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Washing the slippery winter from the hills,
And floating all the vallies. The fading scene
Melts like a lost enchantment or vain phantasm
That can no more abuse. Nature resumes
Her old substantial shape; while from the waste
Of undistinguishing calamity,

Forests, and by their sides wide-skirted plains,
Houses and trees arise; and waters flow,
That from their dark confinements bursting,
spurn

Their brittle chains; huge sheets of loosen'd ice
Float on their bosoms to the deep, and jarr
And clatter as they pass; th' o'erjutting banks,
As long unpractis'd to so steep a view,
Seem to look dizzy on the moving pomp.

Now ev'ry petty brook that crawl'd along,
Railing its pebbles, mocks the river's rage,
Like the proud frog i' the fable. The huge
Danube,

While melting mountains rush into its tide,
Rolls with such headstrong and unreined course,
As it would choke the Euxine's gulphy maw,
Bursting its crystal cerements. The breathing

time

Of peace expir'd, that hush'd the deafning scenes
Of clam'rous indignation, ruffian war
Rebels, and Nature stands at odds again:
When the rous'd furies of the fighting winds
Torment the main; that swells its angry sides,
And churns the foam betwixt its flinty jaws;
While through the savage dungeon of the night
The horrid thunder growls. Th' ambitious waves
Assault the skies, and from the bursting clouds
Drink the glib lightening; as if the seas
Would quench the ever-burning fires of Heaven.
Straight from their slipp'ry pomp they madly
plunge

And kiss the lowest pebbles. Wretched they
That 'midst such rude vexation of the deep
Guide a frail vessel! Better ice-bound still,
Ihan mock'd with liberty thus be resign'd
To the rough fortune of the froward time;
When Navigation all a-tiptoe stands
On such unsteady footing. Now they mount
On the tall billow's top, and seem to jowl
Against the stars; whence (dreadful eminence!)
They see with swimming eyes (enough to burry

round

In endless vertigo the dizzy brain)

A gulph that swallows vision, with wide mouth
Steep-yawning to receive them; down they duck
To the rugged bottom of the main, and view
The adamantine gates of vaulted Hell:
Thence toss'd to light again: till borne adrift
Against some icy mountain's bulging sides
They reel, and are no more.-Nor less by land
Ravage the winds, that in their wayward rage
Howl through the wide unhospitable glens;

That rock the stable-planted towers, and shake
The hoary monuments of ancient time
Down to their flinty bases; that engage
As they would tear the mountains from their
roots,
[heads;
And brush th' high Heavens with their woody
Making the stout oaks bow.-But I forget
That sprightly Ver trips on old Winter's heel:
Cease we these notes too tragic for the time,
Nor jar against great Nature's symphony;
When even the blustrous elements grow tuneful,
Or listen to the concert. Hark! how loud

The cuckoo wakes the solitary wood!
Soft sigh the winds as o'er the greens they stray,
And murmuring brooks within their channels
play.

PROGNE'S DREAM:

DARKLY EXPRESSIVE OF SOME PAST EVENTS THAT WERE SOON TO BE REVEALED TO HER.

LAST night I dreamt,

Whate'er it may forebode it moves me strangely,
That I was rapt into the raving deep;
An old and reverend sire conducted me:
He plung'd into the bosom of the main,
And bade me not to fear but follow him.
I followed: with impetuous speed we div❜d,
And heard the dashing thunder o'er our heads.
Many a slippery fathom down we sunk,
Beneath all plummet's sound, and reach'd the
bottom.

