CANTO V.

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears;

But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.

In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,

For who can move when fair Belinda fails?

Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,

While Anna begg'd and Dido raged in vain.

Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan;

Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:

'Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most,

The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 10

Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford?

Why angels call'd, and angel-like adored?

Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux?

Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?

How vain are all these glories, all our pains,

Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:

That men may say, when we the front-box grace,

Behold the first in virtue as in face!

Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,

Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old-age away; 20

Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?

To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint,

Nor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint.

But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,

Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to gray;

Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,

And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;

What then remains, but well our power to use,

And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose? 30

And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,

When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.'

So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued;

Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude.

'To arms, to arms!' the fierce virago cries,

And swift as lightning to the combat flies.

All side in parties, and begin the attack;

Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; 40

Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise,

And bass and treble voices strike the skies.

No common weapons in their hands are found,

Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage,

And heavenly breasts with human passions rage;

'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms,

And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:

Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around,

Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 50

Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way,

And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!

Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height

Clapp'd his glad wings, and sat to view the fight;

Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey

The growing combat, or assist the fray.

While through the press enraged Thalestris flies,

And scatters death around from both her eyes,

A beau and witling perish'd in the throng,

One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60

'O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,'

Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.

A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,

'Those eyes are made so killing!'--was his last.

Thus on Maeander's[36] flowery margin lies

The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,

Chloe stepped in, and kill'd him with a frown;

She smiled to see the doughty hero slain,

But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,

Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair;

The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;

At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.

See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,

With more than usual lightning in her eyes:

Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try,

Who sought no more than on his foe to die.

But this bold lord, with manly strength endued,

She with one finger and a thumb subdued: 80

Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,

A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;

The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,

The pungent grains of titillating dust.

Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,

And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.

'Now meet thy fate!' incensed Belinda cried,

And drew a deadly bodkin from her side,

(The same, his ancient personage to deck,

Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 90

In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,

Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:

Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,

The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;

Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs,

Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)

'Boast not my fall,' (he cried) 'insulting foe!

Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.

Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind: 100

All that I dread is leaving you behind!

Rather than so, ah! let me still survive,

And burn in Cupid's flames,--but burn alive.'

'Restore the lock!' she cries; and all around

'Restore the lock!' the vaulted roofs rebound.

Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain

Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain.

But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,

And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!

The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,

In every place is sought, but sought in vain: 110

With such a prize no mortal must be blest,

So Heaven decrees! with Heaven who can contest?

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,

Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.

There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases,

And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.

There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,

And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound,

The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers,

The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120

Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,

Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.

But trust the Muse--she saw it upward rise,

Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:

(So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew,

To Proculus alone confess'd in view)

A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,

And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.

Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright,

The heaven's bespangling with dishevell'd light. 130

The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,

And, pleased, pursue its progress through the skies.

This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey,

And hail with music its propitious ray.

This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take,

And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.

This Partridge[37] soon shall view in cloudless skies,

When next he looks through Galileo's eyes;

And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom

The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 140

Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,

Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!

Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,

Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost.

For, after all the murders of your eye,

When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;

When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,

And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,

This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,

And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 150

* * * * *

WINDSOR-FOREST.[38]

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

'Non injussa cano: te nostrae, Vare, myricae,

Te nemus omne canet; nee Phoebo gratior ulla est,

Quam sibi quae Vari praescripsit pagina nomen.'

VIRG.

Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats,

At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats,

Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan Maids!

Unlock your springs, and open all your shades.

Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring!

What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing?

The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,

Live in description, and look green in song:

These, were my breast inspired with equal flame,

Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. 10

Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,

Here earth and water seem to strive again;

Not chaos-like, together crush'd and bruised,

But, as the world, harmoniously confused;

Where order in variety we see,

And where, though all things differ, all agree.

Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display,

And part admit, and part exclude the day;

As some coy nymph her lover's warm address

Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. 20

There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,

Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.

Here in full light the russet plains extend:

There, wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend.

Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,

And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,

That crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,

Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.

Let India boast her plants, nor envy we

The weeping amber or the balmy tree, 30

While by our oaks the precious loads are born,

And realms commanded which those trees adorn.

Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,

Though gods assembled grace his towering height.

Than what more humble mountains offer here,

Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.

See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd,

Here blushing Flora paints the enamell'd ground,

Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,

And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand; 40

Rich industry sits smiling on the plains,

And peace and plenty tell a Stuart[39] reigns.

Not thus the land appear'd in ages past,

A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste,

To savage beasts and savage laws[40] a prey,

And kings more furious and severe than they;

Who claim'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods,

The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods:

Cities laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves,

(For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves). 50

What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd,

And even the elements a tyrant sway'd?

In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain,

Soft showers distill'd, and suns grew warm in vain;

The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields,

And famish'd dies amidst his ripen'd fields.

What wonder, then, a beast or subject slain

Were equal crimes in a despotic reign?

Both doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled,

But while the subject starved, the beast was fed. 60

Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began,

A mighty hunter, and his prey was man:

Our haughty Norman boasts that barbarous name,

And makes his trembling slaves the royal game.

The fields are ravish'd[41] from the industrious swains,

From men their cities, and from gods their fanes:

The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er;

The hollow winds through naked temples roar;

Round broken columns clasping ivy twined;

O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind; 70

The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires,

And savage howlings fill the sacred choirs.

Awed by his Nobles, by his Commons cursed,

The oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst,

Stretch'd o'er the poor and Church his iron rod,

And served alike his vassals and his God.

Whom even the Saxon spared, and bloody Dane,

The wanton victims of his sport remain.

But see, the man who spacious regions gave

A waste for beasts, himself denied a grave![42] 80

Stretch'd on the lawn, his second hope[43] survey,

At once the chaser, and at once the prey:

Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart,

Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart.

Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects' cries,

Nor saw displeased the peaceful cottage rise.

Then gathering flocks on unknown mountains fed,

O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread,

The forests wonder'd at the unusual grain,

And secret transport touch'd the conscious swain. 90

Fair Liberty, Britannia's goddess, rears

Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years.

Ye vigorous swains! while youth ferments your blood,

And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,

Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,

Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.

When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds,

And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds,

Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,

Panting with hope, he tries the furrow'd grounds; 100

But when the tainted gales the game betray,

Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey:

Secure they trust the unfaithful field beset,

Till hovering o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net.

Thus (if small things we may with great compare)

When Albion sends her eager sons to war,

Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest,

Near, and more near, the closing lines invest;

Sudden they seize the amazed, defenceless prize,

And high in air Britannia's standard flies. 110

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,

And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:

Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,

Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.

Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,

His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,

The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,

His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?

Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,

The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny. 120

To plains with well-breath'd beagles we repair,

And trace the mazes of the circling hare;

(Beasts, urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue,

And learn of man each other to undo.)

With slaughtering gun the unwearied fowler roves,

When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves;

Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade,

And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade.

He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;

Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky; 130

Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath,

The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death:

Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,

They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade,

Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,

The patient fisher takes his silent stand,

Intent, his angle trembling in his hand:

With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed,

And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. 140

Our plenteous streams a various race supply,

The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,

The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd,

The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold,

Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,

And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains.

Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car:

The youth rush eager to the sylvan war,

Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround,

Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound. 150

The impatient courser pants in every vein,

And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain:

Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross'd,

And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.

See the bold youth strain up the threatening steep,

Rush through the thickets, down the valleys sweep,

Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager speed,

And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed.

Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,

The immortal huntress, and her virgin-train; 160

Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen

As bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen,[44]

Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign,

The earth's fair light, and empress of the main.

Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd,

And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade;

Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove,

Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove;

Here, arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn,

Her buskin'd virgins traced the dewy lawn. 170

Above the rest a rural nymph was famed,

Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named;

(Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast,

The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last).

Scarce could the goddess from her nymph be known,

But by the crescent and the golden zone.

She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care;

A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair;

A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,

And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.

It chanced, as eager of the chase, the maid

Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd, 180

Pan saw and loved, and, burning with desire,

Pursued her flight, her flight increased his fire.

Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,

When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;

Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,

When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves;

As from the god she flew with furious pace,

Or as the god, more furious, urged the chase.

Now fainting, sinking, pale the nymph appears;

Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears; 190

And now his shadow reach'd her as she run,

His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun;

And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,

Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.

In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,

Nor could Diana help her injured maid.

Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain:

'Ah, Cynthia! ah--though banish'd from thy train,

Let me, oh! let me, to the shades repair,

My native shades--there weep, and murmur there.' 200

She said, and melting as in tears she lay,

In a soft, silver stream dissolved away.

The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,

For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;

Still bears the name[45] the hapless virgin bore,

And bathes the forest where she ranged before.

In her chaste current oft the goddess laves,

And with celestial tears augments the waves.

Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies

The headlong mountains and the downward skies, 210

The watery landscape of the pendent woods,

And absent trees that tremble in the floods;

In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,

And floating forests paint the waves with green,

Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering streams,

Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.

Thou, too, great Father of the British floods!

With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods;

Where towering oaks their growing honours rear,

And future navies on thy shores appear. 220

Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives

A wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives.

No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,

No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear.

Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays,

While led along the skies his current strays,

As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes,

To grace the mansion of our earthly gods:

Nor all his stars above a lustre show,

Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; 230

Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,

Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

Happy the man whom this bright court approves,

His sovereign favours, and his country loves:

Happy next him who to these shades retires,

Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires:

Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,

Successive study, exercise, and ease.

He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,

And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: 240

With chemic art exalts the mineral powers,

And draws the aromatic souls of flowers:

Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;

O'er figured worlds now travels with his eye;

Of ancient writ unlocks the learnèd store,

Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er:

Or wandering thoughtful in the silent wood,

Attends the duties of the wise and good,

To observe a mean, be to himself a friend,

To follow nature, and regard his end; 250

Or looks on Heaven with more than mortal eyes,

Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,

Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,

Survey the region, and confess her home!

Such was the life great Scipio once admired,

Thus Atticus, and Trumbull[46] thus retired.

Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,

Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,

Bear me, oh, bear me to sequester'd scenes,

The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens: 260

To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,

Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill.[47]

(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,

While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.)

I seem through consecrated walks to rove,

I hear soft music die along the grove:

Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,

By godlike poets venerable made:

Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;

There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue.[48] 270

Oh early lost! what tears the river shed,

When the sad pomp along his banks was led!

His drooping swans on every note expire,

And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre.

Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice,

No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;

Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung

His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?

But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!

Are these revived? or is it Granville sings? 280

'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats,

And call the Muses to their ancient seats;

To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes,

To crown the forest with immortal greens,

Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,

And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;

To sing those honours you deserve to wear,

And add new lustre to her silver star.

Here noble Surrey[49] felt the sacred rage,

Surrey, the Granville of a former age: 290

Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,

Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance:

In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre,

To the same notes, of love and soft desire:

Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,

Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.

Oh, wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,

What kings first breathed upon her winding shore,

Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains

In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains! 300

With Edward's acts[50] adorn the shining page,

Stretch his long triumphs down through every age,

Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressy's glorious field,

The lilies blazing on the regal shield:

Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,

And leave inanimate the naked wall,

Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear,

And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.

Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,[51]

And palms eternal flourish round his urn. 310

Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps,

And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps.[52]

Whom not the extended Albion could contain,

From old Belerium to the northern main,

The grave unites; where ev'n the great find rest,

And blended lie the oppressor and the oppress'd!

Make sacred Charles' tomb for ever known,

(Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone)

Oh fact accursed! what tears has Albion shed,

Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled! 320

She saw her sons with purple deaths expire,

Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,

A dreadful series of intestine wars,

Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars.

At length great Anna said--'Let discord cease!'

She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace!

In that blest moment, from his oozy bed

Old Father Thames advanced his reverend head;

His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream

His shining horns diffused a golden gleam: 330

Graved on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides

His swelling waters, and alternate tides;

The figured streams in waves of silver roll'd,

And on their banks Augusta[53] rose in gold.

Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,

Who swell with tributary urns his flood;

First the famed authors of his ancient name,

The winding Isis and the fruitful Thame:

The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;

The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd; 340

Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave;

And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave;

The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;

The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;

And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;

And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood.

High in the midst, upon his urn reclined,

(His sea-green mantle waving with the wind)

The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes

Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise; 350

Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar,

And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore.

Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days,

That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise!

Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold,

Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,

From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows,

And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;

These now no more shall be the Muse's themes,

Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. 360

Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine,

And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine,

Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train;

Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign.

No more my sons shall dye with British blood

Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood:

Safe on my shore each unmolested swain

Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;

The shady empire shall retain no trace

Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase; 370

The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown,

And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone.

Behold! the ascending villas on my side,

Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide,

Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase,

And temples rise,[54] the beauteous works of Peace.

I see, I see, where two fair cities bend

Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!

There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,

The world's great oracle in times to come; 380

There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen

Once more to bend before a British queen.

Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods,

And half thy forests rush into the floods,

Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,

To the bright regions of the rising day;

Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,

Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;

Or under southern skies exalt their sails,

Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales! 390

For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,

The coral redden, and the ruby glow,

The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,

And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold.

The time shall come when, free as seas or wind,

Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,

Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,

And seas but join the regions they divide;

Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,

And the new world launch forth to seek the old. 400

Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,

And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side,

And naked youths and painted chiefs admire

Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!

O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,

Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;

Till the freed Indians in their native groves

Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves,

Peru once more a race of kings behold,

And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold. 410

Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell,

In brazen bonds, shall barbarous Discord dwell;

Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,

And mad Ambition shall attend her there:

There purple Vengeance bathed in gore retires,

Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:

There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel,

And Persecution mourn her broken wheel:

There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,

And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain. 420

Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays

Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:

The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,

And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.

My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,

Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,

Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,

And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.

Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days,

Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise; 430

Enough for me, that to the listening swains

First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.

* * * * *

VARIATIONS.

VER. 3-6, originally thus:--

Chaste Goddess of the woods,

Nymphs of the vales, and Naïads of the floods,

Lead me through arching bowers, and glimmering glades.

Unlock your springs, &c.

VER. 25-28. Originally thus:--

Why should I sing our better suns or air,

Whose vital draughts prevent the leech's care,

While through fresh fields the enlivening odours breathe,

Or spread with vernal blooms the purple heath?

VER. 49, 50. Originally thus in the MS.--

From towns laid waste, to dens and caves they ran

(For who first stoop'd to be a slave was man.)

VER. 57, 58:--

No wonder savages or subjects slain--

But subjects starved while savages were fed.

VER. 91-94:--

Oh may no more a foreign master's rage,

With wrongs yet legal, curse a future age!

Still spread, fair Liberty! thy heavenly wings,

Breathe plenty on the fields, and fragrance on the springs.

VER. 97-100:--

When yellow autumn summer's heat succeeds,

And into wine the purple harvest bleeds,

The partridge feeding in the new-shorn fields,

Both morning sports and evening pleasures yields.

VER. 107-110. It stood thus in the first editions:--

Pleased, in the General's sight, the host lie down

Sudden before some unsuspecting town;

The young, the old, one instant makes our prize,

And o'er their captive heads Britannia's standard flies.

VER. 126--

O'er rustling leaves around the naked groves.

VER. 129--

The fowler lifts his levell'd tube on high.

VER. 233-236--

Happy the man, who to the shades retires,

But doubly happy, if the Muse inspires!

Blest whom the sweets of home-felt quiet please;

But far more blest, who study joins with ease.

VER. 231, 232. It stood thus in the MS.--

And force great Jove, if Jove's a lover still,

To change Olympus, &c.

VER. 265-268. It stood thus in the MS.--

Methinks around your holy scenes I rove,

And hear your music echoing through the grove:

With transport visit each inspiring shade

By god-like poets venerable made.

VER. 273, 274--

What sighs, what murmurs fill'd the vocal shore!

His tuneful swans were heard to sing no more.

VER. 288. All the lines that follow were not added to the poem till the

year 1710. What immediately followed this, and made the conclusion, were

these:--

My humble Muse in unambitious strains

Paints the green forests and the flowery plains;

Where I obscurely pass my careless days,

Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise,

Enough for me that to the listening swains

First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.

VER. 305, 306. Originally thus in the MS.--

When brass decays, when trophies lie o'erthrown,

And mouldering into dust drops the proud stone.

VER. 319-322. Originally thus in the MS.--

Oh fact accurst! oh sacrilegious brood,

Sworn to rebellion, principled in blood!

Since that dire morn what tears has Albion shed,

Gods! what new wounds, &c.

VER. 325, 326. Thus in the MS.--

Till Anna rose and bade the Furies cease;

'Let there be peace'--she said, and all was peace.

Between VER. 328 and 329, originally stood these lines--

From shore to shore exulting shouts he heard,

O'er all his banks a lambent light appear'd,

With sparkling flames heaven's glowing concave shone,

Fictitious stars, and glories not her own.

He saw, and gently rose above the stream;

His shining horns diffuse a golden gleam:

With pearl and gold his towery front was dress'd,

The tributes of the distant East and West.

VER. 361-364. Originally thus in the MS.--

Let Venice boast her towers amidst the main,

Where the rough Adrian swells and roars in vain;

Here not a town, but spacious realm shall have

A sure foundation on the rolling wave.

VER. 383-387 were originally thus--

Now shall our fleets the bloody cross display

To the rich regions of the rising day,

Or those green isles, where headlong Titan steeps

His hissing axle in the Atlantic deeps:

Tempt icy seas, &c.

ODE ON ST CECILIA'S DAY,

MDCCVIII.

1 Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;

The breathing instruments inspire,

Wake into voice each silent string,

And sweep the sounding lyre;

In a sadly-pleasing strain

Let the warbling lute complain:

Let the loud trumpet sound,

Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:

While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,

The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers soft and clear,

Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading sounds the skies;

Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,

In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;

Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away,

In a dying, dying fall.

2 By Music, minds an equal temper know,

Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.

If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,

Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;

Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,

Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors she fires with animated sounds;

Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;

Melancholy lifts her head,

Morpheus rouses from his bed,

Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Listening Envy drops her snakes;

Intestine war no more our passions wage,

And giddy factions hear away their rage.

3 But when our country's cause provokes to arms,

How martial music every bosom warms!

So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,

High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,

While Argo saw her kindred trees

Descend from Pelion to the main.

Transported demigods stood round,

And men grew heroes at the sound,

Inflamed with glory's charms:

Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,

And half unsheath'd the shining blade:

And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,

'To arms, to arms, to arms!'

4 But when through all the infernal bounds,

Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,

Love, strong as death, the poet led

To the pale nations of the dead,

What sounds were heard,

What scenes appear'd,

O'er all the dreary coasts!

Dreadful gleams,

Dismal screams,

Fires that glow,

Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortured ghosts!

But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre;

And see! the tortured ghosts respire,

See, shady forms advance!

Thy stone, O Sisyphus! stands still,

Ixion rests upon his wheel.

And the pale spectres dance!

The Furies sink upon their iron beds,

And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.

5 'By the streams that ever flow,

By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er the Elysian flowers;

By those happy souls who dwell

In yellow meads of asphodel,

Or amaranthine bowers;

By the hero's armèd shades,

Glittering through the gloomy glades;

By the youths that died for love,

Wandering in the myrtle grove,

Restore, restore Eurydice to life:

Oh take the husband, or return the wife!'

He sung, and hell consented

To hear the poet's prayer:

Stern Proserpine relented,

And gave him back the fair.

Thus song could prevail

O'er death and o'er hell,

A conquest how hard and how glorious!

Though fate had fast bound her

With Styx nine times round her,

Yet Music and Love were victorious.

6 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:

Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!

How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?

No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.

Now under hanging mountains,

Beside the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders,

Rolling in meanders,

All alone,

Unheard, unknown,

He makes his moan;

And calls her ghost,

For ever, ever, ever lost!

Now with Furies surrounded,

Despairing, confounded,

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's snows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies;

Hark! Haemus resounds with the bacchanals' cries--

Ah see, he dies!

Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,

Eurydice still trembled on his tongue,

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

7 Music the fiercest grief can charm,

And Fate's severest rage disarm:

Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please:

Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above.

This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confined the sound.

When the full organ joins the tuneful choir,

The immortal powers incline their ear;

Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,

While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;

And angels lean from heaven to hear.

Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,

To bright Cecilia greater power is given;

His numbers raised a shade from hell,

Hers lift the soul to heaven.

TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;

Groves, where immortal sages taught:

Where heavenly visions Plato fired,

And Epicurus' lay inspired;

In vain your guiltless laurels stood

Unspotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,

And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.

ANTISTROPHE I.

O heaven-born sisters! source of art!

Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;

Who lead fair Virtue's train along,

Moral truth, and mystic song!

To what new clime, what distant sky,

Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?

Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore,

Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

When Athens sinks by fates unjust,

When wild barbarians spurn her dust;

Perhaps even Britain's utmost shore

Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore,

See Arts her savage sons control,

And Athens rising near the pole!

Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand,

And civil madness tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Ye gods! what justice rules the ball?

Freedom and Arts together fall;

Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,

And men, once ignorant, are slaves.

Oh, cursed effects of civil hate,

In every age, in every state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,

Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SEMICHORUS.

O tyrant Love! hast thou possess'd

The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?

Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,

And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.

Love, soft intruder, enters here,

But entering learns to be sincere.

Marcus with blushes owns he loves,

And Brutus tenderly reproves.

Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,

Which Nature has impress'd

Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire

The mild and generous breast?

CHORUS.

Love's purer flames the gods approve;

The gods and Brutus bend to love:

Brutus for absent Portia sighs,

And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.

What is loose love? a transient gust,

Spent in a sudden storm of lust,

A vapour fed from wild desire,

A wandering, self-consuming fire.

But Hymen's kinder flames unite,

And burn for ever one;

Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,

Productive as the sun.

SEMICHORUS.

Oh source of every social tie,

United wish, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,

As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!

Whether his hoary sire he spies,

While thousand grateful thoughts arise;

Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;

Or views his smiling progeny;

What tender passions take their turns,

What home-felt raptures move?

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,

With reverence, hope, and love.

CHORUS.

Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises,

Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises,

Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!

Purest love's unwasting treasure,

Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,

Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;

Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO.[55]

Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite,

Codrus writes on, and will for ever write.

The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone,

As clocks run fastest when most lead is on;

What though no bees around your cradle flew,

Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew,

Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead

A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head.

When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre,

Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.

Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same,

As meat digested takes a different name,

But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,

Since no reprisals can be made on thee.

Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight

(Though ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height.

So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly,

And ponderous slugs move nimbly through the sky.

Sure Bavius copied Maevius to the full,

And Chaerilus taught Codrus to be dull;

Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'er

This needless labour; and contend no more

To prove a _dull succession_ to be true,

Since 'tis enough we find it so in you.

* * * * *

ODE ON SOLITUDE.[56]

1 Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

2 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

3 Blest, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day;

4 Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

Together mix'd; sweet recreation;

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

5 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

* * * * *

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.[57]

1 Vital spark of heavenly flame!

Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:

Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,

Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,

And let me languish into life!

2 Hark! they whisper; angels say,

'Sister Spirit, come away!'

What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my senses, shuts my sight,

Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?

Tell me, my soul, can this be Death?

3 The world recedes; it disappears!

Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!

O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

* * * * *

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY[58]

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored,

Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?

Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,

Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?

To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,

To act a lover's or a Roman's part?

Is there no bright reversion in the sky,

For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10

Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire

Above the vulgar flight of low desire?

Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;

The glorious fault of angels and of gods:

Thence to their images on earth it flows,

And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.

Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,

Dull, sullen prisoners in the body's cage:

Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years

Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20

Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,

And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)

Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.

As into air the purer spirits flow,

And separate from their kindred dregs below;

So flew the soul to its congenial place,

Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,

Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood! 30

See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,

These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;

Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,

And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.

Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,

Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,

And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.

There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,

(While the long funerals blacken all the way) 40

'Lo, these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,

And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.'

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow

For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone (O ever-injured Shade!)

Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?

No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear

Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier, 50

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,

By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,

By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!

What, though no friends in sable weeds appear,

Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,

And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show?

What, though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,

Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? 60

What, though no sacred earth allow thee room,

Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?

Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd,

And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:

There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,

There the first roses of the year shall blow;

While angels with their silver wings o'ershade

The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,

What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70

How loved, how honour'd once, avails thee not,

To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,

Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.

Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,

Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;

Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,

And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; 80

Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

* * * * *

PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;

To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,

Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:

For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,

Commanding tears to stream through every age;

Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,

And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.

Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move

The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; 10

In pitying love, we but our weakness show,

And wild ambition well deserves its woe.

Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,

Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:

He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,

And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.

Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,

What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:

No common object to your sight displays,

But what with pleasure[59] Heaven itself surveys, 20

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,

And greatly falling with a falling state.

While Cato gives his little senate laws,

What bosom beats not in his country's cause?

Who sees him act, but envies every deed?

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?

Even when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars,

The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,

Ignobly vain and impotently great,

Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30

As her dead father's reverend image pass'd,

The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast;

The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye;

The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;

Her last good man dejected Rome adored,

And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons, attend: be worth like this approved,

And show you have the virtue to be moved.

With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd

Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; 40

Your scene precariously subsists too long

On French translation, and Italian song.

Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,

Be justly warm'd with your own native rage;

Such plays alone should win a British ear,

As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

* * * * *

IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.[60]

I. CHAUCER.

Women ben full of ragerie,

Yet swinken nat sans secresie.

Thilke moral shall ye understond,

From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond:

Which to the fennes hath him betake,

To filche the gray ducke fro the lake.

Right then, there passen by the way

His aunt, and eke her daughters tway.

Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,

Not to be spied of ladies gent. 10

'But ho! our nephew!' crieth one;

'Ho!' quoth another, 'Cozen John;'

And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,--

This sely clerke full low doth lout:

They asken that, and talken this,

'Lo here is Coz, and here is Miss.'

But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,

The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote:

Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest,

Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest. 20

'Te-he,' cried ladies; clerke nought spake:

Miss stared; and gray ducke crieth 'Quaake.'

'O moder, moder!' quoth the daughter,

'Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter?

Bette is to pyne on coals and chalke,

Then trust on mon, whose yerde can talke.'

II. SPENSER.

THE ALLEY.

1 In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde,

A narrow pass there is, with houses low;

Where ever and anon the stream is eyed,

And many a boat soft sliding to and fro.

There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,

The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall:

How can ye, mothers, vex your children so?

Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,

And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

2 And on the broken pavement, here and there,

Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;

A brandy and tobacco shop is near,

And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by;

And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry.

