Must these
go
forth from my maternal hand
To deal their insults through a peaceful land;
And boast, while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue
groans,

That Isis taught Rebellion to her Sons?
Forbid it, Heaven! and let my rising waves
Indignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves!
In England's cause their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy.
Is this denied; then point some secret way
Where far, far hence these guiltless streams
may stray;
[spreads
Some unknown channel lend, where Nature
Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads:
There, where a hind scarces tunes his rustic

strain,

Where scarce a pilgrim treads the pathless plain,
Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide
Saw yon majestic structures crown its side;
Forget that e'er my wrapt attention hung
Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue;
Calin and resign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And, pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace.

§ 111. Epistolary Verses to George Colman, Esq. written in the Year 1756.

By Mr. ROBERT LLOYD.

You know, dear George, I'm none of those
That condescend to write in prose:
Inspir'd with pathos and sublime,
I always soar-in dogrel rhyme;
And scarce can ask you how you do,
Without a jingling line or two.
Besides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of easy writing;
Perhaps the reason makes it please
Is, that I find 'tis writ with ease.

I vent a notion here in private,
Which public taste can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgement greater
Than Addison, and his Spectator;
Who says (it is no matter where,
But that he says it I can swear)
With easy verse most bards are smitten,
Because they think it's easy written;
Whereas, the easier it appears,
The greater marks of care it wears;
Of which to give an explanation,
Take this, by way of illustration:
The fam'd Mat. Prior, it is said,

Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes:
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In short, he labor'd to write easy.
And yet no Critic e'er defines
His poems into labor'd lines.

I have a simile will hit him;

His verse, like clothes, was made to fit him ;
Which (as no tailor e'er denied)
The better fit the more they're tried.

Though I have mention'd Prior's name,
Think not I aim at Prior's fame.

'Tis the result of admiration
To spend itself in imitation;
If imitation may be said,
Which is in nie by nature bred,
And you have better proofs than these
That I'm idolater of Ease.

Who, but a madman would engage
A poet in the present age?
Write what we will, our works bespeak us
Imitatores, servum pecus.
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,
We travel in the beaten road:
The proverb still sticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas said an age ago,
Ere Milton soar'd in thought sublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,
Ere Colman wrote in style so pure,
Or the great Town the Connoisseur;
Ere I burlesqu'd the rural cit,

Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit,
And, happy in the close connexion,
T' acquire some name from their reflection:
So (the similitude is trite)

The moon still shines with borrow'd light;
And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the sun for her lac'd clothes.

Methinks there is no better time
To show the use I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet-sinning,
Presuming on good-nature's score,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.

The first advantage which I see
Is, that I ramble loose and free:
The bard indeed full oft complains
That rhymes are fetters, links, and chains;
And, when he wants to leap the fence,
Still keeps him pris'ner to the sense.
Howe'er in common-place he rage,
Rhyme's like your fetters on the stage,
Which, when the player once hath wore,
It makes him only strut the more,
While, raving in pathetic strains,
He shakes his legs to clank his chains.
From rhyme, as from a handsome face,
Nonsense acquires a kind of grace;
I therefore give it all its scope,
That sense may, unperceiv'd, elope.
So Mrs of basest tricks
(I love a fling at polities)

Amuse the nation, court, and king,
With breaking F-kes, and hanging Byng:
And make each puny rogue a prey,
While they, the greater, slink away.
This simile, perhaps, would strike,
If match'd with something more alike;
Then take it dress'd a second time
In Prior's ease, and my sublime.
Say, did you never chance to meet
A mob of people in the street,
Ready to give the robb'd relief,
And in all haste to catch a thief ;

While the sly rogue who filch'd the prey,
Too close beset to run away,
Stop thief! stop thief! exclaims aloud,
And so escapes among the crowd?
So Ministers, &c.

O England, how I mourn thy fate!
For sure thy losses now are great;
Two such what Briton can endure?
Minorca, and the Connoisseur !

