Since all my schemes were balk'd, my last resort, I left the Muses to frequent the court: Pensive each night, from room to room I walk'd, To one I bow'd, and with another talk'd; Inquired what news, or such a lady's name, And did the next day, and the next, the same. Places, I found, were daily given away, And yet no friendly gazette mention'd Gay. I ask'd a friend what method to pursue ; He cried, I want a place as well as you.' Another ask'd me, why I had not writ? A poet owes his fortune to his wit.

Straight I replied,' With what a courtly grace Flows easy verse from him that has a place! Had Virgil ne'er at court improved his strains, He still had sung of flocks and homely swains; And had not Horace sweet preferment found, The Roman lyre had never learn'd to sound.'

Once ladies fair in homely guise I sung, [rung. And with their names wild woods and mountains Oh! teach me now to strike a softer strain : The court refines the language of the plain.

'You must (cries one) the ministry rehearse, And with each patriot's name prolong your verse.' But sure this truth to poets should be known, That praising all alike is praising none.

Another told me, if I wish'd success, To some distinguish'd lord I must address; One whose high virtues speak his noble blood, One always zealous for his country's good; Where valour and strong eloquence unite, In council cautious, resolute in fight; Whose generous temper prompts him to defend And patronize the man that wants a friend.

You have, 'tis true, the noble patron shown,
But I, alas! am to Argyle unknown.
Still every one I met in this agreed,
That writing was my method to succeed;
But now preferments so possess'd my brain,
That scarce I could produce a single strain:
Indeed I sometimes hammer'd out a line,
Without connexion, as without design.
One morn upon the Princess this I writ,
An epigram that boasts more truth than wit:
• The pomp of titles easy faith might shake,
She scorn'd an empire for religion's sake:
For this, on earth the British crown is given,
And an immortal crown decreed in Heaven.'
Again, while George's virtues raised my thought,
The following lines prophetic Fancy wrought:

'Methinks I see some bard, whose heavenly rage
Shall rise in song, and warm a future age,
Look back through time, and, rapt in wonder, trace
The glorious series of the Brunswick race.

From the first George these godlike kings de

scend,

A line which only with the world shall end.
The next, a generous prince renown'd in arms,
And bless'd, long bless'd, in Carolina's charms;
From these the rest. 'Tis thus secure in peace
We plough the fields, and reap the year's increase:
Now Commerce, wealthy goddess, rears her head,
And bids Britannia's fleets their canvass spread;
Unnumber'd ships the peopled ocean hide,
And wealth returns with each revolving tide.'

Here paused the sullen Muse; in haste I dress'd,
And through the crowd of needy courtiers press'd:
Though unsuccessful, happy whilst I see
Those eyes that glad a nation shine on me.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF BURLINGTON.

A JOURNEY TO EXETER.

WHILE you, my lord, bid stately piles ascend,
Or in your Chiswick bowers enjoy your friend,
Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach,
The purple vine, blue plum, and blushing peach,
I journey far-You knew fat bards might tire,
And, mounted, sent me forth your trusty squire.
"Twas on the day that city dames repair
To take their weekly dose of Hyde Park air,
When forth we trot; no carts the road infest,
For still on Sundays country horses rest.
Thy gardens, Kensington! we leave unseen,
Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham Green;
That Turnham Green which dainty pigeons fed,
But feeds no more; for Solomon' is dead.

Three dusty miles reach Brentford's tedious town,
For dirty streets and white-legg'd chickens known;
Thence, o'er wide shrubby heaths and furrow'd
lanes,

We come, where Thames divides the meads of Staines;

We ferried o'er; for late the winter's flood

Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepared for war, now Bagshot Heath we cross,
Where broken gamesters oft repair their loss.
At Hartley Row the foaming bit we press'd,
While the fat landlord welcomed every guest.

1 A man famous for feeding pigeons at Turnham-green.

Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown'd, Our host extoll'd his wine at every round; Relates the justices' late meeting there,

How many bottles drank, and what their cheer; What lords had been his guests in days of yore, And praised their wisdom much, their drinking

more.

Let travellers the morning vigils keep; The morning rose, but we lay fast asleep. Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry sun, And Popham Lane was scarce in sight by one: The straggling village harbour'd thieves of old; "Twas here the stage-coach'd lass resign'd her gold, That gold which had in London purchased gowns, And sent her home a belle to country towns. But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood; Here unown'd infants find their daily food; For should the maiden-mother nurse her son, "Twould spoil her match when her good name is Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore, [gone. Nor fail'd her breast to suckle nineteen more. Be just, ye prudes! wipe off the long arrear; Be virgins still in town, but mothers here.

Sutton we pass, and leave her spacious down, And with the setting sun reach Stockbridge town. O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides, And the red dainty trout our knife divides. Sad melancholy every visage wears; What, no election come in seven long years! Of all our race of mayors, shall Snow alone Be by Sir Richard's' dedication known?

2 Sir Richard Steele, Member for Stockbridge, wrote a treatise called, 'The Importance of Dunkirk considered;' and dedicated it to Mr. John Snow, Bailiff of Stockbridge.

Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float, Nor cobblers feast three years upon one vote. Next morn, twelve miles led o'er the' unbounded

plain,

Where the cloked shepherd guides his fleecy train:
No leafy bowers a noonday shelter lend,

Nor from the chilly dews at night defend:
With wondrous art he counts the straggling flock,
And by the sun informs you what's o'clock.
How are our shepherds fallen from ancient days!
No Amaryllis chants alternate lays;

From her no listening echoes learn to sing,
Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring.
Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests bend;
See Sarum's steeple o'er yon hill ascend.
Our horses faintly trot beneath the heat,
And our keen stomachs know the hour to eat.
Who can forsake thy walls, and not admire
The proud cathedral and the lofty spire?
What sempstress has not proved thy scissars good?
From hence first came the' intriguing ridinghood.
Amid three boarding-schools well stock'd with
misses,

3

Shall three knights-errant starve for want of kisses?
O'er the green turf the miles slide swift away,
And Blandford ends the labours of the day.
The morning rose; the supper reckoning paid,
And our due fees discharged to man and maid,
The ready hostler near the stirrup stands,
And, as we mount, our halfpence load his hands.

Now the steep hill fair Dorchester o'erlooks, Border'd by meads, and wash'd by silver brooks.

3 There are three boarding-schools in this town.