Sire of these shades, is done. On yester eve,
Assisted by a thousand friendly fays
While fav'ring Dian held her glitt'ring lamp,
We ply'd our nightly toils, nor ply'd we long,
For art was not the mistress of our revels,
'Twas gentle Nature, whom we jointly woo'd;
She heard, and yielded to the forms we taught
Yet still remain'd herself Simplicity,
Fair Nature's genuine daughter, too was there,
So soft, yet so magnificent of mien,
She shone all ornament without a gem.
The blithsome Flora, ever sweet and young,
Offer'd her various store: we cull'd a few
To robe, and recommend our darksome verdure,
But shunn'd to be luxuriant.-
Agno, thy looks are pensive: what dejects
Thy pleasure-painted aspect? Sweetest nymph,
That ever trod the turf, or sought the shade,
Speak, nor conceal a thought.
I tremble for the royal arbiter. 'Tis hard to judge, whene'er the great contend, Sure to displease the vanquish'd when such Contest the laurel with such ardent strife, [pow'rs 'Tis not the sentence of fair equity,
But 'tis their pleasure that is right or wrong.
'Tis well remark'd, and on experience founded. I do remember that my sister Ida
(When as on her own shadowy mount we met,
To celebrate the birth-day of the Spring,
And th' orgies of the May) wou'd oft recount
The rage of the indignant goddesses,
When shepherd Paris to the Cyprian queen,
With hand obsequious gave the golden toy.
Heav'n's queen, the şister and the wife of Jove,
Rag'd like a feeble mortal; fall'n she seem'd,
Her deity in human passions lost :
Ev'n wisdom's goddess, jealous of her form,
Deem'd her own attribute her second virtue.
Both vow'd and sought revenge.
Of him who judg'd aright, what must be his
Who shall mistake the cause? for much I doubt
The skill of Midas, since his fatal wish, [gift.
Which Bacchus heard, and curs'd him with the
Yet grant him wise, to err is human still,
And mortal is the consequence.
Most true. Besides, I fear him partial; for with Pan He tends the sheep-walks all the live-long day, And on the braky lawn to the shrill pipe In aukward gambols be affects to dance, Or tumbles to the tabortis not likely
That such an umpire shou'd be equitable, Unless he guess at justice."
'Tis ours to wish for Pan, and fear from Phoebus, Whose near approach I hear. Ye stately cedars, Forth from your summits bow your awful heads, And reverence the gods. Let my whole mountain tremble,
Not with a fearful, but religious awe,
And holiness of horror. You, ye winds,
That make soft, solemn music 'mongst the leaves,
Be all to stillness bush'd; and thou, their echo,
Listen, and hold thy peace; for see they come.
Scene opens, and discovers Apollo, attended by
Clio and Melpomene, on the right hand of
Midas, and Pan on the left, whom Timolus, with
Agno and Melinoe, join.
Begin, celestial candidates for praise,
Begin the tuneful contest: I, mean while,
With heedful notice and attention meet,
Will weigh your merits, and decide your cause.
From Jove begin the rapturous song,
To him our earliest lays belong,
We are his offspring all;
'Twas he, whose looks supremely bright, Smil'd darksome chaos into light, And fram'd this glorious ball.
Sylvanus, in his shadowy grove,
The seat of rural peace and love,
Attends my Doric lays;
By th' altar on the myrtle mount, [fount,
Where plays the wood-nymph's favourite
I'll celebrate his praise.
Parnassus, where's thy boasted height,
Where, Pegasus, thy fire and flight,
Where all your thoughts so bold and free,
Ye daughters of Mnemosyne?
If Pan o'er Phoebus can prevail,
And the great god of verse shou'd fail?
From Nature's works, and Nature's laws,
We find delight, and seek applause;
The prattling streams and zephyrs bland,
And fragrant flow'rs by zephyrs fann'd,
The level lawns and buxon bow'rs,
Speak Nature and her works are ours.
What were all your fragrant bow'rs,
Splendid days, and happy hours,
Spring's verdant robe, fair Flora's blush,
And all the poets of the bush?
What the paintings of the grove,
Rural music, mirth and love?
Life and ev'ry joy wou'd pall,
If Phoebus shone not on them all.
We chant to Phoebus, king of day,
The morning and the evening lay,
But Pan, each satyr, nymph and fawn,
Adore as laureat of the lawn;
From peevish March to joyous June,
He keeps our restless souls in tune,
Without his oaten reed and song,
Phoebus, thy days wou'd seem too long.
Am I not he, who, prescient from on high,
Send a long look thro' all futurity?
Am I not he, to whom alone belong
The powers of med'cine, melody and song?
Diffusely lib'ral, as divinely bright,
Eye of the universe and sire of light.
O'er cots and vales, and every shepherd swain,
In peaceable pre-eminence I reign;
With pipe on plain, and nymph in secret grove,
The day is music, and the night is love.
