Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, Before the sprightly tempest tossing light: Certes, he was a most engaging wight, Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, Turning the night to day, and day to night: For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, If in this nook of quiet, bells had ever been.

But not even pleasure to excess is good:
What most elates then sinks the soul as low:
When spring-tide joy pours in with copious
flood,

The higher still th' exulting billows flow,
The farther back again they flagging go,
And leave us groveling on the dreary shore:
Taught by this son of joy we found it so;
Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar
Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more.

As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along,

Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky,
Tunes up amid these airy halls his song,
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng:
And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drown'd,
He, thence recovering, drives their beds among,
And scares their tender sleep, with trump pro-
found;

Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round.

Another guest there was,* of sense refined, Who felt each worth, for every worth he had; Serene, yet warm; humane, yet firm his mind, As little touch'd as any man's with bad; Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, To him the sacred love of nature lent, And sometimes would he make our valley glad; When as we found he would not here be pent, To him the better sort this friendly message sent.

"Come, dwell with us, true son of virtue, come!
But if, alas! we cannot thee persuade,
To lie content beneath our peaceful dome,
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade;
Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid
Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark,
Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade,
There to indulge the Muse, and nature mark:
We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley-
Park."

Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age;† But call'd by Fame, in soul ypricked deep, A noble pride restored him to the stage, And roused him like a giant from his sleep, Even from his slumbers we advantage reap: With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes Yet quits not natures bounds. He knows to keep Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes, And now, with well-urged sense, th' enlighten'd judgment takes.

[* Lord Lyttleton.]

Quin, whom a quarrel with Garrick had driven temporarily off the stage.]

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems; Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain: The world forsaking with a calm disdain, Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat; Here quaff'd encircled with the joyous train, Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.

Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Of clerks great plenty here you mote espy. A little, round, fat, oily man of God,§ Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry: He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, If a tight damsel chaunced to trippen by; Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew, And straight would recollect his piety anew.

Nor be forgot a tribe who minded nought (Old inmates of the place) but state affairs: They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought; And on their brow sat eve'ry nation's cares. The world by them is parcell'd out in shares, When in the hall of smoke they congress hold, And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears Has clear'd their inward eye: then,smoke-enroll'd, Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old.

Here languid beauty kept her pale-faced court: Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree, From every quarter hither made resort: [free, Where, from gross mortal care and business They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury. Or should they a vain show of work assume, Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be? To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom; But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom.

Their only labour was to kill the time; And labour dire it is, and weary woe. They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme; Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow. This soon too rude an exercise they find; Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind.

Now must I mark the villainy we found,

But ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown.
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground;
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown,
Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown;
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there,
Unpity'd, uttering many a bitter groan;

For of these wretches taken was no care: [were. Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses

[Thomson himself. This stanza was written by Lord Lyttleton.]

[The Rev. Patrick Murdoch, the poet's friend and biographer. His sleek, rosy visage, and roguish eye, are preserved on canvas at Culloden.]

was elected member for Armagh in the Irish Commons. He returned to England in the year 1748, and died in the following year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his dramatic writings is the Distrest Mother, a translation of Racine's Andromache. His two other tragedies, the Briton, and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, are not much better than his pastorals.

TO THE EARL OF DORSET.†

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, even here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow, Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow, At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn dicslosed at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd every object to my eyes: For every shrub, and every blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass: In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field. [yield,

[*The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began its career on Monday, March 24, 1718, was published twice a week, and terminated with the 159th paper, Monday. September 28th, 1719. Dr. Drake speaks in praise of its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very inte

The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies,
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the drooping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious
meads.

While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

A HYMN TO VENUS.

FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO.

O VENUS, Beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles,
O goddess! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferr'd,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
O, gentle goddess, hear me now.

resting selection might be made from it.-Essay on Periodical Papers.]

[ The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.-GOLDSMITH.]