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To fix the loom, instruct the reeds to part,
Cross the long weft, and close the web with art,
An useful gift; but what profuse expense, OR,
What world of fashions, took its rise from hence! THE RISE OF WOMAN.
Young Hermes next, a close contriving god,
Her brows encircled with his serpent rod; What ancient times (those times we fancy wise) Then plots and fair excuses fill'd her brain, Have left on long record of woman's rise,
The views of breaking amorous vows for gain; What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
The price of favours; the designing arts
Full on the fair his beams Apollo flung,
And fond persuasion tipp'd her easy tongue; And, warn'd by him, ye wanton pens beware He gave her words, where oily flattery lays How Heaven's concern'd'to vindicate the fair. The pleasing colours of the art of praise; The case was Hesiod's; he the fable writ ; And wit, to scandal exquisitely prone, Some think with meaning, some with idle wit: Which frets another's spleen to cure its own. Perhaps 'tis either, as the ladies please ;
Those sacred Virgins whom the bards revere I wave the contest, and commence the lays. Tun'd all her voice, and shed a sweetness there,
In days of yore (no matter where or when, To make her sense with double charms abound, 'Twas ere the low creation swarmd with men) Or make her lively nonsense please by sound. That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth, To dress the maid, the decent Graces brought (Our author's song can witness) liv'd on Earth : A robe in all the dies of beauty wrought, He carv'd the turf to mould a manly frame, And plac'd their boxes o'er a rich brocade, And stole from Jove his animating flame.
Where pictur'd Loves on every cover play'd ; The sly contrivance o'er Olympus ran,
Then spread those implements that Vulcan's art When thus the monarch of the stars began : Had fram'd to merit Cytherea's heart;
“ O vers’d in arts ! whose daring thoughts aspire, The wire to curl, the close indented comb To kindle clay with never-dying fire !
To call the locks, that lightly wander, home; Enjoy thy glory past, that gift was thine ;
And chief, the mirror, where the ravish'd maid The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine : Beholds and loves her own reflected shade. And such a gift, a vengeance so design'd,
Fair Flora lent her stores ; the purpled Hours As suits the counsel of a god to find;
Confin'd her tresses with a wreath of flowers; A pleasing bosom-cheat, a specious ill,
Within the wreath arose a radiant crown; Which felt the curse, yet covets still to feel." A veil pellucid hung depending down;
He said, and Vulcan straight the sire commands, Back rollid her azure veil with serpent fold, To temper mortar with ethereal hands;
The purfled border deck'd the floor with gold. In such a shape to mould a rising fair,
Her robe (which closely by the girdle brac'd As virgin goddesses are proud to wear ;
Reveal'd the beauties of a slender waist) To make her eyes with diamond-water shine, Flow'd to the feet, to copy Venus' air, And form her organs for a voice divine.
When Venus' statues have a robe to wear. 'Twas thus the sire ordain'd: the power obey'd; The new-sprung creature, finish'd thus for harias, And work’d, and wonder'd at the work he made ; Adjusts her habit, practises her charms, The fairest, softest, sweetest frame beneath, With blushes glows, or shines with lively smiles, Now made to seem, now more than seem to breathe. Confirms her will, or recollects her wiles :
As Vulcan ends, the cheerful queen of charms Then, conscious of her worth, with easy pace Clasp'd the new-panting creature in her arms : Glides by the glass, and turning views her face. From that embrace a fine complexion spread,
A finer flax than what they wrought before, Where mingled whiteness glow'd with softer red. Through Time's deep cave, the sister Fates explore, Then in a kiss she breath'd her various arts, Then fix the loom, their fingers nimbly weave, Of trifling prettily with wounded hearts;
And thus their toil prophetic songs deceive. A mind for love, but still a changing mind :
“ Flow from the rock, my flax! and swifùy flow, The lisp affected, and the glance design'd; Pursue thy thread; the spindle runs below. The sweet confusing blush, the secret wink, A creature fond and changing, fair and vain, The gentle swimming walk, the courteous sink ; The creature woman, rises now to reign. The stare for strangeness fit, for scorn the frown; New beauty blooms, a beauty form’d to fly; For decent yielding, looks declining down ; New love begins, a love produc'd to die; The practis'd languish, where well-feign's desire New parts distress the troubled scenes of life, Would own its melting in a mutual fire;
The fondling mistress, and the ruling wife. Gay smiles to comfort: April showers to move; “ Men born to labour, all with pains provide ; And all the nature, all the art of love.
