EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES,

ON THE PICTURE OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGU BY KNELLER.

[From Dallaway's Life of Lady Mary.]

THE playful smiles around the dimpled mouth,
That happy air of majesty and truth;
So would I draw (but oh! 'tis vain to try,
My narrow genius does the power deny)
The equal lustre of the heavenly mind,
Where every grace with every virtue's join'd;
Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe,
With greatness easy, and with wit sincere ;
With just description show the work divine,
And the whole princess in my work should shine.

THE LOOKING-GLASS.

ON MRS. PULTENEY,

WITH scornful mien, and various toss of air, Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair,

Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,
She looks ambition, and she moves disdain.
Far other carriage graced her virgin life,
But charming G-y's lost in P-y's wife.
Not greater arrogance in him we find,
And this conjunction swells at least her mind:
O could the sire, renown'd in glass, produce
One faithful mirror for his daughter's use!
Wherein she might her haughty errors trace,
And by reflection learn to mend her face:
The wonted sweetness to her form restore,
Be what she was, and charm mankind once more!

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll;
Let Jervase gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his soul.
Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery

On every learned sot;

And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.

Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;

Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,

Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.
Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
My vixen mistress squalls;
The wits in envious feuds engage:

And Homer (damn him!) calls.
The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Halifax's urn;

And not one muse of all he fed

Has yet the grace to mourn.

My friends, by turns, my friends confound, Betray, and are betray'd:

Poor Y- -rs sold for fifty pounds, -ll is a jade.

And B

Why make I friendships with the great, When I no favour seek?

Still idle, with a busy air,

Deep whimsies to contrive; The gayest valetudinaire,

Most thinking rake alive. Solicitous for other ends,

Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends, And frolic with my foes. Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,

For sober, studious days! And Burlington's delicious meal, For salads, tarts, and pease!

Adieu to all but Gay alone,

Whose soul, sincere and free, Loves all mankind, but flatters none,

And so may starve with me.

THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE SUNG BY DURAS TANTI, WHEN SHE TOOK HER LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE.

THE WORDS WERE IN HASTE PUT TOGETHER BY MR. POPE, AT THE REQUEST OF THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.

GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land secure from all invasion,

All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charins, oh who would run ?
Who would leave you for the sun?

Happy soil, adieu, adieu !
Let old charmers yield to new.

In arms, in arts, be still more shining; All your joys be still increasing;

All your tastes be still refining;
All your jars for ever ceasing:

But let old charmers yield to new :-
Happy soil, adieu, adieu !

UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S
HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.

Atria longa patent; sed nec cœnantibus usquam,
Nec somno locus est: quam bene non habitas!

MART. Epig.

SEE, sir, here's the grand approach, This way is for his Grace's coach; There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Observe the lion and the cock, The spacious court, the colonnade, And mark how wide the hall is made! The chimneys are so well design'd, They never smoke in any wind. This gallery's contrived for walking, The windows to retire and talk in ; The council-chamber for debate, And all the rest are rooms of state.

Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine, But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine? I find by all you have been telling, That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.

VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE,

ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN, AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9, 1739.

WITH no poetic ardour fired

press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he loved, or here expired, Begets no numbers, grave or gay.

Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

Or gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring;
My numbers too for ever will I vary,
With gentle Budgell, and with gentle Carey.
Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell:
Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye.

VERSES TO DR. BOLTON,

IN THE NAME OF MRS. BUTLER'S SPIRIT, LATELY DECEASED.

STRIPP'D to the naked soul, escaped from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolved in day;
Unwarm'd by vanity, unreach'd by strife,
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life;
Why am I charm'd by friendship's fond essays,
And though unbodied, conscious of thy praise?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul?
Does passion still the firmless mind control!
Can gratitude out-pant the silent breath!
Or a friend's sorrow pierce the gloom of death!
No 'tis a spirit's nobler task of bliss ;
That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this;
That not its own applause, but thine approves,
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves;
Who livest to crown departed friends with fame;
Then dying, late, shalt all thou gavest reclaim.

DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Blest satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd, vice had his hate and pity too.
Blest courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefathers every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other BUCKHURSTS, other DORSETS shine,
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

II.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBAL,

ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE TO KING WILLIAM J. WHO HAVING RESIGNED HIS PLACE, DIED IN HIS RETIREMENT AT EASTHAMSTED, IN BERKSHIRE, 1716.

A PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind; Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd:

Honour unchanged, a principle profest.
Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest:
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince, and to his country true:
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth:
A generous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this man was; who now, from earth removed,
At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

III.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT ; AT THE CHURCH OF STANTON-HARCOURT IN OXFORDSHIRE. 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near, Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what HARCOURT cannot speak. Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, And, with a father's sorrows, mix his own!

IV.

ON JAMES CRAGGS, Esq.