To-day, or e'er the sun goes down, Will die the Censor, Mr. Town! He dies, whoe'er take pains to con him, With "blushing honors thick upon him:" O may his name these verses save, Be these inscrib'd upon his grave:

"Know, Reader, that on Thursday died "The Connoisseur, a suicide! "Yet think not that his soul is fled, "Nor rank him 'mongst the vulgar dead, Howe'er defunct you set him down, "He's only going out of Town."

§ 112. Ode to Arthur Onslow Esq.t THIS goodly frame what virtue so approves, And testifies the pure ethereal spirit, As mild Benevolence!

She, with her sister Mercy, still awaits

Beside th' eternal throne of Juve, And measures forth with unwithdrawing hand The blessings of the various year, Sunshine or show'r, and chides the madding tempest. [rity, With her the heaven-bred nymph, meek ChaShall fashion Onslow forth in fairest portrait;

And with recording care

Weave the fresh wreath that flow'ring virtue claims.

But, oh, what Muse shall join the band? He long has sojourn'd in the sacred haunts, And knows each whisp'ring grot and glade

Trod by Apollo and the light-foot Graces,

How then shall awkward gratitude,
And the presumption of untutor'd duty,

Attune my numbers, all too rude?
Little he recks the meed of such a song;
Yet will I stretch aloof,
And when I tell of Courtesy,

Of well-attemper'd Zeal,

Of awful Prudence soothing fell Contention, Where shall the lineaments agree

But in thee, Onslow? You your wonted leave Indulge me, nor misdeem a soldier's bold emprise,

Who, in the dissonance of barb'rous war Long train'd, revisits oft the sacred treasures

Of antique memory!

Or where sage Pindar reins his fiery car

Through the vast vault of Heaven secure ; Or what the Attic Muse that Homer fill'd, Her other son, thy Milton, taught; Or range the flow'ry fields of gentle Spenser. And, ever as I go, allurements vain Cherish a feeble fire, and feed my idle

Fancy: oh could I once

Charm to their melody my shrilling reeds!
To Henries and to Edwards old,
Dread names! I'd meditate the faithful song;
Or tell what time Britannia,

Whilom the fairest daughter of old Ocean,
In loathly disarray, dull eyes,
And faded cheek, wept o'er her abject sons:
Till William, great deliverer!
Led on the comely train, gay Liberty,
Religion, matron staid,

With all her kindred goddesses;
Justice, with steady brow,

Trim Plenty, laureat Peace, and green-hair'd
Commerce,

In flowing vest of thousand hues. Fain would I shadow out old Bourbon's pile Tott'ring with doubtful weight, and threat'ning cumb'rous fall:

Or trace our navy, where in tow'ring pride O'er the wide swelling waste it rolls avengeful. As when collected clouds

Forth from the gloomy south, in deep array, Athwart the dark'ning landscape throng, Fraught with loud storms, and thunder's dreadful peal,

At which the murd'rer stands aghast, And wasting Riot ill dissembles terror.

How headlong Rhone and Ebro, erst distain'd With Moorish carnage, quakes through all her branches!

Soon shall I greet the morn, [name, When, Europe sav'd, Britain and George's Shall sound o'er Flandria's level field, Familiar in domestic inerriment;

Or by the jolly mariner

Be carol'd loud adown the echoing Danube.
The just memorial of fair deeds
Still flourishes, and, like th' untainted soul,
Blossoms in freshest age above

The weary flesh, and envy's rankling wound.
Such, after years mature,

In full account shall be thy meed.

Oh may your rising hope

Well principled in ev'ry virtue bloom! Till a fresh-springing flock implore With infant hands a grandsire's pow'rful

pray'r,

Or round your honor'd couch their prattling sports pursue.

§ 113. Ode to Melancholy. OGILVIE.

