CAMBRIA.

Hail, Cambria! long to Fame well known! Thy patron-saint looks smiling down, Well pleas'd to see This day, prolific of renown, Increas'd in honours to himself, and thee: See, Carolina's natal star arise,

And with new beams adorn thy azure skies! Though on her virtues I should ever dwell, Fame cannot all her numerous virtues tell. Bright in herself, and in her offspring bright, On Britain's throne she casts diffusive light;

Detraction from her presence flies; And, while promiscuous crowds in rapture gaze, Ev'n tongues disloyal learn her praise, And murmuring Envy sees her smile, and dies. Happy morn' such gifts bestowing! Britain's joys from thee are flowing; Ever thus auspicious shine! Happy isle! such gifts possessing! Britain, ever own the blessing! Carolina's charms are thine.

Nor yet, O Fame, dost thou display

All the triumphs of this day;
More wonders yet arise to sight:

See! o'er these rites what mighty power presides;
Behold, to thee his early steps he guides;
What noble ardour does his soul excite!
Henceforth, when to the listening Universe
Thou number'st o'er my princes of renown,
The second hope of Britain's crown,

When my great Edward's deeds thou shalt rehearse,
And tell of Cressy's well-fought plain,

Thy golden trumpet sound again!
The brave Augustus shall renew thy strain,
And Oudenarda's fight immortalize the verse.

found your lordship's great indulgence and partiality to me, the best exposition.

"Perhaps we never read with that attention, as when we think we have found something applicable to ourselves. I am now grown fond enough of this sense to believe it the true one, and have drawn two or three learned friends (to whom I have mentioned it) into my opinion.

"The ode, your lordship will see, is that in which Horace feigns himself turned into a swan. It passes (for aught I know universally) for a compliment on himself, and a mere enthusiastic rant of the poet in his own praise, like his Exegi monumentum, &c. I confess, I had often slightly read it in that view, and have found every one 1 have lately asked, deceived by the same opinion, which I cannot but think spoils the ode, and sinks it to nothing; I had almost said, turns the swan

into a goose.

"The grammarians seem to have fallen into this mistake, by wholly overlooking the reason of his rapture, viz. its being addressed to Marcenas; and have prefaced it with this, and the like general inscriptions-Vaticinatur carminum suorum immortalitatem, &c. which I think is not the subject.

"I am very happy in the occasion which showed it me in a quite different sense from what I had ever apprehended, till I had the honour to be known to your lordship; I am sure a much more advantageous one to the poet, as well as more just to his great patron. If I have excceded the liberty of an imitator, in pursuing the same hint further, to make it less doubtful, yet his favourers will forgive me, when I own, I have not on this occasion So much thought of emulating his poetry, as of rivaling his pride, by the ambition of being known my lord,

as,

your lordship's most obliged, and devoted humble servant, J. HUGHES.

ODE

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

LORD CHANCELLOR Cowper.

ANNO MDCCXVII.

IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, LIB. II. ODE XX.

I'm rais'd, transported, chang'd all o'er!
Prepar'd, a towering swan, to soar
Aloft: see, see the down arise,

And clothe my back, and plume my thighs!
My wings shoot forth, now will I try
New tracks, and boldly mount the sky;
Nor Envy, nor Ill-fortune's spite,

Shall stop my course, or damp my flight.

Shall I, obscure or disesteem'd,

Of vulgar rank henceforth be deem'd?

Or vainly toil my name to save
From dark oblivion and the grave?
No he can never wholly die,
Secure of immortality,

Whom Britain's Cowper condescends
To own, and numbers with his friends.

'Tis done-I scorn mean honours now;
No common wreath shall bind my brow.

Whether the Muse vouchsafe t' inspire
My breast with the celestial fire;
Whether my verse be fill'd with flame,
Or I deserve a poet's name,
Let Fame be silent; only tell
That generous Cowper loves me well.
Through Britain's realms I shall be known
By Cowper's merit, not my own.
And when the tomb my dust shall hide,
Stripp'd of a mortal's little pride,
Vain pomp be spar'd, and every tear;
Let but some stone this sculpture bear:
"Here lies his clay, to earth consign'd,
To whom great Cowper once was kind."

WHAT IS MAN?

O SON of man! O creature of a day!
Proud of vain wisdom, with false greatness gay!
Heir of thy father's vice, to whose bad store
Thy guilty days are spent in adding more;
Thou propagated folly!-what in thee
Could Heaven's Supreme, could perfect Wisdom see,
To fix one glance of his regarding eye?
Why art thou chose the favourite of the sky?
While angels wonder at the mercy known,
And scarce the wretch himself the debt immense
will own!

BOILEAU,

DANS SA I. EPISTRE AU ROY.

POURQUOI Ces elephans, ces armes, ce bagage,
Et ces vaisseaux tout prests à quitter le rivage?
Disoit au roi Pyrrhus, un sage confident,
Conseiller tres-sensé d'un roi tres-imprudent.
Je vais, lui dit ce prince, à Rome où l'on m'apelle.
Quoi faire? L'assieger. L'enterprise est fort belle,
Et digne seulement d' Alexandre ou de vous,
Mais quand nous l'aurons prise, eh bien, que ferons-
Du reste des Latins la conqueste est facile. [nous?
Sans doute, ils sont à nous: est-ce tout? La Sicile
Delà nous tend les bras, & bien-tost sans effort
Syracuse recoit nos vaisseaux dans son port.
En demeurés-vous là? Dés que nous l'aurons prise,
Il ne faut qu'un bon vent & Carthage est conquise:
Les chemins sont ouverts: qui peut nous arrester?
Je vous entens, seigneur, nous allons tout dompter
Nous allons traverser les sables de Lybie;
Asservir en passant l'Egypte, l'Arabie;
Courir delà le Gange en de nouveaux païs;
Faire trembler le Scythe aux bords du Tanaïs;
Et ranger sous nos loix tout ce vaste Hemisphere;
Mais de retour enfin, que pretendez-vous faire?
Alors, cher Cincas, victorieux, contens,

Nous pourrons rire à l'aise, & prendre du bon temps.
Hé, seigneur, dés ce jour, sans sortir de l'Epire,
Du matin jusqu'au soir qui vous défend de rire?

FROM BOILEAU,

IN HIS FIRST EPISTLE TO LEWIS XIV.

"WHAT mean these elephants, arms, warlike store And all these ships, prepar'd to leave the shore ?”

Thus Cyneas, faithful, old, experienc'd, wise, Address'd king Pyrrhus ;-thus the king replies: ""Tis glory calls us hence; to Rome we go." "For what?"-" To conquer "-" Rome's a noble A prize for Alexander fit, or you: [foe,

" "Tis well—and there you will at last abide ?"—
No; that subdu'd, again we'll hoist our sails,
And put to sea; and, blow but prosperous gales,
Carthage must soon be ours, an easy prey,
The passage open: what obstructs our way?"-
66 Then, sir, your vast design I understand,
To conquer all the earth, cross seas and land,
O'er Afric's spacious wilds your reign extend,
Beneath your sword make proud Arabia bend;
Then seek remoter worlds, where Ganges pours
His swelling stream; beyond Hydaspes' shores,
Through Indian realms to carry dire alarms,
And make the hardy Scythian dread your arms.
But say this wondrous race of glory run,
When we return, say, what shall then be done?".
"Then, pleas'd, my friend, we'll spend the joyful
day

In full delight, and laugh our cares away.'
"And why not now? Alas! sir, need we roam
For this so far, or quit our native home?
No-let us now each valued hour employ,
Nor, for the future, lose the present joy."

AN IMAGE OF PLEASURE.

IN IMITATION OF AN ODE IN CASIMIRE.