I, blest with these, nor envy nor desire
Thy gaudy chariot, or thy golden lyre.
Soon as the dawn dispels the dark, Illustrious Phoebus 'gins t' appear, Proclaimed by the herald lark,
And ever-wakeful chanticleer, The Persian pays his morning vow, And all the turban'd easterns bow.
Soon as the evening shades advance,
And the gilt glow-worm glitters fair,
For rustic gambol, gibe and dance,
Fawns, nymphs and dryads all prepare,
Pan shall his swains from toil relieve,
And rule the revels of the eve.
In numbers as smooth as Callirhoe's stream, Glide the silver ton'd verse when Apollo's the theme;
While on his own mount Cyparissus is seen,
And Daphne preserves her immutable green.
We'll hail Hyperion with transport so long,
Th' inventor, the patron, and subject of song.
While on the calm ocean the halcyon shall breed, And Syrinx shall sigh with her musical reed, While fairies, and satyrs, and fawns shall approve The music, the mirth, and the life of the grove, So long shall our Pan be than thou more divine, For he shall be rising when thou shalt decline.
No more-To Pan and to his beauteous nymphs I do adjudge the prize, as is most due.
Enter two Satyrs, and crown MIDAS with a pair of ass's ears.
Such rural honours all the gods decree,
To those who sing like Pan, and judge like thee. [Exeunt omnes.
REASON AND IMAGINATION.
A FABLE.
IMAGINATION, in the flight
Of young desire and gay delight,
Began to think upon a mate;
As weary of a single state;
For sick of change, as left at will,
And cloy'd with entertainment still,
She thought it better to be grave,
To settle, to take up, and save.
She therefore to her chamber sped,
And thus at first attir'd her head.
Upon her hair, with brilliants grac'd,
Her tow'r of beamy gold she plac'd;
Her ears with pendent jewels glow'd
Of various water, curious mode,
As nature sports the wintry ice,
In many a whimsical device.
Her eye-brows arch'd upon the stream
Of rays, beyond the piercing beam;
Her cheeks in matchless colour high,
She veil'd to fix the gazer's eye;
Her paps, as white as fancy draws,
She cover'd with a crimson gauze;
And on her wings she threw perfume
From buds of everlasting bloom.
Her zone, ungirded from her vest,
She wore across her swelling breast;
On which, in gems, this verse was wrought,
"I make and shift the scenes of thought."
In her right hand a wand she held,
Which magic's utmost pow'r excell'd;
And in her left retain'd a chart,
With figures far surpassing art,
Of other natures, suns and moons,
Of other moves to higher tunes.
The sylphs and sylphids, fleet as light,
The fairies of the gamesome night,
The muses, graces, all attend
Her service, to her journey's end:
And Fortune, sometimes at her hand,
Is now the fav'rite of her band,
Dispatch'd before the news to bear,
And all th' adventure to prepare.
Beneath an holm-tree's friendly shade,
Was Reason's little cottage made;
Before, a river deep and still;
Behind, a rocky soaring hill.
Himself, adorn'd in seemly plight,
Was reading to the eastern light;
And ever, as he meekly knelt,
Upon the Book of Wisdom dwelt.
The spirit of the shifting wheel,
Thus first essay'd his pulse to feel.-
"The nymph supreme o'er works of wit,
O'er labour'd plan, and lucky bit,
Is coming to your homely cot,
To call you to a nobler lot;
I, Fortune, promise wealth and pow'r,
By way of matrimonial dow'r:
Preferment crowns the golden day,
When fair occasion leads the way."
Thus spake the frail, capricious dame,
When she that sent the message came.--
"From first invention's highest sphere,
I, queen of imag'ry, appear;
And throw myself at Reason's feet,
Upon a weighty point to treat.
You dwell alone, and are too grave;
You make yourself too much a slave;
Your shrewd deductions run a length,
'Till all your spirits waste their strength:
Your fav'rite logic is full close;
Your morals are to much a dose;
You ply your studies 'till you risk
Your senses-you should be more brisk-
The doctors soon will find a flaw,
And lock you up in chains and straw.
But, if you are inclin'd to take
The gen'rous offer which I make,
I'll lead you from this hole and ditch,
To gay conception's top-most pitch;
To those bright plains, where crowd in swarms
The spirits of fantastic forms;
To planets populous with elves;
To natures still above themselves,
By soaring to the wond'rous height
Of notions, which they still create;
I'll bring you to the pearly cars,
By dragons drawn, above the stars;
To colours of Arabian glow;
And to the heart-dilating show
Of paintings, which surmount the life:
At once your tut'ress, and your wife.”-
Soft, soft," (says Reason) "lovely friend;
Tho' to a parley I attend,
I cannot take thee for a mate;
I'm lost, if e'er I change my state.
But whensoe'er your raptures rise,
I'll try to come with my 'supplies;
To muster up my sober aid,
What time your lively pow'rs invade;
To act conjointly in the war
On dulness, whom we both abhor;
And ev'ry sally that you make,
I must be there, for conduct's sake;
Thy correspondent, thine ally;
Or any thing, but bind and tye-
But, ere this treaty be agreed,
Give me thy wand and winged steed:
Take thou this compass and this rule,
That wit may cease to play the fool;
And that thy vot'ries who are born
For praise, may never sink to scorn."
Praise him, arch-angelic band,
Ye that in his presence stand;
Praise him, ye that watch and pray,
Michael's myriads in array.
Praise him, Sun at each extreme,
Orient streak, and western beam;
Moon and stars of mystic dance,
Silv'ring in the blue expanse.
Praise him, O ye heights that soar
Heav'n and Heav'n for evermore ;
And ye streams of living rill
Higher yet and purer still.
Let them praise his glorious name,
From whose fruitful word they came;
And they first began to be
As he gave the great decree.
Their constituent parts he founds
For duration without bounds;
And their covenant has seal'd,
Which shall never be repeal'd.
Praise the Lord on earth's domains;
Praise, ye mutes, that sea contains;
They that on the surface leap,
And the dragons of the deep.
Batt'ring hail, and fires that glow,
Streaming vapours, plumy snow;
Wind and storm, his wrath incurr'd
Wing'd and pointed at his word.
Mountains of enormous scale,
Every hill and every vale;
Fruit trees of a thousand dies,
Cedars that perfume the skies!
Beasts that haunt the woodland maze,
Nibbling flocks and droves that graze;
Reptiles of amphibious breed,
Feather'd millions form'd for speed.
Kings, with Jesus for their guide,
Peopled regions far and wide;
Heroes of their country's cause,
Princes, judges of the laws.
Age and childhood, youth and maid,
To his name your praise be paid;
For his word is worth alone
Far above his crown and throne.
He shall dignify the crest
Of his people, rais'd and blest;
While we serve with praise and pray'rs,
All in Christ his saints and heirs.
NEW VERSION OF THE PSALMS.
PSALM CXLVIII.
HALLELUJAH! kneel and sing
Fraises to the heav'nly King;
To the God supremely great,
Hallelujah in the height.
ON HIS ACCESSION TO THAT TITLE.
Sis licet felix ubicunque mavis,
Et memor nostri.
HOR.
MELFOMENE, who charm'st the skies,
Queen of the lyre and lute,
Say, shall my noble patron rise,
And thou, sweet Muse, be mute?
Shall fame, to celebrate his praise,
Her loudest, loftiest accents raise,
And all her silver trumps employ, And thou restrain thy tuneful hand, And thou an idle list'ner stand
Amidst the general joy?
Forbid it, all ye powers above,
That human hearts can try,
Forbid it gratitude and love,
And every tender tye :
Was it not he, whose pious cares
Upheld me in my earliest years,
And cheer'd me from his ample store,
Who animated my designs,
In Roman and Athenian mines,
To search for learning's ore?
The royal hand, my lord, shall raise
To nobler heights thy name,
Who praises thee, shall meet with praise
Ennobled in thy fame.
A disposition form'd to please,
With diguity endear'd by ease,
And grandeur in good nature lost,
Have more of genuine desert,
Have more the merit of the heart,
Than arts and arms can boast.
Can I forget fair Raby's ' towers,
How awful and how great!
Can I forget such blissful bowers,
Such splendour in retreat!
Where me, ev'n me, an infant bard,
Cleveland and Hope 3 indulgent heard.
(Then, Fame, I felt thy first alarms)
Ah, much lov'd pair!—tho' one is fled,
Still one compensates for the dead,
In merit and in charms.
O more than compensation, sure!
O blessings on thy life!
Long may the three-fold bliss endure,
In daughters, sons, and wife!
Hope, copyist of her mother's mind,
Is loveliest, liveliest of her kind,
Her soul with every virtue teems,
By none in wit or worth outdone,
With eyes, that shining on the Sun,
Defy his brightest beams.
Hark! Charity's cherubic voice
Calls to her numerous poor,
And bids their languid hearts rejoice,
And points to Raby's door;
With open heart and open bands,
There, Hospitality—she stands,
A nymph, whom men and gods admire,
Daughter of heavenly Goodness she,
Her sister's Generosity,
And Honour is her sire.
What though, my lord, betwixt us lie
Full many an envious league,
Such vast extent of sea and sky,
As even the eye fatigue;
Though interposing Ocean raves,
And heaves his Heaven-assaulting waves,
'His lordship's seat in the county of Durham. * Her late grace of Cleveland.
The honourable Mrs. Hope.
While on the shores the billows beat,
Yet still my grateful Muse is ree,
To tune her warmest strains to thee,
And lay them at thy feet.
