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An awful horrour fills the gloomy woods,
And bluish mists rise from the smoking floods:
Haste, Daphnis, haste to fold thy woolly care,
The deepening shades imbrown th' unwholesome air.



MACENAS, whose high lineage springs
From a long race of ancient kings,
Patron and friend! thy honour'd name
At once is my defence and faine.

There are, who with fond transport praise
The chariot thundering in the race;
Where conquest won, and palms bestow'd,
Lift the proud mortal to a god.

The man who courts the people's voice,
And doats on offices and noise;
Or they who till the peaceful fields,
And reap what bounteous Nature yields,
Unmov'd, the merchant's wealth behold,
Nor hazard happiness for gold;
Untempted by whole worlds of gain
To stem the billows of the main.

The merchant, when the storm invades,
Envies the quiet of the shades;
But soon relaunches from the shore,
Dreading the crime of being poor!

Some careless waste the mirthful day
With generous wines, and wanton play,
Indulgent of the genial hour,

By spring, or rill, or shade, or bower.

Some hear with joy the clanging jar
Of trumpets, that alarm to war;
While matrons tremble at the breath
That calls their sons to arms and death.

The sportsman, train'd in storms, defies
The chilling blast, and freezing skies:
Unmindful of his bride, in vain
Soft beauty pleads! along the plain
The stag he chases, or beguiles
The furious boar into his toils.

For you the blooming ivy grows,
Proud to adorn your learned brows;
Patron of letters you arise,
Grow to a god, and mount the skies.

Humbly in breezy shades I stray
Where Sylvans dance, and Satyrs play;
Contented to advance my claim,
Only o'er men without a name;

Transcribing what the Muses sing
Harmonious to the pipe or string.

But if indulgently you deign
To rank me with the Lyric train,
Aloft the towering Muse shall rise
On bolder wings, and gain the skies.


Haste, Lycidas, to fold, &c. Te doctarum hedere, &c.




WHY art thou so slow to strike th' harmonious
Averse to sing, who know'st to sing so well? [shell,
If thy proud Muse the tragic buskin wears,
Great Sophocles revives and re-appears;
While, regularly bold, she nobly sings
Strains worthy to detain the ears of kings;
If by thy hand th' Homeric' lyre be strung,
The lyre returns such sounds as Homer sung.
The kind compulsion of a friend obey,
And, though reluctant, swell the lofty lay; [sound,
Then listening groves once more shall catch the
While Grecian Muses sing on British ground.

Thus calm and silent thy own Proteus roves
Through pearly mazes, and through coral groves;
But when, emerging from the azure main,
Coercive bands th' unwilling God constrain,
Then heaves his bosom with prophetic fires, [spires.
And his tongue speaks sublime, what Heaven in-
Envy, 'tis true, with barbarous rage invades
Whatev'n fierce lightning spares, the laurel shades;
And critics, biass'd by mistaken rules,

Like Turkish zealots, reverence none but fools.
But praise from such injurious tongues is shame;
They rail the happy author into fame:
Thus Phoebus through the zodiac takes his way,
And rises amid monsters into day.

Oh vileness of mankind! when writing well
Becomes a crime, and danger to excel !
While noble scorn, my friend, such insult sees,
And flies from towns to wilds, from men to trees.
Free from the lust of wealth, and glittering snares,
That make th' unhappy great in love with cares,
Me humble joys in calm retirement please,
A silent happiness, and learned ease.
Deny me grandeur, Heaven, but goodness grant !
A king is less illustrious than a saint:
Hail, holy Virtue! come, thou heavenly guest,
Come, fix thy pleasing empire in my breast!

3 Thou know'st her influence, friend! thy chearful
Proclaims the innocence and peace within; [mien
Such joys as none but sons of Virtue know,
Shine in thy face, and in thy bosom glow.

So when the holy mount the prophet trod,
And talk'd familiar as a friend with God,
Celestial radiance every feature shed,
And ambient glories dawn'd around his head.

