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May he in every manly grace excel,
To glad the virgin who deserves so well:
Bless'd with plain sense, with native humourgay,
To rule with prudence, and with pride obey;
To kindness fashion'd, with mild temper fraught,
And form'd, if possible, without a fault.
Long may ye live, of mutual love possess'd,
Like streams uniting, in each other bless'd;
Till Death shall gently call you hence away
From life's vain business to the realms of day;
May Death unfelt the common summons give,
And both, like righteous Enoch, cease to live;
Cease from a life beset with cares and pain,
And in eternal glories meet again.

SONG TO LAURA, ABSENT.
January, 1745.

COME, Laura, joy of rural swains,
O! come, and bless our cheerless plains;
The skies still drooping mourn in showers,
No meadows bloom with bright-ey'd flowers,
No daisies spring, no beeches bud,
No linnets warble in the wood;
Cold winter checks with blasts severe
The early-dawning of the year.

Come, lovely Laura, haste away,
Your smiles will make the village gay;
When you return, the vernal breeze
Will wake the buds, and fan the trees;
Where-e'er you walk the daisies spring,
The meadows laugh, the linnets sing;
Your eyes our joyless hearts can cheer;
O! haste, and make us happy here.

A NOSEGAY FOR LAURA.
July 1745.

COME, ye fair, ambrosial flowers,
Leave your beds, and leave your bowers,
Blooming, beautiful, and rare,
Form a posy for my fair;

Fair, and bright, and blooming be,
Meet for such a nymph as she.
Let the young vermilion rose
A becoming blush disclose;
Such as Laura's cheeks display,
When she steals my heart away.
Add carnation's varied hue,
Moisten'd with the morning dew:
To the woodbine's fragrance join
Sprigs of snow-white jessamine.

Add no more; already I
Shall, alas! with envy die,
Thus to see my rival blest,
Sweetly dying on her breast.

TO LAURA, ABSENT.
November 1745.

If you ever beard my prayer,
Hear it now, indulgent fair;
Let your swain no longer mourn,
But return, my fair, return.

Lo! tempestuous winter near Stains the evening of the year; Gloomy clouds obscure the day, Nature ceases to be gay; The sweet tenants of the grove Warble no soft tales of love: Rise, my fair, and bring with thee Joy for all, but love for me. Where are all those blooming flowers That adorn'd my rural bowers? Dappled pinks, and violets blue, And the tulip's gaudy hue, Lillies white, and roses red? All are wither'd, all are dead: Yes they hasten'd to decay, When my Laura went away; When she comes, again they'll rise, Blooming where she points her eyes.

Hark! I hear a sound from far,
Clanking arms, the din of war,
Dreadful music to my ear!

All was peace when you was here.
Now rebellion shakes the land,
Murder waves her bloody hand;
High in air their banners fly,
Dreadful tumults rend the sky:
Rise, my fair, and bring with thee
Softer, sweeter, harmony;
All my doubts and fears remove,
Give me freedom, give me love;
Discord when you come will cease,
And in my bosom all be peace.

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WHILE TOSY health abounds in every breeze, Smiles in the flowers, and blossoms in the trees, Matures the fields, and in the fountain flows, Breathes through all life, and in all nature glows;

Why droops Aurelius by sharp pains opprest,
Whose danger saddens every virtuous breast?
Enough, enough bas Heav'n's afflicting hand
With arms and earthquakes terrified the land :
On foreign plains has stream'd the British
blood,

And British heroes perish'd in the flood:
Frederick, alas! the kingdom's justest pride,
Fair in the bloom of all his virtues, died.
Ah! generous master of the candid mind,
Light of the world, and friend of human kind,
Leave us not cause our sorrows to renew,
Nor fear the falling of the state in you.

I see,

I see conspicious how you stood, And dauntless crush'd rebellion in the bud; With Ciceronian energy divine,

Dashing the plots of fraudful Catiline.

Your righteous zeal the brave Brigantes warm'd, Silent they heard, approv'd, united, arm'd.

Ye gales, that on the downs of Surry stray,
Sleep on the Mole', or on the Vandal' play,
From every flower medicinal that springs,
Waft balmy fragrance with your temperate
wings,

The grace, the glory of the church restore,
And save the friend, the father of the poor.
And lo! our prayers, with fervency preferr'd,
Rise sweet as incense, and by Heav'n are heard :
The genial season, with refreshing rains,
Bright-beaming mornings, health-exhaling plains,
And pure etherial gales, conspire to heal
Our public father, for the public weal.

Oh! by kind Providence to Britain given,
Long may you live, and late revisit Heaven;
Continue still to bless us with your stay,

Nor wish for Heav'n till we have learnt the way.
So by your pattern shall our years be spent
In sweet tranquillity, and gay content;
So shall we rise immortal from the dust,
And gain the blissful kingdoms of the just.

TO MRS. HERRING.

WITH FOUR ODES ON THE SEASONS.

SINCE your goodness poetical tribute demands,
Permit the four seasons to kiss your fair hands:
And if in right colours your virtues [ view,
The seasons, dear madam, are emblems of you.
In the gentle Spring's delicate flow'rets I trace

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Let Health, gay daughter of the skies,
On Zephyr's wings descend,
And scatter pleasures, as she flies,

Where Surry's downs extend:
There Herring wooes her friendly power ;
There may she all her roses shower;

To heal that shepherd all her balms employ,
So will she sooth our fears, and give a nation joy.

The grateful seasons, circling fast,]
Reviving suns restore,

But life's short spring is quickly past,
And blooms, alas! no more;
Then let us, ere by sure decays
We reach the winter of our days,
ka virtue emulate the bless'd above,
And like the Spring display benevolence and love.

ODE TO SUMMER.

BY A GENTLEMAN OF CAMBRIDGE.

The beams of your eyes, and the bloom of your HAIL, gentle Summer, to this isle!

face:

The bright glowing ardour of Summer I find Express'd in your friendly, benevolent mind: As bountiful Autumn with plenty is crown'd, Thus calm you distribute your blessings around: But with you how shall I cold Winter compare ? Your wit is as piercing and keen as the air: Thus you furnish with emblems whenever I sing Of Winter, or Autumn, or Summer, or Spring.

A VERNAL ODE,

SENT TO HIS GRACE THE LORD ARCHBISHOP OF CAN

TERBURY.

March 12, 1754.

BRIGHT god of day, whose genial power
Revives the buried seed;
That spreads with foilage every bower,
With verdure every mead;
Bid all thy vernal breezes fly,
Diffusing mildness through the sky;
Give the soft season to our drooping plains,
Sprinkled with rosy dews, and salutary rains.

Two rivers in Surry, thus described by Mr. Pope:

The blue, transparent Vandalis appears, And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood.

Where Nature's fairest beauties smile,

And breathe in every plain; 'Tis thine to bid each flower display, And open to the eye of day

The glories of its reign.

While yon few sheep enjoy the breeze,
That softly dies upon
the trees,
And rest beneath the shade;
This pipe, which Damon gave, shall raise
Its rural notes to sing thy praise,

And ask the Muse's aid.

Diana's ear shall catch the sound,
And all the nymphs that sport around
The vale, or upland lawn;

The nymphs, that o'er the mountain's brow
Pursue the lightly-bounding roe,

Or chase the flying fawn.

Ev'n now, perchance, some cool retreat
Defends the lovely train from heat,
And Phoebus' noontide beam;
Perchance they twine the flowery crown
On beds of roses, soft as down,
Beside the winding stream.
Delightful season! every mead
With thy fair robe of plenty spread,
To thee that plenty owes;
The laughing fields with joy declare,
And whisper ali in reason's ear,

From whence that plenty flows.

Happy the man whose vessel glides
Safe and unhurt by passion's tides,
Nor courts the gusts of praise!
He sails with even, steady pace,
While virtue's full-blown beauties grace
The summer of his days.

AN AUTUMNAL ODE.

TO MR. HAYMAN, THE PAINTER.

October 1754.

YET once more, glorious god of day,
While beams thine orb serene,
O let me warbling court thy stay
To gild the fading scene!
Thy rays invigorate the Spring,
Bright Summer to perfection bring,
The cold inclemency of Winter cheer,

And make th' Autumnal months the mildest of

the year.

Ere yet the russet foliage fall,

I'll climb the mountain's brow,
My friend, my Hayman, at thy call,

To view the scene below:
How sweetly pleasing to behold
Forests of vegetable gold!

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How mix'd the many chequer'd shades be-
The tawny, mellowing hue, and the gay vivid
green!

How splendid all the sky! how still!
How mild the dying gale!

How soft the whispers of the rill

That winds along the vale!

So tranquil Nature's works appear,
It seems the Sabbath of the year:

As if, the Summer's labour past, she chose

This season's sober calm for blandishing repose.

Such is of well-spent life the time,
When busy days are past;
Man, verging gradual from his prime,
Meets sacred peace at last :

His flowery Spring of pleasures o'er,

And Summer's full-blown pride no more,
J'e gains pacific Autumn, mild and bland,
And dauntless braves the stroke of Winter's pal-
sy'd hand.

