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Or dealt by chance to shield a lucky knave, In wanton and unmanly tenderness,
Or throw a cruel sun-shine on a fool.

Adds bloom to health; o'er ev'ry virtue sheds But for one end, one much-neglected use,

A gay, humane, a sweet, and generous grace, Are riches worth your care ; (for Nature's wants And brightens all the ornaments of man. Are few, and without opulence supplied ;) But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack'd This noble end is, to produce the soul ;

With jealousy, fatigu'd with hope and fear, To show the virtues in their fairest light;

Too serious, or too languishingly fond, To make humanity the minister

Unnerves the body and unmans the soul. of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast And some have died for love; and some run mad; That generous luxury the gods enjoy."

And some with desperate hands themselves have Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly sage

slain. Sometimes declaim'd. Or right and wrong he taught Some to extinguish, others to prevent, Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard ;

A mad devotion to one dangerous fair, And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd. Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate Skill'd in the passions, how to check their sway, The cares of love amongst an hundred brides. He knew, as far as reason can control

Th' event is doubtful; for there are who find The lawless powers. But other cares are mine : A cure in this; there are who find it not. Form'd in the school of Pæon, I relate

"Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls What passions hurt the body, what improve : The wound, to those who are sincerely sick. Avoid them, or invite them as you may.

For while from severish and tumultuous joys Know then, whatever cheerful and serene The nerves grow languid, and the soul subsides, Supports the mind, supports the body too.

The tender fancy smarts with every sting,
Hence, the most vital movement mortals feel And what was love before is madness now.
Is hope: the balm and life-blood of the soul. Is health your care, or luxury your aim !
It pleases, and it lasts. Indulgent Heaven

Be temperate still: when Nature bids, obey ; Sent down the kind delusion, through the paths Her wild impatient sallies bear no curb: of rugged life to lead us patient on;

But when the prurient habit of delight,
And make our happiest state no tedious thing. Or loose imagination, spurs you on
Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, To deeds above your strength, impute it not
Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.

To Nature : Nature all compulsion hates.
But there are passions grateful to the breast, Ah! let not luxury nor vain renown
And yet no friends to life : perhaps they please Urge you to feats you well might sleep without;
Or to excess, and dissipate the soul;

To make what should be rapture a fatigue, Or while they please, torment. The stubborn A tedious task ; nor in the wanton arms clown,

Of twining Lais melt your manhood down. The ill-tam'd russian, and pale usurer,

For from the colliquation of soft joys (If Love's omnipotence such hearts can mould,) How chang'd you rise! the ghost of what you was May safely mellow into love; and grow

Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan; Refind, humane, and generous, if they can. Your veins exhausted, and your nerves unstrung. Love in such bosoms never to a fault

Spoil'd of its balm and sprightly zest, the blood Or pains or pleases. But ye liner souls,

Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves Form'd to soft luxury, and prompt to thrill

(To each slight impulse tremblingly awake) With all the tumults, all the joys and pains, A subile fiend that mimics all the plagues, That beauty gives; with caution and reserve Rapid and restless springs from part to part. Indulge the sweet destroyer of repose,

The blooming honors of your youth are fallen; Nor court 100 much the queen of charming cares. Your vigor pines; your vital powers decay; . For, while the cherish'd poison in your breast Diseases haunt you ; and untimely age Ferments and maddens; sick with jealousy, Creeps on ; unsocial, impotent, and lewd. Absence, distrust, or even with anxious joy,

Infatuate, impious epicure! to waste The wholesome appetites and powers of life The stores of pleasure, cheerfulness, and health! Dissolve in languor. The coy stomach lothes Infatuate all who make delight their trade, The genial board : your cheerful days are gone; And coy perdition every hour pursue. The generous bloom that flush'd youcheeks is fled. Who pines with love, or in lascivious flames To sighs devoted and to tender pains,

Consumes, is with his own consent undone ; Pensive you sit, or solitary stray,

He chooses to be wretched, to be mad; And waste your youih in niusing. Musing first And warn'd, proceeds, and wilful to his fate. Toy'd into care your unsuspecting heart:

But there's a passion, whose tempestuous sway It found a liking there, a sportful fire,

Tears up each virtue planted in his breast, And that fomented into serious love;

And shakes to ruins proud philosophy. Which musing daily strengthens and improves For pale and trembling anger rushes in, Through all the heights of fondness and romance: With falt'ring speech, and eyes that wildly stare; And you 're undone, the fatal shaft has sped, Fierce as the tiger, madder than the seas, If once you doubt whether you love or no. Desperate, and arm'd with more than human strength The body wastes away; th' infected mind, How soon the calm, humane, and polish'd man Dissolv'd in female tenderness, forgets

Forgets compunction, and starts up a fiend! Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame. Who pines in love, or wastes with silent cares, Sweet Heaven, from such intoxicating charms Envy, or ignominy, or tender grief, Defend all worthy breasts! not that I deem Slowly descends and ling'ring, to the shades: Love always dangerous, always to be shunn'd. But he whom anger stings, drops, if he dies, Lose well repaid, and not too weakly sunk | At once, and rushes apoplectic down;

Or a fierce fever hurries him to Hell.

