TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
OH be thou bleft with all that Heav'n can fend,
LongHealth, long Youth, long Pleasure and a Friend:
Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new,
But like a fieve let ev'ry bleffing thro',
Some joy still loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some fad Reflection more ;
Is that a Birth-day? 'tis alas! too clear,
"Tis but the Fun'ral of the former year.
Let Joy or Eafe, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay confcience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and fmile upon thy face;
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In fome foft dream, or extafy of joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.
ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE
As fome fond Virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the Town to wholesome Country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever; 5
Yet takes one kifs before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent,
She figh'd, not that they ftay'd, but that she went.
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull Aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Op'ra, Park, Affembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and pray'rs three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and Bohea,
To mufe, and spill her folitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell ftories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after fev'n,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whofe game is Whisk, whose treat a toaft in fack:
Who vifits with a Gun, prefents you birds,
Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries,-- No words!
Or with his hounds comes hallowing from the ftable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, though his jefts are coarse,
And loves you best of all things—but his horse.
In fome fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rise on every green;
Before you pass th' imaginary fights
Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd
While the spread fan o'erfhades your clofing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flies.
Thus vanish fceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your Slave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with head-achs, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abftracted from the crew,
And while he feems to fludy, thinks of you;
Juft when his fancy points your fprightly eyes, 45
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my fight;
Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look four, and hum a Tune, as you may now. 50
AN UNFORTUNATE YOUNG LADY.*
WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? "Tis fhe!--but why that bleeding bofom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the vifionary sword?
* See the Duke of Buckingham's verses to a Lady defigning to retire into a Monaftery, compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to feveral Ladies, p. 206. She feems to be the fame perfon whofe unfortunate death is the subject of this poem
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10
Why bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition firft fprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer fpirits flow, And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.
But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood! 30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
|