18

An awful horrour fills the gloomy woods,
And bluish mists rise from the smoking floods:

Haste, Daphnis, haste to fold thy woolly care, The deepening shades imbrown th' unwholesome air.

AN EPISTLE

TO MY FRIEND MR. ELIJAH FENTON, AUTHOR OF MARIAMNE, A TRAGEDY.

1726.

WHY art thou so slow to strike th' harmonious
Averse to sing, who know'st to sing so well? [shell,
If thy proud Muse the tragic buskin wears
Great Sophocles revives and re-appears;
While, regularly bold, she nobly sings
Strains worthy to detain the ears of kings;
If by thy hand th' Homeric' lyre be strung,
The lyre returns such sounds as Homer sung.
The kind compulsion of a friend obey,
And, though reluctant, swell the lofty lay; [sound,
Then listening groves once more shall catch the
While Grecian Muses sing on British ground.

Thus calm and silent thy own Proteus2 roves Through pearly mazes, and through coral groves; But when, emerging from the azure main, Coercive bands th' unwilling God constrain, Then heaves his bosom with prophetic fires, [spires. And his tongue speaks sublime, what Heaven in

Envy, 'tis true, with barbarons rage invades What ev'n fierce lightning spares, the laurel shades; And critics, biass'd by mistaken rules,

Like Turkish zealots, reverence none but fools.
But praise from such injurious tongues is shame;
They rail the happy author into fame:
Thus Phoebus through the zodiac takes his way,
And rises amid monsters into day.

Oh vileness of mankind! when writing well
Becomes a crime, and danger to excel!
While noble scorn, my friend, such insult sees,
And flies from towns to wilds, from men to trees.

Free from the lust of wealth, and glittering snares, That make th' unhappy great in love with cares, Me humble joys in calm retirement please, A silent happiness, and learned ease. Deny me grandeur, Heaven, but goodness grant A king is less illustrious than a saint: Hail, holy Virtue! come, thou heavenly guest, Come, fix thy pleasing empire in my breast!

!

Thou know'st her influence, friend! thy chearful Proclaims the innocence and peace within; [mien Such joys as none but sons of Virtue know, Shine in thy face, and in thy bosom glow.

So when the holy mount the prophet trod, And talk'd familiar as a friend with God, Celestial radiance every feature shed, And ambient glories dawn'd around his head.

Sure what th' unthinking great mistaken call Their happiness, is folly, folly all! Like lofty mountains in the clouds they hide Their haughty heads, but swell with barren pride; And, while low vales in useful beauty lie, Heave their proud naked summits to the sky. In honour, as in place, ye great, transcend! An angel fall'n, degenerates to a fiend : Th' all-chearing Sun is honour'd with his shrines; Not that he moves aloft, but that he shines.

1 Mr. Fenton translated four books of the Odyssey.

2 See the story of Proteus, Odyssey, lib. 4, translated by Mr. Fenton.

VARIATION.

Thou feel'st her power, my friend, &c.

Why flames the star on Walpole's generous breast?
Not that he's highest, but because he's best;
Fond to oblige; in blessing others, blest.

How wondrous few, by avarice uncontrol'd,
Have virtue to subdue the thirst of gold!
The shining dirt the sordid wretch ensnares
To buy, with mighty treasures, mighty cares;
Blindly he courts, misguided by the will,
A specious good, and meets a real ill :
So when Ulysses plough'd the surgy main;
When now in view appear'd his native reign,
His wayward mates th' Folian bag unbind,
Expecting treasures, but out rush'd a wind;
The sudden hurricane in thunder roars,
Buffets the bark, and whirls it from the shores.

O Heaven! by what vain passions man is sway'd,
Proud of his reason, by his will betray'd!
Blindly he wanders in pursuit of Vice,
And hates confinement, though in Paradise;
Doom'd, when enlarg'd, instead of Eden's bowers,
To rove in wilds, and gather thorns for flowers;
Between th' extremes, direct he sees the way,
Yet wilful swerves, perversely fond to stray!

Whilst niggard souls indulge their craving thirst, Rich without bounty, with abundance curst; The Prodigal pursues expensive vice, And buys dishonour at a mighty price; On beds of state the splendid glutton sleeps, While starving Merit unregarded weeps: His ill-plac'd bounty, while scorn'd Virtue grieves, A dog, a fawning sycophant, receives; And cringing knaves, or haughty strumpets, share What would make Sorrow smile, and chear Despair. Then would'st thou steer where Fortune spreads the sails?

Go, flatter Vice! for seldom flattery fails:
Soft through the ear the pleasing bane distils:
Delicious poison! in perfumes it kills!
Be all but virtuous: Oh! unwise to live
Unfashionably good, and hope to thrive!
Trees that aloft with proudest honours rise,
Root hell-ward, and thence flourish to the skies.

O happier thou, my friend, with ease content, Blest with the conscience of a life well-spent! Nor would'st be great; but guide thy gather'd sails, Safe by the shore, nor tempt the rougher gales; For sure, of all that feel the wound of Fate, None are completely wretched but the great: Superior woes, superior stations bring;

A peasant sleeps, while cares awake a king;
Who reigns, must suffer! crowns, with gems inlaid,
At once adorn and load the royal head:
Change but the scene, and kings in dust decay,
Swept from the Earth, the pageants of a day;
There no distinctions on the dead await,
But pompous graves, and rottenness in state.
Such now are all that shone on Earth before;
Cæsar and mighty Marlborough are no more!
Unhallow'd feet o'er awful Tully tread,
And Hyde and Plato join the vulgar dead;
And all the glorious aims that can employ
The soul of mortals, must with Hanmer die:
O Compton, when this breath we once resign,
My dust shall be as eloquent as thine!

Studious from ways of wicked men to keep,
Who mock at vice, while grieving angels weep.
Come, taste, my friend! the joys retirement brings,
Look down on royal slaves, and pity kings.
More happy! laid where trees with trees entwin'd
In bowery arches tremble to the wind,
With innocence and shade like Adam blest,
While a new Eden opens in the breast!
Such were the scenes descending augels trod
In guiltless days, when man convers'd with God.
Then shall my lyre to loftier sounds be strung,
Inspir'd by Homer', or what thou hast sung:
My Muse from thine shall catch a warmer ray;
As clouds are brighten'd by the god of day.

So trees unapt to bear, by art refin'd, High o'er the ground with fruits adopted rise, With shoots ennobled of a generous kind, And lift their spreading honours to the skies.

Dr. Broome translated eight books of the

In vain the wall's broad base deep-rooted lies,
In vain an hundred turrets threat the skies!
Lo! while at ease the bands immur'd repose,
Nor careless dream of subterranean foes,
Like the Cadmæan host, embattled swarms
Start from the earth, and clash their sounding arms,
And, pouring war and slaughter from beneath,
Wrap towers, walls, men, in fire, in blood, in death.

So some fam'd torrent dives within the caves Of opening earth, ingulph'd with all his waves; High o'er the latent stream the shepherd feeds His wandering flock, and tunes the sprightly reed: Till from some rifted chasm the billows rise, And, foaming, burst tumultuous to the skies; Then, roaring dreadful o'er the delug'd plain, Sweep herds and hinds in thunder to the main.

Bear me, ye friendly powers, to gentler scenes, To shady bowers, and never-fading greens! Where the shrill trumpet never sounds alarms, Nor martial din is heard, nor clash of arms; Hail, ye soft seats! ye limpid springs and floods! Ye flowery meads, ye vales, and woods! Ye limpid floods, that ever murmuring flow! Ye verdant meads, where flowers eternal blow! Ye shady vales, where Zephyrs ever play! Ye woods, where little warblers tune their lay!

Here grant me, Heaven, to end my peaceful days, And steal myself from life by slow decays; Draw health from food the temperate garden yields, From fruit or herb the bounty of the fields; Nor let the loaded table groan beneath Slain animals, the horrid feast of Death: With age unknown to pain or sorrow blest, To the dark grave retiring as to rest; While gently with one sigh this mortal frame Dissolving turus to ashes, whence it came; While my freed soul departs without a groan, And, joyful, wings her flight to worlds unknown.

Ye gloomy grots! ye awful solemn cells, Where holy thoughtful Contemplation dwells, Guard me from splendid cares, and tiresome state, That pompous misery of being great! Happy! if by the wise and learn'd belov'd; But happiest above all, if self-approv'd! Content with ease; ambitious to despise Illustrious Vanity, and glorious Vice! Come, thou chaste maid, here ever let me stray, While the calm hours stcal unperceived away; Here court the Muses, while the Sun on high Flames in the vault of Heaven, and fires the sky: Or while the night's dark wings this globe surround,

And the pale Moon begins her solemn round,
Bid my free soul to starry orbs repair,
Those radiant worlds that float in ambient air,
And with a regular confusion stray
Oblique, direct, along th' aërial way:
Or when Aurora, from her golden bowers,
Exhales the fragrance of the balmy flowers,
Reclin'd in silence on a mossy bed,
Consult the learned volumes of the dead;
Fall'n realms and empires in description view,
Live o'er past times, and build whole worlds anew;
Or from the bursting tombs in fancy raise
The sons of Fame, who liv'd in ancient days:
And lo! with haughty stalk the warrior treads!
Stern legislators, frowning, lift their heads!

But nobler yet, far nobler scenes advance! Why leap the mountains? why the forests dance? Why flashes glory from the golden spheres? Rejoice, O Earth, a God, a God appears! A God, a God, descending angels sing, And mighty Seraphs shout, Behold your King! Hail, virgin-born! Lift, lift, ye blind, your eyes! Sing, oh! ye dumb! and oh! ye dead, arise! Tremble, ye gates of Hell! in noblest strains Tell it aloud, ye Heavens! the Saviour reigns!

Of transient life, in no unuseful ease!
Thus lonely, thoughtful, may I run the race
Enjoy each hour, nor as it fleets away,
Think life too short, and yet too long the day;
Of right observant, while the soul attends
Each duty, and makes Heaven and angels friends
And thou, fair Peace, from the wild floods of war
Come dove-like, and thy blooming olive bear;
Tell me, ye victors, what strange charmus ye find
In Conquest, that destruction of mankind!
Unenvy'd may your laurels ever grow,
That never flourish but in human woe,
If never Earth the wreath triumphal bears,
Till drench'd in heroes' blood, or orphans' tears,

Let Ganges from afar to slaughter train His sable warriors on th' embattled plain; Let Volga's sons in iron squadrons rise, And pour in millions from her frozen skies: Thou, gentle Thames, flow thou in peaceful streams, Bid thy bold sons restrain their martial flames. In thy own laurel's shade, great Marlborough, There charm the thoughts of conquer'd worlds stay, [away: Guardian of England! born to scourge her foes, Speak, and thy word gives half the world repose; Sink down, ye hills; cternal rocks, subside; Vanish, ye forts; thou, Ocean, drain thy tide: We safety boast, defended by thy fame, And armies-in the terrour of thy name! Now fix o'er Anna's throne thy victor blade. War, be thou chain'd! ye streams of blood, be stay'd!

Though wild Ambition her just vengeance feels, She wars to save, and where she strikes, she heals.

So Pallas with her javelin smote the ground, And peaceful olives flourish'd from the wound

7 The Holy Scriptures

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES LORD CORNWALLIS,

BARON OF EYRE, WARDEN, CHIEF JUSTICE, AND JUSTICE IN EYRE OF ALL HIS MAJESTY'S PORESTS, CHASES, PARKS, AND WARRENS, ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF TRENT.

δῶρον τοι τοῦτο δίδωμα

Odyssey, lib. 15.

Minus

O Tuou, whose virtues sanctify thy state!
O great, without the vices of the great!
Form'd by a dignity of mind to please,
To think, to act with elegance and ease!
Say, wilt thou listen while I tune the string,
And sing to thee, who gav'st me ease to sing?
Unskill'd in verse, I haunt the silent grove;
Yet lowly shepherds sing to mighty Jove:
And mighty Jove attends the shepherds' vows,
And gracious what his suppliants ask bestows:
So by thy favour may the Muse be crown'd,
And plant her laurels in more fruitful ground;
The grateful Muse shall in return bestow
Her spreading laurels to adorn thy brow.

Thus, guarded by the tree of Jove, a flower Shoots from the earth, nor fears th' inclement And, when the fury of the storm is laid, [shower; Repays with sweets the hospitable shade.

Severe their lot, who, when they long endure The wounds of fortune, late receive a cure! Like ships in storms o'er liquid mountains tost, Ere they are sav'd must almost first be lost;

But you with speed forbid distress to grieve: He gives by halves', who hesitates to give.

Thus, when an angel views mankind distrest, He feels compassion pleading in his breast; Instant the heavenly guardian cleaves the skies, And, pleas'd to save, on wings of lightning flies'.

Some the vain promises of courts betray; And gayly straying, they are pleas'd to stray; The flattering nothing still deludes their eyes, Seems ever near, yet ever distant flies: As perspectives present the object nigh, Though far remov'd from the mistaking eye;

ADDITIONS.

Firm to thy king, and to thy country brave; Loyal, yet free; a subject, not a slave; Say, &c.

Few know to ask, or decently receive; And fewer still with dignity to give : If earn'd by flattery, gifts of highest price Are not a bounty, but the pay of Vice. Some wildly lavish, yet no friend obtain; Nor are they generous, but absurd and vain. Some give with surly pride and boisterous hands, As Jove pours rain in thunder o'er the lands. When Merit pleads, you meet it, and embrace, And give the favour lustre by the grace; So Phœbus to his warmth a glory joins, Blessing the world, and while he blesses shines.

The lord Cornwallis, in a most obliging manner, recommended the author to the rectory of Pulham.

Against our reason fondly we believe,
Assist the fraud, and teach it to deceive:
As the faint traveller, when Night invades,
Sees a false light relieve the ambient shades,
Pleas'd he beholds the bright. delusion play,
But the false guide shines only to betray:
Swift he pursues, yet still the path mistakes,
O'er dangerous marshes, or through thorny brakes;
Yet obstinate in wrong he toils to stray,
With many a weary stride, o'er many a painful way.
So man pursues the phantom of his brain,
And buys his disappointment with his pain:
At length when years invidiously destroy
The power to taste the long-expected joy,
Then Fortune envious sheds her golden show'rs,
Malignly smiles, and curses him with stores.

Thus o'er the urns of friends departed weep The mournful kindred, and fond vigils keep; Ambrosial ointments o'er their ashes shed, And scatter useless roses on the dead; And when no more avail the world's delights, The spicy odours, and the solemn rites, With fruitless pomp they deck the senseless tomba And waste profusely floods of vain perfumes.

THE ROSE-BUD.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THE LADY JANE WHARTON.

QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rose,
The beauties of thy leaves disclose!
The winter's past, the tempests fly,
Soft gales breathe gently through the sky;
The lark sweet warbling on the wing
Salutes the gay return of Spring:
The silver dews, the vernal showers,
Call forth a bloomy waste of flowers;
The joyous fields, the shady woods,
Are cloth'd with green, or swell with buds
Then haste thy beauties to disclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose!