Page images
PDF
EPUB

The world attends thy absolute cominand,
And Nature waits the wonders of thine hand.
That hand, extended o'er the swelling sea,
The conscious billows reverence and obey.
O'er the devoted race the surges sweep,
And whelm the guilty nation in the deep.
That hand redeem'd us from our servile toil,
And each insulting tyrant of the Nile:
Our nation came beneath that mighty hand,
From Ægypt's realms, to Canaan's sacred land.
Thou wert their Guide, their Saviour, and their God,
To smooth the way, and clear the dreadful road.
The distant kingdoms shall thy wonders hear,
The fierce Philistines shall confess their fear;
Thy fame shall over Edom's princes spread,
And Moab's kings, the universal dread,
While the vast scenes of miracles impart
A thrilling horrour to the bravest heart.

As through the world the gathering terrour runs,
Canaan shall shrink, and tremble for his sons.
Till thou hast Jacob from his bondage brought,
At such a vast expense of wonders bought,
To Capaan's promis'd realms and blest abodes,
Led through the dark recesses of the floods.
Crown'd with their tribes shall proud Moriah rise,
And rear his summit nearer to the skies.

[power,

Through ages, Lord, shall stretch thy boundless
Thy throne shall stand when time shall be no more:
For Pharaoh's steeds, and cars, and warlike train,
Leap'd in, and boldly rang'd the sandy plain.
While in the dreadful road, and desert way,
The shining crowds of gasping fishes lay:
Till, all around with liquid toils beset,

The Lord swept o'er their heads the watery net.
He freed the ocean from his secret chain,
And on each hand discharg'd the thundering main.
The loosen'd billows burst from every side,
And whelm the war and warriours in the tide ;
But on each hand the solid billows stood,
Like lofty mounds to check the raging flood;
Till the blest race to promis'd Canaan past
Q'er the dry path, and trod the watery waste.

THE THIRD ODE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE,

PARAPHRASED.

LET the brave youth be train'd, the stings

Of poverty to bear,

And in the school of want be taught

The exercise of war.

Let him be practis'd in his bloom,

To listen to alarms,

And learn proud Parthia to subdue
With unresisted arms.

The hostile tyrant's beauteous bride,
Distracted with despair,
Beholds him pouring to the fight,
And thundering through the war.

As from the battlements she views
The slaughter of his sword,

Thus shall the fair express her grief,
And terrours for her Lord:

"Look down, ye gracions powers, from Heaven,

Nor let my consort go,

Rude in the arts of war, to fight This formidable foe."

Oh! not with half that dreadful rage
The royal savage flies,
When, at the slightest touch, he springs,
And darts upon his prize.

How fair, how comely are our wounds,
In our dear country's cause!
What fame attends the glorious fate,
That props our dying laws!

For Death's cold hand arrests the fears
That haunt the coward's mind;
Swift she pursues the flying wretch,
And wounds him from behind.
Bravely regardless of disgrace,
Bold Virtue stands alone,
With pure unsully'd glory shines,
And honours still her own.

From the dark grave, and silent dust,
She bids her sons arise,

And to the radiant train unfolds
The portals of the skies.

Now, with triumphant wings, she soars,
Above the realins of day,

Spurns the dull earth, and groveling crowd,
And towers th' ethereal way,
With her has silence a reward,

Within the bless'd abodes,
That holy silence which conceals
The secrets of the gods.

But with a wretch I would not live,

By sacrilege prophan'd,
Nor lodge beneath one roof, nor lanch
One vessel from the land:

For, blended with the bad, the good

The common stroke have felt,
And Heaven's dire vengeance struck alike
At innocence and guilt.

The wrath divine pursues the wretch,
At present lame, and slow,
But yet, though tardy to advance,
She gives the surer blow.

THE THIRD ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE,

PARAPHRASED.

WHOM first, Melpomene, thy eye
With friendly aspect views,
Shall from his cradle rise renown'd,
And sacred to the Muse.

Nor to the Isthmian games his fame
And deathless triumphs owe;
Nor shall he wear the verdant wreath,
That shades the champion's hrow.

Nor in the wide Elæan plains

Fatigue the courser's speed;

Nor through the glorious cloud of dust,
Provoke the bounding steed.

Nor, as an haughty victor, mount
The Capitolian heights,

And proudly dedicate to Jove

The trophies of his fights.

Because his thundering hand in war

Has check'd the swelling tide
Of the stern tyrant's power, and broke
The measures of his pride.

But by sweet Tybur's groves and streams
His glorious theme pursues,

And scorns the laurels of the war,
For those that crown the Muse.
There in the most retir'd retreats,

He sets his charming song,

To the sweet harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus strung.

Rank'd by thy sons, Imperial Rome,
Among the poet's quire,"

Above the reach of Envy's hand

I safely may aspire.

Thou sacred Muse, whose artful hand
Can teach the bard to sing;
Can animate the golden lyre,

And wake the living string:

Thou, by whose mighty power, may sing, In unaccustom'd strains,

The silent fishes in the floods,

As on their banks the swans:

To thee I owe my spreading fame,

That thousands, as they gaze,
Make me their wonder's common theme,
And object of their praise.

If first I struck the Lesbian lyre,
No fame belongs to me;

I owe my honours, when I please,
(If e'er I please) to thee.

ON THE APPROACHING CONGRESS OF

CAMBRAY

WRITTEN IN 1721.

Ye patriots of the world, whose cares combin'd
Consult the public welfare of mankind,
One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait,
And Europe in suspense attend her fate,
Which turns on your great councils; nor refuse
To hear the strains of the prophetic Muse;
Who sees those councils with a generous care
Heal the wide wounds, and calm the rage of war;
She sees new verdure all the plain o'erspread,
Where the fight burn'd, and where the battle bled.
The fields of death a softer scene disclose,
And Ceres smiles where iron harvests rose.
The bleating filocks along the bastion pass,
And from the awful ruins crop the grass.
Freed from his fears, each unmolested swain,
In peaceful furrows cuts the fatal plain;
Turns the high bulwark and aspiring mound,
And sees the camp with all the seasons crown'd.
Beneath each clod, bright burnish'd arms appear;
Each furrow glitters with the pride of war;
The fields resound and tinkle as they break,
And the keen falchion rings against the rake;
At rest beneath the hanging ramparts laid,
He sings securely in the dreadful shade.
Hark! o'er the seas, the British lions roar
Their monarch's fame to every distant shore:

Swift on their canvass wings his navies go,
Where-ever tides can roll, or winds can blow;
Their sails within the arctic circle rise,
Led by the stars that gild the northern skies;
Tempt frozen seas, nor fear the driving blast,
But swell exulting o'er the hoary waste;
O'er the wide ocean hold supreme command,
And active commerce spread through every land;
Or with full pride to southern regions run,
To distant worlds, on t'other side the Sun;
And plow the tides, where odoriferous gales [sails.
Perfume the smiling waves, and stretch the bellying
See! the proud merchant seek the precious shore.
And trace the winding veins of glittering ore;
Low in the earth his wondering eyes behold
Th' imperfect metal ripening into gold.
The mountains tremble with alternate rays,
And cast at once a shadow and a blaze:
Streak'd o'er with gold, the pebbles flame around,
Gleam o'er the soil, and gild the tinkling ground;
Charg'd with the glorious prize, his vessels come,
And in proud triumph bring an India home.

Fair Concord, hail; thy wings o'er Brunswick
spread,

And with thy olives crown his laurel'd head.
Come; in thy most distinguish'd charms appear;
Oh! come, and bolt the iron-gates of war.
The fight stands still when Brunswick bids it cease,
The monarch speaks, and gives the world a peace;
Like awful justice, sits superior lord,

To poise the balance, or to draw the sword;
In due suspense the jarring realms to keep,
And hush the tumults of the world to sleep.

Now with a brighter face, and nobler ray,
Shine forth, thou source of light, and god of day;
Say, didst thou ever in thy bright career
Light up before a more distinguish'd year?
Through all thy journeys past thou canst not see
A perfect image of what this shall be :
Scarce the Platonic year shall this renew,
Or keep the bright original in view.

A HAPI

THE FABLE OF THE

YOUNG MAN AND HIS CAT.

HAPLESS youth, whom fates averse had drove
To a strange passion, and preposterous love,
Long'd to possess his puss's spotted charins,
And hug the tabby beauty in his arms.
To what odd whimsies love inveigles men?
Sure if the boy was ever blind, 'twas then.
Rack'd with his passion, and in deep despair,
The youth to Venus thus addrest his prayer.