Sure what th' unthinking great mistaken call
Their happiness, is folly, folly all!
Like lofty mountains in the clouds they hide
Their haughty heads, but swell with barren pride;
And, while low vales in useful beauty lie,
Heave their proud naked summits to the sky.
In honour, as in place, ye great, transcend!
An angel fall'n, degenerates to a fiend :
Th' all-chearing Sun is honour'd with his shrines;
Not that he moves aloft, but that he shines.

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Why flames the star on Walpole's generous breast? | Studious from ways of wicked men to keep,

Not that he's highest, but because he's best;

Fond to oblige; in blessing others, blest.
How wondrous few, by avarice uncontrol'd,
Have virtue to subdue the thirst of gold!
The shining dirt the sordid wretch ensnares
To buy, with mighty treasures, mighty cares;
Blindly he courts, misguided by the will,
A specious good, and meets a real ill:
So when Ulysses plough'd the surgy main;
When now in view appear'd his native reign,
His wayward mates th' Folian bag unbind,
Expecting treasures, but out rush'd a wind;
The sudden hurricane in thunder roars,
Buffets the bark, and whirls it from the shores.
O Heaven! by what vain passions man is sway'd,
Proud of his reason, by his will betray'd!
Blindly he wanders in pursuit of Vice,
And hates confinement, though in Paradise;
Doom'd, when enlarg'd, instead of Eden's bowers,
To rove in wilds, and gather thorns for flowers;
Between th' extremes, direct he sees the way,
Yet wilful swerves, perversely fond to stray!
Whilst niggard souls indulge their craving thirst,
Rich without bounty, with abundance curst;
The Prodigal pursues expensive vice,
And buys dishonour at a mighty price;
On beds of state the splendid glutton sleeps,
While starving Merit unregarded weeps:
His ifl-plac'd bounty, while scorn'd Virtue grieves,
A dog, a fawning sycophant, receives;
And cringing knaves, or haughty strumpets, share
What would make Sorrow smile, and chear Despair.
Then would'st thou steer where Fortune spreads

the sails?

Go, flatter Vice! for seldom flattery fails:
Soft through the ear the pleasing bane distils:
Delicious poison! in perfumes it kills!
Be all but virtuous: Oh! unwise to live
Unfashionably good, and hope to thrive!
Trees that aloft with proudest honours rise,
Root hell-ward, and thence flourish to the skies.

O happier thou, my friend, with ease content,
Blest with the conscience of a life well-spent!
Nor would'st be great; but guide thy gather'd sails,
Safe by the shore, nor tempt the rougher gales;
For sure, of all that feel the wound of Fate,

None are completely wretched but the great:

Superior woes, superior stations bring;

A peasant sleeps, while cares awake a king;
Who reigns, must suffer! crowns, with gems inlaid,
At once adorn and load the royal head:
Change but the scene, and kings in dust decay,
Swept from the Earth, the pageants of a day;
There no distinctions on the dead await,
But pompous graves, and rottenness in state.
Such now are all that shone on Earth before;
Cæsar and mighty Marlborough are no more!
Unhallow'd feet o'er awful Tully tread,
And Hyde and Plato join the vulgar dead;
And all the glorious aims that can employ
The soul of mortals, must with Hanmer die:
O Compton, when this breath we once resign,
My dust shall be as eloquent as thine!

Till that last hour which calls me hence away
To pay that great arrear which all must pay;
may I tread the paths which saints have trod,
Who knew they walk'd before th' all-seeing God!

Who mock at vice, while grieving angels weep.
Come, taste, my friend! the joys retirement brings,
Look down on royal slaves, and pity kings.

More happy! laid where trees with trees entwin'd
In bowery arches tremble to the wind,
With innocence and shade like Adam blest,
While a new Eden opens in the breast!
Such were the scenes descending angels trod
In guiltless days, when man convers'd with God.
Then shall my lyre to loftier sounds be strung,
Inspir'd by Homer', or what thou hast sung:
My Muse from thine shall catch a warmer ray;
As clouds are brighten'd by the god of day.

So trees unapt to bear, by art refin'd,
High o'er the ground with fruits adopted rise,
With shoots ennobled of a generous kind,
And lift their spreading honours to the skies.



gay Ophelia view'd her face
In the clear crystal of her glass;
The lightning from her eye was fled,
Her cheek was pale, the roses dead.

