Nor reigns ambition in bold man alone;

Soft female hearts the rude invader own:

But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things,

Than routing armies, and dethroning kings:

Attend, and you discern it in the fair

Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair;

Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye;

Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh.

The sex we honour, tho' their faults we blame;

Nay, thank their faults for such a fruitful theme:

A theme, fair ----! doubly kind to me,

Since satirizing those is praising thee;

Who wouldst not bear, too modestly refin'd,

A panegyric of a grosser kind.

Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice,

Too fond of admiration, lose their price;

Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight

To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight:

As unreserv'd, and beauteous, as the sun,

Through every sign of vanity they run;

Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls,

Lectures, and trials, plays, committees, balls,

Wells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes,

And fortune-tellers' caves, and lions' dens,

Taverns, exchanges, bridewells, drawing-rooms,

Installments, pillories, coronations, tombs,

Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews,

Sales, races, rabbits, (and still stranger!) pews.

Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for fame;

And love lies vanquished in a nobler flame;

Warm gleams of hope she, now, dispenses; then,

Like April suns, dives into clouds again:

With all her lustre, now, her lover warms;

Then, out of ostentation, hides her charms:

'Tis, next, her pleasure sweetly to complain,

And to be taken with a sudden pain;

Then, she starts up, all ecstasy and bliss,

And is, sweet soul! just as sincere in this:

O how she rolls her charming eyes in spite!

And looks delightfully with all her might!

But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise,

She conquers for the triumph, not the prize.

Zara resembles AEtna crown'd with snows;

Without she freezes, and within she glows:

Twice ere the sun descends, with zeal inspir'd,

From the vain converse of the world retir'd,

She reads the psalms and chapters for the day,

In ---- Cleopatra, or the last new play.

Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace,

Deceives mankind, and hides behind her face.

Nor far beneath her in renown, is she,

Who, through good breeding, is ill company;

Whose manners will not let her larum cease,

Who thinks you are unhappy, when at peace;

To find you news, who racks her subtle head,

And vows--that her great-grandfather is dead.

A dearth of words a woman need not fear,

But 'tis a task indeed to learn--to hear:

In that the skill of conversation lies;

That shows, or makes, you both polite and wise.

Xantippe cries, "Let nymphs, who nought can say,

Be lost in silence, and resign the day;

And let the guilty wife her guilt confess,

By tame behaviour, and a soft address;"

Through virtue, she refuses to comply

With all the dictates of humanity;

Through wisdom, she refuses to submit

To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit;

Then, her unblemish'd honour to maintain,

Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain:

But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word

Drops from the lip of her unwary lord,

Her darling china, in a whirlwind sent,

Just intimates the lady's discontent.

Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame;

But keen Xantippe, scorning borrow'd flame,

Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play,

O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea:

Nor rests by night, but, more sincere than nice,

She shakes the curtains with her kind advice:

Doubly, like echo, sound is her delight,

And the last word is her eternal right.

Is't not enough, plagues, wars, and famines rise

To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise?

Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng

Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong:

What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state!

What strokes we feel from fancy, and from fate!

If fate forbears us, fancy strikes the blow;

We make misfortune; suicides in woe.

Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill!

Is nature backward to torment, or kill?

How oft the noon, how oft the midnight, bell,

(That iron tongue of death!) with solemn knell,

On folly's errands as we vainly roam,

Knocks at our hearts, and finds our thoughts from home!

Men drop so fast, ere life's mid stage we tread,

Few know so many friends alive, as dead.

Yet, as immortal, in our up-hill chase

We press coy fortune with unslacken'd pace;

Our ardent labours for the toys we seek,

Join night to day, and Sunday to the week:

Our very joys are anxious, and expire

Between satiety and fierce desire.

Now what reward for all this grief and toil?

But one; a female friend's endearing smile;

A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm,

And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm.

How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh,

Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye;

Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame,

Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame.

The Sylvan race our active nymphs pursue;

Man is not all the game they have in view:

In woods and fields their glory they complete;

Their Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate;

While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd,

Nor rashly tempts the barb'rous sun and wind.

Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed,

And volt from hunters to the manag'd steed;

Command his prancings with a martial air,

And Fobert has the forming of the fair.

More than one steed must Delia's empire feel,

Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel;

And as she guides it thro' th' admiring throng,

With what an air she smacks the silken thong!

Graceful as John, she moderates the reins,

And whistles sweet her diuretic strains;

Sesostris like, such charioteers as these

May drive six harness'd monarchs, if they please:

They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit,

Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit.

O'er the belle-lettre lovely Daphne reigns;

Again the god Apollo wears her chains:

With legs toss'd high, on her sophee she sits

Vouchsafing audience to contending wits:

Of each performance she's the final test;

One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest;

And then, pronouncing with decisive air,

Fully convinces all the town--she's fair.

Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face,

How would her elegance of taste decrease!

Some ladies' judgment in their features lies,

And all their genius sparkles from their eyes.

"But hold," she cries, "lampooner! have a care;

Must I want common sense, because I'm fair?"

O no: see Stella; her eyes shine as bright

As if her tongue was never in the right;

And yet what real learning, judgment, fire!

She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire:

How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair)

Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear?

We grant that beauty is no bar to sense,

Nor is't a sanction for impertinence.

Sempronia lik'd her man; and well she might;

The youth in person, and in parts, was bright;

Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art,

That claims just empire o'er the female heart:

He met her passion, all her sighs return'd,

And, in full rage of youthful ardour, burn'd:

Large his possessions, and beyond her own:

Their bliss the theme, and envy of the town:

The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more,

In stepp'd deform'd, debauch'd, diseas'd threescore.

The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear:

Of pride, and av'rice, who can cure the fair?

Man's rich with little, were his judgment true;

Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;

Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights;

But fools create themselves new appetites:

Fancy, and pride, seek things at vast expense,

Which relish not to reason, nor to sense.

When surfeit, or unthankfulness, destroys,

In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,

In fancy's airy land of noise and show,

Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures, grow;

Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive

On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call:

He comes; but where's his patient? At the ball.

The doctor stares; her woman curtsies low,

And cries, "My lady, Sir, is always so:

Diversions put her maladies to flight:

True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night:

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune)

For fevers take an opera in June:

And, tho' perhaps you'll think the practice bold,

A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold:

With cholics, breakfasts of green fruit agree;

With indigestions, supper just at three."

A strange alternative, replies Sir Hans,

Must women have a doctor, or a dance?

Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam,

But droop and die, in perfect health, at home:

For want--but not of health, are ladies ill;

And tickets cure beyond the doctor's pill.

Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair

Yon lady lolls! with what a tender air!

Pale as a young dramatic author, when,

O'er darling lines, fell Cibber waves his pen.

Is her lord angry, or has(14) Veny chid?

Dead is her father, or the mask forbid?

"Late sitting up has turn'd her roses white."

Why went she not to bed? "Because 'twas night."

Did she then dance, or play? "Nor this, nor that."

Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.

"No, all alone, her prayers she rather chose,

Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose."

Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,

Goes, with the fashionable owls, to bed:

This her pride covets, this her health denies;

Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.

Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive,

And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.

You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite;

To keep her word, a brown one comes at night:

Next day she shines in glossy black; and then

Revolves into her native red again:

Like a dove's neck, she shifts her transient charms,

And is her own dear rival in your arms.

But one admirer has the painted lass;

Nor finds that one, but in her looking-glass:

Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess,

That all her art scarce makes her please us less.

To deck the female cheek, he only knows,

Who paints less fair the lily, and the rose.

How gay they smile! Such blessings nature pours,

O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores:

In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,

She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green:

Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace,

And waste their music on the savage race.

Is nature then a niggard of her bliss?

Repine we guiltless in a world like this?

But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse,

And painted art's depraved allurements choose.

Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air

(An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair;

Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs,

And larks, and nightingales, are odious things;

But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight;

And to be press'd to death, transports her quite:

Where silver riv'lets play through flow'ry meads,

And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades,

Black kennels' absent odours she regrets,

And stops her nose at beds of violets.

Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene?

Or is the public to the private scene?

Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way;

Through briers and brambles in the world we stray;

Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate,

And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate,

Which choke our passage, our career control,

And wound the firmest temper of our soul.

O sacred solitude! divine retreat!

Choice of the prudent! envy of the great!

By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,

We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid:

The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace,

(Strangers on earth!) are innocence and peace:

There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore,

We smile to hear the distant tempest roar;

There, bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd,

This life we relish, and ensure the next;

There too the muses sport; these numbers free,

Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee.

There sport the muses; but not there alone:

Their sacred force Amelia feels in town.

Nought but a genius can a genius fit;

A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit:

Both wits! though miracles are said to cease,

Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in peace;

With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose,

On Durfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose:

The learned war both wage with equal force,

And the fifth morn concluded the divorce.

Phoebe, though she possesses nothing less,

Is proud of being rich in happiness:

Laboriously pursues delusive toys,

Content with pains, since they're reputed joys.

With what well-acted transport will she say,

"Well, sure, we were so happy yesterday!

And then that charming party for to-morrow!"

Though, well she knows, 'twill languish into sorrow:

But she dares never boast the present hour;

So gross that cheat, it is beyond her power:

For such is or our weakness, or our curse,

Or rather such our crime, which still is worse,

The present moment, like a wife, we shun,

And ne'er enjoy, because it is our own.

Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy;

Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright, and coy;

We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill,

Still it eludes us, and it glitters still:

If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains;

What is it, but rank poison in your veins?

As Flavia in her glass an angel spies,

Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies;

Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine,

There's no satiety of charms divine:

Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears

Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears:

She, fond and young, last week, her wish enjoy'd,

In soft amusement all the night employ'd;

The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found

(Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd.

"What miracle," says Strephon, "makes thee weep?"

"Ah, barb'rous man!" she cries, "how could you----sleep?"

Men love a mistress, as they love a feast;

How grateful one to touch, and one to taste!

Yet sure there is a certain time of day,

We wish our mistress, and our meat, away:

But soon the sated appetites return,

Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn:

Eternal love let man, then, never swear;

Let women never triumph, nor despair;

Nor praise, nor blame, too much, the warm, or chill;

Hunger and love are foreign to the will.

There is indeed a passion more refin'd,

For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind:

But not of that unfashionable set

Is Phyllis; Phyllis and her Damon met.

Eternal love exactly hits her taste;

Phyllis demands eternal love at least.

Embracing Phyllis with soft smiling eyes,

Eternal love I vow, the swain replies:

But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend!

What day next week th' eternity shall end?

Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love:

Elope from mortal man, and range above.

The fair philosopher to Rowley flies,

Where, in a box, the whole creation lies:

She sees the planets in their turns advance,

And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance;

Of Desagulier she bespeaks fresh air;

And Whiston has engagements with the fair.

What vain experiments Sophronia tries!

'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies.

But though to-day this rage of science reigns,

(O fickle sex!) soon end her learned pains.

Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got,

Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.

To----turn; she never took the height

Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right.

She strikes each point with native force of mind,

While puzzled learning blunders far behind,

Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought,

The great are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught.

Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet,

When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet;

In glittering scenes, o'er her own heart, sincere;

In crowds, collected; and in courts, severe;

Sincere, and warm, with zeal well understood,

She takes a noble pride in doing good;

Yet not superior to her sex's cares,

The mode she fixes by the gown she wears;

Of silks and china she's the last appeal;

In these great points she leads the commonweal;

And if disputes of empire rise between

Mechlin the queen of lace, and colberteen,

'Tis doubt! 'tis darkness! till suspended fate

Assumes her nod, to close the grand debate.

When such her mind, why will the fair express

Their emulation only in their dress?

But, oh! the nymph that mounts above the skies,

And, gratis, clears religious mysteries,

Resolv'd the church's welfare to ensure,

And make her family a sine-cure:

The theme divine at cards she'll not forget,

But takes in texts of Scripture at picquet;

In those licentious meetings acts the prude,

And thanks her Maker that her cards are good.

What angels would those be, who thus excel

In theologies, could they sew as well!

Yet why should not the fair her text pursue?

Can she more decently the doctor woo?

'Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat

Of her religion, should be barr'd in that.

Isaac, a brother of the canting strain,

When he has knock'd at his own skull in vain,

To beauteous Marcia often will repair

With a dark text, to light it at the fair.

O how his pious soul exults to find

Such love for holy men in woman-kind!

Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he

Hangs on her bloom, like an industrious bee!

Hums round about her, and with all his power

Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a flower!

The young and gay declining, Appia flies

At nobler game, the mighty and the wise:

By nature more an eagle than a dove,

She impiously prefers the world to love.

Can wealth give happiness? look round, and see

What gay distress! what splendid misery!

Whatever fortune lavishly can pour,

The mind annihilates, and calls for more!

Wealth is a cheat; believe not what it says;

Like any lord it promises--and pays.

How will the miser startle, to be told

Of such a wonder, as insolvent gold!

What nature wants has an intrinsic weight;

All more, is but the fashion of the plate,

Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view;

It charms us now; anon we cast anew;

To some fresh birth of fancy more inclin'd:

Then wed not acres, but a noble mind.

Mistaken lovers, who make worth their care,

And think accomplishments will win the fair:

The fair, 'tis true, by genius should be won,

As flow'rs unfold their beauties to the sun;

And yet in female scales a fop outweighs,

And wit must wear the willow and the bays.

Nought shines so bright in vain Liberia's eye

As riot, impudence, and perfidy;

The youth of fire, that has drunk deep, and play'd,

And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid;

For him, as yet unhang'd, she spreads her charms,

Snatches the dear destroyer to her arms;

And amply gives (though treated long amiss)

The man of merit his revenge in this,

If you resent, and wish a woman ill,

But turn her o'er one moment to her will.

The languid lady next appears in state,

Who was not born to carry her own weight;

She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid

To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.

Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom,

She, by just stages, journeys round the room:

But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs

To scale the Alps--that is, ascend the stairs.

My fan! let others say, who laugh at toil;

Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style;

And that is spoke with such a dying fall,

That Betty rather sees, than hears the call:

The motion of her lips, and meaning eye,

Piece out th' idea her faint words deny.

O listen with attention most profound!

Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.

And help! oh help! her spirits are so dead,

One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.

If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er,

She pants! she sinks away! and is more.

Let the robust and the gigantic carve,

Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve;

But chew she must herself; ah cruel fate!

That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat.

An antidote in female caprice lies

(Kind heaven!) against the poison of their eyes.

Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien;

Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene.

In fair and open dealing where's the shame?

What nature dares to give, she dares to name.

This honest fellow is sincere and plain,

And justly gives the jealous husband pain.

(Vain is the task to petticoats assign'd,

If wanton language shows a naked mind.)

And now and then, to grace her eloquence,

An oath supplies the vacancies of sense.

Hark! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding air,

And teach the neighb'ring echoes how to swear.

By Jove, is faint, and for the simple swain;

She, on the Christian system, is profane.

But though the volley rattles in your ear,

Believe her dress, she's not a grenadier.

If thunder's awful, how much more our dread,

When Jove deputes a lady in his stead?

A lady! pardon my mistaken pen,

A shameless woman is the worst of men.

Few to good breeding make a just pretence;

Good breeding is the blossom of good sense;

The last result of an accomplish'd mind,

With outward grace, the body's virtue, join'd.

A violated decency now reigns;

And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains.

With Chinese painters modern toasts agree,

The point they aim at is deformity:

They throw their persons with a hoyden air

Across the room, and toss into the chair.

So far their commerce with mankind is gone,

They, for our manners, have exchang'd their own.

The modest look, the castigated grace,

The gentle movement, and slow measur'd pace,

For which her lovers died, her parents pray'd,

Are indecorums with the modern maid.

Stiff forms are bad; but let not worse intrude,

Nor conquer art and nature, to be rude.

Modern good-breeding carry to its height,

And lady D----'s self will be polite.

Ye rising fair! ye bloom of Britain's isle!

When high-born Anna, with a soften'd smile,

Leads on your train, and sparkles at your head,

What seems most hard, is, not to be well bred.

Her bright example with success pursue,

And all, but adoration, is your due.

But adoration! give me something more,

Cries Lyce, on the borders of threescore:

Nought treads so silent as the foot of time;

Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime;

'Tis greatly wise to know, before we're told,

The melancholy news, that we grow old.

Autumnal Lyce carries in her face

Memento mori to each public place.

O how your beating breast a mistress warms,

Who looks through spectacles to see your charms!

While rival undertakers hover round,

And with his spade the sexton marks the ground,

Intent not on her own, but others' doom,

She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb.

In vain the cock has summon'd sprites away,

She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day.

Gay rainbow silks her mellow charms infold,

And nought of Lyce but herself is old.

Her grizzled locks assume a smirking grace,

And art has levell'd her deep-furrow'd face.

Her strange demand no mortal can approve,

We'll ask her blessing, but can't ask her love.

She grants, indeed, a lady may decline

(All ladies but herself) at ninety-nine.

O how unlike her is the sacred age

Of prudent Portia! her gray hairs engage;

Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline:

Virtue's the paint that can with wrinkles shine.

That, and that only, can old age sustain;

Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain.

Not num'rous are our joys, when life is new;

And yearly some are falling of the few;

But when we conquer life's meridian stage,

And downward tend into the vale of age,

They drop apace; by nature some decay,

And some the blasts of fortune sweep away;

Till naked quite of happiness, aloud

We call for death, and shelter in a shroud.

Where's Portia now?--But Portia left behind

Two lovely copies of her form and mind.

What heart untouch'd their early grief can view,

Like blushing rose-buds dipp'd in morning dew?

Who into shelter takes their tender bloom,

And forms their minds to flee from ills to come?

The mind, when turn'd adrift, no rules to guide,

Drives at the mercy of the wind and tide;

Fancy and passion toss it to and fro;

Awhile torment, and then quite sink in woe.

Ye beauteous orphans, since in silent dust

Your best example lies, my precepts trust.

Life swarms with ills; the boldest are afraid;

Where then is safety for a tender maid?

Unfit for conflict, round beset with woes,

And man, whom least she fears, her worst of foes!

When kind, most cruel; when oblig'd the most,

The least obliging; and by favours lost.

Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate;

And scorn you for those ills themselves create.

If on your fame your sex a blot has thrown,

'Twill ever stick, through malice of your own.

Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies;

And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise:

Then please the best; and know, for men of sense,

Your strongest charms are native innocence.

Art on the mind, like paint upon the face,

Fright him, that's worth your love, from your embrace.

In simple manners all the secret lies;

Be kind and virtuous, you'll be blest and wise.

Vain show and noise intoxicate the brain,

Begin with giddiness, and end in pain.

Affect not empty fame, and idle praise,

Which, all those wretches I describe, betrays.

Your sex's glory 'tis, to shine unknown;

Of all applause, be fondest of your own.

Beware the fever of the mind! that thirst

With which the age is eminently curst:

To drink of pleasure, but inflames desire;

And abstinence alone can quench the fire;

Take pain from life, and terror from the tomb;

Give peace in hand; and promise bliss to come.

Satire VI.

On Women.

Inscribed to the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Germain.

Interdum tamen et tollit comoedia vocem.

--HOR.

I sought a patroness, but sought in vain.

Apollo whisper'd in my ear--"Germain."--

I know her not.--"Your reason's somewhat odd;

Who knows his patron, now?" replied the god.

"Men write, to me, and to the world, unknown;

Then steal great names, to shield them from the town.

Detected worth, like beauty disarray'd,

To covert flies, of praise itself afraid:

Should she refuse to patronize your lays,

In vengeance write a volume in her praise.

Nor think it hard so great a length to run;

When such the theme, 'twill easily be done."

Ye fair! to draw your excellence at length,

Exceeds the narrow bounds of human strength;

You, here, in miniature your picture see;

Nor hope from Zincks more justice than from me.

My portraits grace your mind, as his your side;

His portraits will inflame, mine quench, your pride.

He's dear, you frugal; choose my cheaper lay;

And be your reformation all my pay.

Lavinia is polite, but not profane;

To church as constant as to Drury Lane.

She decently, in form, pays heaven its due;

And makes a civil visit to her pew.

Her lifted fan, to give a solemn air,

Conceals her face, which passes for a prayer:

Curtsies to curtsies, then, with grace, succeed;

Not one the fair omits, but at the creed.

Or if she joins the service, 'tis to speak;

Thro' dreadful silence the pent heart might break;

Untaught to bear it, women talk away

To God himself, and fondly think they pray.

But sweet their accent, and their air refin'd;

For they're before their Maker--and mankind:

When ladies once are proud of praying well,

Satan himself will toll the parish bell.

Acquainted with the world, and quite well bred,

Drusa receives her visitants in bed;

But, chaste as ice, this Vesta, to defy

The very blackest tongue of calumny,

When from the sheets her lovely form she lifts,

She begs you just would turn you, while she shifts.

Those charms are greatest which decline the sight,

That makes the banquet poignant and polite.

There is no woman, where there's no reserve;

And 'tis on plenty your poor lovers starve.

But with a modern fair, meridian merit

Is a fierce thing, they call a nymph of spirit.

Mark well the rollings of her flaming eye;

And tread on tiptoe, if you dare draw nigh.

"Or if you take a lion by the beard,(15)

Or dare defy the fell Hyrcanian pard,

Or arm'd rhinoceros, or rough Russian bear,"

First make your will, and then converse with her.

This lady glories in profuse expense;

And thinks distraction is magnificence.

To beggar her gallant, is some delight;

To be more fatal still, is exquisite;

Had ever nymph such reason to be glad?

In duel fell two lovers; one run mad.

Her foes their honest execrations pour;

Her lovers only should detest her more.

Flavia is constant to her old gallant,

And generously supports him in his want;

But marriage is a fetter, is a snare,

A hell, no lady so polite can bear.

She's faithful, she's observant, and with pains

Her angel brood of bastards she maintains.

Nor least advantage has the fair to plead,

But that of guilt, above the marriage-bed.

Amasia hates a prude, and scorns restraint;

Whate'er she is, she'll not appear a saint:

Her soul superior flies formality;

So gay her air, her conduct is so free,

Some might suspect the nymph not over good--

Nor would they be mistaken, if they should.