Where reason proves too weak, or Foid of sleg For, as the body through unnumber'd strings To cope with subtle or impetuous powers, Reverberates each vibration of the soul;

I would invoke new passions to your ard: As is the passion, such is still the pain

With indignation would extinguish fear; The body feels : or chronic, or acute.

With fear, or generous pity, vanquish rage: And oft a sudden storm at once o'erpowers And love with pride; and force to force oppose. The life, or gives your reason to the winds.

There is a charm, a power, that sways the dress Such fates attend the rash alarm of fear,

Bids every passion revel or be still; And sudden grief, and rage, and sudden joy. Inspires with rage, or all your cares dissolves;

There are, meantime, to whom the boist'rous fit Can soothe distraction, and almost despair. Is health, and only fills the sails of life.

That power is music: far beyond the stretch For where the mind a torpid winter leads, for those unmeaning warblers on our stage ; Wrapt in a body corpulent and cold,

Those clumsy heroes, those fat-headed gods And each clogg'd function lazily moves on; Who move no passion justly but contempt: A generous sally spurns th' incumbent load, Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong! Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow.

Do wondrous feats, but never heard of grace But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,

The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous art; Or are your nerves too irritably strung,

Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with londe Waive all dispute ; be cautious, if you joke ;

peals Keep Lent for ever, and forswear the bowl. Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels; For one rash moment sends you to the shades, And with insipid show of rapture, die Or shatters ev'ry hopeful scheme of life,

Of idiot notes impertinently long. And gives to horror all your days to come.

But he the Muse's laurel justly shares. Fate, arm'd with thunder, fire, and ev'ry plague, A poet he, and touch'd with Heaven's own fire That ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,

Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of contd. And makes the happy wretched in an hour, Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul; O'erwhelms you not with woes so horrible

Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain, As your own wrath, nor gives more sudden blows. In love dissolves you ; now in sprightly strass

While choler works, good friend, you may be wrong. Breathes a gay rapture through your thrilling brak Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight. Or melts the hearts with airs divinely sad; 'Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave;

Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings. If honor bids, to-morrow kill or die.

Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of de But calm advice against a raging fit

Appeas'd the fiend of melancholy Saul. Avails too little; and it braves the power

Such was, if old and heathen fame say true, Of all that ever taught in prose or song,

The man who bade the Theban domes ascend. To tame the fiend, that sleeps a gentle lamb, And tam'd the savage nations with his song: And wakes a lion. Unprovok'd and calm, And such the Thracian, whose melodious lore, You reason well; see as you ought to see,

Tund to soft woe, made all the mountains weep: And wonder at the madness of mankind :

Sooth'd even th' inexorable powers of Hell, Seiz'd with the common rage, you soon forget And half-redeemd his lost Eurydice. The speculations of your wiser hours.

Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, Beset with furies of all deadly shapes,

Expels diseases, soflens every pain, Fierce and insidious, violent and slow :

Subdues the rage of poison and of plague ; With all that urge or lure us on to fate :

And hence the wise of ancient days ador d What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare ? One power of physic melody, and song



111 let.

Joseph WARTON, D. D., born in 1722, was the Pope." Scarcely any work of the kind has afforded En eldest son of the Rev. Thomas Warton, poetry-pro- more entertainment, from the vivacity of its re

fessor at Oxford, and Vicar of Basingstoke. He marks, the taste displayed in its criticisms, and the
received his early education under his father, and at various anecdotes of which it became the vehicle ;
the age of fourteen was admitted on the foundation though some of the last were of a freer cast than
at Winchester school. He was afterwards entered perfectly became his character. This reason, per-
of Oriel College, Oxford, where he assiduously cul- haps, caused the second volume to be kept back till
tivated his literary taste, and composed some pieces twenty-six years after. In 1766 he was advanced
of poetry, which were afterwards printed. Having to the post of head-master of Winchester school, on
taken the degree of B. D., he became curate to his which occasion he visited Oxford, and took the de-
father at Basingstoke; and in 1746 removed to a grees of bachelor and doctor of divinity
similar employment at Chelsea. In 1748 he was The remainder of his life was chiefly occupied by
presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory schemes of publications, and by new preferments,

of Winslade, soon after which he married. He ac. of the last of which he obtained a good share, though se gel companied his patron in 1751 on a tour to the of moderate rank. In 1793 he closed his long la. 7:37 south of France; and after his return he completed bors at Winchester by a resignation of the master

south of

an edition of Virgil, in Latin and English ; of ship, upon which he retired to his rectory of WickD. which the Eclogues and Georgics were his own ham. Still fond of literary employment, he acDe composition, the Eneid was the version of Pitt. cepted a proposal of the booksellers to superintend 2. ah Warton also contributed notes on the whole, and an edition of Pope's works, which was completed, E added three preliminary essays, on pastoral, didac. in 1797, in nine vols. 8vo. Other engagements still