At every door are sunburnt matrons seen,

Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;

Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between;

Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood, I ween.

3 The snappish cur (the passenger's annoy)

Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;

The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy,

Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries;

The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise,

And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;

To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;

The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,

And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base are drown'd.

4 Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,

Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days

Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,

Cod, whiting, oyster, mack'rel, sprat, or plaice:

There learn'd she speech from tongues that never cease.

Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters,

With Envy (spitting cat!), dread foe to peace;

Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters,

And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.

5 Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand,

Her mouth was black as bull-dog's at the stall:

She scratchèd, bit, and spared ne lace ne band,

And 'bitch' and 'rogue' her answer was to all;

Nay, even the parts of shame by name would call:

Yea, when she passèd by or lane or nook,

Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,

And by his hand obscene the porter took,

Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.

6 Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,

Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;

Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,

And Twick'nam such, which fairer scenes enrich,

Grots, stutues, urns, and Jo--n's dog and bitch,

Ne village is without, on either side,

All up the silver Thames, or all adown;

Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are eyed

Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride.

III. WALLER.

OF A LADY SINGING TO HER LUTE.

Fair charmer, cease! nor make your voice's prize,

A heart resign'd, the conquest of your eyes:

Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail,

Which winds and lightning both at once assail.

We were too blest with these enchanting lays,

Which must be heavenly when an angel plays:

But killing charms your lover's death contrive,

Lest heavenly music should be heard alive.

Orpheus could charm the trees, but thus a tree,

Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he:

A poet made the silent wood pursue,

This vocal wood had drawn the poet too.

ON A FAN OF THE AUTHOR'S DESIGN,

IN WHICH WAS PAINTED THE STORY OF CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS, WITH THE MOTTO,

'AURA VENI.'

'Come, gentle Air!' the Aeolian shepherd said,

While Procris panted in the secret shade;

'Come, gentle Air!' the fairer Delia cries,

While at her feet her swain expiring lies.

Lo! the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,

Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!

In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,

Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:

Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;

Alike both lovers fall by those they love.

Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,

At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives:

She views the story with attentive eyes,

And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

IV. COWLEY.

THE GARDEN.

Fain would my Muse the flowery treasures sing,

And humble glories of the youthful Spring;

Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse,

And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;

Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white,

The thin undress of superficial light,

And varied tulips show so dazzling gay,

Blushing in bright diversities of day.

Each painted floweret in the lake below

Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; 10

And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain

Transformèd, gazes on himself again.

Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,

And mount the hill in venerable rows:

There the green infants in their beds are laid,

The garden's hope, and its expected shade.

Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,

And vernal honours to their autumn join;

Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store, 20

Yet in the rising blossom promise more.

There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,

By laurels shielded from the piercing day:

Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid,

Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,

Still turns her beauties from the invading beam,

Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream.

The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,

At once a shelter from her boughs receives,

Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays,

And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays. 30

WEEPING.

1 While Celia's tears make sorrow bright,

Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes;

The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise:

And thus through mists we see the sun,

Which, else we durst not gaze upon.

2 These silver drops, like morning dew,

Foretell the fervour of the day:

So from one cloud soft showers we view,

And blasting lightnings burst away.

The stars that fall from Celia's eye,

Declare our doom in drawing nigh.

3 The baby in that sunny sphere

So like a Phaëton appears,

That Heaven, the threaten'd world to spare,

Thought fit to drown him in her tears:

Else might the ambitious nymph aspire,

To set, like him, Heaven too on fire.

V. EARL OF ROCHESTER.

ON SILENCE.[61]

1 Silence! coeval with eternity;

Thou wert, ere Nature's self began to be,

'Twas one vast Nothing all, and all slept fast in thee.

2 Thine was the sway, ere heaven was form'd, or earth,

Ere fruitful Thought conceived Creation's birth,

Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

3 Then various elements against thee join'd,

In one more various animal combined,

And framed the clamorous race of busy humankind.

4 The tongue moved gently first, and speech was low,

Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show,

And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

5 But rebel Wit deserts thee oft in vain;

Lost in the maze of words he turns again,

And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.

6 Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free,

Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,

And routed Reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

7 With thee in private modest Dulness lies,

And in thy bosom lurks in Thought's disguise;

Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!

8 Yet thy indulgence is by both confess'd;

Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,

And 'tis in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest.

9 Silence! the knave's repute, the whore's good name,

The only honour of the wishing dame;

Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame.

10 But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free,

How Church and State should be obliged to thee!

At Senate, and at Bar, how welcome would'st thou be!

11 Yet Speech even there submissively withdraws

From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause:

Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.

12 Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,

What favourites gain, and what the nation owes,

Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

13 The country wit, religion of the town,

The courtier's learning, policy o' the gown,

Are best by thee express'd, and shine in thee alone.

14 The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,

Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee,

All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.

VI. EARL OF DORSET.

ARTEMISIA.[62]

1 Though Artemisia talks, by fits,

Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;

Reads Malebranche, Boyle, and Locke:

Yet in some things methinks she fails--

'Twere well if she would pare her nails,

And wear a cleaner smock.

2 Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,

Such nastiness, and so much pride

Are oddly join'd by fate:

On her large squab you find her spread,

Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

3 She wears no colours (sign of grace)

On any part except her face;

All white and black beside:

Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,

Her voice theatrically loud,

And masculine her stride.

4 So have I seen, in black and white

A prating thing, a magpie height,

Majestically stalk;

A stately, worthless animal,

That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,

All flutter, pride, and talk.

PHRYNE.

1 Phryne had talents for mankind,

Open she was, and unconfined,

Like some free port of trade:

Merchants unloaded here their freight,

And agents from each foreign state

Here first their entry made.

2 Her learning and good breeding such,

Whether the Italian or the Dutch,

Spaniards or French came to her:

To all obliging she'd appear,

'Twas 'Si, Signor,' 'twas 'Yaw, Mynheer,'

'Twas 'S' il vous plaît, Monsieur.'

3 Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes,

Still changing names, religions, climes,

At length she turns a bride:

In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades,

She shines the first of batter'd jades,

And flutters in her pride.

4 So have I known those insects fair,

(Which curious Germans hold so rare)

Still vary shapes and dyes;

Still gain new titles with new forms;

First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,

Then painted butterflies.

VII. DR SWIFT.

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.

Parson, these things in thy possessing

Are better than the bishop's blessing:--

A wife that makes conserves; a steed

That carries double when there's need:

October store, and best Virginia,

Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea:

Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank'd,

For which thy patron's weekly thank'd:

A large Concordance, bound long since:

Sermons to Charles the First, when prince:

A Chronicle of ancient standing;

A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in:

The Polyglot--three parts--my text,

Howbeit--likewise--now to my next:

Lo, here the Septuagint--and Paul,

To sum the whole--the close of all.

He that has these, may pass his life,

Drink with the squire, and kiss his wife;

On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;

And fast on Fridays--if he will;

Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,

Talk with churchwardens about pews,

Pray heartily for some new gift,

And shake his head at Doctor S----t.

* * * * *

THE TEMPLE OF FAME.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXI.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The hint of the following piece was taken from Chaucer's 'House of

Fame.' The design is in a manner entirely altered, the descriptions and

most of the particular thoughts my own: yet I could not suffer it to be

printed without this acknowledgment. The reader who would compare this

with Chaucer, may begin with his third book of 'Fame,' there being

nothing in the two first books that answers to their title. Wherever any

hint is taken from him, the passage itself is set down in the marginal

notes.

In that soft season, when descending showers

Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flowers;

When opening buds salute the welcome day,

And earth relenting feels the genial ray;

As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest,

And love itself was banish'd from my breast,

(What time the morn mysterious visions brings,

While purer slumbers spread their golden wings),

A train of phantoms in wild order rose,

And, join'd, this intellectual scene compose. 10

I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies;

The whole creation open to my eyes:

In air self-balanced hung the globe below,

Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow;

Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen,

There towery cities, and the forests green:

Here sailing ships delight the wandering eyes:

There trees, and intermingled temples rise;

Now a clear sun the shining scene displays,

The transient landscape now in clouds decays. 20

O'er the wide prospect, as I gazed around,

Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,

Like broken thunders that at distance roar,

Or billows murmuring on the hollow shore:

Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,

Whose towering summit ambient clouds conceal'd.

High on a rock of ice the structure lay,

Steep its ascent, and slippery was the way;

The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone,

And seem'd, to distant sight, of solid stone. 30

Inscriptions here of various names I view'd,

The greater part by hostile time subdued;

Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,

And poets once had promised they should last.

Some fresh engraved appear'd of wits renown'd;

I look'd again, nor could their trace be found.

Critics I saw, that other names deface,

And fix their own, with labour, in their place:

Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd,

Or disappear'd, and left the first behind. 40

Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone,

But felt the approaches of too warm a sun;

For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays

Not more by envy than excess of praise.

Yet part no injuries of heaven could feel,

Like crystal faithful to the graving steel:

The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade,

Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade.