Goodness is ever kindly prone
To feign what fate denies,
And others want of worth t'atone,
Finds in herself supplies:
Thus dignity itself restrains,
By condescension's silken reins,
While you the lowly Muse upraise; When such the theme, so mean the bard, Not to reject is to reward,
To pardon is to praise.
ODE TO LADY HARRIOT.
To Harriot all accomplish'd fair,
Begin, ye Nine, a grateful air;
Ye Graces, join her worth to tell,
And blazon what you can't excell.
Let Flora rifle all her bow'rs,
For fragrant shrubs, and painted flow'rs,
And, in her vernal robes array'd,
Present them to the noble maid.
Her breath shall give them new perfume,
Her blushes shall their dyes outbloom;
The lily now no more shall boast
Its whiteness, in her bosom lost.
See yon delicious woodbines rise
By oaks exalted to the skies,
So view in Harriot's matchless mind
Humility and greatness join'd.
To paint her dignity and ease,
Form'd to command, and form'd to please,
In wreaths expressive be there wove
The birds of Venus and of Jove.
There where th' immortal laurel grows,
And there, where blooms the crimson rose,
Be with this line the chaplet bound,
That beauty is with virtue crown'd.
ODE TO THE EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND,
ON HIS BEING APPOINTED LORD LIEUTENANT OF IRELAND, PRESENTED ON THE BIRTH-DAY
OF LORD WARKWORTH.
WHATE'ER distinguish'd patriots rise,
The times and manners to revise,
And drooping merit raise,
The song of triumph still pursues
Their footsteps, and the moral Muse
Dwells sweetly on their praise.
It is a task of true delight,
The ways of goodness to recite,
And all her works refin'd;
Though modest greatness under rate
Its lustre; 'tis as fix'd as fate,
Says truth with music join'd.
All hail to this auspicious morn,
When we, for gallant Warkworth born,
Our gratulations pay:
Though Virtue all the live-long year,
Refuse her eulogy to hear,
She must attend to day.
All hail to that transcendant fair,
That crown'd thy wishes with an heir,
And bless'd her native land:
Still shoots thy undegenerate line,
Like oak from oak, and pine from pine,
As goodly and as grand.
O how illustrious and divine
Were all the heroes of thy line,
'Gainst Rome's ambitious cheat! Born all these base insidious arts, Which work the most in weakest hearts, To dare and to defeat !
Live then in triumph o'er deceit,
That with new honours we may greet
The house of arms and arts,
"Till blest experience shall evince
How fairly you present that prince,
Who's sovereign of our hearts.
In pity to our sister isle
With sighs we lend thee for a while;
O be thou soon restor'd,
Tho' Stanhope, Hallifax were there,
We never had a man to spare
Our love could less afford.
The parallel will own ;
O let our voice and hearts combine,
O let us, fellow warblers, join,
Our patroness to crown.
When heavy hung thy flagging wing,
When thou could'st neither move nor sing
Of spirits void and rest;
A lovely nymph her aid apply'd,
She gave the bliss to Heav'n allied,
And cur'd thee on her breast.
Me too the kind indulgent maid,
With gen'rous care and timely aid,
Restor❜d to mirth and health
Then join❜d to her, O may I prove
By friendship, gratitude and love,
The poverty of wealth.
MARTIAL. Book 1, Ep. 26. WHEN Brutus' fall wing'd fame to Porcia brought, [sought. Those arms her friends conceal'd, her passion She soon perceiv'd their poor officious wiles, Approves their zeal, but at their folly smiles. What Cato taught, Heaven sure cannot deny, Bereav'd of all, we still have pow'r to die. Then down her throat the burning coal conveyed, "Go now, ye fools, and hide your swords," she said.
THE SWEETS OF EVENING.
THE Sweets of evening charm the mind,
Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more confin'd,
But exercise with freedom join'd,
When Phoebus sheathes his ray.
While all-serene the summer Moon
Sends glances thro' the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
With voice of skilful ease.
A nosegay, every thing that grows,
And music, every sound
To full the Sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
With lively streaks around.
Of all the changes rung by time
None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
In fancy's highest sphere.
ODE TO A VIRGINIA NIGHTIN- And, great Longinus, hail to thine;
WHICH WAS CURED OF A FIT IN THE BOSOM OF A
YOUNG LADY, WHO AFTERWARDS NURSED THE
AUTHOR IN A DANGEROUS ILLNESS.
SWEET bird! whose fate and mine agree,
As far as proud humanity
Ye too, whose judgments ne'er could fail,
Hail Horace, and Quintilian hail;
And, dread of every Goth and Hun,
Hail Pope, and peerless Addison.
Alas! by different steps and ways
Our modern critics aim at praise, ·
And rashly in the learned arts,
They judge by prejudice and parts;
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