Women have time to sacrifice to pride : Gold scepter'd Juno next exalts the fair; They want the care of man, their want they know, Her touch endows her with imperious air,
And dress to please with heart-alluring show; Self-valuing fancy, highly-crested pride,
The show prevailing, for the sway contend, Strong sovereign will, and some desire to chide ; And make a servant where they meet a friend For which, an eloquence, that aims to vex,
“ Thus in a thousand war-erected forts With native troops of anger, arms the sex.
A loitering race the painful bee supports; Minerva, skilful goddess, train'd the maid
From sun to sun, from bank to bank he flies, To twirle the spindle by the twisting thread With honey londs his bag, with wax his thighs ;
Fly where he will, at home the race remain, The curse of jealousy; expense and strife;
“ Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride, The rival's sword; the qualm that takes the fair ; Whose temper betters by the father's side;
Disdain for passion, passion in despair Unlike the rest that double human care,
These, and a thousand yet unnam'd, we find; Fond to relieve, or resolute to share:
Ah fear the thousand yet unnam'd behind ! Happy the man whom thus his stars advance ! Thus on Parnassus tuneful Hesiod sung, The curse is general, but the blessing chance." The mountain echoed, and the valley rung,
Thus sung the sisters, while the gods admire The sacred groves a fix'd attention show, Their beauteous creature, made for man in ire; The crystal Helicon forebore to flow, The young Pandora she, whom all contend The sky grew bright, and (if his verse be true) To make too perfect not to gain her end :
The Muses came to give the laurel too. Then bid the winds, that fly to breathe the spring, But what avail'd the verdant prize of wit, Return to bear her on a gentle wing;
If Love swore vengeance for the tales he writ? With wafting airs the winds obsequious blow, Ye fair offended, hear your friend relate And land the shining vengeance safe below. What heavy judgment prov'd the writer's fate, A golden coffer in her hand she bore,
Though when it happen'd no relation clears,
Her gay descent the man perceiv'd afar, There oft a tender pair, for amorous play
A Locrian youth, the gentle Troilus he,
The dire disgrace her brothers count their own, Or swears that Venus' must be such as hers. And track her steps, to make its author known. She, proud to rule, yet strangely fram'd to teaze, It chanc'd one evening, 'twas the lover's day, Neglects his offers while her airs she plays, Conceal'd in brakes the jealous kindred lay; Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown, When Hesiod, wandering, mus'd along the plain, In brisk disorder trips it up and down;
And fix'd his seat where love had fix'd the scene ; Then hums a careless tune to lay the storm, A strong suspicion straight possess their mind, And sits, and blushes, smiles, and yields, in form. (For poets ever were a gentle kind,)
“ Now take what Jove design’d,” she softly cry'd, But when Evanthe near the passage stood, “ This box thy portion, and myself the bride." Flung back a doubtful look, and shot the wood, Fir'd with the prospect of the double charms, “ Now take” (at once they cry) “thy due reward," He snatch'd the box, and bride, with eager arms. And, urg'd with erring rage, assault the bard.
Unhappy man! to whom so bright she shone, His corpse the sea receiv'd. The dolphins bore The fatal gift, her tempting self, unknown! ('Twas all the gods would do) the corpse to shore. The winds were silent, all the waves asleep,
Methinks I view the dead with pitying eyes, And Heaven was trac'd upon the flattering deep : And see the dreams of ancient wisdom rise: But, whilst he looks unmindful of a storm, I see the Muses round the body cry, And thinks the water wears a stable form,
But here a Cupid loudly laughing by; What dreadful din around his ears shall rise! He wields his arrow with insulting hand, What frowns confuse his picture of the skies ! And thus inscribes the moral on the sand.
At first the creature man was fram'd alone, “ Here Hesiod lies: ye future bards, beware Lord of himself, and all the world his own.
How far your moral tales incense the fair. For him the nymphs in green forsook the woods, Unlov'd, unloving, 'twas his fate to bleed; For him the nymphs in blue forsook the floods; Without his quiver, Cupid caus’d the deed : In vain the Satyrs rage, the Tritons rave,
He judg'd this turn of malice justly due,
And Hesiod dy'd for joys he never knew."