Unmarried Abra puts on formal airs;

Her cushion's threadbare with her constant prayers.

Her only grief is, that she cannot be

At once engag'd in prayer and charity.

And this, to do her justice, must be said,

"Who would not think that Abra was a maid?"

Some ladies are too beauteous to be wed;

For where's the man that's worthy of their bed?

If no disease reduce her pride before,

Lavinia will be ravish'd at threescore.

Then she submits to venture in the dark;

And nothing now is wanting--but her spark.

Lucia thinks happiness consists in state;

She weds an idiot, but she eats in plate.

The goods of fortune, which her soul possess,

Are but the ground of unmade happiness;

The rude material: wisdom add to this,

Wisdom, the sole artificer of bliss;

She from herself, if so compell'd by need,

Of thin content can draw the subtle thread;

But (no detraction to her sacred skill)

If she can work in gold, 'tis better still.

If Tullia had been blest with half her sense,

None could too much admire her excellence:

But since she can make error shine so bright,

She thinks it vulgar to defend the right.

With understanding she is quite o'errun;

And by too great accomplishments undone:

With skill she vibrates her eternal tongue,

For ever most divinely in the wrong.

Naked in nothing should a woman be;

But veil her very wit with modesty:

Let man discover, let not her display,

But yield her charms of mind with sweet delay.

For pleasure form'd, perversely some believe,

To make themselves important, men must grieve.

Lesbia the fair, to fire her jealous lord,

Pretends, the fop she laughs at, is ador'd.

In vain she's proud of secret innocence;

The fact she fains were scarce a worse offence.

Mira, endow'd with every charm to bless,

Has no design, but on her husband's peace:

He lov'd her much; and greatly was he mov'd

At small inquietudes in her he lov'd.

"How charming this!"--The pleasure lasted long;

Now every day the fits come thick and strong:

At last he found the charmer only feign'd;

And was diverted when he should be pain'd.

What greater vengeance had the gods in store?

How tedious life, now she can plague no more!

She tries a thousand arts; but none succeed:

She's forc'd a fever to procure indeed:

Thus strictly prov'd this virtuous, loving wife,

Her husband's pain was dearer than her life.

Anxious Melania rises to my view,

Who never thinks her lover pays his due:

Visit, present, treat, flatter, and adore;

Her majesty, to-morrow, calls for more.

His wounded ears complaints eternal fill,

As unoil'd hinges, querulously shrill.

"You went last night with Celia to the ball."

You prove it false. "Not go! that's worst of all."

Nothing can please her, nothing not inflame;

And arrant contradictions are the same.

Her lover must be sad, to please her spleen;

His mirth is an inexpiable sin:

For of all rivals that can pain her breast,

There's one, that wounds far deeper than the rest;

To wreck her quiet, the most dreadful shelf

Is if her lover dares enjoy himself.

And this, because she's exquisitely fair:

Should I dispute her beauty, how she'd stare!

How would Melania be surpris'd to hear

She's quite deform'd! And yet the case is clear;

What's female beauty, but an air divine,

Thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine?

They, like the sun, irradiate all between;

The body charms because the soul is seen.

Hence, men are often captives of a face,

They know not why, of no peculiar grace:

Some forms, tho' bright, no mortal man can bear;

Some, none resist, tho' not exceeding fair.

Aspasia's highly born, and nicely bred,

Of taste refin'd, in life and manners read;

Yet reaps no fruit from her superior sense,

But to be teaz'd by her own excellence.

"Folks are so awkward! things so unpolite!"

She's elegantly pain'd from morn till night.

Her delicacy's shock'd where'er she goes;

Each creature's imperfections are her woes.

Heaven by its favour has the fair distrest,

And pour'd such blessings--that she can't be blest.

Ah! why so vain, though blooming in thy spring,

Thou shining, frail, ador'd, and wretched thing?

Old age will come; disease may come before;

Fifteen is full as mortal as threescore.

Thy fortune, and thy charms, may soon decay:

But grant these fugitives prolong their stay,

Their basis totters, their foundation shakes;

Life, that supports them, in a moment breaks;

Then wrought into the soul let virtues shine;

The ground eternal, as the work divine.

Julia's a manager; she's born for rule;

And knows her wiser husband is a fool;

Assemblies holds, and spins the subtle thread

That guides the lover to his fair one's bed:

For difficult amours can smooth the way,

And tender letters dictate, or convey.

But if depriv'd of such important cares,

Her wisdom condescends to less affairs.

For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,

Nor take her tea without a stratagem;

Presides o'er trifles with a serious face;

Important by the virtue of grimace.

Ladies supreme among amusements reign;

By nature born to soothe, and entertain.

Their prudence in a share of folly lies:

Why will they be so weak, as to be wise?

Syrena is for ever in extremes,

And with a vengeance she commends, or blames.

Conscious of her discernment, which is good,

She strains too much to make it understood.

Her judgment just, her sentence is too strong;

Because she's right, she's ever in the wrong.

Brunetta's wise in actions great, and rare;

But scorns on trifles to bestow her care.

Thus ev'ry hour Brunetta is to blame,

Because th' occasion is beneath her aim,

Think nought a trifle, though it small appear;

Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,

And trifles life. Your care to trifles give,

Or you may die, before you truly live.

Go breakfast with Alicia, there you'll see,

Simplex munditiis, to the last degree:

Unlac'd her stays, her night-gown is untied,

And what she has of head-dress is aside.

She drawls her words, and waddles in her pace;

Unwash'd her hands, and much besnuff'd her face.

A nail uncut, and head uncomb'd, she loves;

And would draw on jack-boots, as soon as gloves.

Gloves by Queen Bess's maidens might be miss'd;

Her blessed eyes ne'er saw a female fist.

Lovers, beware! to wound how can she fail

With scarlet finger, and long jetty nail?

For Harvey the first wit she cannot be,

Nor, cruel Richmond, the first toast for thee.

Since full each other station of renown,

Who would not be the greatest trapes in town?

Women were made to give our eyes delight;

A female sloven is an odious sight.

Fair Isabella is so fond of fame,

That her dear self is her eternal theme;

Through hopes of contradiction, oft she'll say,

"Methinks I look so wretchedly to-day!"

When most the world applauds you, most beware;

'Tis often less a blessing than a snare.

Distrust mankind; with your own heart confer;

And dread even there to find a flatterer.

The breath of others raises our renown;

Our own as surely blows the pageant down.

Take up no more than you by worth can claim,

Lest soon you prove a bankrupt in your fame.

But own I must, in this perverted age,

Who most deserve, can't always most engage.

So far is worth from making glory sure,

It often hinders what it should procure.

Whom praise we most? The virtuous, brave, and wise?

No; wretches, whom, in secret, we despise.

And who so blind, as not to see the cause?

No rivals rais'd by such discreet applause;

And yet, of credit it lays in a store,

By which our spleen may wound true worth the more.

Ladies there are who think one crime is all:

Can women, then, no way but backward fall?

So sweet is that one crime they don't pursue,

To pay its loss, they think all others few.

Who hold that crime so dear, must never claim

Of injur'd modesty the sacred name.

But Clio thus: "What! railing without end?

Mean task! how much more gen'rous to commend!"

Yes, to commend as you are wont to do,

My kind instructor, and example too.

"Daphnis," says Clio, "has a charming eye:

What pity 'tis her shoulder is awry!

Aspasia's shape indeed--but then her air--

The man has parts who finds destruction there.

Almeria's wit has something that's divine;

And wit's enough--how few in all things shine!

Selina serves her friends, relieves the poor--

Who was it said Selina's near threescore?

At Lucia's match I from my soul rejoice;

The world congratulates so wise a choice;

His lordship's rent-roll is exceeding great--

But mortgages will sap the best estate.

In Sherley's form might cherubims appear;

But then--she has a freckle on her ear."

Without a but, Hortensia she commends,

The first of women, and the best of friends;

Owns her in person, wit, fame, virtue, bright:

But how comes this to pass?--She died last night.

Thus nymphs commend, who yet at satire rail:

Indeed that's needless, if such praise prevail.

And whence such praise? Our virulence is thrown

On others' fame, thro' fondness for our own.

Of rank and riches proud, Cleora frowns;

For are not coronets akin to crowns?

Her greedy eye, and her sublime address,

The height of avarice and pride confess.

You seek perfections worthy of her rank;

Go, seek for her perfections at the bank.

By wealth unquench'd, by reason uncontrol'd,

For ever burns her sacred thirst of gold.

As fond of five-pence, as the veriest cit;

And quite as much detested as a wit.

Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?

Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?

Wisdom to gold prefer; for 'tis much less

To make our fortune, than our happiness.

That happiness which great ones often see,

With rage and wonder, in a low degree;

Themselves unblest. The poor are only poor;

But what are they who droop amid their store?

Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state;

The happy only are the truly great.

Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings;

And those best satisfied with cheapest things.

Could both our Indies buy but one new sense,

Our envy would be due to large expense.

Since not, those pomps which to the great belong,

Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng.

See how they beg an alms of flattery!

They languish! oh support them with a lie!

A decent competence we fully taste;

It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast:

More, we perceive by dint of thought alone;

The rich must labor to possess their own,

To feel their great abundance; and request

Their humble friends to help them to be blest;

To see their treasures, hear their glory told,

And aid the wretched impotence of gold.

But some, great souls! and touch'd with warmth divine,

Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine.

All hoarded treasures they repute a load;

Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'd.

Grand reservoirs of public happiness,

Through secret streams diffusively they bless;

And, while their bounties glide conceal'd from view,

Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too.

But satire is my task; and these destroy

Her gloomy province, and malignant joy.

Help me, ye misers! help me to complain,

And blast our common enemy, Germain:

But our invectives must despair success;

For next to praise, she values nothing less.

What picture's yonder, loosen'd from its frame?

Or is't Asturia? that affected dame.

The brightest forms, through affectation, fade

To strange new things, which nature never made.

Frown not, ye fair! so much your sex we prize,

We hate those arts that take you from our eyes.

In Albucinda's native grace is seen

What you, who labour at perfection, mean.

Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease,

Retain your gentle selves, and you must please.

Here might I sing of Memmia's mincing mien,

And all the movements of the soft machine:

How two red lips affected zephyrs blow,

To cool the Bohea, and inflame the beau:

While one white finger, and a thumb, conspire

To lift the cup, and make the world admire.

Tea! how I tremble at thy fatal stream!

As Lethe, dreadful to the love of fame.

What devastations on thy banks are seen!

What shades of mighty names which once have been!

An hecatomb of characters supplies

Thy painted altars' daily sacrifice.

H----, P----, B----, aspers'd by thee, decay,

As grains of finest sugars melt away,

And recommend thee more to mortal taste:

Scandal's the sweet'ner of a female feast.

But this inhuman triumph shall decline,

And thy revolting naiads call for wine;

Spirits no longer shall serve under thee;

But reign in thy own cup, exploded tea!

