Or calls his mate, and as he sweetly sings,
Soars in the sun-beam, wavering on his wings.
The ruthless fowler, with unerring aim,
Points the dire tube-forth streams the sudden
flame:

Swift in hoarse thunder flies the leaden wound,
The rigid rocks return the murdering sound;
The strains unfinish'd with the warbler die,
Float into air, and vanish in the sky.

Thus oft, fond man, rejoicing in his might, Sports in the sunshine of serene delight; Fate comes unseen, and snaps the thin spun thread,

He dies, and sleeps forgotten with the dead.

ALL ye gentle powers above, Venus, and thou god of love; All ye gentle souls below, That can melt at others woe; Lesbia's loss with tears deplore, Lesbia's sparrow is no more; Late she wont her bird to prize Dearer than her own bright eyes. Sweet it was and lovely too, And its mistress well it knew. Nectar from her lips it sipt, Here it hopt, and there it skipt: Oft it wanton'd in the air, Chirping only to the fair: Oft it lull'd its head to rest On the pillow of her breast. Now, alas! it chirps no more: All its blandishments are o'er : Death has summon'd it to go Pensive to the shades below; Dismal regions! from whose bourn No pale travellers return. Death! relentless to destroy All that's form'd for love or joy! Joy is vanish'd, love is fled, For my Lesbia's sparrow's dead. Lo, the beauteous nymph appears Languishingly drown'd in tears!

ON THE

DEATH OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. September, 1739.

Man cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.
JOB, XIV. 2.

SHORT and precarious is the life of man;
The line seems fathomless, but proves a span;
A youth of follies, an old-age of sorrow;
Like flowers to day we bloom, we die to morrow.
Say then, what specious reasons can we give,
And why this longing, fond desire to live?
Blind as we are to what the Lord ordains,
We stretch our troubles, and prolong our pains.
But you, blest genius, dear departed shade,
Now wear a chaplet that shall never fade;

Now sit exalted in those realms of rest
Where virtue reigns, and innocence is blest,
Relentless death's inevitable doom
Untimely wrapt you in the silent tomb,
Ere the first tender down o'erspread your chin,
A stranger yet to sorrow, and to sin.

As some sweet rose-bud, that has just begun
To ope its damask beauties in the sun,
Cropt by a virgin's hand, remains confest
A sweeter rose-bud in her balmy breast:
Thus the fair youth, when Heav'n requir'd his
breath,

Sunk, sweetly smiling, in the arms of death;
For endless joys exchanging endless strife,
And bloom'd renew'd in everlasting life.

AN

EPISTLE

TO A FRIEND IN YORKSHIRE

HAPPY the Briton, whom indulgent fate
Has fix'd securely in the middle state,
The golden mean, where joys for ever flow,
Nor riches raise too high, nor wants depress too
low;

Stranger to faction, in his calm retreat,
Far from the noise of cities, and the great,
His days, like streams that feed the vivid grass,
And give fair flowers to flourish as they pass,
Waving their way, in sacred silence flow,
And scarcely breath a muriuur as they go.
No hopes, nor fears his steady mind can vex,
No schemes of state, or politics perplex:
Whate'er propitious Providence has sent
He holds sufficient, and himself, content.
Though no proud columns grace his marble hall,
Nor Claude nor Guido animate the wall;
Blest who with sweet security can find,
In health of body, and in peace of mind,
His easy moments pass without offence
In the still joys of rural innocence.
Such was the life our ancestors admir'd,
And thus illustrious from the world retir'd:
Thus to the woodland shades my friend repairs
With the lov'd partner of his joys and cares,
Whose social temper can his griefs allay,
And smile each light anxiety away:
In cheerful converse sweetly form'd to please,
With wit goodnatur'd, and polite with ease:
Blest with plain prudence, ignorant of art,
Her native goodness wins upon your heart.
Not fond of state, nor eager of control,
Her face reflects the beauties of her soul,
Such charms still bloom when youth shall fade

away,

And the brief roses of the face decay.

O! would propitious Heav'n fulfil my prayer, (The bliss of man is Providence's care) Such be the tranquil tenour of my life, And such the virtues of my future wife; With her in calm, domestic leisure free, Let me possess serene obscurity; In acts of meek benevolence delight, And to the widow recompense ber mite. Thus far from the crowds,not thoughtless of my With reading, musing, writing, and a friend,

[end,

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.

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,
Lilies 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.

WHILE rosy 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 has 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 I view,
The seasons, dear madam, are emblems of you.
In the gentle Spring's delicate flow'rets I trace
The beams of your eyes, and the bloom of your
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:
Put 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 CANTERBURY.

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.

hours

Will wake the drowsy Spring, the Spring awake the flowers.

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,
In virtue emulate the bless'd above,
And like the Spring display benevolence and love.

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 all 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
ET 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!

[tween

How mix'd the many chequer'd shades beThe 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,
F'e gains pacific Autumn, mild and bland,
And dauntless braves the stroke of Winter's pal-
sy'd band.

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.

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 case 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.

AN ODE

TO HIS GRACE THE LORD ARCHBISHOP OF
CANTERBURY.

THANKS to the generous hand that plac'd me here,

Fast by the fountains of the silver Cray, Who leading to the Thames his tribute clear, Through the still valley winds his secret way. Yet from his lowly bed with transport sees In fair exposure noblest villas rise, Hamlets embosom'd deep in antient trees, And spires that point with reverence to the skies.

O lovely dale! luxuriant with delight!

O woodland hills! that gently rising swell;
O streams! whose murmurs soft repose invite;
Where peace and joy and rich abundance
dwell:

How shall my slender reed your praise resound
In numbers worthy of the polish'd ear?
What powers of strong expression can be found
To thank the generous hand that plac'd me

here: