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At reft beneath the hanging ramparts laid,
He fings fecurely in the dreadful fhade.

Hark! o'er the feas, the British lions roar
Their monarch's fame to every distant shore :
Swift on their canvass wings his navies go,
Where-ever tides can roll, or winds can blow;
Their fails within the arctic circle rife,
Led by the stars that gild the northern skies;
Tempt frozen feas, nor fear the driving blast,
But fwell exulting o'er the hoary wake;
O'er the wide ocean hold fupreme command,
And active commerce fpread through every land;
Or with full pride to fouthern regions run,
To diftant worlds, on t'other fide the fun;
And plow the tides, where odoriferous gales
Perfume the smiling waves, and ftretch the bellying fails.
See! the proud merchant feek the precious fhore,
And trace the winding veins of glittering ore;
Low in the earth his wondering eyes behold
Th' imperfect metal ripening into gold.
The mountains tremble with alternate rays,
And caft at once a fhadow and a blaze:

Streak'd o'er with gold, the pebbles flame around,
Gleam o'er the foil, and gild the tinkling ground;
Charg'd with the glorious prize, his vessels come,
And in proud triumph bring an India home.

Fair Concord, hail; thy wings o'er Brunswick spread,
And with thy olives crown his laurel'd head.
Come; in thy most distinguish'd charms appear;
Oh! come, and bolt the iron-gates of war.

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The fight ftands ftill when Brunswick bids it ceafe,
The monarch speaks, and gives the world a peace;
Like awful justice, fits fuperior lord,

To poife the balance, or to draw the sword;
In due fufpenfe the jarring realms to keep,
And hush the tumults of the world to fleep.

Now with a brighter face, and nobler ray,
Shine forth, thou Source of light, and God of day;
Say, didst thou ever in thy bright career

Light up

before a more distinguish'd year?

Through all thy journeys paft thou canst not fee

A perfect image of what this fhall be:

Scarce the Platonic year fhall this renew,
Or keep the bright original in view.

THE FABLE OF

THE YOUNG MAN and his CAT.

A Hapless youth, whom fates avere had drove

To a ftrange paffion, and prepofterous love,
Long'd to poffefs his pufs's spotted charms,
And hug the tabby beauty in his arms.
To what odd whim fies love inveigles men?
Sure if the boy was ever blind, 'twas then.
Rack'd with his paffion, and in deep despair,
The youth to Venus thus addreft his prayer.

O queen of beauty, fince thy Cupid's dart
Has fir'd my foul, and rankles in my heart;
Since doom'd to burn in this unhappy flame,
From thee at least a remedy I claim;

If on ce, to blefs Pigmalion's longing arms,
The marble foften'd into living charms;
And warm with life the purple current ran
In circling streams through every flinty vein ;
If, with his own creating hands display'd,
He hugg'd the ftatue, and embrac'd a maid ;
And with the breathing image fir'd his heart,
The pride of nature, and the boast of art :
Hear my request, and crown my wondrous flame,
The fame its nature, be thy gift the fame;
Give me the like unusual joys to prove,
And though irregular, indulge my love.
Delighted Venus heard the moving prayer,
And foon refolv'd to eafe the lover's care,
To fet Mifs Tabby off with every grace,
To dress, and fit her for the youth's embrace.
Now the by gradual change her form forfook,
Firft her round face an oval figure took;
The roguish dimples next his heart beguile,
And each grave whisker foften'd to a fimile;
Unusual ogles wanton'd in her eye,
Her folemn purring dwindled to a figh:
Sudden, a huge hoop-petticoat difplay'd,
A wide circumference! intrench'd the maid,
And for the tail in waving circles play'd.
Her fur, as deftin'd ftill her charms to deck,
Made for her hands a muff, a tippet for her neck.
In the fine lady now her fhape was loft,
And by fuch strange degrees fhe grew a toast;

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Was all for ombre now; and who but the,
To talk of modes and fcandal o'er her tea;
To fettle every fashion of the sex,
And run through all the female politics;
To spend her time at toilet and baffet,
To play, to flaunt, to flutter, and coquet:
From a grave thinking moufer, fhe was grown
The gayeft flirt that coach'd it round the town.
But fee how often fome intruding woe,
Nips all our blooming profpects at a blow!
For as the youth his lovely confort led
To the dear pleafures of the nuptial bed,
Juft on that infant from an inner house,
Into the chamber popt a heedlefs mouse.
Mifs Tabby faw, and brooking no delay,
Sprung from the fheets, and feiz'd the trembling prey :
Nor did the bride, in that ill-fated hour,
Reflect that all her mousing-days were o’er.
The youth, aftonifh'd, felt a new despair,
Ixion-like he grafp'd, and grafp'd but air;
He faw his vows and prayers in vain bestow'd,
And loft the jilting goddefs in a cloud.

To

To Mr. POPE, on his TRANSLATION of

"TIS

HOMER'S ILIAD.

IS true, what fam'd Pythagoras maintain'd,
That fouls departed in new bodies reign'd:
We must approve the doctrine, fince we fee
The foul of godlike Homer breathe in thee.
Old Ennius first, then Virgil felt her fires;
But now a British Poet fhe infpires.

To you, O Pope, the lineal right extends,
Το you th' hereditary Mufe defcends.

At a vaft diftance we of Homer heard,

Till you brought in, and naturaliz'd the Bard;
Bade him our English rights and freedom claim,
His voice, his habit, and his air the fame.
Now in the mighty ftranger we rejoice,
And Britain thanks thee with a public voice.
See! too the Poet, a majestic shade,
Lifts up in awful pomp his laurel'd head,
To thank his fucceffor, who fets him free
From the vile hands of Hobbes and Ogilby;
Who vext his venerable afhes more,

Than his ungrateful Greece, the living Bard before.
While Homer's thoughts in thy bold lines are shown,
Though worlds contend, we claim him for our own;
Our blooming boys proud Ilion's fate bewail;
Our lifping babes repeat the dreadful tale,
Ev'n in their flumbers they pursue the theme,
Start, and enjoy a fight in every dream.

A

By

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