Citronia's nose declares thy ruin nigh,

And who dares give Citronia's nose the lie?(16)

The ladies long at men of drink exclaim'd,

And what impair'd both health and virtue, blam'd;

At length, to rescue man, the generous lass

Stole from her consort the pernicious glass;

As glorious as the British queen renown'd,

Who suck'd the poison from her husband's wound.

Nor to the glass alone are nymphs inclin'd,

But every bolder vice of bold mankind.

O Juvenal! for thy severer rage!

To lash the ranker follies of our age.

Are there, among the females of our isle,

Such faults, at which it is a fault to smile?

There are. Vice, once by modest nature chain'd

And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd;

Without thin decency held up to view,

Naked she stalks o'er law and gospel too.

Our matrons lead such exemplary lives,

Men sigh in vain for none, but for their wives;

Who marry to be free, to range the more,

And wed one man to wanton with a score.

Abroad too kind, at home 'tis steadfast hate,

And one eternal tempest of debate.

What foul eruptions, from a look most meek!

What thunders bursting, from a dimpled cheek!

Their passions bear it with a lofty hand!

But then, their reason is at due command.

Is there whom you detest, and seek his life?

Trust no soul with the secret--but his wife.

Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn,

And ask, what kindred is a spouse to them?

What swarms of am'rous grandmothers I see!

And misses, ancient in iniquity?

What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming!

What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming!

Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence;

Such griping av'rice, such profuse expense;

Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes;

Such licens'd ill, such masquerading times;

Such venal faith, such misapplied applause;

Such flatter'd guilt, and such inverted laws;

Such dissolution through the whole I find,

'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind.

Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dress'd belle

Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of hell;

And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all,

Who listens less to Collins than St. Paul.

Atheists have been but rare; since nature's birth,

Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth.

Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs

This daring character, in timorous things?

Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,

A match for nothing--but the Deity.

But, not to wrong the fair, the muse must own

In this pursuit they court not fame alone;

But join to that a more substantial view,

"From thinking free, to be free agents too."

They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down,

In complaisance to all the fools in town.

O how they tremble at the name of prude!

And die with shame at thought of being good!

For what will Artimis, the rich and gay,

What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs say?

They heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave;

Thro' cowardice, most execrably brave.

With our own judgments durst we to comply,

In virtue should we live, in glory die.

Rise then, my muse, in honest fury rise;

They dread a satire, who defy the skies.

Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own;

And nothing but his attributes dethrone.

From Atheists far, they steadfastly believe

God is, and is Almighty----to forgive.

His other excellence they'll not dispute;

But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.

Shall pleasures of a short duration chain

A lady's soul in everlasting pain?

Will the great Author us poor worms destroy,

For now and then a sip of transient joy?

No, he's for ever in a smiling mood;

He's like themselves, or how could he be good?

And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.--

Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose,

The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead,

A deity, that's perfectly well bred.

"Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men;

Nor thought he more, than thought great Origen,

Though once upon a time he misbehav'd;

Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be sav'd.

Let priests do something for their one in ten;

It is their trade; so far they're honest men.

Let them cant on, since they have got the knack,

And dress their notions, like themselves, in black;

Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown,

From joys of this, to keep them all their own.

Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee;

But then they leave our untith'd virtue free.

Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show:

Did ever mortal write like Rochefocaut?"

Thus pleads the devil's fair apologist,

And, pleading, safely enters on his list.

Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain;

Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane.

For what's true beauty, but fair virtue's face?

Virtue made visible in outward grace?

She, then, that's haunted with an impious mind,

The more she charms, the more she shocks mankind.

But charms decline: the fair long vigils keep:

They sleep no more! (17)quadrille has murder'd sleep.

"Poor K--p! cries Livia; I have not been there

These two nights; the poor creature will despair.

I hate a crowd--but to do good, you know--

And people of condition should bestow."

Convinc'd, o'ercome, to K--p's grave matrons run;

Now set a daughter, and now stake a son;

Let health, fame, temper, beauty, fortune, fly;

And beggar half their race--thro' charity.

Immortal were we, or else mortal quite,

I less should blame this criminal delight:

But since the gay assembly's gayest room

Is but the upper story of some tomb,

Methinks, we need not our short beings shun,

And, thought to fly, contend to be undone.

We need not buy our ruin with our crime,

And give eternity to murder time.

The love of gaming is the worst of ills;

With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills;

Inveighs at heaven, neglects the ties of blood;

Destroys the power and will of doing good;

Kills health, pawns honour, plunges in disgrace,

And, what is still more dreadful--spoils your face.

See yonder set of thieves that live on spoil,

The scandal, and the ruin of our isle!

And see, (strange sight!) amid that ruffian band,

A form divine high wave her snowy hand;

That rattles loud a small enchanted box,

Which, loud as thunder, on the board she knocks.

And as fierce storms, which earth's foundation shook,

From AEolus's cave impetuous broke,

From this small cavern a mix'd tempest flies,

Fear, rage, convulsion, tears, oaths, blasphemies!

For men, I mean,--the fair discharges none;

She (guiltless creature!) swears to heaven alone.

See her eyes start! cheeks glow! and muscles swell!

Like the mad maid in the Cumean cell.

Thus that divine one her soft nights employs!

Thus tunes her soul to tender nuptial joys!

And when the cruel morning calls to bed,

And on her pillow lays her aching head,

With the dear images her dreams are crown'd,

The die spins lovely, or the cards go round;

Imaginary ruin charms her still;

Her happy lord is cuckol'd by spadille:

And if she's brought to bed, 'tis ten to one,

He marks the forehead of her darling son.

O scene of horror, and of wild despair,

Why is the rich Atrides' splended heir

Constrain'd to quit his ancient lordly seat,

And hide his glories in a mean retreat?

Why that drawn sword? And whence that dismal cry?

Why pale distraction thro' the family?

See my lord threaten, and my lady weep,

And trembling servants from the tempest creep.

Why that gay son to distant regions sent?

What fiends that daughter's destin'd match prevent?

Why the whole house in sudden ruin laid?

O nothing, but last night--my lady play'd.

But wanders not my satire from my theme?

Is this too owing to the love of fame?

Though now your hearts on lucre are bestow'd,

'Twas first a vain devotion to the mode;

Nor cease we here, since 'tis a vice so strong,

The torrent sweeps all womankind along;

This may be said, in honour of our times,

That none now stand distinguish'd by their crimes.

If sin you must, take nature for your guide:

Love has some soft excuse to soothe your pride:

Ye fair apostates from love's ancient power!

Can nothing ravish, but a golden shower?

Can cards alone your glowing fancy seize;

Must Cupid learn to punt, ere he can please?

When you're enamour'd of a lift or cast,

What can the preacher more, to make us chaste?

Why must strong youths unmarried pine away?

They find no woman disengag'd----from play.

Why pine the married--O severer fate!

They find from play no disengag'd--estate.

Flavia, at lovers false, untouch'd and hard,

Turns pale, and trembles at a cruel card.

Nor Arria's Bible can secure her age;

Her threescore years are shuffling with her page.

While death stands by, but till the game is done,

To sweep that stake, in justice, long his own;

Like old cards ting'd with sulphur, she takes fire;

Or, like snuffs sunk in sockets, blazes higher.

Ye gods! with new delights inspire the fair;

Or give us sons, and save us from despair.

Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, tradesmen, close

In my complaint, and brand your sins in prose:

Yet I believe, as firmly as my creed,

In spite of all our wisdom, you'll proceed:

Our pride so great, our passion is so strong,

Advice to right confirms us in the wrong.

I hear you cry, "This fellow's very odd."

When you chastise, who would not kiss the rod?

But I've a charm your anger shall control,

And turn your eyes with coldness on the vole.

The charm begins! To yonder flood of light,

That bursts o'er gloomy Britain, turn your sight.

What guardian power o'erwhelms your souls with awe?

Her deeds are precepts, her example law;

'Midst empire's charms, how Carolina's heart

Glows with the love of virtue, and of art!

Her favour is diffus'd to that degree,

Excess of goodness! it has dawn'd on me:

When in my page, to balance numerous faults,

Or godlike deeds were shown, or gen'rous thoughts,

She smil'd, industrious to be pleas'd, nor knew

From whom my pen the borrow'd lustre drew.

(18)Thus the majestic mother of mankind,

To her own charms most amiably blind,

On the green margin innocently stood,

And gaz'd indulgent on the crystal flood;

Survey'd the stranger in the painted wave,

And, smiling, prais'd the beauties which she gave.

Satire VII.

To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.

Carmina tum melius, cum venerit ipse, canemus.

VIRG.

On this last labour, this my closing strain,

Smile, Walpole! or the Nine inspire in vain:

To thee, 'tis due; that verse how justly thine,

Where Brunswick's glory crowns the whole design!

That glory, which thy counsels make so bright;

That glory, which on thee reflects a light.

Illustrious commerce, and but rarely known!

To give, and take, a lustre from the throne.

Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme;

The fountain is not foreign to the stream.

How all mankind will be surprised, to see

This flood of British folly charg'd on thee!

Say, Britain! whence this caprice of thy sons,

Which thro' their various ranks with fury runs?

The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless;

For caprice is the daughter of success,

(A bad effect, but from a pleasing cause!)

And gives our rulers undesign'd applause;

Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase,

And lulls us in the downy lap of peace.

While I survey the blessings of our isle,

Her arts triumphant in the royal smile,

Her public wounds bound up, her credit high,

Her commerce spreading sails in every sky,

The pleasing scene recalls my theme again,

And shows the madness of ambitious men,

Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring sword,

And burn to give mankind a single lord.

The follies past are of a private kind;

Their sphere is small; their mischief is confin'd:

But daring men there are (Awake, my muse,

And raise thy verse!) who bolder frenzy choose;

Who stung by glory, rave, and bound away;

The world their field, and humankind their prey.

The Grecian chief, th' enthusiast of his pride,

With rage and terror stalking by his side,

Raves round the globe; he soars into a god!

Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod.

The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns,

And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains,

What slaughter'd hosts! what cities in a blaze!

What wasted countries! and what crimson seas!

With orphans' tears his impious bowl o'erflows,

And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose.

And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise

The boist'rous boy, and blast his guilty bays?

Why want we then encomiums on the storm,

Or famine, or volcano? They perform

Their mighty deeds: they, hero-like, can slay,

And spread their ample desarts in a day.

O great alliance! O divine renown!

With dearth, and pestilence, to share the crown.

When men extol a wild destroyer's name,

Earth's builder and preserver they blaspheme.

One to destroy, is murder by the law;

And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;

To murder thousands, takes a specious name,

War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.

When, after battle, I the field have seen

Spread o'er with ghastly shapes, which once were men;

A nation crush'd, a nation of the brave!

A realm of death! and on this side the grave!

Are there, said I, who from this sad survey,

This human chaos, carry smiles away?

How did my heart with indignation rise!

How honest nature swell'd into my eyes!

How was I shock'd to think the hero's trade

Of such materials, fame and triumph made!

How guilty these! Yet not less guilty they,

Who reach false glory by a smoother way:

Who wrap destruction up in gentle words,

And bows, and smiles, more fatal than their swords;

Who stifle nature, and subsist on art;

Who coin the face, and petrify the heart;

All real kindness for the show discard,

As marble polish'd, and as marble hard;

Who do for gold what Christians do thro' grace,

"With open arms their enemies embrace:"

Who give a nod when broken hearts repine;

"The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine:"

Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd,

And, in their height of kindness, are unkind.

