Rome waits thy nod, unwilling to be free,
And owns thy fovereign power as Fate's decree.
He faid-and Cippus, ftarting at th' event,
Spoke in these words his pious difcontent:
Far hence, ye Gods, this execration fend,
And the great race of Romulus defend.
Better that I in exile live abhorr'd,
Than e'er the capitol should stile me lord
This fpoke, he hides with leaves his omen'd head; Then prays, the fenate next convenes, and faid: If augurs can foresee, a wretch is come, Defign'd by destiny the bane of Rome.
Two horns (moft ftrange to tell) his temples crown; If e'er he pass the walls, and gain the town,
Your laws are forfeit that ill-fated hour,
And liberty must yield to lawless power.
Your gates he might have enter'd; but this arm
Seiz'd the ufurper, and with-held the harm.
Hafte, find the monfter out, and let him be
Condemn'd to all the fenate can decree;
Or ty'd in chains, or into exile thrown;
Or by the tyrant's death prevent your own.
The crowd fuch murmurs utter as they stand,
As fwelling furges breaking on the strand:
Or as when gathering gales fweep o'er the grove,
And their tall heads the bending cedars move.
Each with confufion gaz'd, and then began
To feel his fellow's brows, and find the man.
Cippus then shakes his garland off, and cries,
The wretch you want, I offer to your eyes.
The anxious throng look'd down, and, fad in thought,
All wish'd they had not found the sign they sought:
In hafte with laurel-wreaths his head they bind;
Such honour to fuch virtue was affign'd.
Then thus the fenate: Hear, O Cippus, hear;
So God-like is thy tutelary care,
That, fince in Rome thyself forbids thy stay,
For thy abode those acres we convey
The plough-fhare can furround, the labour of a day.
In deathlefs records thou fhalt stand inroll'd,
And Rome's rich posts shall shine with horns of gold.
OULD he whom my diffembled rigour grieves, But know what torment to my foul it gives; He'd find how fondly I return his flame,
And want myself the pity he would claim.
Immortal gods! why has your doom decreed
Two wounded hearts with equal pangs fhould bleed
Since that great law, which your tribunal guides,
Has join'd in love whom destiny divides;
Repent, ye powers, the injuries you cause,
Or change our natures, or reform your laws.
Unhappy partner of my killing pain,
Think what I feel the moment you complain.
Each figh you utter wounds my tenderest part,
So much my lips mifrepresent my heart.
When from your eyes the falling drops diftil,
My vital blood in every tear you spill:
And all those mournful agonies I hear,
Are but the echoes of my own defpair.
IMITATION,
OF A FRENCH AUTHOR.
CAN you count the filver lights
That deck the fkies, and cheer the nights;
Or the leaves that ftrow the vales,
When groves are ftript by winter-gales;
Or the drops that in the morn
Hang with transparent pearl the thorn;
Or bridegroom's joys, or mifer's cares,
Or gamefter's oaths, or hermit's prayers;
Or envy's pangs, or love's alarms,
Or Marlborough's acts, or --n's charms?
TO MR. GAY,
ON HIS POEM S.
WHEN Fame did o'er the spacious plain
The lays the once had learn'd repeat ;
All liften'd to the tuneful ftrains,
And wonder'd who could fing fo fweet. 'Twas thus. The Graces held the lyre,
Th' harmonious frame the Mufes ftrung, The Loves and Smiles compos'd the choir, And Gay tranfcrib'd what Phoebus fung.
SADLERS-HALL IN CHEAPSIDE.
NWIELDY pedant, let thy aukward Mufe
With cenfures praise, with flatteries abuse.
To lafh, and not be felt, in thee 's an art;
Thou ne'er madst any, but thy fchool-boys, smart.
Then be advis'd, and fcribble not again;
Thou 'rt fashion'd for a flail, and not a pen.
If B--l's immortal wit thou would'st descry,
Pretend 'tis he that writ thy poetry.
Thy feeble fatire ne'er can do him wrong;
Thy poems and thy patients live not long.
THE EARL OF GODOLPHIN TO DR. GARTH,
UPON THE LOSS OF MISS DINGLE:
In return to the DOCTOR's Confolatory Verses to
him, upon the lofs of his ROD *.
THOU, who the pangs of my embitter'd rage
Could'ft, with thy never-dying verfe, affuage;
Immortal verfe, fecure to live as long
As that curs'd profe that did condemn thy fong:
Thou, happy bard, whose double-gifted pen,
Alike can cure an aking corn, or spleen;
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