ANTISTROPHE I O Heav'n-born sisters! source of Art! Who charm the sense, or mend the heart; Who lead fair Virtue's train along, Moral Truth and mystic Song! To what new clime, what distant sky, Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly? Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore? Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more? STROPHE II When Athens sinks by fates unjust, When wild Barbarians spurn her dust; Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore, See Arts her savage sons control, And Athens rising near the pole! Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land. ANTISTROPHE II Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball? In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state! Still, when the lust of tyrant Power suc ceeds, Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds. CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS O tyrant Love! hast thou possest Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim, CHORUS Love's purer flames the Gods approve; The Gods and Brutus bend to love: Brutus for absent Portia sighs, And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes. What is loose love? a transient gust, Spent in a sudden storm of lust, A vapour fed from wild desire, And burn for ever one; Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light, SEMICHORUS O source of ev'ry social tie, As son, as father, brother, husband, friend? What tender passions take their turns! What home-felt raptures move! His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns, With Rev'rence, Hope, and Love. CHORUS Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises, Hence false tears, deceits, disguises, Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises, Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine! Purest Love's unwasting treasure, Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure, Days of ease, and nights of pleasure, Sacred Hymen! these are thine. TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTHDAY Written to Martha Blount in 1723. Lines 5-10 were elsewhere adapted for a versified celebration of his own birthday, and for an epitaph on a suicide! Он, be thon blest with all that Heav'n can send, Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend: Not with those Toys the female world ad mire, Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire. With added years if Life bring nothing new, But, like a sieve, let ev'ry blessing thro', Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain, some sad Reflection more; Is that a birthday? 't is alas! too clear, 'Tis but the funeral of the former year. Catharine Howard, one of Queen Caroline's waiting-women; afterward Countess of Suffolk and mistress to George II. Her identification as the Chloe of Moral Essays, II., makes it easier to believe Walpole's statement that this lady once reprieved a condemned criminal that an experiment might be made on his ears for her benefit.' I KNOW the thing that 's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent, and attend!) I know a reasonable Woman, Not warp'd by Passion, awed by Rumour, Has she no faults then (Envy says), sir?' Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf and does not hear. TO MR. JOHN MOORE AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM POWDER How much, egregious Moore! are we Deceiv'd by shows and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, All humankind are Worms. Man is a very Worm by birth, That woman is a Worm we find, The learn'd themselves we Bookworms name, The blockhead is a Slowworm; The fops are painted Butterflies, First from a Worm they take their rise, The flatterer an Earwig grows; That statesmen have the worm, is seen Ah, Moore, thy skill were well employ'd, If thou couldst make the courtier void O learned friend of Abchurch-Lane, Our fate thou only canst adjourn THE CURLL MISCELLANIES UMBRA Though speculation has connected several other persons with this poem, it is probably still another hit at the luckless Ambrose Philips. It, with the three following poems, was first published in the Miscellanies, 1727. CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's Wits. 'Who's here?' cries Umbra. 'Only Johnson.'-'0! Your slave,' and exit; but returns with Rowe. 'Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies : Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment fastens upon Steele; But cries as soon, 'Dear Dick, I must be gone, For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.' Says Addison to Steele, T is time to go: Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe. Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle, Ev'n sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell. Fool! 't is in vain from Wit to Wit to roam; Know, Sense, like Charity, begins at home.' BISHOP HOUGH A BISHOP, by his neighbors hated, I'll lay my life I know the place : "T is where God sent some that adore him, And whither Enoch went before him. SANDYS' GHOST OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY This refers to the translation undertaken by Sir Samuel Garth, which aimed to complete Dryden's translation of Ovid, avoiding the rigidness of Sandys' method. The enterprise was begun in 1718, when these verses were probably written. YE Lords and Commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Beware of Latin authors, all, Nor think your verses sterling, Tho' with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin. For not the desk with silver nails, Hear how a Ghost in dead of night, Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! Ah! why did he write poetry, That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity To Rhyming and the Devil? A desk he had of curious work, Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, This Squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite, I hear the beat of Jacob's drums, Then Lords and Lordlings, Squires and Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers: Garth at St. James's, and at White's, Beats up for volunteers. What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom B[urne]t, or Tom D'Urfey may, John Dunton, Steele, or any one. If Justice Philips' costive head Some frigid rhymes disburses, They shall like Persian tales be read, And glad both babes and nurses. Let W[a]rw[ic]k's Muse with Ash[urs]t join, And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's, Tickell and Addison combine, And P[o]pe translate with Jervas. L[ansdowne] himself, that lively lord, Shall join with F[rowde] in one accord, Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, EPIGRAM AN EMPTY HOUSE You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. POEMS SUGGESTED BY GULLIVER ODE TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN THE MAN MOUNTAIN, BY TITTY TIT, POET LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH This 'Ode' and the three following poems, were written by Pope after reading Gulliver's Travels, and first published in the Miscellanies of Pope and Swift, in 1727. IN amaze Propp'd the skies: Man and steed: |