Such courtiers were, and such again may be,

Walpole! when men forget to copy thee.

Here cease, my muse! the catalogue is writ;

Nor one more candidate for fame admit,

Tho' disappointed thousands justly blame

Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim:

Be this their comfort, fools, omitted here,

May furnish laughter for another year.

Then let Crispino, who was ne'er refused

The justice yet of being well abus'd,

With patience wait; and be content to reign

The pink of puppies in some future strain.

Some future strain, in which the muse shall tell

How science dwindles, and how volumes swell.

How commentators each dark passage shun,

And hold their farthing candle to the sun.

How tortur'd texts to speak our sense are made,

And every vice is to the scripture laid.

How misers squeeze a young voluptuous peer;

His sins to Lucifer not half so dear.

How Verres is less qualified to steal

With sword and pistol, than with wax and seal.

How lawyers' fees to such excess are run,

That clients are redress'd till they're undone.

How one man's anguish is another's sport;

And ev'n denials cost us dear at court.

How man eternally false judgments makes,

And all his joys and sorrows are mistakes.

This swarm of themes that settles on my pen,

Which I, like summer flies, shake off again,

Let others sing; to whom my weak essay

But sounds a prelude, and points out their prey:

That duty done, I hasten to complete

My own design; for Tonson's at the gate.

The love of fame in its effect survey'd,

The muse has sung; be now the cause display'd:

Since so diffusive, and so wide its sway,

What is this power, whom all mankind obey?

Shot from above, by heaven's indulgence, came

This generous ardour, this unconquer'd flame,

To warm, to raise, to deify, mankind,

Still burning brightest in the noblest mind.

By large-soul'd men, for thirst of fame renown'd,

Wise laws were fram'd, and sacred arts were found;

Desire of praise first broke the patriot's rest,

And made a bulwark of the warrior's breast;

It bids Argyll in fields and senate shine.

What more can prove its origin divine?

But, oh! this passion planted in the soul,

On eagle's wings to mount her to the pole,

The flaming minister of virtue meant,

Set up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent.

Ambition, hence, exerts a doubtful force,

Of blots, and beauties, an alternate source;

Hence Gildon rails, that raven of the pit,

Who thrives upon the carcasses of wit;

And in art-loving Scarborough is seen

How kind a pattern Pollio might have been.

Pursuit of fame with pedants fills our schools,

And into coxcombs burnishes our fools;

Pursuit of fame makes solid learning bright,

And Newton lifts above a mortal height;

That key of nature, by whose wit she clears

Her long, long secrets of five thousand years.

Would you then fully comprehend the whole,

Why, and in what degrees, pride sways the soul?

(For though in all, not equally, she reigns,)

Awake to knowledge, and attend my strains.

Ye doctors! hear the doctrine I disclose,

As true, as if't were writ in dullest prose;

As if a letter'd dunce had said, "'Tis right,"

And imprimatur usher'd it to light.

Ambition, in the truly noble mind,

With sister virtue is for ever join'd;

As in fam'd Lucrece, who, with equal dread,

From guilt, and shame, by her last conduct, fled:

Her virtue long rebell'd in firm disdain,

And the sword pointed at her heart in vain;

But, when the slave was threaten'd to be laid

Dead by her side, her love of fame obey'd.

In meaner minds ambition works alone;

But with such art puts virtue's aspect on,

That not more like in feature and in mien,

(19)The god and mortal in the comic scene.

False Julius, ambush'd in this fair disguise,

Soon made the Roman liberties his prize.

No mask in basest minds ambition wears,

But in full light pricks up her ass's ears:

All I have sung are instances of this,

And prove my theme unfolded not amiss.

Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife;

Be wise, and quit the false sublime of life,

The true ambition there alone resides,

Where justice vindicates, and wisdom guides;

Where inward dignity joins outward state;

Our purpose good, as our achievement great;

Where public blessings public praise attend;

Where glory is our motive, not our end.

Wouldst thou be fam'd? Have those high deeds in view

Brave men would act, though scandal should ensue.

Behold a prince! whom no swoln thoughts inflame;

No pride of thrones, no fever after fame!

But when the welfare of mankind inspires,

And death in view to dear-bought glory fires,

Proud conquests then, then regal pomps delight;

Then crowns, then triumphs, sparkle in his sight;

Tumult and noise are dear, which with them bring

His people's blessings to their ardent king:

But, when those great heroic motives cease,

His swelling soul subsides to native peace;

From tedious grandeur's faded charms withdraws,

A sudden foe to splendour and applause;

Greatly deferring his arrears of fame,

Till men and angels jointly shout his name.

O pride celestial! which can pride disdain;

O blest ambition! which can ne'er be vain.

From one fam'd Alpine hill, which props the sky,

In whose deep womb unfathom'd waters lie,

Here burst the Rhone, and sounding Po; there shine,

In infant rills, the Danube and the Rhine;

From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies,

Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests rise.

In Brunswick such a source the muse adores,

Which public blessings thro' half Europe pours.

When his heart burns with such a godlike aim,

Angels and George are rivals for the fame;

George! who in foes can soft affections raise,

And charm envenom'd satire into praise.

(20)Nor human rage alone his power perceives,

But the mad winds, and the tumultuous waves.

Ev'n storms (death's fiercest ministers!) forbear,

And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare.

Thus, nature's self, supporting man's decree,

Styles Britain's sovereign, sovereign of the sea.

While sea and air, great Brunswick! shook our state,

And sported with a king's and kingdom's fate,

Depriv'd of what she lov'd, and press'd by fear

Of ever losing what she held most dear,

How did Britannia, like (21)Achilles, weep,

And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep!

Hang o'er the floods, and, in devotion warm,

Strive, for thee, with the surge, and fight the storm

What felt thy Walpole, pilot of the realm!

Our Palinurus(22) slept not at the helm;

His eye ne'er clos'd; long since inur'd to wake,

And out-watch every star for Brunswick's sake:

By thwarting passions tost, by cares opprest,

He found the tempest pictur'd in his breast:

But, now, what joys that gloom of heart dispel,

No powers of language--but his own, can tell:

His own, which nature and the graces form,

At will, to raise, or hush, the civil storm.

OCEAN: AN ODE

occasioned by His Majesty's Royal Encouragement of the Sea Service.

To Which is Prefixed an Ode to the King; and a Discourse on Ode.

I think myself obliged to recommend to you a consideration of the

greatest importance; and I should look upon it as a great

happiness, if, at the beginning of my reign, I could see the

foundation laid of so great and necessary a work, as the increase

and encouragement of our seamen in general; that they may be

invited, rather than compelled by force and violence, to enter

into the service of their country, as oft as occasion shall

require it: a consideration worthy the representatives of a people

great and flourishing in trade and navigation. This leads me to

mention to you the case of Greenwich Hospital, that care may be

taken, by some addition to that fund, to render comfortable and

effectual that charitable provision, for the support and

maintenance of our seamen, worn out, and become decrepit by age

and infirmities, in the service of their country.

[Speech, Jan. 27, 1727-8.]

To the King.--1728.

Old ocean's praise

Demands my lays;

A truly British theme I sing;

A theme so great,

I dare complete,

And join with ocean, ocean's king.

The Roman ode

Majestic flow'd:

Its stream divinely clear, and strong;

In sense, and sound,

Thebes roll'd profound;

The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.

Let Thebes, nor Rome,

So fam'd, presume

To triumph o'er a northern isle;

Late time shall know

The north can glow,

If dread Augustus deign to smile.

The naval crown

Is all his own!

Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call,

His will performs

Through waves and storms,

And rides in triumph round the ball.

No former race,

With strong embrace,

This theme to ravish durst aspire;

With virgin charms

My soul it warms,

And melts melodious on my lyre.

My lays I file

With cautious toil;

Ye graces! turn the glowing lines;

On anvils neat

Your strokes repeat;

At every stroke the work refines!

How music charms!

How metre warms!

Parent of actions, good and brave!

How vice it tames!

And worth inflames!

And holds proud empire o'er the grave!

Jove mark'd for man

A scanty span,

But lent him wings to fly his doom;

Wit scorns the grave;

To wit he gave

The life of gods! immortal bloom!

Since years will fly,

And pleasures die,

Day after day, as years advance;

Since, while life lasts,

Joy suffers blasts

From frowning fate, and fickle chance;

Nor life is long;

But soon we throng,

Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore;

We make, at least,

Of bad the best,

If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.

Our strains divide

The laurel's pride;

With those we lift to life, to live;

By fame enroll'd

With heroes bold,

And share the blessings which we give.

What hero's praise

Can fire my lays,

Like his, with whom my lay begun?

"Justice sincere,

And courage clear,

Rise the two columns of his throne.

"How form'd for sway!

Who look, obey;

They read the monarch in his port:

Their love and awe

Supply the law;

And his own lustre makes the court:"

On yonder height,

What golden light

Triumphant shines? and shines alone?

Unrivall'd blaze!

The nations gaze!

'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.

Our monarch, there,

Rear'd high in air,

Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;

Like British oak,

Derides the stroke;

His blooming honours far extend!

Beneath them lies,

With lifted eyes,

Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;

While interest wings

Bold foreign kings

To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

At his proud foot

The sea, pour'd out,

Immortal nourishment supplies;

Thence wealth and state,

And power and fate,

Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

From what we view,

We take the clue,

Which leads from great to greater thing

Men doubt no more,

But gods adore,

When such resemblance shines in kings.

On Lyric Poetry.

How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak

a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at

least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged;

and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration

for success in it.

To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we

undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as

also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in

speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad

poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most

vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But

poetry in its own nature is certainly

Non hos quaesitum munus in usus.

--VIRG.

He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in

it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little

degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly

by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to

himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with

which to chastise his opinion of it.

Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other

kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and

because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the

non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence

the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity

consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick

resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and

justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from

this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things,

things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as

consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on

them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they

become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel.

Concordes animae--dum nocte prementur;

Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitae

Attigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt!

Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires.

Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella.

Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo,

Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et coelestibus armis,

Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!

Nec te ullae facies, non terruit ipse Typhoeus

Arduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens,

Contemtorque Deum Mezentius.

VIRG.

But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he

undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise

up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not

absolutely, impossible.

These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is

infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest,

and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who

have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance

or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of

modesty or conceit.

Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in

things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to

himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the piece he has in hand,

before he begins his perusal of it.

The ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it is more spiritous, and

more remote from prose, than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and

conduct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers

full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate,

yet unaffected; and of a curious felicity beyond other poems; its conduct

should be rapturous, somewhat abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye.

That apparent order, and connexion, which gives form and life to some

compositions, takes away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and

select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the

most pitiful error a pen can commit.

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum.

And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too;

otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary

burlesque.

It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to

startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to

mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in

their judgments; and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright

objects, in their natural lustre, as too glaring; what is most delightful

to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic

at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad;

and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit.