HAIL, queen of thought sublime! propitious pow'r, [roam, Who o'er the unbounded waste art joy'd to Led by the moon, when, at the midnight hour, Her pale rays tremble through the dusky gloom.

O bear me, Goddess, to thy peaceful seat !
Whether to Hecla's cloud-wrapt brow con-
vey'd,
[treat,
Or lodg'd where mountains screen thy deep re-
Or wand'ring wild through Chili's boundless
shade.

Say, rove thy steps o'er Libya's naked waste?
Or seek some distant solitary shore?
Or, on the Andes' topmost mountain plac'd,

Dost sit, and hear the solemn thunder roar? Fix'd on some hanging rock's projected brow, Hear'st thou low murmurs from the distant dome?

Or stray thy feet where pale, dejected Woe Pours her long wail from some lamented tomb?

Hark! yon deep echo strikes the trembling ear! See night's dun curtain wraps the darksome pole! [pear, O'er heaven's blue arch yon rolling worlds apAnd rouse to solemn thought, th' aspiring soul. O lead my steps beneath the moon's dim ray, Where Tadmor stands all desert and alone! While from her time-shook tow'rs the bird of prey [ing moan. Sounds through the night her long-resoundOr bear me far to yon dark, dismal plain,

Where fell-eyed tigers, all athirst for blood, Howl to the desert: while the horrid train Roams o'er the wild where once great Babel stood;

That queen of nations! whose superior call
Rous'd the broad East, and bid her arms de-
stroy!
[fall,
When warm'd to mirth, let judgement mark her
And deep reflection dash the lip of joy.
Short is Ambition's gay deceitful dream,
Though wreaths of blooming laurel bind her

brow:

Calm thought dispels the visionary scheme, And Time's cold breath dissolves the with'ring bough.

Slow as some miner saps th' aspiring tow'r,

When working secret with destructive aim, Unseen, unheard, thus moves the stealing hour, But works the fall of empire, pomp, and name. Then let thy pencil mark the traits of man; Full in the draught be keen eyed Hope portray'd:

Let flutt'ring Cupids crowd the growing plan: Then give one touch, and dash it deep with shade.

Beneath the plume that flames with glancing rays

Be Care's deep engines on the soul impress'd; Beneath the helmet's keen refulgent blaze Let Grief sit pining in the canker'd breast. Let Love's gay sons, a smiling train, appear, With beauty pierc'd-yet heedless of the dart; While, closely-couch'd, pale, sick'ning Envy

near,

Whets her fell sting, and points it at the heart. Perch'd, like a raven, on some blasted yew, Let Guilt revolve the thought-distracting sin; Scar'd-while her eyes survey the ethereal blue, Lest heaven's strong lightning burst the dark

within.

Then paint, impending o'er the maddening deep That rock, where heart-struck Sappho, vainly brave,

Stood firm of soul-then from the dizzy steep Impetuous sprung, and dash'd the boiling

wave.

Here, wrapt in studious thought, let Fancy rove,
Still prompt to mark Suspicion's secret snare;
To see where anguish nips the bloom of Love,
Or trace more Grandeur to the domes of Care.
Should e'er Ambition's tow'ring hopes inflame,
Let judging reason draw the veil aside;
Or, fir'd with envy at some mighty name,

Read o'er the monument that tells—He died. What are the ensigns of imperial sway?

What all that Fortune's lib'ral hand has brought?

Teach they the voice to pour a sweeter lay?

Or rouse the soul to more exalted thought? When bleeds the heart as Genius blooms unknown? [bier? When melts the eye o'er Virtue's mournful Not wealth, but pity, swells the bursting groan; Not pow'r, but whisp'ring Nature, prompts the

tear.

Say, gentle mourner, in yon mouldy vault, Where the worm fattens on some sceptred

brow,

Beneath that roof with sculptur'd marble fraught, Why sleeps unmov'd the breathless dust be low?

