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Your sad complaint. Go, seek the cheerful haunts How to live happiest ; how avoid the pains,
The precepts bere of a divine old man
His manly sense, and energy of mind. New to your eyes, and shifting every hour,
Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe; Beyond the Alps, beyond the Appenines.
He still remember'd that he once was young: Or more advent'rous, rush into the field
His easy presence check'd no decent joy. Where war grows hot ; and, raging through the sky, Him even the dissolute admir'd; for he The lofty trumpet swells the madd’ning soul : A graceful looseness when he pleas'd put on, And in the hardy camp and toilsome march And laughing could instruct. Much had be read, Forget all softer and less manly cares.
Much more had seen : he studied from the life, But most, too passive when the blood runs low, And in th' original perus'd mankind. Too weakly indolent to strive with pain,
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life, And bravely by resisting conquer fate,
He pitied man: and much he pitied those Try Circe's arts; and in the tempting bowl Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means Of poison'd nectar sweet oblivion swill.
To dissipate their days in quest of joy. Struck by the powerful charm, the gloom dissolves “ Our aim is happiness ; 't is yours, 't is mine," In empty air, Elysium opens round;
He said ; “ 't is the pursuit of all that live: A pleasing phrenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, Yet few attain it, if 't was e'er attain'd. And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care; But they the widest wander from the mark, And what was difficult, and what was dire, Who through the flowery paths of sauntering ja Yields to your prowess and superior stars : Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue. Or are, or shall be, could this folly last.
For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings But soon your Heaven is gone; a heavier gloom To counterpoise itself, relentless fate Shuts o'er your head : and as the thund'ring Forbids that we through gay voluptuous wilds stream,
Should ever roam : and were the fates more kisha Swoln o'er its banks with sudden mountain rain, Our narrow luxuries would soon grow stale : Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook ;
Were these exhaustless, nature would grow sick, So, when the frantic raptures in your breast And, cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain Subside, you languish into mortal man;
That all is vanity, and life a dream. You sleep, and waking find yourself undone. Let nature rest : be busy for yourself, For, prodigal of life, in one rash night
And for your friend; be busy even in vain, You lavish'd more than might support three days. Rather than tease her sated appetites A heavy morning comes; your cares return Who never fasts, no banquet e'er enjors; With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well Who never toils or watches, never sleeps May be endur'd; so may the throbbing head; Let nature rest : and when the taste of joy But such a dim delirium, such a dream,
Grows keen, indulge; but shun satiety. Involves you; such a dastardly despair
“'T is not for mortals always to be blest Unmans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt, But him the least the dull or painful hours When, baited round Cythæron's cruel sides Of life oppress, whom sober sense conducts, He saw two suns, and double Thebes ascend. And virtue, through this labyrinth we tread. You curse the sluggish port; you curse the wretch, Virtue and sense I mean not to disjoin ; The felon, with unnatural mixture first
Virtue and sense are one ; and, trust me, still Who dar'd to violate the virgin wine.
A faithless heart betrays the head unsound. Or on the fugitive champaign you pour
Virtue (for mere good-nature is a fool) A thousand curses; for to Heav'n it wrapt Is sense and spirit with humanity : Your soul, to plunge you deeper in despair. ’T is sometimes angry, and its frown confounds; Perhaps you rue even that diviner gift,
'T is even vindictive, but in vengeance just. (dee: The gay, serene, good-natur’d Burgundy,
Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great se Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine : But at his heart the most undaunted son And wish that Heaven from mortals had withheld Of fortune dreads its name and aweful charms The grape, and all intoxicating bowls.
To noblest uses this determines wealth ;
This is the solid pomp of prosperous days;
And if you pant for glory, build your fame
Defies of envy and all-sapping time. Performs a deed to haunt you to the grave. [decay; The gaudy gloss of fortune only strikes Add that your means, your health, your parts, The vulgar eye; the suffrage of the wise, Your friends avoid you; brutishly transform’d, The praise that 's worth ambition, is attain'd They hardly know you; or if one remains By sense alone, and dignity of mind. To wish you well, he wishes you in Heaven.
“ Virtue, the strength and beauty of the sool, Despis'd, unwept you fall ; who might have left Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness A sacred-cherish'd, sadly-pleasing name;
That even above the smiles and frowns of fate A name still to be utter'd with a sigh.
Exalts great Nature's favourites; a wealth Your last ungraceful scene bas quite effac'd That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd All sense and mamom of
Or dealt by chance to shield a lucky knave, In wanton and unmanly tenderness,
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 supply'd ;) 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. Of right and wrong he Some to extinguish, others to prevent, taught
A mad devotion to one dangerous fair, Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard ; [preach'd. Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he The cares of love amongst an hundred brides Skill'd in the passions, how to check their sway, Th' event is doubtful; for there are who find He knew, as far as reason can control
A cure in this; there are who find it not. The lawless powers. But other cares are mine : 'T is no relief, alas! it rather galls Form'd in the school of Pæon, I relate
The wound, to those who are sincerely sick. What passions hurt the body, what improve : For while from feverish and tumultuous joys Avoid them, or invite them as you may.
The nerves grow languid, and the soul subsides, Know then, whatever cheerful and serene The tender fancy smarts with every sting, Supports the mind, supports the body too.
And what was love before is madness now.
Or loose imagination, spurs you on
Ah! let not luxury nor vain renown
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 ; Refin'd, humane, and generous, if they can. Your veins exhausted, and your nerves unstrung. Love in such bosoms never to a fault
Spoild of its balm and sprightly zest, the blood Or pains or pleases. But ye finer souls,
Grows vapid phlegm ; along the tender nerves Forn'd to soft luxury, and prompt to thrill (To each slight impulse tremblingly awake) With all the tumults, all the joys and pains, A subtle 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 honours of your youth are fallen ; Nor court too much the queen of charming cares. Your vigour 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 loathes 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 your cheeks is fled. Who pines with love, or in lascivious flames To sighs devoted and to tender pains,
Consumes, is with his own consent undone ;
He chooses to be wretched, to be mad;
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.
Forgets compunction, and starts up a fiend !
Or a fierce fever hurries him to Hell.
Where reason proves too weak, or void of wiles 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 aid : 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 break; 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,
Of 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 wond'rous feats, but never heard of grace. But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,
The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts; Or are your nerves too irritably strung,
Good Heaven! we praise them; we, with lou 2 Wave all dispute ; be cautious, if you joke;
Of idiot notes impertinently long.
Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sound, 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 strains While choler works, good friend, you may be Breathes a gay rapture through your thrilling wrong.
breasts; Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight. Or melts the hearts with airs divinely sad; ”T is not too late to-morrow to be brave;
Or wakes to horrour the tremendous strings If honour bids, to-morrow kill or die.
Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old 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 lyre, You reason well; see as you ought to see,
Tun'd to soft woe, made all the mountains wap: And wonder at the madness of mankind :
Sooth'd even th' inexorable powers of Hell,
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens 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.
