Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

§ 188. To-morrow. COTTON.
Pereunt et imputantur.

TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow!
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and
promises,

The currency of idiots-injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as

baseless

As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend-arrest the present mo

ment;

For be assur'd they all are arrant tell-tales;
And though their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly,
Because, though station'd on th' important
watch,

Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumb'rest on the
guard,

Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who shall tell thy
audit?

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio, Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious

Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
O! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.

$ 189. On Lord Cobham's Gardens. COTTON.

IT puzzles much the sages' brains,
Where Eden stood of yore:
Some place it in Arabia's plains;
Some say, it is no more.

But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;
For he has prov'd beyond dispute
That Paradise is Stowe.

§ 190. To a Child five Years old. COTTON.

FAIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling
Which in Eden's garden grew,
Flow'rs of Eve's embowered dwelling
Are, my fair one, types of you.
Mark, my Polly, how the roses
Emulate thy damask cheek;

Gilbert West, Esq. the author's cousin.

How the bud its sweets discloses ;
Buds thy opening bloom bespeak.
Lilies are, by plain direction,
Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty,
Blossom, fade, and die away:
Then pursue good sense and duty,
Evergreens that ne'er decay.

§191. To Miss Lucy Fortescue. LYTTelton, ONCE by the Muse alone inspir'd,

I sung my am'rous strains: No serious love my bosom fir'd; Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd, The idly mournful tale believ'd,

And wept my fancied pains.
But Venus now, to punish me,

For having feign'd so well,
Has made my heart so fond of thee,
Can accents soft enough inspire
That not the whole Aonian quire
Its real name to tell.

$192. To Mr. West*, at Wickham↑. 1740. LYTTELTON.

FAIR Nature's sweet simplicity,

With elegance refin'd,
Well in thy seat, my friend, I see,
But better in thy mind.

To both from courts and all their state
Eager I fly, to prove

Joys far above a courtier's fate,
Tranquillity and love.

$193. The Temple of the Muses. To the Countess Temple.

THE Muses and Graces to Phoebus complain'd,

That no more on the earth a Sappho remain'd: That their empire of wit was now at an end, To the men he had given all his fancy and fire, And on beauty alone the sex must depend: Art of healing to Armstrong, as well as his lyre:

When Apollo replied, "To make you amends, In one Fair you shall see wit and virtue, good friends;

The Grecian high-spirit and sweetness I'll join With a true Roman virtue, to make it divine: Your pride and my boast, thus form'd, would you know,

You must visit the earthly Elysium of Stowe."

§ 194. To a Lady who sung in too low a Voice.
WHEN beauteous Laura's gentle voice
Divides the yielding air,

Fix'd on her lips, the falt'ring sounds
Excess of joy declare.

+ Near Croydon.

Dr. John Armstrong, author of the Art of Preserving Health, &c.

There, lingering round the rosy gate,
They view their fragrant cell;
Unwilling to depart that mouth
Where all the Graces dwell.

Some tuneful accents strike the sense
With soft imperfect sound;
While thousand others die within,
In their own honey drown'd.

Yet through this cloud, distinct and clear,
Sweet sense directs its dart;

And, while it seems to shun the ear,
Strikes full upon the heart.

§ 195. To Miss Wilkes, on her Birth-day, Aug. 16th, 1767. Written in France. WILKES.

AGAIN I tune the vocal lay
On dear Maria's natal day.
This happy day I'll not deplore
My exile from my native shore.
No tear of mine to-day shall flow
For injur'd England's cruel woe,
For impious wounds to Freedom given,
The first, most sacred gift of Heaven.
The Muse with joy shall prune her wing;
Maria's ripen'd graces sing:

And, at seventeen, with truth shall own
The bud of beauty's fairly blown.
Softness and sweetest innocence
Here shed their gentle influence;
Fair modesty comes in their train,
To grace her sister virtue's reign.
Then, to give spirit, taste, and ease,
The sov'reign art, the art to please;
Good-humour'd wit, and fancy gay,
To-morrow cheerful as to-day,
The sun-shine of a mind serene,
Where all is peace within, are seen.
What can the grateful Muse ask more?
The gods have lavish'd all their store.
Maria shines their darling care;
Still, keep her, Heaven, from every snare:
May still unspotted be her fame,
May she remain through life the same,
Unchang'd in all-except in name!

§ 196. To Miss Wilkes on her Birth-day, Aug. 16th. 1768. Written in Prison. WILKES.

How shall the Muse in prison sing,
How prune her drooping ruffled wing?
Maria is the potent spell,

E'en in these walls, all grief to quell ;
To cheer the heart, rapture inspire,
And wake to notes of joy the lyre,
The tribute verse again to pay
On this auspicious festive day.
When doom'd to quit the patriot band,
And exil'd from my native land,
Maria was my sure relief;
Her presence banish'd every grief.

Pleasure came smiling in her train,
And chas'd the family of Pain.
Let lovers every charm admire,
The easy shape, the heav'nly fire
That from those modest beaming eyes
The captive heart at once surprise.
A father's is another part ;;
I praise the virtues of the heart,
And wit so elegant and free,
Attemper'd sweet with modesty.
And may kind Heaven a lover send
Of sense, of honor, and a friend,
Those virtues always to protect,
Those beauties-never to neglect!

