But while admiring thine and Nature's strife,
I see each touch just starting into life,
From side to side with various raptures tost,
Amid the visionary scenes I'm lost.
Methinks, as thrown upon some fairy land,
Amaz'd we know not how, nor where we stand:
While tripping phantoms to the sight advance,
And gay ideas lead the mazy dance:
While wondering we behold in every part
The beauteous scenes of thy creating art.
By such degrees thy colours rise and fall,
And breathing flush the animated wall;
That the bright objects which our eyes survey,
Ravish the mind, and steal the soul away;
Our footsteps by some secret power are crost,
And in the painter all the bard is lost.
Thus in a magic ring we stand confin'd
While subtle spells the fatal circle bind;
In vain we strive and labour to depart,
Fix'd by the charms of that mysterious art;
In vain the paths and avenues we trace,
While spirits guard and fortify the place.
How could my stretch'd imagination swell,
And on each regular proportion dwell!
While thy swift art unravels Nature's maze,
And imitates her works, and treads her ways,
Nature with wonder sees herself out-done,
And claims thy fair creation for her own;
Thy figures in such lively strokes excel,
They give those passions which they seem to feel.
Each various feature some strong impulse bears,
Wraps us in joy, or melts us all to tears.
Fach piece with such transcendent art is wrought,
That we could almost say thy pictures thought;
When we behold thee conquer in the strife,
And strike the kindling figures into life,
Which does from thy creating pencil pass,
Warm the dull matter, and inspire the mass;
As fam'd Prometheus' wand convey'd the ray
Of heavenly fire to animate his clay.
How the just strokes in harmony unite!
How shades and darkness recommend the light!
No lineaments unequally surprise;
The beauties regularly fall and rise.
Lost in each other we in vain pursue
The fleeting lines that cheat our wearied view.
Nor know we how their subtle courses run,
Nor where this ended, nor where that begun.
Nor where the shades their utmost bounds display,
Or the light fades insensibly away;
But all harmoniously confus'd we see,
While all the sweet varieties agree.
Thus when the organ's solemn airs aspire, The blended music wings our thoughts with fire; Here warbling notes in whispering breezes sigh, But in their birth the tender accents die; While thence the bolder notes exulting come, Swell as they fly, and bound along the dome. With transport fir'd, each lost in each we hear, And all the soul is center'd in the car.
See first the senate of the gods above,
Frequent and full amid the courts of Jove:
Behold the radiant consistory shine,
With features, airs, and lineaments divine.
Hermes dispatch'd from the bright council flies,
And cleaves with all his wings the liquid skies.
In many a whirl and rapid circle driven
So swift, he seems at once in Earth and Heaven.
Oh! with what energy! what noble force
Of strongest colours you describe his course?
Till the swift god the Phrygian shepherd found
Compos'd for sleep, and stretch'd along the ground.
He brings the blooming gold, the fatal prize,
The bright reward of Cytherea's eyes.
The conscious Earth the awful signal takes,
Without a wind the quivering forest shakes;
Tall Ida bows; the unwieldy mountains nod;
And all confess the presence of the god.
Like shooting meteors, gliding from above,
See the proud consort of the thundering Jove,
War's glorious goddess, and the queen of love;
Arm'd in their naked charms, the Phrygian boy
Regards those charms with mingled fear and joy.
Here Juno stands with an imperial mein,
At once confest a goddess and a queen.
Her cheeks a scornful indignation warms,
Blots out her smiles, as conscious of her charms.
But Venus shines in milder beauties there,
And every grace adorns the blooming fair.
While, conscious of her charms, she seems to rise,
Claims, and already grasps in hope the prize;
Beauteous, as when immortal Phidias strove
From Parian rocks to carve the queen of love;
Each grace obey'd the summons of his art,
And a new beauty sprung from every part.
In all the terrours of her beauty bright,
Fair Pallas awes and charms the Trojan's sight,
And gives successive reverence and delight.
Nor thrones, nor victories, his soul can move;
Crowns, arms, and triumphs, what are you to love?
Too soon resign'd to Venus, they behold
The glittering ball of vegetable gold.
While Jove's proud consort thrown from her desires,
Inflam'd with rage maliciously retires;
Already kindles her immortal hate,
Already labours with the Trojan fate.