Then thus Ophelia, with a frown:-
"Art thou, false thing, perfidious grown!
I never could have thought, I swear,
To find so great a slanderer there!

Beaux vow I'm fair-who never lye.
False thing! thy malice I defy!
More brittle far than brittle thou,
Would every grace of woman grow,
If charms so great so soon decay,
The bright possession of a day!
But this I know, and this declare,
That thou art false, and I am fair."

The glass was vexed to be bely'd,
And thus with angry tone reply'd:

"No more to me of falsehood talk,
But leave your oatmeal and your chalk!
'Tis true, you're meagre, pale, and wan;
The reason is, you're sick for man."-

While yet it spoke, Ophelia frown'd
And dash'd th' offender to the ground;
With fury from her arm it fled,
And round a glittering ruin spread;
When lo! the parts pale looks disclose,
Pale looks in every fragment rose;
Around the room instead of one,
An hundred pale Ophelias shone ;
Away the frighted virgin flew,
And, humbled, from herself withdrew,


Ye beaux, who tempt the fair and young,
With snuff, and nonsense, dance, and song;
Ye men of compliment and lace!
Behold this image in the glass:
The wondrous force of flattery prove,
To cheat fond virgins into love:

4 Dr. Broome translated eight books of the Odyssey.

Though pale the cheek, yet swear it glows
With the vermilion of the rose:
Praise them for praise is always true,
Though with both eyes the cheat they view.
From hateful truths the virgin flies;
But the false sex is caught with lies.



Secessus mei non desidiæ nomen, sed tranquillita-
tis accipiant.

HAPPY, thou Flandria, on whose fertile plains,
In wanton pride luxurious Plenty reigns;
Happy! had Heaven bestow'd one blessing more,
And plac'd thee distant from the Gallic power!
But now in vain thy lawns attract the view,
They but invite the victor to subdue:
War, horrid War, the sylvan scene invades,
And angry trumpets pierce the woodland shades;
Here shatter'd towers, proud works of many an age,
Lie dreadful monuments of human rage;
There palaces and hallow'd domes display
Majestic ruins, awful in decay!

Thy very dust, though undistinguish'd trod,
Compos'd, perhaps, some hero, great and good,
Who nobly for his country lost his blood!
Ev'n with the grave, the haughty spoilers war,
And Death's dark mansions wide disclose to air:
O'er kings and saints insulting stalk, nor dread
To spurn the ashes of the glorious dead.

See the Britannic lions wave in air!
See! mighty Marlborough breathing death and war!
From Albiou's shores, at Anna's high commands,
The dauntless hero pours his martial bands.

As when in wrath stern Mars the Thunderer sends
To scourge his foes; in pomp the god descends;
He nounts his iron car; with fury burns;
The car, fierce-rattling, thunders as it turns ;
Gloomy he grasps his adamantine shield,
And scatters armies o'er th' ensanguin'd field:
With delegated wrath thus Marlborough glows,
In vengeance rushing on his country's foes.
See! round the hostile towers embattled stands
His banner'd host, embodied bands by bands!
Hark! the shrill trumpet sends a mortal sound,
And prancing horses shake the solid ground;
The surly drums beat terrible afar,

With all the dreadful music of the war;
From the drawn swords effulgent flames arise,
Flash o'er the plains, and lighten to the skies;
The heavens above, the fields and floods beneath,
Glare formidably bright, and shine with death;
In fiery storms descends a murderous shower,
Thick flash the lightnings, fierce the thunders roar.
As when in wrathful mood almighty Jove
Aims his dire bolts red-hissing from above;
Through the sing'd air, with unresisted sway,
The forky vengeance rends its flaming way,
And, while the firmament with thunder roars,
From their fouudations hurls imperial towers:

So rush the globes with many a fiery round,
Tear up the rock, or rend the stedfast mound.
Death shakes aloft her dart, and o'er her prey
Stalks with dire joy, and marks in blood her way
Mountains of heroes slain deform the ground,
The shape of man half bury'd in the wound:
And lo! while in the shock of war they close,
While swords meet swords, and foes encounter foes,
The treacherous Earth beneath their footsteps

Her entrails tremble, and her bosom heaves;
Sudden in bursts of fire eruptions rise,

And whirl the torn battalions to the skies.

