ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,

Composed of Marble, Spars, Gems, Ores, and

Minerals.

THOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent

wave

Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave;
Where ling'ring drops from min'ral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow:
Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
And eye the mine, without a wish for gold.
Approach: but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought;
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's

soul.

Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

TO MRS M. B. ON HER BIRTHDAY.

OH, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,

Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a
friend!

Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a sieve let ev'ry blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad reflection more;

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear, 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face. Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy. Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb, And wake to raptures in a life to come.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,
On his Birthday, 1742.

RESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,

With not one sin, but poetry,

This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goose and the larks!
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden !
And for his judgement, lo a pudden !
Roast beef, though old, proclaims-him stout,
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom heaven sent dowu to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birthday more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.

TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE*.

N beauty or wit,

IN

No mortal as yet,

To question your empire has dar'd;
But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning,

To yield to a lady was hard.

Impertinent schools,

With musty dull rules,

Have reading to females denied:

So papists refuse.

The Bible to use,

Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

'Twas a woman at first

(Indeed she was curst)

In knowledge that tasted delight,

And sages agree

The laws should decree

To the first of possessors the right.

Then bravely, fair dame,

Resume the old claim,

Which to your whole sex does belong;
And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve,

The knowledge of right and of wrong.

* This panegyric on Lady Mary Wortley Montague might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on account of her having satirized him in her verses to the imitator of Horace; which abuse he returned in the first satire of the second book of Horace.

From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate,
P'd by her love, or libel'd by her hate.

But if the first Eve

Hard doom did receive,

When only one apple had she,
What a punishment new

Shall be found out for you,

Who tasting, have robb'd the whole tree?

THE FOURTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE'S EPISTLES*.

A modern Imitation.

SAY, St. John, who alone peruse
With candid eye, the mimic muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws!
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band?
'Or shoots he folly as it flies?
Or catches manners as they rise?"

Or, urg'd by unquench'd native heat,

Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat?

* This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr. Pope says,

The sons shall blush their fathers were his foes: being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former to be suppressed. S.

Ad Albium Tibullum.

+ Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide judex, Quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana ? Scribere, quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat?

The lines here quoted occur in the Essay on Man. § An tacitam silvas inter reptare salubres?

Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
Ev'n Chartres' self is scarce a name.

* To you (th' all-envy'd gift of heaven) Th' indulgent gods, unask'd, have given A form complete in ev'ry part,

And, to enjoy that gift, the art.

+ What could a tender mother's care
Wish better to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?

Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair:
Yet let thy friend this truth impart ;
A truth I tell with bleeding heart
(In justice for your labours past),
That ev'ry day shall be your last;
That ev'ry hour you life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.

In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
My genius still must rail, and write.
Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great:
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.

Di tibi formam

Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.

+ Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno, Quam sapere, et fari posset quæ sentiat, et cui Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

non deficiente crumena?

Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras. § Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum. Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises, Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum.