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With me, alas! those joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The still-believing, still renew'd desire; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the soul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,

Stop, or turu nonsense, at once glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow through th' extended dream;

Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel) from my arms!

And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or softly glide by the canal; Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.





EST you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver Thames along,

Taught on the wings of truths to fly

Above the reach of vulgar song;

Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay...

Sages and chiefs long since had birth

Ere Cæsar was or Newton nam'd; These rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And those new heavens and systems fram'd.

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!
They had no poet, and they died:
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.




A Standish and Two Pens.

YES, I beheld th' Athenian queen

Descend in all her sober charms;

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And, Take,' she said, and smil'd serene,

Take at this hand celestial arms:

Secure the radiant weapons wield; This golden lance shall guard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field,

'This steel shall stab it to the heart."

Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky;
And dipp'd them in the sable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.

'What well? what weapon?' Flavia cries,
A standish, steel and golden pen!

It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
I gave it you to write again.

'But, friend, take heed whom you attack;

You'll bring a house, I mean of


Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
L***** and all about your ears.

• You'd write as smooth again on glass,
And run on ivory so glib,
As not to stick at fool or ass,
Nor stop at flattery or fib.

Athenian queen! and sober charms!
I tell you, fool, there's nothing in't:
'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;
In Dryden's Virgil see the print.
Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,
That dares tell neither truth nor lies,

I'll list you in the harmless roll

Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'



Sent to the Earl of Oxford, with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by our Author, after the said Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower and Retreat into the Country, in the Year 1721.


UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Blest in each science, blest in every strain! Dear to the muse! to Harley dear-in vain! For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despis'd the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great ; Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear),

Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,

Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate;
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure, if aught below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine :
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
Above all pain, and passion, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; The muse attends thee to thy silent shade: "Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace, Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace. When interest calls off all her sneaking train, And all th' oblig'd desert, and all the vain; She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewel. Ev'n now she shades thy evening-walk with bays (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise); Ev'n now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sun-set of thy various day, Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.



Secretary of State in the Year 1720.

SOUL as full of worth as void of pride, Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide; Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows: A face untaught to feign; a judging eye, That darts severe upon a rising lie,

And strikes a blush through frontless flattery:


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