AN ALLEGORY ON MAN.
(Were Homer living, well he knew And altering Nature wore a sickly face.
What name the gods have call'd him too,) New terms of folly rose, new states of eare ;
With fine mechanic genius wrought, New plagues, to suffer, and to please, the fair ! And lov'd to work, though no one bought. The days of whining, and of wild intrigues,
This being, by a model bred Commenc'd, or finish'd with the breach of leagues; In Jove's eternal sable head, The mean designs of well-dissembled love;
Contriv'd a shape empower'd to breathe, The sordid matches never join'd above :
And be the worldling here beneath. Abroad the labour, and at home the noise,
The man rose, staring like a stake.
Then look'd so wise, before he knew
Where ever since the seasons wheel The business he was made to do;
And tread on one another's heel." That, pleas'd to see with what a grace
“ 'Tis well," said Jove, and for consent He gravely show'd his forward face,
Thundering he shook the firmament. Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
“ Our umpire Time shall have his way, An under-something of the sky.
With Care I let the creature stay : But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Let business vex him, avarice blind, Which ever binds a poet's god,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, (For which his curls ambrosial shake,
Let errour act, opinion speak, And mother Earth's oblig'd to quake,)
And want afflict, and sickness break, He saw old mother Earth arise,
And anger burn, dejection chill, She stood confess'd before his eyes;
And joy distract, and sorrow kill, But not with what we read she wore,
Till, arm’d by Care, and taught to mow, A castle for a crown before,
Time draws the long destructive blow; Nor with long streets and longer roads
And wasted man, whose quick decay Dangling behind her, like commodes :
Comes hurrying on before his day, As yet with wreaths alone she drest,
Shall only find by this decree,
The soul Aies sooner back to me."
Her honours made, “ Great Jove," she cry'd,
THE BOOK-WORM. Then what hast thou to call him thine ?" “ Nay, rather ask," the monarch said,
COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day, “ What boots his hand, his heart, his head,
The book-worm, ravening bcast of prey, Were what I gave remov'd away?
Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds, Thy part's an idle shape of clay."
As Fame reports it, with the gods. “ Halves, more than halves!” cry'd honest Care, Him frantic hunger wildly drives “ Your pleas would make your titles fair,
Against a thousand authors' lives: You claim the body, you the soul,
Through all the fields of wit he flies; But I who join'd them, claim the whole.”
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes, Thus with the gods debate began,
With horns without, and tusks within, On such a trivial cause, as man.
And scales to serve him for a skin. And can celestial tempers rage ?
Observe him nearly, lest he climb Quoth Virgil, in a later age ?
To wound the bards of ancient time, As thus they wrangled, Time came by;
Or down the vale of fancy go (There's none that paint him such as I,
To tear some modern wretch below. For what the fabling ancients sung
On every corner fix thine eye, Makes Saturn old, when Time was young).
Or ten to one he slips thee by. As yet his winters had not shed
See where his teeth a passage eat : Their silver honours on his head;
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat. He just had got his pinions free,
But who the shelter's forc'd to give ? From his old sire, Eternity.
'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live! A serpent girdled round he wore,
From leaf to leaf, from song to song, The tail within the mouth, before;
He draws the tadpole form along, By which our almanacs are clear
He mounts the gilded edge before, That learned Egypt meant the year.
He's up, he scuds the cover o'er, A staff he carry'd, where on high
He turns, he doubles, there he past, A glass was fix'd to measure by,
And here we have him, caught at last. As amber boxes made a show
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse For heads of canes an age ago.
The sweetest servants of the Muse His vest, for day and night, was py’d;
(Nay never offer to deny, A bending sickle arm'd his side;
I took thee in the fact to fly). And Spring's new months his train adorn! His roses nipt in every page, The other seasons were unborn.
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage; Known by the gods, as near he draws,
By thee my Ovid wounded lies; They make him umpire of the cause.
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies ; O'er a low trunk his arın he laid,
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd Where since his hours a dial made;
The work of love in Biddy Floyd, Then leaning heard the nice debate,
They rent Belinda's locks away, And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate :
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. “ Since body from the parent Earth,
For all, for every single deed, And soul from Jove receiv'd a birth,
Relentless Justice bids thee bleed. Return they where they first began ;
Then fall a victim to the Nine, But since their union makes the man,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine. Till Jove and Earth shall part these two,
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near, To Care who join'd them, man is due.”
To pile a sacred altar here; He said, and sprung with swift career
Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit, To trace a circle for the year ;
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain ;
But hold, before I close the scene, Pray take your mortal bards again.
The sacred altar should be clean. Come, bind the victim, — there he lies,
Oh had I Shadwell's second bays, And here between his numerous eyes
Or, Tate ! thy pert and humble lays ! This venerable dust I lay,
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow From manuscripts just swept away.
I never miss'd your works till now,) The goblet in my hand I take,
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, (For the libation's yet to make,)
(That only way you please the Nine,) A health to poets! all their days
But since I chance to want these two, May they have bread, as well as praise ;
I'll make the songs of Durfey do. Sense may they seek, and less engage
Rent from the corps, on yonder pin, In papers fill’d with party-rage.
I hang the scales that brac'd it in; But if their riches spoil their vein,
I hang my studious morning-gown, Ye Muses, make them poor again.
And write my own inscription down. Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
“ This trophy from the Pithon won, With which my tuneful pens are made.
This robe, in which the deed was done, I strike the scales that arm thee round,
These, Parnell, glorying in the feat, And twice and thrice I print the wound;
Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. The sacred altar floats with red,
Here Ignorance and Hunger found And now he dies, and now he's dead.
Large realms of Wit to ravage round: How like the son of Jove I stand,
Here Ignorance and Hunger fell ? This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand !
Two foes in one I sent to Hell. Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
Ye poets, who my labours see, To see what dangers threat the year :
Come share the triumph all with me! Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench!
Ye critics ! born to vex the Muse, What lean translations out of French !
Go mourn the grand ally you lose." 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, S— prints, before the months go round.
Nicholas Rowe, descended from an ancient derived his principal claims upon posterity, are family in Devonshire, was the son of John Rowe, chiefly founded on the model of French tragedy; Esquire, a barrister of reputation and extensive and in his diction, which is poetical without being practice. He was born in 1673, at the house of his bombastic or affected ; in his versification, which is maternal grandfather, at Little Berkford, in Bed- singularly sweet ; and in tirades of sentiment, given fordshire. Being placed at Westminster-school, with force and elegance, he has few competitors. under Dr. Busby, he pursued the classical studies As a miscellaneous poet, Rowe occupies but an of that place with credit. At the age of sixteen he inconsiderable place among his countrymen ; but it was removed from school, and entered a student of has been thought proper to give some of his songs the Middle Temple, it being his father's intention or ballads in the pastoral strain; which have a touchto bring him up to his own profession ; but the ing simplicity, scarcely excelled by any pieces of death of this parent, when Nicholas was only nine- the kind. His principal efforts, however, were in teen, freed him from what he probably thought a poetical translation ; and his version of Lucan's pursuit foreign to his disposition ; and he turned Pharsalia has been placed by Dr. Johnson annong his chief studies to poetry and polite literature. the greatest productions of English poetry. At the age of twenty-five he produced his first tra In politics, Rowe joined the party of the Whigs gedy, “ The Ambitious Stepmother ;" which was under whose influence he had some gainful posts, afterwards succeeded by “Tamerlane;" “ The Fair without reckoning that of poet-laureat, on the soPenitent;" “ Ulysses;" “ The Royal Convert ;" cession of George I. He was twice married to “ Jane Shore ;” and “ Lady Jane Grey.” Of women of good connections, by the first of whom these, though all have their merits, the third and he had a son, and by the second, a daughter. He the two last alone keep possession of the stage ; but died in December, 1718, in the 45th year of his Jane Shore in particular never fails to be viewed age, and was interred among the poets in Westwith deep interest. His plays, from which are ! minster Abbey.
“ How foolish was I to believe
She could doat on so lowly a clown,
To forsake the fine folk of the town?
So kind and so constant would prove;
Or live in a cottage on love ?
ESPAIRING beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
A willow supported his head.
To his sighs with a sigh did reply; And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by. “ Alas, silly swain that I was !”
Thus sadly complaining, he cry'd, “ When first I beheld that fair face,
'Twere better by far I had dy'd. She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue ;
When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great. I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?
" What though I have skill to complain,
Though the Muses my temples have crown'd;
The virgins sit weeping around.
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
Whose music is sweeter than thine.
“ And you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Forbear to accuse the false maid.