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Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious. He that fold | Beftrides the wint'ry flood, in which the moon
His country, or was flack when the requir'd Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
He comes, the herald of a noify world, [locks,
Paid with the blood that he had bafely spar'd With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waift, and frozen
The price of his default. But now yes, now,
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
We are become fo candid and fo fair,'
True to his charge, the clofe-pack'd load behind,
So liberal in conftruction, and fo rich
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
In Chriftian charity, a good-natur'd age! Is to conduct it to the deftin'd inn;
That they are fafe; finners of either fex [bred, And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on.
Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well drefs'd, well He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
Cold and yet cheerful: meffenger of grief
To pafs us readily through ev'ry door.
Perhaps to thoufands, and of joy to fome;
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet) Houfes in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
May claim this merit ftill, that the admits Births, deaths, and marriages, epiftles wet
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care, With tears that trickled down the writer's checks
And thus gives virtue indirect applaufe.
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,
But he has burnt her masks, not needed here, Or charg'd with am'rous fighs of abfent fwains,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her shifts Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect
And fpecious femblances heve loft their use. His horfe and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! ufher'd in
§ 112. On the Employments of what is called an With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can fay
Idle Life.
COWPER. What are its tidings: have our troops awak'd?
HOW various his employments whom the world Or do they ftill, as if with opium drugg'd,
Calls idle, and who juftly in return
Efteems that bufy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Drefs'd to his taste, inviting him abroad—
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me therefore, ftudious of laborious cafe,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not waste it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When He fhall call his debtors to account
From whom are all our blethings-bufinefs finds
Ev'n here. While fedulous I feek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,
The mind he gave me; driving it, though flack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By caufes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior self,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and fupplies it; and who seeks
A focial, not a diffipated life-

Snore to the murmurs of th'

Has bufinefs; feels himself engag'd t' achieve
No unimportant, though a filent task.

A life all turbulence and noife may seem
To him that leads it wife, and to be prais'd;
But wifdom is a pearl with moft fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in storms
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly industrious, a difgraceful prize.

$113. The Poft comes in-the News-paper is read-The World contemplated at a difiance. Cow PER

HARK! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder
That with its wearisome but needful length

Is India free and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wifdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet th' imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now ftir the fire and close the fhutters faft,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa, round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hiffing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not fuch his ev'ning who with fhining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and fqueez'd,
And bor'd with elbow-points thro' both his fides,
Outfcolds the ranting actor on the ftage.
Nor his, who patient ftands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen all tranquillity and fmiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticife, that holds
Inquifitive attention while I read

Faft bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themfelves, yet fear to break-
What is it but a map of bufy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit, fee,
The feals of office glitter in his eyes; [heels,
He climbs, he pants, he grafps them. At his
Clote at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dext'rous jerk foon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lofe them in his turn.

Here rills of oily eloquence in foft
Meanders lubricate the courfe they take:
The modeft fpeaker is afham'd and griev'd

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T'engrofs a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bafhfulness! it claims at least this praife,
The dearth of information and good sense
That it foretels us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
There forefts of no meaning fpread the page
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleafantry amufe us there,
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wildernefs of strange
But gay confufion-rofes for the cheeks
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons and city feafts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journeys, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleafant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at fuch a world: to fee the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd:
To hear the roar the fends through all her gates
At a fafe diftance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at eafe
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am ftill. The found of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repaft for me!
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Difcover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and fhare in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is ftill at home.

§ 114. A Fragment. MALLET. FAIR morn afcends: fresh zephyr's breath Blows lib'ral o'er yon bloomy heath, Where, fown profufely, herb and flow'r Of balmy fmell, of healing pow'r, Their fouls in fragrant dews exhale, And breathe freth life in ev'ry gale. Here fpreads a green expanfe of plains, Where, fweetly-penfive, Silence reins;

And there, at utmost stretch of eye,
A mountain fades into the fky;
While, winding round, diffus'd and deep,
A river rolls with founding fweep.
Of human art no traces near,

I feem alone with nature here !

