Here from the fea the melting breezes rise,
Unbind the fnow, and warm the wintry skies:
Here gentle gales the dog-ftar's heat allay,
And foftly breathing cool the fultry day.
How free from cares, from dangers and affright,
In pleafing dreams I pafs the filent night!
Does not the variegated marble yield
To the gay colours of the flowery field?
Can the New-river's artificial ftreams,
Or the thick waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding rusty pipe convey'd,
Or dash'd and broken down a deep cascade,
With our clear filver ftreams in sweetness vie,
That in eternal rills run bubbling by;
In dimples o'er the polifh'd pebbles pafs,
Glide o'er the fands, or glitter through the grafs ?
And yet in town the country prospects please,
Where stately colonades are flank'd with trees:
On a whole country looks the master down
With pride, where scarce five acres are his own.
Yet nature, though repell'd, maintains her part,
And in her turn fhe triumphs over art;
The hand-aid now may prejudice our taste,
But the fair miftrefs will prevail at last.
That man must smart at laft whofe puzzled fight
Miftakes in life falfe colours for the right;
As the poor dupe is fure his lofs to rue,
Who takes a Pinchbeck guinea for a true.
The wretch, whofe frantic pride kind fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the goddess frowns;
As he, who rifes when his head turns round,
Muft tumble twice as heavy to the ground.
Then love not grandeur, 'tis a fplendid curfe;
The more the love, the harder the divorce.
We live far happier by these gurgling springs,
Than statesmen, courtiers, counsellors, or kings.
The stag expell'd the courfer from the plain;
What can he do? --he begs the aid of man ;
He takes the bit and proudly bears away
His new ally; he fights and wins the day:
But, ruin'd by fuccefs, he ftrives in vain
To quit his mafter and the curb again.
So from the fear of want moft wretches fly,
But lofe their noblest wealth, their liberty;
To their imperious paffions they fubmit,
Who mount, ride, fpur, but never draw the bit.
"Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your fhoe,
A large may wrench, a small one wring your toe.
Then bear your fortune in the golden mean,
Not every man is born to be a dean.
I'll bear your jeers, if ever I am known
To feek two cures, when scarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, fome fervice may afford,
Bur oftner play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Money I fcorn, but keep a little still,
To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill.
From Encombe's foft romantic fcenes I write,
Deep funk in ease, in pleasure and delight;
Yet, though her gen'rous lord himself is here,
"Twould be one pleasure more, could you appear.
INVITATION to a FRIEND at COURT.
IF you can leave for books the crowded court,
And generous Bourdeaux for a glass of Port,
To these sweet folitudes without delay
Break from the world's impertinence away.
Soon as the fun the face of nature gilds,
For health and pleasure will we range the fields;
O'er her
gay fcenes and opening beauties run,
While all the vast creation is our own.
But when his golden globe with faded light
Yields to the folemn empire of the night;
And in her fober majesty the moon
With milder glories mounts her filver throne;
Amidst ten thousand orbs with splendour crown'd,
That pour their tributary beams around;
Through the long level'd tube our ftrengthen'd fight
Shall mark diftinct the fpangles of the night;
From world to world fhall dart the boundless eye,
And ftretch from far to ftar, from fky to sky.
The buzzing infect families appear,
When funs unbind the rigour of the year ;
Quick glance the myriads round the evening bower, Hofts of a day, or nations of an hour.
Aftonish'd we fhall fee th' unfolding race,
Stretch'd out in bulk, within the polish'd glass;
Through whofe small convex a new world we spy,
Ne'er feen before, but by a Seraph's eye!
So long in darkness shut from human kind
Lay half God's wonders to a point confin'd!
But in one peopled drop we now furvey
In pride of power fome little monfter play;
O'er tribes invifible he reigns alone,
And struts a tyrant of a world his own.
Now will we ftudy Homer's awful page,
Now warm our fouls with Pindar's noble rage:
To English lays fhall Flaccus' lyre be ftrung,
And lofty Virgil speak the British tongue.
Immortal Virgil! at thy facred name
I tremble now, and now I pant for fame;
With eager hopes this moment I aspire
To catch or emulate thy glorious fire;
The next pursue the rash attempt no more,
But drop the quill, bow, wonder, and adore;
By thy ftrong genius overcome and aw'd !
That fire from heaven! that spirit of a God!
Pleas'd and transported with thy name I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend;
And from my firft defign by rapture led,
Neglect the living poet for the dead.
EPISTLE TO MR. SPENCE.
When Tutor to Lord MIDDLESEX.
In Imitation of HORACE, BOOK I. EPIST. XVIII.
SPENCE, with a friend you pass the hours away
In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay :
You ever differ'd from a flatterer more,
Than a chafte lady from a flaunting whore.
'Tis true you rallied every fault you found,
But gently tickled, while you cur'd the wound :
Unlike the paultry poets of the town,
Rogues who expose themselves for half a crown:
And still impofe on every foul they meet
Rudeness for fenfe, and ribaldry for wit:
Who, though half-starv'd, in spite of time and place, Repeat their rhymes, though dinner stays for grace: And as their poverty their dresses fit,
They think of course a floven is a wit;
But fenfe (a truth these coxcombs ne'er fufpect)
Lies juft 'twixt affectation and neglect.
One step still lower, if you can, descend,
To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend;
That moving fhade, that pendant at his ear,
That two-legg'd dog, ftill pawing on the peer.
Studying his looks, and watching at the board,
He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord;
And, tickled to the foul at every joke,
Like a prefs'd watch, repeats what t'other spoke :
Echo to nonfenfe! fuch a scene to hear!
"Tis juft like Punch and his interpreter.
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