O queen of beauty, since thy Cupid's dart
Has fir'd my soul, and rankles in my heart;
Since doom'd to burn in this unhappy flame,
From thee at least a remedy I claim;
If once, to bless Pigmalion's longing arms,
The marble soften'd into living charms;
And warm with life the purple current ran
In circling streams through every flinty vein;
If, with his own creating hands display'd,
He hugg'd the statue, and embrac'd a maid;
And with the breathing image fir'd his heart,
The pride of Nature, and the boast of Art :
Hear my request, and crown my wondrous flame,.
The same its nature, be thy gift the same;

Give me the like unusual joys to prove, And though irregular, indulge my love.

Delighted Venus heard the moving prayer, And soon resolv'd to case the lover's care, To set Miss Tabby off with every grace, To dress, and fit her for the youth's embrace. Now she by gradual change her form forsook, First her round face an oval figure took; The roguish dimples next his heart beguile, And each grave whisker soften'd to a smile; Unusual ogles wanton'd in her eye, Her solemn purring dwindled to a sigh: Sudden, a huge hoop-petticoat display'd, A wide circumference! intrench'd the maid, And for the tail in waving circles play'd. Her fur, as destin'd still her charms to deck, Made for her hands a muff, a tippet for her neck. In the fine lady now her shape was lost, And by such strange degrees she grew a toast ; Was all for ombre now; and who but she, To talk of modes and scandal o'er her tea; To settle every fashion of the sex, And run through all the female politics; To spend her time at toilet and basset, To play, to flaunt, to flutter, and coquet: From a grave thinking mouser, she was grown The gayest flirt that coach'd it round the town. But see how often some intruding woe, Nips all our blooming prospects at a blow! For as the youth his lovely consort led To the dear pleasures of the nuptial bed, Just on that instant from an inner house, Into the chamber popt a heedless mouse. Miss Tabby saw, and brooking no delay, Sprung from the sheets, and seiz'd the trembling Nor did the bride, in that ill fated hour, [prey, Reflect that all her mousing-days were o'er. The youth, astonish'd, felt a new despair, Ixion-like he grasp'd, and grasp'd but air; He saw his vows and prayers in vain bestow'd, And lost the jilting goddess in a cloud.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER'S ILIAD.

'Tis true, what fam'd Pythagoras maintain'd,
That souls departed in new bodies reign'd:
We most approve the doctrine since we see
The soul of god-like Homer breathe in thee.
Old Ennius first, then Virgil felt her fires;
But now a British poet she inspires.

To you, O Pope, the lineal right extends,
To you th' hereditary Muse descends.
At a vast distance we of Homer beard,
Till you brought in, and naturaliz'd the bard;
Bade him our English rights and freedom claim,
His voice, his habit, and his air the same.
Now in the mighty stranger we rejoice,
And Britain thanks thee with a public voice.
See! too the poet, a majestic shade,
Lifts up in awful pomp his laurel'd head,
To thank his successor, who sets him free
From the vile hands of Hobbes and Ogilby;
Who vext his venerable ashes more,

Than his ungrateful Greece, the living bard before. While Homer's thoughts in thy bold lines are shown,

Thongh worlds contend, we claim him for our own;

Our blooming boys proud Пlion's fate bewail;
Our lisping babes repeat the dreadful tale,
Ev'n in their slumbers they pursue the theme,
Start, and enjoy a sight in every dream.
By turns the chief and bard their souls inflame,
And every little bosom beats for fame.
Thus shall they learn (as future times will see)
From him to conquer, or to write from thee.

In every hand we see the glorious song,
And Homer is the theme of every tongue.
Parties in state poetic schemes employ,

And Whig and Tory side with Greece and Troy;
Neglect their feuds; and seem more zealous grown
To push those countries' interests than their own.
Our busiest politicians have forgot [fought;
How Somers counsel'd, and how Marlborough
But o'er their settling coffee gravely tell,
What Nestor spoke, and how brave Hector fell.
Our softest beaux and coxcombs you inspire,
With Glaucus' courage, and Achilles' fire.
Now they resent affronts which once they bore,
And draw those swords that ne'er were drawn before:
Nay, ev'n our belles, inform'd how Homer writ,
Learn thence to criticise on modern wit.

