Page images
PDF
EPUB

There bending o'er the fleeping queen, fhe cries,
Rife, my Penelope, my daughter, rife
To fee Ulyffes thy long abfent spouse,
Thy foul's defire and lord of all thy vows:

Though late, he comes, and in his rage has flain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty suitor train.
Ah! Euryclea, fhe replies, you rave;

The gods refume that reason which they gave;
For Heaven deep wisdom to the fool fupplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wife.
And wisdom once was thine! but now I find
The gods have ruin'd thy distemper'd mind,
How could you hope your fiction to impose?
Was it to flatter or deride my woes?
How could you break a sleep with talk so vain,
That held my forrows in so soft a chain?
A fleep fo fweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy:
Curft Troy-oh! why did I thy name disclose?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes :
But fly-some other had provok'd my rage*,
And you but owe your pardon to your age.

No artful tales, no ftudied lies, I frame,
Ulyffes lives (rejoins the reverend dame)
In that dishonour'd ftranger's close disguise,
Long has he pafs'd all unfuspecting eyes,
All but thy fon's-and long has he supprest
The well-concerted fecret in his breaft ;

* The words in Italic are copied by Mr. Pope. N.

Till his brave father should his foes defeat,
And the close scheme of his revenge compleat.
Swift as the word the queen transported sprung,
And round the dame in ftrict embraces hung;
Then, as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her foul.
If my victorious hero fafe arrives,

If my dear lord, Ulyffes, ftill furvives,
Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were fuch multitudes destroy'd by one?
Nought I beheld, but heard their cries, the faid,
When Death flew raging, and the fuitors bled:
Immur'd we liften'd, as we fat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing found.
Call'd by thy fon to view the scene I fled,
And faw Ulyffes ftriding o'er the dead!
Amidst the rifing heaps the hero stood

All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood.

[ocr errors]

*This is enough in confcience for this time: befides, I am defired, by Mr. Pope or Mr. Lintot, I don't know which, to write to Mr. Pope on a certain affair."

On his MAJESTY'S Playing with a TIGER in Kenfington Gardens.

"Primâ dicte mihi, fummâ dicende Camœnâ.”

AMIDST the den, the lions prey,

Seal'd up for death the prophet lay;

But couch'd the hungry monsters fit,
And fawning lick his facred feet;
H 3

Swift

Swift fhot an angel from above,
And chang'd their fury into love.
As fwift did Britain's Genius fly,
And for her charge ftand trembling by;
When Brunswick, pious, brave, and wife,
Like Him the favourite of the skies,
Play'd with the monster's dreadful teeth,
And sported with the fangs of death.
Genius of Britain, fpare thy fears,
For know, within, our Sovereign wears
The fureft guard; the best defence ;
A firm untainted innocence.

So fweet an innocence difarms

The fierceft rage with powerful charms,
So far rebellion it beguiles,

That Faction bends; that Envy fmiles;

That furious favages fubmit,

And pay due homage at his feet.
Britain! by this example prove
Thy duty, loyalty, and love.

See! the fierce brutes thy King carefs,
And court him with a mute address;
Well may'st thou own his gentle fway,
If tigers bend, and favages obey.

A DIA

A DIALOGUE between a POET and his SERVANT.

In Imitation of HORACE, Book II. SAT. VII.

To enter into the beauties of this Satire, it must be remembered, that Slaves, among the Romans, during the Feafts of Saturn, wore their Masters Habits, and were allowed to fay what they pleased.

SERVANT.

IR,-I've long waited in my turn to have

SIR,

A word with you---but I'm your humble flave. P. What knave is that? my rascal!

S. Sir, 'tis I,

No knave nor rafcal, but your trufty Guy.

P. Well, as your wages ftill are due, I'll bear Your rude impertinence this time of year.

S. Some folks are drunk one day, and some for ever, And fome, like Wharton, but twelve years together. Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt,

Would change his living oftener than his shirt ;
Roar with the rakes of state a month; and come
To starve another in his hole at home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham the public jest,
Now fome innholder's, now a monarch's guest;

[blocks in formation]

His life and politics of every shape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.
The gout in every limb from every vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever; and their fins on thofe,
By cuftom, fit as eafy as their cloaths.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the devil:
For they-

P. To what will these wild maxims tend?
And where, fweet fir, will your reflections end?
S. In you.

P. In me, you knave? make out your charge. S. You praise low-living, but you live at large. Perhaps you scarce believe the rules you teach, Or find it hard to practife what you preach. Scarce have you paid one idle journey down, But, without business, you 're again in town. If none invite you, fir, abroad to roam, Then-Lord, what pleasure 'tis to read at home: And fip your two half-pints, with great delight, Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night. From Encome, John comes thundering at the door, With Sir, my mafter begs you to come o'er, "To pass these tedious hours, these winter nights, "Not that he dreads invafions, rogues, or sprites." Strait for your two best wigs aloud you call,

This fliff in buckle, that not curl'd at all,

The feat of John Pitt, Efq, in Dorsetshire.

"And

« PreviousContinue »