Here are thy walks, O facred Health! The Monarch's blifs, the Beggar's wealth, The feas'ning of all good below, The fov'reign friend in joy or woe. O Thou, most courted, moft defpis'd, And but in abfence duly priz'd! Pow'r of the foft and rofy face! The vivid pulfe, the vermeil grace, The fpirits, when they gayeft thine, Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine! O fun of life, whofe heavenly ray Lights up and cheers our various day, The turbulence of hopes and fears, The ftorm of fate, the cloud of years, Till nature, with thy parting light, Repofes late in Death's calm night: Fled from the trophied roofs of ftate, Abodes of fplendid pain and hate; Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep, Hot Riot would his anguish fteep,

But toffes through the midnight shade, Of death, of life, alike afraid;

For ever fled to fhady cell,

Where temp'rance, where the Mufes dwell,
Thou oft art feen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn;
Or, on the brow of mountain high,
In filence feafting ear and eye,
With fong and profpect which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.
But when the fun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat fits fervent on the plain,
With Thirst and Languor in his train
(All nature fick'ning in the blaze),
Thou in the wild and woody maze
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighb'ring fteep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolness has her feat.
There plung'd amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive, in his airy mood,
To ev'ry murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook ;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quiv'ring in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The diftant woodman's echoing ftroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vifion led,
He holds high converfe with the Dead;
Sages or Poets. See, they rife!
And fhadowy skim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.


Fathers and Friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all all that mends the head and heart,
Enlight'ning truth, adorning art.

Thus mufing in the folemn fhade,
At once the founding breeze was laid:
And nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe;
Dumb filence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bow'r:
When iffuing from the inmoft wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's Genius good.
O Freedom! fov'reign boon of Heav'n,
Great Charter with our being giv'n;
For which the patriot and the fage
Have plann'd, have bled, thro' ev'ry age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace :
Who could not give, who cannot claim,
What but from God immediate came!

§ 115. Ode to Evening. Dr. Jos. WARTON. HAIL, meck-eyed Maiden, clad in fober grey, Whole foft approach the weary woodman loves ;

116. Ifis. An Elegy. By Mr. MASON of Cambridge.

AR from her hallow'd grot, where milly bright

As homeward bent to kifs his prattling babes
Jocund he whiftles through the twilight groves.
When Phoebus finks behind the gilded hills,
You lightly o'er the mifty meadows walk;
The drooping daifies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurfe the nodding violet's tender stalk.
The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmott bow'rs and cooling caverns ran,
Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance;
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.
To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light skims the fwallow o'er the wat'ry scene;
And from the theep-cot, and fresh-furrow'd field,
Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.
The fwain, that artlefs fings on yonder rock,
His fupping fheep and length'ning fhadow fpics,To
Pleas'd with the cool, the calm refreshing hour,
And with hoarfe humming of unnumber'd flies.
Now ev'ry Paffion fleeps: defponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-reftlets Pride;
And holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful foul,
Anger and mad Ambition's ftorms fubfide.
O modeft Evening! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy penfive train;
ift'ning to every wildly-warbling note
hat fills with farewel fweet thy darkening plain.

The pointed crystals fhot their trembling light,
rom dripping mofs where fparkling dew-drops
here coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed

Pale Is lay; a willow's lowly fhade
Spread its thin foliage o'er the fleeping maid;
Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breaft
In carelefs folds loofe flow'd her zonelefs veft;
While down her neck her vagrant treffes flow,
In all the awful negligence of woe;

Her urn fuftain'd her arm, that fculptur'd vafe
Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all his grace.
Here, full with life, was heaven-taught Science

Known by the laurel wreath and mufing mien; There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace fedate and bland,

Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand; While folemn domes, arch'd fhades, and viftas green,

At well-mark'd diftance clofe the facred fcene.

On this the goddess cast an anxious look,
Then dropp'd a tender tear, and thus the fpoke:
Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vafe;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd cyes
View on yon plain the real glories rife.
Yes, Ifis! oft haft thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treafures o'er yon fav'rite incad;
Oft haft thou stopp'd thy pearly car to gaze,
While ev'ry Science nurs'd its growing bays;
While ev'ry Youth, with fame's ftrong impulfe
Prefs'd to the goal, and at the goal untir'd [fir'd,
Snatch'd each celeftial wreath, to bind his brow,
The Mufes, Graces, Virtues could bestow.