Dwarf understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to

think they see a monster, when they see a man.

And indeed it seems to be the amends which nature makes to those whom she

has not blessed with an elevation of mind, to indulge them in the

comfortable mistake, that all is wrong, which falls not within the narrow

limits of their own comprehensions and relish.

Judgment, indeed, that masculine power of the mind, in ode, as in all

compositions, should bear the supreme sway; and a beautiful imagination,

as its mistress, should be subdued to its dominion. Hence, and hence only,

can proceed the fairest offspring of the human mind.

But then in ode, there is this difference from other kinds of poetry;

that, there, the imagination, like a very beautiful mistress, is indulged

in the appearance of domineering; though the judgment, like an artful

lover, in reality carries its point; and the less it is suspected of it,

it shows the more masterly conduct, and deserves the greater commendation.

It holds true in this province of writing, as in war, "The more danger;

the more honour." It must be very enterprising: it must, in Shakespeare's

style, have hairbreadth 'scapes; and often tread the very brink of error:

nor can it ever deserve the applause of the real judge, unless it renders

itself obnoxious to the misapprehensions of the contrary.

Such is Casimire's strain among the moderns, whose lively wit, and happy

fire, is an honour to them. And Buchanan might justly be much admired, if

any thing more than the sweetness of his numbers, and the purity of his

diction, were his own: his original, from which I have taken my motto,

through all the disadvantages of a northern prose translation, is still

admirable; and, Cowley says, as preferable in beauty to Buchanan, as Judaea

is to Scotland.

Pindar, Anacreon, Sappho, and Horace, are the great masters of lyric

poetry among Heathen writers. Pindar's muse, like Sacharissa, is a

stately, imperious, and accomplished beauty; equally disdaining the use of

art, and the fear of any rival; so intoxicating that it was the highest

commendation that could be given an ancient, that he was not afraid to

taste of her charms;

Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus;

a danger which Horace declares he durst not run.

Anacreon's Muse is like Amoret, most sweet, natural, and delicate; all

over flowers, graces, and charms; inspiring complacency, not awe; and she

seems to have good nature enough to admit a rival, which she cannot find.

Sappho's Muse, like Lady ----, is passionately tender, and glowing; like oil

set on fire, she is soft, and warm, in excess. Sappho has left us a few

fragments only; time has swallowed the rest; but that little which

remains, like the remaining jewel of Cleopatra, after the other was

dissolved at her banquet, may be esteemed (as was that jewel) a sufficient

ornament for the goddess of beauty herself.

Horace's Muse (like one I shall not presume to name) is correct, solid,

and moral; she joins all the sweetness and majesty, all the sense and the

fire of the former, in the justest proportions and degrees; superadding a

felicity of dress entirely her own. She moreover is distinguishable by

this particularity, that she abounds in hidden graces, and secret charms,

which none but the discerning can discover; nor are any capable of doing

full justice, in their opinion to her excellencies, without giving the

world, at the same time, an incontestable proof of refinement in their own

understandings.

But, after all, to the honour of our own country I must add, that I think

Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day inferior to no composition of this

kind. Its chief beauty consists in adapting the numbers most happily to

the variety of the occasion. Those by which he has chosen to express

majesty, (viz.)

Assumes the God,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres,

are chosen in the following ode, because the subject of it is great.

For the more harmony likewise, I chose the frequent return of rhyme; which

laid me under great difficulties. But difficulties overcome give grace and

pleasure. Nor can I account for the pleasure of rhyme in general (of which

the moderns are too fond) but from this truth.

But then the writer must take care that the difficulty is overcome. That

is, he must make rhyme consistent with as perfect sense, and expression,

as could be expected if he was free from that shackle. Otherwise, it gives

neither grace to the work, nor pleasure to the reader, nor, consequently,

reputation to the poet.

To sum the whole: ode should be peculiar, but not strained; moral, but not

flat; natural, but not obvious; delicate, but not affected; noble, but not

ambitious; full, but not obscure; fiery, but not mad; thick, but not

loaded in its numbers, which should be most harmonious, without the least

sacrifice of expression, or of sense. Above all, in this, as in every work

of genius, somewhat of an original spirit should be, at least attempted;

otherwise the poet, whose character disclaims mediocrity, makes a

secondary praise his ultimate ambition; which has something of a

contradiction in it. Originals only have true life, and differ as much

from the best imitations, as men from the most animated pictures of them.

Nor is what I say at all inconsistent with a due deference for the great

standards of antiquity; nay, that very deference is an argument for it,

for doubtless their example is on my side in this matter. And we should

rather imitate their example in the general motives, and fundamental

methods of their working, than in their works themselves. This is a

distinction, I think, not hitherto made, and a distinction of consequence.

For the first may make us their equals; the second must pronounce us their

inferiors even in our utmost success. But the first of these prizes is not

so readily taken by the moderns; as valuables too massy for easy carriage

are not so liable to the thief.

The ancients had a particular regard to the choice of their subjects;

which were generally national and great. My subject is, in its own nature,

noble; most proper for an Englishman; never more proper than on this

occasion; and (what is strange) hitherto unsung.

If I stand not absolutely condemned by my own rules; if I have hit the

spirit of ode in general; if I cannot think with Mr. Cowley, that "Music

alone, sometimes, makes an excellent ode;"

Versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae;

if there is any thought, enthusiasm, and picture, which are as the body,

soul, and robe of poetry; in a word, if in any degree I have provided

rather food for men, than air for wits; I hope smaller faults will meet

indulgence for the sake of the design, which is the glory of my country

and my king.

And indeed, this may be said, in general, that great subjects are above

being nice; that dignity and spirit ever suffer from scrupulous exactness;

And that the minuter cares effeminate a composition. Great masters of

poetry, painting, and statuary, in their nobler works, have even affected

the contrary: and justly; for a truly masculine air partakes more of the

negligent, than of the neat, both in writings, and in life--

Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suae pondus.

--PETRON.

A poem, like a criminal, under too severe correction, may lose all its

spirit, and expire. We know it was Faberrimus, that was such an artist at

a hair or a nail. And we know the cause was

Quia ponere totum

Nescius.

HOR.

To close: if a piece of this nature wants an apology, I must own, that

those who have strength of mind sufficient profitably to devote the whole

of their time to the severer studies, I despair of imitating, I can only

envy and admire. The mind is relieved and strengthened by variety; and he

that sometimes is sporting with his pen, is only taking the most effectual

means of giving a general importance to it. This truth is clear from the

knowledge of human nature, and of history; from which I could cite very

celebrated instances, did I not fear that, by citing them, I should

condemn myself, who am so little qualified to follow their example in its

full extent.

Ocean. An Ode.

Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.

PSALM XCVIII.

Sweet rural scene!

Of flocks and green!

At careless ease my limbs are spread;

All nature still,

But yonder rill;

And list'ning pines nod o'er my head:

In prospect wide,

The boundless tide!

Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;

Without a breeze,

The curling seas

Dance on, in measure to the shore.

Who sings the source

Of wealth and force?

Vast field of commerce, and big war,

Where wonders dwell!

Where terrors swell!

And Neptune thunders from his car?

Where? where are they,

Whom Paean's ray

Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?--

What! none aspire?

I snatch the lyre,

And plunge into the foaming wave.

The wave resounds!

The rock rebounds!

The Nereids to my song reply!

I lead the choir,

And they conspire,

With voice and shell, to lift it high.

They spread in air

Their bosoms fair,

Their verdant tresses pour behind:

The billows beat

With nimble feet,

With notes triumphant swell the wind.

Who love the shore,

Let those adore

The god Apollo, and his Nine,

Parnassus' hill,

And Orpheus' skill;

But let Arion's harp be mine.

The main! the main!

Is Britain's reign;

Her strength, her glory, is her fleet:

The main! the main!

Be Britain's strain;

As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.

Thro' nature wide

Is nought descried

So rich in pleasure or surprise;

When all-serene,

How sweet the scene!

How dreadful, when the billows rise;

And storms deface

The fluid glass,

In which erewhile Britannia fair

Look'd down with pride,

Like Ocean's bride,

Adjusting her majestic air!

When tempests cease,

And, hush'd in peace,

The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,

Deep silence keep,

And seem to sleep

Recumbent on their oozy bed;

With what a trance,

The level glance,

Unbroken, shoots along the seas!

Which tempt from shore

The painted oar;

And every canvass courts the breeze!

When rushes forth

The frowning north

On black'ning billows, with what dread

My shuddering soul

Beholds them roll,

And hears their roarings o'er my head!

With terror mark

Yon flying bark!

Now center-deep descend the brave;

Now, toss'd on high,

It takes the sky,

A feather on the tow'ring wave!

Now spins around

In whirls profound:

Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds;

Now stunn'd, it reels

'Midst thunder's peals:

And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.

All ether burns!

Chaos returns!

And blends, once more, the seas and skies:

No space between

Thy bosom green,

O deep! and the blue concave, lies.

The northern blast,

The shatter'd mast,

The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,

The breaking spout,

The stars gone out,

The boiling streight, the monsters shock,

Let others fear;

To Britain dear

Whate'er promotes her daring claim;

Those terrors charm,

Which keep her warm

In chase of honest gain, or fame.

The stars are bright

To cheer the night,

And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire;

And Phoebus' flames,

With burnish'd beams,

Which some adore, and all admire.

Are then the seas

Outshone by these?

Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone;

With kinder beams,

And softer gleams,

Thy bosom wears them as thy own.

There, set in green,

Gold stars are seen,

A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap;

And when the sun

His race has run,

He falls enamour'd in thy lap.

Those clouds, whose dyes

Adorn the skies,

That silver snow, that pearly rain,

Has Phoebus stole

To grace the pole,

The plunder of th' invaded main!

The gaudy bow,

Whose colours glow,

Whose arch with so much skill is bent,

To Phoebus' ray,

Which paints so gay,

By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.

In chambers deep,

Where waters sleep,

What unknown treasures pave the floor!

The pearl, in rows,

Pale lustre throws;

The wealth immense, which storms devour.

From Indian mines,

With proud designs,

The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore;

The tempests rise,

And seize the prize,

And toss him breathless on the shore.

His son complains

In pious strains,

"Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries;

Then ploughs the main,

In zeal for gain,

The tears yet swelling in his eyes.

Thou wat'ry vast!

What mounds are cast

To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!

Thy proudest foam

Must know its home;

But rage of gold disdains a shore.

Gold pleasure buys;

But pleasure dies,

Too soon the gross fruition cloys;

Tho' raptures court,

The sense is short;

But virtue kindles living joys;

Joys felt alone!

Joys ask'd of none!

Which time's and fortune's arrows miss:

Joys that subsist,

Tho' fates resist,

An unprecarious, endless bliss!

The soul refin'd

Is most inclin'd

To every moral excellence;

All vice is dull,

A knave's a fool;

And virtue is the child of sense.

The virtuous mind,

Nor wave, nor wind,

Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,

The shaken ball,

Nor planet's fall,

From its firm basis can dethrone.

This Britain knows,

And therefore glows

With gen'rous passions, and expends

Her wealth and zeal

On public weal,

And brightens both by god-like ends.

