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Winter. An Ode. DR. JOHNSON.
The Natural Beauty. To Sælla. No more the morn, with tepid rays,
Dr. Johnson Unfolds the flow'r of various hue;
Whether Stella's eyes are found Noon spreads no more the genial blaze, Fix'd on earth or glancing round, Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
If her face with pleasure glow, Tbe lingering hours prolong the night,
If she sigh at others' woe,
If her easy air express
Conscious worth or soft distress,
Stella's eyes, and air, and face. sway.
Charm with undiminish'd grace. By gloomy twilight half reveald,
If on her we see display'd With sighs we view the hoary hill, Pendant gems, and rich brocade ; The leafless wood, the naked field,
If her chintz with less expense The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill.
Flows in easy negligence; No music warbles through the grove, ,
Still she lights the conscious flame, No vivid colors paint the plain ;
Sưill her charms appear the same: No more with devious steps
If she strikes the vocal strings, Through verdant paths now sought in vain. If she's silent, speaks, or sings,
If she sit, or if she move, Aloud the driving tempest roars,
Still we love, and still Congeald, impetuous show'rs descend;
Vain the casual, transient glance, Haste, close the window, bar the doors,
Which alone can please by chance, Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.
Beauty, which depends on art, In nature's aid let art supply
Changing with the changing heart, With light and heat my little sphere; Which demands the toilet's aid, Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high : Pendant gems and rich brocade. Light up a constellation here.
I those charms alone can prize Let music sound the voice of joy,
Which from constant nature rise, Or mirth repeat the jocund tale ;
Which nor circumstance nor dress
E'er can make or more or less.
The Vanity of Wealth. DR. JOHNSOX. When mirth's gay tale shall please no more;
No more thus brooding o'er yon heap, Nor music charm, though Stella sings; With Avarice painful vigils keep;
Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore. Still unenjoy'd the present store, Catch then, O catch, the transient hour;
Still endless sighs are breath'd for more. Improve each moment as it Aies.
O quit the shadow, catch the prize Life's a short Summer, man a flow'r;
Which not all India's treasure buys !
To purchase heaven has gold the pow'r?
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?
No-all that's worth a wish, a thought,
Fair virtue gives unbribd, unbought.
Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind, Evening now from purple wings
Let nobler views engage thy mind. Sheds the grateful gifts she brings;
With science tread the wondrous way, Brilliant drops bedeck the mead;
Or learn the Muse's moral lay; Cooling breezes shake the reed,
In social hours indulge thy soul, Shake the reed, and curl the stream
Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl: Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam;
To virtuous love resign thy breast, Near the chequer'd lonely grove,
And be, by blessing beauty, blest. Hears and keeps thy secrets Love.
Thus taste the feast by nature spread, Stella, thither let us stray
Ere youth and all its joys are filed; Lightly o'er the dewy way.
Come taste with me the balın of life, Phæbus drives his burning car
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife. Hence, my lovely Stella, far;
I boast whate'er for man was meant, In his stead, the queen of night
In health, and Stella, and content; Round us pours a lambent light;
And scorn (O let that scorn be thine !) Light that seems but just to show
Mere things of clay that dig the mine.
To Miss -
Gold and Silk Net-work Purse of her * Please the hearts that love invades;
weaving Other pleasures give them pain,
Though gold and silk their charms unite, Lovers all but love disdain.
To make thy ourious web delight,
on her giving the Author a
Dr. Jonssos. In vain the varied work would shine.
Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone, If wrought by any hand, but thine ;
When HAMMER fill'd the chair, and ANNE the Thy hand, that knows the subtler art
throne ! To weave those nets that catch the heart. Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce Spread out hy me, the roving coin
debate, Thy nets may catch, but not confine;
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
The Moderator firmly mild appear'd,
Beheld with love, with veneration heard. Why, Stella, was it then decreed,
This task perform'd, he sought no gainful The heart once caught should ne'er be freed ?
post, Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost:
Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye, To Lyce, an elderly Lady. Dr. Johnson. Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was ler'd aside,
With temperate zeal, and wise anxiety; Ye nymphs whom starry rays invest,
To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure or of pride. -By Raitering poets given,
Her gifts despis’d, Corruption blush'd and fled, Who shine by lavish lovers drest
And Fame pursu'd him where Conviction led. In all the
Age call'd at length his active mind to rest, Engross not all the beams on high
With honors sated, and with cares opprest: Which gild a lover's lays;
To letter'd ease retir'd, and honest mirth, But, as your sister of the sky,
To rural grandeur, and domestic worth, Let Lyce share the praise.
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend, Her silver locks display the moon,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm Conscience then his former life surHer brows a cloud do show :
vey'd, Strip'd rainbows round her eyes are seen,
And recollected toils endear'd the shade ; And show’rs from either flow.
Till Nature call'd him to the general doom, Her teeth the night with darkness dyes, And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.
She's starr'd with pimples o'er ;
SONNETS BY WARTON.
Written at Wynslade, in Hampshire. And all the pens of Cupid's wing
WYNSLADE, thy beech-capt hills, with waving Attack my gentle lines.
grain Yet spite of fair Zelinda's
Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and eye, And all her bards express,
Whilom could charm, or when the gradual My Lyce makes as good a sky,
dawn And I but flatter less.
'Gan the grey mist with orient purple stain,
Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train: Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hunmer.
Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has DR. JOHNSON. drawn,
Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn, Thou who survey'st these walls with curious Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain.
eye, Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie: Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn, His various worth through varied life attend,
Nor views invite, since he far distant strays And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and end.
morn, His force of genius burn'd in early youth
From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays; With thirst of knowledge and with love of In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn, truth;
That still they can recall those happier days. His learning, join'd with each endearing art, Charm'd every ear, and gain d on every heart. Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid,
On Bathing. His country call’d him from the studious shade: In life's first bloom his public toils began, When late the trees were stript by winter pale, At once commenc'd the senator and man. Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green, In business dext'rous, weighty in debate,
Or like the forest's silver-quiver'd queen, Thrice ten long years he labor'd for the state. On early uplands met the piercing gale; In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd, And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale, In every act refulgent virtue glow’d;
Watching the hunter's joyous born was seen. Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife, But since, gay-thron'd in fiery chariot sheen, To hear his eloquence, and praise his life. Summer has smole each daisy-dappled dale;
Resistless merit fix'd the Senate's choice, She to the cave retires high-arch'd, beneath Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. The fount that laves proud Isis' tow'red brim
And now all glad the temperate air to breathe,
To Mr. Gray. While cooling drops distil from arches diin, Nor that her blooms are mark'd with beauty's Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath,
hue, She sits amid the quire of Naiads trim.
My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings ;
Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings,
While slowly pacing through the church-vard Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's Mo
At curfew-time, beneath the dark green yew, Dezm not devoid of elegance the sage,
Thy pensive Gepius strikes the moral strings
; By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguild,
Or, borne sublime on Inspiration's wings
, Oi painful Pedantry the poring child,
Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful cloc Who turns of those proud domes th' historic Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd. page,
Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essas? Now sunk by Time and Henry's fiercer rage.
No, bard divine ! For many a care beguild Think'st thou the warbling Muscs crer sinil'd
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, On his lone bours? Ingenious views engage
For inany a raptur'd thought, and vision wild, His thought, on themes, unclassic falsely stylid,
To thee this strain of gratitude 1 pay. Intent. While cloister'd Piety displays
Her moulderingroll, the piercing eye explores New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Sonnet. Whence culls the pensive bard his pictur’d stores.
While summer-suns o'er the gay prospast Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways
play'd, Of hoar Antiquity, but strewn with flow'rs. Through Surrey's verdant scenes, where Epson
'Mid intermingling elis, her flow'ry meads; Written at Stonehenge.
And Hascombe's hill, in tow'ring groves arras d,
Rear'd its romantic steep—with mind serane Trou noblest monument of Albion's isle!
I journey'd blithe. Full pensive I retur'd: Whether by Merlin'said, froin Scythia's shore For now my breast with hopeless passion To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
burn'd. Huge frame of giant bands, the mighty pile, Wet with hear mists appeard the gaudy scene T'entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile*: Which late in careless indolence I pass'd; Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, And Autumn all around those hues had cast Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: Where past delight my recent grief might trace. Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, Sad change! ihat Nature a congenial gloom To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, Should wear, when most, my cheerless mood to Reard the rude heap; or, in thy hallow'd chase, round,
I wish'd her green attire, and wonted bloon! Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line: Or here those kings in solemn state were
crown'd: Studious to trace thy wondrous origin,
On King Arthur's Round Table at Winchester. We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd. WHERE Venta's Norman castle still uprears
Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss
And scatter'd flinty fragrants, clad in mors, Written after sceing Wilton-Ilouse.
On yonder steep in naked state appears :
High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years, From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic Old Arthur's Board: on the capacious round Art
Some British pen has sketch'd the names reDecks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs,
nown'd, Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, In marks obscure, of his immortal peers: And breathing forms from the rude inarble start, Tho'join'd by magic skill, with many a rbyte, How to life's humbler scene can I depart? The Druid frame unhonor'd falls a prey My breast all glowing from those gorgeous To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time,
And fade the British characters away; In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ? Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime Vain the complaint: for Fancy can impart Those chiets, shall live unconscious of deest, (To Fate superior, and to Fortune's doom)
Whate'er adorns the stately storied hall: She, 'mid the dungeop's solitary gloom, Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall;
To the River Lodon. Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty gloom; AH! what a weary race my feet hare run, And in bright trophies clothe the twilight Since first I trod thy banks with alders Crow I, wall.
And thought my way was all through Ewing
ground, *Oncofthe bardish traditions about Stonehenge. Beneath the azure sky, and golden sosi,
Where first my muse to lisp her notes begun!
“ What Pow'r hath work'd a wonder for While pensive memory traces back the round your toes; Which fills the varied interval between,
Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks thescene. Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Sweet native stream ! those skies and sun so Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes? pure
How is't that you can like a greyhound go, No more return to cheer my evening road ! Merry as if that nought had happen'd, burn
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure Nor useless all my vacant days have flow'd, Why,” cried the other, grinning, “you must From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime know, mature;
That, just before I ventur’d on my journey, Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow’d.
To walk a little more at ease,
The Pilgrim and the Peas. A true Story
A Country Bumphin and Razor-seller.
A BRACE of sinners, for no good,
A FELLOW in a market town,
And for the money quite a heap,
As every man would buy with cash and sense. With something in their shocs inuch worse than gravel;
A country bumpkin the great offer heard, In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black The priest had order'd peas into their shoes :
beard, A nostrum famous in old Popish times
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his For purifying souls that stunk with crimes; A sort of apostolic salt,
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid; That Popish parsons for its powers
exalt And proudly to himself in whispers said, For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
“ No matter, if the fellow le a knave: The knaves set off on the same day,
Provided that the razors shave, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;
It certainly will be a monstrous prize." But very different was their speed, I wot: So home the clown with bis good fortune went, One of the sinners gallop'd on
Smiling, in heart and soul content, Light as a bullet from a gun;
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes. The other liinp'd as if he had been shot.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, One saw the VIRGIN soon—peccavi cried- Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Had his soul white wash'd all so clever; Just like a heriger cutting furze; Then home again he nimbly hied,
'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he tried Made fit with saints above to live for ever. All were impostors" Ah!” Hodge sigh'd,
“I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother-rogue about half-way, In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, Hobbling with outstretch'd bum and bending He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, knees,
and swore; Damning the souls and bodies of the peas: Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphein'd, and His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat, made wry faces, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er. “ How now,” the light-toed, whitewash'd pil- His muzzle, form’d of opposition stuff, grim broke,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff: “ You lazy lubber?"
So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds. “ Odds curse it.” cried the other, “ 'tis no Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry, jaws, My feet, once hard as any rock, (joke: Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd Are now as soft as blubber.
On the vile cheat that sold the goods. “ Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear
“ Razors ! damn'l, confounded dog! As for Loretto, I shall not get there :
Not fit to scrape a hog;"
Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and beBut, brother sinner, do explain
gun How 'tis that you are not in pain ;
"Perhaps, Master Razor-Rogue, to you'uis furi,
That people flay themselves out of their lives: | But now what rhetoric could assuage You rascal! for an hour I have been grubbing, The furious squire, stark mad with rage? Giving myscoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, Impatient at the foul disgrace With razors just like oyster knives.
From insect of so mean a race, Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave,
And płotting vengeance on his foe, To cry up razors that can't shave.”
With double fist he aims a blow.
The pimble fly escaped by flight, Friend,” quoth the razor-man, “ I'm not a knave:
And skipp'd from this unequal fight. As for the razors you have bought,
Th' impending stroke with all its weight
Fell on his own beloved pate. Upon my soul I never thought
Thus much he gain’d by this adventurous deed; That they would shave.”
He foul’d his fingers, and he broke his head. “Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
MORAL. And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
Let senates hence learn to preserve their “ What were they made for then, you dog?”
state, he cries : “ Made!” quoth the fellow with a smile Who by the unequal strife grows popular and
And scorn the fool, below their grave debate, “ to sell."
Let him buz on, with senseless rant defy The Bald-pated Welshman and the Fly.
The wise, the good, yet still 'tis but a fly. SOMERVILLE.
With puny foes the toil's not worth the cost;
Where nothing can be gain'd, much may be Qui non moderabitur iræ, Infectum volet esse, dolor quod suaserit et mens, Let cranes and pigmies in mock-war engage, Dum pænasodio per viin festinat inulto." Hor. A prey beneath the gen'rous eagle's rage,
True honor o'er the clouds sublimely wings; A SQUIRE of Wales, whose blood ran higher Young Ammon scorns to run with less than Than that of any other squire,
The Incurious Bencher. SOMERVILLE.
And lay their laurels at her feet; At last, such insults to evade,
The modern Pallas, at whose shrine Sought the next tree's protecting shade ; They bow, and by whose aid they dine; Where as he lay dissolv'd in sweat,
Colonel Brocade, among the rest, And wip'd off many a rivulet,
Was every day a welcome guest. Off in a pet the beaver flies,
One night as carelessly he stood, And flaxen wig, time's best disguise,
Cheering his reins before the fire By which folks of maturer ages
(So every true-born Briton should) Vie with smooth beaux, and ladies' pages ;
Like ihat he chaf"d and fumd with ire. Thougha 'twas a secret rarely known,
Jenny,” said he, “ 'tis very hard, Ill-natur'd
age cropp'd his crown, That no man's honor can be spar'd; Grubb'd all the covert up, and now
If I but sup with Lady Duchess, A large smooth plain extends his brow. Or play a game at ombre, such is Thus as he lay with numskull bare,
The malice of the world, 'tis said, And courted the refreshing air,
Although his Grace lay drunk in bed, New persecutions still appear;
"Twas I that caus'd his aching head. A noisy fly offends his ear.
If Madame Doodle would be witty, Alas! what man of parts and sense
And I am summond to the city, Could bear such vile iinpertinence?
To play at blindman's-buff or so, Yet, so discourteous is our fate,
What won't such hellish malice do? Fools always buz about the great,
If I but catch her in a corner, This insect now, whose active spite
Humph!'tis “Your servant, Colonel Horrer." Teas'd him with never-ceasing bite,
But rot the sneering fops, if e'er With so much judgment play'd his part, I prove it, it shall cost them dear; He had him both in tierce and carte :
I swear by this dead-doing blade, In vain with open hands he tries
Dreadful examples shall be made. To guard his ears, his nose, his eyes; What, can't they drink bohea and cream, For now at last, familiar grown,
But (dấn them) I must be their theme? He perch'd upon his worship's crown, Other men's business let alone, With teeth and claws his skin he tore, Why should not coxcombs mind their own?" And stuff'd himself with human gore:
As thus he rav'd with all his might At last, in manners to excel,
(How ivsecure from fortune's spite, Untruss'd a point, some authors tell.
Alas, is ev'ry mortal wight!)