While a new transport flush'd the blooming boy,
Helen he seems already to enjoy,
And feeds the flame that must consume his Troy.
Another scene our wondering sight recalls;
The fair adultress leaves her native walls:
Her cheeks are stain'd with mingled shame and
joy;
Lull'd on the bosom of the Phrygian boy.
To the loud deeps he bears his charming spouse,
Freed from her lord, and from her former vows.
On their soft wings the whispering zephyrs play,
The breezes skim along the dimpled sea:
The wanton Loves direct the gentle gales,
Sport in the shrouds, and flutter in the sails.
While her twin-brothers' with a gracious ray
Point out her course along the watery way.
Th' exalted strokes so delicately shine,
All so conspire to push the bold design;
That in each sprightly feature we may find
The great ideas of the master's mind,
As the strong colours faithfully unite,
Mellow to shade, and ripen into light.
Let others form with care the ruddy mass,
And torture into life the running brass,
With potent art the breathing statue mould,
Shape and inspire the animated gold;
Let others sense to Parian marbles give,
Bid the rocks leap to form and learn to live;
Still be it thine, O Thornhill, to unite
The pleasing discord of the shade and light;
To vanquish Nature in the generous strife,
And touch the glowing features into life.
But Thornhill, would thy noble soul impart One lasting instance of thy godlike art To future times; and in thy fame engage The praise of this and every distant age; To stretch that art as far as it can go, Draw the triumphant chief, and vanquish'd foe: In his own dome, amid the spacious walls, Draw the deep squadrons of the routed Gauls; Their ravish'd banners, and their arms resign'd, While the brave hero thunders from behind; Pours on their front, or hangs upon their rear ; Fights, leads, commands, and animates the war. Let his strong courser champ his golden chain, And proudly paw th' imaginary plain. To Aghrim's bloody wreaths let Crassi yield, With the fair laurels of Ramillia's field.
Next, on the sea the daring hero show, To cheer his friends, and terrify the foe. Lo! the great chief to famish'd thousands bears, The food of armies, and support of wars. The Britons rush'd, with native virtue fir'd, And quell'd the foe, or gloriously expir'd; Plunging through flames and floods, their valour O'er the rang'd cannon, and a night of smoke, [broke Through the wedg'd legions urg'd their noble toil, To spend their thunder on the towers of Lisle; While by his deeds their courage he inspires, And wakes in every breast the sleeping fires. Thus the whole series of his labours join, Stretch'd from the Belgic ocean to the Boyne. Then glorious in retreat the chief may read Th' immortal actions of the noble dead; And in recording colours, with delight, Review his conquests and enjoy the fight; See his own deeds on each ennobled plain; While fancy acts his triumphs o'er again.
Thus on the Tyrian walls Æneas read, How stern Achilles rag'd and Hector bled; But half unsheath'd his sword, and grip'd his shield, When he amidst the scene himself beheld, Thundering on Simois' banks or battling in the field.
THE SECOND BOOK OF STATIUS.
Now Jove's command fulfill'd, the son of May
Quits the black shade, and slowly mounts to day,
For lazy clouds in gloomy barriers rise,
Obstruct the god, and intercept the skies;
No Zephyrs here their airy pinions move,
To speed his progress to the realms above.
Scarce can he steer his dark laborious flight,
Lost and encumber'd in the damps of night:
There roaring tides of fire his course withstood,
Here Styx in nine wide circles roll'd his flood.
Behind old Laius trod th' infernal ground,
Trembling with age, and tardy from his wound :
(For all his force his furious son apply'd,
And plung'd the guilty falchion in his side.)
Propt and supported by the healing rod,
The shade pursued the footsteps of the god.
The groves that never bloom, the Stygian coasts,
The house of woe, the mansions of the ghosts;
Earth too admires to see the ground give way,
And gild Hell's horrors with the gleams of day.
But not with life repining Envy fled,
She still reigns there, and lives among the dead.
One from this crowd exclaim'd (whose lawless will
Inur'd to crimes, and exercis'd in ill,
Taught his preposterous joys from pains to flow,
And never triumph'd, but in scenes of woe)
"Go to thy province in the realms above,
Call'd by the Furies or the will of Jove:
Or drawn by magic force or mystic spell,
Rise, and purge off the sooty gloom of Hell.
Go, see the Sun, and whiten in his beams,
Or haunt the flowery fields and limpid streams,
With woes redoubled to return again,
When thy past pleasures shall enhance thy pain."
Now by the Stygian dog they bent their way;
Stretch'd in his den the dreadful monster lay;
But lay not long, for, startling at the sound,
Head above head he rises from the ground.
From their close folds his starting serpents break,
And curl in horrid circles round his neck.
This saw the god, and, stretching forth his hand,
Lull'd the grim monster with his potent wand;
Through his vast bulk the gliding slumbers creep,
And seal down all his glaring eyes in sleep.
There lies a place in Greece well known to Fame,
Through all her realms, and Tænarus the name,
Where from the sea the tops of Malea rise,
Beyond the ken of mortals, to the skies:
Proud in his height he calmly hears below
The distant winds in hollow murmurs blow.
Here sleep the storms when weary'd and opprest,
And on his head the drowsy planets rest:
There in blue mists his rocky sides he shrouds,
And here the towering mountain props the clouds;
Above his awful brow no bird can fly,
And far beneath the muttering thunders die.
When down the steep of Heaven the day descends,
The Sun so wide his floating bound extends,
That o'er the deeps the mountain hangs display'd,
And covers half the ocean with his shade:
Where the Tænarian shores oppose the sea,
The land retreats, and winds into a bay.
Here for repose imperial Neptune leads,
Tir'd from th' Ægean floods, his smoaking steeds;
With their broad hoofs they scoop the beach away,
Their finny train rolls back, and floats along the sea,
Here Fame reports th' unbody'd shades to go
Through this wide passage to the realms below,
From hence the peasants (as th' Arcadians tell)
Hear all the cries, and groans, and din of Hell.
Oft, as her scourge of snakes the fury plies,
The piercing echoes mount the distant skies;
Scar'd at the porter's triple roar, the swains
Have fled astonish'd, and forsook the plains.
From hence emergent in a mantling cloud
Sprung to his native skies the winged god.
Swift from his face before th' ethereal ray,
Flew all the black Tartarean stains away,
And the dark Stygian gloom refin'd to day.
O'er towns and realms he held his progress on,
Now wing'd the skies where bright Arcturus shone,
And now the silent empire of the Moon.
The Power of Sleep, who met his radiant flight,
And drove the solemn chariot of the night,
Rose with respect, and from th' empyreal road
Turn'd his pale steeds, in reverence to the god.
The shade beneath pursues his course, and spies
The well known planets and congenial skies.
His eyes from far, tall Cyrrha's heights explore,
And Phocian fields polluted with his gore.
At length to Thebes he came, and with a groan
urvey'd the guilty palace once his own;
With awful silence stalk'd before the gate,
But when he saw the trophies of his fate,
High on a column rais'd against the door,
And his rich chariot still deform'd with gore,
He starts with horrour back; ev'n Jove's command
Could scarce control him, nor the vital wand.
"Twas now the solemn day, when Jove, array'd
In all his thunders, grasp'd the Theban maid:
Then took from blasted Semele her load,
And in himself conceiv'd the future god.
For this the Thebans revel'd in delight,
And gave to play and luxury the night;
A national debauch! confus'd they lie
Stretch'd o'er the fields, their canopy the sky.
The sprightly trumpets sound, the timbrels play,
And wake with sacred harmony the day.
The matron's breast the gracious power inspires
With milder raptures, and with softer fires.
So the Bistonian race, a madding train,
Exult and revel on the Thracian plain;
With milk their bloody banquets they allay,
Or from the lion rend his panting prey:
On some abandon'd savage fiercely fly,
Seize, tear, devour, and think it luxury.
But if the rising fumes of wine conspire
To warm their rage, and fan the brutal fire,
Then scenes of horrour are their dear delight,
They whirl the goblets, and provoke the fight:
Then on the slain the revel is renew'd
And all the horrid banquet floats in blood.
And now the winged Hermes from on high
Shot in deep silence from the dusky sky;
Then hover'd o'er the Theban tyrant's head,
As stretch'd at ease he prest his gorgeous bed:
Where labour'd tapestry from side to side,
Glow'd with rich figures, and Assyrian pride.
Oh! the precarious terms of human state!