SOLACE of life, my sweet companion, Lyre!
On this fair poplar bough I'll hang thee high,
While the gay fields all soft delights inspire,
And not one cloud deforms the smiling sky.

While whispering gales, that court the leaves and flowers,

Play thro' thy strings, and gently make them sound,
Luxurious I'll dissolve the flowing hours.
In balmy slumbers on the carpet ground.

But see what sudden gloom obscures the air!
What falling'showers, impetuous, change the day!
Let's rise, my Lyre-Ah, Pleasure, false as fair!
How faithless are thy charms, how short thy stay!

AN

ODE IN THE PARK AT ASTED.

YE Muses, that frequent these walks and shades,
The seat of calm repose,

Which Howard's happy genius chose ;
Where, taught by you, his lyre he strung,
And oft, like Philomel, in dusky glades,
Sweet amorous voluntaries sung!
O say, ye kind inspiring powers!
With what melodious strain
Will you indulge my pensive vein,
And charm my solitary hours?

The wood, the park's romantic scene,
The deer, that, innocent and gay,
On the soft turf's perpetual green
Pass all their lives in love and play,
Are various objects of delight,
That sport with fancy, and invite
Your aid, the pleasure to complete:
Begin-and Echo shall the song repeat.

Hark! the kind inspiring powers
Answer from their secret bowers,
Propitious to my call!
They join their choral voices all,
To charm my solitary hours.
"Listen," they cry, "thou pensive swain!
Though much the tuneful sisters love
The fields, the park, the shady grove:
The fields, and park, and shady grove,
The tuneful sisters now disdain,

And choose to soothe thee with a sweeter strain:
Molinda's praises shall our skill employ,
Molinda, Nature's pride, and every Muse's joy!
The Muses triumph'd at her birth,
When, first descending from her parent Skies,
This star of beauty shot to Earth.
Love saw the fires that darted from her eyes,
He saw, and smil'd-the winged boy
Gave early omens of her conquering fame,
And to his mother lisp'd her name,
"Molinda!"-Nature's pride, and every Muse's joy.
Say, beauteous Asted! has thy honour'd shade
Ever receiv'd that lovely maid?
Ye nymphs and Sylvan deities, confess
That shining festal day of happiness!
For if the lovely maid was here,
April himself, though in so fair a dress

He clothes the meads, though his delicious showers
Awake the blossoms and the breathing flowers,
And new-create the fragrant year;
April himself, or brighter May,
Assisted by the god of day,

Never made your grove so gay,
Or half so full of charms appear.
Whatever rural seat she now doth grace,
And shines a goddess of the plains,
Imperial Love new triumphs there ordains,
Removes with her from place to place,

With her he keeps his court, and where she lives he reigns.

A thousand bright attendants more
Her glorious equipage compose:

There circling Pleasure ever flows:
Friendship, and Aris, a well-selected store,
Good-humour, Wit, and Music's soft delight,
The shorten'd minutes there beguile,
And sparkling Mirth, that never looks so bright,
As when it lightens in Molinda's smile.

Thither, ye guardian powers (if such there are,
Deputed from the sky

To watch o'er human-kind with friendly care),
Thither, ye gentle spirits, fly!

If goodness, like your own, can move
Your constant zeal, your tenderest love,

For ever wait on this accomplish'd fair!
Shield her from every ruder breath of air,
Nor let invading Sickness come

To blast those beauties in their bloom.
May no misguided choice, no hapless doom,
Disturb the heaven of her fair life
With clouds of grief, or showers of melting tears;
Let harsh Unkindness, and ungenerous Strife,
Repining Discontent, and boding Fears,
With every shape of woe, be driven away,

Like ghosts prohibited the day.

Let Peace o'er her his dovelike wings display, And smiling joys crown all her blissful years!

TO MR. CONSTANTINE,

ON HIS PAINTINGS.

WHILE O'er the cloth thy happy pencil strays,
And the pleas'd eye its artful course surveys,
Behold the magic power of shade and light!
A new creation opens to our sight.