For yet a while, a little while,
Involv'd in wintry gloom,

And lo! another spring shall smile,

A spring eternal bloom :

Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,
In the bright mansions of the blest,

Lo! Winter comes, in fogs array'd,
With ice and spangled dews;
To dews, and fogs, and storms, be paid
The tribute of the Muse.

Where due rewards on virtue are bestow'd,
And reap the golden fruits of what his autumn
sow'd.

ODE ON WINTER.

BY A GENTLEMAN OF CAMBRIDGE.

FROM mountains of eternal snow,
And Zembla's dreary plains;
Where the bleak winds for ever blow,
And frost for ever reigns;

Each flowery carpet Nature spread
Is vanish'd from the eye;
Where'er unhappy lovers tread,
No Philomel is nigh.

(For well I ween her plaintive note
Can soothing ease impart ;
The little warblings of her throat
Relieve the wounded heart.)

No blushing rose unfolds its bloom,
No tender lilies blow,

To scent the air with rich perfume,

Or grace Lucinda's brow.

Th' indulgent Father who protects
The wretched and the poor;
With the same gracious care directs
The sparrow to our door.

Dark, scowling tempests rend the skies
And clouds obscure the day;

His genial warmth the Sun denies,
And sheds a fainter ray.

Yet blame we not the troubled air,
Or seek defects to find;

For Power Omnipotent is there,

And walks upon the wind.

Hail every pair whom love unites

In wedlock's pleasing ties ;

That endless source of pure delights,
That blessing to the wise!

Though yon pale orb no warmth bestows,
And storms united meet;

The flame of love and friendship glows
With unextinguish'd heat.

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Encircled deep with weeping willows round, O! let me sorrowing pass the pensive day, And wake my reed to many a plaintive sound. For good Aurelius (now alas! no more)

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Sighs follow sighs, and tears to tears succeed; Him shall the Muse in tenderest notes deplore, For oft he tun'd to melody my reed. How was I late by his indulgence blest, Cheer'd with his smiles, and by his precepts taught!

My fancy deem'd him some angelic guest,

Some Heaven-sent guide, with blissful tidings
fraught.

Mild was his aspect, full of truth and grace,
Temper'd with dignity and lively sense;
Sweetness and candour beam'd upon his face,
Emblems of love and large benevolence.
Yet never useless slept those virtues fair,
Nor languish'd unexerted in the mind;
Secret as thought, yet unconfin'd as air,

He dealt his bounties out to all mankind.
How will the poor, alas! now truly poor,
Bewail their generous benefactor dead?
Who daily, from his hospitable door,

The naked cloth'd, and gave the hungry bread.

To sick and orphans duly sent relief,

Was feet and eyes to cripples and the blind, Sooth'd all the suffering family of grief,

And pour'd sweet balsam on the wounded mind. How will the nation their lost guardian mourn?

Lo! pale-ey'd Science fix'd in grief appears; The drooping Arts, reclining on his urn,

Lament, and every Muse dissolves in tears. Genius of Britain! search the kingdom round, Ere yet the strict inquiry be too late; What bold, unblemish'd patriot can be found", To rouse the virtues of a languid state?

A river in Kent.

This poem was wrote in 1757.

With freedom's voice to wake the slumbering

age,

To cheer fair merit, prowess to advance, Dauntless to rise, and scourge with generous rage The high-plum'd pride and perfidy of France. Alas! no longer burns the glorious flame :

The patriot passion animates no more;
But, like the whirling eddy, some low aim
Absorbs alike the great, the rich, the poor.
Not so, when wise Aurelius o'er the north
Shed the mild influence of his pastoral care,
The madness of rebellion issuing forth,

He stemm'd the torrent of the rising war.
Behold him! with his country's weal inspir'd,
Before the martial sons of Ebor stand,
Fair in the robe of eloquence attir'd,

In act to speak, he waves the graceful hand : Silent as evening, lo! the listening throng, While from his lips the glowing periods fall, Drink sweet persuasion streaming from his tongue,

And the firm chain of concord binds them all As some large river, gentle, strong, and deep, Winds his smooth volumes o'er the wide cam

paign,

Then forceful flows, and with resistless sweep,
Rolls, in his strength collected, to the main:
Thus the good prelate, in his country's cause,
Pour'd the full tide of eloquence along ;
As erst Tyrtæus gain'd divine applause,

Who fir'd the Spartans with heroic song.
But when religious truths his bosom warm'd,
Faith, hope, repentance, and eternal love,
With such pathetic energy he charm'd,

He rais'd our souls to Paradise above, The holy city's adamantine gate

On golden hinge he open'd to our view; Unravell'd every path, perplex'd and strait, And gave to willing minds the safe-conducting clew.