Thus earthquakes, rumbling with a thundering


Shake the firm world, and rend the cleaving ground;
Rocks, hills, and groves, are tost into the sky,
And in one mighty ruin nations die.

See! through th' encumber'd air the ponderous
Bears magazines of Death within its womb; [bomb
The glowing orb displays a blazing train,

And darts bright horrour through th' ethereal plain ;
It mounts tempestuous, and with hideous sound
Wheels down the heavens, and thunders o'er the


Th' imprison'd Deaths rush dreadful in a blaze,
And mow a thousand lives, a thousand ways; [arise
"Earth floats with blood, while spreading flames
From palaces, and domes, and kindle half the skies

Thus terribly in air the comets roll,

And shoot malignant gleams from pole to pole;
"Tween worlds and worlds they move, and from their


Shake the blue Plague, the Pestilence, and War.

But who is he, who stern bestrides the plain,
Who drives triumphant o'er huge hills of slain;
Serene, while engines from the hostile tower
Ram from their brazen mouths an iron shower;
While turbid fiery smoke obscures the day,
Hews thro' the deathful breach his desperate way i
Sure Jove descending joins the inartial toil;
Or is it Marlborough, or the great Argyle?

Thus, when the Grecians, furious to destroy,
Level'd the structures of imperial Troy ;
Here angry Neptune hurl'd his vengeful mace,
There Jove o'erturn'd it from its inmost base:
Though brave, yet vanquished, she confess'd the

Her sons were heroes, but they fought with gods.

Ah! what new horrours rise? In deep array
The squadrous form! aloft the standards play!
The captains draw the sword! on every brow
Determin'd valour lowers! the trumpets blow!
See the brave Briton delves the cavern'd ground
Through the hard entrails of the stubborn mound!
And undismay'd by Death, the foe invades
Through dreadful horrorus of infernal shades!


Ev'n the stern souls of heroes feel dismay;
Proud temples nod, aspiring towers give way.
Dreadful it mounts, tempestuous in its flight,
It sinks, it falls, Earth groans beneath its weight.
Th' imprison'd Deaths rush out in smoke and fire,
The mighty bleed, heaps crush'd on heaps expire.
'The barriers burst, wide-spreading flames arise.

In vain the wall's broad base deep-rooted lies,
In vain an hundred turrets threat the skies!
Lo! while at ease the bands immur'd repose,
Nor careless dream of subterranean foes,
Like the Cadmæan host, embattled swarms
Start from the earth, and clash their sounding arms,
And, pouring war and slaughter from beneath,
Wrap towers, walls, men, in fire, in blood, in death.

So some fam'd torrent dives within the caves
Of opening earth, ingulph'd with all his waves;
High o'er the latent stream the shepherd feeds
His wandering flock, and tunes the sprightly reed:
Till from some rifted chasm the billows rise,
And, foaming, burst tumultuous to the skies;
Then, roaring dreadful o'er the delug'd plain,
Sweep herds and hinds in thunder to the main.
Bear me, ye friendly powers, to gentler scenes,
To shady bowers, and never-fading greens!
Where the shrill trumpet never sounds alarms,
Nor martial din is heard, nor clash of arms;
Hail, ye soft seats! ye limpid springs and floods!
Ye flowery meads, ye vales, and woods!
Ye limpid floods, that ever murmuring flow!
Ye verdant meads, where flowers eternal blow!
Ye shady vales, where Zephyrs ever play!
Ye woods, where little warblers tune their lay!

Here grant me, Heaven, to end my peaceful days, And steal myself from life by slow decays; Draw health from food the temperate garden yields, From fruit or herb the bounty of the fields; Nor let the loaded table groan beneath Slain animals, the horrid feast of Death: With age unknown to pain or sorrow blest, To the dark grave retiring as to rest; While gently with one sigh this mortal frame Dissolving turus to ashes, whence it came; While my freed soul departs without a groan, And, joyful, wings her flight to worlds unknown.