Si tie, and epic poetry. When the Adventurer was pursued him, till his death, in his 78th year, Feb** undertaken by Dr. Hawkesworth, Warton, through ruary, 1800. The Wiccamists attested their regard

the medium of Dr. Johnson, was invited to become to his niemory, by erecting an elegant monument om a contributor, and his compliance with this request over his tomb in Winchester cathedral. bproduced twenty-four papers, of which the greater! The poems of Dr. Warton consist of miscella* part were essays on critical topics.

neous and occasional pieces, displaying a cultivated In 1755 he was elected second master of Win- taste, and an exercised imagination, but without any inchester school, with the accompanying advantage of claim to originality. His “Ode to Fancy,” first No a boarding-house. In the following year there ap- published in Dodsley's collection, is perhaps that

peared, but without his name, the first volume, which has been the most admired.
8vo., of his “Essay on the Writings and Genius of


O PARENT of each lovely Muse, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, O'er all my artless songs preside, My footsteps to thy temple guide, To offer at thy turf-built shrine, In golden cups no costly wine, No murder'd fatling of the flock, But fowers and honey from the rock. O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrile-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd, Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magic wand, Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow, 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Through air, and over earth and sea, While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. O lover of the desert, hail ! Say, in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Mid fall of waters, you reside, 'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between, 'Mid forests dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, Where never human art appear'd, Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd, Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne; Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell, To thy unknown sequesterd cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, And on whose top an hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to rest : Then lay me by the haunted stream, Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, In converse while methinks I rove With Spenser through a fairy grove; Till, suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear, And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd By the sweetly-soothing sound ! Me, goddess, by the right hand lead Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads, Where Echo walks steep hills among, List'ning to the shepherd's song: Yet not these flowery fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ. Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels and the house of woe,

To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast, and faded cheek. Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek; Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs, Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles lest the foliering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire, I feel, I feel, with sudden beat, My big tumultuous bosom beat; The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear; Give me another horse, I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly! Whence is this rage ?- what spirit, my To battle hurries me away! 'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war, There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Where Tumult and Destruction reigo: Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field, Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! O guide me from this horrid scene, To high-arch'd walks and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun The fervors of the mid-day sun; The pangs of absence, O remore! For thou canst place me near my love, Canst fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss, While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence! When young-eyed Spring profusely thr 93 From her green lap the pink and rose, When the soft turtle of the dale To summer tells her tender tale, When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine bis jolly chees: When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold; At every season let my ear Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. O warm, enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane To utter an unhallow'd strain, Nor dare to touch the sacred string. Save when with smiles thou bidd'si me sind O hear our prayer, O hither come From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, On which thou lov'st to sit at ere, Musing o'er thy darling's grave; O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, fill'd with unexbausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Who with some new unequal'd song, May rise above the rhyming throng, O'er all our list'ning passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain,

With terror shake, and pity move,

Give me, beneath a colder, changeful sky,
Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; My soul's best, only pleasure, Liberty!
O deign t'attend his evening walk,

What millions perish'd near thy mournful food, *
With him in groves and groltoes talk;

When the red papal tyrant cried out—" Blood !" Teach him to scorn with frigid art

Less fierce the Saracen, and quiver'd Moor, Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;

That dash'd thy infants 'gainst the stones of yore. Like lightning, let his mighty verse

Be warn'd, ye nations round ; and trembling see The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;

Dire superstition quench humanity! With native beauties win applause

By all the chiefs in freedom's batiles lost, Beyond cold critics' studied laws;

By wise and virtuous Alfred's awful ghost; O let each Muse's fame increase,

By old Galgacus' scythed, iron car,
O bid Brittania rival Greece!

That, swiftly whirling through the walks of war,
Dash'd Roman blood, and crush'd the foreign


By holy Druids' courage-breathing songs;

By fierce Bonduca's shield and foaming steeds; WRITTEN AT MONTAUBAN IN FRANCE, 1750.

By the bold Peers that met on Thames's meads; Tarn, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves.

By the fifth Henry's helm and lightning spear; But ah! they fructify a land of slaves !

O Liberty, my warm petition hear; In vain thy bare-fooi, sun-burnt peasants hide

Be Albion still thy joy! with her remain, With luscious grapes yon hill's romantic side;

Long as the surge shall lash her oak-crown'd plain. No cups nectareous shall their toil repay, The priest's, the soldier's, and the fermier's prey : | * Alluding to the persecutions of the Protestants, and Vain glows this Sun, in cloudless glory drest, the wars of the Saracens, carried on in the southern prov. That strikes fresh vigor through the pining breast; linces of France.

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