E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train, And ranks her troops on Memory's ample plain; See! the firm leaders of my patriot line, See! Sidney, Raleigh, Hampden, Somers fhine. See Hough, fuperior to a tyrant's doom, Smile at the menace of the flave of Rome: Each foul whom truth could fire, or virtue move, Each breaft ftrong panting with its country's love, All that to Albion gave their heart or head, That wifely counfell'd, or that bravely bied, All, all appear; on me they grateful fmile, The well-carn'd prize of every virtuous toil me with filial reverence they bring, And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd fpring. Ah I remember well yon beechen fpray, There Addifon first tun'd his polifh'd lay; 'Twas there great Cato's form firft met his eye, In all the pomp of free-born majefty; [awe, "My fon," he cried, "obferve this mien with "In folemn lines the ftrong refemblance draw; "The piercing notes fhall ftrike each British ear; "Each British eye fhall drop the patriot tear ! "And, rous'd to glory by the nervous train, "Each youth fhall fpurn at flavery's abje&t reign; "Shall guard with Cato's zeal Britannia's laws, And fpeak, and a&t, and bleed, in freedom's


The Hero fpoke; the bard affenting bow'd;
The lay to Liberty and Cato flow'd;
While Echo, as the rov'd the vale along,
Join'd the ftrong cadence of his Roman fong.

But, ah! how Stillness flept upon the ground,
How mute attention check'd each rifing found,

Scarce ftole a breeze to wave the leafy spray,
Scarce trill'd fweet Philomel her fofteft lay,
When Locke walk'd mufing forth! e'en now I
Majeftic Wifdom thron'd upon his brow; [view
View Candour fmile upon his modeft cheek,
And from his eye all Judginent's radiance break.
'Twas here the fage his manly zcal exprefs'd,
Here ftripp'd vain Falsehood of her gaudy veft;
Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind,
Ere long to burst in bleffings on mankind;
Ere long to fhew to reafon's purged eye,
That "Nature's first beft gift was Liberty."

Proud of this wondrous fon, fublime I ftood
(While louder furges fwell'd my rapid flood);
Then, vain as Niobe, exulting cried,
Iliffus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;
Tho' Plato's fteps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring
Tho' fair Lyceum lent its awful shade,
Tho' ev'ry Academic green imprefs'd
Its image full on thy reflecting breast,
Yet my pure ftream fhall boaft as proud a name,
And Britain's Ifis flow with Attic fame.
Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic



Are thefe the fons my foft'ring breast muft rear,
Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care?
Muft thefe go forth from my maternal hand
To deal their infults thro' a peaceful land;
And boaft, while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue

Forget that e'er my rapt attention hung
Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue;
Calin and refign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And, pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace.


That "is taught Rebellion to her Sons!"
Forbid it, Heaven! and let my rifing waves
Indignant fwell, and whelm the recreant flaves!
In England's caufe their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy.
Is this deaied; then point fome fecret way
Where far, far hence thefe guiltless treains may
Some unknown channel lend, where Nature fpreads
Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads:
There, where a hind fcarce tunes his ruftic ftrain,
Where fcarce a pilgrim treads the pathlefs plain,
Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide
Saw yon majestic ftructures crown its fide;


§117. Epifclary Verfes to George Colman, E written in the Year 1756. By Mr. ROBERT LLOYD.

See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast;
Sce! Hydra Faction fpread its impious reign,
Poifon each breaft, and madden ev'ry brain:
Hence frontlefs crowds that, not content to fright
The bluthing Cynthia from her throne of night,
Blaft the fair face of day; and, madly bold,
To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;
To Freedom's foes, ah! fee the goblet crown'd,
Hear planfive fhouts to Freedom's foes refound;
The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,
The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt;
Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,
Now fheds, by stealth, a partial private gleam
In fome lone cloifter's melancholy fhade,
Where a firm few fupport her fickly head,
Defpis'd, infulted by the barb'rous train,
Who fcour like Thracia's moon-ftruck rout the have a fimile will hit him;

You know, dear George, I'm none of thofe
That condefcend to write in profe:
Infpir'd with pathos and fublime,
I always foar—in doggrel rhyme;
And fearce can afk you how you do,
Without a jingling line or two.
Befides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of eafy writing;
Perhaps the reafon makes it please
Is, that I find 'tis writ with cafe.

I vent a notion here in private,
Which public tafte can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Additon and his Spectator;
Who fays (it is no matter where,
But that he fays it I can fwear)
With ealy verfe most bards are smitten,
Becaufe they think it's eafy written ;
Whereas, the cafier it appears,
The greater marks of care it wears;
Of which to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illuftration:
The fam'd Mat. Prior, it is faid,
Oft bit his nails, and fcratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes :
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In fhort, he labour'd to write easy.
And yet no Critic e'er defines
His poems into labour'd lines.


Sworn foes like them to all the Mufe approves,The
All Phoebus favours, or Minerva loves.

His verfe, like clothes, was made to fit him; better fit the more they 're tried. Which (as no taylor e'er denied)

Though I have mention'd Prior's name,
Think not I aim at Prior's fame.
'Tis the refult of admiration
To fpend itfelf in imitation ;
If imitation may be faid,
Which is in me by nature bred,
And you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolater of Eafe.

Who but a madman would engage
A Poet in the prefent age?
Write what we will, our works befpeak us
Imitatores, fervum Pecus
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,

We travel in the beaten road.

The proverb ftill fticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas faid an age ago,
Ere Milton foar'd in thought fublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,

O may his name thefe verfes fave, Be thefe inferib'd upon his grave!

Ere Colman wrote in ftyle fo pure,
Or the great Two the Connoiffeur;
Ere I burlefqu'd the rural cit,
Proud to hedge in my fcraps of wit;
And, happy in the clofe connection,
T'acquire fome name from their reflection:
So (the fimilitude is trite)
The moon ftill fhines with borrow'd light;
And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the fun for her lac'd clothes.

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Methinks there is no better time
To fhew the ufe I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet-finning,
Prefuming on good-nature's fcore,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.

The fift advantage which I fee,
Is, that I ramble loofe and free:
The bard indeed full oft complains
That rhymes are fetters, links, and chains;
And, when he wants to leap the fence;
Still keeps him prifoner to the fenfe.
Howe'er in common-place he rage,
Rhyme's like your fetters on the stage,
Which when the player once hath wore,
It makes him only firut the more,
While, raving in pathetic ftrains,
He shakes his legs to clank his chains.

From rhyme, as from a handfome face, Nonfenfe acquires a kind of grace; I therefore give it all its fcope, That fenfe may unperceiv'd elope. So Mrs of baseft tricks (I love a fling at politics) Amufe the nation, court, and king, With breaking F―kes, and hanging Byng; And make each puny rogue a prey, While they, the greater, flink away. This fimile perhaps would strike, If match'd with fomething more alike; Then take it drefs'd a fecond time In Prior's Eafe, and my Sublime. Say, did you never chance to meet A mob of people in the street, Ready to give the robb'd relief, And all in hafte to catch a thief; While the fly rogue, who filch'd the prey, Too close befet to run away, Stop thief! ftop thief! exclaims aloud, And fo efcapes among the crowd? So Minifters, &c.

O England, how I mourn thy fate! For fure thy loffes now are great; Two fuch what Briton can endure, Minorca, and the Connoiffeur!

"Know, Reader, that on Thursday died, "The Connoiffeur, a Suicide! "Yet think not that his foul is filed, "Nor rank him 'mongft the vulgar dead. "Howe'er defunct you fet him down, "He's only going out of Town."

§ 118. Ode to Arthur Onflow, Efq. †

THIS goodly frame what virtue fo approves,
And teftifies the pure ethereal fpirit,
As mild Benevolence?

She with her fifter Mercy ftill awaits Befide th' eternal throne of Jove, And measures forth with unwithdrawing hand The bleffings of the various year, Sunshine or fhow'r, and chides the madding


With her the heaven-bred nymph, meek Charity, Shall fashion Onflow forth in faireft portrait; And with recording care

Weave the fresh wreath that flow'ring virtue claims.

But, oh, what mufe fhall join the band?
He long has fojourn'd in the facred haunts,
And knows each whifp'ring grot and

Trod by Apollo, and the light-foot Graces.
How then fhall awkward gratitude,
And the prefumption of untutor'd duty,

Attune my numbers, all too rude?
Little he recks the meed of fuch a fong;
Yet will I ftretch aleof,

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Charm to their melody my fhrilling reeds!
To Henries and to Edwards old,
Dread names! I'd meditate the faithful fong;
Or tell what time Britannia,

To-day, or e'er the fun goes down, Will die the Cenfor, Mr. Town! He dies, whoe'er takes pains to con him, With blushing honours thick upon him : *September 30th, 1756, when Mr. Town, author of the Connoiffeur, a periodical Effay (fince publifhed in four volumes, printed for R. Baldwin, London), took leave of his readers, with an humourous account of


+ This elegant Poem was written by a Gentleman well known in the learned world, as a token of gratitude for favours conferred on his father during the laft war, whole character he has therein affumed.



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