Let the mad critics to their side engage
The envy, pride, and dulness of the age:

In vain they curse, in vain they pine and mourn,
Back on themselves their arrows will return;
Whoe'er would thy establish'd fame deface,
Are but immortaliz'd to their disgrace.
Live, and enjoy their spite, and share that fate,
Which would, if Homer liv'd, on Homer wait.

And lo! his second labour claims thy care,
Ulysses' toils succeed Achilles' war.
Haste to the work; the ladies long to see
The pious frauds of chaste Penelope.
Helen they long have seen, whose guilty charms
For ten whole years engag'd the world in arms.
Then, as thy fame shall see a length of days,
Some future bard shall thus record thy praise:
"In those blest times when smiling Heaven and
Had rais'd Britannia to her happiest state, [Fate
When wide around, she saw the world submit,
And own her sons supreme in arts and wit;
Then Pope and Dryden brought in triumph home
The pride of Greece, and ornament of Rome;
To the great task each bold translator came,
With Virgil's judgment, and with Homer's flame;
Here the pleas'd Mantuan swan was taught to soar,
Where scarce the Roman eagles tower'd before:
And Greece no more was Homer's native earth,
Though her seven rival cities claim'd his birth;
On her seven cities he look'd down with scorn,
And own'd with pride he was in Britain born.”

SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE

ODYSSEY1.

THE nurse all wild with transport seem'd to swim ; Joy wing'd her feet, and lighten'd ev'ry limb ; Then, to the room with speed impatient borne, Flew with glad tidings of her lord's return.

Dr. Ridley was one of Mr. Spence's executors. Mr. Steevens assisted him in looking over the papers of the deceased; and transcribed this letter, &c. from the original. N.

There bending o'er the sleeping queen, she cries,
"Rise my Penelope, my daughter, rise
To see Ulysses thy long absent spouse,
Thy soul's desire and lord of all thy vows:
Though late, he comes, and in his rage has slain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty suitor train."
"Ah! Euryclea," she replies,
64 you rave;
The gods resume that reason which they gave;
For Heaven deep wisdom to the fool supplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wise.
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 sorrows in so soft a chain?
A sleep so sweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy:
Curst 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 studied lies, I frame,
Ulysses lives" (rejoins the reverend dame)
"In that dishonour'd stranger's close disguise,
Long has he pass'd all unsuspecting eyes,
All but thy son's-and long has he supprest
The well-concerted secret in his breast;
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 strict embraces hung;
Then, as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her soul.
"If my victorious hero safe arrives,
If my dear lord, Ulysses, still survives,
Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were such multitudes destroy'd by one?"
"Nought I beheld, but heard their cries," she
said,

"When Death flew raging, and the suitors bled:
Immur'd we listen'd, as we sat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing sound.
Call'd by thy son to view the scene I fled,
And saw Ulysses striding o'er the dead!
Amidst the rising heaps the hero stood
All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood.

"This is enough in conscience for this time: besides, I am desired, 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 TYGER

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.

Prima dicte mihi, summa dicende Camana. Hor.

AMIDST the den, the lions' prey,
Seal'd up for death the prophet lay;
But couch'd the hungry monsters sit,
And fawning lick his sacred feet;
Swift shot an angel from above,
And chang'd their fury into love.

As swift did Britain's genius fly,

And for her charge stand trembling by ;

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

When Brunswick, pious, brave, and wise,
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, spare thy fears,
For know, within, our sovereign wears
The surest guard; the best defence;
A firm untainted innocence.

So sweet an innocence disarms
The fiercest rage with powerful charms,
So far rebellion it beguiles,

That Faction bends; that Envy smiles;
That furious savages submit,
And pay due homage at his feet.

Britain! by this example prove
Thy duty, loyalty, and love.
See! the fierce brutes thy king caress,
And court him with a mute address;
Well mayst thou own his gentle sway,
If tigers bend, and savages obey.

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 feasts of Saturn, wore their master's
habits, and were allowed to say what they
pleased.

SERVANT.

SIR,-I've long waited in my turn to have
A word with you-but I'm your humble slave.
P. What knave is that? my rascal!
S. Sir, 'tis I,
No knave nor rascal, but your trusty Guy.