Their names inscribed unnumber'd ages past

From time's first birth, with time itself shall last; 50

These ever new, nor subject to decays,

Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days.

So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of frost)

Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast;

Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away,

And on the impassive ice the lightnings play;

Eternal snows the growing mass supply,

Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky:

As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears,

The gather'd winter of a thousand years. 60

On this foundation Fame's high temple stands.

Stupendous pile! not rear'd by mortal hands.

Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld,

Or elder Babylon, its frame excell'd.

Four faces had the dome, and every face

Of various structure, but of equal grace;

Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high,

Salute the different quarters of the sky.

Here fabled chiefs in darker ages born,

Or worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn, 70

Who cities raised, or tamed a monstrous race,

The walls in venerable order grace;

Heroes in animated marble frown,

And legislators seem to think in stone.

Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appear'd,

On Doric pillars of white marble rear'd,

Crown'd with an architrave of antique mould,

And sculpture rising on the roughen'd gold.

In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld,

And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield: 80

There great Alcides stooping with his toil,

Rests on his club, and holds th' Hesperian spoil.

Here Orpheus sings; trees, moving to the sound,

Start from their roots, and form a shade around;

Amphion there the loud creating lyre

Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire!

Cythæron's echoes answer to his call,

And half the mountain rolls into a wall:

There might you see the lengthening spires ascend,

The domes swell up, the widening arches bend, 90

The growing towers, like exhalations rise,

And the huge columns heave into the skies.

The eastern front was glorious to behold,

With diamond flaming, and barbaric gold.

There Ninus shone, who spread the Assyrian fame,

And the great founder of the Persian name:

There in long robes the royal Magi stand,

Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand,

The sage Chaldeans robed in white appear'd,

And Brachmans, deep in desert woods revered. 100

These stopp'd the moon, and call'd the unbodied shades

To midnight banquets in the glimmering glades;

Made visionary fabrics round them rise,

And airy spectres skim before their eyes;

Of talismans and sigils knew the power,

And careful watch'd the planetary hour.

Superior, and alone, Confucius stood,

Who taught that useful science--to be good.

But on the south, a long majestic race

Of Egypt's priests the gilded niches grace, 110

Who measured earth, described the starry spheres,

And traced the long records of lunar years.

High on his car Sesostris struck my view,

Whom sceptred slaves in golden harness drew:

His hands a bow and pointed javelin hold;

His giant limbs are arm'd in scales of gold.

Between the statues obelisks were placed,

And the learn'd walls with hieroglyphics graced.

Of Gothic structure was the northern side,

O'erwrought with ornaments of barbarous pride. 120

There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crown'd,

And Runic characters were graved around.

There sat Zamolxis[63] with erected eyes,

And Odin here in mimic trances dies.

There on rude iron columns, smear'd with blood,

The horrid forms of Seythian heroes stood,

Druids and Bards (their once loud harps unstrung)

And youths that died to be by poets sung.

These, and a thousand more of doubtful fame,

To whom old fables gave a lasting name, 130

In ranks adorn'd the temple's outward face;

The wall, in lustre and effect like glass,

Which o'er each object casting various dyes,

Enlarges some, and others multiplies:

Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall,

For thus romantic Fame increases all.

The temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold

Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold:

Raised on a thousand pillars, wreathed around

With laurel foliage, and with eagles crown'd: 140

Of bright, transparent beryl were the walls,

The friezes gold, and gold the capitals:

As heaven with stars, the roof with jewels glows,

And ever-living lamps depend in rows.

Full in the passage of each spacious gate,

The sage historians in white garments wait;

Graved o'er their seats the form of Time was found,

His scythe reversed, and both his pinions bound.

Within stood heroes, who through loud alarms

In bloody fields pursued renown in arms. 150

High on a throne, with trophies charged, I view'd

The youth[64] that all things but himself subdued;

His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod,

And his horn'd head belied the Libyan god.

There Cæsar, graced with both Minervas, shone;

Cæsar, the world's great master, and his own;

Unmoved, superior still in every state,

And scarce detested in his country's fate.

But chief were those, who not for empire fought,

But with their toils their people's safety bought: 160

High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood;

Timoleon,[65] glorious in his brother's blood;

Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state;

Great in his triumphs, in retirement great;

And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind,

With boundless power unbounded virtue join'd,

His own strict judge, and patron of mankind.

Much-suffering heroes next their honours claim,

Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame,

Fair Virtue's silent train: supreme of these 170

Here ever shines the godlike Socrates:

He whom ungrateful Athens[66] could expel,

At all times just, but when he sign'd the shell:

Here his abode the martyr'd Phocion claims,

With Agis, not the last of Spartan names:

Unconquer'd Cato shows the wound he tore,

And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more.

But in the centre of the hallow'd choir,

Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire;

Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand, 180

Hold the chief honours, and the fane command.

High on the first, the mighty Homer shone;

Eternal adamant composed his throne;

Father of verse! in holy fillets dress'd,

His silver beard waved gently o'er his breast;

Though blind, a boldness in his looks appears;

In years he seem'd, but not impair'd by years.

The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen:

Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen;

Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus' fall, 190

Here dragg'd in triumph round the Trojan wall:

Motion and life did every part inspire,

Bold was the work, and proved the master's fire;

A strong expression most he seem'd to affect,

And here and there disclosed a brave neglect.

A golden column next in rank appear'd,

On which a shrine of purest gold was rear'd;

Finish'd the whole, and labour'd every part,

With patient touches of unwearied art:

The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate, 200

Composed his posture, and his look sedate;

On Homer still he fix'd a reverend eye,

Great without pride, in modest majesty.

In living sculpture on the sides were spread

The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead;

Eliza stretch'd upon the funeral pyre,

Æneas bending with his aged sire:

Troy flamed in burning gold, and o'er the throne,

ARMS AND THE MAN in golden cyphers shone.

Four swans sustain a car of silver bright, 210

With heads advanced, and pinions stretch'd for flight:

Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode,

And seem'd to labour with the inspiring god.

Across the harp a careless hand he flings,

And boldly sinks into the sounding strings.

The figured games of Greece the column grace,

Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race.

The youths hang o'er their chariots as they run;

The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone;

The champions in distorted postures threat; 220

And all appear'd irregularly great.

Here happy Horace tuned the Ausonian lyre

To sweeter sounds, and temper'd Pindar's fire:

Pleased with Alcæus' manly rage t' infuse

The softer spirit of the Sapphic Muse.

The polish'd pillar different sculptures grace;

A work outlasting monumental brass.

Here smiling Loves and Bacchanals appear,

The Julian star, and great Augustus here;

The doves that round the infant poet spread 230

Myrtles and bays, hung hovering o'er his head.

Here in a shrine that cast a dazzling light,

Sat, fix'd in thought, the mighty Stagyrite;

His sacred head a radiant zodiac crown'd,

And various animals his side surround;

His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view

Superior worlds, and look all Nature through.

With equal rays immortal Tully shone,

The Roman rostra deck'd the Consul's throne:

Gathering his flowing robe, he seem'd to stand 240

In act to speak, and graceful stretch'd his hand.

Behind, Rome's Genius waits with civic crowns,

And the great Father of his country owns.

These massy columns in a circle rise,

O'er which a pompous dome invades the skies:

Scarce to the top I stretch'd my aching sight,

So large it spread, and swell'd to such a height.

Full in the midst, proud Fame's imperial seat

With jewels blazed, magnificently great;

The vivid emeralds there revive the eye, 250

The flaming rubies show their sanguine dye,

Bright azure rays from lively sapphires stream,

And lucid amber casts a golden gleam.

With various-colour'd light the pavement shone,

And all on fire appear'd the glowing throne;

The dome's high arch reflects the mingled blaze,

And forms a rainbow of alternate rays.

When on the goddess first I cast my sight,

Scarce seem'd her stature of a cubit's height;

But swell'd to larger size, the more I gazed, 260

Till to the roof her towering front she raised.

With her, the temple every moment grew,

And ampler vistas open'd to my view:

Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,

And arches widen, and long aisles extend.

Such was her form as ancient bards have told,

Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold;

A thousand busy tongues the goddess bears,

A thousand open eyes, and thousand listening ears.

Beneath, in order ranged, the tuneful Nine 270

(Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine:

With eyes on Fame for ever fix'd, they sing;

For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string;

With Time's first birth began the heavenly lays,

And last, eternal, through the length of days.

Around these wonders as I cast a look,

The trumpet sounded, and the temple shook,

And all the nations, summon'd at the call,

From different quarters fill the crowded hall:

Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard 280

In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear'd;

Thick as the bees, that with the spring renew

Their flowery toils, and sip the fragrant dew,

When the wing'd colonies first tempt the sky,

O'er dusky fields and shaded waters fly,

Or settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield,

And a low murmur runs along the field.

Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend,

And all degrees before the goddess bend;

The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, 290

And boasting youth, and narrative old age.

Their pleas were different, their request the same:

For good and bad alike are fond of Fame.

Some she disgraced, and some with honours crown'd;

Unlike successes equal merits found.

Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns,

And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.

First at the shrine the learnèd world appear,

And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer:

'Long have we sought to instruct and please mankind, 300

With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind;

But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none,

We here appeal to thy superior throne;

On wit and learning the just prize bestow,

For fame is all we must expect below.'

The goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise

The golden trumpet of eternal praise:

From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound,

That fills the circuit of the world around;

Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud; 310

The notes at first were rather sweet than loud:

By just degrees they every moment rise,

Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies.

At every breath were balmy odours shed,

Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread;

Less fragrant scents the unfolding rose exhales,

Or spices breathing in Arabian gales.

Next these, the good and just, an awful train,

Thus on their knees address the sacred fane:

'Since living virtue is with envy cursed, 320

And the best men are treated like the worst,

Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth,

And give each deed the exact intrinsic worth.'

'Not with bare justice shall your act be crown'd,'

(Said Fame), 'but high above desert renown'd:

Let fuller notes the applauding world amaze,

And the loud clarion labour in your praise.'

This band dismiss'd, behold, another crowd

Preferr'd the same request, and lowly bow'd;

The constant tenor of whose well-spent days 330

No less deserved a just return of praise.

But straight the direful trump of Slander sounds;

Through the big dome the doubling thunder bounds;

Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies,

The dire report through every region flies,

In every ear incessant rumours rung,

And gathering scandals grew on every tongue.

From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke

Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke:

The poisonous vapour blots the purple skies, 340

And withers all before it as it flies.

A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore,

And proud defiance in their looks they bore:

'For thee' (they cried), 'amidst alarms and strife,

We sail'd in tempests down the stream of life;

For thee whole nations fill'd with flames and blood,

And swam to empire through the purple flood.

Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own,

What virtue seem'd, was done for thee alone.'

'Ambitious fools!' (the Queen replied, and frown'd) 350

'Be all your acts in dark oblivion drown'd;

There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone,

Your statues moulder'd, and your names unknown!'

A sudden cloud straight snatch'd them from my sight,

And each majestic phantom sunk in night.

Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;

Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien.

'Great idol of mankind! we neither claim

The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame;

But safe in deserts from the applause of men, 360

Would die unheard of, as we lived unseen;

'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight

Those acts of goodness which themselves requite.

Oh let us still the secret joy partake,

To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.'

'And live there men, who slight immortal Fame?

Who then with incense shall adore our name?

But, mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride

To blaze those virtues which the good would hide.

Rise, Muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath; 370

These must not sleep in darkness and in death.'

She said: in air the trembling music floats,

And on the winds triumphant swell the notes;

So soft, though high, so loud, and yet so clear,

Even listening angels lean'd from heaven to hear:

To furthest shores the ambrosial spirit flies,

Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.

Next these a youthful train their vows express'd,

With feathers crown'd, with gay embroidery dress'd:

'Hither' (they cried) 'direct your eyes, and see 380

The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry;

Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays,

Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days;

Courts we frequent, where 'tis our pleasing care

To pay due visits, and address the fair:

In fact, 'tis true, no nymph we could persuade,

But still in fancy vanquish'd every maid;

Of unknown duchesses lewd tales we tell,

Yet, would the world believe us, all were well.

The joy let others have, and we the name, 390

And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame.'

The Queen assents, the trumpet rends the skies,

And at each blast a lady's honour dies.

Pleased with the strange success, vast numbers press'd

Around the shrine, and made the same request:

'What! you,' (she cried) 'unlearn'd in arts to please,

Slaves to yourselves, and even fatigued with ease,

Who lose a length of undeserving days,

Would you usurp the lover's dear-bought praise?

To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall, 400

The people's fable and the scorn of all.'

Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound,

Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round,

Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud,

And scornful hisses run through all the crowd.

Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done,

Enslave their country, or usurp a throne;

Or who their glory's dire foundation laid

On sovereigns ruin'd, or on friends betray'd;

Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, 410

Of crooked counsels, and dark politics;

Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne,

And beg to make the immortal treasons known.

The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire,

With sparks, that seem'd to set the world on fire.

At the dread sound, pale mortals stood aghast,

And startled Nature trembled with the blast.

This having heard and seen, some Power unknown

Straight changed the scene, and snatch'd me from the throne.

Before my view appear'd a structure fair, 420

Its site uncertain, if in earth or air;

With rapid motion turn'd the mansion round;

With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound;

Not less in number were the spacious doors,

Than leaves on trees, or sands upon the shores;

Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day,

Pervious to winds, and open every way.

As flames by nature to the skies ascend,

As weighty bodies to the centre tend,

As to the sea returning rivers roll, 430

And the touch'd needle trembles to the pole;

Hither, as to their proper place, arise

All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies,

Or spoke aloud, or whisper'd in the ear;

Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here.

As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes

The sinking stone at first a circle makes;

The trembling surface by the motion stirr'd,

Spreads in a second circle, then a third;

Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance, 440

Fill all the watery plain, and to the margin dance:

Thus every voice and sound, when first they break,

On neighbouring air a soft impression make;

Another ambient circle then they move;

That, in its turn, impels the next above;

Through undulating air the sounds are sent,

And spread o'er all the fluid element.

There various news I heard of love and strife,

Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life,

Of loss and gain, of famine and of store, 450

Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore,

Of prodigies, and portents seen in air,

Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair,

Of turns of fortune, changes in the state,

The falls of favourites, projects of the great,

Of old mismanagements, taxations new:

All neither wholly false, nor wholly true.

Above, below, without, within, around,

Confused, unnumber'd multitudes are found,

Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away; 460

Hosts raised by fear, and phantoms of a day:

Astrologers, that future fates foreshow;

Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few;

And priests, and party-zealots, numerous bands

With home-born lies, or tales from foreign lands;

Each talk'd aloud, or in some secret place,

And wild impatience stared in every face.

The flying rumours gather'd as they roll'd,

Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;

And all who told it added something new, 470

And all who heard it made enlargements too,

In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew.

Thus flying east and west, and north and south,

News travell'd with increase from mouth to mouth.

So from a spark, that kindled first by chance,

With gathering force the quickening flames advance;

Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire,

And towers and temples sink in floods of fire.

When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung,

Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue, 480

Through thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow,

And rush in millions on the world below.

Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course,

Their date determines, and prescribes their force:

Some to remain, and some to perish soon;

Or wane and wax alternate like the moon.

Around, a thousand wingèd wonders fly,

Born by the trumpet's blast, and scatter'd through the sky.

There, at one passage, oft you might survey

A lie and truth contending for the way; 490

And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent,

Which first should issue through the narrow vent:

At last agreed, together out they fly,

Inseparable now, the truth and lie;

The strict companions are for ever join'd,

And this or that unmix'd, no mortal e'er shall find.

While thus I stood, intent to see and hear,

One came, methought, and whisper'd in my ear:

'What could thus high thy rash ambition raise?

Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?' 500

''Tis true,' said I, 'not void of hopes I came,

For who so fond as youthful bards of fame?

But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,

So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.

How vain that second life in others' breath,

The estate which wits inherit after death!

Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign,

(Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!)

The great man's curse, without the gains, endure,

Be envied, wretched, and be flatter'd, poor; 510

All luckless wits their enemies profess'd,

And all successful, jealous friends at best.

Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;

She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all.

But if the purchase costs so dear a price,

As soothing folly, or exalting vice;

Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway,

And follow still where fortune leads the way;

Or if no basis bear my rising name,

But the fallen ruins of another's fame; 520

Then teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays,

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise,

Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown;

Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!'

* * * * *

ELOISA TO ABELARD.

ARGUMENT.

Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of

the most distinguished persons of their age in learning and beauty, but

for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After a long

course of calamities, they retired each to a several convent, and

consecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years

after this separation that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which

contained the history of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloisa.

This, awakening all her tenderness, occasioned those celebrated letters

(out of which the following is partly extracted) which give so lively a

picture of the struggles of grace and nature, virtue and passion.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,

Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells,

And ever-musing Melancholy reigns,

What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?

Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?

Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?

Yet, yet I love!--From Abelard it came,

And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,

Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd: 10

Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise

Where, mix'd with God's, his loved idea lies:

Oh write it not, my hand!--the name appears

Already written--wash it out, my tears!

In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,

Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains

Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:

Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;

Ye grots and caverns, shagg'd with horrid thorn! 20

Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep,

And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!

Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown,

I have not yet forgot myself to stone.

All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part,

Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;

Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,

Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,

That well-known name awakens all my woes. 30

Oh, name for ever sad! for ever dear!

Still breathed in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.

I tremble too, where'er my own I find,

Some dire misfortune follows close behind.

Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,

Led through a sad variety of woe;

Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom,

Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!