What end so great

As that which late

Awoke the genius of the main;

Which tow'ring rose

With George to close,

And rival great Eliza's reign?

A voice has flown

From Britain's throne

To re-inflame a grand design;

That voice shall rear

Yon (23)fabric fair,

As nature's rose at the divine.

When nature sprung,

Blest angels sung,

And shouted o'er the rising ball;

For strains as high

As man's can fly,

These sea-devoted honours call.

From boist'rous seas,

The lap of ease

Receives our wounded, and our old;

High domes ascend!

Stretch'd arches bend!

Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold!

Here, soft reclin'd,

From wave, from wind,

And fortune's tempest safe ashore,

To cheat their care,

Of former war

They talk the pleasing shadows o'er.

In lengthen'd tales,

Our fleet prevails;

In tales the lenitives of age!

And o'er the bowl,

They fire the soul

Of list'ning youth, to martial rage.

Unhappy they!

And falsely gay!

Who bask for ever in success;

A constant feast

Quite palls the taste,

And long enjoyment is distress.

When, after toil,

His native soil

The panting mariner regains,

What transport flows

From bare repose!

We reap our pleasure from our pains.

Ye warlike slain!

Beneath the main,

Wrapt in a wat'ry winding sheet;

Who bought with blood

Your country's good,

Your country's (24)full-blown glory greet.

What pow'rful charm

Can death disarm?

Your long, your iron slumbers break?

By Jove, by Fame,

By George's name,

Awake! awake! awake! awake!

With spiral shell,

Full blasted, tell,

That all your wat'ry realms should ring;

Your pearl alcoves,

Your coral groves,

Should echo theirs, and Britain's king.

As long as stars

Guide mariners,

As Carolina's virtues please,

Or suns invite

The ravish'd sight,

The British flag shall sweep the seas.

Peculiar both!

Our soil's strong growth,

And our bold natives' hardy mind;

Sure heaven bespoke

Our hearts and oak,

To give a master to mankind.

That noblest birth

Of teeming earth,

Of forests fair, that daughter proud,

To foreign coasts

Our grandeur boasts,

And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud:

Now big with war,

Sends fate from far,

If rebel realms their fate demand,

Now, sumptuous spoils

Of foreign soils

Pours in the bosom of our land.

Hence Britain lays

In scales, and weighs

The fate of kingdoms, and of kings;

And as she frowns,

Or smiles, on crowns

A night, or day of glory, springs.

Thus ocean swells

The streams and rills,

And to their borders lifts them high;

Or else withdraws

The mighty cause,

And leaves their famish'd channels dry.

How mixt, how frail,

How sure to fail,

Is every pleasure of mankind!

A damp destroys

My blooming joys,

While Britain's glory fires my mind.

For who can gaze

On restless seas,

Unstruck with life's more restless state?

Where all are tost,

And most are lost,

By tides of passion, blasts of fate?

The world's the main,

How vext! how vain!

Ambition swells, and anger foams;

May good men find,

Beneath the wind,

A noiseless shore, unruffled homes!

The public scene

Of harden'd men

Teach me, O teach me to despise!

The world few know

But to their woe,

Our crimes with our experience rise;

All tender sense

Is banish'd thence,

All maiden nature's first alarms

What shock'd before

Disgust no more,

And what disgusted has its charms.

In landscapes green

True bliss is seen,

With innocence, in shades, she sports;

In wealthy towns

Proud labour frowns,

And painted sorrow smiles in courts.

These scenes untried

Seduc'd my pride,

To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast;

Till wisdom came,

A hoary dame!

And told me pleasure was in rest.

"O may I steal

Along the vale

Of humble life, secure from foes!

My friend sincere!

My judgment clear!

And gentle business my repose!

"My mind be strong

To combat wrong!

Grateful, O king! for favours shown!

Soft to complain

For others' pain!

And bold to triumph o'er my own!

"(When fortune's kind)

Acute to find,

And warm to relish every boon!

And wise to still

Fantastic ill,

Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon!

"No fruitless toils!

No brainless broils!

Each moment levell'd at the mark!

Our day so short

Invites to sport;

Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark.

"Yet, prudence, still

Rein thou my will!

What's most important, make most dear!

For 'tis in this

Resides true bliss;

True bliss, a deity severe!

"When temper leans

To gayer scenes,

And serious life void moments spares,

The sylvan chase

My sinews brace!

Or song unbend my mind from cares!

"Nor shun, my soul!

The genial bowl,

Where mirth, good nature, spirit, flow!

Ingredients these,

Above, to please

The laughing gods, the wise, below.

"Though rich the vine,

More wit than wine,

More sense than wit, good-will than art,

May I provide!

Fair truth, my pride!

My joy, the converse of the heart!

"The gloomy brow,

The broken vow,

To distant climes, ye gods! remove!

The nobly soul'd

Their commerce hold

With words of truth and looks of love!

"O glorious aim!

O wealth supreme!

Divine benevolence of soul!

That greatly glows,

And freely flows,

And in one blessing grasps the whole;

"Prophetic schemes,

And golden dreams,

May I, unsanguine, cast away!

Have, what I have!

And live, not leave,

Enamour'd of the present day!

"My hours my own!

My faults unknown!

My chief revenue in content!

Then, leave one beam

Of honest fame!

And scorn the labour'd monument!

"Unhurt my urn!

Till that great turn

When mighty nature's self shall die!

Time cease to glide,

With human pride,

Sunk in the ocean of eternity."

A PARAPHRASE ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB.(25)

To the Right Honourable Thomas Lord Parker, Baron of Macclesfield, Lord

High Chancellor of Great Britain, etc. etc.

My Lord,

Though I have not the honour of being known to your lordship, I presume to

take a privilege which men of retirement are apt to think themselves in

possession of, as being the only method they have of making their way to

persons of your lordship's high station without struggling through

multitudes for access. I may possibly fail in my respect to your lordship,

even while I endeavour to show it most; but if I err, it is because I

imagined I ought not to make my first approach to one of your lordship's

exalted character with less ceremony than that of a dedication. It is

annexed to the condition of eminent merit, not to suffer more from the

malice of its enemies, than from the importunity of its admirers; and

perhaps it would be unjust, that your lordship should hope to be exempted

from the troubles, when you possess all the talents, of a patron.

I have here a fair occasion to celebrate those sublime qualities, of which

a whole nation is sensible, were it not inconsistent with the design of my

present application. By the just discharge of your great employments, your

lordship may well deserve the prayers of the distressed, the thanks of

your country, and the approbation of your royal master: this indeed is a

reason why every good Briton should applaud your lordship; but it is

equally a reason why none should disturb you in the execution of your

important affairs by works of fancy and amusement. I was therefore induced

to make this address to your lordship, by considering you rather in the

amiable light of a person distinguished for a refined taste of the polite

arts, and the candour that usually attends it, than in the dignity of your

public character.

The greatness and solemnity of the subjects treated of in the following

work cannot fail in some measure to recommend it to a person who holds in

the utmost veneration those sacred books from which it is taken; and would

at the same time justify to the world my choice of the great name prefixed

to it, could I be assured that the undertaking had not suffered in my

hands. Thus much I think myself obliged to say; that if this little

performance had not been very indulgently spoken of by some, whose

judgment is universally allowed in writings of this nature, I had not

dared to gratify my ambition in offering it to your lordship: I am

sensible that I am endeavouring to excuse one vanity by another; but I

hope I shall meet with pardon for it, since it is visibly intended to show

the great submission and respect with which I am, my lord, your lordship's

most obedient and most humble servant,

EDWARD YOUNG.

Thrice happy Job(26) long liv'd in regal state,

Nor saw the sumptuous East a prince so great;

Whose worldly stores in such abundance flow'd,

Whose heart with such exalted virtue glow'd.

At length misfortunes take their turn to reign,

And ills on ills succeed; a dreadful train!

What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong,

The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue,

And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er

So thick with pains, they wanted room for more?

A change so sad what mortal heart could bear?

Exhausted woe had left him nought to fear;

But gave him all to grief. Low earth he prest,

Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast.

His friends around the deep affliction mourn'd,

Felt all his pangs, and groan for groan return'd;

In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent,

And seven long days in solemn silence spent;

A debt of rev'rence to distress so great!

Then Job contain'd no more; but cursed his fate.

His day of birth, its inauspicious light

He wishes sunk in shades of endless night,

And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave

Death, instant death; impatient for the grave,

That seat of bliss, that mansion of repose,

Where rest and mortals are no longer foes;

Where counsellors are hush'd, and mighty kings

(O happy turn!) no more are wretched things.

His words were daring, and displeas'd his friends;

His conduct they reprove, and he defends;

And now they kindled into warm debate,

And sentiments oppos'd with equal heat;

Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield,

And summon all their reason to the field:

So high at length their arguments were wrought,

They reach'd the last extent of human thought:

A pause ensu'd.--When, lo! Heaven interpos'd,

And awfully the long contention clos'd.

Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise,

A sudden whirlwind blacken'd all the skies:

(They saw, and trembled!(27)) From the darkness broke

A dreadful voice, and thus th' Almighty spoke.

Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain,

Censures my conduct, and reproves my reign?

Lifts up his thoughts against me from the dust,

And tells the world's Creator what is just?

Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye,

Face my demand, and give it a reply:

Where didst thou dwell at nature's early birth?

Who laid foundations for the spacious earth?

Who on its surface did extend the line,

Its form determine, and its bulk confine?

Who fix'd the corner-stone? What hand, declare,

Hung it on nought, and fasten'd it on air;

When the bright morning stars in concert sung,

When heaven's high arch with loud hosannas rung;

When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd,

And the wide concave thunder'd with the sound?

Earth's num'rous kingdoms, hast thou view'd them all?

And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball?

Who heav'd the mountain, which sublimely stands,

And casts its shadow into distant lands?

Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep,

Can that wide world in due subjection keep?

I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow'd side,

And did a bason for the floods provide;

I chain'd them with my word; the boiling sea,

Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree;

"(28)Thus far, thy floating tide shall be convey'd;

And here, O main, be thy proud billows stay'd."

Hast thou explor'd the secrets of the deep,

Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep?

Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day,

Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea?

Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread,

Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head?

Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee?

Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see?

E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade

To the black portal through th' incumbent shade?

Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide

My counsels from the ken of human pride.

Where dwells the light? In what refulgent dome?

And where has darkness made her dismal home?

Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught

With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought;

Since nature was call'd forth when thou wast by,

And into being rose beneath thine eye!

Are mists begotten? Who their father knew?

From whom descend the pearly drops of dew?

To bind the stream by night, what hand can boast,

Or whiten morning with the hoary frost?

Whose powerful breath, from northern regions blown,

Touches the sea, and turns it into stone?

The like spirit in these two passages is no bad concurrent

argument, that Moses is author of the book of Job.]

A sudden desart spreads o'er realms defac'd,

And lays one half of the creation waste?

Thou know'st me not; thy blindness cannot see

How vast a distance parts thy God from thee.

Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou

In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow?

And, when day triumphs in meridian light,

Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night?

Who launch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll

Suspended seas aloft, from pole to pole?

Who can refresh the burning sandy plain,

And quench the summer with a waste of rain?

Who, in rough desarts, far from human toil,

Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile?

There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shone,

And spreads its beauties to the sun alone.

To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high,

And shuts the sluices of th' exhausted sky

When earth no longer mourns her gaping veins,

Her naked mountains, and her russet plains;

But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields

Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields;

When groves and forests lavish all their bloom,

And earth and heaven are fill'd with rich perfume?

Hast thou e'er scal'd my wintry skies, and seen

Of hail and snows my northern magazine?

These the dread treasures of mine anger are,

My funds of vengeance for the day of war,

When clouds rain death, and storms, at my command,

Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land.

Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast,

Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast?

Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour?

Who strikes through nature with the solemn roar

Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall,

And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball?

Not he who trembles at the darted fires,

Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires.

Who drew the comet out to such a size,

And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies?

Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he

Glare on the nations, and denounce, from thee?

Who on low earth can moderate the rein,

That guides the stars along th' ethereal plain?

Appoint their seasons, and direct their course,

Their lustre brighten, and supply their force?

Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain,

And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain?

Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere,

Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year?

Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know,

And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow?

Mine is the night, with all her stars; I pour

Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store.

Dost thou pronounce where day-light shall be born,

And draw the purple curtain of the morn;

Awake the sun, and bid him come away,

And glad thy world with his obsequious ray?

Hast thou, inthron'd in flaming glory, driven

Triumphant round the spacious ring of heaven?

That pomp of light, what hand so far displays,

That distant earth lies basking in the blaze?

Who did the soul with her rich powers invest,

And light up reason in the human breast?

To shine, with fresh increase of lustre, bright,

When stars and sun are set in endless night?

To these my various questions make reply.

Th' Almighty spoke; and, speaking, shook the sky.

What then, Chaldaean sire, was thy surprise!

Thus thou, with trembling heart, and downcast eyes:

"Once and again, which I in groans deplore,

My tongue has err'd; but shall presume no more.

My voice is in eternal silence bound,

And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground."

He ceas'd: when, lo! again th' Almighty spoke;

The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke.

Can that arm measure with an arm divine?

And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine?

Or in the hollow of thy hand contain

The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main,

When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise

In all their rage, and dash the distant skies?

Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd;

And be the grandeur of thy power display'd;

Put on omnipotence, and, frowning, make

The spacious round of the creation shake;

Dispatch thy vengeance, bid it overthow

Triumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low,

And crumble them to dust. When this is done,

I grant thy safety lodg'd in thee alone;

Of thee thou art, and mayst undaunted stand

Behind the buckler of thine own right hand.

Fond man! the vision of a moment made!

Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!

What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd,

What insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd?

When (29)pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood

Loud calls on God, importunate for food,

Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request,

And stills the clamour of the craving nest?

Who in the stupid ostrich(30) has subdu'd

A parent's care, and fond inquietude?

While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found,

Without an owner, on the sandy ground;

Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie,

And borrow life from an indulgent sky;

Adopted by the sun, in blaze of day,

They ripen under his prolific ray.

Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread

May crush her young in their neglected bed.

(31)What time she skims along the field with speed,

(32)She scorns the rider, and pursuing steed.

How rich the peacock!(33) what bright glories run

From plume to plume, and vary in the sun!

He proudly spreads them, to the golden ray

Gives all his colours, and adorns the day;

With conscious state the specious round displays,

And slowly moves amid the waving blaze.

Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise,

Perpetual summer, and a change of skies?

When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind,

Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind;

The sun returning, she returns again,

Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men.

Tho' strong the hawk,(34) tho' practis'd well to fly,

An eagle drops her in a lower sky;

An eagle, when, deserting human sight,

She seeks the sun in her unwearied flight:

Did thy command her yellow pinion lift

So high in air, and set her on the clift,

Where far above thy world she dwells alone,

And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own;

(35)Thence wide o'er nature takes her dread survey,

And with a glance predestinates her prey?

She feasts her young with blood; and, hov'ring o'er

Th' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promis'd gore.

(36)Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd,

Roll o'er the mountain goat, and forest hind,

While pregnant they a mother's load sustain?

They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain.

Hale are their young, from human frailties freed;

Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed;

They live at once; forsake the dam's warm side;

Take the wide world, with nature for their guide;

Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade;

And find a home in each delightful shade.

Will the tall reem, which knows no lord but me,

Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee;

Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke,

Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke?

Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care;

Lay on his neck the toil of all the year;

Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors,

And cast his load among thy gather'd stores.

Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge,

And break his bonds, and bid him live at large,

Through the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam,

And lose himself in his unbounded home?

By nature's hand magnificently fed,

His meal is on the range of mountains spread;

As in pure air aloft he bounds along,

He sees in distant smoke the city throng;

Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother'd train,

The threat'ning driver, and the servile rein.

Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest

With thunder his robust distended chest?

No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays;

'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze;

To paw the vale he proudly takes delight,

And triumphs in the fulness of his might;

High rais'd he snuffs the battle from afar,

And burns to plunge amid the raging war;

And mocks at death, and throws his foam around,

And in a storm of fury shakes the ground.

How does his firm, his rising heart, advance

Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance;

While his fix'd eyeballs meet the dazzling shield,

Gaze, and return the lightning of the field!

He sinks the sense of pain in gen'rous pride,

Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side;

But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast

Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last.

But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks,

Grimly majestic in his lonely walks;

When round he glares, all living creatures fly;

He clears the desart with his rolling eye.

Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command,

And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand?

Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow,

And to his gloomy den the morsel throw,

Where bent on death lie hid his tawny brood,

And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood;

Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day,

In darkness wrapt, and slumber o'er their prey?

(37)By the pale moon they take their destin'd round,

And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground.

Now shrieks, and dying groans, the desart fill;

They rage, they rend; their rav'nous jaws distill

With crimson foam; and, when the banquet's o'er,

They stride away, and paint their steps with gore;

In flight alone the shepherd puts his trust,

And shudders at the talon in the dust.

Mild is my behemoth, though large his frame;

Smooth is his temper, and represt his flame,

While unprovok'd. This native of the flood

Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore for food;

Earth sinks beneath him, as he moves along

To seek the herbs, and mingle with the throng.

See with what strength his harden'd loins are bound,

All over proof and shut against a wound.

How like a mountain cedar moves his tail!

Nor can his complicated sinews fail.

Built high and wide, his solid bones surpass

The bars of steel; his ribs are ribs of brass;

His port majestic, and his armed jaw,

Give the wide forest, and the mountain, law.

The mountains feed him; there the beasts admire

The mighty stranger, and in dread retire:

At length his greatness nearer they survey,

Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey.

The fens and marshes are his cool retreat,

His noontide shelter from the burning heat;

Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made,

And groves of willows give him all their shade.

His eye drinks Jordan up, when, fir'd with drought,

He trusts to turn its current down his throat;

In lessen'd waves it creeps along the plain:

(38)He sinks a river, and he thirsts again.

(39)Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side,

Cast forth thy line into the swelling tide:

With slender hair leviathan command,

And stretch his vastness on the loaded strand.

Will he become thy servant? Will he own

Thy lordly nod, and tremble at thy frown?

Or with his sport amuse thy leisure day,

And, bound in silk, with thy soft maidens play?

Shall pompous banquets swell with such a prize?

And the bowl journey round his ample size?

Or the debating merchants share the prey,

And various limbs to various marts convey?

Thro' his firm skull what steel its way can win?

What forceful engine can subdue his skin?

Fly far, and live; tempt not his matchless might:

The bravest shrink to cowards in his sight;

(40)The rashest dare not rouse him up: Who then

Shall turn on me, among the sons of men?

Am I a debtor? Hast thou ever heard

Whence come the gifts that are on me conferr'd?

My lavish fruit a thousand valleys fills,

And mine the herds, that graze a thousand hills:

Earth, sea, and air, all nature is my own;

And stars and sun are dust beneath my throne.

And dar'st thou with the world's great Father vie,

Thou, who dost tremble at my creature's eye?

At full my huge leviathan shall rise,

Boast all his strength, and spread his wondrous size.

Who, great in arms, e'er stripp'd his shining mail,

Or crown'd his triumph with a single scale?

Whose heart sustains him to draw near? (41)Behold,

Destruction yawns; his spacious jaws unfold,

And, marshall'd round the wide expanse, disclose

Teeth edg'd with death, and crowding rows on rows:

What hideous fangs on either side arise!

And what a deep abyss between them lies!

Mete with thy lance, and with thy plummet sound,

The one how long, the other how profound.

His bulk is charg'd with such a furious soul,

That clouds of smoke from his spread nostrils roll,

As from a furnace; and, when rous'd his ire,

(42)Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire.

The rage of tempests, and the roar of seas,

Thy terror, this thy great superior please;

Strength on his ample shoulder sits in state;

His well-join'd limbs are dreadfully complete;

His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part;

As steel his nerves, as adamant his heart.

When, late awak'd, he rears him from the floods,

And, stretching forth his stature to the clouds,

Writhes in the sun aloft his scaly height,

And strikes the distant hills with transient light,

Far round are fatal damps of terror spread,

The mighty fear, nor blush to own their dread.

(43)Large is his front; and, when his burnish'd eyes

Lift their broad lids, the morning seems to rise.

In vain may death in various shapes invade,

The swift-wing'd arrow, the descending blade;

His naked breast their impotence defies;

The dart rebounds, the brittle fauchion flies.

Shut in himself, the war without he hears,

Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears;

The cumber'd strand their wasted volleys strow;

His sport, the rage and labour of the foe.

His pastimes like a cauldron boil the flood,

And blacken ocean with the rising mud;

The billows feel him, as he works his way;

His hoary footsteps shine along the sea;

The foam high-wrought, with white divides the green,

And distant sailors point where death has been.

His like earth bears not on her spacious face:

Alone in nature stands his dauntless race,

For utter ignorance of fear renown'd,

In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around:

Makes every swoln, disdainful heart, subside,

And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride.

Then the Chaldaean eas'd his lab'ring breast,

With full conviction of his crime opprest.

"Thou canst accomplish all things, Lord of might:

And every thought is naked to thy sight.

But, oh! thy ways are wonderful, and lie

Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye.

Oft have I heard of thine Almighty power;

But never saw thee till this dreadful hour.

O'erwhelm'd with shame, the Lord of life I see,

Abhor myself, and give my soul to thee.

Nor shall my weakness tempt thine anger more:

Man is not made to question, but adore."

ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAMOUS PIECE OF THE CRUCIFIXION;

Who Is Said To Have Stabbed a Person That He Might Draw It More

Naturally.(44)

Whilst his Redeemer on his canvass dies,

Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies:

The daring artist, cruelly serene,

Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien;

He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries,

Examines every spirit as it flies:

He studies torment, dives in mortal woe,

To rouse up every pang repeats his blow;

Each rising agony, each dreadful grace,

Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour's face.

Oh glorious theft! oh nobly wicked draught!

With its full charge of death each feature fraught,

Such wondrous force the magic colours boast,

From his own skill he starts in horror lost.

TO MR. ADDISON,

On the Tragedy of Cato.