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

S. Some folks are drunk one day, and some for
And some, 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 some innholder's, now a monarch's guest;
His life and politics of every shape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an apc.
The gout in every limb from every vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever, and their sins on those,
By custom, sit as easy as their clothes.
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, sweet sir, 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 practice what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle journey down,
But, without business, you're again in town.
If none invite you, sir, abroad to roam,
Then-Lord, what pleasure 'tis to read at home:
And sip 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 master begs you to come o’er,
To pass these tedious hours, these winter nights,
Not that he dreads invasions, rogues, or sprites."
Straight for your two best wigs aloud you call,
This stiff in buckle, that not curl'd at all,
"And where, you rascal, are the spurs," you cry;
"And O! what blockhead laid the buskins by?"
On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none) [heath;
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the
All swear at Morden 'tis on life or death;
Wildly through Wareham streets you scamper on,
Raise all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for six long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high respect, it seems, and eager love:
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Doddington, may send in vain.
Before you go, we curse the noise you make,
And bless the moment that you turn your back:
As for myself, I own it to your face,

I love good eating, and I take my glass;
But sure 'tis strange, dear sir, that this should be
In you amusement, but a fault in me.
All this is bare refining on a name,

To make a difference where the fault's the same.
My father sold me to your service here,
For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
A livery you should wear as well as 1,

And this I'll prove-but lay your cudgel by.
You serve your passions-Thus, without a jest,
Both are but fellow-servants at the best.
Yourself, good sir, are play'd by your desires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.

P. Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S. The brave, wise, honest man, and only he:
All else are slaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, sir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater still) is master of himself:
Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the interests of the world:

And while that world turns round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred tenour of his soul;
In every turn of fortune still the same,

As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike pride,
He sees the darts of Envy glance aside;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempest blow,
Smiles at the idle storms that roar below.
One such you know, a layman, to your shame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name,
If you can such a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your slave again.

But when in Hemskirk's pictures you delight,
More than yourself, to see two drunkards fight;
"Fool, rogue, sot, blockhead," or such names are
mine:

Your's are, "a Connoiseur," or "Deep Divine."
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,

The sacred prize of learning, worth, and wit:
And yet some sell their lands these bits to buy;
Then, pray, who suffers most from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I seal no bonds, I mortgage no estate.

'The seat of John Pitt, esq. in Dorsetshire.

Besides, high living, sir, must wear you out
With surfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By some new pleasures are you still engross'd,
And when you save an hour, you think it lost.
To sports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, or (idler still) you rhyme;
Why?-but to banish thought, and murder time:
And yet that thought, which you discharge in
vain,

Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.

P. Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a stone-
S. For what?

P. A sword, a pistol, or a gun :
I'll shoot the dog.

S. Lord! who would be a wit?
He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.

P. Fly, fly, you rascal, for your spade and fork;
For once I'll set your lazy bones to work :
Fly, or I'll send you back, without a groat,
To the bleak mountains where you first were caught,

ODE TO JOHN PITT, ES2.

ADVISING HIM TO BUILD A BANQUETTING-HOUSE ON A
HILL THAT OVERLOOKS THE SEA.

FROM this tall promontory's brow
You look majestic down,

And see extended wide below

Th' horizon all your own,

With growing piles the vales are crown'd,
Here hills peep over hills;
There the vast sky and sea profound
Th' increasing prospect fills;

O bid, my friend, a structure rise,
And this huge round command;
Then shall this little point comprise
The ocean and the land.

Then you, like olus,on high,
From your aerial tower,
Shall see secure the billows fly,

And hear the whirlwinds roar.
You, with a smile, their rage despise,
Till some sad wreck appears,

And calls, from your relenting eyes,
The sympathising tears.

Thus may you view, with proud delight,
While winds the deep deform,
(Till human woes your grief excite)
All nature in a storm.

Majestic, awful scene! when, hurl'd
On surges, surges rise,
And all the heaving watery world

Tumultuous mounts the skies.

The seas and thunder roar by turns,
By turns the peals expire:
The billows flash, and ether burns
With momentary fire.

But lo! the furious tempests cease,

The mighty rage subsides;
Old Ocean hush'd, in solemn peace,
Has still'd the murmuring tides.

« PreviousContinue »