There stern religion quench'd the unwilling flame,

There died the best of passions, Love and Fame. 40

Yet write, oh! write me all, that I may join

Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.

Nor foes nor fortune take this power away;

And is my Abelard less kind than they?

Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,

Love but demands what else were shed in prayer;

No happier task these faded eyes pursue;

To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;

Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief! 50

Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,

Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;

They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,

Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires;

The virgin's wish without her fears impart,

Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,

Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,

And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,

When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name; 60

My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,

Some emanation of the all-beauteous Mind.

Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray,

Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.

Guiltless I gazed; Heaven listen'd while you sung;

And truths divine came mended from that tongue.

From lips like those, what precept fail'd to move?

Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love:

Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,

Nor wish'd an angel whom I loved a man. 70

Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;

Nor envy them that heaven I lose for thee.

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,

Curse on all laws but those which Love has made!

Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,

Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,

August her deed, and sacred be her fame; 80

Before true passion all those views remove;

Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?

The jealous god, when we profane his fires,

Those restless passions in revenge inspires,

And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,

Who seek in love for aught but love alone.

Should at my feet the world's great master fall,

Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all:

Not Cæsar's empress would I deign to prove;

No, make me mistress to the man I love;

If there be yet another name more free,

More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! 90

Oh, happy state! when souls each other draw,

When love is liberty, and nature law:

All then is full, possessing and possess'd,

No craving void left aching in the breast:

Even thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,

And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.

This, sure, is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)

And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how changed! what sudden horrors rise!

A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! 100

Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,

Her poniard, had opposed the dire command.

Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;

The crime was common, common be the pain.

I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,

Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest.

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,

When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?

Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,

When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? 110

As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,

The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:

Heaven scarce believed the conquest it survey'd,

And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.

Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,

Not on the cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:

Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,

And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.

Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;

Those still at least are left thee to bestow. 120

Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,

Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,

Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;

Give all thou canst--and let me dream the rest.

Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize,

With other beauties charm my partial eyes,

Full in my view set all the bright abode,

And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,

Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer. 130

From the false world in early youth they fled,

By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.

You raised these hallow'd walls; the desert smiled,

And Paradise was open'd in the wild.

No weeping orphan saw his father's stores

Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;

No silver saints, by dying misers given,

Here bribed the rage of ill-requited Heaven:

But such plain roofs as Piety could raise,

And only vocal with the Maker's praise. 140

In these lone walls, (their day's eternal bound)

These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,

Where awful arches make a noonday night,

And the dim windows shed a solemn light;

Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray,

And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.

But now no face divine contentment wears,

'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.

See how the force of others' prayers I try,

(Oh pious fraud of amorous charity!) 150

But why should I on others' prayers depend?

Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!

Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,

And all those tender names in one--thy love!

The darksome pines that, o'er yon rocks reclined,

Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,

The wandering streams that shine between the hills,

The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,

The dying gales that pant upon the trees,

The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; 160

No more these scenes my meditation aid,

Or lull to rest the visionary maid.

But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,

Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,

Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws

A death-like silence, and a dread repose:

Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,

Shades every flower, and darkens every green,

Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,

And breathes a browner horror on the woods. 170

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;

Sad proof how well a lover can obey!

Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;

And here, even then, shall my cold dust remain;

Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,

And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.

Ah, wretch! believed the spouse of God in vain,

Confess'd within the slave of love and man.

Assist me, Heaven! but whence arose that prayer?

Sprung it from piety, or from despair? 180

Even here, where frozen chastity retires,

Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.

I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;

I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;

I view my crime, but kindle at the view,

Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;

Now turn'd to Heaven, I weep my past offence,

Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.

Of all affliction taught a lover yet,

'Tis sure the hardest science to forget! 190

How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,

And love the offender, yet detest the offence?

How the dear object from the crime remove,

Or how distinguish penitence from love?

Unequal task! a passion to resign,

For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine.

Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,

How often must it love, how often hate!

How often hope, despair, resent, regret,

Conceal, disdain,--do all things but forget! 200

But let Heaven seize it, all at once 'tis fired;

Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspired!

Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,

Renounce my love, my life, myself--and you.

Fill my fond heart with God alone, for He

Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot:

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd; 210

Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;

'Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;'

Desires composed, affections ever even;

Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven.

Grace shines around her with serenest beams,

And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams.

For her the unfading rose of Eden blooms,

And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;

For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring,

For her white virgins hymeneals sing, 220

To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,

And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,

Far other raptures, of unholy joy:

When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,

Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,

Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,

All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.

O curst, dear horrors of all-conscious night!

How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! 230

Provoking demons all restraint remove,

And stir within me every source of love.

I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,

And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.

I wake:--no more I hear, no more I view,

The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.

I call aloud; it hears not what I say:

I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.

To dream once more I close my willing eyes;

Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! 240

Alas, no more! methinks we wandering go

Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,

Where round some mouldering tower pale ivy creeps,

And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.

Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;

Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.

I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,

And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the Fates, severely kind, ordain

A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; 250

Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose;

No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.

Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,

Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;

Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven,

And mild as opening gleams of promised heaven.

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?

The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.

Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;

Even thou art cold--yet Eloisa loves. 260

Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn

To light the dead, and warm the unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?

The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,

Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,

Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.

I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,

Thy image steals between my God and me,

Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear,

With every bead I drop too soft a tear. 270

When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,

And swelling organs lift the rising soul,

One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,

Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:

In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,

While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,

Kind, virtuous drops just gathering in my eye,

While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,

And dawning grace is opening on my soul: 280

Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!

Oppose thyself to heaven; dispute my heart;

Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes

Blot out each bright idea of the skies;

Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;

Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers;

Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;

Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;

Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! 290

Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,

Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee!

Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;

Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.

Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view)

Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu!

O Grace serene! O Virtue heavenly fair!

Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!

Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky! 300

And Faith, our early immortality!

Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;

Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,

Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.

In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,

And more than echoes talk along the walls.

Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,

From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.

'Come, sister, come!' (it said, or seem'd to say)

'Thy place is here, sad sister, come away! 310

Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,

Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:

But all is calm in this eternal sleep;

Here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to weep,

Even Superstition loses every fear:

For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.'

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers,

Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers.

Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,

Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow: 320

Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,

And smooth my passage to the realms of day;

See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll,

Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!

Ah, no!--in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,

The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,

Present the cross before my lifted eye,

Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.

Ah, then thy once-loved Eloisa see!

It will be then no crime to gaze on me. 330

See from my cheek the transient roses fly!

See the last sparkle languish in my eye!

Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;

And even my Abelard be loved no more.

O Death all-eloquent! you only prove

What dust we doat on when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,

(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy!)

In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,

Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, 340

From opening skies may streaming glories shine,

And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave[67] unite each hapless name,

And graft my love immortal on thy fame!

Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,

When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;

If ever chance two wandering lovers brings

To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,

O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,

And drink the falling tears each other sheds; 350

Then sadly say,--with mutual pity moved,

'Oh, may we never love as these have loved!'

From the full choir when loud hosannas rise,

And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,

Amid that scene, if some relenting eye

Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,

Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven,

One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven.

And sure, if Fate some future bard shall join

In sad similitude of griefs to mine, 360

Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,

And image charms he must behold no more;

Such if there be, who love so long, so well,

Let him our sad, our tender story tell;

The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;

He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER.[68]

Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung,

Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.

Oh just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd!

With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!

Blest in each science, blest in every strain!

Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear--in vain!

For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend,

Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;

For Swift and him, despised the farce of state,

The sober follies of the wise and great; 10

Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,

And pleased to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,

(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,)

Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,

Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,

Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate,

Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;

Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,

Behold thee glorious only in thy fall. 20

And sure, if aught below the seats divine

Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine:

A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,

Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,

The rage of power, the blast of public breath,

The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;

The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade:

'Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace,

Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. 30

When interest calls off all her sneaking train,

And all the obliged desert, and all the vain,

She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,

When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.

Even now she shades thy evening-walk with bays,

(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise),

Even now, observant of the parting ray,

Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day;

Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,

Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he. 40

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.,

SECRETARY OF STATE.[69]

A soul as full of worth, as void of pride,

Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide,

Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes,

And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows.

A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,

That darts severe upon a rising lie,

And strikes a blush through frontless flattery.

All this thou wert; and being this before,

Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more.

Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways,

Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise;

But candid, free, sincere, as you began,

Proceed--a minister, but still a man.

Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)

Ashamed of any friend, not even of me:

The patriot's plain, but untrod path pursue;

If not, 'tis I must be ashamed of you.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO MR JERVAS,

WITH MR DRYDEN'S TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY'S 'ART OF PAINTING.'

This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse

This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.

Whether thy hand strike out some free design,

Where life awakes, and dawns at every line;

Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,

And from the canvas call the mimic face:

Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire

Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:

And, reading, wish like theirs our fate and fame,

So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; 10

Like them to shine through long succeeding age,

So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister-arts we came,

And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;

Like friendly colours found them both unite,

And each from each contract new strength and light.

How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,

While summer suns roll unperceived away!