How blind is man! how thoughtless of his fate;
See! through his limbs the dews of slumber creep,
Sunk as he lies, in luxury and sleep.
The reverend shade commission'd from above,
Hastes to fulfil the high behests of Jove:
Like blind Tiresias to the bed he came,
In form, in habit, and in voice the same.
Pale, as before, the phantom still appear'd,
Down his wan bosom flow'd a length of beard;
His head an imitated fillet wore,
His hand a wreath of peaceful olive bore:
With this he touch'd the sleeping monarch's breast,
And in his own, the voice of Fate, exprest.
"Then canst thou sleep, to thoughtless rest resign'd?
And drive thy brother's image from thy mind?
Yon gathering storm demands thy timely care,
See! how it rolls this way the tide of war.
When o'er the seas the sweeping whirlwinds fly,
And roar from every quarter of the sky ;
The pilot, in despair the ship to save,
Gives up the helm, a sport to every wave:
Such is thy errour, and thy fate the same
(For know, I speak the common voice of Fame.)
Proud in his new alliances, from far
Against thy realm he meditates the war;
Big with ambitious hopes to reign alone,
And swell unrival'd on the Theban throne.
New signs and fatal prodigies inspire
His mad ambition, with his boasted sire;
And Argos' ample realms in dower bestow'd,
And Tydeus reeking from his brother's blood,
League and conspire to raise him to the throne,
And make his tedious banishment thy own.
For this, with pity touch'd, almighty Jove,
The sire of gods, dispatch'd me from above.
Be still a monarch; let him swell in vain
With a gay prospect of a fancy'd reign:
Still let him hope by fraud, or by the sword,
To humble Thebes beneath a foreign lord."
Thus the majestic ghost; but ere he fled,
He pluck'd the wreaths and fillets from his head.
For now the sickening stars were chas'd away,
And Heaven's immortal coursers breath'd the day.
Awful to sight confest the grandsire stood,
Bared his wide wound, and all his bosom show'd,
Then dash'd the sleeping monarch with his blood.
With a distracted air, and sudden spring,
Starts from his broken sleep the trembling king.
Shakes off amaz'd th' imaginary gore,
While fancy paints the scene he saw before:
Deep in his soul his grandsire's image wrought,
And all his brother rose in every thought
So while the toils are spread, and from behind
The hunter's shouts come thickening in the wind;
The tiger starts from sleep the war to wage,
Collects his powers, and rouses all his rage:
Sternly he grinds his fangs, he weighs his might,
And whets his dreadful talons for the fight;
Then to his young he bears his foe away,
His foe at once the chaser and the prey,
Thus on his brother he in every thought,
Waged future wars, and battles yet unfought.
THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
WITH joy, blest youth, we saw thee reach thy goal;
Fair was thy frame, and beautiful thy soul;
The Graces and the Muses came combin'd,
These to adorn the body, those the mind;
Twas there we saw the softest manners meet,
Truth, sweetness, judgment, innocence, and wit.
So form'd, he flew his race; 'twas quickly won;
'Twas but a step, and finish'd when begun.
Nature herself surpris'd would add no more,
His life complete in all its parts before;
But his few years with pleasing wonder told,
By virtues, not by days; and thought him old.
So far beyond his age those virtues ran,
That in a boy she found him more than man.
For years let wretches importune the skies,
Till, at the long expense of anguish wise,
They live, to count their days by miseries.
Those win the prize, who soonest run the race,
And life burns brightest in the shortest space.
So to the convex-glass embody'd run,
Drawn to a point, the glories of the Sun;
At once the gathering beams intensely glow,
And thro gh the streighten'd circle fiercely flow:
In one strong flame conspire the blended rays,
Run to a fire, and crowd into a blaze.
FROM A GREEK ODE OF MR. MASTER'S, FORMERLY OF
No more of earthly subjects sing,
To Heaven, my Muse aspire;
To raise the song, charge every string, And strike the living lyre.
Begin; in lofty numbers show
Th' Eternal King's unfathom'd love,
Who reigns the sovereign God above,
And suffers on the cross below.
Prodigious pile of wonders! rais'd too high'
For the dim ken of frail mortality.
What numbers shall I bring along!
From whence shall I begin the song?