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS

REGNI MAGNÆ BRITANNIE A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ:
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, Xxxv.

OB. FEB. XIV. MDCCXX.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
Praised, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he loved.

INTENDED FOR MR. ROWE,

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

THY reliques, RowE', to this fair urn we trust, And sacred, place by DRYDEN's awful dust:

1 It is altered, on the monument in the Abbey, erected to Rowe and his daughter.

Thy reliques, RowE! to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy SHAKESPEAR place thy honour'd bust.
Oh, next him, skill'd to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere;
To nobler sentiment to fire the brave,
For never Briton more disdain'd a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest!
And blest, that timely from our scene removed,
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it loved.

To these, so mourn'd in death, so loved in life!
The childless parent, and the widow'd wife,
With tears inscribes this monumental stone,
That holds their ashes and expects her own.

HERE rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense;
No conquest she, but o'er herself, desired,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried!
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

VII.

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HONOURABLE ROBERT DIGBY, AND OF HIS SISTER MARY, ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER THE LORD DIGBY, IN THE CHURCH OF SHERBORNE IN DORSETSHIRE, 1727.

Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth:
Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great.
Just of thy word, in every thought sincere,

Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:
Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human kind:
Go live! for Heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy mortal to divine.

And thou, blest maid! attendant on his doom, Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,

Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more!
Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!
Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!
Yet take these tears, mortality's relief,
And till we share your joys, forgive our grief:
These little rites, a stone, a verse, receive;
'Tis all a father, all a friend can give!

IX.

ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS.

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1729.

HERE, WITHERS, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind,
Thy country's friend, but more of human kind.
O born to arms! O worth in youth approved!
O soft humanity, in age beloved!

For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere.

WITHERS, adieu! yet not with thee remove
Thy martial spirit, or thy social love!
Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave some ancient virtues to our age:
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

VIII.

ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1723.

KNELLER, by Heaven and not a master taught, Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought;

The tomb of Mr. Dryden was erected upon this hint by the Duke of Buckingham; to which was originally intended this Epitaph:

"This Sheffield raised. The sacred dust below Was Dryden once: The rest who does not know?" which the Author since changed into the plain inscription now upon it, being only the name of that great Poet: J. DRYDEN.

Natus Aug. 9. 1613. Mortuus Maij 1. 1700. JOANNES SHEFFIELD DUX BUCKINGHAMIENSIS POSUIT.

XI.

ON MR. GAY.

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1732.

Or manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a man; simplicity, a child:

With native humour tempering virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age
Above temptation, in a low estate,
And uncorrupted even among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms-Here lies GAY.

1 Imitated from the famous Epitaph on Raphael:-
"Raphael, timuit, quo sospite, vinci

Rerum magna parens, et moriente, mori."

XII.

INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON,

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

ISAACUS NEWTONUS:

Quem Immortalem Testantur Tempus, Natura, Cœlum: Mortalem

Hoc marmor fatetur.

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night: GOD said, Let Newton be! and all was light.

XIV.

ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, WHO DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, 1735.

XV.

FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

HEROES and KINGS! your distance keep:
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you:
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

UNDER this marble, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, or e'en what they will;
Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead,
Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er cared, and still cares not a pin
What they said, or may say, of the mortal within:
But, who living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in GoD, that as well as he was, he shall be.

TO H. ST. JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE.

THE DESIGN.

HAVING proposed to write some pieces on Human Life and Manners, such as (to use my Lord Bacon's expression) come home to men's business and bosoms, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering Man in the abstract, his nature and his state; since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.

The science of human nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points; there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the anatomy of the mind as in that of the body; more good will accrue to

mankind, by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The disputes are all upon these last, and, I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and have diminished the practice, more than advanced the theory, of morality. If I could flatter myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over terms ut

terly unintelligible, and in forming a temperate, yet not in consistent, and a short, yet not imperfect, system of ethics. This I might have done in prose, but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for two reasons. The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxíms, or precepts, so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards: the other may seem odd, but is true. I found I could express them more shortly this way than in prose itself; and nothing is more certain, than that much of the force as well as grace of arguments or instructions depends on their conciseness. I was unable to treat this part of my subject more in detail, without becoming dry and tedious; or more poetically, without sacrificing perspicuity to ornament, without wandering from the precision, or breaking the chain of reasoning: if any man can unite all these without diminution of any of them, I freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity.

What is now published, is only to be considered as a general map of MAN, marking out no more than the

greater parts, their extent, their limits, and their connection, but leaving the particular to be more fully delineated Consequently in the charts which are now to follow. these Epistles in their progress (if I have health and leisure to make any progress) will be less dry, and more susceptible of poetical ornament. I am here only opening the fountains, and clearing the passage. To deduce the rivers, to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a task more agreeable.