UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld, and loft'! admir'd, and mourn'd!
With foftest manners, gentleft arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in every strain;
Dear to the Mufe, to Harley dear-in vain!
For him thou oft haft bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statefman in the friend :
For Swift and him, defpis'd the farce of ftate,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit,
And pleas'd to fcape from flattery to wit.
Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,"
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall thofe nights that clos'd thy toilfome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays:
Who, careless now, of intereft, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a foul like thine :
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A foul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, all anger, and all pride;
The rage of power, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deferts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade:
Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace,
When intereft calls off all her sneaking train,
When all th' oblig'd desert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the fcaffold, or the cell,
When the laft lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now she shades thy evening-walk with bays,
(No hireling fhe, no proftitute to praise)
Ev'n now obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm fun-set of thy various day ;
Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can fee,
Nor fears to tell, that Mortimer is he.
WHAT antient times (thofe times we fancy wife)
Have left on long record of woman's rife,
What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
What author wrote it, how that author dy'd,
All these I fing. In Greece they fram'd the tale
(In Greece 'twas thought a woman might be frail);
Ye modern beauties! where the Poet drew
His fofteft pencil, think he dreamt of you;
And, warn'd by him, ye wanton pens beware
How Heaven's concern'd to vindicate the fair.
The cafe was Hefiod's; he the fable writ;
:Some think with meaning, fome with idle wit:
Perhaps 'tis either, as the Ladies please ;
I wave the contest, and commence the lays.
In days of yore (no matter where or when,
'Twas ere the low creation fwarm'd with men)
That one Prometheus, fprung of heavenly birth,
(Our Author's fong can witnefs) liv'd on earth :
He carv'd the turf to mold a manly frame,
And ftole from Jove his animating flame.
The fly contrivance o'er Olympus ran,
When thus the Monarch of the Stars began.
O vers'd in arts! whofe daring thoughts afpire, To kindle clay with never-dying fire!
Enjoy thy glory paft, that gift was thine;
The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine:
And fuch a gift, a vengeance fo defign'd,
As fuits the counsel of a God to find;
A pleafing bofom-cheat, a specious ill,
Which felt the curse, yet covets still to feel.
He faid, and Vulcan ftrait the Sire commands,
To temper mortar with etherial hands;
In fuch a fhape to mold a rifing fair,
As virgin goddesses are proud to wear;
To make her eyes with diamond-water fhine,
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 faireft, fofteft, fweetelt frame beneath,
Now made to feem, now more than feem to breathe.
As Vulcan ends, the chearful Queen of Charms
Clafp'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 kifs fhe breath'd her various arts,
Of trifling prettily with wounded hearts;
A mind for love, but ftill a changing mind;
The lifp affected, and the glance defign'd;
The fweet confufing blufh, the fecret wink,
The gentle fwimming walk, the courteous fink;
The ftare for ftrangeness fit, for fcorn the frown;
For decent yielding, looks declining down;
The practis'd languish, where well-feign'd defire
Would own its melting in a mutual fire;
Gay fmiles to comfort; April showers to move;
And all the nature, all the art of love.
Gold fcepter'd Juno next exalts the fair;
Her touch endows her with imperious air,
Self-valuing fancy, highly-crested pride,
Strong fovereign will, and fome desire to chide;
For which, an eloquence, that aims to vex,
With native tropes of anger, arms the fex.
Minerva, kilful goddefs, train'd the maid
To twirle the fpindle by the twisting thread;
To fix the loom, inftruct the reeds to part,
Crofs the long weft, and close the web with art,
An ufeful gift; but what profufe expence,
What world of fashions, took its rife from hence!
Young Hermes next, a close contriving God,
Her brows encircled with his ferpent rod;
Then plots and fair excuses fill'd her brain,
The views of breaking amorous vows for gain;
The price of favours; the defigning 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 perfuafion tipp'd her eafy tongue;
He gave her words, where oily flattery lays
The pleafing colours of the art of praise
And wit, to fcandal exquifitely prone,
Which frets another's fpleen to cure its own.
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