The mighty mystery I'll sing inspir'd
Beyond the reach of human wisdom wrought,
Beyond the compass of an angel's thought,
How by the rage of man his God expir'd.
I'll make the trackless depths of mercy known,
How to redeem his foe God rendered up his Son;
I'll raise my voice to tell mankind
The victor's conquest o'er his doom,
How in the grave he lay confin'd,
To seal more sure the ravenous tomb.
Three days th' infernal empire to subdue,
He pass'd triumphant through the coasts of woe;
With his own dart the tyrant Death he slew,
And led Hell captive through her realms below.
A mingled sound from Calvary I hear,
And the loud tumult thickens on my ear,
The shouts of murderers that insult the slain,
The voice of torment and the shrieks of pain.
I cast my eyes with horrour up
To the curst mountain's guilty top;
See there! whom hanging in the midst I view !
Ah! how unlike the other two!
I see him high above his foes,
And gently bending from the wood
His head in pity down to those
Whose guilt conspires to shed his blood.
His wide-extended arms I see,
Transfix'd with nails, and fasten'd to the tree.
Man! senseless man! canst thou look on?
Nor make thy Saviour's pains thy own.
The rage of all thy grief exert,
Rend thy garments and thy heart:
Beat thy breast, and grovel low,
Beneath the burden of thy woe;
Bleed through thy bowels, tear thy hairs,
Breathe gales of sighs, and weep a flood of tears.
Behold thy king with purple cover'd round,
Not in the Tyrian tinctures dy'd,
Nor dipt in poison of Sidonian pride, [wound.
But in his own rich blood that streams from every
Dost thou not see the thorny circle red?
The guilty wreath that blushes round his head?
And with what rage the bloody scourge apply'd,
Curls round his limbs, and ploughs into his side?
At such a sight let all thy anguish rise,
Break up, break up the fountains of thy eyes.
Here bid thy tears in gushing torrents flow,
Indulge thy grief, and give a loose to woe.
Weep from thy soul, till Earth be drown'd, Weep till the sorrows drench the ground. Canst thou, ungrateful man! his torments see, Nor drop a tear for him, who pours his blood for thee?
ON THE KING'S RETURN,
IN THE YEAR 1720.
RETURN, auspicious prince, again,
Nor let Britannia mourn in vain ;
Too long, too long, has she deplor'd
Her absent father and her lord.
To bend her gracious monarch's mind,
She sends her sighs in every wind:
Can Britain's prayer be thrown aside ?
And that the first he e'er deny'd!
Yet, mighty prince, vouchsafe to smile,
Return and bless our longing isle;
Though fond Germania begs thy stay,
And courts thee from our eyes away.
Though Belgia would our king detain,
We know she begs and pleads in vain ;
We know our gracious king prefers
Britannia's happiness to hers.
And lo! to save us from despair,
At length he listens to our prayer.
Dejected Albion's vows he hears,
And hastes to dry her falling tears.
He hears his anxious people pray,
And loudly call their king away,
Once more their longing eyes to bless,
And guard their freedom and their peace.
They know, while Brunswick fills the throne,
The seasons glide with pleasure on;
The British suns improve their rays,
Adorn, and beautify the days.
But see the royal vessel flies,
Lessening to Belgia's weeping eyes:
She proudly sails for Albion's shores,
Guard her, ye gods, with all your powers.
O sea, bid every wave subside,
And teach allegiance to thy tide;
Thy billows in subjection keep,
And own the monarch of the deep.
Old Thames can scarce his joys sustain,
But runs down headlong to the main,
His mighty master to descry,
And leaves his spacious channel dry.
Augusta's sons from either hand
Pour forth, and darken all the strand;
Their eyes pursue the royal barge,
Which now resigns her sacred charge.
Th' unruly transport shakes the shore,
And drowns the feeble cannon's roar;
The nations in the sight rejoice,
And send their souls in every voice.
But now amidst the loud applause,
With shame the conscious Muse withdraws;
Nor can her voice be heard amidst the throng,
The theme so lofty, and so low the song.
ON THE MASQUERADES. Si Natura negat, facit indignatio versum. WELL-we have reach'd the precipice at last; The present age of vice obscures the past. Our dull forefathers were content to stay, Nor sinn'd till Nature pointed out the way: No arts they practis'd to forestall delight, But stopp'd, to wait the calls of appetite.
Their top-debauches were at best precise,
An unimprov'd simplicity of vice.
But this blest age has found a fairer road,
And left the paths their ancestors have trod.
Nay, we could wear (our taste so very nice is)
Their old cast-fashions sooner than their vices.
Whoring till now a common trade has been,
But masquerades refine upon the sin:
An higher Taste to wickedness impart,
And second Nature with the helps of art.
New ways and means to pleasure we devise,
Since pleasure looks the lovelier in disguise.
The stealth and frolic give a smarter gust,
Add wit to vice, and eloquence to lust.
In vain the modish evil to redress,
At once conspire the pulpit and the press :
Our priests and poets preach and write in vain ;
All satire's lost both sacred and profane.
So many various changes to impart, -
Would tire an Ovid's or a Proteus' art;
Where lost in one promiscuous whim we see,
Sex, age, condition, quality, degree.
Where the facetious crowd themselves lay down,
And take up every person but their own.
Fools, dukes, rakes, cardinals, fops, Indian queens,
Belles in tye-wigs, and lords in harlequins;
Troops of right-honourable porters come, [room:
And garter'd sinall-coal-merchants crowd the
Valets adorn'd with coronets appear,
Lacqueys of state, and footmen with a star:
Sailors of quality with judges mix,
And chimney-sweepers drive their coach and six.
Statesmen so us'd at court the mask to wear,
With less, disguise assume the vizor here.
Officious Heydegger deceives our eyes,
For his own person is his best disguise:
And half the reigning toasts of equal grace,
Trust to the natural vizor of the face.
Idiots turn conjurers; and courtiers clowns;
And sultans drop their handkerchiefs to nuns.
Starch'd quakers glare in furbelows and silk;
Beaux deal in sprats, and dutchesses cry milk.
But guard thy fancy, Muse, nor stain thy pen
With the lewd joys of this fantastic scene;
Where sexes blend in one confus'd intrigue,
Where the girls ravish, and the men grow big:
Nor credit what the idle world has said,
Of lawyers forc'd, and judges brought to bed:
Or that to belles their brothers breathe their vows,
Or husbands through mistake gallant a spouse.
Such dire disasters, and a numerous throng
Of like enormities, require the song:
But the chaste Muse, with blushes cover'd o'er,
Retires confus'd, and will reveal no more.
The fond philosophers for gain
Will leave unturn'd no stone; But though they toil with endless pain, They never find their own.
By the same rock the chymists drown,
And find no friendly hold,
But melt their ready specie down,
In hopes of fancy'd gold.
What is the mad projector's care?
In hopes elate and swelling,
He builds his castles in the air,
Yet wants an house to dwell in.
At court the poor dependants fail,
And damn their fruitless toil,
When complimented thence to jail,
And ruin'd with a smile.
How to philosophers will sound
So strange a truth display'd? "There's not a substance to be found, But every where a shade."
TO CÆLIA PLAYING ON A LUTE.
WHILE Cælia's hands fly swiftly o'er,
And strike this soft machine,
Her touch awakes the springs, and life
Of harmony within.
Sweetly they sink into the strings,
The quivering strings rebound, Each stroke obsequiously obey,
And tremble into sound.
Oh! had you blest the years of old;
His lute had Ovid strung,
And dwelt on yours, the charming theme
Of his immortal song,
Your's, with Arion's wondrous harp,
The bard had hung on high;
And on the new-born star bestow'd
The honours of the sky.
The radiant spheres had ceas'd their tunes,
Aud danc'd in silence on,
Pleas'd the new harmony to hear,
More heavenly than their own.
Of old to raise one shade from Hell,
To Orpheus was it given:
But every tune of yours calls down
An angel from his Heaven.
How are deluded human kind
By empty shows betray'd?
In all their hopes and schemes they find
A nothing or a shade.
The prospects of a truncheon cast
The soldier on the wars;
Dismist with shatter'd limbs at last,
Brats, poverty, and scars.
AUTHOR OF THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES.
THE theme in other works, for every part,
Supplies materials to the builder's art :
To build from matter, is sublimely great,
But gods and poets only can create ;
And such are you; their privilege you claim,
To show your wonders, but conceal your name,
Like some establish'd king, without control,
You take a general progress through the soul;
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