Sleeps it more sweetly than the simple swain

Beneath some mossy turf that rests his head; Where the lone widow tells the night her pain, And eve with dewy tears embalms the dead? The lily, screen'd from ev'ry ruder gale, Courts not the cultur'd spot where roses spring;

But blows neglected in the peaceful vale,
And scents the zephyr's balmy-breathing wing
The busts of grandeur, and the pamp of pow'r,
Can these bid Sorrow's gushing tears subside?
Can these avail in that tremendous hour,
When Death's cold hand congeals the purple

tide?

Ah no! the mighty names are heard no more : Pride's thought sublime, and Beauty's kindling bloom,

Serve but to sport one flying moment o'er, And swell with pompous verse th' escutcheon'd tomb.

For me may Passion ne'er my soul invade,
Nor be the whims of tow'ring Phrensy giv'n;
Let Wealth ne'er court me from the peaceful
shade,

Where Contemplation wings the soul to heaven.
Oh guard me safe from Joy's enticing snare!
With each extreme that Pleasure tries to hide,
The poison'd breath of slow-consining Care,
The noise of Folly, and the dreams of Pride.
But oft, when midnight's sadly solemn knell
Sounds long and distant from the sky-topt tow'r,
Calm let me sit in Prosper's lonely cell*,
Or walk with Milton through the dark obscure
Thus, when the transient dream of life is fled,
May some sad friend recal the former years;
Then, stretch'd in silence o'er my dusty bed,
Pour the warm gush of sympathetic tears.

$114. Ode to the Genius of Shakspeare.

I. 1.

RAPT from the glance of mortal eye,

OGILVIE.

Say, bursts thy Genius to the world of light?

Seeks it you star-bespangled sky?

Or skims its fields with rapid fight?

Or, mid yon plains where Fancy strays,
Courts it the balmy breathing gale?
Or where the violet pale

Droops o'er the green-embroider'd stream;
Or where young Zephyr stirs the rustling sprays,
Lies all dissolv'd in fairy dream?

O'er yon bleak desert's unfrequented round Seest thou where Nature treads the deep'ning gloom,

Sitt'st on yon hoary tow'r with ivy crown'd,
Or wildly wail'st o'er thy lamented tomb?
Hear'st thou the solemn music wind along,
Or thrills the warbling note in thy inellifluous
song?

Or wild to melt the yielding soul, "Let Sorrow, clad in sable stole, "Slow to thy musing thought appear; "Or pensive Pity, pale;

"Or Love's desponding tale

[tear."

Call from th' intender'd heart the sympathetic II. 1.

Say, whence the magic of thy mind?

Why thrills thy music on the springs of thought? Why, at thy pencil's touch refin'd,

Starts into life the glowing draught?

On yonder fairy carpet laid,

Where beauty pours eternal bloom,
And Zephyr breathes perfume;
There nightly to the tranced eye

Profuse the radiant goddess stood display'd,
With all her smiling offspring nigh.
Sudden the mantling cliff, the arching wood,
The broider'd mead, the landscape and the grove,
Hills, vales, and sky-dipt seas, and torrents rude,
Grots, rills, and shades, and bow'rs, that
breath'd of love,

All burst to sight! while glancing on the view, Titania's sporting train brush'd lightly o'er the dew.

II. 2.

The pale-ey'd Genius of the shade

Led thy bold step to Prosper's magic bow'r;
Whose voice the howling winds obey'd,
Whose dark spell chain'd the rapid hour;
Then rose serene the sea-girt isle;

Gay scenes, by Fancy's touch refin'd,
Glow'd to the musing mind:
Such visions bless the hermit's dream,
When hovering angels prompt his placid smile,
Or paint some high ecstatic theme.
Then flam'd Miranda on th' enraptur'd gaze,
Then sail'd bright Ariel on the bat's fleet wing:
Or starts the list'ning throng in still amaze,
The wild note trembling on the aërial string!

+ Venus.

