Peasmarch, Sussex, 1706-1727.
Pattison's unhappy story is well known, he dearly expiated youthful imprudence by want and wretchedness, and death.
OPPRESS'D with griefs, with poverty, and scorn, Of all forsaken, and of all forlorn,
What shall I do? or whither shall I fly?
Or what kind ear will hear the Muse's cry?
With restless heart from place to place I roam,
A wretched vagrant destitute of home;
Driven from fair Granta's shade by fortune's frown, I came to court the flatterer in the town,
Three tedious days detain'd me on the road,
Whilst the winds whistled, and the torrents flow'd, On my devoted head the gusty breeze,
Shook the collected tempest from the trees;
For shelter to the shades, I ran in vain,
The shades deceitful deluged me with rain.
Thus when fate frowns upon our happier days,
Our friend, perhaps, our bosom friend betrays,
But as vicissitudes controul our fate,
And griefs and joys maintain a doubtful state,
So now the Sun's emerging orb appears,
And with the spongy clouds dispels my fears,
In tears the transient tempest flits away,
And all the blue expansion flames with day.
My gazing eyes o'er pleasing prospects roll,
And look away the sorrows of my soul,
Pleased at each view, some rueful thought to draw,
And moralize on every scene I saw ;
Here, with inviting pride blue mountains rise,
Like joys more pleasant to our distant eyes;
In golden waves, there tides of harvest flow,
Whilst idle poppies intermingling grow-
How like their brother fops an empty show!
In every bush the warbling birds advance,
Sing to the Sun, and on the branches dance;
No grief, no cares perplex their souls with strife,
Like bards they live a poor but merry life;
In every place alike their fortunes lie,
Both live in want, and unregarded die.
With like concern they meet approaching death,
In prison, or in fields, resign their breath;
Musing I saw the fate I could not shun,
Shook my grave head, and pensive travell'd on:
But as Augusta's wish'd-for domes arise,
Peep o'er the clouds, and dance before my eyes.
What thoughts, what tumults fill'd my lab'ring breast,
To be conceived alone, but not express'd;
What intermingled multitude arose,
Lords, parsons, lawyers, baronets and beaux, Fops, coxcombs, cits, and knaves of every class, While some the better half, some wholly, ass, On either side bewailing suppliants stand,
Speak with their looks, and stretch their wither'd hand.
In feeble accents supplicate relief,
And by their sorrows multiply my grief,
Moved by their wants, my fortune I deplore,
And deal a tribute from my slender store.
With joy, the favour they receive, and pray,
That God, the bounteous blessing, may repay:
Thus providently wise, the lab'ring swain
O'er the plough'd furrow strews the fertile grain:
The grateful plain o'er-pays his bounteous care,
With tenfold blessings, and a golden year.
Now lost in thought, I wander up and down
Of all unknowing, and to all unknown;
Try in each place, and ransack ev'ry news,.
To find some friend, some patron of the muse :
But where? or whom? alas! I search in vain,
The fruitless labour only gives me pain;
But soon each pleasing prospect fades away,
And with my money all my hopes decay.
But now the sun diffused a fainter ray,
And falling dews bewail'd the falling day,
When to St. James's park my way I took,
Solemn in pace, and sadden'd in my look:
On the first bench my wearied bones I laid,
For gnawing hunger on my vitals prey'd ;
There faint in melancholy mood I sate,
And meditated on my future fate.
Night's sable vapours now the trees invade,
And gloomy darkness deepen'd ev'ry shade;
And now ah! whither shall the helpless fly,
From the nocturnal horrors of the sky;
With empty rage my cruel fate I curse,
While falling tears bedew my meagre purse;
What shall I do? or whither shall I run?
How 'scape the threat'ning fate I cannot shun
There, trembling cold, and motionless I lay,
Till sleep beguil'd the tumults of the day.
This gentleman, who distinguished himself at the battle of Villa Viçoza in 1710, and was in consequence promoted to a Majority, published a volume of Poems, with translations of the Lives of Miltiades and Cymon, from Cornelius Nepos, 1725. He also supplied the Memoirs of Wycherly, which were prefixed by Theobald to his works.
Written at Sea in 1709, to a Friend on board the
Admiral.
To you, dear Cotton, who on board
Have all that land, or seas afford,
And, if you please, in Fortune's spight,
May laugh from morning until night,
Poor Pack in doleful cabbin shut,
No bigger than the Cynick's hut,
Makes bold to send this homely greeting,
Hoping, e'er long, a happy meeting.
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