Ye gloomy grots! ye awful solemn cells,
Where holy thoughtful Contemplation dwells,
Guard me from splendid cares, and tiresome state,
That pompous misery of being great!
Happy! if by the wise and learn'd belov'd;
But happiest above all, if self-approv'd!
Content with ease; ambitious to despise
Illustrious Vanity, and glorious Vice!
Come, thou chaste maid, here ever let me stray,
While the calm hours steal unperceived away;
Here court the Muses, while the Sun on high
Flames in the vault of Heaven, and fires the sky:
Or while the night's dark wings this globe sur-

And the pale Moon begins her solemn round,
Bid my free soul to starry orbs repair,
Those radiant worlds that float in ambient air,
And with a regular confusion stray
Oblique, direct, along th' aërial way:
Or when Aurora, from her golden bowers,
Exhales the fragrance of the balmy flowers,
Reclin'd in silence on a mossy bed,
Consult the learned volumes of the dead;
Fall'n realms and empires in description view,
Live o'er past times, and build whole worlds anew;
Or from the bursting tombs in fancy raise
The sons of Fame, who liv'd in ancient days:
And lo! with haughty stalk the warrior treads!
Stern legislators, frowning, lift their heads!

I see proud victors in triumphal cars,
Chiefs, kings, and heroes, seam'd with glorious

Or listen till the raptur'd soul takes wings,
While Plato reasons, or while Homer sings,

Charm me, ye sacred leaves', with loftier themes,
With opening Heavens, and angels rob'd in flames:
Ye restless passions, while I read, be aw'd:
Hail, ye mysterious oracles of God!
Here I behold how infant Time began,
How the dust mov'd and quicken'd into man;
Here through the flowery walks of Eden rove,
Court the soft breeze, or range the spicy grove;
There tred on hallow'd ground where angels trod,
And reverend patriarchs talk'd as friends with

Or hear the voice to slumbering prophets given, Or gaze on visions from the throne of Heaven,

But nobler yet, far nobler scenes advance!
Why leap the mountains? why the forests dance?
Why flashes glory from the golden spheres?
Rejoice, O Earth, a God, a God appears!

A God, a God, descending angels sing,
And mighty Seraphs shout, Behold your King!
Hail, virgin-born! Lift, lift, ye blind, your eyes!
Sing, oh! ye dumb! and oh! ye dead, arise!
Tremble, ye gates of Hell! in noblest strains
Tell it aloud, ye Heavens! the Saviour reigns!

Of transient life, in no unuseful ease!
Thus lonely, thoughtful, may I run the race
Enjoy each hour, nor as it fleets away,
Think life too short, and yet too long the day;
Of right observant, while the soul attends
Each duty, and makes Heaven and angels friends,
And thou, fair Peace, from the wild floods of war
Come dove-like, and thy blooming olive bear;
Tell me, ye victors, what strange charmus ye find
In Conquest, that destruction of mankind!
Unenvy'd may your laurels ever grow,
That never flourish but in human woe,
If never Earth the wreath triumphal bears,
Till drench'd in heroes' blood, or orphans' tears,

Let Ganges from afar to slaughter train
His sable warriors on th' embattled plain;
Let Volga's sons in iron squadrons rise,
And pour in millions from her frozen skies:
Thou, gentle Thames, flow thou in peaceful streams,
Bid thy bold sons restrain their martial flames.
In thy own laurel's shade, great Marlborough,
There charm the thoughts of conquer'd worlds
Guardian of England! born to scourge her foes,
Speak, and thy word gives half the world repose;
Sink down, ye hills; eternal rocks, subside;
Vanish, ye forts; thou, Ocean, drain thy tide:
We safety boast, defended by thy fame,
And armies-in the terrour of thy name!
Now fix o'er Anna's throne thy victor blade.
War, be thou chain'd! ye streams of blood, be

Though wild Ambition her just vengeance feels, She wars to save, and where she strikes, she heals.