When there, I ask'd my venerable guide
If he could tell me where my sister was;
He told me that she lay not far from thence
Within the bosom of a flinty rock,
Where Neptune kept her for his paramour,
Hid from the jealous Amphitrite's sight:
And said he could conduct me to the place.
I beg'd he would. Through dreadful ways we
past,
[side,
'Twixt rocks that frightfully lower'd on either
Whence here and there the branching coral
sprung;
[gold and gems,
O'er dead men's bones we walk'd, o'er heaps of
Into a hideous kind of wilderness,
Where stood a stern and prison-looking rock,
Daub'd with a mossy verdure all around,
The mockery of paint. As we drew near,
Out sprung a hydra from a den below,
A speckl'd fury; fearfully it hiss'd,
And roll'd its sea-green eyes so angrily
As it would kill with looking. My old guide
Against its sharp head hurl'd a rugged stone-
The curling monster rais'd a brazen shriek,
Wallow'd and died in fitful agonies.
We gain'd the cave. Through woven adamant
I look'd, and saw my sister all alone.
Employ'd she seem'd in writing something sad,
So sad she look'd: her cheek was wond'rous wan,
Her mournful locks like weary sedges hung.
I call'd-she, turning, started when she saw me,
And threw her head aside as if asham'd:
She wept, but would not speak-I call'd again;
Still she was mute.-Then madly I addrest,
With all the lion-siuews of despair,
To break the flinty ribs that held me out;
And with the struggling wak'd.—

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To view the ruinous havoc of the dark,
The stately towers of Athens seem'd to stand
On hollow foam tide-whipt; the ships that lay
Scorning the blast within the marble arms
Of the sea-chid Portumnus, danc'd like corks
Upon th' enraged deep, kicking each other;
And some were dash'd to fragments in this fray
Against the harbour's rocky chest. The sea
So roar'd, so madly rag'd, so proudly swell'd,
As it would thunder full into the streets,
And steep the tall Cecropian battlements
In foaming brine. The airy citadel,
Perch'd like an eagle on a high-brow'd rock,
Shook the salt water from its stubborn sides
With eager quaking; the Cyclades appear'd
Like ducking cormorants-Such a mutiny
Out-clamour'd all tradition, and gain'd belief
To ranting prodigies of heretofore.
Seven days it storm'd, &c.

AN IMITATION OF SPENSER. WRITTEN AT MR. THOMSON'S DESIRE, TO BE INSERTED INTO THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

FULL many a fiend did haunt this house of rest, And made of passive wights an easy prey. Here Lethargy with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard lay, Heaving his sides; and snored night and day. To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'd eye he shut straightway: He led I ween the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain or strife to yield the breath.

'Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,

Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsie; Unwieldly man, with belly monstrous round For ever fed with watery supply; For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. And here a moping mystery did sit, Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye :

She call'd herself the Hypochondriac Fit, And frantic seem'd to some, to others seem'd a

wit:

A lady was she whimsical and proud,

Yet oft thro' fear her pride would crouchen low.

She felt or fancied in her fluttering mood
All the diseases that the spitals know,

And sought all physic that the shops bestow; And still new leaches and new drugs would try.

'Twas hard to hit her humour high or low, For sometimes she would laugh and sometimes cry,

Sometimes would waxen wroth; and all she knew not why.

Fast by her side a listless virgin pin'd,

With aching head and squeamish heart

burnings; [kind, Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate manBut lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the Tertian shook his chilling wings. And here the Gout, half tiger half a snake, Rag'd with an hundred teeth, an hundred stings.

These and a thousand furies more did shake Those weary realms, and kept ease-loving men awake.

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I greet gay Wilkes from Fulda's wasted shore, Where cloth'd with wood a hundred hills ascend, Where Nature many a paradise has plann'd :

A land that, e'en amid contending arms, Late smil'd with culture, and luxuriant charms But now the hostile scythe has bar'd her soil, And her sad peasants starve for all their toil. What news to day?-I ask you not what rogue,

What paltry imp of fortune's now in vogue; What forward blundering fool was last preferr'd, By mere pretence distinguish'd from the herd; With what new cheat the gaping town was smit; What crazy scribbler reigns the present wit; What stuff for winter the two Booths have mixt; What bouncing mimic grows a Roscius next. Wave all such news: I've seen too much, my friend,

To stare at any wonders of that kind.

News, none have 1: you know I never had; I never long'd the day's dull lye to spread ; I left to gossips that sweet luxury, More in the secrets of the great than I; To nurses, midwives, all the slippery train, That swallow all, and bring up all again: Or did I e'er a brief event relate, You found it soon at length in the Gazette.