The form, in heaven's resplendent vesture gay, Floats on the mantling cloud, and pours the melting lay*.

II. 3.

Oh lay me near yon limpid streamn,
Whose murmur soothes the ear of woe!
There in some sweet poetic dream
Let Fancy's bright Elysium glow!
"Tis done-o'er all the blushing mead
The dark wood shakes his cloudy head:
Below, the lily-fringed dale

Breathes its mild fragrance on the gale;
While, in pastime all unseen,
Titania, rob'd in mantle green,
Sports on the mossy bank: her train
Skims light along the gleaming plain;
Or to the flutt'ring breeze unfold
The blue wing streak'd with beamy gold ;
Its pinions op'ning to the light!—
Say, bursts the vision on my sight?
Ah, no! by Shakspeare's pencil drawn,
The beauteous shapes appear;
While meek-eyed Cynthia near
Illumes with streamy ray the silver mantled
III. 1.

[lawnt.

But hark! the tempest howls afar, [waste!
Bursts the loud whirlwind o'er the pathless
What cherub blows the trump of war?
What demon rides the stormy blast?
Red from the lightning's livid blaze,
The bleak heath rushes on the sight;
Then, wrapt in sudden night
Dissolves. But, ah! what kingly form
Roams the lone desert's desolated maze t
Unaw'd, nor heeds the sweeping storm?
Ye pale-ey'd lightnings, spare the cheek of age!
Vain wish! though anguish heaves the bursting

groan,

Deaf as the flint, the marble ear of rage
Hears not the mourner's unavailing moan;
Heart-pierc'd he bleeds; and, stung with wild
despair,
[hair.
Bares his time-blasted head, and tears his silver
III. 2.

Lo! on yon long-resounding shore,
Where the rock totters o'er the headlong deep;
What phantoms bath'd in infant gore
Stand mutt'ring on the dizzy steep!
Their murmurs shake the zephyr's wing!
The storm obeys their powerful spell;
See from this gloomy cell

Fierce Winter starts! his scowling eye
Blots the fair mantle of the breathing Spring,
And lowers along the ruffled sky,

To the deep vault the yelling harpies run §;
Its yawning mouth receives th' infernal crew,
Dim through the black gloom winks the glim-
mering som,

And the pale furnace gleams with brimstone blue.

Ariel: see the Tempest.

Hell howls; and fiends, that join the dire ac-
claim,
[Alame
Dance on the bubbling tide, and point the livid
III. 3.

But, ah! on Sorrow's cypress bough
Can Beauty breathe her genial bloom?
On Death's cold cheek will passion glow?
Or Music warble from the tomb?
There sleeps the bard, whose tuneful tongue
Pour'd the full stream of mazy song.
Young Spring, with lip of ruby, here
Show'rs from her lap the blushing year;
While, along the turf reclin'd,

The loose wing swimming on the wind,
The Loves, with forward gesture bold,
Sprinkle the sod with spangling gold;
And oft the blue-ey'd Graces trim
Dance lightly round on downy limb;
Oft too, when eve, demure and still,
Chequers the green dale's purling rill,
Sweet Fancy pours the plaintive strain;
Or, wrapt in soothing dream,
By Avon's ruffled stream,
[the plain
Hears the low-murmuring gale that dies along

O THOU, who mid the world-involving gloom.
Sitt'st on yon solitary spire!

Or slowly shak'st the sounding dome,
Or hear'st the wildly-warbling lyre;
Say, when thy musing soul
Bids distant times unrol,

And marks the flight of each revolving year.
Of years whose slow-consuming pow'r
Has clad with moss yon leaning tow'r
That saw the race of Glory run,
That mark'd Ambition's setting sun,
That shook old Empires' tow'ring pride,
That swept them down the floating tide→
Say, when these long-unfolding scenes appear,
Streams down thy hoary cheek the pity-darting

tear?

I. 2.

1 Lear.