Here tufted groves rise boldly to the sky,

There spacious lawns, more distant, charm the eye;
The crystal lakes in borrow'd tinctures shine,
And misty hills the fair horizon join,
Lost in the azure borders of the day,
Like sounds remote, that die in air away.
The peopled prospect various pleasure yields,
Sheep grace the hills, and herds or swains the fields;
Harmonious order o'er the whole presides,

And Nature crowns the work, which Judgment guides.

Nor with less skill display'd by thee appear The different products of the fertile year; While fruits with imitated ripeness glow, And sudden flowers beneath thy pencil blow. Such, and so various, thy extensive hand, Oft in suspense the pleas'd specators stand, Donbtful to choose, and fearing still to err, When to thyself they would thyself prefer. So when the rival gods at Athens strove, By wondrous works, their power divine to prove, As Neptune's trident strook the teeming earth, Here the proud horse upstarted to his birth; And there, as Pallas bless'd the fruitful scene, The spreading olive rear'd its stately green; In dumb surprise the gazing crowds were lost, Nor knew on which to fix their wonder most.

The watery world beheld, with pleas'd surprise.
O'er its wide waste new tracks of light arise;
The winds were hush'd, the floods forgot to move,
And Nature own'd the auspicious queen of love.
Henceforth no more the Cyprian isle be nam'd,
Though for th' abode of that bright goddess fam'd;
Jamaica's happier groves, conceal'd so long
Through ages past, are now the pocts song.
The Graces there, and Virtues, fix their throne;
Urania makes th' adopted land her own.

The Muse, with her in thought transported, sees
The opening scene, the bloomy plants and trees,
By brighter skies rais'd to a nobler birth,
And fruits deny'd to Europe's colder earth.
At her approach, like courtiers doubly gay
То
grace the pomp of some lov'd prince's day,
The gladden'd soil in all its plenty shines,
New spreads its branching palms, and new adorns
its pines;

With gifts prepares the shining guest to meet,
And pours its verdant offerings at her feet.
As in the fields with pleasure she appears,
Smiles on the labourers, and their labours cheers,
The luscious canes with sweeter juices flow,
The melons ripen, and the citrons blow,
The golden orange takes a richer dye,
And slaves forget their toil, while she is by.
Not Ceres' self more blessings could display,
When thro' the Earth she took her wandering way,
Far from her native coast, and all around
Diffus'd ripe harvests through the teeming ground.
Mean while our drooping vales, deserted, mourn,
Till happy years bring on her wish'd return;
New honours then, Urania, shall be thine,
And Britain shall again the world outshine.

So when, of late, our Sun was veil'd from sight
In dark eclipse, and lost in sudden night,
A shivering cold each heart with horrour thrill'd,
The birds forsook the skies, the herds the field;
But when the conquering orb, with one bright ray,
Broke thro' the gloom, and reinthron'd the day,
The herds reviv'd, the birds renew'd their strains,
Unusual transports rais'd the cheerful swains,
And joy, returning, echo'd through the plains.

TO URANIA,

ON HER ARRIVAL AT JAMAICA.

THROUGH yielding waves the vessel swiftly flies,

That bears Urania from our eager eyes;
Deaf to our call, the billows waft her o'er,
With speed obsequious, to a distant shore:

A prize more rich than Spain's whole fleets could
From fam'd Peru, or Chili's golden coast!
There the glad natives, on the crowded strand,
With wonder see the matchless stranger land;
Transplanted glories in her features smile,
And a new dawn of beauty gilds their isle.

So from the sea, when Venus rose serene,
And by the Nymphs and Tritous first was seen,

may, at last, my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown, and mossy cell, Where I may sit, and rightly spell Of every star that Heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old Experience do attain To something like prophetic strain,"

There let Time's creeping Winter shed
His hoary snow around my head;
And while I feel, by fast degrees,

My sluggard blood wax chill, and freeze,
Let thought unveil to my fixt eye
The scenes of deep eternity,
Till, life dissolving at the view,
I wake, and find those visions true!