Now for the weather-This is England still
For aught I find, as good, and quite as ill.
Even now the pond'rous rain perpetual falls,
Drowns every camp, and crowds our hospitals.
This soaking deluge all unstrings my frame,
Dilutes my sense, and suffocates my flame-
'Tis that which makes these present lines so tame.
The parching east wind still pursues me too---
Is there no climate where this fiend ne'er
flew?-

By Heaven, it slays Japan, perhaps Peru!
It blasts all Earth with its envenom'd breath,
That scatters discord, rage, diseases, death.

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Mean time excuse me that I slily snatch
The only theme in which I shine your match.
You study early: some indulge at night,
Their prudish Muse steals in by candle-light;
Shy as the Athenian bard, she shuns the day,
And finds December genial more than May.
But happier you who court the early Sun,
For morning visits no debauch draw on,
Nor so the spirits, health, or sight impair,
As those that pass in the raw midnight air.

The task of breakfast o'er; that peevish, pale,
That lounging, yawning, most ungenial meal;
Rush out, before these fools rush in to worry ye,
Whose business is to be idle in a hurry,
Who kill your time as frankly as their own,
And feel no civil hints e'er to be gone.
These flies all fairly flung, whene'er the house,
Your country's business, or your friend's, al-
lows,

Rush out, enjoy the fields and the fresh air;
Ride, walk, or drive, the weather foul or fair.
Yet in the torrid months I would reverse
This method, leave behind both prose and verse;
With the grey dawn the hills and forest roam,
And wait the sultry noon embower'd at home,
While every rural sound improves the breeze,
The railing stream, the busy rooks, and murmur
of the bees.

You'll hardly choose these cheerful jaunts
alone-

Except when some deep scheme is carrying on.
With you at Chelsea oft may I behold
The hopeful bud of sense her bloom unfold,
With you I'd walk to * * * * * *
To rich, insipid Hackney, if you will:
With you no matter where, while we're together,
I scorn no spot on Earth, and curse no weather.
When dinner comes, amid the various feast,
That crowns your genial board, where every
guest,

Or grave, or gay, is happy, and at home,
And none e'er sigh'd for the mind's elbow-room;
I warn you still to make your chief repast
On one plain dish, and trifle with the rest.

Beef, in a fever, if your stomach crave it,
Ox-cheek, or mawkish cod, be sure you have it.
For still the constitution, even the case,
Directs the stomach; this informs the taste;
And what the taste in her capricious fits
Coyly, or even indifferently admits,
The peevish stomach, or disdains to toil,
Or indolently works to vapid chyle.
This instinct of the taste so seldom errs,
That if you love, yet smart for cucumbers,
Or plumbs of bad repute, you'll likely find
'Twas for you separated what Nature join'd,
The spicy kernel here, and there the rind.

'Tis strange how blindly we from Nature stray !

The only creatures we that miss their way!
"To err is human," man's prerogative,
Who'as too much sense by Nature's laws to live:
Wiser than Nature he must thwart her plan,
And ever will be spoiling, where he can.
'Tis well he cannot ocean change to cream,
Nor earth to a gilded cake; not e'en could tame
Niagara's steep abyss to crawl down stairs ',
Or dress in roses the dire Cordelliers":
But what he can he does: well can he trim
A charming spot into a childish whim;
Can every generous gift of Nature spoil,
And rates their merits by his cost and toil.
Whate'er the land, whate'er the seas produce,
Of perfect texture, and exalted juice,
He pampers, or to fulsome fat, or drains,
Refines and bleaches, till no taste remains.

Enough to fatten fools, or drive the dray,
But plagues and death to those of finer clay.
No corner else, 'tis not to be denied,
Of all our isle so rankly is supplied
With gross productions, and adulterate fare,
As our renown'd abode, whose name I spare.
They cram all poultry, that the hungry fox
Would loathe to touch them; e'en their boasted

ΟΥ

Sometimes is glutted so with unctuous spoil,
That what seems beef is rather rape-seed oil.
D'ye ye know what brawn is?-O th' unhappy
beast!

He stands eternal, and is doom'd to feast
Till-but the nauseous process I forbear-
Only, beware of brawn-besure, beware!
Yet brawn has taste-it has; their veal has none,
Save what the butcher's breath inspires alone;
Just Heaven one day may send them hail for
wheat,

Who spoil all veal because it should be white.
"Tis hard to say of what compounded paste
Their bread is wrought, for it betrays no taste,
Whether 'tis flour and chalk, or chalk and flour,
Shell'd and refin'd till it has taste no more;
But if the lump be white, and white enough,
No matter how insipid, dry or tough.
In salt itself the sapid savour fails,
Burnt alum for the love of white prevails:
While tasteless cole-seed we for mustard swal-

low,

'Tis void of zest indeed-but still 'tis yellow.
Parsnip, or parsley-root, the rogues will soon
Scrape for horse-radish, and 'twill pass unknown,
For by the colour, not the taste, we prove all,
As hens will sit on chalk, if 'tis but oval.

I must with caution the cook's reign invade, Hot as the fire, and hasty from his trade,

' Vide Chatsworth, 1753.

Les Cordelleiras des Andes are a chain of hills which run through South-America.

A cook of genius, bid him roast a hare,
By all that's hot and horrible would swear,
Parch native dryness! zounds, that's not the
thing-

But stew him, and he might half dine a king.
His gen'rous broth I should almost prefer
To turtle soup, though turtle travels far.

You think me nice perhaps: yet I could dine
On roasted rabbit; or fat turkey and chine;
Or fulsome haslet; or most drily cram
My throat with tasteless fillet and wet ham:
But let me ne'er of mutton-saddle eat,
That solid phantom, that most specious cheat;
Yet loin is passable, he was no fool
Who said the half is better than the whole:

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Who from the full meal yield to natural rest,

But I have cook'd and carv'd enough and A short repose; 'tis strange how soon you'll

more,

We come to drinking next. 'Till dinner's o'er,
I would all claret, even champaign forbear;
Give me fresh water-bless me with small-beer.
But still whate'er you drink with cautious lip
Approach, survey, and e'er you swallow, sip;
For often, O defend all honest throats!
The reeling wasp on the drench'd borage floats.
I've known a dame, sage else as a divine,
For brandy whip off ipecacuan wine;
And I'm as sure amid your careless glee,
You'll swallow port one time for cote-rotie.
But you aware of that Lethean flood,
Will scarce repeat the dose-forbid you should!
'Tis such a deadly foe to all that's bright,
'Twould soon encumber e'en your fancy's flight:
And if 'tis true what some wise preacher says,
That we our gen'rous ancestors disgrace,
The fault from this pernicious fountain flows,
Hence half our follies, half our crimes and woes;
And ere our maudlin genius mounts again,
'Twill cause a sea of claret and champaign
Of this retarding glue to rinse the nation's
brain.

The mud-fed carp refines amid the springs,
And time and burgundy might do great things:
But health and pleasure we for trade despise,
For Portugal's grudg'd gold our genius dies.
O hapless race! O land to be bewail'd!
With murders, treasons, horrid deaths appal'd;
Where dark-red skies with livid thunders frown,
While Earth convulsive shakes her cities down;

find

A second morn rise cheerful on your mind:
Besides it softly, kindly, sooths away
The saddest hour to some that damps the day.
But if you're coy to sleep, before you spread
Some easy-trotting poet's lines-you're dead
At once even these may hasten your repose,
Now rapid verse, now halting nearer prose;
There smooth, here rough, what I suppose you'd
chuse,

As men of taste hate sameness in the Muse:
Yes, I'd adjourn all drinking till 'tis late,
And then indulge, but at a moderate rate.
By Heaven not *** with all his genial wit,
Should ever tempt me after twelve to sit-
You laugh-at noon you say: I mean at night.
1 long to read your name once more again,
But while at Cassel, all such longing's vain.
Yet Cassel else no sad retreat I find,
While good and amiable Gayot 3 is my friend,
Generous and plain, the friend of human-kind;
Who scorns the little-minded's partial view;
One you would love, one that would relish you.
With him sometimes I sup, and often dine,
And find his presence cordial more than wine.
There lively, genial, friendly, Goy and I
Touch glasses oft to one whose company
Would-but what's this?-Farewell-within two
hours

We march for Hoxter-ever, ever yours.

Mons. de Gayot, fils, conseiller d'estat, et intendant de l'armée Françoise en Allemagne,

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