§ 197. An Ode in imitation of Alcaus.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.

WHAT Constitutes a state?

Not high-rais'd battlements or labor'd mound, Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crown'd; Not bays and broad-arm'd ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starr'd and spangled courts,

Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride.

No-MEN, high-minded MEN,

With powers as far above dull brutes endu'd
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude:
Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain;

Prevent the long-aim'd blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: These constitute a state;

And Sovereign Law, that State's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill:
Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend Discretion like a vapour sinks,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this heaven-lov'd isle,

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore!

No more shall freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

$198. The Choice of a Wife by Cheese. CAPTAIN THOMPSON.

THERE liv'd in York, an age ago,
A man whose name was Pimlico:
He lov'd three sisters passing well,
But which the best he could not tell.
These sisters three, divinely fair,
Show'd Pimlico their tenderest care:
For each was elegantly bred,
And all were much inclin'd to wed;

* Discretionary or arbitrary power.

And all made Pimlico their choice,
And prais'd him with their sweetest voice.
Young Pim, the gallant and the gay,
Like ass divided 'tween the hay,
At last resolv'd to gain his ease,
And choose his wife by eating cheese.
He wrote his card, he seal'd it up,
And said with them that night he'd sup;
Desir'd that there might only be

Good Cheshire cheese, and but them three;
He was resolv'd to crown his life,
And by that means to fix his wife.
The girls were pleas'd at his conceit;
Each dress'd herself divinely neat;
With faces full of peace and plenty,
Blooming with roses under twenty.
For surely Nancy, Betsy, Sally,
Were sweet as lilies of the valley:
But singly surely Buxom Bet
Was like new hay and mignionet;
But each surpass'd a poet's fancy,
For that, of truth, was said of Nancy :
And as for Sal, she was a Donna,
As fair as those of old Cretona, *
Who to Apelles lent their faces
To make up madam Helen's graces.
To those the gay divided Pim
Came elegantly smart and trim :
When every smiling maiden, certain,
Cut of the cheese to try her fortune.
Nancy, at once, not fearing-caring
To show her saving ate the paring;
And Bet, to show her gen'rous mind,
Cut, and then threw away the rind;
While prudent Sarah, sure to please,
Like a clean maiden, scrap'd the cheese.
This done, young Pimlico replied,
"Sally I now declare my bride:
With Nan I can't my welfare put,
For she has prov'd a dirty slut:
And Betsy, who has par'd the rind,
Would give my fortune to the wind.
Sally the happy medium chose,
And I with Sally will repose;
She's prudent, cleanly; and the man
Who fixes on a nuptial plan
Can never err, if he will choose
A wife by cheese-before he ties the noose."

$199. The Choice. POMFRET.

IF Heaven the grateful liberty would give,
That I might choose my method how to live,
And all those hours propitious fate should lend,
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend:

Near some fair town I'd have a private seat,
Built uniform, not little, nor too great:
Better, if on a rising ground it stood;
On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood.
It should within no other things contain,
But what are useful, necessary, plain :
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'll ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye,
Where a cool rivulet runs murmuring by;

On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grow.
At th' end of which a silent study plac'd
Should be with all the noblest authors grac'd:
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit, and solid learning shines;
Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew.
He that with judgement reads his charming
lines,

In which strong art with stronger nature joins,
Must grant his fancy does the best excel,
His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well:
With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteem'd for learning and for eloquence.
In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise:
For sure no minutes bring us more content,
Than those in pleasing useful studies spent.

I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great:
As much as I could moderately spend,
A little more sometimes t'oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of poverty repine
Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine.
And all that objects of true pity were,
Should be reliev'd with what my wants could

[blocks in formation]

Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood."
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and, as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.
I'd have a little vault, but always stor'd
With the best wine each vintage could afford.
Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse:
By making all our spirits debonair,
Throws off the lees, the sediment of care.
But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends
May be debauch'd, and serve ignoble ends;
So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice
Does many mischievous effects produce:
My house should no such rude disorders know,
As from high drinking consequently flow;
Nor would I use what was so kindly given,
To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven.
If any neighbour came, he should be free,
Us'd with respect, and not uneasy be,
In my retreat, or to himself or me.
What freedom, prudence, and right reason give,
All men may, with impunity, receive:
But the least swerving from their rule's too
much;

For what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch.
That life may be more comfortable yet,
And all my joys refin'd, sincere, and great;

• Apelles, from five beautiful virgins of Cretona, drew the beautiful Helen.