So Pallas with her javelin smote the ground, And peaceful olives flourish'd from the wound

7 The Holy Scriptures

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δῶρον τοι τοῦτο δίδωμι

Odyssey, lib. 15. O Taou, whose virtues sanctify thy state! O great, without the vices of the great! Form'd by a dignity of mind to please, To think, to act with elegance and ease! Say, wilt thou listen while I tune the string, And sing to thee, who gav'st me ease to sing? Unskill'd in verse, I haunt the silent grove; Yet lowly shepherds sing to mighty Jove: And mighty Jove attends the shepherds' vows, And gracious what his suppliants ask bestows: So by thy favour may the Muse be crown'd, And plant her laurels in more fruitful ground; The grateful Muse shall in return bestow Her spreading laurels to adorn thy brow.

Thus, guarded by the tree of Jove, a flower Shoots from the earth, nor fears th' inclement And, when the fury of the storm is laid, [shower; Repays with sweets the hospitable shade.

Severe their lot, who, when they long endure The wounds of fortune, late receive a cure! Like ships in storms o'er liquid mountains tost, Ere they are sav'd must almost first be lost; But you with speed forbid distress to grieve: He gives by halves', who hesitates to give.

Thus, when an angel views mankind distrest, He feels compassion pleading in his breast; Instant the heavenly guardian cleaves the skies, And, pleas'd to save, on wings of lightning flies'.

Some the vain promises of courts betray;
And gayly straying, they are pleas'd to stray;
The flattering nothing still deludes their eyes,
Seems ever near, yet ever distant flies:
As perspectives present the object nigh,
Though far remov'd from the mistaking eye;


Firm to thy king, and to thy country brave;
Loyal, yet free; a subject, not a slave;
Say, &c.

Few know to ask, or decently receive;
And fewer still with dignity to give :
If earn'd by flattery, gifts of highest price
Are not a bounty, but the pay of Vice.
Some wildly lavish, yet no friend obtain;
Nor are they generous, but absurd and vain.
Some give with surly pride and boisterous hands,
As Jove pours rain in thunder o'er the lands.
When Merit pleads, you meet it, and embrace,
And give the favour lustre by the grace;
So Phoebus to his warmth a glory joins,
Blessing the world, and while he blesses shines.

The lord Cornwallis, in a most obliging manner, recommended the author to the rectory of Pulham.

Against our reason fondly we believe,
Assist the fraud, and teach it to deceive:
As the faint traveller, when Night invades,
Sees a false light relieve the ambient shades,
Pleas'd he beholds the bright delusion play,
But the false guide shines only to betray:
Swift he pursues, yet still the path mistakes,
O'er dangerous marshes, or through thorny brakes;
Yet obstinate in wrong he toils to stray,
With many a weary stride, o'er many a painful way.
So man pursues the phantom of his brain,
And buys his disappointment with his pain:
At length when years invidiously destroy
The power to taste the long-expected joy,
Then Fortune envious sheds her golden show'rs,
Malignly smiles, and curses him with stores.

Thus o'er the urns of friends departed weep
The mournful kindred, and fond vigils keep;
Ambrosial ointments o'er their ashes shed,
And scatter useless roses on the dead;
And when no more avail the world's delights,
The spicy odours, and the solemn rites,
With fruitless pomp they deck the senseless tomba
And waste profusely floods of vain perfumes.




QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rose,
The beauties of thy leaves disclose!
The winter's past, the tempests fly,
Soft gales breathe gently through the sky;
The lark sweet warbling on the wing
Salutes the gay return of Spring:
The silver dews, the vernal showers,
Call forth a bloomy waste of flowers;
The joyous fields, the shady woods,
Are cloth'd with green, or swell with buds:
Then haste thy beauties to disclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose !

Thou, beauteous flower, a welcome guest,
Shalt flourish on the fair-one's breast,
Shalt grace her hand, or deck her hair,
The flower most sweet, the nymph most fair,
Breathe soft, ye winds be calm, ye skies!
Arise, ye flowery race, arise!

And haste thy beauties to disclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose !

But thou, fair nymph, thyself survey

In this sweet offspring of a day:

That miracle of face must fail;

Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail:
Swift as the short-liv'd flower they fly,
At morn they bloom, at evening die :
Though Sickness yet a while forbears,
Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares.
Now Helen lives alone in fame,
And Cleopatra's but a name.
Time must indent that heavenly brow,
And thou must be, what they are now.

This moral to the fair disclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose

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