By turns would ebb and flow, would rise and fall,
Be loudly daring, or be foftly fmall:
While all was blended in one common name,
Wave push'd on wave, and all compos'd a stream.
The different tones melodiously combin'd,
Temper'd with art, in fweet confufion join'd;
The foft, the strong, the clear, the thrill, the deep,
Would fometimes foar aloft, and sometimes creep;
While every foul upon his motions hung,
As though it were in tuneful concert strung.
His touch did ftrike the fibres of the heart,
And a like trembling fecretly impart;
Where various paffions did by turns fucceed,
He made it chearful, and he made it bleed;
Could wind it up into a glowing fire,
Then shift the scene, and teach it to expire.
Oft have I feen him, on a public stage,
Alone the gaping multitude engage;
The eyes and ears of each fpectator draw,
Command their thoughts, and give their paffions law;
While other mufic, in oblivion drown'd,
Seem'd a dead pulfe, or a neglected found.
Alas! he's gone, our great Apollo's dead,
And all that's fweet and tuneful with him fled;
Hibernia, with one univerfal cry,
Laments the lofs, and fpeaks his elegy.
Farewell, thou author of refin'd delight,
Too little known, too foon remov'd from fight;
Thofe fingers, which fuch pleasure did convey,
Must now become to stupid worms a prey :
Thy grateful fiddle will for ever stand
A filent mourner for its master's hand:
Thy art is only to be match'd above,
Where Mufic reigns, and in that Mufic Love:
Where thou wilt in the happy chorus join,
And quickly thy melodious foul refine
To the exalted pitch of Harmony Divine.
"Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obftat
"Res angufta domi
THE greatest gifts that Nature does bestow,
Can't unaffifted to perfection grow:
A fcanty fortune clips the wings of Fame,
And checks the progress of a rifing name :
Each daftard virtue drags a captive's chain,
And moves but flowly, for it moves with pain:
Domestic cares fit hard upon the mind,
And cramp thofe thoughts which should be unconfin'd: The cries of Poverty alarm the foul,
Abate its vigour, its defigns control:
The ftings of Want inflict the wounds of Death,
And motion always ceases with the breath.
The love of friends is found a languid fire,
That glares but faintly, and will foon expire;
Weak is its force, nor can its warmth be great,
A feeble light begets a feeble heat.
Wealth is the fuel that must feed the flame,
It dies in rags, and scarce deferves a name.
THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN. 1715.
THIS house and inhabitants both well agree,
And resemble each other as near as can be; One half is decay'd, and in want of a prop, The other new-built, but not finish'd at top.
TO ftifle paffion, is no eafy thing;
A heart in love is always on the wing;
The bold betrayer flutters ftill,
And fans the breath prepar❜d to tell :
It melts the tongue, and tunes the throat,
And moves the lips to form the note;
And when the speech is loft,
It then fends out its ghoft,
A little figh,
To say we die.
"Tis ftrange the air that cools, a flame should prove;
But wonder not, it is the air of love.
Yet, Chloris, I can make my love look well,
And cover bleeding wounds I can't conceal ;
My words such artful accents break,
You think I rather act than speak :
My fighs, enliven'd through a smile,
Your unfufpecting thoughts beguile;
My eyes are vary'd fo,
You can't their wishes know:
And I'm fo gay,
You think I play.
Happy contrivance! fuch as can't be priz'd,
To live in love, and yet to live difguis'd!
CHLORIS APPEARING IN A LOOKING-GLASS.
T have I feen a piece of art,
Of light and fhade the mixture fine,
Speak all the paffions of the heart,
And fhew true life in every line.
But what is this before my eyes,
With every feature, every grace,
That strikes with love and with furprize,
And gives me all the vital face?
It is not Chloris: for, behold,
The shifting phantom comes and goes;
And when 't is here, 'tis pale and cold,
Nor any female softness knows.
But 'tis her image, for I feel
The very pains that Chloris gives;
Her charms are there, I know them well,
I see what in my bofom lives.
Oh, could I but the picture fave!
'Tis drawn by her own matchless skill; Nature the lively colours gave,
And the need only look to kill.
Ah! fair-one, will it not fuffice,
That I fhould once your victim lie;
Unless you multiply your eyes,
And strive to make me doubly die?
A LADY WITH FOUL BREATH.
ART thou alive? It cannot be,
There's fo much rottennefs in thee,
Corruption only is in death;
And what's more putrid than thy breath?
Think not you live because you speak,
For graves fuch hollow founds can make;
And refpiration can't fuffice,
For vapours do from caverns rise :
From thee fuch noifome ftenches come,
Thy mouth betrays thy breaft a tomb.
Thy body is a corpfe that goes,
By magic rais'd from its repofe:
A peftilence, that walks by day,
But falls at night to worms and clay.
But I will to my Chloris run,
Who will not let me be undone :
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