I'd choose two friends, whose company would | From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying

be

A great advance to my felicity:
Well-born, of humors suited to my own,
Discreet, and men as well as books have
known:

Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free
From loose behaviour, or formality:
Airy and prudent; merry, but not light;
Quick in discerning, and in judging right:
Secret they should be, faithful to their trust;
In reasoning cool, strong, temperate, and
just

Obliging, open, without huffing, brave,
Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave:
Close in dispute, but not tenacious; try'd
By solid reason, and let that decide:
Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate;
Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state:
Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite;
Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight:
Loyal, and pious; friends to Cæsar, true
As dying martyrs to their Maker too.
In their society I could not miss

A

permanent, sincere, substantial bliss. I'd be concern'd in no litigious jar; Belov'd by all, not vainly popular. Whate'er assistance I had power to bring, Toblige my country, or to serve my king, Whene'er they call, I'd readily afford My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. Law-suits I'd shun with as much studious care As I would dens where hungry lions are ; And rather put up injuries, than be A plague to him, who'd be a plague to me. I value quiet at a price too great, To give for my revenge so dear a rate : For what do we by all our bustle gain, But counterfeit delight for real pain!

If Heaven a date of many years would give,

Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live.
And as I near approach'd the verge of life,
Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife)
Should take upon him all my worldly care,
Whilst I did for a better state prepare.
Then I'd not be with any trouble vex'd,
Nor have the evening of my days perplex'd;
But, by a silent and a peaceful death,
Without a sigh resign my aged breath,
And when committed to the dust, I'd have
Few tears, but friendly, dropt into my grave;
Then would my exit so propitious be,
All men would wish to live and die like me.

§ 200. To my Candle. PETER Pindar.

THOU lone companion of the spectred night, I wake amid thy friendly-watchful light, To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleepHark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark,

Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark, And swells the thund'ring horrors of the deep.

Alies;

Now blacken'd, and now flashing through her skies,

But all is silence here-beneath thy beam.
I own I labor for the voice of praise-
For who would sink in dull oblivion's stream?
Who would not live in songs of distant days ?
Thus while I wond'ring pause o'er Shakspeare's
page,

I mark, in visions of delight, the Sage,

High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands sublime;

A column in the melancholy waste (Its cities humbled, and its glories past), Majestic 'mid the solitude of time. Yet now to sadness let me yield the hourYes, let the tears of purest friendship show'r. I view, alas! what ne'er should dieA form that wakes my deepest sigh;

A form that feels of death the leaden sleepDescending to the realms of shade,

I view a pale-ey'd, panting maid,

I see the Virtues o'er their fav'rite weep. Ah! could the Muse's simple pray'r Command the envied trump of faine, Oblivion should Eliza spare:

A world should echo with her name, Art thou departing too, my trembling friend? Ah! draws thy little lustre to its end?

Yes, on thy frame Fate too shall fix her seal

O let me, pensive, watch thy pale decay; How fast that frame, so tender, wears away!

How fast thy life the restless minutes steal! How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire! Ah! falling, falling, ready to expire!

In vain thy struggles-all will soon be o'er. At life thou snatchest with an eager leap: Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep, Faint, less'ning, quiv'ring, glimm'ring-now no more!

Thus shall the sons of science sink away,

And thus of beauty fade the fairest flow'rFor where's the giant who to Time shall say, "Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy pow'r ?"

$201. Presented together with a Knife by the Rev. SAMUEL BISHOP, Head Master of Merchant Taylors' School, to his Wife on her Wedding Day, which happened to be her Birth Day and New Year's Day.

A KNIFE, dear girl, cuts love, they say
Mere modish love perhaps it may;
For any tool of any kind

Can sep'rate what was never join'd.
The knife that cuts our love in two
Will have much tougher work to do:
Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit
Down to the vulgar size of merit ;
To level yours with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste;
And from your single beauty's store,
Clip what would dizen out a score.

The self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, judgement, sight for ever!
All mein'ry of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with you
A summer-and a short one too:
All that affection feels and fears,

When hours, without you, seem like years.—
Till that be done (and I'd as soon
Believe this knife will clip the moon)
Accept my present undeterr'd,
And leave their proverbs to the herd.
If in a kiss-delicious treat!
Your lips acknowledge the receipt;
Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only" cut and come again.'

$202. By the same, with a Ring.
"THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed,"
So sixteen years ago I said-
Behold another ring!
"For what?"
To wed thee o'er again-why not?
With the first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth:
Taste long admir'd, sense long rever'd :
And all my Molly then appear'd.

If she, by merit since disclos'd,
Prov'd twice the woman I suppos'd,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here then to-day (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense and pure,
As when amidst the rites divine
I took thy troth, and plighted mine)
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring,
A token and a pledge I bring;
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
These virtues, which, before untry'd,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake, as well as love's.

For why?-They show me hour by hour Honor's high thought, affection's pow'r, Discretion's deed, sound judgement's sentence; And teach me all things-but repentance. § 203. The Family Fireside. BISHOP. "HOME's home, however homely," wisdom

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

All this is common-place, you'll tell me :-
True!

What pity 'tis not common fashion too.
Roam as we will, plain sense at last will find
'Tis only seeking—what we left behind.
Domestic virtues give the largest scope;
If individual good engage our hope,
If plans of public eminence we trace,
Domestic virtues are its surest base.
Would great example make these truths more
clear,

The greatest of examples shall appear.

Is there a man whoin general suffrage owns An honour to the majesty of thrones? Is there a man whom general love's acclaim Greets with each noblest and each dearest name?

He, 'midst the glare of state, and pomp of

[blocks in formation]
« ZurückWeiter »