THE HUE AND CRY.

O YES!-Hear, all ye beaux and wits,
Musicians, poets, 'squires, and cits,
All, who in town or country dwell!
Say, can you tale or tidings tell
Of Tortorella's hasty flight?
Why in new groves she takes delight,
And if in concert, or alone,

The cooing murmurer makes her moan?

Now learn the marks, by which you may
Trace out and stop the lovely stray!

Some wit, more folly, and no care,
Thoughtless her conduct, free her air;
Gay, scornful, sober, indiscreet,
In whom all contradictions meet;
Civil, affronting, peevish, easy,

Form'd both to charm you and displease you ;
Much want of judgment, none of pride,
Modish her dress, her hoop full wide;
Brown skin, her eyes of sable hue,

Angel, when pleas'd, when vex'd, a shrew.

Genteel her motion, when she walks,
Sweetly she sings, and loudly talks;
Knows all the world, and its affairs,
Who goes to court, to plays, to prayers,
Who keeps, who marries, fails, or thrives,
Leads honest or dishonest lives;
What money match'd each youth or maid,
And who was at each masquerade;
Of all fine things in this fine town,
She's only to herself unknown.

By this description, if you meet her,
With lowly bows and homage greet her;
And if you bring the vagrant beauty
Back to her mother and her duty,
Ask, for reward, a lover's bliss,
And (if she'll let you) take a kiss;
Or more, if more you wish and may,
Try if at church the words she'll say,
Then make her, if you can-" obey.”

THE PATRIOT.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

But wisely fix'd, nor to extremes inclin'd,
Maintains the steady purpose of his mind.

So Atlas, pois'd on his broad base, defies
The shock of gathering storms and wintry skies;
Above the clouds, serene, he lifts his brow,
And sees, unmov'd, the thunder break below.

But where's the patriot, by these virtues known,
Unsway'd by others' passions, or his own?
Just to his prince, and to the public true,
That shuns, in all events, each partial view?
That ne'er forgets the whole of things to weigh,
And scorns the short-liv'd wisdom of a day?

If there be one-hold, Muse, nor more revcal—
(Yet, oh that numbers could his name conceal!)
Thrice happy Britain, of such wealth possest!
On thy firm throne, great George, unshaken rest,
Safe in his judgment, on his faith rely,
And prize the worth which kingdoms cannot buy!

Rich in itself, the genuine diamond shines,
And owes its value to its native mines;
Yet, set in Britain's crown, drinks ampler rays
Of the Sun's light, and casts a wider blaze.
With pleasure we the well-plac'd gem behold,
That adds a lustre to the royal gold.

January 25, 1717-18.

THE SECOND SCENE OF THE FIRST ACT OF

ORESTES,

A TRAGEDY.

TRANSLATED FROM EURIPIDES.

ARGUMENT.

Per

The

Orestes had killed his mother Clytemnestra, in revenge of his father's death, who was murdered by her. This part of the story is the subject of the Electra of Sophocles, where, in the conclusion of the play, Clytemnestra is heard behind the scene crying out in vain for mercy, while her son is executing his revenge. haps this play was written first; and Euripides took up the story where the other left off. reflection on his guilt in putting his mother to death, though a criminal, with his own hands, filled Orestes's mind with so much horrour as afterwards caused his distraction. In this condition he is represented in the following scene, lying on a couch, and his sister Electra, with a chorus of Grecian women, waiting near him. I shall detain the reader no longer than to observe, that the tenderness of Electra, and the alternate starts and returns of madness and reason in Orestes, are touched with the most exquisite strokes of nature and passion.

CHORUS, ORESTES, ELECTRA.

CHORUS.

DRAW near, Electra, to thy brother's couch; See if he breathes; this long-protracted rest May end in death, and fatally deceive thee.