to learned ease Shall change again, and teach the change to please.

Now friends conversing my soft hours refine, And Tully's Tusculum revives in mine: Now to grave books I bid the mind retreat, And such as make me rather good than great; Or o'er the works of easy Fancy rove, Where flutes and innocence amuse the grove: 70 The native bard that on Sicilian plains First sung the lowly manners of the swains; Or Maro's Muse, that in the fairest light Paints rural prospects and the charms of sight; These soft amusements bring Content along, And Fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song. Here beauteous Health for all the year remain; When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.

* * * * *

THE FLIES: AN ECLOGUE.

When the river cows for coolness stand. And sheep for breezes seek the lofty land, A youth whom AEsop taught that every tree, Each bird and insect, spoke as well as he, Walk'd calmly musing in a shaded way, Where flowering hawthorn broke the sunny ray, And thus instructs his moral pen to draw A scene that obvious in the field he saw.

Near a low ditch, where shallow waters meet, Which never learn'd to glide with liquid feet, 10 Whose Naiads never prattle as they play, But screen'd with hedges slumber out the day, There stands a slender fern's aspiring shade, Whose answering branches, regularly laid, Put forth their answering boughs, and proudly rise Three storeys upward in the nether skies.

For shelter here, to shun the noonday heat, An airy nation of the flies retreat; Some in soft air their silken pinions ply, And some from bough to bough delighted fly, 20 Some rise, and circling light to perch again; A pleasing murmur hums along the plain. So, when a stage invites to pageant shows, (If great and small are like) appear the beaux; In boxes some with spruce pretension sit, Some change from seat to seat within the pit, Some roam the scenes, or turning cease to roam; Preluding music fills the lofty dome. When thus a fly (if what a fly can say Deserves attention) raised the rural lay:

Where late Amintor made a nymph a bride, 30 Joyful I flew by young Favonia's side, Who, mindless of the feasting, went to sip The balmy pleasure of the shepherd's lip; I saw the wanton where I stoop'd to sup, And half resolved to drown me in the cup; Till, brush'd by careless hands, she soar'd above: Cease, beauty, cease to vex a tender love!

Thus ends the youth, the buzzing meadow rung, And thus the rival of his music sung: 40

When suns by thousands shone in orbs of dew, I, wafted soft, with Zephyretta flew; Saw the clean pail, and sought the milky cheer, While little Daphne seized my roving dear. Wretch that I was! I might have warn'd the dame, Yet sate indulging as the danger came, But the kind huntress left her free to soar: Ah! guard, ye lovers, guard a mistress more!

Thus from the fern, whose high projecting arms, The fleeting nation bent with dusky swarms, 50 The swains their love in easy music breathe, When tongues and tumult stun the field beneath, Black ants in teams come darkening all the road; Some call to march, and some to lift the load; They strain, they labour with incessant pains, Press'd by the cumbrous weight of single grains. The flies, struck silent, gaze with wonder down: The busy burghers reach their earthy town, Where lay the burdens of a wintry store, And thence, unwearied, part in search of more. 60 Yet one grave sage a moment's space attends, And the small city's loftiest point ascends, Wipes the salt dew that trickles down his face, And thus harangues them with the gravest grace

Ye foolish nurslings of the summer air! These gentle tunes and whining songs forbear, Your trees and whispering breeze, your grove and love, Your Cupid's quiver, and his mother's dove; Let bards to business bend their vigorous wing, And sing but seldom, if they love to sing: 70 Else, when the flowerets of the season fail, And this your ferny shade forsakes the vale, Though one would save ye, not one grain of wheat Should pay such songster's idling at my gate.

He ceased: the flies, incorrigibly vain, Heard the mayor's speech, and fell to sing again.

* * * * *

AN ELEGY TO AN OLD BEAUTY.

In vain, poor nymph, to please our youthful sight You sleep in cream and frontlets all the night, Your face with patches soil, with paint repair, Dress with gay gowns, and shade with foreign hair. If truth in spite of manners must be told, Why, really, fifty-five is something old.

Once you were young; or one, whose life's so long, She might have borne my mother, tells me wrong. And once, (since Envy's dead before you die) The women own, you play'd a sparkling eye, 10 Taught the light foot a modish little trip, And pouted with the prettiest purple lip.

To some new charmer are the roses fled, Which blew, to damask all thy cheek with red; Youth calls the graces there to fix their reign, And airs by thousands fill their easy train. So parting Summer bids her flowery prime Attend the Sun to dress some foreign clime, While withering seasons in succession, here, Strip the gay gardens, and deform the Year. 20

But thou (since Nature bids) the world resign, 'Tis now thy daughter's daughter's time to shine. With more address, (or such as pleases more) She runs her female exercises o'er, Unfurls or closes, raps or turns the fan, And smiles, or blushes at the creature Man. With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass, In sideling courtesy she drops the glass. With better strength, on visit-days she bears To mount her fifty flights of ample stairs. 30 Her mien, her shape, her temper, eyes and tongue, Are sure to conquer—for the rogue is young; And all that's madly wild, or oddly gay, We call it only pretty Fanny's way.

Let Time that makes you homely, make you sage, The sphere of wisdom is the sphere of age. 'Tis true, when beauty dawns with early fire, And hears the flattering tongues of soft desire, If not from virtue, from its gravest ways The soul with pleasing avocation strays. 40 But beauty gone, 'tis easier to be wise; As harpers better by the loss of eyes.

Henceforth retire, reduce your roving airs, Haunt less the plays, and more the public prayers, Reject the Mechlin head, and gold brocade, Go pray, in sober Norwich crape array'd. Thy pendant diamonds let thy Fanny take, Their trembling lustre shows how much you shake; Or bid her wear thy necklace row'd with pearl, You'll find your Fanny an obedient girl. 50 So, for the rest, with less incumbrance hung, You walk through life, unmingled with the young; And view the shade and substance as you pass With joint endeavour trifling at the glass, Or Folly dress'd, and rambling all her days, To meet her counterpart, and grow by praise: Yet still sedate yourself, and gravely plain, You neither fret, nor envy at the vain.

'Twas thus, if man with woman we compare, The wise Athenian cross'd a glittering fair; 60 Unmoved by tongues and sights, he walk'd the place, Through tape, toys, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and lace; Then bends from Mars's hill his awful eyes, And 'What a world I never want!' he cries; But cries unheard: for Folly will be free. So parts the buzzing gaudy crowd, and he: As careless he for them, as they for him; He wrapt in wisdom, and they whirl'd by whim

* * * * *

THE BOOK-WORM.

Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day The book-worm, ravening beast of prey! Produced by parent Earth, at odds (As Fame reports it) with the gods. Him frantic Hunger wildly drives Against a thousand authors' lives: Through all the fields of Wit he flies; Dreadful his head with clustering eyes, With horns without, and tusks within, And scales to serve him for a skin. 10 Observe him nearly, lest he climb To wound the bards of ancient time, Or down the vale of Fancy go, To tear some modern wretch below: On every corner fix thine eye, Or, ten to one, he slips thee by.

See where his teeth a passage eat: We'll rouse him from the deep retreat. But who the shelter's forced to give? 'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live! 20 From leaf to leaf, from song to song, He draws the tadpole form along, He mounts the gilded edge before, He's up, he scuds the cover o'er, He turns, he doubles, there he pass'd, And here we have him, caught at last.

Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse The sweetest servants of the Muse! —Nay, never offer to deny, I took thee in the act to fly— 30 His roses nipp'd in every page, My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage. By thee my Ovid wounded lies; By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies: Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd The work of love in Biddy Floyd; They rent Belinda's locks away, And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. For all, for every single deed, Relentless Justice bids thee bleed. 40 Then fall a victim to the Nine, Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.

Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near, To pile a sacred altar here; Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit, You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ; You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain; Pray take your mortal bards again.

Come, bind the victim,—there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes 50 This venerable dust I lay, From manuscripts just swept away.

The goblet in my hand I take (For the libation's yet to make), A health to poets! all their days May they have bread, as well as praise; Sense may they seek, and less engage In papers fill'd with party rage. But if their riches spoil their vein, Ye Muses! make them poor again. 60

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade, With which my tuneful pens are made. I strike the scales that arm thee round, And twice and thrice I print the wound; The sacred altar floats with red; And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the son of Jove I stand, This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, To see what dangers threat the year: 70 Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench! What lean translations out of French! 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, S— prints before the months go round.

But hold, before I close the scene, The sacred altar should be clean. Oh, had I Shadwell's[1] second bays, Or, Tate![2] thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your works till now) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, 80 (That only way you please the Nine) But since I chance to want these two, I'll make the songs of Durfey[3] do.

Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin I hang the scales that braced it in; I hang my studious morning gown, And write my own inscription down.

'This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done, 90 These, Parnell glorying in the feat, Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. Here Ignorance and Hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage round; Here Ignorance and Hunger fell— Two foes in one I sent to hell. Ye poets, who my labours see, Come share the triumph all with me! Ye critics, born to vex the Muse, Go mourn the grand ally you lose!' 100

[Footnote 1: 'Shadwell:' Dryden's rival.]

[Footnote 2: 'Tate:' Nahum. See Life of Dryden.]

[Footnote 3: 'Durfey:' the well-known wit of the time.]

* * * * *

AN ALLEGORY ON MAN.

A thoughtful being, long and spare, Our race of mortals call him Care; (Were Homer living, well he knew What name the gods have call'd him too) With fine mechanic genius wrought, And loved to work, though no one bought.

This being, by a model bred In Jove's eternal sable head, Contrived a shape, empower'd to breathe, And be the worldling here beneath. 10

The Man rose staring, like a stake, Wondering to see himself awake! Then look'd so wise, before he knew The business he was made to do, That, pleased to see with what a grace He gravely show'd his forward face, Jove talk'd of breeding him on high, An under-something of the sky.

But e'er he gave the mighty nod, Which ever binds a poet's god, 20 (For which his curls ambrosial shake, And mother Earth's obliged to quake:) He saw old mother Earth arise, She stood confess'd before his eyes; But not with what we read she wore, A castle for a crown, before; Nor with long streets and longer roads Dangling behind her, like commodes: As yet with wreaths alone she dress'd, And trail'd a landscape-painted vest. 30 Then thrice she raised, (as Ovid said) And thrice she bow'd her weighty head.

Her honours made, Great Jove, she cried, This thing was fashion'd from my side; His hands, his heart, his head are mine; Then what hast thou to call him thine?

Nay, rather ask, the monarch said, What boots his hand, his heart, his head? Were what I gave removed away, Thy parts an idle shape of clay. 40

Halves, more than halves! cried honest Care; Your pleas would make your titles fair, You claim the body, you the soul, But I who join'd them, claim the whole.

Thus with the gods debate began, On such a trivial cause as Man. And can celestial tempers rage? (Quoth Virgil in a later age.)

As thus they wrangled, Time came by; (There's none that paint him such as I, 50 For what the fabling ancients sung Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.) As yet his winters had not shed Their silver honours on his head; He just had got his pinions free From his old sire Eternity. A serpent girdled round he wore, The tail within the mouth before; By which our almanacs are clear That learned Egypt meant the year. 60 A staff he carried, where on high A glass was fix'd to measure by, As amber boxes made a show For heads of canes an age ago. His vest, for day and night, was pied, A bending sickle arm'd his side, And Spring's new months his train adorn; The other Seasons were unborn.

Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. 70 O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, (Where since his Hours a dial made;) Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounced the words of Fate:

Since Body from the parent Earth, And Soul from Jove received a birth, Return they where they first began; But since their union makes the Man, Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, Man is due. 80

He said, and sprung with swift career To trace a circle for the year, Where ever since the Seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, said Jove, and for consent Thundering he shook the firmament; Our umpire Time shall have his way, With Care I let the creature stay: Let business vex him, avarice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, 90 Let error act, opinion speak, And want afflict, and sickness break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy distract, and sorrow kill, Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long destructive blow; And wasted Man, whose quick decay, Comes hurrying on before his day, Shall only find, by this decree, The Soul flies sooner back to me. 100

* * * * *

AN IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES.

Relentless Time! destroying power Whom stone and brass obey, Who giv'st to every flying hour To work some new decay; Unheard, unheeded, and unseen, Thy secret saps prevail, And ruin Man, a nice machine By Nature form'd to fail. My change arrives; the change I meet, Before I thought it nigh. 10 My spring, my years of pleasure fleet, And all their beauties die. In age I search, and only find A poor unfruitful gain, Grave Wisdom stalking slow behind, Oppress'd with loads of pain. My ignorance could once beguile, And fancied joys inspire; My errors cherish'd hope to smile On newly-born desire. 20 But now experience shows the bliss, For which I fondly sought, Not worth the long impatient wish, And ardour of the thought. My youth met Fortune fair array'd; In all her pomp she shone, And might perhaps have well essay'd To make her gifts my own: But when I saw the blessings shower On some unworthy mind, 30 I left the chase, and own'd the power Was justly painted blind. I pass'd the glories which adorn The splendid courts of kings, And while the persons moved my scorn. I rose to scorn the things. My manhood felt a vigorous fire, By love increased the more; But years with coming years conspire To break the chains I wore. 40 In weakness safe, the sex I see With idle lustre shine; For what are all their joys to me, Which cannot now be mine? But hold—I feel my gout decrease, My troubles laid to rest, And truths which would disturb my peace, Are painful truths at best. Vainly the time I have to roll In sad reflection flies; 50 Ye fondling passions of my soul! Ye sweet deceits! arise. I wisely change the scene within, To things that used to please; In pain, philosophy is spleen, In health, 'tis only ease.

* * * * *

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

By the blue taper's trembling light, No more I waste the wakeful night, Intent with endless view to pore The schoolmen and the sages o'er: Their books from wisdom widely stray, Or point at best the longest way. I'll seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom's surely taught below.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky, Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 10 While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide! The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. 20 That steeple guides thy doubtful sight, Among the livid gleams of night. There pass, with melancholy state, By all the solemn heaps of fate, And think, as softly-sad you tread Above the venerable dead, 'Time was, like thee they life possess'd, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.'

Those graves, with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 30 Quick to the glancing thought disclose Where Toil and Poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, Which, e'er our set of friends decay, Their frequent steps may wear away, A middle race of mortals own, Men half-ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 40 Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;— These (all the poor remains of state) Adorn the rich, or praise the great; Who while on earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, The bursting earth unveils the shades! All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, They rise in visionary crowds, 50 And all with sober accent cry, 'Think, mortal, what it is to die!'

Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnal-house with dew, Methinks I hear a voice begin; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Ye tolling clocks, no time resound O'er the long lake and midnight ground!) It sends a peal of hollow groans, Thus speaking from among the bones: 60

'When men my scythe and darts supply, How great a king of fears am I! They view me like the last of things: They make, and then they dread, my stings. Fools! if you less provoked your fears, No more my spectre-form appears. Death's but a path that must be trod, If man would ever pass to God: A port of calms, a state of ease From the rough rage of swelling seas. 70

Why, then, thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know, Nor wants the soul these forms of woe: As men who long in prison dwell, With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 80 Whene'er their suffering years are run, Spring forth to greet the glittering sun: Such joy, though far transcending sense, Have pious souls at parting hence. On earth, and in the body placed, A few, and evil years, they waste: But when their chains are cast aside, See the glad scene unfolding wide, Clap the glad wing and tower away, And mingle with the blaze of day!' 90

* * * * *

A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.

Lovely, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human kind! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky With more of happiness below, Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, oh! whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek, contented head? What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calm and ease? 10

Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. Increasing Avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way, Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart which grief assails, Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 20 Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks (as I have vainly done) Amusing thought; but learns to know That Solitude's the nurse of Woe. No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground; Or in a soul exalted high, To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know All Nature in its forms below; 30 The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last for knowledge rise.

Lovely, lasting peace appear! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden bless'd, And Man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood, And, lost in thought, no more perceived The branches whisper as they waved: 40 It seem'd as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of the Grace, When thus she spoke:—'Go, rule thy will; Bid thy wild passions all be still; Know God—and bring thy heart to know The joys which from Religion flow: Then every Grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest.'

Oh! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat; 50 Might I thus my soul employ, With sense of gratitude and joy! Raised as ancient prophets were, In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; Pleasing all men, hurting none, Pleased and bless'd with God alone: Then, while the gardens take my sight With all the colours of delight; While silver waters glide along, To please my ear, and court my song: 60 I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, And Thee, Great Source of Nature! sing.

The sun, that walks his airy way, To light the world, and give the day; The moon, that shines with borrow'd light; The stars, that gild the gloomy night; The seas, that roll unnumber'd waves; The wood, that spreads its shady leaves; The field, whose ears conceal the grain, The yellow treasure of the plain;— 70 All of these, and all I see, Should be sung, and sung by me: They speak their Maker as they can, But want, and ask, the tongue of man.

Go, search among your idle dreams, Your busy, or your vain extremes; And find a life of equal bliss, Or own the next begun in this!

* * * * *

THE HERMIT.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well: Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.

A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose: That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway; 10 His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost: So when a smooth expanse receives impress'd Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow: But if a stone the gentle scene divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 20

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books or swains report it right, (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fix'd the scallop in his hat before; Then with the sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; 30 But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. Then near approaching, 'Father, hail!' he cried, 'And hail, my Son!' the reverend sire replied; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceived the road. Till each with other pleased, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart: 40 Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; Nature in silence bid the world repose; When near the road a stately palace rose: There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome, Still made his house the wandering stranger's home: 50 Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive: the liveried servants wait; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate; The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good; Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the Zephyrs play; 60 Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call; An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then pleased and thankful, from the porch they go, And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe; His cup was vanish'd—for in secret guise The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 70

As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear: So seem'd the sire, when, far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart, And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part: Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard, That generous actions meet a base reward. 80

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to cover scud across the plain. Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved around; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 90

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; The nimble lightning, mix'd with showers, began, And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunder ran. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. At length some pity warm'd the master's breast, ('Twas then his threshold first received a guest) Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair; 100 One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls: Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager[1] wine, (Each hardly granted) served them both to dine; And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace.

With still remark the pondering hermit view'd, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; And why should such, (within himself he cried,) Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? 110 But what new marks of wonder soon took place, In every settling feature of his face, When from his vest the young companion bore That cup, the generous landlord own'd before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly, The sun emerging opes an azure sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: 120 The weather courts them from the poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travail of uncertain thought; His partner's acts without their cause appear, 'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here: Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, Lost and confounded with the various shows.

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky; Again the wanderers want a place to lie, 130 Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. The soil improved around, the mansion neat, And neither poorly low, nor idly great: It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind.

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, Then bliss the mansion, and the master greet: Their greeting fair bestow'd, with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies:

'Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 140 To Him who gives us all, I yield a part; From Him you come, for Him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.'

He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed, When the grave household round his hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.

At length the world, renew'd by calm repose, Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept, 150 Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride— Oh, strange return!—grew black, and gasp'd, and died. Horror of horrors! what! his only son! How look'd our hermit when the fact was done? Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues; the country lay 160 Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way: A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find; the servant trode before; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in; Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.