OSEPH WARTON, D. D., born in 1722, was the | Pope." Scarcely any work of the kind has afforded eldest son of the Rev. Thomas Warton, poetry-pro- more entertainment, from the vivacity of its refessor 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, perof 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 defather 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 companied his patron in 1751 on a tour to the of moderate rank. In 1793 he closed his long lasouth of France; and after his return he completed bours at Winchester by a resignation of the maste an edition of Virgil, in Latin and English ; of ship, upon which he retired to his rectory of Wick which the Eclogues and Georgics were his own ham. Still fond of literary employment, he ac composition, the Eneid was the version of Pitt. cepted a proposal of the booksellers to superintena, Warton also contributed notes on the whole, and an edition of Pope's works, which was completed, added three preliminary essays, on pastoral, didac- in 1797, in nine vols. 8vo. Other engagements still tic, and epic poetry. When the Adventurer was pursued him, till his death, in his 78th year, Feundertaken by Dr. Hawksworth, Warton, through bruary, 1800. The Wiccamists attested their regard the medium of Dr. Johnson, was invited to become to his memory, by erecting an elegant monument a contributor, and his compliance with this request over his tomb in Winchester cathedral. produced twenty-four papers, of which the greater The poems of Dr. Warton consist of miscellapart 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 chester school, with the accompanying advantage of claim to originality. His “ Ode to Fancy,” first a boarding-house. In the following year there ap- published in Dodsley's collection, is perhaps that peared, but without his naine, the first volume, 8vo., which has been the most admired. of his “ Essay on the Writings and Genius of
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes, ODE TO FANCY.
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek; of each lovely Muse,
Or to some abbey's mould'ring tox'rs, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'ss, O'er all my artless songs preside,
The naked beggar shivering lies, My footsteps to thy temple guide,
While whistling tempests round her rise, To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
And trembles lest the tottering wall In golden cups no costly wine,
Should on her sleeping infants fall. No murder'd fatling of the flock,
Now let us louder strike the lyre, But flowers and honey from the rock.
For my heart glows with martial fire, O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
My big tumultuous bosom beat; Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown's,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear ; Waving in thy snowy hand
Give me another horse, I cry, An all-commanding magic wand,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow,
Whence is this rage? — what spirit, say, 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
To battle hurries me away? Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
PT is Fancy, in her fiery car, Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
Transports me to the thickest war, While the vast various landscape lies
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
Where Tumult and Destruction reign ; O lover of the desert, hail !
Where mad with pain, the wounded sterd Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Tramples the dying and the dead; Or on what hoary mountain's side,
Where giant Terrour stalks around, 'Mid fall of waters, you reside,
With sựllen joy surveys the ground, 'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field, With green and grassy dales between,
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield ! 'Mid forests dark of aged oak,
O guide me from this horrid scene, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green, Where never human art appear'd,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
The fervours of the mid-day sun; Where Nature seems to sit alone,
The pangs of absence, O remove! Majestic on a craggy throne;
For thou canst place me near my love, : Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
Canst fold in visionary bliss, To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
And let me think I steal a kiss, Where woodbines cluster round the door,
While her ruby lips dispense Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
Luscious nectar's quintessence ! And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
When young-eyed Spring profusely throws Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
From her green lap the pink and rose, Some nightingale still builds her nest,
When the soft turtle of the dale Each evening warbling thee to rest :
To Summer tells her tender tale, Then lay me by the haunted stream,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; In converse while methinks I rove
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Shakes his silver beard with cold; Till, suddenly awak'd, I hear
At every season let my ear Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
O warm, enthusiastic maid, By the sweetly-soothing sound !
Without thy powerful, vital aid, Me, goddess, by the right hand lead
That breathes an energy divine, Sometimes through the yellow mead,
That gives a soul to every line, Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane And Venus keeps her festive court,
| To utter an unhallow'd strain, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
Nor dare to touch the sacred string, And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Save when with smiles thou bidd'st me sing Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
O hear our prayer, 0 hither come Where Laughter rosc-lipp'd Hebe leads,
| From thy lamented Shakspeare's tornb, Where Echo walks steep hills among,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, List’ning to the shepherd's song:
Musing o'er thy darling's grave; Yet not these flowery fields of joy
of numbers, once again Can long my pensive mind employ.
Animate some chosen swain, Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly,
Who, filled with unexhausted fire, To meet the matron Melancholy,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Goddess of the tearful eye,
Who with some new unequallid song, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh ;
May rise above the rhyming throng, Let us with silent footsteps go
O'er all our list'ning passions reign, To charnels and the house of woe,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain,