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Approach: But awful! Lo! th' Ægerian Grot,


Where, nobly-pensive, ST. JOHN sate and thought;
Where British sighs from dying WYNDHAM stole,
And the bright flame was shot through MARCH-
MONT'S Soul.

Let such, such only, tread this sacred Floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.


Ver. 11. Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,] In his MS. it was thus:

To Wyndham's breast the patriot passions stole,

which made the whole allude to a certain anecdote of not much consequence to any but the parties concerned. W.


Ver. 9. Egerian Grot,] These are two charming lines; but are blemished by two bad rhymes, Grot to thought; scarce excusable in so short a poem, in which every syllable ought to be


It is remarkable that Juvenal having mentioned this celebrated cave, takes occasion to inveigh against artificial grotto-work, and adulterating the simple beauties of nature, in lines uncommonly poetical:

"In vallem Ægeriæ descendimus, et Speluncas
Dissimiles veris; quanto præstantius esset

Numen aquæ,

viridi si margine clauderet undas Herba, nec ingenuum violarent marmora tophum?"

Sat. iii. v. 17.

Milton, in an exquisite Latin poem, addressed to Salsillus, vol. ii. p. 532. has beautifully feigned that Numa is still living in this dark grove and grotto, in the perpetual enjoyment of his Ægeria.



OH be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send, Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:

Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new,
But like a Sieve let ev'ry blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-day? 'tis alas! too clear,
"Tis but the Fun'ral of the former year.

Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content, And the gay Conscience of a life well spent, Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.




Ver. 10. 'Tis but] Immediately after this line were these four following, in the original:


"If there's no hope, with kind, tho' fainter ray,

To gild the evening of our future day;


every page of life's long volume tell

The same dull story, Mordaunt, thou didst well!"

Colonel Mordaunt, who destroyed himself, though not under pressure of any ill or misfortune.

Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft Dream, or Ecstacy of Joy,
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.


Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS.

And oh since Death must that fair frame destroy,
Die, by some sudden ecstacy of joy;

In some soft dream may thy mild soul remove,
And be thy latest gasp a sigh of love.




RESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin, but Poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;

And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild goose and the larks!




Ver. 3. This day Tom's] This amiable writer lived the longest, and died one of the richest, of all our poets. In 1737, Mr. Gray, writing to a friend, says very agreeably, "We have here old Mr. Southern, who often comes to see us; he is now seventy-seven years old, and has almost wholly lost his memory; but is as agreeable an old man as can be, at least I persuade myself so, when I look at him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko." He was certainly a great master of the pathetic; and in the latter part of his life became sensible of the impropriety he had been guilty of in mixing Tragedy with Comedy. He was the first play-writer that had the benefit of a third night. He told Dryden that he once had cleared seven hundred pounds by one of his plays.

Ver.6. A table,] Mr. Southern was invited to dine on his birthday with this nobleman (Lord Orrery), who had prepared for him the entertainment of which the bill of fare is here set down. W.

Ver. 8. Presents her harp] The harp is generally wove on the Irish linen; such as table cloths, &c. W.

The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden !
And for his judgment, lo a pudden!

Roast beef, tho' old, proclaims him stout,

And grace, altho' a bard devout.

May Toм, whom Heav'n sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,


Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,

Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;

Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.



Ver. 16. The price of prologues and of plays,] This alludes to a story Mr. Southern told of Dryden, about the same time, to Mr. P. and Mr. W.-When Southern first wrote for the stage, Dryden was so famous for his prologues, that the players would act nothing without that decoration. His usual price till then had been four guineas; but when Southern came to him for the logue he had bespoke, Dryden told him he must have six guineas for it; "which (said he) young man, is out of no disrespect to you, but the players have had my goods too cheap.”—We now look upon these prologues with the same admiration that the virtuosi do on the apothecaries' pots painted by Raphael. W.


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