How oft our slowly-growing works impart,

While images reflect from art to art! 20

How oft review; each finding, like a friend,

Something to blame, and something to commend!

What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought,

Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought!

Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,

Fired with ideas of fair Italy.

With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn.

Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn:

With thee repose where Tully once was laid,

Or seek some ruin's formidable shade: 30

While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view.

And builds imaginary Rome anew.

Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye;

A fading fresco here demands a sigh:

Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare,

Match Raphael's grace with thy loved Guide's air,

Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line,

Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.

How finish'd with illustrious toil appears

This small, well-polish'd gem, the work of years![70] 40

Yet still how faint by precept is express'd

The living image in the painter's breast!

Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,

Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;

Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies

An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed,

Those tears eternal, that embalm the dead;

Call round her tomb each object of desire,

Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire: 50

Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,

The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife:

Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;

Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage;

Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.

Beauty, frail flower that every season fears,

Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.

Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise,

And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;[71] 60

Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow,

And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh, lasting as those colours may they shine,

Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;

New graces yearly like thy works display,

Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;

Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains;

And finish'd more through happiness than pains.

The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire,

One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 70

Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,

And breathe an air divine on every face;

Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll

Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul;

With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,

And these be sung till Granville's Myra die:

Alas! how little from the grave we claim!

Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT,

WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.[72]

In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,

And all the writer lives in every line;

His easy art may happy nature seem,

Trifles themselves are elegant in him.

Sure, to charm all was his peculiar fate,

Who without flattery pleased the fair and great;

Still with esteem no less conversed than read;

With wit well-natured, and with books well-bred:

His heart, his mistress, and his friend did share,

His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair. 10

Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,

Cheerful he play'd the trifle, Life, away;

Till Fate scarce felt his gentle breath suppress'd,

As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.

Even rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,

And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;

The truest hearts for Voiture heaved with sighs,

Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:

The Smiles and Loves had died in Voiture's death,

But that for ever in his lines they breathe. 20

Let the strict life of graver mortals be

A long, exact, and serious comedy;

In every scene some moral let it teach,

And if it can, at once both please and preach.

Let mine an innocent gay farce appear,

And more diverting still than regular,

Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace,

Though not too strictly bound to time and place:

Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please,

Few write to those, and none can live to these. 30

Too much your sex is by their forms confined,

Severe to all, but most to womankind;

Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide;

Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;

By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame;

Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame.

Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase,

But sets up one, a greater, in their place;

Well might you wish for change, by those accursed,

But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. 40

Still in constraint your suffering sex remains,

Or bound in formal, or in real chains:

Whole years neglected, for some months adored,

The fawning servant turns a haughty lord.

Ah, quit not the free innocence of life,

For the dull glory of a virtuous wife;

Nor let false shows, or empty titles please:

Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease!

The gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers,

Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, 50

The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,

And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate.

She glares in balls, front boxes, and the Ring,

A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing!

Pride, pomp, and state but reach her outward part:

She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart.

But, madam, if the Fates withstand, and you

Are destined Hymen's willing victim too:

Trust not too much your now resistless charms,

Those, age or sickness, soon or late, disarms: 60

Good-humour only teaches charms to last,

Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past;

Love, raised on beauty, will like that decay,

Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day;

As flowery bands in wantonness are worn,

A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn;

This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong,

The willing heart, and only holds it long.

Thus Voiture's early care still shone the same,

And Monthansier[73] was only changed in name: 70

By this, even now they live, even now they charm,

Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.

Now crown'd with myrtle, on the Elysian coast,

Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost:

Pleased, while with smiles his happy lines you view,

And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.

The brightest eyes of France inspired his Muse;

The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse;

And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride

Still to charm those who charm the world beside.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT.

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.[74]

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care

Drags from the town to wholesome country air,

Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,

And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;

From the dear man unwilling she must sever,

Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:

Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,

Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;

Not that their pleasures caused her discontent,

She sigh'd not that they staid, but that she went. 10

She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,

Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:

She went from opera, park, assembly, play,

To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day:

To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,

To muse, and spill her solitary tea;

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; 20

Up to her godly garret after seven,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.

Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;

Whose game is whist, whose treat, a toast in sack;

Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,

Then gives a smacking buss, and cries--No words!

Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable,

Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;

Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse,

And loves you best of all things--but his horse. 30

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,

You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;

In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,

See coronations rise on every green;

Before you pass the imaginary sights

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,

While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;

Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.

Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,

And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls! 40

So when your slave, at some dear idle time,

(Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme)

Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,

And while he seems to study, thinks of you;

Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes,

Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,

Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,

Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;

Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,

Look sour, and hum a tune, as you do now. 50

* * * * *

TO MRS M. B.[75] ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,

Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend:

Not with those toys the female world admire,

Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.

With added years, if life bring nothing new,

But, like a sieve, let every blessing through,

Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,

And all we gain, some sad reflection more;

Is that a birthday? 'tis alas! too clear

'Tis but the funeral of the former year. 10

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,

And the gay conscience of a life well spent,

Calm every thought, inspirit every grace,

Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face

Let day improve on day, and year on year,

Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;

Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,

In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy,

Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb,

And wake to raptures in a life to come. 20

* * * * *

TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN,[76] ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742.

Resign'd to live, prepared to die,

With not one sin, but poetry,

This day Tom's fair account has run

(Without a blot) to eighty-one.

Kind Boyle, before his poet lays

A table,[77] with a cloth of bays;

And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,

Presents her harp[78] still to his fingers.

The feast, his towering genius marks

In yonder wild goose and the larks; 10

The mushrooms show his wit was sudden;

And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!

Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,

And grace, although a bard, devout.

May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise

The price of prologues[79] and of plays,

Be every birthday more a winner,

Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;

Walk to his grave without reproach,

And scorn a rascal and a coach. 20

* * * * *

VARIATION.

VER. 15. Originally thus in the MS.:--

And oh, since Death must that fair frame destroy,

Die, by some sudden ecstasy of joy;

In some soft dream may thy mild soul remove,

And be thy latest gasp a sigh of love.

TO MR JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

1 How much, egregious Moore, are we

Deceived by shows and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,

All humankind are worms.

2 Man is a very worm by birth,

Vile reptile, weak and vain!

A while he crawls upon the earth,

Then shrinks to earth again.

3 That woman is a worm, we find

E'er since our grandame's evil;

She first conversed with her own kind,

That ancient worm, the Devil.

4 The learn'd themselves we book-worms name,

The blockhead is a slow-worm;

The nymph whose tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a glow-worm:

5 The fops are painted butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they take their rise,

And in a worm decay.

6 The flatterer an earwig grows;

Thus worms suit all conditions;

Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux.

And death-watches, physicians.

7 That statesmen have the worm, is seen

By all their winding play;

Their conscience is a worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.

8 Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,

And greater gain would rise,

If thou couldst make the courtier void

The worm that never dies!

9 O learnèd friend of Abchurch Lane,

Who sett'st our entrails free!

Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

Since worms shall eat even thee.

10 Our fate thou only canst adjourn

Some few short years--no more;

Even Button's Wits to worms shall turn,

Who maggots were before.

TO MR C.,[80] ST JAMES'S PLACE.

1 Few words are best; I wish you well:

Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here;

Some morning walks along the Mall,

And evening friends, will end the year.

2 If in this interval, between

The falling leaf and coming frost,

You please to see, on Twit'nam green,

Your friend, your poet, and your host:

3 For three whole days you here may rest

From office business, news, and strife;

And (what most folks would think a jest)

Want nothing else except your wife.

* * * * *

EPITAPHS.

I. ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET, IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, IN SUSSEX.

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

VIRG.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,

Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.

The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,

Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:

Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,

His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.

Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,

As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.

Blest courtier! who could king and country please,

Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.

Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace

Reflecting, and reflected in his race;

Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,

And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

II. ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.[81]

A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind;

Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd:

Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd,

Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest:

An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;

Just to his prince, and to his country true:

Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,

A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;

A generous faith, from superstition free:

A love to peace, and hate of tyranny;

Such this man was; who now, from earth removed,

At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

III. ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR

HARCOURT, AT THE CHURCH OF STANTON HARCOURT, IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near;

Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear:

Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide,

Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!

If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.

Oh, let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone,

And, with a father's sorrows, mix his own!

IV. ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS

SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIAE: VIXIT

TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV. OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of soul sincere,

In action faithful, and in honour clear!

Who broke no promise, served no private end,

Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;

Ennobled by himself, by all approved,

Praised, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he loved.

V. INTENDED FOR MR ROWE, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,

And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust:

Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,

To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.

Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!

Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest!

One grateful woman to thy fame supplies

What a whole thankless land to his denies.

VI. ON MRS CORBET, WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,

Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:

No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired,

No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.

Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,

Convinced that virtue only is our own.

So unaffected, so composed a mind;

So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined;

Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;

The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

VII. ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HONOURABLE EGBERT DIGBY, AND HIS SISTER

MARY.

ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER THE LORD DIGBY, IN THE CHURCH OF SHERBORNE, IN

DORSETSHIRE, 1727.