For God's Messiah was his chosen guide;

And weil the sacred lore he understood, And well the precept, sent from Heaven, apply'd, "For evil meekly recompensing good."

Thus mild, thus humble, in the highest state,

The "one thing needful" was his sole regard Belov'd, and blamelesss he prolong'd his date By acts of goodness, which themselves reward, To him the bed of sickness gave no pain;

For, trusting only in th' Almighty King, He look'd on dissolution as his gain;

No terrours had the grave, and death no sting. Ah! Muse, forbear that last sad scene to drawThis homage, due to virtue, let me pay, These heart-sprung tears, inspir'd by filial awe, These numbers warbled to the silver Cray. May, 1757.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOST SACRED MAJESTY

KING GEORGE THE SECOND.
AH, fatal hour!-we must at last resign-
Farewel, great hero of the Brunswick line!
For valour much, for virtue more renown'd,
With wisdom honour'd, and with glory crown'd.
'Twas thy bless'd lot a happy reign to close,
And die serene, triumphant o'er thy foes;
To see the faithless, vain insulting Gaul,
Like proud Goliath, nodding to his fall;
In chains the sons of tyranny to bind,
And vindicate the rights of human kind.

No brighter crown than Britain's God could
give

To grace the monarch, till he ceas'd to live;
Then gave him, to reward his virtuous strife,
A heavenly kingdom, and a crown of life.

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Oh! were they worthy of the sovereign's ear,
The Muse should greet Britannia's blissful isle,
Where crown'd with liberty the graces smile;
Where the pleas'd halcyon builds her tranquil
nest,

No storms disturb her, and no wars molest:
For still fair peace and plenty here remain'd,
While George, the venerable monarch, reign'd.
One generation pass'd secure away,
"Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway;"
Now cold in death the much-lov'd hero lies,
His soul unbodied seeks her native skies:
The living laurels which his temples crown'd
Strike root, and shade his funeral pile around.

As when the Sun, bright ruler of the year,
Through glowing Cancer rolls his golden sphere,
He gains new vigour as his orb declines,
And at the goal with double lustre shines:

In splendour thus great George's reign surpast,
Bright beam'd each year, but brightest far the

last:

Where-ever waves could roll, or breezes blow,

[view.

With joy, great prince, your happy subjects
A better Titus now reviv'd in you;
Of gentler nature, and of nobler blood,
Whose only study is your people's good :
For you (so truly is your heart benign)
To heathen virtues christian graces join.

O may Heaven's providence around you wait,
And bless you with a longer, happier date;
Then will your virtue all its powers display,
And noble deeds distinguish every day;
Joys unallay'd will sweetly fill your breast,
Your people blessing, by your people blest;
Then will the rage of rancorous discord cease,
The drooping arts revive, and all the world have
peace.

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"Sweet is the breath of rosy morn,
Soft melody the sky-lark trills,
Bright are the dew-drops on the thorn,
Fresh are the zephyrs on the hills,
Pure are the fountains in the vale below,
And fair the flowers that on their borders blow:
Yet neither breath of roseate morn,

Nor wild notes which the sky-lark trills,
Nor dew drops glittering on the thorn,

Nor the fresh zephyrs of the hills,
Nor streams that musically-murmuring flow,
Nor flowers that on their mossy margins grow,
Can any joy suggest

But to the temper'd breast,
Where virtue's animating ray
Illumines every golden day,

Beams on the mind, and makes all nature gay."

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

FATHER of all, whose throne illumines Heaven,
All honour to thy holy name be given.
Thy gracious kingdom come: thy righteous will
Let men on Earth as saints in Heaven fulfil.
Give us this day the bread by which we live:
As we our debtors, thou our debts forgive.
Let not temptation lead us into woe:
Keep us from sin, and our infernal foe.
For thy supreme dominion we adore ;

His fleet pour'd ruin on the faithless foe: [hurl'd, Thy power, thy glory, is for evermore.

France saw, appall'd, the dreadful vengeance
And own'd him monarch of her western world.
But now, alas! see pale Britannia mourn,
And all her sons lamenting o'er his urn.

Thus when Vespasian died, imperial Rome
With copious tears bedew'd the patriot's tomb;
But soon o'er sorrow bright-ey'd joy prevail'd,
When Titus her lov'd emperor she hail'd;
Titus, a blessing to the world design'd,
The darling and delight of human-kind.

Amen.

DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER
SAUL AND JONATHAN.

SAMUEL, BOOK II. CHAPTER I.

THE flow'r of Israel withers on the plain;
How are the mighty on the mountains slain !

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